Devil May Care (A Jonathan Harker Mystery)

by Evans, Tony

  *

  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.

  Such was the disturbing setting and it was accompanied by three suitably bizarre acolytes. They were dressed in identical black robes, complete with a monastic hood drawn forward and in front of the face, rendering their features indistinguishable. One stood at the head of the altar and the two others at each side, facing each other. They were intoning a soft, unintelligible chant and their hands were outstretched, held above the empty altar as if blessing an invisible presence upon it. Upon the little finger of one of the hands there gleamed a reflection of sparkling red – undoubtedly the ruby ring worn by Sir Owen Velland. He was standing at one side and thanks to Van Helsing I could guess the identity of the figure at the head of the altar. I realised that the chanting was familiar to me: it was the same unintelligible sound that I had heard in my dream.

  Quickly I withdrew my head and in a hushed whisper told Charles and Dr Goodwin what I had observed. They were at first insistent that we interrupt whatever was being done in the nave and demand that the baronet tell us the whereabouts of Mina, but I managed to persuade them otherwise.

  ‘Who can say if they will cooperate?’ I said. ‘Or tell the truth? Let me make another suggestion. We should let the ceremony – if that is what it is – continue. Whatever takes place might lead us to Mina. It is even possible that Mina herself will be brought to the church by a fellow conspirator in this plot. Of course if she appears, we will act immediately.’

  My friends agreed, and by common consent I resumed my careful observation of the interior of the church. Mina was after all my wife, so it was only fair that the decision when to intervene should be mine.

  I looked once again into the nave. The chanting ceased, and the figure at the head of the altar stepped back and began to speak. His voice was low but penetrative and echoed unpleasantly around the empty stone building.

  ‘I conjure thee, O Prince of Darkness! O Thou most powerful lord, my Master, in thee I place my hope. In all humility and with the invocation of thy dreadful name, I call upon thee! In the name of Moloch, Astaroth, Belial, Dagon, and Asmodius, I offer this soul, in return for the gift of life everlasting!’

  As the speaker finished his invocation, he lent forward and grasped a corner of the black altar cloth in his hand. With one fluid movement he pulled it from the table which lay beneath.

  At that moment I realised my mistake. I had naturally assumed that the cloth had covered a solid surface. In fact it had been stretched tightly over a shallow open box, formed by sides raised about a foot above the surface of the table beneath and lined with black velvet. Inside lay the still figure of a young woman wearing a white gown. Her face was turned away from me, but her slim figure, bare arms and shoulders, pale blond hair and slender neck immediately told me that this was Mina.

  As I stood paralysed with shock, the three robed figures pulled back the cowls which concealed their faces. At the head of the altar stood the Reverend Trewellard. Facing each other on each side were Sir Owen and Arnold Paxton. At a signal from Sir Owen, Paxton stepped forward and placed his hands around his victim’s neck.

  ‘Great Satan, we deliver our sacrifice to thee!’ Trewellard intoned dramatically.

  I recovered my senses and flung open the door of the sacristy.

  ‘Mina!’ I shouted, and ran towards the centre of the nave. Charles and Dr Goodwin had not seen what I had, but they had heard Trewellard’s words and were close behind me.

  It took but a few seconds for me to reach the outer circle of the Seal of Lucifer which had been chalked on the stone floor of the nave. Until that moment I was far from convinced that any real supernatural powers were involved in the grotesque ceremony I had witnessed, given that similar charades are often performed by naive or perverted individuals whose attempts at harnessing the powers of darkness are a mere sham
. However, as I reached the outer circle, my rationalism – never very strong since my adventures in Transylvania – received a severe setback.

  The chalk line proved impossible to cross. It was not so much a physical barrier – there was no opposing force which positively resisted my attempts to move past it – but rather as if my brain found it impossible to command my limbs to cross that innocuous demarcation. Yet I was not paralysed, for it was easy enough to step away from the line. Dr Goodwin and Charles were similarly affected, the latter trying several times to rush at the altar only to stop frozen in mid stride.

  By that time we had attracted the attention of the three black-robed figures, and both Sir Owen and his cousin looked at us with some trepidation. Trewellard glared at his colleagues.

  ‘Ignore them!’ he cried. ‘They can do nothing. The Seal of Lucifer protects us!’

  As he spoke the light radiated from the four large black candles dimmed dramatically, in the manner of our modern tungsten filament bulb when its electrical power supply is accidentally reduced. Such a phenomenon is of course impossible in an ordinary wax candle, which must either be lit or not, but nevertheless it occurred. More was to follow. As my two friends and I stood impotently on the outer edge of the chalk circle, Paxton’s hands began to tighten around Mina’s neck, his arms and indeed his whole body vibrating unnaturally as if in the throes of a fit. Above his victim a dark shape began to form, intangible and yet strangely malignant.

  Trewellard lifted his right hand and pointed towards the thickening mass above him, whilst his left hand pointed down towards the altar.

  ‘Ecce Diabolus!’ he called out. ‘Satan, we deliver her soul unto thee!’

  Quite what would have occurred next must remain a matter of speculation, for at that moment the evil ceremony was dramatically interrupted. The door of the vestry banged open behind us, and Charles, Dr Goodwin and I were joined by another. I was amazed to see that it was my wife Mina, somewhat dishevelled, and carrying a sporting gun. She raised it to her shoulder and pointed it directly at the quivering figure of Paxton, whose hands were still grasped around the young woman’s throat.