Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Syd Moore lives in Essex where the Rosie Strange novels are set. Prior to writing, she was a lecturer and a presenter on Pulp, the Channel 4 books programme.

  ALSO BY SYD MOORE

  The Twelve Strange Days of Christmas

  Strange Magic

  Strange Sight

  Strange Fascination

  The Drowning Pool

  Witch Hunt

  STRANGE

  TOMBS

  SYD MOORE

  [definition] Strange /streɪn(d)ʒ/

  Adjective: strange

  1. Unusual or surprising; difficult to understand or explain.

  Comparative adjective: stranger; superlative adjective: strangest

  Synonyms: Odd, curious, peculiar, funny, bizarre, weird, uncanny, queer, unexpected, unfamiliar, abnormal, atypical, anomalous, different, out of the ordinary, out of the way, extraordinary, remarkable, puzzling, mystifying, mysterious, perplexing, baffling, unaccountable, inexplicable, incongruous, uncommon, irregular, singular, deviant, aberrant, freak, freakish, surreal, alien.

  PROLOGUE

  Graham Peacock was surprised that his guests had pegged out so early. After all, it was the beginning of a week-long residential for wannabe ghost story and mystery writers and this evening, many would agree, was the most mysterious and spookiest night on the British calendar – Halloween. All Hallows’ Eve. The time of year the veil between worlds grows thin and kickstarts the season of the witch, the annual opportunity for motivated dead to hoick themselves up from the grave and walk the earth again.

  So, you’d have thought, on such a night as this, the writers would have stayed up into the small hours, hunched around the great fire in the drawing room, exchanging tales of horror and intrigue. But no, they’d all tucked into the wine, then downed a whisky or three and made their excuses. Even the young ones of whom he’d expected a little more tomfoolery.

  Youth of today – no stamina.

  Even so, truth be told, he was pleased.

  His old bones were feeling the cold. He was tired and weary and looking forward to the cosy nest of his bed. This afternoon’s workshop in the unheated church, amongst the taciturn effigies and sepulchres, had chilled him. St Saviour’s was not a warm place at the best of times: its central heating was notoriously unreliable.

  But it was the murky and devilish legends that had, over centuries woven themselves into the fabric of the building, that cooled and unnerved Graham whenever he found himself under its high echoing roof. They were nasty. Devilish. Unsettling. And difficult to forget as one sat amongst the pews with their monstrous mythical beasts carved onto the ends by some perverse patron. No doubt their intention was to keep the peasants on their toes, focused on Jesus Christ, their only salvation, the light in this vaulted darkness. But, though Graham would call himself a saintly man, never one to stray far from the path of righteousness unless he’d had a pint too many down at The Griffin, the atrocious figurines would often pull his thoughts into childish dark places inhabited by Cthulhu, Krakens, creatures from the black lagoon and other demonic beasts. Entities, he believed, that had no place in a church.

  Nor had the workshop helped his jitters. With the title ‘On Fear and Building Suspense’, he supposed it was never meant to.

  It had, though, been very evocative and at several points during those ninety minutes he had thought about making his excuses and pelting back to Ratchette Hall. When one of the participants – the woman with the blue hair and New Age name – had called out the words that she swore summoned forth spirits from the tomb, much to his surprise he had felt a prickle of real fear crawl down his back, and a bleak sense of foreboding stole into his stomach. It had taken him quite a while, in the comfort of his study, to convince himself that the invocation had raised no more than the hairs on his neck.

  ‘How silly,’ he muttered as he drew the curtains in the day room. ‘Of course it wouldn’t have done.’

  Having said that, it was a revelation to discover that fear and excitement were remarkably infectious if one opened one’s mind to them. How the mystery writers lived like that was anybody’s guess, he pondered, as he turned off the lights. They must be constantly jumpy, bags of nerves. He was glad he wasn’t one. Especially not tonight. Still, All Hallows’ Eve was nearly over and done with for the year. Thank goodness. They’d had quite a lot of those tiresome trick-or-treaters this time. Though it was just gone 11:30 now. There wouldn’t be any more, thank goodness. They were well into the witching hour when naughty little children should be tucked up in bed. And grown-ups too.

  He closed the door firmly.

  In the large panelled hallway, a flickering sliver of tawny light was inching across the tiles.

  Someone was still up in the sitting room. Fancy that. And he was so sure they had all retired. Now, which one of this motley crew were likely to be up? He’d put money on Nicholas, the young fop. Probably still at the whisky too. That lad had a wicked gleam in his eye, which Graham noticed, often roamed across the lithe form of the dark girl, Jocelyn. She was certainly lovely, with bright eyes, and a sparkling wit that betrayed her high IQ despite her attempts to conceal it. Yes, indeed, if he was younger and of the inclination, he might have lost his heart to her too.

  But he was neither and wanted to go to bed.

  One last job, then.

  He put his hand to the brass door knob rubbed dull from centuries of use and entered the dimly lit room. The fire in the hearth was out, but someone had left a candle burning on the coffee table. Very irresponsible. He tutted. Halfway across the room he noticed a pair of slippers protruding from the bottom of the curtains. Strange.

  Was someone playing a prank?

  Had they concealed themselves behind the weighty fabric?

  Perhaps they were about to jump out on him with a shriek, and laugh when they had succeeded in frightening him to death?

  Graham craned his head. The footwear was smallish, fashioned from felt with a paisley pattern over the toe. Female, he thought. Which was also curious. For he couldn’t imagine the older guests Tabitha, Imogen nor Margot might possibly be bothered enough to stay up alone and cold for the sake of a good joke.

  No, he thought. That would be quite out of character.

  Darn. He would just have to go over there and see who it was.

  The caretaker took a deep breath and summoned his resolve.

  Padding as quietly as he could, Graham reached the drapes.

  If I whip them back without warning, he thought, this young comedian’s trick might just backfire. They will be the one caught on the back foot, not I.

  He grinned at the strategy and with nimble fingers caught hold of the velvet. Then in one swift continuous movement he jerked back the curtain.

  To reveal … nothing.

  It was just a pair of slippers.

  With no feet stuck into them.

  Though relieved, he felt an immediate sense of irritation fire his stomach. Who would leave them there? Why? Had they intended to scare him?

  He looked up and out the window towards the gates at the bottom of the drive and sighed. It was his imagination going into overdrive.

  That was the problem with mystery-writing residencies. They got to you. So much more than the weekends with the literary luvvies, though those were not without their own set of vexations and prissy requirements. He didn’t even mind the intense psycho-geographers and the creative non-fiction lot. Though he liked the ghost-writer courses most of all. That lot were always practical and straightforward. Normal. Thank goodness Write Retreats, the management organisation, didn’t consider horror residentials. There was quite enough of that around the place already.

  And, as he finished that thought, he realised his gaze had sailed out thr
ough the window to the darkness beyond the lawn, the murky and damp night. A spray of mist was curling in the distance. At least he thought that was what it was. There was certainly something moving around out there. Greyish, he thought, or white like bone.

  He shivered.

  Best not to dwell.

  His imagination had already played enough tricks on him today. He drew the curtain and went and snuffed the candle out.

  It was as he was closing the sitting room door that he became aware of an odd irregular sound. A sort of scraping and clanging, like something metallic was being scratched along the walls of the house.

  He stopped in the hallway and bent his ear as the unseen object grated on the bricks of the sitting room.

  Good grief, what was it?

  The jangling discordance of notes and textures was really quite horrible. And now seemed to be over in the drawing room too.

  ‘Oh,’ he realised with a shudder of apprehension. The drawing room. Not the sitting room any more. That meant what or whoever was making that infernal racket was getting much closer to where he stood.

  His head darted to the door he had closed. Was that a cackle he heard in amidst the scraping? Somewhere under the window?

  No, surely not.

  But someone was responsible for that godawful racket.

  Though who?

  And, more to the point, why?

  At this time of night?

  Within a few seconds he realised that whatever was producing the din had turned the corner and was now screeching along the front of the house.

  Towards the vestibule.

  The entrance.

  Only metres from where he stood.

  Graham swallowed noisily. If this was some trick-or-treater he would find out who their parents were and report them first thing tomorrow morning.

  Somehow, however, part of him knew no child could make that sound. There was too much, he paused to find the right word, too much blasted volume.

  And it was coming from the portico now.

  He heard the rattle of metal upon the stone steps as something heavy clattered to the ground. A deep and throaty howl went up somewhere outside.

  Good grief – what a terrific noise. Why weren’t the others waking up?

  He looked up at the staircase expecting to see a gaggle of faces. But it was empty. Only a sudden silence now filled the space around him.

  Graham became cripplingly aware of his solitude.

  What if there was a burglar out there? Someone with malevolent intent?

  He had never been a big man and knew he was unlikely to come out the victor should things turn physical.

  But he could call the police, couldn’t he? For backup? He felt in his jeans for his phone. Yes, it was there. He tapped it, reassured somewhat, and cast his glance to the front door. To his horror a resounding boom, sudden and loud, vibrated through the hallway and all over the house.

  Someone out there had swung the metal knocker. And hard too. They were strong and powerful.

  Graham swallowed again.

  And they were requesting to be let in.

  He froze to the spot, unsure of what to do. If he opened the door, he risked letting an intruder into the hall.

  If he let it remain closed then it was a slight upon the visitor. And what if the sounds they were making were born of despair? What if they needed help?

  There came the rap again.

  This time it prompted Graham into an almost Pavlovian reaction: he was the caretaker, the administrator, the guardian of Ratchette Hall, the famed Essex Writers Retreat. This is what he did: meeted, greeted, hosted, introduced. He opened doors, he welcomed in.

  With tentative feet Graham went to the latch.

  As his fingers fumbled with the key he heard a low spiteful groan. It was so loaded with belligerence it caused his heart to contract and skip a beat then gallop irregularly.

  Though every nerve was jangling, every instinct within telling him to turn back the lock and run into the house, another voice in his head told him to be bold. ‘This is your job. Your job.’

  He took a steadying breath and, summoning the remnants of his bravery, he positioned his features to meet the stranger outside.

  Shivering, he bit down on his fear and threw back the door.

  Mist flooded in through the doorway.

  As it began to clear, the sight on the porch clotted his blood.

  Abject horror fastened itself upon him.

  ‘No,’ shrieked Graham and clutched at his throat. ‘It cannot be.’

  But it was.

  And with one fearful frantic last splutter Graham’s heart stopped dead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

  Karen, the reverend, picked up a handful of soil and threw it over the small wooden box in the bottom of the grave. It made a quiet scattering sound. ‘We therefore commit our sister and brother, Anne and Bartholomew’s bodies to be buried.’

  She gestured for Sam to repeat the gesture, which he did, and tossed a bouquet of roses into the grave.

  I followed Bronson and then went and stood between Sam and Hecate, our Witch Museum cat, who had come out to oversee the proceedings. Gently I grabbed a handful of earth and threw it over the box. I too had assembled a bouquet: calla lilies for purity, chrysanthemums for loyalty and love. I threw in one of each flower. The rest of the bouquet would keep for the graveside.

  ‘Trusting in the infinite mercy of God through Jesus our Lord. Amen,’ said Karen finally.

  We all said ‘Amen’, or mouthed it, then Karen sent a signal to Bronson who exchanged the bucket he was holding for a spade and began to shovel the earth into the grave.

  I smiled at the group of twenty or so villagers and said, ‘Okay, if you’d like to follow me we have light refreshments in the museum.’

  To be honest I was quite impressed by the turnout. After all, Anne Hewghes and Bartholomew Elkes had died over 350 years ago, and weren’t related to anyone present. As far as we knew. She was alleged to have been a witch and he had been a kind of astrologer, which was why they were being interred here, in the memorial garden of the Witch Museum rather than the churchyard in the village. Karen, our rev, was really quite cool, but higher up people still had funny views on this kind of thing.

  But I didn’t and neither did Sam, the museum’s curator, nor Bronson, the caretaker. In fact, we were quite happy to look after these remains if no one else cared to. And we were a witch museum. Now complete with witches. Or at least those accused of the crimes of witchcraft. We were starting to like the fact we were a haven of sorts. Someone had to be, right?

  Our little party made our way into the back of the museum to the Talks Area where the chairs had been arranged round tables, and Vanessa, one of our regular employees alongside her mum, Trace, were ready to serve teas, coffees, sandwiches, cakes, plus wine and beer for those who needed a bit of the strong stuff. One of whom was me.

  I was about to go over and get a glass when I was intercepted by Karen. She was a middle-aged woman with coarse grey hair and kind blue eyes. I thanked her for saying a few words. She hadn’t been too sure about it first of all. Mostly because she wondered if Anne and Bartholomew would have wanted a Christian burial. We’d decided, after a very long discussion, that they had probably identified as such, seeing as there weren’t really many, indeed any, alternatives back then. Karen had managed to wangle a way of being attendant at the burial. ‘I’ll commend them to God. It’s up to them if they want to go to him,’ she’d told me.

  ‘Or her,’ I’d added.

  Seeing as we were at a funeral I thought she was going straight into funeral talk but she didn’t. Instead she asked me how my mum was.

  ‘Which one?’ I said, honestly. It was complicated, a bit of a moot point.

  Her eyes widened and I detected behind them the slip of disapproval. ‘Maureen of course,’ she said. ‘The one who raised you and loved you.’

  My real moth
er, the biological one, it transpired recently was actually Celeste Strange, sister to Ted and daughter to my grandfather Septimus. But Karen was right – it was Maureen who I called ‘Mum’. The rev had got to know my parents quite well over the last few months, since we discovered the remains of my long-lost grandmother, Ethel-Rose Strange.

  Dad had wanted them reunited with those of his own father, Septimus Strange, who was legally, and with the full sanction of the diocese, buried in the Adder’s Fork graveyard, just outside the village. It had taken more loop-jumping and reams of bureaucratic intervention, but we had managed it in the end and Ethel-Rose had been laid to rest with her husband last month in a moving service that half the town had attended. And quite rightly too, for some of them, I thought, had probably been complicit. Maybe without even knowing it. Today’s committal had brought back memories. Ergo – the wine.

  ‘Mum’s fine,’ I said to Karen. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘He’s got the all-clear from the doctors. Needs to watch his blood pressure. But it looks like he’s in rude health.’

  She nodded. ‘And your Auntie Babs?’

  ‘Even ruder.’

  Karen laughed. ‘Yes,’ she mused. ‘I can imagine. I thought she might be here?’

  ‘She’s got a full day at the salon. Halloween’s busy for her.’

  ‘But that was yesterday?’ Karen raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah. Halloween celebrations go on for a while these days, don’t they?’

  She tutted. ‘I do wish people would concentrate their efforts on today. November the first is All Saints’ Day. So much more wholesome than witches and ghouls. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to offend …’

  ‘S’okay,’ I grunted vaguely. ‘There’s a fundraising ball going on in Lower Wigchuff tonight. The Monster Mash-Up, or something like that.’

  Karen sighed. ‘Popular, I suppose?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Well, they’ve got a prize for the best costume: an evening with Michael Bublé.’