Lucifer's Abbey

by Smith, Michael James

  He returned before she could really gather her thoughts properly. “Sorry about that, we're helping with a display of Early Human Remains at the British Museum. We have some of the earliest here from excavations at Kents Cavern you know.” He smiled trying to be all politeness and helpfulness.

  He didn't have to tell her that she already knew and she also knew that it was a Chaplain employed by the Cary family who owned Torre Abbey that had done the original excavations and surveys of the Caves. The same Torre Abbey which had provided the builders of Ilsham Chapel, of which he claimed to have no knowledge.

  “Do you think they'd have anything at the Library? I'm sure it was supposed to be in Torquay somewhere.”

  I don't know, perhaps, but it's one of those very modern libraries, all new fiction and computers for internet access for students. Not much of a repository for local knowledge I'm afraid. I'm sure I would know if there had ever been such a place.”

  “Well you've been very helpful thank you. It wasn't really Important just a half forgotten memory really that's all.”

  “Well I do wish you luck with the book writing stuff. Like to write one myself but I don't have the self-discipline for it.” He gave her his most disarming smile. A creepy little man with secrets. She could feel him now intuitively and she didn't like him at all.

  Juliet left the building and crossed the road back to her Land Rover. The sun was gone and the evening was coming in with the tide. It was going to rain before she made it home to Moretonhampstead. As the temperature fell towards evening that could mean ice on the roads, it would be good to get home before it became that cold.

  She climbed in and sat there thinking. Mike was due for dinner tomorrow night but was it worth a call now to mention that ring? She remembered the look on his face when he had admitted making no progress whatsoever with his investigation. What she had to decide was whether she was dealing with a simple coincidence or not. On balance she decided not. That odd man in there with his overly loud Austin Reed suit and 'Church' handmade shoes was a liar and people only told lies when they had something to hide. She was convinced that he knew about Ilsham Chapel despite his denial.

  Somehow he was involved. Involved in a horrible crime. Mike wouldn't mind if she turned out to be wrong. She looked through the listing on her mobile phone and didn't have his number listed. How silly was that! Whatever was the matter with the pair of them?

  For a moment looking down the road and out over the harbour of this town he loved so much she could feel him inside herself. He was every bit as lonely as she was, pretending to the entire world that he was content to be a confirmed bachelor, playing the game of self-sufficiency and supposed freedom that she played herself. All she had to do was make him admit it!

  She remembered that she did have his apartment phone number in her telephone book beside the phone at home. She would ring him when she got in and tell him about her strange discovery and the odd little man at the Museum. Looking back across the road she saw that he was stood in the doorway looking across at her. The moment he saw her looking he turned and went back inside.

  You’re a creep she decided – definitely you’re a creep! As she sat there looking at the fine building the red haired young man came out dressed in leathers and wearing a crash helmet. He crossed the tarmac driveway and got onto a powerful motorcycle. On the back of his jacket he had a large transfer which said 'The Real Hell's Angels' ‘How very appropriate!’ she thought.

  She drove away but decided that en route home she would stop at Torquay Library, modern or not!

  It was only a short drive and there was a large car park immediately beside it which helped. She parked and walked long Lymington road towards the Town Hall and the Library. It was closed. Closed on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons the sign said, unhelpfully. Bloody hell, the Council could afford a parking meter every twenty yards along both sides of a half mile of sea front but they couldn't afford to open the Library properly. Civilisation was crumbling away in the most unlikely of places.

  Annoyed she returned to her car and joined the queue of traffic trying to get through the bottleneck of Kingskerswell in the rush hour chaos. The rain started before she was through and it looked like being a miserable drive home to Dartmoor to another dinner eaten alone.

  Her chosen route to avoid the traffic led her along the 'Bovey Straights' and as she sped along the mile or so of dead straight old Roman road she noticed a motor cyclist in her rear view mirror.

  Mike himself had raced motor cycles on this road, along with just about every other young man who owned a motorcycle locally in those days. Once she had done so herself as his pillion passenger, terrified of coming off and clinging to him for dear life.

  Somewhere there had been a wooden shack of a café with a Juke Box and the music of the Searchers and The Hollies and The Rolling Stones. 'Leader of the 'Pack', The Shangri La's motor cycle hit played over and over by excited teenagers enjoying the freedom of the sixties, headed towards ‘flower power’ and ‘free love’ and cheap marijuana; coke drunk from the original coke bottles and a short walk through summer trees in the half-darkness to the bank of a small stream where, for the first time, their bodies had known each other.

  The boy was still in him, Leader of the pack - a hundred miles an hour - the bravado and showing off in the café giving way to the gentle inexperienced lover and the soft caresses. Puppy Love and Donny Osmond and crying alone at night because she had to go to University and leave him behind, better not to go down that route or he would be getting more than dinner tomorrow!

  Overlooking her now on her right at the top of a steep climb, the old Chest Hospital of Hawk-moor and then the narrow road became dangerous ahead and she had to concentrate in the bad weather conditions, the rain had turned to a heavy sleet and the visibility was falling as rapidly as the temperature, winter was returning after the sunny interval of the day, the lights of a motor cycle not helping in her rear view mirror.

  The small entrance to the farm track and the steep, curving climb to her home on the hill top amongst the trees. She parked the Land Rover in the lean too garage and walked across the shingle drive, shivering as the first flurry of snow drove into her and opened the front door.

  It was stupid really living in this rambling old country mansion alone. The House had been in her family for almost a hundred and fifty years. It was built of local rock, the walls almost a metre thick and not in the best of repair. It was capable of absorbing huge amounts of investment without ever really showing any sign of overall Improvement.

  Not that she'd bothered much since Tim passed away. She had done the parts she used and left the rest to rot really, maintaining the roof and modernising the electricity and heating but ignoring the internal decoration and the creeping damp. The ever pervading spirit of Dartmoor that had been trying to reclaim the land since the first foundations were laid.

  The central heating had done a good job of warming the side of the house she used. The kitchen - a mixture of the very old and the very new, was welcoming. Most of her time in the house she spent here. It had everything she needed, a very long heavy farm house table that her Grandfather had made surrounded by modern kitchen cupboards and ceramic tops. In one wall a walk in fireplace, laid but not lit with a stack of cut logs piled to one side. She would light it for him tomorrow because he really enjoyed it.

  There were some fine paintings on the end wall. Exeter Cathedral from the river and Dartmouth Castle painted from the opposite side of the river at Kingswear. They were hung in heavy frames and had been there as far back as she was able to remember.

  She put water into the kettle, set it going on the Aga cooker and crossed to the heavy kitchen dresser on which the telephone stood. Beside it the telephone list revealed Mike's number and she dialled it and waited.

  There was no reply and it made the auto transit to his message in-box. He had a recorded message for anyone who called. “I don't want to buy anything.” Was all it said? She laughed, he was alway
s going on about cold calling. It was his pet hate.

  “Michael its Juliet. Please call me back as soon as you get this message,” She paused for thought and decided to tell him more to ensure he did call at once and not after the customary two whiskeys after work routine. “I visited the museum in Torquay today and I saw a ring on the Curators hand that will be of interest to you. Call me, not later, now please. Speak to you soon.” She replaced the handset and went to make her tea.

  The Curator business weighed on her mind whist she made some dinner and ate it and then she tried to call Mike again only to find that the telephone was not working. That had only happened once in many years. Her mobile didn't get any signal around the house, she could get one in better weather by walking to the top of the hill but down here in the lee of it signals were random at best. Tonight in the snow which was now falling quite heavily it was a forlorn hope.

  The snow didn't bother her. She had been cut off many times and the house was stocked and well prepared for it. She had wood if the electricity failed and a good generator with adequate fuel to run it for her power if need be.

  She gave some thought to putting on her ski suit and walking to the top of the hill but there was no guarantee that she would get a signal up there either, it was a good twenty minutes’ walk in good conditions - it would be much more in snow. She went outside the back door and had a look at the conditions.

  The snow around the house was at least three inches deep. That surprised her, it had fallen faster than she had expected. Down below her on the Moretonhamstead to Bovey Tracey road it could be better or worse but generally the road fared better being sheltered by the high hills on either side. Only sometimes, if the wind was right, the road was subject to drifting and became impassable.

  She returned indoors and bolted the door top and bottom. She didn't often do that but she felt more alone than usual and she realised she was disturbed by the loss of her telephone connection.

  On the table were some of the books she had been through whilst deciding which ones to leave at Michael's. On Impulse she began to search for the Tarot card image she had seen on the Curator's ring. She knew it was the card that represented the devil but she wanted to see the image itself clearly again.

  There are hundreds of different Tarot sets depending on their origin. Many countries have their own long history of them and the images change according to their origin but the 'devil 'was the one card that was ever present. She searched and found several sets of Tarot cards but none bearing the IL Diavolo' image she was seeking.

  She would have liked to try on the internet but her connection depended upon her phone line. Losing one meant losing the other too.

  She was just going to search the books again when there was the most frightful noise of falling objects from outside. She knew at once what it was, there were many planks stood up against the side of the garage and they had been blown over. The sudden noise had startled her and she realised she was a bit nervous. She had played this nerve game many times since she was alone here; bad weather always heightened her sense of solitude.

  She went across the kitchen and drew the curtains. It was one of those nights when you just barricaded yourself in, found something worthwhile to do and let the storm run its course. On an Impulse she went across and bent to light the log fire. Somehow it helped to have it burning at such times; it was comforting and increased her sense of security.

  After Tim's death Mike had come and helped her to make herself secure. The wing of the house she lived in had already been double glazed and the doors were renewed at his suggestion; good locks fitted together with sturdy bolts.

  The only way anyone could enter was to break open one of the windows and she would hear that. She asked herself why she was so nervous and realised it was because of the man at the Museum.

  The whole business of the Christmas murder had been horrible and unnerving from the start. It was whilst she was thinking about it that she remembered the motor cyclist. He had been there on the Bovey Straights and there again in the poor weather as she passed Hawk-moor. He had, of course been there when she left the Museum too. She had watched that youth climb onto a motor cycle. Had he followed her?

  Juliet tried the phone again, it was useless and she tried her mobile and got exactly what she knew she would get - nothing.

  The planks outside had been stood there for more than a year why would they fall over tonight? They had stood through winds far stronger than tonight's gale.

  Was this the game of nerves that had coloured the early days alone without Tim? Was she simply putting a new slant on an old unrest?

  Anyone trying to get to the first floor windows would have tried to climb up that way. The cats regularly got onto the kitchen roof that way to lay in the sunshine.

  The fire was going well now. She felt the welcome warmth and was cheered by the flames and the crackle of good firewood. Time to make some fresh tea and get control of herself. She would laugh at herself in the morning and Mike would laugh at her too tomorrow night.

  She was looking forward to that more than she had realised. Each day since the meeting in Exeter he had grown in her mind and in her plans. Tomorrow was Important. She decided to get out her cook books and find something really different for his dinner. She also had to decide what to wear.

  She made the tea, found some biscuits and settled at the huge table with her books to find something that was good for a man who liked pies. He and Tim had been pie men. Steak and kidney by default but rabbit or venison or Beef Wellington would do nicely thank you. She wondered what sort of food he was living on in his apartment. The workaholic routine wouldn't leave much time for home cooking. She imagined a lot of fridge magnets with take away menu's under them. She could do better than that!

  She was just about to turn the pages of her favourite cook book when the electricity went off. The kitchen was plunged into Stygian darkness relieved only by the red glow of the log fire and Juliet was immediately very afraid.

  Too many coincidences!

  There were candles everywhere. It was only a matter of seconds before the ones on the shelf above the fire were lit, when you lived out here you lived prepared.

  On the wall in the hallway was a 410 shotgun. She went and got it and returned to the kitchen and loaded it. She was a capable shot with it; she put several shells into her pocket and placed some more on the kitchen table.

  She was under no illusions about the danger she could be in. Somehow her asking about Ilsham Chapel had brought danger to her door. The one thing that meant for sure was that her guess as to where the girl had been murdered was correct.

  Ilsham Chapel was a twelfth century building and it stood now in the grounds of Stoodley Knowle Convent School. It was only a few hundred metres from the road above Hope's Nose and it was a place of former religious worship having been built by the Canons of Torre Abbey. Juliet knew her history. She also knew her Black Magic folklore.

  The girl had been sacrificed by a Satanist and he had needed a consecrated place to do that if his horrible ceremony were to be successful. It fitted the evidence perfectly. Now just asking about it had brought danger to her home. She was convinced she had been followed and convinced they would want to know what her interest was. How far would they go to find out?

  There was nothing further she could do to protect herself from them. If they broke the window somewhere they could get in. There was no way she could patrol the whole ground floor even, it was too large. No - her only chance was to barricade herself into her little area and hope that Mike would get her message, try to contact her and when he failed come looking for her.

  Half way along the hallway there was a doorway that connected this part of the house - the part she used regularly - to the rest. There were no bolts on that door. She went along, shotgun under her arm and closed the door. It was many years since she had thought to look for locks on the doors. There wasn't one on this door. How was she going to close it against them?

&
nbsp; The only thing she could do was wedge and then barricade it. Wedges were easy; there two by the front door, used to keep it open in summer. She fetched them and wedged them firmly under the door checking the bolts on the front door as she did so. Next she went and got a chair from the kitchen and wedged that under the door handle. She got a piece of heavy firewood and used it to bang the wedges beneath the door.

  It wouldn't stop a determined man she knew but it would certainly delay him and it would also give her warning if the door was attempted. She had the shotgun and she would most certainly use it.

  She suddenly had a thought and went and got her mobile phone. She tapped in a message to Mike and then put if onto the window sill. Sometimes a random signal strength allowed the use of a mobile phone from the house and the stored message would go if that happened.

  Banking the fire occupied a few minutes and gave her more time to think. There were dozens of candles in one of the kitchen cupboards, she found them, lit several and spread them around the kitchen, in the bathroom and in the bedroom - leaving all the doors open so that she would hear the glass break if they tried to get in.