The Mammoth Book of Terror (27 page)

“What’s funny?” asked Jack Lewis.

“Oh, me,” said Anthea. “I’ve always been full of spit and independence and then a few noises in the hedgerows this afternoon and I came near to panic.”

“Understandable,” the man said. “The countryside’s not so peaceful as townsfolk think and this fog would confuse anyone. This way, Miss.”

They crossed the road. The half-seen shape of a squat grey shadow triggered a memory for Anthea. “Am I imagining things or is that a genuine Saxon church?”

“Yes, Miss, St Alaric’s. Believed to date from the ninth century and we’re very proud of it. And here’s The Maypole. You can just about see the inn sign.”

Anthea looked up, following his pointing finger. The sign was old and ill-painted and she could see little more than a pale shaft which could have been anything. There were marks which might
have represented dancing figures but the dirt of ages made this uncertain.

Jack Lewis opened a low door and allowed Anthea to precede him. He had to bend to follow her. Anthea found herself in the warm fug of a public bar, redolent with the rich odours of strong ale
and tobacco. The floor was of stone flags, the walls and ceiling smoke-darkened. A cheerful fire roared in an inglenook, its flames reflecting in the burnished surfaces of brass and copper
artefacts dangling from blackened beams. Furniture was sparse, a few high-backed settles around the walls and several wooden stools and chairs by the fireplace. Two elderly men, retired farm
labourers perhaps, sat at the bar, drinking pints and playing cribbage. They had probably been coming in here for years and were not to be put off by a little fog. Anthea smiled at them. The
Maypole was not the sort of place she would normally have chosen – wine bars being her preferred watering-holes – but in her present mood it seemed to be the most welcoming room she had
ever seen.

A skinny man with side-whiskers stood behind the bar polishing glasses. He wore a chequered shirt and a chequered waistcoat, both loud and in clashing colours. The whiskered man looked up as
Anthea and the policeman entered. “Hello, Jack. Usual?” Although speaking to Lewis, he stared at Anthea with unabashed curiosity.

“Nothing thanks, Reg,” the police officer said. “Wonder if you’ve got a room for Miss Moore here? Her car broke down and she’s stranded in the fog.”

“But of course,” the publican replied, manner instantly full of bonhomie. “I’ll just call the wife.”

“I’ll leave you with Reg then, lass.” Jack Lewis grinned at Anthea. “I’ll arrange for your car to be fixed in the morning. Hope I’ll see you again before you
go on your way.”

Twenty minutes later Anthea had signed the register and was relaxing by a cosy gas-fire in the small chintzy bedroom to which she had been shown by a fat and chuckling Mrs Feltham. She had been
served toasted ham sandwiches, a pot of tea and a large brandy – “On the house, my dear, to get the chill out of your bones.” The deep armchair was soft and comfortable and Anthea
dozed.

She was jerked from sleep by a steady knocking at the bedroom door. For a moment she was disorientated, wondering where she was. Anthea glanced at her watch. She had been asleep for a couple of
hours. There was a stale taste in her mouth and she drained the dregs of cold tea. It helped a little.

She had a fuddled impression of a disquieting dream but was unable to recall details. There had been half-seen figures in a fogscape and there had been some sort of tall column. Phallic symbol?
Wonder what Freud would make of that? She shook her head. Of course, the answer was obvious. She had had an anxious time this afternoon and now she was lodged at The Maypole pub. She had probably
been dreaming of the fog and the old inn-sign. Phallic symbol was right. She glanced towards the latticed window. The fog outside was still thick.

The knocking continued. Anthea pulled herself from the armchair and went to open the door.

The tall woman who entered was dressed for bad weather in the countryside – waxed jacket, green gumboots, man’s tweed cap – but there was no disguising her striking beauty.

“Hello. Do forgive the intrusion. We don’t get many strangers in Naysham, you know.”

Anthea took the proffered hand. “Anthea Moore,” she replied.

“I know. I peeked in Feltham’s register. Tell me, are you the Anthea Moore who wrote
Ancient Cultures
and
From Dark Memory
? You are? I’m so pleased.” The
woman gave a bright smile. “I’m sorry. I must seem very rude. My name’s Melissa Taybourne. If I were a man, I suppose you’d say I was the squire in these parts.

“Jack Lewis came to see me about something and mentioned that a young woman was stuck here. I wandered over out of curiosity to find out about you. Imagine my pleasure when I saw your
name. I thought it was too good to be true that you should be one of my favourite writers on folklore. Anyway, regardless of who you had been, I intended to offer you dinner this evening. Bonny
Feltham’s a dear but her cooking leans towards the homely. Do say you’ll accept. And I’ll insist that you sign my copies of your books.”

Anthea laughed. “In the circumstances, I can’t refuse,” she said. “And I would have been at a loose end. Pubs aren’t much in my line and I haven’t even got a
decent book in my overnight bag. Of course I’ll come to dinner, and thank you.”

Melissa Taybourne nodded. “Good. About seven o’clock then. Feltham will show you how to get to my home. It’s only a few minutes walk.”

When Anthea descended a few minutes before seven, Reg Feltham was waiting for her at the foot of the narrow staircase. “This way, Miss. I’ve got strict orders from Miss Melissa to
get you to her house.” He led the way to the front door, moving with a peculiar strutting gait as if one leg was slightly longer than the other. “Fog’s lifted a fair bit,”
he added, “reckon it’ll be clear later tonight.”

He was certainly right in part. Although the air was still misty, visibility was now several hundred yards. Reg Feltham pointed down the street. “Go back the way you came here,” he
instructed. “Past the church, across the road and it’s the big detached house a little way beyond the police station. You can’t miss it. Enjoy your evening, now.”

Anthea found the house easily. As she passed through the gateway, the front door was flung open and Melissa Taybourne was there to greet her. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve
invited another guest,” she said as she took Anthea’s hand to draw her into the house. “Our rector, Mr Luckhurst, is another folklore enthusiast and he’d not forgive me if
he missed the chance to meet you. He’s in here, in the sitting-room.”

It was a comfortable, chintzy room and logs crackled and blazed in the fireplace. A thin man in clerical garb leaned against the mantel, sipping from a glass of sherry. His face, in profile, was
fine and sensitive-looking, with fine lines radiating from the corner of eyes and mouth. Sandy-white hair, a trifle too long, maybe, was brushed straight back from his brow.

“Rector,” Melissa Taybourne called. “Come and meet Anthea Moore.”

The man turned towards them and Anthea struggled to keep from gasping. The rector’s features, so pleasing in profile, were marred by a purple, warty birthmark which clung like a cancer to
the left side of his face. But his handshake was warm and dry and reassuring and his voice, as he greeted Anthea, was pleasantly deep and soothing, exuding charm.

Dinner was served in a small, panelled dining-room, the only illumination coming from tall white candles in a silver candelabra. “I don’t usually put on the dog like this,”
laughed Melissa Taybourne. “But it is good to have a new guest. We tend to be very insular in Naysham.”

Anthea enjoyed the meal and the conversation. It quickly became evident that neither Melissa Taybourne nor the rector were claiming devotion to folklore for the sake of politeness and
entertainment. Both were knowledgeable and Mr Luckhurst was scholarly in his approach to the subject.

Over coffee, the rector said, “Although we’re grateful for your presence here, Miss Moore, what on earth could have brought you to this remote place?”

Anthea drained her cup and accepted a refill from her host. “I just suddenly decided to come to Bresslingham Market for the holiday. I wanted to witness their May Day
celebrations.”

“They are interesting,” said Luckhurst. “But before travelling on you must come and see our own modest maypole ceremony. We hold it very early in the morning, so there will be
no bar to your continuing on to Bresslingham once your car is mobile again.”

“Yes, do. It would be a pleasure to have you attend,” added Melissa Taybourne. “Hardly anyone but the villagers come and we could do with some new blood.”

“I’d like that,” said Anthea. “I wonder why I’ve not heard of this village and its May celebration.”

“As I said earlier, we tend to insularity. I can’t think of anyone in the village who’d want tourists tramping everywhere.”

“I concur,” said the Reverend Luckhurst. “You must promise, Miss Moore, that if you write about us you will give the village a fictitious name.”

A light ground mist lingered when Anthea finally left Melissa Taybourne’s house, but above the sky was speckled with stars. “It looks as if it will be fine tomorrow,” observed
the rector. “That’ll be good for the maypole ceremony.”

“We’ll call for you early, Anthea,” said Melissa Taybourne. “You’ll find the ceremony unusual but I hope interesting. We’ll involve you so that you
don’t feel left out of it. Good night and sleep well.”

Anthea walked back towards the pub, mellowed by fine food and feeling pleasantly tired. As she neared St Alaric’s she heard a creaking noise, as if of a door opening on rusty hinges, and
there was a glimmer of scarlet light spilling from the church. A huge shadow detached itself from the church doorway and turned towards The Maypole. It had to be the policeman Jack Lewis.

Anthea almost called out a greeting, then checked her tongue. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something almost furtive about the way Lewis was moving, as if he had something
to be ashamed of and wished to sneak away unseen.

As Anthea drew abreast with the church, she noticed that a sliver of ruddy light still fell across the footpath and that the main entrance door had been left slightly ajar. She pushed gently
until the door was no more than wide enough to admit her. Anthea found herself in a small porch.

Keeping as quiet as possible, she closed the door behind her. The red light was from an oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling and beyond was another doorway. Venturing on, Anthea came into a cramped
and claustrophobic nave, the walls bleak and moist. The nave, like the porch, was lit by a pendant red lamp. There were no pews as such, just a few time-polished wooden forms on the stone
floor.

Down to the left was a wall broken by a low archway. Remembering what she did of Saxon architecture, Anthea knew that through the archway she would find the chancel. She tiptoed to the archway
and had to stoop slightly to pass through.

The chancel was deeply shadowed, being lit only by two candles on the small altar. As Anthea straightened, she noticed something which made her catch her breath. It was the marble outline of
something – someone – lying still upon the altar. Anthea put her hand to her lips to stifle a giggle. Of course, it was an effigy. But then, she wondered, did Saxon churches ever have
commemorative effigies? She could not quite recall.

For some reason, she suddenly wanted to run away; only her enquiring mind prevented her from doing so. She took several deep breaths and approached the altar slowly. When she was what was there.
Anthea moaned softly and bit fiercely on the knuckles of her right hand.

The man was naked and there was no doubt that he was dead. His face was peaceful but beneath that mask of serenity an appalling, mirthless crimson grin split his throat. That was not all.
Anthea’s eyes, taking in detail piecemeal, wandered to a dreadful raw wound at the groin. Then, most terrible of all –

Anthea wanted to be sick and only with great effort managed to swallow the rising vomit. The hands were crossed on the corpse’s broad chest and below them the genitals had been placed on
the abdomen in such away that they appeared raised and offered.

Shaking, Anthea backed away until she was brought up short by the wall between chancel and nave.

Her thoughts tumbled. What was going on in this place? With those frightening wounds, the dead man had to have been murdered. And it followed that Jack Lewis must be involved somehow, the way he
had appeared to slink away from the church. If the victim had been slaughtered by – what? a maniac? – then the place would be crawling with police and the killing would have been he
talk of the village. Perhaps Jack Lewis was the maniacal killer. But then, leaving his victim in the church like this meant that others would be in on the secret . . .

Anthea felt giddy. She ducked under the archway and fled the church. Outside, the mist had finally dispersed but in her distraught state she hardly noticed. She was aware that the village street
was empty and she made a dash for the pub, flinging back the door which led into the public bar.

The bar was almost full and the hubbub of talk and laughter ceased as Anthea crashed into the room. She stood there, trying to catch her breath, and everyone turned to look at her. A huge figure
moved from a dim corner into the light to confront her. It was Jack Lewis, a pint glass almost hidden in his fist.

“Why, Miss Moore, is anything wrong?” The policeman’s voice was kind and concerned.

Lips tight, she backed away a little and shook her head. Seconds later she managed to speak, doing her best to sound calm. “No, I’m just a bit more tired than I realized and I feel a
bit unwell. I’ll go to my room.”

“I’ll get the missus to bring you up some cocoa, shall I?” offered Reg Feltham.

“Thank you, no,” said Anthea. To her own surprise she managed to sound normal. “I just need sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Anthea turned and left the public bar, walking up the stairs as slowly as she dared. Once in the room she locked the door and removed the key from the lock. She noticed strong iron bolts at both
top and bottom of the door and she rammed them closed. There was a murmuring noise from below, as if things were getting back to normal in the bar. Or were they discussing her odd behaviour?