by Sammi Cox
Victoria Park Cemetery had imposing stone pillars holding up immense wrought iron gates, painted black. It was the only cemetery in the area that was dated to the right time period, according to Mac's calculations.
Mac parked the car in the designated visitors car park and sneaked a look over at Jean who was, as Mac had come to expect of her, looking extremely nervous. Ignoring the silent pleading look that would no doubt cause more delays than Mac would have liked, Mac got out of the car. Jean followed more slowly.
There was something peculiar about a Victorian cemetery. They were landscaped like a public park, with twisting footpaths and colourful flowerbeds. Then there were the grand memorials; stone obelisks, large Grecian urns atop matching stone plinths, winged angels...How could the Victorian architects and designers orchestrate cities of the dead in such a way as you might want to spend your Sunday afternoon there, strolling about the monuments, mingling with the deceased? Of course, this sort of thing didn't bother Andromache Jones one bit; she was used to spending quite a bit of time in the company of the dead, and more often than not, found their company more appealing than that of the living.
They walked through the gates; etched above, in a golden Gothic Script, illuminated by a nearby lamp, were the words "Victoria Park Cemetery".
'Do you know where we are going, Miss Jones?' Jean enquired, pausing a moment to look at each of the paths in front of them. Dead ahead, the main road through the cemetery went up to the chapel and crematorium. To the right ran another two, lesser routes, whilst another could be found to their left. Everywhere they looked there were all manner of monuments, some small, others large, but all appeared to glow slightly in the dusky light.
'Not exactly, Jean,' Mac answered, taking a moment to consider the four roads before them. Her intuition felt the stronger tug towards the main road, so they began to climb the quite steep hill towards the chapel.
When they reached the crest of the hill, Mac took a moment to enjoy the view across the cemetery in the twilight. The Gothic architecture of the chapel itself was pleasing to the eye, and turning round full circle, mature trees stood guard over the many memorials that stretched for as far as the eye could see and beyond. The path they had taken formed a ring around the chapel, and off it numerous smaller paths branched off to criss-cross the cemetery grounds.
'Which way now?'
Mac knew that it wasn't as simple as finding the area where the oldest graves were; this cemetery was not organised so simply. Instead, they were interspersed all over the site, offering different locations to the deceased; some over-looked the pond whilst others were nestled protectively down in the hollow.
Mac wasn't quite sure as to the exact direction to take now. None of the options stood out to her.
'Hand me the ring for a moment.'
Jean duly did as she was asked. Mac closed her eyes and gently held the ring in her hands.
...An obelisk in the background...a stone tomb, topped with a winged angel...iron railings marking the Colebridge family plot...not too far away, a big yew tree grows...
'I think I know where we are going,' Mac said, handing the ring back to Jean. 'This way.'
Mac headed off, past the chapel and down one of the lesser paths.
'You know, not many people are comfortable in cemeteries once the sun goes down,' Jean called out behind her. 'Now I think about it, surely this could have waited until morning?'
'Well, we're here now, we might as well finish this.'
'Oh...just for clarification, if I had...let's say...mentioned waiting until daylight back at the car...what would you have said?'
'There's no time like the present.'
'Why doesn't that surprise me?'
'Jean, will you be quiet.'
'Sorry...I talk when I get nervous...you know...I can't help it...'
They carried on in silence.
The area that Mac was heading for took them back down the other side of the hill that the chapel was perched on top of. About half way down, paths going both left and right branched off from the main road. They veered left. Mac could see the large yew tree. The closer they got, more details came into focus.
There's the obelisk; it must be over there.
'I know it's really eerie here, but it is quite beautiful too,' Jean said. Mac didn't know whether she was talking to herself or trying to make conversation.
'There it is,' Mac said pointing it out.
'Which one?'
'The big one with the angel on top and the black railings.'
'That is some gravestone,' Jean whispered, whistling, but then she pulled up short, grabbing Mac's arm and pulling her to a standstill. 'Who's to say that she isn't just going to pop out of the ground and kill me here? If she can cause all that trouble back at the house and her body isn't even there, won't her energy or power or whatever be strongest here?'
'It doesn't work like that, Jean. Not to mention that Rosalind will only try to kill you if you don't give her the ring back.'
'So I am safe here?'
'Jean, please.'
'I was only asking,' Jean muttered under her breath.
Mac walked off. After a moment, she could hear Jean stamping through the grass behind her.
When they reached the monument, it was clear to see that this was a large family plot. The winged angel stood protectively over the centre, itself standing on a wide stone base. On each of its sides was an inscription to a different family member. To either side of the angel were another two headstones, one each for Rosalind's sister and husband, and the other two for the dearly beloved parents of Charles.
Mac walked around the plot, reading what was written on each face of the angel's base. Mac was sad to see that Charles had passed away many years before Rosalind, in 1890, leaving her to raise their children alone. They had had a son, who had perished, aged 30 during the Great War, and a daughter who moved out of Steping and died aged 75 in 1956. Rosalind who had been born in 1859, had died in 1922, aged 63.
Turning around, Mac wiped a couple of tears from her eyes as she wondered as to what kind of people they were and how Rosalind had coped with the loss of her husband at such a young age. Mac, although not married to Crab, couldn't imagine life without him, and neither did she want to.
'So what do we do now?' Jean asked, her hands tucked up into the sleeves of her thick woollen cardigan.
'We do what she asked. We return to her the ring.'
'What if she didn't mean the ring? What if she meant something else?'
'She meant the ring, Jean. I promise.'
With as much respect as one could show whilst climbing over black-painted iron railings around a burial site, Andromache and Jean managed to get themselves from outside the Colebridge plot to inside it.
'How do we do this? Are there any special words we have to say? A prayer...?'
'No, just push the ring as far as you can into the earth, and do so without any anger or resentment. That's all we need to do. I get the impression that Rosalind had lived a tough life, and all she wanted was that trinket from Charles. A reminder of happier days.'
Once the deed was done, they carefully climbed back to the right side of the fence, both of them feeling quite emotional and drained.
'That's it. It's over,' Jean said, sighing.
'Yep, it is. Time to go home.'
* * * * *
Mac dropped Jean off at the house so that she could collect her car and go to stay at her friend's for the night. Although she believed that everything was now sorted, for she too had sensed something at the graveside, Jean wanted to spend a bit of time in the house in daylight, to build up her confidence and trust. Besides, it was far too dark to tidy up all the broken glass that littered the hallway and the library at this time of night. It would be safer to deal with it come the morning.
Before she left, Mac made Jean promise that she would stay in touch, and to keep her informed as to how the restoration was progressing. Jean promised that if sh
e felt up to throwing a house-warming party at the end of the renovation, Mac would definitely be at the top of the guest list.
When Mac got home, Crab was already in bed. It was later than Mac realised.
As quietly as she could, she moved into the kitchen to rustle up a hot mug of cocoa, which she then took into her reading room to drink. The emotions of the day, especially of those few minutes standing beside the Colebridge plot in Victoria Park Cemetery seemed to linger. Before she was able to go up to bed, Mac was going to have to do something about them, or they would play on her mind all night.
Pulling out a small white candle, like the ones found on birthday cakes, only smooth-sided instead of ridged, from one of the drawers of the dresser, she stood it in a candle holder and lit it.
'In memory of Rosalind Colebridge, and her husband Charles. May they have found each other, and peace, in heaven.'
Mac placed the holder on the table next to the sofa and curled up, cradling her cocoa and watched it burn.
A fitting end to such a case, Mac thought to herself, as a few stray tears rolled down her cheeks.
THE END
About the Author
Sammi Cox lives in the UK, with her partner and two cats.
She loves writing and making things.
The Apparition is the second short story in The Andromache Jones Mystery series.
To find out more about the series and Andromache Jones, please check out:
The Andromache Jones Mysteries website:
andromachejones.wordpress.com
Author Site:
sammiscribbles.wordpress.com
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