The mayor of Greyfield was a stout and rather Dickens-like character animated from any of the occasionally illustrated pages of the timeless books, like a Pumblechook or a Wopsle. Complete with his overgrown sideburns, his bushel of a beard, his frosted monocle, and his own 19th century style of dress, he presided over the ostentatious town hall with all the airs and graces of a lord surveying his vast estates. He had a staff of but one, a frail woman wrapped in a shawl who was, by appearance, old enough to be his mother. Perhaps she was. She typed an article of correspondence on an ancient typewriter with the speed of someone who dreaded the pounding impact of each and every key. Ledgers were stacked upon the shelves and large spreadsheets adorned the walls, projecting the budgets of years past - some successful, and some laden with the scribbling of a red pen. Nevertheless, this man seemed to be the central ‘hub’ of the village’s financial and legislative responsibilities. I was given the impression that this town had not seen another mayor for decades, as another more competent candidate had not yet strolled into town, and if one had then the villagers likely favoured the devil they knew.
The mayor, the distinguished Mr. Barberwart, invited me into his office, where he gave background to the events that had unfolded.
“Do you believe in ghosts, mister uh...?”
“Fugit. Tempus Fugit.”
His monocle popped out of his eye as a result of his wry smile. “Ah how it does, ah how it does. Tell me, is that you’re real name?”
“For all intents and purposes,” I replied.
“Well then, Mr. Fugit, do you believe in ghosts?”
“I believe not in the existence of ghosts nor of ars magica,” I said, testing his knowledge of Latin further.
He seemed perplexed, but not by any translation. Before continuing he opened a small wooden box that was displayed prominently upon his desk. “Do you smoke, Mr. Fugit?”
“No. Horrible business, that.”
“Yes, yes indeed. Foul,” he agreed as he struck a match and lit his cigar. “Our vicar is a Christian, you know.”
An odd diversion in the conversation.
“Extremely convenient, I’m sure,” I replied.
“Yes, yes it is. So you agree that one must have a vested interest in their own ventures. I must say, for a man who intends to hunt our ghost, I find your atheism on the subject of spirits a little...shall we say, worrisome?”
“Mr. Barberwart, if set to task I have every intention of determining the locus of this disturbance, but I will not entertain any notions of the paranormal until I fully investigate the existence of the normal. No, I do not believe in ghosts, in spooks, in zombies, nor do I endorse the notion of witchcraft, however if when all scientific study fails and I come face to face with an apparition, then I shall surely admit to what my eyes behold. In the meantime I shall not entertain the notions that this village propagates by searching under their beds for monsters until I have at least closed all the windows and served a round of warm milk.”
“Mr. Fugit, your manner is appalling,” the mayor proclaimed, leaning forward and stubbing out his cigar. His tone did not match the severity of his words, and no sooner had he stubbed out his cigar did he proceed to light it again. “However, as you are the only game in town and this is, of course, a voting year, then I feel inclined to give the citizens what they want. Close all the windows you like, Mr. Fugit, but for the temperament of the masses, however small the masses may be, I do require you to check under the bed on at least a few occasions. Do we have an understanding?”
The terms of the job were quite clear.
“Yes, I believe we do.”
“Excellent.”
I requested that he tell me about the house, or at least the remains thereof.
“Mews, Mr. Fugit.”
“Mews?”
“Stables turned into residences. The history of the Morrow Estate is quite turbulent. A very bold and outspoken gene runs through the Morrow bloodline, which has led to a number of dramatic events, a few of which overflowed into the village itself.”
The mayor turned in his chair and withdrew a leather-bound volume from the shelf behind him, opening it up and preparing to give me perhaps more history than I required.
“The first Morrow pre-dates our records, though that's hardly surprising as many of the residents for generations did not know how to read nor write...”
There was a cough – a clearing of throat – from the locus of the typewriter and the old woman behind it. Sufficiently scolded, the mayor changed his tone.
“Our most notable resident of the family was James Randall Morrow, who died along with his family and staff in 1867 when the entire village itself was burned to the ground.”
That raised an eyebrow. “The entire village?”
“Yes, quite,” he replied. “Reasons not recorded, but most likely attributed to an unattended lantern or candle. The age of electricity dawned a little later here than most, but thank God it did, hm?” He continued on. “Only one family member remained, who was abroad at the time. Once he buried his family he buried the estate as well. Greyfield Park, we now call it, and it lies beside the remains of the Mews – the stables which were retro-fitted into acceptable lodgings. Randall Wilfred Morrow, his name was. Rebuilt Greyfield from the ashes.” He then proceeded to thumb through the next few pages, skimming over this family history's key points and skipping a few less-than-noteworthy entries. “Father and son, Wilfred James and James Gordon Morrow, both killed in an attack on Plymouth harbour while attempting to bolster Greyfield's trade. The Great War, that was. James Gordon Morrow's unborn son, Gordon Randall, became the final resident. Turned eighteen at the very end of World War II and was called upon to do his duty. Came back a changed man, though not necessarily for the better. A string of affairs and rather public scandals followed him. Married a woman from a prominent family in the shipping trades, but did not 'honour thy wife' quite as one should. Their last argument ended in the fire which destroyed the Mews and the last remaining trace of the Morrow bloodline.”
“Fascinating.”
“Quite,” the mayor replied. “And there the Mews have sat, untouched since the last flame was extinguished, save for a few childish dares or drunken teens to goad each other into setting foot. Even had a few treasure seekers over the years, though they always came up empty handed. Most of the time they came up scared. Whether or not the tales bear weight is beyond me. I had always stayed away simply out of respect, however respect does not give way to progress.”
“Progress?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Greyfield needs to grow, Mr. Fugit. Dartmoor National Park is off limits to development, and as such new projects have been springing up around it. A few decades ago this village bustled with the news that the new M road would be passing through – something which the majority of the village welcomed as it would bring new business. Bloody thing parted like the Red Sea just a mile or two away, after Exeter. Progress passed us by once, and I won't let it do so again. I can't go tearing up Greyfield park any more than I can go tilling the soil at the cemetery, but that pile of ash and rubble serves as nothing more than fuel for superstitious rabble. It's high time it was cleared.”
He finished his words defiantly and proudly, yet the sudden stop announced the impending punctuation of a 'but'. When it never came I offered it up, if only to allow him breath.
“However...?”
He waved a hand, dismissively. “Hauntings. The last few decades have been littered with them, but now that word has spread about the surveys they have suddenly become prominent again.”
“Of course,” I replied, somewhat self-satisfied.
“Recent ‘strange happenings’,” he confirmed, “or rather personified superstitions on behalf of a village who’s mind-set belies the fact that the ominous ruin is no more than a gravestone.” He drew in a deep breath and exhaled smoke. “It is that sentimental whimsy that sees them still standing as they a
re today. I dare say that such ghostly claims have always existed since the fire, but it is only now that these ‘strange happenings’ have become more noticeable. And violent.”
And now to the crux of the matter.
“Violent?”
Mayor Barberwart hesitated before opened his top drawer and withdrew the morning paper.
“I’ve seen the headlines,” I said, “but I assumed it was an exaggeration.”
His expression then jumped volumes as he set his sharp gaze upon me.
“Tempus...it’s far from exaggerated,” he promised.
I was, at the time, reluctant to agree.
CHAPTER THREE
Daedalian Muse Page 2