WEIRD CHURCH BELLS OF THE NIGHT
"To begin with, Mr. Cleek, the origin of the affair dates back eleven
months, when the engagement of my daughter, Lady Adela Fulgarney, to the
young Marquis of Uppingham was first made public. I do not know if you
have any knowledge of the Valehampton district or of the immediate
surroundings of Essex Castle, so I must tell you that the former
consists of some thirty or forty cottages with outlying farm lands, and
that the latter is within easy access of St. Saviour's Church, which,
with its detached belfry and surrounding graveyard, is separated from
the western boundary of the castle grounds only by a narrow road upon
which front two buildings, known as the Castle Cottages on account of
their having been erected unintentionally within the precincts of the
castle grounds years before a proper survey was carried into effect. I
call attention to these two buildings because it is out of one of them
that the whole perplexing mystery arises. They stand fronting upon the
road which passes the churchyard, and their gardens encroach upon the
castle demesne at a point about ninety-six yards distant from the west
wing of the castle itself. Do I make that clear?"
"Perfectly."
"I am glad of that, because it is important. In the days when the late
Duchess lived she frequently begged of me to have the cottages razed, as
she considered them not only an intrusion upon our privacy, but a
detriment to the place in every way. I could not, however, bring myself
to comply with the request, because both had been taken under lease for
a term of years, and although I could, doubtless, have purchased that
lease from the tenants holding it, I did not like to do so, since one of
the two cottages was occupied by the aged parents of James Overton, my
land steward, and they were both very loath to leave it. The other had
been occupied by the wife and family of the curate of our vicar. About
thirteen months ago, however, the Rev. Mr. Giles was appointed to a
living of his own in Yorkshire, and took his departure after a long and
pleasant sojourn with us. I could not, however, tear down the one house
and leave the other standing with any benefit to the appearance of the
estate, so I concluded to allow both to remain until the end of the
Overton lease, at which time I proposed to demolish both. A hundred
times since, Mr. Cleek, I have regretted that decision. If the cottages
had to stand, I said to myself, it was as well that they should both be
bringing in a revenue as for one of them to remain vacant. So as the
Overton lease had still six years to run I consented to my land steward
finding a tenant for the one vacated by the curate for that period only.
"James Overton found a tenant almost immediately, and at that one who
improved rather than detracted from the natural beauty of the castle
grounds. He inhabits the place still. He is an elderly man with some
small private means of his own and an absolute mania for horticulture.
The result is that he makes his little garden a veritable Eden of
beauty; and as there are only himself and wife, neither children nor
grandchildren, and as they not only have no visitors, but hold
themselves aloof from even the village folk, this Mr. Joshua Hurdon is a
very desirable tenant indeed."
"So I should imagine, Duke. And your land-steward?"
"He is one of the best. Been with me for nine years. I look upon him as
my right-hand man, Mr. Cleek. But that is not to the point. Efficient as
he was in speedily finding a model tenant for the cottage vacated by the
curate, he was not by any means successful in the case of that vacated
by his parents."
"They, too, have left then, after all?"
"Yes. Old Mrs. Overton caught a chill and died about a fortnight after
the Hurdons moved in, poor creature. She had gone on a visit to a
married daughter in Scotland, and her death occurred there. Of course,
the old man could not be left altogether to the tender mercies of the
village charwoman, who used to come in two or three times a week to do
the rough household work, so his son, after returning from the funeral,
procured him a housekeeper in the person of one Mrs. Mallory, a widow,
who, with her sister, undertook the entire charge of the place and
dispensed with the services of the charwoman altogether. This Mrs.
Mallory appears to have been a most excellent person for the post and to
have performed her duties satisfactorily, although she was of a highly
romantic and even emotional disposition. She seems to have devoured love
stories and cheap romances with appalling avidity. It is to her
propensity for viewing life in the utterly unnatural and luridly
coloured manner set forth by such literature that Valehampton owes its
unhappy state to-day.
"I cannot vouch for the facts, Mr. Cleek, for I never saw the person,
and never even heard of him until after his death; but, as the report
goes, this romantic creature, wandering about the country lanes and
dreaming her silly dreams, one day heard the sound of someone sobbing
and crying out in pain. On going to ascertain the cause, she found a
young man of about nineteen, evidently in the last stages of
consumption, lying on his face in the woods, and a big, burly gypsy
standing over him and beating him with a whip, at the same time mumbling
some outlandish gibberish which the woman declared she recognized at
once as the spell to avert the Evil Eye.
"Well, to make a long story short, this buxom Diana of the Turnip Fields
flew at the gypsy, plucked the whip from his hand, and laid it about his
shoulders to such good purpose that he made off and left her with the
consumptive youth. She declares, however, that before the man vanished
for good he turned and shouted back to her: 'There is a curse on the
creature--he is a Vampire. Evil goes with him where he lives, and evil
will linger where he dies. Rivers will be choked and devils ride on the
air in the place that holds his body. Children shall be stolen and the
blood of them sucked by spirits, and they shall be stricken blind who
cross any threshold which his accursed foot has pressed!'"
"What utter drivel!" commented Cleek, with a derisive laugh. "It is the
baldest rubbish I ever heard in all my life. What happened next?"
"Well, it appears, from what I have heard, that the woman not only took
pity on the unfortunate youth she had rescued, but smuggled him into the
Overton cottage and tucked him away in a spare room, intending to give
him a few nights' shelter and food and to build him up a bit in strength
before she sent him on his way. Unfortunately, however, that night the
fellow grew worse, and by the morning he was in such a bad way that she
had to call in the village doctor. By that time he was dying, Doctor
Forsyth declares--in the very last stages of galloping consumption and
beyond all possibility of saving."
"H'm! Yes, I see. Couldn't speak, I suppose? Couldn't give any account
of who he was?"
"Not a syllable. Forsyth said, however, that in _his_ eyes he looked
pretty much like a gypsy himself--had all the characteristics of the
Romany race. He further declared that, had he been asked, he should have
said that it was well nigh a physical impossibility for the young man in
his condition to have walked a step or even lifted a hand to help
himself for days and days before he first saw him. But, of course, even
the best of doctors are sometimes at fault in their diagnoses, and if
the fellow hadn't walked--well, the woman must have got him into the
house somehow."
"Yes; you are right there, Duke. The woman must have got him into the
house somehow. By the way, was there any tribe of gypsies known to be in
the vicinity of Valehampton at the time?"
"No, not then. There had been, a few weeks previously. But they had
moved on. Why?"
"It is of no consequence. Go on, please. What happened after Doctor
Forsyth's visit?"
"That night the unfortunate wretch died. Fortunately in one sense, there
was no necessity for the coroner to be called in and the cottage thrown
open for a general inquiry. I can tell you that James Overton was highly
incensed when he heard of what the woman had done; incensed at the
liberty she had taken without consulting him; for, had Forsyth not been
able to issue a death certificate and to declare positively the nature
and cause of the disease, the result might have been serious indeed.
However, the stranger died and the burial permit was issued in due form,
so that put an end to any distressing business with the law. Though it
didn't put an end to James Overton's worry over the matter, by any
means."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, there was the question of interring the body. In the
usual course of events it would have been buried in the local potter's
field with the remains of other paupers; but James Overton is a
soft-hearted sort of man and--well, he didn't like to think of it ending
that way, so he went to the vicar and offered to pay half the price of a
grave to have the body properly buried. The other half was soon raised
by subscription, and there was enough to pay for a modest headstone as
well. So the poor wretch was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's
and a cross put over the grave bearing, at Overton's suggestion, the
inscription, 'Lord, I come as a stranger, but am I not known unto
Thee?'"
"Very pretty, very touching. He is a man of sentiment as well as of
charity, this James Overton, it would seem. So the poor wretch who 'came
as a stranger' went on to where all are known. And then--what?"
"Oh, you'll scarcely credit it, Mr. Cleek. That night the church bells
began to ring as though a madman had laid hands on the ropes, and the
whole village was roused from sleep by their dreadful din. The vicar,
thinking that someone was playing a foolish prank, dressed and went out
to the belfry to reprimand the vandal, but--there was no one there! The
bells were clanging and the dangling ropes moving up and down with each
swing of them, but no hand was on those ropes and no living thing in
sight. He climbed the belfry stairs until he came right underneath the
bells themselves. There was no one there, either--they were swinging and
clanging above his head apparently of their own accord! That was the
beginning of the mischief, Mr. Cleek. Every night following those bells
would peal out through the darkness like that. I myself have stood in
the belfry and both seen and heard them do it, so the matter is not one
of hearsay, but of actual experience.
"The result of this state of affairs I think you can imagine. The whole
village suddenly awoke to a remembrance of Mrs. Mallory's adventure, and
recalled what she had declared the vagrant gypsy had said in regard to
the dead youth. The 'curse' prophesied had fallen; the 'devils' spoken
of had begun to ride on the air, and in the end all the other things
would happen. People with children were the first to act. They vacated
their cottages and left the village by dozens. Almost the first to go
was the woman who was indirectly the cause of the panic--Mrs. Mallory.
She and her sister fled. A fortune could not have tempted them to
stay--they were simply panic-stricken. Then, hard on the heels of that,
Overton's old father went so nearly daft with fright that, in common
humanity, his son had to take him out of the house and send him to
Scotland to the married daughter. The old man would have gone out of his
mind with terror if he had not done so. The place was stripped of its
equipment, the furniture sent to be sold at auction, and the cottage was
left as bare and as empty as an eggshell. And so, but for a period of
one brief week, it has remained ever since. But other parts of the
diabolical prophecy have come to pass as threatened. The river--a branch
of the lovely Colne, which flows within gunshot of the castle
boundaries--has begun to choke up and there is no longer a free passage,
as formerly, for the skiffs and dinghys."
"What's that? What's that?" ejaculated Cleek. "The river stopped up?
Whatever by?"
"By sudden shoals which seem to have risen from the bed of it, and will
permit no craft to pass. But the abominable likeness to the things
predicted by the gypsy do not cease with that. He spoke of children
being spirited away, and at least one child _has_ been.
"With such a reputation hanging over it Overton could get no tenant for
the cottage from which his father fled in a panic. No man would live in
the place rent free, indeed, no soul in all the district could be
persuaded to pass by it, either by night or by day--on account of the
threat of sudden blindness, and for the whole eleven months which have
passed since that wretched youth was buried the place has known no
tenant until eight days ago. Then there suddenly appeared--from God
knows where--a man named Smale, who wandered into the district peddling
rush baskets in company with his daughter, a girl of thirteen. He heard
of the place, laughed at its reputation. He was homeless and well-nigh
penniless; he wanted a shelter, and was willing to risk anything to find
one. He went to Overton, but Overton had not the heart to yield to his
entreaties, so he finally came to me in person. If I would let him have
the house rent free for six months, he'd live in it and brave all the
spirits that ever existed. I listened and--yielded. Eight days ago the
man and the child took possession. A week ago this very night the child
vanished--in the dead of the night, with all the doors and all the
windows fast bolted on the inside. After two horrible days of rushing
about and wildly trying to find a trace of her, the father went insane,
flung himself into the river, and was drowned.
"Nor have the tragedies ceased with these two terrible things, Mr.
Cleek. The bridesmaids and the guests for my daughter's forthcoming
wedding have arrived at the castle. Among them is Captain Weatherley,
and with him came his soldier servant--a loyal and intrepid fellow named
Davis, who had been through countless perils with his master, and was
afraid of nothing living or dead. Early this morning he was found by the
Vicar at the foot of the belfry. His head had been smashed in, and he
was beyond all earthly aid."
"Any attempt been made to decide the matter? Upon the part of the local
authorities, I mean; for, of course, they would be notified of the
affair."
"Naturally. The vicar attended to that. But beyond the fact that the
body was removed by them to the morgue attached to the local almshouses,
I know nothing whatsoever of their movements; nor do I quite see how
they could have come to any definite conclusion about the affair."
"No doubt, however, their first step would have been to investigate the
condition of the earth in the immediate vicinity of the cottage,"
suggested Cleek.
"Ah! I see what you mean. They might have found traces of footprints,
you think?"
"Something of that sort--yes. If it had rained recently, to put the
ground in a condition to receive and retain an impression----"
"The dead man's boot might have been fitted to it, and the point
established that way," put in Mr. Narkom, somewhat hastily, his mind
travelling along well-worn grooves.
"Oh! no," said Cleek. "Not necessarily a footprint at all, Mr. Narkom,
and certainly not a booted one. A boot is never conclusive proof of the
identity of the wearer. It may be removed for the purpose of _creating_
certain impressions and afterward returned to the body of the owner.
Contrary to the methods of the fictionists, the imprint of a boot or
shoe is of no possible value as a clue whatsoever. The only footprints
that can be relied upon to furnish positive evidence of the personality
of their author are those made either by an animal or the human foot
when it is absolutely bare."
"But bare or booted, Mr. Cleek," interposed the duke, "neither could be
relied upon to establish--were it important to do so--any proof relative
to the movements of Captain Weatherley's servant in the neighbourhood of
that abandoned cottage. Two circumstances render such a proceeding
impossible. You suggested a moment ago that--well--er--_something_ might
be discovered in the immediate vicinity of the cottage provided it had
rained recently. Well, it has not. As a matter of fact, the county has
been suffering from an absolute drought for the past five weeks, and the
earth is baked as hard as flint. That is the one circumstance; the other
is even less promising. Both cottages--that of the Hurdons and that left
vacant--have courtyards entirely paved with red tiles. A broad,
red-tiled footpath surrounds each building, and runs down the middle of
its accompanying garden. Nor is that all. Even the belfry of St.
Saviour's itself could not have furnished any evidence of the man ever
having been there had not his body been found on the spot. It is a
curious old Norman structure which originally stood in the midst of a
sort of 'square,' paved with cobbles, and extending outward from the
walls of the tower for a distance which, roughly, is about four yards in
every direction. The uneven surface presented by these cobbles after
ages of wear having proved dangerous walking for the thick-soled boots
of the bellringers, had caused more than one of them to have a nasty
fall, so the vicar sought to rectify the matter by having them entirely
covered by a thick layer of cement. The result is that the square in the
middle of which the belfry stands presents a smooth, firm, level surface
as hard as iron and as bare as one's hand. An elephant could not leave a
footprint upon it, much less a man."
The duke paused a moment, as if to give due weight to these unpromising
circumstances, then leaned back in his chair.
"There," he said, "that is the case as it stands, Mr. Cleek."