by Sam Hurcom
The macabre figure, standing alongside the body, looking down upon it.
How close she must have been, so close to me in that dreadful church cellar.
Close enough to whisper in my ear. Close enough to touch my skin.
I developed no more after that, and whilst I cannot recall the manner or time in which I fully cleaned and fixed the images to ensure their permanence, I next remember sitting upon the stone floor, the oil lamp in my hand. The negatives were spread about me in no real order. I picked through them, staring at each one with an indescribable fascination. I don’t recall being afraid – the fever had burnt away my fear by then. I was merely fascinated; I looked upon the negatives as a naturalist may observe embalmed insects or fossilised flora, with enquiry and curiosity.
I looked upon a ghost, the ghost of Betsan Tilny, hiding in the trees of the woodland and standing beside her cold, rotting corpse.
I looked upon her ghost as though it were nothing extraordinary.
My silence, my solitude, was broken sometime later – how long, I do not know. A voice spoke out to me quietly.
‘I-Inspector?’ Vaughn was standing over me. Cummings, just behind him, was staring wide-eyed at the negatives on the floor. Solomon too was looking at them, or at least down at me. As I looked past him, to the flooding light of the bar above, eyes peered down into the cellar, staring at me gravely.
Whether these words be true or a fiction of fevered memory I cannot be sure, but I recall them being uttered and believe the weary voice who spoke was mine and mine alone.
‘She is here. Betsan is here with us.’
13
The Grip of Fever
Most in my position would not see fit to write of the two days that came after I was found, crumpled on the floor of Solomon’s cellar, gazing at my negatives. This, after all, is a memoir, one of sorts anyway, an account of fact be it a subjective account. As reader, you may not accept what I say to be factual but must merely accept that I believe it to be so. Yet in those days that followed I admit to you that I lost all grasp of what was real and what was total fantasy, so much so, that even I cannot be sure what (if anything) of my account is true.
There is so little to recall, so few flashing images of daylight, of unknown people coming hither and to, attending my needs and washing my face and body, that for some time I thought it unnecessary even to touch upon the subject, albeit to say: I lay in a state of near paralysis; I barely ate; I thought myself close to death.
My diary entries would beg to differ – there are many strange and fantastical entries in it from the darkness of night on the morning of June twentieth to the eve of June twenty-first – I remember writing none. Some I recognise as being in my own hand. Others I cannot say.
I have laid out extracts of these entries (what were the most legible and understandable) as they were written. I have not included any notes or abridgements for they would be redundant – read what was written and make of it what you will.
14
Diary Entries – June 20th, 1904
I have stirred from such a deepest sleep, from such a dreary depth of dream, and have awoken in a nightmare’s grasp, where nothing real is as it seems.
I fear I understand, for all is truly come to hand and I feel but a spectator, carried along like a dinghy on the waves. Trapped amongst this ruin, this aged place, this village of inexplicable isolation. These walls of my chamber are not that which hold me, for I know I am TIED UP, BOUND now to this place. Perhaps this will be my end – perhaps I am to die here.
If so let this be my will and testament of type – that what I have is little and what I take with me be even lesser still. See to my fair cousin, for I have always been fond of her and she will surely deal with all my legalities. Strange to think now of what I have when in truth it amounts to so little. To have a child, a daughter, was always my quiet hope.
I feel Betsan with me now. Not as one feels a sense of peace or unease, not as a presence. I feel Betsan with me in the most real of ways.
Her hand is upon my shoulder, her fingers are moving to the back of my neck.
This be a record – for the enquiry this be a record. Take heed of my trembling hand.
She stands close to the chamber door. Her back is to the wall and I shall write whilst she stands, hurriedly, for she will surely go as fast as she has come. She stands with her back to the wall and watches me as I sit at the desk. There is no street light, no stars or moon, for this, it would seem, is darkest night, blackest night – THE NIGHT – for no night could ever be much darker. I write only by the light of a single candle; how its flame contorts her!
Her movements are unnatural, grotesque. I dare not scream for fear she will consume my very breath.
She raps her fingers against the wall, tapping with a strange rhythm. Something upon her left hand seems to glow dully. In this light it is like a beacon to a wayward sailor. My eyes are drawn to it, though it is never wholly clear.
With each sudden movement she makes I recoil, no matter how hard I try to hold still. Her face is concealed by her dark hair.
I’ve moved twice towards my camera case, lying on the floor close to where she stands. On each occasion, she has inched away, closer towards the door, as if signalling her intent, to run and flee should I act against her will. So, I merely sit, scrawling as fast as I can.
I am building the courage to talk to her, though my questions seem foolish.
I have just asked her, ‘Who killed you, Betsan?’
She will not answer me.
‘Why were you to die then?’
Still, she stands in silence.
I have survived the night. Seems a hollow victory, for I am no better off, my fever has not broken. Cummings was seated at my bedside when I woke, claimed a physician had been (though I cannot recall, my waking hours being so little) and that my prognosis was poor. The fever must break tonight or tomorrow if I am to stand any chance – little else can be done. It seems certain then, for the fever only worsens. This surely is my lot.
Cummings spoke to me a little about the investigation. He seemed eager to know who (if any) I held suspect. He rattled on nervously about the travellers and their motives; wondered if I held a report or dossier he could give to the Constabulary that would surely be sent for. I would not tell him much, nothing really, for now as ever I hold my suspicions of him. Even on my death bed I maintain some Machiavellian cunning, some semblance of myself – an investigator to the end! I assume he is in possession of my negatives, though I forgot to ask for them. I doubt he has let them out of his sight, nor will he let many in the village see them. They may already be destroyed. There is little I can do about that now.
I dreamt of Betsan last night, saw her as well I am sure. I have failed her. I know I have failed her.
Solomon had left three candles alight upon the little writing desk as darkness drew in. The man carried a plate of food with him, even offered some to me at my bedside. I could not eat if I wanted to. He closed the windows and left me then to sleep. Maybe I did to a degree, for next I recall the candles flickering, dimming so that the flames were barely visible.
I knew then Betsan was coming, for no wind or draught could extinguish the lights in such a way. In the dim light I waited and felt the room grow cold.
Still now I sit and wait. I wait for my end or for the girl’s spirit, whichever should come first.
15
Diary Entries – June 21st, 1904
Daylight has brought with it no comfort or joy, for this may be my last morn upon this Earth. It will not be long now; my breathing grows laboured, the pain ever more.
I am no God-fearing man, for I have seen too much sorrow, too much evil and misery, to have faith in such as God. Like I am soon to be, God is surely dead. Yet I am still fearful, like all men when they see their end, knowing there is no hope.
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br /> I wish I were more the writer, more the thinker, so that I could finish with some strings of poetry or impart some deep philosophies of the meaning of things and how to live life. All I can think of is the girl, Betsan, and those who may pick up the enquiry after I am gone. To them then I shall write, for I have little else to give than my suspicions, my doubts and intuitions.
It would be such a foolish man, such a superstitious devotee of silly stories of hauntings and spirits who would believe the ghost of Betsan Tilny visited me in my final few days, my short time in Dinas Powys. If you are an Inspector (for upon my final end one will surely be sent) you WILL CALL SUCH THINGS NONSENSE and not waste any time scanning through photographs or allowing dark cellars and wicked whispers get the better of you. And that is good, for a murder has been committed and above all else, a killer remains at large, one who must be brought before a court and judge.
My work so far has revealed the scene of the crime to be staged. The girl’s injuries have been inflicted for effect, for a purpose, though that remains unclear. The girl did not return to her mother’s home the night before her body was found; the testimony of those in the village (and what was said by the girl’s mother) point towards potential prostitution.
My next intention was to begin questioning those in the village, beginning with Miller, the man who discovered the body. Dull, old-fashioned police work; patience and some careful reasoning is needed to ensure adequate alibis are given. A travelling gang may still have played some part in this affair, though my intuitions believe this is not the case. Search out the surrounding areas for any sign of their camp nonetheless.
I believe the girl was killed in cold blood, not in the grip of any act of passion but with premeditated callousness. Should the killer be a local man, he would surely take great delight in the clamour upon the body’s discovery – the rumours, the whispers and, of course, the spreading fear. He would also be enacting a fine deception, playing on the superstitions of those who fear some dreadful spirit that lurks within the wood (I defy to acknowledge such superstitions here, for in spite of all I have seen and heard, in these, perhaps, my last rational moments, I cling desperately to logic and reason. This was a crime of man, enacted by man and nothing more).
The girl was surely tortured, her death even possibly the result of her burning. Yet the lacerations around her limbs and neck were most certainly done after she was burnt, implying that the killer had both TIME and PRIVACY – SECURITY as well, the assurance that he would not be found. The proximity and scale of the woodlands suggest she was likely killed somewhere out there.
Someone will know something, someone will have noticed a change in personality, an absence from the dinner table or at the bar after working hours. Your task is a painstaking one, but also one of logic, for in time you shall surely smell a rat, cross reference two statements that do not correlate. Then you will have your suspect or suspects, for this could be the act of a few loathsome fellows (though more likely it is the action of a lone man).
If you have men able, search for where the body was kept during (and possibly after) the killing. This village has numerous farms and properties, each with cattle sheds and barns, abandoned outhouses and forgotten shacks. The abandoned hamlet of Michaelston-le-Pit is a likely place, and I advise you begin your search there. Whilst it was some distance from the scene of the body, it is isolated and remote enough that no one would likely find Betsan or disturb her killer.
Heed these words and you will surely clap the guilty man in irons before a week is out. Drag him before a judge and see that justice is done.
When that is settled, when this village can rest safe in the knowledge that the killer is in chains or on way to the gallows, THEN take the time to look upon my negatives, the images I have developed. Look at them with the greatest scrutiny, with the logical, sceptical mind of an investigator.
Maybe I am mad. Maybe you will see nothing but trees in a forest and a dead corpse lying upon a table.
I’d like to believe I have not succumbed to madness. I’d like to believe you will see all that I saw in those images.
At first, you will likely dismiss them and this whole tale as nonsense. Blame my fever, call me a liar, a forger, an eccentric – all such claims of this type. Run through all of them and settle on one if it helps ease your mind and let you sleep at night. Most sane and reasoned men would do so, for the prospect of the dead lingering amongst the living is as frightful as it is absurd.
Perhaps though, sometime in the future, when the cold wind rattles against your chamber window and the dark shadows on your wall create a menagerie of dreadful beasts, you will dwell on this place, on my words and the images you have seen. In those moments, when fear and doubt and questions race through your mind uncontrolled, perhaps you will be compelled enough to think me not a mad man.
In the darkest hour she spoke to me. I could not see her, for a single weak candle was all that lit the room, and her figure, hid just beyond its reach.
She wept. And I felt her pain.
She watched me in silence. And I wanted it all to end.
16
The Storm Sets In – June 22nd, 1904
Though it may be hard to believe, truly that fever should have killed me. My formative diary entries would suggest I had some strength in me, some fight and give. But they tell nothing of the darker hours I lay awake, groaning and weeping, writhing from the pain coursing through my body, the attacks of panic and pleas for help and mercy. They give nothing of the true misery of those days and nights, the powerlessness I felt.
How then did I survive; how then am I alive at all?
I awoke to the pale light of a clouded dawn as though it were the first time I had looked upon the world for a great age, as though I were only now returning from some dreadful realm. I had no idea or recollection of how long I had lain in my small chamber. My head hurt, though I knew it was but a shadow of the pain I had endured. My mouth felt dry, and I thought better of calling out.
As I began to move, my body tingled, particularly my lower legs and feet, for I had clearly been lying near motionless for some time. My bedsheets were heavy with sweat and gave off such a musk that I took to clumsily collect them in my hands and throw them to the floor. In time, I gingerly swung my legs from the bed and sat facing the small window, focusing on nothing but the dull light.
My stomach growled, and I gathered my thoughts in such a slow and precarious manner that it was perhaps not for another half hour that I made to stand and stretch my body. Only then did I seem to acknowledge the torn and tatty pages of my diary, strewn close to the bed and further around the room, some scrawled in pencil, others blotched in black ink. I stood and paced across the floorboards, moving around the pile of damp bedsheets, collecting each scrap of paper as I did. I set them upon the table, alongside the large bowl of water that was once again filled to the brim and the menacing ragdoll, lying on its side.
The little doll stared up at me, the black stitching of the eyes seeming to grow larger as I stared back. I reached down slowly, gently wrapping my hand around it. The doll was cold and unpleasant to touch – after only a moment I dropped it, childishly turning it away so that the face was not looking at me.
It was a bleak and miserable day outside. The heavy clouds above were unbroken and unending, rolling from the north where they seemed only to grow darker. A storm looked imminent, ready to break and shatter the heavy, warm summer air.
I washed my face, and feeling so unclean all over, took to spread out the bedsheets across the floor a little, whereupon I stripped off my pyjamas. I took the large bowl of water and with one unseemly and indelicate movement, thrust the contents over me, so that water cascaded from my head to my knees and ankles. It was such a brash thing to do but I felt no regrets as heavy drops fell from me onto the filthy bedsheets where I stood. The water was bitterly cold, though I felt much more a man alive than a walking co
rpse as I dried myself a little and moved to get dressed.
When all was done, and I had buttoned a fresh shirt to the collar, I turned my attention to the diary entries. Upon my first reading they did not shock me as one might expect, for although I had no great recollection of the previous few days, I had a strange sense of fingers moving across the back of my neck, of a figure, standing with me as I sat and lay close to death.
When I had scanned through the pages (separating those I knew to be by my hand from the strange, nonsensical scrawl), my thoughts turned to the enquiry and the interviews I so desperately needed to begin. I recalled my negatives, briefly assuming, as I had written, that Cummings had taken charge of them. I wondered what he had made of the girl’s ghoulish figure appearing in the images.
It was then that I was hit quite suddenly by the enormity of it all, the absurdity of what I was accepting and believing to be true.
I remember the sensation quite well, as if a shot of lightning erupted throughout my chest and paralysed me instantly. As I sat at the small writing desk and watched the thickset black clouds draw closer, seeing the first drops of rain spit and glance against the window pane, I became quite overcome with emotion, panic-stricken and overwhelmed.
Ghosts! Here was I investigating not only the murder of a girl but the appearance of her ghost! Madness, surely – logic, rationality, precedent gripped my mind and called me fool. I was being had, this was all some ruse, some lark of the killer, some deceptive way of throwing me off course. And how I felt then such an entanglement of emotions, for I was both foolish and naïve, for if such as ghosts were indeed real, then I knew nothing of our real world. What foundation of knowledge or beliefs could I stand upon? Surely now there was an afterlife of sorts, though I had had no such faith in any before. What of a God then, or any manner of other whispered tales of nightmares that one dispels as a child?