They Walk in Darkness Read online

  THEY WALK IN DARKNESS

  Gerald Verner

  © Gerald Verner 1947

  © Chris Verner 2011

  Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1947 by Wright & Brown Ltd.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  For

  MY WIFE

  WITH LOVE

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE: THE EVE OF ALL-HALLOWS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  PART TWO: THE BLACK MAN

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  PART THREE: THE COVEN

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  PART FOUR: ABSOLUTE EVIL

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  PART ONE

  THE EVE OF ALL-HALLOWS

  ‘Is it a party in a parlour?

  Crammed just as they on earth were crammed —

  Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,

  But, as you by their faces see,

  All silent and all damned.’

  — William Wordsworth.

  Peter Bell, Part I.

  Chapter One

  The engine emitted a queer sound, like a rather pompous old gentleman clearing his throat, stalled, and the big car came to a sudden and jerky halt. Peter Chard uttered a mild expletive below his breath, fiddled with throttle and ignition, and pressed on the self-starter. It whirred noisily, but the engine was disconcertingly unresponsive. He tried again without any better result and gave a sidelong glance at the tip of his wife’s nose which protruded pinkly from a nest of furs and was the only portion of her that was visible.

  ‘What’s happened, Peter?’ she asked, drowsily. ‘Why have we stopped?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed, reluctantly. ‘It can’t be lack of petrol. I had the tank filled up at Norwich . . .’ He made another attempt but it was quite useless. The engine remained silent and lifeless. ‘It won’t go,’ he declared, rather unnecessarily.

  ‘That,’ remarked Ann, rousing herself, and emerging from the enveloping furs like Aphrodite rising out of the sea, ‘is quite obvious. But why won’t it go?’

  Peter shook his head. He had not the faintest idea why it wouldn’t go. It had brought them smoothly, and without any trouble at all, from Bishop’s Thatcham to Norwich and, from thence, to this desolate part of East Anglia, and the stoppage had been unexpected and, to him, unaccountable.

  ‘I can’t understand it at all,’ he said in perplexity, after a further and equally futile assault on the starter. ‘I’d better get out and see if I can find what’s wrong.’ He opened the door nearest to him and slid out from behind the wheel. An icy blast swept into the comparatively warm interior of the car, and, with a shiver, Ann retired once more into the depths of her furs.

  Peter crunched through the snow and, without feeling very optimistic, lifted the radiator cover. He was a very good driver, but he knew practically nothing about the construction of the internal combustion engine. The hot mass of metal with its tubes and wires and springs was almost a complete enigma to him, and after peering and probing for some time, with only the vaguest idea of what he was doing, he came back, readjusted the throttle and ignition, pulled out the choke, and tried again, hoping for the best. But the engine stubbornly refused to give even an encouraging splutter. Peter gave it up eventually with a grunt of disgust and stared helplessly at the wheel.

  ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with the thing,’ he growled. ‘It won’t go and that’s all I can say about it. It’s as dead as a pole-axed bull . . .’

  ‘Surely, Peter,’ said his wife in dismay, ‘you don’t mean that we’re stuck here indefinitely . . .?’

  ‘I’m afraid it looks very much like it,’ he admitted, ruefully. ‘I can’t do any more . . .’

  She sat up and peered through the windows at the uninviting landscape spread around them. It was rapidly growing dark, and before, behind, and on either side stretched a flat, dreary expanse of white, unbroken except by a few clumps of trees and patches of reeds, a solitary windmill in the distance, and, nearer at hand, the slender spire of a church. The snow-covered country merged with the greyish-yellow of the sombre sky and combined to produce a queer, unreal twilight that added to the general effect of deadness and desolation.

  ‘Not a very salubrious prospect, is it?’ said Peter, fumbling in the pocket of his heavy overcoat and pulling out a packet of Players. ‘Have a cigarette?’ He gave her one, took one himself, and lighted them both.

  ‘How far are we from Fendyke St. Mary?’ asked Ann.

  ‘The last signpost we passed said three and a half miles,’ replied Peter. ‘That was about a mile and a half back . . .’

  ‘Peter, what are we going to do . . .?’

  He frowned and blew out a thin stream of smoke from pursed lips.

  ‘Well, there seems to be only two things we can do,’ he said, slowly. ‘We can stay here until somebody comes along and rescues us, or we can get out and walk to Fendyke St. Mary . . .’

  ‘Darling — two miles in this snow!’ said Ann with a shiver. ‘I’m wearing the flimsiest of high-heeled shoes and my sheerest and most expensive Aristoc stockings to impress your Aunt Helen Do you think anybody will come along if we waited?’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘Candidly, I don’t,’ he said. ‘We haven’t seen a sign of anything human since we left the main road, and it will be quite dark in another half an hour . . .’

  ‘Which means if we wait for help we might go on waiting all night,’ broke in Ann. ‘That doesn’t sound a pleasant prospect to me. I’m cold, ravenously hungry, and dying for a cup of tea . . .’

  ‘I think we’d better walk,’ said Peter, firmly. ‘You can have both tea and food when we get to Aunt Helen’s . . .’

  ‘When we get there,’ said his wife with a grimace. ‘Have you ever heard something about counting chickens . . .?’

  ‘Come along,’ said Peter, opening the door and getting out. ‘If we’ve got to walk, we may as well take advantage of what little light there is left.’

  Ann sighed resignedly, gathered her furs around her and followed him, stepping gingerly down into the snow. Her foot sank up to the ankle and she gave a little squeal, balancing herself on one leg and clutching wildly at Peter’s shoulder for support. He laughed.

  ‘It’s all very well for you,’ she declared, indignantly. ‘But my shoe’s full of snow, a
nd it’s wet and cold . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he said, soothingly, ‘but I’m afraid it’s going to be worse before it’s better, darling. The only thing to do is to get it over as soon as possible.’

  With extreme reluctance she set her other foot beside the first and removed her hand from his shoulder. Peter leaned inside the car, switched on the lights, and closing the door, locked it.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘With a little luck we ought to reach Aunt Helen’s before it gets quite dark.’

  ‘I hope you know the way,’ said Ann. ‘It’s difficult to see which is the road and which isn’t with all this snow.’

  ‘We can’t go far wrong if we make for that church spire,’ said Peter, nodding towards it. ‘That’s the church of Fendyke St. Mary.’

  It was difficult going. The powdery snow was four inches deep and in places even deeper. They came upon these unexpectedly for there was no warning of their existence until they found themselves floundering in the middle of them. To add to their discomfort the wind, blowing in fitful gusts across the flat broadlands, was icy and penetrating, finding its way under Ann’s furs, and beneath Peter’s thick overcoat, with remarkable persistence. It stung their faces and brought tears to their eyes and made their ears ache.

  ‘How much farther have we got to go?’ asked Ann, after they had been walking for nearly twenty minutes. ‘That spire doesn’t look to have got any nearer, to me.’

  ‘It’s deceptive in this light,’ answered Peter, encouragingly. ‘I should say we’d come, roughly, about halfway.’

  ‘Roughly is a very good description,’ said Ann, fervently. ‘Both my legs are completely numb and I don’t think I’ve got any feet left at all . . .’

  ‘Isn’t that a house?’ interrupted Peter, peering ahead through the gathering gloom.

  ‘Where?’ she demanded.

  ‘There — on the right — by that clump of willows.’ Peter pointed. ‘It’s not very distinct, but . . .’

  ‘Yes, I think it is,’ said Ann. ‘Oh, Peter, do you think they’d give us some tea if we asked them?’

  ‘I don’t know whether we ought to stop,’ said Peter, doubtfully. ‘If we want to reach Fendyke St. Mary before dark . . .’

  ‘I don’t care whether we reach it before dark or not, darling,’ said Ann with determination. ‘If there’s a chance of getting a cup of tea and a moment’s rest, I’m going to take it. I’m frozen to the marrow, Peter.’

  As they drew nearer, the shadowy smudge of the house became clearer and they presently saw that it was a low-built cottage of stone with a steeply sloping roof. A broken wall, also of stone, separated it from the road, and four pollard willows grew close up to one end, their thin branches fanning up from the stunted, club-shaped trunks like the quills of a porcupine. There was no sign of life about the place. The windows were dark and dirty and no feather of smoke rose invitingly from the squat chimney.

  ‘It looks to be empty,’ remarked Peter, halting by the gap in the stone wall which faced the broken porch.

  ‘Perhaps they live in the back,’ suggested Ann, hopefully. ‘Let’s knock anyway, Peter, and see.’

  She entered the gap and began to walk towards the front door and, after a moment’s hesitation, Peter followed her. He noticed that the snow within the enclosing wall was smooth and unmarked. No one had, apparently, passed that way before them since it had ceased falling that morning. Ann raised her gloved hand and knocked.

  Chapter Two

  The rusty iron knocker, shaped like a goat’s head, sent hollow echoes through the house, but there was no other sound of any sort.

  ‘You can’t wake Duncan with thy knocking,’ said Peter. ‘It’s no good, Ann, the place is empty.’

  He stepped back from the porch and moved over to one of the small lattice windows at the side of the front door, trying to peer in through the lozengeshaped panes. But they were so encrusted with dirt and grime that he could see nothing at all of the interior. Ann knocked again, but without any better result than the first time.

  ‘We’re only wasting time,’ said Peter, coming back to her side. ‘Let’s get on.’

  Rather reluctantly she turned away and they retraced their steps to the road. As they came out of the gap in the low, broken stone wall, she paused and looked back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Peter, quickly, as he caught sight of the expression on her face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered, slowly. ‘I got a sudden queer feeling — as though someone were watching . . . .’ She gave a little shudder, still staring apprehensively at the deserted building.

  ‘Imagination,’ declared Peter, taking her arm. ‘The place is obviously empty and, from the look of it, has been empty for years. Come along, darling.’

  She allowed herself to be led away, but the impression had been very vivid.

  It was almost quite dark when they eventually reached the outskirts of Fendyke St. Mary, and the first glow of light from a cottage window was a welcome and comforting sight, for they were both wet and cold and weary.

  ‘Last lap,’ said Peter, cheerfully. ‘We turn round here by the church, and Aunt Helen’s house is about a hundred yards farther on.’

  ‘Thank heaven for that!’ breathed Ann, fervently. ‘I think I can just about manage to last that far.’

  They rounded the massive bulk of St. Mary’s church, which towered up into the cold gloom, and came into a broad, hedge-lined road, and, presently, to a wide gate which Peter held open for Ann to pass through.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘This is Wymondham Lodge.’

  Ann stumbled through the gate with a gasp of relief. She could see very little. The hint of a shrubbery and a faint glimmer of light somewhere ahead that suggested warmth, food, a hot bath, and rest for her aching and frozen limbs. That was what was uppermost in her mind. Rest. She felt at that moment that she could not have moved another yard if her life had depended on it . . . A house rose up suddenly out of the darkness and she saw that the glimmer of welcoming light came from a chink between drawn curtains. And then she was standing under a pillared porch, and Peter was beating a loud and impatient tattoo on the doorknocker . . .

  There were footsteps and the door opened, flooding them in a bath of warm light that gushed out over the steps and snow-covered drive, and in the light stood a grey-haired man in the black garb of a servant, peering forward questioningly.

  ‘Hello, Hewson,’ said Peter, and the questioning look changed to a smile of recognition and delight.

  ‘Mr. Peter, sir!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Come in, sir. Come in. The mistress has been wondering what had happened to you.’

  A door on the right of the wide, square hall was flung open and a short, fat, rosy-cheeked woman with snow-white hair bounced out.

  ‘Who is it, Hewson?’ she demanded, and then before he could reply: ‘Peter! So you’ve got here at last! And this, of course, is Ann. My dears, you must be frozen . . . Hewson, tell Roberts to make some tea and bring it into the drawing room . . . I’m sure you’d like some tea, wouldn’t you? You poor things, you look frozen to the bone. Come straight along in and get warm by the fire. Take off those furs, dear, and leave them on that settle. Roberts will look after them when she’s brought the tea. It’s lovely to see you both and I think Ann is even prettier than I expected, Peter. Now come along in by the fire, for I’m sure you must both be very cold after travelling such a long way in this wretched weather. It’s quite the worst we’ve had for some time and looks like continuing for several days . . .’ Still talking rapidly, Miss Wymondham led the way into a long, cosily-furnished room with a great log fire blazing in a wide, open hearth. A little overwhelmed by the spate of words which gushed unceasingly, like a freshly tapped oil well, from this cherubic old lady, Ann followed, thankful for the warmth which enfolded her comfortingly, and began to drive away the chill of the icy wind and snow.

  ‘. . . You come and sit over here, dear,’ went on Miss Wymondham, after a
slight pause for breath, and shaking up the cushions on a deep settee by the fire, ‘I’m sure you’ll find it very soft and restful. And you, Peter, can sit in that chair. Roberts won’t be long with the tea and when you’ve had that, I’ll take you up to your room and you can have a hot bath and change. Hewson can take your luggage up. You’ll find the room beautifully warm, there’s been a fire there all day . . .’

  ‘The trouble is, Aunt Helen,’ interrupted Peter, shedding his heavy overcoat and dropping it over a chair, ‘we haven’t got any luggage . . .’

  ‘Not got any luggage?’ echoed Miss Wymondham in evident surprise. ‘My dear boy, what do you mean? Surely you . . .’

  ‘All our luggage is in the car and that’s about two miles away,’ explained Peter. ‘You see, we had a breakdown or something — anyway, the car wouldn’t budge an inch farther, and so we had to walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Aunt Helen, with wide blue eyes. ‘Two miles in this dreadful snow! You poor darlings! No wonder you both look so tired and cold. How terrible for you. Never mind, you’ve got here at last, thank goodness. I’ll get Hewson to telephone to the garage — Acheson, such an obliging man — and I’m sure they’ll send someone to fetch the car or, at any rate, bring the luggage . . .’ She rang the bell insistently. ‘My dear, you ought to take your shoes and stockings off at once in case you catch a chill. There’s nothing so dangerous as wet feet, you know. I could lend you a pair of bedroom slippers, though I’m afraid they’ll be a little large . . .’

  ‘Please don’t trouble,’ said Ann, stretching her soaking shoes towards the blazing fire. ‘They’ll soon dry and . . .’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ interrupted Miss Wymondham, firmly. ‘I . . . oh, there you are, Hewson. I want you to telephone to Acheson’s garage and ask them to send a car and pick up some luggage. Mr. Peter had a breakdown about two miles away and had to leave all the luggage in the car and hasn’t got a thing to change into. Neither has Mrs. Chard, so they must do something about it at once. Tell him whereabouts you have left the car, Peter . . .’