Shepherd's Cross (7 page)

1.45pm:
Three years had passed since the gnarled finger of winter had pointed at
Shepherd’s Cross; a rare gesture of mercy considering her characteristic
indifference to the prayers of the hill farmer, whose fortune rose and fell
with the vagaries of the elements. For three years, her kindness had spared the
sheep from the ravages of suffocating snow drifts and freezing temperatures. It
was only a matter of time, however, until winter’s generosity waned; for those
who dwelled on higher ground understood only too well the bitterness of her
breath when it blew across the land.

And so it was, on that Friday afternoon
in January, that snow began to fall on Shepherd’s Cross.

It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone;
the Met Office had forecasted that North East England in general, and the
western side of County Durham in particular, was likely to experience four to
five days of moderate to heavy snowfall. The Local Authority had dispatched its
fleet of trucks to spread salt and grit along the main arterial routes around
the county, but successive years of budget cuts had limited their reach to all
but the busiest of roads. In order for the residents of Shepherd’s Cross to
travel to or from their village, they would be obliged to make their own way
along eight miles of undulating and twisting country lanes, where eventually
they could join a road of any significance to the wider population. The farmers
would help out where they could, ploughing the worst of the snow to the side of
the road to enable the more capable four wheel drive vehicles to pass through,
but their primary concern was for the safety and wellbeing of their flocks;
everything else came second.

Shepherd’s Cross was no stranger to
enforced periods of isolation; its remoteness making it a requirement for
anyone who made it their home to be of an independent, self-reliant
disposition. Recent winters were generally less severe than those of years gone
by, where the reservoirs would freeze and the snow would last for weeks on end,
but even now, it was not uncommon for the village to be cut off from the
outside world for several days at a time. The Cross’s location meant there was
no possibility of picking up a mobile phone signal, and the rapid spread of
broadband internet had yet to reach the more rural parts of the county. Many of
the villagers hoped it would stay that way; for them, change was an unwelcome
visitor.

Challenging times tended to bring the
community together – the young would help the old, the healthy would help the
sick; the importance of looking out for one’s fellow man was never more
apparent than when set against the harsh backdrop of a wild winter. And while
the professional weather watchers were not predicting anything of apocalyptic
proportions, there was a strong possibility over the coming days of at least
some disruption to the predictability of everyday life.

In the event of such disruption, it
remained to be seen how willing this tight-knit community would be in extending
the hand of friendship to the residents of Rowan Lane.

2.00pm:
Sergeant Jennings and PC Jones drove up to the tall, wrought-iron gates that
guarded the entrance to the grounds of Fellside Hall. Cara was immediately
struck by how intimidating they were, far more likely to threaten visitors than
to welcome them. From the information Ted had provided, she had no reason to be
afraid of coming up here, and part of her was actually quite looking forward to
it; but a nagging voice inside her head kept telling her that it would be wise
to be cautious.

‘Well, here we are,’ said Jennings. ‘Stay
in the car - I’ll open the gates.’ He opened the passenger door and climbed
out; Cara leaving the engine running to keep the heating on. There was no
padlock on the gate, so he slid the bar out of its fastening and pushed one of
the gates away from the car towards the grass verge, returning to do the same
with the other one. He returned to the car, closing the door and immediately
turning the heating up, rubbing his hands together in front of the fan. ‘It’s
bloody freezing out there,’ he said ‘Come on - let’s get this over with so we
can get back to the Station before the weather gets any worse.’

Cara released the handbrake and set off slowly
along the narrow driveway, which was lined on either side by two rows of
dishevelled silver birch trees; their knotted trunks and contorted branches
making them appear like ragged sentinels, silently but menacingly keeping watch
over whoever dared pass between them. Cara couldn’t see anybody outside, but
she had a powerful feeling they were not alone. As they neared a bend in the
weed-strewn track, her eyes rested on two enormous, jet-black ravens, perched
on a hanging branch up ahead; as still as ebony statues as they stared
indifferently at the approaching car. They remained perched on the branch as
she drove under them, and as she rounded the bend, she checked her rear view
mirror, only to find that they had both disappeared without trace.

‘Is it just me, Sarge, or is this place
giving you the creeps too?’ she asked. ‘Did you see the size of those two
ravens?’

‘I did.’

‘Mind you, it doesn’t help that I can’t
get that story you told me this morning out of my head.’

‘PC Jones – I never had you down for a
scaredy-cat,’ Jennings said. ‘Although I have to agree with you: it’s not
exactly Disneyworld. But if the drive along here’s giving you the creeps, wait
until we get round this bend…’

As the bend began to straighten out, the
trees became fewer in number, suggesting that they were drawing nearer to their
destination. After a further fifty yards or so, they emerged into a clearing,
at which point Cara gasped and slammed her foot on the brake, the car skidding
abruptly to a halt. In front of them was a lake, or rather what would have been
a lake had its former glory not been ravaged by time. The undefended invasion
of unkempt reeds and wild vegetation had spread across the water like an
incurable virus; turning it into nothing more than a foul, impenetrable swamp.
But Cara wasn’t looking at the lake. She was fixated with what stood beyond it;
its battered carcass protruding from the ground like a huge, neglected gravestone,
its windowless face staring at her, like that of a rotting corpse whose eyes
had long since been gnawed through and consumed by worms. As she sat there,
magnetised by the dark, crumbling monstrosity in front of her, she knew only
too well that she would never be able to erase from her memory the time she
first came face to face with Fellside Hall.

‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ remarked
Jennings, noticing the impact the house had made on his deputy. ‘It’s not
surprising that I’ve hardly ever been called out here – even the Carter boys
would be wary of choosing this place as their hangout. It doesn’t strike you as
the kind of stomping ground that would appeal to kids, although you do get the
odd disturbance now and again.’

‘It just looks so…so scary. Like one of
those haunted mansions from the
Hammer House of Horror
films they used
to show on a Friday night. And it doesn’t improve matters when you think about
that bastard Lord Byrne and what he got up to here with those poor boys. And
the devil worship and black magic; Christ, I’d almost forgotten about that!’

‘Perhaps you now understand why I’m so gobsmacked
that anyone in their right mind would want to live here?’

Cara nodded and breathed in a deep
lungful of air, before releasing the handbrake and setting off. It wasn’t long
before they arrived at the Hall and parked alongside the immaculate Range Rover
that Frank Gowland had spotted the day before. Cara turned off the ignition and
looked at Jennings. ‘If these two turn out to be gun-toting drug barons, I’ll
blame you!’

‘Fair enough,’ he replied, ‘but I reckon
you might find yourself rather disappointed if you’re hoping for that kind of
excitement. Besides, all we’re here for is to welcome our new guests and to let
them know that Shepherd’s Cross is home to a highly intelligent, fearless crime
fighting unit, ready to leap into action at any given moment; as long as
they’ve had their tea-break first.’

‘Wow…who might they be then?’ Cara’s
question caused both Police officers to burst out laughing; the kind of
uncontrollable, childlike laughter that causes tears to stream down your face.
It must have taken over a minute before they managed to compose themselves; the
officers relieved to have quashed some of the tension that had been
accumulating from the moment they had pulled up to the gates. With lighter
hearts, they climbed out of the car and walked up to the front entrance.
Jennings reached out and gripped the iron knocker, hammering it three times
against the solid oak door. They stood there, waiting patiently for it to be
answered.

Cara saw a face appear at a broken
window on the first floor, staring down at them but retreating back into the
darkness when it realised it had been seen. Jennings knocked again, whispering
to Cara ‘I’ll give them ten seconds to open this door or I’ll kick the bugger
in; I’m dying of hyperthermia out here!’

Fortunately for the door, it was to be
spared Jennings’s boot; the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard approaching
from the other side almost immediately after he’d delivered his threat. A metal
bolt clunked loudly as it slid to the end of its frame, and the door opened
slowly inwards. Cara and Jennings both spontaneously stepped backwards, unsure
as to who was standing behind it. Jennings removed his glasses to wipe the snow
away, and when he replaced them there stood before him a short, heavy-set man
dressed in a pair of navy blue overalls, bald as a cue ball and wearing the
kind of expression that suggested he wasn’t to be messed with. In his right
hand he was holding a hammer, a jar of nails in his left.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked, a strong,
Kentish accent evident from his deep, gravelly voice.

‘Sorry to trouble you, sir,’ replied
Jennings. ‘I’m Sergeant Brian Jennings, and this is Police Constable Cara
Jones. I noticed smoke coming from the chimney here this morning and was
curious as to who was up here. We’re in charge of policing the local area, so I
thought we’d drop by to introduce ourselves. I can see that you’re obviously
busy, so if you’d rather us call by la…’

‘Please, do come in,’ said the man,
interrupting Jennings as he ushered them into the Hall. ‘You must be freezing;
warm yourselves by the fire over there and I’ll boil some water for coffee. I
won’t be a moment – I’ll just go and fetch my colleague, Professor Blackmoor. I
am sure he will be delighted to meet you. It’s always nice to have guests.’

Cara and Jennings watched the man as he
hurried towards a room at the other end of the entrance hall, closing the door
behind him and leaving them alone to observe their surroundings. The only light
in the room came from the fire and three thick candles that stood flickering on
a side table, the only sound being the earthy crackling of burning wood. In any
other location, such as a cosy front room in a house or pub, the atmosphere
could have been described as peaceful, almost serene; but set against the backdrop
of a creaking wreck of an isolated Hall with a troubled past, where there
weren’t any neighbours to hear cries of help, an imaginative mind could have perhaps
been forgiven for believing the black figures that danced across the walls to
be more sinister than mere harmless shadows cast by the flames.

The door opened two minutes later, and
through it walked the man whose face Cara had seen looking at her through the
upstairs window, closely followed by the man in the navy overalls, who was
carrying a silver tray, upon which was a decorative coffee pot and matching
china cups. He set the tray down on the table and returned to the side of the
other man, who proceeded to represent the pair with evident authority.

‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Jennings and
PC Jones. What a pleasant, and dare I say, most welcome surprise it is to have
the privilege of entertaining guests on this inhospitable January afternoon. We
certainly weren’t expecting any visitors so soon into our tenure. Allow me to
introduce my colleague and I; my name is Professor Benedict Blackmoor, and this
is my research assistant, Dr Reuben King.’ Blackmoor held out his hand for
Jennings to shake; as he did so, Jennings couldn’t help noticing the man’s
finger nails, at least an inch long and perfectly manicured. Cara also noticed
the nails when it was her turn to take his hand, but the detail barely
registered with her; she was too absorbed in Blackmoor’s eyes – she had never
seen eyes as dark and deep, like deathly-still lagoons of blackness. It wasn’t
that he was a particularly handsome man, at least not to Cara, but his thin
face and immaculately groomed black hair combined with his mesmerising eyes to create
an aura around him that was almost hypnotic in its hold on her. As he continued
to stare at her, she became aware of a burning sexual arousal rippling over
her, as if her breasts were being massaged by his expert hands, her nipples
stiffening as his fingers gently stroked and teased them. Such was his magnetism,
that try as she might, she was unable to look away. She felt herself falling
completely under his control, his aura so strong that she would have let him
lay her down and penetrate her there and then had he so desired. Goddammit, she
almost
wanted
him to give it to her; regardless of who else was in the
room.

‘Ahem,’ coughed Jennings, aware of the
effect Blackmoor’s charm offensive was having on her, and disliking it
intensely. Blackmoor looked over at him, and it was only when he broke his gaze
from Cara that she came back to the present moment, her cheeks burning with
excitement and embarrassment.

‘As I was saying,’ continued Blackmoor, ‘Reuben
and I have links to University College London. Our work, or should I say our
passion, is the history of Roman archaeology. We’re here to study some of the
forts of this once great Empire – this area is blessed with so many fine
examples to choose from. Forgive me, but I must apologise for the state of this
place; a crime to allow such a magnificent building to go to ruin like this. However,
I’m pleased to tell you that we intend to reverse at least some of the decay. I
plan to renovate a half dozen or so of the rooms – to create a house within a
house, so to speak. It will not exactly be returned to its former glory, but
the aim is for it to at least become comfortably habitable for the duration of
our tenure.’

‘Aye, Ted Wilson told us you were
looking for tradesmen,’ said Jennings. ‘You shouldn’t have too much trouble in
finding decent people – there’s not a lot of work around at the moment.’

Cara caught the fleeting anger in Blackmoor’s
eyes, seemingly upset at the mention of Ted Wilson’s name. She was no longer
under his influence, the hypnotic effect he’d had on her being turned off like
a tap the second he’d looked away. If anything, she was furious at herself for
letting him have that impact on her; for allowing herself to go weak at the
knees, like some teenage schoolgirl with a naïve crush on her teacher. She
reflected back to a comment that Ted Wilson had made earlier in his office; how
these men had a way of drawing you in, of making you want to do things for
them. She now understood what he had meant by that. Blackmoor’s hold over her
had left her feeling vulnerable – she wouldn’t let him make her feel that way again.

‘Can I assume, therefore, that you are
intending to stay here for a while?’ asked Jennings.

‘That’s a difficult question to answer.
It all depends on the progress of our work. I expect that we’ll stay here for a
minimum of a year, perhaps longer. One of the attractions, and frustrations, of
archaeology is the unknown nature of the object one is dealing with. By virtue
of it being buried below the ground, like a fossil, you are required to dig, to
patiently explore the unseen and coax it to the surface for all to see. And as
historians, we have the task of interpreting what the fossil has to say about
life in another age. I trust you can understand, therefore, why it is so
difficult to know for definite how long such an inexact process may take.’

‘I suppose I can, when you put it like
that,’ replied Jennings. ‘Although, I don’t want you to feel like we’re asking
you to leave before you’ve even arrived. You’re very welcome here, and we wish
you the best of luck with your work. Though I have to admit to being more than
just a little curious as to why you’ve chosen to stay at Fellside Hall. Ted
told me that you like old places, but I can’t say I’d personally look forward
to sleeping in a decrepit old house like this.’