by Neil Spring
‘My three little girls. Lillian. Beatrice. Rosalie.’
‘What happened to them?’
He shook his head. To be sure, Hartwell might be privileged and wealthy, but that had stood for nothing in the face of death; he had lost his precious children and nothing would make up for that.
‘We buried Rosalie next to her sisters on the eve of the war,’ he said. ‘If anyone had said to me then I’d also have a boy, and that he too would perish so young, I’d never have believed it.’
‘A boy?’
‘Yes. After the evacuation, I had a son.’
An invisible hand clenched my heart and squeezed it: a son . . .
‘My condolences,’ I said, in barely more than a whisper. ‘When did he pass?’
‘Five years ago.’ I heard the quaver in his voice. ‘Bless his soul, just five years old.’
‘You must wish you could have laid him to rest with his sisters, in Imber.’
Hartwell’s head was shaking. ‘But Pierre is buried in Imber.’
I looked at him quizzically. ‘The church is out of bounds.’
‘We had to obtain a special grant from the army.’ He turned back to stare out of the windscreen. ‘My baby girls and my son are there together. Buried in a rotting churchyard behind a barbed-wire fence. Imagine, Miss Grey. If indeed there is such a thing as life after death, my children must wonder why I don’t tend their graves more than once a year, why I don’t pray in the church where their funerals were held. They must wonder that, don’t you think?’
I didn’t know how to answer that. It seemed cruel to suggest his children’s spirits did wonder at his absence; crueller still, though, to suggest the spirits did not exist.
Hartwell did not seem to require a response; he switched on the engine and our journey to Westdown Camp resumed.
*
When we reached the rutted track that led to the camp, I took great interest in the surroundings. This was where the soldiers lived; ahead was a guard hut, planted conspicuously next to a bright yellow wooden barrier. Beyond that, lookout towers and various hangars showed austere shapes against the gigantic purple sky. But the spot was so remote it must seldom receive visitors, especially at this hour.
It was eight thirty. Most likely Price and Commander Williams would be wondering what had become of me.
A uniformed soldier in the guard hut nearby looked on as we rolled to a halt just a few metres away from the barrier. I thought how suspicious we must look to him.
Hartwell killed the engine.
‘Let me help you out,’ he said, opening his side door, but I quickly pre-empted the gesture by getting out of the Bentley and walking around to him. We stood in the cold spitting rain, which had just begun to fall. The wind gusted around me, carrying the distant echoes of soldiers’ voices and the rumble of a truck’s engine. I was about to say thank you and goodbye, but Hartwell was looking at me earnestly, and I sensed he was about to unburden himself of a question he had been longing to ask. I was right.
‘The child you think you saw, tonight on the road. Describe him.’
I did so, shivering as I recalled the wretched boy, the coal-black eye sockets, the distended stomach. It did not escape my attention that as Hartwell listened his face tensed and paled.
He glanced at the soldier, now standing at the door of the guard hut, and then looked at me steadily. ‘My advice, my strong advice, is to tell no one what you saw this night. It will be better that way. Do you understand?’
I didn’t.
‘Do you know the boy?’ I asked. ‘His family?’
‘Please,’ he said, ‘forget what you saw.’ He began to stride back to his car, but then turned and called, loudly enough for the soldier to hear, ‘And Miss Grey, be careful not to trust anyone in that camp. For your own sake, don’t trust anything they tell you.’
– 10 –
INKED PROMISES
Beyond the barrier and the guard hut was the sprawling army camp: a jumble of prefabricated steel huts arcing low from the ground, barracks with green roofs and concrete office buildings around a wide air strip.
I was hungry. My limbs were rigid with cold and ached with exhaustion from the journey, but I was relieved to be here, finally, as a soldier drove me in a Rover past a watchtower and along a well-lit track that led to the largest concrete building, its windows netted with metal mesh.
This must be the camp where they brought Father, when war broke out.
Retracing his footsteps. The only difference was that I had chosen to come here. For him, a stint at Westdown Camp had been decreed, just like the banishment of the people of Imber.
Inside Central Security Control, a narrow, stark corridor strung with lamps led to a doorway with a nameplate on it: ‘Commander Gordon Williams’.
‘Wait here,’ said my guide, before striding away.
Somewhere far off a telephone was ringing. Somewhere else a typewriter was clacking out a memo. I stood alone in the corridor, thinking about Oscar Hartwell. He was a bit peculiar. I couldn’t put out of my mind his initial lack of interest in the wandering child; but then, as we had parted company, he had seemed to accept that I had seen the boy and to imply . . . what?
There was no sign of the soldier who had brought me here. I looked back at the office door. I should knock. My hand formed a fist and hovered over the door.
‘I know you from somewhere, don’t I?’
I started and swung round to see a wiry gentleman in a khaki military uniform standing beside me. He wore a pair of small silver wire spectacles, their frames so perfectly round that when they caught the light his eyes looked like a pair of shining coins. His hair was white, his face sunken and thin; his hands were gnarled, the skin raw and cracked and blistered in places. I didn’t think this was the commander who had summoned us here, but whoever he was, he exuded an air of stern authority.
‘Yes, I do know you from somewhere,’ he repeated, his eyes searching. ‘I never forget a face.’
‘I’m Miss Grey. I’m here to see the commander. Perhaps you could let him know I’m here? I’ve had the most frightful journey and—’
‘The commander is speaking to your associate,’ he said.
Price? What did he think was doing, seeing the commander without me? What were they discussing?
‘You wait here,’ the white-haired man instructed.
There seemed little else to do but reply, ‘All right. Thank you.’
He turned abruptly and marched away along the corridor. As I watched him go I rubbed at the gooseflesh on my arms – and then flinched when the door next to me suddenly opened inwards. Price’s face loomed towards me.
‘Sarah! I was here at seven o’clock, as instructed’ – he tapped his wristwatch testily – ‘seven, on the dot. It’s almost a quarter to nine now. Where the hell have you—’
I raised a hand to silence him. ‘Harry, however inconvenienced you’ve been tonight, let me assure you I’ve had it far worse.’ I was feeling rather unsettled and unkempt in my blackened skirt, sullied by my fall in the road, and I saw now that the hem had ripped.
I snatched up my case. ‘Tell me – is there somewhere appropriate I might change?’
Price winced slightly. He looked back over his shoulder, at the open door behind him, then resumed a more professional tone, lowering his voice and ushering me away from the office.
‘Sarah, there’s no need to be so short with me. We’re a team, remember?’
‘For a few days, yes, we’re a team. After that, we go our separate ways.’
He looked wounded, but I wasn’t buying it.
‘Look at me, Harry. I’m absolutely filthy! I need to freshen up. Do you know where I’m staying?’
His eyes narrowed.
He opened his mouth to reply, but it wasn’t his voice that followed. The voice I heard was deep
er, loaded with authority.
‘No time.’
I shifted to look over Price’s shoulder, into the room. A tall soldier decorated with medals was standing next to a grand desk, regarding me severely. His military bearing was enhanced by his neat moustache and a thin scar running through his left eyebrow.
‘You are late, Miss Grey, and our problem will not wait.’
*
Commander Williams’ office was spacious but stank of tobacco. The concrete walls were decorated with military plaques, awards and framed photographs of soldiers in uniform. I sat down before the wide desk, with Price beside me. Commander Williams stood across from us, gesturing to a detailed map of Salisbury Plain.
‘You’ll be heading to Imber at first dawn,’ he told us, pointing at a red circle looped around an area I assumed was the village. ‘Artillery fire will be suspended, of course, and after that you’ll have twenty-four hours to conduct your . . . investigation.’ The word sounded strained. We were here with the commander’s permission, yes, but evidently he had given it with reluctance. ‘I won’t pretend that your presence here is convenient, Mr Price, but the safety of the Imber civilians must take precedence this weekend. The army has a duty of care, and—’
‘So, what’s the military up to on Salisbury Plain, hmm?’ Price interrupted, gesturing to the wall map. ‘There’s no war on, no immediate threat to the nation’s security. What are you hiding here?’
The commander grimaced. ‘You sound almost as paranoid as Mr Churchill, with his incessant war-mongering speeches.’
‘Oh,’ Price laughed, ‘I’m the most paranoid man you’ll ever meet, commander, which is why you were supremely wise to call me in. Well, never mind, we’ll find out soon enough.’ He settled back in his seat, folded his arms and said seriously, ‘You’re familiar with the finer aspects of my work, I assume?’
‘I know you hunt ghosts.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘It is fairer to say, commander, that Harry here has a half-believing, half-doubting attitude towards spiritualism,’ I explained. ‘Indeed, he considers the subject worthy of the most serious attention. Isn’t that correct, Harry?’
Price nodded. ‘Determining the truth about life after death? There could be no greater mission, nothing more important to our understanding of the world.’
‘At the same time, Harry thinks we should be on our guard against our desire to believe.’
The commander eyed Price speculatively. ‘I’m told, Mr Price, that you can reduce the most convincing accounts of so-called supernormal activity to the most mundane explanations. I certainly hope that’s true, because we need answers, quickly.’ He tilted his chin back, eyeing Price’s cashmere overcoat, his black silk necktie. ‘Have you consulted with any branch of the armed services before?’
I was almost certain the answer to this question was no. And it would be another nine years before Price became involved again with the military, in November 1941 – the Helen Duncan affair. A spiritualist claimed the ghost of a sailor had informed her that the HMS Barham had been sunk, and because she had no conceivable way of possessing that knowledge, the military investigated. Eventually, they charged her with conspiracy to contravene the Witchcraft Act, worried about further leaks. And who was it that so ruthlessly revealed Helen’s trickery and helped secure the damning verdict? Helen Duncan had Harry Price to thank for being branded a traitor, for her nine-month stretch in prison. If you believe the reports – and I do – she was dragged down to the cells screaming, ‘This is all lies. What are they doing to me?’
‘Actually, this is the first occasion I have been called upon to advise the armed forces,’ Price told the commander.
Williams nodded, opened his desk drawer and drew out two neatly typed sheets of paper bearing the insignia of the War Office. ‘You are to sign these,’ he said, handing one paper to Price and the other to me, and plucking two white-gold fountain pens – Pelikan originals – from a pot on his desk. ‘The Official Secrets Act.’
Price and I exchanged a glance.
‘I will sign this,’ said Price, scanning his paper, ‘however, I must insist upon complete access to every part of the Imber Range, and complete and total access to relevant witnesses and information.’
Nothing but withering silence from the commander.
‘Right then,’ said Price awkwardly. He cleared his throat, and scrawled his dramatic, upsweeping signature.
With a twinge of doubt, I followed suit. A promise inked in blue. At the time I fully intended to keep that promise; not for a moment did it occur to me that I would one day break it by writing this account. But how was I to know, then, the extremities of the bizarre and irrefutable world we were about to enter? Of the sinister, harrowing events that would ensue?
Once we had handed the forms back to the commander, he rose and shut them away in a bulky filing cabinet brimming with official documents. Only then did he turn his stern attention back to Price and say firmly, ‘Any access you and Miss Grey are granted within this establishment will be strictly on a need-to-know basis. Everything you will see and hear is classified as top secret, and when you leave, you will say nothing.’ He glanced down at me and added, ‘Not to anyone – especially members of the press.’
I understood that he was referring to Vernon, but I was relieved he didn’t mention the reporter by name; Price would have been furious. He gave the commander a petulant look and said in a strained tone, ‘What I want most, commander, is to understand what has happened to Sergeant Gregory Edwards.’
The commander sat down, drawing a breath.
‘I’ll come to that. It bothers me immensely to admit it, but bizarre sightings are commonplace round these parts. Indeed, many tales are told amongst the soldiers of happenings in the village.’
‘All right then,’ Price said, somehow managing to sound both bored and engaged. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out. He glanced sideways at me as if to say, Take notes, Sarah, and looked slighted when he saw I already had my pen and pad on my lap.
Keeping one step ahead of him now – that was the only way I was going to get through this.
‘I should say, to begin with, that Imber is no stranger to the macabre,’ Williams told us. ‘You’ll see the war memorial on your route to the church. Now, many of the cottages are said to be haunted by former villagers, killed during the last war. Some of my men swear they’ve seen glowing balls of light, flitting through the village after dark.’
‘Hunters carrying lanterns?’ Price proposed. ‘Reckless individuals straying onto the range when they think you’re not watching?’
‘No. Our men have pursued these lights on foot, repeatedly. Never once have they encountered hunters. Only these balls of light, the size of tennis balls, they tell me. Lights which display every sign of sentient control.’
I remembered the glowing orb the projectionist at the cinema had told me he had seen floating through the darkened auditorium. Hadn’t that light had a rational explanation? Quite possibly, these lights would also be easily explained, but at that moment I was finding it difficult to imagine how. The curiosity must have shown on my face, because just then Williams looked directly at me.
‘The real troubles began in and around the Imber church, right in the middle of a training exercise with live ammunition. We had to sound the emergency, call it all off.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there were intruders in the churchyard. Civilians. Women.’
‘What were these women doing?’ I asked.
‘According to our observers,’ the commander said, ‘they were tending a grave. Except, as you will soon discover, the churchyard, like the church itself, is permanently locked. Cordoned off by a high fence. And when our men ceased fire and the range warden investigated, he found no one, despite making an extensive search. Then . . .’
Price’s climbing ey
ebrows begged the obvious question.
‘The church bells rang. According to Imber folklore, the church bells will only ring when the village is returned to its citizens, or’ – he hesitated – ‘when a great tragedy is due to befall Imber.’
Superstition. Price was silent, but I could see the familiar glint of scepticism in his eyes.
‘Like you, I was doubtful,’ Williams said. ‘But I myself have heard the long, hollow notes of the church bells, sometimes during the day, mostly after nightfall. They toll seven times, as if for a funeral. Since the women were seen, the churchyard has developed an unfortunate reputation for being haunted, as well as the wooded area behind it. There’s a track leading up there – Carrion Pit Lane.’
That name. An unpleasant shiver went through me. I ignored it.
‘Some of the more compelling accounts have been reported by soldiers training in precisely that area. They describe an eerie, uncomfortable sensation of being watched. Some even reckon they’ve seen a ravenous black dog roaming the woods.’
‘It’s quite possible they have,’ I said. ‘But roaming strays hardly justify a scientific investigation.’
‘What else?’ Price asked, but he wasn’t looking at the commander. Instead, his gaze was fixed on some framed formal photographs of soldiers on the office wall.
‘Soldiers have reported hearing music coming from the church, laughter from the abandoned pub. Phantom gunshots. Distressed cries of men and women being evicted from their homes. Even phantom fires, producing no heat and no smoke.’
Price’s full attention was on the commander now. ‘Do you believe these are genuine hauntings?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t say that,’ the commander said, after a pause, ‘but shadowy human figures have been seen, roaming the empty lanes.’
Any reports of a wandering child with charcoal eyes? I wondered. I hoped not. God, I hoped not.
‘A few soldiers have observed a large, hunched figure lumbering through the village, dragging behind him a long object – a sledgehammer. Some of the more imaginative men believe this figure is the ghost of the last person to leave Imber.’