by Kate Ellis
The exhibition about the Strangefields Farm excavation was taking place at Tradmouth Museum rather than Neil’s preferred Exeter because Hamer, who was funding the whole thing, had insisted on it being held in the town where he was investing so much capital. It was hoped the new holiday village would provide a welcome boost to the local economy and Hamer was grasping every opportunity to get the town council and community on side.
After the truth about Gemma Pollinger had finally emerged, Wesley had spent some time talking to Hamer and the artist turned developer had been as surprised as everyone else at how events had played out because, like the trial jury, he’d been convinced of Temples’ guilt. The shock of the murders had made him abandon the world of art so at least, he’d told Wesley, some good had come of it because his current life had made him a wealthy man. Wesley couldn’t agree – as far as he was concerned, no good had come of Gemma Pollinger’s crimes; only grief.
Gemma herself was awaiting trial but it seemed inevitable that the jury would find her guilty. Jackson Temples’ case had gone to appeal and there was little doubt he’d soon be a free man.
Grace had returned to London and she’d told Wesley she was too busy to make the exhibition. Archaeology wasn’t really her thing anyway. Wesley hadn’t let her know how disappointed he was about her absence. But maybe she thought the exhibition would bring back bad memories of Dale Keyes, in which case she was right to stay away.
As Wesley and Pam entered the room their son, Michael, trailed slightly behind them. He’d been keen to come, the subject of executions and the walking dead being irresistible to a boy in his early teens, and Wesley was pleased he was taking an interest.
It was good to see Neil there with Lucy, even though he still looked pale and had lost a lot of weight during his stay in hospital. He was standing proudly beside the three faces, reconstructed by experts, who stared out from their glass case at the modern-day men and women of Tradmouth who’d come to gawp at them. Centuries ago those faces had been known in the town and their owners had walked down the streets and shopped in the market place. Now they were exhibits in a museum and Wesley couldn’t help wondering how they would have felt about their strange resurrection.
Artefacts from Neil’s dig were displayed in glass cases around the room and the walls had been hung with enlarged photographed extracts from Lemuel Strange’s two diaries, written nineteen years apart, with clearly printed transcriptions alongside to make reading easier for the modern eye.
A small crowd had gathered around a plastic reconstruction of the damaged ribcages bearing marks where the hearts had been ripped out. The boulders that had been placed on the bodies also formed part of the display. In Reuben’s case a broken millstone had been used but Wesley imagined it had served the purpose just as well. He watched Michael edge his way to the front of the throng to stare at the morbid display while Pam made a beeline for Neil and Lucy, greeting them with a kiss. Wesley left Michael to it and joined her.
‘How are you feeling?’ Pam asked anxiously.
‘Not too bad,’ Neil said, looking slightly embarrassed by this reminder of his mortality. He turned to Wesley. ‘Have you heard Hamer’s abandoned the plans for that reception building? It would have wrecked the foundations of the chapel. And, let’s face it, it was quite hideous.’ He grinned. ‘I know Grace designed it but I’ve got to be honest. She’s gone back to London, I believe.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Pity. I liked her – even though we didn’t always see eye to eye professionally.’ He paused. ‘And if it hadn’t been for her … ’
Neil didn’t have to finish his sentence. Wesley wasn’t going to forget the events of that day in a hurry.
As he strolled round the exhibition he kept thinking of Gemma Pollinger, who’d returned from the grave and eliminated anyone she considered a threat to her new existence. He stopped to look at the faces of Harry the groom, surname unknown, and Bess Whitetree, lovingly reconstructed and so lifelike that he felt as though he might meet them in the street. The servants’ unremarkable but open faces suggested honesty and innocence and Wesley wondered whether the expert who’d done the reconstruction had been influenced by their story. Reuben Strange had left clues to incriminate the hapless servants who’d offended him, Bess by spurning his advances and Harry by coming to her defence. Then almost twenty years later Reuben had returned to life and the community had exacted revenge on Harry and Bess’s behalf, burying him near his victims at Dead Man’s Lane and taking steps to prevent him returning to plague the living. To the people who’d lived back then, a kind of justice had been achieved.
Reuben’s image sat apart in its own case. He was a lot older than Bess and Harry and Wesley thought he had the look of a hawk, a bird of prey waiting for an innocent victim. Again he wondered whether this effect had been created subconsciously.
‘Hamer is coming, isn’t he?’
Neil nodded. ‘I saw him earlier and he said he’d be late. He’s meeting his brother – bringing him along. He sounded a bit mysterious about it.’
Wesley said nothing. If the Kilin family were making the first tentative steps towards reconciliation, it wasn’t something he felt inclined to gossip about.
He heard someone saying his name and turned to see Rachel approaching, hand in hand with her soon-to-be husband, Nigel, who looked awkward in the unfamiliar setting of the museum.
Wesley shook Nigel’s hand. ‘How’s Danny Brice getting on?’
‘He’s doing well,’ Nigel said. ‘Taken to farm work and doesn’t even seem to mind getting up at stupid o’clock. I’ve let him have one of the farm cottages. Unmodernised but it’s better than the streets.’
‘And I’ll soon be there to keep an eye on him,’ said Rachel, giving Nigel’s arm a squeeze.
Wesley saw the gesture of affection and felt an unexpected twinge of envy which he swiftly suppressed. All that was over, he told himself as he watched Pam with Michael, mother and son studying the exhibits, deep in conversation.
‘See you soon then,’ Nigel said before whisking Rachel off to the table where the cheap Prosecco was being poured into glasses by a harassed-looking member of the museum staff.
After they’d helped themselves to the free drinks, handing an orange juice to a disappointed Michael, Wesley led Pam over to the reconstructed heads. She stood staring at Harry and Bess for a while before saying, ‘Poor things. Sometimes people don’t realise the effect they have on others.’
It was Michael who spoke next, pointing accusingly at the face of Reuben Strange. ‘He looks mean. Those things they did to the bodies … do you think they really managed to stop their spirits walking?’
‘Who knows?’ Wesley took a sip of Prosecco and smiled.
62
Hayley Rummage was waiting outside the prison gates. She’d never actually met Jackson Temples but she knew she’d recognise him right away. She’d lingered over his photograph in the files she kept; the photo the papers had used at the time of his trial beneath the headline ARTIST CONVICTED OF RITUAL KILLINGS or in the more sensational red tops GIRLS SLAUGHTERED IN PAINTER’S KINKY STRANGLING SESSIONS. Only the papers had got it wrong and Hayley had been proved right all along.
Since the recent arrest she’d spoken to Dr Jane Webster, who’d told her she had a vague memory of seeing Gemma Pollinger at Strangefields Farm. She’d felt sorry for her because she’d heard that some other girls had been making fun of her with the cruelty of a pack of teenagers turning on an outsider. Now everyone knew that this, along with Jackson’s rejection, had created a twisted hatred that ultimately led to murder. The authorities at the time had been so convinced of Jackson’s guilt that no other possibilities had even been considered. But she, Hayley, had known better.
He was bound to be grateful for her faithful devotion to his cause and she was sure he’d be thrilled to find her waiting there for him. She was about to enjoy her moment of triumph and she closed her eyes, imagining what would happen next.
&nb
sp; The prison gate would open and he’d emerge blinking from the gloom, gaunt from his incarceration, He’d search desperately for a friendly face, then he’d spot her and a smile would appear on his pale but handsome features. She imagined him hurrying towards her and, after a few moments of nervous hesitation, he would throw himself into her waiting arms. She could almost feel the embrace, the kiss, tentative at first then more passionate, sealing their future together now that his innocence had been proved beyond doubt.
She took her eyes off the prison gates momentarily to check her watch. Any time now.
After what seemed like an age, she saw the wicket gate open and a thin middle-aged man with the face of a sly weasel stepped out and looked around. She did her best to hide her disappointment when another stranger emerged after the first; a young man with a shaven head who was greeted by a woman Hayley took to be his mother.
Third time lucky. There he was, standing by the gate looking lost, his parcel of possessions tucked under his left arm. Hayley moved forward. This was her chance at last. As she trotted across the road she was almost run over by a glossy red sports car travelling too fast. But she was barely aware of her near miss – this was the moment she’d been anticipating for so long. She waved and smiled but he didn’t look in her direction. Instead he seemed to be expecting someone and as the red car screeched to a halt he began to walk towards it. Perhaps he thought it was her. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her standing there waiting for him.
She quickened her pace and eventually drew level with him, just in time to see a woman get out of the driver’s seat.
‘Jackson. It’s me. Hayley,’ she said, starry-eyed as a teenager approaching her pop idol for an autograph. When he looked puzzled she put it down to disorientation after his long imprisonment. ‘We’ve won at last,’ she said. ‘I persuaded them to re-examine the case and—’
He was still frowning. ‘Sorry, who are you again?’
‘Hayley Rummage. I’ve been writing to you. Remember?’ Her voice was becoming more high-pitched, more desperate. ‘The campaign for your release was my idea.’
The red-car woman was standing by his shoulder. She was well groomed and wore a stylish leather coat that would have cost Hayley a whole month’s salary. She made Hayley feel shabby and ill-prepared for the encounter. Perhaps she should have made more effort with her clothes – even put on some make-up – but she’d assumed freedom was the only thing that would matter to him.
At last Jackson Temples smiled. He had a lovely smile, just as Hayley had expected. ‘Of course I remember. Thanks for thinking of me, er, Hayley. Much appreciated. It can get lonely in there, I can tell you. Er … thanks.’
He was shifting from foot to foot as though he was impatient to be away.
‘Er … Sorry, I’ve got a lunch engagement.’ He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his new companion. ‘This is my agent. She’s just taken on the novel I wrote in prison. Nice to meet you, Hayley. Be lucky.’
Hayley Rummage watched him drive off, a tear trickling down her cheek and rage bubbling up inside her. After all she’d done for him he couldn’t just abandon her like that. She wouldn’t let him.
Author’s Note
One of the most common questions a writer is asked is ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ The answer is that ideas can come from anywhere but in the case of Dead Man’s Lane, the initial notion popped into my head because of a chance meeting on Bayards Cove in Dartmouth, Devon. I was with my husband and we started chatting to a gentleman who showed us a photograph he’d taken on his phone – the shadow of a hanging man on the side of a cottage taken at a place called Dead Man’s Cross, a crossroads on a hill outside the town which was once the site of public executions. Although the image is an illusion created by road signs at the crossroads, it has caused quite a sensation on social media and in the press and is now available for all to see on the internet. I refrained from telling the gentleman I was a crime writer and that he’d just given me the first germ of an idea for my next book.
Soon after this I came across a newspaper report saying two skulls had been discovered in the town of Totnes, both in carrier bags – one behind an empty shop and one on the banks of the River Dart. The skulls appeared to be over a hundred years old but their origin was a mystery – and I can never resist weaving a story around a mystery.
I’m a member of my local archaeology society and recently I attended a very interesting talk about ‘revenants’ (literally ‘the returned’) and the ancient belief that the dead could emerge from their graves to torment the living. The reanimated corpse appears to be a constant feature of folklore throughout many cultures, from Transylvanian vampires to Haitian zombies. Fascination with the ‘undead’ has inspired a host of films and books (the most famous perhaps being Bram Stoker’s tale of Dracula) and since the first showing of Night of the Living Dead almost fifty years ago, the idea of a ‘zombie apocalypse’ has been popular amongst those who enjoy their entertainment with a frisson of terror.
Throughout history there has been a fear of the ‘walking dead’, a fear confirmed by archaeological discoveries. The placing of severed heads between a corpse’s legs is found in Romano-British and Anglo-Saxon burials, possibly as a protection against restless spirits (or maybe evidence of judicial execution) but it is not until the twelfth and thirteenth centuries that ‘revenant’ stories become rife.
Fear of the dead returning to harm the living was very real to the medieval mind, as was the concept of a ‘good death’ (with the soul fully prepared for departure by the rites of the church) and a ‘bad death’ which leaves a soul restless and liable to return. In Geoffrey of Burton’s twelfth-century ‘Miracles of St Modwenna’ two men arrive in the village of Drakelow in Derbyshire and die only to rise from their graves and terrorise villagers who then die mysteriously. This campaign of terror continues until most of the villagers are dead then the desperate survivors dig up the men’s corpses, decapitate them, placing the heads between the legs, and remove and burn the hearts, after which the trouble ceases. Other tales of the returning undead include the notorious Alnwick vampire from the North-East of England, recorded by medieval chronicler William de Newburgh in the late twelfth century.
Archaeological evidence confirms that these gruesome tales had their roots in genuine fear and a number of what are known as ‘deviant’ burials have been discovered during excavations in Wharram Percy (a deserted medieval village in Yorkshire) as well as in many other locations (often in unconsecrated ground outside a churchyard). Sometimes a corpse was buried face down and sometimes, as well as decapitation and the burning of the heart, a boulder was placed on the body to prevent it rising from the grave.
The historical narrative of Dead Man’s Lane takes place in the seventeenth century, around the time of the Great Fire of London, and research shows that even after the medieval period belief in the restless dead tended to linger, especially in isolated communities. In certain parts of the world, such as Eastern Europe, these beliefs continue well into modern times. Even in London in 1811 the body of John Williams, the man accused of the shocking Ratcliffe Highway murders, was buried at a crossroads (to confuse his spirit). In 1886 employees of a gas company digging up the road where Cannon Street Road and Cable Street cross discovered Williams’ body and found that it had been buried upside down with a stake driven through the heart, which proves the story wasn’t fanciful.
Until relatively recent times ‘protection’ marks (such as religious symbols) have been put on the thresholds of buildings and objects such as shoes hidden in vulnerable parts of a house to protect against evil. Fear of ill fortune has been constant throughout the ages and people will do everything in their power to keep it at bay. Just think, next time you touch wood, cross your fingers or refuse to walk under a ladder, you’re joining in with this long tradition.
Even in our supposed ‘age of reason’ there is no sign of the public’s latent fear of the returning dead – or their enthusiasm for zombies and vam
pires – waning any time soon.
Have you read the other mysteries
in the Wesley Peterson series?
For a full list of the novels and to find out more
visit Kate Ellis online at:
www.kateellis.co.uk
@KateEllisAuthor
Don’t miss Kate Ellis’s historical thrillers
in the Albert Lincoln series
To find out more visit Kate Ellis online at:
www.kateellis.co.uk
@KateEllisAuthor
