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

by Neil Spring

He didn’t deny it, which worried me.

  ‘Why?’

  After a long pause he said, ‘I’m afraid, very afraid. I’m afraid something wicked occurred in that village, Sarah. Something tragic. In time, I feel sure the answers will surface, but for now, my instinct says the less you know, the better.’

  ‘You’re playing with me.’

  ‘I’m protecting you.’

  ‘Controlling me.’ A pause. ‘Albert sent you a letter explaining where to find me. Sent you drawings – of me. Didn’t you think I’d want to know?’

  He sighed deeply. ‘I’m not the only one who has been less than honest, am I, Sarah?’

  That made me think of our child, of whom I hoped he still knew nothing. And suddenly I felt the cold grasp of fear. I decided not to ask any more questions about what he did or didn’t know about this investigation. After all, I knew my own secret wouldn’t just break his marriage. Very likely it would break his heart.

  As we sped over Vauxhall Bridge I told Price of the developments that had unfurled in Imber after he left. I made sure to mention the disturbed graves we had found at the churchyard – graves of the Hartwell family.

  ‘Do you think the disturbed graves are connected to the Imber hauntings?’ I asked. ‘It’s not clear to me why they should be, or how, but I thought I heard unusual sounds in that churchyard. Footsteps. Someone crying. And remember, according to Commander Williams some of his men thought they saw women there, tending graves.’

  ‘It’s certainly possible,’ Price said. ‘But for now, we must do all we can to help the boy.’ He peered into the rear-view mirror at Pierre, huddled up in the back seat.

  I felt a sudden urge to hug that child close to me. ‘Poor soul. His father wants Imber Court returned to him very badly. It was his home . . .’

  ‘Yes, but I think this goes deeper.’

  ‘You think Hartwell is hiding something at Imber Court?’

  ‘Very possibly. We will search the place from top to bottom.’ Price’s face tightened. ‘But there’s somewhere we must go first.’

  Instead of driving us out of London, towards Imber, Price swerved the saloon onto Millbank and began accelerating towards the city. Towards Fleet Street.

  *

  ‘Sir, are you expected? Excuse me, sir, you can’t go in there!’

  ‘This is a pressing matter and it will not wait!’ Price gave the prim secretary a scathing look as he stormed past her desk and flung open the door to the newsroom.

  She leapt up in protest, and I held back, Pierre at my side. I was torn; Price needed me in there, but there was no way I would have left the child in the car alone, and it didn’t seem appropriate to march him into an office full of strangers. ‘I am so terribly sorry about my friend,’ I explained. ‘But it is rather urgent, I’m afraid.’

  Perhaps sensing my dilemma, my desperation, the prim secretary’s attitude softened. She was about my age, perhaps nurturing hopes of becoming a mother herself. The tender smile she was giving Pierre certainly suggested so. It also suggested she had changed her mind about allowing us inside.

  ‘All right. Would you like me to watch him for you for a moment?’ Her eyes were wide and sincere. Caring.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be very quick.’

  And I was. The clacking of manual typewriters surrounded me as I followed Price into the newsroom. The hour had passed ten o’clock, but there were enough assiduous reporters in here for me to feel self-conscious. Stressed, tense-looking young men hunched over their desks, bashing out stories. Price was scanning the smoky room. His gaze located the man determined to betray him.

  ‘Scoundrel!’ he shouted.

  With a jolt, Vernon looked up from his typewriter. He noticed me before he saw Price marching up to him, and his eyes almost bulged out of his skull.

  ‘Vernon, I want the photograph you snapped. And the negative!’

  ‘Too late,’ Vernon said, rising from his chair. ‘The printing presses won’t wait, Harry. You’re finished.’

  Price saw the sheet of paper in the typewriter and rolled it out. For a few seconds, I watched his mouth form silent words as he read the report, then saw beads of glistening sweat break on his brow.

  ‘Let me see,’ I said, angling over his shoulder so that I could read the article.

  A psychic investigator, notorious for exposing fraudulent mediums who make a living from deceiving the bereaved, has been implicated in an indecent hoax involving an innocent child.

  This reporter is aware that Mr Harry Price, who is the honorary chairman of the National Laboratory for Psychical Research and prides himself on his high moral probity, attended a séance in the company of members of the army at a secret location on Salisbury Plain earlier this week.

  During the séance, the malnourished figure of a boy who was thought dead ‘materialised’ in clear view of everyone present, including this reporter.

  Mr Price, who reached out and grabbed the boy, who was naked from the waist up, declared himself astonished at the so-called materialisation. But, aside from the deeply worrying physical conditions I have described, there was nothing extraordinary about the figure I witnessed. It was that of a normal child, who arrived in a terrible state, frail, severely underweight and dishevelled.

  One would think that a man purportedly as critical and exacting and inventive as Mr Price would recognise a real human boy when he saw one. Apparently not. Unless, of course, he had a vested interest in claiming otherwise.

  The child in the photograph has not yet been identified but sources close to our correspondent have suggested that Mr Price was complicit in an exploitative and irresponsible hoax.

  Supporters of Mr Price must now ask themselves if he really is the expert he claims to be, or if he is, indeed, a flagrant fraud.

  I turned sick at heart. How could Vernon have done such a thing? Price’s face was knotted with rage, his hand trembling. There was an anxious moment when I feared he was about to throw a punch at Vernon. Instead, he snarled at the journalist. ‘This is worthless, even for you! Does your vindictiveness know no limits? You can’t print these despicable insinuations! I’ll be ruined!’

  But Vernon said nothing to the man he was determined to wrong; he only stared at his white face, triumphant.

  ‘Vernon, I’m not sure this is the right approach,’ I said.

  For a moment, Vernon looked small and tired and bitter. It broke my heart a little to see him that way. Then, abruptly, his look of vengeful determination returned and he plucked up from his desk what looked to me like a freshly developed black and white photograph.

  ‘You’d ruin a man to further your career?’ Price demanded.

  ‘Isn’t that what you’ve been doing your whole life? Deriding spiritualists as the laughing stock of the thinking man.’

  ‘My intentions have only ever been on the side of truth, yet here you are presenting me to the world as—’

  ‘The self-aggrandizing, irresponsible sensationalist we know you are.’

  He handed Price the photograph. ‘That’s a copy. The negative stays with me.’

  Price looked down at the image and his lips began to tremble. ‘This is an outrage!’ he shouted.

  Every typewriter in the room fell silent. I glanced out over the rows of desks and saw many curious faces angled our way.

  Feeling most uncomfortable, I studied the photograph. It made extremely disturbing viewing. There was the half-naked Pierre, standing at the side of the battered table. There were the rest of us, our eyes like silver discs. And there, with his hand resting on the boy’s skeletal shoulder, was Harry Price. ‘We thought it was a spirit!’

  ‘Not we,’ Vernon said quickly. ‘You. Now the world can know the truth.’

  These words came out sounding sweetly sour.

  ‘I can see now why they call this the street of shame,’ Price said, thr
owing his glance around the room in disgust, before fixing his eyes on Vernon and hissing, ‘Have you bothered to consider how this story will reflect on Sarah?’

  ‘The story doesn’t mention Miss Grey.’ Vernon looked at me a little doubtfully, struggling to keep the conviction in his voice. ‘I wasn’t planning to use the part of the picture that shows her, either. And if anyone should ask, the truth is that Sarah stopped working for you a long time ago, disillusioned by your methods. You’ve kept so much from her, Harry – which is grossly unfair, you must see, when she is so open with you.’

  Guilt stabbed me. I couldn’t bring myself to go along with Vernon’s plan, and I felt betrayed that he had used me to get the upper hand over Price, but this was not the time to dwell on such grievances.

  ‘Your story is inaccurate,’ I told Vernon.

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘We do know the identity of the boy from the séance.’

  Vernon looked at me gravely, his jaw working as if he were struggling with something. Evidently, he still believed the false premise – that Pierre had died two years previously. It fell to me, therefore, to show him the truth.

  ‘Come with me to the outer office. And then outside.’

  Price snapped his head towards me and I held up a finger as a gesture for him not to intervene. Perhaps it was the realisation that he was in over his head that prompted him to let me try and defuse the situation.

  Reluctantly, Vernon took up his coat and scarf and came with us to the outer office. When he saw Pierre, bone thin, sitting drowsily on a stool next to his secretary’s desk, he gasped. ‘That’s Hartwell’s son?’

  ‘Yes, we believe so.’

  I smiled at the secretary and thanked her for watching Pierre. Then I lost no time in leading the journalist out into the icy evening and to the car. Price followed on with Pierre.

  ‘Vernon, listen to me. This is vital. Harry is not the story here. He’s not the enemy. You have to help us now.’

  As we came to the parked black saloon, Vernon trained his gaze on me and I saw the trace of doubt in his eyes, a sign that he might, just might, be prepared to believe me. What a relief that would be.

  ‘You actually think Hartwell faked his son’s death? Seriously?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Price, joining us. ‘And exploited the boy to convince the army they were being haunted by this “wandering child”, an invention so perfect even the British army were taken in.’

  ‘Even you,’ Vernon added heavily.

  ‘Even me.’

  They looked at one another, defeat on both their faces. Then they looked at Pierre.

  ‘But you’re very much alive, aren’t you, little man?’ said Price. ‘And thank God for it.’

  ‘Sometimes, a little grounding does you good, Harry,’ I said, nodding at him, then at Vernon. ‘You two gentlemen have something in common.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Vernon asked, with some reluctance.

  ‘Energy and hope. Passion. Use that passion now.’ I smiled down at the boy, who was clinging tightly to Price’s hand. ‘Use it for good, to help Pierre, to end this.’

  Finally, mercifully, Vernon nodded his agreement. Searching his trouser pocket, he withdrew the negative of the damming photograph and handed it to Price. I helped Pierre into the back seat of the car and then, giddy with relief, told Vernon what we had learned.

  ‘Unfortunately, Warden Sidewinder was a well-placed accomplice. Not only could he hide the child with his son in London, he could use his son’s conjuring skills to manipulate the séances. And, crucially, he could smuggle Pierre into Imber without detection. Remember, security on the range is his to direct and control.’

  ‘Which is why we must get down to Wiltshire immediately,’ Price added. ‘We have vital work to do in Imber.’

  This triggered a new reaction from Vernon. There was something about his manner now, resolute and determined, that impressed me.

  ‘I’m coming, I can help.’ He peered into the back seat of the car, but not at Pierre. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘A magic lantern,’ said Price. ‘Think of it as a Victorian entertainment, the forerunner to the projectors we use today. Remember the luminous glow about Pierre during our séance?’ He nodded at the lantern. ‘Using this device, that’s how Sidewinder worked the deception. It was hidden in the shadows. When the boy made his entry, Albert sneaked it in through the opening in the wall. Now we shall make it work for us.’

  ‘Do you have a plan, Harry?’ I asked.

  He made eye contact, holding my gaze long enough to spark a little hope. ‘I have a plan.’

  And so we set off, on what I prayed was our last journey to the lost village.

  – 33 –

  THE LOST VILLAGE

  A freezing, dense fog had descended on the mud-churned road into Imber. In the gloom, the headlights picked out a sign nailed to a dark, wintry tree:

  IMBER SHALL LIVE!

  KEEP OPEN THE ROADS

  SAVE THE CHURCH OF ST GILES

  PRESERVE OUR HERITAGE

  As our car rumbled to a halt at the military checkpoint, I was alarmed to see the barrier raised. I was even more alarmed by the complete absence of military security.

  Seeing my unease, Price said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not yet dawn.’

  But it will be soon.

  I was looking for any sign of the approaching protestors, and I saw it then – behind us, far off, beneath the sulphurous sky, was a glowing skein of light: a pre-dawn convoy of vehicles, headlights ablaze.

  ‘Start the engine, Harry. Hurry, we have to find Commander Williams!’

  The car jolted as he floored the accelerator and we bumped along towards the centre of the village, past the rusting military tanks discarded like corpses beside the road.

  Anxiety was gnawing at me.

  I looked back and saw Pierre stirring, and Vernon laying a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. A small part of me was insisting that we should turn back now, get away. But what strengthened my resolve to continue was the suspicion – no, the certainty – that today we would find truths in this desolate village.

  And God help me, I was right.

  *

  The only clue that the Bell Inn had once been a public house was the creaking black and white sign bearing its name, which the army had allowed to remain hanging from the side of the building; that, perhaps, and its imposing size and prominent position in the centre of Imber. Otherwise, the old public house was a nondescript red-brick ruin, being slowly engulfed by shrubs and tangled ivy. Its nearest neighbour was a row of lonely, windowless cottages.

  Outside the inn, Price killed the engine. I followed him out of the vehicle to confront a scattering of soldiers who were assembled in the deep blanket of fog that was rolling through the abandoned village. It was a thick fog that seemed to catch in the throat; it set my eyes watering and blurred the light from our car headlights into a sickly yellow glow.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked one solider. ‘Why is the road open so early?’ My anxiety ratcheted up a gear as he explained that the men were under strict orders to welcome the approaching rally, not to stand in their way.

  ‘They’ll be here as soon as the sun is up. Maybe sooner.’

  ‘But what about the—’

  ‘Relax. The main roads have been cleared of any debris, miss.’

  I looked urgently at Price, then at the solider. ‘What about the rest of the range?’

  A new voice made me whirl round. ‘Well, I’m a little surprised to see you two back in Imber so soon.’

  Commander Williams’ face was tense as he strode towards us. ‘Mr Price, Miss Grey, we have a big morning ahead of us, and I don’t appreciate—’

  ‘You utter fool!’ said Price, stepping up to the commander and pulling him aside, out of the hearing of the other soldie
rs. ‘Close the roads, keep the people away.’

  ‘Why?’

  I pointed to the back seat of Price’s Rolls-Royce, where Vernon and Pierre were watching us expectantly. It was a relief to see the boy looking so much more alert now, even if the evidence of his cruel neglect remained painfully etched across his gaunt features. ‘There is much to explain, but we have been deceived, sir. Hartwell’s son is alive and well.’

  The commander’s pupils dilated with surprise as he looked at Pierre and then at me.

  ‘A most mysterious business,’ he said gravely. ‘You were quite correct to have your doubts, Miss Grey. Well, clearly we must inform Mr Hartwell at once.’

  ‘You think he doesn’t know?’ snapped Price. ‘Commander, you invited me here to detect trickery and I have found it. The mill séance was a hoax. The ectoplasm I recovered and analysed was nothing more than egg white and thin strips of muslin. Hallucinatory substances and a dexterous light show completed the illusion. You wanted to know who has been menacing this village and your men, did you not? The culprit is Oscar Hartwell. He needed help, and he acquired that help in a tangled alliance with your warden and his son, Albert.’

  The commander looked rather startled by these accusations.

  ‘Sidewinder is, to my knowledge, a good man, Mr Price. I would not entrust the safety of this range to him if I thought otherwise. You say he has conspired with Hartwell. Do you have proof of this?’

  Price nodded towards the back seat of his car. ‘The boy is the proof. He will verify all I have said.’

  The commander was looking more than a little disturbed now. ‘If you’re asking me to cancel the rally, I’m afraid you’re too late. Sidewinder has already given the all clear. We have invited the press to today’s rally, agreed to do interviews.’

  ‘Cancel them.’

  ‘The War Office needs us to be sympathetic towards the Imber cause.’

  Price’s face betrayed his exasperation. ‘Good God, man, people’s lives are at stake! Put marshals on the main gate. Encourage people to turn back.’

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘Hartwell faked his son’s death and fabricated your hauntings. He is a dangerous man. Most likely he’s insane! He orchestrated this rally in the full hope that a civilian be injured. Killed.’