Most of the tools seemed to be scattered about rather haphazardly. Alistair surmised that somebody had rummaged about through the tools, probably the seller of the property. He guessed they were looking for any useful tools they could take away before the sale went through.
He walked up to a rack that had an array of wood saws, and hacksaws. There were gaps to suggest that some of the better tools had been removed. He unhooked an old looking hacksaw, the main body of the tool had rusted but it still looked sturdy enough.
Under the main bench a small wooden crate, the type used to store apples caught his eye. Placing the hacksaw down on the bench he crouched low so that he could pull the crate out towards him. It was heavy.
The crate contained an assortment of what he first thought were rocks surrounded with dry straw for packing. Upon closer examination, he realised that they were stone tools. A wave of excitement flowed through him as he handled the razor-sharp flints. He realised that these were the objects that had been recovered from the cave and the subject of the many illustrations in the journal.
The crate was packed full of flint scrapers, knives, arrowheads, borers, awls, and microliths. At the bottom of the pile was a stone hammer. The hammer was constructed out of a long, heavy rectangular hard stone, bound to a stick by an ancient length of twine or cordage. The stone part of the hammer was stained a rusty colour. After laying out most of the stones and flints on top of the work bench Alistair decided to leave his discovery for now so that he could get on with the main task of opening the gate.
The padlock had a thick closed bar. He realised that sawing through it with a rusty hacksaw blade may take him some time. No time like the present, he thought and began cutting through the padlock. After what seemed an age, but in reality, was only five minutes, he stopped to rest. His arm muscles were getting sore. He examined the bar on the lock. He had managed to cut a groove about three millimetres deep. The lock bar itself was at least twenty millimetres thick. He was about to carry on when he heard something.
The wind was still strong and muffled his ears, but he thought he could hear a low and heavy breathing sound. Almost ape like. He turned around to look for any sign of where the breathing could be coming from. He guessed it was a trick of the wind as it blew through the bars of the gate. He carried on sawing into the lock. He stopped again, this time he heard a loud flapping sound. He turned and saw a large raven perched in a stately manner, on top of the snow dusted monolith. It seemed to be watching him with its shiny, obsidian eyes. He turned back to work on the lock.
The raven took off from its stony perch and landed on his shoulder where it began to attack him viciously. Dropping the hacksaw, Alistair used his hands and arms to bat the bird away. The creature flapped its ragged dark wings and soared aloft to land high up in the large ash tree but not before it had managed to draw blood from a small scalp wound where Alistair’s hair had thinned out considerably during the last few years.
Still cursing at the raven, he dabbed at his scalp using a handkerchief from his pocket. Happy that no real harm had been done he retrieved the hacksaw that had come to rest between two of the railings of the gate. He noticed the saw blade had snapped from the impact of the drop. Cursing the raven again he went off to the workshop in search of a replacement saw blade but was unable to find one. He came out of the workshop carrying the stone hammer and held it up to threaten the raven. The raven had gone. He scanned the skies and the ash tree before placing the hammer on the ground next to the monolith.
******
Alistair had decided to go into town. At this time of year, the days were incredibly short and he needed to find a telephone so that he could report his power outage. He was hoping that the town itself had not been similarly affected by the recent winds otherwise he could be looking at a long spell without electricity. He also needed some more provisions, and maybe, if he was lucky, he might be able to purchase a better hacksaw.
The walk up the hill was difficult. The icy snow had created a slope that would be the dream of any tobogganing enthusiast. He had almost slipped over many times and the final few yards of dirt track merging with cobbled road he took very carefully.
Eventually, finding firm footing, Alistair proceeded to peruse the shops in the high street of Thornbarrow. Firstly, he entered the main grocery store where he purchased eggs, milk, bread, some sliced bacon and ham, and a variety of tinned essentials. His next stop was to a fishmonger where he purchased some kippers, he had it in mind to give the fish heads to the cat. His final call was to a hardware store run by the Agar brothers, according to the brightly painted signage.
The hardware store seemed packed with all the necessary tools and equipment that anyone should need. He waited patiently at the counter whilst a portly man wearing a teak coloured warehouse coat finished stacking tins of paint in the corner of the shop. Eventually the man finished his organisational chore and approached Alistair. “Good morning Sir, what you be after?”
“Good day. I am in need of a few bits and pieces. Do you have any candles?” asked Alistair.
“Candles, regular candles like?”
“Yes, just simple white candles, you see my electricity is out currently and until I am reconnected I will have to make do with candlelight.” Alistair noticed that there were lights on inside the shop. “I see you are not similarly affected. Has most of the town avoided my misfortune?”
“No problems here, as far as I know Sir. Where about are you living, if I may ask?”
“I live down the hill, about three mile or so. The old Tudor house. You might know it.” Alister stopped speaking and sneezed repeatedly. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Aye, I know the place. You live in that house do you? You the one who recently bought it?” Alister finished wiping his nose before answering.
“Yes, I moved in this week. It’s a great old place, but the weather!” Alister sneezed again.
“Looks like you caught a rook,” said the storeman.
“I’m sorry. What do you mean?”
“You caught a rook. All that sneezing.”
“Oh, sorry. I think I am coming down with a cold.”
“Like I says, looks like you caught a rook.” Alistair studied the middle-aged man before him. He had thin grey hair and a white moustache, neatly trimmed. He wore spectacles on a chain around his neck.
“Caught a rook. What an unusual saying.”
“Just what we says around these parts. When somebody has a sniffle, we says they caught a rook!” Alistair remembered his encounter with the raven this very morning, his fingers found the sore wound made by the bird’s beak. He rubbed his head lightly.
“Interesting. Oh, do you have a hacksaw by any chance?” The storeman scratched his head and walked over to some shelving at the back of the store muttering hacksaw over and over. He returned eventually carrying a shiny looking saw. He placed it on the counter.
“Will this be alright, only a gentleman came in yesterday and bought up all my other saws.” Alistair handled the saw.
“Yes, this will do perfectly. So now it’s just the candles if you have any.” The storeman reached for a box below the counter muttering “candles, candles.” He placed the box down in front of Alistair.
“How many candles you need Sir?”
“Good question. At this time, I have no idea how long I will be without power, so I suppose I will take quite a few. I think I will take the box if that’s alright?”
“Fine by me Sir. Do you need a bag?” Alistair looked at his existing bag of provisions, it was quite full. He nodded and the storeman began to place the items into a large paper bag then rang up the tally on a cash register that sat perched on the end of the counter. Alistair paid for his goods and turned to leave the shop. “Fancy buying that old place,” the storeman uttered. Alistair decided he would not question what he meant. He left the shop.
Ambling along the high street Alistair noticed the spire of the local church of St. Peter jutting upwar
ds against the backdrop of rolling hills and trees. It wasn’t all that far to reach and he decided to go and pay the church a visit before embarking on the treacherous descent back down to Olde Tudor.
There was a red telephone box outside the church. Alistair first made a call to the local electricity board and explained to them about his power outage. They informed him that they would look into it as soon as possible, and that he should call them again if he was still experiencing problems in the next day or so. He then made a second call to report his dead telephone line. He was given similar assurances to what the electrical board had said.
******
The churchyard looked splendid covered in a fine layer of snow. Winter could be one of the most beautiful times of the year thought Alistair as he walked down the path towards the church. He stopped to admire the soaring bell tower and noticed the adorning grotesque gargoyles as they peered down at him from their lofty perches. He decided he would like to look around inside the church, but first, he wanted to take a stroll through the churchyard.
Reading the old headstones was something that he had enjoyed doing ever since he was a small child. He thought, as he examined the old slate and stone gravestones, that it has always been a struggle facing up to the inevitable demise of the mortal body. Here amongst the buried was a good starting point if any to come to terms with one’s own death he mused.
One tall and relatively recent headstone caught his eye. It was taller than many of the other headstones. He crossed over the snow-covered lawn to examine the epitaph. It read: Lord Jesus. Of your charity pray for the soul of Reverend George Charles Redgrave Vicar of St. Peter for 27 years who died May 30 1939 aged 64 years. This was surely the same reverend who had previously resided in Olde Tudor he thought. The same reverend who had written the journal that he had discovered in the wood shed.
His attention was then turned towards three smaller graves positioned to the right of the Reverend’s gravestone. Each smaller grave had a flat tablet marker instead of an erect stone. He placed his bags down and crouched low so that he could brush away the fine snow with a gloved hand. The markings upon the three tablets were curious. There was no inscription. Each tablet had a number in Roman numerals, I, II, III. Underneath each number was simply the words: PUT TO REST.
The loud ‘kaah-kaah’ of a raven startled Alistair. He twisted around to catch sight of one of the large birds gliding to a perch on top of an old yew. The attack he had suffered this very morning had now made him wary of members of the Corvus family of birds. He stood up and made his way down the path towards the church.
The old, heavy oak door swung inwards. Alistair stepped inside the vestibule. The interior of the church was as he had hoped it would be. Above the main entrance on the inside of the vestibule was a statue of the virgin Mary. Directly opposite the entrance were a pair of large stone window frames filled with a beautiful stained glass depiction of Saint Peter with his hands clasped together, gazing upwards towards a shaft of heavenly golden light. The vaulted ceiling was adorned with carved wooden angelic figures, many with wings and trumpets.
As Alistair gazed upwards at the splendour of the church’s ornamentation, a figure walked along the nave toward him. The man wore a tweed jacket, similar to Alistair’s. He had dark yet greying hair at the temples, and he wore a clerical collar and carried a walking cane. Alistair smiled as the vicar approached him. “Good morning, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” the vicar said as he greeted Alistair.
“Good morning, no, it’s my first time here. Only recently moved into the locale,” replied Alistair.
“Oh good, a new member of the congregation,” the vicar said hopefully. “The Reverend John Mortimer,” he said and reached out to shake Alistair’s hand.
“Alistair Swift,” he reciprocated, “moved into the old Tudor place, a mile or so down from the town.”
“Yes, I know the place. It used to be the home of my predecessor, the Reverend George Redgrave, he was the vicar here for almost thirty years.”
“Yes, I noticed the headstone in the church yard, twenty-seven years I think it said.”
“Indeed. It was a shock to the locals when he. . . passed away. A terrible business. But tell me, what brings you to Thornbarrow?” Alistair placed both his heavy bags down onto a nearby pew,
“I have recently retired from my job teaching at a boy’s school. I liked the look of the town, it’s not too far from my only relative, my sister. Always fancied the country life.”
“Well if you like rural, you couldn’t have picked a better place. Other than the town itself, there’s little more than agriculture, and the occasional wild wood or copse. And how is the old house? I believe it has stood empty for quite a while.”
“Yes so I was told. It’s a little cold and draughty. Everything I expected from a country house. But there are some curious oddities that came with it. In fact, it’s what infused me to purchase the property.”
“Ah! You must be talking about the standing stone?”
“Yes, quite an unusual thing to own I would say.”
“Indeed it is. I do believe it to be the only remaining stone that used to form almost a complete Neolithic henge monument. The other stones were broken up at some time in the distant past and used as material to build many of the local cottages. In fact, a lot of the stone used to build this very church was once part of the circle I believe.” Alistair was very much enthralled in what the vicar was telling him.
“That’s really interesting. I didn’t know that. There’s also a cavern. Quite a ridiculous thing to find on one’s own doorstep don’t you think?”
“I did hear about that. The Reverend George Redgrave did some excavation of the cavern did he not? The locals say that it was once covered with earth creating a barrow. I dare say it’s how the town got its name.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Alistair stopped briefly to blow his nose several times. “Excuse me, I seem to have caught a cold, not surprising in this weather! I would like to ask, did you know the previous vicar personally?”
“I met him of course after he had decided to retire. He remained at Saint Peter until I was ready to move into the new rectory. The Tudor property that you now own was his personal property. The original vicarage burnt to the ground before the war. We kept in touch from time to time. He was a great source of knowledge about the local families. I must say though, that shortly before his untimely death, he did seem a little troubled.”
“Troubled? In what way?”
“Well, I went over to visit him on one occasion. He was feeling a bit under the weather. He had spent some considerable time investigating the cave you mentioned. I think he became a little obsessed with it. It was one of those obsessions that takes over a man’s life. The poor chap would go without food and turn away visitors, even from his own family because he was so eager to complete his excavation of the site.”
“I found his notebook. I have started reading it. I must say it is a very thorough piece of work. He would have made quite an archaeologist if he hadn’t had the calling.”
“Yes, he was always interested in the local history, and especially of the church itself.” The Reverend Mortimer motioned for Alistair to follow him towards the church exit. “There is something I’d like to show you, if you have the time.” Alistair collected up his bags,
“Of course, what is it?” he asked intrigued.
“Well George apparently excavated three graves inside the cavern. He told me that he intended to bury the remains in this churchyard.”
Alistair found himself standing before the three, curious stone tablet grave markers again. The Reverend Mortimer used his walking cane to point them out to Alistair. “He placed the markers for the graves here. This patch was his own plot. I remember it well. He came to me one spring morning, he was shaking, and obviously unwell with a fever. He asked if I would help him to set out the stone markers. He brought them with him, he had carried them one at a time all the way from his house
! We set out the slabs as you see them today. A week later I paid him a visit as I was worried about him. Whilst I was with him he brought out three boxes from his tool shed. He showed them to me. Inside one of them was a lot of old bones, including the remains of three skulls. At some point, he had labelled each and every bone carefully.
“These were bones he had found inside the cavern?” asked Alistair.
“Yes, that’s what he said. He was adamant that they required a burial within hallowed ground. He practically begged me to help him. I realised the poor chap was not himself so I naturally agreed.
“Why do you suppose he wanted them buried here?”
“I have absolutely no idea. The poor chap was so anxious. He tipped the contents of the box out onto his parlour floor. He then asked me for my help in sorting the bones into three distinct piles. I remember him spending a considerable amount of time ensuring that all the bones were in the correct order and heap. He did this with extraordinary diligence. Each heap was then placed into its own box and sealed. We then discussed a suitable scriptural reading that he asked me to deliver after the burial. He wanted to return to Saint Peter immediately to bury the boxes. I told him that I did not think he was in any fit state to do such a thing. I advised him to take to his bed and wait until his fever had broken. I offered to take the boxes back to the church and store them for him until he felt better. After some persuasion he agreed.”
“So, the bones, they were buried here?” said Alistair pointing at the three graves.
“I’m afraid not, you see I stored the boxes inside a large chest at the back of the nave. I thought they would be safe enough in there until George was fit. The Saturday following my visit to George I was preparing a sermon and took a walk around Saint. Peter as I usually do. I then noticed the chest in the nave where I had put the bones. The lid was ripped off with such ferocity it left splinters of wood littering the floor in all directions.”
Olde Tudor Page 3