‘There are rooms; they are charged at one shilling per night, breakfast included… drink?’
‘I’ll take a cider please,’ I said, placing my bags on the floor. ‘The walk from the station was longer than I thought it would be and it’s been a long day.’
He didn’t look up and started to pour my drink.
‘Travelled down from London, did you?’
‘Yes, just for two days. Some time away from work to indulge in my interests.’
‘Which are?’
‘Ghosts, sir. I have a keen interest in our visitors from the afterlife. It is little more than a hobby really, but I am a curious fellow and have a need to answer the unexplained.’
The look that he gave me would have stripped the paint from the walls, such was its intensity. I avoided his gaze and took a small sip of my drink.
‘I would suppose you receive a great many visitors to Pluckley in search of ghosts?’ I said.
‘We have more than our share,’ he muttered.
‘I can assure you that, despite its being a hobby, I take the matter very seriously.’
‘They are not things to be taken lightly; I have seen what they can do to a person.’
‘You are a believer then?’
‘I believe in so much as I have seen the damage that they are capable of.’
‘You have witnessed a ghost?’ I asked, pulling out my notebook in pretence.
‘I have not seen for myself and I will not talk about it further!’ he said, walking away.
I cursed myself for my failure to gain the confidence of the man on the first attempt. I had two days to work on him, however. Finnan disappeared through a door at the end of the bar, where I heard him talking to an unseen individual. Moments later the door reopened but it was not Finnan returning; in his place appeared an older woman. She held her nose in the air and made it obvious that she was not willing to engage in any conversation. I picked up my drink and bags and moved to a seat by the window.
I scratched my notes regarding the Black Horse and its landlord into the thick leather-bound book within which I kept all of my findings on the Darke case. The notebook, which I had started upon first hearing of the murders nearly six years ago, was now almost full, each page covered in discoveries, ideas and suppositions, statements from witnesses and, of course, drawings of important places, people and my own imaginings of Darke’s murderous sprees.
Finnan did not reappear and so I was treated to the company of the miserable woman behind the bar, who displayed her terse nature to all who dared ask for her service. I eavesdropped on her interactions with the locals, discovering that her name was Miss Anne Finnan and that she was the sister of Tom Finnan.
After a while I left my seat to approach the bar again, gaining her reluctant attentions with difficulty.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said, employing my most endearing smile. ‘I shall be staying here for the next two nights. I wondered if I might retire to my room, as I am tired from the journey.’
‘I’ll take you up now and have a boy come and bring your bags presently.’ She glowered at me. ‘I’ll be wanting your two shillings first, though.’
‘Please take this, it will cover my room and any refreshments,’ I said, as I pulled out a handful of coins from my pocket and placed them on the bar.
She collected the money from the bar and bade me follow her through a door at the side of the bar. ‘Doors are locked at midnight and breakfast is when I ring my bell,’ she said as we ascended a thin staircase. ‘There’s also a knocking-up service if you wish to be woken early.’
‘I do not think I shall need to be woken, thank you,’ I replied. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me the time, though, as my watch appears to have stopped?’ My request was ignored; the woman had already resumed her disregard of me and was walking down the stairs again.
I observed my room; it was practical and would suit my needs. Within minutes, after a gentle knock upon the door, my overnight bag was brought in. Alone again, I lay upon the bed, noting that the mattress had long since seen better days, and wondered what my next step might be. My plan was reliant on getting to Finnan but, as things stood, it was clear he would be difficult to question. Perseverance would be the key, I thought, as I fell into a light sleep.
I slept for longer than I had intended and was woken in the early evening by the noise from the pub below. After a quick change, I made my way downstairs. After ordering a drink and a small meal from the ever unhappy Miss Finnan, I took a seat on the far side of the room. It was as I ate that the door opened and almost immediately silence reigned over the room, as it did when anyone entered. All eyes shot towards the latest patron, who was obviously a regular as the pause in noise was brief.
The new arrival certainly knew how to make an extravagant entrance. He was older than I, probably by ten years, appearing to be in his mid to late thirties, and he carried himself with a frame similar to that of an actor. His chest swelled, each step taken with purpose and thought. He was, moreover, elegantly dressed, wearing a fine green tweed suit and carrying a long cane which was used more for ornamentation than as an aid to walking. His eyes roved around the bar, as if to attract the attentions of anyone who would bear him witness. Miss Finnan had taken a large and very individual tankard from a shelf at the bar and began to pour his drink. In a moment of pure theatre, it was filled to the brim and presented to him upon his final step.
‘Any in tonight, Anne?’ he asked, his voice rich in texture. He picked up the tankard and gulped the contents before placing it down with some force.
Miss Finnan kept the scowl on her face and nodded in my direction. The man made his way to my table, motioning to the seat opposite.
‘May I?’ he asked, already placing his drink upon the table.
‘Do feel free,’ I replied, returning my eyes to my notebook.
He took the seat and, pulling a newspaper from the inside pocket of his overcoat, opened it wide and started to read. We sat in silence for a short while.
‘Ghosts, is it?’ he said from behind his newspaper.
‘Pardon?’
‘Ghosts and spectres and visitors from the other side. The spirits of those who refuse to shuffle off this mortal coil. Are you in Pluckley hoping to find some? I could help with that.’
At first I thought to deny any interest but, in the absence of my prey at the bar, I was bored, so I decided to humour him. I closed my notebook.
‘Well, yes, I am actually. I will be staying in Pluckley for two nights – a short break from work, you understand. I thought to carry out some investigations into the large degree of paranormal activity in the area. I am a writer and artist, you see, and I am keen to find the truths behind some of the stories that I have heard.’ Parts of my admission were true enough.
A large, charming grin spread across his face and he reached across the table to slap me on the shoulder.
‘Then you are a lucky man indeed, dear fellow, a lucky man. In fact I would dare to be so brave as to say that we are both lucky gentlemen this evening.’ He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a printed calling card. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Higgins, Edward Higgins. I am known throughout the county, and in fact far beyond, as a ghost hunter and paranormal expert of professorial proportions!’ He leaned forwards, the sheen of his face lit red by the small candle which sat upon the table. ‘If you have the funds, I could provide an experience which would chill your bones but fill that little notebook of yours. What do you say? You, I and the many ghosts of old Pluckley – how does that take your fancy?’
‘And how much would the pleasure of your company for a tour set me back, Mr Higgins?’
His grin shone wider. ‘Ah, now there is the rub. Normally I would charge sixpence for my standard tour. However, for you, sir, and on a night like tonight, I think that two bob and a drink or two at your expense when we return would be ample – and it would be as great a pleasure for me as it would be for you. It would be the best bit o
f flash you ever invested, sir, I can guarantee it. The dark is descending on us, the moon has risen and I feel something in the air tonight. Do you scare easy, sir? I think we might see something this evening if you have the bravery to face it with me.’
‘Oh, I think you will find that it takes a lot more than a chill wind and a ghost story to send me running, Mr Higgins. I would say that you have a deal.’
He drained his tankard and raised it high above his head, laughing.
‘Anne, my dear, a refill for me and one for my fine friend here, Mr…?’
‘Weaver,’ I replied. ‘Samuel Weaver.’
‘A drink for Mr Weaver if you will, Miss Finnan, and a dash of the usual for us both. It is a bare cloudless night out there and we will need a warmer in us when we face the icy shiver of the spirits in the dark!’
To my surprise the barmaid made her way over to our table, where she took both my and Mr Higgins’s empty vessels before returning shortly afterwards with replenished tankards and two glasses, which upon tasting I realised held brandy. We supped our drinks quickly and set off into the cold night air to hunt for ghosts.
‘By the by,’ I said as I followed Mr Higgins out of the door. ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me the time; my blasted watch has stopped again.’
‘Time? Time? I do not bother with time, my dear boy,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I look to the sky to see when it is the evening and I listen for the bell that tells me the bar is closed. That is the only time that I am governed by. Now follow on, follow on, we have lots to see, many stories to tell and I aim to have us back here in time for a couple before this night’s chime of doom!’
4
Fright at Frith Corner
I had been quiet on my return to the rectory from the chocolate factory, taking myself to my room and causing my parents concern. Despite my independent streak, and regular jaunts into town, I was a conscientious son and an exemplary pupil. I realised early on the benefits of submitting a few short hours of my valuable time to school work, which gained me both the confidence of my schoolteachers and the respect of my father. These little victories ensured that I was given certain freedoms to pursue my own interests, which included both art and journalism. I was an avid reader of any of the newspapers which came into our house. I studied their form, the style and voice that the writers employed to inform their readers and, most of all, I learnt what worked and what did not in terms of good reportage.
On the evening of the incident at the chocolate factory, I told my mother that I was feeling unwell and wished to go straight to my bed without any dinner. She offered to call for Doctor Furnbridge, a friend and associate of Father’s, but I told her that taking to my bed for a good night’s sleep would be all the medical assistance I required.
Once in the confines of my room, however, I quickly set about translating the memories of the afternoon into the pages of my sketchbook. These images turned into graphic drawings of the terrible death that the chocolate stirrer had suffered. I must confess that my sketch was not a true representation of the incident as it actually happened, for I had taken the liberty of imagining and displaying the poor victim desperately crying and waving for help as he was caught in the act of drowning; a tragic accident.
I studied the papers intensely in the following days and, finally, four days after the incident, a short piece appeared in the Yorkshire Post:
Terrible Death at Rowntree’s Factory
A most extraordinary discovery was made this week at the Tanner’s Moat factory owned by Mr Rowntree. The discovery came following the disappearance of Hiram Osborne, a factory worker of some nine years. It would appear that Mr Osborne, a loyal worker and ex-army man, slipped and fell from a gantry whilst going about his work, landing in a large vat of heated, liquid chocolate.
Mr Osborne’s body was found floating in the vat, quite unconscious, by his fellow workers. Pulling him out, they attempted to revive him but he had clearly been dead for some time. Mr Nathaniel Hubbard, store’s manager at the plant, commented saying that Mr Osborne would be sorely missed in the factory.
I read the article with a morbid relish and, upon the newspaper’s disposal, ensured I cut out the piece and kept it alongside my drawings of the man’s death.
Three years later, I had the temerity to include this picture within my portfolio of sketches which I used to obtain my first journalistic position at the York Herald. At the time my appointment caused quite a stir, due to my age, and in those first few months of work I was the subject of many malicious rumours regarding the circumstances surrounding how the position was obtained. It is true that my father was involved with, and had donated funds in the past to, the newspaper. Both he and the publication’s editor at the time were also members of the local Masonic lodge; however, Father disagreed strongly with my ambitions to pursue a career in journalism, having long since wished for me to follow him into a life in the clergy. I have always been stubborn with regard to the feelings of others and I would not be swayed, not even by Father.
Father was a learned man, well respected by all, and always willing to devote his time and energies to those who came to him in need. This, of course, meant that he was always terribly busy and as such had limited time to spend with either myself or my mother. I did not think too badly of Father for this at the time; his work was important.
Mother also displayed an inordinate amount of patience given the time that Father spent at his duties. She was a quiet, timid woman whom I adored without question and for whom I would have done anything. As a parent, she was as good a friend as one could wish for and, when I was not out in the world sketching and drawing, spending time in her company gave me some of my most cherished memories. Mother doted on me also, and provided me with everything that I needed to be happy and content. Although loving and generous towards me, she had moments during which she seemed somewhat distant, as if her mind were elsewhere. I often wondered what she was thinking as she sat quietly of an evening in front of the hearth, staring into the flames. Sometimes I asked her but her only reply would be, ‘I just dream. I am always dreaming.’
Of what she dreamt I never knew. I suspected, during my most cynical moments, that she longed for a different life, one of excitement and incident, perhaps even of lost love. When in the company of Father, she would stare at him with such love and adoration, her eyes never leaving his face, constantly looking for approval and a return of her devotion. Yet Father was cold towards her, and directed all of his love towards me on the rare occasions when the three of us were together.
I am sure Mother felt a pang of jealousy in these times, with Father all but ignoring her as he lavished attention upon me, asking what I had been up to at school or what I had been drawing that day. He loved my drawings and constantly encouraged me to use my skill to document everything around me. I appreciated his allowing me to develop my skills, and would always take time to share my drawings with him.
‘You have a rare gift, son,’ he said to me one evening, as we shared supper together during one of his brief visits home from church. He would often stop by at home in between his duties, which included helping out at a soup kitchen or holding one of his many evening services. ‘You have something handed to you by God himself. Gifts like this should not be ignored and left to fester and rot; they should be embraced and nurtured, they should be shared with the world.’
I would leave my day’s drawings on the desk in his study, so that he could look over them when he returned late at night. When I saw him at breakfast, he would comment on them, telling me what he enjoyed about them and how I could develop them in the future. I would always take his advice in good humour and, when I thought that his views were valid, I would adapt and alter the picture. As I got older, however, I began to feel that I knew much better. I was the artist. It was my creation and any criticism given to my work, even if it be by my father, was taken badly, although I tried not to show this and would respond with a tight smile and few words. I was nevertheless gr
ateful for the freedom and licence that Father gave me regarding my passion, and was careful not to let on to him how cutting I found the slightest hint of any criticism.
After the article regarding the death at the chocolate factory appeared in the newspaper, I decided to show Father my drawing of the scene and an accompanying article which I had written myself, and which gave the episode a more sensational and emotional edge. He found my work most disturbing in its realism, something which I saw as giving it merit, but immediately after this he began to take a little more seriously my aspirations for a life in journalism.
I often thought of my experience at the factory and of the sight of Hiram Osborne slowly sinking beneath the surface of the melted chocolate. However, my thoughts never included any guilt or regret. To me the man meant nothing – he was simply part of the key which I had used to help me to attain the life of which I had always dreamt. What point was there, I often thought, of sitting idly and dreaming of the moon, when through work, purposeful action and instances of hard-earned luck, the moon could be yours to own?
***
‘The moon is the ally of the inquisitive ghost hunter, my dear Mr Weaver, a genuine ally indeed.’ Mr Higgins strode ahead of me with purpose in the dimming light of the country lane. He had filled the evening air with his extensive knowledge of the supernatural since leaving the pub. ‘It is the spirits, you see, they glisten in the silvery light. You are so fortunate to have visited on such a clear night, and a full moon also. Follow me, and we shall see what good form the dead of Pluckley are in tonight.’
His arms waved ceaselessly as he spoke, throwing himself enthusiastically into a well-practised repertoire of stories. Each one was steeped in supernatural history and as unbelievable as if he had thought them up on the spot. He told me of the Dering family and how they had resided at Surrenden Manor on the outskirts of the village for over five hundred years. The house itself held ghosts of its own but two members of the Dering family, ladies referred to as the ‘Red Lady’ and the ‘White Lady’, held special places for him as both of their stories told of love and sadness. ‘…and you can never get enough of love and sadness in a ghost story. Gold dust. I couldn’t make it up, Mr Weaver, really I couldn’t.’
Domini Mortum Page 5
