by W E Johns
As they drove on Biggles said thoughtfully: “I think it would be a good idea if those two got married pretty soon, before there’s any more misunderstanding. It would be a pity if they quarrelled.”
“Would you advise Leo to tell Diana the truth?”
“I don’t see why not. She’s an intelligent girl. She would at least know the facts and what she did would be up to her. If I’m any judge I’d say she’d take the risk.”
“And as she has plenty of money there would be no need for them to live at the Hall. They could go anywhere.”
“I think you’re wrong there. Leo wouldn’t leave the Hall. That would be too much like running away. He isn’t the runaway sort. This pub we’re coming to on the left must be the one we’ve heard about.” Biggles read the sign. “The Spurs. That’s it.”
Standing a little way back from the road with a wide gravel pull-in across the front, the tavern, a genuine old black and white house with a thatched roof and window boxes gay with flowers, made an attractive picture. It was obviously very well kept, the paintwork immaculate. The usual old conker tree, the original purpose of which was to provide shade for horses having a drink at the stone trough near the trunk, was still there. Hitched by reins to an iron ring was the chestnut mare belonging to the proprietor’s sister.
“Very nice too,” observed Bertie. “It would only need a coach-and-four to make it perfect. With a little snow on the ground you’d have a bonny Christmas card.”
Biggles did not stop, but ran on through the village, a single street of old houses with bricks mellowed by the hand of time, towards where, on a slight eminence, rose the square Norman tower of the church. A lich-gate, with seats to provide rest for weary travellers, marked the entrance to the churchyard. The car ran to a stop in front of it.
“Let’s see if we can find inspiration here,” said Biggles, switching off and getting out.
They strolled up the path towards the church between rows of tombstones that marked the last resting places of many generations of village folk. The churchyard was not very well kept, the grass uncut, yew trees overgrown and many of the monuments leaning awry. Not that it mattered, for more often than not the inscriptions, cut in soft local sandstone, had so crumbled as to be illegible.
Biggles made for a corner where in a plot fenced off by iron rails there stood a line of more imposing tombs, raised above ground level and themselves protected by the iron spikes that were necessary in the days of body snatchers.
“So this is where the Landavilles buried their dead,” said Biggles, sombrely, as he read the inscriptions.
“I’m not surprised Leo doesn’t come here,” remarked Bertie. “These places give me the creeps. What must it be like to look at the graves of centuries of ancestors knowing that yours will be the next in the line?”
“Would you mind?” pleaded Biggles. “Why harp on it? All the same, I’ll admit it must be pretty grim, particularly when you’re expecting to be murdered any day. Here’s Charles’ grave,” he concluded, looking at a comparatively new headstone.
“I can understand how Leo feels,” murmured Bertie. “This sort of thing brings it home.”
Biggles wandered about for some time reading names, dates and epitaphs, but what he thought he did not say. Eventually they walked together back to the path that ran from the church to the gate. Coming in was a man of advanced years in the black garb of a priest. However, he greeted them courteously, wishing them good day and remarking on the fine weather.
“We’ve just been having a look round, sir,” explained Biggles.
“I’m the vicar,” was the reply. “Were you looking for anything in particular. If so I may be able to help you.”
“Not really. The Landaville family seem to have been here for a long time.”
“Almost as long as the church itself. For centuries they have been lords of the manor. Some of the early ones were buried inside the church, a not very happy practice that has been abandoned, I’m pleased to say. We have tombs going back to the fourteenth century. There are also some interesting memorial brasses on the walls. Perhaps you would like to see them?”
“I would, very much, thank you.”
Turning, they walked slowly back to the church, the vicar remarking sadly that it was no longer possible to keep the churchyard as it should be kept now that the old families who regarded it as a duty were dying out.
CHAPTER VIII
A GLIMMER OF DAYLIGHT
BIGGLES and Bertie, with their reverend escort inside the church, continued walking slowly down the main aisle on slabs of stone worn smooth by many generations of worshippers. Only half obliterated inscriptions revealed that they were the tombs of long dead residents of the district. Those of the Landavilles occurred nearer to the chancel, and in the floor of the chancel itself. There Biggles stopped to look at a stone in a fair state of preservation. The name on it he read aloud. It was Geoffrey De Warine.
“The De Warines were the big landowners in the very early days,” said the vicar.
“Before the Landavilles?”
“Yes. I believe they were here from the thirteenth century to the fifteenth.”
“Do you know anything about them?”
“Not very much. There are a few notes about them written in the register by one of the incumbents of the period; but they are not easy to read, and I must confess that I have not given them a great deal of study. I don’t think there is anything of great interest, historical or otherwise. Few of them died at home; most of them in battle, some on the Crusades.” The vicar turned and pointed to an engraved brass plate on the wall. It showed a young man kneeling in an attitude of prayer by a block beside which stood a man with an axe. “There’s a tragic story of one of them,” he went on. “That unfortunate young man, Simon De Warine as you can see from the name plate, was beheaded. That was in 1485, during the reign of Henry VII.”
“Was he buried here?”
“No. I suppose he would be executed at the Tower of London. What you see is a memorial, put up no doubt by some member of the family. It shows the date.”
“The year of the Battle of Bosworth Field.”
“Was it? I’m afraid my history is not very good. The execution may have had something to do with that.”
“I’d say that’s more than likely,” agreed Biggles softly. “Quite a few heads were being lopped off about that time. It was the penalty you paid for fighting on the losing side.”
The vicar continued. “The brass next to it, showing a knight with his shield at rest, commemorates another member of the same noble family, which, I have heard it said, came to this country with William the Conqueror. William, of course, after the Battle of Hastings, took most of the land from the Saxons and parcelled it out to the barons who had supported him.”
Biggles studied the quaintly engraved plate. “The device on the shield would be the knight’s coat of arms, I imagine?”
“Yes. It was the cognizance of the De Warines. You’ll find traces on several of their tombs if you look closely. It seems to have been a broken chevron with some stars, two above and one below.”
“Stars?” queried Biggles.
“Well, in my ignorance, perhaps, I’ve always regarded them as stars. I don’t really know what they are. The badge of the Landavilles was a rose. That, incidentally, was the original name of the village public house.”
“You mean—the pub was once called The Rose?”
“Yes. That would be in accord with the tradition of associating the name of a tavern with the local feudal lord by depicting his coat of arms. As a rose appears in the arms of the Landavilles we would expect to find a public house called The Rose.”
“Do I take that to mean the pub must have been built in the time of the Landavilles?”
“I presume so. In the first mention we find of the house in the church records its name was The Rose.”
“And a rose was the badge of the House of Lancaster during the Wars of the Roses?”
“Just so.”
“And as Henry, Earl of Richmond, who became Henry VII, was a Lancastrian, I suppose he would sport the Red Rose. And the people who helped to put him on the throne, such as the Landavilles, might also incorporate a rose in their arms.”
“Possibly.”
“And that would be why the pub used to be called The Rose. Strange how these old traditions linger on.”
“Yes, it is all very interesting.”
“What I don’t understand is why the pub changed its name.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” returned the vicar. “I don’t know when the alteration was made but I think it must have been some time in the seventeenth century, when according to our parish register of births and deaths the name of the innkeeper also changed. Since that time the inn has been known as The Spurs.”
“Why The Spurs?”
The vicar shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”
Biggles smiled. “Anyhow, the tavern must be a genuine bit of Old England.”
“It certainly is that. It has been a hostelry since the church records began, and that was a very long time ago.”
“Thank you, padre,” acknowledged Biggles. “You’ve made our visit extremely interesting. We’ve taken up enough of your time. Now we must be on our way.”
“It has been a pleasure. I rarely have a chance to talk about these things. In the rush and bustle of the modern age even the parishioners seem to have lost interest in their history, although, to be sure, the names of some of them can be traced back in births, marriages and deaths, in a line as long as the Landavilles.”
The vicar saw them to the door. Biggles put a pound note in the church expenses box, and after thanking the priest for the information he had given he and Bertie walked on to the gate. There he stopped, and sitting on one of the seats took out his cigarette case. “I’m glad we called,” he said, giving Bertie a peculiar smile. “I found that most interesting.”
Bertie took the opposite seat. “Does that mean you picked up a clue?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a clue.”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know. Let’s say it has given me something to think about.”
“Such as what?”
“You heard what I heard and saw what I saw. Work it out for yourself.”
“To save time, old boy, tell me what you’ve worked out.”
Biggles drew on his cigarette. “I’m still groping for something which I feel is within reach although I can’t quite see it. Just a faint glimmer of daylight. Whether it is really there or an overdose of imagination it’s too early to say. Anyhow, if what I begin to see dimly turns out to be real it won’t be easy to believe; yet the alternative would be one of those fantastic coincidences which occur once in a lifetime to confound us and make us wonder how such things could happen.”
Bertie looked startled. “Don’t say you believe The Curse is working!”
“I do, although not without the assistance of flesh and blood. I’m certainly not prepared to believe in fairy tale stuff. Witches and wizards are extinct and I’m no prince charming with a magic wand. What I’m really saying, in modern standard English, is this: unless I’m right off course the feud between the De Warines and the Landavilles, which started in the days when knights were bold and women had no say in the matter, is still alive. It has never been allowed to die.”
“Even today?”
“Even today.”
“That implies that the De Warines, as well as the Landavilles, are still going strong.”
“Why not? If one family could survive why not the other? However incredible it may seem I can put no other construction on events which we know to be facts. The way Charles Landaville died is an example. We’ve proved that he was murdered. Moreover, although he had no known enemy he expected to be murdered. Leo is no fool. He, too, expects to be murdered—or have his children murdered should there be any. That’s why he came to me. Without any substantial evidence how could he ask for police protection? If he had he would have been advised to see a psychiatrist. The only alternative to my theory is coincidence. Of course, when certain events hook up with each other for no apparent reason we try to explain the mystery by calling it coincidence, although more often than not, when the thing is examined closely, each event could be a natural consequence of the previous one.”
“Carry on old boy. I’m listening. When did all this first strike you?”
“Looking back I think the possibility has been in my mind all along, for the simple reason I could find no other acceptable explanation. It boils down to this. When the De Warines cursed the Landavilles for pinching their property, as they would regard it—”
“You believe they really did that?” interposed Bertie.
“It’s highly probable. In the Dark Ages, as they are called, cursing one’s enemies was a common practice. People believed in the Powers of Darkness. There were professional spellbinders, potion-mixers, and what have you. The De Warines might well have resorted to this; but if they did, I suspect they had no real faith in mumbo-jumbo and decided to make sure it worked by the application of more practical methods.”
Bertie looked sceptical. “Are you saying that the De Warines have been murdering Landavilles since the fifteenth century? Oh, come off it, old boy. That’s a bit too much to swallow.”
“All right. Give me another explanation and I’ll discard my theory. I admit I find it a bit difficult to digest, myself. But it could happen. As I have already pointed out, one of the facts we have is that the Landaville line, like others in this country, has run unbroken for centuries. All that time the story of The Curse has been handed down from father to son. If that could apply to them why not the De Warines? More than one of our ancient families has a skeleton in the cupboard, although being who they are they don’t talk about it.”
“Was it something that happened today that gave you this idea?” asked Bertie, curiously.
“What happened today threw a spotlight on something I was already beginning to suspect. Not that I’d expect a court to believe it. As I’ve said, I find it hard to believe myself although I have a string of coincidences — we’ll call them that for the moment—to support my contention that what we are up against is cold hard fact, and nothing else.”
“But you’ve no evidence?”
“None that a judge would accept.”
“Then what are you working on?”
Biggles tossed away the stub of his cigarette and lit another. “What shook me today and set the ball rolling was the way the vicar referred to the charges—as I believe they’re called—on the De Warine coat of arms, as stars. By the purest chance, as a result of Leo’s description of the crest on the document we found in the chest, we happened to know they are not stars, but mullets, which in heraldry represent the rowels of spurs. They were mullets of five points, remember. Even with holes through the middle they could be taken for stars. In fact, the vicar took them to be stars. On the De Warine shield there were three. Charles’ last words were a warning against three stars. Gould that be coincidence?”
“Possibly.”
“I agree. But I haven’t finished yet.”
“Surely Charles would know the difference between stars and mullets?”
“In the ordinary way, no doubt. But let us not forget he was on the point of death. He’d been shot, and according to Leo he had great difficulty in speaking at all. In those circumstances I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suggest that what he saw, or thought he saw, had some connexion with three stars. Not one or two, mind you, but three. That may be a detail but to me it’s significant.”
Bertie pursed his lips but said nothing.
Biggles went on. “The coincidence doesn’t end there, not by a long chalk. The name of the village pub used to be The Rose. That was in the early days of the Landavilles, and what one would expect since they supported the Lancastrian cause and have a rose in their crest. Why was it
changed?”
“The vicar told us. The place was taken over by a new man. He was entitled to call the pub by any name he wished.”
“Granted. But a licensee rarely changes the name of his pub, and he would only do that if he had a reason. What does he change the name to? The Spurs. Why did he call the place The Spurs?”
“I suppose he happened to fancy it.”
“If it was no more than a fluke we run into another coincidence. The most important part of a spur is the rowel, the points of which tickle the horse’s ribs and make it go. You’ll notice the pub isn’t called The Spur, which would mean one rowel. No. It’s Spurs, in the plural; which means two at least, perhaps three. And the charges on the De Warine shield are three rowels.”
“But if the fellow wanted to associate himself with the De Warines why not call the place the three rowels and have done with it?”
“The answer might be it would have been a bit too obvious. The Landavilles were in residence at the Hall and might have spotted the implication. The new proprietor wouldn’t want that. So he compromised with what he would have liked to do, and what he dare do. He decided on Spurs, which was near enough. For the same reason he changed his name to Warren, which is good solid English, if that hadn’t already been done.”
Bertie nodded. “I get the drift.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. That crest over the door of the Hall was never a band, or bend, with a rose on it. It looks more to me as if it was a chevron with three mullets, two above and one below.”
“The arms of the De Warines.”
“What else. Who knocked the thing about with a hammer? Leo seems to think it might have been Cromwell’s Ironsides. I don’t. With someone else living in their house the De Warines wouldn’t want their crest over the door. That would have aggravated the sting of losing their property. But that’s only a guess. It isn’t really important. What matters more is another coincidence, if that’s what it really is. Diana, when we had that chat this morning, mentioned in passing the name of the lady who lives at the pub, the proprietor’s sister.”
