by Neil Spring
I nodded at him to continue, even though a part of me didn’t want him to.
‘After Pierre passed away, Marie told me something that made so little sense at the time that I forgot about it. But now, I see that maybe I was wrong.’ He leaned closer and stared directly into my eyes with unsettling intensity.
‘She said I would meet a woman in the road. Someone like you.’
I admit, my confidence faltered a little then. But I kept a level tone as I sought clarification. ‘What do you think your wife meant? What exactly did she say?’
‘A woman in the road. A traveller seeking answers. A wise old soul on her last journey.’ He peered at me with a sort of dazed understanding. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’
I realised I had stopped breathing.
‘Miss Grey?’
A wise old soul on her last journey . . .
‘I’ve heard those words before,’ I said.
And then, with a chill, I remembered precisely where I had heard them: six years earlier, in Price’s top-floor laboratory, during an experimental séance with the young spiritualist medium Velma Crawshaw. Poor Velma; with blank panic on her face, the doomed woman’s breathing had become short and spasmodic as she stared at me and said in a faint, unnerving whisper, ‘Sarah Grey, the woman with two paths and one regret. You must not go!’
I blinked the memory away, but felt the gooseflesh on my arms.
Must not go . . . A wise old soul . . .
What did it mean? A prophecy? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Hartwell was looking at me ponderingly. ‘Here you are, Miss Grey, the woman in the road. A wise old soul. Just like my dear Marie said.’
When I said nothing – for what could I say? – he went over to the window.
‘I know it sounds like madness,’ he said, gazing out onto the night, ‘but she insisted and I told her she was wrong. But now . . . now I think that perhaps it was I who was in the wrong! That perhaps I could have saved her if I’d just listened and opened my mind.’
I looked into the window, at the dark reflection of his face, so drawn and anxious, and thought I understood why he had been so reluctant to consider our proposal of a séance at the mill. It wasn’t that he disbelieved in such things as ghosts, rather that he was afraid of what believing would mean for him. The very idea had brought him into direct moral conflict with his treatment of his wife.
‘What if my wife was right?’ he went on. ‘What else was she right about?’
He turned round then, and his eyes locked on mine. He looked feverish; but not with grief, I realised – with intent.
‘This séance you’ve arranged for tomorrow – what time will it occur?’
‘You want to come? Mr Hartwell, I really don’t think that’s a—’
‘Of course, it was not my first wish,’ he said quickly. ‘But I see now that a séance might help me come to terms with what has happened, face my own demons. I feel it’s what Marie would want me to do – to attend and keep an open mind. And if my son should come, perhaps I too will once again feel the touch of his hands.’
He was smiling now, a tear glistening on one cheek.
I reached out to put my hand on his arm and said, ‘Mr Hartwell, you’ve had a tremendous shock today. A séance could be too much of a strain.’
What I didn’t want to add, lest it make me sound paranoid and superstitious, was that a séance could be a traumatising ordeal, often riddled with misleading information.
He was looking questioningly at me. ‘In what way, too much of a strain?’
‘Mr Hartwell, sadly, I know something – much, actually – about grief. It comes unexpectedly, often bringing chaos in its wake. And in that chaos it’s only natural to seek some sort of order, some meaning. We use séances and the paranormal as a barrier against that pain, and in so doing we can make unwise decisions.’
‘You sound like your colleague.’
I did sound a bit like Harry, but it would be strange if I didn’t, given all we had been through. ‘Séances can make you doubt yourself, and everyone around you,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t come.’
Hartwell drew his arm away. ‘You baffle me, Miss Grey. First, you say my beloved dead son is appearing, on demand, at séances conducted without my knowledge, on land that once belonged to me. And then you tell me I shouldn’t try to verify that?’ I shifted awkwardly. I was no psychiatrist, but I saw that Hartwell blamed himself for Pierre’s death, and was probably tormented by guilt. He longed desperately to see his son one last time, if only to apologise.
His presence could be helpful in one sense – with Hartwell in the room, we had a better chance of identifying the spirit child. But if, on the other hand, the affair was a hoax, I knew that the emotional consequences for this grieving man could prove utterly devastating. But, ultimately, whether he attended the séance was not my decision to make.
‘I’m coming,’ he said with such conviction that I could only nod in agreement.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Before I go, there is just one more thing.’
He blinked at me.
‘May I see your wife’s spirit drawings?’
‘Do you think they might be important?’
A wise old soul . . .
‘That depends what they show,’ I replied, knowing that the sketches were bound to tell us something about Marie’s mental state, but also knowing that was not the entire reason I had asked to see them.
*
At nine o’clock that evening, Commander Williams was just stepping out of his office when I was fortunate to run into him in the corridor.
‘Sir, may I use your telephone to call London?’
He was pleased, I think, to see me being so proactive, and it seemed that I had gained his trust, for once I had poured myself some water, he left me alone in his office.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ he added.
On the wall, alongside the other framed pictures, was the formal photograph of my father in uniform, standing with other soldiers. It nagged at my gaze. I wanted that photograph. I wanted it badly.
As I sat and dialled the number for The Times, I vaguely wondered how long it would take the commander before he missed it.
‘Vernon?’ I took a quick sip from my glass tumbler as he answered the phone. ‘Thank heavens you’re still there. Listen, I’ve made a deal, one that benefits you. The military will allow you access.’
‘To Imber? What’s the catch?’
I told him then about the church service, about Marie Hartwell’s suicide, and listened to a few seconds of silent shock echo down the line. Somewhere in the background I could hear the steady clack, clack, clack of another poor journalist working the late shift.
‘Jesus . . . I can’t imagine. Sarah, you must feel dreadful.’
I did feel dreadful. The sight of Marie Hartwell’s slumped corpse, her blue tongue protruding through her teeth, kept coming back to me. So did the image of her jerking and writhing on the end of the rope as she choked to death. But I also felt galvanised to achieve some justice for the Hartwell family and Sergeant Edwards, and ever more determined to clear up the mysteries plaguing the lost village of Imber.
‘The military are worried about protests, and the possibility of a full-scale public rally to champion the return of Imber to the public.’
‘You really think that will happen?’
‘I’m sure it will happen,’ I said, remembering the passion of the congregation during Hartwell’s speech. Suddenly, I was picturing the worst: a huge gathering of newspapermen, challenging questions, a confrontation. What if there was bloodshed? What if someone recklessly ventured somewhere they shouldn’t on the range and was injured in an explosion? Or, even worse, a soldier acted impulsively and a civilian was shot?
‘I promised the army you’d help take control of their problem with the newspa
pers.’
‘You did what?’ He lowered his voice and I imagined him cupping his hand over the telephone mouthpiece. ‘There’s always a catch, isn’t there?’
‘Sorry. It was the only way they would allow us to continue with our investigation. Listen, can you get down here in time for tomorrow night? Trust me, you won’t want to miss this.’
‘What exactly do you mean, Sarah?’
I pictured Vernon hunched over his desk in the offices of The Times, scribbling hurriedly in one of his battered leather notepads.
‘This is all off the record, yes?’
‘What? Sarah, come on!’
‘Vernon, no. Background terms only. Deal?’
He made a reluctant sound of agreement. Only then did I tell him about Pierre Hartwell, whose vandalised grave lay in the overgrown Imber churchyard; a little boy who was aged just five when he was taken from his family by the disease known as the Strangling Angel.
‘And you think you saw this child yourself?’ Vernon sounded sceptical.
‘I saw something.’
A pause at the other end.
‘Vernon, you know I would never make up something like this.’
‘Sorry, I’m not doubting you. It’s just, well, a lot to take in.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I said hastily, glancing around the commander’s office. I wanted this conversation to remain strictly between Vernon and me, but I was hyper-aware that the commander could return at any moment. ‘Sergeant Edwards saw the boy too, just before he attempted suicide by setting himself on fire.’
‘Dear God.’
‘And this is going to sound damned silly,’ I warned, ‘but Sergeant Edwards, and many of the soldiers out here, believe the spirits of former residents who were evicted from Imber, like the blacksmith, have returned now to exact retribution on the military.’
‘You’re right, that does sound damned silly. But Sarah, it also sounds as though you believe it.’
The preponderance of evidence was becoming hard to deny: Sidewinder’s impassioned witness testimony; Marie Hartwell’s premonitions; the putty cast bearing the imprint of a child’s fingers – all needed further investigation, but considered collectively, in the light of all I knew, the evidence was compelling.
I had a mental image of Imber’s churchyard and remembered the curse we had found scratched into Pierre Hartwell’s memorial stone: May God in His mercy punish those who have wronged us; grant it so that His heavenly wrath stains the souls of those who have stained Imber with the blood of innocents.
When I pictured the childlike figure at the roadside on Salisbury Plain, when I remembered his lonely grave, and the sound of someone crying close by, when I remembered the traumatising visions that had assaulted me in the woods, I thought that yes, I did believe Imber was haunted.
I believed also that there was an insidious agenda behind the haunting. And if that was so, there was no telling how this would end.
‘Are there other witnesses to this ghost child?’ Vernon asked. Now he sounded interested, energised, which was what I had been hoping for.
‘Actually, yes. The warden.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Sidewinder. He grew up in Imber. He is adamant the ghost walks.’
‘You’re sure he’s not faking it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Delusional then?’
‘No.’ I explained about the abandoned mill in the Imber woods, the candles and crucifixes and the surreptitious séances led by Sidewinder. ‘He says he learned the art of mediumship from his son, and that the spirit of the Hartwell child returns, without fail, at every séance. A fully formed materialisation. Vernon, he’s going to show us, tomorrow night.’
‘Then yes, you’re right, I do want to be there.’
I pictured the winding, bumpy journey across the downs to Imber. ‘Can you make it here by late afternoon?’
In the newsroom at the other end of the line, a telephone rang and a typewriter was still clacking away.
‘I can try.’
‘Good, and remember – you’re not here to sensationalise, only to advise and write sensitively about the forthcoming protests.’
‘What does Harry think about all this?’
‘What you’d expect,’ I replied. ‘Except, well, he’s being evasive.’
I heard Vernon’s sigh. ‘You think he’s keeping something from you?’
No, Sarah, you’re being paranoid, I thought. But I also knew that Harry had lied to me before.
‘Sarah, are you there?’
‘Yes, sorry.’ The picture of the soldiers on the wall was nagging at me again.
With a mixture of dread and determination, I realised I wasn’t just going to take that picture and walk out of the room with it; I was going to ask Vernon to do something that went against all my better wisdom.
Something that could cost him his job, or even put him in prison.
‘Vernon, there’s one more thing. This could be nothing. Call it a hunch, all right? But before you leave London, here’s what I need you to do.’
– 21 –
VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
Fallen leaves, damp from the melted snow, squelched beneath our feet. I felt nervous and alert as we wound our way through a tangle of trees, grimacing at the cold. Imber’s moribund mill waited for us, abandoned and brooding. With a growing sense of purpose, I was anxious to get there quickly, but as we neared the top of the valley, I paused to look back. From there, I had an unimpaired view of the grim, grey manor house, Imber Court, its windows sheeted with iron. I kept feeling the pull of recognition whenever I saw it, without knowing why.
Ahead, Price glanced back, saw I was still and confidently called, ‘Come on, not far now!’ A flicker of suspicion flared, but I resisted questioning him yet again on how much he really knew about the history of Imber. I’d get to the root of that mystery soon enough, so long as Vernon succeeded in the task I had set him.
We passed into a clearing strewn with logs and fallen branches. It was mid-afternoon, but the leaden clouds hanging moodily above made it feel as if the October darkness was already drawing in.
My state of nervousness persisted. Part of it was worry for Vernon; so far there had been no sign of him. After my telephone call the previous night, Commander Williams had assured me that as soon as Vernon arrived at Westdown Camp he would drive him into Imber to join us.
But would he arrive? What if he didn’t? Earnestly, I prayed he hadn’t been caught – otherwise it was curtains for our friendship. And his career.
The rest of my anxiety had more to do with what we had come to do, an act that would be described by many as blasphemous. Thanks to Price, I knew séances could be physically traumatic. We might encounter spectral whispers, phantom figures, drifting lights. Not to mention objects thrown at us from any direction!
Who cared if there were crucifixes nailed into the walls of the old mill? Candles and crucifixes – what good had these talismans done for anyone so far?
We were coming today armed with our own talismans – scientific equipment that would help us scratch the surface and reveal what lurked beneath.
Or so we hoped.
‘Sarah, careful!’
I leapt backward, embarrassed. I was so distracted, I had almost run right into Price’s back.
‘Sorry, Harry.’
‘Honestly, you seem away with the fairies.’ He blinked and then said, with sympathy in his voice, ‘You can always go back to the camp, if you’d prefer—’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I assured him.
He held my gaze for a moment, then trained it on the edge of the clearing. ‘We shouldn’t linger here,’ he said. ‘You remember this spot?’
I remembered all right: this was where I had experienced a vision of Sergeant Edwards picking up a petro
l can, dousing himself and becoming a human fireball.
‘Feel anything now?’ he asked, looking intently at me.
I shook my head.
‘Let’s press on,’ Price said, and we set off towards the dark line of trees.
But a low metallic sound made both of us halt. Three heavy, dead notes echoing from behind us in the shadowed woods.
‘What the hell?’ Price looked around, his mouth slightly open.
The sound came again, low and hollow, but louder now.
Clang . . . clang . . . clang . . .
Was that metal striking metal?
All at once I had an irrational image of a furious blacksmith tracking us through the woods; a blacksmith whose eyes were red from weeping and raw with rage.
A blacksmith carrying a bloodstained hammer.
We listened hard.
No further noises.
‘Come on,’ Price said, looking uneasily ahead to where the path wound into the shadows. ‘Almost there.’
What else could I do? I turned towards Price and the deeper woods, and followed.
*
In the distance was the dark bulk of the mill, where we had been promised that the dead boy would materialise later. As we grew nearer, I began to experience the same uneasy sense of familiarity that had seized me on our first journey here.
‘A wise old soul,’ Hartwell had said, ‘on her last journey.’
There was only one way to know more: I had to see Marie Hartwell’s spirit drawings. But I had no intention of mentioning them to Price – not yet anyway. Not until I knew what they showed. Hopefully, Hartwell wouldn’t forget to bring them along. If, that was, he still intended to come.
‘Well,’ I heard Price say from up ahead, ‘here we are.’
Sometimes I think locations speak to us, like our dreams do. We don’t always know exactly what they’re trying to tell us, but when those messages are imbued with meaning, we sense it acutely. That was how it was for me at that moment, as the abandoned mill rose before us. Sombre. Imposing. Ancient. Its Gothic, iron-framed windows, those intensely black spaces. Queasily, I sensed the ruin speaking to me.
