Jake Conley Mysteries Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 4

Jake walked away from his new lodgings, situated in the picturesque village of Ebberston, back to the main road, where he proceeded to the hamlet of Thornton-le-Dale. His idea was to indulge his hobby and explore the Church of St Mary the Virgin before Evensong. He turned into Hagg Side Lane and surveyed the pleasing form of the twelfth-century Norman church. Towering over the building was a large conifer, and when he approached, he was amazed to find a gravestone half-consumed by the tree trunk. How many decades before it disappeared inside the tree completely?

He walked around the exterior, noting grotesque carved heads with their unsettling features and appreciated the well-tended graveyard until he came to the back of the building. There, on the north wall, he found something that reminded him of the main reason for his presence in this area. Set in the stonework was a stone depicting what he imagined to be a Viking sword. His flesh prickled as his imagination began to churn. This was clearly a re-utilised stone, most likely from a grave-slab. But whose sword did it represent? Where was he buried? What was this man’s story? Jake tried to calm his fervid imagination. King Aldfrith died in 705 AD, so this sword post-dated him by more than a century since Viking raids in the area didn’t begin until the ninth century. Nonetheless, the long, narrow slab had set his nerves on edge, and he began to wonder about the soundness of his psychologist’s advice to visit the area, given his present mental state.

The south door of the edifice had a wonderful calming effect on him. The scrolled ironwork of the door dated from the late Saxon period and contained a dove carrying an olive branch in its beak. Jake photographed the ornate work and racked his memory. He had seen similar Saxon ironwork on another Saxon door in Yorkshire. Ay, that was it! Nearer York, closer to home, at St Helen’s church in Stillingfleet. He pulled out a notebook and jotted down his thoughts on this church’s exterior.

It was time to make his way into the building now as people were arriving for the service. An elderly woman with blue-rinsed hair gave him a friendly smile, and emboldened, he asked, “Excuse me, I’m looking for the churchwarden, do you know who it is?”

She gave him a thorough once-over gaze, smiled again, and pointed to a rotund, bespectacled man, who appeared quite approachable. Now was a bad time to disturb him, as the congregation was settling to pleasant organ music. This came to a sudden halt, and the vicar began with the usual Glory Be. Jake was not a regular churchgoer, but on the few occasions he attended, he enjoyed joining in the hymns he knew, and this evening he lent his rich, untutored voice to a hearty rendition of ‘Immortal, Invisible God Only Wise…’: one of his favourites.

After the evensong concluded and the small congregation dispersed, Jake remained seated, bowed his head as if in prayer, and kept his eye on the churchwarden from under lowered brow. The vicar was outside the door, socialising with his parishioners, but Mr Hibbitt was gathering prayer books and placing them in a neat pile on a front pew.

“Are you alright, my friend?”

The cheerful smile illuminated the chubby countenance of the middle-aged churchwarden.

“Perfectly.” Jake outdid the smile. “To be honest, I wanted to have a quick word with you – if you can spare a moment,” he added hastily.

“Of course.” The man slid onto the pew in front of Jake’s and twisted round to give him an encouraging nod. “How can I help?”

Jake introduced himself, rather fraudulently, as a novelist and briefly outlined his idea for a story based on King Aldfrith.

For the first time, the friendly countenance clouded.

“You want to tread carefully there, young man. I take it you’ve been up to the cave?”

Jake agreed that he had.

“There’s been all sorts of odd goings-on up there over the centuries. Mind you, I don’t pay much heed to rumours and gossip.”

“What’s the story of the cave?”

“Do you know about the battle of Ebberston?”

Jake nodded slowly and added, “But there’s a lot of doubt surrounding it. Like who fought whom and even whether a battle ever really occurred.”

The voice of the churchwarden took on an authoritative tone.

“Oh, a battle was fought, right enough. You’ve only to look on a decent map and you’ll see from the place names; the b****y Beck flows past the b****y Field, and those names go right back to before the Domesday Book. They say the s*******r was so bad that the beck flowed crimson with blood. As to who fought the battle, there are those who say it was Aldfrith rebelling against his father, Oswy, but that’s impossible because of the date of the battle. His father was long dead. No, I prefer to think it was a Saxon battle against raiding Picts; now that is possible.”

Bloody BeckBloody Field, that“I’m glad I decided to speak with you,” Jake offered. “You see, I want to get my tale right. There must be many local historians who would be eager to shoot me down in flames if I get the facts wrong.”

The churchwarden grinned. “I’d say most would be pleased to have us on the map, so to speak. You say you’ve been up to the grotto?”

“Yes, it looks like one of those follies that rich men used to build.”

“Very perceptive.” The churchwarden looked around uneasily as if he were in a hurry. “That’s exactly what it is. Put up in the late eighteenth century by Sir Charles Hotham-Thompson, the eighth baronet, who owned Ebberston Hall at the time.” Jake felt the strange sensation at his forehead again and frowned before jotting the name down in his notebook.

“You should look into him, is my advice. That was a funny business, that of the grotto. You can read his correspondence in the archives at Hull University. He left more than three thousand letters, they say. Now, I really must lock up here. Are you staying in the area?”

Jake agreed he was and named the bed and breakfast establishment.

“Get on over to Hull and see what you can find out. Then we can have another talk and I’ll tell you all I know.”

He proffered a hand, and Jake smiled into the friendly face but went away feeling more than ever unsettled about this story of King Aldfrith. There was something strange surrounding the whole episode. But what? The churchwarden was defensive. Jake also harboured a curious conviction that it was in his fate to write the tale of what happened on the b****y Field and to get to the truth of the matter.

As he walked away on Hagg Side Lane, he turned to glance back at the lovely church and saw the churchwarden standing next to the vicar and, without a shadow of doubt, pointing at him. The hand dropped immediately as he turned to look their way. Jake shrugged. Was it his overheated imagination again? It was only natural that a stranger to the sleepy hamlet, asking questions, should create a topic of conversation. Still, he decided, he’d ask his landlady about the grotto when he got back to his digs.

She was the archetype of a bed and breakfast proprietor in Jake’s opinion, motherly and cheerful. As soon as he entered her house, there she was, offering him a cup of tea and cake. Relaxing in a chintz-upholstered armchair, sipping his tea, he told her how much he’d appreciated the local church and enjoyed the service.

“Are you interested in churches, love?”

Jake admitted as much but told her he was here for another reason.

“Oh, yes, and what’s that?”

“I’m researching a novel about King Aldfrith, the king who sheltered in a cave near here. I went there this morning.”

Her face was a picture of concern.

“Nay, love. You don’t want to be going up there! I’d steer clear if I was you!”

“Why? Why not?”

“There’s them as says that place is haunted. There’s been rum goings-on there. Stay away, laddie – that’s my advice.”

Jake frowned and thought about what the churchwarden had said. Hadn’t he used the same expression? ‘All sorts of odd goings-on up there over the centuries.’

‘All sorts of odd goings-on up there over the centuries.’He smirked at Mrs McCracken, the landlady. “Surely you don’t believe in ghosts? You said it was haunted.”

“There’s been plenty of witnesses over the years. It’s fair to say that none of the local folk’ll go near. I know I won’t. You don’t want to be going up there alone, especially not at night. There’s been two deaths at least that I know of.”

“Good lord, as bad as that? Who died and when?”

“The last one was just after I moved here. One of them backpackers, he was. A 57-year-old teacher from Wigan, I think. He was found with a gash to his head, stone dead. The coroner said it was an unfortunate accident, but I’m not having that. The poor fellow had all the right equipment, sturdy hiking boots – I don’t think for one minute he slipped and banged his head.”

“Do you suspect foul play?”

“Well, I’m just a foolish old woman, don’t go by what I think. Foul play? Worse, I’d say. The York Press reported he was found dead with a look of horror on his face.”

Foul play?The York Press“I know that newspaper, and it’s generally serious enough. So when was that exactly? And by the way, Mrs McCracken, you’re neither old nor foolish!” Jake took out his notebook and hovered a pen over the open page.

She gave him a delightful smile for his compliment, but it was soon replaced by a serious expression.

“Let’s see, I came here in September 2004, and it happened about a month later. So, October. I remember thinking, ‘What a start!’ but luckily, he wasn’t staying with me. That would have been simply awful, the police and all! Poor man! That’s why I want you to stay away from the cave – it’s cursed!”

cursed”Jake didn’t believe that for one moment, but to calm her, he said, “Don’t worry, Mrs McCracken–”

“Call me Gwen.”

“Don’t worry, Gwen, I’m not planning on going there. I have to leave for Hull tomorrow. Can you book me in for another three nights?”

“We’re quiet at the moment, so no problem.”

“Great. What about public transport to Hull?”

“Your best bet is to take the coach; the 128 stops on the main road at Brook House Farm, and it’ll take you as far as Hull. That’s the best you’ll manage. I should have a timetable somewhere. Ah, here it is! Let’s see, there’s one leaves at 11.15. It’ll get you to Hull in three hours, will that do? You can get to the university from the bus station.”

“It might mean I’m late back tomorrow.”

“You have a key. You can come in whatever time you like, love.”

Jake was tired and went to his room, where he found some leaflets. One in particular caught his eye, about Ebberston Hall. It turned out to be a listed building, a small stately hall with splendid gardens. He picked it up and, lying on the bed, began to read about the house. Disappointed to discover that it was now no longer open to the public, nonetheless, he found the Sir Charles, who had the grotto built, included among the previous owners. It seemed the baronet enjoyed significant prominence in George III’s reign. He tossed the leaflet aside and decided to shower and find out more about the man the next day in the university.