The Fever of the World, page 9
‘It’s gone? The entire building?’
‘Never takes people long to cart debris away as building stone for farm buildings,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m told there are a few girders half-buried in the woods, but no masonry left.’
She said that none of Sir Samuel Meyrick’s descendants had inherited his vision, and the court had been prematurely demolished. Having failed to bring good fortune to anyone.
‘Leaving only the gatehouse to guard its memory,’ Merrily said. ‘But you said it attracted considerable tourism?’
‘In its early years, yes. In the way that places like Alton Towers still do. More authentic than that, of course – it was opened in the 1830s and included a recreation of a medieval tournament, with imitation horses. And it was packed with weapons and armour dating back to the Dark Ages.’
‘But it didn’t bring Meyrick much luck.’
‘He died at only sixty-four, having already lost his wife and son, Llewellyn. Its armour and various treasures were sold separately. In its later years, long after Meyrick’s death, the court was sold as what apparently was a very unwieldy home – too big and impossible to heat. Finally, it became temporary accommodation for a school in wartime. Gradually, beams, flooring and panels were removed.’
‘Did nobody think of turning it into a hotel?’
‘If they did, it didn’t happen. Finally, in 1950, with the help of explosives, it was brought down and the landscape healed over where it had been.’
Merrily dropped the torch on the dash. She felt cold. The village lights were coming on, but the horizon was dark. ‘Am I feeling a ghost story developing, Sophie?’
‘Not much of one.’
Sophie shrugged, cleared her throat, seemed almost embarrassed, although, outside the window, the weather was playing along. It was far gloomier than it should be at 4.30 p.m. not far short of spring.
‘It’s said that… when Goodrich Court was finally being brought down, part of the collapsing building is said to have roared in agony… like a large, dying animal.’
Merrily couldn’t prevent a small shudder. She could almost hear it: a hollow, metallic tearing.
‘It’s actually a not-unfamiliar sound to demolition crews, according to my husband,’ Sophie said. ‘But apparently it was the source of considerable superstition around Goodrich at the time, and…’
‘How long have you known about this?’
‘Well… years, I suppose. A while before you came. I… I didn’t think about it much, because it went no further. If Canon Dobbs ever returned, he didn’t record it. He’d been persuaded to come out here in, I think, 1985. Early in the morning. In the mist. He was, I suspect, a little grumpy about it. Dismissive.’
‘What was he originally told, do you know?’
‘His notes say parishioners north of Goodrich claimed to have been awoken before dawn by what he described as… “an agony in the air”.’
It was a strong phrase from someone Sophie had suggested was fairly sceptical.
‘He was probably there before daylight. He records the presence of the morning star.’ Sophie held up a page. ‘I can’t read it in this light, but if you take it home, you can find the details I’ve missed.’
Merrily pulled the car back into the middle of the street. There were no obvious parking places.
Sophie said suddenly, ‘I remember one phrase, near the end where the canon describes what he saw from where the court used to be. Lucifer quite luridly apparent. This is a reference to the star, not the Devil. The evening star, Venus, always starts to appear in the morning. Under a different name. Lucifer – I don’t know why. But he saw the star where the court used to be.’
‘In the new gap?’
‘I’m not sure. Nothing to do with Satan… or exorcism. Although, in the end, the canon did apparently conduct a fairly ritualistic exorcism of place, walking three times around the site of Goodrich Court with holy water… and the vicar of Goodrich. Who was probably a little embarrassed, but the diocesan exorcist was respected, even then, for the work he did. I would have given you this file years ago if there was any suggestion it had carried on.’
‘Who told you about Dobbs’s exorcism of place?’
‘It was Mrs Rees, his former housekeeper – still alive and coherent, if you ever need to confirm it. She said the canon rarely discussed his exorcisms, but she does remember hearing that on this occasion he’d assembled some of the people who had earlier been disturbed by the… death-throes of Goodrich Court.’
‘The “death throes”? He actually used that phrase?’
‘I don’t…’ Sophie was clearly distressed. ‘There was a period of time between whatever happened that brought him here and the documents passing into my care.’
Merrily sighed.
‘And the arrival of Innes. I’m sorry, Sophie, I— Did Dobbs hear it?’
‘He doesn’t say he did. Not everybody did hear it. Some people who were living here then say it’s complete nonsense.’
‘What did Dobbs think? I’m sorry, I’m trying to make up for knowing nothing about this.’
Sophie folded up the documents, looked as if she regretted mentioning any of it, then let her hands fall in her lap.
‘I rather feel that, like other people, he disapproved of Meyrick and the way he’d imposed himself on this village.’
‘Do you think that, Sophie?’
Sophie was quiet for a while, as if they were on the edge of something she wasn’t sure should be disturbed.
‘I think there’s evidence that, despite all the money Meyrick poured into Goodrich, he isn’t quite as highly regarded as you might expect.’ She peered out of the right-hand window. ‘It’s a little too dark to visit his last resting place today, I’m afraid, but… I think the level of local esteem is reflected in his memorial.’
‘Now we’re here, I’d like to finish this story.’ Merrily drove on slowly but with intent. ‘The church, is it?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Where is the church?’
Sophie laughed artificially.
‘You wouldn’t be the first person to ask that.’
‘Goodrich doesn’t have a proper church?’
‘Oh, it does. Quite a large one. Thirteenth century. And well preserved – heavily Victorianized. But the thing is unless you’ve done some research, you won’t find it. Even in full daylight you probably wouldn’t. Are you sure you want to do this? There’s a lot to understand.’
‘Sorry, Sophie, we’ve come here now and I think I have to finish the story. There seems to be a whole slice of Herefordshire history I’m not really aware of. If this is Herefordshire. When the Wye gets wider it starts to seem like a different county.’
‘Bear right,’ Sophie said.
16
Undercurrents
MERRILY SQUEEZED THROUGH a gap between cast-iron railings near the church wall. One rail had been removed.
Full dusk now. It had closed in imperceptibly. She wasn’t sure where they were or how they’d got here, but she could see the shape of a church steeple, as grey as the air, and no lights on or near it, no clock.
They’d walked through rough grass to get here, leaving the car near a footpath gate, house-lights not far away. They’d passed bent-over graves before reaching the railings.
‘This is it?’
‘If I’m remembering it correctly.’ Sophie lowered her husband’s golf-umbrella to get it between the railings. ‘Yes, this is it.’
Merrily said, ‘So he’s still here, in the village?’
‘His son, Llewellyn, was put in here first. He was going to be brought up as a medieval castle owner, learning to hunt in the grounds, but he didn’t make it. That was the start of the Meyrick bad luck. You’d better have this.’ Sophie bringing a small torch from her handbag. ‘Keep the light down.’
The grave had not been cared for. The stone of the interior tomb was coated with mud and ivy. Sophie was hacking at it with the heel of her boot. Nobody was disturbing them. Few people seemed to live close to the church.
‘No one seems to look after it any more,’ Sophie said. ‘If they ever did.’
As she lifted her foot, the torchlight showed
USH MEYRICK
And underneath
founder of Goodrich Cou
‘When we first came here,’ Sophie remembered, ‘I asked four people where Meyrick was buried. None of them knew. Or were they claiming not to know? I wonder…’
Merrily bent down to brush more mud fragments away with a hand.
‘I wonder why they didn’t know. He certainly left his mark on Goodrich. Must have put an incredible amount of money into it. Did he do something they didn’t like?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but…’
‘What?’
‘He’s somehow managed not to be part of this area’s history,’ Sophie said. ‘His castle was for tourists, not local people. And now it’s gone. It doesn’t exist any more. Its… its space is empty.’
Merrily stared roughly in the direction of the castellated gateway that apparently now led nowhere. Sophie told her that Meyrick had been born in North Herefordshire, though he always insisted he was Welsh. Married a Welsh woman who predeceased him, as did his son.
‘He went on several expeditions in Wales in search of stone circles and cromlechs – which might be plundered for grave goods to go on display at Goodrich Court alongside the weaponry. He thought they were druid remains.’
‘So people still believed, in those days, that the old stones and circles were erected by the druids?’
‘They didn’t know. They didn’t know much about the druids. Anything mysterious was attributed to these obscure and dark Celtic priests. They were another of Meyrick’s obsessions – a common one in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He wanted to be recognized as an expert so he produced his own illustrated books about the druids.’
‘Made him seem more Welsh?’
‘And created the image of a druid we still accept today, though it may be entirely inaccurate.’
‘Why did he want to be Welsh?’ Merrily asked into the rain.
Sophie said, ‘Perhaps he thought they were more exotic. Beyond that, I have no idea. He tried to master the language – with how much success I’m not sure.’ She looked around. ‘I think you’ve seen what there is to see. Perhaps we should make our way back to the car.’
They squeezed back between the gap in the railings, entering what could now be seen as an untidy graveyard with tilted stones leading to a small modern housing estate on the edge of the village. It gave them a full view of the church, like a quiet group of farm buildings set against a long hill. A few cottages on either side had lights coming on. Merrily stopped near the little footpath gate they’d used to get in. It wouldn’t admit anything wider than a moped.
‘Do congregations have to parachute in here, Sophie, or what?’
‘This graveyard probably pre-dates parachutes by many centuries. And yet, when virtually all churches had entrances, this wasn’t given one. Plenty of room for gates, yet you can’t get a car near it. No road. Never has been.’
‘What about funerals… the hearse?’
‘I don’t know. They must manage somehow – they probably have an agreement to use someone’s land, someone’s drive for the important vehicles. But I can’t think of another substantial parish church unreachable by car, and I can’t see anyone putting a road in now.’
‘It’s strange.’
Merrily unlocked the Freelander. Had this been a sign to Dobbs that something here was making it hard for the Church and always had? Did it go further than undercurrents?
‘Erm…’ She counted the bungalows overlooking the churchyard and the thought that had periodically bobbed in her brain since they’d arrived here arose again. ‘The garden of the woman who contacted Arlo Ripley apparently is near the church.’
‘That was what he told me: Goodrich church. I wondered if she lived near enough to the site of Goodrich Court for her to hear its… dying fall. If it really was heard again.’
It didn’t sound too ridiculous. Not out here after dark, in the rain. Merrily pulled open the driver’s door.
‘Or perhaps she could hear Meyrick himself bemoaning the fate of his pride and joy,’ Sophie said. ‘Anyway, I thought you should know why Canon Dobbs had spent so much time in Goodrich.’
‘Thank you. I always wondered if there were some things about Canon Dobbs that you hadn’t told me. I never did have any reason to know that. What were his conclusions?’
‘I’m not aware of any. He was working on this intermittently for… the rest of his life, I suppose. A year or two.’
Sophie stood by the Freelander, looking down at St Giles’s Church, plain, its tower without buttresses. No adornments, no clock and not approached by any road.
‘If Canon Dobbs reached any conclusions,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid he didn’t live long enough to share them. Not with me, anyway.’ She waited to get into the car. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else we can see today. I’m sure you’ve already guessed why we came this afternoon. And why we’re leaving now – I hope – before we lose all the light.’
‘All right,’ Merrily said. ‘You’d better tell me how recently it was heard again.’
Sophie didn’t reply until they were both in the Freelander, and its engine was running.
‘I believe,’ she fastened her seat belt and brought her window down a short way, ‘that it was two days ago.’
17
Death’s Dynamo
DC VAYNOR WAS parked outside Starbucks, on the Ross bypass, wet snow now turning to rain on the windscreen. He didn’t know why he’d come back here, unless he was hoping to encounter Maya Madden again.
This morning, not long before they’d gone their separate ways, she’d said, about William Wordsworth,
If he wants to stay around… to resolve some things… who am I to stop him?
And that had stayed with Vaynor. She regarded Wordsworth as a person, a human being, not just a literary figure. He’d been dead for a couple of centuries, but she knew there were emotions around him that still needed quenching.
Why should Vaynor conceal his study of the poet from this woman? She’d met him first as a copper. She had no reason to think he’d betrayed his roots.
Vaynor’s mobile was on the passenger seat; he’d thought he might as well use it. Thinking how much he used to relish being at home with Eve on a wintry night like this, when snow could be a balm and an anaesthetic if you were in the warm. One day, perhaps, if she came back, they’d go to live in a house with an open fire and he’d be straight with her about why human motives were more important than literary techniques. But if that was all they had to talk about in front of an open fire in wintry weather…
Which was an illusion as well. According to Radio Hereford and Worcester, far higher temperatures were on the way, along with April.
In the flat, for special occasions like tonight could have been, they’d have the kitchen oil lamp alight on the window ledge, its glass funnel enclosing a shaky flame. Vaynor rang the flat again, from his mobile.
No answer. Again.
He saw there were not many customers in Starbucks. With this pandemic around, people were going home as soon as they could. The car park was down to five vehicles, including Vaynor’s and one from which a woman was emerging. He made an abrupt decision to go in and get himself a coffee.
The lighting in Starbucks was what you found in waiting rooms or a low-energy factory canteen. Vaynor ordered an espresso and was looking around when the perfume reached him, along with a breathy murmur behind him.
It had to be.
‘You walked right past me, Inspector.’ Diana Portis was tall enough, in her high-heeled black boots, at least to get within whispering distance of his ear. ‘I’m over there if you want to join me.’
He didn’t correct her this time about his rank. A steaming cup and a handbag were on the table to the right of the door, a long, black umbrella leaning against a padded bench. Diana Portis’s parka, black and shiny, was unzipped to show the smoky-pink suit jacket underneath. She looked up at him coyly.
‘I feel a bit like a… what do they call them? Is it still a snout, or is that very last-millennium?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Vaynor picked up his coffee from the counter. ‘I’ve never really had one of my own.’
Which wasn’t quite true, but no informant liked being talked about over somebody else’s coffee.
‘Oh well, there you are then.’ She took his arm. ‘Should I be your first snout?’
The little smile, the breathy kitty purr and the border-country roll. She giggled and sat down at her table, crossed long legs in tight, dark jeans.
‘I’m waiting for Royce. He’s been out talking to funeral directors. Full burial, right next to the Wye, so he’s treating it like an auction for the undertakers. Who’ll get to plant Peter Portis?’ She was flicking a would-you-believe-it? glance at the ceiling. ‘I do actually quite enjoy these occasions.’
‘Funerals?’
‘Everyone in neutral black,’ she said, ‘but they’re all quite naked underneath. Nowhere to hide at a big funeral.’
Cops still thought that, too. Standing at a murder victim’s graveside, examining the faces of mourners for indications of guilt. A tradition dating back to long raincoats, hats and pipes. He wasn’t sure that was what she meant in this case, though, there being nothing to say this was a murder or anything suspicious. Or was there?
Vaynor sat down opposite Mrs Portis, took a sip of his espresso.
‘If you don’t mind me saying this,’ he said, ‘you don’t seem too grief-stricken.’
‘Must improve my performance before the big day, whenever that is.’ She sipped her coffee then looked at him over the cup, breaking out into laughter. ‘Don’t look so shocked, David, you’re a detective. It’s death. Part of life. Happens around us all the time, people losing their claw-grip on the twig. You get over it.’
