Chris McGowan THE DEVIL’S HOOFPRINTS
Chris McGowan
Attic Of Secrets
A raw wind blew across the moor, the kind that chills a body to the bone. Even the sheep in their thick winter coats huddled together for warmth, dotting the hillsides like clumps of snow. People in this part of Devon were well used to the clammy cold that blew in from the sea, but the first few weeks of 1855 had been especially harsh. Jugs of water froze in bedrooms overnight, while sleepers’ breath frosted windows with icy ferns. Perhaps February would see a change for the better. A lone shepherd stamped his feet and blew into his hands, thinking of a roaring fire. He might have been the only soul for miles around on that cheerless afternoon. But just beyond the moor, in a cave on the far side of a wood with stunted trees, someone was hammering in the dark like a person possessed. Crouched uncomfortably on the hard ground, body leaning forward unsteadily, the Reverend Percival Bliss pounded away with all his might. Hopefully, he 5
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would break through the solid crust of stalagmite covering the cave floor. Then he might discover the fossil remains of prehistoric animals buried in the earth below. But it must be soon–outside the sun was already low in the sky and it was a long walk back to the inn at Bishopstone. The cave was large–more spacious than any of the cottages in the village–but the roof was low, with few places to stand upright, so the fossilist had to remain stooped, top hat brushing the ceiling. Working in the dim light of an oil lamp, he had to be careful not to crash into any of the massive stalactites hanging from the roof. His hammer-arm ached and every muscle in his body was crying out in pain. A man of his wealth should be enjoying his old age in comfort, not toiling in the dark like a miner. But fossils, and their prehistoric world, were now as important a part of his life as the Church had once been. He was no longer as fit as he once was though, and his love of food had added too many inches to his waist to allow him to spend much time bent double like this. Soon he must stop. Geological hammers have two heads–one flat the other pointed. To exert maximum pressure, the Reverend Bliss was using the tip to try breaking through the limestone crust. The only disadvantage of this is that the point can sometimes jam in the rock. While this seldom causes any problem, in this case the result was disastrous. One moment the cleric was pounding away. Next instant the tip of the hammer broke through the crust, causing him to pitch for6
ward and lose his balance. Arms splayed, he slammed into the cave floor, hitting his head so hard that he momentarily lost consciousness. Knocking over the lamp in the process, the cave was plunged into darkness. And as he lay helpless on the cold stone, the Reverend Bliss witnessed the most terrifying sight of his life. It was as if the gates of Hell had burst open, unleashing the most horrifying spectres upon the land. Hellhounds and demonic wraiths swooped down upon the fallen rector, grinning hideously as they rejoiced in his helplessness. Twelve-year-old Tom Brewer was big for his age and was going through another growth spurt. His trousers had touched the tops of his boots during the summer, but they were now above his ankles; he hardly needed the wide leather belt to keep them up. And the well-worn jacket, buttoned up against the cold, felt uncomfortably tight across his shoulders. Fearing it might split, he bent down slowly and deliberately to lift the sheep’s carcass off the back of the butcher’s cart. Hoisting the headless mass of flesh and bone onto his back, he headed for the open doorway at the side of the inn. Moments later his boots were scuffing down the stairs leading to the cellar. Centuries of use had worn hollows in the stone steps. The sheep carcass completed the butcher’s order for the week, along with half a pig, a plump goose, and a pair of pheasants. With only one guest 7
staying at the inn this seemed more than enough meat. However, the geological gentleman liked his food, and he always returned from his fossiling ravenously hungry. “When you’re finished with that,” called out his father, “you can help your mother in the kitchen.” Tom, the youngest of four brothers and two sisters, seemed to get all the jobs. A bitter wind still blew across the moor, causing the Reverend Bliss to pull the scarf more tightly around his collar. His thick black coaching cloak had served him well on many a journey, but it was no match for this damp chill. As he walked along, the crown of his battered top hat bobbed up and down like the lid of a box. The normally jovial geologist would have chuckled at his comical appearance, but he was not feeling his usual self. He carried a blue cloth bag over his shoulder–he was seldom seen without it–though today it contained little of interest. Every so often he glanced around apprehensively, as if half expecting the hounds of hell to charge down upon him. A lone Wych Elm came into view, its forked trunk looking like outspread arms, with branches that could have been crooked fingers. The reverend used the familiar tree as a half-way point, and was glad that the worst part of his journey was over. Then, just as he began to relax, a terrifying screech shattered the silence, frightening him half to death. 8
“Maybe an owl or a fox,” he heard himself say, as the logical side of his being took control. “Nothing to worry about.” Regardless, he kept well clear of the tree, just in case something sinister was lurking on the other side. An imaginative mind like his was bad company on such a night. The long walk helped clear his mind. He realized the demons in the dark were the result of the severe blow to his head–he had an egg-sized lump on his forehead to prove it–but he was still unnerved by the experience. His scientific self could explain what he saw as simply a bad dream, but his religious side conjured thoughts of Satan in his underground lair. Black clouds raced across the darkening sky and he was thankful to see the village of Bishopstone appear in the distance. As he drew closer, the comforting smell of wood smoke wafted his way, and he could picture the roaring fire in the parlour of the Black Dog Inn. “Upon my soul sir!” shrieked Mrs. Brewer, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “What on earth have you done to your poor self?” The landlord’s wife, on her way to the kitchen, had just caught sight of the returning visitor as he stepped inside the reception hall. “It’s nothing,” he said removing his hat and gently exploring the bump on his head. “Just a little knock, that’s all.” “We’ll see about that,” she said, guiding him to the nearest chair and encouraging him to sit down. A crisp 9
white apron covered most of her ankle-length blue dress, and she wore a pleated white cap on her head. At this point her husband appeared to see what was going on. “A hot poultice of mustard and vinegar is what’s needed,” she declared after finishing her examination. “William, you stay here and look after the reverend, while I go and prepare it.” Without listening to the gentleman’s protests, she hurried to the kitchen. Some time later the Reverend Bliss, wearing a large bandage around his head, was led into the parlour. Although insisting he was capable of walking unaided–he had walked all the way back from the cave at Hob’s Rock–they had not listened. A log fire was blazing up the chimney and they seated him in a comfortable armchair; he could feel the warm glow on his cheeks. “You must rest for the next few days sir,” said Mrs. Brewer. “You’ve had a nasty blow to your head.” “I’ll be well enough after a good night’s sleep,” he said cheerfully. “There’s lots to be done at the cave now I’ve broken through the stalagmite floor.” “That’s impossible!” she gasped. “You shouldn’t even be out of bed tomorrow, let alone working.” The Reverend Bliss was not a forceful man by nature, preferring to avoid arguments at all costs, but he knew he had to take a firm stand. “I must be back in London by February the fourteenth. I therefore have only three weeks for my excavation. Time is of the essence Mrs. Brewer.” 10