The Irish Witch rb-11

by Dennis Wheatley

  Charles had shut his eyes and was sobbing. Roger stared aghast at this bestial spectacle, overwhelmed with dismay that he was powerless to prevent its consummation.

  Suddenly he became conscious of an unseen presence beside him. Silently, in his mind, the presence spoke and he knew it to be the voice of the Sagamore, Morning Star.

  'It was because I foresaw this that I made you my brother.'

  Instantly, with all the power of his lungs, Roger yelled, 'The Frog! The Frog! He who is of Water, Earth and Air. The Creator, the beginning of all things! To defeat this Evil I call upon the Power of the Frog.'

  Susan ceased screaming. Everyone present became deadly still. They remained rigid, as though a tableau in a waxworks show. For a moment there was utter stillness, and it seemed as though the dust of ages was falling silently upon them. Then there came the sound of lapping water. The cords that bound Roger and Charles had fallen from them. Roger came to his feet and saw in the moon­light that the waters of the lake were sweeping away from the castle. Gog and Magog saw that, too. Impelled by a primitive, animal instinct to save themselves, they bounded from the altar, leapt down the tumbled stones into the mud and, frantic with terror, raced neck to neck to the shore.

  The witch, Father Damien and Aboe remained rooted where they stood. Susan rolled off the altar and, as Charles ran toward her, picked herself up. A moment later they were clasped in each other's arms.

  Roger turned and stared out across the lake. A mist, partly obscuring the moonlit vista, had risen upon it. Out ~ of the mist there loomed a gigantic figure. It was a huge frog, at least twenty feet in height, squatting in the water. The great eyes of this monstrous spirit of the frogs were focused on the castle. Its throat pulsated as though blown rhythmically by internal bellows. Its mouth opened wide once, then closed again.

  Impelled by a silent signal, the witch and her two companions turned towards it. As though attracted by a magnet they could not resist, they walked with halt­ing footsteps to the open side of the chapel, then staggered down the stones into the mud. Flailing their arms and dragging their legs, the three of them seemed to be fight­ing desperately against an invisible suction. They began to scream in terror and yell for mercy. But their appeal; were of no avail. The last that Roger saw of them through the mist they were being drawn inexorably through knee-high water toward the again open mouth of the giant frog.

  Afterwards Roger, Charles and Susan could never clearly remember what had happened to them. The floor of the chapel had begun to sink beneath their feet. Some­how they had got ashore. The crashing of falling stones, made them look back, and they saw that the evil ruin was disintegrating. The waters of the lake were seeping back and, after a time they had no means of judging, the last remnants of the castle were submerged beneath them.

  So weary that they could no longer think, they trudged for miles until they came upon a roadside bivouac, where a troop of soldiers sent out to search for them had made camp for the night.

  Next day they were back in Dublin, and united with Georgina. A week earlier she had come over to find them. The Viceroy had given her all the help he could, but Maureen Luggala had proved useless. On enquiring at her house, it was learned that she had been taken away as a lunatic. Georgina had gone to Dublin's Bedlam, to find her, cursed by the witch, an old and crippled woman, white-haired, her cheeks sagging, and raving mad.

  Epilogue

  It was again high summer in Britain, the first for many years in which the people had known peace. During the past months soldiers and sailors, many of whom had not seen their families for a decade, had been coming back to homes rich and humble all over England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland.

  In every city, town and village there had been rejoicing, and feasts in honour of the returned heroes. The victorious commanders had been handsomely rewarded. Welling­ton had received a dozen Grand Crosses in Orders of Chivalry, numerous bejewelled Field Marshals' batons, giving him that rank in the armies of the Allies, and had been dowered with many thousands of pounds-worth of presents from the allied sovereigns. Generals and Admirals were made Lords, Knights and Commanders of the Bath, in addition to receiving large sums of money voted them by Parliament.

  Roger had received nothing, neither had he expected to; it was reward enough for him that the war was over and no-one would again appeal to him to risk his life on patriotic grounds.

  Napoleon had attempted, but failed, to commit suicide; then on April 20th, in the horse-shoe court at Fontainebleau, he had kissed the tricolour and bidden farewell to the weeping veterans of the Old Guard before setting out on his journey south. There had been no shouts of 'Vive l’Empereur and, as he approached the Mediter­ranean, the people openly displayed the hatred they bore him for having robbed them of husbands, fathers, sons. At Orange they stoned his coach while he cowered behind Bertrand. Once out of the city, he changed into an Aus­trian coat, a Russian cloak and a round hat with a White Cockade on it. Learning that a mob at Avignon was thirst­ing for his blood, he made a detour to bypass that city. Thus, disguised, humiliated and in fear of his life, the once-mighty Emperor at last reached the coast and was taken on board a British frigate to his minute kingdom of Elba.

  The Marshals, on the other hand, continued to be popular heroes. Fat, gouty old Louis XVIII was no fool. Once safely on the throne of France, he decorated them— with a few exceptions including the brave Davout, who had held out in Hamburg to the bitter end—with the Grand Cross of the Order of St. Louis, confirmed them in their tides and allowed them to retain their great estates.

  On Roger's return from Ireland, Droopy Ned had per­suaded him to go out to Richmond and seek a reconcilia­tion with his wife. He found Mary both sober and con­trite. She confessed that she was still drinking, but had cut it down and would give it up altogether if only he would live permanently at home with her. Recognising that she would never have given way to this weakness had it not been for his long absence abroad, he said he would not dream of depriving her of the joy of wine, but asked that in future, even when he was away for a few days, as he meant to be now and then, she should drink only in moderation.

  He had made his proviso about being free to come and go as he wished, because nothing would have induced him to give up an occasional night or two of paradise with Georgina at her studio. Nevertheless he was still very fond of Mary and determined to make her as happy as he could. So, after a few days they settled down to resume die tranquil life they had led for a short while after their return from America.

  It was on a morning early in June that Roger mounted his horse to ride to London. He did so with a far from easy mind, as he had been summoned to wait upon the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, whom he had met on a number of occasions but did not know well. His disquiet was caused by the belief that the only reason His Lordship could have for sending for him was to ask him to under­take some mission. What it could be now that Europe was at peace he had no idea but, whatever it might be, he was determined to refuse.

  When he was shown upstairs at 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister greeted him pleasantly, waved him to a chair and said:

  'Mr. Brook, I understand that your lovely daughter is to marry the young Earl of St. Ermins toward the end of the month.'

  Roger smiled. "Tis so, my lord, and both I and St. Ermins's mother, Her Grace of Kew, are most happy about it, for we have been life-long friends and know the young people to have long loved each other dearly.'

  Thoughtfully, the Prime Minister remarked, 'I feel it something of a pity, though, that one of the wealthiest nobles in England should be taking a commoner as his bride. 'Twould be so much more suitable if he were about to wed the daughter of an Earl.'

  Puzzled and annoyed, Roger frowned. 'I fail to com­prehend the point of Your Lordship's remark. Except that I am not descended from a king on the wrong side of the blanket, my mother's family do not take second place to that of St. Ermins. Their ancestry is longer.'

  His Lordship laughed. 'You must forgive me
my little jest, Mr. Brook. It was with regard to your ancestry that I requested you to call upon me. There are no secrets from one in my position. I am well acquainted with the many services you have rendered Britain over the past quar­ter of a century. Moreover, not only my Lord Castlereagh and His Grace of Wellington but also His Imperial Maj­esty the Czar and Talleyrand, have all brought to my attention the invaluable part you played in helping to bring about a settlement in France which bids fair to ensure peace and prosperity to her people under a limited monarchy.

  . 'As you know, it is a long established custom for secret services to go unrewarded, except for payments of cash. But I felt you were deserving of special consideration, and Talleyrand suggested, in his letter to me, a way in which we could acknowledge our debt to you. With the death of your cousin, the title of your mother's family went into abeyance. But titles can be revived for descendants of a noble family. I have spoken to the Prince Regent about it and His Royal Highness gave his willing consent. Be pleased to come here again, Mr. Brook, at the same hour this day week, suitably robed. Lord Castlereagh and I will then do ourselves the honour to present you in the House of Lords to your fellow Peers as the Right Honour­able the Earl of Kildonan.'

  ARROW BOOKS

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  First published by Hutchinson & Co (Publishers) Ltd 1973 Arrow edition 1975

  © Dennis Wheatley Limited 1973

  This book is published at a net price and supplied subject to the Publishers Association Standard Condition of Sale registered under

  the Restrictive Trade Practices Act 1956

  Made and printed in Great Britain by The Anchor Press Ltd Tiptree, Essex

  isbn o 09 910440 7

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