The Silent Dead

Chapter I.—The Child of the Slum.-3

The barman drew himself a pint, and filled the other's glass. They chin-chined together and the journalist asked, “Has the old chap been there long?”

“Four or five years,” said the barman, “and before him there was an artist fellow, but he didn't last long. When he rented the place from the Government he told everyone all he wanted was peace and quiet.” He banged his fist upon the table. “By hell, he got it, too, as one day he disappeared and not a blooming trace of him was found afterwards. Some think he slipped into Fowler's Bog, near by, but we round here believe the warlocks got him and, carried him away.”

“Warlocks!” exclaimed the journalist, looking very puzzled. “What are they?”

The barman nodded darkly. “Evil spirits which haunt the moor, ghosts of those poor devils who were killed as sacrifices on the tors those hundreds and hundreds of years ago.”

“But you don't mean to tell me,” frowned the journalist, “that there are actually people who believe in such things now?”

“My oath, I do,” exclaimed the barman emphatically. “There are lots of us round here who believe in them, just as our ancestors did long generations back. It's in the moorland blood and we can't drive it out of us.” He laughed.

“Oh, yes, we may go to church on a Sunday and sing hymns and pray and say our prayers and all that, but you offer us a fiver to go to certain places on the moor when the moon is full and you just see how we'll look at you. You'll have to put your fiver back in your pocket every time.”

“And you've got this moorland blood yourself,” asked the journalist. “You wouldn't take the fiver if I offered it?”

The barman shook his head. “No, I just wouldn't.” He flushed up a bit. “I know I've never seen one of those bad spirits myself, but my old grandfather did. He died a couple of years back at ninety-seven and I've many a time heard him tell how one of them nearly got him when he was a young chap.”

“You mean he actually saw it?” asked the journalist.

“Actually saw it!” exclaimed the barman. “Why, man it almost seized hold of him and it was touch and go that he escaped. It had taken the form of a dark man, with a long white face and black hair right down on to his shoulders. My grand-dad says it glared at him and its eyes seemed to pierce right through him.”

He spoke so earnestly that, although I thought it all nonsense, yet I could feel my legs shaking. I saw the journalist wink at his companion. “And where did all this happen?” he asked.

“On the main road right on top of the moor,” said the barman, “just before you turn off to where this old colonel lives. My grand-dad said it was all bad luck, as he was caught out late just as it had got dark and the moon rose. His pony had gone lame and he couldn't ride it. So he was walking beside it, when all of a sudden this dark man sprang out of the ground and stretched out his hands which my grand-dad says were like claws.”

The barman seemed quite affected by his story and there was a catch in his breath as he went on. “Grand-dad knew what he was up against at once, and fortunately kept his head. He made the sign of the cross with his forefinger and ran for his life. He ran all the way until he got home and then it took half a bottle of old brandy to revive him.”

“But couldn't this evil spirit run faster than he did?” asked the journalist, as if wanting to draw him on.

The barman pounded again with his fist upon the counter. “Yes, of course it could, but my grand-dad's pony saved him! The spirit stopped to drain his blood. My grand-dad heard the poor brute's dying screams. No one ever saw the pony again.”

“But how is it?” asked the journalist sarcastically, “that this old colonel and his servants can live up there unharmed with these evil spirits haunting round so close to them as you say?”

“We think, for one thing,” said the barman earnestly, “it's because these two servants of his may be something of bad spirits themselves. They're not Christians and keep to the heathen gods where they come from. One of these gods is a snake and called Siva, the Destroyer.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the journalist, looking very amused. “How did you find out that?”

“Jan Hedden, who used to live here,” said the barman, “told us all about it. You see, he was a tradesman in this town, and one day just afore Christmas he went up to 'The Grey House'—that's the name of the colonel's place—to mend a leak they'd got in the roof. While he was having his dinner, a darned good one with plenty of cider, he said, the old woman started to talk to him and she talked to him a lot. She's a sorceress, right enough!”

“A sorceress!” exclaimed the journalist. “That's funny, isn't it?”

“It's more than funny,” scowled the barman. “It's damned wicked. She read his future for him and told him he hadn't long to live. Jan laughed at her, as we all did when he told us, because he was as healthy as a trout and could down a gallon of cider in about ten minutes.” He nodded very solemnly. “But Jan died three weeks later. He got pneumonia from digging out a fox one cold Monday afternoon and the parson buried him on the Sunday following.”

“Dreadful, dreadful!” exclaimed the journalist. “And you think she made him die?”

“Certain of it,” nodded the barman. “She did it to show her power.” He shook his head savagely. “And if the law had allowed it we'd have gone up in a mob and burnt her as a witch. Jan was a fine fellow and well liked.”

“But speaking quite seriously,” said the journalist, “and not wanting to laugh because we Londoners don't understand such things, are there really many round the moorside who believe as you do? Now tell me straight.”

“There are many,” said the barman with the utmost seriousness, “but generally we don't talk about it, and I oughtn't to have done so now. I tell you it's in our blood and we can't help it.”

Evidently to keep things going, the journalist here suggested another pint of beer, but this time the barman said he'd prefer a double brandy, as talking about evil spirits had made his stomach queer. The brandy was downed in one gulp and the journalist went on with the conversation.

“You say these dogs the old man's got are very savage?” he asked.

“Yes, very,” said the barman, “and we know they're sheep killers. All the farmers round here would just love to have the law put on the colonel and get a magistrate's order to have the dogs destroyed, but the devil of it is that, though so many of them have had sheep killed in the night, they've never yet managed to get the actual proof that his dogs were the killers. A couple of weeks ago Harry Baker was sure he had got it at last, but the evidence, once again, all fizzled out.”

“And how was that?” asked the journalist. “It'll fit in well with my story.”

“It was early on a Sunday morning,” said the barman, “and, just as it was beginning to get light, Harry—he's a farmer up Lustleigh way just a couple of miles from here—was woke up by hearing his dog starting to bark like fury. He whipped on his trousers and boots and ran out to loose his animal off the chain. It was a misty morning and in the half light he couldn't see far, but he swears he caught sight of a big brute of a dog just vanishing out of sight. He unchained his own dog and it picked up the strange scent at once and was off like an arrow. Then to Harry's great uneasiness, everything went quiet again and his dog didn't come back. Daylight came on in a few minutes and, the mist clearing a bit, what do you think he saw?”

“One thing, for sure,” nodded the journalist, “his own dog was dead.”

The barman nodded back. “With its throat almost torn out. Then, within a hundred yards or so, he saw five of his best ewes had been served in the same way. Now Harry's always a quick worker and, within ten minutes, he had routed out the local policeman, taken him to see the slaughtered sheep and, with him in his car, was racing like blazes up to 'The Grey House.'”

“And what happened?” asked the journalist, because the barman had tantalisingly stopped speaking.

“Nothing,” he grinned, “except that they found both the Alsatians there with the colonel giving them their breakfast of bread and milk. Neither of them showed any signs of sweat or blood and it was certain they had not left the place all night.”

The journalist laughed and, looking at his watch, rose up to go. “Thanks for the story, old chap,” he said, “and here's half a dollar for it. We must be off. Goodbye.”

I was disappointed to see them go but another customer immediately took their place. “Two journalists from London,” remarked the barman to the newcomer, as the motor-cycle was being ridden away.

“Journalists, my eye!” commented the other. “They come from London right enough, but they're street bookies in Whitechapel Road, and I had a bet or two with them when I was up there last month. I recognised them at once. The good-looking one with the moustache is called Tod Bellamy and his reputation's not too good. They say he's been in quod for burglary, only a little while ago.”

I didn't hear any more of the conversation as at that moment the hall door opened and Colonel Jasper beckoned me out.