Jake Conley Mysteries Collection

Chapter 10

When Jake returned to his bed and breakfast, Gwen fussed over him.

“My, my, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost! What’s the matter, love? You look so pale. Come and sit down, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

In spite of her kindness, Jake didn’t want to share his weird experiences and let her believe in the miraculous recuperative powers of her tea. Something she said had lodged in the back of his mind, and now he remembered.

“Mrs Mc…er…Gwen, remember when you told me about the strange events at the grotto? You mentioned two in recent times, but you only told me about the teacher. What about the other one?”

She gave him a peculiar look, hard to decipher—reproval, revulsion, or both?

“You really should forget about the grotto. It’s unlucky, that place is. But I suppose you want to know for your book, don’t you?” she said in a lighter tone.

“That’s it,” he encouraged her.

“It was before I came to Ebberston, you see. In the ’70s a little girl vanished without trace. Then there was the finding of something of hers about twenty years later. I can’t remember the details to save my life.”

“I guess I might find out in the library in Eastfield. In any case, I need to go there for more information on King Aldfrith.”

“I’ll tell you what, love. I have to go to Boyes in Eastfield. I’ve been meaning to buy some curtain material for ages. The curtains in the back bedroom are getting so shabby. I’ll give you a lift, and if you like we can meet up afterwards for a snack. What do you think?”

Jake leapt at the offer.

“It’s very kind of you, and the least I can do is offer you lunch.”

“Half-past nine all right for you, love?”

“That gives me plenty of time to get ready and to have breakfast. Fine.”

Gwen dropped him off at the library on Eastfield High Street just below the main shopping centre at the bottom of the pedestrian area. She pointed to the shopping mall. “We can have lunch in there. What time shall I come?”

Jake glanced at his watch; it was already 10.45. He calculated two hours should be sufficient for the notes he needed.

“One o’clock would suit.”

His landlady gave him a fond smile, and he thought, There are people who are nice by nature.

There are people who are nice by nature“I’ll be here outside the entrance at one then, love.”

He waved her off with a determined effort at a pleasant smile.

The library was staffed by volunteers, but it was a tightly run facility offering various services, such as photocopying and fax. He found a helpful elderly man, clearly a pensioner, with the efficient air of a former professional person.

When he explained his interest in Elfrid’s Hole, the man initially seemed reluctant to help.

“That’s a mysterious business you’re looking into. Are you a journalist?”

Did he detect a note of suspicion and hostility in the old man’s tone?

“Not at all, I’m a historian and researching for a novel about King Aldfrith. I just want to get a feel of the place.”

At this, the pensioner mellowed and added, “Well, I don’t rightly know whether what we’ve got on the cave will help with a novel about a Northumbrian king, but there’s a whole file about the strange happenings at the cavern, you see, with it being of local interest and all. Of course, we’ve several books on the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and in particular a very good article in a journal called Celtica you might like to look at. It’ll give you a different angle to approach Aldfrith. I read it a couple of years ago – very well written.”

Celtica“That’s very kind of you. I like to see everything you’ve got, really.”

Jake wasn’t as interested as he should be in the king, not for a novelist wishing to write about King Aldfrith. In his present state of mind, he was more eager to delve into the box file about the curious events at the cave.

In particular, he wanted to find out about the girl who had vanished in the ’70s. The file contained many articles dating from the earliest newspapers in the late eighteenth century up to the twenty-first century. Since the material was in chronological order, it was easy to find the 1974 article on the missing teenager. On holiday with her family and staying in Ebberston, fourteen-year-old Janice Pembleton went off in the countryside with her friend Claire Weekes, aged thirteen, but the latter obeyed strict orders to be home at 8 o’clock in the evening. Janice decided to stay out, and according to Claire, her last words were: ‘I’m going up to the grotto.’ She was never seen again. A large-scale search of the area began with hundreds of concerned volunteers scouring every inch of the countryside but failing to find a trace of Janice. Despite pursuing every available lead and interviewing dozens of people, the police were unable to get any closer to finding what had happened to the girl.

Jake sat back in his chair and realised how tight his throat had become and how his gut was sinking. These sensations were easy to explain. Would he have vanished like Janice if he’d entered the cave? The malevolence emanating from within the cavern was still impressed on his mind. What if Janice, like him, had found the entrance unsealed and had entered?

He resumed his reading and discovered that almost twenty years later, in 1992, a hiker following the track to the grotto had stumbled upon a small gold medallion. Janice’s mother had identified it as a religious medallion she had gifted her daughter at her confirmation earlier in 1974. It had turned up not many feet from the entrance to the cave. Jake turned over the page but found nothing else on the missing girl.

The next article was about the schoolteacher who had died from a blow to the head. Reading it carefully, he could see why Mr Hibbitt hadn’t been convinced by the coroner’s verdict. The police had been unable to locate the place where the man had supposedly fallen and smashed open his skull. This missing but surely critical evidence left far too many questions unanswered.

Jake jotted down a few notes and sifted through the nineteenth-century reports. Two from the early part of the century dealt with lunacy. Although thirty years separated the reports, they bore a striking similarity. The two reporters referred to the incoherent babblings of the victims, both engaged in tending flocks, both raving about men with swords and axes come to steal their sheep. One thing in particular struck Jake: in the second case, the terrified, crazed man insisted that the thief had walked through the wall of the sheep pen. This, of course, was ascribed to the ranting of a madman, and the shepherd finished in the North and East Ridings Pauper Lunatic Asylum in 1849.

There was also an unsolved murder committed in 1888. The body of a visitor, mutilated by numerous deep wounds, inflicted according to the coroner by a long-bladed weapon, was found by a family on a day visit to the area who had decided to approach the grotto. The gruesome find ruined their pleasant day in the countryside.

Jake glanced at his watch. It was midday, and he’d gathered enough information about the cavern to understand that more than old wives" tales were responsible for its evil reputation. He really must begin some serious research about the king who had sheltered, wounded, in the cave. The hour before his appointment with Gwen McCracken flew by as he filled his notebook with details of the life of Aldfrith. The article recommended by the helpful pensioner gave him a real insight into the Irish parentage and education of the king who was to illuminate Northumbria with his learning and with the scholars he attracted to his kingdom. The only worrying gap Jake had left was what he needed to know most – how had Aldfrith died? It seemed that Anglo-Saxon scholars could not agree on that, and the contemporary records were too vague. It would make an excellent objective for him. If he, Jake Conley, discovered what numerous eminent Anglo-Saxonists had failed in, it would be quite a feather in his cap. Once again, it seemed that the answer lay in the mysterious Elfrid’s Hole. Everything led him back there, and he knew that sooner or later he must overcome his fear and go back to the cavern.

The shopping centre boasted a fish and chips café, and seeing it was spotlessly clean, Jake suggested they eat there. Gwen readily agreed, and over the meal she enquired about his research. He thought he’d sound out her reaction. She wasn’t locally born but had lived in Ebberston for fifteen years, long enough to be synchronised with local sentiments.

“Everything comes back to Elfrid’s Hole,” he said. “The mysterious occurrences in Ebberston are all associated with that place.”

Gwen’s fork hovered between her plate and her mouth, and she looked anxious.

“Which is why you must stay well away from it, Jake. Mark my words, something horrible will happen if you persist in your probing. Don’t go back. There’s something terrible about that cave. People in the village don’t want to hear it mentioned, let alone go there.”

will“I believe you’re right, Gwen.” He wanted to soothe her. “And I’m sure I can write my novel without setting foot there again.”

“Well, that’s a relief, I’m sure. Oh, my, this piece of cod is so big, I’m not sure I can finish it all.”

On the drive back to Ebberston, Gwen didn’t mention the cave. Jake thought it strange she hadn’t asked about Janice Pembleton since she claimed not to remember the details of the case. But he didn’t refer to it and explained her silence as unwillingness to talk about the cavern.

Relaxing in his room, Jake wondered what to do next. He was in no hurry to return to Elfrid’s Hole, and in any case, the idea of going there in twilight didn’t appeal at all. He preferred to return

in the strong morning light. He read through the notes he’d taken and found his hand holding the small black book shaking. He wondered whether Gwen was right about something horrible and to warn him off his research. He’d never had occasion to combat evil in his thirty years of life. What on earth was he doing? Why not just let it go and write a straightforward historical novel like all the other sane novelists on the planet? But perhaps that was the point – he didn’t really want to be like all the others. He was onto something eerie, and he couldn’t let it go. As he mulled over the situation, it occurred to him that he had left one intriguing channel unexplored. To follow it, he would have to travel down to London.

something horrible