The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 (12 page)

And then it was that he had to jerk himself together. Perhaps he had been craning upward too long and made his head a little giddy. But, just for the moment when his back was turned, something had clattered on the glass, and a sudden shadow seemed to swoop down from across the window and behind him. He ducked involuntarily as from a stealthy blow, and swung around with his arm upraised.

Then he laughed softly at the idea. The appearance of the old man and his morbid-sounding words had probably reacted on his mind. After all, what more likely than that this queer old gentleman had thought it was not mere curiosity, but a troubled mind in need of spiritual comfort, that brought a stranger into the chapel library at that hour? It was all very natural. No doubt there was a tree outside swayed by the wind, and the sound he had heard would be the twigs scrabbled against the glass. Certainly there was nothing to be seen now. And so, jeering inwardly at himself to find his nerves so jumpy, he turned his attention once more from the glass and decided to have a look inside the eccentric’s place of retreat.

He was quite composed again as he pushed back the screen door and entered this dim and poky oratory. It was, though small, elaborately fitted out in High Church style. Above the altar a votive lamp, burning steadfastly and low, cast a slumbering gleam upon the gilded finery. At one side there stood a curious Sanctus bell, and at the other an antique prayer-desk where, it seemed, the old man said his frequent orisons. His lighted candle, fixed in an iron bracket, was still flickering before an image of the Virgin.

As Courtleigh was engrossed with these things, Sanderton returned, apologizing for being away so long. “What a chase I’ve had,” he exclaimed. “When I got up to the house they told me Dr. Propert was down here. I met him on the way back. He said there was a friend of mine in the library when he came out!”

“So that was the doctor!” murmured Courtleigh. “He didn’t give me much chance to explain myself and I felt a bit of a trespasser. He seems a queer man.”

“Yes,” returned the rector, “he is a bit diffident with strangers. Anyway, it’s lucky you tried the door.”

“In point of fact, I didn’t,” confessed Courtleigh. “It was a mechanic coming out that made me realize it was open. An elderly man with some joiner’s tools; and he looked a bit suspicious of me too!”

“That would be Hook, I should think,” said the rector. “I heard the doctor had sent for him again but I don’t know what for—some little repair job, I expect. It’s a bit surprising, though, for he used to work for Faik.”

“Faik? Who’s Faik?” asked the professor as they left the oratory together.

“Oh, he’s the man responsible for altering this place and turning it into a library. I’ll tell you about him afterward when we’ve had a glance through some of the books. It’s getting dark so we shall have to be quick: there’s no artificial light in the place. But fancy my going for the key while the door was open all the time!”

So saying, the rector escorted his friend rapidly around the shelves in the gallery and below. There was not enough time to do more than pick out a few unusual volumes here and there.

“The best of our treasures are in the Muniment Room, as we call it,” said he next, leading up the stone steps and unlocking the strong-room. “And it will hardly be possible to see them to advantage now, I fear.” It was indeed so dark inside that Courtleigh could only catch a tantalizing glimpse of heavy oak presses filled with shadowy volumes. In order to get at least some idea of its rich contents they took one or two items to the doorway—a sixteenth-century herbal by Nicholas Huby; a Book of Hours, said to have belonged to the mother of Lady Jane Grey; a volume or so of an early set of the Greek Fathers; a treatise on the Court of Piepowder (the only known copy) by Spelman; some seventeenth-century manuscripts on Church Law; and an abstruse work on casuistry, ascribed to Charles I.

“And all these go to Oxford when Dr. Propert dies. I shall have to come along again and have a proper look at them before long,” said Courtleigh with a sigh, thinking of psalters and missals yet unseen. As they locked the doors and emerged into the park again, he added: “But what a pity the
Household Book
should be missing. The flower of the collection.”

“Good gracious me! I was going to tell you about that,” exclaimed Sanderton, suddenly remembering. “When I met Dr. Propert on the terrace I mentioned your special interest in it and said I had often wondered about it myself. Imagine my astonishment when the doctor smiled at me in that strange way of his and said, ‘My dear Sanderton, have no fear. It’s safe all right in spite of the devices of the ungodly.
It’s here
,
Sanderton
,
it’s here!’
he hissed, tapping a heavy volume which he was carrying under his arm.

“ ‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ I exclaimed. ‘When did you find it? I am itching to examine it, and I’m also sure my friend would be delighted.’ ‘So you shall, both of you, but not just yet. There’s more about this matter than you know of. One day you will understand why I say this, but meanwhile we must be patient—patient and secret.’ With that he left me. And that’s all I can tell you,” concluded Sanderton.

“Ah,” said Courtleigh, “that would be the old quarto he fetched out of the Muniment Room. Perhaps he thought I’d come to steal it! What a mysterious-minded man he is. He seems to make good use of that oratory too. You never told me he was—shall I say?—a man of devotion.”

The rector was silent for a while. He was a kindly, simple man and obviously did not relish discussing the eccentricities of a patron for whom he had so much regard.

“You know,” he said at last, “it is very easy to misunderstand Dr. Propert. People say he is an oddity. Some—who would do well to take themselves to church a bit oftener—even whisper that he has become a religious maniac, and other nonsense. You, as a stranger, would find him perhaps a trifle erratic. But I know him well enough to make allowances. He has not always been like this, and he has not changed without a cause.”

It was growing dark as the two men walked along under the beech avenue, and Courtleigh kept sympathetically silent till his friend resumed:

“You see, Dr. Propert scarcely saw Peryford till last year. He was born while his father, Sir Ronald, was busy with the Asia Commission. He spent his childhood in India before going to Oxford. There he met Faik (the man I mentioned before) and formed some sort of friendship with him. But the doctor’s studies soon took him abroad again, first to Cairo and later to Peking where—as you know—he gained his name as an archaeologist. Being but distantly connected with the main branch of the Peryford family, he did not interest himself in its history, and certainly never looked to inherit the estate. But, as luck would have it, a succession of deaths (first Baron Peryford and his two sons and finally Lady Ann who died without issue) put the whole property, as they say, ‘in Chancery.’

“This is where Faik with his legal knowledge comes on the scene again. As a friend of Propert’s, he wrote urging him to press his claim at law before it became too late. The doctor, with characteristic nonchalance, put the matter in Faik’s hands and bade him fight the case if he thought it worthwhile. The lawyer certainly did exert himself and actually secured the estate for his friend and client. Most men in Propert’s shoes would have come back to see their inheritance, but the Doctor had just entered upon another project with some American explorers and was in no mood for returning to England then. So, to save himself trouble and also to reward his friend, he generously invited Faik to become his free tenant and reside at Peryford, looking after it in any way he thought best. That was five years ago.

“Then began the fatal renovations which led up to final quarrel. There was a huge but much-neglected library occupying half the east wing of the hall. To this was added a large batch of volumes belonging to Propert himself, books he had acquired in his travels and which he now decided to send home ready for when he should some day return. All these were in the charge of the rector—Mr. Laycock, my predecessor—who was quite a bibliographer.

“Now Faik, having a household of his own, soon formed a scheme for turning the old chapel, then ruinous, into a new library (that is, of course, the one we’ve just visited here in the park) and getting all the books down there together. Well, you’ve seen the place for yourself and can judge how much rebuilding and altering he did. I admit there was much to be said for the scheme. There was no reason (except to an architectural purist like yourself!) why some masonry from the priory ruins should not be incorporated into the restorations.

“I never understood the details but it was evident my predecessor took a dislike to Faik almost from the start. There was the vandalism to do with the priory remains; and also, of course, here was a consecrated building, however disused, suddenly being secularized. I think that grieved him. Whatever it was, he put his foot down about the whole plan though he was unable to stop its being carried out. It was a queer position for him, you see. So far as the books were concerned, Laycock was in charge; but he could not insist that they remain in the house if Faik wanted them out. There were valuable editions and unique specimens—a number of them uncatalogued—and after their removal to the new library there was talk of some volumes being missed: in fact the
Household Book
itself disappeared. In the end everything came to a head with the doctor’s return to England. He supported my predecessor entirely; there was a violent quarrel with Faik (probably about the expenditure) and he was turned out. Propert came to reside here himself; poor Laycock died soon afterward and—here I am.”

When the rector finished his story, it was some time before Courtleigh made any comment. “Did the doctor ever tell you the full extent of the charges Mr. Laycock made against Faik?” he asked at length.

“No. It’s a matter he never likes referring to,” answered Sanderton. “It was not merely financial. I fancy Laycock infected him with his own personal animus against the lawyer. It’s plain he’s still easily upset about the affair. ‘We shall have to go warily,’ he is often saying when we discuss any new arrangements for the library. Since coming here he’s changed visibly.”

“In what way?” pressed Courtleigh with some curiosity.

“Well, for one thing,” resumed Sanderton, “he had his travel notes and research material put into that little reading-cabinet at the end of the gallery, and he works in there daily when at home. Of course, there’s nothing surprising in that for, as you know, the final volume of his
Primitive Burial Rites
is not yet complete. But the doctor’s got it firmly into his head that Faik’s spies are often hanging about the place. It may seem fantastic but he certainly puts little limit to what that man would do, and declares there are several books here they would like to get their hands upon. That’s why the choicest things are kept in the Muniment Room.

“But that’s not all. The poor man was—and still is—constantly interrupting his studies by fancying he can hear the thieves actually in the place. I admit the library, like most old buildings, has its queer noises at times; but the doctor will not be persuaded it is only that. Anyway, he became very interested in the Puseyites (though he never mixes with them!) and got the idea all at once of putting in the oratory. The whole building had for a long time been the family chapel and, as he said, it seemed only fitting to have prayers in it again. I was pleased at this for I thought he intended restoring the library, at least partially, to its former use. I thought it would be a good thing to get the domestic staff down sometimes, and I gladly offered to read matins and evensong there daily.”

The professor smiled at this bit of clerical zeal, but it was dark, and the other went on:

“But that was not what Dr. Propert wanted. His mind was set on a private oratory where he could slip in and say prayers alone before and after going to his books up in the cabinet. The place, as you saw, is rather quaint: he got various pieces of old church furniture to fit it up. But I’ve always felt that I was not very happy there. For one thing, it faces west; but for some perverse reason he would have it so. The consequence is I rarely go inside except to celebrate on certain saints’ days about which the doctor is very particular.”

After this lengthy recital the rector gave vent to a great sigh like a man much bewildered by half-knowledge.

“Well,” said Courtleigh with grim cheerfulness, “you’ve tied yourself up to some very eccentric company. I shall feel quite guilty leaving you tomorrow! By the way, is anything known about this Faik’s present activities and whereabouts?”

“Before leaving here,” said Sanderton, “he bought a small property at Hengsward, beyond Malton, but they say he’s mostly on the move. ‘Away in London’ is all the news I ever hear.”

“Hm,” grunted the professor, as they reached the rectory gate, “it’s my opinion the less you see of that gentleman the better.”

II

It was autumn before Courtleigh could make his second visit. During the long vacation he often thought of Peryford but was unable then to get away. One day, however, there came a letter from Sanderton reporting that Dr. Propert had unexpectedly become benevolently disposed toward Durham. The news was a complete surprise to Courtleigh who wrote eagerly to know what had led to such a turn of events. I will give the gist of the situation without quoting all the correspondence. Here it is.

Something has already been said about the doctor’s ultra-Tractarian sympathies in matters of religion and of his zeal for ceremonies. It seems a tragic irony that this new access of piety should have expressed him to the ruin of his lifetime’s greatest hope. For, along with his devotional bent, Propert was a notable scholar. He had indeed been a Fellow of Carpe Corpus, and it was an open secret that his valuable collection of books was to be bequeathed to that college. Furthermore, people with a knowledge of the probabilities considered it a foregone conclusion that Propert would be made Master at the next election.

The prospect of that honor was in fact the old man’s most cherished ambition and accounted partly for his return to England. You may judge, therefore, what a blow it was to him when news came through that Cornwick, the other candidate, had been chosen instead. In due time it also transpired that the vote had only gone against him in consequence of certain malicious reports set forward by Faik—himself a Carpe Corpus man—that Propert had become a secret Papist.