by Julie Sarff
After that, the Prince slipped away. He drove his well-known Volkswagen GTI which is now parked in my garage, and then, after placing a very silly curly black wig over his own hair, we set off in my car.
Let me just point out that Scotland is not really on the way to Northern Ireland. However, when the Prince arrived at my house, he told me to close my eyes and hold out my hand. Then he placed a photo in my upturned palm. I opened my eyes to see a picture of a small white marble tomb with a cherub up top. The side of the tomb read, “Jane Mortin, Countess of Erlington, birth – (here the date was so badly damaged as to be illegible), death - 1599.”
“I don’t understand. Who took this photo?”
“The owner of the Earnest Ewe. Michael and I have been good friends for a long time, and I asked him if he might have time to check out Greyfriars for Jane Erlington. I asked if he found her tomb if he would let me know if there is a cherub attached up top. A day later, he sent this photo.”
“Bingo!” I shouted in pure excitement.
“Bingo!” he repeated my exclamation, caught up in my excitement.
“Right, well, I’ll head there in a few days. Right now we have a rather long drive to Northern Ireland, don’t we?”
“What say we swing by Scotland on the way? Got enough clothes and all for a slightly extended road trip?” Delighted by his suggestion and thinking him quite the sport, I hurried upstairs to pack a few more things.
Driving out of Bourton, I reflected on the fact that it was really nice of the Prince to put off his journey to visit Agnes Tannebaum for one more day. But as we struck up a conversation somewhere around Manchester, I learned that the reason the Prince was willing to put it off for one more day was because he wasn’t especially excited about visiting with Agnes.
“She wasn’t there when Albert died, so she doesn’t know what happened. She’s just Margery’s sister. What can she possibly have to tell me?”
His spirits seemed to go downhill after that and we drove on in silence, the Prince staring ahead with his jaw clenched tightly. Even when we stopped in Carlisle for a very late lunch, he couldn’t relax. Luckily, nobody even recognized him in his wig and sunglasses. As we ate some lovely Italian food and shared a half a bottle of wine, I realized I felt confused about the Prince. Here we were again, having a romantic moment. Yet the weight of what we were doing was taking its toll on both of us.
In addition, I confess I’ve been angry with the Prince ever since I phoned him and found him with another woman.
But wait a minute, he’s not my man. Why should I be angry? He is a 29-year old single man. He is allowed to sleep with whomever he wants.
Still…
“Exactly what is our plan of attack?” he asks, leaning into the table. Briefly, his expression changes, as if he is relaxing, shaking off his doom and gloom of our impending mission.
“Well, nothing intrusive or illegal,” I explain. “We’ll just go up to the thing and tap on it.”
“Is that American slang for something? Sounds a little vulgar,” he teases.
“No, I mean we’re going to tap on the cherub.” I tap on the table with my fist. “You know, to see if it’s hollow.”
“Hmm, and then what?”
“Well, I hadn’t really gotten that far. I just wanted to examine it. I suppose if it appears hollow, we’ll alert the authorities.”
His face is crestfallen at this last part.
“You mean we are driving way out of our way, to tap on a cherub in a cemetery --one of the most haunted cemeteries in the British Isles, by the way-- only to turn around and tell the authorities? And by authorities I assume you mean Schnipps, who I told you to inform in the first place?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I shrug and return to twirling my pasta. I haven’t really thought this through. What am I doing running around cemeteries tapping on tombs? None of this has anything to do with my biography of the Prince, which is coming along at a snail’s pace. I finish with my pasta, and feeling grumpy at being called out over my lack of a plan, I pull my crochet out of my bag, and busy myself making a tea cozy.
“You know, Lizzie, you are the only modern woman in the world who would crochet at a café while sitting across from the crown Prince of England.”
“How do you know?” I snap fiercely.
Wow, where did that flash of anger come from? I know where that came from, that was jealousy speaking. I am flat out jealous about the Prince spending the night with another woman and I can’t be reasonable about it.
“Are you an expert on every woman in the world?” I ask sharply.
Alex leans back in his chair, takes a sip of his wine and smugly replies, “As a matter of fact, I am an expert on every woman in the world. They all want the same thing. They want me.”
I actually drop my tea cozy in my haste to stand up and reach across the table to slap him.
Then I freeze. What have I done? I am stunned. Everyone is looking at us. I can’t believe I’ve given into passion. I pick my cozy off the ground, blowing bits of dirt off of it. I feel so foolish.
“Alright, alright,” he says, rubbing his face where I slapped him. “Let’s go tap that cherub.” He stands up with a stony expression and hurries inside to pay the bill.
I put my tea cozy away, and hurry off to retrieve the car from the impossibly narrow slot. I pick the Prince up right as he exits the café, and proceed to make the tires squeal, wanting to get away from the scene of my crime. We ride in silence --well one of us rides in silence, the other one occasionally sings old Bob Dylan songs, swaying back in forth in the passenger seat. It seems like time creeps by so slowly as we make our way across to the border with Scotland.
At some point, Alex stops singing and murmurs, “I never knew you cared so much, Lizzie.”
“I don’t,” I huff, and drive on, staring straight ahead.
*****
For propriety’s sake, I am back at the Earnest Ewe, while Alex takes a room under a fake name at the Sheraton. Our plan is to go to the cemetery an hour before it closes.
“Great, so we have time to take in a fine dinner at a farm-to-table restaurant just a stone’s throw from here,” he offers. Where he wore a stony expression before, now his face is smug once again.
A half an hour later, we walk into the Slow Food Revolution restaurant. The room is full of tables laid with a white cloths, fine crystal, and silver. There are potted trees in the corners, and the rest of the place is undecorated, with the exposed stone and wooden beams of the original structure providing a rustic and romantic atmosphere. The Prince informs me that several hundred years ago, this place used to be a barn. Although it’s the beginning of July, it’s a bit damp, and so a small wood burning stove puffs away in the middle of the room.
“We’ll take the short course menu,” Alex tells the waiter, “if that’s okay with you, Lizzie.”
I reply something to the effect that we are not here for fine dining, we are here for a short meal and then we need to be off to the cemetery.
“You mean off to the cemetery to search for the cherub, or because you are going to do me in. You were pretty angry at lunch,” the Prince smirks.
I flush with irritation. There’s something about the smirk. I just want to wipe it right off his face.
“I didn’t mean that we are off to the cemetery because I plan to do you in. That would be ridiculous,” I reply icily, although the way he’s going, he may not make it through the night.
“It was a joke, Lizzie. When did you become so uptight?”
I don’t respond and stare down at my freshly printed menu.
“Vegetarian or non-vegetarian?” the waiter asks.
“Vegetarian,” Alex and I answer together.
The waiter rolls his eyes and mumbles something about the last great meat-eaters dying off decades okay.
“You know, Lizzie,” Alex mutters, buttering a roll. “You happen to be talking to an authority on ghosts.”
This remark is so unexpected tha
t I choke on a bit of my Domaine Guizzard Curvee 400 that the Prince has ordered. I am still making slight choking noises as the waiter stops by with mouth-watering bruschetta with various toppings of roasted peppers, chick-pea spread, and caramelized onions.
“You don’t say,” I reply.
“You remember Bald Agnes?”
“The woman burned as a witch who is said to haunt Holyrood Palace?”
“Indeed” he answers, “and let me tell you Greyfriars Kirkyard is said to be full of haunts.”
I snort. I am a woman of science and facts. I am an historian. I don’t have time for nonsense.
“Hmm, I see your skepticism. You don’t know about the Mackenzie Poltergeist then?”
I snort again.
“Since 1998, when a homeless person broke into Mackenzie’s mausoleum for the night, Greyfriars Kirkyard has been the epicenter of an escalation of unexplained events. I know, I’ve heard tales and I looked it up in Wikipedia right before we left.”
“I see,” I scoff, sticking my nose in the air. “And what else did Wikipedia have to say about this ghost?”
“Well, they say, he’s no laughing matter.” Surreptitiously, the Prince googles the name of the ghost on his cell phone, holding the device below the table so no one can see what he is doing. Cell phone use, except for emergencies, has been banned in restaurants in the modern day United Kingdom. It’s a very smart idea. It’s refreshing to see couples and families holding conversations at the dining table rather than spending their whole meal time jabbing away at tiny cell phones.
“You’d better put that away or they’ll throw us out.”
“Your kind of a schoolmarm sometimes, Liz. Did you know?” he queries, still staring at his phone.
Ouch. Is that how he see me? A schoolmarm? There’s nothing less sexy than a schoolmarm.
“Okay.” Alex holds his cell phone up momentarily to his face and swipes a black curl out of his face. “Here it is. Wikipedia says: Between 1990 and 2006 there were 350 reported attacks and 170 reports of people collapsing. Visitors reported being cut, bruised, bitten, scratched and most commonly blacking out. Some complained later of bruises, scratches and gouge-marks on their bodies. Most attacks and feelings of unease occurred in Mackenzie’s Black Mausoleum and the Covenanters Prison. In 2000, an exorcist--”
“An exorcist?” I interrupt.
“Yes, an exorcist,” the Prince continues, “named Colin Grant was summoned to the graveyard to perform an exorcism ceremony; he was said to have picked up ‘evil forces’ and claimed that the forces were too overpowering, and he feared that they could kill him. A few weeks later, he died suddenly of a heart attack.”
“Poppycock.” As I say this I do hear a schoolmarmish tone in my voice.
“The city of Edinburgh closed off that part of the cemetery until an Edinburgh-based historian and author, Jan Andrew Henderson, persuaded the council to allow controlled visits to that part of the churchyard and in turn this developed into a nocturnal guided tour, which became a local attraction.” The Prince finishes reading and thankfully shuts down his iPhone as the waiter begins to glance our way suspiciously.
“Well, there you are, the poltergeist can’t be very scary if he’s now a local attraction,” I muse contemplatively.
“Yes, well, it’s a good thing for us that he is. You see, that part of the cemetery where the poltergeist resides is locked off from the rest, and that’s were Jane is. So what we are going to have to do is buy tickets to the nighttime historical tour and then slip away and hide somewhere.”
I drop my fork.
“We’re going to hide? In the cemetery?”
The Prince takes a bite of his bruschetta. “Right. And Lizzie, you should know, we may get locked in for the night.”
“With that maniac poltergeist!” I exclaim in horror, and for the second time today I find myself involuntarily rising out of my seat at a restaurant.
“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“Well, I-I don’t.” I confirm, sitting back down and crossing my arms showing my extreme displeasure with his new plan, especially the whole being-locked-up-in-a-16th-century graveyard part.
“Look, Lizzie,” Alex leans in so close that in the amber light of the candle his eyes twinkle mischievously. “If you think about it, it’s the only way.”
At that exact moment, the snooty waiter drops two bowls of farm fresh pea soup on the table, completely unaware that he is serving the Prince of Wales. They hit the table with a bang, and some of the soup sloshes over the side of my bowl.
“How did your friend get in to take the picture of the tombstone, then, if it is locked away?” I ask, picking up my soup spoon. The soup is soft and velvety on the tongue.
“Michael knows the chap who runs the cemetery. Edinburgh is small. All the old timers know each other. And asking to be allowed in to take a picture of a tomb is no big deal, but I can’t very well go and ask that we be allowed to, how did you put it, tap the cherub,” he smirks.
“No, I suppose we can’t.”
“Then I think my plan is the only way.”
“Hmm,” I reply non-committedly.
After a hasty grilled tofu with baby carrots, we pay the bill and set off. A light rain kicks up as we make our way to the cemetery.
Greyfriars Kirkyard always closes an hour before sunset which means tonight it will be open until half past eight. Alex and I queue up for the night time historical tour which departs at ten o’clock.
After we purchase our tickets, we pass time drinking a pint at the local pub, making small talk. Alex shows me a variety of unimpressive magic tricks that he can do with a quarter. “Oh, come on, Liz. You’re really no fun. Do you ever let loose?”
I think about his question. No, I don’t let loose. I am a historian. I have standards to uphold. He pretends to pull another sterling pound from my ear and I yawn. Thankfully, it’s time for the tour to start. A huge crowd assembles at the entrance to Greyfriars. It’s one big noisy, boisterous party. There are over a hundred tourists getting ready for their date with the Mackenzie poltergeist. I glance at the fellow cemetery-goers and notice a large man in a duffle coat staring at me strangely.
Oh God, does he know we are up to no good --the Prince and I? Wait a minute, he appears familiar. I glace at him again, but he has turned away to talk to a bunch of half-drunk cemetery-goers with whom he is friends. They look quite excited about the tour; they hoot and holler and dare the Spirit of Mackenzie to try to attack them.
“Idiots,” Alex sums them up in short order.
“If you have your tickets, hand them to me,” a man in a plaid cap directs, as he heads for the cemetery gate. “I am your historian, Lou, and I will be your guide for the evening.”
Despite having some prejudices about a Scottish historian who simply calls himself “Lou” and who doesn’t announce his credentials, I do what everyone else does, and jostle for a spot in the queue.
After we all hand Lou our tickets, he takes off leading us through the main gates past more recent tombs.
“These are some of the last people to be buried in the cemetery. Their tombs date between the early 1800’s until 1902. Thomas Bilcock,” he points to a grave, “was the last man to be interred here. Then the cemetery was declared full and closed off to further burials,” Lou announces. I can tell by the way the party mood has gone out of the crowd that nobody cares about these more contemporary tombs. They want to get to the good stuff. Bring on the poltergeist!
Still, historian Lou does his job, leading us round to the tombs of some of the rich and famous of the 19th century. A half an hour later, he heads off with long strides, crossing an expanse of pebble-stoned pathways that run between the tombs and leads to a second set of wrought iron gates. You can feel the excitement in the air as Lou unlocks the padlock and we file through. Rising up before us is a circular domed tomb with Greek columns. The marble on the tomb had blackened overtime due to the sooty Industrial Revolution. In the low ligh
t, the mausoleum is both impressive and foreboding.
“Here lies the bones of Sir George Mackenzie, also known as bloody Mackenzie. He proceeded over many witch trials. But the man did more than send a bunch of women to their deaths,” he says, as if killing a lot of women isn’t horrible enough. “In his role of Lord Advocate, he heavily prosecuted the Presbyterian Covenanters. Many of his victims are interred over there,” he points to a row of tombs to the west of us. “While he outright sentenced many of them to execution, he had several of them starved to death on order of King Charles II. That is why, I believe, this section of the cemetery is so well-known for its paranormal activity, we have both persecutor and victims within such a small distance of each other. Clearly, in this cemetery, the dead do not rest in peace.”
At this point Alex taps me on the wrist and I almost jump out of my skin.
“Now if you will follow me,” Lou continues at the same time that Alex quite insanely indicates that we should hide behind the mausoleum of Sir Mackenzie. I realize I no longer want to do this. Not any of this. I do not want to hide in a 16th century cemetery at night, thank you very much.
“Come on,” the Prince mouths, and I mouth back, “Heck no.”
“Ah, too late to chicken out now, Lizzie.” He tugs at my coat sleeve, pulling me around the back of the tomb, where we crouch down hidden from sight. It starts to rain more heavily, and I pull my hood tightly around my head. Alex gives me an odd look, almost as if he wants to reach over and pull me close to help keep me warm in the rain.
I give him a harsh look, still angry about everything he said at lunch about women. He glances away and we sit on the ground in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Twenty, thirty minutes pass. We hear the noise of feet on gravel and see the huge mass of tourists return our way. I watch as they file back out of the gate and I feel a small pang of dread as I watch Lou fasten the padlock. That’s it. We’re locked in until morning. Although to be truthful, it wouldn’t take much to scale the stone wall if need be. Then we would be right smack dab in the middle of a street in Edinburgh.