Revelations in Black, page 14
“Are you ill?” I said.
“Yes,” he replied jerkily. “I—I feel a bit faint. That long walk I took today must have done me up. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed.”
I nodded and regarded him curiously as he left the room. What on earth had come over the man? He had been perfectly normal until reading that paragraph about the pistol. I lit my pipe and sat there, musing over his strange actions. And as the tobacco smoke drifted ceilingward, I suddenly became aware of the storm again.
The rain was swishing against the big bay window now. Thunder boomed steadily overhead as if some giant rolling-pin were being moved back and forth across the roof.
For a time I was content to sit there, listening to the wild night so near, yet so far. But as my mind began a train of thought suggested by that queer paragraph, a decided sense of unease came over me.
Werewolves! What strange horrors man will mentally create for himself. It was a queer belief, this idea that a man will adopt a taste for human blood and will change into a lower animal, a wolf, to obtain it. Stranger still the legend that holy water, the sight of the crucifix, or a silver bullet will kill such a demon. And yet I knew such superstitions were still current in south Europe.
Suddenly my pipe slipped from my teeth, and I sat bolt upright. The words of the garage man in Darset suddenly flashed back to me. He had spoken of a wolf or wild dog that had entered the town and made off with a child on two separate occasions.
I tried vainly to ward off the absurd question that was stealing into my brain. Might not this big gray brute be a werewolf? I forced a laugh. But the thought persisted, and more details arose to defeat my better judgment.
Was it not true that wolves had been extinct in England since the Fifteenth Century? Yes, of course; but the beast might have been a wild dog. But if it were a wild dog, would there not be some record of its once being tame? I frowned. Not necessarily. The animal might have come from a distance, left there by its owner when he had vacated. But still a wild dog would make for the poultry coops. No matter how long it had been wild, human flesh would be repugnant to it, would it not? I stared into the bowl of my pipe. To this question I could offer no answer at all.
A shelf of books on the other side of the room caught my eyes, and thinking perhaps to steer my mind into more pleasant channels I crossed over and let my gaze pass along the titles. I saw with astonishment that all of the two dozen volumes dealt with lycanthropy, sorcery, black art, and the occult. Richard Verstegan’s Restitution of Decayed Intelligence, strange names of long-dead authors, rare works whose publication had been banned by God-fearing people lay there on the shelf before me. There was Le Loyer’s Book of Spectres, the sixth edition of De Praestigies Daemonun et Incantationibus, printed at Basle, and that hellish writing of Milo Calument, I Am a Werewolf, all copies of which I remembered were supposed to have been cast in Hoxton marsh.
It was odd that Trevellan had not mentioned these books to me when he knew nothing could have delighted me more. And it was odd, I suddenly thought, that Trevellan should be reading them himself. One would find nothing in the line of pistols in these pages.
But when I looked at one of the volumes I found the reason. They were not Trevellan’s property. They belonged to Ludwig Blueker, the former resident of the house, as attested by the name scrawled on the flyleaf. Yet the books had not passed Trevellan’s notice. Throughout the pages I found queer notations in his writing. There was no mistaking his peculiar scrawl.
One particular group of sentences caught my eye. It read:
“July 31. I followed all the rituals tonight and found that I have the power. I can hardly realize it, but it’s true. Something seemed to draw me toward the village, but I dared not venture from the grounds. One must grow accustomed to such a terrific change.”
Far back in my brain a lurking suspicion was beginning to grow, and I thumbed through the pages for more notations. But beyond a few meaningless jumbles of words, the rest was in Latin, which I did not understand.
Puzzled, I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom, undressed and went to bed.
Sleep has always come readily in my life, yet now with the rain surging at the windows, and the lightning flares drawing drunken shadows along the wall, I lay awake, listening to the slow ticking of the hall clock.
Midnight came with the slow striking of the clock chimes. And then I heard the door of Trevellan’s bedroom creak open and footsteps pass softly down the hall. I sat up. I slipped to the door, opened it a crevice and peered out.
A dim nightlight burned at the far end of the hall. In its feeble glow I saw Trevellan, fully dressed, moving toward the staircase. But his actions were not those of a man in his own home. He was skulking forward, stopping every few steps to listen carefully. As he reached the first stair I caught a glimpse of his face.
A wild, insane look contorted his features. The eyes bulged in their sockets; the mouth sagged downward in an empty grin. For an instant he stared unseeingly toward my door; then he began to descend.
For a moment I knelt there, staring into empty darkness, my mind whirling madly. Had the man been sleepwalking? But there was nothing of the somnambulist in Trevellan’s actions. Where then was he going stealing out of his house like a hunted criminal?
On impulse I darted down the stairs, ripped open the door. A sheet of rain slapped my face. The grounds loomed dark before me. Then a fork of lightning streaked down from the heavens, and I saw it. Bounding along the path, heading toward the road was a great gray dog-shaped wolf! It turned in that instant of electrical flash, and the sight of those fiendish, fiery eyes was something I would never forget.
Then darkness returned, and for many moments I stood there, motionless. Chilled, I slowly returned to my room, sank into a chair by the window and watched the rain trickle down the glass. Questions unanswerable pounded at my brain.
Hours dragged by, and gradually I lapsed into a fitful slumber.
When I awoke the gray dawn was stealing into my room. The wind had gone, and outside the water puddles lay motionless, like strips of iron under the leaden sky. All was strangely still. Through the open casement came the smell of wet earth and moldering leaves.
I listened. From far off in the direction of the village came a long mournful howl. Again it sounded, louder, more distinct. Years before I had heard such a cry when I had ridden through Royalwoods in pursuit of the fox. But it was not the baying of hounds I heard now. It was the cry of a wolf, and it was approaching the manor at lightning speed.
Fists clenched, I waited. And then a moment later it bounded into sight directly beneath my window. A feeling of loathing swept over me as my gaze fell on that gray shaggy body. The wolf looked around with a snarl, then moved out of my sight toward the other side of the house.
An interval of silence, and then I heard the door unlatch softly. Footsteps sounded on the carpeted stairs. I strode across the room, opened the door.
Hugh Trevellan was entering the hall. No longer was he skulking as though afraid of being seen. He was erect now, and he turned and cast a last look over his shoulder before entering his room.
Suddenly a giddy sensation rose within me. A scream gurgled unsounded to my lips. I had seen the mouth, the lips of Trevellan in that instant before he entered his room, and God help me, they were slobbered with thick red blood!
Those intervening hours until I stumbled down to breakfast were an eternity. When I sat down at the table my hands were trembling perceptibly.
“Good morning, McKay,” Trevellan said. “Hope you had a good night’s sleep in spite of the storm.”
The silky satisfaction of the man sent a wave of nausea through me. But he did not seem to notice the fact that I made no reply. Keeping up a steady conversation, he laughed and joked, and I could not help thinking his actions were those of a man living the after effect of a powerful drug.
I studied him closely as he sipped his tea. His cheeks glowed with a brightness of almost super-health. And yet he seemed to have changed. Not greatly. The features were the same and the pale, blue eyes still gave him that look of doll-like fragility. But about his head there were certain alterations that destroyed the classic moulding I had always admired. The ears were more prominent, longer and pointed in shape. The nose, I’m sure, was larger, with dilated nostrils.
“Trevellan,” I said when breakfast was over, “who was Ludwig Blueker?”
He frowned. “The former owner of the manor,” he replied. “Shall we go for a walk down the road a bit?”
“I know he was the former owner,” I said as we went out the door, “but was he a farmer or an undertaker?”
“Both, I believe,” Trevellan answered. “He eked out a mean existence from the soil, and he made a few pounds now and then by doing the occasional funeral work for the people of Darset.”
It was plain that Trevellan did not care to discuss the matter with me further.
“I was looking at some of his books last night,” I said, “and what a collection! Blueker must have been a superstitious fool!”
Trevellan turned on me almost with a snarl.
“He was a great man,” he cried. “Those villagers laughed at him because he preferred to stay in solitude and study things which they could not understand. Blueker took years to gather those books.”
We were nearing the end of the lane now, weaving our way in and out among the pools of water. Emerging on the post road, we drew up as two men on horseback clattered up beside us.
“Good mornin’,” said the nearest, a tall fellow I remembered seeing in the village.
“But a wet, chilly one.”
He nodded. “You haven’t been seeing a wolf or wild dog about, have ye?” The voice was stern and filled with determination.
I could feel myself swaying slightly. “It didn’t attack someone in Darset again?”
He shifted in his saddle. “It did. Broke into a house last night. It’s getting more courage every time. The mothers be watching their children like hawks today, and there’s ten parties out hunting the brute.”
“How many last night?” I waited his reply with an inner terror.
“Two. The Jepson twins. It’s ’orrible, sir.”
“If he comes around here,” I said, “he’ll leave his pelt.”
The man smiled grimly. “There’ll be a hundred pounds in it if ye do, sir. And the personal thanks of every mother in Darset.”
He dug his knees into the horse’s flank, and the two of them rode off at a fast trot.
Trevellan stared at me dumbly. The jovial mood had left him, and in its place was a look of unmistakable fear.
“I—I think we’d better be getting back,” he said. “I’ve got some writing to do.”
In Blueker House once again Trevellan excused himself and went to his room. Left alone, I wandered into the library.
The moment I entered that chamber I felt the presence of some unseen power! Like a great lodestone I felt myself drawn toward Trevellan’s pistol case. As I stood there, gazing through the glass doors, a single object centered into my vision: the silver box that contained Trevellan’s latest ivory pistol.
Impulsively I opened the case and took out the weapon. The sight of that relic there affected me like old wine. I turned it over and over, but I offer no explanation for what I did a moment later. In slots on the velvet-lined box lay the weapon’s charge, three silver bullets, and loading equipment. Hesitating a moment I picked up one of the silver balls, inserted it in the gun and poured in powder from the little horn. I rammed the charge home. Then with an effort I replaced the weapon in the mahogany case.
Not until it was quite dark outside did Trevellan come downstairs.
“I’m sorry, McKay,” he said, “but I’ve got to go to the village. You’ll find some cold food in the kitchen. I may be back late, so don’t wait up for me.”
The door slammed, and his footsteps died away on the gravel.
And then a slow feeling of dread rose up within me. I fell to pacing the room nervously. Outside a flotilla of velvet clouds was creeping across the sky, but off to the east a darker blot glowed with a soft radiance where the moon was trying to break through.
More hours snailed past; the ticking of the pendulum clock pounded through the rooms like the blows of a mallet. Stranger than before came that strange psychic urge to open again Trevellan’s gun case and take into my hands that ivory pistol.
Then suddenly there floated to my ears a far-off ringing sound. I listened. It came from the direction of the village, swept forward by a wind, a deep bong, bong that penetrated every corner of the manor like a tocsin. The blood rushed to my head. It was a tocsin! They were ringing it to awaken the village. The horror had begun!
And as I listened, another sound rose over the bell—the long wailing cry of a wolf.
I stood by the big bay window, staring out into the grounds. The moon rode in and out through thick clouds. Giant disproportionate shadows staggered across the lawn.
Abruptly the clouds parted, and I saw the beast in the full light of the moon. It was the wolf, and its mouth was smeared crimson.
A scream rose to my lips. I felt myself turn like a puppet on a wire. My gaze centered on the weapon case, and its magnetic lure increased a hundredfold. An inner power, a psychic will drew me toward it.
My hands moved forward. I opened the glass door.
“Trevellan!” I cried. “Trevellan! Go back!”
The wolf stopped short and peered upward. Like lightning my hand leaped to the case. My fingers closed over the ivory pistol, snatched it from its velvet mounting. My thumb reached for the death’s-head hammer, pulled it to full cock. My forefinger tightened on the trigger.
“Trevellan!” I cried. “Good God, I can’t help myself!”
There was a crashing report. Glass shattered and fell to the floor. From out on the lawn below me came a hoarse cry of pain.
Then I was released. Turning, I flung the pistol to a far corner, raced out into the grounds. I found him there, sprawled on the grass, his shirt marked with a growing circle of red. He rose up as I lifted his head in my arms.
“Thanks, McKay,” he said, his voice a whisper. “It was—it was the only way.”
He fell back with a sigh, and I was alone with the corpse of Hugh Trevellan.
On October second, the evening edition of the London Chronicle published the following item:
“Reports of an unfortunate tragedy in north Arronshire, near the village of Darset, were made known today by police of the district. The body of Mr. Hugh Trevellan, noted antiquarian and authority on ancient firearms, was found in his summer home by a close friend, Mr. Martin McKay of Russel Square, Bloomsbury, who had come from London to visit him. After examining the body, the district doctor expressed the opinion that death had come accidentally when a weapon Mr. Trevellan was cleaning was discharged. The bullet, curiously, was found to be made of silver.”
Sagasta’s Last
The package arrived on the fifteenth of August. I had given Martin Crade’s West-Starling house as a forwarding address on my departure from London, but I had instructed my servant to trouble me with only imperative communications.
In this case the servant had acted with full appreciation for my avocational whims. The package was from the Bristol Optical Company, Southampton, and it contained a three foot, thirty-power telescope, for which I had paid the sum of twelve pounds.
There was an accompanying letter which somewhat detracted from my expectations.
It read:
Dear Mr. Brockton:
In response to your order for one of our French LeGare scopes, we are sorry to inform you that our supply of this glass has been exhausted. We are substituting on approval a sample telescope of similar measurements which is not a part of our general line.
This scope was manufactured by Jose Sagasta, the well known optician of Lisbon, and represents the last of his work before his death. We sincerely hope the product will meet with your approval.
Bristol Optical Co., Ltd.
Martin Crade took the letter as I handed it to him, read it casually and tossed it to the table.
“Still at it, eh, Brockton? You must have three dozen of the things by now. What do you do with them?”
I smiled. “Collect them. The science of optics is really a fascinating one. And all of my glasses aren’t telescopes,” I went on. “I have a pair of stero-prism binoculars which are just about as perfect as modern science can make them. I have a Seventeenth Century Lippershey, a—”
Martin Crade wasn’t listening. He crossed to a chair and slumped into it with an air of boredom. Crade was like that, unemotional, self-centered. Tall and thin, with a hawk face and a shock of black hair, there was a sinister something about his eyes that seemed to penetrate to the depths of one’s soul. I knew I could expect but the briefest hospitality from him.
Crade had married my sister Louise a year before. Always delicate, Louise had steadily languished in the gloom of this West-Starling moor country. I had feared for her health and stood out against the marriage from the beginning. But her infatuation had known no barriers.
Even the appeals of her childhood sweetheart, young Clay Stewart, had fallen on unheeding ears. After a hurried wedding and a trip through France, she had taken up her residence in this house. And then on January last, suddenly and without warning, Crade had written me of her illness and death.
It was primarily, therefore, to cherish my sister’s memory that I had accepted his invitation to visit him during the last part of August.
Yet all the way from London I had looked toward my destination with a sense of foreboding. Twice before I had been here, and then as now I had been utterly depressed by the bleak moor on all sides.
