“Enid, we’d better be moving,” I said a last, anxiously. “We have not the car, remember, and if we want to finish the day out in dry clothes we had better get moving for the ’bus. And that’s three miles! Come on.”
Enid nodded and helped me to pack up the picnic tackle into the wicker basket, then carrying it between us we hurried across the grass on the return journey to the ’bus stop.
Altogether though, despite this abrupt finish, it had been a grand day, one of the very few I was able to permit myself from a busy life in the city. Enid, too, had arranged it so that she could accompany me, for as the head saleswoman of a London dress salon she had little time to spare.
She was a practical sort of girl, good-looking in a sharp kind of way, with blonde hair and keen gray eyes. Never in so many actual words had we admitted to each other that we were in love. It was accepted for granted, as so often happens between busy people — but I was resolved it should not be long before I asked her to become my wife.
“It’s raining!” she exclaimed suddenly, holding out her palm.
It was — big drops. The storm clouds had gathered now from blue to violet. Far away in the distance was a crumbling, rolling thud that marked the storm’s overture: and now came a strange thing. During all this summer day I had been blissfully happy, yet with the first growl of distant thunder something happened to me.
An indescribable sensation of dread seized upon me, a sense of withering foreboding. I just could not understand it. After all, I had never been afraid of thunderstorms — not afraid of anything, indeed. Yet —
“What’s the matter, Bob?” Enid asked the question in surprise.
I gave a start, forced a smile. “Eh? Oh — nothing. Just felt a bit strange, as though — Skip it,” I growled. “Probably the electric tension before the storm breaks.”
“Or those sardines,” she reflected. “I had any doubts about them at the time — Say, we must hurry,” she added in anxiety. “The rain’s increasing and we’re only wearing thin things.”
We broke into a run as the rain came down harder. Soon it was hissing all round us, bubbling in the dry, sun-scorched grass, sending a miasma of steam floating up from the valley atop which rolled this undulating country. The further we went the more apparent it became to me that we could never reach the ’bus stop, much less home, without being drenched to the skin. Yet if we sheltered under one or other of the dotted trees we would be just asking for it.
I slid to a standstill in the muddy grass, rain beating on my bare head. Enid stopped too, her flimsy frock plastered to her slender form, and her hair a dripping mop.
“What about Kelby Abbey?” I suggested. “It’s only half a mile away in the dip there. It’s always open. We could shelter.”
She hesitated; and I knew why. There is a legend about Kelby Abbey — but after all there are legends about all abbeys, more or less, especially one like Kelby, over five hundred years old.
“It’d be a sanctuary,” I went on earnestly. “This looks like being the devil of a storm. We might be struck dead out here.”
“All right,” she agreed, but reluctantly. “Frankly, I’ve never felt too happy about churches since my uncle dropped dead in one twelve years ago.”
It was no time to argue about this, so off we went as hard as we could go through slush and wet grass. As we went the first fiendish crack of thunder broke right over our heads simultaneously with the lightning. It was a terrific flash, drenching the storm-ridden land in bright blue.
Again with it came that sensation of unsupportable horror. It was a most terrible feeling, as though my soul had been momentarily plunged into a nethermost Pit of the Damned. I said nothing to Enid about it: she was alarmed enough already with the fury of the storm.
We ran like champion track sprinters along that last half mile, the picnic basket between us. The wind had risen by now and was bending and lashing the elms in a fury of gloom that had deepened into a near-twilight. Twice as we finished the course the lightning whip-lashed across the ebon sky and the thunder set the ground quaking; then through the haze of rain loomed the ponderous semi-ruined bulk of Kelby Abbey, with its ever-open door.
We floundered up the steps and into the quiet, somber interior. Peace dropped upon us immediately like a mantle. We paused a while, put the basket down, glanced back at the rain hissing down on the worn steps. We thanked God on that moment for Kelby Abbey with its doors ever open to the devout who might seek its hallowed precincts for a brief relief from the life material.
Enid gave a rather relieved smile.
“Well, we are out of that, anyway … Might be as good a chance as any to look at this place. I’ve seen it from the outside many a time, only I’m afraid I have not been interested enough — or religious enough — to look inside. Let’s see, this is the modern part isn’t it? This porch-way? And the rest is restored ancient abbey, with the real ruins at the far back. Hm-m, might as well start reforming. Coming?”
For some reason her words sounded cold and worldly in this mighty place. This was one thing I could never quite fathom about Enid. Somewhere deep in her character there ran a streak of cold, frigid cynicism. It leapt to the surface every time she was confronted with something hallowed. Yet, knowing she had had to make her own way in the world, knowing she had all the sophistication a great modern city could instill into her, I had always ignored this brazen facet in her character. After all, I am no saint myself …
Turning, we gazed into the church itself down the nave. At the moment it was plunged into the twilight of the storm, but suddenly lightning came again and gave us a blue-lit impression of enormous stained glass windows, mighty stone pillars, carven saints, empty pews, end at the far end the choir-tiers and altar.
Enid gave a sudden little shiver. “Cold,” she muttered. “All churches are cold, especially ancient ones like this. Besides, I’m wet …”
She wrung out the hems of her sleeves and skirt impatiently, shivered again as draught came hurtling through the open door. Finally, driven by curiosity, she went wandering along the nave into the dead emptiness of the church. I went after her, followed her past the mighty altar, through a passage and so into the cloisters. Here; though, one side open to the storm, we beat a hasty retreat. But not into the church. We opened an oak door and passed quickly into what we took to be a kind of ante-chamber.
It was some kind of crypt, however, or else a storehouse, since a crypt is usually below ground. Certainly it was old, thick walled, and dusty. Lightning played violently on the solitary mullioned window, lighting up a bare deal table, a hardwood chair, and shelf upon shelf packed with musty files and books.
“Looks like some kind of monk’s reading room,” I decided at length; then wandering forward I looked at the books on the shelves. With the lightning’s help I made out some of the titles and found they were Latin. For the rest there seemed to be only Abbey files, no doubt packed with historical gems.
“Just what is the legend about this Abbey?” Enid asked at length, coming to my side and hugging herself to keep warm. “Isn’t it something about a bell? I’ve heard of it but I don’t just seem to recall … Probably gossip anyway!”
“The legend,” I said, “is that a giant bell rings out just before a death is to take place in this church. Always the death occurs in this Abbey. Last time it rang out was about twelve years ago, I think.”
Enid frowned. “But surely they ring the bells on Sundays?”
“The ordinary ones, yes; but this other bell of the legend is a solitary one in a belfry all by itself. Erected for some special reason, when this place was first built, there were originally four bells in this special belfry; then three were taken away and one was left. It was called, and still is, the Judgment Bell.”
“Hm-m, you sound like a guide,” Enid chided. Anyway, it sounds like a lot of bosh.”
She turned, disdainful, ran her eyes over the files. It was as she looked at them and the lightning flashed again with savage brightness tha
t the vast sense of evil domination swept me again. It was as though a nameless Presence — and that Presence unthinkably foul and Godless — were trying to overwhelm and crush me. Here, in the hallowed backwaters of the Abbey where even the thunder was muted by densely thick walls, the effect was infinitely greater than it had been outside.
An irresistible impulse led me to catch Enid’s arm as she reached out towards the shelf. My grip was so tight she turned with a little cry.
“Bob — you’re hurting me —!” Her voice was both pained and amazed.
I could feel that my face was a strained mask. With an effort I released her.
“Sorry,” I muttered, as the sensation flowed away from me again. “Can’t imagine what came over me — Sort of creepy feeling. Maybe it is this church, and the storm.”
“The church more like it,” she answered laconically. “Enough to give anybody the blues. For some reason these places never make me feel holy; only irritated and resentful. Wonder why things that are sacrosanct have to be depressing and shadowy?”
She meditated briefly on this, then returning to the shelf she took down a file. It was as though she did it with a hand other than her own. It was an unerring movement, so unerring indeed she even seemed surprised herself, for she stood looking in the dim light at the incredibly ancient dust-ridden thing in her hands.
“Now what on Earth do I want this for?” she demanded. “I was going to look at those books on the lower shelf to pass the time away and instead I —” She shrugged. “We’ll have a look anyway.”
She flung the file on the bare wood table and dust flew in a cloud. At the same second a truly soul-racking crash of thunder broke over the Abbey, smashing its way along with the lightning that swamped us for a moment in blue fire. My head swam with the intensity of it. The hair on my scalp bristled for a second or two.
“Apparently coming right overhead,” I muttered. “And so far as I know this Abbey is the only landmark for miles. A perfect target. Maybe we’d better get out?”
Enid glanced at the window down which the rain was swilling in cascades.
“Not for me. I feel as though I might get pneumonia even as it is. I’m taking no more chances.”
She turned back to the file and opened it. Dusty parchment pages flickered under her slender fingers. The ink, though faded, was still legible, most of it in old English writing style. I gazed over her shoulder, mastering an unformed desire to snatch the file from her and hurl it out into the storm. A silly idea, you say? Perhaps so, looked at impartially, but you can have no idea of the crushing forces at work upon me — and for all I knew then upon Enid too — in that stormbound church.
Why, for instance, had she decided to open that file at the exact page headed —
YE LEGENDE OF KELBYE ABBEY
“Well, how’s that for luck?” she asked cynically. “We were wondering about that old wives’ tale — and here it is as large as life. But Lord, what impossible writing —” She started to quote aloud, slowly … “— and so ye tale doth run that ye saintly monk Dranwold wert slain by the assassin’s hand, who didst creep—”
Enid broke off and sighed, “Whew! Whoever wrote this sure wouldn’t sell much to a modern magazine.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Enid, stop your damned blasphemous chatter!” I exploded. “Stop it, I say!”
She stared blankly at me. Those words had hurled themselves out of me; and the odd things was that as I said them that sense of gnawing horror noticeably receded as though the sharp words had cowed it — whatever it was.
“Just who,” Enid asked bitterly, “do you think you’re talking to?”
“You, of course! What right have you to make fun of the hallowed files of this place? Don’t you realize what that file is? It records the death of a monk — a holy, saintly man — who was murdered by an assassin! That isn’t a subject for levity.”
I saw her lips quiver as she formed a cutting reply; then she relaxed and gave a little shrug.
“The storm’s getting into you, Bob. Never the less, all blasphemy aside, this stuff is queer to our modern sense. It looks as —”
She stopped, her eyes frozen to that ancient page, I don’t think I ever saw such a look on a. human face. It was horror beyond describing. Even another terrific flash of lightning failed to make her blink, so entranced was she.
“Enid, Enid, whatever is it?” I cried, clutching her. “In God’s name, why do you stare like that?”
Her hand rose slowly to her mouth in horror. Then with a vast effort she seemed to get a grip on herself again. She pointed to the page, traced a single line at the bottom of the Legend:—
… and so shall ye Judgment Bell ring for each descendant of this assassin of Dranwold. This assassin whose name is Cleggye …
“Cleggy!” I gulped. “Spelt in the old English style. But — but that’s your surname, Enid.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it is.”
She looked at me with blank gray eyes for a moment. Her face had dewed with emotion in those few paralyzing moments. Now, with a hand that visibly trembled, she shut the file, fell quivering against the table.
“I don’t understand it,” she panted, her breast rising and falling stormily. “I don’t understand — I feel lost in here. Oppressed! Do you realize what this file says?” she screamed.
“I realize that by a coincidence in names the assassin of monk Dranwold had the same surname as you.” I said. “But after all, Enid, that might easily happen. Cleggy is a common name.”
“No, it isn’t!” she countered flatly. “Clegg, yes — and Clegger too — are good old fashioned English root names. Not Cleggy. That’s definitely unusual … It means,” she finished, fighting to control herself, “that assassin Cleggye was probably an ancestor of mine.”
“It’s ridiculous —” I started to say; then I stopped. Was it so ridiculous, after all? I recalled my own strange emotions, that sense of abysmal fear that had kept assailing me. Above all, I remembered how she had reached for that file almost automatically and had opened it at the desired place immediately …
*
We stared at each other as the lightning blazed again.
“Suppose,” Enid said slowly, at length, “this is true? That this murderer is an ancestor of mine? What does it make me?”
“Only what you are,” I said, almost roughly. “A modern girl in a modern world. It isn’t possible that something that happened centuries ago could affect you now …”
She hesitated, then turned back to the file again. She read slowly, nervously, transcribing into modern English as she went —
“…‘Monk Dranwold was at prayer before the altar. Assassin Cleggye stole in from the region of the transept and stabbed him in the back … And his death shall be eternally avenged: such was the dying curse of Dranwold …’ And his death shall be eternally avenged,” Enid repeated slowly.
“All my ancestors and relations, as far back as I can remember, have died mysteriously … Bob!” Her voice was sharp with sudden hysteria. “Bob, we’re going to get out of here, and quickly. It was no mere chance that brought us here, I’m convinced —”
I was commencing to think the same thing. Was it possible, I wondered, that force of events — a force totally beyond our comprehension — had led us out on the picnic, had trapped us in the storm, and thence directed us — at any rate Enid — to this Abbey? Was it possible that there was a spirit of vast evil abroad in this storm, striving to reach the girl, a descendant of a Godless assassin? Was that sense of insupportable evil I had sensed somehow produced through her, the modem equivalent of Cleggye? I gave a little shudder.
“Yes, we’ll go,” I said abruptly. “Things are happening in this place which are beyond our ken. Come on!”
We hurried back through the rain-drenched cloisters into the ghostly recesses of the church, went along past the silent pews to the porchway where our picnic basket still lay. Here, outside the main door, we paused.
The storm seeme
d to have centered with a demoniac fury directly over this ancient pile. Rain was pouring in through the open door in hissing sheets; lightning flashed and crackled in the deluge; the tear and rip of the thunderbolts shook the Abbey to its very foundations.
“We dare not go out in this,” I whispered. “We just dare not. We’d be struck dead before we’d gone a dozen yards.”
“I don’t understand this storm,” Enid whispered. “It’s as though the very elements have gone mad over this spot. It doesn’t seem to move on as all storms should — Bob, I’m frightened.” She caught my arm tightly, and I felt her hand trembling.
“Take it easy,” I said, though I was not feeling any too heroic myself. “It’s just a violent summer storm, that’s all — Pass off in a while. Then we’ll get moving again. Still be plenty of time,” I added, glancing at my watch. “It’s only six o’clock as yet.”
“Six o’clock,” she echoed hollowly; “and as dark as midnight.”
She wandered back again into the church fretfully, stared down the nave. Then as the lightning blazed across it she gave a terrific scream, so intense and horror-stricken I twirled with a thumping heart.
“What on earth —?” I demanded, catching up with her.
“I — I saw him!” she chattered. “I saw him — there before the altar. Oh, my God — I saw him!”
“Saw who?” I demanded, staring down the lightning-illuminated expanse and beholding nothing unusual.
“Dranwold! The monk. Kneeling at the altar —”
She was so prostrated with fright she could hardly stand up. I caught hold of her, held her tightly to me. She kept her eves from looking into the church. I continued to hold her, her face pressed against my shoulder. Yet as I looked down the nave and each flash of chain-lightning filled the place I could see nothing unusual, certainly nothing to suggest a kneeling figure.
“There’s nothing there,” I said gently; “nothing at all. It was your imagination — shadows cast by the lightning, I expect. Your nerves are all shot to pieces by the storm and the legend, that’s all …”
John Russell Fearn Omnibus Page 42
