The Evil Within

by S M Hardy

  ‘Surely a vicar wouldn’t press charges?’

  ‘To be honest, I think Donald Pugh was disappointed I’d stopped Jed. In my opinion he was deliberately goading him, hoping he would snap.’

  ‘Why?’

  George shrugged. ‘I have no idea, though he was playing with fire. Jed can look after himself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Regular war hero,’ he said, then leant towards me glancing around the bar as though not wanting to be heard. ‘If rumours are to be believed, he and Reggie Mortimer were in military intelligence, but then you know village gossip.’ He suddenly looked uncomfortable, as though realising he’d said something that maybe he shouldn’t, and gestured to my plate. ‘You’d better eat that before it goes cold.’

  I looked down at my plate – that would definitely be a shame.

  I savoured every mouthful. The scampi was wonderful, but George’s missus had also done something extraordinary to the chips. They were chunky cut and she had basted them in something like a light, spicy batter before deep frying them. If I’d been intending on staying in Slyford for any length of time I think my waistline would soon start to suffer. The chips were to die for.

  I made my pint last for as long as I could as the prospect of going back to the empty cottage still didn’t fill me with a warm fuzzy feeling. I would have asked George more about Jed as his comment had intrigued me, but I had the impression from how he had immediately changed the subject that maybe he’d said more than he’d meant to and I’d be pushing it to ask any more. Eventually I drained the last drop, and with no further excuse to stay any longer, paid my tab and left George with only Old Ginge for company. Sadly, I hadn’t caught another glimpse of Lucy, though it was probably just as well. I’d enough problems without making George’s daughter another. Still, I’d killed a couple of hours or so.

  Back at the cottage nothing had changed. Though I’d had some more redirected post, probably mostly nothing of interest. I dumped my keys on the hallstand and hung my jacket on the post at the bottom of the stairs, then wandered through into the kitchen and dropped the post on the worktop and filled the kettle.

  While I waited for the water to boil, I tore open the plastic envelope and flicked through my post. Two letters were from charities selling me raffle tickets, one was from a wealth management company and another was trying to sell me a wine club membership. I left them stacked in a pile by the sink to deal with later.

  I made myself a coffee and stood sipping it as I stared out the window into the garden. The gate leading into the patch of woodland was ajar I noticed. Chances are I’d left it that way, I couldn’t remember. It crossed my mind that I should go and close it. Instead I turned my back on the window, leaning against the sink as I finished my drink.

  I chugged back the last mouthful and as I lowered the mug froze. In the middle of the table was a small tumbler containing the pink carnation. Groping behind me and not taking my eyes off the flower I put the mug on the draining board with a clatter. The last time I had seen the carnation and glass was upstairs on my bedside table. I rubbed my hand across my face. This was ridiculous. I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out my mobile and took a picture of the flower and glass upon the table. Then checked the pictures. It was a shame I hadn’t taken a picture of the carnation in the glass by my alarm clock last night. Though what did the pictures prove? Nothing to anyone but me.

  ‘Krystal, what’s this all about? Are you trying to tell me something or are you just playing with my head?’ Silence was the only reply. I felt my face grow hot. I was talking to myself now. No, even worse – I was talking to a child who had died over two years ago.

  I supposed I should go and check upstairs to make sure it was the same glass and carnation. But I knew it would be.

  I slumped down at the table and stared at the small pink flower. I could feel my face slipping into a morose scowl. I reached out and ran my fingertip across the soft crinkled petals. Who’d left the flowers at the grave? And was this one of them?

  I pushed back the chair, the sound of its feet scraping the tiles breaking the silence with a shrill screech, and went to look out the window. The gate at the end of the garden was swinging slightly in the breeze.

  ‘Fuck it, Krystal – do you want me to go back to the churchyard? Is there something I’m missing? Or are you telling me the flowers and the mystery woman who left them are important?’ Then a thought struck me. ‘It wasn’t her who killed you, was it?’

  Silence. There could be only silence. What was I expecting? Did I think she would talk to me? That would be too damn easy.

  ‘Peter Davies spoke to me, even “the man” spoke to me, albeit in my head, why can’t you speak to me, Krystal?’

  Silence.

  ‘Shit,’ I said as I strode out into the hall, snatched my keys off the table, the ones with the dog whistle attached, grabbed my jacket and headed back into the kitchen and to the back door. This time I locked it when I left, and I closed the gate behind me and made sure the catch had taken.

  I don’t know what I was hoping for. I was pretty damn sure the mystery woman wouldn’t be conveniently waiting by Krystal’s grave for me to turn up. She hadn’t wanted to speak to me before, so it was unlikely that she’d want to speak to me now. Still, I supposed it was better than sitting back at the cottage slowly going mad.

  So much better to do it in a deserted cemetery.

  I ignored my inner voice of reason. Or was it the voice of madness? A vision of me kneeling on the floor surrounded by four padded walls and wrapped up tight in a straitjacket flickered through my head.

  I faltered mid stride. What the hell was I doing?

  Does it matter?

  I carried on towards the church. Maybe there was something else there Krystal wanted me to see.

  I climbed into the churchyard over the same ruined wall as before and made my way through the headstones towards where Krystal was buried. This time, though, I paid more attention to the graves I was passing, after all I was in no hurry. On this side of the cemetery they were mainly very old stones, some so weather-worn and moss-covered that I could barely read the inscriptions, and there were a few that had totally collapsed in on themselves and lay in broken heaps.

  Then there were a few dates I could read: 1785, 1803, 1918 and so forth, gradually getting newer as I grew closer to Krystal’s stone. Then I reached the more contemporary gravestones carved out of black or white marble with gold or black lettering; 1963, 1969 and … As my eyes scanned the stones, I saw a splash of colour a few rows along and back from Krystal’s resting place. More flowers.

  I swung around and trudged through the knee-high grass between the graves to go and take a look. This was another well-tended plot. White gravel covered the grave with a matching white headstone inscribed in gold lettering. Marie Louise Baker born 1st May 1955 died 4th July 1983. I crouched down to take a look at the flowers. No little-girl pink for this lady, an arrangement of purple and blue, species unknown, at least to me. Kat would have known; she was the gardener out of the two of us.

  They were beginning to wilt but were probably only a day or so old. Had they been left by the mystery woman too? Again, there was no card – wasn’t that unusual? Didn’t mourners usually leave a message of some kind for the ones they had loved and lost? I ran my finger down the blooms and onto the green stems until they reached silver ribbon. Silver ribbon.

  I jumped up and strode between the stones until I reached Krystal’s plot and crouched down beside it. The pink carnations were turning a little brown at the edges and beginning to wither without water, unlike their counterpart sat on my kitchen table, but it wasn’t the blooms I was interested in. It was the ribbon – the silver ribbon.

  Two small posies of flowers, both tied with silver ribbon and probably both left on the same day. What were the chances of two mourners visiting the cemetery and leaving flowers tied with identical ribbon and therefore from the same florist? It stood to reason that they were bought
by the same person and at the same time.

  A lot of conjecture on my part, I supposed. I stood up and looked around. But there were no other floral tributes, at least not recent ones. There were a couple of decaying bouquets that were probably weeks, maybe even months old as they were so brown and shrivelled, and a few plots had potted plants placed in front of the headstones, but most of these were dead or gone to seed. Apparently Slyford’s dead were gone and mainly forgotten. But not Krystal or Marie Louise Baker and it made me wonder – who was she?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The carnation and glass were still on the kitchen table when I returned to the cottage. I had half-expected them to have disappeared now I’d been to the cemetery. Or maybe that wasn’t the message Krystal had been sending me, though I was hoping that Marie Louise Baker was another clue and I wasn’t heading for a one-way ticket to Goldsmere House.

  I went and got my laptop, setting it down on the kitchen table to power up. I doubted that a woman who had died in 1983 would show up anywhere, but I thought I’d give it a try. While I waited for the computer to come to life, I switched on the kettle, then slumped down at the table.

  It was as I thought: no Marie Louise Baker came up on Google − well, not the one I was looking for, anyway.

  On the off-chance I googled florists in the area. Obviously, nothing came up for Slyford St James, but low and behold the closest was in Chalfont. In fact, I remembered seeing it when Jed had taken me for the guided tour. I thought about it – yes, next to the pet shop on the opposite side of the road to the toyshop, and the image of Krystal’s reflection next to mine floated through my head.

  I pushed away the feeling of sadness that bubbled up inside my chest. Krystal was dead, she had been for two years now, and whatever I did it wouldn’t bring her back.

  But maybe it would lay her to rest.

  Maybe it would. I could only but hope.

  I stared at the screen of my laptop. So, now I’d confirmed that there was a florist in Chalfont, but exactly what good was it going to do me? If I was Angela Lansbury playing somebody or other Fletcher or that Inspector Barnaby from the fictional county whose death rate was probably ten times the national average, I would visit the shop and enquire if someone had recently bought two small bouquets tied with silver ribbon and if so who that person might be. As I was neither a police officer nor an interfering old busybody I couldn’t really do either. I’d feel awkward and I doubt the shop assistant would tell me anyway – they would think I was odd.

  Do you care?

  That was a point – did I? They wouldn’t know me from Adam, and they would hardly call the police for my asking the question. I could make an excuse, a valid reason for my asking.

  I sipped on my coffee and pondered. Perhaps this was something I should talk over with Jed and Emma. Maybe Emma could go in and ask. I doubted it would sound so strange coming from a woman. Then I’d have to explain to them both what I’d been doing in the graveyard in the first place. Did I really want to share what even to me felt like moments of madness? Reflections of dead little girls being the least of it, I’m not sure what they’d make of roving carnations. That brought a smile to my lips; ‘roving carnations’ – said like that it definitely sounded weird, like perhaps the name of some 1960s pop group.

  I was about to switch off my laptop and close the lid when I thought of something else to google just on the off-chance – Goldsmere House. I tapped in the name and pressed enter. It would at least tell me what they did there or the type of patients they took in. I was to be disappointed. It told me nothing – not a thing I didn’t know, anyway. A map came up showing where it was and how to get there, but nothing about what the place was or what they did. Didn’t those sorts of places advertise? Maybe not, maybe you got to know about institutions like Goldsmere House through referrals by your GP, and the place certainly didn’t look cheap. Mental illness still had a stigma about it. It was something upper-class families of the ‘unwell’ kept under wraps, shame keeping them silent. Great Uncle Charlie is residing at Goldsmere House wasn’t something discussed over afternoon tea.

  Then it crossed my mind that ‘there but for the grace of God go I’. A sobering thought, especially since the jury was still out on that one.

  This time I did switch off the machine and close the lid. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to involve Jed and Emma, though I guess I could ask them if they knew anything about Goldsmere House. I’d sleep on it.

  The following morning I awoke to sunshine pouring in through the window and not a wisp of mist to be seen, which was a novelty. It was certainly turning into an Indian summer and I felt better than I had in days. There’s nothing like bright-blue skies, birdsong and the warmth of the sun shining down on your face to boost the spirits.

  In fact, for a moment, I even considered taking another walk along the cliff path; after all, it wasn’t the place that was dangerous, just who I might meet there. Then I remembered the fear constricting my chest as I had raced up the steps from the beach and the pounding of my heart, so loud it’d made my head throb.

  No, I’d give the cliff a miss. A walk through the village would suffice. It was a shame, though. Then I thought of Kat and how she would have loved it here. She would have spent hours walking along the cliff with a little dog like Benji bouncing along by her side. I really wished I’d let her have a dog.

  And suddenly the sunshine and the Mediterranean sky had lost its appeal and my mood plummeted into what would have been morose depression if I let it.

  ‘No,’ I said, looking out of the kitchen window at the perfect day. ‘No, I am not going to be that person,’ and gave myself a mental shake. ‘I am going out into the sunshine and I’m going to make the most of it.’

  Before I had time to change my mind, I grabbed my keys from the table in the hall, shoved them into my pocket and went out the front door slamming it behind me. I was in two minds whether to get in the car and drive somewhere and got as far as opening the driver’s door, but after a moment’s hesitation I grabbed my sunglasses from the compartment under the dashboard and slammed the door shut. I slipped the glasses on, shoving their soft case in my back pocket, and started off up the lane towards the village.

  I breathed in deeply as I strode along. The air smelt so fresh and full of the scent of greenery and warm earth that with each step and every breath my earlier cheer returned.

  The sun warmed my shoulders and the back of my head. In the distance I could hear the sound of peacocks calling out and I remembered how content I’d felt sitting on Emma’s terrace – or at least I had until it had all started to get so weird.

  I pushed the negative thoughts away. Then I reached the cemetery. I averted my eyes and kept them fixed ahead until I passed the neglected graves and was in front of the church building. The dead were not going to lower my good mood this morning.

  When I reached the lychgate I paused and glanced along the flagstone path towards the church. It had been impressive in its day and much bigger than I would have expected for such a small village, but then I had been surprised by the size of the cemetery. The stained-glass windows were still all intact, although streaked with grime and probably seagull shit. The leaded roof certainly had been splattered with its fair share.

  As I continued on my way, I wondered what had become of all the old records and if the registry of births, deaths and marriages was still kept inside the church. I supposed it would be, unless someone from the diocese had come and taken them away.

  When I reached the rectory I shivered, despite the warmth of the day; being even anywhere near the place gave me goosebumps. Even so, as I grew level with the front gate I felt my eyes drawn towards the building.

  The front door was closed, thank God, and, if anything, the pathway to it was even more overgrown than I’d remembered, though truth be told I’d been trying very hard to push my two visits to the place out of my head for ever.

  A small movement caught my attention and my eyes were drawn to
the window of the study. The dingy, torn net curtain fluttered against the cracked panes for a moment, reminding me of a trapped moth. Then white fingers gripped the flimsy material, pulling it back, and a bespectacled pale face pressed up against the glass. The reverend smiled and waggled the fingers of his other hand in greeting.

  My fist flew to my mouth as I fought to hold back the scream rising up in my throat, and his smile grew sad, then he raised a hand and beckoned to me.

  I began to shake my head, but even as I gestured to him no my feet began to move towards the gate. I didn’t want to go through that gate – but I did. I didn’t want to walk down that path – but my feet weren’t listening to my head. I didn’t want to press my hand against the door and push it open – but it lifted of its own accord like I was a puppet and someone else was pulling the strings. My palm rested against the cracked and peeling paintwork, and the door swung open.

  I didn’t want to look up the stairs, scared of what I might see, but I did. Thankfully, there were just dusty, varnished steps and faded carpet; I don’t think my heart could have stood seeing the previous horror. My feet carried on moving down the passageway, past the hallstand and to the study. Again, my hand lifted unbidden to press against the partly open door. It swung open with the creak of unoiled and infrequently used hinges.

  If I could have forced my feet to have stopped moving, I would have. If I could have grasped the door frame to stop myself crossing its threshold, I would have done it, but it could have been me that was dead, my body animated by some ghastly black magic. I couldn’t even close my eyes to blot out whatever abomination I was about to see.

  I stepped inside the room – and everything went black.

  It could only have been for a moment or two, just long enough for me to take a few steps across the room and around behind the desk, because when I came to that’s where I was standing, my palms resting flat on its dark-green, embossed leather surface. It was probably just as well, as my legs felt shaky and I was breathing way too fast.