by Eleanor Scott
The American visitor looked up from the specification book.
‘That seems all square,’ he said; ‘genuine old English stuff. But there’s one thing, sir, you haven’t mentioned that I’ve just got to have.’
He looked at the house agent with a paternal smile.
‘Well, sir, I think I’ve told you all details,’ said Mr Gibson.He would not entrust this wealthy client to the tender care of a mere clerk; he was too rare a find. ‘Still, I’m sure,’ he went on persuasively, ‘that Mr Langtre, the owner of the Manor, would be glad to meet you in any reasonable alterations or repairs.’
Mr Matthews smiled a little and his nice eyes twinkled.
‘I’m sure, from what you tell me, that’s so,’ he replied. ‘Only I’m afraid he couldn’t have anyone put in just the detail I’m thinking of. Mr Gibson, I want a real good ghost.’
Mr Gibson looked distinctly less rubicund.
‘A-a ghost?’ he stammered, his eyes wandering.
‘What? You don’t mean to say there is one?’ cried the shrewd client.
‘Well, sir – with an old place like the Manor – genuine sixteenth century … What I mean to say is, there’s always fools about in a country place …’
‘But there is – well, a story? I warn you, sir, I shan’t buy the place unless there is.’
Poor Mr Gibson fidgeted uneasily. Who could have foreseen such a difficulty as this?
‘Well, you see, sir, how it is,’ he said at last, ‘Mr Langtre did give me most strict orders as nothing was to be said. Most strict. Still, sir, seeing what your conditions are, I don’t mind saying that things – well, things are said about the Manor as had better not be said.’
‘That’s a bit vague,’ said the American. ‘I don’t want any doubts about this thing. I want a real good Old English slap-up ghost, and I don’t mind paying a bit for it. Why, who’d give two rows of pins for an Elizabethan manor without a ghost in it?’
Mr Gibson was understood to mutter something about ‘a matter of opinion.’ Then, taking his courage in both hands, he said desperately:
‘I tell you what, sir. You come along with me to the Vicar. He’s what they call an antiquarian, and he knows all about the Manor. You see, I’m bound not to tell anything; and truth to tell I don’t know much. But Mr Molyneux, he’ll tell you everything there is to know about Sir Jerome’s room.’
The worthy house agent took his respectable bowler, and the two men went up the broad tree-lined main street of Much Barton, Gibson discoursing the while on the old-world atmosphere of the place. The American was certainly nibbling: it wouldn’t be the agent’s fault if Barton Cross Manor remained unsold.
The Vicar was in, and received his visitors in a book-lined study that might have come out of one of Trollope’s novels: and Mr Matthews, summing him up with a businessman’s acumen, came to his topic at once.
‘Ghost at the Manor?’ said Mr Molyneux, fingering his chin. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be surprising if there were. In fact, if one can rely on the evidence of an ignorant soldier and a jealous parish priest, there certainly were once some very – er – peculiar happenings in the priest’s room.’
Mr Matthews preserved an intelligent silence, and the Vicar continued:
‘The story goes that early in the reign of Elizabeth Mr Everard Langtre, the then Squire of the Manor, had in his household a private chaplain, commonly called Sir Jerome, or Jeremy. ‘Sir’ was then, as you doubtless know, a courtesy title of Priests of the – er – Roman persuasion.’
‘Sir – I mean, Mr – Everard Langtre was a Roman, then?’ asked the American.
‘He was,’ answered the Vicar, ‘and had, as was then customary, his private oratory and his private chaplain. Now this chaplain, Jeremy Lindall, seems to have been a man of very curious disposition. He was, like many another private chaplain of the time, a chemist of no little originality and skill. Stories about him were rife, of course – he does not seem to have been popular – and he was credited with witchcraft, demonology, traffic with the powers of evil, and so on. He certainly did go in for some very curious experiments, in which gold seems to have been a necessary ingredient: and it was said that he used in this way all his private stock of gold until at last he became so ragged that he had to keep within doors. This, one gathers, was no loss. His early – er – Mass over, he had the whole day free to conduct his chemical experiments or work his spells in the large chamber that was given up to him. The fact that he asked to be given a room facing north told against him greatly with the villagers.’
‘Why?’ asked Mr Matthews.
‘Why, because it was considered the best aspect for devil-worship. Have you never noticed that in country churchyards there are no graves on the north side of the church? – Well, to continue. Sir Jerome seems to have gradually become quite a recluse; and when he died, which was in the year 1562, there was a curious scene at his burial. All sorts of things were said, as is always the case in these stories of chemists, misunderstood and maligned, their actions and words distorted through generations of rustic folk.’
‘Such as – ?’
‘Oh, that his dead face wore a look of terror and pain beyond human endurance: and the beldame who laid out the corpse for burial was so powerfully affected that she was stricken dumb, and died a few weeks later. No one could be persuaded to carry the body to the grave for some time, but at last four stout men were bribed into doing it. The story goes – But wait: I’ll read it to you – ’
He turned to a large desk and pulled out a drawer.
‘This is an account of the burial written at the time by the parish priest of Much Barton,’ he said. ‘The original manuscript is in Mr Langtre’s possession: but I made the copy myself, and I will vouch for its accuracy.’
He spread the sheets out before him.
‘Of course,’ he interpolated, looking up with his pince-nez⁸⁵ in his hand, ‘you will understand that the parish priest, a hard-working and humble person enough, was no doubt a little jealous of the gentleman of leisure up at the Manor. You must take his account cum grano⁸⁶. Well, then – the beginning is torn away, but the context is clear enough.
‘‘…did with utmoste payne perswayd foure stoute Carles to ye Worke, and soe didd enforce Kit Harcott, Hodge Payne with his bro, Willm. and Ned Greene to engage to carrye ye Coffre to ye Churche, where I hadde all Thinges needefull for ye Buriall. But when these came, lo they bore no Coffre, but they were alle sweatinge and Tremblinge in suche Fearfulle wise that I was faine to Conforte them, saying that verelie Sir Hiereme must be a Starke Mann and Stoute when his deade Bodie gar’d Stronge Carles soe to Shake and to Sweate, Whereat Kit, Tis not his Weyghte, goode father, quoth he, for a man to be heavie is no suche mattere. But ye Coffre is lighte as it were emptie; and in soothe we had almost opend it, fearinge we shou’de be att oure paynes for no goode; but thatt (And here he soe Shooke that his voyce dy’d in his Throote.)
‘‘Come mann a Goddes mercie, quoth I to hearten him, there is noughte to Tremble att in thatt youre worke hath beene so lyghte. Ay but, (quoth he) there came a sounde in ye Boxe lyke to a litel whisperyng or rustelyng, soe thatt we didd put it downe in feare. And soe we kneel’d and sayd a Pater and an Aue: and Ned (who is an Acolyth and deuoute) wou’d saye the De Profundis: but when we sayd Requiem aeternam dona ei Dñe there came soe dreadfull a Laughe that we felle forwarde in greate feare. But when after a space we didd lifte our selues, lo we sawe a slimie trayl as of an huge Slugge or Snayl coming out from ye Coffre.”
‘The story goes on,’ said Mr Molyneux, ‘with an account, of more interest to a cleric than a layman, of the burial rites. No doubt the slight mystery surrounding the life of the recluse, his chemical experiments, his retirement and so on, had pre-disposed the simple folk, both priest and people, to see signs and wonders; anyhow, the parish priest. Sir Edgar Knox, gives quite a lurid account of the burial service: how the holy water left a trail as of slime across the coffin: how the holy candles went out and a heavy smoke dragged across the church: and how the terrified boys serving at the altar saw in the thick greasy vapour dim shapes twisting about the coffin; and he says that in answer to each prayer he heard, instead of “Amen”, a devilish laugh, “highe and shrille like a Peeuishe Shrewe”. In fine⁸⁷, he could not take it on himself to bury Sir Jerome in the consecrated ground, where lay the bodies of the simple village folk; and so he laid the poor corpse in that dim and unhallowed region that lies north of the church, “that he who had Choasen ye northe in his Lyfe myghte have it alsoe in his Deth”. And there he lies, I have no doubt, to this day.’
Mr Molyneux laid down the manuscript and took off his glasses. His face was flushed with the enthusiasm of the antiquarian.
‘It’s a good story,’ commented the American. ‘But it seems to me that Sir Jerome’s ghost, if he has run to one, would walk in the ‘dim and unhallowed region’ – if I may use your words, sir – in the churchyard, rather than in the Manor.’
‘No doubt,’ answered the Vicar, ‘if that were all. But there is more to come. Later in Elizabeth’s reign the Langtres came into bad odour in connection with the Throgmorton Plot⁸⁸. The Manor, like many another Roman Catholic mansion, was ransacked for evidence. Little enough was found in the house except the plate in the chapel; and even that proved not to be genuine gold and silver. But among the soldiers who searched the house was one Job Harcott, who was a descendant or connection of the Kit Harcott who had carried Sir Jerome’s coffin. This man remembered the tales of the chaplain’s chemical experiments: and it occurred to him, sacrilegious as it sounds, that the gold plate of the chapel might have been taken for some such experiment. So he secretly left the party of soldiers and went back alone to the Manor to search for the treasure, which he believed (for so the tradition went) to be hidden in the priest’s own room.
‘What exactly happened to Job Harcott no one will ever know. He was missed after dusk. A crony of his, one Ezra Minshull, then remembered a conversation he had had with the miserable man. He reports it thus:
“This Minshull remember’d him that Harcott whyl he was yet with us had sayd that he was but litel astonied that ye Playt was contrefeyt: for (quoth he) when a Mann lusteth after Golde (as I haue herd this Hierime didd) he leaueth not his Luste, but hathe it euer in his Presence. Soe that when aftre longe seekyng we cou’d by noe means find Harcott, Minshull perswayding us, we return’d to ye Manour to see what shou’d be in Sir Hierime’s room where he abode.’’
‘Well?’ interjected the American.
Mr Molyneux looked up, arrested by the tone of his visitor.
‘They found Harcott. His body was lying in the passage that leads from the priest’s room: he seemed to have been running away from the room down the passage. He was quite dead.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then the Vicar continued: ‘Sir, I am an old man. I have read many curious books and seen many curious things. I ask you with all the earnestness of which I am capable not to pry into this matter. Buy the house if you will – you will be doing a kindness to my old friend Godfrey Langtre and taking a step that you will not, I think, regret: but, as you value your life and your sanity, avoid that accursed room.’
He paused, flushed with the embarrassment of a shy man who interferes in another’s affairs.
‘Sir, I’m grateful, real grateful, to you,’ said the American, ‘and I’ll bear in mind what you’ve said. You’ve impressed me. But I’m interested, and I’ll buy that house right now, lock, stock and barrel. And I hope, sir, that you’ll do me the great kindness to come and see me sometimes, I won’t trespass on your time any more now. Goodbye, sir, and thank you.’
So Mr Matthews became the owner of Barton Cross Manor.
If the house was not quite as attractive seen in the dusk of a drizzling October afternoon as it had appeared in the mellow sunshine of September, certainly Mr Gibson could not be blamed for the fact. Nor could Mr Langtre. Yet Mr Matthews felt that he wanted to blame someone for the discomfort of the chill rooms with their stiff and unwelcoming air and suspicious atmosphere. Presently he put it down to the attitude of a couple, mother and son, who had been caretakers at the Manor, and who no doubt objected to having to do a little work, besides opening windows and airing rooms, in exchange for the wages the Langtre family allowed them. In fact, thought the American, sniffing the close air of the passages, they didn’t seem really keen on doing even that.
He ordered a fire in the library and another in his bedroom, and, when these were well alight and snapping and blazing cheerily, he opened the windows wide and let in waves of cool rainy air, laden with faint scents of late roses and dying leaves and wet earth. The panelled walls shone in the warm firelight; the well-filled bookcases invited him. He began to feel really comfortable and at home, and went for a little psycho-analytic speculation on the subject of Atmosphere and its Influence on Human Sensation. Mr Matthews was the type of man who likes such phrases, especially when written with capital letters. They made him feel profound.
This comfortable mood lasted him until ten the next morning, when, warm and contented after a ‘real English’ breakfast followed by an indisputable cigar, he decided to spend the morning in a survey of the house.
The morning was dark, with a threatening sky; though the rain was not actually falling, it looked as though the lowering clouds were only allowing a respite to the garden battered by yesterday’s downpour, and might stream again at any minute. It seemed a most suitable day to re-examine his property, which, like many Tudor manor-houses, needed much exploration before its plan was really known.
Mr Matthews wandered about over the ground floor, very contentedly losing his way in passages and communicating rooms, until he knew it thoroughly. He then proceeded to the next. This was easier, since it had suffered less from later incongruous additions. It was roughly in the shape of a cross, the arms of which were composed of four passages running north, south, east and west, and radiating from a square well which looked down to the hall below. The south passage was so short as hardly to be a passage at all, and the north corridor was correspondingly long. Mr Matthews’ own bedroom was at the junction of the north and west corridors, with a door leading into each; and by the door in the north passage there was a kind of small shrine – a large crucifix, a prie-dieu⁸⁹ chair, some candles and flowers. The whole house, in fact, bore signs of the religion of its late owners: Mr Matthews had never before seen so many holy water stoups⁹⁰, for instance. There was one outside every door, and even one on the wall opposite the shrine – a blank wall with no door in it.
Going along the north passage, Mr Matthews soon discovered the reason for the absence of doors in the east wall. It was the wall of the old chapel, which ran the whole length of the corridor, and whose door was in the northern end of the east wall. It was dismantled now, and all the decorations gone; and the American thought he could still see traces of the scars left by the soldiers who had ransacked the chapel for the lost treasure. He stood at the door, picturing the scene to himself; and then, as the whole story filtered back into his mind, he realised that he must be standing near, if not on, the very spot where the returning band had found the body of Job Harcott.
That door, at the end of the passage, must lead into the priest’s room. Mr Matthews felt quite a thrill as he thought of the lonely chemist, labouring in that remote chamber at his terrible experiments, abandoned and feared by his neighbours, dying at last, desolate even in his death. Mr Matthews was not an imaginative man; but somehow, standing there in the dim passage, the melancholy rain pattering faintly outside, he could enter into the mind of the long-dead priest, fanatical with his dreadful enthusiasms, his mad, soul-destroying experiments, renouncing a happiness in this world or a possible next in exchange for that power which it is unlawful to possess. And the modern American thought he could understand some of the ambition, the horror, the enthusiasm, the desolation and despair, which had made up that man’s soul.
Closing the door of the chapel, he continued his investigations. The door at the end of the north passage was locked, and he made a mental note to ask Mrs Sharpe, the caretaker, for the key. The other doors in the passage, that is those in the west wall, led to rooms whose close air and antique style of furnishing led him to the conclusion that they had not been used for many years; in fact the first room that gave signs of recent use was his own bedroom at the corner of the square well.
‘That’s queer,’ thought the American. ‘It’s not as if that set of rooms faced north, for naturally they face west. I’d have understood it if the rooms in the west corridor, now, had been neglected; but they’re quite fresh. Guess they’re odd folk, these Langtres.’ And with that he dismissed the matter from his mind. He remembered, however, to ask for the missing key of the locked door; and, meeting Sharpe himself on the stairs, he mentioned it there and then.
Sharpe changed colour, apparently confused at having been discovered remiss in his duty, and insisted on accompanying the new tenant back to the north passage.
‘This room ain’t much used, sir, ‘aving a north aspeck,’ he said apologetically as he turned the key. It squealed rustily in the lock, and Matthews, happening to glance at the man’s face, was startled to see it white and wet with sweat.
‘Why, man, what’s wrong?’ he cried.
The colour crept back to Sharpe’s face.
‘It’s me ’eart, sir,’ he panted. ‘Any effort’ll make me go all any’ow for a minute. But it goes off, sir, straight away. It don’t last.’ He glanced anxiously in the direction of his employer. Mr Matthews grunted and said no more.
The locked room was indeed in need of airing. A whiff of dank air with a curiously mouldy smell greeted them: so earthy a smell that the American looked instinctively at the walls for traces of damp.
‘I suppose it’s because of the damp that they don’t use the room,’ he said with a glance around him.
It was very obviously unused. It had very little furniture, and what there was looked old. There was an oak chair, a heavy table, and a kind of desk or cabinet, with a cupboard rising from a flat tabletop. The walls, however, showed no signs of damp: the panels were not warped or cracked, nor were the rather odd carvings on them at all defaced.
‘I believe, if it were regularly warmed and aired, it would be as good a room as any, and most interesting,’ declared the American. Anyway, we’ll try. It’s a real unique room. Do as you did with the other rooms, Sharpe – light a real good fire and open the windows and door to get a through draught. I’ve regularly taken to this room,’ he went on as he examined the panelling more closely. ‘Shouldn’t wonder if I move in here when you get it fixed right.’
‘The fam’ly don’t consider it ’ealthy, sir, not this room,’ muttered Sharpe.
He had to clear his throat before he could make his voice sound at all; and Mr Matthews, struck by the man’s agitation, was suddenly seized by a suspicion. Why were the Sharpes so keen to keep him out of the room? Had they some motive for wishing to deny access to it to anyone but themselves?
‘You do as I say,’ he said, not peremptorily, but quite firmly. ‘I don’t take back my orders without a good reason,’ he added.
Halfway down the corridor, he heard the grating of the key in the rusty lock of the closed door.
‘Here, Sharpe! I said that room was to be left open and aired,’ he said, turning sharply.
‘Beg pardon, sir … I thought, seein’ as it was wet. I’d best leave it shut till I got a fire goin’, sir,’ muttered the servant.
‘Well… But, hang it, man, why lock the door when it’s so stiff? Go back and – No, never mind. Give me the key.’
Taking it from the man’s shaking hand, Mr Matthews went back down the corridor, and, with some difficulty, opened the door.
‘There,’ he said as he rejoined Sharpe. ‘Get a fire on in there when you’ve time, and leave it open all day. I bet we’ll get rid of that rank smell …’ He stopped short, startled by the extraordinary expression in Sharpe’s eyes. ‘Why, Sharpe!’ he began; but even as he spoke the man dropped his eyes and with an effort regained his composure.
‘Very good, sir,’ he murmured; and the baffled American went back to the library.
The rain lifted in the afternoon, with a sky that gave promise of a fine morrow: and Mr Matthews went out for a long walk to visit certain places of local interest. It was not until he had finished a cosy tea and a cigarette that it occurred to him to wonder whether his instructions with regard to the north room had been carried out.
He decided that, comfortable though the library was, it was worthwhile to go up to the passage and see whether the door of the north room was open and the fire lit. He was a determined man. He was really very much annoyed when he saw no gleam of light at the further end of the passage. Still, perhaps the door had swung to. He walked down the passage and tried it. It was locked.
Mr Matthews seldom allowed his temper, which was a hot one, to get the better of him. He stood a moment, waiting for it to cool; and, as he paused in the dim corridor, he heard a faint sound. It was like a faint thud, as if some soft object had fallen to the ground; then came a very faint light rustling sliding sound.
He was almost sure that the sound came from the other side of the closed door. He thought perhaps the lock had merely stuck, and that Sharpe was within, closing windows or whatnot: but a second try at the door convinced him that it was locked fast. The sounds, then, must be an echo from some other part of the winding house. In any case, what really mattered was that his orders had been disobeyed.
He paid a visit to the Sharpes in the kitchen and made this quite clear.
The next morning, Wednesday, the sun rose apparently refreshed by the previous day’s holiday. It was a magnificent day, with a sky of so deep and serene a blue that it seemed impossible that it could really have existed behind yesterday’s rain. Mr Matthews interviewed Sharpe and repeated his instructions with regard to the airing of all the rooms, irrespective of their history, aspect, or any other peculiarity. He thought it unlikely that he would be again disobeyed: and he was right, for chance visits to the meeting of the four passages always found a cool breeze blowing and showed four rows of open doors and glimpses of open windows.
In the afternoon the sun streamed out so invitingly that Mr Matthews felt a desire to revisit his domain under these new conditions. He particularly wanted to see the effect of the golden light on the carved panelling of the north room, and to examine its design more closely.
This proved to be ordinary enough. There were plain panels reaching from the floor to a height of about three feet; then came a band of carving, ornament and scriptural texts intermingled; then twelve large panels, each four or five feet high. Each of these was surrounded by a frame of carved ornament, and they were separated from one another by narrower panels of plain wood. On the twelve panels were roughly carved twelve figures; and Mr Matthews, noticing one with keys and another bearing an eagle, put them down as representations of the twelve apostles. All the carving was rough and amateurish, lacking the exquisite finish and proportion of skilled Tudor workmanship; yet Mr Matthews felt little doubt in his mind that the curious designs, odd and archaic in conception, conventional to a degree, were of the sixteenth century.
‘I’ll get Mr Molyneux up to have a look at them,’ he decided. He’ll know if they’re fake or genuine antique.’
An examination of the furniture yielded little beyond the bare wood of which they were made. Only in the desk did the American see anything at all interesting. This was a portrait – a rough but powerful sketch done on parchment; it was like a strong, though untaught, copy of a Dürer⁹¹ portrait; and yet it had the impress of originality.
It was the head of a man, apparently a priest, in the dress of the sixteenth century. The forehead was high and narrow, the cheeks sunken, the line of the jaw long and prominent. The mouth, thin-lipped and drooping, showed faintly through a straggling beard; the ears were singularly fine and sensitive. The eyes were so sunken under the overhanging, almost hairless, brows that it was difficult to see how the artist had managed to give them their expression of brooding horror. They were like the eyes of a haunted man.
Mr Matthews felt strangely stirred by the portrait. He could hardly take his eyes from the fascinating, fascinated gaze of the picture.
‘If it’s not valuable, it ought to be,’ he muttered. ‘The thing looks alive! He might speak any minute – and I guess he’d have some pretty awful things to tell.’
The light was fading now, and the American, wishing to study his find more carefully, carried it downstairs with him. As he examined the drawing by the newly-lit lamp, it occurred to him to look for a signature on the back of the portrait. There was, however, no mention of the artist; all he could see were words written in the crabbed and angular print often used in ecclesiastical documents of the period. ‘Dom: Hierime Lindalle: 1562. Eccles. XIV, 121,’ he read: and lower down two texts in full – ‘Have regard unto My Name; for it shalle be to thee for greate Treasures of golde. Eccles XLI, 15,’ and ‘And he finisht alle the worke that he didd in ye Hous of ye Lorde and browght in ye thinges that were Dedicated, ye Golde and ye Siluere and ye Vesells, and layd up ye Treasoure in ye House. 1 Kings VII, 51.’
These did not interest Mr Matthews greatly, and when he had studied the curious, painful drawing a little longer, he put it away. It was about nine that evening when, having nothing to do, he decided to get on with the sorting of some papers he intended to arrange in the form of a pamphlet on the Colour Question⁹² in the United States. They were in his bedroom, and he went up at once for them.
As he reached the head of the stairs he noticed Sharpe in the north passage. He could not quite see what he was doing; but he noticed that the door of the north room was shut.
‘Sharpe,’ he said quietly, ‘have you just shut that door?’
The man jumped violently, and dropped, with a crash and a spatter of liquid, something that he had been carrying in his hand.
‘What’s that?’ asked the American, his suspicions at once aroused.
‘It’s – I-I’ve just been fillin’ up the ’oly water stoups, sir,’ stammered Sharpe. ‘It’s a thing we never leave undone, sir, and I’d nearly forgot it. They’ve been kep’ filled ever since the ’ouse was built, so they say, and I promised Mr Langtre as I would see to it.’
The American bent down to the splash that spread right across the passage from wall to wall. It certainly had no scent. A glance assured him that the little receptacles on the walls had been recently filled.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘and can you give me as good a reason for shutting that door? I said it was to be left open.’
Sharpe muttered something by which he gave his employer to understand that he ‘adn’t understood as the door was to be left open at night’, that it didn’t do the rooms no good, and that he hoped Mr Matthews wouldn’t insist. It was all very incoherent and very rapidly spoken, and the American again entertained doubts as to the man’s bona fides⁹³: but he contented himself with repeating his orders to Sharpe to open the door of the north room, and standing to watch him do it.
The man went with infinite reluctance, like one walking to a torture chamber. He turned the key – Mr Matthews noted grimly that the door was locked – and then, flinging open the door, fairly ran down the passage to the place where his employer stood awaiting him. He was white-lipped and shaking, and suddenly the American saw – the man was afraid! He had, of course, been brought up on village traditions of the haunted room, and he had intended to keep that door locked at all costs. Matthews half thought of reassuring him by going and relocking the door: but no, he wouldn’t pander to these superstitions. He fetched his papers and spent a long evening in their classification and arrangement; then, happily conscious of time well spent, he went up to bed.
He woke once or twice in the night, and once thought he heard a faint scraping rustling sound, such as he had heard while waiting in the passage the day before. He listened intently, but heard nothing; and attributing the impression either to a dream or to the same natural cause that had occasioned it before, he curled up comfortably and went to sleep.
He woke vigorous and cheerful, full of the determination to call on Mr Molyneux and ask him about the picture and the panels. He dressed with speed and energy, and went out of his room with happy anticipations of breakfast.
As he came out on the landing he noticed that the dark splash caused by the fallen holy water still stained the floor; and then he saw that another stain – a bright glistening trail – led from the open door of the north room to the splash on the floor.
It was the long slimy trail that a snail leaves, only it was quite unusually large. It was as if a slug or snail thirty or forty times bigger than the usual variety had crawled from the room along the passage until it came to the splash of water on the floor.
‘Very curious,’ he thought.’ I never knew before that slugs got up so high into a house. Thought it was the ground floor for theirs … By gosh!’ he added, struck by an idea, ‘that was the sound I heard! Of course it was. But, my word, it must be some snail to make a noise you can hear! Only one trail, too.’
After breakfast, Mr Matthews decided that, raw and damp as the morning was, he would stroll down to the Vicarage with his newly-discovered picture: and he accordingly went, the portrait under his arm.
The Vicar was in, and pleased to see him. They exchanged civilities, and then Mr Matthews, producing the portrait, broached the subject of his call.
‘Well?’ he asked, when the other had studied the drawing for some minutes in silence, ‘what do you think of it?’
‘It’s an extraordinary thing,’ said the Vicar slowly. ‘Quite unique, and, I should say, valuable. And yet, Mr Matthews,’ he went on, taking off his pince-nez and laying down the picture, ‘if that portrait were mine, I declare to you I should burn it here and now. It is the picture of a fiend,’ he added with energy. ‘I consider it to be an unholy thing.’
The American was considerably surprised at this outburst of fanatical superstition – for so he could not help thinking it from a man as shy and reserved as the Vicar.
‘Oh, come, sir,’ he said, laughing a little. ‘It’s not as bad as that. It’s odd, I admit, and it has a trick of haunting one; but after all the poor chap’s dead, and I guess he had to pay for what he did.’
‘That’s true,’ said the Vicar. Repugnance and antiquarian enthusiasm struggled within him as he picked up the drawing again.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Matthews, ‘I wanted to ask you about those texts on the back. What Book do they come from? I thought I knew my Bible tolerably well – New England, you know – but I don’t just get the ones he’s copied out.’
The Vicar turned over the portrait and read the inscription.
‘“Dom. Hierime Lindalle, 1562”. That would be about the year of his death,’ he remarked. ‘Then a text from Ecclesiasticus. Then here, lower down, another text from the same Book – “Have regard unto My Name, for it shall be unto thee for a Treasure of gold”. Then a third, from the Book of Kings. It’s not surprising you didn’t recognise it, Mr Matthews: Ecclesiasticus is an apocryphal Book, admitted by the Romans. It’s not in the Anglican Bible at all. Still, the text from Kings doesn’t strike me as quite accurate. Stay, I have the Latin Vulgate here somewhere.’
He turned to his bookshelf.
‘Here we are. Let’s see, what’s the first? Eccles, XIV, 121, copied just after the date.’
‘Will you translate?’ asked the American. ‘Latin wasn’t included in my schooling.’
‘Well, it’s roughly this: “Remember that death is not slow and the covenant of hell hath been shown to thee.” That was in the year of his death. No doubt the poor man, poring alone over his books and incantations, allowed the idea of his seven years’ pact with the devil so to prey on his mind that he did in fact die in the given year.’
‘And left this as a kind of warning to other necromancers? I dare say you’re right, sir. And the other reference, the one from Kings?’
Slowly the Vicar translated. ‘“And he finished all the work that he did in the house of the Lord, and brought in the things that were dedicated, the gold and the silver and the vessels, and laid them up in the treasures of the house of the Lord.” He hasn’t copied it accurately, you see. He has “and laid up the treasure in the house”. And he has left out the reference to David.’
‘And what’s the other from Eccle-what’s-his-name?’
‘That, again, is inaccurately copied,’ said the Vicar, turning over the leaves of his book. ‘It should be, “Have regard to thy name: for it shall abide with thee for a great and precious treasure”.’
‘It’s queer, isn’t it, that when he went to the trouble of copying out the whole texts he should have done it wrong? Say, Mr Molyneux, I can’t help sort of wondering –’
Their eyes met.
‘The same thought occurred to me,’ said the Vicar quietly. ‘I believe the misquotations are intentional. I believe it’s a clue to the place where he concealed the treasure – the stolen gold and jewelled plate of the chapel. You see,’ he went on with growing excitement, ‘the first of the misquoted texts concerns church vessels, and implies, or so I take it, that the plate was not melted down in his chemical experiments, but that he “laid up the treasure in the house”.’
‘That’s what I make of it,’ said the American. ‘But the other one does me. Let’s see: “Have regard unto My Name, for it shall be unto thee for a treasure of gold”? Why, say, Vicar, that’s it – the clue to the hiding-place is in the man’s name!’
‘I believe you’re right!’ cried the Vicar. ‘Some hint – perhaps a cipher –’
‘“Dom: Hierime Lindalle”. Hm. This needs some brain. Say, sir, what’s wrong with you coming up to the Manor to lunch and working it out? We might find another clue in the room.’
The Vicar agreed, and the two men set out for the Manor. They found a distinctly good meal awaiting them, and, after a quiet smoke, went up together to the north room.
‘I guess Dom. What’s-his-name did these himself,’ said Mr Matthews, looking round the rough carvings. ‘These gentlemen are the twelve apostles I take it. I’m going by Peter here,’ and he indicated the figure bearing a key.
‘Yes, and that’s St John with the eagle; and St Andrew with the bread. Why, of course, they’re rough copies of the apostles in the Langtre Psalter,’ he continued with increasing enthusiasm. ‘They are quite unique in design and conception, and in the Psalter each has a text attached. So against St James, who is drawn as you see with his head half severed, is the text “And James the brother of John he killed with the sword.” Each one can be identified in the same way. But the curiosity of the set is the representation of Judas: an extraordinary drawing, showing him falling out of the tree in which he is attempting to hang himself. You must see that.’
And he began to make the circuit of the room.
‘Pity the light is so bad,’ said Matthews. ‘I can only just see the figures. But I don’t see one such as you describe.’
‘Neither do I,’ admitted the Vicar in some perplexity. ‘He has the Twelve, too.’
‘Perhaps Judas touched him a little too near,’ suggested the American. ‘He may count his twelve after the Acts.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Mr. Molyneux. ‘I ought to be able to identify them all from the Psalter.’
He again went slowly round the room, murmuring the names of the apostles.
‘Philip, Thomas with his finger outstretched; and this, with the book and the lion, of course is Mark. Now that’s very odd,’ he said, turning to the American. ‘I wonder why he included Mark?’
‘To make up the dozen, I guess,’ said Mr Matthews. ‘After all, he was an evangelist, if he wasn’t an apostle. Now, sir, before the light quite goes, let’s just copy down these texts he has in the band round the wall, and then we’ll see what we can make of ’em.’
‘The first,’ said the Vicar, ‘is Psalms cxx, 6 – “The sun shall not smite it by day, nor the moon by night”.’
Mr Matthews wrote rapidly.
‘Next, just a reference – Ecclesiasticus xxxi, 7. Then St Matthew vi, 21 – “Where the treasure is, there will the heart be also.” Then another reference to Ecclesiasticus xxii, 12. That’s all.’
Matthews shut his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Now we’ll go down to the library and have a go at the puzzle,’ he said genially.
‘Of course,’ said the Vicar as they descended the stairs, ‘that first text is another misquotation. In the Authorised Version, at any rate, the verse is “The sun shall not smite thee by day”.’
‘Why, you’re right,’ said Matthews. ‘We’ll just see what the Papists say. But it strikes me, sir, that any text that’s copied in full is wrong and that’s the clue.’
In the library, established in armchairs, one with the paper of texts, the other with his Latin Vulgate, they traced out the references. The first was, as the Vicar had said, wrong.
‘That don’t tell us much,’ complained the American. ‘It applies to the treasure, I guess, but it’s not much help to know that “the sun will not smite it by day nor the moon by night”.’
‘It may refer to the hiding place,’ said the Vicar. ‘That would suggest some hole or cellar or vault.’
‘That’s so,’ admitted the American. ‘Now, Ecclesiasticus xxxi, 7.’
The Vicar read aloud. ‘“Gold is a stumbling block to them that sacrifice for it; woe to them that eagerly follow after it: every fool shall perish by it.” At once a lamentation and a warning from the dead devil-worshipper,’ he said. Then, with some hesitation, ‘Mr Matthews, it’s evident the man had some horrible experience. Don’t you think it would be wiser to abandon the search?’
‘Abandon it. Vicar? What, when were just getting on the track? Not if I know it,’ cried Matthews. ‘Why, this is just the biggest thrill that ever happened! And if there’s any risk, why, that makes it all the better. Come on, what’s next? Matthew vi, 21.’
‘That’s from the Sermon on the Mount … Yes, I thought so. It really reads, “Where thy treasure is, there shall thy heart be also.” Another deliberate misquotation.’
‘And the last? Ecclesiasticus again, xxii, 12.’
The Vicar read it with a certain solemnity. ‘“The wicked life of a wicked fool is worse than death”.’
‘He certainly didn’t get much hilarious pleasure out of the sacrilege,’ commented the American.
The Vicar said nothing. Somehow they both felt a little uncomfortable.
‘Well, now, let’s get down to work,’ said Matthews, throwing off his momentary discomfort. ‘We’ve got three clues. “Have regard unto my name, for it shall be unto thee for a great treasure.” “The sun shall not smite it by day nor the moon by night.” “Where the treasure is, there shall the heart be also.” Let’s get on to the name. “Dom: Hierime Lindalle.” Now what’s wrong with that as a name?’
They puzzled over this for some time, replacing letters by figures, rearranging the letters to form anagrams, seeking for some principle to guide them to the clue. Tea was served and eaten almost silently as the two men badgered their brains over the riddle of the priest’s name.
At last the American looked up.
‘No good,’ he said; and the Vicar shook his head.
‘“Hierime” strikes me as being a bit of a freak in the way of a name,’ commented Matthews. ‘Was he a saint?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Mr Molyneux. ‘Saint Hiereme, or Jerome, was a Father of the Church, a hermit who translated the Bible into Latin.’
‘Perhaps that accounts for this chap’s attention to the text,’ suggested Matthews.
‘Perhaps. St Jerome was a great scholar. No doubt you know Dürer’s famous pictures of him – in the desert, and at work in his room, with his lion at his feet.’
‘What’s that?’ cried the American. ‘A lion, did you say?’
‘Why, yes, but – ’
‘What about that twelfth panel – the one with the book and the lion? What’s the betting it’s not Mark at all, but Jerome? The sly beggar! He slips in a figure he knows we’ll take for Mark, and all the time –’
‘I declare I believe you’re right!’ exclaimed Mr Molyneux, flushed with excitement. ‘That’s the clue – the panel in the north room.’
‘And, look here, the next fits,’ cried Matthews. ‘”The sun shall not smite it by day nor the moon by night.” Do you remember just where that panel is? It’s between the windows in the north wall. No direct light ever touches it.’
‘You’re right!’ cried the Vicar, almost as much excited as the American. ‘And the last clue – the heart?’
‘This is where we go and look,’ declared Mr Matthews.
The day was nearly ended, but a few rays of light struggled dimly into the north passage. As they hurried along, a small gleaming object lying on the floor met their eyes. Matthews stooped and picked it up. It was a thin silver chain to which was attached a tiny crucifix – a trinket such as is worn by a large majority of Catholics.
‘One of the Sharpes dropped it, I reckon,’ said the American. ‘I’ll take it down when I go.’ And he dropped it into his pocket.
In the north room the light had almost gone; but enough remained to direct the two men to the panel. ‘See here, the book is the Vulgate!’ cried Matthews, peering closely at the carving. ‘We’re right on the trail.’
‘“Where the treasure is, there the heart is also”,’ murmured the Vicar. ‘Now, what can that mean?’
They tried the breast of the carved figure in all possible ways, with no result.
‘Well, if that’s not plumb annoying!’ cried the American, pausing in his efforts. ‘I guess it must be another of his tricks. The wall’s hollow here, too, I’d take my oath,’ and he rapped the panel with his knuckles. It certainly was not solid. It gave a queer echo, and Mr Matthews thought he detected a faint sound, as of something stirring within the wall.
‘Something moved!’ he cried excitedly. ‘Guess it might’ve been machinery …’ But further knockings produced no result.
‘Let’s try the decorated border,’ suggested Mr Molyneux. ‘There may be some hint there.’
The border was made up of wreaths of fruit and flowers, broken at intervals by shields so small that the quarterings⁹⁴ were almost invisible. In some the arms could only be guessed from the crest, which was generally cut more deeply and with greater care than the shield.
‘That’s a queer crest,’ said Matthews, pointing to one of these. ‘Looks more like a setting sun than anything.’
‘I daresay it is,’ said the Vicar. ‘There was a lady of the Wigram family, whose crest is a rising sun, who intermarried with the Langtres. The arms are quite gone from the shield, though. It is perfectly smooth.’
The light was now so bad that by common consent they abandoned their hunt till next day, and went down again to the lamp-lit library.
‘Why, Mr Molyneux, I’m afraid I’ve tired you by my treasure hunt,’ said Matthews, penitently, as he saw the Vicar’s pale face.
‘It’s nothing – nothing at all,’ protested the other. ‘Just a little headache – my eyes are not strong. And I found that north room very close.’
‘You look as if bed was the place for you,’ declared Matthews; and the Vicar needed little urging, after dinner, to retire early. The American followed at eleven: not because he felt inclined for sleep, but because he wished to wake in the morning with a brain clear to tackle the problem of the panel. He was excited, and undressed with rapid, untidy movements, flinging down his discarded garments with utter disregard for neatness. The result of this was that his coat, thrown carelessly, fell upside-down, scattering the contents of the pockets over the floor. It was only then that he saw and remembered the silver chain and cross he had picked up.
‘I must remember to give that back to the Sharpes,’ he thought. ‘Where’ll I put it?’ Then a queer fancy came into his head, and he slipped the chain round his neck.
‘Guess I shan’t forget it now,’ he chuckled, as he slid between the sheets.
The clocks had struck midnight, and still Mr Matthews lay awake. The riddle of the panel bothered him. Try as he would, he could not see what the hint about the heart was intended to convey. He ran over the carving again and again in his mind – the draped figure with the book, the conventional lion beside it, placed on a perfectly plain background, and below it the thickly decorated border with its scrolls and shields.
He grew sleepy, and his thoughts began to stray. He thought of the chain, of Sharpe, of the holy-water stoups, of the shrine in the passage, of the many plaster statues about the house, and of one in particular that he had noticed in Mrs Sharpe’s room – a Christ with outstretched arms and a crimson heart emitting rays showing on the breast …
Mr Matthews sat up, wide awake. That thing in the border that they had taken for a crested shield – that smooth triangle with the rays springing from it – it was not a shield at all: it represented a heart! He had solved the puzzle.
He leapt out of bed, armed himself with an electric torch, and fairly ran down the corridor to the north room. The single beam of light from his torch made the surrounding darkness seem almost opaque. In a dim subconscious way Matthews associated the dense gloom with the clammy, earthy smell that now seemed intensified; but he paid no conscious attention to either.
He walked with a quick, resolute stride to the panel, and soon found the smooth triangle in the decoration of the border. Of course, it was a heart – the conventional representation! He put his finger on it and pressed. He felt the panel slowly move.
He could not wait for it to swing fully open; he thrust his hand into the widening chink between the wall and the wood. There was something there, down in the bottom of the hole in the wall. Eagerly he reached for it.
It was piled up, and felt slimy to his touch. Then he dropped his torch with a hoarse cry; for, as he touched it, it moved, and a long slimy arm slid up his wrist.
Frantically he tore at his hand. He got it free for a second, and, turning, rushed to the door. He heard, as he ran, a heavy flop, and then a whispering, scratching sound. He knew that the thing had dropped from its lair and was dragging its loathsome length in pursuit. As he reached the door a tentacle, both slimy and hairy, curved round one ankle: another pawed at his left arm: and with a sickening thrill of disgust he felt something cold and slimy touch the back of his neck.
He gave a shriek of loathing and terror as he fell his length in the passage.
***
It was three weeks before Mr Matthews, now installed at the Vicarage, could bring himself to speak of the end of that night. Then he asked, quite abruptly.
‘How do you account for my escape, Molyneux? It – it was at my throat. I-I felt it …’
‘One can’t really account for any of these things,’ replied the Vicar, gravely. ‘Only – there is this. You had round your neck the image of Christ. I think the – thing – had touched it, for it – it was retreating when I heard you scream and came out. I-I saw it – dimly – and its trail … And I can’t tell you how much I wished that I had read you a passage out of the manuscript about the room – a passage I left out. It might have warned you.’
‘Will you tell me now?’
‘It describes the finding of the body of Job Harcott. It reads like this – I almost know it by heart since … since you so nearly …’ He gulped, and then went on in grave tones – “We found him indeede in ye passage wh. leadeth to yt. accursed roome. He was Starke Naked and his Bodie fearsomelie swolne, longe Trayls of Slyme compassing him aboute as it were in a Nett.”