Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  A ball of orangey pleasure seemed to diffuse my body from the abdomen up. And yet I couldn’t take the intensity of the moment so looked at the floor and swallowed noisily.

  But I left my hand exactly where it was.

  ‘Rosie,’ he said, in his gentle voice. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot and I feel like I’ve given you the space you’ve needed,’ he said as I felt the heat rise to my cheeks.

  Oh my god.

  ‘But sometimes,’ he tendered, ‘I do wonder if you’re pulling away from me?’

  ‘Pulling away?’ I said and looked up, despite the redness in my cheeks.

  Someone burped by our table, which prompted us both to withdraw our hands with speed.

  Bronson sat down heavily in the free chair. ‘I’ll be pulling away soon, if you don’t get another one in. Sam, it’s your round, ain’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Sam got to his feet with a little reluctance. ‘Rosie, another?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I said with such enthusiasm I hope he realised I was really talking about something else.

  Then he was off, leaving me to gurn at Bronson.

  ‘Your timing sucks a big one sometimes, B,’ I said and glowered.

  ‘Oh, not going well in Damebury is it?’ He took off his sou’wester and hung it on the chair. ‘It’s a funny old place Damebury. Full of secrets and mysteries. Very old, you know. They used to say there were tunnels from the church to that pub. Whatchermacallit – The Lion?’

  That pricked up my ears. ‘The Griffin?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ he said and smoothed his moustache. ‘Smugglers were it? Or priest holes or somesuch. I can’t remember what.’

  I was still irritated so said, ‘Try,’ with a lot of emphasis on the ‘t’.

  Bronson stroked his moustache again, shifted his buttocks on the seat and said, ‘Ah yes, let me see, that’s right.’ Then he shook his head and said, ‘Yes, I don’t know anything.’

  I gritted both sets of teeth and buttocks. If anyone had squeezed me right then, I think my head would have blown off. ‘Tunnels,’ I said eventually. ‘You said there might have been tunnels between the church and The Griffin.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ he said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’re right: I did say that.’

  I was thinking now that he was teasing me on purpose. ‘Oh come on, Bronson, you always do this and inevitably you always end up knowing more than you let on. Tunnels in Damebury. Enter it into your mental database and let it knock around for a bit.’

  He tried looking slightly perplexed but I had a feeling he was putting it on. I crossed my arms and continued with the glowering theme.

  ‘You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t know more. Tunnels between the church and the pub.’

  ‘Tunnels?’ said Sam, appearing behind him with three pint glasses. Bronson took his, then Sam came and handed mine over. Our fingers touched as I took the glass, and suddenly I felt bashful again.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Sam parked himself in the opposite chair, ‘you’ll find rumours of tunnels in every old village. Many of them might well have been true, once upon a time. Sadly they’re so old it’s likely most of them have fallen in. Could even be untraceable. There’s legends about them here too. Remember Rosie? When we first discussed the Howlet Hoard. There were stories of tunnels leading from this pub to the Manor House?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, keen to re-engage. ‘When they were digging, did they ever find anything?’

  Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Bronson blinked hard and looked at the floor.

  ‘I don’t know how to answer that,’ Sam said eventually.

  I was going to ask why, but before the question popped out of my mouth I understood the reason for his caution. There had been excavations of course: they had uncovered two skeletons from the seventeenth century. And then when they transferred their efforts to the manor gardens, they recovered the headless remains of my grandmother.

  It had been a discovery that opened a Pandora’s box for me. And the surviving Strange family.

  Despite myself I found my thoughts wandering once more to my lost mother, Celeste. This woman who had birthed me then been caught up in something that had killed her.

  What had she been like really? I thought at length. And who was with her in the car?

  Then I remembered the notebook I had discovered underneath the trinket box.

  I must make an effort to read it, I thought, as the waiter brought the dishes to our table.

  But as I picked up my knife and fork I was visited by the sudden understanding of my own limitations. It was unlikely I’d go anywhere near it soon.

  It would be too intimate. Intrusive. Potentially stomach-churning or frightening.

  And now I had no appetite.

  I sighed out loud and looked around the table. Oh dear, Sam’s words had had an impact on both himself and Bronson.

  For none of us were tucking in with gusto.

  My long-lost mother’s memory was quieting them too.

  And although the table was laid for three, it felt like there were four of us there.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear that we had no disruptions last night whatsoever,’ Sophia announced proudly when we arrived at the Hall. ‘So we had no need of the cameras after all.’

  She was leading me into the breakfast room. ‘Your colleague is just running through the footage from the freestanding camera,’ she informed me.

  We’d arrived in separate cars today, mainly because I needed to put a conditioning treatment on my hair and Sam didn’t want to hang around.

  ‘I allowed your colleague to erect his tripod in the Orangery window,’ Sophia said as she bustled me across the polished marble floor. ‘Somehow I doubt he’ll find anything there. He’s in the study, so if you could call him for breakfast we’ll see you round the table in two minutes please.’

  I was quite surprised to hear that nothing had happened overnight. I had had a hunch that the activity might escalate. But no, it appeared this was not the case. I was wrong. It didn’t bode well for any of my other intuitions.

  I knocked on the door and went straight in. Sam was bent over the desk looking at some black-and-white footage. He had headphones on, so I tapped him on the shoulder.

  He jumped, then smiled and pushed the headphones back over his hair so that half of it was flat and the other half sticking up. ‘Ah, there you are.’

  ‘Sophia wants me to bring you into breakfast,’ I informed him.

  He nodded. ‘Yes okay. But there’s something on here I want to show you.’

  ‘She said there were no shenanigans last night.’

  ‘Not that anyone noticed,’ he said. ‘But the camera picks up things that the human eye can miss.’

  ‘Show me after,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to keep her waiting. We need her to cooperate so the others continue to too.’

  He took my point and left the headphones on the laptop.

  I thought we’d be the last seated round the breakfast table, but there were still two spaces left. Tabby had gone to get her glasses and Cullen had not yet surfaced. Nicholas began moaning about having to wait so Robin suggested we started anyway, which we did, and the subject of last night’s lack of incidence was entered into playfully.

  Everyone seemed genuinely relieved, although I kept my eyes peeled. But jokes popped lightly back and forth across the table, which was bigger than the one we had back at the Witch Museum and covered with a gleaming white linen tablecloth. Unlike the Witch Museum, all the crockery and cutlery matched. There were several servers full of eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms and beans which were kept warm on cordless silver hot trays.

  The kitchen diner was large and spacious, but still cosy. To one end was the kitchen and at the other French windows, which opened onto a small patio and the gardens. It had skylights which kept it bright and cheer
ful and a radio in the background which was playing popular classical music.

  I had a couple of slices of toast and marmalade and coffee, which was remarkable given that I felt like I’d been consuming a good 3,000 calories a day lately – it being autumn and all that. One needed a good coat of fat to keep your bones warm and I had been no stranger to the lamb stew, lasagne, wine and the odd cream cake. I wasn’t going to waste away if I refused the Cumberland sausies.

  Tabby joined us and heaped a large plate full of bacon and tomatoes, and as she did, expressed concern that Cullen was missing out on the hot food.

  Unusually satisfied and to avoid succumbing to eating more just because it was there, I volunteered to go and rouse him.

  Nicholas made a crude comment about that.

  This time Imogen told him to shut up. Jocelyn thanked her. Nicholas shrugged and scooped out everything that was left in the bacon server. Starla began instructing him on karma. Devlin said he’d written a book about the subject. Laura said she’d liked that one very much. Sam said it sounded interesting and asked Devlin what the title was. Sophia gave me instructions on which room Cullen was staying in and how to get to the second floor. Robin thanked me for going and said his knees were playing up.

  I was actually quite happy to get out for a bit on my own. I quite fancied having a poke around in the rest of the house.

  The carpet was seagrass throughout the top two floors, which was a good choice: hard-wearing but aesthetically pleasing. If I ever got the money to refurb the living quarters of the museum properly, I would definitely go for something similar. The walls had a fresh chalky white slapped across them and lots of pictures along various literature-related themes: a profile of Virginia Woolf, a painting of a female hand holding a pen, which on closer inspection was made up of the repetition of the words ‘Dare to be free’. There were of course several photographs of writers caught in the act of creation, captioned so there’d be no mistaking their identity and place in the canon: Hemingway on his typewriter in the open air in front of a ridge of low-lying mountains, Sylvia Plath sprawled across a sun-lounger looking intense and pissed off, Susan Sontag grinning over a manuscript, fag in hand, George Orwell, also smoking, his cigarette about to ash all over his typewriter, Hunter S. Thompson glaring at the camera in front of a spear and an enormous hi-fi speaker. Next to him was a picture of Ian Fleming looking exceedingly louche and debonair and pointing off-screen. Cleverly, his finger directed the viewer to a communal bathroom, separate shower and loo which ran off the landing. Although it also seemed that most of the rooms had small en suites with showers and toilets. Well, most of them that had been left open for Madam Noseypants here. Or rather, Mademoiselle Investigator I thought, and heard at the same time my inner voice take on pronounced Clouseau overtones. In fact, as I peeked around ze various rooms, I did feel like I vaz missing a magnifying glass.

  There wasn’t too much to report though. Generally the bedrooms were furnished simply, and were clean. The decoration was modern and minimal – there were a couple of photos of the knights in situ at the church, some ceramic vases, clocks – the furniture old and distinct. It was a good combination.

  There just remained an airing cupboard full of towels and sheets, and a tall closet with ironing boards, irons, light bulbs and linen. Beside those was a kind of nook, which had a desk, with a lamp and a window with a view into the gardens. Nice work if you could get it or afford to pay for it. What happened to those that couldn’t, I wondered. Probably too busy working for a living to sit down and put pen to paper. Or finger to keyboard. And probably unable to fork out £700 to get expert feedback from published writers. Wasn’t fair really was it? Perhaps I should open up a desk at the Witch Museum for writers to come and use? No fee, maybe just a couple of hours on the till as payment in kind. Yes, that’d be an idea, I’d have to think on it more, I thought, as I bounced up the next staircase to the second floor.

  This landing was smaller with fewer rooms coming off it. I could see there was one opposite, a large double, that had its door open and looked like it hadn’t been used. Lovely views in there, and quite a nice bathroom too. But I really shouldn’t linger, I had spent too long snooping and now should go and wake up the psycho.

  Room 12 was on my right. Its door was closed so I knocked on it.

  I thought about having a peek into Room 11, the door of which was ajar a couple of inches, but then worried my absence might seem over-long so knocked on Cullen’s door with renewed vigour. ‘Cullen? You awake?’

  Still no answer.

  I waited for what I deemed a reasonable amount of time, then shouted, ‘Breakfast’s up! You’ll miss all the bacon. Nicholas is being a fat pig and eating it all.’

  When I was sure nothing was stirring in the room, I tried the door knob. Maybe he’d gone out for an early morning walk or run? He looked the type. If I ascertained that he wasn’t here then I could go back to the table having fulfilled my duty.

  I pushed the door open.

  The silence inside the room was different.

  Eerie.

  Stagnant.

  I took a deep breath as I noted the bed. The lump in it. The face at the top. The lack of movement there.

  There was an awful pallor to the skin which reminded me of spilt candlewax.

  Then, for one brief shocking moment, my heart also stopped.

  The funny thing was, when I thought about it afterwards, there was absolutely no way I could have known in advance. And yet as soon as I saw Cullen lying there prone, his face rigid, his arms crossed across his chest, his eyes closed, I had this swift understanding, like a visitation, a kind of great plopping sensation that seemed to drop over my mind, which left me with the utterly indisputable knowledge that in the form on the bed, all life had been extinguished.

  Completely obliterated.

  The spirit that had once animated this fresh corpse had departed.

  I was struck by the sheer emptiness of everything: the room, its sound, the human within.

  It was so strange. But so natural. But so unnatural.

  I can’t explain. I should just tell you what happened next. Yet I can’t say in great detail because the recall isn’t entirely there.

  I can remember the first moments, that I’ve described above, but the next minutes are not so easy to grab on to.

  I think I felt the neck. But like I said, I already knew he was dead. I just had to go through the motions like I’d seen people do on telly. You have no other framework to reference this kind of thing, do you? Unless you’re a paramedic or you’ve been in a situation like this before.

  I hadn’t.

  So I felt for a pulse.

  Beneath the tips of my fingers Cullen’s throat was cool. That was so weird. When you touch another human being you notice the softness of their skin, perhaps the contours, the colour. Unless asked to comment on it, you never notice the temperature. Not normally. But to feel cold skin, lifeless skin – it’s a shocker.

  What was even more awful than the temperature and absence of pulse, was what I saw when I took my fingers away: two red dots with some bruising around them, right on the side of his neck.

  The sight made me step away immediately.

  And look around the room.

  Maybe it wasn’t as empty as I had first thought.

  Could those possibly be the punctures of a snake bite?

  Jesus.

  That thought was all that was required to send me spinning on my heels, toppling towards the door, half stumbling, half falling down the stairs till I got into the breakfast room.

  As soon as I entered, I closed the door and put my arm across it.

  ‘Don’t go out there anyone,’ I commanded. ‘Sam, call the police. Quick! Now!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Well, this is quite a mess you’ve left me. I suppose you’ll be expecting me to clean it up and then polish it for you as usual?’

  Scrub was in her regular high spirits.

  Sam was kind
of jumpy.

  I was frazzled and very tired.

  Everything had happened very quickly after I’d made my announcement in the breakfast room.

  I pulled out Sophia and Sam and told them about Cullen. I also informed them of what I’d seen on the side of his neck.

  Sam called 999.

  Sophia went into some kind of weird trance state, so we stuffed her in the study and told her not let anyone out of the breakfast room. Then on Sam’s instigation we went upstairs to see if I’d closed the bedroom door or not.

  I knew exactly what he was thinking – if it was a snake that had left those fang marks then it could still be here. Or worse – somewhere else in the Hall.

  But what if it wasn’t a snake? The puncture wounds looked rather wide apart, after all. Well spread.

  An unbidden image of the bat in the cemetery flapped across my mind prompting an astonishing left-field response: what if the fangs had not injected venom into Cullen’s pale neck, but sucked something out? Something red and liquid?

  ‘Oh god,’ I muttered quietly as my mind started hurtling to conclusions so speedily that Ms Ennis-Hill would be proud. What if, just what if, it thought, leaping from one conclusion to another with irrepressible energy, what if there was a VAMPIRE on the loose? What if, what if, it thought, vaulting from the puncture wounds on Cullen’s neck to the howling in Witch Wood with ease, what if it wasn’t a wolf or a witch or a hunter out there aprowling? What if it wasn’t trick-or-treaters who were frightening people about the Hall? What if it wasn’t a low-bellied reptile that had slithered into the bedroom to feast upon writerly blood?

  I’d seen Nosferatu – I knew the buggers could be ugly. Maybe the sight of such a monster shocked Graham’s heart into arrhythmia, terror squeezing it so hard it shuddered out its last beat?

  No, no, no! I was letting my errant imagination run away with itself and a whole raft of wrong-footed conclusions. It was a snake of course. An everyday unextraordinary escaped serpent from the local zoo.

  Gulp.

  Just a run-of-the-mill, slithering, common Royal Python.