The Year's Best Horror Stories 16 Part 13

Leonard bundled the rescued pair into the back seat of the Volvo and zoomed once more up the hill, though when he arrived in the place he was careful to turn his headlights away from the blood. He had found a torch in the glove compartment, and when it revealed no sign of dogs he and Bernard ventured as far as the terrace to call once more for Tom. There was no reply; but nor was any window in Malchateau opened in protest at this desecration of the small hours of night.

An official investigation was the only possibility which remained, but the local gendarmes, when summoned from the little station on the coast road, showed some reluctance to come up to the village at all. When prevailed upon to do so with a few guns and flashlights, their wary patrol of the steep narrow streets produced no conclusive discovery of Tom unless one counted, in a back alley under the cliff, one black shoe with part of a foot in it, such a fragment as may sometimes be left by a partly satisfied animal when its feast is disturbed. From the upper place, torn strips of the blue serge suit were also recovered. This was hysteria time for Leonard and Bernard as well as for Rosalie, but two hours later, as they sat huddled and dazed in the old gendarmerie, Leonard was sufficiently strengthened by cups of hot chocolate to take down from a shelf an old book called Villages Perches des Alpes-Maritimes. Looking up Malchateau, he found the following pa.s.sage, given here in translation: It is said that in medieval times the villagers kept savage dogs with whose help they waylaid and killed solitary travelers for their money and valuables. The dogs were bred for the purpose by a certain Madame Bejard who also kept a local restaurant, renamed La Maitresse des Chiens. Here, it was alleged, the remains of the victims often turned up in the ragout. The woman was executed in 1823, but to the villagers, whose fortunes seemed to turn for the better as a result of her activities (the notoriety attracting many tourists) she remained something of a heroine; and so for many years, no doubt with tongue in cheek, one winter night in each year has been reserved in her honor. Though a local by-law has long prevented dogs from being kept in the village (the chief intention being to prevent fouling of the narrow streets) and the restaurant itself was torn down a hundred years ago by incensed descendants of the victims, few who know the legend would venture alone on that night into the alleys of Malchateau.

Leonard thought suddenly of the steak au poivre, and went off to be sick.

ECHOES FROM THE ABBEY.

by Sheila Hodgson.

As a rule I would have completed making my selections for The Year's Best Horror Stories by Christmas each year. This time, however, I was laid low for weeks by a memorably nasty flu bug, all of which delayed my mailing out permissions requests until the very last minute. So, on January 25 I wrote to Sheila Hodgson at her former address, and I quickly received her answer, dated January 30: "It was pure luck that I got your letter at all-we moved house six months ago and there is n.o.body living at our previous address! Fortunately (well, not really) the place was damaged in the hurricane we suffered last October, so we went back to Hove to oversee the repairs and found your contract lying in the hall." Perhaps "Echoes from the Abbey" was fated to appear in this book.

London-born Sheila Hodgson began her career in the theater before joining the BBC in 1960 as a staff writer. Six years later she turned freelance, writing for both commercial television and the BBC in addition to working extensively for radio. While she has also published short stories and a novel, fans of this genre will be most interested in a series of radio plays she wrote based upon story ideas suggested by M. R. James in his essay, "Stories I Have Tried to Write." "Echoes from the Abbey" is one of these inventive efforts, and this story was originally written as a radio play, which was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 on November 21, 1984. As an added novelty, M. R. James himself takes center stage here.

I have always held that friendship is the chief thing, friendship ranks first among the uncertain pleasures of this world. I have been fortunate in my friends, but acquaintances-ah, that is an altogether different matter! The casual meeting, the mumbled introduction, the name that all too often fails to reach my ear and if it does will convey nothing to me when I come face to face with the owner some days later. Horrible! Horrible! Moreover memory can play abominable tricks; it is not that I don't remember faces, I feel quite positive that I do. Not so long ago I had a letter from Canada, a graduate who declared he had met me at the May Day ball in 1893; he was apparently in England on a visit and expressed a great desire to see me again. Now I could have sworn I knew the gentleman, a medievalist and scholar of some talent. I made haste to send a cordial invitation. It was only when a wretched little humbug bounced into my chambers, all hairy beard and smiles, that I realized I had confused him with somebody else; why, I remembered this fellow and would have gone to considerable lengths to avoid him. Too late! Alas, too late! Since then I have exercised caution when dealing with any correspondent who claims to be an old acquaintance; the question is not Do they remember me-I will not dispute the recollection of others-but Do I remember them?

Arthur Layton. He wrote in flowing compliment underlining several of the words, a practice I deplore; he informed me that he had risen to become headmaster of some obscure private school and attributed his success entirely to my early tuition.

Arthur Layton?

Memory, when prodded, obliged with a faded impression of a young man, somewhat nervous, given to overstretching his limited ability. Yes, yes. Arthur Layton. I must confess I had not given the fellow another thought from that day to this; his letter seemed quite unreasonably cordial, good heavens, he invited me to visit him just before Christmas! He urged me to accept in black ink with more copious underlinings; he hinted at some mystery and promised lavish entertainment; the handwriting positively shook with anxiety and need. The pages were on their way to my waste paper basket, I had already formulated a polite refusal when, needing to prepare the envelope, I glanced at the address. Medborough Academy For Young Gentlemen, near Medborough Abbey.

Odd. I am frequently amused by the part played in our lives by coincidence. As chance would have it I had recently undertaken to write a series of articles on English Abbeys, and Medborough ...? A ruin as far as I could recall, a little-known enclosed order of monks had lived there and vanished entirely after the Suppression of the Monasteries. It might yield a couple of paragraphs; possibly I could sketch any points of architectural interest. I made my way to the college library and what I found there was so very curious ...

But I antic.i.p.ate. Suffice it to say that I redrafted my letter to Mr. Arthur Layton; I accepted his kind invitation, and on a day of quite unparalleled nastiness I descended from the train at Medborough Halt. A thin sleet hissed across the roof of the station and the landscape appeared to be soaked in mist.

There was n.o.body there.

I would certainly have gone straight home had the only train not left. I could see no cab or indeed any kind of conveyance, there were no railway staff visible and the waiting room proved to be locked. After rattling foolishly at the doork.n.o.b and shouting to the empty air, I grabbed my valise and set off down the road; fortunately the Abbey tower showed clear against the skyline, and at a little distance I perceived a squat building which must surely be the Academy For Young Gentlemen. My natural indignation made me step out at a good speed. I occupied myself by composing a speech; upon my word, this was a shabby way to treat a guest, to abandon him in the middle of winter at a strange railway station. After a while the sleet abated, by the time I drew level with the Abbey the mist had drained away into the ground and the ruins stood in wet blocks around me.

There was really very little left. A single finely vaulted bay which promised to reward investigation, some excellent late Perpendicular work, the traces of a cloister. I put down my baggage and made a detour; it might be sensible to discover what was or was not worthy of attention before the light went. I drew my cloak tight against the chill and smiled, the action reminding me briefly of my G.o.ddaughter. On seeing me for the first time in the garment, she had exclaimed, "Would you mind if I called you Black Mouse?" I a.s.sured her I should be honored; and remained Black Mouse to the end of the chapter. Still smiling at the recollection I picked my way among the masonry, and received a most disagreeable impression.

I was being watched.

It is hard to say what primeval instinct warns a man on such occasions. I could see nothing and hear no sound, yet I became most horribly aware of eyes following my every movement, an almost physical sensation in the small of my back. Robbers? Inconceivable. A tramp, sheltering among the arches ...? I paused-swung round-and surprised him.

A small boy, sitting high up on a ledge. My immediate concern was that the child might fall; I cried out loud: "Boy! Come down at once! What are you doing there? Come down!"

He continued to stare at me with an expression of blank terror as if beholding some monstrous ghost, so I called to him again.

"This is not safe! Come here, you little imp!"

His voice reached me in a gasp barely audible above the wind.

"Are you one of them ...?" whispered the boy; and tumbled backward in frantic alarm. He stumbled and picked himself up and disappeared among the tombstones-running, running, running.

Oh dear me. The young can be singularly irritating; I can cope with only a certain amount of unreason. I turned in some annoyance and made my way to the Medborough Academy, determined to rebuke my host and demand an explanation.

The man was not there. Mrs. Layton received me in a babble of apology; I gathered her husband had gone to meet the wrong train, I have no idea why. She fed me b.u.t.tered toast and prattled by the fireside; at least they kept a good fire; a moth-eaten tiger rug lay on the floor concealing or rather failing to conceal a bare patch in the carpet; the furniture had seen better days but not, I fear, recently. The lady herself wore bangles, earrings, and thin ginger hair twisted into frizzy curls; she talked incessantly and seemed relieved when the door opened and Arthur Layton clattered in at last.

"Ah, Dr. James, do forgive me, I thought the Cambridge train arrived at four-ten, how very stupid, what appalling weather, have you had tea?"

He stood gabbling like his wife; I studied him, ah yes, I did remember the gentleman. The years had simply accentuated the eager smile, the semaphoring hands, the bulging eyes fixed on mine; he had looked the same in 1894 when he arrived in my chambers demanding to know, in tones of mounting hysteria, why his examination results had been so unaccountably bad. Then as now I lacked the courage to tell him the truth; I heard myself uttering conventional lies and a.s.suring him I had enjoyed my walk from the station and was delighted to renew his acquaintance.

It had been a great mistake to come.

How great became apparent shortly after Mrs. Layton left us. I gathered she had private means; not to put too fine a point on it he had used her money to set up the Medborough Academy For Young Gentlemen. Well, well. That explained one mystery; I had indeed wondered how such a person had ever risen to be headmaster of anything. No matter. I wished him well, he was an amiable creature and ent.i.tled to do the best he could for himself. But worse was to follow; while offering me a small sherry he grew pink around the ears and said: "Dr. James. It occurred to me. Forgive the liberty. I thought perhaps-as a friend-an old acquaintance. Would you care to mention Medborough Academy to any parents you meet at Cambridge? I should be most appreciative-grateful-and perhaps a small paragraph in your house magazine?"

I confess I felt outraged. One should not be oversensitive, but I became conscious of being manipulated for private and possibly undesirable ends. It was a piece of impertinence, I had to frame my answer carefully; I had no wish to hurt the man but in all conscience ...

"It would be highly improper, Layton! Oh come, come! Surely you realize! I really must decline to do anything of the sort. I have absolutely no knowledge of your school."

"You will be staying at least a week! You can form your own opinion!"

"While the place is empty? No, no, no. May we drop the subject, please, it can only embarra.s.s both of us. Oh dear me. Good heavens. I fear you have invited me to Medborough on a false a.s.sumption; this is most unfortunate ..."

At which juncture the door opened and a small boy peered in. I recognised him instantly; if he recognised me he showed no sign of it. Arthur Layton leapt to his feet, exclaiming: "Harley! Good, yes, let me introduce you to Dr. James. Harley has been left with us for the Christmas holidays. His parents are in Hyderabad," he added, as if confiding some deplorable social gaffe. The boy shifted his feet, muttered "Sir" to the carpet and was understood to say that Dinner was ready. I wondered at the lack of a maid servant; during the meal it occurred to me that perhaps they had no cook either, the food being quite inexcusably bad. Layton kept up a running monologue on the problems that beset him, the shortage of teachers, the expense of the new gymnasium, the irrational demands of parents and a general tendency not to pay his fees on time. His wife echoed each complaint with little wails of her own, the boy ate in silence and I contented myself with those courteous grunts which pa.s.s for conversation on such occasions. As soon as I decently could I pleaded fatigue and the need to unpack, Mrs. Layton vanished into the kitchen, the child Harley skidded upstairs and I left Layton himself in a deep melancholy, stabbing at the fire with a cast iron poker.

At about two in the morning I woke from uneasy slumber to a sound of wild female shrieks. In that curious half-dreaming state my first conscious thought was: Ah, they have maids after all; then I struggled from bed, groped for my dressing gown and went out into the pa.s.sage to investigate. A disheveled creature who I subsequently discovered was called Gladys rushed past me howling, "Oh sir, we can't find him, oh sir, he's been murdered in his bed!"

Before I could point out the basic absurdity of this statement Layton came down the stairway, he looked dazed and on seeing me stopped short, clutching at the bannister.

"James. I had no idea you were awake."

I remarked that it would be somewhat difficult to sleep through the general uproar.

"The boy is missing!"

"Good heavens."

"He must be found! We are responsible for the child! If there's been some frightful accident and his parents hear of it ..."

It took several minutes to calm the man. I gathered he had discovered the situation by accident; on his way to the bathroom he noticed Harley's bedroom door ajar and the bed empty. As they had already searched the house I proposed to put my clothes on and help in a search of the grounds; by now it was half past two and bitter cold. On emerging into a glittering night (oh dear me, it had been snowing as well), I saw most of the household rampaging up and down alternately shrieking to the boy and shrieking to one another.

"Harley! Harley! Harley!"

Memory stirred at the back of my sleepy brain. A small figure balanced on a stone ledge. I left them to it and made my way across the frozen gra.s.s to the ruins of Medborough Abbey. It seemed to me that my hypothesis was quite as likely as any other. The ground proved treacherous, slippery with ice and potholed by neglect; twice I skidded, saving myself only by a wild clutch at a bush; once I tripped on a broken tombstone and nearly fell flat on my face, which would most certainly have broken my gla.s.ses if not my ankle. Jagged pillars cut the sky, slabs of masonry lay tilted at crazy angles, a net of h.o.a.r frost had been flung over everything and a thin wind hissed along the north transept. As I stepped between the boulders I could hear the wind. Surely it must be imagination that turned the sound into voices?

Does-he-know-he-must-not-know-he-surely-knows!

Does-he-know-he-must-not-know-he-surely-knows!

Whispering. Innumerable voices whispering among the ruin of the chapter house, and now they grew louder and now they grew ever clearer and more close.

Will-he-come-he-must-not-come-He-comes-he-comes!

Will-he-come-he-must-not-come-He-comes-he-comes!

As if a company of people were stealthily approaching, a muttering group of men ...

Then the wind changed direction, and high above the chorus I heard Layton shouting that the boy had been found.

Sleepwalking, it appeared. He had wandered out of the house in his sleep and no harm done. Well, well. I returned to my bed and got precious little rest myself. My mind kept puzzling over the voices; they reminded me of a curious incident when I was at Eton. One of the pupils there was given to talking in his sleep, and I had noticed how, when this happened, the entire dormitory would begin to toss and turn and murmur until the whole room filled with a strange babbling sound. Odd. Being quite unable to close my eyes again I got up and spent the rest of the night studying the notes I had made on Medborough Abbey. It seemed the monks were allowed to talk together for one hour every day in a particular room set aside for the purpose, and very reasonably named the Talking Room. I amused myself by wondering if my voices had been some weird echo from the past, a recreation of a conversation long gone.

It was far more likely to be the wind.

I extinguished the gas and went back to bed.

Now, I had every intention of making some courteous excuse the next day and leaving; I found both the house and the company depressing and quite beyond anything I could do to help, alas. The unfortunate Layton had my sympathy but I could imagine no way of saving his Academy For Young Gentlemen; the whole enterprise had been foolhardy to a degree. I opened my mouth to frame a suitable apology to Mrs. Layton, to ask what time the next train left for Cambridge ... and was forestalled by my host bursting into the breakfast room clutching a metal object.

"James! My dear James! How very fortunate, thank goodness you're here, I really have no idea what to do. It's extraordinary, inexplicable; I have questioned the boy of course, I have demanded an explanation, I can get no sense out of him at all. Bless my soul, what am I going to do?" He dropped the object on the table causing milk to spill from the jug and spread slowly across the tablecloth. Mrs. Layton uttered a little squeal while I ... I looked at the thing.

It was a crucifix. A rather large crucifix, stained and dented by age but quite possibly made of gold. I blinked. So did Mrs. Layton.

"Good gracious me."

"The housemaid found it in his bed! Hidden in that wretched boy's bed!"

I do not pretend to any expert knowledge of church antiques but it did seem a most curious discovery. I said as much and went with him to question the child. Our enquiries were not helped by the headmaster's hysterical insistence on "the truth, the truth, tell me the truth, Harley!", and Harley's defiance, a kind of timid obstinacy. He backed against the wall, he gazed fixedly at his boots; finally he declared: "Well, he must have left it there."

"Who left it, Harley?"

"I think he was a monk!" said Harley, and burst into tears. When we succeeded in checking the flood there emerged through choking sobs a tale of bad dreams, moonlight, and a figure standing by the end of his bed.

"A ghost?" sneered Layton in tones that would have done credit to an actor at the Lyceum; he had a most unfortunate tendency to use theatrical gestures and intonations, a habit which ought not to have detracted from one's belief in his sincerity. But did. "I suppose this monk gibbered, rattled bones, and threatened you!"

"No," said Harley faintly. "He just looked rather surprised at finding me there."

"After which he vanished through the wall, no doubt!"

"I don't know what he did, sir! Honestly! I was hiding under the bedclothes."

"I will not listen to these impudent lies! How dare you, boy, your parents shall be informed, oh yes, they shall be told of your behavior. Where did you get the crucifix?"

"I didn't! It's nothing to do with me!"

"Liar!"

We were making no progress whatsoever and the situation seemed to me to be getting out of hand. I stepped between the two and asked, "Why do you believe it was a monk, Harley?"

"Because the Abbey is haunted." A sniff. He wiped his nose. "Everybody knows the Abbey is haunted."

"The Abbey is not haunted!" shrieked Layton, quite beside himself with rage. "Go to your room, you wretched child! You will stay there and you will have no luncheon; would you try to deceive Dr. James; have you no honesty, no respect?"

Harley fled and Layton grumbled all the way back to the breakfast table, mostly on the subject of mendacious boys, the disobedience of the rising generation and the damage any rumors-however false-of ghostly apparitions could do to the school.

"I have enough troubles," he said somberly, and said no more for the remainder of the meal.

But I was sufficiently curious to seek out young Harley and ask for a more detailed account of his adventure. He struck me as a commonplace and rather timid person, unlikely to have invented the tale for the sake of notoriety; a theory much favored by Mrs. Layton who hinted the whole thing had been fabricated in a juvenile attempt to grab at our attention.

I did not think Harley wanted our attention.

In an effort to put the boy at his ease I chattered on about the Abbey, the enclosed order of monks, the place set aside for conversation and known as the Talking Room. This last roused him.

"Oh, I know where that is. I've heard them."

A flat statement. I could get no more and I would have dismissed it except for a memory which stirred in my own mind.

Does-he-know-he-must-not-know-he-surely-knows!

Strange. An illusion! Had we both had the same illusion?

It would do no harm to stay for another couple of days. I occupied the morning by sketching various parts of the Abbey; most of it appeared to be late Norman work and I particularly admired the south cloister. From time to time I would stop and listen. I could hear nothing save the faint movement of gra.s.s. Presently to my considerable annoyance it began to snow.

Over luncheon (to which young Harley had not been summoned; my host set great price on the consistency of his threats), Mrs. Layton leaned across the table and, trailing her sleeve in the soup, said: "Do tell me, Dr. James, is much known about the history of Medborough Abbey? I mean, could there actually be a ghost or anything horrid like that?"

Her husband gave a snort of irritation and tore his roll in half, I consulted my recollections and produced the only story likely to entertain her.

"Well, now. There is a legend, I believe. It appears that during the Suppression of the Monasteries the monks plotted to save their precious silver and gold by the simple device of setting fire to the Abbey, having first removed the valuables; the purpose being to declare them lost in the ensuing blaze. They kept the plan secret from their Abbot. I regret to tell you he came upon them suddenly one day in the Talking Room and discovered everything."

"Good gracious! So they abandoned the plot?"

"No, no. The good Abbot, on overhearing their scheme, endorsed the idea of arson as both practical and prudent and gave it his blessing."

"So they burned the Abbey down ...? On purpose ...?"

"This is just hearsay," muttered Layton.

"My dear Layton, all history is merely hearsay, and written evidence often a record of other men's lies. I give you the tale for what it is worth."

"But how fascinating! What happened to the silver and gold?"

"I have no idea."

"I suppose the monks took it away ...?"

"We shall never know, Mrs. Layton. Unfortunately Henry the King regarded both the fire and the monks with grave suspicion and they were hanged."

She gave the expected little squeal, her husband changed the subject and the meal ground to its indigestible end. As we left the table he indicated the crucifix now standing on the sideboard and murmured: "Could that possibly be ...? James? Could it?"

I replied truthfully that I could not possibly tell, it would need to be dated by an expert in such things and I considered the notion unlikely in the extreme. But he lingered in the dining room after we had gone and a backward glance showed him polishing the relic vigorously with his table napkin.

The broken night had left me fatigued, I retired to my bedroom and was shaken from sleep by a ragged chorus of carol singers, apparently directly beneath my window. "G.o.d rest you merry, gentlemen, may nothing you dismay!" Upon my soul. I had been trying to rest, I was dismayed; still, we were within a week of Christmas and one should be charitable at the festive season. I opened the window meaning to throw a coin down and was mildly surprised to see three rough-looking men below. On hearing the noise they looked up and for some reason burst into raucous laughter. The next moment the front door opened and Layton came out; his appearance triggered another burst of laughter and more singing.