The Haunting of Briarwych Church

by Amy Cross

  I make to go after her, but something holds me back and within a couple of seconds she has entirely disappeared from view around the far corner.

  Turning, I look into the public house and see that the locals are once again talking loudly and merrily at the bar, as if they're amused by everything that Lizzy just said. A moment later the laughter builds to a crescendo, and somewhere in the throng of voices I hear some light-hearted jokes about how Lizzy should get back to the kitchen and stop bothering men while they're drinking. I want to go storming in there and to tell these oafs that they'd be better off listening to her, but once again I restrain myself. I am in no position to go making enemies here in Briarwych, and that – perhaps more than anything else – is why my role here is becoming increasingly untenable.

  I step back, retreating from the window, and then I turn and start making my way back toward the church. Tomorrow I journey to London for a couple of nights. I have told Lizzy that I am merely going to complete some business, but I have not been entirely honest with her. In truth, I have another aim entirely.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The English countryside flashes past as I sit staring out of the train window. Occasionally I spot a distant village or hamlet, sometimes even a church spire, and I am reminded of all the great traditions that keep this country alive. Each of those spires marks a church, and in most of those churches there will be a priest – a man very much like myself – who provides comfort and guidance to his flock.

  Yet as the train continues to hurtle toward London, I cannot escape a feeling of great inadequacy, as I reflect upon the fact that after almost two months I have helped nobody at all in Briarwych. I am failing in my duty.

  ***

  “It's so good to see you, Lionel,” Bishop Carmichael says as he shuffles slowly across his office. “Things haven't been the same around here since we punted you off to that little shire in the middle of nowhere. I'd almost go so far as to say that your presence has been greatly missed. Almost.”

  At that little joke, he chuckles.

  “You are too kind,” I reply, as I see that – as usual – Bishop Carmichael's desk is absolutely covered in piles upon piles of paperwork. How the man ever gets anything done, I cannot imagine. “I am sure that everything is in hand here.”

  A bus roars past the building, rattling the windows; a useful reminder, were a reminder needed, that even in wartime London remains a loud place. Why, if German bombers could be guided to their targets by sound alone, this great city would surely be blown to oblivion every single night. How I miss the quiet solitude of the English countryside.

  “So how go things in your new parish?” Bishop Carmichael asks as he takes a seat. Reaching out, he picks up one of his files, although in the process he sends several others sliding off and clattering to the floor. “Oh dear.”

  “Let me,” I reply, heading over and reaching down, then setting the files back on the desk, hopefully a little less precariously this time.

  “What's the name of your new place again?” he continues. “Bowelwych, something like that? Bowelford?”

  “Briarwych,” I remind him, as I get back to my feet, “and I must say, it -”

  Before I can finish, more files slither off the desk and land at my feet. Crouching down, I pick them back up and put them onto the desk. As I do so, I see that these particular files pertain to some land near Coventry. Truly, Bishop Carmichael's work covers a vast area.

  “Briarwych,” Bishop Carmichael muses, as if he hadn't even noticed the paperwork that keeps raining off the sides of his work-space, “that's right. Yes, I remember now. Perkins' old stomping ground. Been vacant for a while before you took the job on, from what I remember. I bet the chaps and chapesses of that parish are glad to have someone around again, aren't they?”

  Unsure as to how I might truthfully answer, I hesitate for a moment. I could say nothing and pretend that my work in Briarwych is an outstanding success, but that would be a lie, not least to myself. I must be honest and confess my failings.

  “Actually,” I say cautiously, “I must confess that my reasons for coming here today are not entirely positive. I am reluctant to trouble you, but I have been in Briarwych for some time now and I cannot say that things are going entirely well. In fact, I have barely managed to attract more than half a dozen parishioners to any one of my sermons, and matters are showing no signs of improvement. I am beginning to think that -”

  Suddenly some more papers come crashing down.

  “Beginning to think what?” Bishop Carmichael mutters, barely managing a glance at the mess before looking back at a book on the desk. “Did something fall?”

  “You have said it yourself in the past,” I point out, as I crouch down and once again start gathering the papers back up, “that sometimes a man is simply sent to the wrong place at the wrong time. I know you had trouble filling the vacancy after Father Perkins' departure, and I do not for one moment wish to cause difficulties at what must be an awkward time, but it is becoming clear to me that I might not be the man for this particular job.”

  Reaching up, I start carefully balancing the papers on the desk. A couple immediately slide back down, hitting me in the face, although I manage to put them back into place without letting them hit the floor again. As I do so, I see that these particular papers refer to parishes in the Kent and East Sussex regions.

  Getting to my feet, I take a moment to brush myself down.

  “I was wondering,” I continue, “whether there might be a man who is more suitable to this particular task.”

  “Picking up papers?”

  “Tending to the flock at Briarwych.”

  He looks up at me.

  “Are you saying that you're giving up, Father Loveford?” He adjusts his spectacles. “Are you, as they say, throwing in the proverbial towel?”

  “Not giving up,” I reply, trying to choose my words with care, “more... I suppose I'm trying to think about what's best for the people of that little village. If I'm not meeting their needs, then perhaps there is somebody else who would be better suited to the task.”

  Another file almost falls off the desk, but this time I am quick enough to catch it in time. Looking down, I see that these files concern some parishes in Cornwall, around the Falmouth and Helston area.

  “And is this your sole reason for coming to London today, Father Loveford?” Bishop Carmichael asks, removing his spectacles as he leans back in his chair. The leather creaks beneath his weight. “To confess your so-called failure and to beg for somebody else to take your burden? You wish to be relieved of your duty?”

  “My original plan was to collect a few cases that I left behind when I departed,” I reply, “but as it happens, the timing is... I mean, it would seem to me that somebody else might gain the truth of the local population in Briarwych. For whatever reason, they have taken against me and I see no way to repair the damage.”

  I wait, but he merely continues to stare at me.

  “I have failed,” I add finally, hoping to underline my point and to make it clear that something must be done. “There, I said it. I have failed in Briarwych, and I am humbly requesting a new placement.”

  Again I wait, and again he simply watches me.

  “I am truly sorry,” I continue, “for having not lived up to your faith in me.”

  I wait.

  No answer.

  “Perhaps I would be better served here, in administration,” I suggest.

  Again, he simply stares at me.

  “Anything, really,” I add, starting to feel a little desperate. “Anything except going back to that place.”

  I wait.

  He stares at me.

  And then, finally, he looks down at his papers and mumbles something that I don't quite make out.

  I wait.

  “I'm afraid,” I say after a moment, “that I didn't quite -”

  “I said it's quite out of the question,” he grumbles. “You're no quitter, Loveford. I won't a
llow it.”

  “But if it's in the best interests of the -”

  “And they need you at the RAF base,” he says suddenly, cutting me off. “That's the truth of it, Loveford. After the rigmarole with Perkins a while back, nobody was particularly keen to send another man to Briarwych. But the brave men at the RAF base need a priest, and they won't have one permanently stationed at the airbase. A compromise is to have somebody at Briarwych, but in all honesty it's the airbase that needs you.”

  “But if -”

  “So don't worry too much about the village,” he continues. “Be ready for when they need you out at the airbase, and in the meantime try not to cause too much trouble among the local population. That's your job out there, Loveford, and I'm sure you can manage it. Carry on with your services, speak to those who wish to be spoken to, and make the best possible use of the rest of your time.”

  “Is that it?” I ask. “I am just to sit around, on call for the airbase?”

  “Some people would kill for such an easy assignment,” he replies, as he puts his spectacles back on and returns his attention to his notes. “And it won't be easy, not always. Now don't rock the boat, dear chap. If you don't have anything else to talk about, I'm afraid that I'm terribly busy at the moment. In case you hadn't noticed, there is still a war going on.”

  I open my mouth to ask him again for a transfer, but I know Bishop Carmichael well enough to understand that when his mind is made up, there is no use trying to dissuade him. Instead, then, I take a step back, only for more files to immediately slip to the floor. I almost leave them there, but then I reach down and pick them up, only to hesitate as I see that one of the files bears the names of my predecessor, Father Perkins. A moment later, I see several sealed envelopes slipping out of one side, with Bishop Carmichael's name written on the front of each in the same ragged handwriting.

  Taking out the small bundle of letters, I see that they are indeed all addressed in a scrawled text. A postmark shows that all of these letters were sent from somewhere named Huntingford Asylum in the EC1 part of London.

  “Might I ask what these pertain to?” I say, turning to Bishop Carmichael.

  “Eh?” He looks at the file, and then he rolls his eyes. “Oh, that nonsense. There's a chap at some lunatic asylum who keeps writing to us, claiming to have been in the army with Perkins. He wants somebody to go and see him, he says he was with Perkins when the poor chap bought it.”

  “And has anybody been to see him?”

  “Of course not,” Bishop Carmichael scoffs. “The man's obviously a lunatic, else why would he be in an asylum? I don't have time to talk to lunatics. I have enough trouble with Archbishop Clercy.”

  Slipping one of the opened letters out, I glance at the name at the bottom.

  “Francis Townley,” I whisper, before putting the file back onto the table and taking a step back.

  “Now clear off, Loveford,” Bishop Carmichael continues. “No offense, but I've got to finish this letter to the bloody Prime Minister. I can't personally stand the man, so it's all I can manage to hold a polite tone.” He glances at me one more time. “And get back to Briarwych as soon as you can, eh? Those poor lads at the airbase will need you at some point, you know. When they do, you'll understand the real reason why you have to be down in that neck of the woods.”

  I know that he's right. And yet, as I leave his office, I cannot help but think about my predecessor in Briarwych. I would dearly like to get Father Perkins' opinion on the village, but of course that is impossible. Perhaps, however, a visit to Huntingford Asylum might be in order.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Thank you again for storing these cases,” I say to Mrs. Wellesley as I pick up the two suitcases that, for the past six weeks, have resided here in my old boarding house on Jamaica Road. “I hope they weren't too much of an inconvenience.”

  “Not at all, Father,” she replies with a smile. “It's good to see you again, although I wish you could stay for longer. Are you really taking the train back already this evening?”

  “I am,” I tell her. “At six o'clock, as it happens.”

  “I thought you were staying a night or two?”

  “My plans have changed. I must get back to Briarwych, and the last train is at six.”

  “That's a fair few hours away,” she points out. “Are you sure you don't have time to sit and enjoy a cup of tea before you leave?”

  “That's a very kind offer,” I reply, “and ordinarily I would be pleased to accept, but I have one other visit I must make while I am here. It's a place quite close to the train station, so it won't be too far out of my way. A last-minute addition to my itinerary, you might say.”

  ***

  “Go on, get out of here!” a man screams, as a young boy races along the street with a package under his arm. He runs so fast, he almost slams straight into me, and I have to take a step back to avoid him.

  In doing so, however, I almost walk straight into the path of a car, which beeps its horn to warn me. I step back onto the pavement, momentarily dazzled by the sound of so much rushing about, and then I step over to the high, wrought iron gate that has been my target as I have struggled to cross this busy thoroughfare.

  Above, a large sign bears the name of Huntingford Asylum. Beyond that sign there stands a large, formidable gray-stoned building with bars on its windows. Even now, standing here with my suitcases in my hands, I cannot help but feel that I can sense the anguish and despair emanating from within. Even in a time of warfare, what kind of wretched soul ends up in a place like this?

  ***

  “We really don't usually allow visitors outside of regular hours,” the doctor says as he stops at a door and fishes some keys from his pocket, “but we can of course make an exception for a man of the cloth. Besides, poor Frank doesn't get many visitors. Well, none, to tell the truth. I suppose it might be good for him.”

  With that, he unlocks the door and pulls it open, and then he peers into the cell.

  “Are you feeling alright today, Frank?” he asks, as I hear a faint coughing sound coming from inside the room. “Somebody's here to see you. A man from the church, as it happens, so make yourself presentable.”

  From inside the cell, there now comes a ruffling sound.

  In the distance, metal is banging against metal, and voices are calling out. Every few minutes I hear some far-off cry, and it is clear that this place is filled with the most troubled of souls. Would that I had time to visit them all, to perhaps offer them a little understanding and kindness, and to listen to their complaints.

  “Put your britches on,” the doctor says, still looking into the cell. “That's right. Good man.”

  I wait, once again hearing a rustling sound. I can smell something foul, too, and I am beginning to wonder whether the inmates here at Huntingford are being kept in an entirely humane manner.

  “That's better,” the doctor continues, before turning to me. “Frank's completely harmless. He's just traumatized by his experiences in the war, that's all. They keep asking if he can go back to service, but there's simply no way. Some men get broken out there, you see, and there's nothing much that can be done for them. Perhaps it's a kind of weakness, something baked into their souls.” He gestures for me to go into the cell. “Please, Father Loveford. Take all the time that you need. He's not wanted for anything else.”

  I nod, before stepping forward and making my way to the doorway. When I look into the cell, however, I'm shocked to see a man crouched on the bed, feverishly spitting onto his hands and then trying to neaten his unruly hair. The light is low and flies are buzzing around.

  “Don't mind the smell too much,” the doctor whispers to me. “Come to the desk when you're done, and somebody will show you out.”

  I hesitate, horrified by the conditions.

  “I promise you he's harmless,” the doctor adds. “I wouldn't leave you with him otherwise. If he wasn't harmless, he might actually be some use to someone.”

  I
thank him, and then – as he walks away – I remain in the doorway and look at Mr. Frank Townley. Despite the fact that he looks rather dirty, he's clearly attempting to tidy himself up, although his efforts are for the most part rather useless. Still, it's good to see that the man retains a few standards, even if the look in his eyes is somewhat maniacal.

  “Hello Francis,” I say, trying to strike a friendly tone as I wave a few of the flies away. “My name is Father Lionel Loveford, and I -”

  “What do you want from me?” he stammers, his voice barely rising above a series of grunts and groans. “I ain't done nothing wrong. I don't need to confess. Just trying to earn a crust, that's all.”

  “I can of course hear any confession you might want to make,” I tell him, “but that is not why I am here.” I pause, before taking a step into the foul-smelling cell. “It is my understanding that you have written a series of letters to the office of Bishop Carmichael, on the subject of the late Father David Perkins. If you -”

  “Have you come about him?” Francis snaps.

  “Well, I don't know whether you're aware, but Father Perkins tragically died in Ypres a short while ago. He was -”

  “You don't know whether I'm aware?” he gasps, as his eyes open wide with shock. A moment later, he starts laughing. “You don't know whether I'm aware?” he chuckles. “That's priceless, absolutely priceless.” He slams a hand against the side of his bed. “I was there, you daft sod. Forgive the language, Father, but I was there when old Davey died. I was in Ypres with him, I saw the -”

  Suddenly his face twitches, and it takes a moment for him to regather his composure.

  “I was with him,” he continues. “Day in, day out, for the last six months of his life. I knew him better perhaps than any other man.”

  “I hope he was of comfort to you,” I reply, before swatting away a fly that briefly landed on my forehead.