by David Haynes
Monroe was clearly delighted with his work and paraded it before me. His face was a vision of glee. “The cord passes through the side of the coffin and through the wooden tube to the surface. There, the tube sits beside the headstone and the bell has freedom to ring. Although I will confess a little more refinement may be in order. The bell appears to be suspended from a gallows!” He pushed the bell and it rang with reassuring volume.
“Quite wonderful, Monroe!”
Monroe turned and walked toward the stable. “I shall prepare the horses. We shall travel at midnight.”
As a distant bell chimed the hour, I made my way to the yard and found Monroe in full director’s attire. The horses had been harnessed and hitched to the hearse. It was as if we were attending a funeral.
“Is there any need for this?” I waved my hand over the hearse.
Monroe looked down from his position, from where he was ready to drive. “How else could we transport a coffin? My attire simply adds to our respectability.”
I climbed up beside him. I was anxious to complete the test and get back to my bed. Before long, the horses had clattered through the dark streets and taken us to St. Mary’s Church. Monroe climbed down and beckoned me to the hearse.
“It’s not as heavy when it’s empty but it’s heavy enough. You’ll have to help me carry it in. I’ll put the contraption on top so it’s easier to manage.”
I did as instructed and hoisted the coffin onto my shoulder. Monroe was quite correct; it was heavy enough. I dared not think of the weight when a lifeless body lay inside. Fortunately we did not have far to walk and Monroe gave his instruction again.
“Here, lower it here.”
Clouds drifted across the moon but in the darkness I could see a rectangular hole had been freshly excavated and a headstone already in place. I peered at the gravestone, but the poor light made the inscription impossible to read. “Whose grave is it?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Monroe replied quickly.
I nodded. It was of no importance whose grave we were about to use, for it was only temporary.
“We haven’t got any of my gear, so I’ll drop down and you push the coffin over the edge. I’ll balance it on my shoulders and drop it in place.”
Monroe jumped into the pit with just top of his head visible above the earth. I pushed and shoved at the coffin until Monroe was able to pull it onto his mammoth shoulders and lower it into place. Within minutes he had attached the device to the coffin and offered me his arm to haul him back up.
I pushed the bell and it rang as I expected. “I suppose it is time for me to fulfil my part in this plan.” I dropped to my knees and peered over the edge. “I am concerned, Monroe. How will we raise the coffin again?”
I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were gazing elsewhere and looked only at the headstone. “Monroe?”
The moon thrust a dagger of silver light between the clouds and lit up the headstone - ‘Elsa Monroe. Beloved wife to Alec and mother to Thomas.’
He turned back; the darkness made a furious abyss of his eyes. “We shall not need to bring it back up.”
He came toward me and I rose from beside the great hole. I held up my hands in supplication, for his intentions were revealed in that instant. “Monroe, I have made mistakes for which I have paid dear. Please consider your next act carefully for it will tell on both of our futures.”
His arm swung in a frightful arc toward me and I was unable to avoid the hammer-like blow. I fell back into the pit and lost my senses as my skull collided with the coffin beneath me.
When I awoke, all was black. Not the cold darkness of the night, but a damp, bleak and unforgiving gloom. My head pounded with all the terrible strength of a smith’s hammer blow and nausea fell upon me in an instant, for I knew where I lay. The jagged bumps which scratched and penetrated the clothes on my back were the bones of Elsa Monroe.
“Monroe!” I shrieked but my voice echoed around the coffin like a ghostly wail and could not penetrate the earth which lay above.
“The bell,” I thought. “My invention will save me!” I reached for the cord and pulled with all my might. “The ring of my bell will be enough to wake the dead!”
*
The bell nodded furiously and sounded through the silence of the graveyard. Monroe reached inside and ripped the clapper out, then dropped it onto the lid of the coffin. It made a light tap as it landed on the beautiful polished oak and the bell was silenced forever. He worked fast and piled shovel upon shovel of earth onto the coffin. Each grunt of effort was joined by a muffled scream from below and the bell rang silently in the moonlight.
*
Present day
St. Mary’s Church
London
“In time, Monroe’s wooden structure simply rotted away. So that’s why the bell’s up there. Someone obviously thought it was still needed.”
For the first time since the trip to the Imperial War Museum, the teacher held his class in the palm of his hand.
“Sir? That is the biggest load of old crap I’ve ever heard!”
Michael Hughes smiled and walked away. “Probably, but at least you all listened to me for ten minutes and that’s a record for this year.”
The class followed him away from the grave. The sun shone and there was not a breath of wind; it was the perfect afternoon. Yet behind them all, the bell swayed violently and rang a silent peal that only the dead could hear. Then it was still once again.
The End
The Stonegate Manor Collection
A violent gust of wind smashed into the stagecoach and jarred Slee from his nap. How long had he been in this dreadful carriage?
“Steady, driver!” he called, although he knew the man could not hear him, especially not with the storm raging outside. He peered out. Not a single welcoming lamp was visible in the darkness and the only signs of life were the drops of rain lashing against the window. He shivered and sank back.
He had set out from Paddington early that morning full of excited anticipation at the unexpected invitation. Yet that excitement had all but gone now, swallowed up by the never-ending bleakness of the vista beyond the confines of the carriage.
The carriage lurched again, almost sending him sprawling. It was barbaric to expect him to make the last leg of the journey in such a fashion. Furthermore, it was almost inconceivable that the gluttonous oafs in charge of the railway had, thus far, deprived the gentle folk of Yorkshire of a decent stretch of track. How could anyone expect to conduct serious business without the railway?
Nevertheless, there were some parts of this country which would never be within the reach of track and train. He looked out of the window again and watched the blurred sliver of moon do its best to cast light on the moors below. Some parts of the country were best left forgotten. He settled back in the seat and shivered.
A terrible grinding noise jarred him again; not from sleep but from a dismal reverie. It was quickly followed by the sound of an angry roar and the carriage shuddering to a violent halt. Slee paused before moving. It was probably stray cattle or sheep on the track and nothing more. He would stay where he was until they had passed and the carriage moved onward again.
Several moments lapsed with only his thoughts and the howl of a savage wind for company. London was tiresome and cramped, and sometimes he longed for the wide-open spaces and fresh spring air of some distant memory. Yet tonight he longed for the warmth of a fire and the convivial chatter of friends in The Albion and not the gloom of a solitary journey. He did not envy the driver tonight.
“Sir!” A series of urgent raps on the window startled him. “Sir, the axle’s gone. We can’t continue.”
Slee opened the carriage door and felt the power of the gale do battle with him. “Step inside for a moment, driver, and we can consider our options.”
The driver eyed the interior and raised his lamp. Rain ran in a steady torrent from the brim of his hat. “I’m afraid there aren’t any options. Not tonig
ht at least.”
“What do you mean? Will there not be other coaches along presently?”
“Not here, sir. Your trip was commissioned special-like. It ain’t exactly on the main road, now is it?”
“Well I can’t spend the night here.” He paused and as if to reinforce his message he added, “I won’t.”
The driver turned and looked into the darkness. “By my reckoning, we ain’t too far away now.” He turned back. “Do you ride, sir?”
“Ride?” Slee asked incredulously. “We have reliable carriages and trains in London. I do not ride.”
“Shame,” replied the driver.
“Why?”
“Because now you’ll have to walk the rest of the way.
*
Slee took the lantern from the driver, pressed two pennies into his cold hands and bid him good luck. He regretted his curt manner toward the other man for it was not his fault fate had treated him this way.
“I’ll send the rest of your luggage up in the morning, sir!”
Slee started walking along the track. The driver had given him the option of a march across the moors and for a moment Slee had considered it to save himself time. But he had quickly followed up his directions with the story of Barghest – a murderous and monstrous black dog, said to rip unsuspecting solitary travellers to shreds as they walked across the moors.
Slee knew it was nothing more than a myth, said by the driver to amuse himself and frighten his city gentleman passenger, no doubt. Yet in the unending blackness of the landscape it would not take much for his senses to desert him entirely, sending him wandering into a bog or over a precipice. It might take longer to walk the last leg along the track but if it meant arriving in one piece, he would sacrifice the lost time.
The lantern was barely bright enough to illuminate his path but he clung to it as a beacon of hope. He had not dressed for a night-time trek and the wind and rain rendered his smart city clothes as little more use than threadbare rags. His shoes had been polished to a high lustre, yet now they looked little better than squares of sackcloth tied to his feet. He knew his appearance would not effuse the greatest confidence in his abilities. He cursed at the weather. When word reached Mr Sutcliffe, his employer, about his appearance and tardiness, this first opportunity to impress would surely be his last.
After a short time his arms began to ache. In one hand he carried the redundant lantern and in the other, his attaché. He had purchased it himself using two months’ wages and it was inscribed with his initials in golden letters. He had seen the other dealers carrying such cases and had longed for one of his own. When Mr Sutcliffe had told him he would be travelling on his own to secure the collection, he had leapt into the air. Were it not for Mr Sutcliffe’s shocked expression, he might have kissed the man. Instead he walked directly into Ottoway and Co. and commissioned his own attaché. It was unfortunate that the money he spent on the case deprived him of the opportunity to purchase a new suit. Mr Sutcliffe agreed to cover the cost but unless he secured the entire collection, sadly the substantial sum would come straight from his wages.
There was very little inside the case; a magnifying glass, some brushes and cleaning agents, ink, a pen and his ledger. Yet the contents were not important. What was important was that he now felt as if he belonged and he had not felt that way for most of his life.
There was no option other than to keep his head lowered against the driving rain and wind. He stared only at his sodden shoes and had no idea how far he had gone, or indeed how long he had been walking, and so he paused for a moment and raised his head. Judging by the ache in his calves and the pounding of his heart, it had been some time.
He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the worst of the rain. The driver told him to keep walking along the track and not to deviate by even one step. Eventually he would arrive at his destination: Stonegate Manor.
Slee peered through the darkness looking for a light to guide him, yet he could see nothing save for the straining branches of the threadbare trees. He was cold, wet, hungry and exhausted, and he had had enough.
He hurled the lantern down the track and roared with all his might. The lantern disappeared from view and he was left in the dark once more. He sighed and walked quickly after it. With any luck it might have landed on the verge and was still usable. Almost immediately he was stopped in his tracks by a bright flash and a rising fountain of fire. The flames illuminated everything surrounding them before they were extinguished entirely. Slee ran toward the shattered lantern for he had seen a shape, a man-made shape in the glow, and he knew it could only mean his destination was close. He stumbled as he ran, such was his eagerness to see what the lamp had briefly shown him.
It was a gatepost, a tall stone gatepost and he meant to wrap his arms around it and kiss it. He lurched forward, one step after another until one of his sodden feet slipped in a pothole sending him hurtling head-first into the post. Slee smelled paraffin as his head collided with the object of his desire and rendered him senseless.
*
Through the haze of unconsciousness, Slee felt himself being lifted and then carried. His mind told him he was once again on his father’s shoulders, being hurried away from something or someone who meant him harm. A shadowy shape took form in his mind. It bore no features yet somehow he knew it was a woman and it watched him from the darkness. Long black fingers reached for him; they beckoned him toward her. Those long, black fingers with their uncut and unclean nails reaching for him in the mire of his mind. His screams and the shrieks of terror pierced the darkness as the ghoulish fingers caressed his cheek.
“Please, no!” Slee sat bolt upright clutching his cheek. “It was just a dream,” he whispered. “Just a dream.”
He touched his cheek tenderly for his skin tingled. It is just the effect of the rain and wind on your skin, nothing more, he told himself. Where was he though? For he no longer felt the stinging bite of the storm on his face. He was in a bed, that much was obvious, but to whom the bed belonged was still a mystery. A dim glow came from the end of the bed where a fire glowed weakly.
“Do not fret, sir,” a gentleman’s voice came quietly from the corner. “You have reached your destination and you are safe.”
Slee squinted into the gloom. “Sir, I cannot see your face. I would shake your hand for the generous assistance you have provided.”
“The hour is late and you are in need of rest. We have ample time for introductions on the morrow. Now, I must rest, as must you.”
“My attaché? In my haste I fear I dropped…”
“Look beside the bed, Mr Slee.”
Slee peered over the side of the bed and saw the golden letters of his initials. “Thank you again.” He looked back toward the man but the sight of the door closing slowly signalled his departure.
It was true, he felt exhausted but he was also curious about his situation. He recalled the stone gatepost and the smell of paraffin but nothing more about how he had come to be in this strange, yet comfortable bed. He lifted the blankets. He knew even less about how he came to be wearing only a set of undergarments, and not his own at that.
He sank back into the pillows. They were deep and soft yet they smelled musty and of damp. It was evident they had not been used for some time. Nonetheless they were comfortable and he was so very tired. It had been a long day, a very long day indeed. He closed his eyes and felt the easy sleep that only an utterly weary body can bring wash over him.
*
The grey dawn staggered through the threadbare curtains and tickled Slee’s eyelids. He had slept deeply and now the morning was upon him he struggled to be free from its embrace. A headache pinched at his skull but it was his empty stomach which finally forced his eyes open. It was no surprise he was hungry, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day. He had not been able to eat the terrible bowl of stew served up to him in York and now he was famished.
He threw back the blankets and shivered. The fire had long since extinguishe
d itself and the room was more than a little cold. He could not go in search of breakfast without suitable attire, no matter how severe his hunger. He lowered himself from the bed and felt the cold bite of bare boards beneath his feet.
The room was larger than the darkness had suggested but the size was undoubtedly its best feature. Paint peeled from the walls and in places blooms of mould crept slowly around the skirting. He padded toward the fire and found an ottoman at the foot of the bed. Upon it was a set of gentleman’s clothes. They were not his own but he cared not for they were more able to repel the chill than the undergarments he wore.
