CHAPTER XI
In the morning Arthur Shepperton called for the Vicar and his sister, and they went together to the priory. Brentwood had not arrived when they got there, so they sat down to wait, on the same seat that Shepperton had utilised a few days ago.
Alletson, under his outward reserve, was excited, being keenly interested in the exploration, in view of what he had himself experienced at the priory. Shepperton seemed sullen and taciturn, and Constance appeared indifferent.
For a time none of them spoke, the two men being apparently absorbed each in his own thoughts, whilst Constance was occupied in studying the outside of the ruin.
Occasionally, each would look in the direction from which Brentwood should come. At last the Vicar pulled out his watch and broke the silence by saying:
“It is barely ten yet; I don’t think there will be any doubt about his coming.”
Shepperton yawned in a bored sort of fashion, and answered, in a way which seemed to imply that it didn’t matter whether the Master of Storton turned up or not, “I hope not,” and then lapsed into silence again.
“I believe these ruins are very old,” said Alletson, addressing himself to Shepperton.
“Yes,” replied the latter. “They date back to the fourteenth century.” He paused, then added: “There are some queer stories connected with their history, and, as is usual with such places, it is of course haunted.”
The scorn in his voice drew Constance’s attention; it irritated her a little, so she said:
“Don’t you think it probable that some of these old places really are haunted?”
“Certainly not, Miss Alletson,” he replied emphatically. “It is merely superstitious belief, which has been, and I believe is now, used in some countries by the Romish priests to frighten the ignorant into submission.”
“That may be true,” retorted Constance, “but it does not prove that houses are not haunted, and there are some very intelligent people who agree that they are!”
Shepperton smiled in a confident way, and answered:
“You may take it from me, Miss Alletson, that modern science has exploded all such theories.”
His reply roused Constance. Her whole individuality resented his take-it-for-granted attitude that women do not and cannot understand these things, and must accept, like a questioning child, what a man says as right.
“Do you mean to imply, Mr. Shepperton, that you know absolutely that such is the case, because, if so, I should like to be enlightened. I am rather under the impression that modern science has not yet arrived at a stage when it can satisfactorily deal with such problems.”
He was a little bit nonplussed, not expecting such an answer from a woman, and, while he sought for a suitable reply, he glanced uneasily at her brother, who was looking at the floor, listening in grim silence.
At last he said:
“Well, so far as I know, every case that has been investigated has been traced to spiritualistic trickery, or something of that kind. Besides, no one has yet been able to prove to anyone else that he or she has seen a ghost, which I think is fair proof that so-called apparitions are mental disturbances, traceable to physical disorders.”
“And if you could not prove that the quack’s patent medicine was not a cure-all, would you advance that as a proof that it was?”
Shepperton looked at her a little mystified. Her counter-question rather puzzled him, so he answered: “I fail to see what bearing your remark has upon what I said.”
“Well, to put it in another way, Mr. Shepperton, because you cannot prove one thing, that does not prove another, and the fact that no one has proved to anyone else that he or she has seen a ghost, does not prove that there are not any ghosts, any more than the failure to prove that a patent medicine is not a cure-all proves that it is one!”
“Still,” he answered doggedly, “the fact remains that people who are suffering from mental and physical disorders do see visions——”
“Which again,” interposed Constance, “does not prove that healthy people do not see them, and if you will look up the records of the Society for Psychical Research, you will find distinct proofs of the latter.”
There was a brief silence, during which Shepperton slowly formed a different opinion of the Vicar’s sister. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Miss Alletson was better grounded than he in that particular subject at any rate.
Discretion warned him to let the matter drop there; but that feeling of being beaten egged him on. It was not likely that she could have had any personal experience of such things, so he returned to the attack.
“I’ve had practical experience of these matters, Miss Alletson. I attended for six months what was called a ‘Public Circle,’ which used to be held in Westsea once a fortnight. I went purposely to find out for myself whether there was anything at all in what so-called spiritualists claimed.”
Constance looked interested.
“Well?” she said.
“Well,” he repeated, “at the end of that time I came away satisfied that the people who went there were merely their own dupes. Not one shred nor atom of rational evidence did I find. Ghosts and messages from ghosts innumerable were supposed to have appeared and been received, but as for proof of either—well, it was not forthcoming. The people simply worked themselves up into an emotional state and just believed.”
“And was that the end of your investigation, Mr. Shepperton?”
“Well,” he replied, “do you think it was necessary for me to go any further; surely the thing condemned itself?”
“You seem to have been unfortunate in your endeavours,” she answered.
“Unfortunate!” he exclaimed. “How?”
“When investigating psychic phenomena, public circles are not conducive to good results, Mr. Shepperton. The conditions created are very mixed and unharmonious. Besides, such investigation requires preparation. It is necessary for all the investigators to be in mental harmony; a specially prepared room must be used; proper clothing worn that is kept for the purpose; abstention from stimulants and meats is desirable; and above all, perfect bodily cleanliness. Under such conditions, investigators may get a lot more than they expect, after a fair trial.”
Shepperton listened with the growing conviction that the Vicar’s sister knew something about the matter under discussion, but somehow he could not bring himself to accept defeat, so he remarked:
“Do you believe in such things?”
“I can’t say that I actually believe, but evidence points to there being something in it.”
“What do you think about it?” he said, turning to the Vicar.
The latter, who had been greatly amused at the little battle, roused himself.
“Well, I am bound to say that there are many things connected with the soul and the spirit which are not understood, and as far as I know, modern research on psychological lines tends to show that we are on the verge of strange discoveries. I have no settled views either way. But perhaps Mr. Brentwood could tell you something if you are anxious to get information; he has made a lifelong study of such problems.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Shepperton. He paused, then went on: “So I suppose it is only natural to expect that he thinks these strange disappearances are due to some occult agency?”
“I don’t think so,” replied the Vicar coldly. “Anyhow, it was I who first put it to him that this might be the case.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Shepperton again.
At this juncture their attention was arrested by the appearance of a great dog, which had evidently arrived unnoticed while they were talking. Constance uttered an exclamation, and both men visibly started. As for the dog, he seemed quite unconcerned. After a cursory glance, he approached the seat and sniffed at them; then he deliberately went back to Constance, placed his great head on her lap, looked up into her face and slowly wagged his tail. Overcoming her first sense of fear, she patted his head and his tail wagged faster.
“I see he wants to make friends with you, Miss Alletson!”
They all turned from studying the dog, to find Brentwood standing about a dozen paces away.
“Really,” said Constance, with a little laugh, “I can hardly say whether or not I appreciate his overtures; I’m not sure I’m not afraid of him.”
“No one with whom Hector makes friends need be afraid of him,” was the quiet answer.
“I shouldn’t care to have a row with him,” remarked Shepperton satirically.
“No,” replied the Master of Storton. “They are very formidable enemies, but, on the other hand, excellent friends, Mr.—er.”
“I’m sorry,” interposed the Vicar. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Brentwood, Mr. Shepperton.”
The Master of Storton bowed gravely, while Shepperton curtly inclined his head.
“I’m sorry to be a little late,” continued Brentwood. “Something went wrong with my motor-car, and I had to walk. However, I don’t think there is much the matter, and in all probability it will be here shortly and we can drive back together.”
“Have you decided upon any mode of procedure?”
The Vicar shook his head smilingly, as he replied:
“I’m afraid not; in fact I rather think we had all left it to you as a matter of course.”
“Perhaps,” ventured Brentwood, “Mr. Shepperton has some suggestion?”
“Oh no,” was the indifferent reply. “Personally I’m not skilled in such matters, and shall be glad if you will direct our operations.”
“Very well. First of all, we will try to get the trail of Miss Hobson from the glove by the aid of Hector.”
They entered the ruins by the door in the wall, Brentwood and Shepperton leading the way, followed by the other two a short distance behind.
“By the aid of the dog, I think we can prove whether Miss Hobson”—he paused, and added in a lower voice—“or her body, is in these ruins!”
“You may find her body,” exclaimed Shepperton bitterly, “but it is surely impossible that she could be alive after all this time?”
“It is not impossible,” responded Brentwood slowly.
“Well then, improbable,” returned Shepperton, with slight irritation.
Brentwood’s face hardened a little as he replied:
“I have no wish to be pedantic, but there is a distinct difference between impossible and improbable, as you must know, and in a matter of this kind we cannot be too careful.”
“Very good,” replied Shepperton. “But I may as well tell you frankly that I have little, if any, faith in your theory; on the other hand I wish to be fair, and am willing to see it through.”
The Master of Storton made no reply to the last remark. He had had too much experience to be drawn into a desultory argument, unless it was forced upon him. But the unconscious egotism displayed by his companion in practically stating that he was willing to let the theory have a fair chance, amused him not a little.
But Shepperton was in an antagonistic mood, and continued:
“I’m not afraid to face a ghost when I meet one, a thing which I have not yet done, and as far as I can judge, never shall.”
“I’m glad that you will not be afraid,” returned the other.
Shepperton flushed. “Your words imply that I probably shall meet one?”
Brentwood did not answer. He very nearly said, “I hope so,” but thought better of it. Instead, his mind drifted to a similar remark he once made to Agar Halfi, some years ago, the evening before he nearly lost his life in Afghanistan.
His reflections in that direction were interrupted by his becoming aware that Shepperton was eyeing him curiously, awaiting a reply. “If you follow this case through, as you say you will, it is more than probable that you will modify your views on such matters.”
“Well, I’m open to conviction,” was the reply, in a dogmatic tone.
“So was I once!”
Shepperton stared hard at him, the remark was so easily and coolly made that he hardly knew how to take it. At last he said:
“Then you have seen a ghost?”
Brentwood returned his look calmly, and a very faint smile appeared in his eyes as he answered:
“Not in my normal state.”
Shepperton gave a gesture of contempt, as much as to say, “I thought he would wriggle,” then replied:
“Plenty of people have seen them like that.”
“You mean phantoms of the mind, don’t you?”
“Certainly; isn’t that what you mean?”
“No!”
Shepperton waited for him to continue, but was disappointed. It is probable that the Master of Storton would have explained there and then and set at rest the other man’s doubts, had not an entirely new circumstance intervened and stopped an explanation which would have saved much pain and trouble for some people, and very nearly a tragedy for others. Such a happening is what we call “The Hand of Fate,” which is simply a name for things which we do not understand, and therefore, over which we have no control, unless we hit upon the solution by blind luck, and then some people call it “Providence.” Others less susceptible say nothing, but wonder.
Just when he would have replied, Brentwood had a distinct feeling that Constance Alletson was not only looking at him, but thinking about him, and as he became cognisant of the thought a strange trembling passed through his body. He felt that she was trying to analyse something in him, and was mistrustful about it.
This at once recalled to his mind what had happened during the experiment at the Manor a few days ago, and he did not feel at ease. A sudden impulse—which he promptly suppressed—urged him to ask her about it there and then. No, it would be better to wait. Perhaps, after all, it was but the strangeness of circumstances which had caused it, and if that were so, he would be sorry to have spoken. But what about the dog?
The sound of quickened footsteps caused both Shepperton and him to turn. Just behind were the Vicar and his sister, and with them Agar Halfi.
“We heard your car coming along just as we were about to enter through the door in the wall, so waited,” explained Constance.
To Shepperton’s surprise, Brentwood introduced him to Agar Halfi, and then explained to the Hindoo what they proposed to do. Whereupon the latter silently leashed Hector, and the Master of Storton gave the dog the scent from the glove, while they all watched in silence. After momentary hesitation, Hector started off in a northerly direction along the outside of the ruined wall. He travelled the whole length of it, then rounding the angle to the east, continued at a brisk pace until he reached that part of the wall which used to form the back of the altar. Here he stopped, and whined, then making straight for an opening a little lower down, got into the chancel, and walked restlessly all round, at last coming to a stop at the altar. Here he pawed the ground, whining fretfully. They all looked at each other, perplexed.
“Underground?” queried Shepperton, in a low voice.
Brentwood nodded, and motioning to the Hindoo to hold back the dog, carefully inspected the stone flags. But not a sign of anything having been disturbed could be detected. So far as could be seen, the floor was as it had lain for centuries.
It was Alletson who solved the difficulty. While the others had been intently examining the flags, he had been looking at those parts of the wall which still remained intact, and had alighted on a secret door, which by accident he had pushed open. It was part of the wall, fitting exactly into the pattern of the stone, and was on the inner side of one of the outside buttresses. When opened, it revealed stone steps leading down from the back of the buttress, underneath the chancel.
Lighting one of the motor lamps which he had brought with him, Agar Halfi descended after the dog, and the rest of the party followed.
They discovered themselves in a chamber or vault, which apparently ran under the full extent of the chancel.
Straining at his leash, Hector made straight for the west side of the vault and started scratching at the wall, sniffing and growling alternately. Here they came to a dead stop, for seek as they would, no sign of any way through the wall could they find.
Baffled, they turned their attention to the vault itself, and almost immediately a discovery was made. Before they had proceeded many yards, the Hindoo stumbled, and uttered something which sounded like a curse, at the same time the dog bayed warningly, and Constance clung tighter to her brother’s arm.
Bringing the lamp to bear on the spot, they found the obstacle over which the Hindoo had stumbled, and Shepperton gave an exclamation of consternation as he stooped to look.
No, it was not Elsie Hobson. Lying with arms outstretched, a look of intense horror on his face, lay Henry Thornton!
The Master of Storton bent silently down to examine the body, and when he rose, they all noticed that his face was very stern, and his mouth shut in a straight line.
He looked across the vault into the darkness, and before his mind rose a vision of a wild spot in Afghanistan, for across the throat of the unfortunate clergyman was a jagged wound about two and a half inches long, and on either side of the body was the imprint of a huge bird-shaped foot!