The Serpent Wand

Chapter 2

TWO

TEWKESBURY, GLOUCESTERSHIRE 2022 AD

Jake awoke with a sense of disorientation and it took a few seconds of staring at the elegant William Morris repro wallpaper to connect. The hospitality of the Goughs had extended beyond the excellent dinner to offering him their spare bedroom for his stay in Tewkesbury. His attempts at not imposing, brushed aside by the lure of Ishbel’s cooking, had been easily overcome.

Alia Gough had timed his letter to Jake to coincide with their annual holiday and to Jake’s question of why they weren’t going away gave a brusque answer.

“We decided to have a complete rest at home, didn’t we, darling?”

Jake, never slow to pick up on undercurrents, noted the fleeting frown, the slight hesitation and the barely detectable resentment in Ishbel’s reply.

“Ah, um, yes. It’s been a tough year at work and we need to unwind.”

“Maybe I should find myself a hotel tomorrow, Ishbel, I don’t want to be a burden.”

Aria cut in with too much eagerness for my comfort, “We won’t hear of any such thing. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Oh, absolutely, Jake. I have to cook for two anyway, one more portion makes very little difference. It’s nice to have you with us.”

But I could tell that she was being hospitable under duress. It made me feel uneasy and now, too late, began to wonder why my presence was so important to Aria Gough.

Dinner over, and questions about Elfrid’s Hole answered without arousing any suspicions, over a glass of outstanding single malt, my favourite, Lagavulin—it didn’t occur to me then that he was well-informed about the predilections of a total stranger—he offered to run me to Pershore Abbey in the morning.

It struck me that he didn’t want me to waste any time before starting my investigations, confirmed by his attitude when I wanted to look around the surviving structure of the abbey, the next morning, and I didn’t like his tone.

“That can wait, Jake, you should get straight to the path. Come this way!”

Much more of this and I’d have it out with him, but I still didn’t have the full measure of the man or any inkling of what he was up to. He left me at a public footpath, signposted for Wick, and claimed that he didn’t have the nerve to accompany me. We exchanged mobile numbers and he said he’d pick me up at the same spot when I was ready.

I set off along the grassy path, content to be alone but after fifty yards of feeling eyes on my back, turned to find him still there, staring at me with a curious expression on his face. The earlier unease returned and as I continued, leaving him out of sight, I tried to sort things out. When I plunge into deep thought, my surroundings, in this case, worthy of admiration, are blotted out. My steps became mechanical and I gave myself over to reflection. I ran through what I knew about my hosts and the most alarming aspect of their otherwise charming selves was that they worked for the government in a top-secret facility. This would explain how they seemed to know so much about me when I recounted the affair of Elfrid’s Hole. Little signs, in hindsight, that they knew more than the general public from the news and my writings, together with knowledge of my preferences and habits, rankled.

I tramped on, oblivious to my surroundings, thinking about the tension I had picked up between husband and wife. Ishbel, careful to disguise her dissent, nonetheless, was unhappy about what was going on—whatever it was. I needed to find out fast because there was something her husband was holding back. His aggressive insistence on my current activity seemed out of character for an otherwise pleasant and easy-going personality. I decided I couldn’t trust him and to find out as soon as possible whether he was acting on his initiative or whether behind his presentable front lurked some sinister figure like Sir Clive Cochrane. I shuddered and dismissed all such ideas to concentrate on my surroundings.

Hadn’t Aria told me that this was once a funeral path to Wick from the abbey? I stopped, closed my eyes and dwelt on that. At last, concentrating on my present, mind open to sensations, the strong feeling of bereavement overwhelmed me as if I’d lost a loved one. For the first time in months, the familiar dull ache between my eyebrows returned until it spread to the whole of my forehead. This was a sure sign I was in the presence of psychic phenomena. I had borne this cross in the years since my road accident that had cross-wired my brain. Perhaps, after all, I would encounter the ghost Aria claimed to have sensed. I had no reason to doubt his word on that score, but I was rapidly concluding that it was only cloaking something much deeper.

Again, casting these thoughts aside, I took stock of my surroundings. The path was taking me alongside a ploughed field, and just over a slight rise, where I caught my first glimpse of the village roofs. The track led to a road, which as I followed it into the settlement, was signposted as Yock Lane. Given the rural setting, I wondered whether the name was a corruption of yoke. My first thought was to find a pub because by now, I was indifferent to Gough’s ghost hunt. The village was small enough for me to realise, after a few minutes, that there would be no refreshing pint of ale and on asking a local with a bushy white beard and flat cap, he indicated with his walking stick that the nearest hostelry was the Star Inn back up at Pershore.

My earlier considerations had taken away any desire to continue my hike along Aria’s supposed ley line. The absence of a pub in Wick left me at something of a loose end until I saw a sign pointing to St Mary’s church, which raised my spirits because one of my main hobbies is exploring ancient rural churches. The edifice didn’t disappoint since I had the good fortune to find it open and occupied by a cordial sexton only too keen to explain the outstanding features of the twelfth-century building— the nave arcade and the medieval cradle roof.

“Yes,” he said with pride, “the tub font was recut in the nineteenth century but it’s sure to be much earlier.”

Outside, I found a restored churchyard cross and looking back across the grass at the church, I admired the honey-coloured freestone walls and imagined how it might have appeared with the tower the sexton said once rose above the body of the church. Today, it was a squat building, its body articulated into three parts. The tallest feature, a square louvred bellcote perched like a chimney over the tiled roof. Not so imposing, then, as an exterior but my visit indoors had been rewarding.

In this uplifted mood, I retraced my route, this time much more aware of everything around me. The first thing I noticed was the arrow-like progress of an echelon of wild geese. Maybe there was nothing unusual about such undeviating flight and Aria had put the idea into my head, but they flew straight over Pershore Abbey. As I progressed, the earlier feeling of oppression, that sense of bereavement returned, only interrupted for a moment by the behaviour of hundreds of high-flying swifts. I know the habits of that bird well, it swoops and screeches in circles but there they were, flying straight, and that can’t have been a coincidence.

When I approached Pershore, at a point three hundred yards from the end of the path, my forehead began aching and I had the sensation of being watched. My eyes searched for signs of life ahead and saw none but just as I thought there was nobody, the air seemed to move, and a dark shade slipped away before I could focus on it. This must have been the presence Aria Gough had brought me to find. I hurried up to where I had glimpsed it, apart from it being noticeably colder there, nothing was to be seen. I gathered seven pebbles and by the side of the path formed them into a letter J as a marker.

The footpath ended near a busy road, which crossed over the River Avon. I reached it once across the water, followed Bridge Street, for half a mile until I came to the Star Inn. I could put off my pint of ale no longer. A weird feeling came over me as I passed the opening in the pub wall where a sign indicated the riverside car park. I stared at this entrance for a while and decided that it was typical of an archway for coaches in bygone times. Shrugging off my negative sensations, I entered the bar. Soon it became clear that this was a historic building, a fifteenth-century coaching inn according to the owner and the exposed beams and ancient fireplace announced as much. I settled down to enjoy my beer but the verb is wrong, as all the time I sat there I was unsettled. My head kept turning in the direction of the archway and I couldn’t help but wonder why.

It's probably for this reason that I decided against another pint despite the quality of the ale. Instead, I phoned Aria Gough and arranged for him to pick me up. Although he said he’d come at once, his tone was hostile and I couldn’t think why. I was soon to find out.

“I must say, I was surprised to find you in a pub,” his tone was sharp.

“Why?”

“I thought you were going to walk the whole route, so I didn’t expect you back till evening.” Now his voice was sulky.

“When I reached Wick, I hadn’t met your ghost and frankly I was bored until I found St Mary’s church. An interesting little—”

He cut me short, “I’m glad you found it. It’s largely twelfth-century, you know. There’s an astonishing number of churches in England dedicated to either the Virgin or Saint Michael standing on ley lines.”

I ignored his manners but was developing a dislike of Mr Gough.

“You might be interested to know that, on my return, I came across your ghost.” I waited for his reaction, which was immediate.

“Ah, did you? Did you get a good look at him…er…or her?”

“To be honest, I only caught a glimpse but on investigation, its presence had chilled the air. I’ve marked the spot and will seek it out tomorrow.”

“You see, I was right. There is a ghost!”

“I think there’s little doubt about it. The footpath gave me the strangest sensation.”

This comment excited him so much that, distracted, he almost overshot a red traffic light.

“Did it?” His voice trembled with emotion, which seemed odd. “Did you sense some strange power?”

Now, why would he ask that? A peculiar choice of words that reinforced my growing belief that he was less interested in the ghost than in the ley line. Had the spectre been only an excuse to lure me to Pershore?

“Power? No, more a sensation of oppression, or of bereavement—but that’s to be expected on the funeral path that you mentioned.”

“Ah yes, I suppose it is,” he pulled into his drive, “but no other sensations, Jake?” he insisted.

“No, none, that is if you exclude my strong desire for an ale that took me to the Star Inn.”

His green eyes locked on mine and he looked grave, “Yes, that’s queer, isn’t it? The inn is on the ley line too and also boasts a ghost.”

“Does it indeed?” My interest quickened.

“I can’t remember the exact date, but the eighteenth century some time. They say a young coachman died from a fall off his horse in the archway. His ghost has been sighted on occasions.”

“In the archway.” I repeated.

I lapsed into silence and his pestering about sensations continued but I gave him no satisfaction and retired to my room to connect with the internet and research the area I was exploring. I had hoped to hear him drive off somewhere in my absence, so that I could catch Ishbel alone. I wanted to discover the cause of the tension between them over the matter of the ley line. But that tactic would have to wait because when I ventured downstairs, I found them chatting cosily on the lounge sofa, his arm draped around her shoulder.

“Sorry to intrude. I’ll go back up.”

“No-no!” they chorused.

Soon I was ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a whisky and Aria steered the conversation back to my morning hike. I was determined to keep him off the subject of ley lines and plunged eagerly into my hobby, surprising Ishbel with the depth of my knowledge about church architecture and entertaining her, more than him, with a potted gazetteer of fascinating out-of-the-way churches.

The only discordant note came over another scrumptious dinner—one of Ishbel’s specialities according to Aria—a caramelized garlic, spinach and cheddar tart. Sulkily, he said,

“I think you should make a decent effort to walk the whole route.”

It wasn’t so much the words but the tone that irritated me.

Ishbel noticed and gave him a stern reproving glace.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insistent, but with Jake’s love of churches, there’s always St Mary’s at Beckford near Little Washbourne. It’s right on the ley line.”

So, there it was, he’d resisted so far, but this remark caused Ishbel to purse her lips and avoid my gaze.

“The most important thing is to hunt down your ghost, Aria—and that’s what I’ll give priority to.”

He looked quite peeved, “But there are many other hauntings along the ley line.”

“And yet you invited me down here to sort out this particular one, didn’t you? And that’s what I’ll do.” I stared hard at him and Ishbel pushed back her chair and began to remove plates.

“Well, yes, I suppose I did. Good luck with that tomorrow then.” His tone grudging, he sounded anything but convincing.