Devil May Care (A Jonathan Harker Mystery) (11 page)

*

Five minutes later Charles and I were riding out to Carrick Manor. I was mounted on Willow, who seemed eager for a ride after spending the day in the stables, and Charles took his own horse, Nat.

We
were about to turn onto the track leading to Sir Owen’s residence when Charles reined in his horse.

‘The
words you overheard last night,’ he said. ‘Something about “transference”. Can you repeat them?’

I
thought for a moment. ‘I think so. Yes –
the
transference
must
proceed
as
planned
, that was it. I could make no sense of it.’

‘Nor
could I when you mentioned it earlier today. Then a moment ago I thought back to the markings you saw in your dream on Tuesday night – the Seal of Lucifer, a device often used in order to offer a soul to the Devil in return for immortality – or at any rate a much prolonged existence. In the ceremony conducted for that purpose the life essence of the person sacrificed is
transferred
to the magician, or one of the magician’s followers.’

I
was suddenly struck by the full import of what Charles was suggesting. ‘My G-d!’ I cried. ‘Let us ride to Carrick Manor. I pray that we are not too late. If any harm has come to Mina, I swear I will not wait for the police to act. I will see to it that Sir Owen receives justice without the need for a trial.’

We
rode as fast as we dared – fortunately the sky was clear and there was some moonlight to guide us, so it was not many minutes later before we reached the open, windswept headland of Godrevy Point. When we arrived at Carrick Manor no light could be seen escaping from the window shutters, nor any other sign of occupation, but that did not dent my resolution. If Mina was being held captive in the house, the occupants would hardly wish to advertise their presence.

Charles
and I tethered our horses in the grounds and approached the front door. I tugged the wire bell pull briskly and for good measure my companion hammered on the weathered double doors with his fist. There was no reply, so we repeated our efforts. I was just about to suggest that we search for some tools and attempt to break in when the door opened a foot or two to reveal Jennings, the thick set butler. He was dressed in corduroy trousers and an old waistcoat and was obviously not expecting visitors.

Jennings
looked us both up and down with a manner close to insolence.

‘I
don’t know why you’re here, but master isn’t at home,’ he said and made as if to close the door.

Charles
placed his foot inside the threshold. ‘Jennings, isn’t it? Sir Owen’s butler? I’m afraid that we must enter, Jennings, whether Sir Owen is home or not. Now make way.’

My
friend pushed his way past the scowling butler and I followed, shutting the door behind me. The hall way was dimly lit by an oil lamp placed on a side-table, no doubt put there by Jennings when he had come to answer the door.

The
butler reached out and grabbed Charles by the upper arm, swinging him round. Charles pushed him away violently. Jennings staggered backwards, then regained his balance and rushed at Charles, flailing his fists wildly.

If
Jennings had been familiar with my friend’s
curriculum
vitae
, which included a full blue for boxing, he might well have exercised more caution. As it was Charles neatly sidestepped the butler’s powerful if unscientific punches and struck his man neatly under the jaw.

I
caught the butler as he fell and lowered him to the carpet, where I gave him a cursory examination.

‘He’ll be unconscious long enough to allow us to search the house. And if he should revive before we leave, I doubt he’ll trouble us again. I suggest we search the ground floor first.’

I
snatched up the oil lamp and we went quickly from room to room, finding all unoccupied. The last door we came to was locked, but fortunately it was of recent and flimsy construction and we soon broke it open. It led into what was obviously Sir Owen’s chemical laboratory. I know little of science, but to my layman’s eyes it seemed very well equipped.

Charles
went to a row of bookshelves on the far wall and pulled out a volume or two, poring over the titles. ‘Well, there’s nothing here to cause us much alarm. Albertus Magnus – Paul of Taranto – old fashioned alchemical texts, quite harmless. Let us hope that the baronet is as ill-informed in his other arcane studies.’

We
made our way upstairs and other than ascertaining that the servants were all asleep in bed made no further discoveries. It was fortunate that Charles was with me: those we awoke were his parishioners and accepted his apologies and reassurances with remarkable tolerance. None of them were aware that Sir Owen and Paxton were not in the house: although, perhaps significantly, their housekeeper did let it slip that ‘Sir Owen and his cousin often liked to go out late at night, and Mr Jennings would wait up for them.’

There
was now the vexed question of what we were to do next. The situation was if anything even more worrying than before. If Mina was in Sir Owen’s power we now had no notion of where to look for her. We returned to the long picture gallery on the first floor. I paced up and down searching for inspiration, as ranks of Vellands’ ancestors looked down upon me from both sides as if smirking at my dilemma.

Charles
was about to speak to me when I raised my hand. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘That picture by the curtain, in the shadows. Bring the lamp closer.’

We
walked towards the full-length portrait. It had attracted my attention because its frame was of brighter gilt and less ornate that those next to it – a more recent family member perhaps. As Charles held up the lamp, the picture was suddenly illuminated. The colours were fresh and it had obviously been recently painted. However, it was not that which made me step back with an involuntary cry of surprise. The subject was very familiar to me. There was no mistaking that tall, striking figure, lustrous dark hair and pale face tinged with sadness. It was the same young woman who had pointed at me when I was travelling down to Cornwall, and who had appeared in my dream on Tuesday night. I looked down at the inscription freshly engraved on the brass label attached to the frame.

Ruth
,
Lady
Velland
:
1893

Chapter Nine

Lady Velland’s portrait could not have been painted more than three months before her death. Had I been granted the leisure to consider the significance of my discovery I might have been still standing in the gallery ten minutes later, but as it was I had only a few moments for contemplation. A familiar voice called up from the ground floor.

‘Mr
Harker! Are you there? It’s Dr Goodwin. Some ruffian appears to have attacked Sir Owen’s butler.’

Seconds
later we were at the doctor’s side and quickly told him what had brought us to Carrick Manor. I was pleased to see that Jennings had regained consciousness and was sitting up on the floor rubbing his jaw.

‘Mrs
Ashby explained that you had come here,’ Goodwin said, anticipating my question. ‘I had gone to the Reverend Ashby’s house to find Mr Harker. Let me explain. Earlier this evening I had been called out to the George Hotel. A commercial traveller had been taken very ill. I arrived too late to help the poor fellow – a fatal apoplexy – but that’s by the bye. I was about to leave when the landlord, Bob Newsome, asked me if I was going to be in Hayle the next day. I said I was not and asked why. Newsome told me he had received a telegram for Mr Harker and thought the gentleman might want it as soon as possible.

‘Now,
knowing something of your business,’ the doctor looked at me as he spoke, ‘I thought it could well be something of great urgency. Here it is, Mr Harker.’

I
ripped open the proffered envelope. As I suspected, it was from Professor Van Helsing, in answer to the telegram I had sent him yesterday. The Professor’s reply was brief but dramatic. I read it through twice, then held it out to Charles and Dr Goodwin.

Jonathan
–
re
your
query
regarding
the
Reverend
Trewellard
–
be
very
much
on
your
guard
–
a
most
dangerous
individual
believed
to
be
an
adept
in
the
black
arts
–
expelled
from
India
after
scandal
–
very
likely
obtained
current
position
by
deception
–
regards
Van
Helsing

‘Surely there’s some mistake!’ Charles cried. ‘I believe I have as good a sense of humour as the next man, but if this is a joke, it’s in very poor taste.’

‘I
am afraid that this is not a matter upon which Professor Van Helsing would choose to jest,’ I said. ‘Like me he has had some experience of the occult and takes it very seriously. If Van Helsing had not been absolutely sure of his facts, he would not have sent such a message. At least his news has answered our dilemma as to our next steps. I suspect that it was Trewellard whom I overheard talking to Sir Owen late last night, not Paxton. I suggest that the three of us ride over to the vicarage immediately. I will have a word with Jennings before we leave, to impress upon him the consequences of attempting to follow us.’

*

It was with some sense of
déjà
vu
that Charles, the doctor and I arrived at a large detached villa in substantial grounds on the outskirts of Hayle that served as the vicarage for St Elwyn. The tall brick building appeared deserted. We tethered our horses to a clump of trees in the driveway, leaving Willow and her two companions to graze on the somewhat unkempt borders.

Dr
Goodwin took out his watch. ‘Ten minutes to midnight,’ he said. ‘Should we knock, or would it perhaps be better to try to enter surreptitiously?’

I
was about to answer when I noticed another building a few hundred yards beyond the main house. It was a small stone built chapel, and appeared to be considerably older than the villa. A stubby round tower topped with battlements – probably a later addition – rose some thirty feet from the north side. As I looked towards it a gleam of yellow light escaped from its end wall, as if someone had rapidly opened and closed a door.

I
clutched Charles’ arm. ‘That building – someone’s there. What is it?’

‘The
old Hayle church,’ he answered. ‘It dates from Anglo-Saxon times. It hasn’t been used for services since St Elwyn was built. Let us examine it before we disturb the main house. If Sir Owen and Trewellard are seeking privacy, they could hardly do better.’

Fortunately
Charles had visited the old church before. Instead of trying to enter through the front porch, he led us to the far side of the building where a weather-beaten oak door was set into an ancient stone surround. The small window next to it was of equally venerable vintage, but the frame and glass which filled it looked new.

‘The
door leads to the vestry. The old window was damaged in a storm two years ago,’ Charles explained. ‘It is hardly an act of desecration to break this replacement.’

With
that he selected a stone from the path, wrapped it in his handkerchief and used it to smash a small leaded pane close to the window latch. With the window open Dr Goodwin volunteered to crawl through, being the smallest of the three of us, and soon we were all inside the vestry.

The
doctor took out a match and struck it. The air was damp and stale and the vestry had been cleared of everything except a mildewed cassock handing from a peg behind the door.

Charles
lowered his voice and pointed to the outer door of the vestry, which presumably led into the main building. ‘There should be a clear view of the nave beyond that door,’ he said. ‘Dr Goodwin, if you will extinguish your match, I think we will risk opening it a fraction.’

‘Let
me look,’ I said. I was determined that if Mina was being held inside, I would dash to her rescue come what may. There were three of us, all fit young men, and I was sure that we could give a good account of ourselves.

The
doctor and Charles lifted the iron latch and slowly opened the door several inches, whilst I peered through the gap. My friend was right: I had an excellent sight of the interior of the small church. What I saw made me gasp with surprise.

The
first emotion that I felt was relief that Mina was nowhere to be seen, followed by astonishment at the sight that was revealed to me in the light of four flickering candles. About half way down the nave – in the centre of the church – stood a rectangular table, covered in a plain, smooth black cloth. On each side of the table – evidently an improvised altar – stood two tall wrought iron holders, each mounting a large black candle. There were no pews or other fixtures on the floor, and the altar was at the centre of a geometric diagram which had been carefully drawn on the stone flags: I recognised it immediately as the Seal of Lucifer.