The Empty Coffins (8 page)

“Perhaps—blood,” Singh said. “It would weigh as heavy as water, and there must have been a good deal of it.”

“Now we're back where we started,” Peter sighed. “You are trying to offer a material explanation for something which we believe my wife—as a vampire—created.”

“Do you
wish
to believe that of your wife?”

“My God, no! I'm simply thinking that—”

“Mr. Malden,” Singh interrupted, “we have here the first signs which suggest that this business of vampires may not be entirely genuine. Let us see if we can discover the starting point of these prints.”

So there began for both of them the slow, ted­ious business of following first one set of prints, and then the other, pushing aside wet grass to find the indentations in the oozing soil below. Foot by foot progress was made until, gradually, out of the murk, there loomed a dark towering shape which Singh's torch beam could just pick out as a crumb­led wall gleaming with rain.

“From the look of things, Mr. Malden,” he comm­ented, “our trail ends and begins there—at that wall.”

“We'd better make sure,” Peter said, satisfied by this time that Singh was evidently not planning any kind of attack.

He hurried forward the few remaining yards, Singh behind him, and they stopped when they had gained the towering ruin. At the base of the wall the prints were still visible. They went through a gap in the wall and vanished again in the stone ­riddled square that had once been a quadrangle.

“What
is
this place?” Singh questioned, switch­ing off his torch for the moment. “I am not fam­iliar with the local history.”

“It's the old chapel,” Peter responded. “About fifteen years ago it was destroyed by fire. This is the only remaining wall. In the square here there used to be the cloisters, and under them sev­eral of the crypts and mausoleums. It's a spot with historic connections and that's all. The new chapel in the cemetery was built to replace this one.”

“Interesting,” Singh commented. “I find it most— Look!” he broke off quickly, and gripped Peter's arm.

Peter gazed steadily, feeling his heart beginn­ing to race. There was no doubt of the fact that at the far end of the ruined cloisters a figure had come into view. In the darkness and rain it was only a blurred grey outline, but as Singh switched on his torch details leapt into view.

It was Elsie, her hair flowing in the wind, the shroud moulded against her graceful form!

CHAPTER SIX

THE WALKING DEAD

For a moment or two Peter could not believe what he saw, but gradually the penetrating beam of the torch forced him to it. Undeterred by it, appar­ently, Elsie continued to advance, making no sound, the shroud blowing out behind her in the wind. The effect was eerie in the extreme, her form vanishing at intervals as she passed the crumbled stonework that had once formed part of the cloisters.

“What do we do?” Peter whispered at length.

“Slay her, my friend. We have no alternative. That is our main reason for being here, is it not?”

“I can't do it. I can't even bear to look at her—”

Peter half turned to go but Singh flung out his free hand and stopped him.

“If you have not the courage to kill her, Mr. Malden, then neither have I. We'll see what happ­ens.”

As though drawn to them by magnetism Elsie finally left the protected area of the old cloisters and stepped into the open quadrangle. Immed­iately the wind began to buffet her and her shroud became plastered to her slender figure with the rain.

“That's queer,” Peter said, frowning. “She must have been perfectly dry until she got this far. Where's she been, I wonder—?”

“Her mouth seems to tell the answer,” Singh muttered; and watching intently as the girl came ever nearer Peter could see what he meant. Her lips were dyed red, far beyond their normal shade.

“I don't believe it,” Peter said stubbornly. “Elsie would never become a vampire! It's all crazy, insane! I saw her die—I also saw her buried— Yet now she's walking! I've got to know the truth—!”

He suddenly lunged forward and raced across the quadrangle to where she was advancing. Reaching her he seized her slender shoulders fiercely. He had time to notice that they were icy cold through the rain-saturated shroud.

“What in God's name has happened, dearest?” he demanded, halting her.

She looked at him fixedly in the light of Singh's advancing torch as he hurried across the wind-swept space. Peter tried to look only into the dull stare of her eyes. He kept his gaze away from the reddened lips.

“I'm Peter,” he insisted, hugging her to him fiercely. “For heaven's sake, Elsie, speak to me! Say you are really alive—that you never died—!”

No word escaped her, but as she remained motion­less in his desperate grip he realized that her lips had drawn back from her teeth and she was moving her mouth slowly towards his throat. She was an inch away from it when he flung her away from him in loathing. She collapsed on the stone­work, rain swamping onto her barely protected figure.

“Mrs. Malden, can you not answer me?” Singh demanded, studying her with a fixed, baleful stare. “I am Rawnee Singh, mystic. I have powers not given to most mortals. I order you to speak—to tell us the truth.”

Elsie slowly rose again from the stonework and seemed as if she were struggling to say something. She managed to jerk out a few words….

“Peter—beloved— In the name of God, help me now—”

She swayed visibly. Peter forgot all about the revulsion that had prompted him to hurl her away from him. To him she was again Elsie, the wife he had believed dead, chained by same unimaginable circumstance to a beyond-the-grave influence. But he did not reach her side. Before he got there something hissed out of the rain and dark and he felt a sharp stab in the arm. Pain shot the length of it and his limbs felt as if they had seized up. He dropped into darkness, his senses foundering….

* * * * * * *

When Peter recovered consciousness he became aware of an electric light, a ceiling which needed white­washing, and many shelves lined with bottles. Fill­ed with a sensation of cramp he forced himself up on to one elbow. Then he gave a little sigh of relief. Seated quite nearby, regarding him stead­ily and yet with professional detachment, was Dr. Meadows.

“Good,” Meadows said. “You're okay. I must have worked out the antidote correctly.”

“Antidote?” Peter rubbed a hand bewilderedly over his forehead. “For what? How did I get into your surgery anyway? Last thing I remember I was—”

“Lying flattened out in the remains of the old chapel. I'm not quite sure what happened, but apparently there was some kind of a fight, in which Rawnee Singh was involved. Apparently it was he who fired a poisonous dart into you. Then he began to run around as though he'd gone crazy. The men on guard heard his cries and came to investigate. By the time they got there he'd gone, but you were lying unconscious. They picked you up and tele­phoned for me. I brought you home in my car and diagnosed the trouble. Fortunately it was a poison not entirely unfamiliar to me that was affecting you, and I made up an antidote.... That, son, seems to be all there is.”

“But there's much more to it than that!” Peter cried, getting up slowly from the divan. “What about Elsie? You saw her, didn't you? Or at least the guards would?”

“Elsie?” Meadows too got up. “No, there was no sign of her. Should there have been?”

Peter groaned and beat a fist impotently against his forehead.

“Damnit, Doc, I had her in my arms. She cried out to me for help— She was alive!
Alive
, I tell you! She was cold, yes, but on such a night and in only a shroud—”

“Explain it a bit more sensibly,” Meadows in­sisted. “Take it easy, Peter!”

Peter nodded wearily and began to tell his story in detail. Meadows listened without interrupting, then when it was over he fingered his jaw pensively.

“All decidedly strange,” he said at length, pond­ering. “Certainly there was no sign of Elsie when the guards got to the spot. And Singh, too, had gone.”

“And you say he was running round like one crazy?”

“So the guards said. They judged it by the wild way his torch was swinging about and the cries he was giving. They knew his voice, of course. But when they arrived they found the torch lying on the ground, still lighted—but he had disappeared.”

“And they didn't try to find him?”

“You were the main concern.”

Peter was silent for a while, then he glanced up at the clock. It was half past three in the early hours.

“Thanks for saving me, Doc,” he said quietly, and Meadows merely gestured and smiled.

“I saw enough tonight to satisfy me that Elsie is alive,” Peter went on deliberately. “I don't believe she ever really died—just as Singh fore­casted.”

Meadows laughed shortly. “That's ridiculous, Peter! I saw her die myself, and Sir Gerald Mon­trose verified it. You remember?”

“Yes, I remember, but what I saw of Elsie to­night convinces me that she's alive, but under some compelling influence. I don't think she's a vampire, either, in spite of the apparent bloodstains on her lips. Behind all this fiend­ish business there's a human hand. A criminal—and one of the worst criminals ever, apparently.”

Meadows motioned to the chairs again and then continued:

“Let's see if we can get some sense into this, Peter. I need to do so as much as you since, in a sense, I love Elsie—or else her memory—every bit as much as you do. You say that Singh fore­casted that Elsie would
not
die?”

“Not quite that, Doc. He said there would be a termination in her consciousness which, to him, did not entirely represent death.”

“Mmmm. Let us couple that with the fact that he was responsible for attacking you tonight—and what do we get? That he is back of every­thing that is going on. In other words, he
knew
that Elsie would not really die, so it was simple enough for him to forecast a state of—suspended animation, or whatever it was.”

“But,” Peter pointed out, “you just said that you saw Elsie die. And that specialist confirmed jour opinion.”

“Medical men are not infallible,” Meadows ans­wered. “The way things are going it begins to look as though Elsie settled into a condition resembling death, and both I and Sir Gerald were misled. After that....” Meadows shrugged. “Well, who can say? Singh is a mystic of renown. Poss­ibly he controlled Elsie by mind force. Possibly lots of things.... It seems that he knew from the very moment that he set eyes on her, on the night she went to see him at the fair, what was dest­ined to happen to her. Of course he did! It looks as if he had it all planned out.”

“But
why
for the love of heaven?” Peter asked blankly. “What on earth is the
meaning
of this long series of shocks, the vampires, the murders, and now this poison dart in me? What is Singh getting at?”

“I don't know,” Meadows answered, “but it's certainly time we found out. I never did trust him from the first moment he came into the picture.”

“The Yard could probably make him talk. They'll be coming over now those two constables have been killed.”

Meadows shook his head. “I don't think the Yard will get any further with Singh than they have with anybody else. If we want the facts we'll have to get them for ourselves.”

Peter gave a grim nod. “All right by me. Let's be on our way. Soon as we've dealt with him I'm going back to that ruined chapel to try and find Elsie. I'm sure she's hidden there somewhere, probably by men working for Singh. There are doz­ens of old catacombs under that cemetery.”

“It might be better,” Meadows said, thinking, “if we finished off Singh without asking him any­thing.”

Peter gave a start. “
Murder
him, do you mean?”

“I am a doctor, Peter. When I come across some­thing loathsome that can endanger innocent lives I think nothing of destroying it instantly. We know Singh attacked you, so it is a reasonable assumption that he has been back of everything else. Yes—I think he ought to be wiped out.”

“And how do we explain that to Scotland Yard? And how far does it get us towards the answer of this whole damnable mystery?”

“Singh must have plenty of men working for him—”

“He had at the fair,” Peter interrupted. “You recall those Nubians? And that other dark-skinned devil who was a sort of receptionist.... Yes, I daresay quite a few are under his orders.”

“And they are the ones who can be made to talk,” Meadows answered. “If we give Singh any quarter, or the opportunity to talk, he might wipe us out first. I don't think we should take that risk. I'm prepared to put a bullet through him, and admit as much to Scotland Yard when the full inquiry is complete. I don't think the law will be very hard on a man who has killed such an undesirable. Any­way, I'm willing to risk it.”

Peter hesitated, debating the wisdom of the idea. Then he realized the issue was being settled for him when he saw Meadows taking a .32 automatic from the desk drawer.

“Licensed,” Meadows said, seeing Peter's look of inquiry. “As a country doctor I'm entitled to one. Never know what I might come up against....” He hesitated, then his grim face relaxed a little. “If you have any qualms about this business, son, stay out of it,” he advised. “I can handle it by myself. As far as that goes I'm not even sure I shall find Singh. He said he was staying with a friend just outside the village. The only person I can think of who fills that role is Henry Chalm­ers. He's an eccentric and deeply interested in the occult, which seems to tie up with Rawnee Singh's mysticism. Anyhow I propose to try there first.”

“I still believe it's wrong to commit murder,” Peter said worriedly. “I think, in spite of what we think he has done, Singh should be given a chance to speak.”

“One does not argue with a man-eater,” Meadows replied, his eyes hard. “You're a lot younger than I am, son, and because of it inclined to be tol­erant. I have no such emotions. If I find Singh I shall kill him with about as much compassion as
t would a mad dog. Better make up your mind. Are you coming with me or going back home?”

“If I go anywhere it will be to the chapel to try and find Elsie. You don't suppose I can rest after having seen her walking and alive, do you? Heaven knows what is happening to her while she's unprotected.”

“If you try and find Elsie single-handed you'll be asking for it, Peter.”

“But what about those men who were on guard? They're still there, aren't they?”

“No. After they'd sent for me I told them to go home. They were pretty well worn out, and it's such a ghastly night. I didn't of course know about Elsie, otherwise I'd have thought twice. My idea was to leave things until tomorrow night.”

“Oh...I see. In that case I'd better come with you on your hunt for Singh, but I refuse to have any part in killing him. It's your responsibility entirely.”

“I think,” Meadows said quietly, getting into his overcoat, “that the best thing
you
can do, Peter, is go home to bed. You're none too fit after that attack. Though the antidote has cured you it doesn't mean you have unlimited strength. Do too much and you might suddenly collapse. How about going to bed for the rest of tonight then tomorrow morning—by which time I trust I shall have attended to Singh and got the Yard men over here, we can sake an investigation in full strength?”

“I shan't sleep,” Peter said. “All I can do is think of her, and whatever may be happening to her—but I also realize that I might ruin things by precipitating matters. All right, I'll go home—and in the daylight we'll take action. Can't see very well what we're doing at night, anyway, and with torches we'll give ourselves away.”

“Sound judgment,” Meadows said. “Get into your coat and I'll drive you home: then I'll return and see what I can do about Singh.”

Peter nodded, dragged on the overcoat Meadows held for him, and realized as he did so how much his arm pained him. Then Meadows led the way to the door, switched off the light, and so both he and Peter passed to the outdoors where Meadows' car stood in the lonely road.