Randalls Round (3 page)

He paused, listening. Yes – feet were coming up the road – many feet, pattering unevenly. There
was
some village game afoot, then!

The words of Mortlake’s book came back to his mind. The author had said that at one time the barrow was the centre of the dance. Was it possible that it was so still – that there was a second form, less decorous perhaps, which took place at night?

Anyhow, he mustn’t be seen, that was certain. Lucky the mound was between him and the road. He stole cautiously towards the hedge on the far side of the field. Thank goodness it was a hedge and not one of those low stone walls that surround most fields in the Cotswolds.

As he took cautious cover he couldn’t help feeling a very complete fool. Was it really necessary to take this precaution? And then he remembered the look of stubborn determination on the landlord’s face. Yes, if he were to investigate the barrow he must keep dark. Besides, there might be something to see in this business – something to delight old Mortlake’s heart.

The tune came nearer, and the sound of footsteps was muffled. They were in the grassy field, then. Heyling cautiously raised his head from the ditch where he lay; but the mound blocked his view as yet. What luck that he’d happened to go to Randalls just at that time – Hallowe’en! He remembered the documents in the Guildhall, and Jno. Beale’s indictment of the men who, he averred, had made away with his son at Hallowe’en. Heyling’s blood tingled with excitement.

The playing came closer, and now Heyling could see the figures of men moving into the circle they formed for Randalls Round. Again he was struck by the queer barbaric look of the thing and by the gravity of their movements; and then his heart gave a sudden heavy thump. The dancers had all the blackened mask–like faces of the men he had seen leaving the inn. How odd! thought Heyling. They perform quite openly in the village square, and then steal away at night, disguising their faces…

The dance was extraordinarily impressive, seen in that empty field under the quiet moon. There was no sound but the whispering of their feet on the long dry grass and the melancholy music of the pipe. Then, quite suddenly, Heyling heard again the cracking, rustling sound from the dense bushes about the mound. It was exactly like the stirring of some big clumsy animal. The dancers heard it too; there came a sort of shuddering gasp; Heyling saw one man glance at his neighbour, and his eyes shone light and terrified in his blackened face.

The melody came slower, and with a kind of horror Heyling knew that the crisis of the dance was near. Slowly the dancers formed the ring, their faces turned away from the mound; then from outside the circle came a shrouded figure led by a man wearing a mask like a bull’s head. The veiled form was led into the ring. The pipe mourned on.

Again, shattering the quiet, came a snapping, crashing noise from the inmost recesses of the bushes about the barrow. There
was
some big animal in there, crashing his way out…

Then he saw it, bulky and black in the pure white light – some horrible primitive creature, with heavy lowered head. The dancers circled slowly; the air of the flute grew faint.

Heyling felt cold and sick. This was loathsome, devilish… He buried his head in his arms and tried to drown the sound of that mourning melody.

Sounds came through the muffling hands over his ears – a crunching, tearing sound, and then a horrible noise like an animal lapping. Sweat broke out on Heyling’s back. It sounded like bones… He could not think, or move, or pray… The haunting music still crooned on…

The crashing, snapping noise again as the branches broke.
It,
whatever it was, was going back into its lair. The tune grew fainter and fainter. Steps sounded again on the road – slow steps, with no life in them. The horrible rite was over.

Very cautiously Heyling got to his feet. His knees trembled, and his breath came short and rough. He felt sick with horror and with personal fear as he skirted the mound. His fascinated eyes saw the break in the hazels and thorns; then they fell upon a dark mark on the ground – dark and wet, soaking into the dry grass. A white rag, dappled with dark stains, lay near…

Heyling could bear no more. He gave a strangled cry as he rushed, blindly stumbling, falling sometimes, out of the field and down the road.

THE American visitor looked up from the specification book.

“That seems all square,” he said; “genuine old English stuff. But there’s one thing, sir, you haven’t mentioned that I’ve just got to have.”

He looked at the house agent with a paternal smile.

“Well, sir, I think I’ve told you all details,” said Mr. Gibson. He would not entrust this wealthy client to the tender care of a mere clerk; he was too rare a find. “Still, I’m sure,” he went on persuasively, “that Mr. Langtre, the owner of the Manor, would be glad to meet you in any reasonable alterations or repairs.”

Mr. Matthews smiled a little and his nice eyes twinkled.

“I’m sure, from what you tell me, that’s so,” he replied. “Only I’m afraid he couldn’t have anyone put in just the detail I’m thinking of. Mr. Gibson, I want a real good ghost.”

Mr. Gibson looked distinctly less rubicund.

“A-a ghost?” he stammered, his eyes wandering.

“What? You don’t mean to say there is one?” cried the shrewd client.

“Well, sir – with an old place like the Manor – genuine sixteenth century… What I mean to say is, there’s always fools about in a country place…”

“But there is – well, a story? I warn you, sir, I shan’t buy the place unless there is.”

Poor Mr. Gibson fidgeted uneasily. Who could have foreseen such a difficulty as this?

“Well, you see, sir, how it is,” he said at last, “Mr. Langtre did give me most strict orders as nothing was to be said. Most strict. Still, sir, seeing what your conditions are, I don’t mind saying that things – well, things are said about the Manor as had better not be said.”

“That’s a bit vague,” said the American. “I don’t want any doubts about this thing. I want a real good Old English slap–up ghost, and I don’t mind paying a bit for it. Why, who’d give two rows of pins for an Elizabethan manor without a ghost in it?”

Mr. Gibson was understood to mutter something about “a matter of opinion.” Then, taking his courage in both hands, he said desperately:

“I tell you what, sir. You come along with me to the Vicar. He’s what they call an antiquarian, and he knows all about the Manor. You see, I’m bound not to tell anything; and truth to tell I don’t know much. But Mr. Molyneux, he’ll tell you everything there is to know about Sir Jerome’s room.”

The worthy house agent took his respectable bowler, and the two men went up the broad tree–lined main street of Much Barton, Gibson discoursing the while on the old–world atmosphere of the place. The American was certainly nibbling: it wouldn’t be the agent’s fault if Barton Cross Manor remained unsold.

The Vicar was in, and received his visitors in a book–lined study that might have come out of one of Trollope’s novels: and Mr. Matthews, summing him up with a business man’s acumen, came to his topic at once.

“Ghost at the Manor?” said Mr. Molyneux, fingering his chin. “Well, it wouldn’t be surprising if there were. In fact, if one can rely on the evidence of an ignorant soldier and a jealous parish priest, there certainly were once some very – er – peculiar happenings in the priest’s room.”

Mr. Matthews preserved an intelligent silence, and the Vicar continued:

“The story goes that early in the reign of Elizabeth Mr. Everard Langtre, the then Squire of the Manor, had in his household a private chaplain, commonly called Sir Jerome, or Jeremy. ’Sir’ was then, as you doubtless know, a courtesy title of Priests of the – er – Roman persuasion.”

“Sir – I mean, Mr. – Everard Langtre was a Roman, then?” asked the American.

“He was,” answered the Vicar, “and had, as was then customary, his private oratory and his private chaplain. Now this chaplain, Jeremy Lindall, seems to have been a man of very curious disposition. He was, like many another private chaplain of the time, a chemist of no little originality and skill. Stories about him were rife, of course – he does not seem to have been popular – and he was credited with witchcraft, demonology, traffic with the powers of evil, and so on. He certainly did go in for some very curious experiments, in which gold seems to have been a necessary ingredient: and it was said that he used in this way all his private stock of gold until at last he became so ragged that he had to keep within doors. This, one gathers, was no loss. His early – er – Mass over, he had the whole day free to conduct his chemical experiments or work his spells in the large chamber that was given up to him. The fact that he asked to be given a room facing north told against him greatly with the villagers.”

“Why?” asked Mr. Matthews.

“Why, because it was considered the best aspect for devil– worship. Have you never noticed that in country churchyards there are no graves on the north side of the church? – Well, to continue. Sir Jerome seems to have gradually become quite a recluse; and when he died, which was in the year 1562, there was a curious scene at his burial. All sorts of things were said, as is always the case in these stories of chemists, misunderstood and maligned, their actions and words distorted through generations of rustic folk.”

“Such as –?”

“Oh, that his dead face wore a look of terror and pain beyond human endurance: and the beldame who laid out the corpse for burial was so powerfully affected that she was stricken dumb, and died a few weeks later. No one could be persuaded to carry the body to the grave for some time, but at last four stout men were bribed into doing it. The story goes – But wait: I’ll read it to you–”

He turned to a large desk and pulled out a drawer.

“This is an account of the burial written at the time by the parish priest of Much Barton,” he said. “The original manuscript is in Mr. Langtre’s possession: but I made the copy myself, and I will vouch for its accuracy.”

He spread the sheets out before him.

“Of course,” he interpolated, looking up with his
pince–nez
in his hand, “you will understand that the parish priest, a hard–working and humble person enough, was no doubt a little jealous of the gentleman of leisure up at the Manor. You must take his account
cum grano.
Well, then – the beginning is torn away, but the context is clear enough.

“‘…did with utmoste payne perswayd foure stoute Carles to ye Worke, and soe didd enforce Kit Harcott, Hodge Payne with his bro. Willm. and Ned Greene to engage to carrye ye Coffre to ye Churche, where I hadde all Thinges needefull for ye Buriall. But when these came, lo they bore no Coffre, but they were alle sweatinge and Tremblinge in suche Fearfulle wise that I was faine to Conforte them, saying that verelie Sir Hiereme must be a Starke Mann and Stoute when his deade Bodie gar’d Stronge Carles soe to Shake and to Sweate. Whereat Kit, Tis not his Weyghte, goode father, quoth he, for a man to be heavie is no suche mattere. But ye Coffre is lighte as it were emptie; and in soothe we had almoste opend it, fearinge we shou’de be att oure paynes for no goode; but thatt (And here he soe Shooke that his voyce dy’d in his Throote.)

“‘Come mann a Goddes mercie, quoth I to hearten him, there is noughte to Tremble att in thatt youre worke hath beene so lyghte. Ay but, (quoth he) there came a sounde in ye Boxe lyke to a litel whisperyng or rustelyng, soe thatt we didd put it downe in feare. And soe we kneel’d and sayd a Pater and an Aue: and Ned (who is an Acolyth and deuoute) wou’d saye the De Profundis: but when we sayd
Requiem aeternam dona ei Dne
there came soe dreadfull a Laughe that we felle forwarde in greate feare. But when after a space we didd lifte our selues, lo we sawe a slimie trayl as of an huge Slugge or Snayl coming out from ye Coffre.’

“The story goes on,” said Mr. Molyneux, “with an account, of more interest to a cleric than a layman, of the burial rites. No doubt the slight mystery surrounding the life of the recluse, his chemical experiments, his retirement and so on, had pre–disposed the simple folk, both priest and people, to see signs and wonders: anyhow, the parish priest, Sir Edgar Knox, gives quite a lurid account of the burial service: how the holy water left a trail as of slime across the coffin: how the holy candles went out and a heavy smoke dragged across the church: and how the terrified boys serving at the altar saw in the thick greasy vapour dim shapes twisting about the coffin; and he says that in answer to each prayer he heard, instead of ’Amen,’ a devilish laugh, ’highe and shrille like a Peeuishe Shrewe.’ In fine, he could not take it on himself to bury Sir Jerome in the consecrated ground, where lay the bodies of the simple village folk; and so he laid the poor corpse in that dim and unhallowed region that lies north of the church, ’that he who had Choasen ye northe in his Lyfe myghte have it alsoe in his Deth.’ And there he lies, I have no doubt, to this day.”

Mr. Molyneux laid down the manuscript and took off his glasses. His face was flushed with the enthusiasm of the antiquarian.

“It’s a good story,” commented the American. “But it seems to me that Sir Jerome’s ghost, if he has run to one, would walk in the ’dim and unhallowed region’ – if I may use your words, sir – in the churchyard, rather than in the Manor.”

“No doubt,” answered the Vicar, “if that were all. But there is more to come.

“Later in Elizabeth’s reign the Langtres came into bad odour in connection with the Throgmorton Plot. The Manor, like many another Roman Catholic mansion, was ransacked for evidence. Little enough was found in the house except the plate in the chapel; and even that proved not to be genuine gold and silver. But among the soldiers who searched the house was one Job Harcott, who was a descendant or connection of the Kit Harcott who had carried Sir Jerome’s coffin. This man remembered the tales of the chaplain’s chemical experiments: and it occurred to him, sacrilegious as it sounds, that the gold plate of the chapel might have been taken for some such experiment. So he secretly left the party of soldiers and went back alone to the Manor to search for the treasure, which he believed (for so the tradition went) to be hidden in the priest’s own room.