by H. Y. Hanna
“Man, I always thought academics studied really boring stuff but this is so cool!” said Pomona.
Professor Thrope smiled. “Well, I suppose my field trips are quite different from those of my colleagues. You see, I’m a cryptozoologist.”
“Ooh!” Pomona opened her eyes wide. “That’s a monster hunter, isn’t it?”
The professor laughed. “Yes, you could call me that. I have been called worse.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave a rueful smile. “Ah, well… the academic community does not take kindly to a man who decides to devote his life to the study of mythical creatures. My biologist colleagues have the glory of discovering important new species of fish or insect, whereas I simply court contempt and ridicule for spending my time searching for beasts from folklore which, according to modern science, simply cannot exist.”
“But they do exist!” said Pomona. “I believe in unicorns and mermaids and kelpies and sea serpents! I know they’re still out there—we just haven’t been able to find them.”
The professor beamed at her. “Thank you, my dear. I am glad to know that there are people who still have the imagination to believe in the incredible.”
“So have you seen them?” asked Pomona breathlessly. “Have you seen any monsters?”
Professor Thrope gave her an apologetic look. “Ah, well, the study of cryptids is not an exact science. We have to rely on anecdotal accounts and reported sightings, more than anything else. It is rare that we get to witness the creatures for ourselves. Usually, however, those who spend many years in the field are eventually rewarded. I myself, for example, was extremely lucky to catch a glimpse of Nessie one winter morning—”
“You saw the Loch Ness Monster?” Pomona squealed in delight. “Omigod! What did it look like?”
“It was quite far away and it was a very foggy morning, but as far as I could see, it had a long, serpentine neck ending in a small head, and it seemed to have a large, streamlined body—it moved very smoothly through the water.”
“Wow…” Pomona breathed.
The young man sitting on their other side, obviously overhearing their conversation, turned towards them and said: “I thought most of the Nessie sightings were clever hoaxes.”
The professor inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, many of them were shown to be faked photographs created by pranksters, but there are some stories which haven’t been discredited.”
“I wish there was some monster here in the Cotswolds,” said Pomona with a wistful sigh. “I’d love to see a real-life beastie from folklore!”
The young man chuckled. “You might get your wish sooner than you think. Have you asked Professor Thrope why he’s here in Tillyhenge? He was telling me about it over drinks earlier—he’s here hunting the Black Shuck! Oh, forgive me…” He held a hand out to Pomona. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Nathan Lewis. I’m an investigative journalist. I’m freelance now but I used to be with the BBC… an old mate of James’s. We used to work together, before the jammy sod decided to give it all up to become ‘lord of the manor’,” he said, laughing and raising his voice so that James would hear.
James looked up from the other end of the table, where he was politely listening to Sir Henry complain about the current British Prime Minister, and grinned at his friend’s teasing. “Don’t believe anything Nathan tells you,” he called. “He’s known to have the fastest tongue at the BBC.”
“Hey, I’m not the one telling tall tales here,” said Nathan, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. Then he turned back to the cryptozoologist and gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Professor, hope you didn’t take offence.”
“Not at all,” said Professor Thrope with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m used to the teasing. It goes with the territory.”
“But seriously, Professor, why are you looking for the Black Shuck here in the Cotswolds? I thought it haunts the coastline and countryside around East Anglia.”
The professor nodded. “Yes, you’re right, the Black Shuck is a creature from the folklore of Norfolk, Suffolk, and the Cambridgeshire fens. In fact, one of the legends originates in Littleport, in Cambridgeshire, where I was born. However, I believe that the Black Shuck is simply one variation of the same creature that has been seen all over the British Isles. If you look back through history, there are many recorded sightings of ghostly black dogs across the different counties in England. There’s the Barghest of Yorkshire, Padfoot of Leeds, the Yeth Hound of Devon, the Gurt Dog of Somerset, Hairy Jack of Lincolnshire—”
“Don’t forget the hellhounds of Dartmoor, which supposedly inspired The Hound of the Baskervilles,” said Nathan with a grin.
“Yes, the black phantom hound comes in many incarnations and I personally believe that they are all sightings of one creature, which travels around the British Isles. You see, all the stories share common details, such as the description of the dog being a huge ghostly hound with shaggy black fur and flaming red eyes, which haunts graveyards, dark forests, and crossroads—”
“And it’s an omen of death!” said Nathan excitedly. “Once you see it, you’re going to die—isn’t that right?”
“Oh no!” said Professor Thrope, looking distressed. “That is the common belief, yes, but I feel that it’s a misconception, borne out of the fear of the unknown. After all, if the creature really wanted to harm, wouldn’t there have been more deaths by now? No, I believe that it is more likely to be a guardian, guiding travellers at night onto the right path or guarding them from danger. There have been numerous reports of ghostly black dogs accompanying people who are out walking in the countryside alone, late at night. Especially women—”
“Yes, yes!” Evie spoke up from across the table. “Mrs Parsons down at the village post office—she said her niece saw the Black Shuck when she was walking home last weekend. It appeared beside her as she was taking a shortcut through the fields.”
“Indeed?” Professor Thrope sat up with interest. “I’d like to interview this young lady. Would you be able to help me contact her?”
“What’s this then?” said Sir Henry, distracted from his political diatribe at last. He turned from the other end of the table where he had been monopolising James, Mrs Gibbs, and his wife. “What are you all talking about? The Black Shuck? Load of superstitious twaddle!”
His wife caught his arm, her face anxious. “Oh, but squidypooh, there have been sightings all around Tillyhenge recently. I’ve been hearing the staff talk about it all week. It’s not just superstition—there really is something out there!”
“Nonsense!” her husband roared. “The Black Shuck is just a stupid story made up to scare children.”
“What about that tramp who was found dead last weekend?” Mrs Gibbs spoke up. She shuddered. “They say he died with a look of terror on his face, and his clothes were all torn… and the police have no idea how he died.”
“Actually, they do,” said James quietly. “I just spoke to Inspector Walsh this morning. They’re still waiting for the results of the post-mortem, but they think the man could have simply had a heart attack while he was walking. There was a large blackberry bush near where he was found—he may have crashed into that while he was staggering around and got tangled in its thorny branches, which would explain the torn clothes and bloody scratches on his skin.”
“That death was no heart attack,” Mrs Gibbs said darkly. “And those were not normal scratches on his skin. They were claw marks.”
Evie gasped and Lady Pritchard gave a squeal of fear, whilst Pomona’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Caitlyn felt her own pulse quicken.
Professor Thrope leaned forwards, his face intent. “Really? Are you certain?”
“Well, I haven’t seen them myself,” Mrs Gibbs admitted. “But I have it on good authority. The farmer who found the body… he’s been telling everyone in the village what he saw. I spoke to his wife yesterday, in fact, and she was terrified. She thought one of her fam
ily might be next, because the Black Shuck is supposed to be an omen of death, but I told her that she should be safe enough since she didn’t see the creature with her own eyes, nor did her husband or son.” She held up a bony finger and wagged it. “But it doesn’t matter what the police say—everyone knows that it was the Black Shuck.”
“Mrs Gibbs…” James looked at her in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d be the type to believe in superstitions and rumours.”
The woman drew herself up with dignity. “Lord Fitzroy, I believe that there are things out there that science cannot explain—things which make no sense, which should not be possible and yet which people have seen with their own eyes. They are real, even if you cannot find a logical explanation for them.”
Caitlyn saw James’s eyes flicker towards her for a moment and she felt her cheeks warming. There was an uncomfortable silence around the table. Then Nathan said with a grin:
“Well, personally, if I’m ever out late at night and see the Black Shuck coming towards me, I’m just going to yell a very firm ‘SIT’!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The rest of the meal passed relatively peacefully and by the time the plates were cleared away and dessert was served, everyone was in a more congenial mood. In addition to a freshly baked Victoria sponge cake and a beautiful multi-layered fruit trifle, Mrs Pruett had also arranged a selection of chocolate truffles, bonbons, and fudge pieces on a silver platter, to be passed around with tea and coffee. Caitlyn felt a warm glow as she watched the guests savouring the rich, velvety chocolates. It was always wonderful seeing people taste the Widow Mags’s mouth-watering creations for the first time.
“Marvellous chocolates!” said Sir Henry with his mouth full. “Best I’ve tasted in years! Where did you say they came from, James?”
James smiled and nodded at Caitlyn. “Caitlyn brought them tonight—courtesy of the Widow Mags. You know her shop, perhaps, Sir Henry? It’s the chocolate shop in the village called Bewitched by Chocolate.”
“Oh!” Mrs Gibbs, who had just picked up a truffle from the platter, hastily put it back. “I didn’t realise these chocolates are from there.”
Caitlyn bit her lip and she saw Pomona bristle across the table, whilst Evie shrank down in her chair.
“Why, what’s the matter with chocolates from there?” asked Nathan, pausing with a piece of caramel fudge halfway to his mouth.
Sir Henry roared with laughter. “Mrs Gibbs, you’re not getting your knickers in a twist about those stories now, are you?”
“What stories?” asked Professor Thrope, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Is this another local legend?”
“This is no legend—it’s the truth,” Mrs Gibbs hissed. “The Widow Mags is a witch and her chocolates are tainted with black magic! God only knows what she puts in them to make them taste so good—”
“She doesn’t put anything in them except the finest cacao beans and the freshest ingredients!” cried Caitlyn angrily. “You have no right to insinuate—”
Mrs Gibbs rounded on her. “Young lady, I know what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I was there at the Fitzroy Garden Party—I saw the Widow Mags conjure up butterflies from that chocolate cake! And what about the attack of chocolate warts on the poor ladies of Tillyhenge? And that… that strange blue fire in the stone circle on the hill? I keep an eye out for what’s happening in the village and I know there are unnatural forces at work.” She wagged a finger in Caitlyn’s face. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that the Widow Mags isn’t a witch?”
“I… I…” Caitlyn stammered, very conscious of James’s gaze on her. She didn’t know how to answer. How could she say “yes” and expose the Widow Mags in front of all these people? But how could she say “no” when only a few days ago, she had been pleading with James to believe in magic and witchcraft?
Then James’s voice cut in, cool and polite: “Mrs Gibbs, while I respect your right to your own opinion, I really cannot allow you to malign a fellow village resident in this fashion. The Widow Mags is a skilled chocolatier who makes the most delicious handmade chocolates I have ever had the fortune to taste. I have no qualms about serving—or eating—her chocolates and I must ask you to please refrain from speaking further on this subject.”
Mrs Gibbs flushed bright red. She looked around the table, trying to find support, then sat back stiffly, her mouth set in a tight line. The rest of the table shifted uncomfortably—all except for Sir Henry, who as usual seemed completely oblivious to any undercurrents. He chewed a chocolate truffle noisily, smacking his lips with delight, and said:
“Mmm… bloody good chocolates… if this woman’s a witch, I want her in my kitchen! Here, smoochypie, have some more—” He grabbed a large handful from the platter and shoved it onto his wife’s plate. She made a face and pushed the plate back towards him.
“Oh, I can’t have anymore, cuddleplum. In fact, I don’t think I should have had any… I’d forgotten that chocolates always give me a migraine.” She massaged her head, grimacing. “I think I might be getting one of my terrible migraines now…”
“You’d better go and lie down in a dark room, dear,” said Mrs Gibbs, looking at her in concern. “My sister gets migraines and if she doesn’t nip it in the bud quick, she could be out for days.”
“I’ll ask one of the maids to show you to a guest room,” said James, springing up.
“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother—”
“It’s no bother at all. In fact, why don’t you stay at the Manor tonight? Then you don’t have to worry about getting up again—you can just relax and go to sleep,” James urged.
With a few more protests, Lady Pritchard finally got up. Sir Henry patted his wife’s hand absent-mindedly as she leaned across to give him a peck on the cheek. Then she bade the other guests goodnight and followed a maid out of the room.
“Don’t know what’s wrong with the woman—always getting these migraines,” grumbled Sir Henry after she had gone.
“Perhaps she ought to get it checked out by a doctor?”
“She has! Bloody doctor always coming round… If it’s not this thing, then it’s that… Friend of mine thinks she’s one o’ those hypomaniacs.”
James’s lips twitched. “I think you mean hypochondriac.”
Sir Henry waved a hand. “Aye. That.” He picked up a chocolate bonbon from his plate and stuffed it in his mouth. “Anyway, good of you to have her to stay.”
“It’s my pleasure—and you’re very welcome to join her, of course.”
“No, no, like to sleep in my own bed,” said Sir Henry. “Besides, have to get back—early meeting tomorrow morning. That blasted sales agent from Blackmort Developments is coming to see me again. Wants a final answer on their offer.”
Pomona’s ears perked up. “Blackmort?”
“Is Thane Blackmort trying to buy part of your land too?” asked Mrs Gibbs with a frown.
Sir Henry glowered. “Yes, the section next to the Fitzroy estate—that strip of forest around the hill with the stone circle. Don’t know why—nothing there of commercial value.”
“It gives access to the hill,” said James suddenly. “If you can’t get to the hill through Tillyhenge or through the Fitzroy estate, the only other way is through your land.”
“Eh?”
“Blackmort has been very keen to purchase that area of land from me. He has been offering all sorts of inducements, from tripling his asking price to giving me a share in his other property portfolios. I’ve told him several times already that I’m not interested in selling, but he doesn’t seem willing to take no for an answer. Now it seems he’s trying to get access to the hill through your property—although I don’t know what good that will do him if he doesn’t own the land that the hill is actually on.”
“Wants to build a modern development on that hill, that’s what he wants,” said Sir Henry. “Clever sod’s done it all up and down the countryside. Big apartment and townhouse complex, with tennis courts and swimmi
ng pools and cafés and shops and whatnot.”
“It’s disgusting,” said Mrs Gibbs, shaking her head.
“What’s disgusting about that?” asked Pomona indignantly. “Sounds pretty awesome to me; he’s giving people the chance to live in a beautiful place, with cool facilities and stuff. I’ll bet it’s great for the local economy.”
“Yes, but at what cost, dear?” said Mrs Gibbs sharply. “The British countryside is already under threat. We have to protect what little we have left! The Cotswolds, in particular, is known as an area of ‘outstanding natural beauty’—we have a duty to preserve it, not let it be destroyed by a greedy businessman—”
“Thane isn’t a greedy businessman! He’s just got, like, great vision and ambition…” Pomona flushed and trailed off as she saw everyone around the table staring at her.
“Humph! If Thane Blackmort isn’t an example of a greedy businessman, then I don’t know what is!” said Sir Henry. “And who is he, eh? No one knows a thing about him! Pops up one day, proud as you please, calling himself the ‘Black Tycoon’, and starts buying up property left, right, and centre. Could be Russian mafia or some bloody arms dealer, for all you know!”
“You’re probably just going to laugh at me again for listening to gossip, but there’s been a lot of talk about him too,” said Mrs Gibbs primly. “They say bad things have happened to those who oppose him: business rivals, government officials, anyone who tries to make things difficult for Thane Blackmort has mysteriously become ill or disappeared.”
James laughed. “Mrs Gibbs, I really think that is salacious gossip now. Surely you’re not suggesting that Blackmort could be resorting to assassination or poisoning to remove them? I’m sure it’s all just coincidence. I agree that I don’t like Blackmort’s methods or his ruthless reputation but—”
