‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I’m right. This is one of the most remarkable survivals I’ve ever heard of. Do you know what we’ve got here?’
‘A woman,’ said Mr Campion.
‘A witch,’ said the Professor. ‘Look out – gently now. I’m afraid she has collapsed.’
Very carefully he began to lift off the net. Young Peck, fighting his terror with what was, in the circumstances, real heroism, set about lighting the hurricane with hands that trembled uncontrollably.
Mr Campion and the Professor gently removed the tangle of cords. The figure on the ground did not move.
‘Lands sakes! I hope the shock hasn’t killed her!’ There was real concern in the Professor’s voice. ‘Bring that lantern over here, will you, Peck? That’s fine. Now hold this torch.’
And then, as the light fell uninterruptedly upon their captive, the horror of Pharisees’ Clearing lay exposed.
In many respects it differed from the conventional ghost, but chiefly it did so in the fact that none of its horror was lost when it was clearly seen.
The figure was that of a woman, old, and scarcely clad at all save for great uncured strips of goatskin draped upon her gaunt yellow form. Her headdress was composed of the animal’s skull to which the hair still clung, and her face was hidden by a mask of fur, slits having been cut for the eye-holes. Her bony arms appeared to have been smeared with blood and the effect was unspeakable.
The Professor bent down and removed the headdress, picking it up gingerly by the horns. Mr Campion turned away for a moment, sickened. When he looked again a fresh shock awaited him. The woman’s head lay exposed, and above her closed eyes her forehead seemed to stretch back unendingly. She was perfectly bald.
Young Peck’s voice, husky with relief, answered the question in both their minds.
‘’Tis owd Missus Munsey,’ he said. ‘The old ’un said she were a witch, but I never took no heed on ut. Lumme, who’d ’a’ thought ut? I never believed them tales.’
The Professor produced his travelling rug. ‘Since we know who it is, it makes it much simpler,’ he said. ‘Where does she live? Alone, I suppose?’
‘She lives with ’er son, sir – Sammy,’ put in Mr Peck, whose courage was reviving apace at the discovery that the ‘spirit’ had human substance. ‘’E’s a natural. They ain’t neither on ’em right.’
‘Can you lead us to the cottage?’ said Campion. ‘Is it far? We shall have to carry this woman.’
‘No, that ain’t no distance. One thing, that’s some way from any other house.’
The Professor in the meantime had succeeded in disengaging the old woman from her grisly trappings and had wrapped her in the rug.
‘It occurs to me,’ he said, ‘that if we could get this poor thing to her house before we attempt to revive her it may be better for all concerned. The discovery of herself still out here surrounded by her regalia – and us – might send her raving.’
Young Peck, who had stolen off some moments before, now reappeared with a light wooden hurdle, part of the boundary fence between the two estates. ‘I thought I seen this,’ he observed. ‘Now, if you’re ready, sirs, our best way is to set ’er on ’ere and cut through the clearin’. It ain’t above a ’alf mile.’
They lifted the repellent figure on to the rough stretcher and set out. Since the first outburst no one had spoken. This extraordinary finish to an extraordinary expedition had silenced them for the time being. Peck took the head of the procession. The hurricane clanked at his side, throwing a fitful distorted light on his path. His dog ran behind him, beneath the hurdle, and the Professor and Campion brought up the rear, stumbling along on the uneven ground.
For some time the Professor seemed lost in thought, but as the track led them up through the northern exit from the clearing he glanced at Campion.
‘Do you get it?’ he said.
‘Vaguely,’ said Campion. ‘I shouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it.’
‘I suspected it all along,’ the older man confided. ‘The goat horns, and those yarns of the curious chantings put the idea in my head at once. It’s an interesting case. There hasn’t been one approaching it for fifty years that I know of. It’s an example of a blind spot. Modern civilization goes on all over the country – all over the world – and yet here and there you come across a patch that hasn’t been altered for three hundred years. This woman’s a lunatic, of course,’ he added hastily, as he became aware of Peck’s large red ears strained back to catch every word. ‘But there’s no doubt at all in my mind that she’s descended from a regular line of practising witches. Some of their beliefs have been handed down to her. That costume of hers, for instance, was authentic, and a chant like that is described by several experts. She’s a throw-back. Probably she realizes what she’s doing only in a dim, instinctive sort of fashion. It’s most interesting – most interesting.’
‘Yes, but why?’ said Campion, who was more rattled than he cared to admit. ‘Had she any motive? Did any one put her up to it?’
The Professor considered. ‘We must find that out,’ he said. ‘I should say, since her nocturnal trips were so frequent, she must have had some very powerful reason. But doubtless that will emerge. Of course,’ he went on almost hopefully, ‘this may have gone on for years. Her mother may have done the same sort of thing. You’d be astonished to discover what a lot of witchcraft has been practised in this country, and my own, in the last three hundred years. It wasn’t so long ago that the authorities stopped burning ’em. A couple of years before I was born, D.D. Home was expelled from Rome as a sorcerer. A lot of it survives to this day in one superstition or another. You come across extraordinary stories of this sort in the police court reports in local newspapers.’
‘Still, this is a bit unusual, isn’t it?’ said Mr Campion, indicating the shrouded figure on the hurdle they carried.
‘Oh, this?’ said the Professor. ‘I’d say so. This is a survival of one of the early forms of witchcraft, but, after all, if you find these country folk sitting on three hundred year old chairs and using Elizabethan horn spoons to mix their puddings, why shouldn’t you find them – very, very rarely, I admit – practising the black rites of three or four centuries back? We’ll learn a lot more when we get her home, no doubt.’
‘I hate to be unfeeling,’ said Mr Campion, straightening his back and changing his grip on the hurdle, ‘but I certainly wish the good lady had provided herself with a broomstick.’
‘We’re now there,’ observed Peck, joining naturally in the conversation. ‘That’s just over this rise.’
Five minutes’ plodding brought them to the top of the field. It was now nearing dawn, and in the east the sky was almost white. The light from the hurricane lantern was beginning to yellow.
The old woman’s cottage was faintly visible, therefore. It was a mere shed of a building, quite obviously an outhouse belonging to a cottage that had long since collapsed. As they came nearer they could make out the heterogeneous collection of boards, mud and tarred sheeting of which it was composed. It was surrounded by a patch of earth trodden bare, upon which several lean fowls nestled uneasily. Some six feet from the door young Peck turned.
‘Reckon us ’ad better set un down ’ere, sir,’ he suggested, ‘while us find out if Sammy’s t’home. Will you wait ’ere?’
He set his end of the hurdle down gratefully, and they followed suit, easing their strained backs. Mr Peck, lantern in hand, advanced towards the crazy door, his dog at his heels. He tapped upon it softly, and receiving no answer, opened it and entered.
Almost immediately there was a terrified twittering sound from within, and a figure fled out of the doorway and disappeared into the shadows round the back of the hut. The incident was so unexpected that it jolted the nerves of the two who waited almost more than any of the foregoing adventures of the night.
‘Gee! what was that?’ said the Professor huskily.
He was answered by Peck, who appeared a little shamefacedly in
the doorway. ‘That’s Sammy,’ he said. ‘That didn’t ’alf give I a turn. Shall us carry ’er in? ’Tis a wonderfully dirty place.’
Between them they lifted the hurdle once more and bore it into the dwelling. Peck hung the lantern from a hook in the roof and it shed its uncertain light on one of the most squalid of all human habitations.
A poverty-stricken collection of furniture was strewn about the low-ceilinged room. There was a bed in one corner, and a door leading into another apartment revealed a second couch. A fireplace in which there were still the relics of a fire was built in the outer wall on the left of the door, and the floor was strewn with debris.
The Professor looked about him with distaste. ‘I’ll say this shouldn’t be allowed,’ he said. ‘Though it’s hard to interfere always, I know. If you’ll help me, Campion, I’ll put her on the couch here.’
They lifted the ragged old creature, still in the rug, and set her down on the tousled bed.
‘Whose land is this?’ he inquired.
‘That don’t rightly belong to anyone, sir,’ volunteered Peck. ‘’Tis a bit o’waste, as you might call ut. They’ve lived ’ere years, she and ’er mother afore ’er. There ain’t nobody ’ereabouts as can do anything with ’er.’
The Professor produced his flask, and pouring a little brandy into the cupped top, forced it between the old woman’s lips. She stirred uneasily and mumbled a few unintelligible words.
‘Take care, sir. I doubt not she’ll curse you.’ Peck could not repress the warning.
The Professor grinned. ‘I doubt not,’ he said.
It was at this point that a shadow appeared in the doorway, and they were conscious of a white, frightened face with a straggling growth of beard on its chin peering in at them.
‘Come in,’ said Mr Campion in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Your mother fainted in the wood.’
Sammy Munsey came into the room shyly, moving from side to side like a timid animal. Finally he paused beneath the light, revealing himself to be an undersized, attenuated figure clad in ragged misshapen garments. He stood smiling foolishly, swinging his arms.
Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to him, and he whimpered: ‘You seen ’er – you seen ’er in the wood. Don’t you touch me. I won’t ’ave ’em after me. I ain’t done nothin’.’
He exhausted himself by this outburst, and Mr Peck, who had been poking about the cabin, suddenly came forward with a pair of scarcely cold hares in his hand. Sammy snatched them from him and put them behind his back like a child, and he stood there quivering with fear and a species of temper.
‘Snared,’ said Mr Peck with righteous indignation. ‘That’s why they don’t do no work,’ he added, turning to the Professor. ‘It’s been a miracle down in the village how they lived.’
Sammy looked round for some means of escape, but his path to the doorway was blocked by his accuser. He swore vehemently for some moments, and then as though he realized his helplessness, he turned wildly to the figure on the bed.
‘Mother, they’ve found us!’ he shouted, shaking the old creature. ‘They’ve found us out!’
The old woman opened her eyes, pale, and watery, with bloodshot rims.
‘I’ll curse ’em,’ she murmured with sudden venom. ‘They don’t none of ’em dare come near me.’ She turned her head and caught sight of the Professor, and raising herself upon an elbow she let out such a stream of filthy abuse that in spite of his interest he was quite obviously shocked. As he did not fly before her, however, her mood changed.
‘Leave I alone,’ she wailed. ‘I ain’t hurt ye. I ain’t done nothin’. I ’on’t hurt ye, if ye go.’
It was Sammy who cut in upon her wailings, and his fear was piteous. ‘They’ve found us out,’ he repeated. ‘They’ve found us out.’
The words seemed to sink into the old creature’s mind only after some moments. She began to moan to herself.
‘I couldn’t ’elp ut.’
It dawned upon Mr Campion that she was by no means the mental case that her son was. There was a glimmer of intelligence in the old red-rimmed eyes. As they rolled round they seemed to take in the situation pretty completely.
‘Did you frighten people out of Pharisees’ Clearing so that your son could poach in the wood?’ he said.
She looked at him shrewdly. ‘You ’on’t take un away if I tell ye?’
‘I won’t touch him,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I only want to know why you dressed up like that.’
The guileless expression upon his face seemed to lull the old creature’s suspicions, for her voice grew quieter. ‘’E ain’t right,’ she said. ‘’E couldn’t catch nothing if ’e was interfered with. ’E don’t know ’ow to take care of ’isself. ’E warn’t afraid of I. But the others – I scared ’em.’ She laughed, sucking the breath in noisily between her gums.
The Professor bent over her. ‘Who taught you to do this?’ he said.
She seemed to scent a challenge in his remark, for she snarled at him. ‘I larnt ut when I were young. I know more’n you think. Where be my robe?’
The Professor started. ‘If you mean your goatskins, they’re in the wood.’
The old woman attempted to stumble out of bed. ‘I must get they,’ she insisted. ‘There be power in they – more than you know on.’
‘Soon,’ promised Mr Campion. ‘Soon. Lie down now, till you’re stronger.’
Mrs Munsey lay back obediently, but her glance roved suspiciously about the room, and her mouth moved without words.
Mr Campion bent forward again. ‘Why did you set upon Lady Pethwick?’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t have stopped anyone poaching.’
The old woman sat bolt upright, making a fearsome picture with her bald head and her toothless gums bared like an animal’s.
‘I di’nt,’ she said huskily.
‘Then perhaps it was Sammy?’ suggested Mr Campion quietly.
Mrs Munsey’s red-rimmed eyes became positively venomous. She rose up in her bed and stood there, towering above them, clutching the rug about her attenuated form.
‘I curse ye,’ she said with concentrated hatred in her voice which was uncommonly disconcerting. ‘I curse ye be a right line, a crooked line, a simple and a broken. By flame, by wind, by water, by a mass, by rain, and by clay. By a flying thing, by a creeping thing, by a sarpint. By an eye, by a hand, by a foot, by a crown, by a crost, by a sword and by a scourge I curse ye. Haade, Mikaded, Rakeben, Rika, Rita lica, Tasarith, Modeca, Rabert, Tuth, Tumch.’
As the last word left her lips she sank down upon the bed again, where she lay breathing heavily.
The Professor, who had listened to this wealth of archaic invective with unabashed delight, took a small note-book from his pocket and scribbled down a few words.
Mr Campion, who had received the full brunt of the lady’s ill-wishes, stood his ground. Now that she was proving herself strong enough for the interview he felt more at ease.
‘You frightened Lady Pethwick to death,’ he said, speaking with slow, careful deliberation as though he were talking to a child. ‘Afterwards, when you saw what you had done, you folded her hands and closed her eyes. Why did you do it? If it was an accident, tell us.’
Sammy, who had been listening to this harangue with his mouth hanging open, now spoke in a misguided effort to exonerate his mother from what he realized vaguely was a serious charge.
‘She hid from the gentry afore Daisy told ’er about ’er Ladyship. Afore then she only chased the country folk.’
‘Don’ you listen to un!’ screamed his mother, dancing up and down on the bed in her fury. ‘’E don’t know nothin’. ’E’s lyin’ to ’ee.’
But Mr Campion had heard quite enough to interest him.
‘Who’s Daisy?’ he demanded, repressing every shade of interest in his voice. ‘Now, Sammy?’
‘You can’t blame Daisy!’ shouted Mrs Munsey. ‘She didn’t mean for her to die. She said for to frighten ’er, so’s maybe she’d take to ’er bed for a day or two. Sh
e ain’t done nothin’.’
‘Who is Daisy?’ persisted Mr Campion. His pale eyes were hard, and for once there was no vacuity in his face.
‘You can’t blame Daisy.’ Mrs Munsey repeated the words vehemently. ‘I made the image on ’er Ladyship, I named ut, and I burnt ut.’
She made this startling announcement without pride or remorse, and the Professor caught his breath.
‘Was it a clay image or a wax image?’ he said involuntarily.
‘It was mud,’ said Mrs Munsey sulkily.
Mr Campion did not hear this part of the conversation: his mind was entirely taken up with Sammy. Once again he repeated his question.
The half-wit would not look at him, but bending his head, he mumbled a few almost unintelligible words.
‘That’s Miss Daisy she means,’ he said. ‘My Father worked for ’er one time when ’e was alive.’
It was Peck who came forward and supplied the final startling piece of information.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s Mrs Daisy ’e means. Mrs Daisy Shannon, as keeps the ’orses. ’Er they call Mrs Dick.’
‘Damn!’ said Mr Campion, for once taken aback.
CHAPTER 19
‘What Should A Do?’
—
‘I’D SAY that’s one of the most remarkable experiences of my life,’ remarked the Professor to Mr Campion, as they walked back over the fields together from Mrs Munsey’s cottage to the Tye Hall. ‘Of course, it mustn’t come out,’ he went on. ‘I understand that all right. There’d be endless complications. But I shall cite you as a witness if ever I write a book of reminiscences. I suppose that boy Peck will hold his tongue?’
Mr Campion seemed to drag his thoughts back from some vague and foolish calculation. ‘Eh?’ he said, recalling the old man’s last words to his mind with a conscious effort. ‘Oh, Lord, yes, he’ll be as silent as the grave. In the first place, I don’t think he believes it happened. Besides,’ he added as his eye caught the top of the Tower rising above the trees in the distance, ‘they’re used to keeping secrets round here. Old Mr Peck may hear something, but no one else.’
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