by Neil Spring
I didn’t know. I had replayed the mill séance in my mind over and over, both the preparations we had made and the moment when Price had scuffled in the dark with the small figure, and I was at a complete loss to explain how it could have been a hoax. The door was locked, every window and door sealed with wires that had remained perfectly intact. What’s more, Hartwell had confirmed the child was indeed Pierre. Which meant either he was mistaken – which seemed very hard to believe – or that Pierre was still alive. But I had seen the boy’s grave.
However, if we had really seen Pierre Hartwell’s spirit, did that mean the other message was also genuine? An allegation of murder and a call for vengeance? I hoped not. God, I hoped not.
I thought about Sidewinder and Hartwell, whom we had discovered coming out of the old mill before we had gone in ourselves. They had only emerged at Price’s inquiring shout. We hadn’t detected any evidence of fraud, but that did not necessarily mean no fraud had been committed. Or – to use another well-trodden mantra – did the absence of evidence mean evidence of absence? No. Look at all the cases of spiritual mediumship we had amassed. Not one escaped explanation eventually, and the explanations – like fraudsters regurgitating cheesecloth they passed off as ectoplasm – were often ingeniously simple. Many of the mediums, especially Velma Crawshaw, had fooled us initially.
‘This is personal for you now, Sarah,’ said Harry, cutting into my thoughts.
‘I feel as though it always was.’ His head cocked to one side, questioningly, so I told him honestly, ‘Sometimes I feel I was meant to be here, as if my whole life is about this place.’
‘Do you know why you feel that way?’ he asked in a low voice.
I shook my head and said, ‘I have to pursue my own answers now. With or without your help.’
He nodded, his face grim, and turned the key in the ignition. Moments later, the only sound was of the wind and his engine fading away over the desolate downs. He had left, but the question he had put to me lingered, coming back to me incessantly for the rest of the night.
Why did I feel I was meant to be here, that my whole life was governed by this place?
– 25 –
OLD WOUNDS
I slept a little, but not peacefully. As the first glimmers of that cold and wintry dawn broke, I lay on my narrow bed in Hut Three, staring at the arced ceiling. My emotions were in turmoil; I could hardly believe Price and Vernon had abandoned me here.
I wanted to be furious with them both, but mostly what I felt was sadness, an aching disappointment. I had always assumed I could rely on one of them; but the idea that both men could fail me, so insensitively and at the same time, was just too hurtful. Now I had to face facts: I was alone, not knowing what to believe about the spirit child who haunted Imber or about my own father and the awful accusation, imparted during the séance, that nobody had understood but me.
Fighting the urge to cry, I got out of bed and dressed. Everything depended on me now. The time for thinking was over. I had to act.
Picking up the photograph of my father that I had taken from Commander Williams’ office, I went to find the one man I thought might have answers.
*
Warden Sidewinder’s office was in Central Security Control, at the end of a long echoing corridor. Dark, windowless, sinister.
I knocked on his door.
No answer.
Steeling myself, aware that I was very much crossing a line now, I gripped the handle and turned it. The door swung open and I caught a glimpse of his distinctive shock of white hair. He had his back to me and was standing over a desk with its drawers thrown open, papers in disarray.
He swung round and glared at me with sharp consternation. ‘I’m busy!’
‘This won’t take long,’ I replied, trying to visualise Price standing beside me, urging me on. ‘May I come in?’
‘You may not,’ he replied coldly.
As I had expected, the warden looked exhausted from the night’s séance, but I detected a hint of something else in his demeanour too, something troubling. He looked very defensive.
Guilty?
Marching forward, he closed the office door and joined me in the echoing corridor.
‘I’d like to know something.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you would, Miss Grey.’ He looked me up and down.
‘How well did you know my father?’
‘I’m not aware that I did.’
‘Harold Robert Grey,’ I said, producing the photograph. I angled it towards him. ‘You’re pictured here with him. Look at the date: October 1914. Just after the army took over Imber.’
Behind his coin-like spectacles, Sidewinder’s eyes widened. ‘Harold’s daughter?’ He nodded, satisfied. ‘Yes. I told you I never forget a face. You do look so like him.’
You look like someone too, I thought. But who? Who do you remind me of?
‘I want to know more about the Imber evacuation before the war. How was it handled?’
‘History irks me.’
‘Why? Because you’re ashamed of your part in it, or because you fear Imber’s former residents?’
‘Is this about what happened during our séance? The blacksmith?’
‘His name was Silas Wharton. And yes. What do you know about him?’
‘You’re presuming we were acquainted.’
Perhaps it was a presumption, but not an unreasonable one.
‘You must have met him.’
He shrugged. ‘He was supposed to have been the last person to leave the village.’
‘Yes, but did he leave? I heard that he vanished. What if he’s still out there?’
Sidewinder’s face tightened. ‘I’d be very careful, Miss Grey.’
‘Of what?’
‘Stepping onto bridges you’re not prepared to cross.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ I replied, conscious now of how close he was standing to me in that windowless corridor. I felt almost intimidated, but my mind was still so focused on my father’s name coming through on the Ouija board that I did not feel I could let this go. ‘You were here when the army commandeered Imber. What happened when residents refused to leave? Was there an argument? A fight?’
‘You have no need to know.’
‘But I’m going to keep asking. So tell me!’
My voice echoed down the corridor. The warden pondered my demand for a considerable moment, and then I saw the trace of a malicious smile.
‘In the days before Christmas of that year, when news of the evacuation was presented to the villagers in the school hall, your father was present. The news hit them hard. Many of them wept. We were to take everything they had, you see. Their land, their agricultural equipment, their sheep. Very little compensation.’
‘It’s appalling,’ I said, not afraid to reveal my full disapproval. ‘You left them with practically nothing.’
‘I was part of the village. The eviction set us free. Living out there on Salisbury Plain in desolation, trust me . . . we were so isolated we were practically prisoners.’
‘And my father participated?’
‘Oh, he did rather more than participate.’ He snatched the photograph from my hands. ‘This was taken just a few days after the eviction, in the churchyard. You saw the note the blacksmith’s family left on the church door? His heart broke all right. He chained himself to the church railings. Refused to go.’
I remembered the unnerving and peculiar sounds I had heard in the churchyard, the footsteps on gravel, the sound of sobbing and the dead sound of metal striking against metal.
‘We used his hammer to break the chains, cut him loose.’
‘Then what?’ I asked, feeling pangs of dread. Reminding myself, over and over, He vanished. The blacksmith vanished.
Sidewinder’s eyes were piercing, and as cool as marbles. ‘He was a good
soldier, your father. Dependable. Obedient to the last. No task was too great, or too horrific.’ He gave me a discomforting smirk. ‘Your father always did what was necessary. Always.’
*
Surrounded by row upon row of young soldiers hungrily eating their breakfast, I sat at the end of a long table in the officers’ mess, trying to suppress my awkwardness under so many speculative stares. It was Tuesday morning. By now Price would be back in London. I pictured him hunched over his typewriter in his gloomy study in the townhouse in Queensberry Place, clacking out sensational letters about our experiences here. It occurred to me now, as I forced down another spoonful of watery porridge, that in deserting me Price hadn’t just robbed me of his expertise; he had also taken with him the projection slide that I had brought from London. The slide he had pressed me to give him and had promised to analyse.
A handsome soldier planted himself on the bench next to me, his gaze falling to my chest. I was feeling ever more lost and self-conscious. I shifted away from him, only to notice some of the men on the opposite table making jokes, more eyes on me.
If only Vernon hadn’t also disappeared. I remembered the pop and flash of his camera. Whatever his plans, I now had little chance of learning whatever he had discovered in the files at Price’s laboratory in London. My emotions were in turmoil; I needed help.
There’s one man who can still help, I told myself, as I stood up and walked briskly from the mess hall. With the wind at my back, I hurried towards the main building and inside, until I found myself in the cold concrete corridor leading to the sickbay, and Sergeant Edwards’ room.
*
The black and red burns on his face, neck and hands still made it painful to look directly at Gregory Edwards. The poor wretch was lying in a streak of grey light that fell from the window and onto his bed, reading what looked like a black leather-bound bible. I knocked lightly on the open door and he twisted his head towards me. ‘You’re still here?’ he rasped. ‘I heard that colleague of yours upped and left in the night.’
I nodded, and asked if he could spare me some time.
‘Come in, shut the door.’
Well, of course I hesitated – the memory of his earlier spontaneous attack was still fresh in my mind – but I needed information. I had to show him I wasn’t afraid, so I closed the door and drew up a chair beside his bed.
His eyes were fearfully bloodshot. I wondered if he had been crying.
‘The last time we spoke, Sergeant, the warden was here. And the commander. I had the distinct impression then that you don’t trust them.’
‘I don’t,’ he said, staring intensely at the small statue of Saint Anthony on the floor.
‘I need to tell you what happened at the Imber mill. What – who – I saw.’
He met my gaze then and said, cautiously, hopefully, ‘You don’t think I’m crazy?’
‘No. Sergeant, I saw the boy too. You described undergoing a vision when you were in the woods. You heard whisperings. A very similar thing happened to me.’
Without delay, I recapitulated the fearful events of the earlier night, describing every moment of the séance and explaining why this mattered to me now so personally.
‘I understand,’ he said at last. ‘You are afraid that your father was involved in something horrendous in Imber?’
‘I don’t believe that. I don’t want to believe it. My father was a good man, one of the best. But it’s not just that. Harry Price is absolutely convinced that the phenomena we witnessed out there were completely real. And I need to know.’
A faint expression of sympathy moved over his charred face. It encouraged me. ‘If there is anything you haven’t told me that could be relevant to my investigation, Gregory, now is the time to share it.’
The bull-necked man swung his legs off the bed, his shoulders heavily hunched, his eyes red, and it occurred to me that he resembled Hartwell – bereaved and in search of solace. Suddenly, I remembered that on the night Marie had died, I had heard Gregory sobbing in this very room. Just as I was trying to fathom why he would have been crying on that particular night, the question came to me: had he ever seen Marie on the Imber range? Had he spoken to her? Known her?
‘Sergeant? Gregory? Did you know the Hartwell family?’
He nodded.
‘Sir, please. Was Marie a friend?’
He shot me a look that betrayed more than it was meant to, and all at once I understood.
‘Oh, goodness, you were—’
He nodded, and I saw tears brimming in his eyes.
‘She deserved better than Hartwell,’ he said, sobbing. ‘I loved her so.’
‘Did Hartwell know?’
‘I don’t know. He would prevent her going out. It wouldn’t surprise me if he did know.’
The revelation felt as though it could be significant, and it made me wonder about the Hartwell family and their long history of troubles. I offered my hand. The sergeant took it.
‘What do you intend to do now?’ he asked.
I thought of the Hartwell gravestones, standing just beyond the barbed-wire fence in the tangled churchyard. The idea arising in my mind was almost too horrific to contemplate.
‘Hartwell saw his son at the séance,’ I said, thinking out loud. ‘Or someone he thought was his son.’
‘Yes.’
‘Except Pierre is buried in Imber churchyard.’
‘Yes.’ Gregory nodded solemnly.
‘But is he? I mean, do we know that for sure?’
We locked eyes.
‘Sergeant, I know what we must do.’
*
‘It’s out of the question, Miss Grey!’ said the commander, sitting down behind his desk. He looked surprised and displeased to see me. ‘I’m not even sure you should still be here. It was Mr Price we needed and—’
‘Sir, I want to establish whether we have been deceived. To know if someone is orchestrating an elaborate hoax to cover up a serious crime committed in Imber a long time ago.’ I lifted my chin. ‘Are you aware of any such crime, commander?’
‘Why don’t you take a seat, Miss Grey?’
‘Why don’t you answer my question?’
‘I don’t care for the bite in your tone!’ He paused for a moment, troubled. I saw his mind working through the implications of what I had asked him to sanction. ‘Pierre Hartwell is dead. The certificate of death isn’t enough for you?’
‘Is the coroner who signed it still alive?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to check.’
‘Do that. If he isn’t, we must do as I’ve suggested, and we must do it quickly.’
‘Miss Grey, it is unlawful to disturb any human remains without—’
‘First obtaining the necessary legal authority. Yes, I know.’
‘And the graveyard is consecrated ground. We’d have to obtain a Bishop’s faculty and a licence from the Home Office. Besides, Hartwell will never agree to it. His own son?’
‘I don’t mean any disrespect, commander. And besides, Hartwell doesn’t have to know.’
‘What about his supporters? They regard the church, the graveyard, as their own property. If they should hear about this, what then?’
‘They’ll be outraged. So we must act quickly. Your men are more than capable.’
Behind his desk, Williams rose his feet, torn between duty and curiosity. Like me, he had seen the wandering child. A part of him had to be burning to know the truth. Finally, he nodded in resignation. ‘You really think Pierre could still be alive?’
I had no evidence, but I had to believe that he could. For my own sanity, I had to believe that there were no ghosts, no messages from beyond.
‘Open the grave and let’s find out.’
– 26 –
OPEN GRAVES, CLOSED MINDS
There was no crackle of distant a
rtillery fire. No echoing rumbling of tanks. On that crisp winter afternoon, the only sound that broke the silence was the dull thud of the shovel striking earth. It was later that Tuesday afternoon, and I stood in the church porch, watching Sergeant Edwards digging up Pierre Hartwell’s grave.
Two soldiers stood by, supervising, and thinly disguising their disapproval.
It had not been easy convincing the commander that Edwards was the best person for this job. A recovering burn victim, possibly insane? No, there were certainly plenty of other men better equipped for the task.
But Edwards had insisted, pleaded, that he should be the one to do it. It helped that the commander himself had witnessed the manifestation of the spirit child. Now, he and Edwards had something in common, which was possibly why he capitulated and permitted Edwards to perform this most gruesome task.
Of course, now, with the benefit of hindsight, I understand why Edwards had wanted to do it; at the time, I thought it was to help me.
The breeze shifted and for the briefest moment I thought I caught the quiet sobbing of a man. And was that the sound of footsteps? No. Imber was deserted this morning. We had seen no one, except the soldier guarding the main gate, since we had arrived.
Well then, I told myself, it’s your imagination. Everything I had learned – consciously and subconsciously – since my arrival in Imber was quietly subverting my senses and my interpretation of what they were telling me.
The first time I had entered this churchyard, my mind had been considerably more open to extreme possibilities than it was now, and Price’s mind had been resolutely closed. We had swapped roles. One of us was wrong – I just prayed it wasn’t me.
From the grave, there came the harsh sound of a shovel striking concrete.
‘Miss Grey!’ Edwards exclaimed. ‘I have something here.’
He had dug immediately in front of the marble sculpture of the lamb. I rushed to the graveside and looked down. Edwards, the poor man, looked ragged with exhaustion, but I saw that he had reached what had to be the burial vault.