by Mark White
‘Why?’ asked Olivia. ‘Was the rest of Elizabeth’s evidence lost?’
‘No, the records are all intact. Elizabeth simply passed out with fear. Following her statement, a group of men from the village, including the father of Kathryn Wick, marched directly up to the farm, intent on seeing for themselves what had happened. And they were hell-bent on revenge. Many of them had good cause to seek justice; like Emily said earlier, there’d been a series of dreadful crimes in the village; two barns had been torched and several of the men had come across the slaughtered remains of their sheep. Someone had to pay.’
‘What did they find when they reached the farm?’ asked Charlotte.
‘They didn’t find anything. Not even the slightest piece of evidence to corroborate Elizabeth’s story; it was like she had made everything up from start to finish. There was no trace of Kathryn, the five cloaked strangers, or the fire. When the men returned to The Cross, they were called by their wives to the bed of Elizabeth, where accounts state she was found laughing hysterically and foaming at the mouth as if she were possessed; the bed rocking and shaking on its feet.’
‘It sounds like a scene from The Exorcist,’ laughed Olivia, relieved at the opportunity to lighten the mood slightly.
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ remarked Bronwyn, checking the clock on the wall and noting that it was almost 1.30pm. She would have to get back to the Youth Hostel to sign for an afternoon delivery she was expecting. ‘But I’m afraid what happened to poor Elizabeth was real enough. The villagers wanted their revenge, and they got what they wanted when the Magistrate accused Elizabeth of being in league with the Devil. She had outright refused when ordered to recount the Lord’s Prayer, choosing instead to raise her nightgown above her head and flaunt her naked body to everyone in the room. She was immediately found guilty of being a witch, as well as for all of the other recent crimes, including the murder of Kathryn Wick. The following day she was taken to the Village Green behind us and burned at the stake. As she died, she began to say the Lord’s Prayer; but it wasn’t long before the screaming began. She was the last woman in Shepherd’s Cross to be executed for witchcraft; the last woman in northern England, as it happens. And here’s an interesting fact for you: on your way home this afternoon, if you feel like taking a short diversion through the cemetery of All Saint’s Church, you’ll be able to find a headstone near the west wall in memory of Kathryn Wick, whose body was never found.’
Emily walked into the kitchen, having kept the adjoining door open to allow her to listen in to the conversation as she prepared for opening time. ‘Well, I hope we haven’t bored you?’ she asked. ‘Like I said, there’s a great deal lying beneath the surface of The Cross.’
‘There certainly is,’ said Charlotte. ‘And thank you ever so much for inviting us over here. But there’s one thing still puzzling me. Do you think Elizabeth was a witch? And if so, do you think she carried out the crimes and made up the whole story about the farm and what happened up there?’
‘I guess we’ll never know,’ replied Emily. ‘But I doubt she was a witch. She’d more likely caught a fever from her father and was hallucinating. Life was much harder in those days; they didn't have the medicines we have now. Besides,’ Emily smiled, winking at Bronwyn, ‘I didn’t think you believed in all that mumbo-jumbo?’
‘But at the very least she must have been completely bonkers,’ said Olivia. ‘I mean, to have made up that story about the Devil and throwing a dead girl into the fire.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Emily said. ‘But something very similar to the alleged events of that night in 1647 was reported to have happened up at Fellside Hall nearly a hundred years ago. But that, ladies, is another story for another day.’
The tinkling of the bell above the Post Office door signalled it was time for everyone to go their separate ways: Emily to her customers, Bronwyn to her delivery; and Charlotte and Olivia to the west wall of All Saints’ Church.
Chapter 7
1.30pm: Ted Wilson made no attempt to avert his eyes from the ample breasts of his secretary as she stood up to take her coat from the mahogany stand by the door. What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on those two puppies, he thought to himself, knowing fine well that he had a snowball’s chance in Hell of actually doing so. She buttoned up her coat and bent down to retrieve her handbag that she kept under her desk. Ted smiled at her; he hadn’t employed her solely for her looks, but coming in to work every morning was considerably less arduous when you could ogle your secretary’s curvy backside every time her head was turned.
‘Right, Mr Wilson, that’s me done for the day.’ She had requested the afternoon off; some friends were travelling over to Newcastle for a night out and she needed time to doll herself up. ‘I’ve left the Herdman file on your desk for you to check, and I’ve prepared a list of tradesmen for your client at Fellside Hall to consider. Oh, and I’ll take these letters with me and post them on the way home. Have a nice weekend, Mr Wilson. See you Monday.’
‘Thanks, Stephanie, and you have a lovely weekend too. And listen – you stay away from any nasty young men, do you hear? Lads under thirty have only got one thing on their mind!’ She smiled at him and walked out, waving to him without looking back as she closed the door behind her; rushing off down the path to the exciting night that lay ahead. Who are you trying to kid, he thought, you’re pushing sixty and you’ve still only got one thing on your mind.
He was standing in the front office of his land agency, which was located next to Turner’s General Store on one of the four lanes that led from each corner of the village green like spokes from a hub. His business had been passed down to him from his father, who in turn had inherited it from his own father. For almost a century, the Wilsons had looked after the property interests of almost every farmer, businessman and resident within a radius of at least ten miles of Shepherd’s Cross. He knew the boundaries of every farm and strip of land in the area, having been involved in more legal disputes over ownership than he cared to remember. It was fair to say, that while he wasn’t a very popular man (he was widely reputed to have saved the first penny he’d earned), he was someone you would rather have fighting your corner than your enemy’s. His love for making money was only surpassed by his fear of spending it; his fees being widely reputed to being akin to daylight robbery. Nobody knew how much he was worth, but he was undoubtedly one of the wealthiest men for miles around.
He had a relatively quiet afternoon lined up ahead of him: there were some plans to check over for Mr Herdman of Eliza Farm and a few bits of paperwork to deal with; nevertheless, he expected to complete his business in such time as to allow him an early finish. Not that there was a Mrs Wilson waiting for him at home – his miserly disposition had failed throughout the years to endear him to the opposite sex.
As soon as he turned his back on the front door and started walking towards his office at the rear of the building, he heard the door open behind him and the familiar voice of Sergeant Jennings as he entered with PC Cara Jones. ‘Afternoon, Ted. How are you?’
‘Ted, Cara, how lovely to see you both’ he said. ‘Won’t you come in. Would you care for a drink?’ He wasn’t overly surprised to see them; the nature of his work meant he was frequently employed in resolving disputes that required the involvement of the Police.
‘Very kind of you, Ted, but we’re not staying long. We’re on our way up to Fellside Hall to welcome its new arrivals, but I thought we’d call by here first on the off-chance that you might know something about it. You still have something to do with that place, don’t you?’
Wilson sighed and nodded. ‘Aye, I’ve been dealing with it, but to be honest it’s proving more hassle than it’s worth.’ He waved his arm in the general direction of two chairs. ‘Please, take a seat and I’ll tell you what I know, not that there’s much to tell.’
Cara and Jennings sat down as Wilson selected and withdrew a folder from the grey filing cabinet that ran along the entire length of one wall, placing it on
the table in front of them. Removing the elastic ribbon that held it together, he opened the file and pulled out an official-looking letter. At the top of the page was a simple logo with the letters UCL printed beside it, reinforced underneath with the words Institute of Archaeology, University College London. There were a few neatly-typed paragraphs, below which was the immaculate signature of a Professor Benedict Blackmoor – Department of Archaeological History.
‘I received this letter in October last year,’ Wilson said, ‘Some further correspondence followed it, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I met with the person who sent it.’
‘That must have been who Frank Gowland saw you driving off with,’ said Jennings. ‘He told me he’d seen you talking to two important-looking characters.’
‘Bloody Frank Gowland – he couldn’t hold a glass of water!’ laughed Wilson. ‘But he’s right. They arrived yesterday; two gentlemen from University College London - Professor Benedict Blackmoor and his research assistant, Dr Reuben King. As the letter says, they’re archaeological historians; apparently they specialise in the history of the Roman Empire. They’ve come up here to study some of the old Roman forts scattered along Hadrian’s Wall. I’ve no idea how long they are planning to stay, but I reckon they’re here for a few months at least.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Cara.
‘They’re wanting some work doing on the Hall. Quite a bit of work, considering the list of tradesmen they’ve asked me to prepare. God knows why – it’ll cost them a fortune. But no bugger else has shown any interest in the place, so who am I to refuse them? As the saying goes, a fool is soon parted from his money.’
‘But of all places, why the hell do they want to stay there?’ asked Jennings. ‘There are any number of good hotels to choose from along Hadrian’s Wall. Fellside Hall is a bloody wreck; there’s no heating, or electricity. And Christ knows what it’ll take to get the water working again. Not exactly bursting with home comforts. You must have asked them why?’
‘Aye, I did. Apparently they spend considerable time away at various digs, tracing the archaeology of the Empire wherever it takes them. And wherever they go, they like to stay in old properties – castles, forts, old manor houses…that type of thing. They told me that their work deals with buildings and places from times that have long since passed, and that aside from having little interest in modern architecture, staying in a Holiday Inn just wouldn’t be in keeping with their line of work. And they are spending some money on it to make it more comfortable, although it seems like a waste to me. They’re only renting it on a month by month basis.’
‘Hmmm...I suppose it’s vaguely plausible,’ said Jennings. ‘All the same, I think we should call by to introduce ourselves and let them know that their ‘friendly’ local Police force is keeping an eye on them.’
Cara nodded in agreement. ‘One more thing, Ted. When we walked in here, you told us that dealing with them is giving you more hassle than it’s worth. Any particular reason?’
Ted heaved a heavy sigh. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting lazy in my old age; but my job tends to be mainly dealing with the negotiation of leases and particulars of legal agreements, or disagreements, as is often the case. I don’t like getting involved in sorting out tradesmen and deliveries and God knows what else. Even this morning, I arranged for a trailer load of firewood to be sent up there. And I’m not even getting a kickback for it! I’m not sure why, but I feel under pressure to be more involved with these particular tenants than I would normally be. It’s as if they’ve suckered me into becoming some sort of go-between. That’s what you get for being too helpful – you give someone an inch and they take a mile.’
‘It’s not like you to be so soft,’ Jennings said. ‘What with all the wrangling with lawyers that you’ve had down the years, you must be one of the toughest people I know!’
Wilson laughed, accepting the jibe. ‘I am, and don’t you dare tell anyone otherwise. But these two, I don’t what it is about them, but they have a way about them that somehow draws you in and makes you want to be more obliging than you otherwise might be. I’d be interested to know what you think about them – maybe it’s just me.’
Cara and Jennings stood up to leave. ‘Well,’ said Jennings, ‘we’re heading up there now. I’m certainly curious to meet them. They sound like a couple of harmless eccentric academics to me. If you’re in The Fallen Angel later, I’ll let you know how I get on.’
‘Aye. I’ll definitely be there. The snow’s forecast to arrive this afternoon; perfect weather for a few brandies by the fire.’
‘Thanks for your help, Ted,’ said Cara. ‘You have a good weekend.’ Jennings was standing at the door, holding it open for her. She smiled as she passed by him to acknowledge the gesture. One thing was certain; Jennings wasn’t the only person curious to meet the new arrivals.
Chapter 8
1.45pm: Three years had passed since the gnarled finger of winter had pointed at Shepherd’s Cross; a rare gesture of mercy considering her characteristic indifference to the prayers of the hill farmer, whose fortune rose and fell with the vagaries of the elements. For three years, her kindness had spared the sheep from the ravages of suffocating snow drifts and freezing temperatures. It was only a matter of time, however, until winter’s generosity waned; for those who dwelled on higher ground understood only too well the bitterness of her breath when it blew across the land.
And so it was, on that Friday afternoon in January, that snow began to fall on Shepherd’s Cross.
It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone; the Met Office had forecasted that North East England in general, and the western side of County Durham in particular, was likely to experience four to five days of moderate to heavy snowfall. The Local Authority had dispatched its fleet of trucks to spread salt and grit along the main arterial routes around the county, but successive years of budget cuts had limited their reach to all but the busiest of roads. In order for the residents of Shepherd’s Cross to travel to or from their village, they would be obliged to make their own way along eight miles of undulating and twisting country lanes, where eventually they could join a road of any significance to the wider population. The farmers would help out where they could, ploughing the worst of the snow to the side of the road to enable the more capable four wheel drive vehicles to pass through, but their primary concern was for the safety and wellbeing of their flocks; everything else came second.
Shepherd’s Cross was no stranger to enforced periods of isolation; its remoteness making it a requirement for anyone who made it their home to be of an independent, self-reliant disposition. Recent winters were generally less severe than those of years gone by, where the reservoirs would freeze and the snow would last for weeks on end, but even now, it was not uncommon for the village to be cut off from the outside world for several days at a time. The Cross’s location meant there was no possibility of picking up a mobile phone signal, and the rapid spread of broadband internet had yet to reach the more rural parts of the county. Many of the villagers hoped it would stay that way; for them, change was an unwelcome visitor.
Challenging times tended to bring the community together – the young would help the old, the healthy would help the sick; the importance of looking out for one’s fellow man was never more apparent than when set against the harsh backdrop of a wild winter. And while the professional weather watchers were not predicting anything of apocalyptic proportions, there was a strong possibility over the coming days of at least some disruption to the predictability of everyday life.
In the event of such disruption, it remained to be seen how willing this tight-knit community would be in extending the hand of friendship to the residents of Rowan Lane.
Chapter 9
2.00pm: Sergeant Jennings and PC Jones drove up to the tall, wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance to the grounds of Fellside Hall. Cara was immediately struck by how intimidating they were, far more likely to threaten visitors than to welcome them. From the informa
tion Ted had provided, she had no reason to be afraid of coming up here, and part of her was actually quite looking forward to it; but a nagging voice inside her head kept telling her that it would be wise to be cautious.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Jennings. ‘Stay in the car - I’ll open the gates.’ He opened the passenger door and climbed out; Cara leaving the engine running to keep the heating on. There was no padlock on the gate, so he slid the bar out of its fastening and pushed one of the gates away from the car towards the grass verge, returning to do the same with the other one. He returned to the car, closing the door and immediately turning the heating up, rubbing his hands together in front of the fan. ‘It’s bloody freezing out there,’ he said ‘Come on - let’s get this over with so we can get back to the Station before the weather gets any worse.’
Cara released the handbrake and set off slowly along the narrow driveway, which was lined on either side by two rows of dishevelled silver birch trees; their knotted trunks and contorted branches making them appear like ragged sentinels, silently but menacingly keeping watch over whoever dared pass between them. Cara couldn’t see anybody outside, but she had a powerful feeling they were not alone. As they neared a bend in the weed-strewn track, her eyes rested on two enormous, jet-black ravens, perched on a hanging branch up ahead; as still as ebony statues as they stared indifferently at the approaching car. They remained perched on the branch as she drove under them, and as she rounded the bend, she checked her rear view mirror, only to find that they had both disappeared without trace.