Authors: R. Chetwynd-Hayes
He leaned over her and she had a close-up view of the veined cheeks, the pouched eyes and the small, brutal mouth. He playfully slapped her cheek.
"But you wouldn't have me any other way. Would you, little slut?"
She pushed him away and he went laughing into the dressing room, to emerge a few minutes later wearing a towel dressing-gown and beaming with obvious delight.
"Look at this!" He spread out the skirts of the dressing-gown. "I found it in the wardrobe. Must have belonged to old Sir Harry. Little did he realise that one day the son of his cowherd would be wearing his dressing-gown."
"Big deal. If you rummage round, you might find a pair of his old socks."
She ducked as Sheridan flicked a towel at her, then relaxed when he left the room. Scarcely had the door closed when there was a soft tapping on the panels, then after an interval, it opened and Marvin entered carrying two large suitcases. Caroline felt her heart leap when she again saw that flawless face and sensed the strange magnetism that seemed to radiate from the clear eyes and slim, upright figure. He spoke in a low, beautifully modulated voice.
"Your bath is ready, madam."
"Thank you… Marvin."
"Where would you like me to put the luggage?"
"Oh," she managed to laugh, "on the bed will do."
She watched him as with effortless ease he laid the heavy cases on the bed, then turned to face her. "Would you like me to unpack, madam?"
"Eh… yes. Unpack my husband's - and lay out his dinner jacket."
"Very good, madam."
He worked silently, gracefully, every movement of his long-fingered hands was an act of poetry, and Caroline cursed herself for a fool when she found her legs were trembling.
"What does…" It was such an effort to speak clearly, "… a good-looking boy like you do in a dead and alive hole like this?"
Marvin looked back at her over one shoulder and she had a perfectly ridiculous feeling that he was peering into her soul. That clear, cool glance had ripped aside the silly pretensions, and the ugly sores of warped sensuality, the scars, the blemishes - all were revealed and she was as naked as a sinner on judgement day. He turned his head away and continued to unpack Sheridan's case.
"I read a lot. But mostly I like to work in the garden."
"Do you really?"
He held up Sheridan's dinner jacket and brushed out an imaginary crease with the back of his hand.
"Yes, madam. I like to make dead things grow."
Caroline got up and walked slowly towards him and no power on earth could have stopped her laying a hand on his arm. He expressed no surprise at this act of familiarity, or in fact gave any sign that he had noticed. Her undisciplined mind allowed the words to come tripping off her tongue.
"You are very handsome. You must know that."
He piled two shirts, two vests and a spare pair of pyjamas over one hand, then walked slowly to the tallboy.
"Thank you for the compliment, madam. But I have always understood that I am singularly plain."
"Who on earth told you that?"
"Those who have real beauty. The beauty that is born of darkness and suffering."
"You must be a poet. A beautiful, slightly mad poet."
He closed a drawer, gave one quick glance at Sheridan's dinner jacket and frilled shirt which was laid out on the bed, then backed gracefully to the door.
"You are very gracious, madam. Will that be all?"
"Yes… yes, that will be all. For the time being."
He inclined his head, then turned and quietly left the room.
Caroline went back to her chair and for some reason began to cry.
The Reverend John Barker was a scholar first and a clergyman second. A more bumbling, inarticulate, woolly-minded old man would have been hard to find, but he also had a built-in compass that directed him to the local houses that employed the best cook and kept a distinguished cellar. He rode up to Withering Grange on an ancient female bicycle, and having propped this under the nearest window, removed his trouser clips and pulled the massive bell-handle.
Caroline, eye-riveting in a silver dress that revealed more than it concealed, heard his high-pitched, rather squeaky voice, as he instructed Grantley as to the disposal of his outer garments.
"Hang the coat on a chair back near the kitchen fire, there's a good fellow. And wrap the muffler round one of the hot-water pipes. Delicate chest, you know."
Caroline advanced into the hall, looking like one of St Anthony's more difficult trials. She smiled sweetly, although the sight of this thin old man, with stooping shoulders and the face of an inquisitive rabbit, did not forecast an entertaining evening, and extended her hand.
"I am Mrs Croxley, you must be…?"
She paused as Sheridan had not bothered to inform her of the expected guest's name, but the clergyman hastened to repair this omission.
"John Barker, dear lady. Barker - canine proclamation - doggy chatter - Fido protest. John - as in - but alas - not divine."
Caroline said: "Good Lord!" then hastily composed her features into an expression of polite amusement.
"Both my husband and I are delighted you could come, Mr Barker. Would you care to wash your hands before dinner?"
The Reverend John Barker waved his hand in an impatient gesture.
"Good heavens, no. I had a bath before I came." He began to wander round the hall, peering at the panelling, fingering the scrollwork. "Wonderful old place this. Always wanted to see inside, but old Sir Harry never let anyone cross the door mat. I once tried to sneak in the back, but that bearded horror in the kitchen stopped me."
"Would you care for an aperitif before dinner?" enquired Caroline in a voice which suggested she was not far from desperation. "Cocktail or something?"
Mr Barker shook his head violently.
"Thank you, no. Rots the guts and ruins the palate. Which way to the dining room?"
"First door to the left," said Caroline weakly.
"Right." He shuffled quickly in the direction indicated and presently Caroline heard his little cries of pleasure as fresh antiquarian delights attracted his attention. He poked his head round the door.
"Dear lady, do you realise that you have a genuine Jacobean sideboard?"
"No." Her smile was like a faulty neon sign. "How marvellous."
"And the dining-table is at least early Georgian."
"Really!" Caroline cast an anxious glance at the staircase. "Would you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Barker?"
"Of course. I want to examine the fireplace. Take your time, dear lady."
Caroline found Sheridan in his dressing room where he was adjusting the angle of his bowtie.
"Sheridan, that clergyman is here. He's mad."
"Eccentric."
"Well, whatever he is, I can't control him. He keeps running about examining the furniture."
"Wait until I jog his memory and let him know who owns it."
When they entered the dining room, Mr Barker was seated at the table with a napkin tucked in his shirt collar, and an expectant expression on his face. He beamed at his host and rose quickly to his feet.
"You've dressed, my dear fellow! Upon my soul, I did not realise that people still did that sort of thing. Haven't seen my monkey suit and boiled shirt for years."
" 'Evening, Barker." Sheridan held the ecclesiastical hand for a brief second, then released it. "Glad you could come at such short notice. Sit down. Grantley tells me dinner is ready."
Indeed, at that moment the butler entered pushing a food trolley, followed by Marvin who assisted his father in piling dishes on to the sideboard. Mr Barker watched the operation with lively interest.
"First class staff you've got here, Mr Croxley. Efficient and unusual."
"They seem to know their job," Sheridan retorted briefly.
Mr Barker raised his voice and addressed Grantley.
"Passed your father by the front gate, Grantley. He seems hale and hearty."
Grantley watched his son serve each of the diners with iced melon before answering. "He keeps very well for his age, thank you, sir."
"Should think he does." The vicar sampled his melon, then nodded his approval. "The old chap looks now as he did twenty years ago. Come to think of it - you all do."
Grantley adjusted the flame under a hotplate and turned his head away so that his face was hidden from the old man's sharp-eyed gaze.
"It is very kind of you to say so, sir."
"Well, Barker," Sheridan filled his guest's glass with some fine old claret, "I don't suppose you ever expected to see me in this house."
The clergyman sipped his wine, then after reluctantly removing his gaze from Grantley, looked at his host with some astonishment.
"I must confess I had not given the matter any thought. I am sure you and your beautiful lady grace the Grange admirably."
"But damn it all," said Sheridan with some heat. "I told you who I was. My father was George Croxley - the cowherd. I went to the old church school. You used to come every Wednesday morning and put us through the catechism."
"So I did." The Reverend Barker smiled indulgently. "I gave up that pastime years ago. Doubt if I could recite the catechism meself now. 'Fraid I don't remember you. Remember your father though. Used to get drunk every Saturday night."
"Well, now I'm here," Sheridan insisted.
"So you are." The clergyman nodded gently. "Nothing extraordinary about that. I mean to say, we all sprang from humble origins. Goodness gracious, who would have thought that a species of monkey would take over the kingdom of the world?"
"Yes, but…" Sheridan tried to bring the conversation back to a mundane track, but the reverend gentleman was astride a hobby horse that was not easily checked.
"I cannot but help feel that the monkey was not a good choice. Surely one of the cat family would have been much more satisfactory. They have a much less emotional approach to life…"
"Grantley," Sheridan unceremoniously broke into the clergyman's discourse, "when you have served the first course, you may leave."
"Very good, sir."
The tall, oddly featured man and the handsome boy served the roast beef, placed the vegetable dishes in Caroline's vicinity, then silently departed. The Reverend Barker watched the door being slowly closed, then exploded into an excited torrent of words.
"Extraordinary! Fantastic! Unbelievable, but possible. Quite within the realms of possibility. Goodness gracious, yes. Thought so for years, but never dared believe. May I be forgiven for my lack of faith."
Sheridan glanced at his wife, then screwed his face up into a scowl.
"Don't follow you, Barker. You're not making sense, man."
"Really!" The long, lined face expressed surprise. "I would have thought the facts were clear to anyone of normal perception. But of course you are not a student of monstrumology."
"Say again," instructed Sheridan caustically.
"Monstrumology. A much neglected line of research which is unfortunately often treated with derision by the uninformed. As I said earlier it is most surprising that the kingdom of the world should have come under the sway of a species of monkey, and there is reason to suppose there were other claimants to the throne. I refer you to Astaste and his
Book of Forbidden Knowledge
, which devotes no less than six chapters to the
Caninus-fulk
and the
Vampr-Monstrum
. Many legends are based on his findings and I have often believed - now I know - that the old people - as they were known to the unlettered peasantry of medieval Europe - did not completely die out. Quite a large number must have continued to exist even to this day."
"I have never…" Sheridan began, but the vicar was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed and hands folded across his stomach. His voice droned on - and on.
"Conrad von Leininstein, who disappeared mysteriously in 1831, stated categorically that they had started to crossbreed. Vampire to werewolf, ghoul to vampire, then crossbreed to crossbreed, thus producing terrifying hybrids. His illustrations are really most edifying. He also hinted they were moving up into high places, which has often led me to conject about the possibility of my bishop-"
"Look here," Sheridan roared, "this has gone quite far enough. You are alarming my wife and unnecessarily irritating me."
"But, my dear sir," Mr Barker opened his eyes, "I am only telling you all this for your own good. If my suspicions are well founded, then you have a shaddy on your front gate, a mock for a butler and a maddie in the kitchen. The first can lick the flesh from your bones, the second blow the skin from your face - if not something far worse - and the third kill or possess with a gaping yawn. They can all infect their victims with a transforming virus."
Sheridan Croxley did not bother to comment on these allegations, but emptied his wine glass and glared at the ceiling. Caroline decided to ask a question.
"Mr Barker, what is a shaddy and those other things you mentioned?"
Mr Barker sat back and prepared to deliver another lecture.
"A very good question, dear lady. A shaddy is the off-spring of a werevam and a weregoo, which in turn have sprung from the union of a vampire and a werewolf - or in some cases a common or churchyard ghoul. Whereas, a maddy is the fruit of a cohabitation - such unions are not of course blessed by mother-church - between a weregoo and vamgoo - thus having ghoul connections on both sides…"
"Damnation hell," Sheridan muttered, but his exasperation appeared to be lost on the clergyman who continued his discourse.
"A mock - most naturally - is the seed of a shaddy and maddy, or in some cases a raddy, who, as will be supposed, has sprung from the loins of a werevam and vamgoo…"
"But," Caroline interrupted, her fear - disbelief, but - heavens above - growing doubts, overcome by a terrible curiosity, "the young man, the good-looking boy - surely he cannot be a monster?"
The Reverend John Barker sat upright and beamed with ghoulish pleasure. "But, dear lady, he is, if I might coin a phrase, the cherry on top of the trifle. If my calculations are correct, that young man - if indeed he is young - is the off-spring of a mock and a maddy, and therefore is the dreaded, the horrific - shadmock."