Shepherd's Cross (6 page)

The rest of the village green was
surrounded by a scattering of individual houses on three sides and a small
terraced row of eight houses on the fourth side; the houses all facing inwards,
as if to protect the green space where livestock had once grazed and, as was
becoming apparent to Charlotte and Olivia, where people had once died in the
most grotesque ways imaginable. Emily’s post office was situated at one end of
the terrace; her kitchen window looking directly out onto the green. The green
on which children played; where people walked their dogs and passed the time of
day with friends. The green across which, on many a dark and quiet evening,
people would stumble as they drunkenly made their way back home from The Fallen
Angel. For once, Charlotte and Olivia remained quiet for considerably longer
than usual, their minds imagining how different life must have been back then.

‘So I hope you’ll agree,’ smiled Emily, ‘that
there is more to Shepherd’s Cross than meets the eye. Mind you, burning a few
witches was commonplace back then; indeed you’d be hard pressed in the
seventeenth century to find a village in England that hadn’t encountered at
least one inquisition. But this place does stand out above all the others for
one reason.’

‘Which is?’ asked Olivia, returning to
her seat and finding her voice again.

‘Well, feel free to take this with a
pinch of salt, but there are archived records from a trial held in Newcastle in
1647, which document that on a cold January night, a coven of five witches
descended on Shepherd’s Cross from outside the area. Nobody knew who they were,
but apparently they weren’t your typical group of doddery old women. And
according to one source, they were responsible for several acts of evil far
removed from the usual harmless curses and healing powers attributed to your
average witch. Barns were torched, sheep were slaughtered, and a young girl by
the name of Kathryn Wick went missing; never to be seen again. Perhaps most
bizarrely, although there were few witnesses of sound mind who were prepared to
testify to its verity, was the claim that this unknown quintet of occultists
managed to call forth the Devil himself.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘OK, OK. Now you’re
moving from the sublime to the downright ridiculous! Of all the exotic places
in the world, why would Satan decide to choose Shepherd’s Cross as his holiday
destination? I can think of far more appealing locations – this place is merely
a tiny dot on the map!’

‘I know,’ replied Emily, ‘but it’s
rather an interesting thought, don’t you think? Ladies, I must apologise - the
shop opens in ten minutes and there are a few administrative duties that I need
to attend to. Bronwyn, would you mind finishing the story?’

‘No problem, Emily,’ said Bronwyn. ‘You
carry on.’ Emily thanked her and opened the kitchen door that led to the shop
counter. Bronwyn turned to face the two guests, their faces clearly
disappointed that Emily had handed the baton of authority over to her. The
combination of her beauty and youth were more than adequate threats; they
certainly didn’t require the addition of intelligence to the mix. Nevertheless,
they remained seated and proceeded to listen to what she had to say.

‘In 1647, there lived in Shepherd’s
Cross a young woman by the name of Elizabeth Henshaw, who kept herself
gainfully employed as a seamstress, living in a small room at the back of the
shop where she worked. Her father was a labourer who lived and worked at a farm
not far from here; somewhere out near to where Fellside Hall stands now. The
long, hard winter had managed to get the better of him, and he’d taken to his
bed to recuperate from a fever. On hearing the news of his poor health,
Elizabeth was granted permission by her employer to visit her father at the
farm for a couple of days to care for him; her mother having died several years
earlier of pneumonia.

‘Anyway, she returned to The Cross two
days later and resumed her duties in the shop, seemingly in good health and
reasonable spirits. However, as the week went by, she began to behave in an
increasingly strange manner. The locals noted that she began talking aloud to
herself and making lewd, offensive gestures that were most out of character for
an otherwise gentle-natured girl. When eventually she grew physically tired and
weary on account of her erratic behaviour, she lay down and proceeded to mutter
randomly of events concerning her visit to her father; of how she had witnessed
a gathering of five faceless figures cloaked in black. She claimed to have seen
them standing together in a circle around a fire, taking turns to drink from a
huge ram’s horn as they chanted and burned effigies of Jesus Christ and various
symbols of His Church. The tallest of the black figures left the circle,
returning moments later carrying an object wrapped in a white blanket. Another
of the figures helped unravel the blanket, and to the floor fell a naked young
girl; with tangled hair and dark bruises all over her body. She lay still on
the ground, the beatings so severe as to have rendered her unconscious.
Elizabeth swore blind that the girl was Kathryn Wick, who only three days
earlier had gone missing from her home in The Cross. Records show she was only
six years old when she disappeared.’

Charlotte and Olivia sat silently in
their chairs, hanging on every word as Bronwyn continued. ‘I’m afraid what
happened next may not be easy for you to take on board. Stop me if you’ve heard
enough; I’m only recalling what was documented at the time, but it doesn’t make
for easy listening. According to Elizabeth, the little girl was then lifted
from the ground by the tallest figure and held directly above the fire by her
ankles. One of the others reached into his cloak and pulled out a long knife
with a curved blade like the head of a scythe. A brief, hysterical frenzy then
broke out amongst the gathering, following which the blade came down and
decapitated the girl, her severed head and body being plunged into the fire. 
Elizabeth then claimed that a grotesque, horned animal emerged from the flames;
speaking in a foreign tongue, standing at least ten feet tall and with a face
that could only be that of Satan himself. What happened next has been the
subject of drunken speculation for the past three hundred and fifty years.
Nobody will ever know for sure how the story ended.’

‘Why?’ asked Olivia. ‘Was the rest of
Elizabeth’s evidence lost?’

‘No, the records are all intact.
Elizabeth simply passed out with fear. Following her statement, a group of men
from the village, including the father of Kathryn Wick, marched directly up to
the farm, intent on seeing for themselves what had happened. And they were
hell-bent on revenge. Many of them had good cause to seek justice; like Emily
said earlier, there’d been a series of dreadful crimes in the village; two
barns had been torched and several of the men had come across the slaughtered
remains of their sheep. Someone had to pay.’

‘What did they find when they reached
the farm?’ asked Charlotte.

‘They didn’t find anything. Not even the
slightest piece of evidence to corroborate Elizabeth’s story; it was like she
had made everything up from start to finish. There was no trace of Kathryn, the
five cloaked strangers, or the fire. When the men returned to The Cross, they
were called by their wives to the bed of Elizabeth, where accounts state she
was found laughing hysterically and foaming at the mouth as if she were
possessed; the bed rocking and shaking on its feet.’

‘It sounds like a scene from
The
Exorcist
,’ laughed Olivia, relieved at the opportunity to lighten the mood
slightly.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ remarked Bronwyn,
checking the clock on the wall and noting that it was almost 1.30pm. She would
have to get back to the Youth Hostel to sign for an afternoon delivery she was
expecting. ‘But I’m afraid what happened to poor Elizabeth was real enough. The
villagers wanted their revenge, and they got what they wanted when the Magistrate
accused Elizabeth of being in league with the Devil. She had outright refused
when ordered to recount the Lord’s Prayer, choosing instead to raise her
nightgown above her head and flaunt her naked body to everyone in the room. She
was immediately found guilty of being a witch, as well as for all of the other
recent crimes, including the murder of Kathryn Wick. The following day she was
taken to the Village Green behind us and burned at the stake. As she died, she
began to say the Lord’s Prayer; but it wasn’t long before the screaming began.
She was the last woman in Shepherd’s Cross to be executed for witchcraft; the
last woman in northern England, as it happens. And here’s an interesting fact
for you: on your way home this afternoon, if you feel like taking a short
diversion through the cemetery of All Saint’s Church, you’ll be able to find a
headstone near the west wall in memory of Kathryn Wick, whose body was never
found.’

Emily walked into the kitchen, having
kept the adjoining door open to allow her to listen in to the conversation as
she prepared for opening time. ‘Well, I hope we haven’t bored you?’ she asked. ‘Like
I said, there’s a great deal lying beneath the surface of The Cross.’

‘There certainly is,’ said Charlotte. ‘And
thank you ever so much for inviting us over here. But there’s one thing still
puzzling me. Do you think Elizabeth was a witch? And if so, do you think she
carried out the crimes and made up the whole story about the farm and what
happened up there?’

‘I guess we’ll never know,’ replied
Emily. ‘But I doubt she was a witch. She’d more likely caught a fever from her
father and was hallucinating. Life was much harder in those days; they didn't
have the medicines we have now. Besides,’ Emily smiled, winking at Bronwyn, ‘I
didn’t think you believed in all that mumbo-jumbo?’

‘But at the very least she must have
been completely bonkers,’ said Olivia. ‘I mean, to have made up that story
about the Devil and throwing a dead girl into the fire.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Emily said. ‘But something
very similar to the alleged events of that night in 1647 was reported to have
happened up at Fellside Hall nearly a hundred years ago. But that, ladies, is
another story for another day.’

The tinkling of the bell above the Post
Office door signalled it was time for everyone to go their separate ways: Emily
to her customers, Bronwyn to her delivery; and Charlotte and Olivia to the west
wall of All Saints’ Church.

1.30pm:
Ted Wilson made no attempt to avert his eyes from the ample breasts of his
secretary as she stood up to take her coat from the mahogany stand by the door.
What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on those two puppies
, he thought to
himself, knowing fine well that he had a snowball’s chance in Hell of actually
doing so. She buttoned up her coat and bent down to retrieve her handbag that
she kept under her desk. Ted smiled at her; he hadn’t employed her solely for
her looks, but coming in to work every morning was considerably less arduous
when you could ogle your secretary’s curvy backside every time her head was
turned.

‘Right, Mr Wilson, that’s me done for
the day.’ She had requested the afternoon off; some friends were travelling
over to Newcastle for a night out and she needed time to doll herself up. ‘I’ve
left the Herdman file on your desk for you to check, and I’ve prepared a list
of tradesmen for your client at Fellside Hall to consider. Oh, and I’ll take
these letters with me and post them on the way home. Have a nice weekend, Mr
Wilson. See you Monday.’

‘Thanks, Stephanie, and you have a
lovely weekend too. And listen – you stay away from any nasty young men, do you
hear?  Lads under thirty have only got one thing on their mind!’ She smiled at
him and walked out, waving to him without looking back as she closed the door
behind her; rushing off down the path to the exciting night that lay ahead.
Who
are you trying to kid
, he thought,
you’re pushing sixty and you’ve still
only got one thing on your mind.

He was standing in the front office of
his land agency, which was located next to Turner’s General Store on one of the
four lanes that led from each corner of the village green like spokes from a
hub. His business had been passed down to him from his father, who in turn had
inherited it from his own father. For almost a century, the Wilsons had looked
after the property interests of almost every farmer, businessman and resident
within a radius of at least ten miles of Shepherd’s Cross. He knew the
boundaries of every farm and strip of land in the area, having been involved in
more legal disputes over ownership than he cared to remember. It was fair to
say, that while he wasn’t a very popular man (he was widely reputed to have
saved the first penny he’d earned), he was someone you would rather have
fighting your corner than your enemy’s. His love for making money was only
surpassed by his fear of spending it; his fees being widely reputed to being
akin to daylight robbery. Nobody knew how much he was worth, but he was
undoubtedly one of the wealthiest men for miles around.

He had a relatively quiet afternoon
lined up ahead of him: there were some plans to check over for Mr Herdman of
Eliza Farm and a few bits of paperwork to deal with; nevertheless, he expected
to complete his business in such time as to allow him an early finish. Not that
there was a Mrs Wilson waiting for him at home – his miserly disposition had
failed throughout the years to endear him to the opposite sex.

As soon as he turned his back on the
front door and started walking towards his office at the rear of the building,
he heard the door open behind him and the familiar voice of Sergeant Jennings
as he entered with PC Cara Jones. ‘Afternoon, Ted. How are you?’

‘Ted, Cara, how lovely to see you both’
he said. ‘Won’t you come in. Would you care for a drink?’ He wasn’t overly
surprised to see them; the nature of his work meant he was frequently employed
in resolving disputes that required the involvement of the Police.

‘Very kind of you, Ted, but we’re not
staying long. We’re on our way up to Fellside Hall to welcome its new arrivals,
but I thought we’d call by here first on the off-chance that you might know
something about it. You still have something to do with that place, don’t you?’

Wilson sighed and nodded. ‘Aye, I’ve
been dealing with it, but to be honest it’s proving more hassle than it’s
worth.’ He waved his arm in the general direction of two chairs. ‘Please, take
a seat and I’ll tell you what I know, not that there’s much to tell.’

Cara and Jennings sat down as Wilson
selected and withdrew a folder from the grey filing cabinet that ran along the
entire length of one wall, placing it on the table in front of them. Removing
the elastic ribbon that held it together, he opened the file and pulled out an
official-looking letter. At the top of the page was a simple logo with the
letters UCL printed beside it, reinforced underneath with the words
Institute
of Archaeology, University College London.
There were a few neatly-typed
paragraphs, below which was the immaculate signature of a
Professor Benedict
Blackmoor – Department of Archaeological History
.

‘I received this letter in October last
year,’ Wilson said, ‘Some further correspondence followed it, but it wasn’t
until yesterday that I met with the person who sent it.’

‘That must have been who Frank Gowland
saw you driving off with,’ said Jennings. ‘He told me he’d seen you talking to
two important-looking characters.’

‘Bloody Frank Gowland – he couldn’t hold
a glass of water!’ laughed Wilson. ‘But he’s right. They arrived yesterday; two
gentlemen from University College London - Professor Benedict Blackmoor and his
research assistant, Dr Reuben King. As the letter says, they’re archaeological
historians; apparently they specialise in the history of the Roman Empire.
They’ve come up here to study some of the old Roman forts scattered along
Hadrian’s Wall. I’ve no idea how long they are planning to stay, but I reckon
they’re here for a few months at least.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Cara.

‘They’re wanting some work doing on the
Hall. Quite a bit of work, considering the list of tradesmen they’ve asked me
to prepare. God knows why – it’ll cost them a fortune. But no bugger else has
shown any interest in the place, so who am I to refuse them? As the saying goes,
a fool is soon parted from his money.’

‘But of all places, why the hell do they
want to stay there?’ asked Jennings. ‘There are any number of good hotels to
choose from along Hadrian’s Wall. Fellside Hall is a bloody wreck; there’s no
heating, or electricity. And Christ knows what it’ll take to get the water
working again. Not exactly bursting with home comforts. You must have asked
them why?’

‘Aye, I did. Apparently they spend
considerable time away at various digs, tracing the archaeology of the Empire
wherever it takes them. And wherever they go, they like to stay in old
properties – castles, forts, old manor houses…that type of thing. They told me
that their work deals with buildings and places from times that have long since
passed, and that aside from having little interest in modern architecture,
staying in a Holiday Inn just wouldn’t be in keeping with their line of work. And
they
are
spending some money on it to make it more comfortable, although
it seems like a waste to me. They’re only renting it on a month by month basis.’

‘Hmmm...I suppose it’s vaguely plausible,’
said Jennings. ‘All the same, I think we should call by to introduce ourselves
and let them know that their ‘friendly’ local Police force is keeping an eye on
them.’

Cara nodded in agreement. ‘One more
thing, Ted. When we walked in here, you told us that dealing with them is
giving you more hassle than it’s worth. Any particular reason?’

Ted heaved a heavy sigh. ‘I don’t know,
maybe I’m just getting lazy in my old age; but my job tends to be mainly
dealing with the negotiation of leases and particulars of legal agreements, or
disagreements, as is often the case. I don’t like getting involved in sorting
out tradesmen and deliveries and God knows what else. Even this morning, I
arranged for a trailer load of firewood to be sent up there. And I’m not even
getting a kickback for it! I’m not sure why, but I feel under pressure to be
more involved with these particular tenants than I would normally be. It’s as
if they’ve suckered me into becoming some sort of go-between. That’s what you
get for being too helpful – you give someone an inch and they take a mile.’

‘It’s not like you to be so soft,’
Jennings said. ‘What with all the wrangling with lawyers that you’ve had down
the years, you must be one of the toughest people I know!’

Wilson laughed, accepting the jibe. ‘I
am, and don’t you dare tell anyone otherwise. But these two, I don’t what it is
about them, but they have a way about them that somehow draws you in and makes
you want to be more obliging than you otherwise might be. I’d be interested to
know what you think about them – maybe it’s just me.’

Cara and Jennings stood up to leave. ‘Well,’
said Jennings, ‘we’re heading up there now. I’m certainly curious to meet them.
They sound like a couple of harmless eccentric academics to me. If you’re in
The Fallen Angel later, I’ll let you know how I get on.’

‘Aye. I’ll definitely be there. The
snow’s forecast to arrive this afternoon; perfect weather for a few brandies by
the fire.’

‘Thanks for your help, Ted,’ said Cara. ‘You
have a good weekend.’ Jennings was standing at the door, holding it open for
her. She smiled as she passed by him to acknowledge the gesture. One thing was
certain; Jennings wasn’t the only person curious to meet the new arrivals.