Death Unholy

by Phillip Strang

  Chapter 35

  A lonely road, a group of men clothed in their ceremonial robes, an opposing force at the church. Edmund Wylshere had always known that this day would come. He relished the fact that he, as the chief elder, the only man entrusted with reciting the words that his ancestor had spoken seven hundred years previously, would wake them from their slumber.

  It was not often that he did so. Most times the mention of their names would be sufficient to ensure the total obedience of the narrow-minded, simple folk in Avon Hill. Enough to scare those that doubted, to ensure the deaths of those who reasoned or debated or questioned.

  Wylshere was aware of the old, the infirm, the women and the children hidden behind the twitching curtains, their only safety lying in their compliance, their obedience and their ability to keep all that had occurred a secret.

  Once the decision had been made in the pub to retake the church, those who had gathered on the other side of the bar had been given an ultimatum: you’re with us or else.

  Not one of those who had doubted Wylshere’s authority refused to join the mob as they commenced their march towards the church. Wylshere had seen them hanging back, hoping to be spared any involvement in the fight that was to come, although when the cannon fodder was required, they would be thrust forward.

  Only the elders, five in total, wore the masks of office: Edmund Wylshere, the bull, the other four a ram, a goat, a stag, a bear. ‘Maintain the chant,’ Wylshere cried out as they marched slowly, keeping a rhythmic beat that disturbed the still night.

  Saxby, the farmer, walked alongside Wylshere, his robes scarlet, as befitted an elder. Those who were not elders wore ankle-length robes of blue.

  Saxby was not comfortable with the situation. He had managed to live a decent life, free of worry, with plenty of wealth to sustain him and his family. If that came as a result of the occasional sacrifice, it was a small cost, but with Wylshere over the last few years it had become more malevolent, more sinister, and he did not like it. He knew that Wylshere directed their activities and his need for more controversial deaths had become obsessive: Mavis Godwin had not deserved to die, nor had her husband, a man of few words and little intellect. Trevor Godwin, Saxby well knew, was one of the most devout, second only to Wylshere. And then Adam Saunders, a child. What was the worst he could do? Talk to his friends in the schoolyard?

  Saxby knew that the night would end badly. There were another three hours before daylight, and even they could not hold that off.

  The third elder, Mike Carter, the only one who could not claim ancestry in the village, and now its sole butcher, walked alongside Saxby.

  James Slater, the vet, had been born in the village, as had his parents and their parents before them. No such doubts flowed through his veins. One of his predecessors had been in the church when Wylshere’s ancestor had climbed into the pulpit and uttered the words. Slater knew there were others who would protect them, as did Wylshere. He had been the most vehement in his opposition to allowing Mike Carter, the butcher, into their group, but Wylshere had opposed him. Slater, a man steeped in the old-fashioned ways, still believed that what they had in the village was unique and no one else should have been invited into their community.

  The fifth elder, a man who did not say much, his secret not known to many, walked down the road with the others, his chanting muffled. He was a man who had seen the world, and he knew that whatever happened, the night would irrevocably change the future of all those present, villagers and police. He, more than the others, could see a nexus where the forces of modernity and civilisation would confront the forces of the middle ages and paganism. He did not know which of the two was the greater, but he did not concern himself with that, other than to maintain a detachment.

  He knew that for that one night, Wylshere was going to bring all the forces he could rally to bear, and that Edmund Wylshere was mad. The fifth elder, confronted with such realities, knew that as a fact.

  Behind the five elders, the men in blue marched. Of the nineteen, six were unsure and wanting to leave, but they were well aware that so far that night three had died already, and one word from the chief elder and they would be dead as well. The six were frightened, as was everyone else that marched, that is, apart from Wylshere.

  The man could be seen striding forward, occasionally stopping to raise the level of the chanting even higher. ‘We need them to hear us. To come when they are needed,’ he said.

  The mob, disparate in their enthusiasm, unwilling individually to show dissension, chanted ever louder, each louder than the other. In the night air, their voices echoed. Up at the village, there were twitching curtains and shaking heads. The uncertainty about who would be alive in the morning was thought, but not spoken.

  Of the elders, Saxby wanted to pull out. He could see the vehicles angled across their route in a vain attempt to stop their movement. Outside the front of the church were a man in police uniform and two others, one a woman. He knew that this had gone too far. ‘Wylshere, enough is enough,’ he shouted. The mob halted in their tracks; those outside the church strained their eyes to see.

  ‘This must continue,’ Wylshere said from behind his bull mask.

  ‘You cannot go killing the police,’ Saxby said. He was aware that he had committed the unpardonable sin in criticising the chief elder.

  ‘There is no place for cowards amongst us.’

  ‘I am not the only one. Speak out all those who are with me,’ Saxby said, turning to face the mob. A shaking of heads.

  ‘Saxby, you’re on your own.’

  ‘Nonsense, there are some who want to speak.’

  ‘They are sensible. They know the punishment.’

  ‘I am leaving,’ Saxby said.

  ‘It cannot be allowed. What do you say?’ Wylshere said, addressing the mob.

  ‘Sacrifice, sacrifice.’ With that, they moved forward, those with staves hitting Saxby, those with knives stabbing him. The man collapsed to the ground.

  ‘We continue,’ Wylshere said. The chanting recommenced, the mob stepping over the bloodied body of the man who had once been a farmer in Avon Hill.

  ***

  The sight of a man dying at the hands of the mob sent a wave of panic through those at the church. Even though their visibility had been restricted, it had still been enough.

  Tremayne, the most resolute of those at the crime scene, was taken aback by the brutality. He had always maintained a modicum of hope that sense would prevail, and that what had apparently transpired in the village since their arrival was no more than hearsay, and that the two police officers and the crime scene investigator, declared dead by Wylshere himself, were in fact still alive.

  However, the brutal slaying of one of the mob convinced the policeman that Wylshere had been telling the truth. Clare, who stood alongside him, had never had such illusions, and she knew that those now moving around the vehicular blockade had only one intent: their deaths. Jim Hughes, a man whose function was to investigate the crime scene, not become a crime statistic, was back inside the church with his remaining people. ‘We’re going to make a run for it,’ one of his team said. Hughes could offer no constructive reason as to why they should not.

  ‘We’ll all leave now,’ Hughes said.

  He went back outside the church, to Tremayne and Clare. ‘You cannot stop this,’ he said, looking at Tremayne.

  ‘We need to go, guv,’ Clare said.

  ‘There’s not enough time,’ Tremayne replied. The mob was within one hundred feet of the church. They were standing still, their robes and their masks more visible in the light from the blazing fire torches they carried.

  ‘You were warned,’ the man with the bull mask shouted.

  ‘Wylshere, why the pretence. I recognise your voice,’ Tremayne shouted back. Clare stood at his side. Hughes had left and was striking out for the safety that lay not more than thirty minutes away.

  ‘The mask is not for you; the mask is for t
hem. It’s what they demand.’

  ‘You’re certifiable,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You will never understand,’ Wylshere said, removing his mask. ‘That is why you and your sergeant are suitable.’

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ Clare said. She was shaking with fear. Her DI may not have believed, but she did.

  The mob continued to chant.

  ‘It’s too late for that now. Where are the other police officers? We had two before,’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘They’re in one of the cars.’

  ‘Can they get it out of here?’

  ‘That’s why it’s there.’

  ‘Right. We’ll make a run for it and drive out of here.’

  Clare, for once, could see some hope for their predicament. She shouted to the police officers sitting in the car. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ the reply that came back.

  ‘Yarwood, make a run for it. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you, guv,’ Clare replied.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m right behind you.’

  The two police officers dashed towards the patrol car and jumped into the rear seat. ‘Go,’ Yarwood shouted to the driver. The car moved forward, the mob attempting to impede its movement.

  ‘Let them go,’ Wylshere instructed the mob. ‘They cannot go far.’

  ‘Where to?’ the driver asked.

  ‘The road out of here.’

  ‘The road that Dallimore and Hopwood took?’

  ‘It’s bound to be blocked, and there’s snow up there,’ Clare said.

  ‘Okay. Head up through the village and then take a left.’

  ‘What are you thinking, guv?’

  ‘You know Cuthbert’s Wood and the area around it.’

  ‘Well enough to know I don’t want to go there again.’

  ‘Any better ideas?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘No.’

  Once free of the mob, the four police officers headed up through the village. They passed the pub, its lights on inside. ‘We could make a phone call,’ Clare said. ‘They may have a landline.’

  ‘Too risky,’ Tremayne said. ‘We need to protect ourselves first, and besides, no one is coming to rescue us, not before daylight at the earliest. We can’t stall them for that long.’

  ‘Is this the turn?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Clare replied. The road they turned into, more a lane, narrowed dramatically until it was barely wide enough for the car to pass through. ‘That’s Elizabeth Grimshaw’s cottage,’ she said.

  Two houses up, a man emerged from behind the hedgerow. Clare wound down the window on her side of the car.

  ‘Drive up past Adam Saunders’ cottage for as far as you can and then leave the vehicle. Elizabeth is a friend of mine,’ the man said. Tremayne held a gun in his hand.

  ‘That’s not necessary. I can be trusted.’

  ‘In Avon Hill!’

  ‘Some of us can.’

  ‘It’s not safe for you here,’ Clare said.

  ‘If they see me talking to you, then no, it will not be, but it does not matter. This curse that has lasted for centuries must end. The events of tonight will sever the Wylshere family’s control. If they’re not summoned, then they will cause no more trouble.’

  ‘Yarwood, we don’t have time,’ Tremayne said. The lights of the mob could be seen back at the pub.

  ‘Come with us,’ Clare said.

  ‘It is too late for me. You will need to move fast. I’ll attempt to get a message out of the village to summon help.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘I will try.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you,’ Clare said.

  ‘Don’t thank me. You’re not free yet, and your chances are slim. There is still Cuthbert’s Wood to negotiate.’

  Tremayne realised they had lost precious time, and help, even if it were forthcoming, would not extricate them from their current predicament. The mob was still in pursuit, and some could be seen running up the road past the pub. ‘Drive, for God’s sake, drive,’ Tremayne said.

  The driver put his foot to the floor, the wheels slid on the icy road. He eased his foot off the throttle hoping to gain grip. The vehicle moved forward, its speed limited.

  ‘Through that gate,’ Clare said.

  The cottage where Adam Saunders had hidden out before his untimely death lay in front of them. It was in total darkness. The driveway, gravel turning to frozen mud, ended at the front door. To the left and the right of the cottage, there was only frozen grass.

  ‘Take the left,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘The right’s better,’ the driver said.

  ‘Whatever you do, do it quickly.’

  Clare craned her neck to look out of the rear window; it was iced over. She opened the side window, the cold was intense. She angled herself out of the window, lifting herself out of her seat to get a better look. The mob, she could see, were close to Elizabeth Grimshaw’s cottage, not more than five minutes from where they were. ‘Drive,’ she shouted at the driver. The man looked stunned, unsure what to do.

  Tremayne jumped out of the car and opened the driver’s door. ‘Get in the back with Yarwood. I’m driving.’ He slammed the car into gear and drove off the driveway and to the left of the cottage. Unable to get the car out of first gear, he kept his foot firmly welded to the accelerator. The left-hand route around the cottage appeared to have been the best choice. Up ahead, silhouetted at the top of the hill, they could see Cuthbert’s Wood. To Clare, it looked menacing, but it was their only hope, she knew that. She had walked around it that time when Adam Saunders had been discovered there. She went through in her mind the layout inside the wood. She knew that evil lurked there, but evil lurked everywhere, and those who had entered the cottage’s land were evil in physical form.

  The vehicle lurched across the land at the rear of the cottage and then through an open gate into the field at the back. It was clear that it was used for grazing. A few cows could be seen in one corner. They took no notice of the vehicle and its occupants. All they did was huddle together to keep warm, their hot breath visible.

  Although the frozen field was smooth, the vehicle could not move very fast. Gradually, though, Cuthbert’s Wood drew nearer, the mob behind losing ground.

  ‘Keep driving,’ Clare urged Tremayne.

  ‘Another one hundred yards and we have to get out and make a run for it,’ Tremayne’s reply.

  Clare could see the trees in front of her looming nearer. She felt fear, even more than she had felt before, as she remembered her last time there. Tremayne stopped the car. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

  The four police officers left the car and stumbled, walked, ran towards the trees. A barbed wire fence blocked their way. Tremayne held the top wire with his coat, ripping it in the process, to allow Clare to step over the fence. The other police officers had taken hold of one of the wooden uprights and vaulted across the fence, one of them twisting his ankle on landing.

  The four entered the wood using the same path that the young Saunders boy had used, a marker left by the crime scene investigators still visible. The officer with the twisted ankle struggled to keep up, the others offering assistance as best they could. After five minutes inside the wood, the lights of vehicles on the main road could be seen. It was no more than three hundred yards across the open field on the other side once they had cleared the wood.

  Behind them, the sound of the mob could be heard. Tremayne knew they were not safe yet. ‘Keep going,’ he said.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Clare said. She could see the other side of the wood, the open field beyond clearly visible.

  ‘Wait until tomorrow,’ Tremayne said. He knew that once he was back in Bemerton Road Police Station, once all the events had been recounted, confirmed by all those who had been present at the crime scene, there would be a massive clean-up operation. He would need to bring in additional police teams from ot
her cities.

  Clare, in her enthusiasm to leave the woods, surged forward. She did not see the fallen branch; she tripped and fell, face down. Tremayne picked her up and sat her against a tree. ‘Yarwood, are you alright?’ he said, shaking her shoulders gently.

  The mob could be heard entering the wood, their chanting frenzied.

  ‘Yarwood, Yarwood, we’ve got to go.’

  Clare dazed, but still conscious, got to her feet. The four police officers continued forward, the lights on the highway even more visible. A police car could be seen, its flashing light visible, an ambulance in hot pursuit. Tremayne hoped it was for them; it wasn’t.

  ‘Grab them.’ The last words that any of them heard before they were trussed up with rope and tied to nearby trees.

  Chapter 36

  Tremayne realised that in the struggle he had been knocked unconscious. Over to one side of the small clearing, not more than six feet away, Clare was tied to another tree. ‘Are you okay, Yarwood?’ he whispered. The mob was at least twenty feet away. Tremayne could hear them chanting again, Wylshere with his ridiculous mask the most visible.

  ‘They intend to kill us,’ Clare mumbled.

  Tremayne did not reply directly to the obvious. ‘Let’s hope our people got the message out,’ he said. He could see that the other two officers, Constable Bradshaw and Sergeant Stanforth, were both conscious. The detective inspector, a man who never gave in and always had a plan, realised that for once he could not think of anything useful to say or do. His ability to do anything was severely hampered by his current predicament, the ropes across his upper body holding him firm, a protruding branch pushing hard into his back. The ropes around his legs had already cut circulation to his lower left leg and were about to cut it to the other one as well. He realised that he was getting too old for this, but then, he observed, the other three weren’t faring much better. Still, he knew it was up to him to provide leadership.