“I'm sorry,” whispered Eric, hurrying to the door and leaving the room as she sank to her knees, weeping. “I'm so sorry.”
He leaned against the outside of her bedroom door, his heart pounding, struggling to control himself. Then he slowly descended the stairs.
Diane came out of the living room. “Any luck?” she asked.
“She's certainly healed,” said Eric. “But you're right, her mind is disturbed. She's confused.”
Diane looked desperately unhappy, though relieved that someone else could see that all was not well with her daughter. “I don't know what to do,” she whispered.
“I'll speak with my editor,” he promised. “She knows more about these kinds of phenomena than I do. She may be able to help if she can check some case histories.”
“You'll come back then?” asked Diane hopefully.
“I'll … I'll do my very best,” he promised. Then he left the house and stepped back out into the late afternoon sunlight, which failed to cheer the stagnant grey miasma that cloaked the accursed village of Scratchbury.
CHAPTER THREE
TOMB OF THE HOLY
The following morning, Eric had a chesty cough and he hacked and spluttered for ten minutes, spitting up ghastly globs of mucus before his chest stopped rattling. He cursed under his breath as he went to the bathroom, blaming his illness on the damp in his room.
He showered (the water was tepid and off-puttingly yellowish), brushed his teeth, shaved and combed his hair. He then remembered his promise to Diane and called Sandra at the office to see if she could pull any strings and perhaps get him any further information on personality changes following other healings. He tossed a few more coins in the drawer, having had to use Mrs Stoop's phone again as his mobile still wasn't holding a charge.
He then left the house and stepped out into Scratchbury. The day was hotter, but in a heavy, humid way, depressing and oppressive rather than uplifting. He took his jacket off and slung it over his holdall, he could tell his shirt would be showing some ugly sweat stains before the day was out. He decided that his first port of call, while he still looked vaguely respectable, should be to see the vicar to get his interpretation of matters. After all, if healings were being attributed to a Saint, surely the Church should know about it?
The church wasn't far from the monastery. Eric wouldn't have been surprised to learn that it dated from around the same time originally. However, the church had been renovated, repaired and extended over the centuries, whereas the monastery had been permitted to fall into ruin. The church building itself was closed and locked when Eric got there, but it was still quite early in the morning. He made his way a short distance down the lane to the vicarage, where the front porch stood open. According to Sandra's information, the vicar was a Reverend Ellwood.
Eric entered the porch and rapped upon the interior door. It was opened within moments by a woman wearing a pinafore, who was evidently working in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” smiled Eric. “My name is Eric Turner and I'm a journalist with Otherworld magazine. I was wondering if it might be possible to see Reverend Ellwood for a few minutes?”
“Well, he'll be visiting the hospital this morning,” said the woman dubiously – Eric couldn't quite decide whether she was the vicar's wife or his housekeeper. “But he may be able to spare you a few minutes. Wait here, please, I'll just check with him for you.”
Eric wasn't waiting very long until the woman returned and said, “Please, follow me, he'll see you now.”
Eric followed her down a neat hallway, past several doors, then through into a small but neat study, where an old man wearing a clerical collar was seated behind a desk. He looked to be in his late sixties, with a deeply lined face, though his white hair was still very thick, combed back in a great quiff that reminded Eric more of a fading rock star than a vicar. Ellwood rose from his chair and offered Eric his hand with a broad smile.
“So you're Eric Turner, who writes for Underworld magazine, are you?” he said in a nasal but still firm voice. “I have a couple of your books, you know. Most interesting.” He waved his hand vaguely at the many books on the shelves in the room.
“Thank you so much for receiving me at short notice, sir,” said Eric. “I must apologise, I know you're a busy man and I really should have made an appointment.”
“No matter,” shrugged Ellwood, resuming his seat and waving Eric into the one opposite. “If we don't finish your business this morning, we can always schedule another meeting. I assume you're here on one of your supernatural investigations, are you? Spooks in the old inn, are there?” He chortled.
“You're right, I am here on an investigation,” said Eric. “Actually, I was wondering if you might help me with it, since it relates to a Saint. I'm looking into the healings attributed to St Wulfred's Well.”
Ellwood's face dropped. “Yes, I was rather afraid that might be the case. Well, I will help you, Mr Turner, but the best help I can give you is to advise you to leave this matter well alone. It's not something that should be pried into or publicised in any way. Please stay away from that place and give this story up, for your own sake.”
Eric grimaced and tried to think of a way to break through the wall of silence. “But … I've met the two recent people to be healed,” he said. “So there does seem to be some genuine phenomenon at work here. They have both very definitely been healed from conditions which were in no way psychosomatic, and these healings were induced by drinking the waters from St Wulfred's Well, as it's called. Is that not the case?”
“Well, it rather depends on what you mean by 'healed', doesn't it?” said Ellwood, crossing his arms in a defensive posture, as if protecting himself from some evil. “I won't deny that certain obvious bodily infirmities have been removed from them. But at what cost, eh, Mr Turner? What price have these girls paid for their so-called healing? Tell me, have you been to see them yet?”
“I've just paid a brief visit to each of them so far,” admitted Eric.
“And brief though your visits may have been, can you honestly tell me that you believe those two girls to be well?” demanded Ellwood, looking intently at Eric. “No, you can't, can you? I can see in your face that you have your reservations.”
As a journalist, Eric considered it his duty to play devil's advocate where necessary. “Surely we can expect such dramatic changes in health and lifestyle to induce a certain amount of trauma?”
“In every single case, Mr Turner, including those dating back long before these latest two poor victims - those others that we've succeeded in keeping quiet – the health of the body has been accompanied by a sickness of the mind, an inevitable slump into depravity. Those unfortunate enough to be 'healed' by those waters always end up in prison, an asylum, or an early grave. Their restoration is tainted by some evil, an abhorrence in the soul. As a minister of God, Mr Turner, I am concerned about people's immortal souls, not their frail bodies. That is why the people hereabouts are not keen to hear whispers of St Wulfred's Well. Can't you just imagine how horrible it would be? Hundreds of poor, sick people descending upon this village, all seeking a cure for their ills, but putting their souls at risk, opening themselves up to evil, to depravity. Some of those 'healed' harm only themselves, others go on to hurt others. All are damned.”
Seeing that he had Eric's attention, Ellwood leaned back and cocked his head to one side. “Shall I tell you another thing, Mr Turner? There is no 'Saint Wulfred'. Oh, there was a Wulfred, sure enough, he was an abbot of the monastery in the Tenth Century, but he was no saint, either officially or unofficially. In fact, if you look at the monastery's official records, you won't find his name there at all. If you look carefully, you can see where a leaf has been torn out at a slightly later date – though still a very long time ago – and replaced. You'll also see that in the new entry, the man who was actually Wulfred's successor lived to a very old age indeed. That's because the monks merged the two abbots into one for the official record, so that Wulfred
would be forgotten. But the monks kept other, secret, records too that have been discovered in hidden niches as the old walls crumbled. They're in the possession of Mr Stoker now, who owns the lands and lives in a cottage on the grounds. He'd be able to tell you some tales of what Wulfred was really like. And if you go to him about your story, he'll be only too happy to do so, which will hopefully put you off telling it. But I'll tell you one thing that he won't do, Mr Turner...”
“What's that?” asked Eric.
“He'll never let you go anywhere near that old devil's tomb or its waters,” promised Ellwood firmly.
Eric was chewing his lip as he walked away from the vicarage, letting Reverend Ellwood depart for his visit to the hospital. He was quite looking forward to meeting David Stoker and persuading him to share some of these 'secrets' about old Abbot Wulfred. He'd have to pretend, of course, that he was completely won over by what Ellwood had already told him, along with anything Stoker could add, making it clear that he didn't want to visit the tomb at all. He'd just have to sneak back after dark, just as Sadie Wilmot and Heather Williams had. It wouldn't be the first time he'd trespassed in pursuit of a story.
He knew he was drawing near the monastery ruins when he reached a high wall which ran alongside the footpath. It was almost nine feet tall and looked to encircle quite a large amount of land.
Eric rounded a corner and noticed tall gates in the wall a little way ahead of him. They were closed, but he walked up to them and saw a heavy built man with a crudely cut mop of hair sitting on a deckchair, reading a newspaper, just beyond the gate.
“Good morning,” Eric called. “I wonder if I might possibly speak with Mr Stoker, please?”
“No,” said the man brusquely. “He's gone away for a while. We're making a film here for the next couple of weeks and the gentleman has gone to visit some friends while we're here. No admittance except on film business.”
Eric grimaced. “Well, I've just seen Reverend Ellwood, the vicar, and he seemed very certain that Mr Stoker would be here and would be willing to speak with me. Could you kindly just check?”
The man put down his newspaper and glared at Eric. “I've told you, he ain't here, the vicar don't know shit. Now push off, if you know what's good for you.”
Eric remembered what Sandra had told him about the 'credentials' of Terry Gaunt, the owner of Tel's Star Productions, and he decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He'd have to come back later, after nightfall, when the film crew returned to their hotel. “I see,” he said. “That really is most unfortunate, I'll have to come back when he returns in that case.”
“You do that, but it'll be a while,” said the gatekeeper, settling back in his deckchair and resuming his newspaper.
Eric now found himself at a loose end until sundown, and wasn't altogether surprised when he found his feet leading him back towards Diane Williams' door. He was in two minds when he arrived there and actually walked past twice, circling around for another pass each time. In the end, he said to himself, Damn it, the woman's cute, and I did say I'd get back to her. He finally opened the gate, walked down the path and knocked on the door.
The door opened surprisingly quickly and Diane smiled at him. Her face lit up when she smiled, something she hadn't done the previous day, and Eric's heart surged within him.
“Hello again, Diane,” he said. “I hope I'm not intruding.”
“Not at all,” she said. “What can I do for you? Would you like to see Heather again? She's still vegetating up in her room...”
“No, no!” he said quickly. “Actually, I was just passing and I thought I'd just pop by and see you.”
“Yes, I noticed you 'just passing',” she grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Three times in as many minutes before you came to the door. Whatever can I do for you, Eric?”
Eric blushed furiously, having been caught out. “I just didn't want to bother you with something trivial,” he said, “but I did promise I'd call back and keep you updated, after all. So … here I am.”
Her eyebrow arched even higher.
“It's just that … I've spoken with Sandra, my editor, and she's going to try to pull a few strings on your behalf to get Heather transferred to a different school. I didn't want you to think that I had just been spouting hot air, that's all.”
“I wouldn't think that, Eric,” said Diane.
“Anyway, I'll keep you posted, I'll call again as soon as she gets back to me,” he said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Are you sure that's all you came by for, Eric?” Her hand fiddled with her necklace, drawing his attention to her neckline.
Do it and be damned, Turner, he told himself, Are you a man or a mouse? “Actually,” he said, “I did wonder if I might take you for a quiet drink one night? If that would be all right?”
“I think that would be very all right,” she said, gazing steadily at him. “I'm free tonight?”
“I'm sorry, tonight is the one night I'm not free. I have an appointment,” he blurted, mortified to have shot himself in the foot so stupidly. “How about tomorrow night?” he asked, hoping he hadn't ruined things by instantly calling a rain check.
“Tomorrow will be fine,” she smiled. “I'll be ready about eight o'clock. See you then, writer man.”
“Till tomorrow, then,” grinned Eric. “Goodbye, Please give my regards to Heather. And I'll let you know as soon as I hear back from Sandra...” Shut up right now and stop blathering on like an idiot! he told himself as he retreated down the path, waving goodbye.
Eric returned to his room at the Stoops' house, heading straight up the stairs and ignoring the hideous hacking coughs from Harry in the smoke-filled living room. He lay on the narrow bed and tried to snatch a couple of hours' nap, since he was likely to be up for most of the night.
He stirred again about six o'clock and checked that he had the necessary equipment in his holdall: a good compact camera with night vision settings; a pair of binoculars, also with night vision; plenty of paper and pencils, and a narrow beam torch. He considered for a moment, then also added a small tool kit which included a hacksaw, in case the vault was locked.
He dressed in black trousers, black training shoes and a dark pullover. He offset these by putting on a light, cream coloured jacket, which immediately distracted attention away from how darkly he was actually dressed. “Mustn't look as though I'm going out equipped to burgle,” he muttered to himself.
At 6.30pm, he left the Stoops' home, got in his car and drove to the 'Crossed Staves', the only proper hotel in Scratchbury, currently fully booked thanks to the film crew. Eric would have killed to have been staying here instead of with Mr and Mrs Stoops. But the premises had a public bar and restaurant, so he entered, ordered a pint and sat down at a quiet corner table. He sat back, pretending to read a book, but he was alert to all that was happening around him.
From the noisy banter and the steady increase in the number of bodies in the bar, many of whom were ordering food and wolfing it ravenously, he presumed that the majority of the Tel's Star Productions team were now here at the hotel, their work for the day done. He grinned in satisfaction as he spied the surly man who had been watching the gate that morning leaning on the bar, placing an order. It was time for him to make his move.
He left the hotel and got back in his car. He drove out of town, passing the gate to the monastery grounds on the way. As he suspected, the interior was in darkness, abandoned as the crew made their way to the hotel for the night. A single tell-tale light in a window of the gatehouse told him that at least one mug had been left to watch over the entrance as a night watchman. He was banking that they would be bored and unmotivated and would simply sit in the little room all night, drinking and playing cards.
Eric drove around the next couple of bends, the high wall of the monastery grounds still running alongside the narrow road. He then pulled his car in tight to the verge and parked, in case he was seen and needed to make a quick getaway. The
car was left facing away from the village so that if he was chased and needed to flee, he would be seen to drive off away from the village, hopefully throwing the watchmen off the scent so they won't suspect that he was actually staying in Scratchbury.
He clambered up onto the bonnet of his car, then onto its roof. From here he could lean across and just manage to grab hold of the top of the wall, thankful that Stoker hadn't been paranoid enough to run barbed wire or broken glass along the top of the wall. He hauled himself up and over, dropping easily onto the lawn on the other side, which was a much lower drop than from the road side.
Eric crouched low, looking left and right, and scurried for the cover of the nearest trees. He needn't have worried, as there were no signs of any movement. In fact – and quite disturbingly – there were no signs of any life anywhere in these ancient grounds. There were no sounds of wildlife moving in the woods, none of the usual summer night sounds of insects. Just a still, deathly silence, inimical to life.
Avoiding the area near the illuminated gatehouse, Eric trotted quietly and alertly through the grounds. The sinister, ruined walls of the old monastery itself loomed on his right, crumbling walls like jagged teeth silhouetted against the starry sky. As Eric's eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he could see electrical cables now strewn through the ruins, attached to lighting rigs for the film shoot. As he passed the corner of the monastery, he was forced to cross a broad span of grass with little tree cover. He paced cautiously across, looking about him all the while. A closed catering van and a couple of trailers were to his left on the lawn, with a tented area pitched alongside, not large enough to justify the title of a marquee, but roomy enough for a dozen or so people to sit inside. Its front was open to the elements and he could see chairs and a couple of trestle tables within.
To his right, on the other side of the broad open lawn, he could see a little two storey cottage. He presumed that this must be the home of the absent David Stoker. He wondered if the owner of these grotesque ruins was really away from home, or whether he had been fobbed off by the lout who had been on gate duty that afternoon. The house certainly looked to be in complete darkness, but Eric decided he would just follow his journalist's nose and risk a peep through the windows while he was here.
The Waters of Life Page 5