The Prayer of the Night Shepherd (MW6)

by Phil Rickman

  8

  At Home With the Vaughans

  JANE WAS KIND of tingling now. Antony Largo had demanded, Where’s the contemporary dynamic? Where’s the now drama? And now he had his answer: there was a totally worthwhile mystery here, deeper than the Grimpen Mire, subtler than phosphorous paint, and panting for telly. Jane carried the excitement with her, through the uncoloured, wintry churchyard to the door of the church of St Mary the Virgin.

  There were quite a few churches hereabouts dedicated to Mary – a sign of Norman origins, according to Mum: the conquerors emphasizing to the conquered that they had the support of the spiritual big-hitters. From the plateaued churchyard, you had a wide view of the Welsh hills above the English town and the beginning of Hergest Ridge, a peninsula into Wales. The sky had closed in now, the clouds tightening around the sun, reduced to a hole at the end of a grey-walled tunnel.

  ‘Used to be a Norman castle up here,’ Ben said. ‘Soon abandoned, though. It’s thought the church itself was providing community defence against the Welsh by about the thirteenth century.’

  ‘People shut themselves up in the church?’ Jane looked up at the squat tower, with its stubby steeple.

  ‘The tower was separated originally from the main body of the church,’ Ben said. ‘It has walls a good six feet thick, apparently.’

  ‘Now I won’t have to buy the guidebook,’ Antony said, as they followed Ben inside. ‘Thanks.’

  Jane had never been in here before; she’d been expecting stark and utility, and she was surprised at the size of it and the luminous, grotto-like darkness, the way the stained glass bestowed this old, rosy warmth. So different from the frigid dining hall at Stanner, although Ben said some of the stained glass had been put in around the same time. Heavy Victorian restoration, then, but it had worked: there was a big window with generous reds and oranges and warm blue and, opposite it, high up in the west, a tiny circular one with a white dove fluttering out of crimson.

  The age of the place was underlined for visitors by a big modern white plaque listing all the ministers of Kington, beginning back in the days when parishioners would be putting the six-foot walls between them and the marauding Welsh.

  Hugh Chabbenor ...........1279

  Rhys ap Howell ..............1287

  John Walwyn .................1313

  Ben was strolling around in the tinted gloom with his hands behind his back. ‘All this was far more spectacular in the Middle Ages, we’re told. Wall paintings... ornate screens.’

  Antony was shaking his head, slipping Jane a wry smile that maybe contained just a touch of affection for Ben. Perhaps he was at last getting into Ben’s groove, finding the motivation, feeling the dynamic.

  There were only the three of them in here, or so it seemed as Ben led them back towards the door, past a table with guidebooks and magazines on it. He stood there facing them. Jane could tell that he was in Holmes mode again, a sheen on his domed forehead, the curly hair around it absorbed into the dark. Ben was excited.

  ‘Well... can you see them yet?’

  ‘Huh?’ Jane looked around.

  ‘Such a sense of drama,’ Antony murmured.

  He and Jane were standing by the font, to the left of the entrance. Ben stepped to one side, extending an arm into the body of the church, to their right. From the side of the chancel nearest to them a different light, a colder light, was washing between the bars of a wooden screen from a stained window beyond. This window was full of blues and whites and a thin gold, and the light was hazy.

  Jane was aware of a separateness – light, colour, mood – about that whole area, evidently a side chapel. And then she saw two heads together, from behind, an alabaster couple lying on a hard white bed, the wooden screen its headboard.

  ‘May I present Thomas,’ Ben said softly. ‘And Ellen.’

  It was one of those still, hollow moments. The heads conveyed a superiority, an arrogance, an hauteur. Jane hadn’t noticed them before, and now they were all she could see: two effigies on a spectacular, off-white tomb, at ease with their backs to the pews and to the door, confident of their place in the medieval Church of St Mary the Virgin and in history.

  ‘At home with the Vaughans,’ Ben was saying. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’

  The double tomb came up to Jane’s chest. On the side nearest to her, eight anonymous carved figures, some of which might have been monks or even angels, stood behind their shields, to protect the remains inside.

  Black Vaughan, in fact all white now, was nearest the altar, his effigy’s praying hands projecting from its alabaster chest, its face bland and clean-shaven.

  Jane noticed right away that below the feet of the effigy was a dog.

  It was a disappointment, however: too small to be any kind of hound, unless the fifteenth-century monumental mason had reduced the scale to make it fit onto the tomb. A life-size hound would have spread over the whole width of it and under the feet of the woman.

  Jane thought Vaughan’s own feet seemed too big, like cartoon feet. ‘It’s like he’s wearing Doc Martens.’ She giggled. ‘For like giving the peasants a good kicking?’

  Irreverence was compulsory in this situation – the way these arrogant bastards had always claimed the place nearest to God. Like they honestly believed God was naive enough to fall for it. But as soon as she’d spoken, she was sensing disapproval, unsure of whether it was coming from Ben or she was projecting it to Black Vaughan. Or his lady.

  The lady might have been beautiful; it was hard to judge from a tomb. She wore a long gown with a girdle, her slender arms bared in prayer. On her pillowed head was a small cap. Fashionable? Probably. Coquettish? Maybe not. Her face was solemn, but what would you expect?

  ‘What does it mean that they’re praying?’ Jane said. ‘I mean, like, are they praying for mercy because of all the corruption in their lives, all the people they shafted? All the peasants they exploited?’

  ‘Comely wench, though,’ Antony observed. ‘Nice body. What’s her name again?’

  ‘Ellen.’ Ben stood at her feet, his hands clasped in front of him as if he was about to join the Vaughans in prayer. ‘Ellen Gethin. Also known as Ellen the Terrible.’

  Antony tongued his top lip to conceal a smile. ‘I trust that disnae mean she was terrible in the sack.’

  Jane grinned nervously. Ben frowned. ‘It was because she killed a man.’

  Antony tilted his head. ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘She came from a village called Llanbister, over the border in Radnorshire. Had a younger brother, David, of whom she was very fond. He was killed in a sword fight with his cousin, John Hir – a row over an inheritance. Ellen was shattered and bent on revenge. She was a strong woman. A formidable woman.’

  ‘Looks maybe taller than her man,’ Antony noted.

  ‘Described as having masculine strength.’

  ‘Sexy, though.’

  ‘Shut up, Antony,’ Ben said. Antony peered down at Ellen’s breasts, then looked up at Ben and grinned.

  Jane said, ‘What happened?’

  ‘There was an archery contest at Llanddewi, near Llanbister. Ellen went along disguised as a man. John Hir was the champion archer and she challenged him. John put his arrow into the target, Ellen put hers into John.’

  ‘Feisty,’ Antony said. ‘Is it true or a legend?’

  ‘It’s believed to be entirely true, although it does rather correspond to a few classic myths about the vengeful-huntress figure. It’s said to have happened in 1430, after Ellen’s marriage to Thomas Vaughan. She must have been a very young woman at the time because Thomas was killed at the Battle of Banbury nearly forty years later.’

  ‘I like it,’ Antony said. ‘We could’ve used it.’

  Ben turned to Jane. ‘Antony did a Channel 4 documentary series a few years ago about the psychology of women who kill. Women of the Midnight?’

  ‘Aw, I hated that title,’ Antony said. ‘It was imposed on me. What I had in mind was to call it My Milk for Gall. Som
ething like that.’

  ‘Lady Macbeth?’ Jane said. ‘ “Unsex me here and take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers.” I... wow.’ She stared at Antony with new respect. This man was actually the producer of Women of the Midnight? ‘That was like... heavy stuff.’ Not admitting that she hadn’t actually seen it, having been only about ten at the time.

  But she saw now why Ben was courting Antony so assiduously. She was fairly sure that Women of the Midnight had won some prestigious award for Channel 4, which must make Antony a seriously influential producer. Like, if he brought in an idea, people would listen to him, the people with money to hand out. So the main problem for Ben was convincing Antony himself, and perhaps this would be the only problem.

  ‘Too late now though, huh?’ Antony was looking down wistfully at Ellen Gethin again. Ellen’s eyes were shut.

  ‘Such a shame,’ Ben purred. Jane thought, Milk for Gall: Lady Macbeth, Myra Hindley... Ellen would probably have fitted nicely into the format.

  Antony moved away from Ellen and stood at the feet of Thomas, with his Doc Martens and his little alabaster dog.

  ‘So what about this guy?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘We don’t know very much about him. He was born in 1400, was initially a supporter of the Lancastrians during the Wars of the Roses but for some reason changed sides. One version says he was on his way to the Battle of Banbury in 1469 when he was captured by the Lancastrians, accused of treason and beheaded. His body was brought back here.’

  ‘And was he like Hugo Baskerville? A bad guy, a tyrant?’

  ‘We don’t know. We don’t know what kind of man he was when he was alive. He’s better known for his activities afterwards. All the accounts say he made a very angry and destructive ghost, haunting the stretch of road between Hergest Court and Kington, often in broad daylight. Rearing up in front of women, and causing farm carts to overturn.’

  ‘What did he have to be mad about?’

  ‘Dunno, but it’s said the town was in terror. The road to Hergest was shunned. Taboo. Got so bad that Kington market began to suffer because nobody wanted to come. Vaughan could change shape, tormented horses as a fly. Appeared in this church as a bull, roaring through the pews during a service.’

  ‘But not a doggie.’

  ‘That came later,’ Ben said. ‘After the exorcism.’

  Jane said, ‘What?’

  Apparently, it had taken twelve experienced ministers to deal with Vaughan, all of them gathered inside a circle drawn on the floor at Hergest Court, each with a lighted candle. There was also a woman and a young baby, presumably newly baptized and presumably representing purity. When your mother was in the trade and left books lying around, you learned quite a lot about the history of dispensing with demons.

  Ben said the story had been chronicled by the Herefordshire folklorist Ella Leather and, before that, collected by the Border diarist Francis Kilvert.

  ‘Hell of a struggle, candles going out, slanging match with Vaughan’s spirit. But they eventually reduced him to something small and manageable, and then they confined the spirit in a snuffbox.’

  Snuffbox – this angle sounded familiar, and Jane figured she was bound to have read about it, at some stage, in Mrs Leather’s book. It was a big book, with thousands of stories, many of which you forgot because they weren’t strictly relevant at the time. She’d go back to it, check all this out.

  ‘Vaughan’s spirit had expressed an aversion to water,’ Ben said. ‘So they buried the snuffbox at the bottom of Hergest Pool.’

  ‘As you would,’ Antony said.

  ‘It would dramatize beautifully.’

  ‘And if you wanted some authentic stuff on exorcisms,’ Jane said, ‘my mother might be able to—’ She broke off, her hand touching Ellen’s white, shiny elbow – how broad and muscular that arm appeared now. Jane drew her hand away. Best, on the whole, not to say anything to Mum about this: she wouldn’t exactly be in favour of dramatizing an exorcism, however many centuries ago it had happened.

  Ben and Antony were both looking at her.

  ‘Of course,’ Ben said, ‘your mother’s a vicar, isn’t she?’

  ‘Um... yeah.’

  ‘With a special interest in this... area?’

  Jane sighed. Had he heard whispers? Was Mum’s name still mentioned at this end of the county in connection with her run-in with the creepy evangelist, Ellis?

  Whatever, it was too late now.

  ‘She’s, erm, the Deliverance Consultant for the Hereford diocese. Diocesan exorcist, as was. But like, on second thoughts, I think it would be best if she didn’t know I was involved in anything like this. Dabbling? You know? They discourage it.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Ben said.

  ‘She just got pushed into it by a previous bishop, who thought it’d be cool to have a woman operating in that area. Look, I really don’t want to tell her about this, OK? If you want any information, we’ve got lots of books at home. I could get you anything you needed.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘Super.’

  ‘You really are a slippery bastard, Foley,’ Antony said.

  Ben didn’t look at him. ‘Ah... We don’t know precisely when the Vaughan exorcism was, but the inference is that Vaughan was never seen again – not in person, anyway. However, as recently as 1987 two women were visiting this church when one of them distinctly saw the shape of a bull form in the atmosphere.’

  ‘In here?’ Jane glanced from side to side.

  ‘She said it seemed to coalesce, as if it was composing itself from dust motes in the air. She was from Solihull in the Midlands, a tourist. Oddly, her name was Jenny Vaughan. The bull didn’t do anything, it just formed and then presumably dissolved again. Like a show of strength.’

  ‘And the Hound?’ Antony said.

  ‘It’s known simply as the Hound of Hergest. It was said to appear before the death of a member of the Vaughan family. There were nine generations of Vaughans after Thomas and Ellen, and the last one to live at Hergest Court died childless at the beginning of the eighteenth century. But the phenomenon remained. Other people, over the years, are said to have seen the Hound in the lane leading to the Court. And a former tenant of Hergest used to speak of hearing what sounded like a large dog padding across the floor upstairs. This was quite recently.’

  ‘And folk died?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. Though perhaps some Vaughan descendant somewhere...’

  ‘OK, it’s interesting,’ Antony conceded. ‘So, tell me – how important would it be to the Devon people to prove that the Conan Doyle connection here is a load of shite?’

  ‘Well, it makes them very angry indeed. I only need to show you the terse letter I’ve just had from this guy Kennedy, of The Baker Street League, who’s evidently poisoning a lot of people against me. It drives them crazy.’

  ‘And you’d take them on? I mean, I’m not sure this’d be enough, but if you really got them fired up...’

  ‘Look, this has become terribly important to me,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not just financial any more – I mean, not just a question of getting publicity and an image for the hotel. Sure, it’d be wonderful to be able to afford to fully re-Victorianize Stanner, down to the last gas mantle in the last lavatory. Which is how it started, I’ll admit, but it’s so much more than that now. It’s about winning the Border – Jane knows what I mean. The Border’s a hard place, a testing place. People fail here all the time, because they haven’t earned acceptance. They don’t have links with the past, they’re not part of a tradition. They don’t understand.’

  He was standing beside Thomas Vaughan. Black Vaughan. The white, blue and gold light was behind him. He was giving Antony Largo his piece-to-camera, framing himself in the light, the way he’d done as Holmes in the final act of the murder-mystery weekend at Stanner.

  ‘Damn right I’d take them on,’ Ben said. ‘Me. And Thomas. And Ellen.’ He gazed into the two white faces. ‘I feel, in a strange sort of way, that we’re kind of a team
now.’

  Following this dramatic and – Jane thought – slightly unhinged assertion, there was silence in the chapel. Just as Ben had intended.

  What he hadn’t intended was that it should be broken by a slow applause, the sound of two hands clapping.

  Which was eerie enough, in this setting, to make Jane turn around very slowly.

  9

  Ask Arthur

  SHE REALLY WASN’T spooky, that was the first thing. She had a well-worn sheepskin coat around her shoulders and a yellow silk headscarf and suede gloves. Jane didn’t recognize her until she pulled off the scarf.

  ‘Bravo, Mr Foley!’ She shook out her pale hair. ‘Golly, what a trek I’ve had. Your manager said you’d be down at Hergest Court by now, so of course I drove over there. Silent as the grave, as usual. Never mind, here we are. Yes, bravo. Awful man, Neil Kennedy, I’ve always thought – mean-minded and elitist. May I come in?’

  Antony stepped aside to let her into the chapel, his head tilted, quizzical. Ben looked confused for a moment, and defensive, and then Jane saw his hands flick, as though he’d suddenly turned over the right page in some mental card-index.

  ‘Of course, you were on the murder weekend. Mrs...’

  ‘Elizabeth Pollen. Beth.’

  ‘Beth. Yes. And you’re... still here?’

  ‘I’m often here, Mr Foley. I only live at Pembridge.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ Ben said weakly, as though he was bemused that anybody who lived close enough to Stanner Hall to know what kind of dump it was would want to pay good money to stay there.

  But Jane was placing Mrs Pollen now: the youngest of the Agathas – hanging out with them in the hotel bar in the evenings but clearly not a part of their weekend coach-party sleuthing scene. The only time she’d come out of the shadows was on that last night when she’d tried to persuade Ben to expand on the Hound reference and Ben had deflected it.

  No way he could deflect it now.

  Beth Pollen folded her silk scarf, like someone who didn’t have too many of them. Under the heavy coat she wore a pale grey dress, and she was very slim, mothlike. Probably in her late fifties, but it was hard to be sure.