by Craig McNish
Kill All, Kill All
By Craig McNish
Text Copyright © 2013 Craig McNish
All Rights Reserved
Cover Artwork Obtained By Permission From
http://en.fotolia.com
This story was inspired by actual events.
On 25th January, 1683, in the small north-east England town of Ferryhill, County Durham (then a predominantly farming community), Andrew Mills, a nineteen year-old servant at Brass Farm, murdered the three children of farm owners John and Margaret Brass. Jane, aged nineteen, John, seventeen, and Elizabeth Brass – only ten years old – were all severely beaten before being killed in the bedroom of their home. At first blaming robbers to try and cover up his heinous crime, Mills finally admitted to the murders, saying he'd carried them out after being told to do so by the Devil. This was a story from which he never wavered, even on the day he was hanged. Many myths and urban legends surround the Brass Farm murders to this day.
So, what if this happened?
Michael Hodgson, a 25 year-old History student at Durham University, is researching the story behind the killings for an assignment when he comes across reports of rumoured sightings of Mills' ghost and even how it can be made to appear. Believing this to be the perfect opportunity for extra credit, he persuades four fellow students to carry out one of these rituals and see if they themselves can bring the murderous Mills back to Ferryhill one more time. What he doesn't take into account is the torment and humiliation Mills had inflicted upon him before he died, and that some of those people could have descendants who still live in the area today – people Mills might feel he has a legitimate reason to hate and exact revenge upon.
Or, even worse, that they possess looks bearing a remarkable similarity to the object of Mills' burning romantic desire that has lain dormant for more than three centuries, like Hodgson's friend, Jane Parkes...
PROLOGUE
County Durham, north-east England, 1683
It was the last night that he would spend here, and now there was uncertainty as to whether fear or relief should be felt. This small, stone room – barely the size of the pantry at his master's house – had served as home for the last seven months and then some. Had it really been so long, or did it all pass by in the mere blink of an eye? There might have been no way of knowing had it not been for the opening. Currently it was night and it could not be seen, but still he knew it was there. Should he have been asked to do so, it would not have been a troublesome task to step through the solid black in which he was surrounded and place his hand directly underneath where it would be. The opening was set too high in the wall for him to reach, but this was a good thing; he knew that if it were possible he would busy himself during the daylight hours staring out at what lay beyond and mindfully construct plan after plan that would grant his wish of being on the other side of the wall, something he knew was impossible.
At this moment, in the dark, with the sky carrying a new moon but in a place where even its faint glow could not penetrate into the room just one little bit, the opening offered warm air from the still night. A little rain would have been welcome; not just to cool the air, but also to provide his ears with the sound of nature, just so he knew that it still existed. But there was the smell; maybe unpleasant, but at least a familiarity with which he could connect. There had been nothing to connect with for a long while now; even the rats which he at one time wished so fondly to be rid of had vanished to other unknown parts, and it was only after they had gone he realised the vermin were his only remaining friends. Hardly allies, but they did not question his character or his motives like the others had done. The humans. All of them. Every last one had felt it right and proper to pass some form of judgement without any desire to know what effect their words might be having on his dire and miserable existence. He would wile away the hours imagining that they would pay for these thoughts in the most heinous of ways, for there was nothing else to do.
Sometimes, he thought of Jane. The most beautiful creature he had ever been lucky enough to see with his own eyes. Her face would never leave his mind, not even after this night had passed and he was gone from this place. Sleep had been impossible to come by the last day and one before that, with so many of his hours spent walking around this cramped living space, fancying that he would not have ended up here had he just said no and walked away. Oh, but for the chance to live these last seven months over! Was his often silent proclamation. But the moment had passed and now there was nothing to be done but accept his fate.
What had been lacking in the ability to see well had long ago been made up in hearing. The quiet but unmistakeable sound of a rat, using its small size in an advantageous way to come and go as it pleased, had found its way through the opening and into the room. His gaze moved across the floor for what would be little more than a shadow; it brushed by his feet and in a second it was gone into some dark recess, out of sight. Reaching into the pocket of his breeches, he took out a small piece of bread and dropped to one knee, holding it between thumb and forefinger of his outstretched hand while he made a number of peculiar noises to try and attract its attention. In a short moment, the rodent responded and slowly reached forward to take the offering before making a retreat back into the darkness. But he never saw this as a slight, more a need on the part of the rat to feel safe and secure. Thinking that this room was the most safe and secure place he had ever known, he started to laugh.
Morning was coming now. It seemed that he had slept some, for the last he could remember was the dark of the night, yet the opening now allowed a shaft of light to enter the room so much as he could see clearly all around it. The rat had gone; taken advantage of the proffered treat and disappeared, no doubt the same way from which it had made its entrance. It must have known the stench of death, and it was now filling his nostrils more than it had ever done before. Everyday sounds – animal and human – filtered up from the street not far below and rang in his ears. It was noisier than usual, and he knew the reason. It was him. He was the one they were making all of the noise about, and soon they would be making even more racket, for he would be travelling the streets in full view of them all. It was impossible not to know this, for he had been part of the baying mob on occasion himself, and at those times all had seemed fair and just. But now he found himself in the position that all of those men and women before him once did, and there was to be no escape. He just wanted it to be over with.
A knock at the door, which was then unlocked and opened before he had a chance to reply.
“Mills?”
“I would wish you a good morning, gaoler, but I fear that would be a lie should I do so. It is morning, I take it?”
“It is. Just gone six...”
“And I will be leaving soon?” A curt nod, followed by a verbal response.
“Probably seven, maybe a quarter to. It's all ready. You've drawn quite a crowd...”
“So I hear.” Mills cupped a hand round his left ear and held it towards the opening. “Ready to see my blood spill, no doubt. Well they are going to be disappointed, unless the same should become me as happened to that fellow two years past, where the rope clean took off his head. But every single one of them will still carry my blood on their hands for choosing to believe this is little but a source of amusement.”
“Difficult to see how you might avenge that, lad, when it's your head in the noose...”
“Fate often finds a way, gaoler – do not be surprised by any strange event that might follow. I wish you no harm, of course; you have done nothing but the job expected of you and, might I say, treated me in a manner that many would have considered as way too kind for one in my position. For that I can only thank you.”
“Uh-huh.” A simple reply, but co
upled with the briefest appearance of happiness, or maybe pride. “Here, you should eat something.” Mills was handed a plate; it contained a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese. “And some water.” A battered metal tankard half full of water was placed at his feet.
“I have no money left to pay for these things...”
“No need to be thinking about that – just don't tell anyone else or they all going to be looking for handouts.” Mills looked the gaoler in the eye and started to laugh.
“I think your secret will be safe, gaoler...” It had been expected the man would take his leave at this time, so Mills was surprised when he asked if he might join him for a short while and talk. The two men sat, Mills keen to hear what the gaoler might have to say.
“You would sit with a man convicted of three murders while he takes his last meal? Did the Bishop put you up to this, pay you a few coins to try and get me to confess what might have really happened in a way his God might deem more acceptable?”
“None of that, none of that. I've shared this prison with many a man – and woman – who has committed acts of unspeakable wrongdoing to end up in just the place you are right now, and you get a knowledge of who deserves to go to the gallows rightly so. When I look at such a young lad as you who must be no more than twenty years...”
“Nineteen...”
“I don't see the face of a murderer, or a proper no-gooder, but someone who might well have fell under the influence of someone or something unwanted. Only trouble is, I don't have the position or even the guile to question those who have made the decision.”
“You're saying that you believe me, what I said to the coroner?”
“Maybe not every last word, but I think any man would be hard pushed to kill three so young unless his hand were forced.”
Mills could fathom no reason why the gaoler might be inclined to say this if he didn't believe it to be true. He stood to gain nothing from the death and had never been so unkind as to torment a man in his final moments of life. The words were considered, spoken with a careful tongue and thoughtful mind. But as much as he might wish to live, Mills knew it would be unfair in the extreme to plead with the gaoler for his life; the man was right when he had said there was nothing at all he could do to prevent the execution from going ahead.
“Let me tell you something I heard” the gaoler carried on. “It has been said that a crow can remember the face of its enemies – did you know that?”
“I think whoever told you that must have been in drink when they did so...”
“Not at all. Swears it to be the truth. So you think about this; you know what happens to them who find themselves at the wrong end of the hangman's noose, right?”
“Quite probably left to rot and be pecked at by the crows, and maybe hanged in chains, even...”
“So if them crows see you as a fancy feast, and you really do have the Devil inside you guiding your hand, then might they not just end up with the Devil inside them, too? And might that Devil not just think 'all them folks who watched me die have my blood on their hands'? Eh? And that could make them crows just a bit on the nasty side, don't you think? And they can also get other crows to help them fight back against those enemies. So it might just be that you can avenge yourself from
death after all.” Mills looked at the gaoler, not knowing what to make of his words.
“If your plan was to make me feel somewhat happier about going to the gallows then you have succeeded” he said, a smile on his lips. “You should be congratulated on managing to hold your sense of humour when you work in such a miserable place as this.”
“Every word I spoke is true, lad – you shouldn't be so quick to pay no regard to that you can't prove.”
“Wise words indeed. Pity I have not the time to find out one way or the other.” The gaoler sighed, and nodded with some sadness.
“I suppose it is. We should be going...” The two men climbed to their feet; Mills offered no resistance when the irons were clamped around his wrists and ankles. He'd forgotten just how much they weighed, so long it had been since he had worn them last.
The hour of reckoning was at hand.
*
For the first time in many months, Mills found himself outside. The air was thick and the sky becoming overcast and brooding. It seemed a thunderstorm was threatening. But he cared little for being outside during such inclement weather and scoffed at those who might run through a cloudburst trying to seek out shelter while vainly protecting their uncovered heads with their hands. A ridiculous sight when a grown man is afraid of a little water, he would say to himself. But this was to be his last outing into the world and, sat on the back of a horse-drawn cart, in a cage that measured no more than six feet on each side of its base and only four high, Mills felt sad that it had come to this. The crowd was heavy, each face full of anger and so many of them wanting to make their opinion known.
It was his fullest intention to keep his head held high, look as many of these wrath and vengeance-filled folk in the eye as was possible to show he was without fear, but the objects he found hurled in his direction often and without remorse made the task difficult. The overripe fruits he could take, and even understand why these humans might feel the need to treat him with no more dignity than a dog that has been tethered to a post and left with neither food nor drink. There were moments when he relished the taste from the juice of the tomatoes that ran down his face and into his eyes and mouth, but now it was becoming tiresome. Hadn't they made their feelings known enough already? The larger rocks would constantly clang off the bars of the cage in which he sat like a trapped animal, but smaller stones thrown by those with a keen eye and many a lucky shot would strike him in the legs, arms, body, and more than he would have liked in the side of the head, with each hit greeted by a laugh and a cheer from all of those who had seen. The chains around his ankles made his legs ache, but with arms chained behind him there was nothing to be done except endure.
Palace Green and Owengate had been left behind now; they had gone through the Great North Gate of Durham Gaol, and Saddler Street had just been passed by. Many of the crowd followed behind the cart, a grisly procession who would take great delight in seeing him hanging from the end of a rope. There was lots of noise – words and cursing – and it never stopped, but Mills had closed his ears to all that was coming his way. The market place was approaching; he chanced to lift his head and see what kind of hospitality might be awaiting him there. His arms and legs might be bound, but his mouth wasn't, and the temptation was often there for Mills to speak his mind and ask all of these people if they had nothing better to do with their lives, that they should go home and tend to their land and their livestock. But to speak so freely when trapped at the mercy of many an angry man, woman and child would be folly, he thought. He thought of Jane again; not as she was the first time he had laid eyes on her, or even the hundredth, but the very last, when she had lain battered and broken in her bedroom. Far from making him sad, as once it might have done, Mills drew strength from this anguished picture in his mind and recalled the words of the gaoler.
“I think any man would be hard pushed to kill three so young unless his hand were forced.”
And what was it he had said about the crows? Surely that had to be nonsense! A crow that was able to remember the face of a human that had done it wrong? Ha! He smiled when he thought of these words, glad of the little humour he allowed himself as he made his way to the place where he would die. And then, a voice from the crowd. Mills knew the man to whom it belonged in an instant, for it was so distinctive as not to possibly be anyone else. He found his eyes searching the swarm of faces on the other side of the bars. It didn't take long, for this unwanted intruder into his final moments of life had hopped onto the back of the cart that took him now into Silver Street, and it irked Mills greatly that no effort had been made to remove his presence as would have been in any other case.
“Sellby” Mills said to the man in a voice that made his annoyance plain.
“What do you want, vagrant?” Ralph Sellby took a drink from the bottle that was never far removed from his hand and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“I've never had me a chance to look a murderer in the eye before, you know” Sellby answered back in a deliberately loud voice. “I heard the Devil himself lurks somewhere inside you – wanted to see into them eyes and find out if it was true. Not sure I see it meself, like...”
“Maybe because you spend too much time thinking about the inside of a bottle, old man...”
“You know, you might be right there.” Sellby took in a mouthful from the bottle, then he looked directly at Mills and spat the liquid right into his face. Mills tried not to let his anger show as the onlookers began to laugh and applaud, but it would have made even the most placid of men react when it happened again directly after, as Mills did now. Rolling forward and bringing himself to his knees, his face came up against the bars just inches away from Sellby's, and he spat at his tormentor.
“You are lucky I am in this box or I would quite happily remove your head from its shoulders.” Sellby merely laughed, took another drink from his bottle.
“You think to be brave now, when there is no chance you might carry out that threat, but if it had been you and me in the same place them three kids were you butchered I'm thinking you wouldn't be saying the same thing, murderer. Hanging's too good for you. I reckon Mister Brass should be able to pick up them axes you had and do right the same to you as you did to them young 'uns.” There was much agreement to this statement.