by Simon Clarke
‘That’s more like it. Now stay here and study your own words and actions today … then mend your ways.’ She took a key from her pocket. ‘I’m not taking the chance of you wandering off again in your nightdress. For all that you were wearing you might as well have been outdoors naked.’
The door slammed shut, leaving Laura alone in the room. The key turned loudly in the lock. Laura wiped a tear from her eye. This morning started so perfectly. She’d been kissed by Jake. They’d made plans for the dance on Saturday night. Now a strange magic had entered her life. She’d encountered the shining figure in the forest. After that, she’d experienced such a frightening vision when the red-haired man had crashed to the ground in front of her. Now Miss Groom had locked her into the bedroom. Laura was a prisoner. And she was terrified that this was only the beginning of the nightmare.
Laura’s prophecy that this was only the start of the nightmare was proved to be correct later that day when she heard voices from outside. The window looked out onto the yard behind Newydd Hall. Already, the evening sunlight fell onto the Welsh mountains and shadows were gathering in the fields.
Laura’s heart lurched, for there was her sweetheart, Jake Tregarth. He must have heard about Laura and had come to the house – that much was clear. Now he stood there in the yard. A footman and Miss Groom argued with him. All three were gesturing and voices were raised. Immediately, Laura guessed that Jake wanted to see her, only they were refusing him entry into the house. Of course, such a thing wouldn’t be permitted normally – the sweethearts of domestic staff weren’t even allowed onto the premises, but Jake must have been so alarmed, when he heard that something strange had happened to Laura, that he’d raced here after finishing work in the fields.
Laura opened the window. ‘Jake! I’m here!’
Jake’s face lit up when he saw her. ‘Laura,’ he called out. ‘I heard that you were ill … I wanted to see you with my own eyes, but they won’t let me into the house.’
‘Jake, they’ve locked me in here. I can’t get out!’
He tried to approach the house. The housekeeper and footman held up their hands. Both shouted at him, telling him to go back to the village. Jake, however, had worked the land since childhood. He was much stronger than the footman and he easily shoved the man aside. Miss Groom immediately called for help. The plea was quickly answered by the arrival of three burly, muscular men; they acted with brutal swiftness. Two of the men caught Jake by the arms. The third punched Jake in the stomach; the second punch landed on his jaw. The men holding Jake shoved him roughly and he fell to the ground.
Laura couldn’t hear what the men said. However, they pointed at the path that led back to the village: she knew they were telling Jake to leave and not come back.
Jake picked himself up, dusted off his sleeves, and raised his hand to his mouth. Even from here, in the bedroom, Laura saw blood on his fingers. Miss Groom and the men made ‘clear off gestures”’as if shooing away a troublesome dog.
At last, Jake grudgingly walked away. Before entering the forest, he turned, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted: “Laura, I love you, girl! I’ll come back soon! I’ll save you!’
CHAPTER 10
The clock in the hallway downstairs delivered its ponderous chimes. Thomas sat at a table in the bedroom that Victor Denby had provided for him. On the twelfth chime, signifying midnight, Thomas laid down his pen. He’d been writing an account of the day’s events: meeting Inspector Abberline at the London train station, witnessing the arrest of the pickpocket, followed by the journey here to Fairfax Manor where Abberline had begun investigating the death of Sir Alfred Denby with meticulous care. Thomas had written a detailed account and, as this was a popular newspaper that not only informed its readers, but made a point of entertaining them, too, he had described his own emotions – especially those of astonishment when Abberline had pieced together debris in the quarry that enabled him to accurately formulate his conclusion that Sir Alfred had, indeed, been murdered.
Thomas even drew his own artistic impression of the instrument of Sir Alfred’s destruction. That is to say, the way the pistol had been tied to a shelf inside the cupboard where the explosive had been stored. A length of string had been bound to a hook on the inside of the door, and the other end of the string had been tied to the pistol’s trigger. When Sir Alfred opened the door, the twine pulled the trigger and … Thomas wrote in large letters beneath his drawing: BOOM! Though the editor wouldn’t use such an explosive word in the article, it would suggest to the newspaper’s artist, who was a far more skilled illustrator than Thomas, that the drawing should be as dramatic and as exciting as possible.
Even though the article would be both dramatic and exciting, Thomas took a great deal of care to portray Inspector Abberline as being the expert detective that he undoubtedly was. What’s more, the man exercised a great degree of sensitivity and compassion when dealing with a case as tragic as this. After all, a human being had been murdered. The man’s family already grieved that death. Knowing that Sir Alfred had been unlawfully slain would be a terrible shock for the Denby family. Abberline wouldn’t increase their distress if he could help it.
Thomas re-read his article. Yes, he was pleased with what he’d done. However, he felt a degree of impatience. Abberline had made both Thomas and his editor promise not to publish until the case had been concluded. Thomas folded the sheets of paper and eased them into an envelope. He always felt a warm glow of satisfaction when he finished a piece of writing that he judged to be good. Of course, the editor would set to work with his red ink! No doubt adding lurid phrases here and there: Murder most foul! Heinous crimes! Blood carnage! And other vivid terms would soon pepper the carefully rendered account of the day. Never mind, he told himself. This is the most interesting work I’ve done in a long while. Who knows? I might be able turn this story into a whole book.
The notion that he might become Abberline’s biographer was a pleasing one. The butler – he of the grey visage and grey demeanour – had delivered a whisky and soda to Thomas’s room an hour ago. Thomas had postponed the moment of drinking the spirit. This would be his well-earned treat for having finished his article. Thomas turned down the lamp so its brightness yielded to a softer glow. Glass in hand, he took a moment to savour his surroundings as well as the whisky. He’d never before stayed in a house, or a bedroom, as grand as this. His parents were schoolteachers. They occupied the house attached to the school. He’d shared his bedroom with two older brothers, and consequently, because of his junior status, he’d been given a rickety bed, with a mattress that sagged so much in the middle he often dreamt he was being swallowed alive by a gigantic snake.
This bed was huge. Four ornately carved posts supported a canopy from which hung lavish tapestries. He’d found to his discomfort that the drapes were heavy with dust. Just to touch one had released a cloud of particles that sent him into fits of sneezing. On that gargantuan mattress, the butler had laid out a clean nightshirt. Abberline had told Thomas that country houses like this one were accustomed to unexpected guests, so there were always plenty of spare clothes and the necessary accoutrements for upper-class visitors who might arrive not fully equipped for the night. There were was even a silver-backed hair brush and comb set for his use on the dressing table.
‘So this is how aristocrats live their lives,’ he said aloud, and immediately wondered if Abberline heard him talking to himself from his room across the corridor. He, therefore, sealed his lips lest the detective suspect his new companion of lunacy.
Thomas sniffed his glass. The whisky was much stronger than he was used to. Already his head had that light, swimming sensation engendered by alcohol. Then it had been a long day, too. Evening dinner had been a leisurely, drawn out affair, with the butler serving several courses of rich, buttery food. Glasses of port had followed dinner. After that, there’d been brandy in a room occupied by a billiards table.
Thomas listened for a moment, realizing that something was mis
sing. He nodded. The sounds of London are missing. Night and day, he’d hear the rumble of carts on the roads; horses smartly clip-clopping along; the shout of newspaper vendors; men and women talking by the thousand; drunks singing, shouting or fighting; sometimes the urgent sounding of a police constable’s whistle. The music of the city was always there. Here, deep in the English countryside, however, there was silence. Only silence. That absence of sound was unsettling. Almost akin to putting a hand on one’s chest and suddenly realizing the once reliably beating heart had stopped. The silence, which must be equal to that found in a tomb, unnerved him. He downed the rest of the whisky. And wished he hadn’t. His stomach caught fire – or so it felt to him. He poured water into the tumbler from a jug on the nightstand. As he did so, he looked out through the gap he’d left in the curtains. He wanted the light to wake him early, so it wouldn’t appear as if he indulged in the lazy habit of sleeping late.
What he witnessed made him freeze. He held his breath as he saw what was taking place down there at the dead of night. A light moved slowly through the workshop where Sir Alfred had died. Thomas watched a glow appear at each window. Someone was down there. They were carrying a lantern as they walked through the workshop. Thomas didn’t think twice. He hurried downstairs as quietly as he could, left by the back door, and padded across the yard to the workshop.
The cold night air cleared his head instantly. He now realized that this course of action, to rush down to the workshop, wasn’t only impetuous, it was foolhardy. Possibly even dangerous. What if the intruder was Sir Alfred’s killer? Might they be armed? Ten seconds from now he might be lying on the ground with a knife blade jammed between his ribs. He should have woken Abberline.
But it was too late now. He could not retreat; he could not behave like a coward.
Thomas Lloyd, a reporter for the Pictorial Evening News, took a deep breath, marched into the workshop and shouted as loudly as he could: ‘I am a Scotland Yard detective – and you are under arrest!’
Thomas Lloyd stood panting in the workshop. A figure approached him. The lantern it carried dazzled Thomas so much he couldn’t see whether there was just one intruder or several.
The figure lowered the light, allowing Thomas to make out a face.
‘That was quite an entrance, Thomas.’ Abberline smiled. ‘You do realize, however, that it is a crime to impersonate a police officer?’
‘I thought you … uh … I beg your pardon.’ Thomas blushed, feeling stupid.
Abberline slapped the man on the back. ‘No pardon need be begged, my friend. That was most heroic of you. I like to see a man do the right thing, even if it did mean taking at least one liberty with the law.’
Thomas took a steadying breath. His heart still pounded like fury. Abberline, meanwhile, turned to study the wall at the far end of the workshop. The man was fully dressed and wearing his coat and hat. Evidently, he hadn’t dashed down here on the spur of the moment – as Thomas had just done.
‘One detail has been bothering me,’ Abberline murmured. ‘A humble workshop wouldn’t normally be graced with such fine woodwork as this. See? Oak panels entirely cover this end wall from top to bottom.’
‘The house was built for a rich man. Might not that wealth be reflected in work-a-day buildings such as this?’
‘These oak panels might have once been installed in a drawing room, or a gentleman’s study. Very fine craftsmanship.’
‘And yet only the end wall is faced with wood. The others are bare brick.’
‘Makes one wonder what reason Sir Alfred had for panelling just a single wall so richly, doesn’t it?’ Abberline set the lantern down. He leaned forwards scrutinizing the woodwork from just a few inches or so.
‘What do you see, Inspector?’
‘’Hmm … the explosion caused scorch marks; there are pieces of metal embedded in the oak. Although the wood is so hard and so thick, it weathered the blast surprisingly well. But have you noticed that?’ Abberline tapped the bottom panel with the toe of his shoe.
Thomas crouched down. ‘The blast has pushed the panels backwards by an inch or so.’
‘No … look again. What do you see?’
Thomas examined where the bottom of the panels met the stone floor. ‘Ah, I see … to be precise, one section which is about six feet wide has been knocked back closer to the wall. Yet the other panels are still in place. Oh!’ A shiver of excitement ran down Thomas’s spine. ‘You think there might be something hidden behind the panels?’
‘Shall we take a look for ourselves?’
Thomas pushed the section of panel-work that had been displaced. It refused to budge. ‘This thing is solid as iron.’
‘There’s claw hammer on the windowsill – try that.’
Thomas grabbed the hammer. The only gap where he could insert the claw-part, used to extract nails, was between the floor and the woodwork. He inserted the claw and used the hammer as a lever, aiming to pull the panel forwards. The thing seemed set in stone and still wouldn’t move. Presently, his breath shot out white gusts in the cold night air. ‘It’s no good.’
‘If both of us pull together.’ Abberline crouched down and gripped the hammer’s wooden shaft. Now both men had a firm grip. ‘On the count of three. One, two, three, Pull.’
A loud scrunching noise, followed by a creak.
‘Watch out!’ Thomas looked up as a section of oak that was almost eight feet tall toppled forwards.
He leapt to his feet and raised his hands. The falling slab of oak crashed against his palms. It was immensely heavy … so heavy, in fact, his knees buckled under its weight. Pains shot through his arms to his shoulders.
‘Abberline! Get back!’
The detective had been crouching where he’d helped Thomas with the hammer. Now the immense section of oak threatened to crush the man. Abberline scrambled away as Thomas let out a tremendous yell and threw himself back. The panel slammed to the floor. There was an enormous crash that sounded like an explosion in its own right. Dust filled the air.
‘Are you all right, Thomas?’ The lamplight revealed Abberline’s expression of concern. ‘You’re not hurt?’
‘I’m quite unhurt, Inspector. Thank you. The weight of that thing, though – I thought my arms would break.’
‘It should be me thanking you, Thomas. That panel would have been the death of me if you hadn’t stopped it. You saved my life.’
Both Thomas and Abberline turned to where the section of panel had fallen outwards. The dust had begun to clear and both men stared at what the lamplight revealed.
‘I’ll be damned,’ breathed Thomas in wonder. ‘I can see gods.’
Victor Denby took a great deal of persuading to venture out to the workshop in the middle of the night. He only agreed when Abberline suggested that the gamekeeper stand guard outside, armed with the rifle.
‘What have you found?’ Denby tightened the belt of his dressing gown. The man hated being outdoors. No doubt he expected his brother’s killer would be lurking in the shadows. And, equally, Denby expected to be the next victim.
‘It’s important you see what we’ve found,’ Abberline told him. ‘You might be able to explain what it is.’
Denby approached the void that yawned behind the oak panels in the workshop. Every movement was decidedly reluctant. Thomas expected the man to dash back to the safety of the house at any moment. Nevertheless, Denby did as Abberline requested and nervously looked inside.
‘Great God in Heaven,’ gasped Denby. ‘What the dickens have you found, sir?’
‘I hoped you could tell us, Mr Denby.’
Denby gulped as if the extraordinary spectacle was too much for him. ‘No … this is monstrous … absolutely monstrous. Are you suggesting my brother was responsible for this ghastly display?’
‘I’m not a man with a classical education. My friend here –’ Inspector Abberline nodded at Thoma – is probably better equipped than I to explain.’
Denby wore a dazed expression. What h
e saw was too much to take in.
‘I can’t be absolutely sure at this stage,’ began Thomas. ‘However, concealed behind these panels is a shrine: to be more precise, an altar for the purpose of worshipping pagan gods.’
‘My brother was a God-fearing Christian.’
‘That may be, Mr Denby,’ Abberline said, ‘but for some reason he, himself, seems to have believed that he angered the gods of ancient Rome in some way. Perhaps he thought they’d laid a curse on him. This shrine might have been intended to appease them, and encourage them to lift the evil spell.’
‘Are you mad, sir?’
‘No, I am not.’ Abberline moved the lantern in such a way that the light fell on the shelf that had been concealed behind the panel. ‘But you, yourself, have heard of the Gods of Rome. Local people believe the curse invoked by those gods resulted in the death of your brother.’
‘No … no …. No …’ Denby’s voice became a dry rasp. ‘Roman gods. Curses. You don’t believe in such things, surely?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’ Abberline lifted out a statue that was about a foot tall – the carving depicted a man swathed in robes; goat horns protruded from the head. ‘But it seems as if your brother did. In fact, he was so frightened of pagan gods, and what they might do, he had this shrine built. ‘
Thomas said, ‘Your brother could gain access to the shrine by opening a section of panelling that had been hinged. Of course, it was all so skilfully constructed that anyone venturing into the workshop wouldn’t realize that there was a secret door.’
Abberline nodded. ‘And Sir Alfred took the precaution of painting the glass panes white. By doing that nobody could simply look into this building and see him performing his rituals.’
‘Rituals? Are you suggesting obscene behaviour?’
Abberline spoke with a swift confidence. ‘My friend here tells me that this carving is of Faunus, a deity associated with the great god Pan in Classical mythology. The other figures represent Venus, Mars, Neptune, and the chief god, Jupiter, sometimes known as Jove.’ Abberline played the light over the statues, which stood on a shelf that extended back three feet or so to the actual inner-wall. ‘There are also bowls. These contain residues of liquid, most likely wine. There are decomposing food-stuffs, such as bread, apples, oranges, and in the largest of the bowls there is a cockerel. See, it’s covered with feathers … the head is missing and there’s plenty of dried blood in the bottom of the bowl.’
