CHAPTER I
Far away down the Bristol Channel, lying snugly under the north-west wing of an ever-growing seaside resort, is an ancient rustic village, which for centuries has slept, deep in the valley between the hills and the western sea.
Cut off from the inland by a fine range of hills, which, sweeping round from the north almost in a semicircle, also encloses the great town of Westsea, this quiet village of Worlstoke dreams on in its rural simplicity.
Although so near such a busy centre—it is only separated from Westsea by three miles of hilly woods—Worlstoke would lie practically undisturbed, but for the few visitors who, deserting the more exciting pleasures of a seaside town, walk to it through the shady paths of the Westsea Woods.
And there, after partaking of tea at one of the cottages, nearly all who wander that way visit the tiny, picturesque church, with its squarely-built, eleventh-century Norman tower; and, if so inclined—and the door is open—climb up the narrow stone steps to the belfry, thence to the roof, and revel in the glorious view to be obtained there.
To the west lies the mysterious sea, stretching across to Cardiff and Barry, while south-west it rolls away down the channel in an ever-increasing flood to the Atlantic Ocean. To the south, over the tops of the trees which form the great woods, the church spires of Westsea are just discernible, and to the north stands out the little headland which, running down to the sea, forms the northern portion of the bay in which the village lies.
About a stone’s-throw further down the main road, and on the opposite side to the church, are some broad steps, rough-hewn out of the rock. These ascend to the brow of that portion of the hill forming the end of the woods, and are continued by a path which leads down the other side, to the hamlet of Storton.
They are known as the “Monks’ Steps,” and it is said that in the years gone by the fathers used this rough road from Storton to Worlstoke to bring their dead for burial.
The steps are many in number and uneven; but the climb up them, though toilsome, is worth the trouble, if only for the truly magnificent view of the surrounding country which is obtainable at the top.
To the north, directly at one’s feet, is a green and fertile valley, stretching right up to the base of the barricading hills, the one end of which fades away in a misty blue, not far from a great seaport town about twenty miles away.
For miles and miles this range of hills runs in a great semicircle, and at last sweeps down to the sea by a small bay, just below Westsea. And there, looking white and beautiful, lies, in panoramic view, this popular seaside resort, as though in the grasp of a giant hand.
But the church and the “Monks’ Steps” are not the only items of interest at Worlstoke. If visitors care to take the north road running on a level with the seashore, half an hour’s walk will bring them to all that remains of the old priory of Melsea.
The tower is the only part now left of the original priory, but it will well repay those who take the trouble to inspect it.
Other parts of the building are now modernised, and used as a farm, but there is sufficient interest in the surroundings to justify the walk.
It was in this priory that the monks mentioned above used to flourish, from about the eleventh to the fifteenth century. Rumour has it that they had communication with Worlstoke church by means of an underground passage, though no trace of such a thing has ever been brought to light.
Now it happened that one sunny Sunday morning, in the spring of 19—, the population of this almost hidden village received a shock, so sudden and so unexpected, that it not only for some time afterwards awoke the inhabitants out of their lethargic dreamings, but brought the eyes of the surrounding districts to bear upon the place.
The shock was caused by the disappearance of the Vicar, the Rev. Henry Thornton! It was “Jarge” Wride, the milkman, who brought the first news on his way from the Vicarage. As he said to the next customer he called on:
“Mrs. Galsby” (Mr. Thornton’s housekeeper) “she be in a fine way. The Vicar he been an’ went oot for a walk las’ night, about seven o’clock, an’ he idn’t come back!”
Such important news, and through such a good medium as the milkman’s customer happened to be, spread quickly; and the whole village was very soon discussing the pros and cons of the matter, forming all sorts of conjectures—mostly irrelevant. When, toward evening, there was no sign of the missing man, the excitement grew, and eventually a search party was formed, which sought fruitlessly far into the night.
On the Monday the police were called in, but days passed without so much as a single clue to the mysterious disappearance; not a trace of Mr. Thornton could be found. So things went on, until, a month after the catastrophe, and after the police had retired baffled, the Rev. Henry Thornton was given up for lost.
The Powers-that-Be appointed a new vicar, and the village began to settle down once more to its ordinary humdrum life.
But the people were not to be left in peace—there was worse in store for Worlstoke. Things went well for a fortnight, and then the inhabitants had a further shock. A second disappearance occurred! This time it was the twenty-four-year-old daughter of the people’s churchwarden, and although every effort was made, no clue could be obtained. The Westsea Woods were scoured from end to end, but all to no purpose. She had, like Mr. Thornton, seemingly de-materialised, and vanished completely.
The minds of most of the people now bordered upon consternation. What did it mean? Who was going to be the next victim? Having no explanation of the mystery, several almost instinctively flew to the conclusion that it was something supernatural. People refused to go about after dark, unless they were in twos or threes. Anxious mothers breathed sighs of relief when their children returned home safely from the village school, and even the bolder spirits of the men were affected.
All sorts of weird tales were raked up, told and re-told, and it is quite possible that if an earthquake had swallowed up London Town, the inhabitants of Worlstoke would have made little comment, so centered were they all upon their own particular trouble. To them, one thing only really mattered, and that was what had come to be known locally as the Worlstoke Mystery.
But that by some strange chance, the new vicar became entangled in the trouble, it is difficult to say what would have happened. His presence brought others into it, and upon them rests this story.
What actually did occur constitutes a strange drama, as the following pages will reveal, if the reader has by now found sufficient interest to seek a little further.