Cold Evil

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781914150609
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

"I believe those men were murdered just as clearly as if they had been stabbed to the heart with a knife. The only sign that they bore was a dull red mark... behind the ears."

Six men meet at the vicarage of St Crayle one evening to tell each other ghost stories. In particular, it is Martin Burke's tale, one of a homicidal chimera in India, that chills his audience to the bone. Burke believes that the events in the story might be a demonstration of pure evil.

This is soon revealed to be a prophecy of sorts, when one of the men disappears that very night, walking home across Constanton Moor. His body is found a week later, without a mark on him, save a look of sheer terror on his face - and a dull red mark behind his ear.

Cold Evil was first published in 1938. This new edition features an introduction by Steve Barge.

CHAPTER I
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2ND, 10.20 P.M.

It will be as well, I think, if I go back to the evening when it all started. As Martin Burke finished his story, I can remember that Chinnery laughed uneasily. The laugh, too, was accompanied by a quick furtive glance over his shoulder in the direction of the door. Verschoyle smiled a thin, dry-lipped smile as befitted his cloth and his calling. Only the Squire, of all the party, seemed absolutely the same man when Burke’s story ended. Burke looked round at the various members of the company. To see the different effects, probably, that his recital had had upon each one of us. First of all, his eyes challenged mine.

“Well, Clyst, what about you—don’t you believe me?” he questioned.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Why pick on me?” I countered.

“Why not?” He gave the question back to me immediately.

Verschoyle then came into the conversation. He was our host that evening, and on this account, I think, felt the position somewhat more keenly than the others. The conversation after dinner had taken such an unusual turn, and this so surprisingly, that Burke’s contribution was but a natural conclusion to it; when one drags in the occult and the weird, it’s ten to one that, from then onwards, no other topic will get a show. Verschoyle became pedantic. He seldom was able to avoid the temptation.

“The chimaera, which Burke tells us actually came to life in this Chinese village where he was located for a month, took its name from the volcano ‘Chimaera’, in Lycia.”

Chinnery touched his brow with a finger-tip.

“Am I quite mad, or have I dreamt it? Wasn’t there some connection, too, with the city of Belfast? Or am I thinking of . . . ?”

Verschoyle nodded. “You’re neither mad nor dream-laden, Chinnery. You refer, of course, to the city arms of Belfast. There you find a sea-horse . . . that is to say, a combination of horse and fish. The same form also appears on the arms of Oliver Cromwell.”

Burke showed signs of impatience.

“But look here, Edward, I don’t know that you’re—”

Verschoyle held up his hand and stopped him. “Just a minute, Martin. I’ve digressed, possibly, from the main avenue, but all the time I’ve been perfectly well aware of it. I think I can tell you what you were about to say. Let me extricate myself.”

“Go ahead, then,” smiled Major Burke encouragingly.

At that precise moment, I leant forward and threw a log on the fire. There was a swirling white mist outside and the chill of the air was beginning to invade the room.

“Thank you, Clyst.” Verschoyle waved his appreciation of my services and went on.

“The chimaera, of course, was not a sea-horse but a fabled fire-breathing monster. The Greeks found this word for it. It was a combination of lion, goat, and serpent. That right, Burke?”

Burke nodded his lean dark head. “Take a hundred per cent, Edward. Lion’s head, goat’s body, and serpent’s tail. Quite true. Sometimes, though, the serpent was more like a dragon. Mine was.”

Squire Copeland roared. His huge shoulders rocked the gusts of his laughter.

“Martin, Martin, I’ll wager that you’d emptied the bottle that night! Why, man, my own brother used to see worse things every night that was, than the one that you’ve just described! Pink rats, my boy, and even snakes. Man alive, why don’t you admit it?”

Burke ignored the interruption. He took a deal of shaking off, did Major Martin Burke, when he saw his course clearly in front of him. Verschoyle came in again, quietly and steadily.

“After its first representations, the chimaera used to be portrayed as a lion, with the head of a goat protruding from its back. Sometimes, even, it was depicted as having three heads, those of a lion, goat, and serpent. The volcano, Chimaera, that is to say the crater at the top of it, was inhabited by lions and goats, and the base by serpents. I will admit at the same time, though, that the swan, the crocodile, and the cuttle-fish are all associated in mythology with the forms of fabulous monsters.”

“Fantastic,” growled Copeland, “utterly fantastic.”

“Very true,” returned Verschoyle, courteously. “So fantastic, indeed, that the term ‘chimaera’ has come to be used to denote not only any fantastic beast or monster, but a wild fury, a delusion, or even an incongruous medley of spirits. Your remark is really a tribute, Copeland.”

Verschoyle’s reply had no effect.

The merriment still showed in Copeland’s eyes. Verschoyle continued:

“None the less acceptable, however, by reason of its being unintentional.”

There was a hush. Then Chinnery’s high-pitched voice broke in.

“Did anybody else see the thing besides you, Burke?”

“Oh, yes! Plenty of people. The affair was talked about for days afterwards. On account of the deaths, of course.”

“How do you explain it yourself?” I asked.

“Frankly,” said Burke, “I can’t.”

I persisted. “You admit that you have—?”

“No explanation at all,” Burke answered me gravely. “If I gave one to you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

Verschoyle intervened quietly. “On the other hand, Major Burke, I should be most interested to hear it.”

Burke pursed his lips. Copeland, ever practical, poured out a stiff peg of whisky. The fire still burned high with its crackling logs and the Rectory of St. Crayle was snug and warm again no matter what the elements were like outside. Chinnery had his pale-blue watery eyes fixed on Burke, who, conscious that he was the cynosure of all, laughed a trifle nervously.

“My explanation is probably even more fantastic than the Thing itself. But the East is the East, and banal though that statement may be, I don’t know that I can think of a better. I tell you that I saw this ‘Thing’ rush madly down the quaint Eastern street. I heard its cry. I saw the three dead bodies afterwards, as they lay in the gutter. All you could say about them was that they lay inanimate—and I can only offer one explanation.” Burke broke off a little lamely.

“Yes?” came Verschoyle’s gentle prompting question.

“I believe,” said Burke very quietly, “but I don’t ask you to join in that belief, that the three men who died in the way that I have described, were murdered.”

Verschoyle nodded his head. Once, twice, several times. As though the idea that Burke had put forward had found favour with him.

“Murdered?” cried Chinnery tremulously. “How?”

Copeland boomed scepticism. “Yes, by which of your animals, Burke? By the lion, by the goat, or by the serpent? Personally, my money’s on the latter. I loathe the things. What’s lower than a snake’s bite?” He laughed contemptuously.

Again Burke paid him no heed. Instead, he answered Chinnery’s question. “Although there wasn’t anything in the nature of a wound on any one of those three bodies, I believe that the men were murdered just as clearly as if they had been stabbed to the heart with a knife. The only sign that they bore was a dull red mark . . . something like a burn, behind the ears. But there was no puncture of the skin and poison was out of the question.” He paused and then continued: “They were killed, in my opinion, or were the victims, rather—let me put it like that, it’s better—of a most advanced form of hypnosis.”

Verschoyle nodded. “Just what I expected you to say. Another form, you mean, of the idea behind the Indian rope-trick?”

“Exactly.” Burke’s tone was quiet, but emphatic.

“I think I get your meaning,” volunteered Chinnery—“but go on with your explanation.”

Copeland looked at me and winked. Burke continued: “I mean nothing more and nothing less than this: that in some way, which we Western people don’t understand yet, these Indian and Chinese ‘mystics’ can project what I will call an individual ‘power’. They will things to happen, and then those things that are willed to happen, do actually happen! Call it hypnotism—call it what you like. Even to a subtle form of murder. The three victims, I suggest, had offended one of these so-called ‘holy’ men. They were willed to die. Therefore, as a sequel, they died in the way that was selected for them. I, fortunately, was on the mere fringe of the affair. With others. But inasmuch as the projection, or the emanation of the evil, was not directed against me, I came through the experience unscathed. I was, if you like, near enough to be an interested spectator—but no more beyond that.”

Burke paused and shrugged his shoulders. It seemed that he was half apologetic for the position that he had taken up. Yet, at the same time, he appeared not to care how we treated his explanation. Chinnery again sought the sensation of detail.

“You say you heard this ‘Thing’ cry?”

Burke faced him steadily. “Yes.”

“What was the cry like?” Even Copeland had forced himself to ask the question.

“Like the cry of a stuck pig. Or at least as much like that as anything.”

“Horrible, then?”

“Definitely.” Burke was desperately grave. Chinnery shivered and looked at me. He was a solicitor and the blood in his veins was therefore thin.

“Clyst,” he said, “does Burke realize that you and I have to walk home tonight? Across Constanton Moor?”

Burke reacted to the statement. “I’m sorry, Chinnery. You shouldn’t ply me with questions.” Verschoyle sought further information. “When this visitation, I like to call it that, came to you, did you have any particular personal sensations? I confess that I’d like to know that. You see, Burke, whatever you may have done for these people here, you’ve definitely set me thinking.”

The Rector smiled as he finished his sentence. Burke’s face showed signs of weariness. He tossed away the burning stub of his cigarette. I noticed that it went right into the centre of the fire.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I can understand your asking that question, because something of that sort undoubtedly did happen to me. For instance, my eyes were affected.”

“In what way?” asked the Rector.

“Well, it’s difficult to explain. But I was conscious, first of all, of a series of what I will describe as ‘luminous points’. These points gradually merged into a transfused radiance. This radiance was intensely brilliant, but never glaring or trying to the eyes. Tall fountains of light seemed to swim into the air like volcanoes of living flame. Cataracts flowed in streams of rippling light and the whole turned to blood-red against the sky. Other people to whom I spoke—and who had been near—remarked on having experienced much the same sensation.”

Verschoyle’s eyes sparkled with interest, but on Copeland’s face there showed rank incredulity.

“And this,” he said, “this freak of nature and this Brock’s benefit affair that you have so beautifully described are all, according to your idea, part and parcel of a scheme of murder? Do I get you right, Burke?”

Burke kept his temper admirably under the onslaught.

“Yes, that’s what I think. But, of course, I have no proof. There is no evidence to offer you, no data of any kind, I realize that fully. There is little doubt, however, that many of the tricks that are regularly practised by the genuine fakirs have their basis in hypnotism of a sort. In this way. The minds of the onlookers are dominated by the mind of the fakir. He makes them think that something is happening, whereas, actually, nothing whatever is taking place.”

“Don’t get the idea at all,” said the Squire. “You don’t really explain anything. You leave everything stone cold. If what you say holds water, how did your three people die? I mean this: when a human being dies—or anything come to that—there must be a cause of death. What was it?”

“Fright,” answered Burke curtly. “Sheer fright. Fear—if you prefer the word. Stark abject fear! The fear that paralyses, the fear that kills. They were willed to die. They died! Their hearts, if you will allow me to put it in this way, were choked with fear.”

“What were the red marks, then?”

“Don’t know. Wish I did. Call them the sign of the evil.”

I’m certain that I heard Chinnery’s teeth chattering. I’m positive that his body shook in a shiver. He wasn’t of the sort to take part in such conversation. Especially at this time of night!

“Well,” remarked Verschoyle, a smile again playing round the corners of his mouth, “what do you say to it all now, Copeland?”

Copeland laughed boisterously.

“Why! That one thing emerges from it clearly.”

“What?”

“Well, why not call it a boon to intending murderers? You want somebody out of the way to suit a purpose of your own—and you just ‘will’ it! If Burke’s theory is to be believed! Sort of ‘Monkey’s Paw’ business. Why use poison and be hanged when you can do the job so much more easily? Look at it for yourself, Verschoyle.”

Here Burke interposed.

“Yes, that’s all very well, but—” He paused.

“But what?” queried Copeland curiously.

I listened intently for Burke’s answer. It seemed to me that so much at this moment depended on it. Burke showed unmistakable signs of impatience.

“Well, Squire, as I explained to you before, it’s all a question of power. You either have it or you haven’t. If you have this power—well and good.”

“No. Ill and bad,” whispered Verschoyle.

Burke went on, heedless of the Rector’s comment: “If you haven’t—well, you’re just ‘...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page/About the Book
• Contents
• Introduction by Steve Barge
• CHAPTER I FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2ND, 10.20 P.M.
• CHAPTER II SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3RD, 2.22 P.M.
• CHAPTER III SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3RD, 4.30 P.M.
• CHAPTER IV SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3RD, 10 P.M.
• CHAPTER V SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10TH, 4 P.M.
• CHAPTER VI SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10TH, 7 P.M.
• CHAPTER VII SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11TH, NOON
• CHAPTER VIII SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11TH, 8 P.M.
• CHAPTER IX SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11TH, 11 P.M.
• CHAPTER X SATURDAY, DECEMBER 17TH, 5 P.M.
• CHAPTER XI MONDAY, DECEMBER 19TH, 10 A.M.
• CHAPTER XII TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20TH, 8.30 P.M.
• CHAPTER XIII THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS, 6 P.M.
• CHAPTER XIV THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS, 10.30 P.M.
• CHAPTER XV CHRISTMAS DAY, EARLY MORNING
• CHAPTER XVI OLD YEAR’S NIGHT, 5.30
• CHAPTER XVII NEW YEAR’S DAY, 12.15 A.M.
• CHAPTER XVIII NEW YEAR’S DAY, 11.30 A.M.
• CHAPTER XIX NEW YEAR’S DAY, 12.30 P.M.
• CHAPTER XX MONDAY, JANUARY 2ND, 3.30 P.M.
• CHAPTER XXI MONDAY, JANUARY 2ND, 9.15 P.M.
• CHAPTER XXII TUESDAY, JANUARY 3RD, 11.45 A.M.
• CHAPTER XXIII SATURDAY, JANUARY 7TH, 9.30 A.M.
• CHAPTER XXIV SATURDAY, JANUARY 7TH, 10 P.M.
• CHAPTER XXV SUNDAY, JANUARY 8TH, DURING THE DAY
• CHAPTER XVI MONDAY, JANUARY 9TH, 10.22 A.M.
• CHAPTER XXVII MONDAY, JANUARY 9TH, 8.22 P.M.
• CHAPTER XXVIII MONDAY, JANUARY 9TH, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING
• CHAPTER XXIX MONDAY, JANUARY 9TH, TOWARDS MIDNIGHT
• About The Author
• Titles by Brian Flynn
• Copyright