by Phil Rickman
‘I didn’t say a word,’ Merrily said.
‘Hey, you thought it, though? Nobody can resist going in the Feathers at least once. Hang on…’ He lifted a finger as if he was testing the wind direction. ‘Now. Right. Feathers Hotel… OK! Now, we don’t normally get to this until last ’cos it’s not what you’d call typical. As ghost stories go, it’s a bit off the wall, but still…’
He led her across the road, weaving through the traffic, drivers letting him through: Jon Scole looked like he could damage small cars. He stopped at the opposite kerb, gazing up at the ornate Jacobean fantasy that looked as if it had been sculpted out of Cadbury’s chocolate flakes and marzipan. The last time she’d seen the Feathers Hotel was on Robbie Walsh’s computer.
‘I mean, classic haunted inn, right? What would you reckon, Mary: a highwayman in a black mask? No… well, maybe, I dunno… but the most interesting phenomenon in this particular location is — get this — young girl in a miniskirt and a see-through blouse.’
‘Really?’
‘Fact. Usual time, about now — no, later, around noon. Comes sashaying straight across where we just come… right through cars… fades through the bloody cars and out the other side… up onto this very pavement, and then — poof! Vanishes! Seen, not once, but about a dozen times, back in the 1970s when I were still learning to walk. Go in there, luv, ask the staff. Come on, I’ll prove it to you.’
‘No… Jon… I’d rather not ask anyone. I don’t want to—’
‘Sorry!’ He put up his hands, as though the spectral girl had just glided out of the Telecom van parked up on the kerb with its hazard warning lights on. ‘Got you. You don’t wanna make a thing of it. I’m with you. Let’s just go in, grab a drink.’
At a round table in the Comus Bar of the Feathers, she made like the old ladies and asked for tea. Jon Scole grinned at her through his curly copper-wire beard.
‘Vicars and tea, eh? Sorry! Just can’t get over you being a… you look so little and…’ He puffed his lips out. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit direct, me.’
‘No, that’s— It’s always nice to know where you are with people. Makes quite a change. But if you could just, like’ — Merrily patted the air — ‘reduce the volume?’
‘Right, OK.’ He brought down his boom to a loud whisper. ‘And that’s the last time I’ll mention religion in public, swear to God. Don’t worry about the folk you get in here, though — unless it’s Rotary day, it’s guaranteed to be mostly tourists.’
‘Why’s it called the Comus Bar?’
‘Milton’s play, Comus — first performance 1634 at Ludlow Castle. Little Robbie Walsh told me that, God rest his soul. Everywhere you go, this town, you’re wading through ’ist’ry. Come in off the street, you got to scrape it off your shoes like dogshit.’
He took off his motorbike jacket, hung it over the back of his chair. Underneath, he wore a leather waistcoat. He pulled it straight.
‘Used to wear a watch and chain, then word reached me Councillor Lackland thought I were taking the piss. Didn’t want to offend dear old George. He could make things very difficult for me, could George — all the official buildings I need to take people through. And the shops — George runs the Chamber of Trade. He could wipe me out in a month, no shit.’ A gap appeared at the bar; Jon Scole stood up. ‘Pot of tea, please, Ruth, and a pint of the good stuff.’ He sat down. ‘So, Mary… you want to meet Bell, eh? Tough one, that. Not impossible, but certainly tough.’
It was George Lackland who’d set this up.
The Bishop had talked to George on the phone from the Deliverance office early this morning, setting the ball rolling. Perhaps whatever she turned up could be filtered through Sophie during office hours, Bernie said. Best if they were not seen to be collaborating, although she was welcome to ring him at home at night. Merrily didn’t imagine it would make much difference now. There were times when you felt it was all out of your hands, a Will of God situation. She’d never actively sought out the deliverance role, so if it was taken away… what right did she have to feel furious, embittered, isolated, stabbed in the back?
‘You all right, Mary?’ Jon Scole said.
‘Yes… sorry…’
‘You looked like you suddenly wanted to kill somebody.’
‘No, it was just…’ She felt the blush. ‘Had a late night.’
This morning, she’d sat in the office and listened to Bernie giving George Lackland the spiel, Important Man to Important Man: George, we have to work this out between us, you and I, and I think our priority is essentially the same — that is, preserving the spirit of the finest, most precious little town in the country. But if we’re tampering with heritage, George, we have to tread softly. I’ll be frank, what I’ve said to Merrily is this: go into Ludlow, talk to people, take the spiritual temperature, come back to me and we’ll make some sort of decision. Sooner rather than later, I promise.
Not spelling anything out. Never once mentioning Belladonna.
And then George had been talking for a while and Bernie had been nodding and glancing at Merrily and giving her small, confidential smiles, finally telling George that of course he understood. We decoded your messages, old friend. We’ll keep your confidence, and you’ll keep ours?
The parish details had all been arranged surprisingly easily. Merrily and Sophie had fixed up for Dennis Beckett, retired minister, go-anywhere locum, to take on the Ledwardine church services for the next two weekends and handle any routine parish business that came up. Merrily would still be at home at nights, but she’d leave the answering machine on the whole time, directing any calls on urgent parish business across the county to Dennis. She’d tell Uncle Ted, senior churchwarden, tonight. He wouldn’t be happy, having to work with Dennis at such short notice, but when had Uncle Ted ever been happy since she’d taken on Deliverance?
As for Siân Callaghan-Clarke and the Panel, Sophie had already dealt with that. Sophie accepted that part of her role was laundering clergy lies; she’d told Siân that Merrily’s favourite aunt — not her mother, who could easily be traced — had fractured a hip and, as Merrily had holidays owing… Where was this? Sophie wasn’t entirely sure, but somewhere not too far away, as Merrily would be coming home some nights, when another relative took over — Sophie making it complicated enough to forestall questions.
Then George Lackland himself had phoned Merrily, telling her he’d arranged for her to meet Mr Jonathan Scole. A volatile young man, but he could give her information that it wouldn’t be right for George himself to come out with. And, because of what Jonathan did, he’d spent some considerable time in the company of a certain person, George said.
Now, the only problem here is that I might have to tell him who you are and what you do. I have every reason to think he’ll keep it absolutely confidential. Every reason. My wife works a good deal in tourism and Jonathan’s business depends on a certain amount of goodwill, if you understand me. No, he’s a good lad, really, he’s kept us well informed about matters that might have proved embarrassing. Top and bottom of it is, I think he’ll be quite thrilled to work with someone like you… Now then, is that all right for you?
Well…
You tell him what you want him to know and what he’s to keep to himself, and you tell him he’s got me to answer to if he don’t. Not that that’ll be necessary.
The mood swings of last night had no longer been in evidence. George Lackland had a town to run, and it had been like talking to some avuncular Mafia don whose ethos had long since transcended all moral values.
‘So I’m in your hands.’ Jon Scole sucked the top off his beer. ‘Whatever you want. And I might seem a bit of a loud-mouthed bastard, but I can promise you, Mary’ — Jon tapped his nose, froth on his beard — ‘nothing gets out.’
Mary? Well, why not? He knew she was a vicar with the diocese. But he didn’t know her surname, and now he’d got her first name wrong. Perhaps even George Lackland had heard it as Mary.
She was working undercove
r. She would be Mary. Fine.
She’d met up with Jon Scole at his shop in Corve Street. The shop was called Lodelowe, a medieval spelling of the town’s name. It was a darkly atmospheric gift emporium, with lamps made from pottery models of town houses, misty framed photographs, paintings and books: books on the history of Ludlow and books about the supernatural.
Jon Scole understood from the Mayor that, unlike some people in the Church he’d had dealings with, Mrs Watkins wasn’t averse to discussing ghosts, which had seemed to be the clincher for him. They could talk about ghosts. Jon loved to talk about ghosts. And also about the strange ways of the exotic Belladonna — Bell Pepper.
‘Oh yeah, I get on with Bell… as far as anybody does. Bell loves ghosts. I mean, that’s it. Mystery solved. I could lead you along, make a big thing out of it, but that’s what it comes down to. That woman bloody loves ghosts. And you know what’s so funny about that — I mean considering all those spooky albums? You know the big joke? Bell can’t see ’em. She cannot see ghosts.’
‘That’s what she’s said to you?’
‘I tell you’ — Jon pointed down the Comus bar, which was unexpectedly modern, not at all rustic — ‘if the bint in the see-through whatsit drifted through here now, she’d carry on with her gin and tonic, tequila, whatever— Oh, listen, I never finished that story, did I? That was a strange one. A bloke investigated it, found this actual young girl who, every week, she used to visit her auntie, or her great-auntie — anyway, they were close — and when the auntie died suddenly and the girl moved away, she used to imagine herself going back along the same route, reliving it — a happy time. And they reckon that’s what people saw.’
‘A phantasm of the living?’ Huw Owen called them extras or walk-ons.
‘Blimey, you do know your way around my backyard,’ Jon said. ‘I tell you, Mary, this town’s heaving with ghosts. I can do well here, if they leave me alone.’
‘You’ve not been doing this long?’
‘Came here not long before Bell. Parents died — got killed in the car.’
‘I’m sorry. Was it—?’
‘Bit of a shock. Year or so ago now. They had a restaurant — well, more of an upmarket transport caff, to be honest, south Man. — Cheshire, they liked to say. I couldn’t face taking it over, so I flogged the lot to the bloody Little Chef — opportune, really — and took to the road, looking for something interesting.’
‘So, you own the shop?’
‘No, I’m renting — ridiculous bloody rent — but it’s still at the experimental stage. This bloke Roy Liddle, who did the ghost-walks before, it was more of a hobby for him. I’m afraid I’m a little bit more of a businessman, don’t want to invest all I’ve got in it if it’s going to flop, do I?’
‘The ghost-walks?’
‘Ties in with the shop: mysteries of old Ludlow. Not doing badly, but it’s early days yet — I only opened last Christmas, still feeling me way. Can’t afford to tread on too many toes at this stage. So when the Mayor sent for me…’
‘Sent for you?’
‘Well… asked if I’d drop into his furniture shop — it’s only fifty yards up the road. You should’ve heard him. He’d been asked to assist “senior clergy” investigating “certain incidents”. Absolutely confidential, Jonathan. Me trying to keep a straight face. What is that about?’
‘It’s about what you might call the spiritual spin-off from two very similar deaths at the castle.’
‘One an accident. Unless…’
‘Mmm?’
‘Unless you and George know better?’ Little smile there.
‘Did George indicate that?’
‘Well…’ Jon Scole thought for a moment. ‘I should tell you — if he hasn’t already — that there’s a certain issue on which old George and me swap confidences.’
‘Belladonna?’
Jon grinned. ‘Bane of his life. Lovely lady — undermining every bloody thing he thinks he stands for: moral decency, all this stuff. And he can’t do anything, ’cos very soon she’s gonna be at the very heart of his eminently respectable family. Respectable! He’s an old crook, like all bloody councillors. You ever know a councillor who was in it for the public good?’
‘But why would he share confidences with—? I’m sorry…’
‘A yob like me? Because I mix with the kind of people who come into contact with Bell. And even Bell herself, now and then. Better placed than anybody, me, to keep an eye on her. I mean, I can see his problem — it must be scary having a woman like that around.’
‘A woman like what?’
‘A woman with enough money never to have to give a shit for people like Councillor Lackland. A woman who’s fascinated by the mysteries of life and death, and is open to… experiments.’
‘What kind of—?’
Jon tapped his nose. ‘All in good time, Mary. Tell me about yourself.’
‘Well…’ She’d spent some time working out what she wanted to say and what it was best to conceal. ‘I work for the Diocese of Hereford…’
‘You’re a real, actual priest.’
‘I… yeah.’
He frowned. ‘See, that’s not good, Mary. She doesn’t like priests, Bell. Likes churches but she doesn’t like The Church. If you get me.’
‘Mmm.’
‘So what’s The Church’s angle on this?’
‘Good question. All right… I work for the division of the Church that investigates hauntings and… things of that nature.’
‘That’s more or less what George said, but I wondered if he was having me on, so I said I’d talk to you. So you’re actually an exorcist, right?’
‘Well, I… yeah.’
‘You don’t look a lot like Max Von Whatsisname.’
‘I’m a disappointment to everyone.’
‘There isn’t some silly bugger wants you to go in and exorcize the castle, is there?’
‘Nothing formal, as yet.’
‘Because that…’ Jon was lifting his glass. He put it down with a bang. ‘That would be fuckin’ insane, Mary! Apart from what it’d do to my business, you’d be undermining the very essence of Ludlow. Bell would go spare.’
‘For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t like to do that either,’ Merrily said. ‘But I’m interested in why you think it would be insane.’
‘Really? All right. Come with me, then.’
‘Where?’
‘Not far.’ He stood up and put on his motorbike jacket. Its chains rattled like an alarm, and two retired-looking couples at the next table all turned round at once.
Jon Scole wiped his mouth and beard with the back of a hand. ‘You psychic yourself, Mary?’
‘No more than anybody.’
‘As long as you’re receptive, you’ll feel it. There’s some places with more resonance than others, especially in this town. Not sure why, but it’s fact. Physically, it’s got a lot to set it apart — built on a kind of promontory, two rivers, a very ancient church… and I mean very ancient. And, like, the whole atmosphere here, you can feel it… it’s rich and heavy, like it’s drenched in some ancient incense, you know what I’m saying?’
‘Actually, I do. Especially in the evening.’
‘You don’t need the evening.’
25
His Element
Down past Tesco’s, towards the bottom of Corve Street, yew trees overhung a high stone wall and they could see the roof of the chapel.
‘Dogs,’ Jon Scole said. ‘They reckon the dogs know.’
He had to shout over an old yellow furniture van clattering out of town. It had one word diagonally on the side: LACKLAND.
‘Dogs?’ Merrily said.
‘Dogs are supposed to go bonkers this end of the Street. Out of control. Well, I’ve seen it. Some old dear hauling on the lead: Brutus! Heel! No chance. Very strong atmosphere. Accumulation of psychic energy. So, anyway, this is where she walks.’
‘Sorry… who?’
‘Who do you think?’
&nb
sp; Jon Scole led her through the gateway, where cars were parked next to a circle of youngish yews, gloomily wrestling for the light. The chapel was set back, regular and Victorian-looking like the chapels you found in cemeteries, which was what it appeared to have been.
There was an information board on a lectern. It told you that the chapel had been built partly on the site of a Carmelite friary dating back to 1349, in use until suppressed by Henry VIII in 1539 when its buildings were sold and demolished. And then came the cemetery.
‘No, don’t read it, Mary, come and see it.’
Jon Scole led her down past the chapel, which was some kind of print workshop now — and that was good, she thought, much better than dereliction, brought a flow of people down here, kept up a flow of energy.
Merrily blinked. Bloody hell, she was thinking like Jane.
But there was an energy in Ludlow, the kind you didn’t find in too many ancient towns, and even the rolling roof of Tesco’s was urging it in. The town was prosperous, sure, but not in any self-conscious way, and what Bernie Dunmore had said about the buildings being preserved in aspic was misleading. Nothing that she’d seen here was in aspic; it was all still in use, and it buzzed, and it hummed, and it chattered.
Even the graveyard. A path ran down the middle; Jon Scole was strolling along it, but Merrily had stopped. There were cemeteries and there were graveyards, and the thing about cemeteries was that most of them weren’t places you’d want to end up.
Jon Scole turned and came back. He was beaming.
‘Surprising, eh? When they ran out of room at St Laurence’s this was where they came. And then this one got full. There’s supposed to be fourteen hundred graves here.’
Very few of them were fully visible any more because someone had taken an inspired decision. The result was that St Leonard’s graveyard was vibrantly alive: a tangly, scuffling, mossy-green delirium, busy with birdsong, rich with moisture and slime. Merrily looked around, saw a fat, hollowed-out yew tree and two shiny, rippling domes of ivy that probably used to be headstones. In the summer, the air would be shimmering with butterflies, haunted at night by bats and moths.
