Tales Accursed: A Folk Horror Anthology by Richard Wells

Author:Richard Wells [Wells, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781789651744
Publisher: Unbound
Published: 2024-09-13T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

THE HAND OF GLORY

by

Ulric Daubeny

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First published in the collection The Elemental: Tales of the Supernormal and the Inexplicable

1919

* * *

RAIN, DRENCHING RAIN, mist and cold, these with a five-mile drive in an open conveyance accompanied my first introduction to that land of desolation – Dartmoor.

Evil weather conditions are never cheering, and by the time I had changed at Totnes, and been painfully dragged up to the moorland station of Buckfastleigh, my spirits had reached a sorry ebb. There was no improvement when my final destination hove into view, for Blackmead House proved to be a prison-like structure of dark granite, buried in a plantation of gloomy ever-greens, and the fact that I had come in the character of executor to my friend, Hervey Nicholson, who had lately committed suicide, added to my feeling of depression.

The trusted housekeeper admitted me – sad of countenance, poor soul! – and I was at once shewn into the library, where the solicitor, a capable little man from Totnes, awaited me. Then it was my painful lot to learn the more intimate details of my poor friend’s end.

‘It is a most sad, most inexplicable business,’ the little man had ended. ‘None of us can imagine the remotest cause that should have driven poor Mr Nicholson to hang himself … Such a cheery gentleman, too. The inquest was held this morning. Of course, they brought it in “temporarily insane”.’

We settled a few business details, mainly with reference to the funeral, which was to be held next day. Unless my co-executor had arrived from the North of England, I was likely to be the only mourner, for Nicholson had no relatives in England, and the solicitor found himself unable to attend.

‘There is just one little matter,’ the lawyer added with a slight hesitation, as he was about to take his leave. ‘It seems scarcely worth mentioning, but – perhaps you had better know. Mr Nicholson had recently bought some property from a neighbouring landowner, and the transaction had stirred up considerable resentment amongst the peasantry. I had one of them here about it this afternoon.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘What is the dispute?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no dispute – legally. The title deeds are sound enough, but the villagers claim that the land is rightly common. It is named Weeping Maiden Mead, after some prehistoric stones upon it, and includes one tiny cottage. You can guess how high superstition runs in these parts, when I tell you that they solemnly believe that ill-luck will fall on anyone who interferes with the ancient monuments. Mr Nicholson, of course, being an ardent archaeologist, intended to excavate; in fact, he had actually begun to do so. The cottage, too, which is a mere mud hovel, he condemned, and was considering plans for the erection of a new one.’

‘Is that all?’ I asked wearily, for I was longing for a cup of tea, and not particularly interested in the lawyer’s discourse.

‘Yes – er, except that it was the old woman from the cottage who came here this afternoon.

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