Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 (2 page)

 
          
He
took a billfold from the inside of his pocket and gave her some notes.

 
          
“Thank
you/’ She opened a drawer in the desk, put the money in a metal box inside, and
locked the drawer. Then she gestured toward an arched doorway at the rear of
the parlor.

 
          
“That's
the breakfast room in there. We serve breakfast at
eight o’clock
in the morning, unless you would want it
later.”

 
          
“
Eight o’clock
will suit me, Mrs. Fothergill,” Thunstone
assured her. “I don’t want you to make yourself too busy on my account.” “But
it’s never hard to do things when you have a system.”
Again
her smile.
“I do well here, though I say it myself. I bring a man to
work in the yard, do repairs now and then, and I’ve a girl back in the kitchen.
She’s not really a servant; she’s a young friend who lives with me here and
helps me. I’m grateful for that help. And speaking of help,” she went on, with
even more of a smile, “if I may ask, is there any help we might give you in
whatever you plan to do here?”

 
          
She
had sat herself down to ask that. Apparently she liked to talk to him. She had
crossed one knee over the other, showing plump calves in fawn-colored
stockings. Her feet were small, and wore high-heeled blue sandals strapped at
the slim ankles. Thunstone looked back at her, and decided that the bright
yellow of her hair had skillful treatment from a hairdresser. It reminded him
of orange marmalade. He wondered if there was a hairdresser in as small a
community as Claines. Perhaps she went regularly to a beauty shop in the
neighboring factory and market town of Gerrinsford, through which the bus had
brought him here. That would be a journey of seven or eight miles every few
weeks.

 
          
“I’m
glad to talk about why I came,” Thunstone said easily. “I’m a student of
antiquities and customs, and I was in
London
to look into some publications at the
library of the
British
Museum
. I have some English friends who spoke
about Claines.
About a fallen pillar of stone, and that
figure, cut out to the chalk on the hill above us here.”
“Oh, ah,” she
said, nodding. “Sweepside, we call that rise of ground. It belongs to Mr.
Ensley at Chimney Pots. Old Thunder, yes; though I don't know how that name
came to be given. It seems to always have been called that. I should say that I
was brought up in Claines, here in this very house. But then I grew up and went
to
London
." She stirred, as though to preen
herself. “I was on the stage, you see.”

 
          
"I
see,” said Thunstone, who did not feel great surprise to hear that she had been
on the stage.

 
          
“And
then I married in
London
. But my husband died—he was a photographer, an art photographer. And
when my dear father and mother died, too, four years ago, I returned here.” Her
blue eyes studied him.
“But enough about me.
You’re an
antiquarian, you said.”

 
          
“In
a modest way, yes, I am.”

 
          
“That
sounds so interesting. And Mrs. Thunstone, has she come to
England
with you?”

 
          
“There’s
no Mrs. Thunstone.”

 
          
At
that she brightened and smiled again. She seemed ready to giggle, but did not.

 
          
“May
I sit here for a minute or so and make some notes?” he asked.

 
          
“Why
yes, of course. But excuse me for an instant.”

 
          
She
rose and winnowed out.

 
          
Thunstone
fished a loose-leaf notebook from the side pocket of his jacket and uncapped a
ballpoint pen. At the top of a page he wrote the date,
Thursday
;
July 1
, and
below that wrote the things he had heard from Hawes at the Moonraven and Mrs.
Fothergill. Some words he underscored. As he finished writing, Mrs. Fothergill
returned. She bore a silver tray, and on it a silver teapot and cups and a
plate of small cakes.

 
          
“It’s
four
o’clock
, or
nearly,” she said, “and I like an early tea if there’s time. I thought you
might care to join me, Mr. Thunstone.”

 
          
“You’re
very kind,” he said, rising to take the tray and put it on a small side table.
“And maybe you’ll let me ask some more questions.”

 
          
“If I can answer any of them.”
She poured the tea. “Cream?”
she asked him.
“Sugar?”

 
          
“No,
thank you.”

 
          
She
handed him a cup and a small plate with a frosted currant cake and a paper
napkin decorated with cupids. He sipped. “This is very good,” he praised the
tea.

           
“And good of you
to say so.
I don't think that many Americans appreciate tea.”

 
          
“We
appreciate it so little that once we threw a whole shipload of it into
Boston
Harbor
.”

 
          
She
laughed at that, perhaps more than the joke deserved. “Can I help you with what
you want to know about Claines, then?” she asked.

 
          
“I
hope you can.” Teacup in one hand, pen in the other, he looked at her. “I mean
the pillar of stone. I heard it said that every year, about this time, the
people turn it over where it lies. Do you know why?”

 
          
“Oh,
ah,” she said again. “Yes, that does happen, but as to why, I'm afraid I can't
hazard a guess. I only know that it's gone on, year after year, since ever
there was a Claines, as I suppose.”

 
          
He
wrote down what she said. “And how long has there been a Claines?” he asked.

 
          
“Forever, more or less.
Our curate here at St. Jude's, young
Mr. Gates, he might have a date of some sort.”

 
          
“I've
heard his name,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“They
do say that Mr. Gates wants to write some sort of history of Claines. And too,
he might speak to that fallen pillar; it's called the Dream Rock. It so
happens
that it lies at the edge of the St. Jude's
churchyard. You could ask Mr. Gates, and I'm sure he'd talk to you.”

 
          
Thunstone
drank the rest of his tea. He finished writing, closed the notebook and put it
in his pocket, and rose.

 
          
“Thank
you for giving me tea,” he said. “You've been very hospitable, Mrs.
Fothergill.”

 
          
“Not at all.”
                           
„

 
          
“Now,
if you'll excuse me, I'll go walk about the town for a while.”

 
          
Cane
in hand, he went into the hall and out at the front door, aware that she
watched him go. He had a sense that something else watched, and wondered if
that was a fancy.

 
          
Bareheaded,
Thunstone paused on the sidewalk. He leaned slightly on his cane and allowed
himself a moment to look at what he could see of Claines.

 
          
On
his side of the street were homes. Two of them stood east of Mrs. Fothergill’s,
two small, respectable-looking little cottages. On beyond these rose a
structure of some size.

 
          
It
was of sooty-looking gray stone, it seemed to have a battlement above its
front, and several chimneys ranged along the roof. Mrs. Fothergill had spoken
of a place called Chimney Pots. Probably he was looking at it. He waited for a
lull in motor traffic, walked quickly across
Trail Street
, and turned right in front of the Moonraven
to continue along in front of the business houses.

 
          
They
were, understandably, modest business houses. The Moonraven looked large in
comparison with most of them. Thunstone strolled past a little cabin of a shop
that proclaimed itself Post Office, but displayed postcards and boxes of candy
in its window, then past another that promised Fish & Chips, then a larger
one with long glass display windows and big letters above them,
ludlam’s market.
A little alley ran beyond
Ludlam’s, and across
Trail Street
became a gravel-strewn cross street. Along that way on the far side
Thunstone could see more homes, a sort of handful of them. Some were of the
sort called workmen's cottages. Several larger ones with two stories probably
were divided into small flats. Across the alley he paused again, in front of a
gloomy place with a broad, open doorway and the information
garage
&
machine shop, a. porrask.
A massive man in stained overalls stood beside
the gasoline pump—petrol pump, they would call it here in
England
—tightening something with a screwdriver. He
turned and glowered at Thunstone with flinty eyes in a black-bearded face.

           
“Yus?” he croaked. “What is it?”

 
          
“I'm
just walking along,” said Thunstone, and did so. The flinty eyes looked with
disfavor at the silver-banded cane he swung.

 
          
Snuggled
close to Porrask's enterprise was a pub smaller and shabbier than the
Moonraven. Its sign called it
the
waggoner. Two
men lounged there, presumably waiting for it to open at
five o'clock
. The policeman Thunstone had seen before
brought his bicycle close and stopped, one foot on the pavement.

 
          
“Pardon
me, Officer,” Thunstone said. “Can you give me some information?”

 
          
“If I have it, sir.”
He was a young, rangy man with a long
face and a heavy, neat brown mustache. “Do you mean, about Claines?”

 
          
“Yes,
I'm here on a visit. Over across the street, is that the place called Chimney
Pots?”

 
          
Both
of them looked across. From that point, Thunstone had a good view. It was a
massive building of rough, gloomy
rock, that
held bits
of light, like sparks in dying coals. There were heavily framed windows above
and below, a wide porch with pillars. The
assembly of broad
chimneys on the roof were
each crowned with cylindrical pots.

 
          
“Yes,
sir, that's called Chimney Pots,” said the policeman. “The owner is Mr. Gram
Ensley, who owns a good deal of property here.”

 
          
The
policeman's accent was what Thunstone had heard called an educated one. His
manner was cordial, though official.

 
          
“You're
well acquainted here?” suggested Thunstone.

 
          
“It's
my business to be, though I'm not from here. I was bom in
Newcastle
; I went to college at
Reading
. When I joined the force, they assigned me
to Claines.”

 
          
“I
see,” said Thunstone. “Now, I'd like to meet Mr. Gates, the minister here.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir—Father Gates, he'd like to be called, though he's a curate as yet, not a
rector. This is a Thursday, and I'd look for him to be in his study at the
church, there on ahead. St.
Jude's, that
is.”

 
          
'Thank
you, Officer.”

 
          
Thunstone
walked on toward the church. He had only glanced at it on the bus coming into
Claines. At second glance, it was not a large church, nor yet a particularly
impressive one. It had been built of smudgy-looking stone and was square and
flat-roofed, with a small steeple to relieve the monotony of its architecture.
At the side was a cemetery, dotted with small drab tombstones. A hedge ran
around this except at the side next to the street. There lay a long, worn
obelisk, grubbily pale, with grass tufted all around it. Thunstone walked to it
and leaned lightly on his cane to study it.

 
          
The
thing was eight feet or more in length, roughly rounded, and perhaps two and a
half feet through at its largest diameter. Some kind of schist, judged
Thunstone. He bent to see more closely. It had been shaped at some time or
other, perhaps to simulate a human form, but what might have been shoulders had
dwindled away with time. The top of the obelisk was, or had been, a roughly
head like knob. On the surface of the rock were the traces of markings. They
might have been deeply incised at one time, but years of wear and weather had
reduced them to faintness.

 
          
A
shadow fell at Thunstone’s feet, and he turned to look.

 
          
He
had been joined by a youngish man almost as tall and sturdy as himself, dressed
in dark clericals. The resolute-jawed face looked gravely curious. It was
crowned with thick brown hair, closely curled. Deep blue eyes questioned
Thunstone.

 
          
“I
believe you must be the Reverend Mr. Gates,” said Thunstone. ‘Tm a visitor in
Claines; Thunstone’s my name. And this,” he set the tip of his cane to the
obelisk, “must be what they call the Dream Rock.”

 
          
“Yes,”
said Gates, “that’s the Dream Rock, right enough.”

 
          
Thunstone
felt a tremor in the hand that held the cane, something like a minor electric
shock. He drew the cane away, and the tremor in his hand went away.

 
          
“The
Dream Rock,” repeated Gates, “and
it’s
a bad dream
where I’m concerned.” He looked at Thunstone. “I read folklore and antiquarian
magazines, and your name is familiar to me. You have an appreciation of things.
What’s your reaction to the Dream Rock?”

 
          
“When
I touched it with my cane just now, I had a sensation like an electric current
running up my arm.”

           
“Really?” said Gates. “It’s an evil
rock, that. It survives from times of arrant paganism. Well, Mr. Thunstone, I'm
glad that you came along.”

 
          
“A
very intelligent young policeman directed me to you.”

 
          
“That
would be young Constable Dymock,” Gates said. “In a way, he's coming along as
I'm coming along. We both won university scholarships—he to
Reading
, I to
Oxford
. We both knew what careers we wanted; he
wanted criminology, I wanted religion. I rather like Dymock. We've begun more
or less together in Claines.”

 
          
Gates
looked Thunstone up and down.

 
          
“If
you have a few minutes, you might like to come to my study and tell me what you
think of Claines.”

 
          
“I'll
be glad of the chance to talk to you,” Thunstone assured him.

 
          
Gates
led Thunstone along a flagged walk to the church and around it to a handsomely
cleated door of stained oak, then through that to a room lighted by two
windows. Gates’s study was not of the tidiest, but Thunstone thought it was
interesting. An inner wall was given over to shelves of books, clear up to the
ceiling. There was a desk of pale wood, with papers and a typewriter and an
empty teacup. Gates motioned Thunstone to an armchair and seated himself at the
desk. His movements were easy but powerful.

 
          
“You
say you felt a sort of current when you touched the Dream Rock with your cane,”
he said. “That's a rather interesting cane, if I may say so.”

 
          
“It's
a sword cane,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“Is
it, indeed?”

 
          
“I'll
show you.”

 
          
Thunstone
turned the handle around and cleared the blade inside. It slid out of the
hollowed shank. It shone palely. He passed it over to Gates, who took it
carefully and narrowed his deep-set blue eyes to study it.

 
          
“A
silver blade,” he said. “And there's an inscription on it.” His eyes became
slits as he peered. “Latin,” he said after a moment, and read aloud:
“Sic pereant omnes inimici tui, Domine
.
Yes, from the Psalms. 'So perish all thine enemies, O God.' ”

           
“The man who gave it to me says it
was forged by Saint Dunstan, a thousand years ago.”

 
          
Gates
was deeply impressed. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

 
          
He
passed the sword back, and Thunstone sheathed it in the shank of the cane.
“There happens to be at least one other like it,” he said. “That one belongs to
my friend Judge Keith Hilary Pursuivant. He gave me this. But let me say that
what interests me about you, Father, is that you're supposed to be working
toward a history of this interesting little town.”

 
          
“This
little hamlet,” Gates said, using the same word that Hawes had used at the
Moonraven. “I should explain first why I happen to be here. I came as a curate
to the parish at Gerrinsford, which includes Claines. But there’s a bequest, a
very old
bequest, that
provides for St. Jude’s to be
kept active, and so my vicar assigned me here. I’m not a true vicar as yet.”

 
          
He
spoke as though he wanted to be a true vicar, and Thunstone said, “TTiat will
follow, I’d think.”

 
          
“I
hope so. I’ve done some articles on church matters that have attracted
attention, and I have encouragement about the publication of my history of
Claines.”

 
          
“I’ve
already called Claines an interesting town,” offered Thunstone.

 
          
“We
call it a hamlet because it isn’t truly a town,” said Gates. “We haven’t a
mayor or any local government. No police department except Constable Dymock.
And we aren’t a parish; we have just St. Jude’s and
myself
as curate. We don’t have even a great house.”

 
          
“How about Chimney Pots?”
Thunstone asked.

 
          
“Oh,”
and Gates smiled, “a pleasant place enough, but hardly a stately home of
England
. Have you been to any of those?”

 
          
“To
a couple, with coach tours,” Thunstone told him. “Frankly, I felt like an
intruder when I walked in. Of course, I was making certain studies.”

 
          
“Certain
studies,” Gates echoed. “If I may hazard a guess, you’re a university man.”

 
          
“Not
exactly,” said Thunstone, shaking his dark head. “I went to a small southern
college—Carrington—because I could get some modest financial help if I played
football there. After that, I took some graduate courses at
Columbia
in
New York City
and at the
University
of
North Carolina
, but no degree at either school.”