The Haunting of the King's Head

by Amy Cross

Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  As I make my way through town, I cannot help but feel as if I am being watched. This is not an entirely new phenomenon, of course, since as a single woman running a public house I am more than accustomed to strange glances and whispered gossip. This afternoon, however, there seems to be an extra charge in the air, and I can only assume that people are aware of Jack's fight in the beach.

  Not that anyone would ever confront me on this matter, of course. Gossip about my friendship with Jack is nothing new, but most of these people are wretched cowards who would never dare to raise the subject with me directly. They much prefer their whispered comments, and indeed I can almost hear a chorus of such whispers rising up behind me as I walk. It is almost as if I am parting a great sea as I go, pushing the gossip aside and then hearing it crash back together over my shoulders.

  “Good afternoon,” Dusty Fowler says, tipping his hat to me as he watches from a bench outside the front of the church.

  “Good afternoon,” I reply, choosing to remain as polite as possible. Dusty is a good man, although even he – I am sure – is not above a few whispers. “It's a fine day, don't you think?”

  “It is,” he says, “and we're very lucky to live in such a beautiful town.”

  “We are.”

  “Did you hear about the trouble on the beach last night?”

  Surprised that he is being so direct, I somehow manage to retain my smile.

  “I cannot imagine why anyone would be out there so late,” I say, preferring to feign ignorance. “There seems to me to be no honest reason why any man would have business down by the shore during hours of darkness.”

  “Indeed not,” he replies, “but then, we all know what goes on in this town.”

  “I should get on my way,” I tell him, keen to end the conversation. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fowler.”

  With that, I turn to walk away.

  “I wouldn't want to be caught helping out anyone who was involved,” he says suddenly, causing me to stop in my tracks. “I hear Randolph Hayes himself has taken an interest, on account of it being one of his family who got hurt. Now there's someone I wouldn't want to cross, Ms. Hyde. You do know, I'm sure, that Randolph Hayes is just about the most powerful man this town has ever seen. From the moment he married his rival's daughter, he's wielded total power.”

  I turn to him, and I rather feel that he is attempting – in his own way – to warn me off.

  “Thank you for your kind reminder of local history,” I say, forcing a smile. “Good day to you, Mr. Fowler. I hope to perhaps see you soon at The King's Head.”

  As I walk away, I feel more certain than ever than people are talking about me. I even see faces peering at me from inside the shops that I pass, and some of them make no attempt to hide their interest. I retain my smile, of course, and I hold my composure as I walk toward the bakery, even though I am screaming on the inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  There seems to be only one church in the very center of town, a tall, gray-stoned building with a reddish tone rising up high above the surrounding trees. As I make my way into the cemetery, I spot some simple wooden crosses in the ground, adorned with poppies. I head around the side of the main building until I reach the churchyard at the rear, where gravestones have been moved back against the walls to leave a large, open green space.

  A couple of people are throwing balls for their dogs, who seem to be having a great time. Malmeston might be a little on the sleepy side, but life here generally seems to be pretty relaxed.

  I wander over to the nearest gravestone and see that the engraved names are almost illegible. Yellowish-green moss has been allowed to grow apparently unchecked across the stone, but with a little effort I'm just about able to make out the details:

  In a brick grave beneath are

  deposited the remains of

  Mr. John Patrick Archer

  who died

  January the 28th 1825,

  aged 49 years.

  also his wife

  Mrs. Elizabeth May Archer

  who died

  May the 12th 1800,

  aged 23 years.

  and their daughter

  Catherine Alice Archer

  who died

  June the 12th 1805,

  aged 5 years.

  I look down at the grass, and for a moment I try to imagine those three bodies down there in the dirt. Then I realize that since the stones were at some point moved back, the actual bodies will no doubt be buried somewhere out there on the wider open space. Turning, I look across the grass and see the dogs still playing, and I think of all the graves buried down in the ground.

  I start making my way along the path that runs around the edge of the cemetery. I examine each gravestone in turn, reading them in full, which is something of a sobering task. No two gravestones are alike, and whereas some are very ornamental, others are remarkably plain and simple. There are a few Sirs and Lords dotted around, and some Admirals too, and I'm reminded of what Dad told me about Malmeston's past as a smuggling town. The place might seem relatively quiet now, but evidently in the past there was a lot going on.

  At one end of the cemetery, there's a large stone that seems to tower over all the rest. Stopping to take a look, I find that this stone – unlike almost all the others – is in very good condition, as if it's still being maintained and looked after:

  The vault of the Hayes family

  A tribute to the departed worth

  and integrity of

  Randolph Burton Hayes

  Who for many years ably and

  faithfully worked for the good of

  Malmeston and all its residents.

  Also his wife

  Mary Catherine Hayes

  born Storford

  There are other names, too, at the bottom of the stone, but these are in smaller text, as if they weren't nearly so important. Whoever these Hayes people were, they were obviously pretty high up in the lower power structure, and I realize after a moment that they're probably connected to the Hayes and Storford brewery.

  I linger for a moment, before turning and walking on.

  After a while, I almost forget why I came to the cemetery, but then I stop in front of one particularly simple grave, and I feel a flicker of recognition in my chest as I see that this particular stone has had its markings chipped away. There obviously wasn't a great deal written on this stone to begin with, but I figure there was just enough room for the name Muriel Hyde and a set of dates, and somehow – deep down – I just know that this is the exact spot where she's buried. It's almost as if I can sense her body nearby, or if not her body then at least her presence. Or maybe it's the hatred I can feel in the air; the hatred that a whole town felt for this one woman.

  Her tombstone is small compared to the rest, only a couple of feet tall, and there's a thick, unrepaired crack running down the center. It's the kind of stone that could almost be missed, and I guess maybe Muriel was lucky to get a proper grave at all. She seems to have been roundly despised by everyone in town, but it's still hard to believe that she could be hated enough for her name to be literally removed from her stone. That seems sacrilegious, and I don't understand why someone from the church wouldn't have had the stone restored.

  What did Muriel Hyde do to the people of Malmeston to make them despite her so much?

  I crouch down to take a closer look at the stone, but there's really nothing else to see. It looks as if the wretched thing might crumble away at any moment, and ivy from the wall is covering one of the edges. I reach out and move the ivy aside, so that at least the stone is properly visible. There are no further inscriptions, no messages about resting in peace or any of that stuff. I guess maybe no-one really cared. She was just deposited in the cemetery and left to rot, while her name was eventually scratched away not only from the list of landlords at the pub but also from her grave.

  Hearing a sniffing
sound, I turn just as one of the dogs comes over to check me out. I smile and give her a pat, and then I spot a woman coming to join us.

  “Sorry about her,” she says, sounding a little out of breath, “she's just curious. She's probably looking for discarded cigarettes, she tries to eat them. It's absolutely disgusting, I don't know where she got the habit. I've certainly never smoked. You don't mind dogs, do you?”

  “No, I like them,” I reply.

  “Come on, Bonnie, don't bother this young lady.”

  “Honestly, it's fine.”

  I stroke the dog, and then I look up and see a hint of discomfort on the woman's face as she looks at the damaged gravestone.

  “I was just reading about the history of the town,” I explain. “I was interested in the story of Muriel Hyde.”

  “There's a lot of history here,” she replies uneasily. “There's a little museum just around the corner, if you're interested. You can learn all about the boats and the smuggling, all that sort of thing.”

  “My father and I just moved here.”

  “Oh, is that right? Where from?”

  “Blackpool.”

  “I should have guessed from the accent.” She smiles, and she seems more relaxed now. “I hope you like Malmeston once you settle in. If you like dogs, you shouldn't have too much trouble.”

  “Dad's taken over The King's Head,” I tell her.

  I watch for some sign of concern in her expression, and sure enough she immediately looks a little worried.

  “I've been researching the pub's history,” I explain, “and that's how I found out about Muriel Hyde. I just wanted to know whether the stories are true.”

  “I wouldn't have a clue,” she replies, “but you won't have much luck here. She's not even buried in this cemetery.”

  “She's not?” I turn and look at the stone, and I start to wonder whether maybe I made a mistake. “But I thought -”

  “That was her gravestone, alright,” the woman continues, “but the name was marked off when her body was moved.”

  I turn to her again.

  “Moved?” I ask. “Why?”

  “Well, the story is that people weren't too comfortable with having her here. Not on consecrated ground, not after...” She hesitates. “The grave was vandalized, or so the story goes. Constantly. At least once a year, there'd be a disturbance, and eventually it was agreed that the grave was more trouble than it was worth. That's when...”

  I wait, but her voice trails off.

  “When what?” I ask. “Did they move her grave?”

  She pauses, staring at the stone, and then she nods.

  “Where to?” I ask. “Did they re-bury her in another cemetery nearby?”

  “Not exactly,” she replies. “I was just a little girl at the time, this was about fifty years ago. Her body was dug up and she was...”

  Again, she seems reluctant to explain.

  “She was what?” I ask, wondering whether she was burned or simply tossed into the sea. Frankly, given how much she seems to have been hated, I don't think I'd be too surprised.

  “She was dressed appropriately,” the woman says finally, “and taken back to the pub, and there she was put on trial for her crimes.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “She was tried and convicted.”

  “After she was dead?”

  “It was seen as a way to provide closure,” she explains. “The town had been living under a shadow, and I think people just wanted to move on. So, yes, the body of Muriel Hyde was exhumed and she was tried by a jury of twelve of her peers.” She hesitates. “It might not have been the finest moment in Malmeston's history but, after the trial was over, by all accounts everything was much better. People were finally able to move on.”

  “How can you try a corpse?” I ask, as I get to my feet. “Did she have someone defending her?”

  “Someone gave it a go, but I don't think they had much motivation. Anyway, everyone knew she was guilty of murder, it was just a matter of making it official.” She looks down at the book in my right hand. “You certainly won't find any mention of that part of the story in there.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because people don't want to be reminded.”

  “But it's history!”

  “Exactly. It's a story, it's the version of the past that we deem palatable today. Books like that don't lie, necessarily. They just leave certain things out.”

  She falls silent, and for a moment I struggle to think of which question to ask next. There are so many thoughts rushing through my head, and I still can't quite believe what I just heard.

  “So where was she taken after the trial?” I ask cautiously. “Where was she buried?”

  “Her body was taken away,” she replies, clearly choosing her words with care, “and as far as I know, its ultimate fate never became public knowledge.”

  “So it just... disappeared?”

  Nearby, the woman's dog lets out a faint, low grumble.

  “Oh, it's almost lunch time for you, Bonnie, isn't it?” the woman says with a smile, clearly relieved at the interruption. “I'm sorry, young lady, I didn't mean to burden you with so much information. You shouldn't worry too much about the past, I'm sure your father will turn The King's Head around and make it a roaring success.” She pauses. “And I wouldn't put too much faith in that book, either, if I were you. It's mostly a load of rather poorly researched poppycock that wouldn't stand up to any real scrutiny. It's more fiction than history. Now, come along, Bonnie. You must be ravenous.”

  With that, she turns and walks away before I have a chance to ask any more questions. Her dog Bonnie comes cover and gives me a brief nuzzle, just long enough for me to stroke her side, and then the pair of them head off toward the gate that leads out of the cemetery. Once they're gone, I turn back to look at the sad, cracked little gravestone and I find myself once again feeling as if this town's reaction to Muriel Hyde seems a little... extreme.

  What could one woman have done to deserve all this hatred? What could possess the locals to dig up her corpse and put her on trial several decades after her death?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  As I approach the square, I feel a rush of relief. I have completed all my shopping and now I can retire to the safety of the pub, where I can be with Jack and rest for a few hours before I have to open up again. All I want is -

  Stopping suddenly, I feel a rush of dread in my chest as I see that a large carriage has been parked outside the pub, with a dark horse standing at its front. Two men are waiting next to the carriage, and I already know that this is the private conveyance of Mr. Randolph Hayes himself. The man has always been rather old-fashioned and stuck in his ways, and he is often seen riding around Malmeston. Yet he has never chosen to come to The King's Head, not until now.

  I feel sick to my stomach.

  Taking a deep breath, I begin to make my way across the square. Every step feels terribly heavy, and I am sure that I am going to receive some terrible news. I glance up at the windows of the pub. There is no sign of Jack, although I cannot believe that he is unaware of the carriage's arrival, nor of the identity of its passenger. I can only hope that he will have the good sense to stay well out of the way.

  As I reach the side of the carriage, the door opens and I see the large, smiling face of Randolph Hayes. A big man with a busy gray beard, he always cuts a striking figure on his trips in town, and I watch as he leans forward toward the carriage's open door and beams at me. It is understood all across town that Mr. Hayes rarely leaves the carriage when he is out and about, due to his corpulence and his general ill health.

  “Ms. Hyde,” he says in his distinctively gravely voice, “it is such a rare honor to see you. I just had my man knock at your door, but there was no answer. I suppose that means there is nobody inside at this moment.”

  “The pub is shut for a few hours,” I reply.

  “Indeed. And when you a
re out, there is nobody to run the bar. You do not employ any help, I believe?”

  “I do not.”

  “That's what I thought,” he mutters. “Still, I did think I hear a noise coming from inside, just a few minutes ago. That's what confused me, because I know you live alone. So I supposed that perhaps we'd caught you at an inopportune moment, that maybe you were taking a bath. I was about to leave, but now here you are and I'm left wondering about the noise I heard.” He pauses. “You do still live alone, Ms. Hyde, do you not?”

  “I do,” I reply, trying my best to seem calm and relaxed.

  “Then you must forgive me,” he continues. “I'm getting old. Perhaps I imagine things.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” I ask. “It has been a long time since you chose to grace The King's Head with your company.”

  “Which is precisely what I was thinking this morning,” he replies. “I like to check on all the pubs that do business with the brewery. I had cause to drop by The Golden Bow earlier, and then I realized it had been too long since I last came to see you, Ms. Hyde. Far too long.”

  “I'm honored.”

  “Is everything alright?” he asks. “If there's anything I can help you with, anything at all, you must immediately let me know.”

  “I am perfectly fine, thank you.”

  “I know it must be hard for you, running this place alone,” he continues. “I admire you, Ms. Hyde, really I do. It must be twice as hard for a woman, compared to a man, yet The King's Head keeps reliably chugging along. I probably shouldn't say this, but some of my associates were against the idea of you coming here, but I told them to keep the faith. I'm so glad that you proved me right.” He pauses. “Up until now, at least.”

  “I do my best,” I tell him.

  “Your payments are always right on time.”

  “I like to keep my book in good order.”

  “And that's a really good sign. So is there nothing I can help you with, Ms. Hyde? No problem at all? Nothing that might cause you to feel, or look, concerned?”