The Empty Coffins (2 page)

“What's wrong, Doc?” Peter pulled up and low­ered his driving window. “Run into trouble?”

Soaked, rain dripping from his soft hat, Meadows came over the pool-swamped roadway.

“Engine trouble. Wet probably. Mind giving me a tow in?”

“I'll do better than that. Hop in before you get even wetter. I'll run you home then I'll have my garage boys come and pick your car up. How about Mrs. Naysmith? Still got to see her?”

Meadows climbed in beside Peter and slammed the door.

“She can wait. Nothing important, anyway, and I'm too wet to bother at the moment. Just drop me at home, son, if you don't mind.”

“Okay—providing you don't object to a little detour. You live just beyond the village on the other side: I'm calling at the Christmas fun fair on the way.”

Peter began driving forward again and Meadows shook his head irritably as rain trickled from his hat into his lap.

“The fun fair?” he repeated. “What on earth for?”

“I've a man to see. He's been scaring Elsie to death.”

“Oh? Will the fair be open on a night like this?”

“Should be. Most of it's under canvas.”

Meadows took off his hat and examined it in the dashboard light.

“How do you mean, frightening Elsie? Assault or something? There's the law you can—”

‘The law can't touch this, Doc. He's a mystic, or some such humbug. Rawnee Singh, by name. He told Elsie that she cannot live any longer than eight months from now—and she, poor kid, believed the swine! That was why she was so insistent tonight that we be married before a year is up. She's got some crazy idea of snatching at happiness before she dies. I never heard such damned, nonsensical piffle!”

Meadows sat back in the bucket seat and returned his hat to his head. He was silent, gazing through the raindrops at the headlamps' glare on the lane. Presently Peter gave him a glance.

“You think it's crazy, Doc, don't you?” he asked, in some surprise.

“I suppose it is,” Meadows admitted, shrugg­ing. “You can't trust these sideshow mystics.”

“You don't sound unduly angry. Suppose Elsie were your daughter? Wouldn't you want to set about this lunatic and maybe rub his face in the mud?”

“It would be easier if I didn't know Singh's reputation,” Meadows replied, frowning. “Rawnee Singh isn't just a sideshow charlatan, Peter: he's been giving psychic demonstrations to society for many years. I've seen accounts of his activities. As for him being at this local fair, it's because his name is the main attraction.... Quite an extra­ordinary seer, from what I can gather.”

Peter drove through the village with its lighted windows and rain-lashed streets before he spoke again.

“But, Doc, in regard to Elsie, you surely don't think—”

“Good Lord, no! It's fantastic.... There's the fair ahead of us, all lit up. Business as usual despite the rain, I gather. Want me to come with you?”

“Why not? As an older man, I'd value your opinion on this character.”

Meadows nodded and climbed out of the car, leav­ing it behind on the big cindery enclosure that was doing temporary duty as a car park.

Then, driven along stumblingly by the wind, turning their faces from the blinding rain, they hurried towards the huge mass of gleaming canvas ahead of them. It was lighted by clusters of electric globes, their naked glare reflecting from wet surfaces.

Beyond the outer flap of the gigantic marquee they found relief from the wind and rain. It was warm and bright and smelled of sawdust and people. All the men and women of the village seemed to be present, walking up and down the narrow aisles between the sideshows. The din was overwhelming, the basic noise coming from amplified music conn­ected with a roundabout.

“Over there,” Meadows said, nodding. “There's his sign.”

Peter studied a garish board saying RAWNEE SINGH KNOWETH PAST AND FUTURE; then he followed Dr. Mead­ows as he pushed his way through the crowd.

Gaining audience with the mystic was by no means an easy job. Business seemed to be brisk for him. It meant waiting with several other people in an outer tent, whilst an attendant with nut-juice on his face and hands and wearing Oriental costume kept coming in and out of a second tent and giving a deep obeisance.

Finally, however, Peter and Meadows found themselves in the presence of the seer—after they had paid their money to the pseudo-Oriental. The sanc­tum of Singh was blue with incense fumes and light­ed only dimly by candles. Their indifferent flames cast upon strange carvings and fantastic shapes. Rawnee Singh himself sat cross-legged before a low table, his slender hands over a softly illumined globe. A turban with satiny sheen graced his head and his close-fitting suit had the appearance of cloth-of-gold.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted, his voice bass and musical. “Please be seated and state your pleasure. Is it the past you wish to recover, or perchance do you prefer to gaze into the future?”

“I'm concerned only with the present—or rather last night,” Peter retorted, remaining standing with Meadows beside him. “You've almost scared my fiancée to death with your damned tosh!”

Singh raised his head. His face was dark brown, his eyes oblique in shape and brightly gleaming. It was a satanic face, with its downwardly curved mouth and vulture's nose.

“Take care how you speak,” he whispered. “The spirits show no mercy to the infidel.”

“You didn't show any to my fiancée,” Peter re­torted. “Maybe you remember her? Elsie Timperley by name. You told her she had only eight months to live— What the devil did you mean by it?”

Rawnee Singh meditated, his eyes on the glowing ball in his hands. Then he seemed to remember.

“Ah yes—the blonde young lady. She came last night— Yes, of course, I remember. But, Mr. Mal­den, I spoke truth.”

“How do you know my name?” Peter asked suspic­iously.

“I am psychic. Do I need to say more?”

“Definitely you do! Why did you scare Mrs. Timperley?”

“It was unavoidable. She asked for the future, and I revealed it to her—just as I revealed her past. Naturally she cannot feel happy over the revelation that she has only eight months—maybe less—to live.”

“Damned lies!” Peter shouted, leaning across and gripping Singh by the front of his costume. “For two pins I'd—”

He paused. Magically, from the shadows, two enormous Nubians had appeared, their mighty arms folded. They stood like black statues, as str­aight as the columns of hell, and probably just as diabolical if they chose. Peter relaxed and stood up straight again.

“I regret your recourse to violence, Mr. Mal­den,” Singh said, straightening his costume. “I can only repeat: I gave Mrs. Timperley the facts.”

“But you couldn't have meant it!”

‘The gods do not lie, Mr. Malden.”

Peter gave a desperate look about him. The smoky tent, the Oriental setting, the giant Nub­ians with folded arms, and this immovable mystic with his glowing globe. The whole business smelled either of rank faking or else profound sorcery. Peter could not tell which. Finally he asked a question.

“
How
will she die? Did you work that one out?”

Singh gave the slightest of shrugs. “There was no purpose in doing so, my friend. All I could see ahead of her, after the passage of eight mon­ths, was a blank. That, interpreted, means death. How it will come about I do not know: I made no effort to probe. I can discover that if the lady cares to come again and—”

“Not on your life! You've frightened her en­ough already.”

“Mr. Singh,” Meadows said quietly, “I have read of your reputation. I am not as impetuous as my young friend here. I would like to ask: is there not the possibility of you having made a mistake?”

“I perhaps, yes,” the mystic admitted. “I am but the poor mortal tool for the forces that move around me. I am, shall I say, only an interpreter of past and future. I could have made a mistake, but the forces themselves would not. So you may take it for granted I spoke truth. I am very sorry, gentlemen. I feel it as deeply as you that a young woman, so lovely in every way, should be doomed to extinction. It is hard sometimes to understand the laws of destiny.”

“You
can't
feel it as deeply as we do,” Peter snapped. “You're a total stranger. Mrs. Timp­erley doesn't mean a thing to you.”

“True, but I am still a human being. I try to be sympathetic towards the emotions of others....” Singh turned and motioned his Nubian servants out of the tent, then looking back at Peter and Mead­ows he asked, “Perhaps you two gentlemen would care to know how your own destiny will work out?”

“No thanks,” Peter answered curtly.

“As you will. I would remark that both of you are surrounded by a strange aura. It is other­worldly, spawned of the darkness.... Surely you two gentlemen, loving Mrs. Timperley as you both do, wish to know your future?'

Peter gave a little start of surprise. “As we
both
do?” he repeated. “You're all mixed up, Singh. I'm the one who is in love with Mrs. Tim­perley. This is—”

“I know—Dr. Meadows,” the mystic interrupted, with a slow smile. “You also love Mrs. Timperley, my friend. Your mind speaks the fact to me.”

“It's time we got out of here,” Meadows said abruptly, a shadow crossing his usually genial face. “Come on, Peter. Thanks for the inform­ation, Mr. Singh.”

The mystic said nothing. Impassively he wat­ched the two men leave the ‘sanctum.' They passed through the outer tent and then into the din and blazing lights of the main marquee. Before they plunged out once more into the fury of the night Peter caught the doctor's arm.

“What did he mean, Doc?” he demanded. “About both of us loving Elsie? That statement was as crazy as the rest of his bosh, wasn't it?”

“No,” Meadows said, and gave Peter a direct look. “I am inclined to think that everything he said was accurate, including his remark about me.”

“But you can't mean that you love Elsie too?” Peter gave an incredulous laugh. “Why, it's absurd! You're a middle-aged man, old enough to be her father, and—”

“I am twenty-five years older than Elsie,” Meadows interrupted. “That still doesn't stop me loving her, does it? I have always been in love with her. There was a time, when I was treating her for the injuries that swine George Timperley had inflicted when I felt I....” Meadows stopped and gave a grave smile. Then he clapped Peter on the shoulder.

“Let's say no more,” he said. “I love her, and I always shall, but as is only natural she has chosen you—so much nearer her own age. Elsie is the one reason I have never married. To me, the barrier of years be­tween us is the biggest curse.”

‘Marriages with twenty-five years difference between the partners are not uncommon.” Peter said, thinking.

“I know—but the choice is Elsie's. I don't think she knows how I feel about her, and now you have her she never will.”

Peter was silent for a moment, then he frown­ed.

“Do you realize, Doc, that if Singh was right on that point, regarding you I mean, he might be on the other one? About Elsie—dying, that is.”

“His reputation is sufficient to make me be­lieve it,” Meadows answered slowly. “Which leads to an obvious conclusion. Elsie should submit to a medical test to discover if she has any kind of trouble that could end her life in the prescribed time. If she is perfectly normal, then the only other answer is an accident—which we cannot poss­ibly foresee or prevent.”

“We might,” Peter said, clenching his fists.

“No, son, it couldn't be done. You can't alter destiny—” Meadows put finger and thumb to his eyes for a moment and then sighed. “We'd better be getting along,” he finished. “We've had quite enough shocks for one night—and you have still to give instructions to have my car towed in.”

CHAPTER TWO

VAMPIRE ATTACK

Peter, once he had driven Dr. Meadows home and then attended to the matter of his car, went back to the Timperley residence to inform Elsie of what had happened. She and her mother were both still in the drawing room and they listened in silence to all Peter had to say.

“It's all so crazy,” he finished, pacing up and down in his gleaming mackintosh. “I don't want to believe it, and yet I have to. There's only one way to settle it, Elsie: let Dr. Meadows examine you.”

“And make certain of my fate?” Elsie glanced up in the firelight and shook her head. “No, Peter. That I will never do. I intend to cling to the one thought that Singh is wrong and that I will go on living, through the years. You and I, as it should have been had not George butted in and upset things.”

She got to her feet and moved to where Peter was standing. Her hand rested lightly on his.

“Then we go ahead and marry—as planned?” he asked.

“As soon as possible. Most certainly I refuse to try and discover how I am to die. It is bad enough to be told it will come about so soon with­out knowing just how…. Or perhaps,” Elsie finish­ed, her hand lowering, “you would prefer to back out now there is this cloud over us?”

Peter shook his head. “All the more reason why I should stand by you. I'll make all the arrangements and we can be married within a month.”

Elsie's mother, seated by the fireplace, said nothing but her mouth tightened a little. Peter hesitated over telling Elsie of Dr. Meadows' own regard for her, then he thought better of it. Things were difficult enough for her without more being added.

“I'll be here tomorrow,” he said, turning away actively. “By then I'll have made the first moves… Try not to worry, dearest. I'm sure it's all crazy.”

He kept up his reassurances all the way to the front door, where he kissed the girl good night—but once he was in his car again in the raging fury of the storm all the old fears came surging back into him. He could not shake free the feel­ing that doom, from somewhere, somehow, was reaching out to strike the girl down.

Half way back to the village, where his house was attached to the garage, he was jerked out of his moody preoccupation. It happened just as he was passing the cemetery on the village outskirts. The car headlights picked up the desperately running figure of a young girl, hatless, without over­coat or mackintosh, her simple frock plastered to her figure by the swamping rain. At the sound of the car and glare of its headlights she stopped and waved a hand frantically.

Peter drew to a halt with a shriek of brakes, the tires locked in the wet gravel. He opened the door quickly and looked at the girl's white, rain-dewed face. Her dark hair was flattened to her head and dripping with water.

“What in the world's wrong?” Peter asked in amazement. “Hop in...I can give you a lift.”

“T-thanks.” She scrambled into the seat be­side him and slammed the door. Then she sat breathing hard and gulping whilst Peter looked at her curiously.

“I believe I know you,” he said finally. “You live in the village here, don't you? Why, of course? You're Madge Paignton, from the grocery shop? I hardly knew you with your hair all wet.”

“Yes—I'm Madge Paignton,” the girl agreed breathlessly. “I—I was attacked a little while back— In the cemetery there.”

“
Attacked
?” Peter's tone changed. “By whom? Or don't you know?”

“I've not the least idea.” Madge Paignton be­gan to get a grip on herself, but she was shiver­ing in her wet clothes. “I—I'd been to see a friend the other side of the cemetery in Kingsford Row. Y-you know where that is? I cut through the cemetery coming home because I was late— I'd got halfway then somebody—or some­thing—attacked me. I had a terrible time. My coat was torn off; I lost my hat. I'm sure I'm covered with dozens of scratches and bruises, particularly on my neck....” She fingered it ten­derly. “Then I tore free somehow and ran—and ran— After that you caught up with me.”

Peter tugged out a rug from the back of the car and wrapped it about her shoulders. Then he re­started the engine.

“Better get you home, young lady,” he decided. “You can tell your story by a warm fire. I'll pick up Dr. Meadows and the police on the way.”

The girl gave him a grateful smile and he started the car forward again into the storm. Twenty minutes later the girl was in the kitchen of her simple home, her father, mother, and her younger sister looking on in wonder—and anger—as she told her story. Wrapped in a dressing gown and beside a warm fire, coffee in the cup in her hand, she gave the details, haltingly at first—then with greater fluency.

By the table Dr. Meadows listened, apparently trying to puzzle things out for himself. The ‘police' were represented by the solid, none-too-bright personages of Sergeant Blair and Constable Hawkins. Their powers did not run much beyond dealing with thefts from an orchard.

“What did this attacker look like, Madge?” Peter asked presently, when the girl had repeated the story she had told him.

“I don't know,” she answered, frowning. “It had no sort of shape, somehow.”

“
Must
have had,” Sergeant Blair said heavily. “It certainly wasn't a ghost, anyway. A ghost couldn't have scratched your neck like that.”

He motioned to the plasters Dr. Meadows had affixed to the girl's neck, low down under the hair-line. On her throat, too, there had been two gashes close to the jugular on each side, but neither of them serious.

“He was all in white,” Madge said at last. “A hideous looking man with no expression on his face. And terribly strong! I was flung to the ground. It wasn't strength that enabled me to get away. I got in a lucky kick somehow and found myself free for a moment— So I got up and ran.”

“And that's all you can tell us?” Blair asked, puzzled.

“I'm afraid it is, Sergeant.”

Dr. Meadows stirred a little and locked up his bag. Then: “Do any of you people here believe in vampires?”

There was a dead silence for a moment, one looking at the other. Sergeant Blair licked the end of his pencil and turned bovine eyes upon the doctor.

“Yes, it sounds ridiculous,” Meadows admitted, shrugging. “But the fact does remain that these injuries of Madge's are similar to those which a vampire might inflict. It is plain that some creature or other has tried to pierce the main veins on her neck, particularly the jugular. For­tunately the attempt failed. An ordinary attacker would not do a thing like that. She would have been hit over the head, probably.”

“But this is preposterous!” Peter exclaimed. “A vampire doesn't really exist! It belongs to folklore. It's as crazy as fairies at the bottom of the garden!”

“Is it?” Meadows gave a faint smile. “I'm not sure of that, Peter. In many small villages in England, such as this one—places rich in folk­lore and legend—apparitions have been seen from time to time. Ghosts, creatures of tiny stature, which might even be gnomes, and vampires. Look through the history of any village, this one in­cluded, and you'll find all the details. For my own part—and I've studied the subject—I believe that vampires
do
exist. After all, why not? We have definite evidence that ghosts and presences appear amongst us. Why not vampires?”

Sergeant Blair scratched the back of his ear. “Beggin' your pardon, doctor, but just what
is
a vampire, anyway? Is it one of those bat-things?”

“No.” Meadows shook his head. “You're thinking of a vampire-bat—a different. thing altogether. It's a bat belonging to Central and South America. A vampire proper is the ghost of a suicide, or some such excommunicated person, who seeks vengeance on the living by attacking them and sucking away their blood. The person attacked also becomes a vampire in turn and preys upon others as he himself was preyed upon.”

Sergeant Blair licked his lips and Constable Hawkins' Adam's-apple moved grotesquely up and down as he swallowed.

“Great heavens!” Madge Paignton shrieked, leap­ing up and holding her throat. “You don't mean that
I
might—”

“Good heavens, no, child.” Meadows gave a ser­ious smile and walked over to her, giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “You've nothing to worry about—though you might have had if you had been genuinely bitten…. I may be wrong in my theory, of course—I sincerely hope I am—but I still think it's worth considering.”

“Best thing we can do,” Sergeant Blair decided, “is go to the cemetery and see what we can dis­cover. This amounts to a criminal attack on Miss Paignton and we've got to find out who did it—I don't suppose you'd care to come to, doctor? Knowing about—vampires, I mean?”

Meadows shrugged. “I will if you wish. Have you got your car with you? Mine's—”

“You can use mine,” Peter said. “It's outside. I think we'd better all go and have a look.”

He led the way to the door and the doctor and two police officials followed him. Perhaps ten minutes later Peter had drawn up outside the cemetery's locked gates. He clambered out into the rain, Meadows and then the two policemen emerging after him.

“No night for a job like this,” Blair growled, and he glanced up at the leaf-empty trees lashing in the screaming wind.

“The law has to act, even if it be in the midst of an earthquake,” Meadows said. He fumbled in his pocket and brought a small torch to view in the glow of the sidelights from Peter's car. “Here, Sergeant: this may be useful.”

“Thanks.” Blair contemplated the gates, gleam­ing with rain. “How d'you suppose we get into this damned place? Climb the railings?”

“Only way, I imagine.” Peter responded. “I sup­pose Madge Paignton must have done that since the gates are closed.... I'll go first.”

He grabbed onto the ironwork, thrust his foot into one of the ornamentations, and then clambered upwards. The policemen followed him, and they in turn gave a hand to Dr. Meadows, for whom it was no easy task. Finally, however, the quartet was on the other side of the barrier and walking along the main shale pathway leading to the little church. To either side of them, glistening with rain as the torch-beam struck them, loomed grave­stones, tablets, and pillars.

“There must be an easier way in and out of this place,” Blair said presently. ‘That girl said she used this cemetery as a short cut. She'd hardly climb railings at both sides—and in her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes too. We'd better look for the spot where she must have got through—the one nearest Kingsford Row.”

They found an opening ultimately, well beyond the church itself and at the other side of the graveyard to the spot at which they had entered. Here the railings were partly collapsed and app­arently the slovenly local authority had been at no pains to put them back up again.

“Yes, this is where she must have entered,” Blair said, flashing the torch beam around him on gravel and gravestones. “We'd better work our way across and see if we can locate the spot where she was attacked. Pity she wasn't more specific—but I suppose she was too scared to remember.”

The other men did not speak. They glanced about them as they walked, turning their faces as such as possible from the deluge sweeping across the dreary expanse of burial ground—then presently Dr. Meadows stopped and pointed.

“What's that?” he asked, and Blair swung round the torch beam. It settled on something black with rain lying at the edge of the shale pathway.

“Madge Paignton's overcoat,” Constable Hawkins said, picking it up. “Here's her name stitched on the lining.”

Meadows, Peter, and Blair moved to the spot. At this point the grass verge joined the pathway. There were obvious signs of there having been a struggle—gouges in the shale, lumps of turf kicked up, and on a nearby grave some flowers had been overturned and the topsoil was indented with footprints.

“Apparently Miss Paignton spoke the truth,” Blair looked about him. “All the signs of it. Footprints and—”

“Not only her footprints, either,” Meadows said, studying the grave's soil surface. “Look at this! Shoe marks, and those of naked feet.”

“
Naked
?” The Sergeant gave a start and bent to a closer examination. Constable Hawkins and Peter looked also—then all four men glanced at each other in wonder. There was no doubt of the fact that naked feet had pranced about on the topsoil.

“What do you make of it, doctor?” Peter asked, puzzled.

“I'm afraid it verifies my theory,” Meadows answered, frowning. “Obviously a vampire would not wear shoes. The creature is supposed to arise from the grave, through the coffin and the surr­ounding soil, to desecrate the living. The creature concerned would be bare-footed and in a shroud.”

The howl of the wind whipped away some further words he added. Sergeant Blair licked his lips and gave a furtive glance.

“Do you suppose we could—
find
this vampire?” he asked. “Granting it exists?”

“From the look of these footprints. Sergeant, there is little doubt as to its existence. As for finding it—” Meadows gave a shrug. “That, I am afraid, is impossible. A vampire has the power to vanish as completely as a ghost, returning maybe to the grave from which it came.”

“And which grave do you suppose that could be?” Constable Hawkins demanded.

Meadows looked about him on the lonely tombs, the wind howling dismally past them.

“I've no idea,” he said at last. “How can I have?”

Blair cleared his throat. “I don't like this blasted business a bit,” he admitted frankly. “I'll tackle anything that belongs to this world—anything flesh and blood; but when it comes to crawly things that come out of a grave— I don't want any part of it!'

“If it's in your line of duty you'll have to put up with it,” Meadows told him. “We're up against something supernatural—judging from the evidences—and it's your job to discover exactly what, or who, it was which attacked that girl. All the village will demand to know. It may not have been the only attack. If a vampire
is
loose in this cemetery nobody is safe, from the youngest to the eldest.”