When I finally drew into the driveway of my friend's house, he was there to guide me in with a flashlight, my headlamps having given out between Camside and Brichester. He ushered me into the house, remarking that I must have had a difficult journey towards the last along the lanes without lights, while I could only agree with him. It was quite late — later than I had intended to arrive, but the unallowed-for research at'the Museum had taken some time — and, after a light meal and a conversation over it, I went to my room to sleep off the effects of the somewhat hectic day.
The next morning I took from my car the notebook containing the information I had acquired at the Museum, and this reminded me of my intention to visit the ruin of Morley's castle. My friend, though able to move about the house, was not fit to leave it for long periods; and since he would be working on his forthcoming article that afternoon, I would have a chance to seek out the castle. After I had given him the notebook, I mentioned casually that I intended to take a stroll through the nearby countryside after dinner, and asked him whether he could suggest any localities that might interest me.
'You might drive down to Berkeley and take a walk round there,' he advised. 'Plenty of survivals from earlier times there — only I wouldn't stay too long, because of the mists. We'll probably have one tonight, and they're really bad — I certainly wouldn't want to drive in a mist like we get.'
'I had thought,' I said tentatively, 'of going along to Severnford to try and find this castle where a warlock's familiar was supposed to have been sealed up. I wonder if you know where it is? It was owned by someone named Morley — Sir Gilbert Morby, who was apparently in league with the devil, or something of the sort.'
He seemed rather shocked, and looked strangely disturbed by my mentioning the place. 'Listen, Parry,' he said, 'I think I may have heard of this Morley — there's a horrible tale which connects him with the disappearance of new-born babies around here in the 1700s — but I'd rather not say anything more about him. When you've lived down here a bit, and seen them all locking their doors on certain nights and putting signs in the earth beneath the windows because the devil's supposed to walk on those nights — and when you've heard things flying over the houses when everyone's locked in, and there's nothing there — then you won't be interested in tracking down things like that. We've got a home help who believes in such things, and she always makes the signs for our house — so I suppose that's why it always flies over. But I wouldn't go searching out places that have been polluted by witchcraft, even protected as I may be.'
'Good God, Scott,' I rebuked — laughing, but rather disturbed by the way he had changed since coming to live in the country, 'surely you don't believe that these star signs they make around here can have any effect, for good or for evil? Well, if you're so set on preserving my neck, I'll just have to ask one of the villagers — I don't suppose they'll have such a misplaced protective instinct as you seem to have.'
Scott remained unconvinced. 'You know I used to be as sceptical as you are now,' he reminded me. 'Can't you realise that it must have been something drastic that changed my outlook? For God's sake believe me — don't go looking for something to convince you!'
'I repeat,' I said, annoyed that my intended pleasant afternoon should provoke an argument, 'I'll just have to ask one of the villagers.'
'All right, all right,' Scott interrupted, irritated. "There is a castle on the outskirts of Severn ford, supposed to have belonged to Morley, where he kept some sort of monster. Apparently he left it locked away one day and never returned to let it out again — got carried off by an elemental he called up, I believe. It's still waiting, so they say, for some imbecile to come along looking for trouble and let it out again.'
Not missing the last remark's significance, I asked, 'How do I get to the castle from Severnford?'
'Oh, look, Parry, isn't that enough?' he said, frowning. 'You know the legend of the castle's true, so why go any further?'
'I know the story that the castle exists is true,' I pointed out, 'but I don't know if the underground room exists. Still, I suppose the people at Severnford would know…'
'If you have to go and sell yourself to the devil,' Scott finally said, 'the castle is on the other side of Severnford from the river, on a rise — a small hill, I suppose you'd call it — not far from Cotton Row. But look, Parry, I don't know why you're going to this place at all. You may not believe in this thing, but the villagers wouldn't go near that castle, and neither would I. That being is supposed to have some unbelievable attributes — if you just glance at its eye, you have to offer yourself to it — not that I believe all this literally, but I'm sure there's something in the castle that haunts it horribly.'
It was quite obvious that he sincerely believed all he was saying, which only strengthened my resolve to visit the castle and make a thorough search. After the end of our argument, the conversation became somewhat strained, and before dinner was served we were both reading books. As soon as I had finished dinner, I collected a flashlight from my room, and, after making other preparations for the journey, drove off in the direction of Severnford.
After a short drive along the A38 and the Berkeley Road, I found that I would have to pass through Severnford itself and double back if the car were to be parked near the castle. As I was driving through Severnford I noticed, over the church porch, a stone carving depicting an angel holding a large star-shaped object in front of a cowering toad-like gargoyle. Curious, I braked the car and walked along the moss-covered path between two blackened pillars to speak to the vicar. He was pleased to see a stranger in his church, but became wary when I told him why I had approached him.
'Could you tell me,' I asked, 'the meaning of that peculiar group of carvings over your porch — the one depicting the toad-monster and the angel?'
He seemed slightly worried by my question. 'Obviously the triumph of good over evil,' he suggested.
'But why is the angel holding a star? Surely a cross would be more appropriate.'
The vicar nodded. 'That disturbs me, too,' he confessed, 'because it seems to be a concession to the superstitions round here. They say it was originally not part of the church, but was brought here by one of the early parish priests, who never revealed where he found it. They say that the star is the same one they have to use on All Hallows' Eve, and that the angel isn't an angel at all, but a — being — from some other world. And as for the toad — they say it represents the so-called Berkeley Toad, which is still waiting to be released! I've tried to take the thing off the porch, but they won't have it — threaten not to attend church at all if I remove it! Was there ever a priest in my position?'
I left the church, feeling rather unsettled. I did not like the reference to the carving's not being part of the church, for this would surely mean that the legend was more widespread than I had thought. But, of course, the relief was part of the building, and it was only a distortion of the legend that spoke of its once being separate. I did not look back at the carven scene as the car moved away, nor at the vicar who had left the building and was staring up at the top of the porch.