Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

  Not much elimination.

  This was not a particularly impressive analysis.

  One had to think about motive, yet that was very unclear. One of the policemen who I had met earlier in the year (and snogged and very nice he was too, thank you very much) had told me that the two main reasons for murder were sex and money in some form or another. It didn’t sound like Graham Peacock was loaded, if he had to work and live at Ratchette Hall, but you never knew.

  ‘Can you get access to his bank accounts?’ I asked Sergeant Scrub.

  She just raised her eyebrows in a don’t-you-tell-me-howto-do-my-job style which reminded me of just how terrifying she could be when she wanted. So I decided this was the time to make our exit and go and worry the locals.

  The sky was darker outside and swirling.

  But Sam didn’t want to go for cover. He touched my arm and said, ‘You want to have a quick look at those woods?’

  The clouds above were touching their grey underbellies to the ground. Certainly they appeared full and swollen with moisture. ‘Quickly then,’ I said. ‘Looks like rain.’

  We crossed the churchyard and found a path that ran alongside a cluster of trees. Hurrying along we reached a gap that opened onto a beautiful view down the hillside and onto the south of the county. Well, it would have been a beautiful view if we had been able to see it, for at that moment the heavens opened and dumped a mother lode of rain.

  We spun on our heels and legged it back towards the church.

  I made it there first. It was locked. Scrub and Edgar had gone, the latter taking no chances with the security of the two remaining knights. When I turned round to check where Sam was, an empty churchyard spread out before me. The wind picked my hair up and lashed it against my face. The rain was hard now, coming at me almost horizontally.

  I blinked into the landscape. Where was he?

  I called his name but if he replied it was lost in the wind.

  Sheltering my eyes with my hand I tried to look more closely.

  It was no good. The whole place had darkened.

  All I could see were the trees waving back and forth amongst the jagged tombstones that stood still at odd angles over the yard.

  I began to move forwards, searching for him. When I reached the middle of the yard I finally spotted him under a bushy yew. He was squatting over a grave, hunched and rather little-looking. As I drew closer I noticed a dark streak running over his cheek. His head was bleeding.

  ‘Sam! Sam! Are you okay?’ His features had frozen, the eyes were vacant, unfocused, gazing into the mid-distance. ‘What’s happened?’ I yelled against the wind.

  He didn’t answer at first, then when I shouted again, he looked at me and pointed unsteadily to the headstone.

  ‘Look,’ he said eventually, his hair, picked up by the squall, blew all around. ‘I slipped on the grass and cracked my head. But look, look at the name.’

  He touched his forehead where the skin had split.

  I hurriedly got out a hanky and started dabbing at the cut.

  He swatted me off and grabbed my hand and held it. ‘Rosie, look at the name.’

  At last I turned and looked at the old lichen-clad headstone sinking crookedly into the earth. Sam had obviously pulled some of the moss away from the inscription for there were clear patches where the lettering was clear. I read: ‘In ever loving memory of Samuel Stone. Son and brother. May his memory be eternal.’

  Ooh, that was a surprise.

  I sat back on my heels. ‘Freaky,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said, still rigid, but urgent. ‘The birth date. It’s the same as mine. To the day, only a hundred years earlier.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ I said and turned back to him. ‘So what? Strange coincidence.’

  But he looked aghast and shook his head. I waited for him to say something.

  ‘He didn’t.’

  So I tried to get him up and said, ‘Yes, I see.’

  The rain was soaking us. I could feel my mascara sliding over my cheeks.

  Now standing, I continued to try and heave him to his feet.

  He resisted. ‘And,’ he said, jabbing crazily at the tombstone, ‘this person, Sam Stone, dies next year.’

  I let go of his hand and shook my head. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘This Sam Stone died ninety-nine years ago. Now, come on! You’re soaking. If we stay out here any longer, we’ll catch our death of colds and pop off this mortal coil much sooner than either of us anticipate.’ God I sounded like my mother. Who wasn’t my mother. But this was no time to go into that.

  Sam didn’t move. He just sat there and said, ‘It made me fall, so I would take notice.’ He put his fingers to the fresh wound. ‘It’s a warning.’

  This wasn’t like Sam at all. I could only think that the knock on the head had concussed him.

  In the end I grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to his feet, and once I had managed that, took his hand and pushed and pulled him towards the church.

  The old building sheltered us somewhat from the rain.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked, as we got round the side, and the thousand-yard stare seemed to recede.

  He shrugged but said nothing.

  It was only a short walk from here to the car park so I got to it quickly, frogmarching him round the outside walls of St Saviour’s over to where the car was parked.

  Once in it, I examined his head. He’d broken the skin but I didn’t think he’d need stitches. I had a first aid kit in the glove compartment, so fished out an anaesthetic wipe, cleaned the wound and stuck a plaster over it.

  ‘There,’ I said, admiring my handiwork. ‘You look like a proper little soldier.’

  But he didn’t laugh.

  As we pulled out of the church car park, trundling down the lane, he gestured up ahead. ‘Look, there’s The Griffin. Can we stop and have a drink?’

  Still pale and strangely quiet, I thought a brandy was in order. Something was needed to put the colour back into his cheeks. And anyway, there was a good logistical reason for the stop-off: we had planned to ask the locals about trick-ortreating customs in Damebury. This pub was as good a place as any to tick that off our list.

  I pulled in past a tall pub sign that depicted a mythical griffin dancing on the top, just like the one at the end of the pew. We parked round the back in the car park.

  It was a well-maintained building, whitewashed and wattled with red tiles on sloping roofs and a look of the eighteenth century. There were a couple of outbuildings dotted around the yard – one looked like a modest function room, the other a store room for the pub.

  The windows of The Griffin were proper old-looking and panelled, the frames painted a violet-grey. We entered via a side door painted to match the windows.

  Inside, the décor was pleasant – wooden floorboards and refurbished armchairs which wouldn’t look amiss in a pub uptown. The surviving fireplaces were very old indeed, much earlier than the outside might suggest. Two were brick and iron but another was wider. The hood jutted out, sheltering a large chimney.

  While Sam went and found a table I ordered the drinks.

  The chap who served me was polite. Young with a bit of a bent nose and cropped black hair, he wore a badge which read ‘Keiron’. His demeanour was friendly too so I fired out some questions without sugar-coating any of them.

  ‘We’re just staying at Ratchette Hall,’ I lied. Sort of. ‘Thus the brandy. It’s not been the same since Graham died.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Kieron, squirting the diet coke into a glass. ‘Heard about that. Wasn’t he frightened to death or something?’

  I nodded. ‘Trick-or-treaters. You know many kids or teenagers round here that might do something like that?’

  ‘Well.’ Kieron paused for a moment and looked out the window. ‘Oh yeah, course. We’ve got our fair share of young people here – good and bad. There’s a couple who might be up for pranking. It’s trendy now isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, leaning on the b
ar and giving him a nice wide smile.

  ‘You know – they film themselves and put it on YouTube to get followers.’ He shook his head. ‘My nephew – he’s only ten, but reckons he’s going to make a living out of it when he grows up. Vlogging, I think they call it. I dunno.’ He shrugged in a kind of ‘young people today’ manner. Even though he was barely out of school.

  ‘Is that so? Crazy,’ I said and sipped the coke. ‘I suppose it’s better than wanting to be a reality TV star.’

  He turned his back on me and went to the optics. ‘It’s a phase, isn’t it?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘There’s a couple of kids round here, Ben and Stevie, who have a channel. Prank Anthem TV. They do practical jokes. Harmless mostly. But the naughtier the better. It’s how they rebel, I suppose.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked.

  He put the shot on the counter. ‘Like filming themselves eating scotch bonnet chillies raw,’ he said and made a face.

  ‘Raw?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kieron laughed.

  At least they weren’t the double strength ones straight out of my dad’s allotment. ‘Painful.’

  ‘Got a lot of views. And likes. They keep going on about “monetising” it. Reckon they can get sponsorship and ads if they get enough views.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘And that’s what they’re after? Do you think they could have pranked Graham? For likes?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t set out to hurt anyone. They’re not like that.’

  ‘What’s the point of it all?’ I asked.

  ‘A bit of a thrill. There’s nothing much for them to do, you see.’

  I looked around. The place was rural but not remote. ‘What about Chelmsford? That’s not far.’

  He put both hands on the counter. ‘It’s tough getting back. Cab fares are steep if you haven’t got money.’

  I gestured around the pub. ‘They can’t hang out here?’ It seemed quite nice.

  ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘Ben wouldn’t do it. And his mates wouldn’t fancy it either. They’re nineteen/twenty but some of their girlfriends are seventeen so can’t drink in here.’

  I laughed disbelievingly. ‘Don’t the kids of today do fake ID then?’

  He laughed back and shook his head. ‘Ben would never let them. It’s his mum’s pub. She’s tough, Carole. You do not want to cross her.’

  ‘Carole Christmas?’ I wondered out loud. ‘I thought she was the assistant manager.’

  ‘Well, she’s like a manager really. We have an area manager that supervises across several pubs. Cost-cutting.’

  ‘Right,’ I said and picked up the drinks. ‘Yes, well I can imagine Ben would not want to incur his mother’s wrath. Might put a dampener on things.’

  Keiron picked up a glass and began to rub it with a towel. ‘I know they been hanging outside lately. Some of the youngsters go down to the common with cider. When it’s not raining, like today.’

  I stopped and leant my elbow on the wood. ‘Really?’

  ‘We’ve all been young once,’ he said with a wink. Then someone else waved a note and he went off to serve.

  I thought I might hover for a bit but whoever was putting their round in was making it a big one. Anyway, Kieron had delivered some useful information. We’d definitely have to check out Ben Christmas and his mate Stevie. I rummaged in my hand bag for a notebook or phone and noticed it felt a bit light. After further investigation I realised my mobile wasn’t there. It wasn’t in my pockets either. Damn! It must have fallen out when I was helping Sam up by the other Sam’s grave. I’d have to go and look for it.

  I took the drinks over to not dead Sam, who was sitting at the table staring out of the window.

  I gave him his drink. He didn’t even say thank you.

  ‘Sam, I’ve not got my phone. I think it might have fallen out in the churchyard.’

  He raised his head wearily. ‘Do you want me to go and look for it?’

  ‘No, no, you have your drink. I won’t be a sec.’

  And I stepped into the twilight.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I didn’t know where the time had gone. It felt like we’d only been here five minutes but already the day was disappearing. Night was coming out, spreading its wings.

  As I approached the church, silhouetted against the thunderous sky, a solitary bat flew erratically out of the bell tower and headed off against the wind into the trees beyond the churchyard.

  Bats in the belfry, I thought and wondered if that was the first time I had ever seen a bat in such an edifice. Or rather, pop out of it. I’d always thought that was a metaphor for something, but couldn’t remember what.

  It took me till I reached the church gate to pluck out the notion that it meant mad or odd or chaotic, which was apt considering the day we’d had, Sam’s schizophrenic mood swings and the whole marching knights malarkey. Dead ones. No, not dead ones: stone knights. And one wooden one.

  The graveyard was full of movement as I struggled to find Samuel Stone’s headstone in the swirl. Rain was coming down thicker now, which meant I had to put my handbag on my head to protect my hair. Still there was no one about so I didn’t mind looking like I had multiple bats in my own personal belfry.

  I tried to retrace my steps – I had been halfway across the graveyard when I realised Sam had disappeared. I reached the point and, turning round, thought I saw the whip of a shadow a few yards behind me, but it must have been a trick of the fading light and the scudding storm clouds as, of course, there was no one there.

  A couple of graves over I saw the headstone with its half-scraped lichen, leaning into the air as if it were going to topple over at any moment.

  Though I wasn’t happy about it, I got down on my knees, removed my bag from my head and began scrabbling amongst the overgrown weeds and stones. It did cross my mind that I might look rather strange, clawing at a grave with my bare hands. But a girl has to do what a girl has to do when her phone is at stake, and I was sure it had to be here somewhere.

  I had just bent my nail on the grave marker and was cursing my head off loudly when something changed in the light around me and I became aware of a darkening close by. I put it down to the clouds drawing together and continued rummaging until a little rectangular light came on about head height.

  When I looked up at it I saw my phone momentarily suspended in mid-air. The sight made me blink and then suddenly I was visited by a series of unconnected images – whistling wind, fluttering feathers, shadow.

  It took a moment more for me to realise there was a shape behind the mobile. And it was saying something.

  ‘I said, is this yours?’

  My eyes lifted to take in the figure who was holding it and who, weirdly, seemed like they’d appeared out of nowhere. Or possibly from the ground.

  Working my way up I clocked black boots, like cowboy boots, but the type that only came up to the ankle; black jeans; a black silky shirt that was open, despite the elements, and revealing a cluster of dark hairs; a long slate greatcoat, unbuttoned, which looked ex-military, but not our military, more soviet in style; raven hair, white face, cleanshaven, black eyes. Good eyebrows. Well defined.

  A goth.

  Of course.

  We were in a cemetery after all.

  I tried to look gainly, as opposed to un-so and nodded, feeling a stream of water run down the side of my face and off my chin. The gale and rain were blasting bits of leaf into my eyes so I had to squint as I got to my knees and then stood up.

  ‘Yes,’ I shouted at the guy, unsure if the words had been caught up and tossed away by the streaming air.

  There were raindrops all over the dark man’s coat, glistening like little crystals, but his hair, which was loose and shoulder-length, seemed not wet, but only to shine as if there was some internal luminescence in it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I yelled.

  He had unfolded himself into an upright position too. Taller than me by quite some, he smiled and held out my phone.


  ‘It was over there,’ he said, pointing beyond the gravestone. His voice was steady and made it through the elements clearly though he did not raise it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said again and reached for it.

  A bird swooped over our heads and made an angry chirping noise.

  As he handed the mobile over, our fingers touched. His were cool.

  Something buzzed in the exchange, maybe my phone, and again I was visited by a strange sensation which evoked images, like a filmic montage, and which played across my internal mind-screen: a starting pistol, a brigade of pounding muddy feet, a wolf shaking raindrops from its mane, the crack of a whip on stone, a caw of crows alighting on an elm, one single drop of water falling in a cavern, old wine that tasted thick and rich and heady, oily perfume, frankincense.

  My fingertips prickled with an intense jab of electricity and I dropped the phone again.

  ‘Let me,’ he said and, quick as lightning, scooped it up. In one sweeping, looping motion he appeared right by my side.

  My face must have betrayed my inner confusion at the physical sensation and weird data stream I’d just experienced, because he said, ‘What? Did you feel it?’

  But before I could explain, a strong gust picked up again and started lashing my hair against my cheeks, so hard it was quite painful. I was happy to thank him properly but there was no way I was going to stand out here and do it.

  ‘Over there,’ I barked and pointed to the timber porch which was the only sheltered spot I could see and we both ran over to it.

  Once inside, we stood leaning against opposite walls. Although I was panting, he didn’t seem to be at all out of breath.

  ‘Dorcus,’ he announced.

  This bewildered me for a moment so that I wondered if, what with the coat and all, he was foreign. There was certainly something exotic in the shape of his eyes, an almond sweep bordered by dark dewy lashes, that was not unattractive.

  He laughed. ‘Dorcus Beval. It’s my name.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I thought—’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  The air around us calmed and became very still.

  ‘What’s that then?’ I said between breaths, so as to make conversation, though it came out a bit pouty. ‘Welsh?’