Herald of the Hidden (14 page)

Heritage of Fire

Spirals of ochre-coloured smoke performed ethereal pirouettes above Ralph Tyler’s ragged armchair.

‘What are you trying this time?’ I enquired.

‘Agrimony and dandelion for all I know,’ replied Ralph, scowling.

His attempts to substitute herbal tobaccos for the more noxious fumes of his favourite continental brand had not so far met with much success, but he showed commendable perseverance.

A wooden-cased clock clicked and gave out ten gentle gong-notes.

‘Five past,’ I remarked, ‘He should be here soon.’

Ralph’s venerable timepiece could never be induced to keep pace with the actual hours, but so long as one knew of its diffidence in this respect, this was no real impediment.

‘What did you say his name was, again?’

Ralph handed me a business card.

‘James
Ethelred.
Environment
Potential
Consultant,’
I
recited.

I frowned.

‘Developer,’ explained Ralph briefly.

There was a dull thud in the hallway caused by Ralph’s defunct door bell. He extinguished his cigarette, which spat little sparks as he did so, and went to admit his visitor. A neatly dressed man, with a trim dark moustache, receding but well-groomed hair, and a slightly plump form, introduced himself, and perched rather reluctantly on Ralph’s second-best armchair.

‘I’ll come straight to the point, Tyler. You got my card. We’re involved in converting the shell of Marlestone House—what was left after that fire years ago—into a Heritage Hotel.’

‘A what?’ Ralph interrupted.

‘More
than
just
a
place to stay, it will be a unique opportunity to experience the ancient traditions of the English countryside. We want to actively encourage guests to learn about our history and culture. Exhibitions, lectures, guided tours will all be available, and what better place to achieve the right ambience than an old baronial hall?’

I had a feeling Mr Ethelred had made this speech before.

He held up one hand.

‘Now, I know your feelings about old places. I’ve heard a little about your exploits at Langborough and on Madberry Hill. You’re an old conservationist. But this is different. We really are trying to do a sympathetic restoration. Everything is being maintained exactly as it once was. Of course, it is important to reassure visitors that this is a genuine ancestral home. We’re even returning the grounds to their former glory. That’s going to be a substantial investment in itself. There’s an ornamental garden not far from the house which is completely overgrown and derelict, but we’re putting in the resources to set it to rights. I really feel we’re achieving an empathy with . . .’

‘Quite so,’ interjected Ralph. ‘So why do you need me?’

‘Ah, yes. Well, you specialise in spooks and all that, and we seem to be getting something of the sort. I suppose it’s inevitable really that rumours should fly when you start disturbing an old ruin, but I’m getting reports so often that I begin to think there’s something in them. Now, I can’t give you anything definite. Our people have got more to do than hang around sampling the sights.
This
is
a
priority
project.
But—well, one tells me he thinks we’ve got squatters, because he’s seen lights glinting at night where there shouldn’t be any. A surveyor says the acoustics of the place are very strange and swears he heard kind-of whispers. Our natural history adviser reckons there’s bird-song there which is totally alien. And I myself have picked up the sound of footsteps . . . and so have others.’

Ralph stirred in his armchair, reached for another green-papered weed-taper and, amid a spluttering sound, lit it. James Ethelred recoiled a little.

‘Anyway, we’re both very busy, so I’ll give you your brief. What I want is the story behind this. I don’t mind telling you it won’t worry me unduly if the place
is
haunted. Adds to the atmosphere a lot. It can all go in the brochure. But firstly, of course, I need to be sure it’s not going to turn into anything unpleasant—if that were possible. Don’t want to frighten people away. And secondly there ought to be a good yarn behind it all. It’s too vague at the moment. So, see what you can turn up. I’m not asking you to
invent
, of course, Ralph, but naturally you’ll have to hypothesise a bit. Whatever fits the facts. I see you have plenty of other genuine cases to draw on. . . .’

He indicated the tatty folders filed on a perilously-angled shelf on Ralph’s wall.

‘If this works out all right, we won’t forget it. It may be we shall need a folklore consultant and you could be just the man. So, are we together on this?’

Ralph grinned at his new client through the yellow haze.

‘I shall need a full report on the incidents so far.’

‘Been done. I’ll send it round.’

‘And unlimited access to the site.’

‘No problem.’

‘And an advance to cover initial expenses.’

‘Of course.’

With that, the deal was concluded, our visitor departed, and Ralph turned to me.

‘Want to come along tomorrow?’ he enquired, pulling on his threadbare jacket.

I assented. ‘Where are you off now?’

‘Where do I always go when I start a case? Library of course.’

Marlestone
House
had
originally
been
built
of
the
local
cinnamon-coloured stone, but at some stage had lamentably been covered with stucco. It had stood as a roofless wreck since a disastrous fire in the 1930s. One wing only remained habitable, and
this
had
been
occupied by a succession of short-term tenants. Until recently, tall nettles had clustered around all the walls, moss colonised every crevice, creepers clung sinuously and, where
deep
damp had set in, livid green stains fouled the plaster. Connoisseurs of decay had wandered freely around the ruins, speculating on the downfall of the house and, perhaps, philosophising about nature’s insidious dominion.

But now a great mud track had been gouged out by the heavy construction vehicles, cables and pipes and temporary cabins installed and a large sign in silver letters announced: ‘Marlestone Heritage Hotel—An EPC Development’, while in smaller text underneath was the standard warning against trespass and damage. Rumbling machinery, growling plant and a rhythmic clanking suggested that work was proceeding apace.

As we hastily retired away from the din, I remarked to Ralph that it was difficult to see how whispers, footfalls and weird birdsong could have been discerned if this was the usual noise level. But he shook his head.

Our hasty retreat took us along a gravel path, which wound past a spinney that served to stifle some of the sound.

‘Ethelred’s reports all point in one direction,’ Ralph replied. ‘The garden. And this must be it. . . .’

We came upon a canopied gate made of dark wood, not unlike the lichgates where coffins could be rested at the entrance to graveyards. By each pillar was what seemed to be a tall stone toadstool, although these had a little niche let into them. A latticework fence led away on either side in a gentle curve, and it had clearly been receiving attention recently, for holes had been patched, posts replaced, and much encroaching foliage had been cleared away. We passed through the gate and found ourselves on the brim of a shallow hollow. A fine lawn, again newly cared for, swept down to the shores of a still jade pool. Within this was an islet of stone and evergreen, reached by an arched footbridge of perhaps four or five strides. The garden seemed to be shaped like a shell, its graceful slopes overgrown with trees shimmering in manifold shades of green, with here and there a great spray of white blossom. Winding paths could barely be made out between the trees.

There
was
a
stillness
and
quiet within this old pleasaunce. The roar of the building work seemed shut off completely. I found myself
eager
to explore further, to find what other features there would be. I wondered if there might be a sundial, with some suitably melancholy motto; perhaps statuettes lay unhonoured in the undergrowth; and there must surely be a Summer-house somewhere.

‘All artificial, of course,’ remarked Ralph unromantically. ‘Even this
crater
itself is a disused quarry, presumably where they got the stone for the house.’ He pointed to several outcrops of tawny rock.

‘Those stones, however,’ he continued, pointing to some pale weather-worn boulders on the further side of the little lake, ‘are not local.’

We walked over towards them, and found there were five gathered together in a group, some pointed, others squat, reminiscent of the remains of a primeval stone circle. Ralph examined these carefully, even scraping away some encrustation with a pocket knife, but he seemed unsatisfied and his gaze strayed elsewhere. At the head of the deep, opaque pool was a lonely dark monument, and we made our way towards this. It proved
to
be
a
small black obelisk, whose surface must once have possessed a sombre sheen, but which was now dim and pitted by erosion. It was difficult to approach very closely because this solemn sentinel stood on the very shore, on a plinth of pebbles, and the ground was queachy underfoot. Nevertheless, Ralph subjected the obelisk to the same scrutiny he had given the standing stones and, surveying the views from this point, he noticed a narrow pathway leading up the shelving sides of the garden.

We followed this, and found ourselves accompanying the bed of a tiny stream whose water was reduced to a tired trickle. Just below the crest of the ascent, we came upon the Summer-house I had assumed must exist. It was humble indeed, a little wooden shack which, however, when the brook was in full flow, would be ideally placed above a cascade of carved steps. It was quite derelict—obviously the restorers had not reached this far. The thatched roof had sagged inwards, a paper screen which had presumably stood in the doorway was broken, and the whole structure had begun to collapse. We had to push our way past a pole, enmeshed in creeper and shreds of paper, which obscured the entrance. It was scarcely worth our effort, since the interior, apart from debris, was virtually bare—a low table against the far wall had survived the fall-in, but anything else was buried. Ralph sifted some of the mouldering pile for a while but, except for a few fragments of twisted metal, found nothing.

We walked around a little further outside, then retraced our way back to the gate, passing en route some workmen who had resumed operations on the garden’s renewal. I asked how things were getting on and whether they’d noticed anything unusual about the place.

‘Yes,’ replied an older man, pushing a straggle of lank grey hair from his damp forehead, ‘unusually hard work, that’s what I call it. Gardeners we are, not ruddy labourers. We’re spending half our time lugging things away and then carting them back again after Ethelred’s fancy experts have given them a polish. Why
can’t
they
leave
the
blamed things alone? We’ve got enough to do clearing out this wilderness. . . .’

There was more on this theme—quite a lot more—but I only half-heard most of it as we edged away, leaving the offended horticulturist still fulminating darkly.

‘Well, we rather asked for that,’ remarked Ralph wryly, ‘or to be exact, you did. But I don’t think we can find out much more here. We have very little to work on really. So—you won’t be surprised to hear—I intend to come back here tonight. Most of the incidents in Ethelred’s file seem to have happened after dusk. That is when people are more susceptible to this sort of thing of course. But also I suspect it becomes almost a different garden in the dusk.’

Ralph’s words came back to me as we entered again that evening through the high dark gate, which seemed much more ominous in the half-light. The restful silence of the daytime, when the garden had been a refuge from the construction noise, had been replaced by the sort of tense stillness a beast of prey assumes when it is watching its quarry. It was not possible to feel at ease. We had brought torches with us, but their column of yellow glare only made the shadows on either side deeper. Deprived of the full use of sight, our hearing naturally became more sensitive and we found ourselves interpreting every subdued sound into something sinister.

Uncertain of our steps, we slowly paced our way down the gentle slope to the little mere, which could be heard lapping on the unseen shore. I tried to remember whether the waters had made the same murmur earlier in the day: I did not think so, but if not, what was causing the ripples?

Ralph swept his torch across the black sheen of the pool, casting a wan, tired light on the trimmed, sentinel evergreens which stood upon one bank, and on the cluster of bleached stones. As the beam briefly touched the miniature island, I thought I sensed a movement of deep shadow, merely a flicker of a darkness denser even than the night. I whispered ‘Wait,’ and at the same time swung my own torchlight onto the artificial outcrop. And then it seemed as if a lineament of utter black lunged forward swiftly and silently out of the feeble glow, and so beyond our perception, and we were left waiting intently, wondering what it was and where it had gone.