Jake Conley Mysteries Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 3

Jake retrieved an ordnance survey map of East Yorkshire from its place on a dusty shelf. He ran his finger through the dust, grunted in disgust at his poor housekeeping, and vowed to clean it as soon as he’d finished with the chart. Gingerly, he spread it out on his desk. He was wary of worsening the creases worn by constant folding and unfolding.

Where to visit to research his novel? Maybe he’d misled Dr Emerson into thinking he had clear ideas about a novel, but that could not be farther from the truth. All he knew was that in theory he’d like to write one about the Kingdom of Northumbria. It gave him so much scope in terms of kings and events, but, as usual, he had whittled away mentally at the choice. There were novels already published about almost every Northumbrian king. As a result, he simply didn’t know what to select to make a good story, hence the agonising when the accident occurred.

Faced with the bold array of contours and symbols, his struggle to decide resumed. If he chose a commoner as his protagonist, the story might achieve the originality he craved. But the ordinariness of a ceorl hardly inspired a gripping storyline. How would rambling around the Yorkshire countryside help? Where should he go to get the creative juices flowing? He had a reasonable knowledge of Anglo-Saxon sites in the county. His eyes passed over the modern place names, and he converted them into their Old English titles: York – Eoforwic, Leeds – Loidis, and so on. During this futile exercise, one name leapt off the paper in bold letters, as if the printed word wished to grab his attention: Driffield – Driffelda.

EoforwicLoidis,DriffeldaJake blinked and shook his head. Had that really happened? Was this another of the weird circumstances that had been plaguing him of late? He ignored it and continued his perusal of places until it happened again. There was no doubting it this time; Driffield had caught his attention. It was some thirty miles due east of York and had no Anglo-Saxon association as far as he knew, apart from the name, but the Internet should help.

He spent an hour seeking information and discovered that St Mary’s Church in Little Driffield was an Anglo-Saxon foundation. There was also a legend stating that a Northumbrian king, Aldfrith, had a royal palace in the settlement. This monarch had suffered severe wounds in a battle nearby, which subsequently proved fatal. Supposedly, he was buried in St Mary’s. This convinced Jake that he should investigate this monarch by visiting Driffield, also because the surrounding area of the Yorkshire Wolds was good terrain for a pleasant ramble.

He set about the logistics of the journey. He considered hiking all the way to Driffield but ruled it out on the basis of conserving energy for country walking. He did not enjoy road walking, deeming it unhealthy and hard on the leg joints. He had not bothered to buy a car. There seemed so little point, with him living in York and it being more convenient to move around the city on foot or by bike. So, public transport it had to be, but he would have to overcome the usual problem, the difficulty of travelling from west to east.

It was only thirty miles from York, but he found that to arrive in Driffield, he would have to catch a coach from the Stonebow, which in an hour and a half would reach Scarborough. From the West Square of the seaside resort, another short coach trip would end in Bridlington. Jake sighed and shook his head. I’ll bet the Saxons could have done it quicker in the eighth century! But he knew that wasn’t true. With relief, he noted that in Bridlington he would have a ten-minute walk from the bus to the train station. At least he’d be able to stretch his legs. From there, a fourteen-minute train journey would take him to Driffield.

I’ll bet the Saxons could have done it quicker in the eighth century! He switched off his computer and set about the dusting, knowing full well that when he got back from his jaunt around the countryside, it would need doing again. That was the numbing, unremitting nature of housework.

Jake was lucky with the weather; a very seasonable sunny day raised his spirits as he emerged from Driffield station. He cast a backwards glance to appraise the mid-Victorian architecture underlying the adjustments to the practical demands of a semi-automated twenty-first-century out-of-the-way station. The northern-line service had served its purpose; now he was free to stride out through the town that separated him from Little Driffield. A glance at his map showed him the best route was via York Road and Church Lane.

After a good half-hour’s energetic striding, he approached the object of his journey. The graveyard lay between him and the church. A line of withered daffodils stretched between two trees as if to mark the boundary of the burial site. The tree on the right was a bare skeleton, its trunk infested with shiny green leaves of ivy climbing up to the first of the forlorn boughs. In contrast, the tree on the left presented the lush foliage of late spring. His eyes swept over the sorry daffodils to the contrasting well-tended lawn that hosted a series of slab-topped tombs amid the isolated gravestones. Beyond stood the Grade II listed building, its squat tower with crenellations seeming to him to be out of proportion to the long, buttressed body of the church. But he had to admit to being no expert in church architecture. He loved visiting them but needed to deepen his knowledge. If asked for an honest assessment in that moment, he would have considered himself disappointed by the uninspiring exterior. Inside, his attitude shifted. This, as he had read at home, was a church restored by the great Sir Tatton Sykes at the end of the nineteenth century.

He admired the lavish ‘Decorative Style’ of the interior with lovely tiled floor, carved pews, pulpit, ornate reredos and rood loft. But what really excited him was the printed leaflet he took in exchange for a small offering. It informed him of the supposed burial in the church of King Aldfrith in 705 AD. It claimed that over the tomb was written Statutum est omnibus semel mori (It is appointed for all once to die), but in 1807 the nave and chancel had been excavated and disappointingly, no evidence of the royal remains was found. Yet, Jake could sense the weight of history inside the building, and he knew almost as a revelation that he must write a novel about King Aldfrith. Had he known the rest of what this decision implied, he would never have taken it.

Statutum est omnibus semel mori Jake folded the leaflet, pocketed it, then left the house of worship behind. He had found and booked a high-quality bed and breakfast in the countryside near the neighbouring village of Bainton. With this in mind, he found a public footpath that took him in a loop around Southburn and all the way to Bainton. After just another five minutes on foot appeared the Wolds Village, containing much more than his accommodation. After checking in, he went to the tearooms, also housed in a listed building, where tea and cake were welcome after his walking.

As he refreshed himself, he took out the leaflet and read about King Aldfrith, whose wounds were inflicted at the Battle of Ebberston. It informed him that the king was carried and sheltered in a cave near the battlefield before being taken to Little Driffield, where his palace stood on North Hill. This site, too, had been excavated and revealed a motte and bailey castle of a post-Conquest date. As he read, Jake experienced the by now familiar sensation of a ‘third eye.’ Instead of irritating or discouraging him, it reassured him that he should continue along the lines of this research. With this in mind, he reached into a side pocket of his backpack and took out the map to locate Ebberston. He needed to see this cave and check on the site of the battle.

He cursed under his breath. His finger rested on Ebberston. He’d come south, whereas the battle had taken place north of Driffield. It was a stiff twenty-mile hike to get there. He ruled out coming back to this bed and breakfast the next day. A pity; he liked the look of this accommodation. Reaching out, he picked up a glossy leaflet promoting the facilities. ‘In the mornings, Wolds Village serves full Yorkshire breakfast in the farmhouse’s original Georgian dining room. The air-conditioned coaching inn serves a traditional English menu, and the tearoom offers homemade cakes. All dishes are freshly prepared using locally sourced produce.’

‘In the mornings, Wolds Village serves full Yorkshire breakfast in the farmhouse’s original Georgian dining room. The air-conditioned coaching inn serves a traditional English menu, and the tearoom offers homemade cakes. All dishes are freshly prepared using locally sourced produce.’A full Yorkshire breakfast appealed. It would set him up for the trek tomorrow. Despite his substantial breakfast, when he arrived in Ebberston, the fresh air and exercise had restored his appetite. He found a gastro pub near the village, and feeling in high spirits after having enjoyed the countryside in full bloom, he strode into the bar, noted the cleanliness, and asked a friendly barman for the menu. In one corner a couple were eating what looked like pork with mashed potatoes, and they seemed to be enjoying it.

Jake had noticed the CAMRA plaque outside the door and looked with appreciation at the line of pumps before selecting a pint of craft beer. After ordering from the menu, he smiled at the elderly barman and said, “I heard there’s a cave near the village where a Saxon king was sheltered. Do you know about it?”

The reply came with a strong local accent.

“Oh, ay, lad. Everyone knows abou’ Elfrid’s Hole. It’s abou’ a mile north o’ this ’ere road.”

Elfrid’s Hole. Jake stared at the barman. “So, it’s more than just a legend?”

“Oh, ay, ’course. Tha can visit yon if tha’s so minded. ‘Twere dug up when ah were a nipper, not that ah know owt abou’ yon. I reckon they’ll have summat abou’ yon in t’ library ower at Eastfield if tha’s interested, like.”

Jake remembered from his map work the previous day that Eastfield was some miles off to the east, so for the moment, he filed away the idea of checking out the excavation in the library in his memory, adding only, “The cave’s not on private land, then? Can I walk up and visit it?”

“Ay, course tha can. Mind, tha’ll find it all blocked off. Tha canna go in yon.”

Jake took a long draught of ale and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He hoped the food would be as good as the ale.

“Is there a road up to the cave?”

“Nay, lad,” the barman laughed, “tha’d better go up yonder ’ill, past the big ’ouse an’ cross t’ farmland into t’woods, an’ tha’ ll find t’track, reet enough. "Appen there’s a signboard across t’ opening. Nah then, wha’ table’s tha’ goin’ to be sittin’ at?”

After a most satisfactory lunch, Jake turned left along the road, leaving the pub behind, and struck out along a lane he hoped would lead him to the mansion the barman had referred to. After a few hundred yards, assailed by doubt, he took out his ordnance survey map, blessing the absence of wind as he opened it out. Quickly, he located the PH on the main road, and not far to the north, farther along this same lane, stood a small country mansion. He pressed on, and coming to the elegant building, skirting it, headed into the woodland behind, on the basis of its being uphill. To the north-east of the house, he came to an outcrop, where he discerned the vestiges of a cave within an artificial stone grotto. Could this be it? He approached and found a weathered board in front of the entrance to a land-filled cavern. Obstructing the entrance was a huge boulder. He had no idea of how much it weighed – a lot! There was writing carved into the board, worn, but still legible:

‘Alfrid, King of Northumberland, was wounded in a b****y battle nigh this place, and was hid in a cave; and from thence he was removed to Little Driffield, where he died.’

‘Alfrid, King of Northumberland, was wounded in a b****y battle nigh this place, and was hid in a cave; and from thence he was removed to Little Driffield, where he died.’Jake took out his smartphone and photographed the board for reference. That done, he turned to leave, and as he did, the hairs on his arm stood on end. A curious sensation of being observed and an oppressive feeling of being an unwelcome intruder made him want to flee.

Chastising himself for being an impressionable fool, he nonetheless set off back to Ebberston with the intention of finding lodgings for the night. He also needed to devise a plan of action to get more information about this King Aldfrith or Alfrid or Elfrid, as they seemed to call him hereabouts. So far, he had not entered the village itself.

Through the trees near the country mansion, Jake spied the tower of a church, which when he changed direction turned out to be the Church of St Mary the Virgin of Ebberston. Half a mile outside the village, it stood in leafy surroundings, and Jake, unable to resist adding to his collection of country churches, took several photos of the exterior before attempting to enter the ancient building. It was locked. However, there was a mobile phone number of the churchwarden, Mr Hibbitt, and a notice announcing evensong at 6.30 pm. Loath to disturb the churchwarden, he decided to seek accommodation in the village and come back later to attend the service. There were some questions he needed answered, and the church seemed to be the ideal place to satisfy this need. However, he did not know then that some questions are better left unanswered.

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