CANDLESTICK MAKER

Written by Peter Bayliss
December 1993

        t was a loud metallic banging that woke up PC Arnold Davies. It sounded like somebody beating metal with a hammer. He swore moodily, switched on the bedside light, and rubbed his eyes. The sound, which at first had seemed to come from inside the house, now seemed to be outside, and he peered through the window into the darkness beyond. The village committee had not yet managed to have streetlights erected in this outlying area, and Arnold could see very little in the moonless winter night.
      Still the incessant banging continued, and he quickly put on trousers, shoes and a coat and stomped angrily downstairs, stopping to grab a torch before making for the back door. When he opened it, the banging suddenly stopped. He switched on the torch and shone it ahead, the sharp beam cutting into the misty gloom. The sudden silence was unnerving, and it wasn't simply the cold that made the policeman shiver. The beam picked out the misty figure of a large man with a full black beard and wearing what seemed to be some sort of apron like a shopkeeper. He seemed strangely insubstantial, and the torch appeared almost to shine through him.
      "Who are you?" shouted Arnold testily. "Were you making that dreadful banging noise? What's the idea disturbing the peace at this time of night?" He nearly said "loud enough to wake the dead", but he didn't at that moment find the thought a very reassuring one. The figure made no reply, but slowly turned and walked away as if he was inviting the constable to follow.
      "Hey, wait! Stop! I want some answers!" Arnold followed the figure along the lane and down an alley towards St. Andrew's church. His breath plumed out smokily into the torchlight, and the ground under his tread was crisp and slippery with frost. His quarry appeared to stop every so often and wait for him to catch up. The outline of the medieval church stood out bleakly in the first glimmerings of dawn, and he shivered and pulled up his coat collar.
      The torch beam picked out the bearded man clearly as he reached the church and stopped to open the door, leaving it ajar for PC Davies to follow. He seemed to be beckoning; giving Arnold the same shivery feeling he'd experienced earlier.     

Once inside the church, the policeman could hear shouting and fists hammering on a door, a noise which had previously been muffled by the impenetrable granite walls. He shone his torch in the direction of the noise and saw that the vestry door was wedged shut by a huge wrought-iron candlestick. Someone was trapped inside, and he had a feeling that he'd been brought here for that reason.      "As you know, we found those two young vandals trapped inside," Arnold said the next day to his sergeant, an older man who'd been born and spent most of his life in the village, but was now stationed in the nearby town. "But the man you followed had disappeared?"      "That's right, Sarge," confirmed the constable. "Not a sight or sound of him. Vanished into thin air, so to speak." He shrugged. "So just who he was and what that awful racket was he'd been making back at the house I just couldn't say. But at least it woke me up, you know, an' we've got those vandals we've been looking for fer ages."      "That's right," replied the sergeant. "Their description tallies, and their dabs match those in the other cases. A bit of luck, eh. But a damn queer affair to be sure." He shook his head. "Of course, I don't believe in any of this supernatural stuff meself, you know, but it makes you think..."      "Sarge, I've a curious feeling that you know more than you're telling me. Who was that man?"      "Well, like I say, I don't really believe in all this stuff, and I reckon there must be some sort of rational explanation somewhere."       The sergeant scratched his chin and looked thoughtfully at the young constable. "The fact is," he said, "the village police-house used to be the smithy. The noise that woke you up could almost have been a hammer on an anvil. And the man you followed, with a beard and a leather apron could have been ol' Jake Matthews, the village blacksmith except that he's been dead for getting on twenty years."               Arnold felt a finger of icy coldness creeping along his spine. He swallowed hard.

"C...come' off it, Sarge. You...you said you didn't believe in that sort of thing. An anyway, why should the old smith have anything to do with the church?"       "Well, you see, it was the blacksmith who made those wrought- iron candlesticks," explained the sergeant, "the ones that were jammed up 'gainst the vestry door. And ol' Jake Matthews, the blacksmith, did a lot for St. Andrew's and used to be church warden there."

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