The Reverend Dale greeted me, and called for tea, which the fat nymph presently brought with a plate of her own shortbread. This tasted very good, although I am afraid I could eat no more than a bite.
The vicar let me settle myself, and we talked about ordinary things, the autumn, elements of the country round about, and of London. At last, leaning forward, the old man peered at me through his glasses.
“Are you quite well, Mr Martyce?”
“Perfectly. Just a trifle tired. I haven’t slept well at the house.”
He looked long at me and said, “I’m afraid people often don’t.”
I took a deep breath. “In what way?” I asked.
“Your family, Mr Martyce, has been inclined to insomnia there. The domestics have never complained. Indeed, I never heard a servant from there that had anything but praise for the house and the family. Mrs Allen, the former cook, retired only when she was seventy-six and could no longer manage. She was loath to go.”
“But my family — there has been a deal of illness.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that is so. Your Grandfather — he was before my time, of course. And his wife. Your father was long from home, and his brother, Mr William, was sent out into the world at twenty… before there was any — problem at the house. The two brothers did not at first choose to come back. And your father, I think, not at all. He lived to a good age?”
“He was nearly eighty. There was quite a gap between him and William — my Grandfather’s travels.”
“Eighty — yes, that’s splendid. But poor William did not do so well. He was, as you know, only sixty-two when he succumbed. His wife was a mere fifty, and your Aunt in her forties. But, in later life, she had never been well.”
I tried a laugh. It sounded hollow. “That house doesn’t seem very healthy for the Martyces.”
Reverend Dale looked grave. “It does not.”
“And what explanation do you have for that, sir?”
“I fear that, although I am a man of God, and might be expected to incline to esoteric conclusions, I have none.”
I said, flatly, “Do you think there is a malevolent ghost?”
“I am not supposed to believe in ghosts,” said the Reverend Dale. “However, I can’t quite rid myself of a belief in — influences”
A cold tremor passed up my back. I deduce I may have gone pale, for the vicar got up and went over to his cabinet, from which he produced some brandy. A glass of this he gave me — I really must put a stop to all this profligate drinking! I confess I downed it.
“You must understand,” he said, “I’m speaking not as a man of the cloth, but simply — as a witness. I’ve seen very clearly that, in the Martyce family, those who spend much or all of their time at the house, sicken. Some are more susceptible, they fail more swiftly. Some are stronger, and hold at bay or temporarily throw off the malaise, at first. Your Grandfather lived into his nineties, yet from his sixties he had hardly a day without severe illness. Perhaps, in a man of advancing years, that is not uncommon. And yet, before this time, he was one of the fittest men on record, apparently he put the local youth, who are hardy, to shame. Again, some who aren’t strong, also linger in a pathetic, sickly state — your Aunt was one of these. She succumbed only in her adult years, but then her life was a burden for her. One wondered how she bore with it. Even she, at length…” he sighed. “Her end was a release, I am inclined to think. A satisfactory cause of death meanwhile has never been established. In your Grandfather’s case, necessarily it was put down to old age. As with his wife, since she died in her sixties. In the cases of others, death must be questionable. Or unreasonable. As with your Uncle’s two sons. They were fourteen and nineteen years.”
“I assumed some childish malady — ”
“Not at all. Clemens was their doctor, then. I will reveal, he confided in me somewhat. He was baffled. The same symptoms — inertia, low pulse, some vertigo, headache, an inclination not to eat. But no fever, no malignancy, no defect. You will perhaps know, William’s health was poor enough to keep him out of the War. He was utterly refused.”
I said, briskly, “Well, I’m leaving tonight.”
“I am glad to hear that you are.”
“But, I had intended to put the house up for sale — ”
“I think you need have no qualms, Mr Martyce. Remember, no one who has lived there, who is not a member of your family, has ever been ill. If anything, the reverse.”
“A family curse,” I said. I meant to sound humorous and ironic. I did not succeed.
The Reverend Dale looked down upon his serviceable desk.
“I shall tell you something, Mr Martyce. You are, evidently, a sensible man. I can’t guarantee my words, I’m afraid. The previous incumbent of the parish passed them on to me. But he was vicar in your Grandfather’s time. It seems your Grandfather, always a regular churchgoer when at home, asked for an interview. This was about three years after his final return from the East. He was getting on in years, and had recently had a debilitating bout of illness, but recovered, and no one was in any apprehension for him, at that time.” The vicar paused.
“Go on,” I said.
“Your Grandfather it seems posed a question. He had heard, he said, of a belief among primitive peoples, that when a camera is used to take a photograph, the soul is caught inside the machine.”
“I’ve heard of this,” I said. “There is a lack of education among savages.”
“Quite. But it appears your Grandfather asked my predecessor — if he thought that such a thing were truly possible.”
I sat in silence. I felt cold, and wanted another brandy, but instead I sipped my tepid tea.
“What did he say, your predecessor?”
“Naturally, that he did not credit such an idea.”
“To which my Grandfather said what?”
“It seems he wondered if, rather than catch a human soul, a camera might sometimes snare… something else. Something not human or corporeal. Some sort of spirit.”
Before the eye of my mind, there passed the memory of how my Grandfather had photographed so many exotic things. And of the pictures taken inside the ancient and remarkable tomb. I am not given to fancies. I do not think it was a fancy. Like a detective, I strove to solve this puzzle.
I stood up before I had meant to, I did not mean to be rude.
The old man also rose, and the dog. Both looked at me kindly, yes, I would swear, even the dumb animal had an expression of compassion.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I have to hurry to be sure of my train.”
“You’re not returning to the house?” said the Reverend Dale.
“No. It’s all locked up. The cleaning lady has been and gone. I promised her she’d be kept on until any new tenants take over. They must make their own arrangements.”
“I think you have been very wise,” said the vicar.
He himself showed me to the door of the stone house. “It’s a lovely afternoon,” he said. “You look rather exhausted. That cottage there, with the green door. Peter will drive you to the station. Just give him something towards the petrol.”
I shook his hand, and like some callow youth, felt near to tears.
In future I must take more exercise. It is not like me to be so flabby. Thank God, Peter was amenable.
I have written all this down in the train. It has not been easy, with the jolting, and once I leaned back and fell fast asleep. I am better for that. I want to make an end of it here, and so return into London and my life, clear of it.
No, I cannot say I know what has gone on. When I put the four photographs into the tureen and poured in the whisky, I thought myself, frankly, an imbecile.
I had left them for perhaps twenty minutes, possibly a fraction longer. I approached the table with no sense of apprehension. Rather, I felt stupid.