The Empty Coffins by John Russell Fearn Page B

foll­owing behind him with his torch beam waving. Here at the top of the bank the rain and wind seemed heavier. Peter stood huddled and waiting as the mystic caught up with him, the circle of light flashing on the wet soil to reveal the two sets of prints clearly.
    â€œThey both come and go,” Singh pointed out. “Observe?”
    Peter looked with renewed interest. So far he had only thought of them moving one way—from the lane, but not to it.
    â€œIt is my belief,” Singh continued, “that two men came from somewhere, attacked the unfortunate policemen, and then retreated. The prints going away from the lane are such deeper than those going towards it. Plainly, the men carried something heavy.”
    â€œNot bodies, anyway,” Peter said. “We found those.”
    â€œPerhaps—blood,” Singh said. “It would weigh as heavy as water, and there must have been a good deal of it.”
    â€œNow we’re back where we started,” Peter sighed. “You are trying to offer a material explanation for something which we believe my wife—as a vampire—created.”
    â€œDo you wish to believe that of your wife?”
    â€œMy God, no! I’m simply thinking that—”
    â€œMr. Malden,” Singh interrupted, “we have here the first signs which suggest that this business of vampires may not be entirely genuine. Let us see if we can discover the starting point of these prints.”
    So there began for both of them the slow, ted­ious business of following first one set of prints, and then the other, pushing aside wet grass to find the indentations in the oozing soil below. Foot by foot progress was made until, gradually, out of the murk, there loomed a dark towering shape which Singh’s torch beam could just pick out as a crumb­led wall gleaming with rain.
    â€œFrom the look of things, Mr. Malden,” he comm­ented, “our trail ends and begins there—at that wall.”
    â€œWe’d better make sure,” Peter said, satisfied by this time that Singh was evidently not planning any kind of attack.
    He hurried forward the few remaining yards, Singh behind him, and they stopped when they had gained the towering ruin. At the base of the wall the prints were still visible. They went through a gap in the wall and vanished again in the stone ­riddled square that had once been a quadrangle.
    â€œWhat is this place?” Singh questioned, switch­ing off his torch for the moment. “I am not fam­iliar with the local history.”
    â€œIt’s the old chapel,” Peter responded. “About fifteen years ago it was destroyed by fire. This is the only remaining wall. In the square here there used to be the cloisters, and under them sev­eral of the crypts and mausoleums. It’s a spot with historic connections and that’s all. The new chapel in the cemetery was built to replace this one.”
    â€œInteresting,” Singh commented. “I find it most— Look!” he broke off quickly, and gripped Peter’s arm.
    Peter gazed steadily, feeling his heart beginn­ing to race. There was no doubt of the fact that at the far end of the ruined cloisters a figure had come into view. In the darkness and rain it was only a blurred grey outline, but as Singh switched on his torch details leapt into view.
    It was Elsie, her hair flowing in the wind, the shroud moulded against her graceful form!

CHAPTER SIX
    THE WALKING DEAD
    For a moment or two Peter could not believe what he saw, but gradually the penetrating beam of the torch forced him to it. Undeterred by it, appar­ently, Elsie continued to advance, making no sound, the shroud blowing out behind her in the wind. The effect was eerie in the extreme, her form vanishing at intervals as she passed the crumbled stonework that had once formed part of the cloisters.
    â€œWhat do we do?” Peter whispered at length.
    â€œSlay her, my friend.