Collected Stories (4.1)

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  Alan screamed.

  “No... no... I’m your friend! Don’t you know me?”

  The roar died away, and the monster became still, a dark, menacing figure that gave the impression it might explode into lethal activity at any moment. Then it shuffled forward, lowered its head – and sniffed. Alan shuddered when the long snout travelled up his left arm, across his chest and finally muzzled his right ear.

  Then the werewolf whined.

  A dog that wishes to be patted, fed or taken for a walk, might have made some such sound. It could also have come from any unhappy creature, who, through no fault of its own, has been cursed with the stigma of a monster. Alan’s fear drained away and was replaced by a warm flood of pity. His friend – the gentle, kindly man with the sad eyes – was imprisoned in that hideous form, pleading for understanding – forgiveness – a morsel of affection.

  Alan was about to lay his hand on that unlovely head – when there came the sound of a rifle shot. A single, muffled report that came from the ridge. The werewolf jerked upright, gave one terrible cry of despair, then went bounding across the valley and disappeared behind Manstead Tor.

  Alan was crying when Charlie Brinkley and Mr Ferrier reached him. His father put an arm round his shoulders and said:

  “Thank God you’re all right, son. When I saw that awful creature so close to you...”

  “I got him!” Charlie Brinkley-interrupted, his voice trembling with excitement. “Right between the shoulders. He won’t last long. Biggest dog I ever saw... and did you see? It stood up on its hindlegs! You’ll tell those nincompoops down in the Grape and Barleycorn, won’t you? It stood upright!”

  “I think,” Mr Ferrier said, leading his young son away, “the least we say about this night’s work the better. I would rather not believe what I saw.”

  But Alan could only repeat over and over again: “He couldn’t help being a werewolf. He wouldn’t have harmed me.”

  ***

  It was two days before Alan was allowed to go out on his own, for the doctor said he was suffering from shock and needed time to recover.

  When he reached High Burrow he found it sleeping under a benign sky, with moths fluttering among the hare-bells in the overgrown garden and the wind breathing through the grass, and knew that tranquillity had returned to this once happy homestead.

  He walked slowly down the stone steps and directed the beam of his torch round the desolate cellar. The man who had been a werewolf lay on the bed. He was dead – but on his face was the most beautiful smile that Alan had ever seen.

  Presently he covered the body with a blanket, then remounted the steps.

  He never went back.

  A Living Legend

  (1982)

  Wilfred Frazer had been feature editor of The Daily Reporter for more years than I had lived and stated that he hated his job with a hatred that passed all understanding; but he was very good at it. He had the knack of spotting a potential human interest story from the morass of rumour, conjecture and wishful thinking that was dumped on his desk each morning. He motioned me to a chair, then pushed a pair of hornrimmed spectacles up over his thinning grey hair.

  “Young Radcliffe, you’re a clever, well educated lad, tell me what you know about Caroline Fortescue.”

  I shrugged and rummaged around in that mental lumber room that we all have tucked away at the back of our brains.

  “A late Victorian lady novelist. Is ranked a little lower than Dickens, but is possibly on equal terms with Thackeray. She rocketed to fame with Camden’s Ridge in 1888; a three-volume novel that has been the bane of every schoolboy’s life ever since. This was followed by eleven more books of equal length, the last being Moorland Master published in 1911. Her style is a bit heavy going, but most critics regard her as a literary genius.”

  Frazer nodded. “Fine. Proper little know-all, aren’t you? What about the woman herself?”

  “Ah! That’s another matter entirely. She seems to have gone to a lot of trouble to keep herself out of the limelight. No one seems to know anything about her. Her real name, when she was born – when she died. Complete mystery.”

  Frazer permitted himself a pale smile.

  “She didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Die. According to my informant, a female who was employed around the house, Caroline Fortescue is still alive.”

  I sat upright and gave a passable imitation of William the Conqueror being told that a man with an arrow in his eye was banging on the front door. I did some complicated arithmetic. “It’s now 1975 – if she was twenty in 1888 – Good God! – she’d be a hundred and seven!”

  “Not impossible,” Frazer pointed out. “But my ex-employee says she’s much older than that. She puts her at around a hundred and seventeen. Again I say – not impossible. Isn’t there a chap in America who’s still belting around at a hundred and thirty-five?”

  I communed with my soul before nurturing a germ of hope.

  “God! Suppose it’s true!”

  “Precisely. Imagine finding a live and kicking Charles Dickens and getting the dope from the great man’s mouth as to how Edwin Drood was intended to end.” He pushed a scrap of paper across the desk. “Here’s the address. Ye olde manor house down in a place called Bramfield. Get your body down there and if the old girl is still with us and if she can still talk, bring me back an interview that will set the Thames on fire. Take as long as you like. I want a series that’ll run for three weeks. Afterwards we’ll think about a book.”

  “Suppose it’s all moonshine?” I asked.

  “Then you’ve had a nice day in the country. Do you good. But I’ve got a hunch about this one. I think we may have something.”

  “But a hundred and seventeen!” I objected. “It must take all her time merely to breathe.”

  “Moses was doing all right at a hundred and twenty. If she can’t talk use your imagination. Just bring back her mark on a blank sheet of paper.”

  ***

  I arrived at Bramfield Station the following afternoon and went straight to the village post office, that being if my experience was any criterion, the fount of all local gossip. I pushed open a narrow door and entered a shop equipped with an L-shaped counter; the smaller portion protected by a grill which had an oval opening in the lower centre. A smallish woman with red hair and inquisitive eyes shuffled forward and asked:

  “Yes, sir, was there something?”

  I gave her the full effect of a crooked, rakish smile which I had borrowed from Errol Flynn.

  “Yes, can you kindly direct me to Bramfield Manor?”

  She frowned and appeared to give the question more consideration than it deserved. Finally she nodded.

  “Ain’t heard it called that for many a year. Never have any mail you see and the rightful name has sort of got lost. The Old House we calls it in these parts. The property of old Lady Bramfield. Although whether she’s still around, I wouldn’t like to say. Certainly she ain’t been buried to my knowledge.”

  I assumed a slightly worried expression.

  “Surely there can’t be any doubt that the – old lady – is still alive? I’ve been sent down to investigate the claim of a former maid who says she’s owed a week’s wages.”

  The pale blue eyes were suddenly alight with an almost evil gleam of curiosity and the head jerked as though issuing an invitation for me to clamber over the counter. The voice sank to a loud whisper.

  “That must have been that blonde huzzy who Jenkins drove to the station, with her packed bag on the front seat. When he came in for the provisions and suchlike, I managed to get out of him, that she’d been caught going through some private papers. That’s all he’d tell me. Very close is Jenkins.”

  “This... Jenkins...?”

  “Used to be butler donkeys’ years ago. Now he’s all there is. Except when that woman was there. Lordy, I’d give anything to know the rights of it. The old place is falling to bits. Young man, if you ever get past the front do
or, it would be a mercy if you’d pop back in here and tell me what’s what.”

  “But first,” I prompted, “I must get there. Now if you’ll kindly tell...”

  “Ah! Turn right and walk down the main street, then turn left, cross the stile and cut across Five Acre Field until you reach Miles Lane. Turn left and two miles further on you’ll come to Manford Bridge which you can’t miss because it’s got a broken wall on one side. A mile or so on and you’ll reach Bramfield Walk. A hundred yards to the left are the Old House iron gates. One’s fallen down. The house is at the end of the drive.”

  “A taxi...?”

  “Young man you appear to have a stout pair of legs. It’s a nice walk so long as you keep clear of Mr Masterton’s bull. Now heed me. Even if you don’t get into the house, keep your eyes open and let me know what you see. If the old lady is still about, she might be looking out of a window or something.”

  I admitted that was a remote possibility, then asked:

  “When did you last see Lady Bramfield?”

  One not over clean hand went up and began to scratch her head.

  “Now you have me! Must have been when I was a child. Over thirty years ago. And I remember she looked old then. She can’t still be alive.”

  The sun was setting when I finally reached the tree lined road that was presumably Bramfield Walk. In fact it was little more than a narrow lane that ran straight as an arrow’s flight from the distant main road to the rusty, reeling iron gates. One had not quite fallen down, having been saved from this ultimate indignity by a bottom hinge that somehow kept the top bars from touching the ground. To the right crouched the ruins of a once handsome lodge; beyond a meandering drive, its unpaved surface covered with a profusion of tall grass and wild flowers, flowed like a wind teased river, between tall slender poplars that reached up green clad arms, as though begging alms from the sun.

  I passed the ruined lodge and entered a land where poets commune with long forgotten gods and lovely dark-eyed nymphs ride in on the night wind. Not a leaf stirred, although the grass rippled beneath my feet: the total silence suggested it might be masking a phantasmagoria of subtle sounds that would be meaningless to anyone not versed in their tonality. Presently the drive emerged into a vast semi-circular space that lay before a large, grey-stoned house.

  Two storeys high. Twin rows of deep set mullioned windows. A flight of steps leading up to a double, weather-stained oak, iron-studded door. A tapering steeple reared up from imitation turrets on either side. The windows did not – or so it seemed – reflect the sunlight: the house – or so it seemed – did not cast a shadow. A familiar house – yet so strange and sinister.

  I ascended the steps and entered a large, marble columned portico, then rapped on one door, there being so far as I could see, neither knocker, bell-pull nor exterior handle. Almost at once the left door opened and a tall, lean old man with a sad, lined face bowed his white head and asked:

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  I said – words flowing from my tongue in an unruly stream:

  “I am looking for Caroline Fortescue... the Caroline Fortescue... who I believe is Lady Bramfield. Will you kindly ask Lady Bramfield if she will receive me?”

  The deep-set, dark eyes, glittered and after an interval the strangely husky voice manufactured a reply.

  “It is to be regretted, sir, that her ladyship cannot entertain visitors. She is well advanced in years, you understand. Beyond the frontiers of normal human existence.”

  “So I have been given to understand. Around one hundred and seventeen.”

  Even then I was prepared for an emphatic denial, but the old man merely bowed his head and said: “We are all as old as time permits, sir. But age consumes – burns up the essential essence. It is to be hoped you have not travelled far.”

  I was being given the polite brush-off, but I had to get into that house and come face to face with the incredible. Bribery was out of the question, but a veiled threat might be an answer.

  “You discharged a maid – a woman who told my editor an astounding story. If it is true she will be paid not to disclose the whereabouts of this house to anyone. Always supposing I get exclusive rights for publication. But if she is allowed to approach the popular press...” I shrugged my shoulders. “Half of Fleet Street will be pounding on this door and screaming their questions to high heaven.”

  The frail mask of imperturbability trembled and I caught a brief glimpse of naked fear.

  “We have nothing to hide. That women – creature – was an inveterate liar.”

  “Then you deny that Lady Bramfield is Caroline Fortescue?”

  The man was incapable of telling a direct lie; could only give an evasive answer that was more revealing than a straightforward admission.

  “I can only repeat, sir – this is the home of Lady Bramfield.”

  God forgive me for I told a deliberate lie; made a promise that I had no means – or intention – of keeping.

  “If you will let me in, let me interview Caroline Fortescue, I will make certain that the story is not published while she lives.”

  He shook his head several times, then reluctantly retreated a few steps, a move that I interpreted as an invitation to enter. The hall looked like something from a horror film; age darkened panelling lined the walls, the high windows were so covered with grime and cobwebs, the few items of furniture – an oak settle, two or three massive armchairs and a large credence table – could barely be seen through the ensuing gloom. A wide staircase curved its way up to a landing that surrounded the hall on three sides, part of which had most probably once served as a musicians’ gallery.

  The old man led me past the staircase and through a doorway situated in the far right hand corner and into a room that was an oasis in that place of dust, neglect and gloom. It was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished; fitted carpet, a settee that looked as if it might be transformed into a spacious bed, deep armchairs and a drop leaf table, not to mention several gilt framed paintings that hung on plush-wallpaper covered walls.

  The old man lowered himself into a chair and after motioning me to one opposite, emitted a deep sigh. “We have retreated over the years. Closed up most of the house and concentrated our forces into three rooms. This one, the kitchen and her ladyship’s bedroom. Not counting the bathroom of course. I was trained to keep clean. But her ladyship had not bathed for sometime. There are many intimate duties that I am called upon to perform, but... That is why I engaged that woman.” He again shook his head. “A serious mistake. But it never occurred to me that – that creature would pry into her ladyship’s private papers.”

  “Integrity is dead,” I murmured.

  “You may well say so, sir.”

  I edged my chair forward. “You are Mr Jenkins?”

  “Just Jenkins, sir. Only the lower servants called me Mr Jenkins in the old days. And then only when I was elevated to the post of butler. Even my late wife called me Jenkins for the entire of our married life. No disrespect was intended, in fact you might say it was a kind of title. When her ladyship was young – or younger than she is now, – she used to say: Jenkins, you’re one of nature’s noblemen. “‘He chuckled, a low rasping sound that threatened to disintegrate into a cough. “She liked her little joke.”

  He lapsed into a thoughtful silence and I waited patiently for the floodgates of memory to open. I tried to imagine what it was like living in this great barn of a house, with no one to talk to, but that old-old woman – and shuddered. Presently that harsh, cultivated voice spoke again.

  “I did not know she was Caroline Fortescue until after his old lordship died. Her father you understand. In the Bramfield family, when there is no heir, the title descends through the female line. Her ladyship never married. Perhaps no man could possibly measure up to those heroes she invented. After long and deep reflection I think that was more than possible. She was a great writer, wasn’t she, sir?”

  “Almost if not quite,” I answered as truthf
ully as I could.

  “Most of the critics thought so. Did you know that some thought she was a man? True. The trouble she went to making certain no one found out who Caroline Fortescue really was. Used to ride ten miles once a week to Tuppleton to collect correspondence from her publishers and such like.”

  “Did her publishers know?” I enquired.

  He shook his head. “No, sir. She used another name for her correspondence. Cookham, I believe it was. It was part of her agreement with them that no one would ever try to find out her true identity.”

  “But why the secrecy? Most women would revel in being a world-famous authoress.”

  Jenkins actually grinned. Bared his discoloured teeth and crinkled his face into an almost impish grin.

  “Why indeed, sir. I think it was this way. She wanted to share her make believe world, but she didn’t want it invaded. I’m no hand in expressing myself and that’s the best way I can describe it. For her writing a novel was a very personal business, for imagination will only go so far and she had to put a lot of herself into it. Sometimes all of herself – if you follow me. Her ladyship was every man, woman and child who walked through those dozen books.”

  “The soul bared and sent forth into the world, sliced and packed?” I suggested.

  “Nicely put, sir, although I’m not all that sure what it means. But I know there’s a question you’re dying to ask. How old am I? Am I right?”

  Although I had not given the matter any thought, I nodded.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind telling me.”

  He laughed, his former reticence now replaced by a kind of senile gaiety. “Bless you I don’t mind at all, sir. I’m eighty-five. Coming up to eighty-six. Her ladyship was thirty-two when I was born. In this very house.”

  “You don’t look it,” I said with all sincerity. “I would have placed you in the early seventies.”