The Lost Village

by Neil Spring

  HARRY PRICE

  PASSED AWAY 29 MARCH 1948

  AGED 67

  I have to swallow before I speak, and when I do, the words come in a dry whisper. ‘The military suppressed so much of what happened but I’m going to tell the police everything about Imber, Harry. It’s right that they know. It’s the right thing for Pierre. I’m setting him free.’ I take a breath. ‘And it’s right that you know something, too.’

  My mind drifts back to my youth. To the dark days, the quiet desperation of an expectant single mother. In a flash I see myself, alone and terrified at the convent. Concealing the birth of my son from his father.

  ‘Our son – the boy you never knew – lived. He lived, Harry, and if you can hear me now, there’s something I’d like you to know. I am so, so sorry. I am sorry I lied. Sorry you never knew him. But there hasn’t been a day I haven’t struggled with the guilt. I thought he would have a better chance in life with parents who were ready for him. It was the right thing to do. I hope.’

  The gravestone stares back at me, silent and cold. Just like the man himself, it is holding on to its secrets.

  ‘I’m not proud of what I did. I hope that you can—’ My voice cracks. ‘I hope that you can forgive me.’

  I kiss my fingertips and gently touch the headstone again, as if caressing the face of a child. I think of our ill-fated affair and another wave of regret envelops me. Moments that might have been, drifting through my mind like snowflakes.

  ‘So long, my old friend. Rest in peace.’

  Slowly, I stand and turn. And just as I begin walking away, the wind stirs. I hear it lift and scatter some dead leaves. I feel its breath sigh on the nape of my neck.

  And without looking back, I wipe away a tear.

  It is as if Harry Price is saying goodbye.

  *

  We’re about a mile away from the military range. Very little about Salisbury Plain has changed. It is still barren, rugged. Destitute of life.

  We drive west over this vast expanse, passing the crossroads and a battered sign that points the way like a crooked finger to a low stone bridge, and as we crest the hill, I see it: the spire of St Giles’ Church, jutting defiantly into the open sky.

  Vernon is clenching his jaw as he steers our car along the bumpy track, past the red flags, the warning signs, the abandoned tanks rusting ever further into decay.

  ‘How many were there, Sarah?’ Vernon asks me in a flat voice. ‘How many cases did you and Harry investigate? I mean, cases you never told me about?’

  A stretch of awkward silence.

  ‘Sarah?’

  Old memories swarm back in. I think of our many confrontations with objects that floated, with people who levitated. Kuda Bux’s jaw-dropping demonstration of fire-walking. The Battersea Poltergeist, which drove a Stockwell family to despair. The incredible haunting of Cashen’s Gap, an isolated farmstead on the Isle of Man.

  So many cases I could tell Vernon about – but I don’t. I simply shake my head.

  At the present moment, I think he would prefer not to know.

  The fog has become low and thick, rolling down off the plain. At the military checkpoint, a guard appears, checks our identification. We are waved past the Keep Out and Danger signs, into the village of lonely dwellings whose windows and entranceways are mangled with barbed wire.

  The years have not been kind to Imber. Some of the original grey cottages I remember have disappeared altogether, replaced by modern concrete buildings that look as though they’re designed to replicate conflict zones in Northern Ireland.

  The village may have changed, but one thing is still clear: army training here continues.

  We get out of the car and events from long ago loom in my memory like monstrous silhouettes. Behind me, beyond the muddy stream, is the burned-out ruin of Imber Court. I know it’s there, daring me to look, but I can’t. Not yet. I see movement ahead. A male figure stepping out of the shadow thrown down by the church tower.

  Harry Price?

  He is standing there in a black coat, the brim of his hat tipped against the sky, looking down at a grave. Shakily, I start towards him, towards the church gate, but then I realise I am alone. I turn back to Vernon, who hovers anxiously by the car.

  ‘I can’t come with you, Sarah. I’m sorry.’

  He’s come this far and that’s good enough. I give him a reassuring smile and ask him to wait.

  Then I turn towards the churchyard. The hallowed building looms ahead of me, imposing against the sombre sky.

  I stand for a moment next to the church gate, watching him: the solitary figure, standing in the shadow of the bell tower. Not Harry Price, but the man I have requested to meet. Pierre.

  Breathing a deep sigh, I walk slowly to him.

  He looks up, and his eyes widen. ‘Miss Grey? Sarah?’

  I smile. He has the same sensitive and intelligent expression I remember so well.

  ‘I never dreamt this would happen, that I would be so fortunate to see you again. I owe you my life,’ he says, in a rush of words and emotion. ‘I never heard from you, after . . . what happened. I thought you must have died.’

  The boy I rescued has become a man in his early fifties, his greying hair swept in a side parting.

  For a few minutes, we skirt around the maltreatment and the tragedy that has reunited us in this hellish place. I notice that Pierre is also unable to look in the direction of Imber Court. Seeing the sallow hollows under his eyes, it occurs to me that the guilt of his own involvement has weighed heavily upon him; he too has been haunted by the ghosts of Imber, by himself.

  ‘It was a hard time,’ he tells me, ‘recovering from the trauma, the starvation . . . It was so long before I could trust anyone. After they dragged Albert’s body from the river, I realised he must have killed himself. And I wondered what had happened to you.’

  ‘I kept a low profile,’ I say. ‘But I often thought about you.’

  ‘I spent the rest of my childhood in Wiltshire. Of course there was a military investigation, most of the details were suppressed from the public. I said as little as possible, certainly nothing about the séances. I didn’t need a story like that following me through life.’

  ‘Who raised you?’

  ‘My real father. Gregory Edwards.’

  I try to disguise my surprise, remembering the horribly scarred sergeant, his volatility. ‘They granted him custody?’

  He nods, smiling. ‘Eventually, after his rehabilitation. He was very good to me.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how that pleases me,’ I tell him. And truly, it eases this old woman’s regrets to know that from events so heinous came something good. ‘Where is Gregory now?’

  ‘He passed away, ten years ago.’

  The tenderness in his voice brings tears to my eyes.

  Then Pierre raises a question I’ve anticipated.

  ‘Perhaps you can help me understand something, Miss Grey. Why did Hartwell concoct this whole illusion with Sidewinder – use me in his deception, fake my death?’

  The idea that he would do such a thing, orchestrate hauntings in the area, just to persuade the army to leave, had always struck me as unlikely. Perhaps that had been part of Hartwell’s motive, but it wasn’t all. Now I believe there had indeed been a deeper, more emotional reason for the perpetration of this hoax.

  ‘I think it was a number of things, but the main reason, I’d say, was Gregory Edwards’ affair with Marie, your mother. When Hartwell began to suspect it, his mission to have Imber returned to the community became so much more. It became revenge against the army, against the establishment, against your mother for her affair. Pierre,’ I say softly, taking his hands, ‘I think a part of Hartwell knew you didn’t belong to him. And I believe he faked your death partly out of fear that your true father might attempt to take you away from him.’

/>   Pierre nods at me with soul-tortured understanding.

  ‘Hartwell wanted Sergeant Edwards – your real father – to suffer.’

  ‘And he did suffer,’ Pierre says with a sigh. ‘The burns covered most of his body. My father would often cry himself to sleep. He had to contend with a lifetime of that pain – and of course the mental trauma. But he was always grateful that you listened to him with an open mind.’ Pierre gives a raw smile. ‘I’d never have found him, Sarah, if it weren’t for you and Mr Price.’ A pause. ‘Is Harry . . .’

  ‘Dead, yes.’ I say nothing about the spectre that appeared to me one week ago. Or the name he whispered to me.

  The sound of laughter rings across the churchyard. Some young policemen stride confidently past the church gate, heading towards the top of Carrion Pit Lane. The sight of them draws Pierre back to the task at hand.

  ‘The police brokered this meeting, Miss Grey. But I’m not sure why. I don’t like this place. This village is full of old memories.’

  Yes, I thought. And old souls.

  ‘These human remains they unearthed . . .’

  His expression darkens.

  ‘A little girl, isn’t it?’ I whisper.

  Pierre pales. ‘Yes, but how do you—’

  ‘Strangled,’ I tell him.

  He straightens. Startled, and a little afraid. ‘Did Hartwell tell you that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The how can you—’

  ‘Oscar Hartwell, the man you thought was your father, killed one more person.’

  ‘Who?’

  I lay my hand softly on his arm. ‘I’ll tell you everything, but first I’d like to – I have to – see the remains. Please, Pierre. I mean . . . if that’s all right with you. The police said I could.’

  He nods, and I link my arm with his. As we reach the top of Carrion Pit Lane, the edge of the woods, that fearful wilderness, I turn to look out over the valley, the long-neglected meadows and the shell-shattered cottages. And there it is, the army’s kill house.

  Imber Court.

  I see it now as it was on the day of the protest – engulfed in flames, the roof falling in. I can almost hear the protestors’ drums and whistles. How distant they seem, and yet how near.

  Yes, there we are, Harry and I, bursting from the back of the mansion, burning wood spitting and crackling behind us. Making our way so carefully through the minefield, stepping oddly, veering left, then right, almost as if someone is leading us on.

  I realise Pierre is looking expectantly at me, as though he knows there is one final revelation to hear, and of course there is.

  So I tell him.

  – 38 –

  PROVENANCE

  Imber, 1932

  We had navigated the land mines and just made it onto the road, to safety, when I saw Vernon running desperately towards us.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re safe.’

  ‘Vernon, what are you—’

  ‘I couldn’t just leave you out here, Sarah!’

  He shrugged off his coat and draped it over my shoulders, then pulled me close to him, so swiftly I hardly noticed him taking Marie’s rolled-up drawings from me.

  It was only later, when the protestors were dispersing and I was sitting in the back of Price’s saloon, recovering, that I looked out of the window and noticed Vernon standing near the church gate, staring intently at the scrolls. I was suddenly worried that he still intended to write a news piece about these events, to impress his new employer.

  I got out of the car, went to Vernon and said, ‘Promise me you won’t write about what happened here.’ When he remained silent, I tried a different approach: ‘Vernon, I can persuade Harry to do the same, to keep your name in connection with these events a secret, but you’ll have to keep your end of the bargain. Our involvement here remains secret. Agreed?’

  Only then did Vernon turn. His pallor made me instantly nervous. So did his eyes, which were wide and unblinking.

  ‘Besides, it wouldn’t be fair on Pierre to publish anything about this. We need to protect him now. Vernon?’

  I angled my head to look at Marie’s drawings in his hand. His trembling hand. He was already rolling them up.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s just that . . . I hadn’t seen these drawings until now. I didn’t know there were more.’ I saw the agitation spreading over his angular face.

  ‘More? What do you mean?’

  ‘These drawings. There are others like them.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said dismissively. ‘Pierre is safe now, yes? He can begin his life again. We can return to London. Take in a picture, perhaps? Vernon?’

  ‘A picture.’ The words came out slowly. Vernon walked away then, into the blur of rain. Then, suddenly, he turned and rushed back to me with a look of dread and pity. ‘Sarah, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. There’s something I must tell you. Will you come with me?’

  I nodded uncertainly, and he took my arm and led me towards the top of Carrion Pit Lane. Standing next to the commander’s truck, Price was engrossed in conversation with Williams. Disconcerted soldiers were close by, encouraging civilians to move on. They didn’t see us as Vernon guided me past the churchyard, towards the woods and, beyond, the abandoned mill. As if to protest against the journey, the wind gusted – and my heart thudded harder. It wasn’t like Vernon to behave so mysteriously; his nerves must have been unsettled by the protest. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  ‘Vernon,’ I said, ‘what’s this about?’

  ‘You said you blanked out, somewhere near the old mill. That you felt that spot was important to you.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Show me exactly where that happened.’

  I didn’t feel I could refuse, even though I was apprehensive and wanted to go back. It was quite a walk, but I led him to the millpond. As my eyes locked on the rusty old wheel, I felt a sudden tightness around my neck, a pain in my chest.

  ‘You’re sensing it again, aren’t you?’ Vernon asked, and I felt the scrutiny of his eyes. ‘I really am so dreadfully sorry, Sarah, but I think this location – this exact spot, in fact – might be crucial. For this whole investigation, but especially for you.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said. I began walking away, feeling that if I spent one moment longer on that spot I might suffocate.

  ‘Sarah, no. I’m afraid you’ve got to hear this.’

  I wheeled on him. ‘All right! What is it? WHAT?’

  ‘These are spirit drawings, yes? Made by Hartwell’s wife? I’ve seen drawings very much like them before.’

  ‘Before? When?’

  ‘When I broke into Price’s laboratory. Drawings of you, Sarah.’

  Albert’s drawings.

  Both Albert and Marie – individuals who claimed clairvoyant abilities – had made drawings of me. What were the chances? As I processed this thought I began to feel light-headed.

  ‘I thought that perhaps Price had sketched them, that maybe he was obsessed with you or something. Maybe he missed you so much . . .’ He stopped himself, embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘Sarah, these drawings were tucked inside a file marked “Imber”. Along with a detailed history of the village and papers, birth certificates, death certificates, referencing the Hartwell family name. And your name.’

  I searched his face. ‘Is that surprising? He knew my father trained here.’

  But that was odd, now I thought about it, because I hadn’t told Price about my father’s connection to the village before we left London. In fact, I hadn’t told him at all – he claimed to have figured it out after spotting the photograph on the wall of the commander’s office.

  The hypnosis session. Of course.

  ‘Some time ago,
Harry put me into a trance. He was trying to calm my nerves.’ Dimly I recalled Price’s gentle voice, coercing me into a state of deep relaxation.

  ‘I told him lots of things. Too many things . . .’

  ‘Sarah, you’re referred to in those files – in a very strange way.’

  ‘Strange how?’

  ‘You’re mentioned as an “old soul”. Does that phrase mean anything to you?’

  I was still. Silent.

  He went on, ‘Harry has been following this case for a long time, since long before I first heard of Imber.’

  ‘No, Vernon, this began with you. The army confided in you. You came to me and I approached Harry.’

  ‘But Harry already had an inkling of what was happening in Imber, don’t you see?’

  Of course, he’s right. Albert sent him drawings. And letters.

  ‘His has been a private, secret investigation, into a singularly unique phenomenon.’

  ‘What sort of phenomenon?’ I forced myself to ask.

  ‘I believe experts call it past-life regression. Reincarnation.’

  For several moments, I was completely incapable of speaking. Vernon was talking about me. He was talking about me! I started shaking my head in denial and, after swallowing, managed to say, ‘I don’t believe in reincarnation.’

  Suddenly, Price was there, shouting: ‘STOP, VERNON! NOT ANOTHER WORD!’

  I whirled round. The ghost hunter stood before us, his face hardened, his voice like granite.

  ‘Harry, what’s he talking about?’

  ‘Nothing, Sarah. Come on. We’re leaving.’

  ‘Harry, you have to tell her. It’s right that you tell her!’

  ‘Tell me what? What’s he talking about? Harry?’

  Price, breathing heavily now, turned to face me. He hesitated. Then he took both my hands and squeezed them gently, his eyes painfully apologetic.

  ‘Harry, what is it?’

  ‘I wanted to protect you, Sarah.’

  I dropped his hands.

  Vernon’s expression was tense. He knew. Whatever it was, he knew.

  Price averted his eyes; he was thinking furiously, I could tell. But Vernon wasn’t prepared to give him thinking time.