Lay Me to Rest

by E. A. Clark

  ‘There!’ I pointed to where the haze had appeared. ‘I think that could be the one.’

  We walked across and I stooped to examine the stone more closely, wiping away the grime with a handful of tissues. The faint inscription gradually began to reveal itself.

  Anwen Hannah Davies

  18 Chwefror 1829 – 5 Medi 1846

  Hunanladdiad

  ‘What does it say, Mrs Parry?’ I asked the old lady. I turned to look at her. She was shaking her head in disbelief, her eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Seventeen. She was only seventeen. Just a child.’

  ‘It says that she was born on the eighteenth of February, and died on the fifth of September,’ said Nia, her voice wobbling. ‘And then that one word: suicide. How cruel.’

  ‘Terrible business,’ said the Reverend.

  The old minister nodded sombrely. ‘A tragedy,’ he agreed. ‘And evidently no compassion from the people of the era. Thank goodness attitudes have changed.’

  Reverend Evans and Tudur set about digging up the turf covering the grave, followed by several feet of soil. It was an arduous task, but at last their shovels struck something which gave a resonating thud.

  ‘That’s it. We’ve reached the coffin,’ declared Tudur, looking a little unnerved. The two men tentatively scraped back the soil, revealing a plain wooden box. The minister lifted Osian’s miniature coffin from the ground and carefully passed it to Reverend Evans, who placed it gently atop Anwen’s final resting place. It was incredibly moving.

  I thought of my own baby, the little stranger for whom I had so much love but had yet to meet, and knew what it must have meant for Anwen to be reunited at last with her infant son. The bond between a mother and her child was one that nothing, not even death, could sever.

  We all stood staring down into the grave as the Reverend performed a brief but moving ceremony, asking everyone to bow their heads in prayer with their own thoughts of Anwen and Osian, and for the other poor souls, buried and not mourned. We left the graveyard with a sense of tranquillity and peace. It felt as though our task, on this front at least, was complete.

  *

  ‘But what of putting them in the northern part of the cemetery?’ I mused later, back in the Parrys’ kitchen. ‘Do you think they should have been moved elsewhere?’

  ‘I’m certain that now Anwen is reunited with her baby all will be well,’ Nia assured me. ‘We all thought of them with love and wished them on their way. They can sleep peacefully now, wherever they may be. The site doesn’t really matter – it’s just superstition, if the truth be told.’

  ‘And what of this Anni? What do we need to do to help her … on her way?’

  Nia sighed. ‘We need to go back into Tyddyn Bach. I feel she is a much more complex character, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But not on an empty stomach!’ interrupted Mrs Parry. ‘I’ll cook for everyone first. Tudur – you must join us. I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite with all that digging today!’

  Tudur grinned good-naturedly. ‘I’ll never say no to one of your suppers, Mrs P!’

  We all ate well and wished Tudur a good evening, thanking him for his help.

  ‘Mam won’t believe this, you know,’ he said as he walked from the door. ‘She thinks all that supernatural stuff’s a load of crap!’

  ‘Maybe keep this one to yourself, then,’ suggested Reverend Evans. ‘She’ll only scoff.’

  Tudur smiled and waved as he made his way back across the field towards his home, pausing to look at the old well en route. It had been a strange day and no mistake.

  *

  As if she had been waiting for Tudur to leave, Anni suddenly made her presence felt once more. The kitchen door slammed violently open and shut three times. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. The electricity in the air was tangible. I desperately wanted to run, but knew that I had to play my part in assisting Nia and Arfon. The anticipation of what was to come filled me with more fear and dread than I had ever known.

  ‘I think it’s time,’ Nia said quietly. ‘We must go back into the cottage. We have to deal with this once and for all. Annie – are you ready?’

  I was never going to be ready but lied and asserted that I definitely was. Mrs Parry squeezed my quivering hand.

  ‘You be careful now, cariad,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ll be saying prayers for you all.’

  Reverend Evans, who insisted that I call him Arfon as I was apparently ‘making him feel ancient’, led the way and we walked across to the cottage once more. By now the sun was beginning to wane and the evening sky blushed pink with blue swathes between.

  I took a deep breath as we entered. Encouraged by Arfon, I followed Nia closely as we climbed the stairs, with him right behind us. Nia resumed her place on the floor, sitting cross-legged and carefully lighting the candles that she had placed there. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply, chanting softly. Any words I could decipher seemed to make no sense. I sat opposite her once again and Arfon stood by at the ready, watching over us like a protective hen over her chicks.

  I gulped as the air temperature plummeted as it had earlier. From then on, things started to happen very quickly. The huge crucifix keeled over. Arfon hurriedly replaced it, mumbling a prayer as he did so.

  Nia’s eyes opened suddenly, and her whole face appeared to morph into that of someone else. In the candlelight, the features seemed to writhe and flicker.

  A distorted voice began to speak through her. ‘Why did you come here?’ it hissed, in a strong Northern Welsh accent. ‘You brought him back with you.’

  I opened my mouth but no words came out.

  ‘You need to answer her, Annie,’ Arfon said quietly, but firmly.

  ‘Who – who did I bring back?’ I asked eventually, alarmed that I was actually speaking to this unknown and evidently hostile entity.

  ‘That bastard. He took …’ Nia began to moan as though in pain. It was distressing, but Arfon motioned at me to stay still. ‘My Glyn …’

  I gasped, realizing that Anni and Mrs Williams’ daughter Aneira must be one and the same. So she was no longer alive. But how had she died?

  ‘What happened to you, Anni? May I call you Anni?’ I ventured, not wishing to antagonize her further.

  ‘Only my Glyn called me Anni. His pet name for me. Little Orphan Anni …’ The voice trailed off.

  I understood now why my name had triggered such a strange reaction from the Parrys and Marian Williams. It must have been a sore reminder for them, both of Glyn and also of Aneira.

  I looked at Reverend Evans. He nodded and gestured for me to continue with the dialogue.

  ‘Shall I call you Aneira, then?’

  No response.

  ‘Where are you now, Aneira?’

  A sudden sharp breeze gusted through the room, snuffing the candles out. The curtains billowed outwards from the window.

  ‘In my house, of course. Where I belong. My house … my house …’ The voice seemed to reverberate around the room.

  ‘But – where?’

  I almost leapt into the air as a sudden, deafening banging came from the eaves behind the wall. The wardrobe pushed in front of the attic door began to vibrate violently.

  ‘In my house …’

  A sudden hush fell over the room and the temperature rose once more. I sat in stunned silence as Nia began to stir. Her face had returned to normal. She opened her eyes, blinking.

  ‘Are you OK, my darling?’ Arfon took her hand in his.

  Nia smiled. She looked drained. ‘We’re nearly there.’ Her voice was hoarse and hardly more than a whisper. ‘We can’t stop now …’

  I clambered from the floor. ‘What else do we have to do?’ I was finding the whole experience incredibly disturbing. ‘Will she come back?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m afraid so. Our work here isn’t yet complete.’

  ‘I think you need a break,’ said a concerned Arfon. ‘Do you think we should go outside for a while, so that …’
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  ‘No!’ Nia was emphatic. ‘We have to see this through. If we sit quietly she’ll come back. Just let me gather my thoughts for a moment.’ She sat, breathing deeply, staring straight ahead.

  I looked over at the wardrobe, which had inched itself away from the wall.

  ‘There’s a door behind there,’ I pointed out. ‘Mrs Parry showed me.’

  Nia and Arfon looked at one another. They remained silent for a moment.

  ‘Better take a look, then,’ said Arfon eventually.

  Mustering all his strength, he manoeuvred the heavy cupboard away from the wall, revealing the low door behind it. It was locked.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, remembering a small bowl of keys I had seen on the windowsill in the kitchen.

  Arfon rushed down the stairs. Within seconds he had returned with the keys. He then proceeded to try any that looked a likely fit. Not one of them worked.

  ‘Damn! I’ll go and ask Mrs Parry. She’s sure to have a spare somewhere.’

  Nia and I clutched each other’s hands and waited, rooted to the spot, until he returned from the main house, grinning triumphantly as he held up an old tarnished brass key.

  ‘She keeps it in her apron!’ he exclaimed. ‘I reckon she could have the Crown jewels in there, you know … Well, here goes …’

  The key turned stiffly in the lock and clicked open. The door creaked ajar. The space beyond was dark, but illuminated sufficiently by the light from the bedroom. It was suffocatingly warm; the air was thick with dust, and the ceiling festooned with cobwebs. There were various-sized packing cases scattered across the floor and an old standard lamp in one corner.

  Nia squealed and clutched Arfon’s arm, as a huge spider scuttled across the wooden floorboards, disappearing behind an enormous old-fashioned luggage trunk, which was pushed up against the wall. Had it not been for the gravity of the situation, I would have laughed at the irony – fearless when it came to the paranormal, and yet clearly terrified of anything with eight legs.

  ‘Well, what d’you reckon’s in there, then?’ Arfon nodded towards the trunk. ‘Shall we take a look?’

  The trunk was fastened with two large leather straps. With trembling hands, I undid one rusty buckle and Arfon the other. I stepped back, turning to look at Nia, who had been watching us, motionless.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said, retreating suddenly. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

  Once again, the air temperature nose-dived. Without warning, the lid of the trunk sprang open with no assistance. A pungent, sickening odour rose into the air. The door slammed behind us, leaving the attic in total darkness. I screamed as a pair of ice-cold hands gripped my arms, the bony fingers sinking into my flesh.

  ‘My house … you’re in my house!’ The resentful, hate-fuelled voice spoke directly into my ear, filling my head. I was rigid with fright.

  Nia’s voice came through the darkness. ‘Aneira, you must tell us what happened to you. We can help you – but only if you help us. We know you have been wronged, and want to help put it right. Please …’

  The door of the attic swung suddenly open. My arms had been released, but still throbbed from the icy pressure that had seized them.

  The shaft of light from the bedroom revealed at last the shocking contents of the trunk. Wrapped in dark bloodstained old blankets, and covered from head to foot but for a tuft of dark, wavy hair peeping from the opening at the top, were the unmistakeable remains of a young woman.

  Chapter Ten

  The police arrived within the hour. Tyddyn Bach was immediately cordoned off with blue and white plastic tape.

  In no time, the farm was a hive of activity, with forensic people dressed in white overalls to-ing and fro-ing, taking samples and photographs. A flustered Mrs Parry kept everyone going with an endless supply of tea and sandwiches.

  I was in a daze. It was all too much to comprehend. Nia seemed withdrawn and sat quietly in the Parrys’ kitchen, looking pale and contemplative. Her husband spent some time in conversation with the police officers, giving as much information as he could.

  As dusk began to fall, a private ambulance crawled up the drive and parked as close as it could to the cottage. After several minutes inside, the driver and his companion, sombre-faced and dressed in black, removed the corpse, now in a body bag, from the cottage on a stretcher.

  We gathered outside and watched solemnly as the human remains were placed in the back of the ambulance. Mr Parry’s truck rolled up just in time to see the undertakers closing the back doors of their vehicle.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s been going on here?’ he exclaimed. His eyes darted wildly from the cottage to the undertakers’ vehicle.

  ‘Oh, Will, it’s been awful … awful!’ Poor Mrs Parry wept as her bemused husband tried to comfort her.

  ‘They’ve found the body of a woman. In our cottage! It’s just too terrible to even think about.’

  ‘Arglwydd fawr! How long do they think she’s been in there?’ Mr Parry looked horrified.

  Reverend Evans stepped forward. ‘Judging by what bit we saw, she’s been there quite some time,’ he said gravely. ‘Any visible flesh had turned to adipocere …’

  The Parrys looked at him blankly.

  ‘Sorry to be so graphic, but it’s how the flesh goes after several months or more after death. Sort of white and waxy. Not very pleasant.’

  ‘And … do they know who she is?’ asked Mr Parry. All colour had drained from his usually ruddy cheeks.

  ‘They’ll know more once there’s been a full post-mortem. They were able to establish that she’s relatively young. The dental records will be able to confirm her identity. But the question is, whoever she may be, how did she get there?’

  Nia, who had remained silent throughout, spoke up. ‘I think we were on the brink of finding that out. We can’t go back into the cottage now. It’s a crime scene, and the officers will be back tomorrow.’

  She turned to me, her voice hushed. ‘All we can do is say a prayer for poor Aneira, for in my heart I’ve no doubt that it’s her. Let’s hope that once she’s had a proper burial, and the person responsible for this terrible deed has been caught, her soul can rest at last.’

  We looked on as the ambulance pulled away. The evening was warm and the now darkening sky still streaked with occasional bands of pink and orange. There seemed to be an unnatural stillness in the air, and everyone was subdued and lost in their own thoughts.

  ‘What about the tea caddy?’ Mrs Parry asked suddenly. ‘There might be something of interest to the police in there – after all, it turned up in Tyddyn Bach.’

  Arfon looked excited. ‘Ah, yes – I forgot all about it, what with everything else. And I’ve brought my faithful keys! Let’s see if we can get it open, then.’

  He fetched the bunch from his truck and we all filed back into the farmhouse kitchen. Everyone looked on in eager anticipation as he tried several keys before finding one that produced a promising ‘snap’. Lifting the lid, Arfon revealed a bundle of handwritten letters, tied up in a red ribbon. Untying the knot, he opened out the first piece of paper and began to scan-read; then the second sheet, and the third.

  ‘Well, let’s have a look then!’ said Mrs Parry, eagerly. ‘We’re all dying to see what they are.’

  Arfon turned to face her. He looked uncomfortable. ‘They all appear to be addressed to your son Glyn, Mrs Parry,’ he said, handing her the first letter.

  Putting on her reading glasses, the old woman stared down at the paper. She turned it over without a word.

  ‘It looks as though they’re all pretty much the same,’ said Reverend Evans, gently. ‘I’m not sure you’ll want to read the rest. I think you get the gist …’

  Her eyes brimming with tears, Mrs Parry nodded, folding the letter carefully.

  ‘What is it, Gwen?’ Mr Parry placed a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘What does it say?’

  After a lengthy pause, Mrs Parry handed him the piece of paper. ‘Oh, Will,
they’re letters to Glyn … from Peter,’ she said, her eyes scouring his face for a reaction.

  ‘From Peter?’ Mr Parry peered down at the letter, looking confused. ‘But – I don’t understand …’

  ‘They are love letters, Mr Parry,’ explained Arfon. ‘Letters that, judging by the wording, were not actually meant to be seen by the intended recipient. It’s as though years of pent-up feelings have spilled onto every page. Tragic, really.’

  The old man was lost for words.

  ‘I knew,’ said Mrs Parry, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘What?’ Her husband stared at her, incredulous.

  ‘I’d always known. I guessed – even when they were just lads – that Peter had feelings for Glyn. It was the way he looked at him, the tender way he would put an arm round his shoulder or pat him on the back – more than just friendly. But I don’t think Glyn ever realized. They were so close – maybe Peter thought it would destroy their friendship if he told him the truth. And it may have done; who knows?’

  Poor Mr Parry looked shell-shocked. He read about half of the letter, then put it down on the table without reading the remainder. He turned away from everyone, choking back tears.

  I was stunned. Obviously, I had completely misread Peter – from suspecting that he might have held a torch for my sister, to entertaining the vague possibility that he may have found me remotely attractive. I felt a fool. And then I remembered his tale about the Ouija board and the message in Welsh – ‘She knows’. Could it have referred to Mrs Parry’s knowledge of Peter’s feelings for her son? A shiver ran through me.

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Did Peter ring back, Mrs Parry?’

  I remembered his promise to contact Sarah. I couldn’t wait to share this latest development with her – as well as all the other strange occurrences since my arrival in Anglesey. If nothing else, it had put all thoughts of Graham and my own miserable circumstances to the back of my mind for a while.

  ‘Yes, he did as a matter of fact.’ Mrs Parry attempted a smile. ‘I’m afraid he wasn’t able to get hold of your sister. He said he’d tried to ring and there was no answer, and that when he went round there didn’t seem to be anyone at home, either.’