The Voice Within

by Roger Penfound

  Sometimes, as she lay on her bed and stared into his eyes, she had a strange feeling that she was being drawn outside of her prison walls and into another dimension – free of the shackles that bound her to this place and time. She felt that she was floating and at peace – part of a bigger whole. Not alone. There were other voices, other people – or maybe herself at another time. She was content to drift and listen, not yet ready to take part.

  A light knock at the door. Robert entered. He avoided her gaze.

  "He's drinking. He's already hit mother. He'll be here soon."

  "Then do something. Protect me," she begged, falling to the floor and seizing his legs. He turned away, his podgy face scarlet with confusion.

  "I can't, you know that. I can't stop him. You must take what's coming. But, Kate, you have to stop seeing John. He's made me responsible now. He'll kill us both if you disobey. For my sake – please don't see him."

  "For your sake!" she screamed. "For your sake! Don't you have a morsel of compassion?"

  The door closed and he left. When her father arrived, he was drunk and incoherent. In his hand he carried a wooden cane. Kate's shrieks echoed throughout the house that night, with an intensity and energy that burnt into the physical fabric of Penhallam.

  Chapter 5: Bude, April 13th 2011

  Doug took breakfast the next morning on the terrace overlooking the sea. The rain clouds had cleared and the beach in front of him was bathed in sunlight. Surfers were already preparing their boards for the Atlantic breakers which crashed in a confusion of white foam on the wide foreshore.

  The bracing sea air, the bitterness of the coffee and the reassuring fragrance of freshly cooked scrambled egg, conspired to put him in a better mental state than he'd enjoyed in many days. He was glad to be out of London.

  Studying the local map, he saw that Penhallam Manor was no more than a ten mile drive. It lay just outside the village of Poundham – off the main A49 coast road.

  It was ten o'clock by the time he found himself squinting into bright sunlight as he searched for the turning. Rounding a bend in the road, he suddenly spied a sign and narrowly missed hitting a tractor with a trailer of logs as he swung right across the main carriageway into a narrow lane. He stopped, angry with himself for misjudging the turn. The lane he had entered was bounded on both sides by high trees which obscured the sky and created a sense of having entered a lost world. Crows screeched in the branches above, angry at his intrusion. He drove slowly down the lane, catching glimpses of substantial detached residences hidden behind tall hedges and barred by forbidding metal gates. It was still too early to make his call, so he stopped the car by the entrance to a church which lay beyond a tiled lych-gate. A winding path took him into an overgrown graveyard with little evidence of any maintenance. He ran his hand over a couple of the tombstones, trying to decipher information about the occupants interred below, but a combination of encrusted lichen and scarred stone face made it an impossible task.

  He followed the path up to the doorway of the church and found that it was open. Inside, the church was in surprisingly good shape – not the hard pews and straight-back chairs of some churches he'd known. Here, there were modern, ergonomically designed seats covered in a mauve fabric. Whoever this congregation was, it demanded comfort to practice its religion.

  His attention was caught by a large engraved stone set into the back wall of the church. The text was in a form of old English which he couldn't make out but, just as his attention was waning, he noticed a modern translation set inside a wooden frame next to the stone.

  'In memory of Josiah Penhallam, priest of this parish, who was brutally struck down and murdered on the altar steps of this place of worship by the enemies of the King in the year of our Lord 1643.'

  He felt his body bristle. This was his first direct contact with anyone from his own lineage, albeit nearly four hundred years ago. He was brought up an only child and his grandparents died when he was young. He had vague memories of an ancient aunt, with whiskers on her face and an unmistakable odour, who he would visit with his parents at Christmas. Apart from this, there was no other family. However, just before his father died, he discovered that he had been researching the family history and had established a direct link with the Penhallams. In 1752, Diggory was born to Rupert Penhallam. But Diggory was the last of three brothers and his fortunes lay outside the dwindling family estates. He died in the nearby town of Plymouth in 1801 and his progeny fared little better. They were recorded variously as charcoal burners and labourers, having by then moved to the docklands of east London. It was from this line of impoverished dock workers that Doug was descended.

  All of this mattered little to him at the time but now, faced with Josiah Penhallam, a distant relation 'brutally murdered on the altar steps of this place of worship', he began to feel a sense of empathy with this strange Cornish clan.

  Leaving the church, he eased the Mercedes around the twists and turns of the lane as it plunged further into dense woodland. He crossed a small humpback bridge and spied Penhallam Farm – a landmark that the waitress in the hotel had told him to look out for. Parking the car on the wide concrete drive that led to the farm, he continued on foot, taking a path that led down an unmade road bordered by an ancient stone wall. The wall suddenly gave way to two sturdy wrought iron gates. In the centre of the gates was a coat of arms – a shield guarded on each side by two posturing birds and a Latin inscription – the only word of which he could decipher was 'pareo' – 'obey' – a remnant of memory from his tortured years learning Latin at school. Underneath the shield was a plaque which read 'Penhallam Estates'.

  Beyond the gates he could see the outline of the house, a stone building with curtains drawn at the windows and no apparent signs of life. Locked gates and forbidding houses held no fear for him. They usually concealed stories and indiscretions that were the life blood of his reporting.

  Catching hold of a gatepost with his left hand, he swung himself onto the stone wall and dropped down into the shrubbery below. He landed in a heap at the base of the wall, breathing heavily and reminding himself physical exertion in the cause of journalistic investigation were a thing of the past. Brushing off dead leaves and cobwebs from his jacket and trousers, he emerged onto a gravel drive which led to an iron gate set within an ancient stone arch. The gate opened onto a courtyard paved with slabs of aged stone. In the centre stood a sundial raised on a faded marble dais. The whole garden was framed by huge oak and ash trees which cast heavy shadows across the setting.

  The house seemed to be not so much a manor as a large two storey cottage with a randomly undulating roof. The construction was mostly of stone, though it was clear to see that later additions in brick had been made.

  He felt a strange sensation of timelessness. Nothing told him that this was the beginning of the twenty first century. There were no cars parked outside, no telephone or power cables snaking over tree tops and no sounds of tractors working distant fields. There was only the soft chirping of birdsong and the sound of his own breathing which had become short and loud. His palms were sweaty and he felt irrationally uneasy.

  Pulling himself together, he opened the gate and made his way up to the porch. He searched for a buzzer or door knocker. Then he saw an engraved bell pull hanging down from the rafters. He tugged this and heard the distant jangle of bells somewhere within the depths of the building. No one came to answer the door. He tried again a second and third time but with the same result. Standing back from the porch, he looked up to the windows for some sign of life – a curtain moving or a fleeting shadow. Nothing. He hated being defeated. One last tug on the bell pull. Again, a distant jangling noise from some inner sanctum. Then a shuffling coming closer and closer. If it had been night time, this would have been the stuff of horror movies – but it was broad daylight and the shuffling had stopped on the other side of the door. The sound of bolts being pulled back, followed by the screeching of reluctant hinges as the door slowly swung open.


  "What the fuck do you want?" she said. 'She' was dressed in a blue tracksuit, with her hair scraped back and held in place with an elastic band. She looked to be in her mid-forties. She wore no makeup and her face was pallid and white. In her hand, she clutched a glass. It smelt like sherry.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said. "My name is Penhallam, Douglas Penhallam, and I ..."

  "Not another bloody Penhallam. They're always knocking on my door. Come from America, Australia, Canada – always knocking on my door, always wanting something. One of them even wanted to buy the bloody coat of arms on the gate. I told him to ..."

  "No, no. I don't want to take anything or waste your time now. I'm a writer and I wanted to see if I could fix a time to see you later. I don't have a phone number or an address, so I just had to call by. That's why I'm here."

  "A writer? What sort of writer?" she asked, downing a generous gulp of sherry.

  "Well, really I'm a newspaper writer. I was head of features on The Nation's Voice."

  "That rag."

  "Well, I like to think of it as a campaigning paper," he added, defensively.

  "So why don't you go and campaign?" Her speech was slightly slurred. He guessed it wasn't her first sherry of the morning.

  "I just want some information – to find out about the history of the place – who lived here, how they lived, how they died. Look, I can come back another time, if you like."

  He saw her hesitate.

  "Now you're here you'd better come in – but not for long. I'm busy."

  He doubted this.

  "This way."

  She took him into a hallway with a low beamed ceiling. A large dark wood dresser, heavily engrained with sculpted figurines, stood against one wall but, apart from that, the room was empty.

  "Can I get you a drink – sherry?"

  "Sherry would be fine."

  She shuffled out of the hall leaving him alone. The room was lit by a shaft of light entering from one small window. Other than that it was lifeless – no muddy boots strewn across the floor or dog lead hanging from a hook or outdoor clothing piled onto chairs. He guessed she lived here alone.

  "It's dry," she announced as she pushed a tumbler into his hand. "That's how I like it. Now, what do you know about the Penhallams?"

  "Not a lot. Country gentry. Sided with the wrong lot in the Civil War. Something about a triple murder – that's it, really."

  "Not a lot then. Follow me into the main hall."

  He followed her into a long room, the main length of which was taken up with a table made from rough-hewn wood. The sides barely approximated a straight line and the surface was pitted with indentations.

  "This is where they ate and entertained." Her voice had lost its slur as she slipped into what must have been a well-rehearsed routine. "It dates back to Norman times. If you look at the floor, it's made up of thousands of sheep knuckles hammered straight into the clay."

  He found himself wondering about the thousands of medieval sheep who must have laid down their lives to build this floor.

  "And if you look over there, you can see a gulley running across the room. That's where a stream used to flow and the servants had to walk through that to wash their feet before coming into the main quarters."

  Like the entrance hall, this room was meagerly furnished. Eight upright wooden chairs were positioned at the table. Two with armrests were at each end and six without were placed at either side. A tall cupboard stood at one end of the room and a large faded tapestry depicting a hunting scene hung along the back wall. Apart from this, the room was empty. Two paintings hung at opposite ends of the room, but in the gloom it was impossible to make out the detail.

  "What sort of people were my ancestors – the Penhallams?"

  "They were minor aristocracy. They were given their land in the thirteenth century for services to the King. I couldn't tell you what sort of services. Usually, it was for carrying out the King's dirty work. They were at their peak sometime in the fourteenth century. They owned most of the land around here and collected taxes from the poor. They also administered justice in a fairly random sort of way and tried to control the church too."

  "I visited the church and read about the murdered priest."

  "He was a Penhallam, appointed by the head of the family. In those days it was Arthur. That's his picture over there."

  Doug followed her gaze to one of the paintings on a near wall. It was difficult to make out in the gloom of the ill-lit room. But he could see a sober looking man in his mid-forties dressed in a dark tunic. His face gave little sign of emotion.

  "Josiah was his brother but they didn't get on. Arthur died in a fight and Josiah was murdered only days later on the altar steps. It was put down to Roundheads because the country was embroiled in civil war. But it was never proved. Some said it was an inside job – killed by members of his own family."

  "They don't sound like a terribly nice lot," observed Doug ruefully. "How did they make a living?"

  "They were authorised by the King to collect taxes, which they often did with extortion. They farmed and they wrecked ships."

  "Wrecked ships?"

  "They lured ships onto the rocks at night with their lanterns. The seafarers thought they were entering a safe harbour. Then, when the ship was being dashed to pieces, the Penhallams and their cronies would steal the cargo and any other trophies which took their fancy – and, of course, murder anyone still left alive."

  By now they were standing at the end of the long room, under the second painting. He could see that it was of a young woman with shoulder length auburn hair, probably in her late teens. Her features were difficult to distinguish as they merged with the austere background of the room she was in. Her expression was wistful, as if suppressing some greater emotion which this snapshot of a moment in time couldn't capture.

  "Who's the girl in the painting?"

  "That's Kate Penhallam." He waited for her to elaborate but she remained silent.

  "Didn't she die in a fight with her father and lover?"

  She heaved a sigh of resignation and looked up at the young woman.

  "It was during the Civil War in 1643. The Penhallams and Trebarfoots were on opposing sides. There had been frequent marriages between the families in previous times, but the Civil War drove communities apart. It split families. The story goes that Kate's father, Arthur, demanded that Kate finish her relationship with John Trebarfoot. Arthur was said to be an arrogant and cruel man – proud of the family's royalist links and fearful of upsetting the King. Kate refused to end the relationship and threatened to take her own life. So he locked her up. But John managed to get a message to her through one of the servants. It was arranged that he'd call for her one night and they'd elope. But Arthur got wind of what was going on. There was a fight in the courtyard and all three died.

  She paused, her eyes still drawn to the picture of the woman above.

  "A macabre story. And the ghosts? What about the ghosts?" he asked.

  "What ghosts?"

  "I've heard the house is haunted." She sighed, again with resignation.

  "Kate's ghost has been seen in her bedroom, staring out of the window waiting for her lost lover. Arthur is supposed to stalk the corridors at night, filled with rage. The previous owner said she'd heard him."

  "Have you heard him?" She hesitated.

  "Old houses make noises. If I thought every noise I heard at night was Arthur stalking the corridors, I'd go mad. Look, I didn't know you were interested in all this stuff. I thought you just wanted to see round the house."

  "Just one more thing. I've read that the ghosts re-enact the fight on the anniversary. Has anyone actually witnessed that?"

  "Look, all sorts of nutcases turn up here wanting to hunt ghosts. I send them away with a flea in their ear." She paused for a moment, as if unsure how to continue.

  "Has anyone been here recently?"

  "No. No one."

  He felt she was holding back but didn't feel able t
o push her further. He no longer had a fat wad of money to buy her co-operation as he would have done if he were working for The Voice.

  They climbed up to the minstrels' gallery which overlooked the hall. It was narrow and could only have seated three musicians at most. Then they walked along a panelled corridor with rooms off. Through partly opened doors he could see ornately carved wooden furniture – dressers, cupboards, tables. On the walls were paintings depicting sombre people in formal poses. The men wore uniforms and bore arms. The women were attired in black dresses and had their hair scraped back.

  "We're restoring the house to how it was in Jacobean times – when it was in its prime," she volunteered.

  "We?"

  "My husband and I."

  "I'm sorry, I thought you lived alone."

  "Mostly, I do."

  He heard her voice quiver and realised he was intruding into a private sorrow. They had reached the end of the corridor and were standing outside a small room overlooking the courtyard. Unlike the other rooms, this one was empty.

  "What's this room here?" he asked.

  "That's Kate's room – where she was imprisoned."

  "Why is it empty?"

  "You ask too many questions."

  "I'm a journalist. That's what I do."

  "So why are you researching an old house. It doesn't sound newsworthy to me."

  Doug paused, unable to decide what to do – lie or be open.

  "I lied to you."

  "What?"

  "I'm not a journalist. I was sacked two days ago."

  "Why, what did you do?"

  "I was accused of various things, including phone hacking."