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Authors: Eleanor Scott

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“That’s from the Sermon on the Mount… Yes, I thought so. It really reads, ’Where
thy
treasure is, there shall
thy
heart be also.’ Another deliberate misquotation.”

“And the last? Ecclesiasticus again, xxii, 12.”

The Vicar read it with a certain solemnity.

“‘The wicked life of a wicked fool is worse than death.’”

“He certainly didn’t get much hilarious pleasure out of the sacrilege,” commented the American.

The Vicar said nothing. Somehow they both felt a little uncomfortable.

“Well, now, let’s get down to work,” said Matthews, throwing off his momentary discomfort. “We’ve got three clues. ’Have regard unto my name, for it shall be unto thee for a great treasure.’ ’The sun shall not smite it by day nor the moon by night.’ ’Where the treasure is, there shall the heart be also.’ Let’s get on to the name. ’Dom: Hierime Lindalle.’ Now what’s wrong with that as a name?”

They puzzled over this for some time, replacing letters by figures, rearranging the letters to form anagrams, seeking for some principle to guide them to the clue. Tea was served and eaten almost silently as the two men badgered their brains over the riddle of the priest’s name.

At last the American looked up.

“No good,” he said; and the Vicar shook his head.

“‘Hierime’ strikes me as being a bit of a freak in the way of a name,” commented Matthews. “Was he a saint?”

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Molyneux. “Saint Hiereme, or Jerome, was a Father of the Church, a hermit who translated the Bible into Latin.”

“Perhaps that accounts for this chap’s attention to the text,” suggested Matthews.

“Perhaps. St. Jerome was a great scholar. No doubt you know Durer’s famous pictures of him – in the desert, and at work in his room, with his lion at his feet.”

“What’s that?” cried the American. “A
lion,
did you say?”

“Why, yes, but–”

“What about that twelfth panel – the one with the book and the lion? What’s the betting it’s not Mark at all, but
Jerome?
The sly beggar! He slips in a figure he knows we’ll take for Mark, and all the time–”

“I declare I believe you’re right!” exclaimed Mr. Molyneux, flushed with excitement. “That’s the clue – the panel in the north room.”

“And, look here, the next fits,” cried Matthews. ” ’The sun shall not smite it by day nor the moon by night.’ Do you remember just where that panel is? It’s between the windows in the north wall. No direct light ever touches it.”

“You’re right!” cried the Vicar, almost as much excited as the American. “And the last clue – the heart?”

“This is where we go and look,” declared Mr. Matthews.

The day was nearly ended, but a few rays of light struggled dimly into the north passage. As they hurried along, a small gleaming object lying on the floor met their eyes. Matthews stooped and picked it up. It was a thin silver chain to which was attached a tiny crucifix – a trinket such as is worn by a large majority of Catholics.

“One of the Sharpes dropped it, I reckon,” said the American. “I’ll take it down when I go.” And he dropped it into his pocket.

In the north room the light had almost gone; but enough remained to direct the two men to the panel. “See here, the book
is
the Vulgate!” cried Matthews, peering closely at the carving. “We’re right on the trail.”

“ ‘Where the treasure is, there the heart is also,’ ” murmured the Vicar. “Now, what can that mean?”

They tried the breast of the carved figure in all possible ways, with no result.

“ Well, if that’s not plumb annoying!” cried the American, pausing in his efforts. “I guess it must be another of his tricks. The wall’s hollow here, too, I’d take my oath,” and he rapped the panel with his knuckles. It certainly was not solid. It gave a queer echo, and Mr. Matthews thought he detected a faint sound, as of something stirring within the wall.

“Something moved!” he cried excitedly. “Guess it might’ve been machinery…” But further knockings produced no result.

“Let’s try the decorated border,” suggested Mr. Molyneux. “There may be some hint there.”

The border was made up of wreaths of fruit and flowers, broken at intervals by shields so small that the quarterings were almost invisible. In some the arms could only be guessed from the crest, which was generally cut more deeply and with greater care than the shield.

“That’s a queer crest,” said Matthews, pointing to one of these. “Looks more like a setting sun than anything.”

“I daresay it is,” said the Vicar. “There was a lady of the Wigram family, whose crest is a rising sun, who intermarried with the Langtres. The arms are quite gone from the shield, though. It is perfectly smooth.”

The light was now so bad that by common consent they abandoned their hunt till next day, and went down again to the lamp–lit library.

“Why, Mr. Molyneux, I’m afraid I’ve tired you by my treasure hunt,” said Matthews, penitently, as he saw the Vicar’s pale face.

“It’s nothing – nothing at all,” protested the other. “Just a little headache – my eyes are not strong. And I found that north room very close.”

“You look as if bed was the place for you,” declared Matthews; and the Vicar needed little urging, after dinner, to retire early. The American followed at eleven: not because he felt inclined for sleep, but because he wished to wake in the morning with a brain clear to tackle the problem of the panel. He was excited, and undressed with rapid, untidy movements, flinging down his discarded garments with utter disregard for neatness. The result of this was that his coat, thrown carelessly, fell upside–down, scattering the contents of the pockets over the floor. It was only then that he saw and remembered the silver chain and cross he had picked up.

“I must remember to give that back to the Sharpes,” he thought. “Where’ll I put it?” Then a queer fancy came into his head, and he slipped the chain round his neck.

“Guess I shan’t forget it now,” he chuckled, as he slid between the sheets.

The clocks had struck midnight, and still Mr. Matthews lay awake. The riddle of the panel bothered him. Try as he would, he could not see what the hint about the heart was intended to convey. He ran over the carving again and again in his mind – the draped figure with the book, the conventional lion beside it, placed on a perfectly plain background, and below it the thickly decorated border with its scrolls and shields.

He grew sleepy, and his thoughts began to stray. He thought of the chain, of Sharpe, of the holy–water stoups, of the shrine in the passage, of the many plaster statues about the house, and of one in particular that he had noticed in Mrs. Sharpe’s room – a Christ with outstretched arms and a crimson heart emitting rays showing on the breast…

Mr. Matthews sat up, wide awake. That thing in the border that they had taken for a crested shield – that smooth triangle with the rays springing from it – it was not a shield at all: it represented a
heart!
He had solved the puzzle.

He leapt out of bed, armed himself with an electric torch, and fairly ran down the corridor to the north room. The single beam of light from his torch made the surrounding darkness seem almost opaque. In a dim subconscious way Matthews associated the dense gloom with the clammy, earthy smell that now seemed intensified; but he paid no conscious attention to either.

He walked with a quick, resolute stride to the panel, and soon found the smooth triangle in the decoration of the border. Of course, it was a heart – the conventional representation! He put his finger on it and pressed. He felt the panel slowly move.

He could not wait for it to swing fully open; he thrust his hand into the widening chink between the wall and the wood. There
was
something there, down in the bottom of the hole in the wall. Eagerly he reached for it.

It was piled up, and felt slimy to his touch. Then he dropped his torch with a hoarse cry; for, as he touched it, it moved, and a long slimy arm slid up his wrist.

Frantically he tore at his hand. He got it free for a second, and, turning, rushed to the door. He heard, as he ran, a heavy
flop,
and then a whispering, scratching sound. He knew that the thing had dropped from its lair and was dragging its loathsome length in pursuit. As he reached the door a tentacle, both slimy and hairy, curved round one ankle: another pawed at his left arm: and with a sickening thrill of disgust he felt something cold and slimy touch the back of his neck.

He gave a shriek of loathing and terror as he fell his length in the passage.

 

 

It was three weeks before Mr. Matthews, now installed at the Vicarage, could bring himself to speak of the end of that night. Then he asked, quite abruptly.

“How do you account for my escape, Molyneux? It – it was at my throat. I-I felt it… ”

“One can’t really account for any of these things,” replied the Vicar, gravely. “Only – there is this. You had round your neck the image of Christ. I think the – thing – had touched it, for it – it was retreating when I heard you scream and came out. I–I saw it – dimly – and its trail… And I can’t tell you how much I wished that I had read you a passage out of the manuscript about the room – a passage I left out. It might have warned you.” “Will you tell me now?”

“It describes the finding of the body of Job Harcott. It reads like this – I almost know it by heart since… since you so nearly…” He gulped, and then went on in grave tones –

“‘We found him indeede in ye passage wh. leadeth to yt. accursed roome. He was Starke Naked and his Bodie fearsomelie swolne, longe Trayls of Slyme compassing him aboute as it were in a Nett.’”

CELUI-LÀ

“I DON’T for a moment expect you to take my advice,” said Dr. Foster, looking shrewdly at his patient, “but I’ll give it all the same. It’s this. Pack a bag with a few things and go off tomorrow to some tiny seaside or mountain place, preferably out of England, so that you won’t meet a soul you know. Live there absolutely quietly for three or four weeks, taking a reasonable amount of exercise, and then write and tell me that you’re all right again.”

“Easier said than done,” growled Maddox. “There aren’t any quiet places left that I know of, and if there were there wouldn’t be any digs to be had at no notice.”

Foster considered.

“I know the very thing,” he cried suddenly. “There’s a little place on the Breton coast – fishing village, very small and scattered, with a long stretch of beach, heath and moor inland, quiet as can be. I happen to know the curé there quite fairly well, and he’s an extremely decent, homely little chap. Vétier his name is. He’d take you in. I’ll write to him tonight.”

After that, Maddox couldn’t in decency hold out. Old Foster had been very good, really, over the whole thing; besides, it was nearly as much bother to fight him as it was to go. In less than a week Maddox was on his way to Kerouac.

Foster saw him off with relief. He knew Maddox well and knew that he was suffering from years of overwork and worry; he understood how very repugnant effort of any kind was to him – or thought he did but in reality no one can quite understand the state of exasperation or depression that illness can produce in someone else. Yet as the absurd little train that Maddox took at Lamballe puffed serenely along between tiny rough orchards, the overwrought passenger began to feel soothed and then, as the line turned north and west and the cool wind came in from across the dim stretches of moorland, he grew content and almost serene.

Dusk had fallen when he got out at the shed that marked the station of Kerouac. The curé, a short, plump man, in soutane and broad-brimmed hat, met him with the kind, almost effusive, greeting that Breton peasants give to a guest, and conducted the stumbling steps of his visitor to a rough country lane falling steeply downhill between two high, dark banks that smelt of gorse and heather and damp earth. Maddox could just see the level line of sea lying before him framed by the steep banks of moor on either hand. Above a few pale stars glimmered in the dim sky. It was very peaceful.

Maddox fell into the simple life of the Kerouac presbytery at once. The curé was, as Foster had said, a very homely, friendly little man, always serene and nearly always busy, for he had a large and scattered flock and took a very real interest in the affairs of each member of it. Also, Maddox gathered, money was none too plentiful, for the curé did all the work of the church himself, even down to the trimming of the grass and shrubs that surrounded the little wind-swept building.

The country also appealed very strongly to the visitor. It was at once desolate and friendly, rough and peaceful. He particularly liked the long reaches of the shore, where the tangle of heath and whin gave place to tufts of coarse, whitish grass and then to a belt of shingle and the long level stretches of smooth sand. He liked to walk there when evening had fallen, the moorland on his left rising black to the grey sky, the sea, smooth and calm, stretching out infinitely on his right, a shining ripple lifting here and there. Oddly enough, M. le Curé did not seem to approve of these evening rambles; but that, Maddox told himself, was common among peasants of all races; and he idly wondered whether this were due to a natural liking for the fireside after a day in the open, or whether there were in it some ancient fear of the spirits and demons that country people used to fear in the dim time
entre le chien et le loup.
Anyhow, he wasn’t going to give up his evening strolls for a superstition of someone else’s!

BOOK: Randalls Round
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