The Lost Village: A Haunting Page-Turner With A Twist You'll Never See Coming! (Ghost Hunters 2)

by Neil Spring

  With a swirling sensation in my stomach – nerves but also excitement – I approached until I was close enough to be sure it was him. The crumpled brown suit. The trilby hat. The jug ears. I had no idea then what we would later become.

  ‘Mr Wall? Vernon?’

  He did not speak, he did not turn round, but beneath his jacket his shoulders tensed.

  ‘I must thank you for your note,’ I said. As soon as I had read the letter Mother had left for me on the hall table, I knew I had to accept the invitation therein to meet here today. I was curious – and more – to see the man whose romantic advances I had, not so very long ago, eschewed.

  ‘Miss Grey.’ Now he stood and turned to me, and for a moment I was surprised. Unpleasantly surprised. His handsome face was still one of many angles, but I didn’t remember him ever being so pale; the skin beneath his eyes was purple and paper-thin. The veneer of pride was in place – he stood tall, levelling his gaze at me – but I wondered what lay beneath. Hurt, I suspected, for the decisions I had made. Decisions that had involved Harry Price and not him.

  ‘Quite honestly,’ said Vernon, ‘I didn’t expect you to come.’

  I didn’t tell him I had had to leave work early to make our appointment. I didn’t tell him that coming here had meant postponing my returning the lantern slide to the Brixton Picture Palace. I simply said, ‘In the letter, you said you needed my help.’

  ‘Indeed. A small favour, pertaining to a most delicate matter.’ His gaze flicked around the gloomy courtyard and snagged on two passers-by – two bewigged gentlemen in black robes. ‘Shall we move over here?’ he suggested, nodding towards the side of Temple Church.

  We stood like conspirators in an angle of shadows next to the church wall.

  ‘All right,’ Vernon began. ‘Promise me: complete confidentiality. If anyone should ask, this must be one of those conversations that never happened.’

  ‘Vernon—’

  ‘I’m completely serious, Sarah.’ He looked directly at me, jaw tense. ‘My job could be on the line.’

  ‘After your many scoops for the Daily Mirror, they should be making life easy for—’

  ‘I’m with a new newspaper now. The Times,’ he cut in. ‘Have to earn my stripes if I’m to have any hope of progressing, and my new editor is . . .’ He wiped his brow.

  ‘Demanding?

  He looked down at his scuffed lace-ups. ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  I reassured Vernon that he need not worry, and yes, he could trust me. His furtive manner was deepening the curiosity that his hurriedly scrawled letter had awakened in me. ‘Muckraking tabloid reporter,’ that’s what Price had called Vernon when he had first introduced us at Borley Rectory.

  ‘So, what’s this about?’ I asked.

  He hesitated, and behind his chestnut-brown eyes I imagined his mind hastily shifting sentences around. Finally, he said, ‘Sarah, have you heard of a village called Imber?’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘It’s the most isolated of places. Tucked in a valley on Salisbury Plain.’

  ‘Wiltshire?’ I nodded. ‘I went there once, with my father.’

  ‘But not to Imber?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. There are many villages all over Wiltshire. Why?’

  ‘“The village that was murdered”, as some call it, or “the village without villagers”. A genuine ghost town. Abandoned at the beginning of the Great War. Ever since, it’s been used by our government to train soldiers. It has a sad, if fascinating history. With no notice whatsoever, one hundred and ten civilians were summoned to a meeting in the school hall and told they had only a few days to leave. Just like that’ – his fingers snapped – ‘the road into their village became a road to nowhere. I mean it, Sarah. The place vanished from every map. And after the war, when the civilians asked to return—’

  ‘Let me guess. The War Office refused?’

  ‘It was the Land Committee that said no, but basically yes, you’re correct. It was decreed that Imber would remain strictly under military control. Well, you can imagine – the people of the village weren’t at all happy.’

  ‘I’m sure they were outraged!’ I said, picturing a cluster of low stone cottages reduced to bombed-out shells from battle training, and once quaint streets pitted with craters and tank tracks.

  ‘Their settlement dated back to Saxon times, and here it was being written out of history! Now a campaign’s begun: Imber Will Live. They came to me asking me to write an article about their plight. They want the roads reopened and Imber re-established as a farming community and village.’

  ‘And is that likely to happen?’

  ‘Hardly. But as their campaign intensifies, this story could run and run.’

  ‘Which should be useful for you,’ I said, ‘but what’s this got to do with me?’

  He was looking at me closely now, with the hint of an intriguing smile that made me think of our excursion, during the summer of 1929, to the haunted rectory in Borley.

  ‘Imber may be deserted, Sarah, but its spirit burns bright, and perhaps in more ways than one. Once every winter, on the Sunday just before All Souls’ Day, the barriers are taken down, the road into Imber is opened, and former residents and their surviving relatives are permitted to return to their church for a remembrance service. They meet old friends, sing hymns, and light candles on the graves of their loved ones.’

  ‘Sounds a little eerie.’

  ‘Well, it is an eerie place, hidden away down there on the valley floor, seven miles from the nearest town; surrounded by rusted tanks, all that barbed wire and those Out of Bounds signs. Many of the buildings have been damaged by stray shells. Almost all of them have been left to crumble and rot. I’ve seen pictures—’

  ‘So you haven’t actually been inside the village yourself?’

  ‘No. Only former residents can return – once a year. But,’ he added weightily, ‘with the date so close now, the army have a peculiar problem in Imber.’

  ‘What sort of peculiar problem?’

  He held my gaze. ‘One that requires the attention of a peculiar . . . expert. Look at this.’ From his jacket pocket, Vernon produced a small black and white photograph of a handsome man in military uniform, no more than thirty years of age. ‘This is Sergeant Gregory Edwards. This photograph was taken five years ago, when Sergeant Edwards was first posted to the Imber training facility. Twelve months ago, he suffered a total breakdown – began seeing things after going temporarily missing on an exercise in the woods that border Imber. He’s since vanished from the public eye.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He gave a shrug. ‘The army won’t disclose any further details. I’ve attempted to contact his family and drawn a complete blank.’

  His eyes shifted across the gloomy yard to the ancient church crypt behind me. Two more robed barristers passed by, chatting lightly. ‘I’ve had some limited contact with the soldier in charge, Commander Gordon Williams,’ said Vernon, leaning a little closer to me and lowering his voice. ‘I contacted his office for comment on the Imber Will Live campaign. He consented to a meeting. And in some ways, it was very much a meeting of minds. He confided in me . . . to a point.’

  That surprised me. ‘Why would the military trust a journalist? I don’t wish to sound rude, Vernon, but—’

  ‘After I began digging into what happened to Sergeant Edwards, the army realised that I could be useful to them. You see, as the public campaign gains momentum, the military badly need a friend in the media. A sympathetic ear.’

  ‘You mean someone they can bribe.’

  Vernon grinned in a way that gave me an unwelcome tingle. ‘I’m not talking about money, Sarah. But access? Well now, that’s different. If I help the military now, then perhaps later, when I need insight on a military story, they’ll grant me some access. Contacts are everything, and of cou
rse there’s the small matter of my prospects at The Times.’

  ‘You’re just going to give up on the Edwards story? Drop it in favour of helping the military?’

  A pause. ‘Not exactly. I asked one too many questions. Think I dented their trust in me a little. So I promised I’d help them find what they were looking for: an expert.’

  ‘It’s still a bit of a gamble, isn’t it?’

  ‘So was coming to you,’ he said. The grin vanished. ‘But I do need your help. The army needs your help. Commander Williams won’t allow the public back into the village this Sunday unless he’s certain there won’t be any problems. His men are spooked out of their wits. They fear the village is . . . troubled.’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘Phantom monks, headless apparitions, ladies in white – that sort of thing?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Vernon hesitated. ‘Local folklore says the village is haunted by former residents. Dogs have been heard howling at the old – empty – kennels. In the past year, some of the soldiers have noticed movements in the windows of houses supposed to be empty. Smoke drifting from the chimneys of ruins, the smell of cooking food.

  ‘Ever since Gregory Edwards suffered his breakdown, the other men refuse to enter the woods on training exercises. They think there’s something in there that caused it. Some of them say they’ve seen dark figures moving between the trees, watching them. Some believe the souls of past inhabitants who were forced to surrender their homes still dwell in the village and won’t rest until the army are gone.’

  That sounded more than a little fanciful to me, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t intrigued. These were hardened military men, hardly the sort who were likely to salute a lone magpie to stave off unhappiness and bad luck. ‘What does the base commander think?’

  ‘Commander Williams’ chief concern is for the safety of his men. But you see the problem. Imber Service Day is this Sunday – just six days away. Then the roads will open and the civilians will make their pilgrimage into Imber. If the army doesn’t open the village, they’ll be crucified by the campaigners. But if they do, it’s vital he can have confidence that his men are up to the job. They certainly can’t risk civilians running riot through the town. It’s completely unsafe. Some of the buildings are on the verge of collapse, and there’s unexploded debris, shells and what not, in the long grass off the main roads. Watertight security, that’s what the commander needs.’

  I inched closer to him, feeling the pull of curiosity – and something else. I wondered if that something else was attraction. ‘You think there’s any possibility these reports of unexplained phenomena could be genuine?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be churlish to assume otherwise?’ he replied. I wondered how often the events we had experienced together three years ago in Borley replayed in his mind: the brick that came hurtling through the glass roof; the candlestick thrown by an unseen hand.

  Still, I wasn’t clear how or why any of this should concern me.

  ‘I need you to attend a meeting with Commander Gordon Williams,’ continued Vernon, gazing intently at me. ‘If superstitions are indeed infecting the soldiers’ morale, marring their judgement, they need the assistance of an expert debunker. Immediately.’

  The suggestion surprised me. ‘I’m flattered that you think I can assist, Vernon, but do you really think—’

  ‘It’s not you they want, Sarah,’ he said flatly. Our eyes met. ‘You’re to attend and assist, but the meeting I need you to facilitate, the meeting that could make all the difference for the army, and even for the former residents of Imber, is with Harry Price.’

  I froze, one hand tightly gripping the top of my handbag, my cheeks burning. In the distance, towards Fleet Street, I caught the thin, discordant melody of a busker’s violin. A young mother walked into the square, pushing a pram. I quickly glanced away.

  Vernon forced a laugh. ‘I can see you’re not thrilled by the idea.’

  ‘It’s a big ask,’ I said, my voice sounding pinched.

  ‘Sarah, you know I think Price is an utter scandalmonger. God knows he’s a man who puts his own needs before anyone else’s. But on this occasion . . . Look, I’d contact him myself, but you know the old crook can’t stand the sight of me. But you, you’re his friend – his secretary.’

  ‘I moved on with my life, Vernon.’

  His eyebrows arched.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said, feeling a tinge of defensiveness. And didn’t a small part of me – perhaps more than a small part – hope this bright and ambitious young man would admit he was pleased?

  ‘So, what made you leave?’

  I almost said ‘you’, but only almost. My lips froze. I was being ridiculous. Instead I told him of Price’s disgraceful humiliation of his closest friend, Velma; his prolonged absences; the secret business dealings; the deceptions. Throughout my explanation, I forced myself to keep my eyes off the young mother with her pram and the gurgling baby within.

  ‘I wanted to move on,’ I finished.

  ‘And you can move on,’ said Vernon encouragingly. He put one hand gently on my arm. ‘But I’m in a terribly difficult situation – try to see that. My editor expects me to demonstrate excellent sources within the army. The Times, it’s a tough gig, and I have a real opportunity here. The army can’t risk approaching Price directly – he’s likely to have the whole affair up in lights. This must be handled delicately, Sarah. Discreetly. And you know how Price is . . .’

  ‘You mean they want someone to keep him under control.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Vernon replied, holding my gaze.

  ‘Well, I’m not doing it.’

  Yet at the back of my mind, a shadowy doubt remained: still curious . . .

  ‘Sarah, please. You know Price better than anyone.’

  Was that true? It was hard to be sure. Harry Price was married to a woman he never mentioned and whom I had never even met. He had a vast array of business interests of which I had been denied total knowledge. A network of friends he treated more like enemies.

  ‘Harry doesn’t have all the answers, Vernon,’ I said. ‘He just likes to believe he does.’

  ‘Well, the army believes he can help. But we need someone to keep an eye on him, keep him in check.’

  ‘And if he should refuse?’

  ‘He won’t. An egotist like Harry would never refuse an opportunity like this. Oh, and Commander Williams doesn’t intend to leave Imber any time soon, which means—’

  ‘We have to go to him.’

  Vernon nodded hastily. ‘Just two days of your time – three at the most. Get Harry to find out what’s been troubling the soldiers. Reassure the commander that Imber can open to its old residents. Show the lot of them there’s nothing to these rumours.’

  Once again, my ears caught the distant whine of the violin on the chill afternoon air.

  ‘Vernon,’ I said, ‘my ghost-hunting days are over.’

  A line of desperation furrowed the skin between his eyebrows. ‘Sarah, we saw and experienced incidents at Borley that could not be reconciled with our received wisdom about the world. I asked you then to trust me, remember? I’m asking you again, now. I make my livelihood from facts. I have a healthy respect for them, and it is in the spirit of that claim, in the spirit of truth, that I am asking this of you now. There’s too much at stake here to just walk away.’

  ‘You mean your job?’

  ‘Not just that! Good and vulnerable people, soldiers who train hard to defend our country, civilians who have lost their homes – they need help.’

  Was he trying to appeal to my better nature? Possibly. Still, I decided to hear him out.

  ‘Do I dislike Mr Price? Fiercely. He’s a scoundrel of the first order, just as manipulative and self-centred as the mediums he so piously rips apart. But sooner or later, every supposed paranormal happening reaches his awareness. People write to
him every day with their encounters. The newspapers telephone him daily for comment on lurid stories, right?’

  It was true. So many ghosts. Price’s problem was deciding which to hunt.

  ‘So, I am forced to concede he is best suited to assist in this matter. I need him.’

  I weighed this up for a moment. ‘But you don’t trust him.’

  ‘It’s you I trust, Sarah.’

  I looked at Vernon for what felt like a long time, thinking of a future that might have been. Recalling the morning after our initial visit to the rectory in Borley, the morning after Price had come quietly to my bedroom. The caress of Harry’s touch. The scent of his skin. Going into the washroom to confront myself in the mirror, asking myself, demanding to know, how? How could I have been so careless? But the truth was I knew, deep down, in the murkiest chamber of my soul, I hadn’t been careless. I had engaged, I had allowed him into bed. I chose Harry Price. How many people, I wonder, act like that? Purely on secret desires?

  ‘Will you do it, Sarah?’ Vernon’s dark-rimmed eyes weren’t pleading exactly, but they were close enough. I remembered, then, Vernon asking me, as we sat together in the study at Borley Rectory, if I would accompany him on a trip to Bellagio. I remembered his crestfallen expression when I had politely declined. And then I remembered how, despite my decision to stay with Price, Vernon had championed me. Considerate. Respectful. Gallant.

  ‘All right, I’ll help. This time. If Harry is agreeable.’

  ‘Actually, I need you to do a little more than that.’ He hesitated. ‘Keep me informed?’

  ‘Spy?’

  He tried a smile, but could see it wasn’t about to be reciprocated, so he dropped it. ‘Given that there’s the remotest chance of a story here, and my reputation is on the line, yes, it would be helpful – to know how Price is handling the matter.’

  ‘Oh, perfect.’

  ‘He does tend to let things get out of hand.’

  That was true. Like the occasion when Price insisted on spending the night in a haunted bed, and invited reporters from London’s newspapers along to watch.

  ‘There’s just one more thing.’