Stephen Jones: The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Vol 15

“Now, what can I do you for, Arthur?” Despite his frailty the old man sounded cheerful. Evidently he was delighted to see Machen. “You’ve not been this way in a long while.”

“No, I’m stranded out at the end of the line in Amersham. I haven’t been up to town for months. However, I’ve come now to raid your archive, if I may?”

“Of course, of course. How’s the family?”

“Purefoy relentlessly knits socks for sailors, while Janet is training to become a nurse… she’s my daughter, you know?”

“Yes, I remember. And your son?”

“Hilary. He was captured by the Italians. They’ve had him picking grapes in Tuscany.”

“Too bad. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“At least he’s out of harm’s way, but I dare say he wishes he was back in the thick of it again. We’ve had letters so we know he’s in good health.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Well, you know the way. I’ll scuttle back to the office. I’m ordered to remain by the phone in case anyone in editorial needs back issues from way back when. They never do, of course. So I sit, drink tea, wait.”

After the old man had wandered off into the labyrinth, Machen led Smith to a long room filled with filing cabinets.

“This is the manuscript room,” Machen told him. “We should find what we’re looking for here.” He consulted a leather-bound ledger filled with page after page of entries. “I’ve known Benjamin since 1910… or was it 1909?”

“A rather colourful garb for a caretaker.”

“Ah, the cricket blazer. Benjamin was once a first-class county player for Kent. After he retired from the game he became the staff sports writer, rising to sports editor by the time of the Great War. But Lord Alfred Douglas — he’s the owner of the newspaper group — despises cricket. With the outbreak of hostilities Douglas demoted Benjamin to sweep the floors here and run errands for editorial staff. Something, you’ll agree, of a bitter insult to the man?”

Smith didn’t have a chance to reply as Machen declaimed, “Hah! Here we are. Number 23 dash 406. 23 refers to the filing-cabinet number… let’s see that will be… uhm, there to your left, lieutenant. Continue to the end of the row.”

Smith followed Machen along the line of green metal cabinets. His whole night was becoming increasingly surreal.

Is Machen leading me on a wild goose chase? I went to his house to find the truth about what happened to me on that day in 1914. Now we’re haring round London looking for scraps of paper. Is he humouring me? Perhaps hoping I tire of this and simply go?

Machen heaved open a drawer that had not been opened in years. The wheels screeched on their steel runners. “Now 406… 406… ah, 403, 405. 406! Well, I must say I’d forgotten what a slender envelope it was. All that fuss, thunder and lightning over this little thing. Move across to the light where we can see it better. Here we are: ‘The Bowmen’. You know, I’m almost afraid to open the envelope just in case the manuscript isn’t there. Or perhaps the pages are blank? Or maybe I’ll find the story written in a hand other than my own.” He smiled grimly. “Imagine what a shock that would be.”

Smith saw the old man’s hand tremble as he opened the brown quarto envelope and withdrew half a dozen sheets of paper, neatly folded in half and covered with handwriting.

Machen unfolded the manuscript and laid it flat on the table beneath the light.

Smith heard the note of relief in the man’s voice. “Yes, of course this is mine. Written in pencil under my own name. Look, there are the editor’s initials approving its publication. And here’s the sub-editor’s signature along with his rather heavy-handed editorial marks. But then he was notorious for his dislike of adjectives and a poetic turn of phrase. A few years later he drowned in Stratford-upon-Avon. Rather poetic justice, I always thought. Nevertheless, lieutenant, here is the manuscript. Hold it if you wish.”

“And these blue pencil marks?”

“In those days — just as in this war — a Ministry censor was assigned to the editorial office to read everything we wrote before publication. He amended or deleted anything he judged to be injurious to the war effort. There’s his official stamp and initials. And he’s made a few deletions, too. There is-”

“No! Don’t show me them!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t show me.”

“What on earth-”

Smith took a deep breath. His heart thudded in his chest. “Listen, Mr Machen. It’s just possible there’s something in the manuscript that will help prove to you that I’m not mistaken. That I really did witness a miraculous intervention on the battlefield.”

“And what might that something be?”

Smith frowned, closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. “Let me get this straight, sir. You wrote the manuscript in your own hand?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“So the only people to see the finished story before it was typeset would be the editor, sub-editor…”

“And the censor, yes. So?”

“Did the censor delete any references to place names?”

“As a matter of fact, he did blue pencil the name of a Belgian village, even though I was most strenuous to point out that it was fictitious. A romantic concoction of my own and nothing more. It was-”

“No, don’t tell me.” Lieutenant Smith moved back from the manuscript on the table, holding his hands toward it to make clear to Machen that he couldn’t see any of the text. “Near where I saw the angels there lay the remains of a village that formed a section of our lines.” He watched Machen’s face for any reaction when he spoke the name. “The village was called Sierville-en-Caux.” Machen raised his eyebrows, and Smith continued. “The village church had been reduced to its foundations by shellfire, but rising from the rubble in its centre was-”

“A statue of St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes,” Machen whispered. “Good Lord… oh my good Lord…”

“And the statue was unmarked, despite the destruction surrounding it.”

Machen turned over two pages of the manuscript. “There’s… it’s difficult to see. The censor worked hard with that blue pencil of his. But you can just make out my handwriting: Sierville-en-Caux. And the description of a church with not a stone intact, yet with the unmarked statue of St Jude remaining upright and glorious.” Machen looked suddenly tired. Some of the fire had gone from his eyes. “You do realize, lieutenant, that I am now a man standing upon the thinnest of ice above the most lethal of rapids. The border between fact and fiction has become fluid. I don’t know what to believe… I don’t…” He shrugged and sighed.

“I don’t know what to feel.” Smith took a deep breath, shaking, cold and yet sweating. “For the first time since it happened I’ve found real evidence. Perhaps now people will stop regarding me as a lunatic when I tell them that I witnessed a miracle.”

“You’re still some way from proving any celestial intervention, lieutenant. Many will dismiss the place name in my manuscript as coincidence, or even accuse you of breaking in here and reading the excised text.” Machen slipped the manuscript back into its envelope. “In truth, I believed what I termed as the first step in our investigation would be the only step. That sight of ‘The Bowmen’ script would dissuade you from looking further.”

Smith touched Machen’s shoulder. “And now?”

“Everything has changed… everything.” The old writer weighed the envelope in his hand, and then seemed to reach a decision. “My instincts now are for us to hold a council of war and decide where we go next. But first, I need to reread my tale. It’s been many years, and my memory is rusty to say the least.”