Shepherd's Cross

by Mark White

  ‘Thanks, Sarge, but I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Actually, I could do with stretching my legs. Why don’t you wait here while I take a look around?’

  Jennings needed no encouragement to remain in the warm confines of the Police car. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

  Cara nodded and opened the car door. It was clear that Blackett wasn’t at home, but she wanted some fresh air and space to herself. Closing the door behind her, she looked around, deciding to walk around the back of the old stone house. The building was typical of the old ‘miner-farmer’ homesteads that were scattered across the Pennines; single buildings combining cottage, barn and hayloft. Many of the buildings dated back to the eighteenth century, having been built in the heyday of the North Pennine lead industry, when over a quarter of all Britain’s lead came from nearby mines. Rich lead veins meandered through the earth, the ground above them becoming littered with mine shafts, smelt mills and limekilns. The hills were criss-crossed by man-made reservoirs providing power to the giant water wheels, with railways being built to support the ponies that pulled the lead from the larger sites to the outside world. Many of the walking trails that dissected the land were once old tracks that had linked the mines to the dwellings of the workers who came from far and wide to eke out a living in this harsh environment. While the trails may have survived, many of the settlements had not been as fortunate, their melancholy ruins standing testament to the rise and fall of an industry that had flourished and died over the course of a hundred and fifty years.

  Many of the farmers had used mining to supplement their incomes, but pay and working conditions had been diabolical. There were only two winners; the Byrne family, who had owned and ruled the mines with a ruthless disregard for anything but their own wealth, and the Church, which profited from the money given to it by both Lord Byrne and the impoverished workers who filled up the pews every Sunday, praying in vain for a better future for themselves and their families.

  Cara continued around the side of the house, breathing in the cold, refreshing air, the silence broken only by a ragged brood of clucking hens clawing and pecking at the stony ground beneath them. This place was still alien to her; the remoteness and isolation being a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the world she’d grown up in. Nevertheless, even a city-girl like her could not deny the rugged beauty of the hills. Much of her four months in The Cross had been spent wandering around farms like Banktop; following up leads on missing sheep or vandalism, intentional or otherwise. With only two months of her rotation remaining, it was highly likely that her next posting would be spent in a more urban and challenging environment. While she would be ready to welcome the change of scene, she was keen to appreciate the rest of her time in the ‘back-of-beyond,’ as she called it.

  It wasn’t long before the sound of the chickens was accompanied by the monotonous drone of a Land Rover, growing louder as it drew closer to the farm. Cara woke from her daydream and returned to the front of the house to join Jennings. She was surprised to see that he had already left the comfort of his seat to greet Blackett as he pulled up to the house. Rex jumped down from the back of the Land Rover and ran to the visitors, crouching down on his haunches and barking at them, his top lip peeling back to reveal a line of sharp, pointed teeth.

  The two officers slowly and instinctively backed away. Cara’s hand moved carefully down to her waist, her thumb flicking open the clasp that secured her truncheon to its belt. ‘If that fucking dog doesn’t back off, I’ll clobber it,’ she hissed to Jennings.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ whispered Jennings, his eyes seeking out Blackett for reassurance. ‘Wilf, get this bloody animal under control!’

  Blackett opened the door, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort that Rex was inflicting on his visitors. ‘Come away by, Rex!’ he ordered. The dog immediately ran back to his master, realising from the tone of his voice that the two strangers were not a threat to him.

  ‘Bloody hell, Wilf, that dog of yours is a flamin’ liability!’ said Jennings.

  ‘Aye, I’m sorry about that, Brian,’ Blackett replied. ‘He’s been in a right bad fettle all morning. He was up all night whining away like he’d lost his tail. Mind you, I didn’t get much sleep either. Not after finding that thing in my field.’ His thoughts returned to yesterday’s events, still way too fresh for his memory to erase. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘won’t you come in for a cup of tea before we get going?’

  Jennings looked across at Cara; she could tell by his face that he was keen to accept Blackett’s offer. Unfortunately for him, she wasn’t as eager; she was scheduled to be on duty over the weekend, and she needed to get a thousand and one things finished before heading home. Jennings read her thoughts, nodded resignedly and turned to Blackett.

  ‘Sorry, Wilf, but we’ve got a lot on today. If you don’t mind, it’s probably best that we go and see what you’ve found.’

  Blackett mustered a smile, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘Fair enough. Why don’t you both jump into the Land Rover and I’ll take you up there now.’

  They set off up an uneven, potholed track that wound its way through a small copse of pine trees, which served to shield the farmhouse from the worst of the elements. Emerging onto the exposed moors beyond, the Land Rover climbed steadily upwards, negotiating the larger rocks and divots that hampered its progress. Jennings stared out of the window, trying not to focus on his persistent hangover from the night before, his backside jolting uncomfortably with every bump. A light, sleety shower began to fall, the wetness adding to the misery of the journey. A dozen or so sheep huddled together against the wall to shelter themselves from the cold. They would head later to their walled pens, if the conditions worsened.

  ‘They reckon we’re in for a nasty few days,’ said Blackett. ‘Heavy snow coming, apparently. Better batten down the hatches.’

  ‘Aye, I heard,’ replied Jennings, his mind visualising a nice weekend spent in front of the fire with a pot of tea and a good book. After what seemed like an eternity, the Land Rover pulled up alongside the inverted cross.

  ‘There it is,’ Blackett said, his voice now devoid of any humour or good nature. ‘I haven’t been back here since yesterday. I didn’t think it would look so bad in the daytime, but it still scares the bejesus out of me. Have you ever seen anything like this before?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Cara. ‘What the hell is that, Sarge?’

  ‘We better get out and take a look,’ replied Jennings, taking control of the situation. They climbed out of the Land Rover and walked the few steps to the scene. ‘Would you mind taking some photos please, Cara?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ She removed a small camera from a case clasped to her belt and proceeded to take several photographs of the cross from various angles, as well as the sheep’s head and nearby carcass. Jennings circled the area, studying the ground for any clue as to how it might have ended up there. After several minutes of searching, he walked back to the cross. Putting his hands up against it, he proceeded to try and shake it. It stood firmly rooted in the ground, stubbornly refusing to budge an inch, despite the officer’s considerable bulk weighing against it.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, steadying himself against the cross in order to catch his breath. ‘There’s no moving it. It must be six feet underground!’

  Blackett came in for a closer look. ‘It can’t be,’ he said. ‘You can tell by the untouched ground around it that it hasn’t been dug in.’

  ‘Well, someone’s hammered it in straight like a fencepost then.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ said Blackett. ‘The ground’s far too hard to hammer a post that far in, even with machinery. And the damn thing’s sticking straight up at least ten feet on top of that. You’d need a heck of a ladder to get up there.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see how else it got there,’ insisted Jennings. He looked across at the discarded carcass. ‘The bastards.’

  ‘Bastards is the right word for them’ said Blackett, s
taring into the distance. ‘There’s something else…the sheep’s head. Look…it’s pointing in the direction of Fellside Hall. And there’s someone there.’

  ‘There can’t be,’ Jennings said. He followed Blackett’s gaze towards the Hall, which stood between them and Shepherd’s Cross in the valley below. ‘What on earth? There’s smoke coming from one of the chimneys.’

  ‘Why does that surprise you?’ asked Cara, having never had anything to do with the Hall since taking up her post.

  ‘It surprises me,’ replied Jennings, ‘because nobody has lived in Fellside Hall for over eighty years.’

  Chapter 3

  10.30am: ‘Well, Reuben, what do you think?’ Benedict Blackmoor was staring out of a narrow, arched window as he questioned the other man, his dark eyes focusing on a kestrel hovering above the tall, unkempt grass that had once been an immaculately maintained lawn. A broken wall, which many years ago would have been whitewashed to compliment the lush green hue of the lawn, stumbled along the far side of the garden. The wall tapered in the middle to create a small flight of five steps leading down to a meandering stream, which further along its journey would gather in pace and stature to become the magnificent River Derwent.

  ‘It’s going to need a lot of work, but there’s nothing here that can’t be mended.’

  ‘Good. But we need to get started immediately.’ The kestrel drifted further along the field, scanning the terrain underneath it for a suitable meal. Blackmoor no longer paid it any attention; his gaze shifted to the panoramic hills that rose and fell in the distance. He smiled when he found the target of his search, the faint outline of the inverted cross that broke the otherwise undulating pattern of the horizon. ‘A shame to let a building as fine as this go to ruin.’ He turned away from the window to face his friend. ‘But I suppose nature gets the better of us all in the end. Did you remember to ask Mr Wilson about reliable tradesmen?’

  ‘He will be providing me with a list this afternoon. I informed him that every arrangement must be sanctioned and supervised by myself, and under no circumstance should anybody approach Fellside Hall directly without prior consent.’

  ‘Did he appear suspicious?’

  ‘Not particularly. Although I’m not entirely convinced of his ability to keep our business to himself. When we met with him yesterday, I felt him to be somewhat loose-tongued.’

  ‘Hmm…perhaps we should tighten his leash a little. It may be prudent for me to pay Mr Wilson a further visit to clarify the precise nature of our relationship. We can’t afford any avoidable mishaps at this stage.’ Blackmoor closed his eyes, pausing to reflect on the work that lay ahead of them, and the weight of responsibility resting upon his shoulders. He had been working towards this moment for years; meticulously planning every detail. He sighed and opened his eyes, his dark, heavily-lined face relaxing momentarily. ‘I shouldn’t worry so much,’ he said. ‘Everything’s going to work out fine.’ He smiled at his friend. ‘Now, to matters in hand. Let us explore this wonderful house.’

  ‘Why don’t we start our tour with the Round Room? I think you’ll find it perfect for its intended purpose.’

  ‘Good idea, Reuben. Lead the way.’

  The two men turned and walked together across the dusty parquet floor, approaching a pair of solid wooden doors that stood at one end of what was formerly the grand ballroom. The room stood at the heart of the Hall, where, in former times it had played host to many a lavish party. It was now a mere shadow of its former glory, all bar one of the tall arched windows had either been broken or boarded up. The Hall had never been fitted with electricity, its previous owners being reliant on candlelight and oil lamps to illuminate the rooms after sunset. The damp, decaying odour of dereliction seemed to ooze from every pore of the building, suffocating the air and remorselessly penetrating every nook and cranny. The extent of the decline was matched only by the pervading silence; an unnerving, deep silence that added to the feeling that every move was being watched by some ghostly entity residing in the fabric of the walls and ceilings. The darkness, decay and stillness fused to cast an overriding aura of abandonment and death. It was perhaps no surprise, therefore, that nobody of sound mind had chosen to make Fellside Hall their home since the demise of its previous inhabitants almost a century ago.

  Nobody, that was, until the arrival earlier that day of two enigmatic gentlemen from London.

  Chapter 4

  11.30am: Both Cara and Jennings were untypically quiet as they drove away from Banktop Farm, their thoughts focused on the events of the previous hour. It wasn’t unusual for local youths to get up to all kinds of mischief; country kids were no different to city kids in that regard. But animal cruelty and satanic gestures were a far cry from the illegal camping and underage drinking that typified the nature of incidents the Police were usually called to deal with.

  Jennings wasn’t thinking about the cross; he was more interested in Fellside Hall, or rather who was staying there. The place had hardly been touched for such a long time, let alone lived in. Moreover, the windows and doorways had been boarded up since the 1950s, in an effort to deter vandalism and slow down any further deterioration of the buildings by animals or vegetation. Over the past few years, he had been called there on two occasions to chase away kids who had been spotted messing around, but aside from these minor incidents, there had been no other reason for him to go up there – the dark tales of Fellside Hall were usually sufficient to dampen the curiosity of potential intruders.

  ‘I think we need to drop by Ted Wilson’s office this afternoon,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘He should be able to clarify what’s going on at the Hall. I suspect it may have something to do with the two men who Frank Gowland saw him driving off with yesterday. Ted’s agency holds the deeds for Fellside Hall on behalf of the Byrne Estate, so he should know what’s going on. Although I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone in their right mind would want anything to do with that place. Whoever is in there has either not been informed of its past or isn’t easily spooked.’

  ‘What past?’ asked Cara. She was aware that she’d only scratched the surface of Shepherd’s Cross since coming into post, relying on Jennings to fill in the gaps as the weeks went by. She often drove by the rusting iron gates that blocked the entrance to the long driveway that wound its way up to the Hall, but until now she’d never had reason to give it anything more than a fleeting thought. There was an abundance of ruins and relics in these parts.

  ‘The Hall was built by the first Lord Byrne with the money brought in by his lead mining empire. A symbol of his prosperity and expanding influence across the region. They say he deliberately built it high above Shepherd’s Cross to reinforce his image as master of all he surveyed. As with many self-made industrialists of the time, he was a man to be feared, driven by greed and power in a time when the common man had neither. Anyway, he wasn’t the problem. He might have been a self-obsessed arsehole, but he wasn’t any different to most other ‘new money’ aristocrats of the time. Nor was his son who came after him; a useless womaniser, more interested in squandering the family money on drink and ladies of ill-repute than in controlling the family business. No, the tragedy of Fellside Hall can be firmly credited to Edmond, the third and final Lord Byrne.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Cara, fascinated as usual by one of Jennings’s many history lessons. She loved to listen to his tall tales almost as much as he loved to tell them; tales which, at least to a townie like her, seemed to come from a bygone era not far removed from the scenes depicted in the Thomas Hardy novels she had read at school.

  ‘Edmond was a different kettle of fish altogether,’ continued Jennings. ‘An evil bastard whose fate coincided with the demise of the lead mining industry pioneered by his grandfather. There are different versions of the story, depending on which of the old-timers you speak to, but they pretty much all end up the same way.’

  ‘Carry on,’ urged Cara.

  ‘Well, rumour has it that nothi
ng pleased Edmond more than giving someone a good whipping. If some unlucky soul happened to even look at him the wrong way, he wouldn’t think twice about lashing out until the poor bugger was beaten to within an inch of his life. Sometimes worse. Especially the young mining lads and stable-hands; they’d get it the hardest. Problem was, for your average illiterate peasant, there were precious few choices for alternative employment at the turn of the twentieth century – you had to be either very brave or very stupid to turn down a regular meal ticket and chance your arm in the big wide world. You have to remember that folk back then wouldn’t have had the faintest idea about life outside of this place. And most of them wouldn’t have been educated enough to have bettered themselves even if they had escaped. Even now, if you speak to at least half of the locals around here, especially the old-timers, you’ll find they’ve never been more than fifty miles from home. Pointless talking about globalisation in The Cross, or any other village around here; you may as well be pissing against the wind.’

  ‘What about the Police? There must have been some kind of law enforcement back then?’

  ‘Aye, there would have been Policemen about. But back then, you would have been able to count on one hand the number of people who weren’t either directly or indirectly employed by the Byrne family. They controlled the mines right up until their demise in the 1930s. That’s just shy of one and a half centuries of power. Think about that – one hundred and fifty years of unchallenged rule. You’d have to have some kind of death wish to be the local lawman who opts to take sides with the accusations of a penniless farm-hand over the lord of the manor himself.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve got me going off course. You see, picking on kids who daren’t fight back was bad enough, but it was only the tip of the iceberg. I’m afraid his other shenanigans make domestic violence seem as mild as a July evening. Are you sure you want me to continue?’ he asked, knowing full well what the reply would be.