by Sam Hurcom
I began to read through the diary entries once more, blaming the fever and its madness. I didn’t simply want to look at my negatives then but needed to desperately. They could surely dispel all such nonsense of phantoms. I assured myself of this, and for perhaps five or ten minutes I became quite resolute on the matter.
The fever had made me see a ghost. The fever had made me see Betsan.
It was undoubtedly the most rational conclusion. I clung to the idea gladly, even if it meant I had embarrassed myself or looked a fool. I even laughed aloud at one moment, shaking my head at the thought of how my colleagues would crow and giggle when I recounted the tale. I would surely never live it down, for ever to be known as Bexley, the Ghost Hunter, the Crypt Inspector.
I laughed as I tried to convince myself that nothing I had seen or felt of the girl’s waking spectre had been real. I laughed until I could hardly breathe.
When I finally left my room it was with an unnerved sense of purpose. I returned almost instantly, fetching the Enfield from beneath my mattress and shoving it in the deep pockets of my heavy coat. It was just past nine in the morning, though as I took one final glance out of the little window, I saw no signs of life or movement on the Twyn, now being soaked by a deluge of rain.
As I turned to leave I caught sight of the little doll, still propped on the desk facing the wall. I thought of the mother, how I would no doubt need speak with her again in due course.
The demon of this village.
I winced, as though the words hurt me.
I quickly grabbed up the doll, thrusting it in my pocket along with the pistol. There were other matters to attend to first. I left once more and after climbing down the narrow stairwell, came upon Solomon, who leapt quite dramatically at the sight of me.
‘You’re awake! And out of bed.’
I nodded and moved past him, stepping into the bar and sitting on a rickety stool. Solomon followed me, babbling about bed rest, what Cummings had told him, how I had been close to death.
‘I’m hungry,’ I stammered, my hands still shaking, the shock to my body and the raw emotion unabated. ‘And need a drink.’
Solomon left for some ten minutes, returning with a messy plate of eggs and bread along with a small mug of weak tea. I devoured all as he stood opposite me behind the bar. With a mouthful of food, I gestured to a dark brown bottle of Scotch whisky behind him. He seemed confused for a moment, before setting the bottle down on the bar in front of me. I removed the cap and poured a drab into my tea mug. I downed the lot in one, as Solomon watched me in complete silence.
My nerves seemed a little calmer then and I closed my eyes for a few moments, taking deep breaths and clasping my hands lightly together. My head and neck ached badly; I still felt nauseous. My arms were weak from inactivity; my chest rattled a little with each deep intake of breath.
‘I’ll get Mr Cummings,’ Solomon mumbled. I opened my eyes and shook my head.
‘I shall speak to him in time. First, I need to send a telegram. Quite urgently. Is there an exchange?’
Solomon looked baffled for a minute. ‘The Beacon House, just across the Twyn, up Highwalls Road a little way.’
‘I assume Mr Cummings took my negatives – the photographic plates I developed down there?’ I pointed to the hatch at Solomon’s feet.
He shrugged. ‘They’re not down there.’
‘Did you see them?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ was all he replied. I stayed quiet for a moment waiting for him to speak.
‘And?’ I barked.
He didn’t answer, fetching my plate and mug. ‘You should rest some more. You’re unwell.’
I moved without thought, reaching over the bar and grabbing Solomon by the scruff of his grubby shirt. It was caused by the fever, its effects still lingering. I pulled him towards me with quite some force, so much so that the tin mug he carried crashed to the floor.
‘Do you believe in ghosts, Solomon?’
I spoke in hushed tones, as if we two were conspiring in a dreadful secret.
Solomon reacted swiftly; he dropped the dirty plate and cutlery on the bar and shoved me away with one meaty hand. His eyes were wide with shock, his face flushed.
‘Are you mad? If it’s the Calon Farw you’re talking about I’m no bloody fool! I know there’s nothing out there in them woods.’
He collected the plate and cutlery and left the bar without another word. I thought to shout after him but instead lurched off the bar stool and headed out onto the Twyn.
The rain by then was frightful, both heavy and cold, so that it beat against the ground with great ferocity. It scratched against the exposed skin of my face, penetrated through the thick layer of my coat within but a few short paces. It was most uncommon weather for the season.
I moved quickly and headed across the Twyn. No more than a hundred yards from the inn was a neat white cottage, two storeys with a small well-kept garden of heather and pink roses. A thin wire draped loosely from a small partition close to the upper windows and connected to a dark telegraph mast erected just outside the front gate. I had seen these masts continue at irregular intervals, down Mill Hill and up along the Turnpike towards Cardiff.
As I opened the garden gate, I saw a face watching me from a window looking onto the garden. The front door opened before I could knock, and a woman, in a pristine navy dress with a crisp, white shawl draped around her shoulders, beckoned me in.
There was no greeting space or foyer to speak of, for the front door led straight into a wide kitchen with cluttered Welsh dressers and brown tiles lining the floor. The rain dripped from me, and a puddle quickly formed about my feet as the woman looked me over. She was perhaps fifty, short but of such a proud and straight posture as to make herself seem taller. Her chin was raised a little, so that she looked down her nose at me, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed.
‘You’re the Inspector?’ Her voice was deep, her heavy accent, lavish and rolling. Her tone was as stern as her features.
I nodded. ‘Of a sort. I need to send word to the Glamorgan Constabulary.’
She moved around me slowly, her eyes fixed to mine.
‘May I ask why?’
‘It’s a police matter,’ I said impatiently. In truth I intended to ask for more men.
She nodded, her face blank and expressionless. She silently moved out of the kitchen through a low door. I followed after her, into the adjoining front room of the small house, where the brown tiles of the kitchen floor continued. It was sparse, furnished only with a few wooden chairs and a dark fireplace, clean and well swept. Against the far wall, towards the back of the house, stood a wide desk. Upon it sat a large Morse key, fitted with numerous wires that ran across the desk and up the wall out of sight.
‘The line has been down, some two days,’ the woman said. ‘My husband, Mr Wilkins, has been affecting repairs as best he can, though the cabling has never been good from here as far as Llandough. With this storm, things are only likely to be further damaged.’
She fell silent then, clasping her hands together and staring at me with her cool unbroken gaze. It was unsettling, that along with the manner in which she pursed her lips and twitched her nose ever so slightly.
‘Show me,’ I said bluntly. The woman – Mrs Wilkins – seemed quite taken aback.
She huffed and moved over to the Morse key. After sitting herself down in a laborious fashion and attending to the necessary wiring, she began keying in a message.
‘There’s no signal – I can’t send or receive anything.’ She turned on me as I leant forward. ‘See for yourself.’
She mumbled under her breath as I pawed at the copper key. I had no real knowledge of telegraphy, but it seemed quite clear that the machine was completely inactive.
‘May I say,’ Mrs Wilkins said slowly, ‘that this is quite improper, Inspector.’
�
��How soon will the cabling be repaired?’ I snapped at her.
Mrs Wilkins exclaimed a little at the manner in which I spoke, standing from the chair in dramatic fashion.
‘This storm is only set to worsen and will hamper all repairs – not even the trains are running along the line. As I have already told you, there is little to be done.’
She moved then out of the cold room into the kitchen and opened the front door to the howling wind. With little pause I took my leave, only stopping in the doorway for a moment as Mrs Wilkins bid me a curt farewell. She seemed to straighten her back even more as she spoke to me:
‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ she said as the rain flooded her little garden. ‘But we are completely cut off.’
17
The Miller’s Account – June 22nd, 1904
‘How are you even standing?’
I didn’t wait for Cummings to invite me in but brushed past him and stood in the short foyer of his house. I fought the urge to shake the arms of my coat and dash raindrops across the fine gold-leaf wallpaper.
‘Would you have me still ill, in bed?’
Cummings scoffed and slammed his front door shut. He grumbled and fidgeted, clearly lost as to what to say.
‘We thought you close to death.’
‘Would that be preferable?’
‘Of course not.’ In that moment he did not meet my gaze. ‘Though your fever was ferocious, man, worse than many of us have seen.’
‘It has passed,’ I muttered, knowing full well I was still quite unwell. The cold rain had cleared my head somewhat, however, so that I could cast aside all thoughts of the paranormal and focus my attentions on the case at hand.
I wiped my soaked hair from my forehead. ‘And it has wasted valuable time; our killer has gained ample opportunity to conceal or distort evidence.’
Cummings’ face flushed, though I made sure to speak before he could get a word in.
‘We will have to redouble our efforts, begin questioning the residents and cross-examine anything that seems out of place. I’ll need you to find Vaughn.’
‘Are you mad? You are in no state to carry out an investigation or any sort of work. Last we spoke you were delusional, raving.’ He stepped towards me and thrust a fat finger in my chest. ‘Seen your ghost again, eh? Seen Betsan wandering in the dark hours of night? That’s what you told me of last time we spoke.’
‘You saw my negatives,’ I replied coolly.
‘So what? A few images of trees, the girl’s body.’ He shuddered then.
‘You still have them? I’d have them back.’
Cummings shook his head. ‘All you’d do is stare at them and see things, phantoms in the woodlands.’ He stepped close to my face, though now my patience was wearing thin and I took a hold of his shirt. It was the second time that day I had grabbed at a man’s collar.
‘Muttering, yelling in the night, scrawling pages of nonsense and crying into the darkness. And you call yourself fit, fit to lead an enquiry without pointing a finger at the wrong man or tearing people’s lives apart.’
He thrust my hand away from his shirt and retreated from me. We both stood glaring at each other for a few moments.
‘I intended to ask for assistance, though it seems the storm has cut us off from Cardiff or anywhere else for that matter. The telegraph lines are down, the trains not running. Until I can gain the aid of the Constabulary, I will set about my duties and carry out enquiries.’
A rumble of thunder cut my words short. Outside, the rain began to lash across the common with ever greater ferocity.
‘This storm will not last for ever. When it has passed more men, in a better state than I, will be sent for. Should you try to disrupt this enquiry or stand in my way I will have no choice but to ensure charges are brought against you.’
I realised then that I was clasping the handle of my Enfield quite tightly in my pocket, though I had no idea why. My thoughts were still addled, disjointed and hazy. I loosened my hold on the gun with a sigh and a small shake of the head. Cummings didn’t seem to notice.
‘All right. All right, fine.’ The pallor of his complexion had dulled substantially, his words far less shaken and agitated. ‘What do you plan to do?’
‘I shall start at the beginning. Johnathon Miller, he found the girl’s body. I’ll begin by questioning him. Would he be at the mill now?’
Cummings nodded a little. ‘We spoke last night. He’s only just noticed damage to the mill and was afraid the storm may cause more. I imagine he will be down there. What would you have me do whilst you question him?’
‘Fetch Vaughn. Gather whoever you can, preferably labourers from the mill and farms first. Have them meet at your town hall this afternoon. It will serve as a makeshift headquarters for our enquiry. I will question each one by one.’
Cummings rolled his eyes at that but nodded in silence. I made to move past him but stopped with my hand upon the front doorknob.
‘My negatives, Cummings. I’ll have my negatives.’
‘I don’t have them,’ he replied plainly whilst holding my gaze. I felt a sudden rush of panic overcome me. It seemed he was telling the truth.
The woodlands were a different realm from those I had admired on the day of my arrival. The smell hit me first; no longer the sweet scent of dried hay and wild garlic, now the dank rankness of sodden soil and spreading moss. The air down here was still stifling in spite of the rain, trapped beneath the heavy canopy. The forest sprawling upon my path to the mill creaked and groaned at me; branches splintered and fell out of sight. No thrush or other songbird swooped or danced, for the world in every direction seemed dark and miserable, drained of all colour and life.
I hacked and coughed as I approached the mill, my body already weak from what little excursion I had enacted that morning. Now, as I carried my camera equipment, my back began to throb and burn ferociously as muscles, unused for such a length of time, worked and grinded to keep me moving.
I had decided to photograph the mill, in spite of the reservations I had. I say with no shame that as I walked, still haunted by my fever, I feared what may lurk in any more images I took. I had no intentions then of developing any whilst I remained in the village. I knew however that the mill may be of some importance, and photographic evidence may be relevant for a subsequent enquiry or future trial. Despite my anxieties, some rational sensibility was returning to me.
So dark was the day, distorted by the sweeping rain and thick swirling cloud, it was not until I was but ten yards or so from the mill that I caught sight of two figures, working with hammers and split lengths of timber. I called out, though it seemed neither man heard me.
A voice called out my name from behind me. I turned.
Betsan’s burning spectre lunged into my thoughts.
I lurched where I stood, the loose handle of my camera case giving way. It fell to the wet path with a clatter. I tried pushing the dreadful sights from my mind, cursing as fiery pain surged behind my forehead and temples. The illness still skulked within me. I reached down and awkwardly hauled the case up.
‘Miller?’ I called out again. To this the taller of the men turned. By now I was close enough to see his features wrinkle and twist in confusion.
‘Who’s asking?’
I didn’t reply until I stood before him. I set down my case gently and stretched out my hand; Miller looked at me quizzically.
‘Bexley. I’m here about the murder of the Tilny girl.’
He eyed me for a drawn-out moment; I thought best to let my hand fall back to my side.
‘What y’want?’ he croaked over the pitter-patter about us.
‘I need to ask you some questions, about the day you found the body, and take some photographs of the mill, though in this storm it will only be the interior.’
There came a rattle and thud, as the other man, seem
ingly trying to board up one of the mill’s small glass windows, let slip a length of timber. Miller turned and growled at him.
‘Bloody fool! Get on with it.’
As the other man looked back, with slacked jaw and eyes blinking quickly in the rain, I recognised him vaguely as Lewis Davey. He and his brother Geraint had passed by the scene where the body was found on the day of my arrival. I had not paid Lewis much attention before, though now I saw how dissimilar he was to his brother. He was neither tall nor broad, lacking the fine features and commanding presence of Geraint. Lewis was short, hunched, his hairline receding though he was surely younger than twenty-five. His eyes were small and his skin quite poor; he looked at Miller in such a queer way, his speech slow as he apologised.
Miller grunted at him and Lewis near recoiled, dropping his gaze and collecting the wood from the floor.
‘Fool,’ Miller snapped.
I cleared my throat. ‘As I said, I have questions regarding—’
‘I answered plenty the day I found ’er.’ He moved away from me and opened the door of the mill. Warm light spilt out briefly as he stepped through – the door shut with a crack behind him. I glanced at Lewis working, before collecting my case and following Miller inside. I almost walked straight into the man, who seemed surprised that I was still there.
‘I told ya, I already answered questions. That lad Vaughn spoke to me before moving the body.’
Gently placing my equipment down once more, I pulled my small notepad and pencil from the inside of my jacket. The air inside the mill was thick and musty; my eyes felt dry and irritable in an instant. ‘That doesn’t matter, I’m afraid. I have questions to ask you now.’
I could see he made to protest though I wouldn’t let him start.