The Master of the Macabre

by Russell Thorndike

  “I promised to tell you about my life’s work, didn’t I?” he said, “but you must get to know me better before judging whether I am worthy of such a grandiose title as Master of the Macabre. No one has a better right to criticize me than Carnaby, for he was my fag at school, and a queer little beggar he was too. He was the perfect policeman even in those days, and a personal friend of every fictional detective from Holmes to Sexton Blake. I always tell him that his brilliant career started the day poor old Middleston was expelled. This was the climax to a number of money thefts that had been going on in our House. Well, certain marked coins planted by one of the masters were found in his locker, and since he would not deny his fault he was for it. But, thanks to little Carnaby believing in him, he was only at home in disgrace for five days. Carnaby got to work and proved conclusively that the master who had planted the coins had been the thief all along, but because Middleston’s sister was engaged to him, the boy had kept his mouth shut. If it hadn’t been for our sleuth, Middleston would not have been Governor of whatever-he-is at the moment. My own tastes, though on a different line, ran parallel with Carnaby’s. But whereas he was a solver of mysteries, I merely sought them—a collector of things and matters macabre. In my youth, far from being afraid of ghosts and goblins, I hunted for them. At the age of seven I nearly passed out with pneumonia, contracted through a habit of climbing from my bedroom window into the churchyard which lay next to my father’s vicarage. With an overcoat over my night-gown I would lay hidden in the long dank grass amongst the tombs, hoping to see the bodies come out at midnight. As I grew older I sought out people and books that could tell me queer things, and as I believed adventures came only to the adventurer, I went about the world adventuring, collecting the material of odd happenings—mine own and other people’s. You will find that a large portion of my book space in the Library is filled with vellum-bound books of mine own manuscripts. Some are in handwriting, some in typescript, and some—my choicest experiences in my line, printed in the old Caxton style from a press I made myself, which I run in the crypt below here. I print two copies—then dismantle the type for the next one. I should like you to bring an editorial mind to bear on some of them, for I find it rather difficult to pick and choose, since most of them being personal experiences have an equal interest for me. And there are such a lot of them, and I think none devoid of something a little unique.”

  “But how many have you had published?” I asked.

  “None,” he snapped back. “Good God, no. I couldn’t bear to see my carefully selected incidents bastardized in commercial print on paper more suitable for lavatories than lecterns. Besides, it would go badly against my fastidious grain to be put to the mercy of commercial readers and editors, who would rob the stories of their truth just to suit the taste of their particular public. No, Mr. Kent, my selection is for the few—such men as yourself—since I judge you by your own work.”

  “I can appreciate your irritation against commercial publications,” I replied diffidently, “but I find commercialism in our trade is able to supply something which I find far from irritating—money.”

  “Well, in that respect I am luckier than most,” he said with a charming smile. “I have plenty—and I am glad to say I have made it myself—quite on the side—while pursuing my own self-imposed calling. I have been most things in my pursuit of the macabre, as Carnaby would say. There are damned few jobs I haven’t had a cut at in my world-wide search, and in some I have been more successful than I deserved, though I gauge my success not from the fortunes I have made in various schemes, but whether or no that line of business supplied me with a worthy story for my collection. But I see Jack Ketch being led out of the stables, so I must be brief. Doesn’t do to keep him waiting in the cold.”

  “The name sounds macabre enough,” I laughed.

  “My favourite horse,” he explained. “A grand animal but with a sadistical sense of humour. Hoadley suspects that his cherished ambition is to break my neck—hence my name for him. And by the way, Mr. Kent, before I go I must apologize for having talked so much about myself, but it seemed only fair to you that I should satisfy your mind about my background. You knew nothing of me nor of my work, whereas you being a public man, I had the advantage of you. But please bear with me a few minutes longer, because in telling you of my stories I find I have omitted what to me is the most fascinating side to it. For every story I have collected I have acquired a mascot, for want of a better word. That is to say, I have bought, borrowed or stolen, begged and accepted, something in connection with each yarn that can claim to have played its part in the happening. It’s a queer collection. All manner of things around which the macabre hovered. Some of these ‘props,’ as they would call them in the theatre—yes, I was once an actor—are exceedingly valuable in the commercial markets, while a lot of the specimens appear to be mere junk. But their face value soars through association, so that some of the more ordinary objects are more precious to me than others adorned in gold and precious stones. For instance, you will probably agree that a thorn from Christ’s Crown or a nail from His Cross would be a far more precious possession than the Koh-i-noor or Hope Diamond. If I may say so without sounding blasphemous—the story value of that thorn or nail would be far more valuable to a collector like myself. In the Library you will notice a glass case of curios. Each evening you are here you shall pick out one that rouses your curiosity, and I will tell you the reason I have given it a place. And one more thing, Mr. Kent. What happened to us both last night seems to indicate that I am about to ring up the curtain on a new happening bequeathed us from the past. In which case I am very happy that you are here to share the excitement with me. And now don’t hesitate to call for all you want and I shall be with you again this evening for dinner. Take care of that ankle and don’t let the doctor interfere too much with Hoadley’s care of it, for I sometimes agree with Stevenson’s Billy Bones that ‘doctors is all swabs’—though you can take my word for it that Hoadley isn’t. And now for the snow and Jack Ketch.”

  And he was striding along the corridor calling loudly for the Dean’s Verger.

  *

  I think that day was one of the most peaceful I have ever spent. Shortly after I had finished my belated breakfast, the local doctor arrived to examine my ankle. I was expecting something quite frightful by the attitude my host had taken of him, but I found I liked him. I think because he was so generous in his praise of Hoadley’s setting.

  “Couldn’t have made such a good job of it myself,” he said.

  However, he substituted plaster of Paris for the temporary splints Hoadley had put on, and in apology, praised the homemade sling for the bath and told me jocularly that I could lie in the tomb when I liked so that the water was hot enough for hell, adding, “And they say that when one doctor calls in another for consultation, the best thing for the patient is to get into his grave and save time.” Certainly I couldn’t imagine a tomb being more pleasant. After my luxurious bath, and a comfortable shave, Hoadley helped me to dress, and I finally re-entered the Library in the wheel-chair with time to drink an excellent dry sherry before lunch.

  Attracted as I was towards my absent host, I was glad of my solitude that day, and there was no question of being bored in that delightful room, for, with the exception of the manuscript bookcases, I was able to open what glass doors I chose, with a master key left by the Master himself, and as Hoadley had given me a lesson in how best to propel and navigate myself in the chair, I had great fun doing a grand tour of the bookshelves, making a list of such volumes that attracted me most.

  The Library by daylight more than came up to expectations. The fire-place upon closer inspection was even a more perfect relic of the past than I had thought it the night before, and I found a beautifully bound book in red leather printed from the crypt press lying on the table, and giving in the Master’s own conversational style a full account of the effigies and heraldic designs. A lovely thin volume, pleasing to hold and read. Indeed, tha
t was, I found, the chief feature of the Master’s bookcraft. Each work was as delicately beautiful to the hand as to the eye.

  Through one of the three large windows I looked up to Wrotham Hill carpeted in rich deep snow with the sun glistening upon it, and felt relieved that through Hoadley’s foresight and organization, my car was no longer buried up there. I saw, too, the fine old stables flanking one side of the old tilting yard, and the majestic ruins of what had been the banqueting hall in the days when the archbishops had entertained royalty on their way to Canterbury. One wall stripped of the ivy that covered other pieces of crumbling masonry, showed the arched entrance approached from the sheltered fruit garden. The trees in the orchard, where I was to meet a great adventure, looked like fairyland, and I longed for my ankle to heal quickly so that I could explore so many fascinating nooks and corners. There were two smaller windows, let in to give light to two embrasures, built on, as I learnt, by the Master, to give the lofty chamber more wall space for books. In both of these, running the whole length between the bookshelves, were glass-covered specimen cases, one of which was filled with pottery, coins, weapons and trinkets dug up by the workmen when the Master had restored the place. But a very large case at one end of the main room interested me more, for in it were obviously some of the mascots the owner had mentioned. To this I found it easier to navigate my chair, since there was plenty of floor space around it, and through the glass sides and top I saw for the first time some of his macabre relics.

  Yes—a curious mixture indeed. Just like looking through the window of a more than interesting curiosity shop. An eastern dagger—two human skulls—one of which had an Elizabethan clay pipe thrust incongruously through its teeth. A large key with its wards in the shape of a shield, the arms of some house cut into the bright steel, and the quarterings divided by the spaces of the key itself. It lay upon an old scarlet cushion of rich velvet. Near this lay a highly jewelled snuff-box, reclining on a volume of Cæsar’s Gallic Wars—a French translation. Looking dull and cheap in comparison was a brass button dented and corroded. It was fixed to a card upon which was written the one word—Zanzibar. Then an old piece of gold cord twisted into a loop with a tarnished tassel hanging from it. This reclined upon a coarse-haired grey wig. Next to this was a white moth with a pin through its head and one wing broken and missing. There were lots of other things and all differing, but the one that intrigued me most, perhaps because it took up most room and looked out of place, was a heavy-looking sharp-edged spade with a huge horse-shoe fitted to the handle.

  Even before I examined it more carefully, I vowed that I would make the Master tell me its story before any of its case companions.

  It seemed to me that the horse-shoe had been put on to strengthen the wood of the right-hand grasp—and quite a useful idea too. Above the upturned iron horns, across the horizontal part of the handle, a date was printed in poker-work—I confess it made me jump as I read it—for burnt deep into the wood I read 13 Nov. 1846. The Thirteenth of November—Hogarth had spoken of the date when he had first come into the Chapel. It was the date of this very day, but a hundred years ago.

  I refrained from questioning Hoadley about it. I felt he would only say that the Master would tell me in his own good time, and I was already getting tired of that sentence. So I tried to forget about it. But there was another thing which set me wondering about it—a thing which I hadn’t noticed at first. Lying in the circle of the horse-shoe handle space was a yellow curl of hair, plaited with pink silk. Whose could it have been, and what connection was there, if any, between its owner and this ugly shovel? I also thought it very strange that my first day in this house where the spade reposed should be upon the identical date.

  However, there was quite enough to occupy my mind in the Library, and I contrived to ignore my curiosity, turning the chair with its back to the case, and delving into a volume of local legend and folk-lore, so that I was surprised how time had slipped by when Hoadley brought me in tea, with the news that his master would be back within the hour.

  As a matter of fact it was at least two hours before he came in, seemingly very pleased with his day’s work and his ride.

  “I began to fear that Jack Ketch had given you a last drop,” I laughed.

  “On the contrary, my dear fellow,” he replied. “I have never known him so well behaved, perhaps because we went a-calling on the charming Lady Abbess at Malling Convent. She too was in such a good mood that I not only stayed to tea, but persuaded her to lend me certain archives they possess upon the neighbourhood, dealing with our disturber of the peace, Abbot Porfirio. I am going to translate and print them in English, and on the promise of a copy for the Abbey Library she has broken the rule of letting them go out of the building. Perhaps we shall discover why the old rascal is so desirous for us to go walking out at night.” And putting a packet of papers and two books bound in old calf upon the table, he suggested getting ready for dinner, and it was then that I found Hoadley had moved me up into the Tapestry Room. I confessed later at dinner that although I should like to spend another night in the Chapel, I was not sorry to postpone the treat. At last dinner was over and we were once more in the Library with our port and cigars.

  CHAPTER SIX

  concerning a mad sexton, a drunk hangman and a pretty girl

  At last—and at my repeated request, for his mind was full of Porfirio—my host got up to unlock the specimen case. “Yes—certainly the old spade can lay claim to precedence over the other stories this night, as it celebrates the centenary of the deed it took part in a hundred years ago. Another appropriate reason for telling you the facts to-night is that I rode past where it happened to-day on my road to Maidstone. Do you know the little village of Aylesford? It’s a gem—perched on the steep river bank, the old church crowning it above the chimneys of the High Street. A place full of legend and folk-lore, rich in history. It was where the beautiful Saxon bridge now stands that the Angles forded the Medway to battle in the days of Hengist and Horsa. Hence the name—Angles ford.”

  As he talked, he lifted the spade from the case and leaned it against his chair. Then he tenderly picked up the lock of yellow hair.

  “I don’t know whether you think that inanimate objects placed near one can made the recital of an occurrence in which they were concerned more vivid—but I do, and that is why I am going to lay this lock of a girl’s hair on the table here beside you.” As he suited the action to the word, and went back to his chair, he added, “A hundred years ago that little curl was growing on the head of the fairest village beauty of Aylesford. Rich—spoiled and courted, she should have married and had children and grandchildren—and that curl should have gracefully changed from yellow to silvery white. Unfortunately the thirteenth of November proved to be an ill-starred date for her. But let me tell you what happened.”

  He picked up the spade and pointed to its handle. “By the way, about this time in the evening a hundred years ago, when that curl was alive, this horse-shoe, obviously made for a great shire beast, was not on here. It was put on later. But let me get on with the tale.

  “Everyone in the village of Aylesford knew that there was bad blood between a certain Farmer Quested and the Sexton—of that day. How the quarrel had originated nobody knew, but it had grown ever since the Farmer had been elected vicar’s warden and as such read the lessons every Sunday. It became violent when Kitty Quested returned from service abroad and set all the lads’ hearts hammering at her beauty.

  “The Sexton’s daughter was a poor sickly imbecile, and when she died the village pronounced it a good thing and laughed when they saw the old man transfer his affection upon the churchyard horse, that pulled the great stone roller, nibbled the grass and was called Scraggybones. That, his beer and his hatred for Quested were the only things the Sexton loved. Now upon this very night of the year when the village was drinking at the ‘Chequers,’ the Elizabethan inn which lies beneath the church on the opposite side of the street, some wag asked the Sexton, whose
beetroots he had been stealing.

  “ ‘Beetroots?’ repeated the Sexton. ‘Don’t like ’em.’

  “ ‘Then why steal ’em?’ asked the wag.

  “ ‘Haven’t,’ snapped the Sexton.

  “The wag pointed to the Sexton’s spade. This very spade, my dear Kent. Just here on the corner of the blade there was a red smear.

  “ ‘If you’ve been amongst my beetroots, old ’un,’ put in Farmer Quested from his corner by the fire-place, ‘I’ll have the law o’ you.’

  “The Sexton chuckled. ‘If ever Cephas Quested takes the law o’ me, it’ll be over something more serious than beetroots, I promise you.’

  “Just then the Vicar came in and called for a glass of old ale. He was popular because he was not above drinking in his own parish inn. His arrival checked the angry retort which his warden was about to make to his sexton. But it did not check the Sexton’s chuckles, which developed into a sinister giggling as the old man cleaned the blade of his spade with his thumb, flicking the bits of dirt across the Farmer’s knees into the fire. The Vicar having nodded to all the cronies, addressed himself to his warden.