Читать книгу The Perfect World - Ella M. Scrymsour - Страница 5

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The London papers were burning with excitement. Marshfielden had at last become known to the vast, outside world, for the disappearance of so many of its inhabitants could no longer be hidden under a veil. After the vicar was found to be missing, Mr. Dickson at the mine made Slater promise to report the matter to the Kiltown police—the nearest constabulary to Marshfielden.

The detective officer and his men came over and pompously took notes and asked voluminous questions, but after a fortnight’s search came no nearer solving the mystery. Then one of the constables disappeared too, and Sergeant Alken thought it was high time to report the matter to Scotland Yard.

Detective Inspector Vardon, the shrewdest, cleverest man at the Yard, came down immediately, and at once sent for Alan and Desmond Forsyth. He had been working out a theory coming down in the train and these two young men were very closely connected with it.

But after his first interview with them, he realized that his suspicions were entirely wrong, and knew he must look elsewhere for a clue. Alan told the full story without any hesitation whatsoever and explained how they themselves had suffered over the “Curse.”

“Pooh Pooh!” laughed Vardon “We will leave the ‘Curse’ out of the question. These mysteries are caused by no witchcraft, but by a clever, cunning brain.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Desmond.

“Of course,” and Alan gave a sigh of relief as he murmured, “you don’t know how that has relieved me. I was beginning to get quite a horror of the unknown.”

“Of course it’s an uncanny case,” went on the Inspector, “but we’ll solve the problem yet.” Then he added laughingly, “I came down here prepared to suspect you two young gentlemen.”

“Us? Why?”

“Well, all these mysteries occurred after you arrived here, and I found you were none too popular with the natives.”

Desmond was indignant, but Vardon soon cooled him down. “See here, my dear sir. It’s my business to suspect everybody until I convince myself of his innocence. I know now I was mistaken—therefore I have been candid with you.”

The inquiries lasted some time, and every day brought some fresh disaster in its wake, filling the little village with misery and consternation, and the London editors’ pockets with gold. Sightseers and tourists came galore to the stricken place, and the carrier between Marshfielden and Kiltown reaped a small fortune from the curious. Every day the papers recounted some fresh loss—perhaps a cow or a pig, but often a human life. Women kept inside their homes, and even the men folk walked about in pairs, so that they could help each other should the “unknown” fall upon them.

The two boys still worked in the mine, and the men, realizing at last that they were not the instigators of all the trouble, admitted them, charily enough at first, into their lives again.

Alan and Desmond were quite happy with Mrs. Warren, but missed Mr. Winthrop’s kindly advice and friendship greatly. No trace of him had ever been found, and a younger man now took his parochial duties. Amateur detectives swarmed about the place, but the villagers in a body refused shelter to every one. Even the police officials themselves had to pitch tents in fields near by for their own use, as no bribe was high enough to obtain accommodation for them. Inspector Vardon was beginning to get disheartened; he had formed many theories during his stay, but upon minute investigation they all fell to pieces.

Walking away from the village one day, his hands behind his back and his head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought, he was suddenly awakened from his reverie by the sound of groans. Hedges were on either side of him, but he vaulted over the one from whence the sounds came.

There lay a sheep, its wool burnt away and its body scorched. He examined the helpless creature in pity, and the poor beast breathed his last. He was distinctly puzzled. There was no sign of fire anywhere at all—the poor animal alone had been hurt.

He pondered for a moment, and the thought came into his mind that perhaps this was a sequel to the strange disappearances and mysteries he had been trying to unravel—but after a moment, he cast the thought aside as being impossible, and decided that the accident must have been caused by a passer-by throwing away a match or a lighted cigarette, so he hurried across the fields to tell the farmer of his loss. That night, however, he had cause to think more deeply over the mishap to the sheep.

About six in the evening Ezra Meakin and a companion set out for Kiltown. They intended to stay the night there and come back by the carrier in the morning. At eight a shrieking, demented man came flying into Marshfielden, and fell in a heap across the steps that led up to the church.

Matt Harding was near and ran to his aid.

“Good God, it’s Ezra!” he cried.

It was indeed, but a very different Ezra from the one who had left Marshfielden only two hours before. His clothes were scorched and his hair singed, while great blisters, that could have been caused only by excessive heat, marred his face.

“What has come over ye, lad?” asked Matt in concern.

“The fire! The fire!” cried Ezra hysterically. “It’s taken Luke—he’s gone,” and with the words he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Matt lifted him up in his strong arms, and bore him to the nearest cottage. “Fetch the Inspector,” said he curtly as he busied himself in trying to restore life to the inanimate form on the bed. At length he succeeded—a tremor passed through the body; the hands unclasped; the eyelids fluttered slightly. Then the lids slowly moved, and Matt stared down in horror at the wide open eyes. Blindly he stumbled out of the room, and fell into the arms of the Inspector.

“What’s the matter?” asked Vardon.

Matt looked at him stupidly for a moment, and then gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Ezra—he’s—he’s—”

“Yes?”

“He’s blind.”

“Blind?”

Matt Harding could say no more, but sank down on to a chair and buried his head in his hands.

For a week Ezra lay delirious, and it was even longer than that before any one could get his story from him. When it came, it was disjointed and almost incoherent. After he and Luke Wilden had walked about a mile, he told them, they suddenly saw in the distance something that looked like a red hot wire on the horizon. Dancing and swaying it drew nearer to them, and fascinated they watched to see what it could possibly be.

Then suddenly, before they realized, it was upon them. It swooped down and coiled around Luke’s body, and carried him off into mid-air. As he tried to drag Luke from its clutches, the end of it, in curling around Luke still more firmly, struck him, and burnt and blinded him. He remembered no more; everything grew dim, and he fled down the long, straight road towards the village, instinct guiding him in place of his sight.

Every one heard the story incredulously, and it duly appeared in the London newspapers, and tended to make the “Marshfielden Mystery” as it was called, still more complicated and unfathomable.

Ezra recovered from the shock, but his eyesight was gone forever.

“Destroyed by fire,” was the verdict of the eminent specialist who was called in to diagnose his case.

The story of the “Light” grew daily more terrifying. School children declared they saw it from the windows of their class-rooms, and when closely questioned about it, declared it was “a golden streak of fire, as thin as wire, that came rushing through the sky like lightning.”

Then men began to watch for it, but somehow it seemed to evade most of them, and for some time, solitary statements were all that could be obtained with reference to it.

“What do you make of it, Alan?” asked Desmond one day, after it had been seen by three different witnesses at the same time and in the same direction.

“I don’t know. Every one is not a liar, and at the same time every one cannot suffer from a like optical delusion. Every one who has seen this phenomenon agrees in every detail about its appearance.”

“Yes, even the children,” supplemented Desmond.

“Let’s go for a walk,” yawned his cousin. “I feel very tired to-day.”

Mrs. Warren watched them going toward the gate with apprehension in her eyes, and just as they were about to pass through, she rushed to the door. “Be you agoin’ out? Oh, do’ant ’ee go—do’ant ’ee—not to-night! I be afeared—mortal afeared.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of ourselves,” laughed Desmond. “Don’t you worry.”

“But I’m afeared.” She shivered as she spoke—but the boys laughed as they walked toward the Corlot Woods, a favourite spot of theirs.

As they crossed the stile leading to the path across the fields, they heard a dog crying pitifully. Alan, always tender-hearted towards dumb animals, stopped and looked round. Again came the mournful cry. “I think it must be across the way,” said Desmond. Alan crossed the road, and then called out to his cousin.

“It’s Slater’s pup”—he bent over it closely—“Why its leg is broken and its fur is singed,” he added in an awe-struck tone.

A rustling sounded behind him—an intense heat that nearly stifled him; he heard a sudden shriek—a groan.

Once more the “Light” had found its prey. Alan was alone!

“Come at once. Something terrible has happened to Dez. Don’t delay. Alan.”

Such was the telegram that Sir John Forsyth received upon arriving at his office the day after Desmond’s disappearance. The two boys had kept him fully posted with all the news at Marshfielden. But as he always prided himself upon his strong common sense, he laughed with the boys at the suggestion that the “Curse” was responsible for the strange happenings in the little Derbyshire village.

His face blanched as he read the message, and instinctively he thought of the “Curse,” yet put the thought aside as quickly as it came.

Masters, his confidential secretary, almost friend, looked at him pityingly.

“I am going to Marshfielden,” announced Sir John.

“Shall I come with you?” asked Masters.

“Yes, Masters, I shall need you.”

“An express leaves for Derby in half an hour,” went on Masters. “If we book there, I can ’phone through for a car to meet us and motor us direct to Grimland.”

“Yes! Yes! You arrange,” and Sir John, who had grown as many years old as minutes had passed since he had had the news, sat with his teeth chattering and his limbs trembling.

“A motor car will be waiting for us at Derby,” announced Masters as they took their seats in the train.

At last the whistle sounded, the flag waved, and the great engine snorted violently as it left the station.

Sir John, in his anguish of mind, was unable to sit still; up and down the corridor he walked until the passengers began to pity his white, strained face, and wondered what his trouble could be. Derby at last! Then followed a mad ride to Grimland. Alan was awaiting his Uncle at the pit head; he had not attempted to go to bed since the “Light” had taken Desmond from his side. Silently they gripped hands, and Sir John entered the little office and heard the whole story.

Alan wound up by saying, “Even as I tell the story, it seems almost incredible. As I turned round I saw Desmond in mid-air, with, it seemed, a fiery wire about him—and as I looked he vanished from sight.”

Sir John was determined not to look upon it as witchcraft.

“It’s man’s devilry, I’ll be bound,” said he. “I’ll swear it’s not supernatural. Get all the scientists down—let them make investigations. I’ll pay handsomely, but discover the secret I will.”

The men, when they realized that Desmond had disappeared, were shamefaced, and came to Mrs. Warren’s cottage to offer their sympathy. They tried to atone for their past conduct, by inviting both Alan and his Uncle to stay in Marshfielden. But Alan refused. “No, we’ll stay here,” said he. “Mrs. Warren has made me very comfortable. But perhaps we’ll come and visit Marshfielden, if we may, and do our utmost to discover the perpetrator of this diabolical plot.”

“Aye, do ’ee sur, do ’ee,” said the men, and Alan felt strangely cheered by their friendship.

Sir John stayed with Alan for a fortnight, but as others had disappeared, so had Desmond, and no trace of him could be found. It was necessary for Sir John to return to town, in order that he might keep his business appointments and he asked Alan to accompany him.

“I curse the day I ever sent you to Grimland,” said he over and over again.

“Don’t upset yourself so, Uncle John! How could anyone have foreseen such a calamity. No, I’ll stay here, and perhaps I may be the means of unravelling the mystery.”

Police from the Continent, detectives from America, Asiatic wizards and sorcerers all came to Marshfielden—but none solved the mystery. For days no one stirred out of doors, and when at length they did so, it was with faltering steps and bated breath. No one knew who would be the next victim of the strange power that pervaded the place. Summer came again! A year had passed and left its mark on the once peaceful English village. Many white crosses adorned the little churchyard, but of all the new ones, few really marked the last resting place of those whose names they bore. A tiny tombstone in the far corner, under a weeping ash, named the spot consecrated to the memory of little Jimmie Murlock, the first victim of the “Light”.

Moll Murlock had gone out of her mind. The shock had turned her brain,—and when, one after another, she learned of the tragedies that were daily coming on the little village, her senses left her entirely, and she was taken to the Kiltown asylum. Dan lived alone, in the little cottage, his hair snow white, and his features old and wrinkled; and none of his comrades dared recall the past to his mind. The new vicar who had taken Mr. Winthrop’s place was very unpopular, and on Sundays the church was nearly half empty. Fear had turned their thoughts from Heaven, and while men openly cursed their God, the women whispered their curses in their hearts.

Inspector Vardon was still investigating, but his reports to the Yard were all the same. “Nothing further to hand” and then came the day when he added “Fear this is beyond me” and the chiefs looked at each other in dismay, as they feared it would remain one of the unsolved mysteries of the day. They had no shrewder or cleverer man in their employ than Marcus Vardon.

Then the “Light” suddenly disappeared. No more losses were reported, things went on more calmly, and women began to go out of doors more freely. Children returned to school, and Marshfielden had become almost normal again. For two months there were no casualties, and people hoped that the evil influence had departed for good, or burnt itself out.

And the next Sunday the new clergyman addressed from his pulpit a full church. The people had once more come to the house of God for comfort and to return Him thanks for the cessation of the past horrors. And his voice shook as he gave out his text, from the one hundred and twenty-first psalm:—

“The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; the Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth for ever more.”