Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

The movies From Beyond the Grave (1973) and The Monster Club (1980) were both adapted from his work. In the latter, based on probably his most successful book, the author himself was portrayed by veteran horror actor John Carradine.

In 1989 he was presented with Life Achievement Awards by both the Horror Writers of America and the British Fantasy Society, and he was the Special Guest of Honour at The 1997 World Fantasy Convention in London.

As the author once remarked: “I like to think I write stories for the future. There’s just a chance that someone putting an anthology together will find one of my old stories and slip it in. And so I shall live again. In that respect, I suppose being a writer is very much like being a vampire.”

WILFRED FRAZER HAD BEEN feature editor of The Daily Reporter for more years than I had lived and stated that he hated his job with a hatred that passed all understanding; but he was very good at it. He had the knack of spotting a potential human interest story from the morass of rumour, conjecture and wishful thinking that was dumped on his desk each morning. He motioned me to a chair, then pushed a pair of hornrimmed spectacles up over his thinning grey hair.

“Young Radcliffe, you’re a clever, well educated lad, tell me what you know about Caroline Fortescue.”

I shrugged and rummaged around in that mental lumber room that we all have tucked away at the back of our brains.

“A late Victorian lady novelist. Is ranked a little lower than Dickens, but is possibly on equal terms with Thackeray. She rocketed to fame with Camden’s Ridge in 1888; a three-volume novel that has been the bane of every schoolboy’s life ever since. This was followed by eleven more books of equal length, the last being Moorland Master published in 1911. Her style is a bit heavy going, but most critics regard her as a literary genius.”

Frazer nodded. “Fine. Proper little know-all, aren’t you? What about the woman herself?”

“Ah! That’s another matter entirely. She seems to have gone to a lot of trouble to keep herself out of the limelight. No one seems to know anything about her. Her real name, when she was born – when she died. Complete mystery.”

Frazer permitted himself a pale smile.

“She didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Die. According to my informant, a female who was employed around the house, Caroline Fortescue is still alive.”

I sat upright and gave a passable imitation of William the Conqueror being told that a man with an arrow in his eye was banging on the front door. I did some complicated arithmetic. “It’s now 1975 – if she was twenty in 1888 – Good God! – she’d be a hundred and seven!”

“Not impossible,” Frazer pointed out. “But my ex-employee says she’s much older than that. She puts her at around a hundred and seventeen. Again I say – not impossible. Isn’t there a chap in America who’s still belting around at a hundred and thirty-five?”

I communed with my soul before nurturing a germ of hope.

“God! Suppose it’s true!”

“Precisely. Imagine finding a live and kicking Charles Dickens and getting the dope from the great man’s mouth as to how Edwin Drood was intended to end.” He pushed a scrap of paper across the desk. “Here’s the address. Ye olde manor house down in a place called Bramfield. Get your body down there and if the old girl is still with us and if she can still talk, bring me back an interview that will set the Thames on fire. Take as long as you like. I want a series that’ll run for three weeks. Afterwards we’ll think about a book.”

“Suppose it’s all moonshine?” I asked.

“Then you’ve had a nice day in the country. Do you good. But I’ve got a hunch about this one. I think we may have something.”

“But a hundred and seventeen!” I objected. “It must take all her time merely to breathe.”

“Moses was doing all right at a hundred and twenty. If she can’t talk use your imagination. Just bring back her mark on a blank sheet of paper.”

I arrived at Bramfield Station the following afternoon and went straight to the village post office, that being if my experience was any criterion, the fount of all local gossip. I pushed open a narrow door and entered a shop equipped with an L-shaped counter; the smaller portion protected by a grill which had an oval opening in the lower centre. A smallish woman with red hair and inquisitive eyes shuffled forward and asked:

“Yes, sir, was there something?”

I gave her the full effect of a crooked, rakish smile which I had borrowed from Errol Flynn.

“Yes, can you kindly direct me to Bramfield Manor?”

She frowned and appeared to give the question more consideration than it deserved. Finally she nodded.

“Ain’t heard it called that for many a year. Never have any mail you see and the rightful name has sort of got lost. The Old House we calls it in these parts. The property of old Lady Bramfield. Although whether she’s still around, I wouldn’t like to say. Certainly she ain’t been buried to my knowledge.”

I assumed a slightly worried expression.

“Surely there can’t be any doubt that the – old lady – is still alive? I’ve been sent down to investigate the claim of a former maid who says she’s owed a week’s wages.”

The pale blue eyes were suddenly alight with an almost evil gleam of curiosity and the head jerked as though issuing an invitation for me to clamber over the counter. The voice sank to a loud whisper.

“That must have been that blonde huzzy who Jenkins drove to the station, with her packed bag on the front seat. When he came in for the provisions and suchlike, I managed to get out of him, that she’d been caught going through some private papers. That’s all he’d tell me. Very close is Jenkins.”

“This . . . Jenkins . . . ?”

“Used to be butler donkeys’ years ago. Now he’s all there is. Except when that woman was there. Lordy, I’d give anything to know the rights of it. The old place is falling to bits. Young man, if you ever get past the front door, it would be a mercy if you’d pop back in here and tell me what’s what.”

“But first,” I prompted, “I must get there. Now if you’ll kindly tell . . .”

“Ah! Turn right and walk down the main street, then turn left, cross the stile and cut across Five Acre Field until you reach Miles Lane. Turn left and two miles further on you’ll come to Manford Bridge which you can’t miss because it’s got a broken wall on one side. A mile or so on and you’ll reach Bramfield Walk. A hundred yards to the left are the Old House iron gates. One’s fallen down. The house is at the end of the drive.”

“A taxi . . . ?”

“Young man you appear to have a stout pair of legs. It’s a nice walk so long as you keep clear of Mr Masterton’s bull. Now heed me. Even if you don’t get into the house, keep your eyes open and let me know what you see. If the old lady is still about, she might be looking out of a window or something.”

I admitted that was a remote possibility, then asked:

“When did you last see Lady Bramfield?”

One not over clean hand went up and began to scratch her head.

“Now you have me! Must have been when I was a child. Over thirty years ago. And I remember she looked old then. She can’t still be alive.”

The sun was setting when I finally reached the tree lined road that was presumably Bramfield Walk. In fact it was little more than a narrow lane that ran straight as an arrow’s flight from the distant main road to the rusty, reeling iron gates. One had not quite fallen down, having been saved from this ultimate indignity by a bottom hinge that somehow kept the top bars from touching the ground. To the right crouched the ruins of a once handsome lodge; beyond a meandering drive, its unpaved surface covered with a profusion of tall grass and wild flowers, flowed like a wind teased river, between tall slender poplars that reached up green clad arms, as though begging alms from the sun.