Charley smiled, ‘He’d have trouble turning in his grave, he was cremated, but I don’t have to tell you about being addicted to your job, do I Ted? How long have you been retired?’
‘Touché, but the trick is not to let your addiction become destructive. You look tired, lass.’
‘Nothing a strong coffee won’t put right,’ she said, turning away to walk with him to the front door.
‘How do you think I can help you?’ Ted said. ‘You seemed pretty desperate on the phone.’
Before they entered the house, he looked up at the gargoyles that topped the stone pillars above them, and shuddered. Charley could see his breath in the lamp light. ‘I hate this bloody place. Allus ’ave. Some people don’t believe in witchcraft, but I’ve seen stuff in my time, that if I repeated they’d have me locked up, and throw away the key,’ Ted said.
Inside the house Charley poured Ted a coffee from her flask, and offered it to him. It was true something was troubling him; his hands were all of a dither. She shared with him the details of the gruesome finds, and her concern that there could be more undiscovered; Ted listened intently as she unwrapped the scene. She saw the professional mask appear on his face, as the adrenaline kicked in.
‘I get your drift,’ he said eventually. ‘Let me get Nell on the lead.’
‘What, now?’
‘No time like the present.’
‘Are your two body dogs?’
Ted nodded. ‘Aye, and I’ll tell you something for nothing, if there are bodies, alive or dead, secreted in that tunnel, mark my words, Nell’ll find ’em f’ya.’
With a plan, and Nell on the lead, Ted appeared to be more confident. Charley felt less fearful than she had done earlier, but the anticipation of what might be found was making her stomach churn. But was it that or more the fact that she had missed breakfast and lunch, with the prospect of teatime looking like it would become supper?
Nell appeared a little over-excited as the two walked towards the fireplace in the dining room. ‘Recently removed?’ asked Ted.
‘Yes, the body was only removed about an hour ago.’
‘That could be the reason she’s so eager.’
Ted stuck his head in the tunnel. ‘Jesus, that’s some tunnel,’ he said as he saw the length stretch into the darkness. Ted encouraged Nell to start searching, keeping a tight hold on her leash for the moment. The walking was made more difficult owing to the flickering torchlight, the only operating source of light inside the chamber. After a few minutes he turned to speak to Charley who was following pensively in his footsteps. His face was aghast as he started to release her leash. ‘You can see by how much rope she’s taking, this tunnel goes on forever!’ he shouted.
After treading through several turns of the tunnel passage, over and around boulder-sized rocks strewn across their path, Ted turned once more. Eventually, all became quiet and still. ‘She’s stopped. She’s barking. Can you hear her?’
Charley nodded. Her face pensive. ‘At what though?’
‘I have no idea lass, but I think we’re going to have to find out aren’t we?’
* * *
Ted hollered down the tunnel, then whistled for the dog to return. ‘Nell is trained to locate and follow the scent of decomposing human remains, even if the remains have been buried for years, or are deep underground, or have been lying at the bottom of a body of water for some time.’
Nell started to bark incessantly. ‘Hear that still?’ said Ted.
Charley nodded.
‘That bark tells me she’s found something and she wants me to go to her.’ Ted commenced to pull Nell’s leash back in. ‘I’ll contact the rest of the team members tonight when I get home, and we’ll be back here tomorrow morning, with the proper kit and do the necessary.’
It was ten past nine when Ted exited the tunnel. His fingers touched the walls slightly, his eyes searching intently for any sign of instability.
‘I’ve been told that there’s a few reasons why tunnels connect buildings,’ said Charley. ‘One being that the building is associated with religion.’
Ted bent down to pat a panting Nell, as before, the springer spaniel now sitting obediently by his side, nose in the air, panting and sniffing.
‘The tunnel does appear to go in the direction of St Anne’s Church,’ her voice quickened. ‘Do you think it could have been built as a concealed entrance to the church?’
‘The only other reason I can think of is that it may have been used for the movement of black-market goods. That was the case in the caves under New Brighton, and apparently connects old houses beneath the streets of Rottingdean in Sussex,’ answered Ted.
‘You think that the tunnel is long enough to reach other buildings further afield?’
‘Who knows as we’ve not reached the end yet. Don’t underestimate our predecessors. Look at York, there’s a whole network of tunnels and passageways beneath the city’s surface. A whole series of Roman roads built over and forgotten after the ancient empire fell. Have you never heard of that famous ghost story?’
Charley shook her head. Politely, Ted stood aside to let Charley go through the stone door. He halted, and turned.
‘As the story goes, in 1953, a local apprentice plumber had been working at the Treasurer’s house, on Church Street, York when he heard some strange music, followed by apparitions of Roman soldiers appearing out of one wall and walking straight through another. The plumber reported that the soldiers were cut off at the knee, and sure enough, when the cellar was later excavated, archeologists discovered a Roman road around eighteen inches beneath the ground.’ Ted stopped. Charley turned to see a puzzled look on his face. ‘Wait a minute though. Crownest isn’t as old as Roman times. If my memory serves me right this house was built in the nineteenth century by the infamous Jeremiah Alderman.’
‘Ah, but what you obviously don’t know is that Crownest was built on the site of a sixteenth-century farm croft, that was also subjected to a fire when Jeremiah inherited it on the owner’s death.’
* * *
Before Ted’s Land Rover had disappeared over the horizon, Charley had left a message on the answering machine of St Anne’s Church, with a request to view the premises in the hope of finding out if there was anything known about the old site where Crownest was built, and how the two buildings could possibly be linked.
Leaving the scene protected overnight by uniform personnel, she ensured that the perimeter was secure.
It had been a long day. Charley headed back into the office. A quick de-brief at ten o’clock for those still working brought them up to date with her meeting with Ted, and she requested that they reassemble for a briefing at seven o’clock the next morning, when she would update them, and the rest of the team fully. Still, as the others took their leave, she was aware that her working day was not yet done. Sitting at her desk, with nothing more than a desk light for company, she composed a message to Connie Seabourne, the Press Officer. It was brief, but to the point.
During the planned demolition of the unsafe property locally known as Crownest, Stoney Lane, Marsden, and after an unexplained fire, the skeletal remains of two humans have been discovered. The enquiry has only just begun, but it appears that one may have been there for a number of years, whilst the other, only months. Neither of these deaths was accidental, and murder investigations are underway, led by Detective Inspector Charley Mann.
* * *
It was midnight when Charley found herself driving out of Huddersfield, onto the open country roads and she struggled to stay awake. She turned on the car radio as loud as she could handle, and wound down her window to let the cold air blow through her loosened hair. She forced her eyes open wide and focused on the cats’ eyes that guided her on the dark road ahead. Once or twice she considered pulling into a lay-by as she felt herself falling asleep, but instead she pushed on, swaying to the music, tapping the steering wheel to its beat, in the hope it would help.
When she finally reached home, and turned o
ff the car engine, the silence in the car was all-consuming. Once out of the car, she walked briskly to her door. The beeping of the car alarm rang out into the night air and she looked up to a cloudless sky. The stars were bright, and one in particular twinkled strongly, the North star, the one that Granny had told her was really Grandpa watching down on them. But even that beautiful sight didn’t sway Charley from thinking of the enquiry and the days ahead. She shook her head as she turned her key in her front door and let herself into the dark, cold house lit only by the moonlight through her undrawn curtains. She had eaten very little, but felt too tired to prepare anything now. Getting her clothes ready for the next day was a normal routine for Charley, after all, she was on-call senior detective and could still be required to attend another major incident, but hopefully not tonight, she prayed; she already had enough on her plate.
* * *
The weather, it appeared, was being kind in the morning when she woke. Seeing it dry and bright, Charley’s mind was active the minute she opened her eyes.
Today’s priority at the station was to get the Incident Room established. The investigation, as always, had been named by Headquarters as Operation Angus. This meant that no other operation, either in this Force’s area or countrywide, would be known by the same name, to avoid any confusion. The Incident Room intelligence cell under Charley’s command were digging into the history of the house and its occupants. The Operational Support team was on standby to search, or even sieve, the dirt from the area where the body had been discovered behind the fireplace. In addition, a small team was set to do a fingertip search of the basement. Nothing would be left to chance, every eventuality being covered, in the hope that there was some evidence yet to be discovered.
The owner of Nevermore was waiting for Charley when she and Annie arrived back at the house.
‘I’m intrigued to know more,’ Joe said, enthusiastically.
‘Aren’t we all,’ said Charley, watching on as Ted and three of his colleagues prepared to go into the house, and then the tunnel. Dressed in protective clothing, they were making final safety checks which included ensuring that their lights were in good working order. In turn, Charley was preparing to leave the site, to make enquiries of her own at the church.
‘I’m contactable by mobile,’ Charley reminded them.
‘Say a prayer for us lass,’ Ted called above the noise of the team’s banter. A little mischievous smile tugged at his aged lips.
‘If the stories my dad told me about what you two got up to as kids are true, Ted, I better say a couple, or three.’
With a smile on her face, and a happy gut feeling, Charley called out for Annie to meet her at the front door. ‘People to see, places to go.’
The church was still in use, but sadly by the few rather than the many. Charley and Annie walked in silence through the partially neglected graveyard, past dark, weathered headstones blackened by the passage of time, and mostly illegible now, depending very much on how sheltered their location. In some respects, it appeared to Charley that they were walking through time, as the elaborate headstones changed to an assortment of single crosses and statues, possibly the preferred mark of respect for a particular era, the taller of them peeking above the wild grasses of the graveyard. Annie halted Charley by grabbing her arm, and with a finger to her lips, she pointed out a little fat robin being fed a worm by a larger slimmer bird, who appeared more alert to the surroundings. When the exchange of food was over, they conversed with one another, seemingly unaware, but Charley saw that they weren’t the only ones interested in the birds’ antics.
Under a nearby memorial bench, edged by a mass of brambles on the periphery of an expanse of grass with white marble grave markers, sat a cat. It was the cat that Charley had seen before in the cellar at Crownest, and who was now, to all intent and purpose, waiting for the right time to pounce. Charley clapped her hands, and the loudness of her actions in the quiet of the graveyard made the birds startle, look up, and then fly into a big oak tree.
‘Just look how disgusted that cat is with me,’ said Charley. ‘Well, serves you right for frightening me the other day.’
They walked onwards and it seemed as if the two robins followed them, flying from one bush to another, until they flew up into the tangle of ivy that hung from the Yew tree which half-blocked the path. Charley bent down, pushed the ivy out of the way and squeezed through. She walked in front of Annie towards the arched, double doors of St Anne’s Church, with locks that reminded her of a fortress. Charley reached for the large black iron door knocker and it was only as she did so, that she noticed the shape of an ugly-looking half-man, half-creature resting in the palm of her hand.
‘The Hob?’ asked Annie.
Charley shrugged her shoulders as she slammed the knocker hard against the wooden door, to hear the echo coming from within. A drop of water fell directly on her forehead and, brushing it aside, she looked upwards to see large stone gargoyles staring back at her.
Annie followed her line of sight. ‘Most probably they were put there for drainage. I do love Catholic Renaissance art, don’t you?’
Charley pulled a face. ‘Yes, but symbolically I don’t think they’re appropriate for a church, do you? Why do you think they used figures of demonic creatures instead of angels on a house of God?’
It was Annie’s turn to shrug her shoulders. ‘Dunno, I do think they are rather cool to look at though.’
When no one was forthcoming in answering the door, Charley lifted the door knocker once more and rapped it harder against the wooden door three times in succession. ‘I read somewhere that the Catholic Church is pagan, perhaps that’s why,’ she said.
Annie laughed. ‘I’ve heard that too, but if that is so, tell me, where do Protestants come from? Before the sixteenth century, there were no Protestants, so if you’re calling the Catholic Church pagan, which by the way, consists of both Orthodox Eastern and Roman Catholics, then you are calling the Twelve Apostles pagan, because they are the original leaders of the church of which Jesus Christ was the head.’
Charley appeared to be considering Annie’s words, and the feasibility of the breaking the lock on the door which was blocking their entrance. ‘Doors have never got in the way of police enquires before, and this one, no matter how old, will not stop us now.’ Charley raised the knocker again.
‘Have you tried the handle?’ suggested Annie.
‘Why didn’t I think of that? Golden rule of policing; nothing more embarrassing on a police raid than using the door ram to force entry, only to find the door is already unlocked.’
‘Mmm… Never assume springs to mind,’ mocked Annie.
‘Okay, smart arse.’ Charley turned the metal-ringed door handle and the door opened with a long moaning creak. The SIO pushed it open wide. A shiver ran down Charley’s spine as she turned and closed the door behind them. In the semi-dark interior, two pillar candles could be seen burning at either side of the altar table. They offered a welcoming glow amidst the dark wood and stone statues. The only natural light was through some of the most beautiful stained-glass windows, which depicted glorious Biblical scenes, that Charley had ever seen. For a moment she was mesmerised by their beauty.
‘I feel like I’m walking into some forgotten place, where time has stood still for donkey’s years,’ murmured Annie.
‘Heaven on Earth.’ The words were spoken by a female, but neither Charley nor Annie could see who was speaking. Then suddenly a hunchbacked, grey-haired lady appeared from behind a curtain. ‘Come on in,’ she said.
Charley produced her warrant card and introduced themselves.
The old lady eyed them with curiosity, ‘N’er mind. God welcomes everyone into His House.’ She held out her hand. ‘Lily Pritchard,’ she said. ‘Parish Sexton. How can I help you?’
Chapter 10
Over the years, St Anne’s Church had gradually become the solace in Lily Pritchard’s tragic existence, which made the haggard-faced old lady a soothsayer and proph
etess to some, somewhat of a curiosity to others, and the butt of jokes amongst many of the locals.
The sexton’s age and career in the church were somewhat of a mystery to the parishioners, of which there were now but few. No one it seemed dare question the formidable woman, not even the diocese who paid her wages. ‘Best just wait now till something ’appens to her,’ they said. ‘Then we’ll decide what to do with it.’
However, her store of anecdotes and folklore tales, both mysterious and terrifying, were renowned locally as ‘gripping yarns’.
Lily’s profession, interest and beliefs had familiarised her with the graves and local stories of goblins, and what was evident was that the ‘crazy’ old woman was held in awe by the locals. On the bright side, Lily’s reputation of being a witch who reportedly flew round on a broomstick cackling at the moon and turning people into toads, kept the morbidly curious away, and the truants, who would otherwise play leapfrog over gravestones and climb the ivy in search of bats’ or birds’ nests, as in other graveyards, gave St Anne’s a wide berth.
‘Do you get any help to maintain this place?’ said Charley, following Lily into a smaller, brighter room at the back of the altar.
Daylight streamed through the small round window on the outer wall; its bright light bestowing a new atmosphere around the place.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Lily said, her eyes sweeping over the massive stack of dust-laden boxes at her side. She lifted a lid and wafted the dust from it directly into the air in front of the detectives’ faces. The dust swirled back and forth, and Charley sneezed several times in quick succession. Unperturbed, Lily wiped her dusty fingers on the heavy wool blanket that doubled as a cape around her rounded shoulders, then looking down at it, she sneered at the ashy smears she’d made. Sitting down in the comfy-looking but old chair, a loud groan escaped from her lips, and a wince appeared briefly on her frosty face. The chair’s cushions were saggy, flat, faded and riddled with holes that showed filthy straw stuffing poking through like the organs of a bloated corpse. The room had a smell that was hard to define, a mixture between sulphur and a stagnant pond, which was odd because the church was miles from anything larger than a puddle, although who knew what horrors lurked beneath the flagstones.
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