Down there in the crypt, with something like terror in my heart, I formulated a plan for the destruction of this supernatural cat. As ordinary weapons seemed useless against it, something extraordinary must be employed. I had noticed, in Bourne’s study, a fine Toledo dagger with a silver crucifix set into the handle. This was the ideal instrument for the destruction of the monster for, according to the best authorities, witches can only be killed with silver weapons and a crucifix is the best antidote to their spells. I was determined to make use of the cruciform dagger that very night.
After breakfast Bourne and I returned to the crypt. The man who had been working on the tomb was still absent, and none of the other workmen would carry on with the task. In fact they seemed to have developed a fear of the place and suspected that the fellow labourer’s illness was a punishment for interfering with the dead.
‘You see it’s like this,’ said one. ‘Poor old Bill ’as never ’ad a touch of screwmatics in his life and yet, as soon as he starts on this job, ’is arm goes so stiff and useless that he cannot lift it to down a pint.’
The men insisted that the mewing cat still disturbed them. Fortunately there was still plenty of work to be done on the windows so it was unnecessary to instruct them to attempt to remove the slab of the tomb.
I spent most of the morning examining the fragments of glass in the west window of the church. Most of it was early sixteenth century, but no attempt had been made to fit the portions into the original pattern. This has since been done and anyone, who saw those jumbled pieces prior to 1932, would have difficulty in associating them with the lovely Coronation of the Blessed Virgin which now fills the central light.
Poor Laura Weston, accompanied by her mother, arrived at the rectory just before lunch. The girl was distraught and we had to soothe her before she was capable of telling a coherent story. The old lady was even worse and, at one point in the narrative, she became quite hysterical. The tale was brief and tragic. Laura’s baby, which I gathered was a love-child, was a boy of six months. On the previous evening Laura, following her usual practice, had put him to bed in the cot, in her room, about six o’clock. About eleven she had awakened him for feeding, and the child had gone off to sleep again before the mother retired. Some time later she had been awakened by the baby’s screams and, sitting up in bed, she had clearly seen a great black cat standing over the cot. In answer to Laura’s cries her mother had come into the room just in time to see the cat disappearing over the window-sill. The two women lit a candle and a terrible sight was revealed. The child’s face was a mass of gashes and blood was splashed all over the cot. The little baby was dead—frightened to death and torn to pieces by the sharp claws of the ghostly cat. We did our best to comfort Laura and her mother, but there was little we could say or do. I had an uncomfortable feeling that, if the people of Upton Stonewold began to suspect that the opening of the crypt had anything to do with the unpleasant happenings, they might be inclined to blame the vicar.
After our visitors had departed I outlined my scheme to Bourne. He didn’t like it at all, mainly because he felt that I was exposing myself to some personal danger. He was of the opinion that, if there was any risk to be as encountered, he should be the one to take it. We argued for some time and finally I convinced him that his part was to pray for the success of the venture.
It was my friend’s custom to say Compline in the church at six o’clock. When he returned to the rectory, after the service, he said he had been painfully aware of the presence of the animal throughout the recitation of the Office, and had seen its eyes gleaming in different corners of the building. We dined quietly and then read and talked until just before midnight. Then, donning a dark coat and putting the dagger into my pocket, I made my way to the churchyard and crouched under the stone on which the cat usually appeared. The place appeared silent and deserted and, although I knew Bourne to be close at hand, I didn’t feel very happy.
The minutes seemed like hours as I waited in that cramped position. Suddenly I saw a flickering circle of green eyes and knew that the cats were congregating. Then the dismal howling commenced and, looking up, I saw the enormous black shape of the terrible cat gradually appearing on the stone above me. At first it was little more than a thin mist. Slowly it materialized until the animal, apparently of solid flesh and blood, stood there and, stretching its neck, screeched a greeting to the assembled cats. With a prayer on my lips I raised the dagger and plunged it into the heart of the foul creature. An agonized scream sounded through the night, and then there was a sinister silence. I knew that the monster had gone and I saw the dark shapes of the ordinary cats slinking away into the shadows. Bourne was at my side in a moment and, with that unearthly wail echoing in our ears, we returned to the rectory.
Bourne said his Mass as usual and we breakfasted together before investigating the scene of the previous night’s adventure. We found the tombstone to be spattered with blood, but there was no sign of the Toledo dagger. A trail of bloodstains led through the churchyard to the windows of the crypt and, on going inside, we found that they continued right up to the tomb, where they appeared to have dripped down the side from which the mortar had been removed.
Horrocks, the man who had been ill, was back at work that morning. He said that the use had suddenly returned to his arm during the night, and credited the cure to the virtues of some embrocation his wife had been applying. Both Bourne and I felt that the most urgent task was to open the tomb and ascertain what it contained. The workmen seemed to regard the job with superstitious horror. But, with the promise of suitable reward, they overcame their fears and all set to work upon chipping the mortar away. It was a difficult business and soon blunted their tools. Eventually we decided to insert crowbars under the slab and endeavour to lever it off. It took our united efforts to detach it and, even then, it cracked at one end. At last we were able to lift the pieces and see what lay within the cavity.
The tomb contained the uncoffined body of a small woman. There was no sign of decay on the aged countenance, the green eyes were wide open, and the lips were twisted in an evil snarl. The winding sheet was torn to tatters and wet with fresh blood and, from the woman’s breast, protruded the Toledo dagger. I noticed that her ears were strangely pointed and that bristling whiskers grew from her upper lip. Even as we gazed upon that hideous corpse it slowly disintegrated before our eyes until the dagger fell with a crash and only a heap of dust was left. In the cavity we found a small parchment scroll which we afterwards examined in Bourne’s study. It was written in a crabbed seventeenth century hand and said: ‘Thys daye, 15 Januari 1628, accordyng to ye byshop’s instructiones, have I, Simon Dutton, preste, buryed Joanna Stanning in thys crypt whych shall now be sealed. She hath done sore harm in thys parysh for she is a wytch.’
There is little to add to this strange story. The people of Upton Stonewold still remember the curious behaviour of their cats in the autumn of 1932. But, as there has been no further outbreak of that mysterious feline disease, the whole business will soon be forgotten.