Herald of the Hidden (5 page)

‘But, needless to say, the records of the de Capes, up to the extinction of the line in 1940 and the acquisition of the house by the esteemed Mr Arrowden, hardly dwell upon an afflicted and obscure cadet of the dynasty. Lacking military honours, political success, or church preferment, he is scarcely mentioned at all. I only gathered that he died early, aged twenty-two. The rest I more or less heard from Toby himself.’

It took several seconds for this to sink in.

‘What?’ I demanded, incredulously.

‘The face we saw,’ continued Ralph, unabashed, ‘was that of Toby Mangrave. There’s a common belief that if you speak to a . . . ghost . . . it disappears. Well, in the first place, as you know, I didn’t utter a word. And, anyway, just as he was no normal mortal, the image which represents a semblance of him now is no ordinary being.’

‘You can say that again,’ I put in.

‘The menagerie was Toby’s hideaway. He could escape to it from the implacably polite contempt of the people at the Hall. And he assembled there a careful collection of pets, forest, farm and domestic, which he tended with single-minded care. When he died, of a seizure which apparently caused him to choke on his tongue, there was no-one to look after his animals.

‘You can imagine the consequences. By the time anyone thought to take a look inside his deserted retreat, many of the creatures had died of starvation. The fate of the rest, which admittedly may have been in the balance anyway, is blandly conveyed, I think, by a remark in the estate managers’ records of the time; an entry not long after Toby’s death reads: “Disposed of Master Mangrave’s effects at the Menagerie.” I expect all the fauna he had gathered and protected were destroyed.

‘When I first came upon this forgotten history of the Folly, my suspicion was naturally that the cause of all the disturbances was the restless spirit of Toby Mangrave. Therefore, to be frank, I went into our watch tonight with a less than open mind. That was nearly our downfall.’

He paused, reflecting on the peril we had just been through.

‘For the fact is that the elemental power which is imbued within this building is the amassed, terrified, unpredictable remnant of the animals which suffered here. Not only in the squalid aftermath of Toby’s demise, but also in the menagerie’s subsequent use; as a game hut, where carcasses were deposited, and where “vermin” like rats, stoats, weasels, voles, crows and so on were hung up on the outer walls to ward off other such beasts. It’s an old country trick, still to be seen these days, and quite common in the past. The accumulated agonies of all these beasts have congealed into a wild, primitive instinct which reacts inexorably against the presence of any person recently stained by the blood of an animal, or possibly even anyone whose thoughts and preoccupations carry the same impression. The swarm of beasts exists in a seething, unstable suspense, which operates on an implacable, almost biological impulse. So poor Jack Hartward, the keeper they dismissed for apparent drunken hallucinations, really did see what he claimed, and no wonder the lodge was shut up shortly after. Then, this recent restoration unfortunately compounded the problem by introducing a succession of “sporting” types, all of whom had just enjoyed a good day’s slaughtering. Remember how only the caretaker, who presumably had not so indulged, was spared the visitation, and that the process seems to take time to work through.

‘A shade from Toby Mangrave’s brief time on earth has remained precisely because of the other, inhuman force here. Because he, and only he, can exercise some dominion over it. Otherwise it simply spills out in a frenzy at the first hint—smell, sight, taste—of animal blood. It would be too much to say it is within his control, even. But, as I understand matters, that part of the elemental mass which has its origin in his own former creatures yields still to his affectionate nature; and even those stark, primitive urges from the later victims of the hunt, the shoot or the cull, can be stilled by an instinctive response to his peculiar knowledge and love of animals.

‘So, Toby Mangrave’s spectre acts almost like a conscience for the fierce phantom menagerie. And, sometimes he’s quite happy just to look on and enjoy the attack. We can imagine he had few qualms about unleashing the beasts on those two hearty young hunters who stayed here last. But with us, there was uncertainty. My hand had been smeared, you may remember, with the blood of that rabbit which was beyond saving; and that was enough to send the wild, yelping throng out from its lurking insubstantiality. However, the “guardian”, Toby Mangrave, could sense that we had neither caused, nor intended, any harm. He is clearly possessed of a greater attunement to our mortal plane, and able to distinguish motivations and to an extent even characteristics in a way which could not be expected of a seething, incoherent animal phenomena. I was able to achieve something of a channel of response with him, as you saw: and his intercession rather saved us from much further unpleasantness.’

I began to feel rather cheerfully reassured, and could not help a certain admiration for the way in which a strongly felt emotion had survived corporeal death in order to work its influence even centuries later.

And I was present later when Ralph Tyler endeavoured to explain to our ‘client’ the exact nature of the problem. After recounting most of the foregoing to Mrs Arrowden, and her sleek, cynical, business manager, Ralph placed before them the relevant books and documents from the library, and added:

‘I have done as you asked. I have established the cause of the “difficulties” connected with the old lodge, or menagerie as it ought properly to be called. I earnestly recommend that no person who has been recently involved in the killing of animals, whether for so-called sport or any other purpose, should be allowed to stay in the building. I would add that I cannot guarantee that anywhere within the grounds is truly safe. For it is quite likely that disturbed impulses such as this may wax and wane in strength at erratic intervals. There is no telling when it might extend its influence and workings.’

‘Are you saying,’ burst out the estate adviser, ‘That we must abandon a project which has occupied a considerable amount of time, energy and resources, merely because of your ludicrous and unsubstantiated theory about an unfortunate but no doubt entirely natural epidemic of pests?’

Ralph gazed at him coolly.

‘Do you hunt or shoot yourself?’ he enquired, pleasantly.

‘On occasions,’ was the impatient reply.

‘Well, then, sir,’ continued Ralph, with ironic respectfulness, ‘You are welcome to test my account yourself by occupying the menagerie for a few days—and nights.’

There was a pause.

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Ralph’s account had clearly been sufficiently vivid after all.

‘But,’ put in Mrs Arrowden, ‘could I not call an exorcist or a similar expert? Perhaps the rector . . .’

My friend looked askance.

‘I very much doubt that the coagulation of primitive forces which possesses the Folly will respond to any Christian conjurations, no matter how profound. And there is the added danger that all those sombre trappings might well banish Toby Mangrave, leaving the rest to rage unchecked. It would not be wise.’

We were grudgingly given the promised fee and expenses, and our departure was rather less cordial than had been our arrival. The money was divided between our own use in subsequent researches, and in donations to relevant animal rights groups.

For some time after, we watched eagerly for any further news about the extraordinary double hauntings at Langborough Hall, and one or two incidents seemed to hint at some connection: but more notable was that the plan to turn the Hall into ‘a major country sports venue’ never did seem to materialise, and that the more conventional ‘guided tour around a stately home’ format would appear to have been adopted instead.

Madberry Hill

The gradual process of breakfast which I like to adopt at weekends, to compensate for the clamour of working days, was disturbed on a Saturday in early Autumn by a terse telephone call from Ralph Tyler.

‘I have a guest,’ he remarked, ‘with an experience he wishes to relate. How soon can you join us?’

Setting aside my pleasurable lethargy, I promised to go to them straightaway. When I arrived, a lean, slightly stooping gentleman, with trim greying hair, was pacing the faded carpet of my friend’s flat with evident unrest. No sooner had the formalities of introduction—from which I learned that the visitor’s name was Frederick Bentley—been concluded, than he commenced a long monologue, the substance of which he had obviously devised mentally beforehand.

‘I come to you, Mr Tyler, because your activities have been talked about, and I believe I can rely upon you to advise me with discretion upon a most perplexing experience. There is no appropriate official body who would have responsibility for such a problem—perhaps there should be. No matter. I am a retired civil engineer, and I am a practical man, and I do not wish to fritter away my maturer years without aim: so, amongst other public duties, I have involved myself with the Civic Society. In fact, I am its Chairman. We have been concerned of late to draw more popular attention to the town and its great history. We are a backwater, Mr Tyler: Other places of considerably less significance are treated as shrines, whilst we are totally ignored. And yet parliaments were held here, crucial treaties negotiated here, and kings and barons and archbishops have all known our ancient streets. . . . But I digress. Amongst several schemes for developing this potential, the one which has achieved most acclaim, to speak without false modesty, since the idea is mine, is the erection of a viewing tower on Madberry Hill. You are a native of these parts, Mr Tyler?’

He scarcely paused for Ralph’s bemused nod.

‘Then you will certainly have climbed Madberry Hill at some time, if not often. It affords a most pleasing panorama of the town and surrounding countryside. And yet—it is not quite perfect. Trees obscure several perspectives, and the planning authority is most obstinate about them. They will not see the sense in removing them so as to create uninterrupted views at every point. Now, I am as conservation-minded as the best, Mr Tyler, but it is surely a question of priorities. The spinney is certainly not older than eighteenth century, and therefore scarcely venerable: and though it may have been planted around a more ancient residue, there is no proof of that. But, there: that debate is closed. The trees stay. It was all I could do to get their grudging agreement in principle for a patch of scrub in the centre to be cleared to facilitate the tower; and here we speak of merely gorse and bracken. No matter. The plans are now well in hand. It will surely be a fine monument, a great attraction. People, especially children, always like something to
do
once they have got to the top of a hill, don’t you think?

‘Well, now there shall be a Prospect Tower. The design is quaint and relatively unobtrusive; a stone-faced construction, with a spiralling staircase, of course, and curiously-shaped windows, arched, triangular, trapezoidal, and so forth. And on the battlement, or top platform, a metal plaque with a diagram depicting places of interest which may be discerned in the town below. And what will that do? Why, of course, inspire the spectator to descend and seek out those places he has espied from afar. And thereby bring the attention to the town which it justly deserves. It is all capital, capital!’

Ralph was unable to conceal a little impatience.

‘And yet . . . ?’ he began to prompt.

Frederick Bentley resumed his narrative hastily.

‘I was on the Hill yesterday evening. I was plotting in my mind’s eye where a few benches might be placed, and also thinking about whether the path through the spinney needed to be widened. We can hardly expect families, still less coach parties, to resort to the Hill as a beauty spot, unless it is improved a little. Parts are far too rough. Furthermore . . .’

Perhaps forewarned by an audible sigh from Ralph Tyler, the visitor paused in his description of the shortcomings of the Hill as a tourist attraction, and returned to the pertinent theme—eventually.

‘It was getting towards dusk. Oh, I was going to say that I had been idly looking at the vegetation in the spinney to see if it might represent another attraction—you know, “Visit Madberry Hill in its Summer plumage, a riot of delightful colour”, that kind of thing. Also, we need a name for the path; the Beech Walk would do nicely if there were more beeches, whereas the Ash Walk is a little too commonplace, if more faithful to detail. I came to no firm conclusion.’

He halted once more, gathering his thoughts.

‘When I was about ready to go, I was suddenly overcome by a massive wave of dizziness. The wood and the slope seemed to lurch in front of my eyes, and though my feet were firmly on the ground, all around was a blur of greens and browns: leaves, grass, plants, branches, earth heaving and swirling. And then—there was a noise, at first far away, but growing closer, and rising and falling as if carried on the wind. It was a high wild singing. No, more a chant. But wordless, and with a piping intensity. . . .’

He swallowed, and I noticed his fingers clench in a sign of determined concentration. Ralph Tyler leaned forward intently.

‘Then a mist came up. Thin white tendrils of some ethereal substance at any rate. Personally, I don’t believe the proper conditions for mist existed—but that is what it looked like. And it brought with it a chill, so sharp you could almost taste the air; and I felt my flesh contract. By now I was bewildered. Grasping in a panic for some clue as to my state, I assumed I’d been overdoing things, and was now succumbing to symptoms of nervous exhaustion. I do like to involve myself Mr Tyler, and it is true I rarely take things easy. Maybe I ought to allow for my age a little more.

‘However, if that were all, I would of course have sought out my doctor, not you. It was what followed. Out of the mist, there loomed a figure, only semi-formed, whose mien exuded implacable hostility. The body was white and insubstantial, as if composed of the very mist—it was difficult to see where the one merged into the other. But there was a face. A woman’s—serene and strong-featured, like a great, pale, hovering mask. Her gaze seemed to sear into the flesh and bone of my forehead—as if someone had opened a gaping wound there, and the elements were working at it, gnawingly. I tried to dodge away down the Hill, flinging out my arms against unseen obstacles. Flickering shapes, some of the dark, some of the white air, some of the trees and bushes, seemed to leap out at me, and seek to drag me down. So far from making progress, I seemed to be merely circling the same place, stumbling in a fearful panic like the quarry in a chase. In the end I just sagged to the ground and put my hands over my head, trying to blot it all out—the keening noise, the churning nausea, the mist-creatures, even the air itself tingling and hard to take in; but still I felt the baleful stare of that vast female face, cold and hard as ice . . .’

Bentley stopped, evidently overcome by the recollection.

‘I must have passed out after a while. I remember crouching there, cowering, not wanting to look around; but that is all. The next impression I had was some time later, when it had grown quite dark. I was stiff and very tired, and smothered in the dust and dirt of the wood. I got up cautiously, and it was all quiet again: yet I could not erase the memory of what had driven me to this pass. My head throbbed, my breathing was unsteady, and there was a curious, lingering taste in my mouth and nostrils. My home is not far from the Hill, but it took a considerable effort to get there. Once in, I collapsed into heavy sleep, from which I awoke abruptly just before dawn.’

His last sentence trailed off. There remained a hesitation, whilst Ralph was either expecting a continuation of the narrative, or else pondering what he had already heard. For myself, I had grown used to hearing curious accounts from bewildered strangers, amongst the rather shabby surroundings of my friend’s flat. Yet this had an edge to it that was not hard to observe, for clearly Frederick Bentley was not merely disturbed by what had occurred, but affronted by it too, for beneath the relish with which he had described his experience, there was a clear sense of indignation; that such a bizarre yet overwhelmingly impressive vision could so insistently interfere with the order of his affairs.

Ralph looked up.

‘How has this experience affected your plans for the Hill?’

It was an oblique enquiry. The visitor shrugged.

‘I have hardly had time to give the matter much thought. As soon as I realised I could not account for this . . . incident, I decided to turn towards an appropriate authority. Your researches into . . . things of this nature, are of some local celebrity, Mr Tyler, and I do not refer merely to the popular imagination.’

Ralph half-stifled a wry grin. The early hour was doubtless to blame for a particularly unkempt appearance. He fumbled for a cigarette, thought better of it, and tried a different question.

‘You spend a lot of time on Madberry Hill?’

‘Yes. There is much to be considered. I take a stroll there almost every evening. As I say, it is not far from my home, and I think it is beneficial to take the air, and a little exercise, regularly.’

‘But your thoughts are frequently about the tower project?’

‘Well, naturally, that is always uppermost in my mind.’

‘The face that you saw. Did it resemble anyone you know—or knew?’

Bentley frowned. ‘No.’

‘Before the experience, were you alone on the Hill?’

‘So far as I was aware.’

‘You mentioned your doctor. Are you receiving treatment of any kind?’

‘I am not.’ The denial was peremptory.

‘You take no medication?’

‘No.’ There was a visible restlessness at the persistence of these questions of a personal nature.

‘Do you have vivid dreams?’

There was a sharp sigh.

‘Really, Mr Tyler, I hardly expected you to practise amateur psychiatry. What I require is a practical explanation of what I saw. I observe you have plentiful records . . .’ he gestured at a crooked shelf of tatty folders ‘. . . and must surely have a precedent which will cast light upon this matter. Eh?’

Ralph paid no heed either to the tone or the substance of these remarks. Instead, he rose from his grey armchair, stretched, and took up a favourite jacket from its hook.

‘I think I must ask you to take me to the exact site of the experience. Does that present any problems?’

His client got to his feet wearily.

‘None whatever.’

Madberry Hill rises like a great green dome out of the pastures on the south-eastern edge of the town. Its edges are wooded but not densely: paths wind through the trees and converge on the clearing at the crest, which has been left to wan, coarse grass.

Frederick Bentley, it transpired, lived in Hillview Avenue, the apt, if scarcely original, road from which a footpath could be followed to the lower slopes. It was still only mid-morning as we ambled through the yellowing deciduous wood, a mild breeze creating a restful murmur in the trees. After we had climbed for some minutes, the older man paused.

‘It was just up a little from here,’ he whispered, as if there were a need for secrecy.

The plateau at the top was visible through a veil of young trees and bushes.

‘I’d strolled down from the Tower site to look at the vegetation, as I explained. . . . It couldn’t have been much further away than, well, around here.’ And he shrugged, perhaps unconvinced that a place of such calm and quiet could be the scene of his former encounter.

‘Did you halt anywhere in particular?’ asked Ralph.

‘Hmmm. I may have leant against a tree trunk or something.’

My friend wandered through the screen of saplings at the edge of the copse, glanced briefly around the open space which was the summit of the hill, then retraced his steps slowly. At intervals he stooped to the ground, or paused by a particular tree, or craned his neck to regard the scene as a whole. He was only a few yards from us when he diverted slightly along a narrow track. He was lost from sight for a minute or two, then emerged, examining thoughtfully an object held between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Try this,’ he asked Bentley, handing him a globular white berry. His client recoiled.

‘What is it?’

Ralph ignored the question.

‘Go on. I assure you it will do you no harm.’

Bentley placed it cautiously, and with evident reluctance, in his mouth, tasted it tentatively, then immediately ejected it. He stared at Ralph accusingly.

‘Familiar?’ my friend enquired.

There was a short silence. Bentley was evidently preoccupied with the lingering effect of the white fruit. Then he nodded slowly.

‘It is the taste I was left with last night,’ he agreed, then repeated his demand, ‘What is it?’

‘The glowberry,’ replied Ralph. ‘So named for a slight phosphorescence it emits in certain conditions. Heavy rain or concentrated sun causes its juice to seep through to the outer flesh, from which in turn it may rise into the atmosphere, creating a slight haze and a heady, but elusive aroma. The shrub is quite uncommon now, but there is a cluster in a little hollow over there. . . .’ He gestured along the shaded path he had followed.

‘Taken in small doses,’ he continued, ‘The glowberry is quite innocuous. But little is known of its influence in the case of greater quantities. . . .’

‘But look here,’ interrupted Bentley, ‘I don’t recall eating any of those at all.’

Ralph regarded him curiously.

‘Nevertheless, a number have been plucked recently. Come and see.’

We made our way carefully through the overhanging trees, and came upon a group of low, spindly bushes, to which a few of the waxen-looking berries clung. Ralph pointed out where several had burst upon the ground, then held for our inspection a limb of the plant. ‘Here—and here—see? This thin stalk once held the fruit. If it were simply natural ripening and spilling the pattern of dismemberment would be irregular. The fact that whole offshoots have lost all their fruit suggests otherwise.’