"Really!" The long, lined face expressed surprise. "I would have thought the facts were clear to anyone of normal perception. But of course you are not a student of monstrumology."
"Say again," instructed Sheridan caustically.
"Monstrumology. A much neglected line of research which is unfortunately often treated with derision by the uninformed. As I said earlier it is most surprising that the kingdom of the world should have come under the sway of a species of monkey, and there is reason to suppose there were other claimants to the throne. I refer you to Astaste and his Book of Forbidden Knowledge, which devotes no less than six chapters to the Caninus-fulk and the Vampr-Monstrum. Many legends are based on his findings and I have often believed - now I know - that the old people - as they were known to the unlettered peasantry of medieval Europe - did not completely die out. Quite a large number must have continued to exist even to this day."
"I have never…" Sheridan began, but the vicar was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed and hands folded across his stomach. His voice droned on - and on.
"Conrad von Leininstein, who disappeared mysteriously in 1831, stated categorically that they had started to crossbreed. Vampire to werewolf, ghoul to vampire, then crossbreed to crossbreed, thus producing terrifying hybrids. His illustrations are really most edifying. He also hinted they were moving up into high places, which has often led me to conject about the possibility of my bishop-"
"Look here," Sheridan roared, "this has gone quite far enough. You are alarming my wife and unnecessarily irritating me."
"But, my dear sir," Mr Barker opened his eyes, "I am only telling you all this for your own good. If my suspicions are well founded, then you have a shaddy on your front gate, a mock for a butler and a maddie in the kitchen. The first can lick the flesh from your bones, the second blow the skin from your face - if not something far worse - and the third kill or possess with a gaping yawn. They can all infect their victims with a transforming virus."
Sheridan Croxley did not bother to comment on these allegations, but emptied his wine glass and glared at the ceiling. Caroline decided to ask a question.
"Mr Barker, what is a shaddy and those other things you mentioned?"
Mr Barker sat back and prepared to deliver another lecture.
"A very good question, dear lady. A shaddy is the off-spring of a werevam and a weregoo, which in turn have sprung from the union of a vampire and a werewolf - or in some cases a common or churchyard ghoul. Whereas, a maddy is the fruit of a cohabitation - such unions are not of course blessed by mother-church - between a weregoo and vamgoo - thus having ghoul connections on both sides…"
"Damnation hell," Sheridan muttered, but his exasperation appeared to be lost on the clergyman who continued his discourse.
"A mock - most naturally - is the seed of a shaddy and maddy, or in some cases a raddy, who, as will be supposed, has sprung from the loins of a werevam and vamgoo…"
"But," Caroline interrupted, her fear - disbelief, but - heavens above - growing doubts, overcome by a terrible curiosity, "the young man, the good-looking boy - surely he cannot be a monster?"
The Reverend John Barker sat upright and beamed with ghoulish pleasure. "But, dear lady, he is, if I might coin a phrase, the cherry on top of the trifle. If my calculations are correct, that young man - if indeed he is young - is the off-spring of a mock and a maddy, and therefore is the dreaded, the horrific - shadmock."
Sheridan lowered his head and sneered at the irritatingly enthusiastic clergyman.
"Surely among this phalanx of monsters, there is not much to choose between one or the other. What with - what was it? -yawning, licking, blowing and heaven knows what, there isn't much left for a milksop boy to do. What is his speciality? Spitting?"
Mr Barker shook his head in sad reproof.
"Do not, I beg of you, treat this matter lightly, my dear sir. The shadmock may be the lowest branch on the monsteral tree, and therefore been denied the more fearsome aspects of his sires - as for example the horns his father hides beneath that piled-up hair - but be has a gift that is said to be the most venomous in the entire family. He whistles."
"Whistles!" Sheridan repeated.
"Whistles," said Caroline dreamily.
Mr Barker tried to demonstrate by whistling himself, but a set of ill-fitting false teeth defeated his object.
"Yes, indeed. In none of the works which I have read, is there mention of the style of whistle, or what its immediate effect will be, but all unite in maintaining it is fearful to the extreme. I wonder if I can remember the old rhyming jingle that emphasised this fact."
And he screwed up his eyes and after some thought, began to recite the following words.
"Fall to your knees and pray out aloud,
When the moon hides her face behind stormy cloud,
Blame not the wind for the midnight shriek,
Or pretend 'tis the floorboard beginning to creak.
Wonder not why your hair stiffly bristles:
Just abandon all hope when the shadmock whistles."
Caroline screamed softly and Sheridan began to swear very loudly.
Sheridan's rage had not abated when they retired to bed.
"The old fool is as cracked as a fried egg. When I think that a maniac like that climbs up into a pulpit every Sunday and preaches to a lot of simple-minded yokels. I feel like going up the wall myself. Did you ever hear anything like it? Shaddies, mocks and what was it? - shamrocks?"
"Shadmock," Caroline corrected. "But, Sheridan, those three do look awful."
"Ninety-nine percent of the human race look bloody awful. Now, for heaven's sake, dismiss all this rubbish from your mind and go to sleep. I've come down here for relaxation - not to listen to the prattling of an old madman."
Sheridan slept. Caroline lay on her back looking up at the ceiling and listening to faraway sounds that were so faint as to be well-nigh indistinguishable, but could not be dismissed as imagination. A long, drawn-out howl, a scream that was choked in mid-note, and once, much nearer, the soft thud of running feet.
It was a long while before Caroline found the courage to climb out of bed and approach the window. That she finally did so was the result of necessity rather than desire. Imagination created terrifying mental pictures of what might be taking place in that moonlit, unkempt garden, and there was a burning need to be reassured that all was well. In fact, when she at last looked out over that expanse of grass-clad earth, and the still, naked trees that stood like giant sentinels beyond, the scene was one of surprising tranquillity. The moon had tinted every tree, bush and blade of grass with silver, and in those places where it was not permitted to stray, slabs of soft shadow lurked like sleeping ghosts waiting for the kiss of sunlight. A large tabby cat wandered out from beneath the trees and when it had reached a spot some twenty yards from the house, sat down and began to lick its fur. Caroline watched the dainty movements; the flickering pink tongue, the raised paw that slid round pointed ears; the grey streaked fur that glittered like polished steel in the cold moonlight. Suddenly the cat froze and became a study in still-life. Head to one side, yellow eyes staring with awful intensity at the glowering trees, one paw still held over erect ear, back arched, tail coiled like a grey, tapered spring. Then it was a blurred streak that sped across the garden, and with it went the tranquillity, the soft, melancholy stillness that reigns in places where animated life has ceased to walk. Fear stalked across the grass and breathed upon the house.
The old man from the front gate - the shaddy - came out from under the trees and shuffled into the centre of the garden. He was carrying a dead sheep over his shoulders, draped round his neck like a monstrous fur collar, and blood trickled down his shirt front in a red, glistening stream that sprinkled the grass with moon bright rubies. He stopped, then turned and Caroline heard a low, rumbling laugh as Grantley stepped out of the shadows bearing a brace of rabbits slung over one arm. The woman at the window whimpered when she saw the small shrivelled heads; all
the fur burnt away, the ears crumpled into crisp curls - the teeth blackened stubs. Father and son stood side by side: two hunters home from the chase, each bearing the fruits of his own particular skill - both waiting for the third to put in an appearance.
Marvin came running across the garden, and Caroline caught her breath when she watched the long, graceful strides, the strange, almost animal, beauty of the youthful face and form. A hot wave of desire submerged the fear - the loathing - of the older creatures, making her clutch the window frame, until her fingers were like streaks of frozen snow.
Marvin carried a basket filled with some peculiar white vegetables.
Here surely was a beautiful Abel coming home to a pair of evil-visaged Cains? He held his basket out for their inspection, and the hideous old man laughed - a raucous bellow that savaged Caroline's ears - and Grantley shook his bead, so that the piled-up hair was disarranged and two black horns glittered in the moonlight. Then Marvin put his head to one side and his full lips parted - and instantly the laughter sank down to a rumbling gurgle. The elder men - creatures - became as still as stricken trees, and both stared at the handsome youth as though he was a cobra preparing to strike. Marvin jerked his head towards the house; a brief, imperious gesture, and they trotted away like two wild dogs before a thoroughbred stallion.
Caroline returned to the great double bed and after lying still for a few, heart-thudding minutes, reached out and nudged her sleeping husband.
"Sheridan."
He was dragged up from the slough of sleep. Came awake spluttering, voicing his irritation by a series of snorted words.
"What is it? Wassat matter?"
"Sheridan… I can't sleep."
"What!"
"I can't sleep."
The morning was clear and cold, with a wind-scoured sky and a frost-bright sun. The naked trees fought with a keen, east wind, and below the iron-hard earth was a graveyard for an army of dead leaves that seethed and rustled as though mourning the green adorned summer of long ago. But Caroline was watching the old man from the front gate hoover the carpet.
As he worked, his bearded mouth opened and closed, and his red-black tongue darted between the thin lips in a most extraordinary and revolting way. Caroline was reminded of a snake looking for blowflies. When she passed him on her way to the stairs, he looked up and grinned, baring those obscene black gums, and a gurgling sound seeped up from this throat, which Caroline hopefully translated to mean good morning.
Down in the dining room Sheridan was already seated at the breakfast table, and he greeted his wife's entrance with an irritated scowl.
"You might try to come down to breakfast on time. We haven't a houseful of servants."
Grantley, who was now his usual dapper self, with black hair piled high, white face a mask of solicitude, eased a chair under her legs and murmured.
"If I might be allowed, sir. We are so delighted that the old house has a master once again, there can be no trouble involved in serving both you and your gracious lady. Only pleasure."
"Damned decent of you," Sheridan growled. "Come to think of it, must have been lonely with no fresh faces all these years. How long have you been here?"
Grantley served devilled kidneys, then poured coffee from a silver pot.
"It must be a trifle over twenty years. I remember the old gentleman - Sir Harold Sinclair - was delighted when we offered our services. Servants are, apparently, loath to stay in this isolated place and our arrival was timely."
"How did you get on with the old devil?" Sheridan inquired.
"Unfortunately the poor old gentleman met with an accident soon after our installation. Fell over the banisters on his way to the bathroom. My father, who was but a few steps behind at the time, was inconsolable."
Sheridan said "Good God," and Caroline trembled.
Grantley deposited a toast-rack on the table, then added a dish of fresh butter.
"The poor gentleman had been so kind as to make provision for us, prior to his untimely end, so we have been able to stay on at the house which, if I might be so bold, we have come to love."
"Damned pleased you do," Sheridan grunted. "Your wife is an excellent cook, the place is run to perfection. I could wish the garden were in better shape - but then, I suppose you can't be expected to do everything."
"I am of the opinion, sir, that unbridled nature serves the house more adequately than mutilated grass and tortured plants. Which, regrettably, reminds me of a melancholy item of news it is my sad duty to impart."
"Sad news!" Sheridan paused, a fork holding a morsel of kidney half way to his mouth. "What is it?"
"The reverend gentleman, sir. Your guest of yesterday evening. He, like my late employer - met with a fatal accident. It appears that he was cycling past Devil's Point - a steep incline, which to my mind is inadequately fenced - and due possibly to a fainting fit, or some other mishap, fell over and broke his back."
"Good God!" Sheridan dropped his fork and Caroline slid down in her chair. "Broke his back?"
"Yes, sir. Between the second and third vertebrae."
Sheridan took up his knife and fork and quickly recovered from the shocking news.
"The old fool was a mad old windbag, but still, I'm sorry he came to a sticky end."
"He was, I believe, a knowledgeable gentleman," remarked Grantley urbanely. "And knowledge, when widely broadcast, can be disconcerting. Even - under some circumstances - dangerous."
Caroline felt sick with terror. She knew, with the same certainty that would have been hers had she witnessed the terrible act, that Mr Barker had been murdered. Or did one associate murder with these creatures? Could a lion, or any wild beast, commit murder? She would have screamed, yelled out the unthinkable truth, had not Marvin entered the room carrying a plate of bread and butter.
For a heart-stopping moment his eyes met hers and instantly Caroline became as a condemned gourmet who is looking forward to his last breakfast, and refuses to think about the grim ceremony that must follow. Terror was now a delicious excitement that blended with her deep-rooted masochistic urge and became almost unendurable pain-pleasure. He leaned over the table and her fevered gaze was rivetted on his smooth, round wrist. Sheridan looked up and grinned.
"Heard about what happened to our guest of last night, lad?"
The beautiful head nodded. "Yes, sir. Most regrettable."
Sheridan's grin broadened. "Well, he won't call you a mock again."
Marvin straightened up and smiled gently.
"With respect, sir. A shadmock. My father is a mock."
Caroline giggled when she saw the look of amazement spread over her husband's face and the spark of anger that made his little eyes gleam.
"I'm inclined to think that old Barker was not the only one with a screw loose. Perhaps all of you have been here too long. A change of scenery would be beneficial."
Grantley's voice was so gentle, so reasonable.
"I venture to suggest, sir - that would not be convenient."
Sheridan Croxley flung his napkin aside and rose so violently his chair went over. Marvin calmly pulled it upright, then stood to one side and waited for the storm to break. Sheridan's face turned to an interesting shade of purple and his voice rose to a full-throated roar that had made many senior executives tremble.
"Not convenient! Damn your blasted insolence. You may think you're indispensable, but this is not the only house I own. This place is only a weekend retreat - a whim - of which I may soon tire. So, guard your tongue."
Grantley appeared to be in no way put out by this tirade, but merely inclined his head, then motioned Marvin to remove the plates.
"I greatly regret if my words have given offence. I am well aware that your stay must, of necessity, be of short duration."
Sheridan's anger was further incensed by this roundabout apology and without saying another word, he strode abruptly from the room. Caroline seemed to have become glued to her chair. She had only eyes for Marvin, ears that had an insati
able hunger for the sound of his voice and hands that wanted to touch, rip -fondle.
"You must not mind my husband. He has alternating moods."
The words were addressed to Marvin, but it was Grantley who gave her a quick glance, and it seemed that the respectful mask was slipping. There was a hint of contempt in his eyes.
"Gentlemen have their little ways. More coffee, madam?"
She had lifted the cup to her lips when there was the sound of approaching footsteps, the door was flung open and Sheridan was back, roaring his anger.
"Grantley, not a telephone in the house works."
"That is correct, sir. They have not worked for over twenty years."
"What!" The tycoon shook his head in disbelief. "Why then in God's name haven't they been repaired?"
Grantley raised an eyebrow and permitted himself a pale smile.
"It was never considered needful, sir."
"Never considered…!" Caroline thought for a moment that her husband was about to suffer the - on her part - long-desired heart attack. "What sort of world have you damned people been living in? I am beginning to believe that that poor old fool was right. You are monsters… half-baked… addled-brained monsters."
Grantley did not reply to this accusation, but stood with bowed head, rather like a larch tree, bending before a particularly violent wind. Sheridan regained a measure of self-control.
"Well, I'd better drive down to the village and telephone from there."
Grantley coughed. A gentle, apologetic clearing of the throat.
"I regret to say, sir - that will not be possible."
Sheridan swung round and glared at the dark figure.
"Indeed! Why not?"
"Because - with respect, sir - we could not permit it. "
The old man - the shaddy - moved into one doorway; his mouth was open, his long arms hung limply, but the stubby fingers were curved into menacing claws. At the same time the door leading to the back regions opened and Mrs Grantley, her beard quivering with frightful anticipation, entered and took up a position beside her husband.
Collected Stories (4.1) Page 25
