Jake Conley Mysteries Collection

Chapter 12

Convincing himself there was no immediate tragedy to worry about, Jake spent the next day rambling in the dales to the south of Ebberston. Deep down, he knew he was prevaricating about returning to the cavern for fear of what he might find there. Instead, he decided to visit an historic church in the region and chose St Martin’s in Burton Agnes. It was an ambitious hike from Ebberston but well worth the effort.

The thirteenth-century church was tucked away on the hillside immediately behind Burton Agnes Hall and was well signposted. The first thing Jake noticed about St Martins was the approach to the entrance through a striking arch formed by the low branches of yew trees, so that he felt like he was walking down a long tunnel, back in time, as he approached the south door entrance.

He filled his notebook with details of the Norman elements in the building but most of all with details of a wall monument to Sir Henry Griffith – the tomb chest had reliefs of gruesome skulls and bones; perhaps it suited his gloomy mood. In any case, the long hike back to Ebberston cleared his mind, and by the time he arrived for a late meal at The Grapes, he had decided to walk up to the grotto the next morning.

After breakfast, his determination had vacillated. When he reached the main road, his conviction had returned, but when it came to taking the track, he again hesitated with a sense of foreboding. His thoughts kept returning to Sir Robert Wanley’s reference to devils taking the form of ghosts. Was he being foolish to worry about such irrational matters? Whatever it was, he had to admit he lacked the courage to go on. He didn’t know, he thought as he turned into the walled lane, which would be worse, finding the cave sealed off as before or gaping open as he had seen it the last time. Sealed would mean forces were somehow at work to move a massive weight or that he had imagined the cavern open. Open would mean, well…he dreaded to think. With these thoughts and this state of mind, he approached the grotto along the tree-lined bank until he could see the stones of the folly.

At this point he stopped. He moved neither forwards nor backwards. He hesitated, wishing there was someone he could send to see if the cave was open. He stayed like this for several minutes until, deciding not to be a weakling, he moved as silently as possible towards the grotto.

He had come to within three yards of the opening. Two things struck him: first, there was no obstructing boulder, and he could see the obscurity within the cave; second, there was a noise emanating from that darkness. The blackness could be hiding anything, and he could hear whatever it was. He strained, listening. No mistake – there was a noise: the sound of metal on stone. Inside the cave, a blade was being drawn across a whetstone. Jake took two steps forward, but then the sound stopped to be replaced by a low guttural growl. Not the snarl of an animal but of a man. He could sense the malice sweeping over him like a breaking wave. Jake’s nerve snapped and he turned to flee into the undergrowth fringing the hillside around the grotto.

He pulled the branches and fronds tighter around him with a whimper. His chest was tight and his stomach knotted. He dared not, would not, look. No matter how close the shuffling footsteps came, he would not look. He would not. Careful not to betray his whereabouts by rustling the branches, he searched for his mobile phone. Without looking, he’d snap a photo across the clearing. With shaking hand, he pulled it out of his pocket, held the phone up, automatically releasing the shutter with his thumb. The metallic click, so silent he usually failed to notice it, now seemed perilously loud. He prayed whatever was out there would not be alerted to his presence. With a shaking hand, he pushed the phone back into the pocket of his jeans, clenched his fist, swallowed hard and tried to ignore his pounding heart.

He glanced round over his shoulder for an escape route. There was something of a trampled trail, perhaps made by an animal, and he spotted what appeared to be a mushroom amid the leaf litter. He peered more carefully. No, it was not a fungus of any kind but a severed ear – a human ear. That did it! Jake panicked. Head down, he burst out of his hiding place into the clearing and, without looking, dashed straight along the downhill track. The noise of his boots running over the stony ground prevented him from hearing whether there was anyone, anything, in pursuit. It wasn’t until he was safely down to the dry-stone walling that he dared to slow to a walk and look back. The track was deserted, so he leant on the wall to catch his breath and examine the photo he had snapped.

anythingThe picture was shaky. That was understandable. But even in spite of that, it was clear enough to show one remarkable thing – the clearing all the way to the grotto was empty! Yet, he would swear he’d heard footsteps approaching. Recent research into the paranormal had produced photographic images of ghosts, he was sure of that. He’s seen some in the tabloid press. But here on his phone, the high-quality lens had captured nothing.

nothingJake swore. He was no closer to discovering the truth about Elfrid’s Hole. It was his own lily-livered fault. He should have had the courage to peer through the foliage at whatever it was that was pursuing him. It was easy enough to say that down here, near enough to civilisation to call for help – up there was a different matter. Then there was the fact of the ear. Why only one ear? Was the rest of the body somewhere among the dense undergrowth? Should he report finding an ear to the police? Many people hated getting involved with the constabulary, and he was no different. For the moment, he wanted a chance to solve the mystery alone. But the ear troubled him. In solving the mystery of Elfrid’s Hole, he wished to keep his own body intact.

With this as an overriding priority, Jake thrust aside the idea of returning to the cave and made his way to the main road. Again, he hesitated. Should he really return? Of course, he must. Otherwise he’d never know what was going on. Now? No, he couldn’t face it at the moment. Maybe tomorrow. A pity he was alone. But who else could he take with him? Gwen? Well, she’d made her feelings clear on that score. No. Who else did he know? Only Mr Hibbitt, the churchwarden, and he’d warned him off the place.

Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to take another look at the photo. Had he missed something? Scrolling to the image, he almost dropped the phone in shock. Missed anything! In the middle of the clearing was a dark shape. It was blurred, probably due to his hand shaking when he’d triggered the shutter. But unclear as it was, it looked like a human figure wearing something on his head. A helm? The form was too dark and blurred to be sure, but Jake knew that it hadn’t been there in the photo when he’d checked previously.

knewHe switched off the phone and thrust it back. This confirmed two basic facts. Something had pursued him, and whatever it was, it was diabolical. How could it not be in his photo and later suddenly appear? Was this thing playing with his mind to tip him over the edge into madness?

hadthingThere was one way to find out about his mental state. He could pass time by going back to the b****y Beck and seeing what colour the water was. If it was flowing red again, he swore he’d go back to York and forget all about Ebberston.

Standing on the bridge over the beck, Jake didn’t suffer any strange sensations and was relieved to see sparkling translucent water flowing past. He took this to mean he should continue his investigation in spite of the uncanny events. As an act of defiance, he took out his phone and looked at the photo. It had changed again! In the foreground, still out of focus and vague, was what might be the head of a person. The black shape had moved forward to fill most of the photo. Less like a face and more like a skull but with facial hair, the ill-defined features seemed to ooze malevolence. Jake hastily deleted the photo and rammed the phone into his pocket. Why had he looked at it, and just when he was feeling better because the beck was normal? Either there was something unusual about Ebberston or about himself. Which? He began to wonder if his car accident had done some irreparable damage to his brain. Figures cannot move forward in a still photo. The gurgling of the stream began to calm him, and idly he watched a small branch being tossed over some stones in the shallow water.

On calmer reflection, it couldn’t be that he was crazy. His research in London had proved that others had discovered abnormal occurrences at Elfrid’s Hole. If he was mad, then Sir Charles and Sir Robert also had been insane. Somehow, he doubted that two prominent men from high society would query their mental stability as much as he questioned his own. There was no doubt, though, that he shared with them the same aversion to the place where Aldfrith had sheltered. Sir Charles’s repulsion for the cavern had been so strong he wished to seal it off forever.

Thinking about this, Jake frowned. He had no idea what had happened to the boulder and how it had been moved without heavy machinery or without mobilising half of the menfolk in Ebberston. He decided to go back to his bed and breakfast. Still tired from his exertions of the previous day and also from his earlier fright, he thought it best to rest and maybe research a little more on the internet about the reign of Aldfrith. He might even be able to map out the structure of a novel. These thoughts brought him back to his starting point. Who should be his main character, the king or a ceorl?

He pushed this quandary out of his mind temporarily because he didn’t want to walk out distractedly in front of a vehicle. He had learned that lesson for sure.