Herald of the Hidden (9 page)

‘Your what?’ I enquired.

‘Well, alright, that box of paper cuttings and jottings,’ my friend conceded, ‘It may not be very orderly, but it’s fairly exhaustive . . . anyway, I turned up this.’ He wafted a faded, rather tatty press extract in the air, ‘. . . A minor matter, two paragraphs in a giveaway paper, never taken up elsewhere or followed through. The owner of Furze Farm, out in the fields, mid-afternoon, hears “someone in great distress” not far off. Looks about, can’t see anybody. Never does find out who it was. A curiosity item, six years ago. But, interestingly, it would be within a few days of the same time of year as our
little matter. A coincidence? Same lane, same time, same . . .’

‘Channel?’ I suggested, facetiously, recalling the old television slogan.

‘Yes,’ said Ralph, not at all abashed, ‘Yes, same wavelength, in a certain sense.

‘So now I turned my attention beyond just the Ash Track, and Fernho, and looked at the green lane as a whole. There are intriguing episodes here and there. It took me hours to unearth it all from the library archives. One in particular is evoked tantalisingly in a record of an enquiry in 1851. The villagers of Turnmead were fighting a losing struggle to prevent their part of the Lane, a short cut, from being absorbed within a gentleman’s sprawling parkland. The reporter, who fancies himself an antiquary, has a high time belittling the complaints of the local folk, in particular the assertion of an aged inhabitant that quite apart from the fact that the path had been used from time immemorial,
a corpse had passed along it,
too, which proved a right-of-way.

‘Upon it being enquired when this had transpired, the witness muttered; “Ned Rook”, at which the Commissioner interposed, and said he hardly felt the passage of the remains of an executed felon constituted legal precedent. Our wit-ridden chronicler adds his own retort, that since Ned Rook must certainly, by dint of his criminal past, have laid down a trail to Hell, was it in the minds of the assiduous villagers to follow him along
that
route too? But the old man’s claim faithfully represents a not uncommon belief in rural parts, that a
corpse-way,
the route followed by the bearers of a coffin or a funeral cortège, to a burial place, was henceforth free of access to all. Scenes are even recorded of landowners resolutely refusing to allow hearses or processions across their land for fear of falling foul of this custom. But that was not what especially stirred me here. I had found the missing link in the chain, I was sure. Distress at one end of the lane, a dark, solemn gathering at the other, mention of a corpse-way between. It seemed inconceivable, but I was faced with a funeral procession
which
apparently
traversed
all
of the Lane till Furnho.

‘Now, then, the story of Ned Rook. There’s several of those bloodthirsty gloating broadsheets which tell all, in the library. And an “edifying” account in the news chronicle of the time.

‘Edward Rook was born in the village of Fernho, and his parents are described as “of honest, hard-working stock”. At the age of fifteen he went out to find work as a farm labourer and was taken on at a hiring fair by an employer whose holdings were over the border in Bedfordshire. So there he went to work, paying what snatched visits he might to his home some eighteen miles away. Well, it seems that all the hands under this particular landowner’s sway were maltreated—poorly and grudgingly paid, badly fed and hovelled, subject to arbitrary harshness. Natural resentment simmered a good long time before some of the labourers took matters into their own hands and staged a minor revolt, more or less physically forcing their employer to make concessions. Whether Ned Rook was a ringleader or not, we are not told, but as he is later described as a “bright and lively youth”, it may be presumed so. At any event, within a few weeks of the confrontation, a haystack, or barn (accounts differ) quite close to the private residence was found ablaze; arson was suspected; Rook was accused, evidence of some sort contrived; he was convicted and, as was the penalty in those Christian times, sentenced to death. He
was seventeen. The
execution was carried out before a large crowd in Bedford, but by a “merciful dispensation”, the body was cut down almost directly after and delivered to the grieving parents.

‘They then began the long journey back to their village, the remains of their child carried in an old cart pulled by a donkey. This pitiful procession creaked with painful slowness all along the green lane, sometimes flocked by sightseers, other times by sympathetic mourners, for there was no lack of bitterness at the hideous sentence and the detested landowner. They at length, very late that night, trundled into sight of Fernho, and to their astonishment, no doubt, despite the hour, virtually the entire village had gathered sombrely to share their distress and give them what comfort they could. The child was given an unmarked burial.’

Ralph paused and lit a cigarette, drawing upon it reflectively.

‘Their anguish has lingered in the green lane, and taken tangible form at intervals. Who knows what other incidents happen at other points along the route? Unrecorded, unnoticed. What is called “the supernatural” cannot be just what we see, it must go on all the time whether we happen to be present or not. There are hints of this grim tragedy elsewhere along the Lane, but even where anyone has been around to notice, much might be dismissed as harmless or inexplicable, but hardly disturbing. It is only the concentration of the images near the end, Fernho, the final resting place, the journey’s goal, together with the presence of someone to notice, that has at last brought everything to the surface. For all we know, and I believe it may be so, the
vision
Stephen and then ourselves saw is repeated every year. It begins not long before the anniversary of the event, gains in strength, and eventually becomes a reconstruction.

‘The noise, of course, is the distorted representation of the villagers’ grief; there is no other explanation for its deeply tragic quality. The wheel ruts which have no material origin must be a tangible, scarred preservation of the passing of the cart.’

‘And what are we to do?’ I wondered.

‘Nothing.’

I was taken by surprise. ‘Why?’

‘So far as I am concerned, this apparition is a record of a village and family’s pure, honest grief at a brutal act. Who am I to even attempt to deny it or destroy it? If it harmed anyone today, I might—I say again, might—intervene. But even then—we sometimes need to be reminded of what our ancestors have done, and what lurks in us still—in any event I shall let the vision continue unhindered by my meddling.’

‘But, if it becomes known, won’t it end up as a ritual for thrill-seekers?’ I suggested.

‘Perhaps. If the story spreads. But that is not necessarily wrong. Thrill-seekers, as you call them, are actually quite often searching for something rather more, and even if they are not, they might
find it anyway. This haunting in a complete sense immortalises a victim who is not some perfect pious saint, but a confused, courageous child. Let it stay.’

The Grave of Anir

Unlike some of the greater ghostfinders earlier in the twentieth century, such as the indomitable John Silence, the practical Carnacki, or the whimsical Dyson, my friend Ralph Tyler was not of independent means and had no reputation for investigation. Cases only sometimes came to him; his name did not open inhospitable doors or bring smiles to hostile faces. He sought out what he wanted to research and did not always have the sanction or co-operation of his clients or the authorities,

Nevertheless, I feel compelled to place on record accounts of such of his successes as will serve to illustrate his almost uncanny insights when faced with seemingly insuperable difficulties, As I write, it will seem that I do not know for certain whether what we encountered were, on occasions, genuine instances of occult phenomena or not. The grave-mound of Anir is one such example.

I was first alerted to my friend’s keen interest in the unusual when, as I called at his cubic flat on the third floor of the imaginatively-named Bellchamber Tower, he betrayed very little interest in my suggestion of a sojourn to the nearby Unicorn Inn, a pub we resorted to for its comparative quietness. He was immersed in a public library copy of an Ordnance Survey map. Peering over his shoulder, it emerged that the area was Herefordshire. I wondered aloud whether he was thinking of taking a trip to this county—and got no reply. Grinning awkwardly, I strolled across to his grimy wooden table, and gazed inquisitively at the strange board-game set out upon it. Ralph had an erratic interest in ancient and little-known games, and we had tried many over the years, even inventing a few of our own, Though I generally lost, they fascinated me nonetheless, and as this latest exhibit appeared of no ordinary kind, I was about to try to fathom out the rules, when my friend spoke.

‘Can you get some time off next week?’ he enquired.

I considered. My employer was generally amenable, given no previous claims from colleagues, and I said as much to Ralph.

‘Good. How about a trip to the Welsh border?’

‘Herefordshire, yes. But why?’

‘Oh, I thought we could have a poke about in a little enigma over there.’

‘Uh?’

‘Look.’

He had clipped a column from one of the daily papers. It was not long—four paragraphs. The gist of it was that a retired archaeologist had vanished from his home on the edge of the village of Oldwell. After a distinguished academic career, he had settled down to a widower’s existence, having no known surviving relations on his own side, and had been accepted as a pleasant fellow by most of his neighbours. The local postmistress and clergyman had been canvassed for their views on the matter by the paper and could not account for it. Morrison (his name) seemed contented, they said, and had told no-one of an intended departure. He had been gone three weeks before his absence became a source of comment by the locals, who eventually alerted the authorities.

‘Well, it could be a waste of time,’ I suggested. ‘I suppose the police are investigating.’

‘I suppose they are,’ was the brusque reply.

‘It doesn’t bother me,’ I said, lapsing into a familiar phrase, ‘I feel like a break anyhow.’

‘We’ll go,’ he said.

We went by train, booking bed and breakfast at a nearby town and taking along our bicycles for transport. The good landlady, when we arrived, was tolerant but brisk, reluctantly accepting my belated representations for a vegetarian diet. For want of all that much better to do we tried a few pubs in the district, eventually settling on one that seemed reasonably cheerful and conducive to conversation. It was then that Ralph, sprawling luxuriously in the varnished bar chair and lighting a rather pungent foreign cigarette, began to give me some background he had boned up on.

‘Morrison,’ he said, ‘specialised in what are still called the Dark Ages, and especially Arthurian studies.’

‘I think I’ve seen a book of his,’ I interrupted, for it was a part of history that had interested me at times, as an amateur.

‘
Arthur in Myth and History
,’ Ralph supplied. ‘Yes, there are hundreds like it and they all conclude the same thing: that we don’t know very much.’

‘Do you think,’ I ventured, ‘that his work has any bearing on his disappearance? I mean it could be anything. Perhaps he got lonely. Perhaps he’s swanned off for a holiday. Perhaps he went for a walk and had a heart attack in some remote place. Perhaps. . . .’ I was beginning to warm to my countless hypotheses.

‘I think we may imagine that the police will cover all those angles,’ Ralph returned, coolly. ‘There’ve already been two widespread searches of the countryside and a dredging of the lake. And I presume they’d check all forms of transport, as far as possible.’

I was tempted to ask why we were bothering, but restrained myself and enquired instead: ‘Do they suspect foul play?’

Ralph shrugged, ‘How should I know?’

On the next day we cycled to Oldwell to find that much of the initial hubbub had subsided. The disappearance was a few weeks old by now and, for want of further stimulation, gossip dwindled. We tried to get information from the postmistress and the shopkeeper, and chattered to locals in the pub, where we also consumed cheese sandwiches by way of lunch. But we gained little of interest or originality. We had begun by viewing, as other more macabre sightseers had already done, the timber-built lodge which was Morrison’s home. It bore the picturesque title of
Chrysalis Cottage
on a burnt-wood signpost at the arched gateway. We decided that venturing inside was a bit risky in view of our unofficial status, although no officer guarded the door.

I could sense a certain amount of dejection between us as we ambled aimlessly around the village. Finally, we decided to take a look around the unexceptional twelfth century church of St Martin, by way of diversion. After peering at the monuments, skimming the guidebook, and exchanging some comments on the architecture, we were about to depart, when the heavy door swung open and the vicar strolled in.

It is always a bit disconcerting to meet the clergy in a church whose faith you do not exactly share, and so we mumbled ‘Afternoon’ in a sheepish way, and made to leave.

‘Unusual to have so many visitors this time of year,’ commented the vicar, rather pointedly.

Ralph nodded sympathetically and to my discomfort went straight to the purpose of our visit.

‘A pity about Professor Morrison,’ he intoned.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Did you know him very well?’ asked Ralph, as if in concern.

‘A little,’ was the non-committal reply.

‘He was always very popular at college,’ added Ralph innocently.

‘Oh, did you know him?’

‘He went out of his way to help any of the students, even though he was dedicated to his own work,’ he continued, inventing wildly.

This appeared to break the ice.

‘I must admit on the occasions we met he always struck me as a good chap.’

‘I suppose he knew lots of people in the village.’

‘Uhhmm, no, not really. He kept to himself quite a lot. Dedicated to his work as you say,’

‘They all seem to think it’s suicide, but I can’t credit it,’ hinted Ralph.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so,’ returned the vicar. ‘No, he still had a lot to live for. The last time I saw him he told me a little about some new work he was preparing. He seemed very enthusiastic, but I am afraid I did not quite follow what the importance of it was.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I must get along now. I hope that something will turn up soon.’

‘Yes, me too,’ and we left the church, nodding and murmuring goodbyes.

**

When I went down to breakfast the next day I assumed Ralph would be there before me, since he had not responded to my knock at his door.

‘Your friend,’ announced our landlady, ‘has gone off early and left most of his breakfast,’—pointing to a cold greasy plateful as evidence. She seemed to take it as a personal affront.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘Where’s he gone?’

‘He didn’t say.’

After I had completed my frugal repast, and there was still no sign of Ralph, I grew a bit irritated, being left there like an idiot. I wandered outside and saw that, as I suspected, his bike had gone. I borrowed a key to his room and rummaged inside. The professor’s book lay on the squat bedside table with a few scraps of paper serving as bookmarks at various pages. I flicked through, but did not feel especially enlightened.

By ten o’clock I was receiving polite hints that I ought to be out and about, not languishing in the guest house. Vaguely I cycled off on the road to Oldwell. I was becoming more and more annoyed at being left behind by Ralph, when his ambling figure hoved into view, returning to town.

‘There you are,’ he called, as if he’d been awaiting me, ‘come on.’

It is difficult to hold any sort of conversation on even a moderately busy road when cycling, and neither my remonstrations nor enquiries seemed to reach Ralph’s ears. But just before the approach to Oldwell, we branched off on a narrow byway that passed through a long irregular spinney. We stopped some way in, dismounted, and pushed our bikes up a footpath furrowed by roots and covered in a light dust. The wood seemed fairly undisturbed and shone in a green half-light that was very restful, almost sombre. After a little less than half a mile we encountered a quite broad stream winding across our path, and we followed along its banks as best we could. I could sense that Ralph had something in mind in conducting this little tour, for he seemed familiar with the terrain, so I followed in silence.

We came to a point where the tumbling water had forged a broader channel than elsewhere and was strewn with broken wood and clods of moss. Ralph pointed some yards further down to a weathered grey boulder which nestled in the middle of the stream.

‘That’s where he is,’ he said.

‘What?’ I said, perplexed, though a chill fell across me.

‘Underneath.’

‘How?’

‘You might not want to know.’

Propping our bikes against two trees, we crouched on the soft earth for a rest, and Ralph recounted his thoughts on the disappearance of Professor Morrison, I all the while gazing uncertainly at the huge old stone, shuddering at its grim contents.

‘It was pretty clear to me from the start that Morrison had chosen his retirement cottage with a purpose in mind. The village is insignificant and has few amenities, so you’d hardly go there at random. Anyway, the name of his home gave it away—
Chrysalis Cottage
indeed: obviously he intended to turn out some new work which would emerge from the cocoon of his obscure home. The vicar told us as much.

‘It was fair to bet that the work had got to be in his chosen field of Arthurian studies and that it must be connected to the country near where he now lived. For him to embark on a study so late in life suggested to me that perhaps he had grasped something so new or incredible that it was enough to make him set aside the more tranquil reflections of a traditional retirement.

‘What could it be? I read his book. There’s all sorts of mysteries involved with Arthur. Where does he lie? Where was the Battle of Badon? Who was Merlin? Where was Avalon? Camelot? Where is Excalibur? But all these are age old and are mentioned in other books, the subjects of long surmise.

‘I noticed that Morrison had an abiding interest in the question of the sons of Arthur. Several are named, in different verses or chronicles. He discusses them all, but only one fitted the bill for this part of the world. He occurs, I think, in Nennius, the ninth century chronicler, who says something like “Anir, whom no man slew but Arthur himself, and buried him by a stream in the place called Hercing. The marvel of it is that no man can measure his grave; for some find it nine feet, and some twelve, and some go again and find it fifteen. And I myself have seen this.”

‘Hercing is the modern district of Archenfield, in this area of Herefordshire, and so it became pretty clear why Morrison had settled in Oldwell.’

‘So what happened?’ I asked, glancing again at the ancient stone in the stream.

‘To Morrison? I don’t know. An accident perhaps. He tried to lift the stone, perhaps by using some primitive mechanical device. I’ve waded across. There are recent scratches and incisions all around it. I can only suppose he wanted to keep the secret of his discovery to himself, to do all the examination of the contents, then announce it to an awed academic world.’

‘How did you know what you were looking for?’ I enquired, still doubtful,

‘I didn’t quite. But a grave that changed size—that could only mean, if it meant anything at all, the ebbing and flowing of water. So it was just a matter of locating the few streams in the neighbourhood, and following their course. This was the nearest to Oldwell, so this morning I tried it, and . . .’ Ralph nodded at the stone.

I was still not satisfied.

‘I accept all you say, it sounds quite probable,’ I conceded. ‘But how do you know for certain that Morrison is buried there?’ And again I stared involuntarily at the grey tomb.

Ralph’s expression darkened. He took the handlebars of his bike and started to wheel it back along the route we had taken.

‘Because a strand of white hair is trapped between the lid and the base of the stone.’

**

We went through the process of notifying, and convincing, the authorities: and the sensational results announced and badly reported when the huge stone was hoisted to the bank and prised open soon became common knowledge. Inside was a hollowed-out cist containing the ancient remains of an abnormally tall warrior, and the mangled, half-preserved body of Professor Morrison. Signs were found of the archaeologist’s futile attempts to excavate the tomb, and nearby in the wood some amateurish winching equipment for that purpose. Whether he had fallen victim to his own single-minded pursuit of academic glory by becoming accidently crushed (as the inquest more or less decided); or whether there could be another, more sinister explanation for the death of a despoiler of a sacred grave—I cannot say—though you will forgive me if I think it odd that one dead arm of the giant seemed to have become entangled around Morrison’s neck.