by S E England
Hidden Company
A Dark Psychological Thriller
S. E. England
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah England
Artwork: Copyright © 2017 Scott Radke
Cover Design: RoseWolf
Editor: Harper Scribe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
1st Edition: EchoWords
www.echowords.org
www.sarahenglandauthor.co.uk
‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’
Widely attributed to Friedrich Nietzsche
Dark Fiction by Sarah E. England
About the author:
Sarah England is a UK author. Originally she trained as a nurse before a career in the pharmaceutical industry specialising in mental health – a theme which creeps into much of her work. She then spent many years writing short stories and serials for magazines before having her first novel published in 2013.
At the fore of Sarah’s body of work is the bestselling trilogy of occult horror novels – Father of Lies, Tanners Dell and Magda; recently followed by The Owlmen.
You might also enjoy, The Soprano, a supernatural thriller set on the North Staffordshire Moors. Hidden Company is her latest novel.
If you would like to be informed about future releases, there is a newsletter sign-up on Sarah’s website. Please feel free to keep in touch via any of the social media channels, too. It’s good to hear from you!
www.sarahenglandauthor.co.uk
www.facebook.com/sarahenglandauthor
www.twitter.com/sarahengland16
Acknowledgements
Raven Wood, a traditional witch of Germanic and Celtic roots. Thank you for your invaluable contribution on pagan witchcraft – from the incantations and herbs to the rituals and first-hand experience with the fae – it’s a fascinating subject and I am most grateful for your help. etsy.me/2L6rVih
Scott Radke, US artist and sculptor. Thank you immensely for permission to use your incredible artwork on the cover of this book. www.scottradke.com
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Glossary of Terms
More Books by S. E. England
Prologue
Flora George
Winter, 1893
My name is Flora George, I am nineteen and have a child. Somewhere, I am sure…yes quite sure… that there is a child.
Yet here I am. In a squeaking, juddering carriage racing over God-forsaken moors through driving rain at the dead of night. At some point there was a change of horses – a rush across cobbles towards a dark inn, gaslights held high in the wind - but now once again the pace is furious, and seems to quicken with every mile. Why the urgency? Why? I am sickly…and so confused…where are we going? And where is Amelia? And Samuel?
The blanket placed around my shoulders affords little protection from the chill, the view through the window grimly awash – a barren plateau rippling with ebony lakes in the sodden dawn. Something is badly wrong. And with every pounding hoof on this barren heath another cog of terror rams into my bones. This carriage is heading far, far away from home – across mountains into an alien country.
Several hundred feet below, a ravine almost totally obscured by cloud, wends its way through a narrow, wooded valley. This is the route drovers and such people use to take their sheep to market - gypsies and wild folk riding bareback from outposts. It is not a road for carriages such as these. Full of ruts and hidden bogs the track is treacherous, the horses made wild with nerves and icy sleet. Yet the driver whips them on, faster, faster, faster…
But the panic is short-lived, and soon the oily blackness of opium claims my conscious mind once more. I cannot think…Occasionally my eyelids lift just enough to observe a scurry of raindrops rolling across the glass like beads of mercury, before closing again. I cannot keep awake…and I am so sick, my head so heavy…
Then through the fog of dreams it comes to me. I am alone. Being taken somewhere…at night…An explosion of renewed alarm kicks me hard in the heart. I have to get out.
“Madam, no! Don’t! You’ll fall.”
“Stop! Driver! Stop the carriage and turn back at once! Do you hear me? Stop the carriage. We must turn back.”
“Madam, please. Sit down or you’ll do yourself an injury.”
The maid’s hands are all about me, prising my own from the window.
Maid? This woman is not my maid. Her voice is not at all familiar.
Her face looms in and out of focus. No, she is no maid of mine. There’s a vague memory now, of Amelia holding both my hands, imploring me to take a short holiday. And Samuel, yes Samuel, talking about the best place in the country, one that would save me from a far worse fate. Yes, yes, they painted such a picture - of a leafy private retreat for gentlewomen, a place to rest and recuperate, in which to take stock of matters and receive appropriate help. It seemed to make sense. I have been ill, have I not? And for such a long time. So that is where we are heading. To the retreat…
For a while the rocking motion lulls all further thoughts. Until another flare of panic flashes into the dark recess of my mind. This carriage came clattering into our stable yard at midnight! And why do I travel alone save for this broad-beamed woman I do not know? Nor were there any good-byes…And this is a long way from Derbyshire – how would my family visit? Something is badly amiss.
“Oh no, Madam, no you mustn’t!”
The woman all but shoves me back onto the seat.
Such impertinence as I have never known, to be handled in such a way.
“You must stay seated now, Madam. And hold on tight or you will fall.”
Any attempt at further conversation is quite impossible. The carriage is tipping steeply downhill, hurtling at breakneck speed. It is a wonder the horses do not stumble to their knees, and the carriage topple over. The maid and I are at pains to grip the seats for fear of being thrown off. This is alarming. Such speed when the driver surely cannot see ahead, and the horses may slip on the scree?
This new day has brought with it bouncing, needle-sharp rain; and silvery slithers of moonlight flash through an electric sky. It is said the lakes are gateways to the Other World, that men have been lured by strange orbs of light from lonely mountain paths to the sucking, hissing black bogs beyond. Then down they go, horses and all, with
out leaving a trace. I’ve read about the Black Mountains - in fairy tales, in folklore. Perhaps then, this is another dream and none of it is real? I have them all the time, wake up screaming, with laudanum held to my lips.
The maid’s disembodied voice rattles into my thoughts. “We’ll soon be down this steep hill, Madam, then into the forest where it’s less windy. Not far then - we’ll be there by eight I expect, just in time for breakfast. I’m dreadful hungry and no mistake.”
Her lips are moving but not in tandem with her words, as if the chirpy voice comes from elsewhere and is not attached to her at all. Her flour-white face bobs up and down like a balloon on a string. What a vacuous expression. Self-satisfied. Superior. As if she knows something I do not. Come to think of it, was she not packed and ready to go at the dead of night, my belongings already stowed in trunks and a travelling outfit laid out? For a good long minute I stare at her, my eyes burning into hers…until eventually she turns away. It has all passed in a daze and I have a feeling now that a terrible mistake has been made.
The thing is, I never quite know what is going on anymore, drifting as I do across the boundary towards insanity with pained self-awareness. What has happened? How did I let myself be led from away my comfortable home onto this perilous journey?
“Oh, Madam, don’t do that to your hands.” She passes over a pair of gloves. “Here we are – pop them back on, you’re making an awful mess and no mistake.”
Scratches. Oh dear Lord, look at them - the skin is quite raw, gouged and bloody…blackened nail beds as congealed and sticky as burnt jam, the nails themselves pulled clean out.
Suddenly the wheels slam violently into a rut. The horses stumble badly and the whole carriage whips around sideways. Luggage flies off the roof and we grind to a halt. Amid clanging metal and a blast of freezing night air, rain whips inside and the horseman is shouting. One of the horses is lame and we have to get out.
Standing there in the half-light with raw wind stinging our faces, we are still wrestling with hats and shawls when the resounding shot of death cracks over the moors. And when hours later I wake once more, it is to a stiff neck and to find the light has changed. Three horses not four now, their breath steaming on the early morning air, the pace a brisk trot on crunching gravel.
Skeins of ethereal mist hover over acres of fields and forests to either side. But the eye is drawn to what lies ahead. To the imposing stone mansion flanked by turrets. Bay windows dominate the ground floor, with two rows of sash windows above. This must be the retreat. Certainly there is no other building or village or sign of life within miles.
The fatigue of travelling all night without sleeping has taken its toll. I hope I will be shown to my room straight away – to bathe and take breakfast before resting. Oh yes, to sleep and sleep. I can hardly wait – to feel the soft comfort of bedding, the shutters drawn.
The carriage clatters into the forecourt, coming to a stop outside the front door, and standing on the steps is a woman dressed in a uniform of grey serge, her hands folded neatly in front. I trust she is the housekeeper and do not pay her much attention. There is something else…something that sits uneasily within me…
“Here we are, Madam. Lavinia House.”
Even as the woman on the steps begins to walk towards us, smartly and with purpose, I do not glance up. It is only when her hands are wrenching open the carriage door that the cause of my disquiet hits me like a bullet.
Those upstairs windows…they have bars across them.
***
Chapter One
Isobel Lee
1st February, 2018
Blackmarsh, Mid-Wales
It had gone five o’clock when Isobel drove past the sign for Blackmarsh, and fog had rolled off the mountains settling into the valley. Squinting into the murky evening the density of it caught her unawares and she only just noticed the white-painted fingerpost in time. It stood at a crossroads, the pub on the corner looming into view along with a small, cobbled square opposite. It sure was an easy place to miss.
The Drovers Inn had clearly seen better days, with stone walls covered in moss and grubby nets strewn across darkened windows. Still, a pub was a pub and her needs were pressing in more ways than one. It was also where the keys had been left for The Gatehouse.
Parking on the square between two rows of low-roofed cottages, she turned off the engine, the cessation of motion oddly abrupt in the muffled silence, and sat for a moment. Her head throbbed and her eyes were scratchy and hot. Behind the cottage curtains, lamps and fires had been lit against the dusk, and at the far end of the square a church spire tapered into the gloom. After a day of travelling the last few hours had, without doubt, been the most arduous - the concentration required on hazardous mountain passes with visibility down to nearly zero, taking its toll. But she was here now, well almost – just the key to collect.
Her high heels echoed loudly on the cobbles, a fine sheen of rain quickly coating her hair and face. Instinctively she glanced back, surprised to see the car had already been swallowed by the fog, and shivering, hurried towards the inn. The plan was to collect the keys, order a coffee and have a warm by the fire before continuing to the house and unpacking. With luck they would serve food too.
There were however, no lights on.
This was definitely the right day, wasn’t it? She’d said after four, so…She rapped several times on the front door, then stood back and waited before rapping again, this time a little harder.
Still no answer. How annoying. The place gave every appearance of being closed. Not a sound - not even a dog bark. Perhaps if she went around the back someone might be in the kitchen? The agreement had definitely been for today at this time.
Night was drawing in rapidly now, drops of rainwater tinkling off gutters, the air pungent with wet earth and lichen. Fatigue and hunger weighed heavily and the pressure in her bladder had become urgent. Still she hesitated. It seemed intrusive to walk around to the back door. Maybe there was another entrance – on the main road? She walked around the corner to look, but the pub wall ended with empty fields and a solid bank of fog. Okay, it would have to be the back door, then! She tramped back, following the curve around to the narrow lane leading out to Lavinia House. Here the wall eventually gave way to an overgrown driveway littered with upside-down crates, dumped beer barrels and a dilapidated caravan.
She bit down the frustration. Sighed. Pulled out her mobile for the landlady’s phone number. No signal. Of course, no signal. No streetlights either. No sign of life and not a sound, except the drip-drip-drip of damp coursing off roofs and the gurgling of marshy fields in every direction. Glancing down at her court shoes she resigned herself to picking through the long grass and debris to what would hopefully be a back door. Oh well, here goes…
“Esgusodwch fi!”
A man’s voice caused her to wing around sharply.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She’d got as far as the corner of the garage and was holding onto a rickety drainpipe, already sinking into a squelch of mud. “I…I, um…don’t speak Welsh. Sorry. Um…I was looking for Delyth Edwards? Is she–?”
“Ah, you want Delyth, do you? I think she had to go to the ’ospital – I’ll give her a ring, see if she’s back.” A stocky man with his hands in his pockets stood in the lane, his back hunched against the rain while he gave her the up and down treatment.
“Thank you.”
“And who shall I say wants her?”
“Oh, sorry, it’s Isobel. Mrs Lee.”
“Mrs Lee, is it? All right, give me a minute.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as he’d gone, she skidded and slipped back the way she came, hands stretched out in front for the wall. But at least by the time she was back on the pavement again, stamping her feet in an effort to scrape the mud off, there was a light in the pub window and the sound of bolts being drawn back.
Thank goodness! The thought of being stuck out here in the cold and dark all night…
A w
oman peeked around the side of the door. She had a large, bloated face the colour of uncooked dough, and wispy light hair that barely covered her scalp.
Pulling a chunky brown cardigan over her chest she said, “Oh, ’ello! Isobel Lee, is it? Sorry, I forgot it was today only I’ve been to see my mother in the ’ospital, see?”
Isobel followed her into a swirl of orange and brown from a bygone era – a lounge crowded with brass knick-knacks and hundreds of tankards hanging from the beams. God, it was horrible and it stank too. What was it? Boiled cabbage or old drains?
Slipping behind the bar, Delyth picked up a mug and drank with a succession of tiny slurps. “Oh, that’s better, that is. I’m so cold. Been out all day. With my mother–”
“Yes.” Isobel suppressed her irritation at the woman’s lack of hospitality and then checked herself, offering a smile. Low thyroid function, I wonder if she’s having treatment? “Of course–”
“Oh, sorry, it’s the key you want, is it?”
“Thanks, yes. Look, I hate to ask but do you have a toilet I could use? Only I’ve had a long journey and there wasn’t anywhere to stop.” She looked around. It really was stuck in a time warp. The fire surround was made of ornate cast-iron with a bread oven to one side, the grate unlit and full of soot. Above it hung pictures of dead-eyed folk in Victorian dress.
“Ty bach’s down the corridor.” Delyth took another series of noisy slurps and hugged herself tighter into the cardigan.
Wondering why she didn’t put the heating on or light the fire, Isobel thanked her and headed down a tiled corridor towards the ty bach, trying not to inhale the all-pervasive smell of body odour, boiled vegetables and general staleness. At the end there were no clues as to which of the three doors would lead to the Ladies and which to the Gents. One of the doors was locked and bolted like a prison cell and another, she quickly realised, opened into a broom cupboard. So, there was just the one ty bach then? With dismay she baulked at the state of it - no lock on the door and no soap, towel or loo roll. The bare bulb dangling on a wire only added to the sense of neglect, and by now it was hitting her just how travel-weary she was, the need to get to her destination suddenly overwhelming.