They See in Darkness

Book 783: Murder Room

by Ethel Lina White

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Oldtown is a picturesque, historic place, with a square of characterful houses nestling at its centre, and is home to retired colonial masters and friendly locals. A wealthy, reclusive sisterhood lives there too, in a large mansion, Cloisters; a group known locally as the 'Black Nuns', who are said to have extraordinary healing powers. But a killer is at work in Oldtown, and a series of murders has thrown the inhabitants into blind, unreasoning terror, a fear of darkness and of strange sounds - sounds such as the pitiless beat of following footsteps. Suddenly the town is plunged into a miasma of fear and superstition ...

Release date: March 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

OLDTOWN was damp, picturesque and historic—a collection of gracious buildings set in a tree-lined valley. Its heart was the Square where the dim
houses slanted crazily, as though they were built with a pack of ancient cards. They gave the impression of swaying in the November wind which shook the stripped branches of the Spanish
chestnuts.

Standing in the big-bellied bow-window of the County Club, the Chief Constable, Colonel Pride, smoked as he chatted to his guest—a retired Indian judge whom he had known in the East. The
Colonel’s face was scalded scarlet by tropical sun, which had also bleached his flaxen brows and lashes. In contrast with his white hair, his blue eyes looked youthfully keen as he watched a
girl cross the cobbles on perilous heels.

She was tall, slender and fair, with a finished appearance, as though much time and thought had been spent to achieve an effect. When she drew nearer, it was possible to see the exquisite
moulding of her face and the porcelain delicacy of her colouring. Her expression was bored, to demonstrate the nonchalance exacted by a reputation for beauty and poise.

The Indian judge noticed his old friend’s absorption with cynical amusement, blent with surprise. As Colonel Pride had been immune to woman during his younger days, his present interest in
youth appeared somewhat ominous.

“Pretty girl,” he probed.

“I suppose so,” agreed the Colonel in a grudging voice. “I believe she is by way of being our local beauty.”

“Who is she?”

“Simone Mornington-Key. Mother’s a widow. They live in Old Court.”

He nodded across the Square to a red brick Queen Anne mansion, its front door opening flush with the pavement.

In contradiction with his indifference, the Colonel continued to stare at the girl with so concentrated a gaze, that his friend felt a hint would not be misplaced.

“She’s too modern for our generation,” he said.

As he spoke, the girl looked up at the Club window. Recognising the Colonel, she inclined her head in the precision-bow of a monarch who had practised it during a long reign. Since the
attraction was obviously not mutual, the Judge asked a direct question.

“Interested in her, Pride?”

“Like hell I am,” declared the Colonel. “That girl is an object of interest not only to myself but to every policeman in the town. For all we know to the contrary, she is a
murderess.”

The words jolted the Judge out of his composure.

“A murderess?” he echoed. “That beautiful calm face. . . . But I should know exactly how little that means. Mere facade. . . . Why is she at large?”

“At present, she is only under general suspicion,” explained the Chief Constable. He lowered his voice before he continued. “A family in this town is being systematically wiped
out. They are all legatees in the will of Josiah Key—a tea-merchant who made his pile in China. He came back to his native town and lived at Canton House, where he died. His fortune is
divided between his sister and his nieces and nephews. The mischief is it’s one of those reversionary wills. As the legatees die, their shares go to enrich the jack-pot. Winner takes all,
including the capital.”

“By ‘winner,’ you mean the ultimate survivor?” asked the Judge.

“I do. And the death-rate in that family is getting more than a coincidence.”

The Judge screwed together his wrinkled lids.

“In view of this sudden fall,” he remarked, “the last-man-in is likely to finish up himself at eight o’clock in the morning. The inference is that he will reveal his
identity with his last murder. Reasoning by the book, he must be guilty. But you will have to prove his guilt. He might stage a final crime which is too crafty to be traced to him. Pride,
you are not sitting too easy.”

“Neither is he,” said the Colonel. “Everyone will believe that he wiped out the others when—in reality—he may be damned by a chain of unlucky circumstances. He
could be innocent.”

“In such a case, I can imagine compensation. With a fortune to spend, he has not got to remain in Oldtown and wilt under local odium.”

“Ah, it’s plain to see you are neither a gardener nor a small-town man. If you were, you’d know that your hometown is the biggest place in the world, while it’s damnably
difficult to grow new roots.”

The Judge looked across the Square at the hoary houses which appeared to be on the point of toppling down. He shivered as a gust of wind blew through the cracks of the diamond-paned windows. Too
tactful to question the local attraction, he began to chat about the Chief Constable’s problem.

“I suppose you suspect the family?” he asked.

“That is definitely the police-angle,” replied the Colonel. “The deaths are limited to the legatees of old Key’s will and they alone have the motive.”

“Any dubious character among them?”

“No, they are all nice people. . . . And they are being killed off one by one.”

The Judge hid his astonishment at the anger in his old friend’s voice. As though he felt his emotion was out of place, the Colonel began to explain.

“This business reminds me of something which happened when I was a youngster. We had a big tank, filled with minnows, in the conservatory, and we used to go to the canal to net fresh
stock. Late one evening I came home in triumph with a unique specimen and dumped him into the tank. . . . In the morning, every fish was dead, floating belly-up on the top of the water. In my
ignorance, I had put a killer into the tank—a cray-fish.”

The Colonel gave a short laugh as he added, “My rind is as tough as most, but even now, I can’t think of that business without a qualm. It was a sort of nursery version of the
massacre of Cawnpore. Imagine that devil hunting down his helpless victims all through the night and not letting-up until he had slaughtered the lot. . . . Get me?”

“Not exactly,” confessed the Judge. “I’m afraid I can’t get enthusiastic about fish.”

“But you see the analogy? There’s a killer loose in this town, remorselessly hunting down a bunch of helpless people. For instance, take Simone.”

He pointed to the fair girl who was returning from her short walk to the pillar-box, and added, “That girl may be the killer. On the other hand, she may be the next victim.”

“Certainly it’s up to you,” said the Judge. “By the way, what about popular opinion?”

“The subject is too delicate to be discussed openly among decent people. But I am told that the mystery has been solved by the ignorant and superstitious element. They say that the murders
are committed by the ‘Mad Nun.’”

THE MIASMA of fear and superstition which created “the mad nun” had been dormant in the atmosphere for months, so that only a murder was
needed to release it. It was a poisonous suggestion generated by the combination of a muffled landscape and a body of recluses, known locally as “The Black Nuns.”

Oldtown was not especially healthy as it lay low and was ringed too closely by trees which pressed in upon it like the threat of an invading army. In places, the forest appeared actually to have
broken-in, for isolated houses were almost hidden by the surrounding foliage. The civic lungs—not designed for deep-breathing—were provided by the bungalows of a new suburb at its
eastern end, where its spine of High Street merged into the main road.

There was a secondary road which by-passed the town, following the curve of a sulky brown river and shadowed by the perpetual twilight of fir-woods. This river-road was unlighted and was usually
damp underfoot, while its surface was slippery from fallen leaves and fir-needles. Consequently it was neglected in favour of the shorter main road and was popular only with lovers, until they were
driven away by the procession of the Black Sisters.

Every evening, as darkness was beginning to fall, a body of dark veiled forms filed singly out of the gates of a large mansion—the Cloisters—at the west end of the town. They wore
heavy black habits and high cowls which covered their faces completely—exaggerating their height to unhuman stature, so that they resembled the creations of a nightmare.

They crossed the main road and descended to the river road—to reappear at the other end of the town. After a short service in the little Roman Catholic chapel, they retraced their steps
back to the Cloisters.

The usual number of wild stories was circulated about the recluses. They were credited with the faculty of seeing only at night-time—of living in darkness—of torturing their mental
patients. No one had ever seen their faces or heard their voices. None could guess at outlines hidden under shapeless robes. . . .

The Chief Constable—Colonel Pride—had been told some of the truth about the mysterious sisterhood. To begin with, he knew that they were not nuns and belonged to no religious order.
Their leader was an anonymous lady and was vouched for by the late Josiah Key, tea-merchant, who had known her in China.

There was no doubt of their wealth, for they not only bought the Cloisters—which had been empty for years because of its uneconomic size—but they reconstructed it to meet their
requirements. In these transactions, they were represented by a Miss Gomme, who looked after all their business affairs and acted as a buffer between them and the outside world. She was grey, gaunt
and reticent, as though she had been born during a long winter night of frost, and she proved herself a worthy guardian of secrets.

The Chief Constable released some of his information when Inspector Wallace, of the local Police, asked him about the new-comers.

“Have they a racket or are they just cranks?” he queried.

“Neither, I believe,” replied Colonel Pride. “They are a body, recluses who believe in the curative properties of darkness. Their official title is ‘Sisters of the
Healing Darkness.’ They run a home for the treatment of severe nervous and borderline cases. They claim never to have had a failure.”

“Proves they can afford to pick and choose.”

“Yes,” agreed the Colonel, “they probably reject a doubtful case. Of course the home is licensed in the usual way. Even if their methods appear unconventional, they get their
results.”

The Inspector still looked sceptical.

“I don’t get it,” he complained. “Must they wear those horrible hoods?”

“I have no official knowledge,” the Colonel told him. “What do they suggest to you?”

The policeman furrowed his brow before he replied.

“My guess is they wish to keep their identity secret and to scare away Peeping Toms from their privacy. They want to suggest some horror hidden under the veil.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the Colonel remarked.

Before the hideous creation of the Mad Nun began to pick her way through the shadows, the female population of Oldtown had been prepared for her reception by their seasonal scare. This was a
story of a man, disguised as a woman, who lurked in lonely roads to molest unprotected girls. The tale had sound entertainment-value at tea-parties, when the day drew in and tea-cups were passed
around, although it was not so popular with a guest who had to walk home alone to an isolated house.

The day when the Mad Nun first appeared, to darken the history of Oldtown, was in October. It was a month before Colonel Pride and the Indian judge stood in the window of the County Club and
watched Simone Mornington-Key cross the Square. The horror was put into circulation by a post office clerk, named “Eva.” She was a pretty, delicate girl—pale, overgrown and very
fair—with heavy-lidded grey eyes. Like most of her companions, she cherished a passion for the new post-mistress—Cassie Thomas.

Upon the morning of the first murder, rays of molten-gold sunshine were striking through the mist as Cassie walked to her work at the new Branch Post Office. Long bedewed cobwebs sparkled as
they floated in the air and the trees flamed with autumnal tints. It was not only a day for cheer, but, in addition, Cassie was always happy, so long as she had no cause for grief.

She had got off to a false start—a premature birth which killed her mother. Her childhood had been shadowed by poverty and dependence until she entered the Civil Service as a clerk at the
Post Office. It was then that life began for Cassie Thomas. Her first experience of economic freedom brought with it a wonderful gush of personal prestige. Her work was congenial and she considered
herself more fortunate than the leisured population of Oldtown, doomed by tradition to slave at games and sports, in all weathers.

Her future was assured by a civil pension. Her modest ambition was gratified by her promotion to the Branch Post Office. . . . Therefore, she magnified the Lord by singing at her work. . . .

The girls in the outer office liked to hear the low musical croon from Miss Thomas’ private room. She was popular with them, especially as her predecessor—a petty tyrant—had
not been easy to follow. There was competition to bring flowers for her desk and to carry in her afternoon cup of tea.

That afternoon, Cassie was guilty of the unusual crime of watching the clock. The time seemed to pass slowly because she was looking forward to seeing Mrs. Miniver again, on that popular
lady’s second visit to the local cinema. When daylight began to fade, she crossed to the window and gazed out at the tree-choked valley.

It was a lonely outlook as the Post Office was built at the extreme east end of the town, to meet the needs of the new bungalow-suburb. Not far away was the tobacconist’s shop—a
venture of Cassie’s cousin—Cherry Ap-Thomas. . . . That “Ap” marked the difference between the relatives. It informed the public that Cherry—who was ten years younger
than Cassie—knew her onions and intended to finish with more impressive backing than an official pension. . . .

The only other building was the tiny Roman Catholic chapel—sunken in a damp dock-grown hollow and shaded by sweeping cedars, but Cassie liked the loneliness. It accentuated the beauty of
her surroundings and also appealed to a vague Celtic melancholy which underlay her happiness. As she looked out at the dying blaze of foliage, she compared it with a Royal Academy landscape, which
was her highest praise. In her turn, she made a pleasant picture in her olive-green suit and scarlet scarf. Her shining black hair waved naturally and she had the same clear complexion as her
cousin, Cherry—only Cherry had organised hers with the rest of her assets.

Miss Thomas fumbled in the pockets of her cardigan and drew out an empty cigarette-carton.

“Blow,” she said. “I mustn’t forget to drop in at Cherry’s and get fags for the pictures.”

She was looking forward, not only to meeting Mrs. Miniver, but also the cashier from the Midland Bank. He was a widower and lived at her boarding-house. So once again, she looked at her watch
and sighed, while for the first time in her Post Office experience work became a burden.

The copper and gold on the hillside had faded to grey and were beginning to deepen to black, when her favourite clerk—Eva—came into her room. The girl was in an
excited and confident mood, for she had beaten the other claimants to Miss Thomas’ favour. Her bunch of chrysanthemums stood on the post-mistress’ desk and she had brought in the cup of
tea with a double ration of biscuits. Therefore she felt justified in her boast to the other clerks.

“I’m going to the pictures with Miss Thomas this evening.”

When they had responded with the “raspberry,” Eva made a bold attempt to convince them by walking into the private room.

“Is it time to go, Eva?” asked Miss Thomas—hoping that her watch was slow.

“No, Miss Thomas,” replied the girl. “The Bats haven’t gone by yet.”

Although they had Greenwich Time at the Post Office, the clerks always checked it with the Black Sisters’ visit to the chapel.

“Bats, Eva?” queried Cassie reprovingly.

“Well, they say they’re all mad,” said the girl. “Please, Miss Thomas, may I open the window and watch out for them?”

In order to pass the time, Cassie stood beside the girl and stared out also towards the darkness of the river road. Her sight was keen but the very intensity of her gaze blurred the bushes to
the semblance of a confused huddle of forms. . . .

And then, suddenly—in defiance of the laws of Nature—the trees began to walk. One by one, they crossed the main road, under the light of the last municipal lamp-post at the east end
of the town. Slowly, heavily, inexorably, they seemed to roll past, like images endowed with the mechanism of motion. Without pause or stumble, as though they actually possessed inner vision, they
descended the steep slippery path to the chapel.

“Coo,” gloated Eva. “They look like the Inquisition going to burn people. They say they torture their poor lunies. When the wind is right, you can hear them yowl.”

“Nonsense, Eva,” said Miss Thomas. “You only expose your ignorance. They couldn’t take mental patients without being open to inspection by the medical officer.

“Everything might look all right when he visited them,” hinted Eva darkly. “But what price after he’d gone? They tickle their soles.”

“Stop talking such nonsense, Eva. They’re all good women in their way, even if it is not our way.”

“But suppose one of them has gone mad and gets loose—”

As Eva’s voice rose, Miss Thomas shut the door, so that the girls in the outer office were cheated of further sensation. She had not been quick enough, however, for a red-haired girl who
sat nearest passed on a new version of the current rumour.

“That man who jumps out at girls is really a mad nun.”

Conscious that Miss Thomas expected her to go, Eva licked her lips nervously.

“Can I go to the pictures with you, to-night, Miss Thomas?” she asked.

Cassie was never allowed to walk home alone, since she was the victim of her own popularity and too kind-hearted to snub the girls. But although she liked her work and was fond of Eva, she was
determined not to take the Post Office with her to the cinema.

“No, Eva,” she said firmly, “I am going with a friend. Run and tell the girls to put on their hats.”

She used the formal order of dismissal, although no one wore a hat. But Eva still waited.

“Please, Miss Thomas,” she pleaded, “won’t you let me walk back with you for company? The new road’s so dark and they say there’s a man dressed up like a
woman—”

“That old tale again,” interrupted Cassie derisively. “You’d think there were too many women in the town already, without inventing another one. . . Good-night,
Eva.”

When Eva returned to the outer office, the other girls were prepared to bait her.

“Coming with us—or waiting for Miss Thomas?” asked the red-head.

“Of course, I am waiting to go with her,” said Eva.

The words were scarcely spoken before she regretted her boast. It involved her in the deceit of hiding in the Post Office until she had given her companions sufficient start to out-distance her.
With a miserable sense of being deserted, she watched them burst out of the office, laughing and chattering—each eager to resume her private life.

A little later, Cassie came into the outer office and saw Eva standing at the open door. She wore a bright blue tweed coat and a catching silk handkerchief tied over her hair. Excitement and
guilt had made her face flame, so that she looked actually beautiful. In Miss Thomas’ opinion, she was too attractive to walk home alone, so that she practically drove her through the
door.

“Run and catch up with the others,” she said sharply, not knowing that the rest of the staff had left five minutes before. “Good night, dear. Run.”

“Good night, Miss Thomas. I hope you’ll enjoy the pictures,” called back Eva as, obediently, she began to run.

It was the first time she had gone home alone, so—although she was used to the darkness—she had no idea of the loneliness of the locality. When she had gone a few yards, she looked
back wistfully at the glow. . .