Shepherd's Cross (4 page)

11.30am:
Both Cara and Jennings were untypically quiet as they drove away from Banktop
Farm, their thoughts focused on the events of the previous hour. It wasn’t
unusual for local youths to get up to all kinds of mischief; country kids were
no different to city kids in that regard. But animal cruelty and satanic
gestures were a far cry from the illegal camping and underage drinking that
typified the nature of incidents the Police were usually called to deal with.

Jennings wasn’t thinking about the
cross; he was more interested in Fellside Hall, or rather who was staying
there. The place had hardly been touched for such a long time, let alone lived
in. Moreover, the windows and doorways had been boarded up since the 1950s, in
an effort to deter vandalism and slow down any further deterioration of the
buildings by animals or vegetation. Over the past few years, he had been called
there on two occasions to chase away kids who had been spotted messing around,
but aside from these minor incidents, there had been no other reason for him to
go up there – the dark tales of Fellside Hall were usually sufficient to dampen
the curiosity of potential intruders.

‘I think we need to drop by Ted Wilson’s
office this afternoon,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘He should be able to
clarify what’s going on at the Hall. I suspect it may have something to do with
the two men who Frank Gowland saw him driving off with yesterday. Ted’s agency
holds the deeds for Fellside Hall on behalf of the Byrne Estate, so he should
know what’s going on. Although I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone
in their right mind would want anything to do with that place. Whoever is in
there has either not been informed of its past or isn’t easily spooked.’

‘What past?’ asked Cara. She was aware
that she’d only scratched the surface of Shepherd’s Cross since coming into
post, relying on Jennings to fill in the gaps as the weeks went by. She often
drove by the rusting iron gates that blocked the entrance to the long driveway
that wound its way up to the Hall, but until now she’d never had reason to give
it anything more than a fleeting thought. There was an abundance of ruins and
relics in these parts.

‘The Hall was built by the first Lord
Byrne with the money brought in by his lead mining empire. A symbol of his
prosperity and expanding influence across the region. They say he deliberately
built it high above Shepherd’s Cross to reinforce his image as master of all he
surveyed. As with many self-made industrialists of the time, he was a man to be
feared, driven by greed and power in a time when the common man had neither.
Anyway,
he
wasn’t the problem. He might have been a self-obsessed
arsehole, but he wasn’t any different to most other ‘new money’ aristocrats of the
time. Nor was his son who came after him; a useless womaniser, more interested
in squandering the family money on drink and ladies of ill-repute than in
controlling the family business. No, the tragedy of Fellside Hall can be firmly
credited to Edmond, the third and final Lord Byrne.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked Cara,
fascinated as usual by one of Jennings’s many history lessons. She loved to
listen to his tall tales almost as much as he loved to tell them; tales which, at
least to a townie like her, seemed to come from a bygone era not far removed
from the scenes depicted in the Thomas Hardy novels she had read at school.

‘Edmond was a different kettle of fish altogether,’
continued Jennings. ‘An evil bastard whose fate coincided with the demise of
the lead mining industry pioneered by his grandfather. There are different
versions of the story, depending on which of the old-timers you speak to, but
they pretty much all end up the same way.’

‘Carry on,’ urged Cara.

‘Well, rumour has it that nothing
pleased Edmond more than giving someone a good whipping. If some unlucky soul
happened to even look at him the wrong way, he wouldn’t think twice about
lashing out until the poor bugger was beaten to within an inch of his life. Sometimes
worse. Especially the young mining lads and stable-hands; they’d get it the
hardest. Problem was, for your average illiterate peasant, there were precious
few choices for alternative employment at the turn of the twentieth century –
you had to be either very brave or very stupid to turn down a regular meal
ticket and chance your arm in the big wide world. You have to remember that
folk back then wouldn’t have had the faintest idea about life outside of this
place. And most of them wouldn’t have been educated enough to have bettered
themselves even if they had escaped. Even now, if you speak to at least half of
the locals around here, especially the old-timers, you’ll find they’ve never
been more than fifty miles from home. Pointless talking about globalisation in
The Cross, or any other village around here; you may as well be pissing against
the wind.’

‘What about the Police? There must have
been some kind of law enforcement back then?’

‘Aye, there would have been Policemen
about. But back then, you would have been able to count on one hand the number
of people who weren’t either directly or indirectly employed by the Byrne
family. They controlled the mines right up until their demise in the 1930s.
That’s just shy of one and a half centuries of power. Think about that – one
hundred and fifty years of unchallenged rule. You’d have to have some kind of
death wish to be the local lawman who opts to take sides with the accusations
of a penniless farm-hand over the lord of the manor himself.

‘Anyway, you’ve got me going off course.
You see, picking on kids who daren’t fight back was bad enough, but it was only
the tip of the iceberg. I’m afraid his other shenanigans make domestic violence
seem as mild as a July evening. Are you sure you want me to continue?’ he
asked, knowing full well what the reply would be.

‘Of course I’m sure!’ insisted Cara. ‘It
sounds like you’re just getting to the interesting part. What else did he get
up to?’

Jennings laughed and winked at Cara,
appreciating the feeling that comes when someone is genuinely interested in
what you have to say. ‘Alright, keep your hair on! I was only asking. The
problem was, and I’m afraid this doesn’t make for easy listening, is that Lord
Byrne wasn’t happy just beating up the young lads who worked for him. He was
known to take a fancy to many of them; especially the younger ones. He was
married of course – etiquette demanded it of the wealthy classes in those days
- but it was well known that his marriage was one of convenience. They slept in
separate rooms; hardly ever saw each other, apart from formal gatherings and
attending public functions. Never had any children of their own. Apparently, Edmond
took great pleasure in inviting young lads in his employment up to the Hall for
‘educational lessons.’ Parents were told that their kids were being specifically
selected because of their hard work; their reward being an afternoon off where
they could play in the gardens and have lessons from Lord Byrne himself in how
to become young gentlemen. Three or four of them would go up at a time. Little
did they know what would await them when they arrived. Their excited little
faces would light up when they were greeted with ice-cream and chocolates, and
for a while at least, they would run around the grounds and play all manner of
games that had been laid out for them. But the fun would be short lived; the
prize not worth the price they would have to pay later in the day.’

Cara’s face no longer appeared so eager
to hear the rest of what Jennings had to say, her mind having already made its
decision as to the probable outcome of the story. But the curiosity that
defined her profession stopped her short of asking him to change the subject.
She sat silently, staring out of the window as the car drove closer to
Shepherd’s Cross.

‘After a couple of hours playing, the
children would be invited into the Hall for afternoon tea. Lord Byrne would
join them and ask them questions, finding out more about each of them; getting
to know them better. They’d be invited upstairs to his billiard room. But it
wouldn’t be long before he’d ask one of them to join him for some ‘private
tuition.’ The poor bairns; they wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. Not
one of them would have been a day over twelve years old. They were like lambs
to the slaughter. Sometimes he’d only choose one, sometimes he’d want to see
them all in turn. The bastard did whatever he wanted to. And once he’d had his
fun, he’d order them away as if they were just shit on the sole of his boot.
They’d be bundled into the back of a horse and cart and taken back home to
their unsuspecting parents; the abominable events of the afternoon indelibly
scarred forever on their memories. As for Lord Byrne, well, he’d just move on
to the next victim. They say he employed a couple of foremen to work in the
mines who would handpick the kids for him. Save him the job of getting his
hands dirty, so to speak.’

‘But what about the parents? Surely they
would have found out what had happened when their child returned home in tears?
Even a hundred years ago, people wouldn’t have put up with that kind of
behaviour.’

‘You’d be surprised. Anyway, he had it
all worked out. The kids were well and truly warned to hold their tongues. It
was easy, really, like taking candy from a kid. Either keep your mouth shut, or
both you and your feckless father would be looking for work elsewhere. And
there
was
no work to be had elsewhere. So, what other option did they
have? Bite your tongue or condemn your family to the workhouse. They’d be sent
home, probably using the journey to ready themselves for lying about how much
they’d enjoyed the day; how lucky they were to have been chosen out of all the
other boys.’

‘I just can’t understand people like
him,’ said Cara. ‘How can people be so depraved to abuse innocent children like
that?’

‘I don’t know. But time hasn’t
necessarily changed things for the better – the perverts are still amongst us -
only the methods of grooming their victims have moved on.’

‘So what happened to Byrne? Judging by
the state of Fellside Hall, I’m guessing he got his comeuppance eventually. Is
there a happy end to all this?’

‘Yes and no. The abuse went on for many
years; getting worse as time went by. Edmond had got himself involved with some
kind of devil worship. He became fascinated by the occult; devouring any book
on the subject that he could get his hands on and inviting all manner of
supposed experts into his house. Even Aleister Crowley is rumoured to have paid
Byrne a visit at some point. He genuinely believed that it gave him some kind
of extraordinary power; an invincibility. Rumour has it that it all started off
innocently enough; a few harmless gatherings with chanting and moonlight
nonsense. Unfortunately, however, it didn’t take long for Edmond and the small
group of followers he’d assembled to start pushing the boundaries that little
bit too far. Animal sacrifices, bestiality, fornication – you name it. The peak
of it seemed to coincide with the demise of the mining industry in these parts.’

Jennings continued: ‘You can’t see it
from the outside, but in the middle of Fellside Hall is a small room with a
round floor and tall, curved walls, cylindrical in shape. The room has only one
door, and apart from a glass dome roof which covers the whole of the room,
there are no windows. The first Lord Byrne, Edmond’s grandfather, had been a
keen astronomer and had built the room to use as an observatory, housing within
it his telescope and various pieces of stargazing equipment. Upon his death in
1870, Edmond’s father had left the Round Room, as it was aptly called, almost
untouched. Like I said, he had precious little interest for anything bar women
and wine. When Edmond took control of the Estate, he knew exactly what he would
do with the room. He thought it would make a perfect setting to indulge his
supernatural activities, free from the prying eyes of servants and outsiders.’

‘Was that where he took the boys to?’
asked Cara.

‘I’m not sure. But what I can say for certain
is it was here that it all ended for him, when Byrne and his merry men took
things a step too far one night. One of his scouts had brought an orphan boy
from the mine up to the Hall. Edmond was particularly fond of the orphans, I
guess because there was no one to watch over them. He’d warmed to the lad, as
much as an animal like him could warm to anyone, and instead of sending him
back to the mine after he’d had his way, he decided instead to set him to work
as one of the groundsmen on the Estate. Day and night, the boy worked harder
than anyone else, men included. He must have really hated it in the mines, and
took on any job that was thrown at him to avoid going back there, no matter how
menial it may have been. Edmond initially enjoyed the boy’s company, but as
time passed by he inevitably grew bored of his puppy-like willingness to
please. He would dish out the most severe of beatings, thrashing him until he
was black and blue. His hate for the boy grew to such an extent that there was
not a day that went by without some measure of pain being inflicted upon him.

‘And then came that fateful night in
December, 1932. By that time, the demand for lead from the Pennines had all but
dried up and moved away. The local economy was suffering, and the Byrne
dictatorship was limping to its end. Edmond increasingly took refuge in his
black magic, participating in almost nightly services in the Round Room, their
duration becoming longer and longer. There were no witnesses to confirm what
happened in that room, but there are reports passed down the years of servants
hearing unnatural sounds lasting long into the night. You have to remember, of
course, that people were far more superstitious in those days, so you have to
take what you hear with a considerable pinch of salt. But the story seems clear
in one regard – on one stormy December night, several of the servants witnessed
the young lad whom Edmond so despised being dragged by a hooded figure into the
Round Room; the door being locked behind him. Reports of what followed suggest
that the next hour was filled with the most horrific screaming, as if someone
was being tortured; pleading for the pain to stop. The screaming was followed
by the sound of a deep voice cursing and laughing. And then silence. Complete
silence.’