Varney the Vampyre 146Sir Francis Varney in Bath.—the Old Woman and Her Fancies.—the Murder in Bath.—the Treasure
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 146
Sir Francis Varney in Bath.—the Old Woman and Her Fancies.—the Murder in Bath.—the Treasure
RymerEnglish
Sir Francis Varney, when he walked out into the city of Bath, appeared to be lost in deep thought, and walked along as if he saw nothing that was going on around him; he was lost in meditation—something weighed heavy upon his mind, and he now and then muttered inaudibly to himself.
Whatever might have been his purpose, he merely wandered about without going to any one place, as if he were in the search for an adventure, rather than having any specific and determinate object. But, after much wandering about, he came near the corner of a street, where he saw two persons conversing together. A stray word appeared to rivet his attention, and he paused, and then stepped into the shadow of a doorway and listened.
“You see, Matthew, Aunt Martha is an old miser. She would sooner see all the world at the last gasp, before she would dream of parting with a shilling. I am sure it is much too bad.”
“What is too bad?”
“Why, that she, and such as she, should have so much money, and others, who would work hard, should have none, or even the means of procuring it.”
“Yes, it is hard; and yet if those who have it did not keep it, there would be no one who would be worth money.”
“That is all very well; but the more money circulates, the more hands it gets into; and that, of course, enriches every one who has for a time the possession of it, for they do not part with it unless they have value for it.”
“Well, well, that may do very well; but it does not appear to me to be any business of mine that such an one should beg anything of anybody else; but no matter, she has money enough.”
“She is single, is she not?”
“Yes,” replied the other.
“Then you may, after all, possess all she has.”
“I may, but she is fat and forty; she may live for years, and in the meantime I may be a beggar all my life.”
“No, no, not so bad as that.”
“And what is worse than all, while she is living, she is decreasing the money she has, and it will yearly get less and less, till, if any comes to me, it will be so small a portion of it, that I am sure there will be but little good come of it.”
“Indeed. If she be such a miser as you speak of, I should have imagined that the property, personal or real, would increase under such management as that.”
“It would, if she were not living on the principal.”
“On the principal—what do you mean?”
“That she lives on the principal, as I told you. She has got some strange fancies in her head, and one of them is, that the banks will break, all and every one of them, from one end of the kingdom to the other.”
“What a notion.”
“Yes, and that is not all; she believes that all the banks will break, so all the public securities will be of no use, but only so much waste paper; and real property will all be seized, and there will be I don’t know what universal ruin, desolation, and disorganisation.”
“What does she do?”
“Why, keeps all her cash at home; and then goes to her strong box and takes out her bright gold guineas, which appear in such abundance, that it would seem as if it could never sensibly diminish; and thus she has been going on for a matter of two years or more.”
“Upon my word, what can she dream of? If she go on in that manner, I am sure, too, that she will be a beggar.”
“That is certain; but she thinks not, and you can’t argue her into any other belief whatever that is contrary to this matter. However, I have no favour in her eyes, because I am her relative.”
“And why should that be?”
“Because, being her relative, she thinks I may be wishing her dead every day she lives; so, you see, if she go on with this feeling about her, she may take a complete dislike to me, and I should never have a farthing left me, even if she died before all was gone, and dissipated.”
“Very true. Where do you live?”
“I have been living with my aunt.
“Indeed! And where may that be?” inquired her companion.
“Where—why, don’t you know number one hundred and nine, Chapel-street? but I have left there—that is, I shall do so to-night.”
“Will you? You are wrong.”
“I doubt it, very much—very much indeed.”
“What motive can you assert there is, to make it good policy in doing this?”
“She will think I do not care about waiting for her money; and that motive being observed, I am sure it will influence her in my favour.”
“Then, you will not go back to-night?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, you know best; but I should. However, I must now leave you, and bid you good day. I must go.”
“Good day,” said the other, and they quitted the place.
When the two speakers had left the spot, Sir Francis Varney came forth from his hiding-place, and gazed after them for some moments in silence; but when they were no longer in sight, he muttered,—
“Could anything be more fortunate! I am reduced to the last guinea. I have not another pound to pay my way with. Just at a moment, too, when I think I may be successful at last in securing a victim.”
He then walked onwards until he came to the neighbourhood of the street he had heard the stranger name, and then he paused and approached the house with some curiosity, but passed by it without stopping.
It was a corner house, and a blank wall ran a short way down the street, being the side of the house, and a small portion of ground called a yard; here the wall was lower—here there was a chance of getting over, and here Sir Francis Varney paused a moment, as if examining the place with care and scrutiny.
He looked all around, and saw no one approaching; he heard no sound, and he saw no face in any window that was within sight. It was, moreover, too dark to be seen, and he, without a moment’s hesitation, ran a few paces towards the wall, and by a violent effort succeeded in placing one hand upon the summit, and then the other soon followed.
Sir Francis Varney was a man of great agility and strength, and he was not long in drawing himself up to the top, and then he dropped down.
It was fortunate he dropped heavy, and also fortunate, from that circumstance, he fell upon something soft. The good fortune of the occurrences was dependent upon each other. We say it was fortunate he fell heavy, because he fell upon the old lady’s yard-dog, an unamiable cur, and prevented an alarm, for the dog was crushed, and unable to utter a single howl before the animal died.
There was now nothing to do but enter the house if the back door was open; but upon trial this proved not to be the case.
This was a matter that required some consideration; the door was not to be forced, and he hoped to get in by that means, but he was foiled; but yet it was something to have possession of the yard, he could hide here; but yet that increased his danger, for if he remained there, he was liable to a discovery, and that, too, before any attempt had been made upon the coffers of the old woman, and no good effected by him.
What to do he could scarcely tell; but after some thought, he determined to attempt the back windows in the parlour, or room above the ground; and to effect this purpose, he would have to get upon a water-butt, and thence to the railings facing the window of the room, and which appeared to have no shutters.
Having once made up his mind, he set about it at once, and was soon on the top of the water-butt, and made good his hold upon the small balcony, and then he drew himself up.
This was a work of some difficulty, because the balcony was very close to the window, and left him no room to lean over; but yet he succeeded, and found to his great joy that the window was only closed without being fastened; he had only cautiously and noiselessly to lift it up, and he could enter it.
This he did at once, and then stood in the room; but all was dark, and he could not hear a sound throughout the house, for he listened many minutes, lest he might be suddenly intruded on by some one, and then there would be no escape from there, and he would possibly lose all.
Caution, therefore, was the order of the day, and he gently closed the window, lest the draught might be felt in some of the other parts of the house.
That was very fortunate, for there was every possibility of a discovery resulting from such a course; for any one, feeling a greater than usual draught, would soon inquire into the cause.
Having got thus far, he opened the door and walked into the passage, and then he heard the sound of conversation being carried on in an undertone; he listened at the door, and heard two female voices.
“Betty,” said one.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the other.
“Have you shut the shutters, and locked up all the doors?”
“Yes, ma’am.
“The kitchen-door?”
“Yes, ma’am—all right as can be; nobody can get in, I’ll warrant.”
“You don’t say so?”
“Oh, but I do; the dog’s out in the yard, too.”
“When you have had tea, I’ll have him brought in; he mustn’t lay out there, poor creature, to spoil his coat, and catch cold. I’m almost thinking I ought not to let him stay out to this hour.”
“He’s well enough—he’ll not hurt—he’s got the kennel to sleep in, and he’s plenty of straw; there’s many a one about these parts as would be glad of such a bed. I’ve taken care of him.”
“Very well, Betty; sit down to tea, and, when it is over, I’ll bet you anything that old Martha Bell will be here.”
“Lord bless me, ma’am, you don’t say so!”
“Yes, I do; but I won’t be at home; she and I have fallen out of late, and I’m not inclined to make up the quarrel, for she won’t believe the banks will break, and you know they will, Betty.”
“To be sure, ma’am, they will—I know very well they will; it’s quite certain—as certain as the almanac.”
“Yes; and, what’s worse, she wanted to borrow ten pounds, and that, you know, will never do at any price; she would break, too, and then I should have loss number one, and no one can tell how soon number two might follow.”
“He! he! he!” said Betty; “oh, lawks, I shall split.”
“What’s the matter now—what are you laughing at, silly?”
“Oh, you are so funny, ma’am; I’m sure you’d make anybody laugh—you do joke so, it makes one laugh.”
“Laugh!—what is there funny in losing ten pounds, I should like to know? Nobody would laugh at that, I should imagine; I am sure I should laugh at nothing of that sort. If you were to lose ten shillings, I am sure that I should not laugh at you, nor do I think you would, either.”
“No, ma’am, I’m sure you would not, and I am sure I should not; but you do say such things that make me forget all about the money.”
“Well, then, go down stairs and fetch some more coals.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Betty; and, before Sir Francis Varney had time to slip back and open the door of the other room, the door of the one he was listening at was suddenly opened, and Betty stood before him.
She came out plump, before he had time to step back; and she ran against him before she was aware any one was there; for coming from a room where there was light, she could not see at all in the dark passage.
“Oh, my ——”
She had got thus far in her exclamation, when she received a heavy blow from the intruder, which felled her senseless to the floor, and, as quick as thought, he drew his dress sword, and plunged the point through her heart. Not a groan followed—she was dead, and might be said to have died while bereft of sense or motion.
“What is the matter, Betty?” said the woman—her mistress.
No answer was returned, and Varney paused, as if uncertain what to do. He was in some doubt if he should or not go in, or await the woman’s approach to where he stood. He had not been seen, or she would have screamed out; and if he went to her she would see him, and have time to alarm people.
He paused, and awaited her coming; but she appeared to defer doing so, and merely said,—
“Betty—Betty, what has ailed you? What can be the matter? You don’t mean to say that the tea has got into your head? No, no,” she muttered, after a pause; “that can’t be the case. She must have been to my medicine bottle, and that has been too strong for her. I shall discharge her. She’ll be breaking something or other, and then who knows where that will end—begin by breaking a basin, and end by breaking a bank.”
So saying, she muttered something unintelligible to Varney, and then began to rise and walk along the room towards the door.
This was a moment of suspense—the door opened suddenly, and then she stood before Varney, who made a rapid thrust with his sword. This would have been as fatal as that which he had dealt Betty, but the mistress was more fortunate, at the moment, for a steel busk was the means of preventing its taking effect.
“Murder! What do you want! Oh, you wretch—I know you now! Depend upon it you shall be hanged! Murder—murder!”
“One word, and you are a corpse,” said Varney.
“Mercy—mercy! Will you spare me—will you spare my life?”
“I will.”
“Oh, thank you—thank you! I never hurt you, and I don’t think you would me. I am very sorry that I made any noise—but you will spare me?”
“Yes, upon one condition.”
“On a condition?” said the woman, tremblingly.
“Yes, upon a condition.”
“Tell me what it is you require of me, and I will comply.”
“Then,” said Varney, after a moment’s pause, “show me where you keep your money. I must have money, so give me plenty.”
“Plenty of money, did you say?”
“Yes, plenty. I want some. You have money I know—gold—gold in quantity.”
“Ha, ha, ha! gold! Oh, yes—gold! Ha, ha! how funny!”
“Funny! Is my sword funny?” asked Varney; “because, if you think so, you may have a small portion of it, which you may consider funnier still.”
“No, no; but I have no money—none at all, save a little money I have for immediate expenses. I have but little; for nobody now-a-days keeps money in houses, if they can get any at any time.”
“But you have plenty of money.”
“I haven’t any, upon my ——”
“You have. You keep it in the house, you know, because the banks might break, and you would lose all. Now give me some at once, or you are dead as any nail in your house—mark that!”
“Oh, dear!—oh, yes! What would you have of me?”
“Money,” said Varney, pressing the point of his sword against her side.
“Oh, mercy! I’ll tell you all; but—but you must be satisfied with what I have got, and not leave me a beggar, or kill me because I have no more.”
“I will be satisfied with what you have got; but that I know to be much more than I can carry away with me.”
“Oh, good lord, you don’t know me, or else you would know the reverse of that. A poor lodging-housekeeper is not the person to have much money in the house; but if the truth must be told, I have up stairs my quarter’s rent, which I ought to give my landlord. I can give you that, but God knows how he will believe me when I tell him I have lost it.”
“You have all your property about you. You have gold in quantities.”
“I have not.”
“Then take the fruits of your obstinacy,” said Varney, in a fury; and, making a savage and sudden lunge at her, he passed his sword through her breast, and with a smothered scream she fell to the earth, where she lay gasping and writhing for several seconds, when a rapid gurgling sound came from her throat, and she died.
“’Tis done;” said Varney to himself; “’tis done, and it would have been as well if I had done it as first; but no matter, ’tis done quietly.”
There lay the two bodies upon the flooring, the one in the passage by the door, and the other in the parlour. There was a long pool of black blood, extending from one to the other of the two corpses—they mingled their blood in death, though they held different positions in life. What could be done? there they were, and even Varney could not pick his way without treading in the blood.
He at once entered the apartment, and began to examine the whole place, but he did not find much there—a few odd pounds, and yet he turned everything upside down, to use a common phrase; but yet there was nothing of the sort which he hoped for, and expected to find.
“Can I have mistaken the place?” was his first thought.
Upon consideration, he saw reason enough to make his mind easy upon the score of mistakes in that matter. There was the number and the street, and the old woman, and her conversation answered exactly to what he had heard; and after a few moments’ consideration, he muttered,—
“It must be right; there are more rooms than one in the house. I will go and search through the rooms, and if I don’t find any, I will set the house on fire. Indeed, I think that will be better done, it will prevent the deed taking light, and as little suspicion may be as well incurred as can be.”
This was a thing only thought of to be resolved on; but he cast that aside, and proceeded with his search, and having finished that room, he splashed through the blood, and once more stood in the passage.
“And now for the bedrooms,” he muttered.
The candle he held was the only one he could obtain, and he was compelled to walk steadily, lest he should lose its aid by going out; however, he soon got up stairs, and walked into the best bedroom, where he again began to search about for the hidden treasure, but found it not.
“Curses upon the stupidity of the old fool, where does she hide her money? I am sure she has it here, and I wanted to get back without delay. I did not want to be away long, and here I have been, I dare say, an hour.”
This was true, and he turned things over and about in great haste; but his endeavours had liked to have been useless, as regarded the discovery, only his eye chanced to light upon a panel.
He started up and pulled away a part the bed-curtains, behind which it was partially concealed.
“Ha! ha! what have we here? What I have been wishing to find, no doubt. This is the secret hiding-place of her gold—the treasury.”
However, whatever it might be, it did not appear to be in his power to determine, for he could not open it.
This was, of course, a provoking state of things; and Varney seized hold of each implement that came to his hands, but threw each down again, being unable to effect his object by any means whatever.
He started up suddenly, after making many desperate attempts to break the door open, which, however, were futile, and exclaimed,—
“There are keys to these places, and I am sure the old woman must have them about her, if this place be really the receptacle of her wealth, as I have every reason to believe it is. I will find out, if I can; no doubt, however, I shall find it upon her somewhere—I’ll try.”
He immediately went down stairs and found the body of the old woman; it was fast stiffening; but the clothes were all sopping in blood, and he turned her over hastily until he found out the pocket; and from that he drew a bunch of keys. They were all bloody, but he did not hesitate about seizing them.
“These will, no doubt, let me into the secret. I shall find my way in, now, and then the house will no longer hold me.”
He turned, and quitted the corpse; and, in going upstairs, he saw for the first time that the stairs all bore the imprint of his own foot; he saw they were stained in blood, and were clear, distinct, and well defined.
“It matters not,” he muttered; “fire will, and shall efface that; and, besides, if it did not, what care I?”
He ran up the stairs, and again entered the bedroom, and was once more kneeling before the door of the cupboard. The bunch of keys was composed of many, and he tried one after the other, until, after many trials, he came to one, which was of a peculiar make and shape, and which convinced him he was now in possession of the right key.
“I think I have succeeded, now,” he muttered, as he put the key into the lock. It fitted very closely into the lock, and then it slowly turned, and he saw the door open; but it only disclosed another door.
“What is the meaning of this?” muttered Varney; “what, is there another door to be found? I suppose some of these keys will fit this as well.”
However, he was not compelled to make the search, for the key of this inner door hung up by one corner, on a little hook, in a niche which had been apparently cut out on purpose.
This was soon opened, and then came rather a startling sight.
In a small cupboard were packed a heap of human bones—more than bones, for they had yet the flesh dried and sticking to them—the skull was brown and bare, save here and there remained some hair.
“What is the meaning of this?” he muttered, angrily—“and have I troubled myself in this manner for only these few bones?”
It was, however, an apparent fact. There was the place, and it was now opened, and the contents were plain enough—bones!—bones!—human bones! There could be no mistake; and Varney rested his hand on his knee, and gazed intently into the cupboard at the bones, and everywhere else.
He was about to rise, when, somehow or other, he was induced to push the bottom shelf—why, he could not tell; but, when he had done so, he found it give downwards. Yes, the whole cupboard went down; he pushed, and pushed, until the roof was no higher than the floor; then, indeed, he saw a sight that caused him to feel a satisfaction.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “ah! this is what I have sought, and I will have it—gold!—gold!—aye, here is gold in heaps, more than I can carry.”
He stretched forth his arm, and leaned into the cupboard, and then examined the contents, and felt assured that there were several thousands of pounds; the glittering heap before him was what he wanted, and for which he had remorselessly committed such fearful crimes.
“But I must make haste—I must make haste. I shall lose what I have such a certainty of possessing.”
So muttering to himself, he put as much gold into his pockets as he could, and carrying a bag under his arm, he re-locked the cupboard. Having retraced his steps below, he replaced everything; while at the same time he carefully examined his person, to see that there were no traces of his deeds upon him; and then, wrapping himself up in his cloak, he left the house, and proceeded towards his hotel.
