by Ray Smithies
‘I don’t know, detective, but one thing at a time We have at least the means to star! this search and it’s a helluva lot better than any previous lead.’
‘Mr Harrison, you’ve overlooked one thing. To search for a map to a specified scale is an unnecessary exercise -’
‘Why?’ I cut in, bewildered by Forbes’ remark.
‘Because we have a photocopier here which has the ability to reduce or enlarge by percentage.’
‘Yes, that’s all very well, providing you have access to one.’
Forbes then promptly brought discussions to a close, claiming there was a further meeting he needed to attend. It was now time to catch up with Arthur and Hamish.
~ * ~
My trip from the police station to the Advertiser was a short five-minute car journey. There I would meet up with Arthur and Hamish, who had hopefully retrieved that elusive microfiche card. I was greeted by the forever-grinning Ashley Collins, who was eager to uncover the reason behind this second visit. Curiosity seemed to be the habitual trait of a reporter and Collins was no exception.
‘I couldn’t get any sense out of the other two. Perhaps you could tell me what’s going on, Tom,’ he said.
‘Just some more research on the possible existence of these subterranean passageways.’
‘I questioned Detective Forbes on this matter at his recent press conference, but he refused to elaborate. What’s your opinion, Tom?’
‘I’d like to think we’re not dealing with some fabled story, but who’s to know, the proof may fall into our lap one day.’ I believed this to be the best approach without divulging too much. The press was indeed the last resort to inform and for all the wrong reasons. Breaking this sort of news would only encourage the public to start probing around for entrances.
‘Have Arthur and Hamish been here long?’
‘Around half an hour. Suggest you go right on through and join them in the back room,’ Collins said. ‘I’ll pop in later to see how you’re going.’
A picture of concentration and enthusiasm greeted me as I entered the archive sanctum. With neither Hamish nor Arthur wearing their previously outlandish apparel, they appeared orderly and dedicated, hovering over their respective readers. It amused me to see such meticulous devotion.
‘My, aren’t we a ball of concentration,’ I said forcefully, raising my voice and scaring the dickens out of them both.
‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, are you trying to send me to my grave?’ Arthur had his hand over his heart.
‘Scared the shit out of me!’ echoed Hamish.
‘Well, it proves your minds are on the job,’ I declared with a wry smile. ‘So what have we got so far?’
‘Sorry, haven’t found the right card yet,’ Hamish said. ‘We’re concentrating on the years sixty-seven to sixty-nine because it was in the sixties that I read about this disused well. It was towards the end of day when I came across the article, so logic says it’s in one of these three years.’
‘That’s good deduction and may save us a lot of time. I assume you’re each doing a year so I’ll start on the other, which is ...’
‘Sixty-nine, but you’ll have to go to the back room for the third reader.’
‘No problem.’ I took the appropriate box of microfiche through to the rear area.
The three of us recommenced the repetitive task of entering, scrolling and discarding. Today reflected a more serious mood and a determination to find this elusive card. Following around half an hour of rummaging through these tedious records, it was Arthur who stumbled across a curious editorial and subsequently called out for our attendance.
‘Found something rather interesting. It’s not the well story, but I think it’s at least worth taking a look at. I was never aware of this until now,’ he confessed in a surprised tone.
Three faces peered over Arthur’s screen where a report was headlined: ‘When town planning changed Pedley forever’. The article covered a story regarding a major road reconstruction and the relocation of various businesses in the year 1859.
Hamish was obviously becoming agitated with this needless account from the past.
‘It all seems a bit formal and boring to me, Arthur. What’s the bloody relevance to all this crap anyway?’
‘Have some patience, Hamish, and let us finish reading,’ Arthur demanded.
I could see that Arthur’s mind was working overtime. I was curious as to where all this was leading.
‘Okay, out with it, Arthur. What’s got you so intrigued?’
‘Here’s an article dated the fourteenth of March regarding an event that precedes the paper by more than a hundred years ago ...’
‘So?’
‘I’m reading this with the subterranean passageways in mind. It’s only a thought, but is it possible that Pedley had undergone a major transformation to further obscure or even pinpoint the location of the three entrances? Perhaps back in those times these entrances had become somewhat vulnerable and steps were taken to heighten their camouflage. Maybe the drain system provided the perfect excuse to correct an otherwise fragile existence. In other words, this major change was carried out primarily to protect the underground.’
‘On the proviso the official was aware of this underground,’ I said.
‘Of course, but think about it. What’s to stop a handful of ancestors from passing down the secret? The Simpson clan wasn’t necessarily the sole beneficiary to such a claim. This so-called officer at the time may’ve been desperate to maintain its obscurity. He held a position of influence and exercised his authority accordingly. Perhaps these buildings or landmarks required relocation because they threatened to expose the subterranean.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, perhaps their foundations were giving way,’ Arthur responded.
His answer had some merit, which prompted Hamish to raise a further puzzling aspect.
‘I can understand the reshaping of roads, but why the name change?’
‘Maybe unrelated and there could be a number of reasons. I mean it’s not unusual, even streets today are renamed. It could account for political or even local heroes. Who knows, there’s probably countless other examples.’
‘What about this person who implemented the changes? Is he worth investigating?’ I asked.
‘Hardly. Even if we track down his name it doesn’t serve any real purpose.’
‘Guess so,’ I agreed.
‘I’m intrigued that someone would go to such enormous lengths to change the town’s layout, when a less ambitious method would have been equally effective,’ said Arthur.
‘Perhaps the drains were laid this way with the underground in mind after all.’
‘I wonder how many street names were changed, and for that matter which businesses were relocated,’ said Hamish.
We all turned in unison to recheck the editorial. Six streets were highlighted at the bottom of the page together with five affected commercial premises.
‘My immediate thought is that all six streets were renamed to honour either national or regional figureheads,’ said Arthur. ‘As for these businesses, they really don’t mean anything. All have long since passed.’
An interesting observation, my friend, but we must press on with this disused well matter,’ I said.
We all returned to our respective screens. I could sense our objective was about to be revealed. Silence and determination, it seemed, were united in hot pursuit.
We had searched for a further twenty minutes when suddenly the Irishman let out an almighty cry.
‘Bingo! Found it, guys!’ declared a jubilant Hamish.
The three of us gathered around the screen to view the report. Whilst the paper was dated 23 June 1968, the article made reference to the well being abandoned in March 1903 as a result of its inappropriate location. Further incidents were documented with both serious and satire inclinations, including Hamish’s discovery from our previous visit. It was the main story titled ‘The Town Well - End of
an Era’ that drew everyone’s attention. We read the long-awaited details.
After a century of continuous and serviceable water access for the local community, the last bucket was lowered on 27 March. The authorities advise a new water supply will be relocated at the eastern end of Pitt Street. This service will be made available to the general public by the end of the month. Rainwater tanks will assist during the next fortnight. The decision to relocate is necessary advise the authorities, due to the inappropriate location of the well. Alongside the intersection of Pitt and Williams Streets, the well serves as an obstruction to horse and cart that frequent this route. The removal of this obstacle will provide sufficient path to permit two-way traffic. It is hoped that in due course Pedley will be provided with...
I skimmed the remainder of the account. ‘The rest of the article seems irrelevant,’ I concluded.
‘Um ... alongside the intersection of Pitt and Williams,’ Arthur said. ‘How close do you think they mean? I’m trying to visualise the crossroads in my mind.’
‘Damn close, would be my guess. Consider there’s reference made to widening the path, so obviously they’re implying to the roadway itself,’ I declared.
‘Yes, but which one - Pitt or Williams?’ Hamish questioned.
‘That’s something we won’t know until we’ve checked the site,’ replied Arthur to the sound of Ashley Collins’s arrival.
With my back to the approaching reporter, I frowned at both Arthur and Hamish to indicate this was not the moment to share our newfound discovery. As to be expected, Collins started with his unrelenting questions. The curiosity show had recommenced.
‘So, are our subterranean passageways fact or fiction?’ he coaxed.
‘That’s a bit presumptuous. It’s barely an hour since we started looking.’ I turned around to look at the eager beaver.
‘Okay, then what is it you’re looking for?’ he pressed.
I took over the conversation deliberately. To allow Arthur or Hamish to intervene would be a recipe for disaster. I was sure both could involuntary slip up, allowing the reporter to pounce on the well concept I so desperately wanted to conceal.
‘As I said before, we’re looking for something that may assist, not necessarily specific.’
‘Aren’t you seeking the whereabouts of the entrance to this alleged underground site?’ Collins’ logic was obvious.
‘Yes, of course. If it exists.’
~ * ~
Unbeknown to Brigit O’Neill, the time was precisely nine pm when the door to her underground cell was opened. Suddenly awoken by the sound of metal creaking on rusted hinges, she sat up in bed to view her caller. She had slept briefly for the past three hours and she immediately thought her evening meal was being delivered. In the dim light a second person emerged through the entrance. With no sign of a hand-held plate, she was beginning to sense this was to be no ordinary visit.
Two men wearing black lumber jackets and woollen balaclavas spoke briefly, issuing instructions for her to put on a coat and follow them. The directive was blunt but non-threatening. Wondering what fate lay before her, Brigit followed the men back along the same passageway she had entered this underworld habitat. After about one hundred metres of continuous walking, the distinctive musty smell that had greeted her on arrival was again conspicuously offensive. Brigit peered across at the side recesses that still contained the remains of carefully stacked skulls and a penetrating dampness seeping through from the surface. This end of the subterranean network was distinctly unpleasant.
Blindfolded on exit, Brigit could hear the sound of an awaiting car purring in the immediate vicinity. Despite her darkened hood she was aware it was nightfall and the smell of fresh air seemed like nectar from the gods. Ushered into the rear seat, she sat wedged between the two lumber jackets and could sense that only the driver occupied the front. The trip to an unknown destination was both dark and silent. No words were uttered for the entire fifteen minutes. Brigit became unnerved by her surroundings, for still no clue to her fate had emerged.
The car came to a gradual halt but her captors remained seated, still motionless and unspoken. About one minute of uncomfortable silence had transpired when suddenly the man to Brigit’s right opened the door and abandoned his seat. He walked forward some twenty paces from the front of the vehicle, surveyed his immediate surrounds and returned. Maintaining his silence, he grabbed hold of Brigit’s arm and assisted her from the car. Still blindfolded, she was led to where her abductor had previously stopped to conduct his assessment. Satisfied the area provided sufficient darkness, he instructed her to stand still and not remove her hood for five minutes. The man then retreated back to the car for a hastily departure.
~ * ~
Some ten minutes later the same abductor retrieved a mobile phone from his side pocket. He dialled the intended number and waited for the recipient to respond.
‘Hello.’
‘Mrs Helen O’Neill?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Your daughter Brigit is alive. You may collect her in Coxwold’s main street, but should you involve the authorities then anticipate the consequences.’
‘What! Hello ... hello,’ Helen called but no further words were forthcoming. The line had gone dead. Her emotions were now in overdrive. Brigit was alive and her rescue would need to be immediate. But was this a trap? Would they be leading her to Coxwold for all the wrong reasons? Helens mind had become a mixture of jubilation and concern.
What’s best to do? she thought. I can’t involve the police or Brigit’s life will be at risk. Think, think, she kept repeating to herself. She knew she needed someone to accompany her, now, with no delays. Time was of the essence and the winter night air would be bitterly cold. The emotional outpour had brought a tear to Helen’s eye. She decided to phone Tom Harrison, desperately hoping he would pick up the phone.
~ * ~
The phone rang and Emily answered. ‘Emily Harrison,’ she said. Then I heard her say, ‘That’s wonderfully news, I’ll fetch Tom immediately.’
‘It’s Helen,’ Em said, handing me the phone. ‘Brigit’s been released.’
‘Hello, Helen, am I hearing right?’
Helen went straight to the core of matter. ‘I’ve just this minute had a phone call from Brigit’s abductors. They’ve released her in the main street of Coxwold, but I’m under instructions not to involve the police. Tom, you’re my only chance. Would you please come with me right away to find Brigit?’
‘Of course, Helen. I’ll bring Emily with me and we’ll pick you up in a few minutes.’
‘Thank you so much,’ she acknowledged and hung up.
When we pulled into Helen’s driveway she came running from the house. Panic-stricken, she jumped into the back seat. I could see she had been crying. She looked a mess.
‘Helen, try and settle yourself down,’ I said. ‘We’ll find Brigit very soon since Coxwold’s only a short fifteen-minute run. Are you sure they said the main street?’
‘Yes!’
‘Coxwold’s a small place so finding Brigit shouldn’t be too difficult,’ I said, trying to reassure her.
We had been travelling only a short while when suddenly our car lights reflected the welcoming sign of the small town. It was almost ten pm and Coxwold was predictably quiet. It was very cold and the night breeze had strengthened. Helen’s concern seemed to be more to do with the weather than Brigit’s physical condition. The unfavourable climate would make it tough for anyone exposed to this winter chill.
Travelling slowly down the short main street we observed the small collection of shops on either side. To be expected, everything was closed, including Duncan’s corner pub and some convenience store that coupled as a newsagent and Tattslotto outlet. It was virtually a ghost town as if from a bygone era, and contrary to its welcoming sign, I half-expected some dude to suddenly confront us and declare we were trespassing on their hallowed community. Coxwold’s residents had retired for the evening and there appeared t
o be no sign of life, except for a local service station that was in the throws of closing shop. I decided to approach the proprietor and drove in.
‘Excuse me. Have you seen a girl of around twenty years walking the streets and perhaps wearing a plastered arm in a sling?’
‘Yeah, I did see this person about quarter of an hour ago. She just walked by looking a bit lost. Pretty young thing,’ the proprietor claimed.
‘That sounds like Brigit. Which way did she go?’ I asked, relieved to hear of her sighting.
‘In the direction of Pedley. Is there a problem?’
‘She’s just been released following a kidnapping and were desperately trying to find her,’ called Helen anxiously.
