by David Haynes
Rain continued to fall steadily, and where the path finished, the ground was spongy underfoot. The land beyond the far corner of the churchyard was pasture and it was far enough away from the village square so that the street lights couldn’t creep into it. This made the giant yew appear as a dark storm cloud as they got closer to the granite monument.
Joe took out his mobile phone and activated the torch; it wasn’t sufficient to throw light around their feet but it was enough to illuminate the monument.
“I think X marks the spot.” He handed the phone to May and stood on the spade; it sank easily into the soft earth beneath.
“I thought I was doing the digging and you were doing the supervising?” May asked.
Joe sank the spade into the ground again. “Tell you what, when I hit the first skull you can take over. Deal?”
May pulled her face into a sneer. “Tell you what, just shut up and dig.”
In truth, the adrenaline was pumping so hard Joe thought he might take off. He realised he hadn’t felt the sensation since he’d stopped being a detective; he also knew the pain in his body would be grim while his brain’s chemicals returned to their natural state.
After a few minutes he’d managed to dig a shallow pit about two metres square. “Just try and shine that light into the hole if you can.”
May crouched and moved the weak beam of light into the corners of the hole.
“Can you see anything?” He asked.
May sighed. “Nothing yet; maybe it’s a bit deeper?” She heard the rustle of Joe’s jacket as he moved to dig further into the hole. “Hold on!” A faint strip of something golden reflected in the darkness; it was momentarily illuminated by the torchlight.
“What is it?” Joe asked.
May lay on the grass with the top part of her body hanging over the hole. With one hand she held the phone and with the other she pushed away at the dirt. Her hand touched something which wasn’t soil; she hoped with all her heart it wasn’t a human bone. Then the golden letters on the leather bound spine became visible; it was twisted, dirty and wet but it was intact. She started pulling it free. “I think we’ve got our prize.”
Standing at the corner of the bell tower, a large framed figure watched as the two grave diggers pulled something out from the earth. He watched as the little light they carried briefly illuminated the wildly grinning face of his editor. Silently he walked backwards away from them and out of sight. “Fucking bitch.”
May stood up and brushed mud from the spine and cover. The beam of light from the phone was barely sufficient but in the light she was able to read the inscription, ‘1900 – 1938 Rev. G. Hooper.’ in golden letters. Carefully, she opened the leather cover, which had taken the brunt of the burial ordeal. The page beneath, was white and unblemished. “We should take it away from here to read it.” She turned to Joe whose attention was clearly elsewhere. He was looking back towards the church.
“Joe?”
He turned his head slowly. “Yes…err yes, sorry.”
“What is it?” May asked following his line of sight.
Joe shook his head. “Nothing, I thought I heard a car, a big diesel engine. Probably someone coming out of the pub.” He rubbed his hand over his chin. “I don’t remember any cars on the market place when we arrived though.” He paused for a moment then smiled at May. “Just ignore me, it’s my super spidey cop sense kicking in. Must be a bit rusty. You’re right, let’s get it out of here.”
“My place? It’s closer.” She started off towards the church and Joe followed.
“I think I’ve got a better idea about where we could read it.”
“Such as?” May asked.
“I think a certain lady we both know might be interested in what’s written in there. If I’m not mistaken, she did say she’d tell us who our swimmer was if we took the book to her.”
“You’re right, she did but you don’t you think it’s a bit late to be calling?”
“I don’t think it would ever be too late to show Henrietta this.”
May pulled the car to a stop outside the little cottage. Even though the only time they had been there was on foot, the cottage was easily recognisable since it was the only house for about two miles in any direction.
“Looks pretty dark to me.” May dipped her head and checked the top two windows. “Even the bedroom lights are off.” The digital clock on the dashboard showed, ‘22.35.’ Joe started to get out the car. “Her sitting room was at the back, she might still be up. Besides, Henrietta didn’t really strike me as an early night type of gal.” He took the diary off his knee and got out.
They walked around to the back of the house where a light shone from the downstairs window. It cast a weak orange glow onto the muddy lawn. Joe approached the door first and knocked loudly. “Henrietta! It’s Joe and May. We’ve got a surprise for you.” He hid the book behind his back. A few seconds passed before he heard the sounds of multiple locks and bolts being undone.
“Hello you two, come on in. What a terrible night.” Henrietta ushered them in. “What a lovely surprise to see you again.”
Joe smiled. “Not as good as this I hope.” He held out the diary with the spine showing for Henrietta to read.
She squinted and leaned in closer. “I’m afraid I need my glasses, but if that’s what I think it is, I’d better put the kettle on.”
“You’d better put the kettle on then.” May laughed.
Henrietta went straight into the kitchen and returned quickly with a tray full of tea and biscuits. The sight of the custard creams made both Joe and May realise they hadn’t eaten anything all day and they both grabbed one.
Henrietta stared at Joe and winced. “My word what the devil happened to you?”
Joe waved his hand. “Just a small boating accident, nothing to worry about.”
Henrietta screwed her face into a wrinkly ball and hissed. “It looks very painful, I’ve got a bag of frozen peas in the freezer; I’ll fetch them for you.”
“I wouldn’t bother making a fuss, Henrietta. He’s a stubborn fool and he won’t listen to anyone.” May jumped in.
“Well if you’re sure.” She looked at the book again. “Have you read any of it yet?”
“Honestly I’m fine and no, we haven’t read anything yet. Shall we get started?” Joe’s finger was poised under the lip of the front cover.
Henrietta held up her hand, her eyes narrowed. “Can you tell me where you found it?”
May clasped her hands under her chin. “Of course, sorry. Have you heard about Reverend Treleck?”
“I’d heard he was a bloody fool, if that’s what you mean?”
May laughed then continued. “I don’t know about that, but I’m afraid he’s dead.” She turned to Joe. “Could be natural causes, or could be suicide, we’re not sure.”
Joe kept his eyes on Henrietta. “The thing is Henrietta, we found this book buried in the churchyard under the monument. It hasn’t been in the ground very long judging by its near perfect state. So if I were a betting man, I’d say it was suicide, and in that case I reckon the Reverend buried it just before he did for himself.” Joe paused and patted the front cover of the diary. “And I’m hoping this little book will tell us why he did that.” He turned and looked at May. “It might also tell us why David was sniffing about there this morning.”
May frowned. “Maybe he was just calling in, wrong place, wrong time?”
Joe shook his head. “Judging by that little exchange earlier I don’t think David Polglaze is ever in the wrong place at the wrong time, he’s more calculating than that.” He turned the front cover. “Shall we then?”
The hard, leather front cover had done its job and none of the pages beneath appeared to be rain damaged. The paper felt soft and thicker than Joe was used to handling. The first page was dated 3rd August 1900. Joe skim read it quickly then flicked over the page rapidly. “Even with one eye you’re going too quickly; I can’t read it.” May was frustrated.
Joe
shook his head. “It’s just the record of births and deaths. A bit about some land the church sold, a few locals got married, no actual written record as such.”
Henrietta spoke quietly. “Do you think you should skip to the dates closer to the ones we’re interested in?”
May looked up at Henrietta and smiled. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”
Joe flicked through the pages until he found the first page with, ‘1918’ written in the top corner. “It’s just more clerical stuff. I don’t even know what we’re looking for? But I’m pretty sure whatever it is, isn’t in the register of births…” He paused and ran his fingers across several lines of the black ink.
“What is it?” May had given up hope of trying to read anything.
“Hold on, it’s probably nothing.” He flicked back through the previous pages then cleared a space on the small coffee table in front of Henrietta.
“Look at this entry.” He placed the book on the coffee table, turned it to face Henrietta and sat on the floor beside her. “Can you fit in next to me May, it’ll be easier if we all look at this together.”
Henrietta grabbed the reading glasses from the arm of her chair and slipped them on.
All three of them crouched around the book; Joe’s finger indicated the entry.
2nd December 1912 - Reverend G Hooper, St Just In Penwith. I have agreed with the council that we shall purchase shares in Polglaze Mining Company to the value of £2500.
Henrietta tapped the page. “This amount would represent a very healthy investment, which I’m sure other than the Polglaze family would be impossible for anyone else locally.”
“Would the Polglaze family stump up the rest then?” Joe asked.
Henrietta shook her head. “Some of the miners would’ve invested, particularly the likes of foremen like my grandad or your great grandad. They would probably be the largest shareholders, other than the church and Polglaze.
“But why ask the church? I’m no expert but I do know tin mining was a damn good investment back then.”
Henrietta shrugged. “Could be lots of reasons, there would’ve been turf wars between the Methodists and St Just’s around that time. Maybe they wanted to keep some control, or maybe Hooper and Polglaze were friends; there’s no way of knowing. What this tells us is, Hooper bet a large sum of church money on this being a success, and for whatever reason, he believed in old man Polglaze.”
“Either that or he was bullied into it.” Joe added.
Joe slowly turned page after page finding little of interest other than the dwindling congregation size; particularly during the war.
“There don’t seem to be any entries relating to the dividend paid on the shares, none at all.” Joe scratched his head. “Which seems a little strange since Hooper added it to the diary.”
“Maybe there wasn’t any profit?” May asked.
“Oh, there was plenty of profit.” Henrietta jumped in. “My grandad did pretty well out of it. For a miner he was considered very wealthy.”
Joe shrugged. “Which makes me think the church profits were diverted elsewhere.”
“You mean like Hooper’s pocket?” May asked.
“Could be. Just throwing an idea into the hat that’s all. It could also be an omission and perfectly innocent.”
Joe flicked through the pages quicker; he was getting impatient. He reached a page dated, ‘October 1st 1919’, and paused. The page was completely different from all the others preceding it. Instead of neat columns dividing the space, there was a block of handwriting filling part of the page.
I am writing this letter to myself and invite future leaders of this parish, should it exist following my woeful leadership, to read it.
I have allowed pride to steer my hand during the last ten years. I now know my direction would have been better served being guided by my Lord.
I have allowed another man to become my master, when my only true master is the one I vowed to serve.
I will be judged by my Lord and will offer no excuse at his hands.
The parish purse has been plundered at my hands and I have deceived the good people of St Just. I have been tempted and deceived by one man, whose greed and avarice knows no bounds.
The church is ruined. The Methodists will have everything.
“That’s pretty apocalyptic, it’s almost a suicide note.” Joe said.
“I think we know who he’s referring to though, don’t we? He wouldn’t be the first man to suffer at the hands of the Polglaze family.” Henrietta frowned.
May turned and looked at her. “You’ve really got a low opinion of them haven’t you?”
“It couldn’t get any lower, dear.”
May put her hand on Henrietta’s knee. “After the last couple of days I could tell you things which might just send your opinion into negative figures.”
“I think it might get worse, take a look at this.” Joe had already turned over to the next page. It was filled with Hooper’s writing and was dated, ‘October 20th 1919.’
“It looks like Reverend Hooper had stopped writing about anything over those last three weeks, until this.”
They all crowded over the page and began reading.
Levant has collapsed and with it taken many men. Many good, hard working men who I have known for many years. Men who left their brothers buried in French mud at The Western Front are now buried beneath Cornish rock.
I write this as a service to all those who died and hope that one day it will be made known.
At half past two this afternoon, the man engine, into which much money was invested broke in its entirety. In doing so, it dropped the men many fathoms back into the darkness from which they were trying to escape. I have been at the mine since I first learned of it and have just returned; the time now being a little after ten. At the time of writing we have managed to secure the safety of fifty-two of the one hundred and four men who were engaged at the time. A great many of those men have injuries, some of which will preclude them from any further labour in their natural lives. Some of the men have taken their place with Our Lord and their families will be my priority in the times to come.
Out of the darkness and despair, I have witnessed things which have replaced my lost faith. William James was aiding the rescue and in obvious grief for his son Nicholas James, who at only nineteen was buried below. The bell chimed its signal from far beneath and, William, myself and other good men hauled the sling to safety. On the sling was Nicholas James, in great shock but safe and uninjured. Both men embraced each other and with dirty, tear streaked cheeks, took hold of the rope and began hauling the next man free. The courage of these men is inspiring; their love and comradeship is a lesson to any man.
Most noticeably, Frederick Polglaze offered not once, a modicum of aid to the men, on whom he has built his fortune. Instead he decided his skills would be better employed securing his legal obligations and no doubt his finances.
One of his two mine Captains, Alec Prideaux has organised the rescue party in order that we can work around the clock to bring those still below to the surface. The remaining Captain, Walter Newton is still below, and word from those arising is that he is still alive, managing affairs and prioritising the injured.
I shall return at first light to take my watch and continue with our rescue. I will not add the word ‘attempt’ because I do not believe the men of this community will attempt anything; they will succeed.
Joe stopped reading and turned to Henrietta.
“This goes against what I was told. My family said he was killed in the disaster; but Hooper, unless he’s mistaken, says he was involved in the rescue.”
Henrietta shrugged. “I don’t understand it either. It could be a mistake by Hooper but it sounds like my grandad was still going strong too; organising the effort underground.” She frowned then tapped the page. “Let’s keep going, it might get clearer.”
October 21st 1919.
Since first light I have been at Levant. The mine has become
our temporary village since this tragedy. The men work tirelessly, still bringing their comrades to the surface where they are greeted by hot tea brewed on makeshift fires by the women. Some of whose husbands are still buried, clinging to whatever life is still left to them. I do not believe Alec Prideaux has been away from the great black pit for at least two days now and any efforts to remove him have been met with an angry, determined stare. This man will not leave until every last man has been accounted for.
I have helped as much as I am able but my pathetic efforts and physical exertion are simply insufficient. I have sung prayers for all to hear and in this I join with the Methodist minister; our differences set aside.
