The Empty Coffins (7 page)

“Only thing for it is for some of you men to transport these terrible corpses back into the village for the Yard men to see tomorrow,” Peter instructed. “We'll carry out our original idea of opening Elsie's grave.”

“You mean George's,” Meadows corrected, stand­ing up.

“And Elsie's. Mr. Singh thought it would be a good idea; and I agree.”

Peter turned to Singh for confirmation, but the mystic had disappeared.

“Where's he gone?” Peter demanded, looking about him in the dark and drizzle. “Singh! Where are you?”

There was no response. Meadows gave a shrug.

“Be damned to the man: he's no use to us, any­way. Seems to spend all his time arguing for the wrong side…. You two men get these bodies back to the village,” he instructed. “Go and fetch a truck if you have to. The rest of us will go back into the cemetery. We'll open both graves while we're at it.”

Turning, he led the way back down the lane, Peter at his side.

“I'm getting a bit baffled by Singh, Peter,” Meadows said anxiously, after making sure the rest of the party was out of earshot. “He behaves in such a strange way and seems to know so much he's got me wondering....”

“About what?”

Meadows did not answer until the main cemetery path had been regained. Then he said:

“I am wondering if he possessed some strange influence over Elsie, which brought about her death. I am not one who believes in what is call­ed the ‘evil eye,' even though I think vampires exist—but I am commencing to wonder if perhaps, when Elsie visited him that evening at the fair, he did not put some kind of psychic spell upon her. He was so convinced she would die, but he erred in the time, apparently. Doesn't that suggest to you that perhaps he did not really know how long it would be before she succumbed? When he had
really
worked it out he came and made amendments to his calculations.”

“But what on earth reason would he have for wanting to kill Elsie? There's no sense in it! Besides, that doesn't explain away George being a vampire.”

“I suppose not—unless Singh is perhaps account­able for that also, in some way so complex the solution has not yet occurred to us.”

Peter did not pursue the subject because the remainder of the party had caught up, barring the two men who had gone back to the village for transport for the two corpses in the lane.

“I'll join you later,” Meadows said, pausing beside George Timperley's half dug-up grave. “You'd better see what kind of a tale Elsie's coffin has to tell.”

Peter nodded and went on ahead with three of the men. He did not need to give them instructions. They removed the wreaths reverently and set them on one side; then, Peter handling his shovel with as much vigour as his colleagues, the first moves in the exhumation of Elsie began.

They had just got as far as the lid of her coff­in when Meadows appeared at the grave edge with the man who had been helping him.

“It wasn't George,” he said. “He's returned to his coffin, lying there as if he's never done a wrong thing.”

Peter lowered his shovel and looked up incred­ulously in the glow of the hurricane lamp.

“You mean—through the soil, the screwed lid, and everything?”

“That isn't remarkable, Peter. A spirit, evil or good, can pass through all solids. It satisfies me that his sole reason for becoming a vampire was to inflict Elsie with his own loathsomeness.”

“Which means it was
she
who attacked and killed those two policemen tonight?” Peter whispered.

“It looks horribly like it.” Meadows jumped down into the grave. “How far have you got towards opening her coffin—? Oh, just got to the lid, eh? All right—carry on.”

Peter did not move. Now he had come to the task of removing the screws from the lid his nerve had failed him. Meadows gave him an understanding smile in the glow of the lamp and picked up a screw­driver, motioning the other men to get their tools from the bag.

Swiftly the lid was unfastened—and raised. There was a long and deathly silence.

“Gone!” Peter breathed, staring at the empti­ness. Just the plush, the headrest, the lead lining—that was all. The coffin still smelled of the aromatic ointments the undertakers had used.

“Yes—gone.” Meadows took a deep breath. “She was only buried this morning. She would not leave her coffin during the daylight hours, and we enter­ed the cemetery at eleven. That means that she started to prowl as a vampire somewhere between darkness and eleven o clock. There were two hours of darkness there when she was unguarded. Fools that we've been! We should have come sooner!”

“It would not have availed you anything if you had.”

Meadows, Peter, and the rest of the men looked up sharply. At the edge of the grave, his queer, oblique eyes peering into the cavity, Rawnee Singh was waiting.With his turban and rain-glistened mack­intosh he cut a queer figure against the drizzling dark.

“What the devil are you talking about?” Meadows snapped.

“I mean, my dear doctor, that I was here tonight from sunset to the time when I joined your party.”

“You were?” Peter looked surprised. “How did that come about?”

“You wish to make a mystery of it? That would be rather pointless, would it not? We finished discussing in the inn at about half past eight. It was just commencing to grow dark then. We had arranged to meet at eleven. I had nothing with which to occupy myself in the intervening time—­so I came here.”

“And saw what?” Meadows questioned.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am prepared to swear by all the gods I hold sacred that this grave—and that of George Timperley—remained undisturbed throughout the time I was here. I stood in the chapel porch over there, where I could see both graves—”

“In the dark?” Peter interrupted.

“It is never entirely dark in an open space, my friend. The departure or entry of the occupant of either grave would have been visible because of the white shroud each would be wearing. There was no such manifestation.”

“We've only your word for it,” Meadows said. “Personally I'm not at all satisfied with your be­haviour, Singh. That you came here by yourself is at least—suspicious.”

“Is it?” Singh gave his slow smile. “Do you believe that that
I
perhaps arranged for Elsie Malden to leave her resting place?”

“Just what
are
we to think?” Peter demanded. “The fact remains that Elsie would not leave her grave by daylight. The only time she could have departed was in the interval when you say nothing happened. And those two dead men in the lane are proof that she
must
have become a vampire.”

“You are sure it was not George Timperley?” Singh enquired.

“Certain. He's back in his coffin.”

“Strange,” the mystic mused. “Very strange.”

“No more strange than your remarks and behav­iour,” Meadows said. “Where have you been during the interval? We lost track of you after those two men were found in the lane.”

There was a queer light in Singh's eyes as he looked down into the grave.

“I busied myself doing something which all of you gentlemen neglected to do. I looked for ev­idences of the attacker.”

“Evidences?” Peter repeated. “What need was there for that? Weren't those two blood-drained corpses sufficient evidence in themselves?”

“Not altogether. I had the wish to discover some sign of the creature, or object, which had so ruthlessly slain them. I was successful. For­tunately the night is wet and footprints are clearly visible. In the clayey soil at the side of the lane, not far from your car, doctor, I found signs of heavy boots. Two sets—one belong­ing to a smallish man, and the other to a much bigger person.”

This sudden material discovery in the midst of the supernatural gave Peter a decided mental jolt.

He looked up at Singh fixedly.

“Do you mean,” Meadows asked deliberately, “that you think ordinary human beings attacked those two poor devils?”

“I consider there is that possibility,” Singh replied. “I expected to find the naked footprints of a woman—but there were none. Only these foot­prints of two men, going up the bank into the field beyond.”

“And then where?” Peter asked quickly.

“I lost them in the grass,” Singh answered, impassive again.

Dr. Meadows became thoughtful. “This may throw a new light on things.” he said. “It makes me think of something poor Mrs. Burrows once said— ­You remember, Peter, when she asked me did I think that perhaps a maniac was at work, making every­thing look as though a vampire were the cause?”

“I remember,” Peter assented. “But no human agency could account for Elsie leaving her coffin. And what about George Timperley? He didn't only leave his coffin: he returned to it! I just can't see any criminal being responsible for things like that.”

“On the other hand, spirits do not wear size seven and nine boots,” Singh commented.

“I'd like to see those prints,” Meadows decided. “We had better return this coffin and grave to nor­mal and then perhaps you won't mind showing me what you've discovered?”

“With pleasure,” Singh murmured, and from there on he did not pass any comment. He assisted in the task of re-closing the grave and when it was done, to the point of the wreaths being back in position, he looked from one man to the other.

“Do you consider, doctor, there is any point in maintaining guard here?” he asked. “We have proved Mrs. Malden has left her coffin. What more—”

“She has to be found,” Meadows interrupted. “Two of us must keep on constant watch, being relieved at intervals.... You two men can stop,” he added, motioning to the couple who had done most of the digging. “The rest of us will go and see those prints you're talking about, Singh.”

The mystic nodded and led the way from the cem­etery. When a point of the lane was reached near Meadows' car Singh pulled a small torch from his pocket and flashed the beam on the wet ground.

After searching for a moment or two he picked up the perfectly clear prints, freshly made, which went up the bank and vanished in the field beyond.

“No doubt about that,” Meadows admitted. “But they lost themselves in the grass above, didn't you say?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, after pondering, Meadows turned up his coat irritably against the drizzle.

“Doesn't seem to be much more we can do,” he said. “You said, Peter, that you were staying on watch tonight. That still go?”

“Definitely,” Peter answered. “If there's any chance of locating Elsie I don't intend to lose it. If nothing happens you can take over tomorrow night.”

Meadows nodded. “Very well then.... There are two men who can help you if anything happens; and you other two”—he looked at the couple standing beside him—“had better stay around here in case of trouble. You're taking on the job of those two luckless policemen. Or are you scared to do it?”

The two men shook their heads. Countrymen, both of them, they were not easily frightened.

“Will those two policemen become vampires when they're buried?” Peter asked; and Meadows shrugged.

“Presumably—
if
they were killed by a vampire. From these other evidences Singh has found I am beginning to wonder…. Can I give you a lift back, Singh?”

“Thank you, no.” The mystic's white teeth gleamed in a smile. “I have decided to stay. Probably Mr. Malden will be glad of my company.”

“He has the other two men,” Meadows pointed out.

“The more I have the better,” Peter answered. “You carry on, Doc, and I'll see you tomorrow...or rather when the day comes.”

Meadows nodded and walked back to his car. After a while it started off down the lane, the red rear light disappearing in the drizzle. The two countrymen looked at each other, turned their collars up higher, and then began a slow pacing back and forth after the manner of sentries.

“I suppose we'd better get back to the cemetery grounds, Singh,” Peter remarked.

“I think we could turn our time to better pur­pose, Mr. Malden,” the mystic answered. “Follow­ing those footprints, for example.”

“But I thought you said the trail lost itself in the grass!”

“To a certain extent it does. I did not take the time to examine the traces thoroughly. We can do so now, since those other men are on the watch in the cemetery.”

Peter did not agree immediately. Wandering in an open field in the early hours of the morning, and with only Rawnee Singh for company, seemed to him a dangerous occupation. It was not that he was frightened of the mystic, but he was certainly uneasy about him. Left to his mercy Peter was not sure but what he might suddenly pull a knife.

“You hesitate,” Singh murmured. “Surely, Mr. Malden, you are anxious to know
everything
about this unhappy, ghoulish business?”

“Of course.” Peter made his decision abruptly. “We'll see what we can find.”

He scrambled up the bank quickly, Singh foll­owing behind him with his torch beam waving. Here at the top of the bank the rain and wind seemed heavier. Peter stood huddled and waiting as the mystic caught up with him, the circle of light flashing on the wet soil to reveal the two sets of prints clearly.

“They both come and go,” Singh pointed out. “Observe?”

Peter looked with renewed interest. So far he had only thought of them moving one way—from the lane, but not to it.

“It is my belief,” Singh continued, “that two men came from somewhere, attacked the unfortunate policemen, and then retreated. The prints going away from the lane are such deeper than those going towards it. Plainly, the men carried something heavy.”

“Not bodies, anyway,” Peter said. “We found those.”