The Mammoth Book of Nightmare Stories

by Stephen Jones

  Leonardo lingered on in his villa, but his drive and energy were gone with the departure of his three “brides,” and though he was consoled by the dark genius and wit of Caravallo, the old days were over. Caravallo completed his group of statuary—his “masterpiece,” he ever afterward called it—though it had been left for a time only half-finished—using other women in place of the original models. But it is believed that he fashioned the heads from original drawings of the duke’s three mistresses.

  The duke had by then abandoned his original idea of his own effigy appearing in the middle of the group, as the master of ceremonies, and the finished creation was as Grisson and I had seen it on that unforgettable day: as a circle of dancing women in flowing draperies, with an inscription running around the outer pedestal.

  I was deeply interested in this strange story, and was convinced that I had been asked to Florence for a denouement. So interested, in fact, that our glasses had long been empty and the crowds at the nearby tables were beginning to thin out when I called for another round.

  The rest of the tale grows dim and shadowy (Grisson presently continued), and his next words gripped my attention with undeniable impact, as no doubt they were meant to do. Some years after the commissioning of the statues, Leonardo was found dead at the foot of the cliffs leading to the upper garden, in the most tragic and horrifying circumstances.

  His body appeared to have been reduced to a jelly, though the cliff was not high enough to have inflicted such damage by a simple fall, and the expression on what remained of his face was enough to cause a fainting fit in the first manservant on the scene.

  There were uglier rumors and, amid wild stories and further scandal, the great house was closed for a time and Caravallo left the district, the death of his old friend having apparently shattered him. He eventually died in Padua a few years afterward, and little more is known of him, other than what I have told you this evening, though minor works of his continue to come to light even today, Grisson added.

  The reputation of “The Gossips” apparently stems from the period immediately after the strange death of Leonardo and, as was said earlier, the people gradually drifted away from the area. New dukes continued to inhabit the ancient palace, but parts of the library were sealed, and, after a particularly bad fright, a descendant of the bad young duke had part of the garden walled-off, as I had seen on the occasion of my ill-fated visit with Grisson.

  The latter leaned back after completing his story, and looked moodily out over the water. Despite the warmth of the still air, and the delights of the ancient city surrounding us, I had become aware that this was not the end of the affair and that there was a great deal more to come. Grisson had been speaking for upward of half an hour and, at a sign from him, Jordan looked up with a smile. It was his turn to continue the tale.

  IV

  HE FIRST WENT back to the thread of his original remarks, which had been so lengthily interrupted by our companion. Arthur Jordan smiled even more broadly as he recollected this, and Grisson stirred uneasily in his chair as if to comment obliquely that he hadn’t meant to take so long.

  Jordan had completed his arrangements with the Duke to exhibit “The Gossips” in London, and all had apparently gone very well until the time came to move the statues.

  Jordan was, of course, extremely anxious that no damage should come to the group while it was in his care, and he had gone to considerable trouble in getting up one of the best firms in Naples to undertake the job. I did not understand the technicalities as Jordan explained them, but I gathered that the whole group of statuary and the plinth on which they stood had first to be jacked up most carefully, and then edged on to a sort of lift which had been constructed of strong steel scaffolding up the face of the cliff.

  When they had been lowered to the valley below, they were to be crated and transported by stages in a large, wheeled cradle to Palermo for shipment to England. This was the plan which Jordan explained to me, but unfortunately, things didn’t work out like that. The first stages of the dismantling of the statues went smoothly and without incident. Workmen from the Italian mainland had been brought in—specialists to a man—and they had laughed at the local tales and legends.

  Nothing odd occurred regarding the statues: there were no voices, and nothing untoward about their appearance. In fact, Jordan regarded the whole thing as a straightforward civil engineering operation and, apart from perfunctory supervision, his mind was on other affairs: the shipment from Palermo, general details of the exhibition, his researches in the Duke’s library, and so on.

  It seemed that the statues could be removed separately, and that the granite plinth on which they rested was also a separate entity. This would mean that the figures could be removed one by one for crating, and a larger crate would contain the plinth. As a start, the three figures were lifted and removed to one side. They were left for the time being, until the lifting gear would be ready to lower them down the face of the cliff.

  Then the experts examined the plinth, and professed themselves satisfied with what they found.

  The plinth could be lifted in one section with the equipment available, and would not crack. This work occupied all of the first day and part of the following morning, and it was then that the troubles had begun.

  Perhaps Jordan had been trapped into a position of false security by the tranquil atmosphere and the deepening interest of his task. Whatever the reason, the disaster which afterward befell came with stunning suddenness.

  During the latter part of the morning, the plinth had first been lowered to the ground. This operation was not without its hazards. The plinth was the bulkiest single item of the group, though it was not the heaviest, and it called for delicate maneuvering. Some of the workmen had anxious looks as the great mass was lowered, inch-by-inch almost, with much rattling of chains in the blocks, down the face of the cliff. A gantry had been erected on top of the scaffolding and a flat steel platform, with chains around it, was to be used for the operation.

  But all had gone well, and by the end of the morning the great mass had been cradled and was already out of sight along the lower road through the old cemetery. In the afternoon, though the heat was intense, Jordan was surprised to see that the workmen intended to stick to their task. Unlike most Italians, they took only an hour for their siesta, though the sun was cruel, and soon after 2:00 the sound of the winch warned him that their labors were about to begin again.

  Excusing himself from his host, Jordan hurried back to the platform of rock to superintend operations, and was once again impressed with the efficiency and hard work put in, both by the principals and laborers of the firm which had been engaged. Perhaps they were being paid a bonus or special rates if they finished the job in a certain time. Whatever the reason, Jordan mentally resolved to invite them as his guests to a celebration dinner when he met them again in Palermo in a few days’ time. Jordan had remarked at the Duke’s lack of interest in such an unusual operation, but if he had known the real history of the statuary, he would have thought it remarkable if the Duke had felt otherwise.

  Jordan was idly mulling these and other thoughts over in his mind as the winch chains rattled away, and the statues I had found so repellent, but which merely excited his keenest antiquarian interest, were lowered slowly down to the cemetery level with infinite care and precision.

  A highly skilled contracting engineer was in charge, and it was the fact that he had established close contact with him and had been so impressed with the quality of his mind that made Jordan refuse to accept an obvious explanation which occurred to some other people after the tragic events of the later afternoon.

  Two of the statues had been lowered safely, and the third was being jacked on to the lift-like platform. The cradle crew had not yet returned from their task of conveying the plinth, and one would not have expected them to, with the weight and the distance they had to traverse. So the first two statues were simply left in the shade at the cliff bottom while the engineer
s and laborers concentrated on the remainder of the task.

  Jordan does not yet know why he came to find himself on the lift platform. The man who performed the delicate and dangerous task of directing the operation from the platform itself during the hazardous descent had been called to the bottom of the cliff on some errand or other, and had not yet returned. The laborers, directed by the engineer, had levered the third statue into position on the platform, and were awaiting their instructions to lower away.

  And so it happened that Arthur Jordan found himself the only qualified person, and the nearest to the platform, when the signal was about to be given. The engineer in charge, looking about for his key man, saw him at the foot of the cliff.

  He himself had to direct the winching operations, and the man on the platform transmitted his instructions to a third man at the cliff-edge, who passed them on to the engineer. They were quite simple signals, and Jordan had fully understood their use during the morning’s work. Rather than hold up the proceedings, he waved to the engineer, exchanged a few shouted words and, at the former’s nodded assent, jumped lightly on to the platform and hooked up the securing chains.

  Down below, another team of men gripped steadying cables and, as they also noted his signals, held the platform to prevent it bumping against out-jutting rocks. Jordan gave his first signal, the machinery clanked, chains ran snittering through blocks, and the platform swung gently away from the rock-face.

  It descended an infinitesimal fraction and then steadied, keeping to a strictly controlled procedure. The sun baked Jordan, the rock face seemed to throw back the heat like a blast furnace, and he was suddenly afraid. He could not, to this day, ascribe any rational cause for his alarm. It was just a “feeling.” He looked down at the brown, oval faces of the men below, and then up over the stretch of cemetery, blinding in that fierce sun. Everything began to shimmer in the haze, and the platform started to vibrate in an odd manner.

  I put down my wine glass as Jordan leaned forward. In my short acquaintance with the man he had not been demonstrative, but I could swear I saw moisture exuding from the skin of his forehead and rolling down his cheek as he came to what was obviously the most harrowing part of his story.

  Jordan had gripped one of the side-chains—a simple movement which subsequently saved his life—and had braced himself to give his second series of signals. He felt better, and the platform again descended a minute distance. It was then that he became aware of the faint, insidious mumbling that I had heard in that self-same garden so long ago: an undertone of sibilant, nauseous whispering, mingled with obscene titters, that tingled the skin of his scalp in an electric fashion. The next thing that happened was a confusion of noise and motions: he heard a sharp crack, at the same time as a shout of alarm or terror—which, he couldn’t tell. Similarly, he didn’t know whether it came from above or below.

  Then the platform suddenly tipped, and tilted, throwing him against the chains. There was the harsh scream of metal against rock and it was this, with the pain of contact with the chain, that convulsed him into action. Something had broken in the main bearings of the winch, or perhaps it was a cable. The platform was tipping at an impossible angle, and then Jordan saw what he will never forget: the tons of statue sliding inexorably toward him to crush him down, and on the carved face a sardonic sneer.

  Jordan was against the retaining chains. Instantaneously it flickered across his brain that if the statue once caught against the chains, it must inevitably tear everything with it and dash cradle and man to destruction below. As he saw the workmen scattering in panic at the cliff floor, Jordan, with the quickness inspired by terror, swiftly unhooked the two massive chains from their retaining cradles and hurled himself upward into the cables above his head.

  There was a noise like an avalanche, a boiling dust of stone and chippings, and the flimsy platform bucked about like a cork. But Jordan was precariously safe. The monstrous statue had gone over the platform edge as it tipped, and had fallen clear. It, and the two other statues, were ground to fragments and the dust, like smoke from artillery fire, was lapping at the heels of the frantically running workmen, while boulders, perhaps weighing half-a-ton, bounded excitedly among them like playful terriers. Jordan clung to the cable, half-dazed, the strength of his arms almost gone, borne up by the calm instructions of the engineer above him, who, with pipe securely jammed in his mouth, was testing the winch, his band of shaken colleagues only just beginning to stir themselves.

  Jordan had first to be lowered, so that the gear could be freed. Then a rope had to be got out, so that the platform could be pulled back to the safety of the cliff-top, for many of the fittings had been torn away. This epic would make a story in itself, as would the courage of the workman who volunteered to lower himself down from the shattered jib gear and lash Jordan securely to the remaining cables, so that it was impossible for him to fall. Later, it was found that the chain on which this admirable man had relied for this long and complicated operation had been almost sheared through, and was hanging by a few strands.

  When Jordan regained the safety of the ground, worse was to come. The loss of the statues was bad enough—that was his responsibility, and to him would fall the heavy task of explaining to the Duke. But a small boy, an especial favorite of the workmen, had been standing beneath when the great statue fell. He had been unnoticed by many of the men who swarmed about him and, though repeatedly ordered away, had insisted on returning.

  The operation had some fascination for him. The statues had been conceived in blood and cruelty, and in their destruction they demanded a human sacrifice. The death of this small boy, Tonio, whose pitiful remains were eventually found beneath the biggest single intact piece of rock, had a profound effect on Jordan and all who were there that afternoon. It was a dazed and demoralized party that prepared to quit the ground on which they had started out so well in the morning.

  And there was another, a final horror, of which few could ever be induced to talk again. Jordan, sipping at a new drink set before him, with a manner more like himself now that this portion of his story was over, promised that he would allude to this again before the end.

  I must confess that I had been considerably shaken at the events described by Jordan so far. Compared with his experiences, my own had been trifling. Yet, though the way Jordan had described the happenings of that afternoon of recent times it had seemed quite a normal industrial accident, I was convinced he would have some more outré explanation, in view of my own strong feelings.

  And so it proved. But first, Jordan had the painful duty of informing the Duke of what had happened. To his surprise, though deeply shocked and moved at the death of the child and Jordan’s narrow escape, the loss of the statues worried him not at all. In fact, when the effect of the tragedy had worn off, he seemed relieved rather than otherwise. He hastily prevented any further discussion of details of the affair, and asked Jordan to deal with the workmen. He himself took on the responsibility of interviewing the child’s father, and though the boy should not have been where he was when the accident occurred, he insisted on paying the funeral expenses and substantial compensation to the bereaved parents.

  While all this was going on, Jordan and the engineer made a thorough examination of the equipment used to lower the statuary down the cliff. What they found completely exonerated the company, but caused pale faces among the workmen. In fact, there was no explanation of the disaster in material terms. The only solution was of so monstrous a nature that Jordan and his associates refused to accept this, and the cause of the accident was put down to the equivalent of an “act of God,” which Jordan felt was a tremendous irony under the circumstances.

  The representative of the Milan insurance company who traveled up to the site was at first inclined to blame some fault of the equipment used, but after he had been shown the evidence and had examined the area of the plateau, he rapidly came to the same conclusion as the others.

  He departed, lips compressed and shaking hi
s head. His last words to Jordan and the engineer were that, fortunately, such happenings occurred only once in a lifetime—otherwise, nothing would be insurable.

  The engineering firm, with many expressions of regret, packed up their gear and departed. Jordan and the Duke were undecided what to do about the plinth. It had already been crated and was sealed in a warehouse in Palermo, awaiting shipment to London. They left it there for the moment, while they debated more weighty matters. Jordan cabled news of the disaster to London, and remained on as the Duke’s guest until the insurance problems had been sorted out.

  Eventually, there came a cable to say that the company would bear the full loss. This, together with the compensation which the British government had decided to pay instead of the exhibition grant, more than covered the material and artistic loss sustained by the Duke. In fact, he was most effusive over this turn of the affair, and his handshake was extremely cordial when Jordan eventually left, a week later.

  The inquest on the child, in a nearby village, had revealed nothing, as Jordan had anticipated. After a perfunctory judicial inquiry by the local police, the affair died down and was written off as an unfortunate accident, though coroner and police alike were hard-put to it to explain away the manner of the accident in natural terms.

  Jordan contented himself with certain documents, drawings, and other material the Duke had lent him from his library, and this would have to represent the statuary in the London exhibition. Jordan took these away with him in a locked valise, and after other business had been completed on the Italian mainland, he made his way back to London just over a fortnight afterward, a slightly different man from the one who had made the outward journey.

  He duly reported to his foundation, conferred with the Chairman of the Exhibition Committee, and went on with his other preparations for the opening, which was now about four months away. This work absorbed him so continuously that, combined with the trips he was obliged to make from London to other parts of England, the whole business gradually faded from his mind.