Death on Allhallowe’en (3 page)

‘It's the shrimping, sir. Stick does love a bit of shrimping.'

So it was settled. The house would be closed.

As Carolus drove next day along the one road that led across the Isle of Guys to Clibburn he was reminded of Swinburne's lines—'Mile on mile on mile of desolation, League on league on league without an end'. The grim and darkening landscape would have been dispiriting to most strangers, but in Carolus curiosity was perhaps the strongest emotion and he felt as he looked across the marshy levels that this area might well have secrets worth probing. He could believe that people led stealthy lives, obeying strange impulses and beliefs. Though mystery could belong as much to brightly lighted streets and conventional citizens, there was something in an atmosphere like this, the chilly river mist and the desolate landscape. His interest was thoroughly aroused not by the prospect of whatever mumbo-jumbo would be revealed, but by the effects of it. Probably much interbred, the people here, however much belonging to the sceptical twentieth century, might have links with a superstitious past, might know things that townsmen twenty miles away had succeeded in forgetting.

The name Guys seemed promising, not because of Guy Fawkes or any such recent bugaboo, but for an older connotation which he had thought of last night. He had supposed Clibburn to have an Old High German origin; could not Guys have the same and come from
geiz,
the word for goat? Goats were the devil's animals in popular superstition and there was no doubt that superstition
was
popular hereabouts.

John Stainer's attitude was impressive, too. A fellow parachutist of long ago, a man of humour and courage, had talked quite seriously of being frightened by phenomena which he could not describe, which sounded in themselves almost silly, but which had disturbed his whole life. What, Carolus asked himself prosaically, what was going on?

It was doubtless chance which made the first human being
he saw in the village of Clibburn a twisted little man, not much more than a dwarf, who hobbled along in the same direction as his own. Carolus pulled up and asked for the rectory. The man blinked and stared.

‘The rectory?' he said as though he could not believe his ears. ‘You want the rectory?'

He had a high-pitched voice.

‘That's it. Mr Stainer.'

‘Father Stainer, he calls himself,' said the man and continued to stare. ‘I dare say he'll be at home now. He doesn't come out much these evenings. I don't blame him. It's raw out and he's not used to these parts. I don't suppose you are, if it comes to that.'

‘No,' admitted Carolus, and waited for the information he sought.

‘I thought not. I've never seen that motor car round here.' He seemed to recollect himself. ‘That's the priest's hiding-hole over there.'

It was impossible to tell whether the term was used facetiously or in spite. He certainly did not smile as he pointed to a fairly large house built in Victorian style of red brick, a typical English parsonage of the last century.

‘Thank you,' said Carolus.

‘There's no call to thank me. Anyone could have told you. I don't have anything to do with all that myself.'

‘All what?'

‘Popery. I'm chapel,' said the man curtly.

‘Ah,' said Carolus. There did not seem much else to say.

‘Bowing and scraping. Incense is an abomination unto me. Are you one of those?'

An ambiguous question.

‘I'm a friend of Mr Stainer's.'

‘I don't say there's anything wrong with the man himself. His ways don't suit ours, that's all. Dressing the boys up in scarlet and lace. Mass, he calls it. You know where it leads to, all that?'

'No. Where?'

‘To hell. That's where. You better tell him that. I've told him often enough.'

‘I will,' said Carolus. ‘Would you tell me your name?'

‘Smith. Ebby Smith. He knows me. I've warned him. Renounce the devil and all his works, I said.'

‘Ah, yes. The devil,' said Carolus. ‘Do you get much of him round here?'

Ebby Smith gave him a last hostile look and hobbled away.

The rectory door was opened by a cheery woman wearing a bright blond wig.

‘The Rec's expecting you,' she said, with a toothy but welcoming smile. ‘He's in the stud.'

Carolus, not yet accustomed to this passion for abbreviation, was slightly puzzled, but said, ‘Thank you.'

‘I live here,' she explained, ‘with my husb. Chuck your coat down there—I'll put it away. The stud's down the pass. You'll find him there writing his serm. I'll bring you both some tea. Like crumps? Good.'

Carolus found John in the room indicated, but he was not writing his sermon, or anything else. He was dozing by a big log fire.

‘I ought to have prepared you for Mrs Lark,' said John when they had exchanged greetings. ‘She's a good soul but a little difficult to follow. I don't mind being called the Rec but the Sacs for the Sacraments and mats for matins are harder to take, while I had to draw the line at the Blessed Vir. She has an invalid husband whom I rarely see.

‘The house is far too big for me and the Larks share it, and in return she feeds me, assisted by what is known as occasional help from the village. Mrs Lark keeps remarkably cheerful so I don't complain. She must have been rather a surprise for you.'

‘I was prepared for eccentrics,' said Carolus. ‘I asked the way of a character named Ebby Smith.'

‘Oh, You did. Yes, character's right. He lives in a tiny cottage
with an enormous family and gives his congregation fire and brimstone in a bethel down the road every Sunday. He thinks I'm a sort of pimp for the Scarlet Woman. A curiously old-fashioned point of view. Nowadays I'm more used to being considered a credulous but harmless fool so ignorant of elementary biology that I believe in God. Ebby at least does that.'

‘And the corollary?'

‘I wouldn't know. Could be I suppose. Good. Here's the tea. Thank you, Mrs Lark.'

‘I told Mr Deene there were crumps,' said Mrs Lark. ‘I forgot—they're muffs. But they're nice and hot with plenty of butt. You're not slimming, are you? No, you don't need to.'

Very pleasant, thought Carolus, looking at the bright fire and the comfortable chairs, the silver tea-things and the muffins. Only someone born and bred in Great Britain understands the attraction of all we mean by tea, he thought; not just the infusion that we drink, but the happy associations of it, fireside in winter, and sometimes in the garden in summer. He had a pleasant sense of being cosily shut in here from the murky evening and all that was forbidding and dangerous in the night.

‘I was going to tell you,' said Mrs Lark to John, ‘Con Horse rang up while you were asleep.'

John sounded a mite impatient.

‘Horseman?' he said. ‘What did he want?'

‘Said he didn't want to disturb you, but could he look in early this eve? I said oke and he'll be round about six.'

‘He didn't say what it was about?'

‘No. Didn't sound urge, though. Got all you want? Good. I'll leave you to it and nip back presently for the tray.'

Carolus watched her exit with some amusement. She had a springy walk.

‘She really makes me far too comfortable,' John confessed. ‘A real daughter of Martha. The husband's a bit of a trial to her. He is paralysed in both legs. A motoring accident in which she was driving. Terribly hard luck, but one wishes he would
sometimes count his blessings instead of becoming so embittered. She's an angel with him. Pushes him round in his chair and does everything for him as well as looking after my meals.'

‘Are they Guys people?'

‘No. She's from London. A manicurist. He was quite a successful insurance agent before the accident.'

‘Any known connections with the “goings-on”?'

‘No. But some rather cruel habits. He has a powerful air-rifle and pots at birds from his push-chair. Childish, I know, but repugnant to me. I had to stop him doing it in the garden. I'm fond of birds. He took it badly when I told him I wanted them left in peace at least on my little bit of ground. “Vermin,” he said. “Rats with wings.” A most disagreeable figure of speech I thought. And he doesn't seem to appreciate his wife in the least.'

‘Sounds most unattractive,' said Carolus. ‘Tell me a little more about Horseman before he comes.'

‘Connor? He's a very good chap. A great help to me in the parish. The young crowd seem to love him and he's in everything. MC at the village dances, president of their cricket club, and referees at football. A good mixer. I must own I know nothing about his books.'

‘I do,' said Carolus. ‘I looked him up in a writers' who's who last night. He has only written one, about seven years ago. It was a life of Mathew Hopkins.'

‘Who was he?'

‘The scourge of the witches. He probably caused the death by drowning of more harmless women than anyone in history.'

‘Witchcraft again. I thought Connor at least was free from that.'

‘He probably is. But he can make a study of the life of Hopkins without any kind of association, surely?'

‘Of course. On the other hand, it could account for him settling in Clibburn. I have often wondered what made him do that.'

‘If the place is all you say it could well account for it,' said
Carolus. ‘What do you think he's coming to see you about?'

‘Something quite ordinary I expect. But you see the state of mind I'm in. I can't hear of someone coming to see me without wondering what has happened
now.
Ridiculous, I know, but that's how it is.'

Carolus nodded sympathetically and the two remained in silence looking into the red embers of the fire.

They were interrupted dramatically. The front door slammed and someone could be heard hurrying down the passage. The study door opened and a man limped into the room, out of breath and obviously unnerved. He did not seem to notice Carolus, but spoke to John Stainer in a loud, high-pitched voice.

‘Someone tried to shoot me,' he said.

At such a moment John showed no nervousness. He stood up, almost pushed the man into a chair, and poured out a stiff whisky.

‘Take it steady, Connor,' he said. ‘Drink that and tell us about it.'

Connor Horseman did as he was told, and managed to nod to Carolus when John introduced them. He was a very frightened man, a sight which neither John nor Carolus liked to see.

‘I don't … often behave like this,' he said apologetically to Carolus. ‘I've had a … disturbing experience.'

His confidence slowly returned and Carolus began to see him as he was in more normal circumstances, but he still did not like what he saw. He was burly and piggy-eyed and probably a good mixer, but behind the bonhomie, which would soon, Carolus felt, assert itself, there was a shifty watchfulness which only such a trusting soul as John would mistake for good nature.

‘Carolus is a very old friend of mine,' John explained. ‘He's staying with me for a bit. He's accustomed to looking into strange events such as we have here. I hope you'll give him the same confidence as you would me and tell us both what happened.'

Horseman managed a smile, but it did not promise the confidence John demanded.

‘Certainly. Of course. As soon as I get my breath. I ran all the way here.'

‘From where?'

‘From Chimneys.'

‘That's the Murrains' house,' John explained. ‘Right opposite the churchyard. Go on, Connor.'

‘I was coming to see you about the dance on Allhallowe'en. The committee got on to me and I thought it would be a good thing. Clear the air a bit. Get things back to normal.'

‘I should have agreed,' said John.

‘I thought you would. I told the committee so. I said I would see you this evening and ask you about using the hall.'

‘Who is on the committee?' asked Carolus.

‘Mostly young people. Five of them. I saw them last night and promised to let them know this evening after I had seen you.'

‘So five at least knew you would be coming here?'

‘Five? Fifty by this morning. News travels fast in Clibburn, doesn't it, John? But they wouldn't know what time except that it would probably be after dark. We both work all day.'

‘You're writing another book, I believe?' said Carolus.

Horseman seemed not to like the remark.

‘I'm always writing another book,' he said sharply. ‘It's my only visible means of support. I rang up and made the appointment with Mrs Lark and left home just before six, intending to walk.'

‘You haven't a car?'

‘It's in dock. Besides, it's only ten minutes on foot.'

‘You had to pass the churchyard?'

‘It's the only direct way. I should also pass the Murrains' house. It is, as you may have noticed, a very dark night and we have no street lighting except outside the White Horse.
I met no one till I was approaching Chimneys, when I ran into Gerald Murrain. Almost literally. He said, “Good evening, Major Horseman,” in that ingratiating way he has and went on towards the village. Something made me look after him. He was swinging an electric torch as he walked. Perhaps its light caught my eye and made me turn.'

‘He hadn't shone it on you?'

‘No. I hadn't seen it till I turned. I stood there for a few moments. The torch was invisible now and there was silence. Then, just as I was passing Chimneys, there was a shot.'

‘Where did the sound come from?'

‘I
think
the churchyard. The shot spattered on the roof of the house.'

‘So it was a sporting gun. You are sure of that?'

‘As sure as one can be. Everything happened at once, but I'm pretty certain I heard it strike the tiles. I found myself running.'