by Mike Ashley
“But what on earth?” I began incredulously. “What reason . . .”
“You’ll know, all in good time,” said Pennoyer. “Well, I wormed all I could out of the Dean about Hart. I was specially anxious to know the reason for his suicide . . . but this last nobody seemed to know. Hart had lived in Nant—more or less, at least—for the last three or four years of the building of his masterpiece. He rented a small house in the village, and the old woman who owned the house ‘did’ for him—and as far as anybody knew, there was no reason why he should have thrown away his life so pitifully. He was still only fifty-six or so, had a fine name, the building of the Cathedral had set the coping-stone on an already notable career, he had plenty of money, more commissions than he could deal with . . . he was unmarried, and had no particular troubles as far as the outside world could discover.
“But I gather he was a terribly difficult man to deal with—as many geniuses are, of course—and during the last two years he had become more and more difficult. In fact, the Dean told me that his old landlady, Mrs. Griffiths, often declared that if it hadn’t been for her being so deaf that she didn’t hear his swearing and cursing when he was in one of his rages, she would never have stayed with him so long. I gather he used to write down his orders and she carried them out, and so life remained peaceful for her, at all events . . . if a man has to start expressing his anger by means of writing, it flickers out!
“I understand, from what the Dean said, that though Hart must always have been a moody, awkward-tempered cuss, he grew much worse during the last year of the Cathedral’s building, as various hitches occurred from time to time in the delivery or the execution of the work that used to infuriate him to almost madness . . . and there were times, the Dean said, especially towards the end, when he feared seriously for his reason. The last few months must really have been hell-and-blazes for all concerned, as between the stories of the child-ghost putting the men off their work and Gregg Hart going apparently bit by bit off his head—well, life was simply awful, and my poor little Dean was driven almost hysterical at times.”
“Well,” I said, “frenzied rages, however unpleasant they may be for a man’s friends and acquaintances, don’t necessarily mean lunacy, or even weakening of the brain!”
“I know,” said Pennoyer. But, apart from what Hart said, he really did, it seems, start behaving more than a little oddly towards the end. It appears that he was naturally a rather solitary, surly sort of bloke; hated society, made very few friends, refused all the local ladies’ invitations, though they tried hard to lionize him, till they found it wasn’t any use. He used to go up to his London studio pretty often, and now and then he’d bring back a brother-architect or artist to have a look at the Cathedral—but mostly he kept very much to himself in Nant. Used to spend hours by himself in the Cathedral after the workmen had gone, walking about and studying it, and thinking out endless new details . . . the place was his mania, he’d lived and dreamt and planned and hoped for it for years, and his real absorption in and love for his work was one of the things that made the Dean and others forgive him a good many bêtises.
“But towards the end he changed very much—he seemed to avoid the Cathedral after dark, and wouldn’t go there alone even during the day if he could help it. And another thing was odd! From being a teetotaller—or very nearly—he took to drinking in a big way. And from being a moody, solitary sort of a chap, never going out and snubbing any overtures of friendship, he suddenly took to accepting any invitation that was thrown at him, and clinging so persistently to anybody who would tolerate him as to become something of a nuisance. Didn’t seem to want to be alone—ever—especially at night! Of course, not only this caused a lot of talk, but his changed attitude towards the Cathedral, his reluctance to go into it except during the daytime hours, or when there were others about, revived the rumour that he had seen the child himself—but when this was hinted to him jokingly at some party or other, he first went white and then flew into such a violent rage that it was never mentioned afterwards. Of course, it may have been true and he had seen the child, but didn’t want to admit it. The very violence of his reaction to the suggestion rather seems to suggest that . . . .”
“When did the Dean see him last?” I asked.
“About three days before he died,” said Pennoyer. “It was at the consecration—a great occasion, of course, with all the County there, and the choir-stalls packed with clergy from all over the diocese, and a garden-party with champagne and strawberries at the Dean’s afterwards, and I don’t know what-all! Apparently Hart had been very white and distrait all day, and during the consecration ceremony he gave a queer kind of cry and collapsed in a heap in his pew. He was taken out and looked after at once, and though of course it might have been that he had merely been overcome with quite natural emotion at seeing his greatest achievement completed at last, still some people whispered and looked at each other queerly, because as he was coming round apparently he raved and wept and talked hysterically about some child or other . . . but there was nothing definite to be made out of what he said. Of course, he may not have been talking about the ghost-child at all, but about a perfectly ordinary child—but the obvious conclusion was drawn once more. And when he became conscious, he looked, I’m told, truly ghastly, with his eyes sunk in his head and his face lined like an old man’s. After that his fear of being alone amounted to a mania! He hung round people till he became a perfect plague, and actually tried to persuade the Dean to let him come and live with him as a P.G.; but apart from the fact that poor Hart’s temper made him anything but a pleasant housemate, the Conover ménage had no room for a third person—and a few days after that Hart was found dead in the Cathedral on the steps of the altar. And it was after this that the double haunting began, and the Cathedral of Nant Valley began to be deserted by its worshippers and dreaded by its servants, until the afternoon came when I sat in that pleasant little drawing-room with Dean Conover, eating hot scones at a Chippendale table, and promised him I would do my best to lift the cloud that was impeding the work of his beloved Church!”
Pennoyer sat back, took a sip of orange juice, and continued.
“Obviously the first thing to do was to examine the ground for myself, and I requested permission to spend the night in the Cathedral, which I got without difficulty. It was not without a certain amount of trepidation that I nodded goodnight to the elderly verger who led me to a pew facing the High Altar, tucked me round with a rug—I had come provided with a warm coat, a rug, a flask of coffee, and sandwiches, as it was not my first experience by a good many of the dank chilliness of these vigils!—and I heard his footsteps going slowly away down the long echoing nave towards the door. The faint click of a distant latch told of his departure, and I sat back staring up at the magnificent arched chancel before me.
“The moon was high, and I could see sufficiently well to appreciate the austere beauty of the place.
“The scent of the incense from the evening service that had taken place before still lingered faintly in the air, and mingled with the strong sweet odour of the Madonna lilies that shone like white stars in the gloom from the tall brass vases on the altar, whose green velvet frontal, embroidered from end to end with embossed gold and silver thread, gleamed richly at the head of the flight of seven shallow steps of black and white marble that led up to it. I stared at those steps, seeing in my mind’s eye the sprawled body of the dead man as it had lain along them when they found it—and my eye travelled from the steps to the gilded altar-rail of the Sanctuary, up to the altar and the gorgeous reredos behind it, all goldwork, mosaic, and carving, with the great golden Crucifix in the centre, and up again, higher still, to the six tall narrow windows that rose above it, their shape echoing the six tall narrow candles that flickered on the altar between the lilies. Windows that repeated in their lustrous stained-glass panels set with jewels, the myriad colours of the reredos.
“High above the chancel swung the seven lamps, like seven glo
wing ruby eyes eternally on duty, guarding the shrine . . . . I blinked at them and shivered, yawning and wondering whether it was imagination, or was I really feeling oddly shivery, with that queer inner chill that means something ‘otherworldly’ coming near? A chill utterly different from the mere gooseflesh brought about by normal cold . . . .
“I glanced at my watch. It was just on twelve o’clock, and though my experience has taught me that ghostly happenings do not by any means necessarily only take place at midnight, yet that witching hour is still the time when the veil between the Two Worlds wears thinnest, and queer things are most likely to happen.
“There was no sound—the utter silence of a great structure like that, in the dead of night, has to be felt to be believed. There is no real silence out of doors, no matter how dark the night. In the city there is the occasional hoot of a taxi, the measured tread of a policeman, voices, and laughter as a stray group of partygoers hurries home, the rumble of a distant electric train or an early market-cart, the squall of a lovesick pussy-cat abroad on the tiles—and in the country the cheep of sleepy birds, the stealthy rustle of a prowling night-hunter in the undergrowth, an owl’s hoot, the sigh of wind in the branches, the bark of a watchdog, a thousand other sounds. But there, within this immense pile of masonry, soaring skywards God knows how many feet above my head, there was a silence that could be felt, almost handled, and accustomed as I was to eerie atmospheres, I had to gather all my strength of mind and courage to meet it without a qualm!
“I sat there watching the altar, wondering whether amongst the shadows that I thought I saw moving aimlessly about before it there loomed already the dim shape of a man—or a child?—and warning myself to keep my imagination quiescent, to free myself merely to observe, not to invent. I had been told that the Cathedral had been haunted by a child and a man, and that knowledge might impel me, if I were not wary, to construct those actual shapes out of the vague movement of shadows, out of the effect of the moonlight that fell, blurred and strangely coloured by the many-hued glass through which it filtered, in long narrow panels along the marble floors of sanctuary, of chancel, and of nave . . . .
“But even as I told myself this, I was conscious of a growing tension in the atmosphere about me, of a sense of palpitating emotion rising and growing stronger and more painful every moment, that beat about my spirit as the waves beat about the foot of a rock, disturbing it, threatening, almost, to overwhelm it! Holding my inner senses steady, I tried to analyse the rising tide, to sort out its component parts, knowing that if I could only do this I might find some clue that would lead me towards the inner heart of this mystery.
“I was conscious, first of all, of a queer sense of bewilderment—of frustration and suspicion—and then suddenly fear seized me, an almost panic terror! But it was not my own fear that I felt. I was sensing the fear that had been felt by someone else—that somewhere was still being felt! I felt that fear reach out and touch me, and the first vibration mingled with it, that strange wild sense of bewildered frustration—but now it was rising rapidly to anger mingled with hate, both fierce and turbulent, yet, I felt, directed not so much at any thing or person in particular, as against all things and all men alike. I got a sense of blind, thwarted rage akin to the lunatic fury of a madman who, driven by forces beyond his comprehension or control, turns and rends whatever comes nearest to his hand, blind to all but the furious need to assuage by action, the more violent the better, the fever that is riding him! All about me these furious vibrations raged and swirled, strong as a palpable tide almost, bewildering and distressing to such a degree that confusedly I thought that with my actual ears I heard sounds of weeping, of curses and cries of rage and anger, the gnashing of teeth and thin wails of mortal fear. . . . I had to hold tightly to my sense of balance, and my heart swelled with pity for whoever it was, how many or how few I had no idea, that was sending forth these waves of such desperate suffering!
“I stared steadfastly up at the altar, which, as far as I could make out, seemed to be the focus from which these vibrations swept outwards into the main body of the great pile, and, holding tightly to the carved wooden arm of my pew, and mentally concentrating upon the great golden Cross above the altar, tried to keep my head above the waters of the wild tide of emotions that whirled and strove about me, and then suddenly—I saw it! A tall, dark shape that stood halfway up the altar steps. A figure very faint and indistinct—but clearly the figure of a man.
“I had never met Gregg Hart, and in any case the shape was too shadowy for any features, etc., to be seen in detail—and moreover, as he stood looking up at the altar, his back was towards me and I could not see his face. But it was a man tall and lean and rather stooping, as they had described Hart, wearing lightish trousers and a loose dun-coloured coat—and the Dean had told me that Hart’s working attire was invariably light grey flannel trousers and a brown tweed jacket. He was standing halfway up the shallow flight of steps below the altar, staring up at it, as though waiting or watching for someone. He stood perfectly still, and all the time that maelstrom of tangled emotions surged about me, anger and fear and bewilderment, blind fury, and mortal anguish. And now I perceived that a fresh element had entered into that dreadful tide that beat about me! The sense of guilt. Somewhere, someone was either suffering or had suffered—I was too confused and shaken to be able to distinguish which—some overwhelming sense of shame, of horror, of self-loathing so immense as to be truly dreadful! Someone, grovelling, abject, wept in agonized guiltiness, without hope of forgiveness or of pity. . . .
“And then suddenly I saw that at one corner of the altar there was another figure—the figure of a child! She stood, or rather crouched, against the dull green-and-gold shimmer of the altar-frontal, watching the tall shadow of the man standing below her at the further side of the altar steps—and even as I followed her I saw that he was not there any longer! As though the appearance of the child had meant his banishment, he had vanished like a blown-out candle-flame, and only that shrinking little shape was left, cowering there in the dusk.
“I leant forward eagerly, straining my eyes to see through the gloom, and as I moved she moved also, creeping cautiously along the front of the altar as though only now, after the disappearance of the man, did she dare to make a movement. She stood for a moment or so before the altar, fingering the embroidery and the lace, reaching up to try and touch the flowers or the tall brass candlesticks, and staring vaguely up at the great golden Crucifix that shone high in the centre of the altar against the reredos. Now I could see her more clearly, thanks not only to the moon that, coming out of the clouds, threw a stronger light through the tall windows, but to a faintly shining quality that seemed to outline the forlorn little figure as though a luminous pencil had drawn her upon the dusk. It was a poor little scarecrow of a child—a girl of about seven or eight years old. A little girl dressed in a ragged red frock—the colour showed in the gloom like a dark red rose against the altar-frontal—with wild dark tangled hair, hatless and barefoot. I could see no detail again, no distinguishing feature—the shape looked like just another of the poor, poverty-stricken little slum or gipsy children that, alas! were all too common in the mining districts that lie close to the fringe of the Nant Valley. . . .
“For a few moments she lingered near the altar, then turned, and coming to the top of the altar steps, seemed to pause a moment—then came warily down, and turning sharply to the right, darted across the shadow-striped floor of the chancel and disappeared through the choir-stalls in the direction of the vestry. I waited several minutes, but she did not appear again, and I was conscious now that the tide of strange and exhausting emotions that had been endeavouring, it seemed, to engulf me, was slowly withdrawing itself, retreating once more to whatever place had sent it forth.
“This, then, was the sense of ‘something dreadful’ which many people experienced, even though they had not seen either of the ghosts. ‘Spiritual tumult and suffering’—the Dean was right. I had—as I had h
oped—seen and felt it all, and I blamed nobody for avoiding the Cathedral! I waited until that shattering flood of vibrations had completely faded away and then got up, shivering with cold, damp with the sweat of emotion and excitement, and feeling as limp as a rag, realizing that my ordeal was over—for one night at least. And what had I learned?
“It was in a rather sober mood that I left the Cathedral, now dark and still, untenanted and undisturbed, and made my way across the smooth stretch of turf to the Dean’s house in the Close, where I was staying—he had said, and I agreed with him, that it would cause less comment and keep my real errand private if I merely came to stay with him as a friend. I tumbled thankfully into bed—though it was not yet one o’clock I was tired to death from the intense psychic strain of my experience—and slept soundly until eight o’clock, when I bathed and dressed and went down to breakfast with the Dean, who was waiting on tenterhooks of interest to hear my report. Miss Conover always breakfasted in her own room, so we were alone, and I plunged at once into my adventures of the night.
“He sighed faintly as I finished, and nodded.
“‘Yes—yes. It happens just so. Sometimes the child is seen—sometimes the man; sometimes it is only that dreadful atmosphere that is felt, and people are terrified and won’t come into the place again.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t say I blame them! I have felt it myself—though I have seen nothing. But the feeling is awful—that dreadful mingling of rage and fear, of shame, of agony of mind. . . .’ He shivered and stopped. ‘What is your opinion, Dr. Pennoyer? Or haven’t you had time to form one?’
