Ghostly Games

by K. E. O'Connor

  “Just so long as you don’t go mentioning ghosts to him,” I said. “We don’t want him referring us to a superior in the church for an exorcism.”

  “I thought it was only Catholics who liked that sort of thing,” said Helen.

  “Even so, we don’t want to take the risk of getting thrown into the village rumor mill because we mention ghosts to him.”

  “Agreed. We’ll stick to safe topics.” Helen stopped by a small red wooden door and tapped on it.

  A moment passed before the door was opened, and a round-faced man with glasses perched on the end of a long nose appeared before us. “So glad you could make it.” He extended his hand to me. “I’m Reverend Davies. You must be Lorna. Helen told me all about you. Welcome to the village.”

  I shook his large warm hand. “Thank you. It’s nice of you to invite us here.”

  “I always like to welcome new people to Combe Martin,” said Reverend Davies. “And my door is always open, even if it is simply for a cup of tea and a chat.”

  He stepped back and allowed us into the vicarage. The hallway was stuffed with bookshelves, every space was filled with a variety of well-thumbed paperbacks.

  “You don’t mind if my dog comes in?” I asked.

  “All creatures great and small are welcome in my home.” Reverend Davies smiled down at Flipper. “Go through to the sitting room. The kettle is on, so tea won’t be a minute.”

  We followed Reverend Davies into a brightly lit sitting room. The room was a mismatch of comfortable looking easy chairs set around a fireplace. There was a small table in one corner and two chairs sitting at it. There were piles of paperwork heaped on all available surfaces in the room.

  “I’ve got in a few little sandwiches and treats as well. I’m not much of a cook. I live on my own. But I do like my food.” Reverend Davies patted his rotund belly as he left the room. “I won’t keep you.”

  “You’re right. He does seem nice.” I sat in a floral-patterned chair, and Helen took the seat next to me.

  “I told you he was,” said Helen. “And he's happy to talk.”

  “And he likes treats,” I said, warming to him even more.

  “Which means he must be nice,” said Helen.

  I nodded. I sometimes felt uneasy with religious types. It was not that I had anything against them, but with my ability to see ghosts, it left me in somewhat of a predicament about what to believe in. I knew some religions believed in an afterlife, but I had no clue what I was seeing and what the ghosts truly were. I also didn’t know where they came from or where they went. After I’d helped them, did they disappear in a puff of smoke or go somewhere else?

  Reverend Davies returned, carrying a tray. He set it down and handed over cups before pouring the tea. “I will confess, these sandwiches were not made by me. There’s a wonderful lady in the village who runs her own little cafe. I convinced her that she should make these for me. I said I had some special guests coming for a visit.”

  “Are you talking about Sylvia Edwards?” I asked him.

  “That’s right.” Reverend Davies smiled brightly. “She’s something of a whizz in the kitchen.”

  “I’ve met her,” I said. “I went to her cafe with Jasmine a couple of days ago.”

  “Ah yes, poor Mrs. Bellamy.” Reverend Davies passed around some plates before offering the sandwiches. “How is she? I rarely see her these days. She visits her children’s graves but barely speaks to me when I approach her, and I don’t like to put any pressure on her to talk if she’s not ready.”

  “Jasmine was doing well until we went to Sylvia’s cafe and someone accused her of killing her own children,” I said.

  “Oh dear, is that horrible rumor still present?” Reverend Davies set the plate of sandwiches down and sat in the seat opposite me. “I had thought people would have moved onto something more pleasant.”

  “You don’t believe there’s any truth to the rumor?”

  “Not for a moment.” Reverend Davies fiddled with the sleeve of his black shirt. “I will admit, it was unusual that the children died on the same day. But it was an inevitability. They both had the same condition, and it could not be treated. I have heard several accounts of a twin being able to sense when the other is in distress and pain. Perhaps that’s what happened with the Bellamy children.”

  “Jasmine was upset about what happened in the cafe,” I said. “It’s a shame people can’t show more compassion to her.”

  “Something to include in my next sermon, I think,” said Reverend Davies. “My congregation can be set in their ways. But it’s time this unpleasant rumor was scratched out. I assisted Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy with the funeral arrangements for their children, and I saw nothing more than grief stricken parents. It’s not fair they are being mistreated by those who should be supporting them.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  Helen cleared her throat and shot me a warning look. “I was wondering about other families who had lived in the Bellamy house. Do you have any details about them?”

  Reverend Davies’s face brightened. He was clearly happy to be moving on from such an awkward subject. “Indeed, I do. The church has records dating back hundreds of years. Before there were all these fancy computers, we were the only place keeping records of residents, births, and deaths. I like looking back over the old record sometimes. I feel it helps to give me a sense of perspective and see my place in this big, beautiful world of ours.”

  “May we take a look at the records?” asked Helen.

  “Of course,” said Reverend Davies. “I can’t let you take them away with you, but you’d be most welcome to browse them while we have our tea.” He stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth as he stood up, before grinning at us, and leaving the room.

  “Steady on,” whispered Helen to me. “We don’t want to get on the wrong side of him. He could have some useful information for us.”

  “I had to say something,” I said. “He was talking about how wonderful this Sylvia woman is, yet she’s got a cafe full of people who point fingers at Jasmine. And she didn’t do much to stop the vicious gossiping of her employee.”

  “I know it’s not fair,” said Helen. “But you know what these small villages can be like.”

  “Which is why we need to find out what really happened,” I said.

  “I agree.” Helen helped herself to several more sandwiches. “Did you see the cake he brought in?”

  I looked over to the tray, where a plump Victoria sponge cake sat, its glistening jam peeking out of the middle and a light dusting of icing sugar on top.

  “Although the cake looks amazing, I’m still not forgiving Sylvia,” I said.

  “I bet you’ll eat some, though.” Helen grinned at me.

  “It would be rude not to,” I said.

  Reverend Davies returned with two leather bound volumes in his hands. “These should interest you. Let me find the relevant section.” He sat down and flicked through the yellowed pages of the book.

  “Do the records tell you who first lived in the cottages?” I asked.

  “They do,” said Reverend Davies. “Here we are. The first occupants were Gwen and Saul Baker. They lived in one of the cottages for eight years, and worked on the estate that was owned by Lord Templeton at the time. He built the cottages for his workers. There are several other names listed, but they were the very first to take up residence.”

  “Did they have any children while they lived there?” asked Helen.

  “I expect so.” Reverend Davies traced his finger down the page. “Seven children. Can you imagine, in one of those tiny cottages? Still, it was the done thing back then.”

  “Did the children work on the land as well?” asked Helen.

  “Most likely,” said Reverend Davies. “Although the records of their employment are not clear. The father definitely worked on the land. Gwen is listed as a housewife. All those little ones must have kept her busy.”

  “Do you know what happened to the children who grew
up in the household?” I asked.

  “There’s no record of that in here. Some of them may have moved out of the parish,” said Reverend Davies. “Hang on a second; there is something here.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Rather sadly, a record of a death,” said Reverend Davies. “It was not uncommon back then. Children were fragile, and we didn’t have the medications we do today to keep them healthy. And when food was scarce, the parents favored the stronger children because they knew they had a better chance of survival.”

  “Who died?” asked Helen.

  “A child called Bill,” said Reverend Davies. “He was five years old according to the records. And he was buried in the graveyard in the village.”

  “How did he die?” I was confused by this information. I’d seen the ghost of a young girl, heard the laughter of several other children, and had seen the ghost of two adults. But now a male child. How was he involved in all of this?

  “It’s simply listed here as a fever,” said Reverend Davies. “But it could have been a number of things. Some children grew weak because of malnutrition. If the harvests weren’t good, and the workers weren’t paid enough money, the children had to go without. If they were already weak or sick, that may have been enough to finish them off.”

  “How sad,” said Helen.

  “Indeed, it is.” Reverend Davies’s gaze went to the table. “Would either of you like some cake?”

  We both agreed, despite my hesitance because the sponge cake had been made by Sylvia in her café of gossipy witches.

  “If you want to learn more, we should visit the museum,” said Reverend Davies.

  “What’s in there?” asked Helen.

  “Everything you could imagine and more,” said Reverend Davies. “I use it to store old photographs and maps of the village. I only have limited space here.”

  I looked at the heaps of jumbled paper in the room. “Will it be open now?”

  “I have a key,” said Reverend Davies. “I spend my spare time there with Harry, a resident of the village. Between the two of us, we’ve been getting the archive into shape.”

  I looked at Helen who nodded at me. “It sounds interesting.”

  “I bet there are all sorts of secrets in the museum,” said Helen.

  Reverend Davies grinned like an excited schoolboy. “I love nothing more than discovering something unusual in a box. And you can guarantee that will happen if you rifle around for long enough.”

  “Let’s go see what secrets we can find,” I said.

  Chapter 18

  We finished our tea and cake and then followed Reverend Davies outside and along a narrow back alley that ran parallel to the graveyard. The wind had picked up, and a gust blew my hair into my face as I hurried along.

  “What are you hoping to find?” Helen whispered to me.

  “More information about this Baker family,” I said. “More photographs would be good.”

  “Did you say photos?” Reverend Davies stopped by an ancient looking wooden door set into a thick stone wall. “If so, you’re in luck. We have boxes of them. Harry likes to catalogue them, so the archive is in good order.” He opened the door and flicked on a light.

  I stepped inside with Helen and Flipper. The light took a few seconds to blink on, and as it did, I spotted cases of stuffed animals, including a mangy looking bear posed in a ferocious stance, glass cabinets full of stone artefacts, and maps and cloth wall hangings covering every wall.

  “What do you think?” Delight lit Reverend Davies eyes as he watched us take in the surroundings.

  “There’s a lot of stuff in here,” said Helen.

  “You could spend months in here and still find new things.” Reverend Davies clapped his hands. “Still, you are interested in the house and old photos, so let me see what I can find you.”

  Flipper walked over to a display case full of bones and whined at them.

  “They’re not for you,” I said to him.

  Reverend Davies roared with laughter. “Nothing to chew off those bones. They’re Roman bones; all the goodness will be gone. I might have a cookie in the store room if that’s an acceptable compromise.”

  Flipper looked at Reverend Davies and wagged his tail before we followed him past the display cases and into a store room.

  The store room was a large, stone built space, full of boxes. Cold seeped from the walls as we entered, and Reverend Davies tutted and adjusted the heating.

  “Need to be careful not to have this space too warm; it destroys the artefacts. We’re fundraising for a proper climate control system. But they are expensive, so we’ll be a bit chilly in here. This way to the photographs.”

  We traipsed down a passageway lit by bare overhead bulbs.

  “Harry keeps the photos on this shelf.” Reverend Davies pointed to neat rows of boxes. “It’s all stored in date order. You’ll be looking for the oldest photos of the house, I expect?”

  “Yes, they would be good to look at.” If I could get my hands on more photographs of the Baker family, I might be able to spot the ghosts haunting the Bellamys.

  Reverend Davies hefted the first box down and pulled off the lid as if he was revealing an amazing gift. “Get stuck in.”

  We spent the next hour surrounded by old photos, maps of the village, and building schematics. Reverend Davies was in his element, showing us faded pictures of the village and the houses. What interested me the most were the photos the landowner, Lord Templeton, had taken. Every year, he’d assembled his workers and taken their photograph. That was where I spotted my ghosts.

  Helen sneezed as I handed her a photo. “What’s this?”

  “Our ghosts,” I said quietly. Reverend Davies was making us more tea. Flipper was with him on the promise of a cookie.

  Helen studied the photograph. “Gwen and Saul?”

  I pointed to the figures on the right of the photo. “I’m positive that’s them. They lived in the cottages, and they’re now haunting them.”

  “So now we know it’s definitely them, what should we do about it?” Helen passed me the photograph.

  I looked at the grim set expressions on Gwen and Saul’s faces. “Ask them if the child I’ve spotted is theirs. And if so, did they have something to do with either her death or the deaths of Mirabel and Michael.”

  Helen shivered and rubbed her arms. “At least we’ve made some progress.”

  “Reverend Davies has been helpful.” I got the impression he didn’t find the work in the parish stimulating. But then I imagine there wasn’t all that much to do given how rural the area was.

  “Got what you wanted?” Reverend Davies walked in with a tray of tea and cookies, Flipper at his heel, licking his furry chops.

  “Yes. And it looks like I’m not the only one.” I grinned at Flipper. “I hope he hasn’t taken advantage too badly?”

  “He’s a delight.” Reverend Davies handed over the cups and then patted Flipper’s head before feeding him another cookie.

  “These photos are fascinating,” said Helen. “It’s given me a whole new perspective on the village.”

  “You are most welcome to visit again,” said Reverend Davies. “Harry likes visitors just as much as I do. And he's often in here during the day.”

  “The information about the village and the house was interesting,” I said.

  “Happy to talk about the parish,” said Reverend Davies. “And my door is always open to you.”

  After finishing our tea and dragging a reluctant Flipper away from the cookies, we said our goodbyes, before walking back along the alleyway and the gravel path to the gates leading out of the church. The sky threatened rain, and heavy grey clouds sat low on the horizon as a chilly wind blew through the churchyard.

  “While we’re here, why don’t we have a quick look at Mirabel and Michael’s graves?” I said to Helen. “I stopped here on the day I went to the café with Jasmine. I didn’t sense anything then, but perhaps, going back again will be useful.
I couldn’t study the graves too intently without appearing odd.”

  “It can’t do any harm,” said Helen.

  “And if Reverend Davies spots us, I’m sure he won’t mind,” I said. “He’s a decent guy.”

  “Yes, and I didn’t have to flirt with him,” said Helen, “which is a good thing.”

  “I got the impression he’s lonely,” I said. “He may have welcomed your attentions.”

  “I’m not cut out to be a vicar’s wife,” said Helen tartly. “But he is a nice man. I would have patted his knee if I really had to.”

  I grinned at Helen as we made our way through the headstones. Flipper bounded ahead of us, inspecting new scents on the ground, and testing out a couple of branches for their throwing and retrieving potential. It wasn’t a large graveyard, with maybe a hundred stones visible. Many of the names and dates had been worn away by time and weather, with only a few new headstones scattered among them.

  “Isn’t that Francis?” I pointed to one corner of the graveyard, the site of Mirabel and Michael’s graves.

  We watched for a moment as Francis stood by the graves. Her head was down and her hands folded in front of her. She opened the bag she was holding, and placed two small posies of flowers by each headstone, before turning and walking away.

  “Who is she visiting?” asked Helen.

  “The Bellamy children,” I said. “She was their nanny, so it’s not such a surprise. It must have been hard for her when the children died.”

  “Perhaps she should spend her spare time learning how to cook,” said Helen.

  “Don’t be mean,” I said. “We’re not all blessed with talents in the kitchen.”

  “It’s just a matter of reading a recipe,” muttered Helen.

  We approached the headstones, and I kept an eye out for Francis, just to make sure she didn’t come back.

  “Are you picking up any ghostly vibrations?” asked Helen.

  “Everything is peaceful.” I looked over to where Flipper was investigating the base of a large oak tree. He seemed calm.