The Empty Coffins (5 page)

“
Day
and night?” Peter repeated. “Surely no vampire attack by day is possible?”

Meadows gave a sigh. “No, of course not. I'm getting too tired to think straight. Guard her from sundown to sunrise. During the day she ought to be safe enough.”

He began to pack up his bag; then Mrs. Burrows spoke.

“Why was Elsie given sleeping tablets? She's in no need of them.”

“I did it to keep her quiet whilst I went out to investigate the cemetery,” Peter said. “And I am
not
going to argue about it! If you hadn't slept like a log you could have probably saved Elsie from being attacked tonight!”

“Oh?” Mrs. Burrows smiled coldly. “And if you had stayed beside her, as any right-minded husband should, you could have handled the situation your­self. Instead you had to go rushing off to the cemetery on some wildcat excursion.”

“It wasn't wildcat, Mrs. Burrows,” Meadows said deliberately. “We discovered George had left his coffin: that is proof that he is a vampire.”

“I don't believe it,” Mrs. Burrows said flatly. “There's something about all this that's peculiar—diabolical, but I do
not
believe an evil spirit comes into it.”

Meadows gave her a look and then shrugged.

“I have to be going,” he said. “I've had no sleep yet. Do the best you can, Peter, and I'll be here during the day. If the police want me—as I expect they will—they know where to find me. Good night, Mrs. Burrows.”

“Good night,” she answered indifferently, then she got to her feet.

“You can go back to bed if you wish,” Peter told her, making himself comfortable on the chair. “I must stay awake somehow to watch Elsie and open the door to the police when they come.”

“I'll do my share,” she decided. “I'll rest in the drawing room: you can stay here. And the sooner the police come, the better. If ever there was criminal assault and murder disguised as vamp­ire attacks it is
this
!”

She gave another glance towards her silent daughter, tightened her lips, and then went out. The door closed sharply.

CHAPTER FOUR

KILLER FROM THE GRAVE

It was towards eight in the morning when a police car swept into the drive of the Timperley resid­ence. From it there alighted Chief-inspector Rushton and Detective-sergeant Mather, both of them in plain clothes and far too schooled in crime and criminals to believe in vampires. With them also were two uniformed constables, a divisional-surgeon, and a fingerprint expert.

By this time Elsie was conscious again, but her energy was of such a low order she was hardly able to talk. To the Chief-inspector she had little to say. She was not even aware that she
had
been att­acked, remembering nothing since falling asleep the previous night.

Peter, worn out from lack of sleep and anxiety, gave the cemetery details and then, a solid const­able on guard, he went to bed. The Chief-inspector picked up the story from that point and the Divis­ional-surgeon and fingerprint man went to work on their respective jobs.

Rushton, who had handled the earlier business of the two vampire victims, was once again ill-at-ease in investigating this new onslaught. Throughout the day he covered a good deal of ground, question­ing Mrs. Burrows, Dr. Meadows, and then several villagers. The coffin of George Timperley was re­opened and found to be still empty. The grounds of the cemetery were gone over; and those of the Timperley home. Nothing was left undone, until finally by eight in the evening Rushton returned with his sergeant to the Timperley home to report progress. Because of the necessity of Elsie having to be guarded whilst she lay in bed, he told his story in the bedroom, Peter, Mrs. Burrows, and Dr. Meadows also being present.

“I am quite sure of one thing.” Rushton said, his square face grim. “The Assistant-Commissioner is going to haul me over the coals when I have to report failure in this business—for the third time.”

“So you've not got anywhere?” Peter asked bitt­erly.

“I'm afraid not. Fingerprint experts have not found any prints anywhere—or at least any prints that might be of use. What prints there are, chiefly on the window frame of this room here, are blurred with none of the familiar whorl, arch, or loop formation. From the doctor we have the assurance that the blood found on the pillow was yours, Mrs. Malden, which means you actually must have lost far more than that caused by the wounds in your throat. Anyway, the group matches. True, you are not the only person with an ‘O' type blood-group, but the coincidence of the attacker losing that much blood, and being in the same group, is
too
coincidental.”

“A vampire is not a creature of flesh and blood, anyway,” Meadows put in. “Not in the accepted sense, anyhow; so the blood on the pillow
could
only belong to Mrs. Malden.”

“So it would seem,” Rushton admitted. “We have also made routine enquiries but have got no further than talk of vampires in general and George Timper­ley in particular. We have not been able to pick up any clues in the cemetery, even though we have noted that George Timperley's grave, or at least his coffin, is empty. We could of course have kept a vigil by night and see if he appears, but you people have already done that and met with no success. So,” Rushton finished. “I'm afraid we haven't got very far.”

“Not a very encouraging admission for Scotland Yard,” Dr. Meadows commented.

“We're not magicians, doctor,” the Chief-inspector told him. “In this particular case we are up against a complex problem. A vampire—if such a thing really does exist—is a long way from our territory.”

“Have you thought of the possibility of the vampire being an excuse for some criminally-minded person to commit murder and assault at random?” Mrs. Borrows asked. “Making everything look as though it is the work of a vampire....”

“Yes, we have considered that possibility,” Rushton admitted, ‘but it does not get us any further. If it be a tenable theory, the answer is a maniac—and not a sex-maniac, either, since men have been killed as well as women attacked. The whole thing is so motiveless, so utterly lacking in purpose—”

“From a material, standpoint, yes.” Meadows said. “From the standpoint of a vampire every­thing fits in. It all comes down to one thing: George Timperley is anxious to destroy his former wife and turn her into a vampire like himself. To do that he needs human blood, so to obtain it he kills off villagers, none of whom he liked whilst he lived. It's as simple as that.”

“And you think Mrs. Malden is likely to be attacked again?” Rushton asked, thinking.

“I am convinced George Timperley will do his best. It is up to us to see that he fails. I think we should organize a vampire-watch amongst the villages and attack him the next time he appears.”

“It seems to be the only move,” Rushton agreed, then he switched the subject. ‘Tell me, about this mystic, Rawnee Singh. What exactly did he have to say? Do you feel able to detail the facts to me, Mrs. Malden?'

Elsie nodded from where she lay in bed and, by degrees, gave all the details, Sergeant Mather writing busily in his notebook.

“Quite extraordinary,” Rushton said at length. “I am wondering, since Singh appears to have some kind of other-world connection, whether he might not be able to throw some light on this vampire business.”

“Hardly likely,” Meadows said. “He's a mystic, and nothing more. Vampires will hardly be in his line.”

“Just the same I think I'll have a word with him,” Rushton decided, getting to his feet. “He has left this district now, of course, but we can soon trace him—and will. I'll get in touch with you again when I've interviewed him.”

He turned to leave, the Detective-sergeant beside him, then Mrs. Burrows' voice gave them pause.

“Inspector, there's something I'd like to know. What was your divisional surgeon's opinion of the wounds my daughter had sustained?”

“The punctures in her neck, madam? Apparently caused by some lance-like object—which we can only assume were the teeth of the vampire. After that, presumably, your daughter's blood was sucked from the jugular veins. Some of it was spilt in the process, on to the pillow.”

Peter put a hand to his eyes as if to shut out the Chief-inspector's cold matter-of-factness.

“Suppose something had been used to duplicate a vampire's teeth?” Mrs. Burrows persisted. “Would your surgeon know the difference?”

“I doubt it. In fact he has no more experience of a vampire than I have. He can only assume.”

“Which is what I object to!” Mrs. Burrows snapped. “There is too much assumption in this business. I believe—”

“Mother, please!” Elsie entreated. “I can't stand all this noise and argument.”

“No, my dear, of course you can't,” Dr. Mead­ows murmured. “We'll drop the subject, and leave it to you to do what you can, Inspector. At this end we will do our best, also.”

Rushton nodded, bade farewell all round, and then departed with the sergeant beside him
.
Dr
.
Meadows considered Elsie for a moment in the light of the bedside lamp, then he glanced at Peter.

“Want me to take it in turns with you to stay on guard?” he asked. “Hard work for one man alone, and it's hardly a task for you, Mrs. Burrows.”

“Why isn't it?” she asked coldly. “I've helped all I can up to now.”

“No doubt, but if George Timperley should re­appear I very much doubt your ability to deal with him.”

“I'd be glad of your help, Doc,” Peter said. ‘If you could take on until about midnight I could grab a few hours sleep.”

“Gladly,” Meadows assented.

“Which means I am not wanted? ” Mrs. Burrows asked.

“Oh, mother, why do you have to be so unpleas­ant?” Elsie asked wearily. “Peter and the doctor are only doing what they think is best.”

“When a mother cannot watch over her own child things have come to a nice pass,” Mrs. Burrows retorted. “At least I know when I'm not wanted.”

She left the room impatiently and was not at all careful about the force with which she closed the door. Since it was still only early in the evening she went down into the drawing room. Switching on the lights she moved to an armchair by the fire and settled down. She did not read, or watch television. She gave herself entirely up to thought.

The longer she was preoccupied the more the lines hardened in her face.

“That could be it,” she told herself at length. “And it is only right that Inspector Rushton should know what I think. Nothing must be—”

She broke off as there was a sudden click from somewhere. Puzzled, she looked about her, but failed to detect anything unusual. Since it was not repeated she turned back to her thoughtful contemplation of the fire—then with a sudden whirlwind twisting of drapes the French windows burst apart and an apparition in snow white entered.

Mrs. Burrows stared at the visitor blankly. She was too strong-nerved, too self-possessed, to be afraid: she was instead completely bewildered. Fixedly she gazed at the expressionless face. The only part about it that lived were the eyes and the ghastly mouth, besmeared with red about the lips, the fanged teeth bared.

“George Timperley!” she gasped at last, and half got to her feet.

Before she could complete the action the appar­ition moved forward soundlessly on naked feet. Without him uttering a word. George Timperley's pale, deadly cold hands lashed forward, seizing the now startled Mrs. Burrows by the throat. She managed to give one desperate scream, then she was crushed down again into the armchair.

Tremendous strength held her there. She kicked and lashed furiously, striking at the icy limbs, slapping at flesh that was as cold and revolting as that of a corpse—but she had not the power to prevent that terrifying face with its blood-stained teeth and lips coming ever nearer to her. At last she felt sharp pain at both sides of her neck and could smell the fetid breath of the monster that had come from the grave.

Her struggles grew weaker and at last eased altogether, whilst, upstairs, Dr. Meadows gave Elsie a sharp glance. She lay reading, or trying to, but she lowered the book as his eyes met hers.

“Did you hear something?” he asked, puzzled.

“I heard a cry—or I thought I did,” Elsie res­ponded. “I don't suppose it was anything, though. Night bird perhaps.”

“Not at this time of year,” Meadows answered. “I'll awaken Peter and he can watch you whilst I see if all's well.”

He went over to the deep armchair at the far end of the big bedroom, shook Peter into wakefulness and explained matters, and then hurried out of the room. In perhaps three minutes he was back, white-faced and drawn. He closed the door and stood with his eyes shut for a moment as though to blot out something horrifying.

“What?” Peter whispered, and Elsie half rose on her elbow and then sank back again helplessly.

“You'd better—go and look,” Meadows said, get­ting control of himself. “It was never more vital for one of us to watch Elsie. Ring the police. They may still be at the inn in the village.”

Peter went out quickly. Elsie watched Meadows anxiously.

“What is it, doctor?” she entreated. “Tell me: what's
wrong
?”

He came forward slowly to the bedside, looking down at her.

“I have to be brutal, my dear,” he said, taking her limp hand in his fingers. “You might as well hear the truth now as later…. Your mother has been murdered. Foully! And George was her killer.”

Elsie moved her lips but no words came forth. Shock had momentarily killed the power of speech.

“I saw George down there,” Meadows continued. “He was just at the end of—his orgy. He did not stay to attack me, perhaps remembering the Crucifix I thrust before his eyes last night.”

“Mother—dead,” Elsie said at last. “Murdered by—George—I—I just can't believe it! I....”

She stumbled over her words, her eyes half closing. Meadows put an arm behind her shoulders and raised her slightly. From the table he took up the blood-capsule phial and pushed off the stopper one-handedly.

“Here, take these,” he murmured, putting three of the pills to the girl's clenched lips. “They'll help you....”

With an effort she opened her mouth and allowed the pills to roll under her tongue, where they dissolved. Then she sank back, her eyes brimming with tears and her shoulders quivering. What happened after that she did not know. Reaction, and the unending horror which seemed to beset her, overwhelmed her.

* * * * * * *

When she emerged from the coma that seemed to have struck her she learned that a whole fortnight had passed. Her mother had been buried; the police had investigated again and got no more evidence than before; and she herself was suffering from some form of wasting that had no medical explan­ation.

It was Peter who told her these things, seated at her bedside. Through the window the mid-March sun was shining brightly. The plane trees were just visible, rich with sticky buds, and beyond them again the countryside was preparing for summer.

“If only I could understand it all,” Peter muttered, his face haggard from endless days and nights of worry and watching over Elsie. “If only I could gauge the depth of George Timperley's hatred of you. If only....”

He stopped, sighing, looking at Elsie's white face against the pillow. Always ethereal, even when in the best of health, she looked almost like a ghost now.

“Where's Dr. Meadows?” she asked, her voice so low that Peter had to incline his head to hear her.

“Busy with his practice. He's been grand through these weeks, dearest. Watching over you when I could not, helping in every possible way. He's seen to it that you've been fed by injections whilst you were unconscious. Our job now is to build you up. I've also asked Meadows for another doctor to come and have a look at you. He's a specialist, so maybe he can discover the cause of your slow decline. Meadows can't understand it—from the medical point of view. From the standpoint of the supernatural, though, he says that you have been more seriously bitten than he thought on that night George attacked you. Venom in your blood may be the cause of your…illness.”