It was certainly droll to watch him with the Indians. We watched him from the window, crossing the snow-covered field, with his scholarly stoop very marked, especially when climbing over the fence. He appeared to talk for about a quarter of an hour, and then came shuffling back, followed by the respectful salaams of the Hillmen.
“That’s all right,” he said. “They will wait till to-morrow before striking camp. And now for the Chapel.”
Although Hoadley had banked up a great fire, we both sat with rugs over our knees, as Carnaby insisted on keeping a window open so that he could slip outside every few minutes. He was busy measuring with a carpenter’s rule. But he was very thorough, for whenever he was outside he stooped in case the Indians were watching. Soon I found myself getting very sleepy. The heat of the fire and the glare of the sun on the snow, combined with our night’s vigil, quite overcame me, and I was fast asleep; and once more I saw quite plainly the huge frame of the monk with the tiny head. He was listening at the wall opposite to me, and as he listened he was grinning in a most devilish manner. And I knew what he was listening to. It was her voice. The beautiful girl’s voice, calling desperately from inside the wall, “Let me out!” Over and over again she called, and I knew then what had happened. He had bricked her up alive. In my rage I sprang forward, crying out, only to find what a fool I was, for it was not the monk but Carnaby who stood listening at the wall opposite.
“Hello, old chap,” he said. “Not nightmares in the sunshine. That’s all wrong.”
“It’s not,” I answered. “I know now why they’ve haunted me. She’s there—in the wall.”
Carnaby whispered back. “I believe you’re right. And you’re right too, Hogarth. The wall is too thin to hide a skeleton, but you’ve forgotten something. Exactly outside here is the buttress which supports the wall. I’ve examined the ivy outside which covers it, and with the help of a saw which I found in the tool-shed, I’ve uncovered a little hole, just big enough for a hand to go through. It’s a hollow buttress, Hogarth, and we’re going to disfigure this beautiful plastering in the cause of historical research. I’ll respect the carpet. I’ll get Hoadley’s help with dust-sheets and a pick.” Between them he and Hoadley made quick work of it. They spread dust-sheets and then Carnaby cracked the plaster with a blow and began chipping it away with an entrenching tool. Once he stopped and said, “Listen.”
Yes—there was a noise that we had heard before. It was like the rustling of silk. “But it’s not silk,” said Carnaby, “it’s dead leaves stirred by the breeze that comes through the little cavity outside.”
Then he lifted the pickaxe and attacked the wall. Very soon he had dislodged some of the big stones, and we could see through the dust that rose about him, a hollow formed by the buttress. He worked feverishly—till his heavy blows weakened the inserted wall, and with a crash down it came into a rubbled heap. And as the dust cloud cleared we saw a skeleton swaying towards us. It fell—and down the rubble heap there rolled a tiny skull. Carnaby alone appeared to take no notice of it. He was lying on the piled-up stones peering into the hole. Then in a choked voice of triumph he cried out, “God.”
We saw his arm stretch down into the hole, and then he scrambled to his feet, swaying and stumbling, as he tried to stand upright amidst the ruin. “It’s true, you chaps. It’s true.” And over his head we saw something flashing in the sunlight, and heard him say in a hysterical giggle, “It’s the cup—Mahomet’s cup—his stirrup-cup. The whole blarsted thing is true. We’ve worked it to a finish.”
I can hardly remember what followed, except that we all went mad. I saw Carnaby and Hoadley clutching each other in a sort of wardance, while Hogarth was conducting them like a jazz band leader with a trenching tool in his hand, but between each gesture crying out that his cursed neuritis was giving him hell. For my part, I had fallen off my chair and was holding tenderly the poor skull of the lovely woman of my dreams. It was all that was left of her. The bones had crumbled into dust. Then we were all huddled in a circle on the floor, gazing at the stirrup-cup.
Carnaby recovered first and sent Hoadley to the cellar for the best bottle of anything he could find, and before long we were passing the cup round and drinking from it. At last Hogarth took command, and told Hoadley to brush himself and fetch the Rector and the Doctor, and at last we had left and locked the Chapel, with the curtains drawn tight, and were met in conference round the Library table, with the wonderful cup locked up in Hogarth’s safe.
For the rest of that day—well, I know we had meals and I know we slept, and that the Doctor and the Rector neglected their duties to be with us in all our consultations. We all agreed, however, that for the present we would keep the whole thing to ourselves, until we decided on the right course to take, for there was no doubt as to the value of our find.
I know we were all calm enough at nightfall when Carnaby set off to deal with his Indians. He was very mysterious about it, and a very long time away too. We began to be anxious about him, though his orders had been to stay put, till his return. We were anxious, too, about something else. He had insisted on taking the precious cup with him, wrapped up in his Indian clothes. We felt, however, that whatever he did would be right and wise, and so it proved.
At last through the open window facing the church we heard the strains of his voice. He was intoning from the top of the tower, but we couldn’t see anything. It was too dark. I don’t know how long we waited. Close on an hour it must have been—before a surprising thing happened. The side of the tower was suddenly illuminated, as though in a flood-light.
Hogarth whispered, “That’s nothing to do with Carnaby. It’s the lights of a powerful car that has pulled up on the hill by the Bull Hotel.”
Then we saw something white climbing down the face of the tower, and we realized it was our agile Carnaby. We could see his whole passage down the side till the trees hid him. Now the lights of the Library where we stood were out, so that we could see better, and presently we made out four tall figures on the top of the tower with their arms in supplication to the sky. Then someone turned out the lights of the car and we could see nothing. But we heard a chuckling behind us and turning saw a ghostly figure appear in the darkness. It was Carnaby dressed as the Holy Man, in beard and turban, and an uncanny light played upon the rich jewels of the stirrup-cup he held in his right hand.
“Convincing, eh?” he laughed. Then he disappeared. For a few seconds there was darkness, then the room was lighted up, and we saw him standing by the switches.
“I’d like to throttle the owners of that damned car,” he said. “I thought they would debunk my miracle. But all’s well. Our Indians will be off at sunrise. You see, they had taken the advice of Nicholas Ramsbottom, and had gone to pray in the belfry. Then they heard the muezzin, which differed a bit from the orthodox one, because I was up there first and I called them to me by name. They didn’t know that the unearthly illumination about me was a torch. All they could see was their Holy Man holding the cup, and I told them not to covet it as the Prophet had need of it in Heaven, and had sent me to show it as a sign that I was now his cup-bearer. They swallowed it and grovelled as I bade them farewell. Then I vanished. In other words—I turned off the torch. In a split second I was over the ledge of the tower and had begun my get-away, a very perilous journey, especially when those lights blazed at me. It’s all right, Rector. I’ll go up again later and put things tidy. You see, I had pulled up one of the bell-ropes, and dropped it through the sounding slats of the bell-chamber. It took me within a foot or two of the ground. Now, my good Hoadley,” he went on as he removed his beard and turban, “I suggest drink, then dinner. After which, in order to dispel the memories of this nightmarish day, our good host shall tell us one of his jolliest little horrors.”
“Well, you’ve certainly the right to command here,” says Hogarth, and I believe a merrier party had never assembled even in the days of its glory, as that historic palace saw that night.
When we were once
more settled in the Library, and Hogarth was pressed for his story, he insisted on choosing his own subject.
“We have had a historic day,” he said. “Very well then, I will close it with a historic tale of the medieval times,” and he lifted from the specimen case the cushion with the handsome key upon it. Then he began.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
a dodge of death and the end
“I am only going to make one reservation in telling you this fragment of medieval history; and that is that I must not divulge the name of the town where it happened, nor, for the same reason, that of the village on the hill outside it. Both these places I must re-christen, for that was the bargain I had to make with the town clerk ten years ago, before he would let me walk off with this relic—the ancient key of the town gate.
“A crafty old fellow he was. Wouldn’t take a tip—oh, no—but he certainly encouraged me to leave a bundle of notes behind me on the table, for he was awkwardly in debt, and cared for nothing but to clear himself.
“Well—he was quite satisfied, poor devil, and so indeed was I, wanting this key for my collection. I admit I was conniving in a civil theft, but as he put it, ‘Who is going to miss an old key that now has no lock in which to fit it?’
“Imagine, then, this fair town of—Grizzelstein, I’ll call it—a rich gem set in Central Europe, and visualize a sunny morning upon a market day. But I want you to observe that there are no tradings taking place in the crowded market square. No—the people are only busy—whispering—whispering rumours of news beyond the walls, such as——
“ ‘There is no doubt about it, Gossip, that another city has fallen to this plundering Outlaw. He has utterly destroyed it—cathedral and all—for he has no respect for religion. Ours is the next city on his line of march. Ours is the next.’
“The Mayor hastily summoned his confederates to the Council Hall.
“ ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, addressing his eight aldermen, ‘we are an independent city, and in the present crisis we cannot look for any succour from neighbouring states. We have no standing army. The few men who could fight seem to have lost all heart since our Prince played the traitor, and left us in the lurch. His cowardice, as you know, has demoralized the guard, and the one cry of the city seems to be that we should sue for peace and escape with our lives. I very much doubt whether we shall even succeed in doing that, for this Outlaw is a bloody-minded scoundrel, and has shown no quarter up to the present. However, we must do the best we can, which is very little short of suicide.’ And the fat little Mayor sighed, for he had been very happy as a mayor.
“All that day terrified villagers hastened into the town for safety and spread the panic. They told of the mighty army of robbers that was now but a few hours’ march away, and they spoke of the rumoured blood path that was left behind them, and rehearsed the horrors that would soon be theirs. And with one voice the population cursed the Prince, for although he had ruled them during the days of peace with a wise and tactful hand, yet as soon as he perceived his city to be in the conqueror’s march he had turned and fled, God knew whither. That afternoon the advancing army surrounded the town, and the conquering Outlaw chose for himself as headquarters the church of the village of Hanech. This village was on high ground, and from the tower of the church the conqueror could get a bird’s-eye view of Grizzelstein, and make his plans accordingly.
“Towards sunset, amidst the chanting of the priests and nuns, the little Mayor walked forth, followed by his faithful, frightened aldermen. The Lady Abbess, who was of royal blood, being the only sister of the cowardly Prince, stood at the city gate and blessed them as they went.
“The Outlaw was watching from the tower. He and his staff were enjoying the joke immensely. The Mayor and aldermen arrived. (How ridiculous they did look in their sackcloth robes, with their chains of office in their hands.) The Mayor himself was holding the key of the city gate.
“They were ushered into the crypt of the church and locked in. There they waited, fearing the worst. Their reception was not encouraging. All that evening there was the greatest consternation in Grizzelstein, for the suppliants did not return. The priests accordingly chanted in the monastery; the nuns prayed in the convent, and the people blasphemed in the streets. What had happened to the Mayor and aldermen? Nobody knew. The men gathered in knots on the town wall and looked across at the mysterious tower of Hanech. Night set in, and camp-fires were lighted by the invaders, and a great brazier was lighted upon the tower of Hanech church. The night was so still that the crackle of these fires could be heard from the town wall.
“At about ten o’clock the faint boom of the tenor bell was heard from the tower. This was followed by another and another, until all eight bells had sent across the valley one single feeble toll. What was the meaning of this? Why did they toll each bell? Was it for some purpose? Perhaps it was some drunken soldier’s idea of fun. This was the conversation of the men upon the Grizzelstein wall. And then they saw soldiers moving on the tower, and the sound of sawing came to them; the soldiers were sawing the flag-post down. It was down. And now they were thrusting it through the battlements and making it fast with ropes. And then, in the light of the burning brazier, the terrified townsmen read the answer to their supplications for peace. For the Mayor was hanged from the flag-post—hanged in sight of the town. A dozen soldiers held torches in case the flickering brazier did not give sufficient light. There was no mistaking it—the Mayor was swinging from the flag-post—swinging from the tower of Hanech, and it meant no quarter in the morning to the town. And where were the aldermen—the eight aldermen? Had not the eight bells tolled? One bell for each man—and has not every bell a rope to pull it by? Very well, then—it is all quite simple—eight bells for eight aldermen, and the flagpole for the Mayor. The aldermen were accounted for—they were all in the belfry ringing-room, hanging in a very neat circle in the centre of the old chamber. The conqueror enjoyed the joke as much as his boisterous soldiers, but no more than the townspeople shuddered at it.
“When the novelty of the Mayor’s situation had somewhat worn off, the soldiers left the top of the tower to sleep in the church below, or in the shelter of the tombstones. Pickets were placed, but they would not be troubled, for Grizzelstein men were not soldiers; they were just frightened sheep, and they were waiting for the slaughter-men upon the morrow. The Outlaw himself sat at a table in the ringing-room. On the table he had spread out his battle plans for the morrow, and around him hung that grisly circle of aldermen from the bell-ropes. But he was not the sort of man to be frightened by dead men; he had seen corpses enough in his day, and had made them too—made them with his sword, his dagger, his bare hands, and even with his brains—for he could devise most original tortures, could this conquering robber.
“So there he sat, and there they hung, and little did they trouble him. And outside the window hung the Mayor, motionless, perfectly motionless, for the night was so very still that nothing dead could possibly be stirred by the wind; and the pale moonlight, shining straight through the arched belfry window, silhouetted the dangling body on the belfry floor. So there he sat with the eight bona fide corpses and the shadow of another in the very room in which he worried out his battle plans, having given orders that no man was to be admitted to the tower.
“About midnight he was sorely irritated, for, not content with his very precise reply to the town’s supplication for peace, out had come the Lady Abbess to plead for the city’s safety. True, he had granted her an audience, for he had heard that some of these nuns were devilish fine-looking dames, women who had taken the veil through disappointment of the very thing they had now sworn to avoid. But in this case the Outlaw was doomed to disappointment. Her beauty was not of this world—it made him feel uneasy, and he just sat silent while she pleaded for her people’s lives. She offered him all the wealth of the convent—the jewels even from the sacred hangings of the chapel—the plate—the books—aye, everything of value he could have—but let him keep his men in chec
k, and not defile the women, for the townsmen were very few and weak, and they would offer no resistance—they would only curse the memory of the Prince, her brother, who had turned coward and left them.
“Now the very daring of the woman, and the fact that he was afraid of her, irritated the Outlaw still more, and so he summoned an officer and delivered the Abbess into his hands. ‘Take this woman down into the church—give her to my soldiers—a generous present from their chief, for I can find no use for her. Perhaps they can.’
“A few minutes later a derisive shout came from the church below, followed by the agonized scream of a woman.
“ ‘So,’ thought the Outlaw, ‘she’s a woman after all. There’s something that will make her scream,’ and he laughed and went on with his plans.
“Then the shadow of the Mayor upon the floor began to move. His irritation returned. It was ridiculous. He was giving way to fancies—absurd fancies. There was not one breath of air stirring without—the body could not have moved! But it had—for it moved again—it moved with a convulsive twitch! Could it have been an owl or a bat that had flapped against it and caused it to swing? He got up from his work, dividing the curtain of dead aldermen, and strode to the window. He was not frightened—good lord—no. But he didn’t like things that he couldn’t understand; that was why he had delivered the woman to his soldiers: he couldn’t understand her, otherwise he might have kept her for himself. He now rather wished he had.
“He looked out of the window. The body was hanging perfectly still. A bat was clinging to its hair. It moved downwards and finally tucked itself away behind the dead man’s ear. Then a great wet moth crept from the corpse’s open mouth and flew into the belfry—striking against the Outlaw’s face—and then, attracted by the light upon the table, flew in large circles in and out among the hanging aldermen. Indeed, the night seemed now alive with moths. The Outlaw hadn’t noticed them before. Two large ones lay singed and twitching on his battle plan—and then, a bat dropped from the rafter and crawled upon the table, frightened at the light. The Outlaw brushed them from his map and set to work again—but once more the silhouetted body on the floor began to move. The Outlaw took his heavy cloak and hung it over the window, blocking out a great portion of the moonlight from the floor. He then got to work in earnest. He forgot the woman’s muffled shrieks and moans in the church below—he paid no heed to the careering circus of insects chased by the bats and banging past the bodies. He was absorbed in his work—his mighty battle plan.
The Master of the Macabre Page 24
