The woman turned without a word and went towards the door. With her hand on the latch she paused, then addressed herself to Faith.
“You’re wanting a lodging? Will it be for long?”
“I don’t quite know. There seems to have been a great muddle. I’m Mr. Parsons’ new assistant teacher, and he thought I’d be a man, and I thought he’d be a woman, and now we’re not, and I’ve no place to go.” The girl finished breathlessly.
Mrs. Havelock seemed in no way bewildered by this confused explanation. “Well, I daresay we could find room for you at the farm if you’re so minded, and are willing to pay prompt.”
Faith sighed with relief. “Oh, that is kind of you. I left my luggage at Mr. Parsons’. You see I thought I was staying there, and . . .”
Mrs. Havelock cut her short. “I’ll send Tom down for it after supper. Will you come along now or later?”
“I think I’ll come with you, if that’s alright,” Faith answered. She had no fancy for a lonely journey in the dark tree-shrouded roads. She turned to Joseph. Mrs. Appin stood silent, her mouth pursed in disapproval, her silence pregnant with unuttered condemnation of Mrs. Havelock, her ideas and everything appertaining to her.
Havelock’s Farm was situated about half a mile from the last house of the village, at the top of a steep hill. Faith had had a long day and was already tired out when they started on their way. By the time that she had toiled to the summit she was out of breath, being unaccustomed to hard walking. Her companion was unaffected by the climb. The walk had been undertaken in silence, and Faith was grateful that she had arrived at her journey’s end. Mrs. Havelock preceded her into a small square hall, devoid of ornament, its plastered walls bare. Two massive doors led to the living-rooms, a third gave on to the staircase leading to the upper story.
Mrs. Havelock opened the door on the left, and, motioning the girl to follow her, went into a long, low-ceilinged kitchen. The table was laid for supper. Faith was subjected to a close scrutiny by the five occupants. Mrs. Havelock crossed to the dresser upon which she placed her purchases. Then only she found it time to explain the girl’s presence. The other members of the family made no comment on her addition to their circle, contenting themselves with a slight nod as acknowledgement of the introduction.
“My husband Tom . . . my daughter Millie. . . . That’s Grannie there in the corner . . . my son Abel . . . and his wife, Lucy. That’s the lot of us but Tom’s brother Edward—and he’s out yet. Set another place, Millie. Miss Harrison, you’ll find we live rough like, I’m afraid.”
Faith smiled her satisfaction with these preparations. She felt swamped by this dark, dour family. They sat down to supper, Faith being placed between Mrs. Havelock and Abel. With dispatch her hostess served out the stew from a great bowl in front of her. By each plate there was a large hunk of white bread. The meal was eaten with the minimum exchange of words. Cheese and onions followed, and cups of strong brewed tea.
“Millie, keep your Uncle Edward’s hot—he should be back soon. And now, Miss Harrison, perhaps you’d like to see your room?”
Faith followed her up the staircase to a back room lit by a single uncurtained window. The ceiling on one side sloped sharply to within a foot of the floor.
“I hope you don’t mind the window being on the small side, Miss Harrison. The bars were put in when my son Simon was a boy.” She hesitated, “He doesn’t live in the house . . . any longer.” Then added more briskly, “You’ll be tired no doubt, and would like an early bed. Breakfast is at seven. I’ll be leaving you this candle. You can stay here for a week or two if you’re so minded. Eight shillings and sixpence a week, with your breakfast and supper. Good night,” and Mrs. Havelock closed the door sharply behind her.
Left alone, Faith shivered. The bed was narrow and the one sheet and blanket appeared but poor protection against the chill night air. Downstairs she heard a door slam.
“That must be Uncle Edward,” she thought to herself. Slowly she began to undress, and made a perfunctory toilet in the wash-basin in the corner; then, putting her coat on the bed for additional warmth, she slid between the coarse, cold sheets and blew out her candle.
The moonlight lay like a band of bent silver across the floor and over her clothes folded neatly on the wooden chair.
“Dirty Joe” had dispatched a letter to the authorities explaining the incidents of Faith’s unexpected arrival at Leaseley; but so slowly do the wheels of officialdom revolve that the days passed without any steps having been taken.
In the meantime she had taken up her duties in the school, duties which she found a great deal easier and less irksome than she had expected.
She saw little of the Havelocks. A hurried breakfast—and she set off to begin her day. When the work was finished she was in the habit of taking tea with Joseph or Mrs. Appin. The latter showed an avid interest in the life at the farm, but was disappointed in finding her new friend ignorant—or maybe reticent—on that absorbing topic. On her part, however, there was no lack of conjecture and hints as to the character and reputation of the family in which Faith lived. Inbreeding, she said, had made the Havelocks “not quite right.” “Mind you,” Mrs. Appin declared, “I’m not saying they’re daft—but there’s bad blood in that lot. Otherwise why should they be so secretive? And that Tom and that Edward—they’re properly simple, or my name’s not Mary Appin!”
Edward Havelock, who appeared to be the especial target of Mrs. Appin’s distaste, differed from the other members of his family, by reason of his extreme good looks. In the late thirties, he was some ten years younger than his brother Tom. An inch under six feet in height, he had a well-built and muscular body, kept in perfect condition by his arduous manual labour. He had, in common with the others, the jet black hair of the Havelocks, but where they had brown eyes, his were of a deep blue. From the first he had, in his incoherent manner, tried to make himself agreeable to Faith. Such behaviour drew down upon him, and upon the object of his chivalry, the disapproval of his relatives who, while tolerating the stranger in their midst, had no wish to keep her there indefinitely.
One evening, when Faith had been at the farm nearly two weeks, Edward crossed the room to where she was sitting by the fire and offered to hold the wool which she was using in her work. Flattered by such well-meant attention Faith showed him how to dip his thumb and keep the wool taut to facilitate matters. As they were engaged in this domestic occupation—the man incongruous in his stained corduroys and muddied leggings—he leant towards her and said:
“There’s no need to be frightened, Miss Harrison, he be alright really, and if you meet him kindly there’s no call for alarm.”
Faith could not understand what he meant. She was about to elucidate this saying, when Mrs. Havelock, who had been regarding them with her bold bright eyes, joined them and, with a sharp “You’re too clumsy, Edward, for such woman’s work,” ousted him from his position and herself finished the wool winding. Such blatant intervention could not but increase Faith’s suspicions that something out of the ordinary existed in the life at the farm; but since Edward never again referred to the conversation, and she herself hardly cared to do so, she tried to convince herself that it was meaningless, and that her imagination was conjuring up bogies without existence.
Still, the mystery in which the Havelocks were shrouded did little to reassure her in this commonsense belief.
Despite the absence of luxuries at Havelock’s Farm, the schoolmistress was never allowed to help in the running of the house. If hot water was needed, or if on especially cold nights the girl asked for a fire in her room, it was always Lucy or the mistress of the house herself who brought these necessities. Faith was as ignorant of the storehouses and barns as she had been on the evening of her arrival. One night, however, she woke, her throat dry, and on finding the water-jug empty, she lit her candle and ventured down to the kitchen, closing her door gently so as not to rouse the sleeping household.
She was crossing the flagged floo
r of the kitchen towards the scullery door when a slight noise made her pause, and turning, she saw Mrs. Havelock watching her intently. A worn tweed coat covered her night attire and her feet were bare.
“What are you doing? What is it that you want?”
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Faith answered, “but I was thirsty, and as my water-bottle was empty I came down to get a drink.”
Mrs. Havelock looked at her closely before replying.
“That’s Lucy’s fault. I’ll speak to her about it in the morning.”
She took the carafe from Faith’s hands and filled it at the tap in the scullery.
“And the next time you’re lacking anything just give Lucy or myself a call and we’ll get it for you. There’s no need for you to go trapsing round the house at all hours. You’d be wiser to stay in your bedroom, Miss Harrison. I’ll thank you to remember that!”
Faith followed her back to her bedroom feeling extremely chastened, like a child caught in a serious misdemeanour. She was uneasy—more than ever convinced that the Havelocks were concealing something. Their shadows, made monstrous by the wavering candle flames, danced in crazy pantomime on the wall behind them.
The wind had risen when, two weeks later, Faith locked the door of the school behind her. All day long the windows had rattled under the assault of gusts of increasing violence. Great masses of black clouds raced across the slate-grey sky. As yet the rain held off. The lanes were carpeted with leaves stripped from the trees. The blustering October wind worried the branches to give up their coverings. Whirls of leaves spiralled into the air, slanting suddenly to the earth, where they whispered and scuttered on the hard surface of the roads. Anxiously Faith glanced up at the heavens. She decided to return to the Farm immediately. With lowered head she went forward, gasping a little at the force of the resistance she encountered. As she reached the hill-top the first drops of rain stung her face.
After supper she went to her room, taking with her a bundle of exercise books that had to be corrected by the next day. The Havelocks had been even more silent than was their custom. Faith had the impression that they were frightened of the rising storm. It seemed an absurd idea, she had thought, looking around at their brooding faces. As early as she considered possible with graciousness, she went up to her room, intending to read and work until she was tired. An hour later she got into bed and lay watching the lightning play behind the dark masses of the buildings and trees.
After a time she slept, a dream-haunted slumber from which she was frequently awakened by a thunderclap of unusual violence.
At length she gave up the unequal struggle and, slipping into her quilted dressing-gown, pulled up a chair by the window to watch the full fury of the storm. A vicious fork of lightning appeared to strike the big barn to the left of her point of vantage. She sprang to her feet in alarm.
For a few moments nothing happened, then she heard the slam of a door. The hurrying of feet in the passage. Mrs. Havelock’s voice: “Lucy, stay in your room. . . . Edward, Simon’s got out. . . . Abel, hurry downstairs at once. Gort’s barn’s been struck . . . Simon’s free, I tell you. . . . I’ll see to the girl. . . .” Then came the noise of feet speeding to the staircase, muttered questions. Then the voice of Tom: “For God’s sake, Linda, what shall we do, now?”—and Mrs. Havelock’s answering “Coax him into the woodshed. Quick, now!”
Faith heard the scrape of a key turning in the lock, and knew that she had been imprisoned in her room. Bewildered, she turned back to the window. The rain was falling in a solid sheet. Every few seconds the yard was thrown into brilliant relief by the lightning. As she looked she saw a man dart from the direction of Gort’s Barn; and at the same moment heard the crackling of fire. The thatch had caught alight, and soon the flames glowed redly through the murk. Abel ran by with Tom, both men carrying heavy sticks. For a time the yard was deserted, then the figure she had seen reappeared; the other men in close pursuit. The unknown quarry, she perceived, was bearded, and waved a piece of blazing timber in his hand. He was cornered against the wall of the woodshed. She heard Tom shout: “Get him, Abel, we must get him—the madness is on him.” They circled warily round the stranger who lunged at them with his fiery weapon. At a sign from Abel, the two men made a concerted attack. Faith could not see what was happening. Then the bearded man escaped from the mêlée, and, still carrying his crude torch, dashed into the house. The struggle in the yard was over. Tom and Abel picked themselves up and peered into the raging night. Clad in her shift Mrs. Havelock dashed from the house, her hair streaming behind her, the rain-soaked garment plastered to her body. With a low cry she ran to where the two men stood.
“Simon!—what have you done to Simon . . . to Simon—my boy—my boy?” her wail was caught up by the wind. Tom pointed to the house and his lips moved. The girl saw their upturned faces. Mrs. Havelock was gesticulating. Together with the men she hurried back into the house. There followed the noise of great activity. Doors banged—murmured questions and answers and whispered instructions showed that an organised search was in progress.
Faith was beginning to feel frightened. She tried the door handle but found that she was still a prisoner. Lucy’s voice shouted something—Faith thought she heard the words “on the roof.” Footsteps scurried by her room. Returning to the window, she was in time to see Edward turning the corner by what she now knew to be the woodshed. He glanced up and a look of horror passed over his face. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Tom,” he bellowed, “he’s up there, on the roof . . . he’s set the place afire!” Excited shouts greeted this information. The whole family gathered in the yard in an agitated knot. Their arms waved and they shouted instructions and threats to some one above the room where the girl sat. A trail of brilliant sparks blew from the eaves and was quenched by the rain.
The spectators below, as if by a common impulse, streamed back into the farm.
Faith flung up the window. The gale caught her by the throat.
“I’m locked in. Let me out.”
Her arms stretched out through the iron bars. For what seemed to her eternity, there was silence. Then came a banging on her door and Edward’s voice.
“Are you there, miss? Open the door. Open the door. It’s Edward. . . . Open the door. The whole building’s burning like tinder.”
As he spoke a wisp of smoke eddied through the hinges.
“I can’t—they’ve locked me in. I haven’t got the key. Fetch your mother—quickly, quickly.”
The crackling of burning wood vied with the roar of the wind.
“No, don’t. Come back,” the girl cried. “Don’t leave me—try and break the door down.”
She could hear the jarring impact of his body; but the farm was massively built to withstand the centuries—as well to try and shatter a sheet of steel! The smoke grew thicker. She heard Edward’s laboured breathing.
“I can’t do it, miss.”
“Then find Mrs. Havelock—the key—for God’s sake.” She heard him stumbling away. Shortly he returned.
“The stairs are ablaze. God help us both.”
Faith ran back to the window. Plumes of burning thatch streamed in the wind. Shouts and cries echoed in the distance.
Edward renewed his assaults on the door. Suddenly, in the tumult of noise, Faith was aware that something was different—Edward had ceased his onslaught. Through the lintel she glimpsed the flames. The heat was becoming unbearable. She banged against the solid oak until her hands bled—attacked it vainly with the chair. A tongue of flame licked its inquiring way into the room. The ceiling above her was darkening. Fascinated she watched the charring beams turn from black to a dull, then a glowing, red. A shower of sparks fell on to her bedding. . . .
The scorched beams of the ceiling broke. Faith recoiled to the furthest corner of the little room. A crash, and a heavy body fell to the floor, moaning in agony. Horrified she recognised the bearded Simon. Terribly burned, he writhed in torture. Blazing wood and thatch showered into the ro
om. Rearing on to his knees the wretched man extended blistered arms to the girl in a mute entreaty to help. There was a pungent sickening stench of burning flesh. . . .
The destruction of Havelock’s Farm was seen for miles around. By the time help arrived from the village the ancient buildings were raging furnaces.
Four lives were lost that night. Mrs. Havelock in a last despairing effort to save the son, whose existence she had fought to keep a secret from all but her family, was buried in the ruins when the stairs collapsed. In life they had been together and in death they were not divided.
THE HARLEM HORROR
Michael Harwood walked quickly along the platform. All around him were people, pushing, jostling—making sure of getting their seats in the train. Yes—he could just do it. He ran the few steps to the sliding door, and stepped inside as they were closing. There was a moment’s pause, and then the train slithered into the black hole of the tunnel. Michael looked at the rows of tired faces of the passengers opposite him. Lord! how he hated the Underground. He opened his paper, and glanced at the headlines.
MYSTERY OF SCIENTIST’S DISAPPEARANCE
SIR JOHN TROWBRIDGE NOT YET FOUND
LADY TROWBRIDGE INCONSOLABLE
and then, lower in the column in angry black letters
WHAT ARE THE POLICE DOING?
He turned over the page. He remembered the case. It had filled the newspapers for the last week. Sir John Trowbridge—perhaps the most brilliant surgeon of the day—had walked out of his house some ten days previously, and had never since been seen.
Michael pondered what could have happened to him. Amnesia had been the popular theory. He turned the page . . .
ACTRESS ROBBED IN HYDE PARK
Michael looked up, the train was running into a station.
“Oxford Circus.”
Briskly he rose to his feet and hurriedly left the train. He was late, and anxious to get home.
Devils' Spawn Page 9
