They Walk in Darkness Page 15

  ‘A dreadful thing,’ went on Mr. Benskill, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘There have, I fear, been some terrible happenings in this part of the world during the past months. Violence? Yes, indeed. Awful, appalling violence. My curate tells me that the local police have called in the assistance of Scotland Yard — a very sensible procedure in my opinion. Have they formed any theory, do you know?’

  ‘They have,’ answered Peter, a little grimly. ‘They have decided that the only possible people who can be guilty are my wife and I!’

  The vicar looked genuinely startled.

  ‘My dear Mr. Chard!’ he expostulated. ‘You are joking, surely?’

  ‘I assure you I’m doing nothing of the kind,’ said Peter. ‘That is Inspector Donaldson’s brilliant idea. He told me so himself . . .’

  ‘But on what grounds does he base such a preposterous belief?’ asked Mr. Benskill, and Peter told him. The vicar listened with the greatest interest and attention.

  ‘I can quite see the inspector’s reason for thinking as he does,’ he commented, when Peter had finished, ‘of course it’s absurd and ridiculous to suppose that either of you had anything to do with this terrible tragedy, but the absence of other footprints would point to that conclusion . . .’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Peter. ‘I saw that myself almost at once. But since we didn’t have any hand in the killing of those four people and, since there was, undoubtedly, a fifth person present that night who did, the problem resolves itself into how was it managed?’

  ‘And a very puzzling problem, too,’ remarked Mr. Benskill, frowning. ‘Yes, very, very puzzling. I am a great reader of detective stories and I always prefer those which have come to be known, I believe, as ‘the sealed room’ variety. It has given me many hours of pleasure to pit my wits against the author’s and try and anticipate the solution. In one or two cases I have, I am proud to say, been successful . . .’

  ‘I wish you could find a solution to this,’ said Peter. ‘I’ve racked my brains but I can’t.’

  ‘These things are usually very simple when you discover the ‘how,’’ said the vicar. ‘Like all the better type of conjuring trick, which relies on directing the attention of the beholder elsewhere at the crucial moment. This particular problem pivots on one apparently impossible happening — that someone was able to lock a door and escape with the key from a house surrounded by snow without leaving any tracks. That is the situation?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘that is the situation. Also, unless this person arrived at the cottage before the snow had ceased falling, he, or she, would have had to do the trick twice, coming and going.’

  ‘H’m,’ murmured Mr. Benskill. ‘It is certainly a remarkable proposition and an extremely interesting one. There were no marks of any kind in the snow?’

  ‘Other than the footprints that could be accounted for, none.’

  ‘I once read of a man who wore shoes,’ said the vicar, reminiscently, ‘with soles in the shape of hooves . . .’

  ‘There was nothing like that in this case,’ broke in Peter. ‘I thought of that. Neither were stilts used. I thought of that too. Anything of that nature would have made marks of some sort.’

  The Reverend Amos Benskill rubbed his head gently.

  ‘Very remarkable,’ he said, ‘very, very remarkable . . .’

  ‘Your parishioners are convinced that it was the Devil,’ said Ann.

  ‘Due to the story of a lad named Belton,’ said Peter, ‘who was passing the cottage at midnight and saw, what he describes as, a black figure ten feet high float away into the night . . .’

  ‘Float?’ queried the vicar, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘That’s what he said,’ replied Peter. ‘I believe he really did see something . . .’

  ‘Float?’ repeated Mr. Benskill, musingly. ‘Could there be something in that? Could this person have, perhaps, swung himself over the snow on the end of a rope . . .?’

  ‘There is nothing he could have attached the other end to,’ said Peter, shaking his head. ‘There’s no tree, or anything, near enough to the cottage.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said the vicar, disappointedly. ‘It really seems that there are some grounds for my parishioners thinking that the Devil must have had a hand in it . . .’

  The arrival of tea, brought in by Mrs. Dilly on a large tray, put a stop for the moment to further discussion of the subject. The housekeeper set the tray on a low table before the fire, and Mr. Benskill invited Ann to officiate. She had just poured out three cups of tea when the Reverend Gilbert Ray came in, looking cold and rather tired. He seemed surprised to find visitors.

  ‘You’re just in time, my dear fellow,’ greeted the vicar. ‘Ask Mrs. Dilly for another cup and saucer and find yourself a chair. You know Mr. and Mrs. Chard?’

  The curate bowed.

  ‘Come over by the fire, Mr. Ray,’ said Ann, pleasantly. ‘You look frozen.’

  ‘It is rather cold,’ said Ray, crossing and ringing the bell by the mantelpiece. ‘But not quite so cold as it has been. The snow is thawing rapidly . . .’ His voice was deep and musical with only the faintest trace of an accent, and his manner charming, but Peter was conscious of an intense feeling of dislike. There was something about the man that was unpleasant, though he would have been hard put to it to say what. It was nothing tangible. Nothing that could be catalogued; more of an atmosphere than anything else, and yet that was not quite the right description . . .

  ‘Bring another cup, please, Mrs. Dilly,’ said Ray, when the housekeeper answered the bell, and, pulling forward a chair, sat down between Peter and Ann.

  ‘How is Mrs. Close?’ asked the vicar, sipping his tea.

  ‘Better,’ replied the curate, ‘and, in consequence, rather irritable. I think she was annoyed that I should have visited her instead of you.’ There was a touch of amusement in his dark eyes.

  Mr. Benksill chuckled, and began to spread jam thickly on a buttered scone.

  ‘She would be,’ he declared, ‘and when I visit her, she’s annoyed because it isn’t the Bishop! Mrs. Close is nearly ninety,’ he explained for the benefit of Peter and Ann, ‘and is firmly under the impression that she ought to be one of the Almighty’s especial favourites. Why, I cannot imagine, because she’s a most cantankerous old woman with a tongue like vitriol . . .’

  ‘She declares that all the terrible things that have happened in the village are a judgment,’ remarked the Reverend Gilbert Ray, helping himself to a sandwich, ‘and prophesies that there is even worse in store . . . Thank you, Mrs. Dilly . . .’

  The housekeeper came in silently, set the extra cup and saucer on the tray and withdrew.

  ‘Sugar?’ asked Ann.

  ‘Thank you — two lumps, please, Mrs. Chard,’ said Ray. He took the cup she held out to him and stirred the tea gently. ‘Most of the villagers are convinced that witchcraft is at the bottom of everything,’ he continued, smiling. ‘They seem to think that Ralph Gourley is responsible . . .’

  ‘Why?’ asked Peter, and the curate gave a slight shrug.

  ‘For no particular reason, except that he’s unpopular,’ he answered. ‘If this idea gets a stronger hold, I’m afraid it may quite easily lead to a lot of trouble. The whole village is on the verge of a panic . . .’

  ‘Do you mean trouble for Mr. Gourley?’ asked Ann.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Ray, between mouthfuls of his sandwich. ‘You see, the attitude of the village people is this: a revival of witchcraft is at the root of all these outrages, and the police are quite incapable of coping with it. The murders will go on until the person responsible for the bewitchment is found, and dealt with in the appropriate way. Their belief has been strengthened by the fact that young Tom Belton swears he saw the Devil on All-Hallows’ Eve . . .’

  ‘Mr. Chard has just been telling me about that,’ remarked the vicar. ‘Really, this is very worrying and distressing . . .’

  ‘But why,’ persisted Peter, ‘should they have hit on Gourley? There must be som
e reason . . .’

  ‘I think the reason possibly lies in the fact that his hobby is chemistry,’ said Mr. Benskill, quietly. ‘He is engaged in some kind of research work, I believe. He used to be a doctor, but about seven years ago there was some scandal and he was struck off the register. That was when he came to live here. I know nothing of the details; I believe it was rather an unsavoury business, but he came to live here for quietness and seclusion. He is, I am given to understand, a very clever man . . .’ He shook his head and held out his cup to Ann for more tea.

  ‘What form does his research take?’ asked Peter. Here was something that might be significant. Those four people had been poisoned, and Gourley was a chemist . . .

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ replied the vicar. ‘I don’t imagine that anyone has, except himself. He’s very taciturn and, well — uncouth is the word, I think. There was some trouble two years ago with the anti-vivisection people . . .’

  ‘Do you mean he experiments on animals?’ broke in Ann. ‘How horrible!’

  ‘The trouble was over some cats,’ said Mr. Benskill. ‘There was quite a respectable size row about it . . . Thank you, my dear . . .’

  Significant? thought Peter. Yes, very. Supposing the cats had been followed by lambs and, perhaps . . . children . . .?

  Chapter Five

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Ann, obstinately, when they were dressing that evening to go to the Sherwoods. ‘It’s too much like a Boris Karloff film . . .’

  ‘I suppose it is, really,’ admitted Peter. ‘Unless, of course, this fellow Gourley, is mad. Then it would be possible.’

  ‘I’m not saying it isn’t possible,’ she said, delicately applying a film of pink varnish to the nail of her right middle finger. ‘I just don’t believe in it as an explanation, that’s all. It’s . . . it’s too unreal . . .’

  ‘Whenever you do that,’ remarked Peter, ‘I’m always reminded of Miss Coggleton. She kept the sweet-shop where I lived when I was a small boy and she sold large and luscious peardrops for which I had a consuming passion. She had very thick black eyebrows and an incipient moustache. I can always see her whenever I smell that stuff . . .’

  ‘It sounds a most unpleasant memory.’ Ann looked round and laughed. ‘Or was your youthful passion for Miss Coggleton and not for the peardrops.’

  ‘I was scared to death of her,’ said Peter, fervently. ‘Somebody told me that she was an ogress and ate babies, whereas I believe she was a very high-minded, Christian woman, and a leading light of the local chapel.’ He came behind her and began to tie his tie, looking into the mirror over her head. ‘Talking of chapels, why is it that that fellow Ray inspires me with such a dislike? He does, but there’s no reason for it that I can fathom.’

  ‘I don’t like him, either,’ said Ann, transferring her attention to the next fingernail.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Peter. ‘That’s what I’m trying to get at.’

  She thought for a moment, and then she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘There isn’t always a reason for that sort of thing, is there? Not a tangible one, I mean.’

  ‘You can generally find some basis for disliking a person,’ said Peter. ‘Damn this tie! I’ve made a mess of it . . .’

  He pulled it loose and began again. ‘He’s good-looking, well-mannered, talks well, and yet there’s something about him that’s distinctly unpleasant. I wish I could place it . . .’

  ‘Unwholesome?’ suggested Ann. ‘That’s the impression he gives me. He’s much too good-looking, he talks too well, and his manners are too good. He turns on the charm at the main and overdoes it. Probably it’s only his stock-in-trade. A curate has to try and make himself popular, and the women, particularly the older women, love that sort of thing.’

  ‘And underneath it all there’s a different man?’ Peter nodded, gingerly trying to persuade one end of his tie to go through the right loop. ‘You never see anything of that other man, but you can sense him . . . That what you mean?’

  ‘Yes . . . A little cruel, more than a little sensual . . .’

  ‘And altogether nasty,’ he ended. ‘The sort of fellow who eventually turns up in the News of The World . . .’

  She laughed, waggling her fingers in the air to dry the nail varnish.

  ‘We’re probably being very unfair and even slanderous,’ she said. ‘He may be quite a nice person, really. It’s purely our imagination, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think instinct is the better word,’ said Peter. He patted his tie into place and stared at it critically. ‘Most people’s instincts are generally right, only they smother them with reason. It’s always been a theory of mine that if instinct could be properly cultivated it would become a very reliable sixth sense . . .’

  ‘You’re probably quite right,’ said Ann, ‘but how are you going to cultivate it?’

  ‘By accepting an impression without trying to reason about it,’ replied Peter, putting on his waistcoat.

  ‘But that’s practically impossible,’ she declared. ‘You start reasoning automatically . . .’

  ‘I know it is,’ said Peter, ‘but the theory holds good just the same. Where did I put my cigarette-case?’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea, darling,’ said Ann, frowning intently at her shining nails. ‘Why don’t you remember where you leave your things . . .?’

  ‘All right, I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘The trouble is I so seldom use a case. I much prefer the packet. How long are you going to be?’

  ‘At least half an hour,’ she answered. ‘There’s plenty of time. It’s only just a quarter to seven. Give me a cigarette while my nails are drying . . .’

  He lit one and brought it over to her, and then went back and sat on the side of the bed.

  ‘Have you got any ideas about this business?’ she asked, breaking a short silence.

  ‘No, darling,’ he confessed. ‘Not a solitary, single idea.’

  ‘Great detective admits to being completely baffled,’ said his wife. She turned round and looked at him quizzically.

  ‘I’m afraid he does,’ said Peter. ‘Perhaps there’s a lot in that rather hackneyed expression about the cobbler sticking to his last. After all, my job is writing books . . .’

  ‘Peter! You’re not giving up, are you?’ she answered.

  ‘It’s not so much giving up as getting started,’ he said. ‘I can’t make bricks without straw . . .’

  ‘Darling,’ said Ann, reproachfully, ‘two cliches in less than a minute . . .?’

  ‘Well, they were both perfectly descriptive of the situation.’

  ‘But you might have found a better way of expressing it. Look here, do you think it would be possible to get the dates on which each of the four children, before Joan Coxen, disappeared? We know when she did . . .’

  ‘Why?’ asked Peter, quickly. ‘Have you got an idea?’

  ‘I’ve got something,’ she answered. ‘I don’t think you could call it an idea. It’s far too vague and hazy. It might be the nucleus of an idea, though . . .’

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded, but she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to tell you,’ she said. ‘Not yet. It’s rather fantastic. You’d probably think it was ridiculous . . .’

  ‘Well, give me a chance,’ pleaded Peter.

  ‘No,’ she replied, firmly, turning back to face the mirror and examining her reflection critically. ‘I’d really rather not, darling, if you don’t mind. Perhaps, after you’ve got hold of those dates . . .’

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘They’ve got everything to do with it,’ she answered, seriously. ‘Oh, Peter, if I’m right, it’s horrible — unbelievably, incredibly horrible . . .’ She gave a little shiver.

  ‘Look here,’ said Peter, with determination. ‘You’re not getting away with this. You’re not going to work me up into a frenzy of curiosity and then let me down flat. Speak, woman, and tell me all.’

  ‘That’s
just it,’ she said. ‘There’s so little I can tell you. Only a — a nebulous notion . . .’

  ‘Don’t be alliterative. It’s infinitely worse than using cliches,’ interrupted Peter. ‘Just tell me what’s on your mind. After all, two heads . . .’

  ‘Not another cliché, Peter, please,’ she said. ‘Look here, if I do tell you, will you promise not to laugh?’

  ‘Is there anything humorous in your idea?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ she answered. ‘It’s hideous and . . . and terrible . . . My God, Peter, if it’s true it’s dreadful . . .’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, gravely. ‘I promise I won’t laugh . . .’

  ‘All right,’ she said, and hesitantly, and rather uncertainly, she began. It did not take very long. As she had said, there was very little to tell. Only the embryo of a vague theory. She spoke with reluctance and an unusual diffidence, as though she expected to be scoffed at, but Peter felt far from scoffing. The trace of a cold sweat moistened his forehead, and into his eyes, steadily watching her reflection in the mirror, crept a look of sheer horror.

  ‘Well?’ she said, a little defiantly, when she had finished. ‘There it is. You can say it’s incredible, fantastic, absurd . . . anything you like.’

  ‘I’m not going to say any of those things,’ he broke in, quietly. ‘Because it’s nothing of the sort. What you suggest does go on. There have been cases in London, and Brighton, and in France — recent cases, too. Perhaps not carried to such extremes . . .’

  ‘Then you don’t think the idea stupid?’ said Ann.

  He shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I think you may very likely be right. There’s nothing fictional or problematical about the basis of your idea, darling. It’s cold, hard fact, though I’ll admit very few people know that such things take place. The only problematical side to it is whether this is a case in point . . .’

  ‘If it should be it’s . . . beastly,’ she said.

  ‘It’s worse than that. It’s loathsome, and hideous, and diabolically abominable,’ said Peter, with a set face. ‘We’ve got to find the person responsible and stamp the whole thing out. There may be any number of people involved, but there must be one who runs the whole horrid business. I think the police should be in on this . . .’