I let him ply his trade and spin his tales. He was a born storyteller and I found that the escapism of it all was enjoyable to me. I became carried along on the tide of my guide’s enthusiasm. I admit that the drinks imbibed before we left the inn helped in this regard. Higgins had also taken measures to ensure that liquid refreshment played a continuous part in the entertainment, pulling no less than three flasks of brandy from the pockets of his coat at various points in our journey. These shots held the evening chill at bay, as well as ensuring that we were kept merrily drunk throughout.
We had sallied forth from the pub at an alarming rate, walking down the road that I had trod earlier in the day, passing the Dering Arms, which remained locked and uninviting. Upon nearing the station he pointed out the woods in the distance. A still mist hung between us and the treeline and I thought to walk in its direction, but was stopped by my guide.
‘We do not have time to enter the ‘Screaming Woods’ this evening, my friend, which is a terrible shame as it is an experience to be savoured,’ he said, holding his arm across my chest. ‘The eldritch howls of the long and recent dead can be heard throughout the night, and it is a brave man who dares enter. Few have tried and they left in such terrible states that they ended their days unable to speak of what they saw; most were placed in asylums, gibbering wrecks of men, hollow of mind and bereft of soul.’
‘What did they see in there?’ I asked, awaiting a terrible tale of murder, suffering and the afterlife.
‘See? See? I don’t know. Did you not hear me say that they never spoke of it?’ He lowered his arm and strode away, muttering under his breath.
I rushed to catch up with him and found myself struggling to maintain his pace. As we levelled, I saw that he had again taken to his flask, which he passed to me.
‘The landlord at the Black Horse… Tom?’ I asked. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘I can’t say that I do, Mr Weaver. He has not been in the village for that long, and places like this can be a little hard to crack if you’re new – being a landlord helps, of course. I find him a charming man.’ He smiled the smile of one who knows who butters his bread.
‘But where did he come from? Did he run a pub before coming to Pluckley?’
Higgins glanced sideways at me.
‘London, I think. He left under a cloud of some kind. I haven’t liked to ask, don’t want to ruffle feathers, if you know what I mean. He is a man with purpose, though; his move to Pluckley was entirely intentional.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He goes out a lot, he spends a lot of time in and around the church – and he seems to be doing something. I’ve not worked out what it is yet. He has become close to the verger, Mr Williams.’ He paused for a moment as he walked, giving thought to a memory. ‘He asked a lot of questions about Surrenden when he arrived, very interested in the big house for some reason. Idle curiosity maybe.’ Higgins looked at me intently and grinned. ‘Some people have a propensity for it.’ His pace quickened.
‘Tell me,’ I enquired, feeling the need to change the subject somewhat, ‘have you ever met with the spirits yourself?’
‘But of course,’ he blustered. ‘On many occasions – come on, keep up, lots to see and the pub awaits us.’
‘And these ghosts,’ I pressed. ‘Have you spoken to them?’
‘That has been my misfortune, I am afraid,’ he growled. ‘It would seem that I attract them in some way.’
‘What do they say to you, Mr Higgins?’ I could tell that I had found a place of aggravation within his nerves, which I decided to settle upon for sport.
‘Say to me?’ His tone gave the impression of mild annoyance. ‘Well, they have said a lot of things: messages for family members, unresolved matters, sometimes they are just stuck between worlds.’
‘So you are a clairvoyant of some kind, a medium?’
‘Why yes, you could say that I have a gift,’ he said, lowering his eyes and pressing onwards. ‘Finnan once asked me to hold a sitting in the pub, after hours. I refused him, though, despite the lure of free drink. It is not an experience I enjoy or would recommend. To me the gift is a burden that I bear with an unhappy heart and avoid at all costs. I prefer telling the tales rather than allowing my body to be taken over by some ungodly wretch from the afterlife. One does not like to feel used.’
Suddenly he halted and thrust an arm outwards across me.
‘And here we are at the legendary Frith Corner!’
We had come to a stop at an unspectacular crossroads. The moon seemed less apparent here, fighting to be seen through the tall trees which seemed to press upon the intrusion of the byway. Between the trees stood bushes which merged into the hedgerows, creating the impression of a wall about the junction. I found it otherwise quite unremarkable.
‘Legendary?’ I coughed.
‘I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, Mr Weaver. There are few places in the world more linked to the spirit world than Frith Corner. There is something about the place that creates a particularly close doorway into the other world.’
‘The other world? That sounds interesting, can we visit?’ I asked, partly in humour and heavily influenced by the alcohol that I had consumed.
‘It sounds funny, I know it does, but terrible things have happened here.’ He pointed dramatically towards a large, dead oak tree at the side of the road. Its empty, broken branches reached up into the night sky above our heads, as if clawing for the life that had been lost from it. ‘This tree is the site of a most grisly and terrible death. It was a murder so foul that it caused the spirit of its victim to roam without cease in the afterlife, that same spirit now being condemned to haunt the place of his death, bringing fear and terror to the descendants of those that carried out the deed.’
‘You say “descendants”,’ I interrupted. ‘Does this mean that the family of a murderer live on in the village?’
‘Not just one killer, Mr Weaver, many killers; in fact it is unknown who dealt the final death blow, but we will come to that. Let me tell you the whole story.’ His chest puffed out and I decided that I would let him continue without further interjection.
Before speaking, Higgins produced a hip flask from his coat pocket and took a large swig. He brushed his hand over the top of a tree stump at the side of the road, which I am sure he used as a perch quite regularly, and settled himself down.
‘The year was 1752 and the road through Pluckley was damned and dangerous. This was, of course, before the days of the railway; carriages and coaches travelled through Pluckley by road, carrying goods to and from Folkestone and Dover. In the early part of that year a pair of highwaymen had taken the road as their own. The identity of these bandits was a mystery, although there were rumours that they were local to the area. They would appear out of nowhere, rob their poor victims and disappear as quickly as they came; there was even talk that they used magic to remain invisible at the side of the road, appearing suddenly with loud cries and violent threats to shock their prey into handing over their valuables.
‘These were violent men too, not afraid of bringing harm upon those who refused to hand over their goods. But it was this brutal behaviour that started the chain of events which brought about their downfall. Their names were Thomas Flynn and Robert du Bois and they were indeed local men. Flynn was an ex-soldier injured whilst serving under Clive at the siege of Arcot, and returned home to Pluckley a war hero. He soon found, however, that local fame would not buy him food or provide a roof over his head, and so he began to scrape a living as a farmhand and occasional builder.
‘Du Bois on the other hand was a born criminal, in and out of trouble since his youth. He was born to a respectable enough family. His father, the village baker, was well loved and respected by all who knew him. Young Robert, on the contrary, was born bad – a thief and a liar, known for his wild and cruel temperament. It was only his father’s good name that prevented the village from delivering their own brand of justice to him. At the age of seventeen,
he was caught in the act of stealing horses from the Dering estate. He was taken before the local magistrate and spent the next two years in Newgate.
‘His time in prison did not cure him of his criminal sensibilities and it was the first of two instances in which he was gaoled. In 1750, he was released for the final time from Newgate and, claiming to have found religion, he returned to Pluckley, begging forgiveness and taking a humble position as a gravedigger at St Nicholas’s Church. There he toiled for the next two years, head bowed low; a changed man.
‘All was not as it seemed, however. Du Bois had met many rotten types whilst inside gaol; he had listened to tales of the great Jack Sheppard, and had even spent time in the company of none other than James MacLaine, the notorious masked bandit. He had marvelled at MacLaine’s stories of daring adventure and the glamorous life led by a highwayman, and set out for a similar life of his own. He returned to Pluckley searching for a willing accomplice and met Flynn, who shared his vision of notoriety and riches.
‘They used a well-known oak tree, this very tree standing before us, for their dastardly deeds. It is hollow, you see, and as such was a perfect hiding place where they could wait for the passing carriages and travellers. When their prey approached they would leap out onto the road, shocking their quarry and striking fear into the hearts of their victims.
‘Their takings were regular and if it had not been for the greed and propensity for violence of du Bois, they would have evaded the notice of the law-keepers of the area. During one ill-fated robbery of a carriage bound for London, du Bois pulled one of the guards from inside the coach and set about him, beating the poor man relentlessly before the eyes of his fellow passengers.
‘“This is what happens to those who dare to travel our road with no willing to pay the toll!” du Bois shouted, before throwing the body of the man back into the coach. The guardsman died of his injuries before reaching the capital.
‘Men of the King’s guard were immediately deployed to Pluckley and heavy-handed law arrived in the village. Flynn was arrested almost immediately; he had a loud and loose mouth when drunk, but could not talk his way out of a trip to the Tyburn noose. Yet he would not speak of his accomplice. It would seem that his military code of honour prevented him from giving du Bois up to the authorities. In fact, it is doubtful whether he would have been believed even if he had, such was the fine but false character that du Bois had built for himself within the community during the two years after his release from prison.
‘Nevertheless, it was a visitor to Newgate whom Flynn received the day before his hanging which sealed the fate of du Bois. The visitor was the village baker, du Bois’ father, who, unlike everyone else in the village, had not been fooled by his son. In his final hours before facing the noose, Flynn gave up his partner and told of the hollow oak at Frith Corner. A group of locals, loyal to the baker, gathered outside the Black Horse pub with murder in mind. Du Bois was hauled screaming from his bed, dragged by horse down the very same road which he had ruled for so long. He was tied to the very oak tree that you see before you now and, once secure, he was stabbed countless times by the mob with sword, spear, pike and fork. No one knows who dealt the killing blow – some say that it was his father who did it, tears in his eyes as he impaled his son’s body to the tree.
‘The body was left for all passing travellers to see…’ Higgins paused for dramatic effect, ‘…and it is said that on moonlit nights, the ghost of du Bois will still leap from the hollow tree, to scare the unsuspecting traveller. The figure of the highwayman’s ghost has even been seen by some, staked to the tree and screaming in pain.’
I looked at the old oak; there was nothing there. No hint of ghostly apparition, no crazed, dead highwayman leaping from the undergrowth, nothing.
After a few moments’ silence I could not help but let out a small giggle.
‘Do you still have enough in your flask to share, Mr Higgins?’ I asked. ‘I would hate to face the dead sober.’
‘You are a fine audience, Weaver, although not easily shocked and scared by what Pluckley has to offer. No matter, I have enjoyed your company and shall enjoy it some more back at the Black Horse. I was going to show you ‘the Devil’s Bush’ but fear it might be time wasted.’
‘Oh please, dear Mr Higgins,’ I laughed, taking the flask from him. ‘The Devil’s Bush? How can I return to London after visiting this village without saying that I have seen the Devil’s Bush?’
He sighed and pointed to a large bush which seemed to stand apart from the rest of the undergrowth.
‘This is the Devil’s Bush! A bush said to have grown from an enchanted seed sent from the Judean desert, where Jesus himself met with Satan. It was transported by dark forces and planted by witches during a ritual in which the blood of a sacrificed child was used to water and feed the earth in which it was placed.’ He took a small drink before continuing. ‘Stories are told of how acolytes of witchcraft come to this site to perform their dark sacraments. It is said that, if a person is of cruel mind and black of heart, they should dance around the bush three times, calling upon Satan to appear to them! Once upon the earth, he will bring about the end of days, destroying God’s world and heralding an age of darkness.’ His voice had risen to a bellow and he raised his arms into the air as he finished. I struggled to contain my laughter.
‘Come now, Mr Higgins, are you really trying to say that if I dance around a bush, the devil in all of his demonic glory will appear before me?’
‘Well, of course that is the tale,’ he answered. ‘No one has ever been so far out of their right mind to try it, naturally – and I should imagine that the devil will only appear to those whom he wishes to visit.’
A nervous sheen had crossed his face now as he saw that I had started to circle the bush slowly. He let out a stuttering laugh.
‘I wouldn’t bother, you know, Weaver. Trust me, I know about these things. The wind is not right, the moon too bright, he’ll not be appearing, you should stop.’ He pulled his everlasting flask of cherry brandy from his coat pocket and took a lengthy swig.
I was not to be dissuaded and began to dance around the bush, arms raised in the air.
‘Come forth, oh Satan!’ I called in mock reverential tones. ‘Show yourself to me and my good friend here!’
Once around.
‘Where are you, Dark Lord? Stir yourself from your pit in hell and come to this magic bush in Kent!’
‘Stop it, Mr Weaver!’ Higgins snapped. ‘You are wasting your time and mocking the spirits. I shall have to call a halt to the tour if you continue.’
Twice around.
I did not care; the tales of my esteemed tour guide were nonsense anyway. Stupid lies, created to scare the ignorant and infatuate the gullible.
‘Where are you, Beelzebub? Is the cold night air not to your liking?’ I had begun to laugh hysterically now, a combination of the alcohol that I had consumed with such relish, and the preposterous nature of my actions.
Three times around.
Nothing.
Not a hint of the devil appeared. Not a scent of brimstone, no eternal flames of damnation, nothing. I slumped giggling to the ground at Higgins’s feet, laughing maniacally.
‘There you are, Higgins old boy.’ I pointed. ‘There is your magic bush in all of its stupendous glory.’
‘Well, I warned you that the night was not right,’ he said, but his eyes did not move from the bush and the metal flask remained close to his lips. ‘Come on, Mr Weaver, to your feet. We should return before it is too late to order more booze.’
I had started to right myself, pushing up onto my elbows, when a sudden breeze blew through the branches of the trees above our heads and an evening fog appeared and began to shift and swirl in the air.
Immediately my laughter stopped and I felt a coldness within me.
We froze in silence as we watched the grey mist collect and converge, sculpting itself before us. To our horror, it took shape from the base up, the contour of a m
an slowly being created. First the feet, then legs, torso and finally head. Although still ethereal in nature, the mist appeared to solidify further and detail was created on the form. He was well dressed in smart formal clothing, with tailored trousers, a waistcoat complete with a chain leading to a pocket watch and an overcoat. As the head slowly formed, I saw that the features were those of a relatively young man with shoulder-length, white hair, a clean-shaven, angular face and sharp searing eyes which stared directly at me. Was this the true face of the devil?
To my terror his lips began to move, although at first there seemed to be no sound.
‘Are you seeing this, Higgins?’ I stammered. ‘Tell me that you are actually seeing this?’ My guide did not reply but I heard a soft gurgle as he took another drink from his flask.
A sound came from the figure. It was like a distant noise at first, slowly growing in volume until I could understand the words that were coming from the mouth, although they faded in and out of my hearing.
‘… unfinished… rising… Louhi… Pohjola… end… death.’
I felt a strong hand gripping the scruff of my collar, pulling me to my feet.
‘I do not know about you, Mr Weaver,’ Higgins hissed, ‘but I have heard enough from the devil, and we should make our departure. Run!’ He pulled at me and I did not need any further encouragement.
We fled the scene with all the pace that our drunken legs could muster, while the wind continued to blow behind us, creating a rush of noise in the trees as loud as a steam locomotive. I did not dare to glance behind me; I looked only ahead at my tour guide, who seemed to have gained incredible speed through pure cold terror. We did not slow or stop until we saw the lights of the village in the distance. As we paused, bent over with hands on knees, we looked at each other for a moment. We did not speak but it was clear that we had seen something unimaginable. Something which I am sure, despite Higgins’s earlier talk of supernatural experiences, was quite unusual and new to him too.
Domini Mortum Page 6
