by Sam Hurcom
‘There was nothing. No one knew anything – I don’t think anyone here could have done it. Why would they?’
He looked at me with desperate eyes, slumping back into his chair and drinking a full glass of brandy with shaking hands. ‘When word of Betsan’s death came it brought all the horror back to me. You can’t know, you just can’t know.’
He continued to drink, even after his tears had passed and his hands had ceased to shake. I thought best to wait for him to speak. The clock on the wall told me it was nearly two in the morning.
‘The Constable did what he could. I know he did, Inspector.’
‘Call me Thomas,’ I said then, trying to ease him more.
‘It was my fault. I didn’t think of what sick bastard could be hiding out there. Watching ’em.’ He took another swig. ‘When the Constable told me he had no suspects, that it was no one of the village, that no one ’ere was so full of evil to kill two little children, I believed him. I couldn’t imagine any here, who I lived with, who I trusted, being so cruel.’
‘Where were they found?’
He didn’t answer me. ‘I wanted so bad to find the man. I tell you now, Insp— Thomas, that I would have wrung his neck and tor’ it clean away.’
‘I need to know where the children were found, though, Solomon. It’s relevant to all this.’
He nodded absently. ‘Beyond the Cwm Sior, near up by Michaelston. They were left in a ditch; whoever done it hadn’t even bothered to cover ’em up much.’ His words were beginning to slur. ‘I remember now, some farmer found ’em. That’s what Vaughn said, at least.’
I felt uneasy in that moment but knew I had to ask the question.
‘I’m sorry, Solomon, but I need to know. Where were you the night of Betsan’s murder. Can you tell me?’
He nodded. ‘You don’t need to be sorry. I’m not sure you’ll find the scum who did what they did to her, but I know you’ll do your best to look. I was here, in the inn.’ He pointed around the room, slumping a little on the table. ‘The lads from the mill, the farm, place was full up till nine. They all went around then, wasn’t a rowdy night. I was in bed not long after, had a few barrels coming next morning, though there was so much commotion that day it didn’t really happen.’
‘To clarify, you were nowhere near the woodlands all day? You were here and went to bed around nine.’
He shrugged. ‘I had a few things to do in the village. But no, not the woods or the mill. I got no reason to go down there. I stay in the village and sometimes go to the city, but not much lately. I was here, asleep through the night. Ask those who live around, they would’ve seen the place locked up if they’d looked.’
I nodded intending to ask if Solomon could specify the men in the bar, their state of drunkenness as well. He spoke before I could.
‘Nobody wanted to send their children away but they all did. Too afraid. Thought their little ’uns would be next.’
I stopped writing mid-sentence. ‘What?’
He looked up at me wide-eyed, though his eyes were now glossed over.
‘You didn’t know?’ I asked again what he meant. ‘You haven’t noticed? There’s no children in the village. Not one. Everyone sent ’em off, as far from this place as they could get ’em. Off with family, one or two off with other families. Anything really – that’s how scared everyone was.’
I thought about the time since my arrival, realising that Solomon was right. I hadn’t seen a single child – not on the common, or on the Twyn. I’d never heard the school bell, nor seen a schoolmaster, nor a mother scold her son or straighten her daughter’s dress. None of the villagers I had questioned had said anything of having children; I had seen no one of Betsan’s age or younger. I had made no sight of children at play or caught the sound of innocent laughter. So obvious now, yet seemingly so easily missed.
‘I can’t believe this,’ I muttered to myself more than to Solomon. ‘Why on earth would Vaughn, would Cummings keep this from me? Why the village – you are the only person to tell me.’
Solomon was now clearly drunk. He shrugged and hit the bottle clumsily, spilling the last dregs of brandy across the table.
‘You’d have to ask Mr Cummings – he made it plain in our town meeting that we should try not to speak with you. Some will tell you they didn’t want you prying into their business – there’s a few round here like that. Most I reckon are just afraid, afraid of that demon, that Calon—’ He waved his hand absently, smiling drunkenly. ‘All the fears, all the rumours about that bloody thing started when my boys were killed. I had near the whole village knocking down the door of the inn, either trying to offer sympathies or bless my spirit.’
His face fell, his eyes darkened. He slouched forwards onto his elbows and looked towards the door in panic.
‘It’ll all happen again. The well-wishers with their dumb stares, the preaching fools with their grave tidings. Some thought it was down to me you know, that my boys died to right some wrong I had committed.’
He reached for my arm then with sudden speed.
‘Please don’t tell ’em it was me that spoke to you. They’ll blame me for anything else that happens here – they’ll stop coming in here, I’ll lose the place!’
He was getting quite hysterical and I hushed him gently, assuring him that I would be discreet in the matter.
‘Last thing I need,’ he muttered manically. ‘Last thing in the world is for all this village to blame me for a demon killing people in the night.’
‘There is no demon,’ I said with quiet words of rage, ‘or beast hiding in the woods, killing children and young women. This village has a killer, one who struck five years ago and has only now regained their thirst for blood.’
I helped Solomon to his room at around quarter to three. I was tired but still in shock, enraged by all I had learnt. It was all I could do not to fetch my coat and confront Cummings at his estate. I brooded instead, having a drink alone in the bar. It did nothing to calm me.
I shan’t express in full the fury I felt, for words alone would do it no justice. Never in the years of my work had an omission of such gravity, a secret so widely kept, been unveiled to me. Graver and graver ideas swirled in my mind, fuelled by my exhaustion and anger. I was soon ready to drag Cummings and Vaughn to the middle of the common and give both a thorough thrashing. They, in my mind, were the perpetrators of this insanity, the mass of untruths and lies I had been fed since my arrival.
I poured myself another drink, moved then to do something of use, if only to distract myself for a short while. It occurred to me that my time would be better spent doing some productive work. Despite my reservations the previous morning, I decided to develop the dry plates I had exposed at the mill.
I opened the hatch behind the bar and stepped down into Solomon’s cellar. It occurred to me that I should first search for my missing negatives, though after a short look with a single candle in hand, I decided they were not there. In spite of my revived state I had no great desire to remain in that cold, gloomy place, and returned up the small rung of steps. With only myself in the bar I could dim what little light there was to carry out my development. This I did slowly and pragmatically, boiling water in Solomon’s tiny scullery, inviting myself to use what tins and ladles I found useful. I combined my chemicals slowly and took adequate time to wash the dry plates one by one.
I cannot pretend that as I stared down at the first plate, the dark light of the mill emerging before any finer details, that I felt no trepidation or nervousness. I had near vanquished the remnants of my fever and all but a few lingering thoughts and fears of the paranormal with it. Yet fear is the very thing I felt as the full image became plain to me.
Would the girl’s spectre look back at me, hiding behind the grindstone or crouching below the workbench? Would she be her kinder self, or the monster in flames? Would the sight of her push me back down a
pit of corruption, where all my world was thrown into peril, smashed to pieces and reshaped as something far uglier and more bizarre?
The fear was fleeting. I saw nothing but the inside of the mill in my first plate, and nothing more remarkable than that in the second and third. I spent perhaps forty-five minutes examining the images, though nothing obvious leapt out at me. All was quite mundane, though my development was excellent. I saw in great detail even the clutter of the tools and other items strewn across the workbench: hammers, saws, spanners and bolts, paint tins stacked, and dirtied brushes stood upright in a glass jar. A few chewed pieces of wood, off-cuttings from longer lengths of timber, no doubt. Nothing out of the ordinary; nothing that would aid my enquiry.
At least that’s what I thought. I have only bothered to mention in brief the development of these few plates for the simple fact that they played a much larger role in this whole affair than I could have known then. As I have already said, I am grateful for my diligence. It’s what leads me to killers.
21
An Unknown Engagement –
June 23rd, 1904
Vaughn cowered from me as my voice reached fever pitch.
‘Are you mad? When exactly did you lose all sense?’ I was so enraged then I could have swung for him. ‘To have the innkeeper tell me of other murders and not the Constable? Does that seem reasonable to you?’
Vaughn edged away from me a little.
‘W-we … We-we … We thought the murders were unconnected—’
I knocked over a chair beside him that crashed against the floor of the town hall.
‘Madness! Utter madness! We is you and Cummings, I assume? What reason did you have to conceal this from me?’ I thrust a hand in the rough direction of the inn. ‘Solomon was torn up last night as he told me. Can you imagine how hard he’s found all this?’
Vaughn’s brow furrowed. ‘It a-affected us all badly,’ he muttered sheepishly.
‘Like hell it did! You’re aware you’ve broken the law, yes – withholding evidence relevant to an enquiry?’
The Constable seemed to grow smaller then, stammering uncontrollably whilst shaking his head.
‘I-I-I d-did an enqu-quiry. I looked f-for motive, for alibis.’
‘And let me guess,’ I scorned, any sympathies I had for the young man gone completely, ‘you concluded someone outside the village committed the crime. Vagrants? Gypsies? Jack the Ripper retired to the damned Welsh coast!’
I fell silent then and walked across the hall. Vaughn was muttering, explaining what he had done at the time, the work he had carried out. I rubbed at my eyes, still tired, for I had not slept even after developing the photographs from the mill. In spite of this, I was more like the man I had been on my arrival, now growing ever more rejuvenated from the passing of the fever.
‘The woodlands, there are – are so many w-ways to reach them. It made sense, such sense that it was someone passing through, an outsider.’
Vaughn was now bumbling, and I was doing all I could to calm myself. We stood in silence for quite some time before I collected the chair from the floor.
‘Did it occur to you,’ I sighed, ‘that these crimes were connected? That the killer could be the same man?’ Vaughn said nothing. ‘Did you seek assistance at the time, the Constabulary in Glamorgan, or Cardiff for that matter?’
Vaughn only shook his head. ‘It didn’t seem necessary. W-we – Mr Cummings and I – were ad-adamant the murders of the twins were committed by a loner, someone passing through. We-we’re remote out here, I-Inspector – terrible things like this d-do happen in remote places. Wh-what good could come from bringing in m-more police?’
I nodded, exasperated. ‘Back then maybe nothing, but when Betsan’s body was discovered you surely must have thought otherwise. It should have seemed common sense to tell me. Did Cummings want you to keep this quiet? The whole village, I presume.’
‘P-people were scared when the t-twins were found. After th-the rest of the children were s-s-sent away, we barely had any contact with th-th-the outside world for months! It n-near destroyed us – the sus-suspicions, the doubts. The f-f-fear – talk of the Ca-Calon, Calon.’ He stopped to compose himself, his hand (tremoring ever so slightly) rubbing nervously at the corner of his eye. ‘So many people believe in that damned thing. They tr-truly think it will come for them if they s-speak ill of it. In all the commotion after Betsan’s body was found, Mr Cummings and some others on the council decided it best we-we hold back on telling you of the previous murders—’
‘Utter madness,’ I muttered sharply.
‘Mr Cummings assured us all that Betsan’s killer would not be a local man. I-I believe that to be true as well. He said t-telling you of the previous murders would o-only serve to dig up the past – you would pry into everyone’s lives, bring more police here, upheave the whole village.’ He rubbed at his brow, his skin now so drained of colour it seemed to blend with the stormy skies shining through the window behind him. ‘I-I had no intention of misleading you, Inspector. I assure you.’
I looked squarely at him, until he turned his gaze from mine. I managed to quell my anger momentarily to speak slowly.
‘Regardless of your intentions, Constable, you have misled me. And this enquiry. You’ve failed at your duty to these people, to the title you wear.’ I could not contain myself, for my frustration and scorn took hold of me once more. ‘Have no doubts that when all of this is done, I will work tirelessly to ensure you are dismissed as a Constable. I may act to bring charges against you and I do not say that lightly. Your actions from now will determine my own in due course.’
The young man was crestfallen. He nodded just a little, looking down at his uniform. I moved to step away from him but turned back, thrusting a finger at his chest.
‘I still need help. A killer is out there. Your redemption may lie in his capture. If there are any secrets you still keep, tell me now.’
He looked up at me, rubbing at his eyes before near whispering that there was nothing else to tell. At this I nodded.
‘Find Mr Cummings, tell him that I would speak with him presently. I will question those you have already beckoned here. You informed members of the village last night, yes? Miller’s men as well?’
He replied that he had only tracked down a few.
‘Fine. Then find the rest. They shan’t be working with this storm still raging on so have no excuse not to answer me. Get Edward and Will; they were present when Miller found the body.’
Vaughn said nothing but began to leave the hall.
‘And the tall brother,’ I called after him. ‘Geraint Davey. Make sure he comes as well.’
Within an hour of Vaughn leaving, I had interviewed three further members of the village. They maintained the same degree of reservation as most others I had already spoken to, providing as little information as possible to each question I posed them. I was far more probing, and had even begun asking about the previous murders. This took the interviewees by surprise, for they looked at me quizzically, each sharing the same expression, as though dumbfounded by my strange query. In reality it was plain to see the cogs move behind their eyes, as they hurriedly tried to consider how much I possibly knew.
It was the Postmaster, Jacob Clyde, with whom I lost my patience.
‘Murders? In the village?’
‘Look,’ I barked, silencing the quiet whispers of those who had been gathered and were now waiting in the hall. ‘I know it all. I know of the murdered twins, how they were butchered in the woodlands five years previous.’ I looked then past the Postmaster’s shoulder at all those who looked back at me. ‘Let us not pretend anymore for it is both a waste of time and contemptible. Irrespective of what you may fear or what Mr Cummings or whomever else told you.’ I turned my focus back to Clyde, though spoke loud enough for all to hear. ‘Do you want to enlighten me as to what you know, or shall I cons
ider your silence suspicious?’
His eyes widened and his whole face began to twitch. He tried to smile but was only capable of forcing a ghastly, dread-filled grimace.
‘Yes, I recall those murders now.’
Clyde knew nothing of any real worth. Some of those that followed spoke briefly of Vaughn’s previous enquiry, but most were too terrified to answer any of my questions at great length. One man had the audacity to ask if Mr Cummings would be happy discussing the matter. All of these were unworthy suspects, for none had any apparent motive, or marks or abrasions that resembled anything like defence wounds. All had reasonable alibis, which was of no great surprise, as most were husbands and wives, hard-working, simple, God-fearing, content with their quiet lot in life.
To those of parenting age I asked of children. It was an unpleasant subject that struck nerves, for all had sent their sons and daughters away, some as young as three years of age. Most had gone to relatives, far flung across the country. In two instances, children had been sent into the care of guardians, so desperate were their parents to ensure their safekeeping. It was these people’s indignation I incurred the most; my questions rubbed salt into unhealed wounds.
Few, if any, spoke highly of Betsan when asked and I could not fully understand why. It seemed only rumours had caused such low opinions of the young woman. Many considered her an innocent free spirit in her youth, corrupted by the lack of real parents, or any sense of morality. None spoke of Betsan’s mother Catrin, refusing, as though it would soil them somehow. When, on one occasion, I asked about this, I garnered that many held the opinion that Catrin was, in some way, connected to the dreaded Calon Farw.
Midday rolled by, as did the thunder, for the storm had not abated. Those waiting were sodden, adding to their displeasure. The numbers dwindled in the early afternoon, before labourers from the mill began to enter in a steady fashion, clad in their shabby jackets and trousers, caps pulled low, dark, piercing eyes watching me as they waited.