The Beard of the Prophet. Gerald Verner

      BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY GERALD VERNER

      The Beard of the Prophet: A Mr. Budd Classic Crime Tale

      The Dragon Princess: A Novel of Adventure

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1939 by Gerald Verner

      Copyright © 2011 by Chris Verner

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      To Ernest Dudley, with every good wish

      CHAPTER ONE

      MR. BUDD HEARS OF THE PROPHET

      That obese and sleepy-eyed detective, Superintendent Robert Budd, always referred afterwards to the queer incidents surrounding the death of old Reuben Hayles as “that hokum business at Liddenhurst.” And to a certain extent this description was justified.

      The old, neglected manor house and its strange occupant, the storm which raged throughout that terrible night, and the horrible and ‘impossible’ death of the old man, did not strictly belong to real life at all.

      They were, as Mr. Budd remarked disparagingly at the time, ‘story book stuff,’ and his sense of reality was, in consequence, a little outraged.

      The whole thing began on a morning in late August, when he was summoned to the Assístant-Commissioner’s room and found Colonel Blair, smooth and dapper as usual, examining the contents of a big folder that lay open on the desk in front of him.

      “Sit down, Superintendent.” His superior nodded towards a vacant chair. “I’ve got something rather queer here. You’ve heard of Reuben Hayles, I suppose?”

      “The archaeologist feller?” murmured the big man, and the Assistant-Commissioner inclined his head.

      “That’s the man,” he said. “The newspapers were full of him six months ago. He was supposed to have discovered the tomb of Mohammed. There was great excitement at the time. Professor ‘This’ said he had, and Professor ‘That’ said he hadn’t. Letters were written to The Times praising him and abusing him alternately. He read a paper to the Archaeological Society, proving conclusively that he had found the tomb of the prophet, and another distinguished gentleman read a paper proving equally conclusively that he’d done nothing of the kind. Nobody, apparently, has the least idea which is right.”

      The fat man blinked sleepily. Certainly he hadn’t, and he didn’t very much care.

      “Well, it appears,” continued Colonel Blair, “that this man Hayles has recently been receiving a series of threatening letters. Instead of disregarding them, as the majority of people would, he seems to have taken a serious view. So much so, in fact, that he has asked for police investigation and protection.”

      “Surely, sir,” murmured Mr. Budd, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “it’s a matter for the local police to deal with?”

      “In the ordinary course, yes,” said his superior. “But Hayles is a distant cousin of the Home Secretary, and he has particularly requested that we should look into the matter. Liddenhurst, where Hayles lives, is on the edge of the Metropolitan area, so I’m sending you down to pacify the old man.

      “It’s unusual, I know,” went on the Assistant-Commissioner, when he saw Mr. Budd’s expression, “to detail such a trivial case to any officer of your rank—but the circumstances are exceptional. Personally I don’t suppose for one minute that there’s anything in these threats. They’re the usual sort of twaddle, but there you are.” He shrugged his shoulders and flicked open the folder in front of him. “Here are the letters,” he said, pushing the cardboard cover across the desk, and Mr. Budd sat forward wearily, and inspected the contents.

      They consisted of four sheets of cheap notepaper and the messages, which had been typewritten, were short. The first was dated July 15th, and ran:

      “Your sacrilege will bring violent death in its train. Take heed for your time is short.”

      It was signed: “The Prophet.”

      And the second, which was dated ten days later read:

      “Every passing hour brings your doom nearer. The curse is upon you.”

      The date of the third was only a week after the second:

      “I am coming for you soon. The hand of Mohammed is raised to strike.”

      There was an interval between this and the last of nearly three weeks, and the threat became more definite:

      “Death will come to you on the night of the full moon. Prepare to meet your doom.”

      Mr. Budd sniffed disparagingly when he had read the last of the notes.

      “The Prophet!” he muttered contemptuously. “Some crazy fanatic, I suppose. I can’t understand any sane man taking this nonsense seriously, sir.”

      “Neither can I,” said Colonel Blair, “but there it is. Hayles may be eccentric, but he’s certainly not mad, and he evidently takes these threats very seriously indeed. Tomorrow night is the night of the full moon,” he added.

      “And Mr. Hayles, bein’ scared, wants somebody there in case this prophet feller turns up as promised,” murmured the stout man.

      “Exactly!” The Assistant-Commissioner helped himself to a cigarette, lit it, and nodded through the smoke.

      “When d’you suggest I go, sir?” asked Mr. Budd, without enthusiasm.

      “Tomorrow morning,” answered Blair. “In the meanwhile, you’d better take these letters and see if you can learn anything.”

      The stout superintendent picked up the folder and tucked it under his arm.

      “I’ll take Sergeant Leek with me, sir,” he said, pausing at the door. “I don’t suppose anythin’ ’ull happen, but just in case it does we’d better do the thing according to routine.”

      He left London at ten o’clock on the following morning in his dingy little car, accompanied by the lean sergeant, and neither experienced any premonition of the tragedy that was awaiting them.

      It was a hot, still morning; there was not a breath of air and the atmosphere was stifling. Neither was it appreciably cooler when they reached the open country. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, and the surrounding countryside lay parched and scorching beneath its glare.

      Liddenhurst was a tiny village with a handful of houses and a whitewashed inn. The road to the Manor House wound through dips and hollows overhung by trees, for the welcome shade of which Mr. Budd was grateful. They passed a small, square-towered church of great age with tombstones clustering closely round it, and turned into the right-hand branch of a fork. A mile farther on they came in sight of the entrance to the drive, and it was not prepossessing. The lodge was a ruin, the gates decayed structures of rotting timber.

      The stout man slowed the car and eyed the faded inscription on the crumbling pillars.

      “This is the place,” he said, and Leek glanced dubiously at the weed-grown approach, twisting between unkempt shrubs.

      “Don’t look as if anybody’s been here for years,” he remarked, and the stout superintendent agreed.

      But there was the name—readable, if only just—and he swung the car into the drive. Rounding the bend he saw before him a big, rambling house, ivy covered, and set amid a profusion of rank grass, weeds, and nettles. A great cedar tree grew in front of the porch, and in spite of the brightness of the sun its black, plate-like branches gave a sinister aspect to the place.

      Mr. Budd thought it was not surprising that a man living in such a house should be troubled with nervous fancies. He began to feel a little dispirited himself.

      He brought the car to a halt and got laboriously down in front of an ivy-covered porch, mounted the shallow, moss-stained steps, and pulled