The Empty Coffins by John Russell Fearn Page A

medical reason for your wife’s unhappy death.”
    â€œDo what you like,” Peter muttered, gazing dully in front of him. “I just don’t care what happens any more.”
    But the movement of events did not allow Peter to sink into himself. He had to attend the coron­er’s inquest and the death of Elsie was debated in detail. Rawnee Singh also gave evidence, and Chief-inspector Rushton. The other-world atmosphere of the whole business, however, made it impossible for the hearing to be brought to a logical conclusion, so finally the coroner was compelled to accept the joint opinions of Sir Gerald Montrose and Dr . Meadows....
    For Peter, the rest was a nightmare, rendered all the more horrifying by Singh’s forecast that, once buried, Elsie would become a vampire. He be­came haunted by the thought that he would have to join the villagers in a constant watch on Elsie’s grave to make sure that, when she did appear, she was slain by a stake through her heart. He began to wonder whether life was worth living at all, whether he might not end it and—
    No, that would never do. Besides, he still had the memory of Singh’s words. The mystic, for some reason best known to himself, was not entirely convinced by the happenings. It gave Peter the dim hope that somehow, somewhere, there might be an answer to all the frightful things that had happen­ed—an answer in which he, and others, could be­lieve.
    The day of the funeral came. Four pall­bearers entered the house. Peter watched from the hall. He was dressed in sombre black, his face white and serious. He saw them come downstairs, carrying the coffin—then they took it out to the hearse and slid it gently into position. After that there was some ten minutes of wreath-laying.
    Dr. Meadows arrived before the funeral cortege started off. He said but little. There was sor­row deep in his eyes, but it had not the naked hurt expressed in Peter’s features.... Mrs. Dawlish was present too, in sombre clothes. The remainder of the mourners were chiefly those few from the village who had ignored malicious gossip and liked Elsie for herself.
    So the forlorn journey to the cemetery began. The weather had turned unseasonable. There was a cutting wind and a light, saturating rain. The vicar seemed to mumble the burial service. At the back of the church sat Rawnee Singh, utterly unemotional, listening intently. He was also present at the graveside and watched Peter hurl a handful of earth down into the grave on top of the coffin. Then it was all over and Elsie had been laid to rest—at least so far as human endeavour could plan it. What might happen later nobody, except maybe Singh, knew.
    Peter, for his part, had come now to the task he had been fearing the most. He had to make arrangements for a watch to be kept over Elsie’s grave. He would probably have shirked it alto­gether, only Dr. Meadows did not allow him to.
    He insisted that a meeting should be held that evening in the main lounge of the village inn—and Peter had to be there whether he liked it or not.
    He found the room fairly crowded with villagers, both men and women, when he arrived towards eight o’clock. He waited until Dr. Meadows came, and then explained the situation.
    â€œThis, for me, is the most difficult thing I have ever attempted,” he said, with a serious glance at the faces turned towards him. “I am having to ask for volunteers to strike down my wife—by driving a stake through her heart—­if she is seen to leave her grave. We all know that she died because of a vampire attack by her former husband, George Timperley, which makes it inevitable that she will become a vampire in turn. We have already experienced the horror of a vamp­ire in our midst: unless we can take prompt action we are liable to have yet another vampire…my wife.”
    â€œIt does not follow that she will actually be seen leaving her