by Andy Jarvis
It was Thursday night in the Bell, the day after we’d seen Chorley off. Arden had come to introduce himself around mid afternoon, and seeing that we were busy, briefly made arrangements for the evening.
As promised, McBright had arranged all the plant hire stuff and had it delivered early that morning. Baz and me spent the best part of the day on the ground work, digging out soft rubble and slinging it into a skip that had been plonked in the lane, much to the annoyance of some villagers as there was only room for pedestrians to pass. But we worked hard and by teatime the skip was full, which left me just enough daylight to mend the wall. No sign of Silas though.
We sat in a quiet corner, at the request of Arden, near a stone fireplace. Flames licked and crackled at freshly split pine logs. The half dozen or so customers at the bar chatted quietly among themselves out of earshot.
We were half way through a round, introductions, small talk about the weather and Arden’s second cigarette when he produced a large brown envelope from his briefcase, which he slid across the table to us. “Have a look at these,” he said picking up his drink, which was a pint by the way, and not the gin and tonic we expected him to order. “Cheers lads,” he toasted with an elegant raise of the glass.
They were photographs. I pulled them all out together. An uncomfortable memory came flooding back as I looked at the first. It was the corpse, only not as I had seen it. I hadn’t seen it at all before really, just its hand. Now it lay on a white surface, the sacking carefully pulled away from a head, the remains of brown leathery flesh or skin stretched obscenely across its skull. Little fingers, perfectly intact and claw-like, poked out from the cloth at the chest. Instruments and bottles lay at the side and serial numbers printed across the bottom of each print. A bit like the sort of thing you’d see on a television cop show. Each print was of the same subject, at different angles or different sections, or close up: skull, torso, feet, perfectly formed and intact.
“Well what do you think?” asked Arden after a long hush.
“I’m not with you,” I said. “In fact I’m not even sure why you’re here or how we can possibly help you.”
“I am coming to that, I promise, but I would like your opinion of the photos.”
“Good camera,” said Baz.
“He’s talking about the corpse, dummy,” I said.
“Oh, right.”
“Bear in mind,” continued Arden, “that police forensics dated the body at about seventy or more years. Don’t you think that there’s anything odd?”
“Such as?” I shuffled through them once again, handing them one by one to Baz, who pulled a face at each print like someone had grabbed his privates.
“What if I were to tell you that we estimated the age of the child at time of death to be about three to six months?”
I looked at one of the prints again. “I’m no expert, but I would guess if anything that it looks too good, like it should be more deteriorated. Almost like it’s made of paper-mache or something. Shouldn’t it be a skeleton? It’s not a hoax, is it?”
“Oh no, it’s no hoax,” said Arden. “This is very real, and you’re absolutely right, it should be more deteriorated. It’s very uncommon, even the police scientists couldn’t understand it. Certain other tests and enquiries have confirmed the age. They consider the case as not pursuable as crime, so they left it with us. They are still pursuing an inquiry, but a criminal investigation seems to be a lost cause at this moment in time. However the find is of genuine interest to the Trust.”
“In what way?” I asked.
“You see, a child of that age isn’t properly formed skeletally. The bones are still virtually cartilage, soft and consequently prone to rapid decomposition. Not as quickly as flesh, but very quickly nevertheless. The truth is there should hardly even be a skeleton. In fact there’s no other place in the world where I’ve seen anything like it. Not even in Egypt.”
“Jesus, Ed,” said Baz. “Maybe it really is a mummy, like I said.”
“Ah, but that’s the puzzle,” continued Arden. “It’s not quite the same as a mummy. And that’s where the forensic analysis comes in. The ancient Egyptians used sophisticated embalming techniques to ensure long preservation. There’s no trace of embalming compounds here. This is how the corpse appeared at first hand. But once out of the ground it started to deteriorate rapidly. These photos were taken shortly after exhumation, during the police autopsy. Everything points to a hasty burial, almost like it was a deliberate concealment with the hope of rapid decomposition. I believe that this body was placed at the same time as the original pipe channels were dug. My guess would be that this was someone’s illegitimate child – possibly murdered, although how, we don’t know. We still have to run more tests. Perhaps it was a workman on site at the time, using the ground work as a way of concealing the crime for good.”
Baz glanced at me. He was dying to say something.
I just shrugged my shoulders. “So, what has that got to do with us?” I said.
“Rumours,” Arden whispered, withdrawing a cigarette from a silver case.
“Rumours?” said Baz leaning forward. “What rumours?”
“There are little whisperings in the village here and there. And strange looks. I’ve heard something about a witch and a lady that sobs in the evening at St. Mark’s.”
“Yeah, we heard something about that, but me and Ed we don’t believe in all that haunting stuff. There’s no way we would have…” Baz paused.
Arden straightened up and raised an eyebrow at us. “What? There’s no way you would have what?”
“Me and Ed…well there’s no way we would believe in ghosts.”
“Get the drinks in Baz,” I said. “I believe it’s your round.”
“It’s about the only thing you do believe in these days,” he said, sauntering off to the bar.
“It’s all bullshit of course,” I said. “Tiny place like this; rumours are bound to start. They’ve got nothing better to do around here. Surely you can’t believe in it, can you? You haven’t tracked us down to discuss ghouls and nonsense.”
“No, I’m more interested in scientific reasoning, such as finding out how this body lasted so long in what appears to be ordinary English soil.” Arden leaned back placing the cig in his mouth, lighting it and letting out a long drawn out exhale as he stared up at the ceiling. “But to be fair, I do have an open mind about the unexplainable,” he said leaning forward again and tapping the ash teapot fashion. “Occasionally on some digs very strange things occur. Not necessarily frightening things but just odd.”
“You mean like poltergeist activity?” I said.
“Sort of, although we’ve never actually seen anything move.”
“There you go, see? A load of nonsense. What I can never understand about these claims is this notion that poltergeists are like angry spirits or some deceased person still bearing a grudge, yet all you ever hear of is sliding vases or cutlery rattling. If they were really angry and could move objects then they’d be able to wallop someone, but you never hear of that.”
“Perhaps even in the afterlife there are rules and laws, as there are in life,” Arden said.
“You’ve got to be having a laugh, surely you can’t believe that?”
“Maybe not, but I’ve done a fair bit of research into spiritual beliefs. There are some cultures, even in the developed world in the face of science, that are certain that the spirits have dominion over our own lives to the point of controlling movement and shaping individual destinies. Some still believe they have control over the elements even. As for myself, I admit I have never visually experienced such phenomena. But I’ve known things to get moved, and then be found elsewhere, even inside a locked room. Equipment gets interfered with, and strange noises occur, what I would call unearthly noises. And there is the cold of course, which anyone who’s ever read a ghost story or seen a horror film will be familiar with. It’s a re-occurring theme almost to the point of cliché, but I’ve experienced that.
I’m not saying there isn’t a perfectly rational explanation for some of these occurrences, but in this business well, digging up the past you see some very strange things. But then looking on the plus side of course, it’s always of interest to folk who come to the Trust for research. It helps with donations, not just from the government, but from psychic and ghost researchers. And it helps sell a few more of the Trust’s magazines.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” I said. “You give out and publicise this crap to make money?”
“Of course not. None of what I have told you is false, as far as the Trust understands it. All our information about such occurrences, are entirely accurate as recorded.”
“So why are you telling us all this? Are you wanting a story off us, is that it?”
“Not quite, but I know someone who does,” said Arden taking another long drag and stubbing the remains of his cig.
Almost on queue at Arden’s words the stranger appeared at the inn door. Arden turned and nodded. In acknowledgement the man doffed his deerstalker and hung it up along with his overcoat. He seemed to swagger as he approached. A smile on his face, and eyes that shifted about the room suggested feigned confidence – a dishonest man trying to look above board.
“Good evening gentlemen,” the stranger said, shaking our hands. “Harvey’s the name, Jim Harvey, freelance journalist.”
“Who are you working for then?” said Baz, placing a tray of pints on the table. Baz shook the man’s hand and sat down.
Harvey remained standing. “All of them and more, pretty well everyone,” he said. “Well then, I see you’ve got the pints in already, but how about a small chaser to burn off this winter chill?” Harvey smiled broadly revealing a solid gold incisor that caught the glint of firelight.
“I’ll have another pint of bitter,” said Baz, downing half of his glass in a single gulp. “I’m not keen on that spirit stuff.”
“Good man!” said Harvey laughing. “I can see you’re someone with an excellent sense of taste as well as humour. I was about to have a jar of the local malt myself.”
“Do you think he uses brass polish on that tooth?” said Baz, as Harvey left for the bar.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but it’s shinier than a chrome tap handle.”
“He’s a spiv, he is.”
“For once I agree with you, Baz. Who is this shady looking guy you brought us Arden? Says he’s a reporter? Looks more like some private dick.”
“Or just a dick,” added Baz.
Arden pulled his chair in closer and leaned across the table. “I know,” he said quietly. “He looks a bit dodgy, but Harvey’s one of the best in his field. Very thorough, he leaves no stone unturned. Give him a chance. There may be a little something in it for you,” he added, tapping the side of his nose with two fingers that held another so far unlit cig between them.
I watched as Harvey walked back to our table with a tray. His swagger reminded me of Chorley’s rig on the cobbles as the glasses swayed precariously, ice clinking in the scotch glasses and froth spilling down the side of the pints. I imagined the drinks going the same way as the boiler, only this time right off the edge onto the floor, and all eyes in the bar turning.
“Well, well, just look at this place, eh!” Harvey said jovially. “This is what I call a pub!” He looked around, admiring the room. “Original beams, fixtures, antique pewter ware and real stone hearth, not to mention ale!” He took a long sip. “And no tacky jukebox or gaming machines. Perfect! A perfect setting!”
“For what?” said Baz.
“Right, right, I expect you gentlemen are curious about what I’m after.”
“Sure are,” I said. “I thought all the reporters had long since gone. What’s left to tell?”
“And what sort of reporter are you?” said Baz. “What’s all this about settings?”
“Ah well, I pick up where the other reporters finish,” said Harvey. “You see, they’ve got their story. Outside of the finding of a body, there’s nothing that really interests them in Candlewell, especially as it seems no one’s going to be charged. Just a few lines in the tabloids and that’s it. They’re more interested in the football stars or the politicians, digging up a bit of sleaze. That’s where I move in. Hang around a while, pretend to be a tourist, ask a few questions here and there about the local folklore. I might call in at the newsagents for a paper, ask about a certain building, its history etc. Then the conversation goes from there. They’ll probably point me off to someone else and from there it snowballs, and all the time I maintain a low profile. I’m just a curious sightseer to them. Then when I’ve got what I want I hype it all up a bit, do a few photos, computer enhanced with deep shadows and highlights to emphasise the drama. I do all my own editing, all state of the art gear.”
“Jim’s won many photographic competitions,” added Arden, lighting his cigarette.
“Then along with a good story, I present it all as a package to whichever publication has asked. Believe me I’ve worked for the best. You name it: National Geographic, Time, even New Scientist.”
“Bet you haven’t done any for the Sun,” said Baz.
“Can’t say I have,” said Harvey laughing. “However, some glamour shoots would make a nice change, I must say.”
“Well how about the Southwell Archaeological Trust magazine?” I said flatly.
“We’re sussed!” exclaimed Harvey. “But it’s more than just the Trust’s publication. I could get you both in one of the big name magazines. Well what do you think? Would you like to be part of it? I could do a great spread, some shots of you two over the site with a spade each, an eerie backdrop of the church windows and pillars, and a heading say, The Mysteries of Candlewell or The Candlewell Corpse!”
“But we don’t really know anything,” I said. “It wouldn’t be much of a story.”
“And them reporters that were here before weren’t that interested in me and Ed,” said Baz. “They were all about RJ, I mean Reverend Cannon, and he didn’t know anything either.”
“Then when the police told them there was no case to answer they all buggered off,” I added.
“Hmm, there’s a bit more to this than meets the eye,” said Harvey. He took a small sip of scotch, placed the glass down and twirled it on the table, squinting shrewdly at us both. “There’s talk,” he continued. “Talk in the village. Not just general gossip as you’d expect in a small community, more the hush-hush type. Sometimes you need to push a little to get the right answers, but one thing in common keeps cropping up.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“Your names. One sprightly old gentleman in particular who goes by the name of Silas. He seems to think…”
“The old git!” cried Baz out loud, then quickly he hushed. “Where have you seen him?” he whispered. “He’s a weirdo him; said all this stuff about ghosts and a witch when we were in the village hall. Then Ed saw him the other day and he gave him some weird looking roots, a bit like parsnips. Called them man…man something or other. They stunk.”
“Mandrake,” I said.
“Mandrake? That’s odd,” said Arden.
“Why’s that?” said Baz. “What are they?”
“Well, they’re a herb with a rather strange background,” said Arden. “They can be grown in this country, but they’re not common. They’re usually found in the Mediterranean or the Middle East, and parts of the Himalayas. Anyone cultivating them here must have a strong belief in their power. They were widely regarded with superstition, but even these days some believe in their supernatural potency. More commonly they were used as a love charm or in fertility rites, supposedly as an aphrodisiac, in very small doses. They’re quite poisonous you know, but I believe some covens still use them in witchcraft practices.”
“Covens?” said Baz. “You said there might have been one Ed, remember?”
“Where would you get such an idea?” said Arden.
“Nowhere, just musing I suppose.” I said.
Harve
y, who’d been jotting down notes for the past few minutes, stopped to eye us suspiciously.
“We can’t help you,” I hastened to add. “We don’t really know anything other than what Silas said.”
“This Silas chap seems to think you’re in some sort of bother,” said Arden. “That you’ve disturbed something more than just a body.”
“And what’s your opinion?”
“Codswallop mostly. He did mention something that caught my attention, however.”
“What?”
“Mist,” said Arden.
Harvey scribbled furiously.
“The mist? What of it?” I said.
“It must have been very unusual, certainly no figment of Silas’ imagination. You mentioned it to the police even.”
“It was gone by the time they got there,” said Baz. “They talked to me like I was some sort of idiot. They kept laughing and saying: What sort of mist was it – scotch?”
“But it was real, right?” said Harvey. He’d stopped writing.
“Sure was,” said Baz. “We couldn’t get rid of it, it just kept settling in the same place when we tried wafting it away.”
“Do you think it was natural, or unnatural? Did it have a distinctive odour of any kind?” said Arden.
“Natural,” I said. “But it didn’t smell of anything.”
“Unnatural,” said Baz, at the same time.
“Well that helps a great deal,” Arden sighed.
“It’s got be natural,” I said. “Although it didn’t seem to be seeping out from the ground. It was just there, and you couldn’t wave it away even. Anyway, what does it matter? Either way it’s gone now, whatever it was.”
“The thing is,” said Arden, “I’ve been approached by someone, an outsider who claims to know what’s happening here.”
“And what does he say it is?”
“It’s a very interesting theory, or belief that he has, not all of which he has disclosed to me. So in the meantime I’m keeping an open mind and am reluctant to say any more, at least until I’ve found out a little more about him. I’m running a few background checks for now.”