The Empty Coffins (4 page)

So Peter did not pursue the subject. They reached George Timperley's grave in another five minutes, identified it by the stone, and then be­gan the task of removing the granite chippings from the topsoil. They worked hard, and in silence, their breath hanging on the still, frosty air. Now and again they paused to look about them, but nothing stirred in the expanse of the burial ground.

Until at last Peter's shovel struck something with a soggy thud. With his hands he pushed away the soil and revealed the still comparatively new oak of George Timperley's coffin.

“This is it,” he murmured, as Meadows crouched beside him. “Still think we should go through with it?”

“Definitely! That's what we came for.”

The remaining soil was brushed to one side so that the lid with its brass nameplate became re­vealed. From his bag Dr. Meadows took two screwdrivers, handing one to Peter.

“Better unscrew it instead of using the crow­bar,” he said. ‘We'll have to screw it up again when we've finished. We'll only use the bar if the screws are too tough.”

Peter nodded and began his task. He did not enjoy one minute of it. As each screw finally succumbed to pressure he began to wonder what would be revealed when the lid was removed. He kept picturing the inroads which decomposition might have made on George Timperley's body. After all, he had been buried for some months, now—

With a protesting squeak the final screws came out and the lid was ready for moving. Peter and Meadows exchanged glances as they stood deep in the grave.

“Ready?” Meadows asked quietly.

“Go ahead. I can stand it if you can.”

Meadows gripped his end of the lid, hesitated for a moment, and then heaved it to one side. Fixedly he stared into the coffin. After a second or two Peter brought himself to looking also. He gave a little gasp.

The coffin was empty.

For a moment or two neither man spoke. There was the moonlight, leprous and cold, glowing down into the grave-pit and clearly revealing the empty box. Peter gave a little shiver, and it was not the frostiness in the air, either.

“You were right, Doc,” he whispered at last.

“I begin to think I—” Meadows broke off, so suddenly that Peter looked at him in surprise. He found him staring fixedly upwards at the edge of the grave-pit. Peter looked too, and his mind reeled for a moment with sheer incredulity. George Timperley was standing on the edge of the grave, looking down at them. He was in the shroud of death from neck to ankles. His feet, just visible above the piled-up soil, were bare. His arms were motionless at his sides.

“Great God,” Meadows whispered, feeling for the crowbar in the bag beside him. “It's—it's he! George! We—”

He got no further. Suddenly George Timperley flew into whirlwind action. With a tremendous jump he landed in the grave, his hands clutching savagely about Dr. Meadows' neck. Catching his foot, Mead­ows stumbled backwards and into the coffin, then he was fighting for his life as Timperley's bared teeth made frantic efforts to get at his throat.

Then Peter attacked. He could not reach the crowbar so he stabbed hard with his screwdriver—or at least intended to do so. Instead Timperley anticipated him, swung round, and lunged out with his white, deadly cold hands. Peter struggled frantically, realizing he was fighting something of superhuman strength. He was borne down onto the coffin edge, his back nearly cracking under the pressure. Everywhere his hands clawed and pulled he felt cold, flabby flesh without a spark of living warmth. The very feel of it turned his stomach inside-out.

Then he saw Timperley's teeth. They were not the teeth he had possessed in life—those even rows in a fairly handsome face. Every one was fanged and extra long, like those of a tiger. They snarled and snapped close to his face and the breath of the attacker was like something from a sewer.

Battling and struggling uselessly Peter tumbled fully back into the coffin, then his hair was seiz­ed and his head hammered relentlessly on the coffin bottom until his senses spun crazily in darkness...

He drifted back to consciousness only slowly, aware of the bitter after-taste of brandy in his mouth. Opening his eyes he recognized Dr. Meadows against the glow of the moon. He put away a flask and breathed heavily.

“Good,” he whispered. “I'm glad I brought you round….”

Peter fingered his throat gently, but apparently it was unhurt. His head ached abominably and he was laid nearly full length in the coffin. With Meadows' help he sat up and his head swam viciously.

“What—what happened to George?” he asked shak­ily.

“I thrust a Crucifix in front of his eyes. That did it. I remembered reading somewhere that a vampire cannot face a crucifix—the exact antith­esis of itself—so I brought one with me just in case. He flew—literally—out of this grave and I haven't seen him since.”

Peter struggled to his feet. “Thank heaven for your foresight, Doc,” he muttered. ‘I certainly don't need any more convincing in regard to vamp­ires: I've seen enough to satisfy me.”

“We'd better get this coffin fastened up again and refill the grave,” Meadows said. “We've learned all we need to know. You fit enough to get busy?”

“I'll be all right,” Peter acknowledged, holding his throbbing forehead. “Give me that screw­driver, will you? If I stoop I'm afraid my skull will explode.”

Meadows said nothing. He handed over the screw­driver and then heaved the coffin lid back into position. When it was finally screwed down he and Peter scrambled up out of the grave and began the job of shovelling back the earth. At the end of an hour the task was finished and the granite chippings duly returned as surface covering.

“Now you know the facts what do you propose doing?” Meadows asked, collecting the shovels and the tool bag.

“Have to tell Elsie, of course, and then I suppose we must get away from here.' Peter looked about him moodily in the leprous moonlight. “The very last thing I wanted, with my garage business nicely built up. Still, we know George is on the rampage so there's nothing else for it. At all costs I have to do all that is humanly possible to prevent Rawnee Singh's forecast coming true.”

“I've been thinking,” Meadows said, as they began moving. “You might be able to stay just as you are and still ward off George. I mean the Crucifix. It doesn't have to be mine, though you're welcome to it if you want it. As long as you have that for protection you will be safe. A vampire cannot attack where the Cross faces him.”

Peter nodded slowly. “That might solve the difficulty. I'll have yours, if you don't mind, and give it to Elsie. I haven't one of my own but I can soon buy one.”

Meadows nodded, and when he and Peter had come beyond the cemetery the doctor removed the Cruc­ifix from his pocket and handed it over.

“There it is. Peter, and I pray heaven it will protect you. As far as George is concerned, I must make arrangements with the villagers, the police—and if possible Scotland Yard—to have him captured and slain by a stake through his heart. Tell Elsie as much as you think she should know. Now, shall I give you a lift home?”

“No thanks, Doc. I'll walk. I can do with the fresh air to clear my head up a bit. It's still pretty woolly— See you again. 'Night.”

Peter shook hands, and holding the Crucifix so he could use it instantly if danger threatened he went up the lane in the moonlight, thinking as he went of the ghoulish experience through which he had passed. Somewhere at the back of his mind plain commonsense told him that the episode just could not have been real, then the pain in his head and the Crucifix in his hand convinced him otherwise.

He re-entered the house the way he had left it, via the top landing window. Without a sound he returned to the bedroom, softly closing the door. Then as he turned into the room he stopped dead— The windows were flung wide open and the draperies were writhing gently in the night wind.

Peter hurried forward, to the bed. Elsie was still there, but the whiteness of the pillow was defiled with dark stains. In the slanting moon­light they looked like—

“Elsie!” Peter whispered in horror; then he switched on the bedside lamp. Instantly the dark stains became red.

The girl was lying motionless, her face deathly white, two vivid punctures at either side of her throat from which trickles of blood had come. It appeared to have dried now.

“
Elsie
!' Peter screamed, and seized her should­ers. But for all his efforts she did not awaken. At last he lowered her back to the pillow and list­ened for her heart. It was still beating, though somewhat sluggishly.

Peter did not waste any more time. He rushed from the room, along the landing, then down the stairs into the dark hall. Switching on the lights he whipped up the telephone and rang Dr. Meadows. After a moment or two the tired voice of the medico answered.

“Yes? Meadows here—”

“It's Peter, Doc! Elsie's been attacked by George whilst I was away. At least I suppose it was George. There are two punctures either side of her throat, blood on the pillow, the window open— I can't revive her. She's still alive, but only just I think. For God's sake come over right away, will you?”

“I'll be there,” Meadows promised, his voice taking on more life. “Keep a watch on her until I arrive.”

Peter put the 'phone down and returned up the stairs. At the top of them he met his mother-in­-law, hastily scrambled into a dressing gown, a boudoir cap over her hair-curlers.

“What on earth is going on?” she demanded. “Peter, what are you doing fully dressed at this hour of the night?”

“Don't bother me now,” Peter answered, brushing past her. “Elsie's been attacked by a vampire—probably George. I've just been 'phoning for Dr. Meadows.'

He raced back into the bedroom to find Elsie lying just as he had left her, motionless, hardly breathing, her face as white as the pillow beside it. Mrs. Burrows followed Peter in and stood staring in horror at the defiled pillow and the wounds on her daughter's neck. Then, when the first shock had been absorbed somewhat, she went to the windows and closed them.

“Did you say—George?” she demanded, her eyes fixing on Peter as he sat at the bedside watching Elsie intently.

“He's a vampire. Doc Meadows and I proved it tonight in the cemetery. We were both attacked—”

“But what on earth—?”

“Oh, stop bothering me!” Peter snapped. “I've enough on my mind!”

Mrs. Burrows sniffed, then taking a second chair she sat at the other side of the bed and looked at her daughter in silent consternation.

The intolerably long silence was broken at last by a pounding on the front door. Peter rushed down to open it and came back with the tired Dr. Meadows behind him. Meadows gave a start as he saw the girl, then he got busy with his stethoscope.

“Well?” Peter asked anxiously. “What's the verdict?”

“He got her, Peter,” Meadows answered slowly, grey worry in his face. “No half measures about it. Both jugulars have been pierced and she's lost a good deal of blood.”

“I don't see how,” Peter argued. “Those big bloodstains on the pillow can't be from her; there are only tiny trickles on her neck from those punctures—”

“The pillow stains probably come from George,” Meadows answered. “Some blood was spilt as he drew it from Elsie. That's a likely happening in a vampire attack— Only one thing to do,” Meadows finished briefly. “Keep a watch on Elsie night and day. I'll let you have some blood-restorative pills with full directions how to use them. If she is not attacked again she might re­cover all she has lost—”

“But doesn't this attack make
her
a vampire?”

“That can only happen if she dies—and that we must prevent at all costs. Hop down to the 'phone, Peter, and call Scotland Yard. Give them every detail and ask for the same Inspector who has been working on this case. No use bothering with those two clowns in the village. Hurry it up, man!”

Peter nodded and dived out of the room. Mead­ows considered the girl for a moment, then he filled a hypodermic syringe and applied the needle to a vein in the inside of Elsie's upper arm.

“What's that for?” Mrs. Burrows asked, watching intently.

“Blood restorative in liquid form,” Meadows answered. “I can't administer pills until she recovers consciousness.”

“Peter has been telling me that George caused this—that he has become a vampire. Am I supposed to believe that?”

“With your daughter in this condition I don't see how you can do much else,” Meadows retorted.

“I can't believe in vampires. Doctor. I've lived too long to believe in
any
superstition of that nature. I prefer to think something material—
very
material—attacked my daughter, not the blood-thirsty ghost of her first husband. It simply screams out against all reason.”

“So do poltergeists, phantoms, and evil spirits,” Meadows answered, his voice quieter. “Yet they exist....”

Since Mrs. Burrows did not pursue the subject he too became silent, working with soft wadding on the punctures in the girl's throat. The more he studied them the more troubled his face became. He was considering the problem in silence when Peter returned, a hand to his still aching head.

“I got Scotland Yard,” he said. “The sergeant-in-charge will get in touch with Chief-Inspector Rushton and he'll be coming up immediately. He's not in his office at this hour, of course— Well, Doc, how's Elsie going on?”

“Done all I can,” Meadows answered, putting a phial of pills on the table. “She ought to recover consciousness towards morning. Those sleeping tab­lets you gave her are hindering things, of course: I'd forgotten them. It may be those, more than actual blood loss, which is keeping her unconscious. Anyway, when she recovers, see she gets these pills every six hours. She's not to get up until I say so. And she must be guarded day and night against all possible attacks. You still have that Cruci­fix? See that she can keep it handy. In an un­guarded moment, it might save her.”