The Dark Water

by David Pirie

  This was excellent news and now I settled down to look at the newspaper articles which had excited him. The case was certainly a bizarre one and the best article of all came, as he had said, from the lowliest source — a crimesheet called the Penny Illustrated Police News. At the top was a rendering of the old legend of the witch with graphic pictures of the wild chase and its aftermath. The article followed.

  DISAPPEARANCE OF JEFFORD HEIR

  Bloody Lettering in House

  The Mystery of the Witch of Dunwich Heath

  Has an ancient curse claimed a modern victim? Many strange circumstances surround the disappearance of Oliver Jefford from a house in Dunwich, not far from the celebrated witch’s pool, and further news is anxiously awaited.

  The legend of Dunwich Heath is a famous one. No evening of ghostly tales around the fireside at Christmas would be complete without a recounting of the ‘wylde hunt’ at Dunwich Heath on a frosty winter’s night in 1690. And the witch’s awful words that ‘all would know what it is to drown’.

  But now a modern sceptic may have fallen foul of the ancient curse. Oliver Jefford is a name not unknown to the sporting public after his success with the horse Wandering Minstrel at Newmarket some years ago. A single gentleman of means with many acquaintances, Mr Jefford has often occasioned comment for his colourful lifestyle, whether in the fashionable clubs of Pall Mall or the more out-of-the-way-places of the capital. Perhaps known best of all for his extravagant wagers, it was recently reported he bet a gentleman of the colonies he could walk across the river at low tide and nearly drowned in the attempt till his friend managed to drag him out and revive him.

  Recently he inherited some property in the town of Dunwich, which added to his already considerable fortune, including a lonely house known as The Glebe not far from the celebrated witch’s pool of the legend.

  Mr Jefford announced at once he would use it as a retreat to write some verses, for though as yet unpublished he has often talked of writing poetry. Seven days ago he was seen at the Ship Inn in the town of Dunwich, making light of the story of the witch. Several witnesses attest that, as the night wore on, Mr Jefford became more and more vehement, protesting loudly that he wished only to make the witch’s acquaintance and that he defied her curse, inviting her to come to his house and mete out revenge by taking his gold. He also indicated he had made a discovery that would disprove the thing once and for all, for, through his inheritance, he had come into possession of the celebrated witch’s rune, which is supposed to bring death on all who hold it. It must be added that some of his language was regarded as intemperate and even blasphemous by those present. Many of the citizens of Dunwich have respect for the legend and do not like to hear it taken lightly, especially on the eve of the anniversary of the hunt itself which is 1 December.

  There was already much talk in the town that only a few hours earlier as darkness fell a forester going through Dunwich wood had heard a great wailing and caught sight of a naked figure screaming and moving in the trees. Several villagers believe this was a sighting of the howling man of the legend, which always presages a death.

  Whatever the truth of this sighting, it is certain that late that night Jefford returned to his house on foot alone. Next day, which was the first of the month, he was seen by a local farmer on the path to his house with two figures. The farmer recognised Jefford walking beside a tall good-looking stranger of commanding appearance but did not catch a sight of the third.

  Next day, the same farmer, who was his nearest neighbour, had occasion to visit the house in the course of searching for a lost pig.

  Having knocked on the door and receiving no reply, he entered but thought the house to be empty. He called out and came to the main room where he found a quantity of blood on the floor, some of it formed into letters. There was no mistaking these letters, indeed when last reported they were still observable as first found.

  witch

  here

  Poor Jefford in his last hours seemed to be trying to relate that the witch had returned. But, after an extensive search revealed nothing else at the property and no sign of Mr Jefford, others have scoffed at the message on the floor, declaring it is obviously a prank for Jefford’s own amusement. They claim he will be found soon enough enjoying his newfound glory, and ridiculing the curse, in the fashionable haunts of Mayfair. Certainly the farmer believes the blood is only that of his lost pig and wishes to take action against Jefford for his act of slaughter. But as yet any sign of the missing pig or of the man has not been discovered. Until Oliver Jefford reappears to set the record right, it must be prudent to keep an open mind. The powers of darkness are not a matter for jest, and never will be.

  I put the paper down and the Doctor could see at once its effect on me. The other accounts had some details of interest, but only the somewhat scurrilous columns of the Penny Illustrated Police News revealed the true nature of Jefford’s character. The man was obviously a rake, an habitué of London’s lowlife and therefore exactly the type Cream would be likely to encounter in the course of his own pursuits. Moreover, it appeared he was rich, while we also knew Cream had been frustrated in his attempts to find money in that cottage and was eagerly seeking it. There was the ‘tall goodlooking stranger of commanding appearance’ and even that most telling aside about the wager and ‘a gentleman of the colonies’.

  ‘Of course, Doyle,’ said the Doctor in reply as I picked out the detail, ‘in itself that could have been nothing at all. There are plenty of gentlemen from the colonies who enjoy a bet. But, taken together with everything else, as well as our enemy’s established movements, his own words and the description of the figure in Jefford’s company, I do not believe this could be coincidence. The scent of him is too strong.’

  We journeyed to Ipswich where we spent the night and then across country to Droxford before we joined a coach for Southwold, by which time it was late the next afternoon. I had never been to this part of England and, as our vehicle picked its way along the little roads in these last hours of daylight, the view was exquisite. I am aware some aestheticians like Ruskin have pronounced that a flat land holds no mystery. But as the wind got up and sent great clouds scurrying over that majestic panorama of fields and ditches and standing water, I reflected I had rarely seen anything so mysterious. With little sign of habitations or people, the sky and the landscape held sway and the lines of dykes and field borders seemed to recede away almost into infinity, as the unknown beckoned from behind every ditch and tree. Of course there was nothing here of the corruption of the city but it still seemed to me an extraordinarily fitting landscape for our enemy, being both bleak and yet suggestive.

  The Doctor’s voice broke into these reveries. ‘We must be on our guard from the moment we arrive, Doyle. You will remember what happened at the Quarter Moon. I have no intention of telling the landlord anything beyond the fact we are enjoying a leisurely excursion and looking out for some seaside property.’

  ‘And if he is there when we arrive? Perhaps waiting for us?’

  By now, we were in Southwold itself and passing low buildings we came to the harbour where fishing boats bobbed frantically, for a storm was threatening. ‘I have to consider that as well as everything else,’ said the Doctor, looking out at the rain that was starting to fall. ‘You may not know I make a regular visit to Glendoick in Perthshire every year for the shooting. It is something I have done since I was nineteen and I am a tolerable marksman. Of course I would prefer to see him tried but, if the thing was in the balance, I have a firearm.’

  Though Bell seemed quite serious I had to smile at this, for the idea of the Doctor entering the Harbour Inn at Southwold and shooting one of its guests in cold blood was incongruous. But in one way I felt reassured to hear it. The quest for Cream was entering a new stage. If only this time, I thought as the coach finally came to rest, he could be delivered into our hands.

  The inn proved to be a very modest establishment indeed, for there could not have been more than t
wo or three guest bedrooms at most and we quickly established, rather to our disappointment, that the others were unoccupied. I suggested we should sound out the landlord at once but, rather to my surprise, the Doctor merely replied that the man did not look to be of a helpful disposition and he had urgent matters to pursue elsewhere in the town.

  The landlord was indeed a small and somewhat furtive man called Burn, who showed little interest in us. Later we discovered he was a former fisherman who had lost his boat and had only undertaken the job so he could chat with the fishermen who congregated in the bar several evenings a week.

  Few boats were out that night so there was a great throng of people in the bar when Bell reappeared and we descended from our rooms. They looked at us without much interest and returned to their talk as a maid showed us politely to the snug, a small room with a fire and a serving hatch which opened on to the main bar.

  Here we were brought plates of halibut and egg and some tankards of beer, both of which were very welcome. Bell ate thoughtfully, surveying the bar and its occupants who were discussing the previous day’s catch. I understood his caution but was becoming increasingly frustrated by the fact he was yet to strike up a conversation with any of the people here, where our enemy had been. Of course it was comfortable enough by the fire and the fish was wonderfully fresh, but it hardly helped our cause. I was on the point of saying as much, when suddenly the outside door flew open, and a boy of about fifteen stepped in out of the street carrying a small packet.

  He looked around and, as soon as he saw Burn behind the bar, he went over to him at once.

  ‘Mr Burn, I have an urgent packet for Dr Mere who is here. Please take me to him.’

  THE FIGURE ON THE CLIFF

  I put down my fork with a start. This was an extraordinary piece of luck. Burn came over to the boy at once. ‘Another?’ he said. ‘Why, I had a letter for him here from London a day ago. Who gave you this?’

  ‘Mr Andrews, the blacksmith. A stranger gave it him with a couple of coins.’

  ‘Well he ain’t here. I’ll take it though,’ said Burn sourly, dismissing the boy as he turned to his customers. ‘Can you credit the man?’ he said. ‘This Dr Mere,’ he scrutinised the address, ‘yes that’s his name. Comes here for one night more than a week ago, moves on. And now I have not only this but another letter for him. I know he was making for Dunwich for he enquired after the coach. And why, may I ask, did he not have his precious post directed to the inn there? But then Hamish who works at the Ship came in here last Saturday and he claimed he never heard of him. Well I suppose I must send it on there, if I find anyone who can take it for me, but I am damned if I will pay anyone to do it.’

  At this, the Doctor was on his feet. ‘Pardon me, Mr Burn,’ he said, walking forward into the bar. ‘I could not help hearing what you said just now. And it so happens my companion and I are headed for the inn at Dunwich tomorrow.’

  The publican stared at him. I was beginning to apprehend that out host was a bad-tempered individual and I strongly suspect, had it not been for the Doctor’s commanding presence, Burn might have replied by asking what the blazes he was doing listening to conversations that were none of his business. But then, for all he knew, the guest before him could have been a judge or a retired admiral. And so, as I watched, Burn’s expression moved from aggression to thoughtfulness and then prudence.

  ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘that is quite a reasonable offer, that is. Not that it is of any importance, sir, but I suppose if you are headed that way.’

  ‘I would be delighted,’ said the Doctor, holding out his hand. ‘It seems to me you have been ill used. And I will tell the man so if I do run into him, not that from what you say it seems very likely. Allow me to offer what should have been invested by the gentleman and I will exact it from him if I see him.’

  With that he placed a couple of coins in the hand of the landlord, who gave a sly smile. Clearly money was one key to his heart. ‘Well that is more than fair, sir. More than fair.’ He was obviously well pleased with himself and handed over the packet. Then he went to a drawer in a recess behind the bar for the other letter. ‘I certainly hope you do find him, and he reimburses you. If he should return here, I will redirect him to the Ship of course.’

  Bell now had an excuse to make enquiries about Dr Mere, but he learned little more. Later, therefore, in my room, I was extremely anxious to see what the package contained and I was irritated when he utterly refused to open it. ‘We take them on to the Ship in good faith,’ he said. ‘I wish to see no mark upon them.’

  ‘But, Doctor,’ I said, ‘there may be vital information here. I grant you the forwarded letter is from the maid at the Quarter Moon but the other feels like a book.’

  ‘You are almost right,’ said Bell. ‘In fact, it is a Bradshaws Guide. Indeed, I took it from your luggage.’ I stared at him.

  ‘My dear Doyle,’ said the Doctor, ‘you are no fool but sometimes your lack of concentration amazes me. It seemed obvious to me as soon as we arrived here what would be the fastest method to employ. So, while you were preparing for dinner, I put on my stoutest coat and advanced into the rain. I found a blacksmith two streets away and gave him the money with a parcel, asking him to get a boy to deliver it here. Then we took up our station. And at least we need waste no further time, for I am quite sure he will never return to pick up these trifles. Tomorrow, much as I expected, we make our acquaintance with the town of Dunwich.’ Shortly after this he bid me good night and left the room.

  We set out early the next morning, once Bell had telegraphed to the Ship to say we were coming. The weather had cleared a little and in some ways it would have been better to make the journey by boat for, though Dunwich was only about five miles south along the coast, the terrain was interrupted, not merely by the river Blythe, but by innumerable marshes. Indeed, the whole coast around here was a treacherous swathe of water and marsh, forcing us to ride inland and then come back to Dunwich via the huge forest that lay behind it.

  The journey was arduous yet in its own way magnificent, affording spectacular views of the marshland, covered in many places by a beautiful ground mist, which was a ghostly pale grey in the early sunshine. Finally the road plunged into the forest, which in places looked to be thick and impassable. Emerging from it we came to more marshland and finally to Dunwich, which was altogether different from the place we had just quitted. Southwold had every appearance of being a respectable seaside town with a fishing industry and a town hall. Dunwich, or what remained of it after the depredations of the sea, was not only tiny by comparison but a much more unusual and forbidding community. There was a single main street where most of the houses faced the marsh and beyond it a track led to a broad shingle beach. Moving past the town were the treacherous cliffs, more woods and finally the heath.

  The inn, whose official name was The Barn Arms, but was known to all as the Ship, was plain but comfortable and, because we had started early, we were there in time for lunch. But I could see Bell had no intention of taking any, indeed from the moment we arrived in Dunwich he seemed energised. Almost at once he established from the polite maid who showed us our rooms that the inn had not recently played host to any American traveller, and certainly not to a Dr Mere. There had been a few English gentlemen of the press, interested by the Jefford disappearance, but they had now departed and none of them matched our man in any obvious particular.

  Other than that, she told us, the place had been very quiet, as it usually was at this time of year. Bell did take the trouble a few minutes later to check this information with the landlord, a solemn grey-haired man called Brooks who ran the place with great civility. But he was equally certain that nobody of that description or name had been here.

  You might have thought such news would make the Doctor despondent. In fact it was as if he had anticipated it. Within a few minutes he had checked the visitors’ book, to absolutely no avail, and was studying a map of the vicinity. At such times, more than anything he remin
ded me of a hound who has the scent of his quarry, though of course it was a scent unique only to him. He was galvanised, not merely by the atmosphere of this strange place, but by the knowledge that we had successfully traced Cream this far. In such circumstances, he no longer expected clues to be delivered to him, he knew he had to go out and find them.

  I had a room right at the top of the inn and the Doctor urged me to change so we could do some walking. I followed his advice, and was emerging from my room, when I became aware of a large figure striding down the corridor towards me, singing in a deep baritone voice:

  There is a green hill far away,

  Outside a city wall,

  Where the dear Lord was crucified,

  Who died to save us all.

  As the man stepped out of the shadows I could see he was big and in his forties, with a large head and an even larger growth of black beard. He had a stout stick and at his side was a big obedient retriever dog with sandy-coloured long hair who stared at me thoughtfully while his master broke off his song.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘There is no use in your being here. You might as well pack your bags and return to where you came from. It is fine today and you should have an easy journey back. Perhaps I can be of service by arranging the coach?’

  ‘Perhaps you could be of greater service by telling me who you are,’ I said, looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘Dr James Bulweather,’ he said. ‘And we have no need of journalists prying here. It is a matter for the citizens and perhaps the police but certainly not for the press.’

  ‘That may well be the case,’ I replied, ‘but since I am not a representative of the press it is hardly my concern.’

  He peered at me. ‘Then what of your companion? I am told you have one.’

  ‘His companion stands directly behind you, Dr Bulweather,’ said a voice. Bell had climbed the stairs and stood there, leaning on his silver-topped cane as Bulweather turned. ‘I am Dr Bell of Edinburgh University,’ the Doctor continued. ‘What can I do for you?’