The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 (11 page)

The huge cat on the floor took a swat at his ankle, cocking his head as though curious to see his reaction. He felt a sharp pain and kicked out at the cat. It arched its back and hissed, sounding very loud in the tiny space. What if they all attacked him at once, as they had been about to do in the plaza? He wouldn’t be able to hold them off in the claustrophobic space. He could barely move his arms and legs.

“Pierre!” he screamed. “For God’s sake!”

There were several loud thuds. Three cats were suddenly on the floor with him. Another, a huge black one, was in the window. It leaped at him. He felt the stab of claws in the back of his neck and a forepaw raked his right eye. With all his strength, ignoring the claws, sharp as needles, he wrenched the animal off and hurled it against the wall, while kicking out at the others, which had begun to attack his legs.

“Help, anyone!” he screamed. Then he saw Pierre a few meters away from the grating, wearing on his face his mournful expression which almost never changed. Bateman was quite hysterical. “They’re attacking me!” he shouted. “Please, open this thing!”

“They’re only cats,” Pierre said. “Besides, I don’t know the combination.” There was the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained pitying.

One of the cats nipped Bateman’s ankle and he winced in pain.

Pierre turned and started down the path toward the exit.

“For heaven’s sake,” Bateman screamed. “Think of Alicia!”

Pierre’s steps slowed. He appeared to be reconsidering.

Bateman gripped the rusty bars of his cage, watching Pierre disappear from sight and he heard, “Don’t worry Bateman. I’ll tell her you’ll be late for dinner.”

It may seem at first a contradiction for a best-of-the-year anthology to include a story by an author who has been dead for a number of years. However, 1980 saw the first publication of an important collection of supernatural stories by Basil A. Smith,
The Scallion Stone
, from Whispers Press. Although Smith died in 1969, only the title story had previously been published, and the story behind all this seems itself a bit like the start of an M. R. James ghost story.

Basil A. Smith was an English clergyman, for many years Rector of Holy Trinity, Micklegate, York. The rectory grounds covered the graveyard of a medieval priory, and monks’ bones were forever surfacing in the Smiths’ garden. The church itself, with its twelfth-century nave, was reputedly haunted by apparitions whose silhouettes passed against a great stained-glass window. A scholar and antiquary as well, Smith was author of
Dean Church: the Anglican Response to Newman
(Oxford University Press: 1958) and was active in numerous drives to preserve York’s rich architectural heritage. At the time of his death he was Canon Treasurer of York Minster. Smith was also interested in ghost stories, and he tried his hand at writing several himself—evidently for his own amusement alone. Fortunately he showed his manuscripts to his friend, Russell Kirk, the noted author and critic, who rescued them from oblivion after Smith’s death. These came to the attention of editor Stuart David Schiff, who published “The Scallion Stone” in
Whispers
(Doubleday: 1977), and then collected all of Smith’s stories in a beautifully produced hardcover volume with an introduction by Russell Kirk and illustrations by Stephen Fabian. Although structurally Smith’s stories immediately call to mind the English ghost story tradition of M. R. James, Smith was no slavish pasticheur. Indeed, “The Propert Bequest” is a masterpiece in its own right, and makes one wish Smith had had a bit more time to indulge his hobby.

I

As a typical English estate Peryford Priory would be difficult to surpass. The house, designed by Carr in his best manner amid a majestic grouping of beech trees, is well placed to dominate the wide expanse of park which sweeps gently away southwestward with its formal plantations and cattle browsing in the pasture. The way from the outer world into this haven of tranquility is by a gravel drive curving leisurely for half a mile and terminating in a balustraded terrace before the hall itself.

It was from the vantage point of this terrace that Courtleigh, accompanied by Mr. Sanderton, the Rector of Peryford, looked across the park one pleasant evening in the summer of 18—. The rectory, where they had recently dined, adjoined the priory grounds and there was access by a private walk beside the kitchen gardens. This was a very convenient arrangement as Dr. Propert, the owner of Peryford, and Mr. Sanderton were on terms of constant intercourse.

Courtleigh, who had only arrived a little before dinner, was to spend the night with his clerical friend and then resume his journey to London. Legal business had called him away from the academic routine of Durham, and he had taken the opportunity of breaking his journey at York and driving out to Peryford which was about ten miles away. He had long wanted to know more about this secluded place that his friend had tumbled into. And now at last he was here to see for himself the priory and parish.

It was indeed well worth seeing, and the evening was perfect. The monastic ruins (which gave the name “Priory” to the modern residence) lay in a corner of the park beyond the cypress walk. Birds were trilling sleepily among the mossy stonework of the dilapidated columns and archways, and a sluggish brook was glinting in the willows beyond, as the two friends left the ornamental seat and resumed their stroll.

“You’ve got an eye for landscape in these parts,” murmured the professor, drinking in the mellow scene. “There’s quite a last-century tone about it—except perhaps that chapel yonder looks a bit out of period!”

“Yes,” assented Sanderton, “that’s the library I told you about in my letter. Originally it was part of the old Peryford Priory—the monks’ frater, in fact. Then it was the family chapel. Rather magnificent, too, though I grant you it’s been over-restored. Some of your enthusiasts for the mediaeval are nothing if not drastic. Still, like some of the ladies of the parish, it may not be much to look at—but it’s full of good works within!”

“And the greatest of these—” added Courtleigh with a laugh, “is the
Peryford Household Book
. What a stir its discovery made! I wonder the British Museum has not been after it. I’ve always wanted to see it for myself.”

“I’m afraid,” said the rector, now suddenly gloomy, “you’ll be disappointed. It’s not here now.”

“What? Sold, you mean, or away on loan?” asked Courtleigh, a little annoyed.

“No. Not that,” replied Sanderton in evident misery. “I fear it’s stolen—or at any rate it disappeared some time back. But, please, please, don’t say a word about it. I perhaps shouldn’t have told you. Dr. Propert still thinks to find it again without any public inquiries and excitement. And I hope he will, poor man, for the loss of it has weighed on him considerably.”

The professor could only gasp at the news. “And how long do you suppose you’re going to keep a thing like this quiet?” he said at length. “Why, it’s a matter of national interest.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” pleaded the harassed clergyman. “Only the doctor especially wants nothing to be done as yet. He thinks it will turn up.”

“Well, well,” sighed Courtleigh at length. “I suppose he is the one most concerned and must have his way. But, thank heaven, you’ve got some valuable items still. I say,” he brightened, “while I’m here I must have a peep at some of them. I’d dearly like to see that Flemish missal and the freak psalter you spoke about.”

Sanderton reflected for a moment, anxious to please his friend, but again looked doubtful. “I’m afraid the place is locked for the night,” he said despondently, “or else I would have been delighted. Can’t you take a later train in the morning and give us time to look round together?”

“It’s really most important I should go first thing,” answered Courtleigh with genuine regret. “I suppose we couldn’t get the key and just have a rapid glance at things now? It won’t be dark for an hour yet.”

“Very well, I’ll go and get the keys while you have a look round the outside,” declared his friend at last. “Dr. Propert is rather averse to anyone’s going into the library after dusk, but for once I think we might.”

So saying, the good little man hurried off and left Courtleigh strolling round to survey the exterior features of the building.

It certainly bore signs of having been “restored” and heightened by nineteenth-century hands. This was specially evident at the east end where a fine large window took up almost the whole height from ground to gable point. The sides were flanked by wide and heavy buttresses, apparently strengthened in recent years but ivy-clad to tone with the older stonework. It looked as if parts of the choir window of the priory had been incorporated here, but for some reason the upper tracery had been replaced by a great wheel-window of the type so dear to Gothic architects of Queen Victoria’s reign.

Such atrocious treatment of an old building made Courtleigh shake his head, and he was glad to give up stumbling among the bushes and get back to the pathway to wait for Sanderton’s return. Standing in the library doorway in loitering mood, he was surprised when the door opened and a man came out bearing a bag of tools. The man was apparently also surprised for as he went off toward the lodge he looked back more than once at the professor.

But, whoever he was, he had not locked the door. So after a moment Courtleigh took the heavy iron ring in both hands and let himself in. Sanderton was not in sight and his friend smiled to think what he would say when he returned. Entering, he found himself in a churchlike hall of oblong shape, running east and west. The entrance was on the north side, and just within was a staircase leading up to a gallery. This upper floor both formed a sort of vestibule by the doorway and also ran the full length of the wall. The south side had no gallery, but a flight of stone steps led eastward up to the stout door of what appeared to be a raised vestry in the corner. (“A good strong-room for scarce volumes,” thought Courtleigh as he noted this last feature.) The whole western end was taken up with a chapel shut off by an oak screen. It was rather dingy as most of the light came from the window at the farther end, and the evening sun was getting faint by now.

The walls, both in the gallery and below, were lined with shelves of books and, his attention drawn toward some rich bindings, Courtleigh had soon forgotten all about the architecture as he wandered from case to case taking down and replacing various books that his interest lighted on.

Thus occupied, he kept moving gently about on the ground floor till he became aware that he was not alone. He was by this time at the western end of the building where the library proper was terminated by the little oratory or chapel we have mentioned. It was somewhere above that he heard a snuffling sound. He looked up to the gallery and noticed that the end of it which overlooked the oratory was also partitioned off by a wooden screen, evidently so as to form a compartment for more private study. Yes, there was someone in there, for a chair was pushed back, and through the balusters Courtleigh saw a person rise and move slowly to the staircase.

Presently a tall man descended, nodding his head with the involuntary gravity of old age, and mouthing somewhat as he went. Courtleigh was wondering how to address him, but the old man seemed not to have noticed his presence. Indeed, having reached the ground floor, he passed straightway into the little oratory and closed the screen again. For the next few minutes there followed a rapid muttering and much sighing from within, while Courtleigh pretended to be examining an antiquated commentary. Then, his devotion ended, the old man re-emerged and, catching sight of the stranger, turned halting as if to inquire what brought him there.

“Ah! Good day, sir. A visitor, I presume?” he cried in a sharp, old-fashioned tone.

“A good evening to you, sir,” replied Courtleigh. “My friend Mr. Sanderton’s left me here while . . .”

“Yes, yes, yes,” chattered the other with a comprehending wag of the head as he moved away to end the conversation without more ado. “He will tell you sufficient of the vanities and vicissitudes of the place.”

Before Courtleigh had time to do more than mutter some word of thanks, the old man had trotted past him and up the stone stairs at the other side to the strong-room which he unlocked and entered, returning presently with a heavy quarto volume under his arm. He relocked the place and descended again to leave the library, and was in the act of letting himself out when he returned a pace or two as with an afterthought.

“It is, I believe,” said he, “my duty to commend to you as a stranger our little oratory there. Should you be in need of ghostly succor it is a very present help.”

He cocked a shrewd eye intently upon the stranger, pausing a moment as if he might say more. As he stood, the faint light falling upon his aged face gave its drawn quizzical grimace an air most cryptic. But presently the door had closed behind him, and Courtleigh, with a fading smile upon his lips, was left alone.

The twilight was thickening now, hardly a good time to be examining the east window, but it compelled attention. For what a gigantic window it was: the dimensions were almost cathedral. Indeed, the additional mullions, standing off from the glasswork to give vertical support on the inner side, reminded Courtleigh of the great window at York Minster. So also did the two transoms whose horizontal lines divided the whole space into three separate areas. The lower lights—up to where the outline of the window curved away from the oblong to the arch—were filled with countless fragments of mediaeval glass. By dint of twisting his head about, Courtleigh could decipher broken scraps of mitred heads, ships’ prows, rich canopies and flowing robes, all jumbled into a mosaic of dull tinctures glowing ever so faintly against the library’s interior gloom. There were heraldic medallions among all this but any effort to identify the arms at that hour was bound to be in vain. It remained but to scan the topmost section above the upper transom. Here the original tracery had disappeared and a rose-window been inserted in its place. No wonder the antiquary shook his head. With some impatience he too found himself trying to make out the motif of the pattern in this glass. For, though the coloring was fearsome, the emblems had a barbaric vigor unlike the jejeune conventions usually found in imitations of this sort. With a sigh of frustration, though, he soon turned away to explore elsewhere.