‘We have already discussed the probability that the vision, or apparition, which he encountered is of no harm. It is my expectation that our only rôle tonight should be that of watching—there may even be disappointment, although I don’t think so. I’m sorry that I don’t feel it would be fair to give you anything of my theory, yet. Later perhaps.’
Frankly, I did not necessarily share my friend’s implication that the absence of any manifestation would be a source of disappointment. The description that had been evoked by Stephen Hope so freshly after the event was a little unnerving at best. Flickering faces in dark, sombre rows waiting ahead as far as the eye could see, in a narrow green hollow of a lane, for no known reason? But as usual the prospect of once more becoming involved in a deeply intriguing matter overcame my instinctive caution, and I trusted to Ralph Tyler’s singular intuition and methodical approach.
Heavy clouds were in the process of suppressing the feeble yellow glimmerings of a close-to-full moon as we left Stephen Hope’s car in a gateway and tramped up the short access path to the Ash Track. It was not long after ten. Fierce gusts of wind blew about us, stirring the leaves and twigs of the trees and the hedgerow, setting up swathes of whispering and moaning that hardly assisted to soothe our trepidation. It was not an exceptionally cold night, but the very remoteness of our situation seemed to bring on a sense of vulnerability and I shivered quite distinctly.
We had not progressed far onto the Ash Track itself before I knew once again pangs of deep unease. My strained vision, almost clamouring to see something, kept picking up slight movements caused by the strong breeze, and reinterpreting them as sinister or unnatural. In this state of edgy anticipation my responses could scarcely be deemed reliable.
But the vision, when finally it began to emerge, happened so calmly and quietly that it seemed perfectly proper and acceptable. Stephen Hope had just murmured that it could not have been much further along that he had begun to see the apparition before, when Ralph, after a few strides more, halted, held up a hand, then pointed ahead. I gazed intently at the dim green alley in front, and my heart jumped awkwardly as a blurred splash of hovering flesh formed itself unmistakably out of the atmosphere, and was followed, like an echo, by many others, in pale shimmering rows. Hope’s expression mingled stubborn determination with deep unease; I must have looked pretty sickly; Ralph Tyler was glancing gravely around, seeking a cause, a hint, a clue; but none of us seemed able to venture any further forward, into the field of the vision, nor yet to tear ourselves away.
And there swelled from the air that thronging drone which Stephen Hope had previously identified, a bewildering cluster of dull tones quite unlike any sound I could clearly place. Staring hard at the lane ahead, I knew that some stronger, more tangible change had taken place, for the insubstantial masks of faces were now supported by stolid bodies, stock still, like dark columns. And the faces themselves seemed to gather expressions and character, seemed to become individual; and every one was grim and heavy.
As the squall of groans, deep, despairing and sonorous, struck through the silence with painful weight and force, I saw from out of my own trancelike condition Ralph Tyler moving rapidly aside, mouthing words I could not hear. The next thing I knew was a dizzying fall into the thick undergrowth of the ditch, and both he and Stephen Hope followed suit, sprawling awkwardly in the damp wilderness of weeds and brambles. Before I could remonstrate rather forcibly at this abrupt treatment, jolted out of my morbid fascination by the sudden physical sensation, my angry oaths faltered away at the sudden switch of pitch in the sound, which began soaring to a high whine, then seemed to disintegrate and could only be heard in irregular spasms.
Just above us, on the old lane, passed a cart pulled by a donkey, whose head was held by an old man; and by his side stumbled a woman of similar age, her grey hair fluttering in wisps from out of a coarse brown shawl. On the grimy boards of the cart was a bundle of rags. This humble procession seemed to take an age to pass, as the reluctant beast paced at one with the tortuously slow shuffling of the couple, their heads bowed. What I can still recall is the bleak clarity of this scene; every tint of colour, every creak of sound, the almost tangible sense of presence, the vivid decrepitude and desolation of the elderly man and woman, the rattling, bumping cart and its huddled pile; yet this too was a vision, an ethereal work, for it plodded beyond us and into the swarm of waiting figures, seeming to become absorbed within them all, as those dark forms which had been still as statues swayed inwards, taking the cart and the donkey and the broken, aged beings into an abyss of utter silence. One last glimpse was afforded to each of us as we scrambled from our place, the cart succumbing to the depths of the vision; it was of the load it carried, crumpled on its crude planks; not a jumble of rags, but the twisted, torn body of a boy, hideously contorted and barely concealed by a hasty, makeshift winding sheet.
‘The obvious place to start,’ commented Ralph, when we had returned to number 14, Bellchamber Tower, partaken of some fortification and emerged some hours later from cramped, bleary sleep in his armchairs, to demand some kind of explanation, ‘was the nearby village of Fernho. If the vision Stephen had seen did recall some past event, as he seemed to sense, then all of the people must have come from there. I tried the church guidebook for hints of any religious ceremonies or folk customs, which would warrant such a gathering in the lane. Nothing. There’s a brief history of the area in the library, from 1877, but it spends most of the time discussing the local squire and his lineage, doubtless because he substantially funded the treatise; and this was of little help. But it gave me the idea that maybe there was once a turnout of the village to honour some eminent visitor; so I followed that up, but without success. Then I had the bright idea of sketching on the map the rough route the old green lane used to take up to as far as Fernho. It joins the “A” road for a good while, then winds away again, becomes bridleways, narrow strips of field and so on, crosses the county border and disappears into the outskirts of Bedford. I let my gaze idle along the pencil line I’d drawn when one name pulled me up sharply—Furze Farm. Look, it’s here. . . .’
Ralph pointed to a place on the map which he had spread out on the table.
‘As you see, about five miles from Bedford. Now that meant
something to me. I rummaged through my files. . . .’
‘Your what?’ I enquired.
‘Well, alright, that box of paper cuttings and jottings,’ my friend conceded, ‘It may not be very orderly, but it’s fairly exhaustive . . . anyway, I turned up this.’ He wafted a faded, rather tatty press extract in the air, ‘. . . A minor matter, two paragraphs in a giveaway paper, never taken up elsewhere or followed through. The owner of Furze Farm, out in the fields, mid-afternoon, hears “someone in great distress” not far off. Looks about, can’t see anybody. Never does find out who it was. A curiosity item, six years ago. But, interestingly, it would be within a few days of the same time of year as our little matter. A coincidence? Same lane, same time, same . . .’
‘Channel?’ I suggested, facetiously, recalling the old television slogan.
‘Yes,’ said Ralph, not at all abashed, ‘Yes, same wavelength, in a certain sense.
‘So now I turned my attention beyond just the Ash Track, and Fernho, and looked at the green lane as a whole. There are intriguing episodes here and there. It took me hours to unearth it all from the library archives. One in particular is evoked tantalisingly in a record of an enquiry in 1851. The villagers of Turnmead were fighting a losing struggle to prevent their part of the Lane, a short cut, from being absorbed within a gentleman’s sprawling parkland. The reporter, who fancies himself an antiquary, has a high time belittling the complaints of the local folk, in particular the assertion of an aged inhabitant that quite apart from the fact that the path had been used from time immemorial, a corpse had passed along it, too, which proved a right-of-way.
‘Upon it being enquired when this had transpired, the witness muttered; “Ned Rook”, at
which the Commissioner interposed, and said he hardly felt the passage of the remains of an executed felon constituted legal precedent. Our wit-ridden chronicler adds his own retort, that since Ned Rook must certainly, by dint of his criminal past, have laid down a trail to Hell, was it in the minds of the assiduous villagers to follow him along that route too? But the old man’s claim faithfully represents a not uncommon belief in rural parts, that a corpse-way, the route followed by the bearers of a coffin or a funeral cortège, to a burial place, was henceforth free of access to all. Scenes are even recorded of landowners resolutely refusing to allow hearses or processions across their land for fear of falling foul of this custom. But that was not what especially stirred me here. I had found the missing link in the chain, I was sure. Distress at one end of the lane, a dark, solemn gathering at the other, mention of a corpse-way between. It seemed inconceivable, but I was faced with a funeral procession which apparently traversed all of the Lane till Furnho.
‘Now, then, the story of Ned Rook. There’s several of those bloodthirsty gloating broadsheets which tell all, in the library. And an “edifying” account in the news chronicle of the time.
‘Edward Rook was born in the village of Fernho, and his parents are described as “of honest, hard-working stock”. At the age of fifteen he went out to find work as a farm labourer and was taken on at a hiring fair by an employer whose holdings were over the border in Bedfordshire. So there he went to work, paying what snatched visits he might to his home some eighteen miles away. Well, it seems that all the hands under this particular landowner’s sway were maltreated—poorly and grudgingly paid, badly fed and hovelled, subject to arbitrary harshness. Natural resentment simmered a good long time before some of the labourers took matters into their own hands and staged a minor revolt, more or less physically forcing their employer to make concessions. Whether Ned Rook was a ringleader or not, we are not told, but as he is later described as a “bright and lively youth”, it may be presumed so. At any event, within a few weeks of the confrontation, a haystack, or barn (accounts differ) quite close to the private residence was found ablaze; arson was suspected; Rook was accused, evidence of some sort contrived; he was convicted and, as was the penalty in those Christian times, sentenced to death. He was seventeen. The execution was carried out before a large crowd in Bedford, but by a “merciful dispensation”, the body was cut down almost directly after and delivered to the grieving parents.
‘They then began the long journey back to their village, the remains of their child carried in an old cart pulled by a donkey. This pitiful procession creaked with painful slowness all along the green lane, sometimes flocked by sightseers, other times by sympathetic mourners, for there was no lack of bitterness at the hideous sentence and the detested landowner. They at length, very late that night, trundled into sight of Fernho, and to their astonishment, no doubt, despite the hour, virtually the entire village had gathered sombrely to share their distress and give them what comfort they could. The child was given an unmarked burial.’
Ralph paused and lit a cigarette, drawing upon it reflectively.
‘Their anguish has lingered in the green lane, and taken tangible form at intervals. Who knows what other incidents happen at other points along the route? Unrecorded, unnoticed. What is called “the supernatural” cannot be just what we see, it must go on all the time whether we happen to be present or not. There are hints of this grim tragedy elsewhere along the Lane, but even where anyone has been around to notice, much might be dismissed as harmless or inexplicable, but hardly disturbing. It is only the concentration of the images near the end, Fernho, the final resting place, the journey’s goal, together with the presence of someone to notice, that has at last brought everything to the surface. For all we know, and I believe it may be so, the vision Stephen and then ourselves saw is repeated every year. It begins not long before the anniversary of the event, gains in strength, and eventually becomes a reconstruction.
‘The noise, of course, is the distorted representation of the villagers’ grief; there is no other explanation for its deeply tragic quality. The wheel ruts which have no material origin must be a tangible, scarred preservation of the passing of the cart.’
‘And what are we to do?’ I wondered.
‘Nothing.’
I was taken by surprise. ‘Why?’
‘So far as I am concerned, this apparition is a record of a village and family’s pure, honest grief at a brutal act. Who am I to even attempt to deny it or destroy it? If it harmed anyone today, I might—I say again, might—intervene. But even then—we sometimes need to be reminded of what our ancestors have done, and what lurks in us still—in any event I shall let the vision continue unhindered by my meddling.’
‘But, if it becomes known, won’t it end up as a ritual for thrill-seekers?’ I suggested.
‘Perhaps. If the story spreads. But that is not necessarily wrong. Thrill-seekers, as you call them, are actually quite often searching for something rather more, and even if they are not, they might find it anyway. This haunting in a complete sense immortalises a victim who is not some perfect pious saint, but a confused, courageous child. Let it stay.’
The Grave of Anir
Unlike some of the greater ghostfinders earlier in the twentieth century, such as the indomitable John Silence, the practical Carnacki, or the whimsical Dyson, my friend Ralph Tyler was not of independent means and had no reputation for investigation. Cases only sometimes came to him; his name did not open inhospitable doors or bring smiles to hostile faces. He sought out what he wanted to research and did not always have the sanction or co-operation of his clients or the authorities,
Nevertheless, I feel compelled to place on record accounts of such of his successes as will serve to illustrate his almost uncanny insights when faced with seemingly insuperable difficulties, As I write, it will seem that I do not know for certain whether what we encountered were, on occasions, genuine instances of occult phenomena or not. The grave-mound of Anir is one such example.
I was first alerted to my friend’s keen interest in the unusual when, as I called at his cubic flat on the third floor of the imaginatively-named Bellchamber Tower, he betrayed very little interest in my suggestion of a sojourn to the nearby Unicorn Inn, a pub we resorted to for its comparative quietness. He was immersed in a public library copy of an Ordnance Survey map. Peering over his shoulder, it emerged that the area was Herefordshire. I wondered aloud whether he was thinking of taking a trip to this county—and got no reply. Grinning awkwardly, I strolled across to his grimy wooden table, and gazed inquisitively at the strange board-game set out upon it. Ralph had an erratic interest in ancient and little-known games, and we had tried many over the years, even inventing a few of our own, Though I generally lost, they fascinated me nonetheless, and as this latest exhibit appeared of no ordinary kind, I was about to try to fathom out the rules, when my friend spoke.
‘Can you get some time off next week?’ he enquired.
I considered. My employer was generally amenable, given no previous claims from colleagues, and I said as much to Ralph.
‘Good. How about a trip to the Welsh border?’
‘Herefordshire, yes. But why?’
‘Oh, I thought we could have a poke about in a little enigma over there.’
‘Uh?’
‘Look.’
He had clipped a column from one of the daily papers. It was not long—four paragraphs. The gist of it was that a retired archaeologist had vanished from his home on the edge of the village of Oldwell. After a distinguished academic career, he had settled down to a widower’s existence, having no known surviving relations on his own side, and had been accepted as a pleasant fellow by most of his neighbours. The local postmistress and clergyman had been canvassed for their views on the matter by the paper and could not account for it. Morrison (his name) seemed contented, they said, and had told no-one of an intended departure. He had been gone three weeks before his absence became a source of comm
ent by the locals, who eventually alerted the authorities.
‘Well, it could be a waste of time,’ I suggested. ‘I suppose the police are investigating.’
‘I suppose they are,’ was the brusque reply.
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ I said, lapsing into a familiar phrase, ‘I feel like a break anyhow.’
‘We’ll go,’ he said.
We went by train, booking bed and breakfast at a nearby town and taking along our bicycles for transport. The good landlady, when we arrived, was tolerant but brisk, reluctantly accepting my belated representations for a vegetarian diet. For want of all that much better to do we tried a few pubs in the district, eventually settling on one that seemed reasonably cheerful and conducive to conversation. It was then that Ralph, sprawling luxuriously in the varnished bar chair and lighting a rather pungent foreign cigarette, began to give me some background he had boned up on.
‘Morrison,’ he said, ‘specialised in what are still called the Dark Ages, and especially Arthurian studies.’
‘I think I’ve seen a book of his,’ I interrupted, for it was a part of history that had interested me at times, as an amateur.
‘Arthur in Myth and History,’ Ralph supplied. ‘Yes, there are hundreds like it and they all conclude the same thing: that we don’t know very much.’
‘Do you think,’ I ventured, ‘that his work has any bearing on his disappearance? I mean it could be anything. Perhaps he got lonely. Perhaps he’s swanned off for a holiday. Perhaps he went for a walk and had a heart attack in some remote place. Perhaps. . . .’ I was beginning to warm to my countless hypotheses.
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