by Shaun Hutson
‘Ah, the ethereal Miss Wheeler,’ Holmes said, smiling wryly. ‘Our Gaelic temptress from the Emerald Isle. She’s a lovely woman. If I was twenty years younger and she wasn’t so choosy I may well be interested myself. Caught your eye, has she? You wouldn’t be the first.’
‘She is very attractive if that doesn’t sound too unprofessional, talking about colleagues that way,’ Mason admitted.‘And she’s been very friendly. She called in over the weekend to help me move in.’
‘Of course, you’ve got the cottage?’
‘Do you live at the school?’
‘Yes. I reside as a prisoner in this place where I am employed.’
‘After thirty-five years, there can’t be much that goes on here that you don’t know about.’
Holmes shrugged.
‘It’s hard to avoid some of what happens, my friend,’ he said, quietly.
‘How well did you know Simon Usher? The guy I replaced. No one seems to want to talk about him.’
Again Holmes shrugged.
‘A personable enough young man,’ he began.
‘Why did he leave?’ Mason enquired.
‘If I knew I’d tell you. I saw him two days before he left. He told me he wanted to speak to me about something but he wouldn’t be specific as far as the subject.’
‘I found some of his things in the cellar of the cottage when I was moving in. There were photos and letters too. Boxes and boxes full of stuff.’
‘Such as?’
‘You can have a look if you want to. You can walk down to the cottage with me later and I’ll show it to you.’
Holmes nodded and got to his feet.
‘There you are.’
The voice made both men turn and, as they did, they saw Nigel Grant advancing towards them. The headmaster’s smile faded slightly when he saw that Holmes was in the process of stubbing out his cigarette.
‘Excuse me, Richard,’ Grant said. ‘I wanted to speak to our new addition about his first day, gather his impressions and see how he’s settling in.’
‘Be my guest, Headmaster,’ Holmes announced. ‘I have work to do anyway.’
‘What about that drink?’ Mason said, raising his eyebrows as he looked at the retreating English teacher.
‘You can come down to the cottage tonight about eight if you want to.’
Holmes nodded.
‘Yes, our drink,’ he intoned. ‘I’ll certainly take you up on that offer.’ Behind Grant’s back he raised his thumb conspiratorially before saying goodbye to the headmaster and disappearing back through the door leading from the high-walled garden.
‘Good to see you making friends with the other staff, Peter,’ Grant enthused. ‘Richard’s one of our more senior staff. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you with any aspect of life and work here at Langley Hill.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ Mason said.
55
‘If my boss sees me I’ll get the sack.’
Charlotte Stone stood beside the table inside the Cottage Loaf café, looking down helplessly at Frank Coulson.
‘I need to speak to you, Charlotte,’ Coulson explained. ‘I saw the e-mails you sent to Amy just before she died. I saw the videos.’ He sighed deeply, almost painfully.‘I know what happened. I need you to tell me why and how it happened.’
‘Mr Coulson, I can’t sit and talk to you,’ Charlie said, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the counter. ‘I’m not allowed to. I’m supposed to be working.’
‘Have you had your break yet?
She looked bemused for a moment.
‘You’re entitled to a break, aren’t you?’ Coulson persisted. ‘Well, take it now. If anyone asks, tell them you’re having your break. You’re having a coffee and you’re having it with me.’ He looked up imploringly at her. ‘Please, Charlie.’
She hesitated a moment then sat down at the table beside him. She put down her order pad, rolled up the sleeves of her tight white blouse and sat forward.
‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.
‘Who’s Andrew Latham?’ Coulson enquired.
‘He goes to Langley Hill, you know that posh boarding school just outside Walston.’
‘How did Amy know him?’ Coulson continued.
‘Him and his mates they come into the town quite a bit, like a lot of those snotty kids do. Some of them are all right but they’re a bit stuck up. Think they’re better than us.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘Amy and I were out one Saturday night. We were having a drink in a pub and Latham and some of the others came in and started talking to us.’
‘Which pub?’ Coulson interrupted.
‘The Vine. Latham said he always goes in there. They have live music on Saturday nights.’
‘I know the one,’ Coulson interjected again. ‘Was that the first time you’d met him?’
Charlie nodded.
‘He seemed all right,’ she went on. ‘He was chatting to us and he had two girls with him, really pretty girls. They were dressed in designer stuff and they were telling us about their lives when they were at home and where they went for their holidays and all that. We thought it was great. Really interesting. Nothing like our lives.’ She smiled thinly, almost sadly. ‘They stayed with us all night, buying us drinks and that. We agreed to meet up with them there the next week.That was when Latham invited us to this party he said they were having up at the school.’
Coulson listened intently.
‘He told us that they could do what they liked up there as long as they didn’t disturb the teachers,’ Charlie continued. ‘So we went along.’
‘What happened?’
Charlie hesitated, swallowing hard. She began picking nervously at her fingernails, not so eager to make eye contact with Coulson any more.
‘Charlie,’ Coulson insisted. ‘Was that when the video was shot?’
‘No,’ she said, quickly. ‘Not that first time.’
‘So tell me what happened the first time.’
‘Me and Amy both had too much to drink,’ she sighed. ‘They had drugs there too. Coke and ecstasy. We took some.’ She looked at him guiltily. ‘We’d tried it before. Things happened. I mean, we were both off our faces.’ She glanced down as if unable to look at him. ‘Amy told me afterwards that she really liked Andrew Latham. She saw him two or three more times after that. Not proper dates but, well, you know.’
‘She was sleeping with him?’ Coulson stated, flatly.
Charlie nodded.
‘He told her he’d let her meet his parents,’ she breathed. ‘That he’d take her on holiday with him, buy her expensive things. All that kind of shit. I couldn’t believe that Amy fell for it but she really liked him.’
Coulson briefly clenched his fists under the table.
‘So when was the video shot?’ he asked through clenched teeth.
‘I don’t know. He invited us to another party up there but I couldn’t make it, I had to see my nan that night - she wasn’t well. I told Amy not to go but she really fancied Latham. She said she’d go on her own.That must have been when it happened. She would have done anything for him, Mr Coulson, and he knew that. He just took advantage of her. They all did. I’m really sorry.’ ‘It’s not your fault, Charlie.’
They sat in silence for a moment then Coulson looked up wearily.
‘What about the others?’ he said. ‘There were others in the video and you said that Latham had two girls with him the first time you met him. What do you know about them?’
‘Only their names. Sammi Bell and Jo Campbell. I don’t know who the others were in the video.’ Her voice tailed off. ‘You’d have to ask Latham.’
‘I intend to,’ breathed Coulson.
They sat looking awkwardly at each other for a moment longer then Charlie got to her feet.
‘I’d better get back to work,’ she said, apologetically.
Coulson nodded.
‘Just one more thing, Charlie,’ he said as she prepared to walk away. ‘I know you we
ren’t there that night but do you think Latham was the one who made the video? I know he put it on the internet but do you know if he filmed it? If he actually held the camera?’
‘That first time we went there they were taking photos too,’ Charlie confessed. ‘On their cameras and with their phones and that but Latham wasn’t doing it. He took some pictures but that was it. Like I said, we were off our faces anyway, when they mentioned doing a video of us we were up for it but it wasn’t Latham who brought the camera in. It was an older woman.’
‘How much older?’
‘She was in her thirties but she was really fit. Blonde haired and really slim. She didn’t join in. She did whatever Latham told her to do.’
‘And you don’t know who she was?’
‘No. She had quite a strong accent though. I think it was Irish. She was the one who filmed us that night.’
56
‘And you found these in the cellar?’ said Richard Holmes, slowly sliding each Polaroid back into the bundle he’d been handed.
‘There’s loads of stuff down there’ Mason told him, sipping from his can of beer. ‘It can’t all be his. There’s too much of it.’
Holmes, now more casually attired in a pair of brown cords, black leather loafers and a voluminous knitted cardigan over his striped shirt, nodded sagely and continued leafing through the pictures. He shifted position on the leather sofa, reaching for his wine glass.
‘Well, I’m not an expert, my friend,’ he murmured, his eyes still fixed on the images before him. ‘Certainly not on the subject of animal killing. What the recently departed Mr Usher is doing with a butchered dog in his garden I have no idea.’
‘Killing the dog’s bad enough. I want to know who he got to take the picture. Any ideas? How well did you know him? Do you know who he was friendly with?’
‘You mean do I know any of his acquaintances who might have been happy to take photos of him standing over a butchered dog?’
‘Yes.’
‘We talked most days,’ Holmes said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s a little hard to avoid one’s colleagues in such a closed environment, as you’ll see, but I didn’t know the details of his private life if that’s what you mean. With him living here, he had more privacy than those of us who have quarters inside the school itself. He could have been up to all sorts and no one would have known.’ Holmes leaned forward and spread some of the pictures of Usher out across the coffee table before him. ‘You said you found some notebooks and papers too. Have you read them yet? I wondered if there might be any clue in those as to what was going on here.’
‘I’ve looked through some of them but I couldn’t find anything useful. It was all inconsequential day-today stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary.’ Mason let out a long breath. ‘Except for one thing. In several places in his notebooks, Usher mentions a name. William Bartholomew. Was that a teacher or pupil at Langley Hill?’
Holmes frowned.
‘In what connection does he mention the name?’ he wanted to know.
‘There’s nothing too specific,’ Mason explained. ‘But there’s usually talk of money with the name.’
‘It doesn’t ring a bell,’ he admitted at first but then he raised his eyebrows and nodded, a smile flickering across his lips. ‘Unless he’s talking about Abbot Bartholomew, God bless him.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Being a history teacher, my boy, I thought you’d have known.’
Holmes drained what was left in his wine glass and replaced the receptacle on the table. Mason refilled it immediately.
‘Abbot William Bartholomew,’ the older man went on, good-naturedly. ‘He was burned in 1535, along with six of his companions.’
‘It wasn’t uncommon for priests or monks to be put to death in that time,’ Mason offered. ‘When Henry VIII ordered the dissolution of the monasteries any clerics who resisted were executed. But that doesn’t explain why Usher would be mentioning a man in his notebooks who died during the Reformation.And why the connection with money?’
‘Perhaps he’d heard about the treasure.’ Holmes drank some more wine. ‘Or the curse.’
‘Now you are taking the piss,’ Mason grunted.
Holmes shrugged.
‘Abbot Bartholomew and his companions weren’t executed by the agents of Henry VIII, they were burned alive by the people of Walston.’
‘Why?’
‘Bartholomew and his cronies were said to be alchemists.’
‘They were trying to turn base metal into gold?’
‘According to local legend, they succeeded.’
‘So why were they burned?’
‘Because they had a slightly different method to everyone else for achieving their aim. Supposedly, they used some kind of sacrificial blood ritual to produce the change from base metal to gold.The secrets of this ritual had supposedly been given to them by God Himself. Apparently it involved the torture and flaying alive of small children.’
‘God recommending the slaughter of kids so that priests can become rich,’ Mason said, laughing.‘Obviously an example of God moving in a mysterious way.’
Holmes nodded, took a sip of his wine and continued.
‘A number of children had gone missing from the local villages and Abbot Bartholomew and his companions were suspected. The locals stormed the monastery and apparently found the bodies of two dozen children hanging from the walls and ceiling of the monastery. All flayed. All with their throats cut and their hearts and entrails removed. They dragged the occupants of the monastery outside and burned them on the spot. Then they razed the place to the ground. Bartholomew and his followers belonged to some kind of order, cult for want of a better word, that believed people could be controlled by the strength of their libido. Manipulated by their sexual desire. Anyone with a particularly strong sexual urge could be controlled. The more powerful the urges, the easier they were to control. None of them ever had sex, naturally, because they were monks. They frowned upon it, not because they disapproved of its earthly pleasure, but because it took away their power. They achieved power through abstinence, if you like.’
‘And they believed that?’ Mason grunted.
‘It’s a noble belief,’ Holmes joked.
‘What about ley lines? The headmaster said the school was built on one.’
‘On two to be exact,’ Holmes corrected him.‘A confluence. Very unusual. But nothing to do with Abbot Bartholomew, I fancy.The poor old fellow can’t be blamed for everything.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’ve been incidents over the years,’ Holmes smiled. ‘In and around the school. None of it conducive to the image of Langley Hill.’
‘What kind of incidents?’
‘When the school was being built there were a number of unexplained accidents involving the workmen here. Three were killed in a period of eighteen months. One reportedly went mad. Ghosts and apparitions were supposedly seen. More rumours. In the thirties, a number of local children went missing from Walston and a teacher here was blamed.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘No one knows. The bodies were never found.’
‘They were murdered?’
‘Rumours and gossip, my friend. During the war a stray German fighter plane crashed in the school grounds. The pilot got out safely but was supposedly caught and hanged from a tree in the grounds by a group of townspeople.They said he’d attacked and raped a local woman.’ Holmes raised his hands. ‘More rumour. More gossip.’
‘What about the monks’ treasure? The gold that Bartholomew supposedly made from base metal. Was it ever found?’
Holmes raised his eyebrows indulgently.
‘A myth,’ he explained. ‘Nothing more.’
‘So why would Usher mention it so many times in his notebooks?’
Holmes could only shrug.
‘Perhaps he heard about it from another member of staff or one of the kids or even someone in the town. As I said, it’s a well-known legend aro
und here.’
‘And the curse?’
‘Stories passed down over the centuries say that Abbot Bartholomew cursed those who burned him. As the flames were licking around him he damned the villagers and all their descendants.’ Holmes raised his hands to head height and wiggled his fingers in Mason’s direction. ‘Spooky, don’t you think?’
