Olde Tudor

by David Ralph Williams

  “I understand. I also have a set of spades in a shed in the churchyard. If we set out now we should be done before dark.”

  8

  Both Mortimer and Alistair were digging holes directly below the three stone tablets. Each etched with Roman numerals. Redgrave’s stones. They had completed the first two and were both busy working on the third.

  Although only six o’clock, the night had tiptoed in and the moon was shrouded by cloud. Both men worked away by the light produced from two sturdy lanterns, each housing a flickering candle. Alistair had to stop digging; his arm was burning. Mortimer noticed and gestured for him to rest, “I can finish this one, we are almost done. This is not light work my friend, remind me to review the salary the church pays its regular gravediggers, those who prepare the ground for the last farewell!” said Mortimer as he stopped briefly to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. Mortimer continued digging.

  Finally, when all three holes were dug, both Mortimer and Alistair went back to the church to fetch the bundles of bones they placed inside before they began the ground work. They each carried a bundle back to the freshly dug graves with Mortimer returning for the final heap. With all three skeletons at the graveside, they tipped each sack into a separate hole, “and now the heavy work continues as we cover them over,” said Mortimer, handing Alistair a spade.

  It took them a further hour to fill in all the holes with dirt standing proud over each grave. Using the backs of the spades they flattened down and packed the dirt flat. They both stood in silence for a moment as though they had just conducted a burial of a dearly departed loved one. “Do you think we should say something, I mean it is a burial, isn’t it?” Alistair said looking at Mortimer for help finding some words to utter. Mortimer cleared his throat,

  “for we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God. A house not made with hands, and eternal in the heavens,” Mortimer finished. Alistair nodded to say that the words were well chosen. They each took up a lantern and made their way back to the church.

  The church was illuminated by a multitude of hanging lamps as they both washed in separate vestibules that contained a sink and toilet. When they had finished cleaning up they met in the nave. “All that work has made me ravenous, you too I shouldn’t wonder,” spoke Mortimer, “I have some bread, cake, and cheese in the small kitchen behind the narthex. I dare say I would even be able to put my hand on a bottle of wine!”

  “Yes, thank you, I am rather hungry. And to be honest, relieved I have done what I knew I had to do,” answered Alistair as he slid himself down onto a pew.

  “I shall fetch us a bite to eat, shan’t be long.” Mortimer disappeared behind an elaborately carved screen filled with cherubs and angels. Alistair rolled up his trousers to check on his wounds. The right leg thigh looked unchanged, however his calf bandage was moist with new blood. He rolled his trouser leg back down, at least now he could aim to seek medical attention for his wounds. He intended to go to the hospital at Suffield Park, Cromer, the following day once he had returned to Gwen’s house.

  To Alistair’s delight, Mortimer returned carrying a tray of much needed refreshment, and true to his word he brought a bottle of wine. Both men chatted as they ate, Alistair spoke about his plans to sell Olde Tudor and live near Gwen. Mortimer spoke about new plans to repair parts of the church that had been damaged during the war. When they finished their meal, Mortimer invited Alistair to stop at the vicarage rather than to return back to Olde Tudor, “your offer is very kind John, but I have one more favour to ask,”

  “Name it.”

  “I should very much like to stay here for the night, at Saint Peter,” said Alistair. Mortimer looked a little shocked,

  “Stay here? Why would you want to do that?”

  “I feel safe here, protected. It’s a holy place, a godly place, nothing like that cavern. I would be too nervous to stop anywhere else, especially after last night at Gwen’s. Could I be allowed to stop here do you think?” Mortimer downed his last drop of wine,

  “If that’s what you want, but I find it a little odd. I would have to lock you in you understand. There are many vagrants around these parts who would love to get their hands on a couple of gold plated candlesticks. I’m all for helping the poor but church property is church property!”

  “Yes, I understand, besides, being locked in makes me feel even more secure. So, if you don’t mind . . .”

  “If it would make you feel at ease tonight I have no problem with the arrangement,” Mortimer said. Once they had cleared away the remains of supper, the reverend said that he would be back first thing in the morning and he locked up the church leaving Alistair alone inside.

  Alistair Pulled a couple of pews together, he picked up a roll of blankets that Mortimer had left out for him and laid them on the pews. Then, he took two kneeler cushions and arranged them as a pillow. Not the most comfortable bed he thought, but it will do. Nothing in the world would be able to make him go back to Olde Tudor tonight.

  Before he settled in his makeshift bed, Alistair took a stroll around the church nave and beyond. It was a strange experience being alone at night in a church, it was something he had never done before, unless you counted the time he and Evelyn took refuse in the cellar of Saint John’s church in Sheffield during one of the air raids. During that fearful night there were other people, other parishioners. He was all alone in Saint Peter.

  ******

  The reverend John Mortimer was early to rise the next morning. He had a quick breakfast of toast and marmalade, and had packed a few items that he thought Alistair would need for breakfast. He took the car to Saint Peter and arrived at eight thirty. When he unlocked the church, he found Alistair busy replacing the pews he had rearranged the night before. They greeted one another and Mortimer was the first to speak, “to be honest I was worried about you being here all alone last night, was everything alright?” Alistair hobbled over to Mortimer stiffly,

  “I had a peaceful sleep, a much-needed peaceful sleep. However, my legs and arm are troubling me today, I think I will pay a visit to the hospital as the doctor advised.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. Do you need a lift anywhere?”

  “I have to go back to Olde Tudor to collect a few things, but a lift to the station would be very handy,” replied Alistair hopefully.

  “Of course. What time should I call round?” Alistair glanced at his watch, shall we say about ten?”

  “Ten it is. Would you like a lift down to the cottage?”

  “I think I would like to walk. Clear my head. My legs are a little stiff, but the more I sit around the worse they get.”

  “Well if you change your mind, I shall be around the church, in my office at the back.” Mortimer handed him the breakfast he brought him. Alistair thanked him and tucked into the bread and marmalade greedily.

  Alistair knocked politely on the half open office door, he entered to find Mortimer busy at a small desk looking through some papers, there was a fresh pot of tea on the desk. “I wanted to thank you for the breakfast and to say that I’ll be making my way back to the cottage.” Mortimer stopped his work briefly,

  “I shall pick you up at ten as arranged,” he said cheerfully.

  “Thank you, I hope I haven’t been too much of a bother!”

  “Not at all, it’s the duty of a parish priest to assist one’s flock so to speak.” Alistair said goodbye then made his way out of the church. He stood briefly to inhale the cool morning air and to enjoy the bright sunshine before moving off along the path that led through the churchyard and out onto the street beyond. There was a lightness to his mood as though a thick heavy cloud had been blown away.

  Mortimer filed away the paperwork he had been studying regarding the plans for the rebuilding work at the church. He poured out the last tea from the pot into a cup and decided to take it with him during his regular morning stroll through the churchyard.

  Mortimer had only walked a few paces in fron
t of the church when he spotted something that perturbed him. Leaving his teacup to rest on a bench he hurriedly made his way across the lawn that had started sprouting crocus and snowdrop.

  Stopping finally at the site of the three stone tablets where he and Alistair had buried the bones the previous night, Mortimer’s jaw hung agape as he studied the unbelievable sight before him. The three graves had been dug out, but not it seemed by spade. It was as though they had been clawed out by an animal. A mound of scattered earth lay at the foot of each hole, and in each pit, there were a pile of soil coated rags, the remains of the linen sheets that had once contained all three skeletons.

  Alistair had almost made it back to Olde Tudor. He could see the house at the end of the lane. It was then that he heard the call of a raven. Alarmed he looked up and around him wildly until he found the bird perched high on a tree top, some way ahead. Hunched and leering at him.

  His gaze also picked out something else beneath the bird at the base of the tree. A form, almost a shadow. The form of a man. The man was wearing the apparel of a vicar, and he was pointing. Warning. And then in the blink of an eye, the man was gone.

  Alistair turned to follow the direction to where the shadow had pointed. There was a new figure, this time it was not a shadow, but a solid form striding down the sloping lane. It was coming for him.

  The figure was silhouetted with the sun behind it. Alistair noticed its jerky gait, it was not walking properly. There was something odd about this thing that was making a determined line down the lane towards him. Alistair became frightened, forgetting his wounded legs he turned and ran the last few yards to the gate to Olde Tudor.

  The catch on the gate became stuck as Alistair rattled and pulled and pushed in his haste to get it open. He then became aware of the sound that the striding thing was making. A grinding, splintering, cracking sound. Alistair turned and looked upon the form of the thing that he realised now had been his tormenter, the cavern dwelling abhorrence.

  The thing was an amalgamation of old bones, old bones with labels. It was trying to walk upright but the bones were breaking and splintering as they rubbed together at the joints. The head of the thing, a skull set in a rictus grin, was bobbing up and down like a puppet on a string.

  Alistair managed to free the gate and he hobbled through and up the path that led around the back of the house, he dared not turn and look to see if the creature was still in pursuit of him, he didn’t have to look. He could hear it coming, the snapping, rubbing, grinding followed him.

  Mortimer had finally snapped himself out of his trance at finding the dereliction of the three graves. He raced around the front of the church and climbed into his car. He pulled away at great speed through the churchyard gates almost knocking down an elderly parishioner as she slowly ambled past St. Peter clutching a shopping basket.

  Mortimer slammed hard on the brakes, his car came to a screeching stop. The startled elderly woman almost fainted in fright, “I’m terribly sorry, forgive me Mrs Smithson,” he shouted before driving away leaving Mrs Smithson clutching at her breast whilst she regained her senses.

  Mortimer’s black Rover 75 was driven with speed all the way out of Thornbarrow and all the way down to Olde Tudor. Parked outside, Mortimer left the car unlocked and ran up to the front door. He rapped loudly whilst calling for Alistair but got no response.

  He made his way around the back of the cottage and rapped on the back door. After several attempts at knocking he tried to force his way in but could not move the door.

  The gate to the cavern crashed against its post in the sturdy breeze. Mortimer turned to look, almost out of reflex, then he saw something, or someone, lying face down next to the monolith. Gingerly he approached the form on the ground and inhaled sharply when he recognised the overcoat, it was Alistair.

  Mortimer rolled Alistair over then quickly turned away, “Lord, God, no!” he cried. “Why?” he said finally as he forced himself to look again briefly at Alistair’s face, or what remained of it. Strips of skin had been removed and his head had been partially scalped. Lying next to Alistair’s body was a stone axe. Unbeknown to Mortimer, it was the same axe Alistair had recovered from the workshop. A prehistoric tool the late reverend Redgrave had excavated from the cavern. It was now covered in Alistair’s blood.

  ******

  Two weeks following the discovery of the body at Olde Tudor, Mortimer was now conducting the service for Alistair’s burial. A few local townsfolk had turned up, the same few who always appeared at every funeral the reverend Mortimer had conducted since starting work at St. Peter.

  Gwen was also present, being his only relative she had to organise the funeral. She was being consoled by an old colleague of Alistair’s from his school teaching days.

  Mortimer had spoken to Gwen before the service had started. He offered his deepest condolences and told her that he was the one who had found him. He didn’t tell her about the two of them burying the bones the night before. He felt this was an unnecessary detail she could live without knowing, and it would avoid having to explain the unscheduled activity to members of the parish council if word got out.

  Whilst they waited for the coffin to be lowered into the earth, Mortimer spotted two figures standing over by where he and Alistair had buried the bones from the cavern. They were too far away for him to see any features, they both seemed to be standing stiffly as though they were watching the proceedings. He wondered why they didn’t come over if they were known to the Swift family. He was about to ask Gwen if she knew who they were but he was stopped by one of the Brierly’s who ran the property business in the town. It was Jacob Brierly, “Nasty business Reverend,” spoke Jacob,

  “Yes, yes indeed.”

  “And you finding him. Terrible. Do they know what happened? The police I mean?” Mortimer glanced back over to where the two figures had stood moments ago, they were both gone. “Burglar I expect. Is that it?”

  “What, oh, yes, I expect that’s probably what it was. Poor chap,” finished Mortimer.

  “I shall have to have a word with his wife afterwards, with her inheriting the house,” Jacob added,

  “Wife? Oh, you mean Gwen, no she’s his sister, but as far as I know he didn’t have any other family,” said Mortimer thoughtfully.

  “Well looks like she’s just inherited Olde Tudor, her brother recently put it back on the market. I will have to find out if she intends to continue with a sale,” Jacob finished and he moved away to stand near to Gwen. Mortimer scanned the churchyard for another sight of the two strangers but saw nothing.

  With the funeral party all leaving to attend the wake that was being held in the local inn, Mortimer collected his service book and left the gravediggers to fill in the hole. He walked over to the three stone tablets, where he saw the two figures earlier, “I believe you,” he spoke softly as he thought about Redgrave and Alistair.

  As Mortimer turned to leave for the church, a raven dived down from a nearby rowan tree and attacked him, scoring a red line down his cheek. “The damnedest thing!” he exclaimed and took a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the wound. He quickened his pace and made for the church.

  Inside one of the vestibules he rinsed his reddened handkerchief under a tap and tried to clean the wound. He stopped rubbing when he heard a sound like a laboured breathing. He turned the tap to stop the flow of water so he could listen for the sound again. It came once more. Mortimer dropped the handkerchief and raised his hands to his mouth to stop his jaw trembling. He was now very afraid.

  The Author would appreciate a written review on Amazon.

  Have you also read:

  The Mermaid’s Ring

  Book of doors – The Golden Prince

  Songs in the graveyard

  Icy Creeps – Gothic Tales of Terror

  The Paranatural Detective Agency Volume 1 & 2

  For information on the above titles by the same author visit:

  http://davidralphwilliams.webs.com

  nter>

 

  David Ralph Williams, Olde Tudor