He shone the light on the wood again, holding his hand as steady as he could. He could just make out the naked writhing figures
being dragged by monstrous apparitions towards unspeakable torment. The beam settled on the face of a plump naked woman who
anticipated her fate with the lost, despairing eyes of the damned. Then it shifted to her tormentor, a twisted, red-faced
creature holding some instrument of exquisite torture aloft as it anticipated with evil delight the agony of another victim.
Lewis’s heart pounded and his hands began to shake. All the electronic visions of horror he had witnessed on the flickering
screen didn’t compare with this dimly lit scene of abject terror. He grabbed the old metal box and backed out quickly, desperate
to get away; to put as much distance as he could between him and that portrait of untamed evil.
He climbed down the ladder, almost missing his footing in his haste, and ran outside. A fine misty rain was falling in horizontal
gossamer sheets across the rolling hills, but Lewis had no intention of returning to the barn to take shelter. He tucked the
box inside the Adidas coat he had been given last Christmas and waited for his father outside, striding to and fro to keep
warm.
Lewis Hoxworthy’s mind was still filled with the horrors he had seen inside the barn when he heard the sound of a shot echoing
in the dank, misty air.
The next day Paul Heygarth – of Heygarth and Proudfoot, estate agents – halted his car at the junction of two narrow country
lanes and looked at his watch before checking that the road was clear. Ten-thirty. The appointment with Mr Hoxworthy to give
a valuation on his barn was at 11.15, so he’d just have time to call at the Old Vicarage on the edge
of the village of Derenham to check that everything had been left as it should be.
Paul set off again, steering the BMW with one hand as he dialled the number of the office. The firm’s surveyor, Jim Flowers,
was out on a job, so Nicola was on her own. Paul felt he should inform her of his whereabouts in case anything urgent cropped
up. Not that anything urgent ever had – and Nicola had his mobile number in case of emergencies – but Paul Heygarth liked
to be prepared for every eventuality. And to feel that he was indispensable.
It never occurred to Paul that Nicola might resent not being trusted to hold the mighty fort of Heygarth and Proudfoot for
an hour while he and Jim Flowers were out. It would never have crossed his mind that Nicola had any feelings on the matter
whatsoever.
The gates of the Old Vicarage appeared on his right, guarded by a pretty thatched cottage which had once served as a lodge
but now, in more egalitarian times, had severed its connections with the big house and reinvented itself as a holiday home.
He swung the car into the drive without indicating and drove too fast down the narrow roadway. The Old Vicarage wouldn’t come
into view until he was almost at the front door, shrouded as it was by trees and mature evergreen shrubs. The winding drive
was lined with thick, healthy-looking laurel bushes that could have hidden a couple of commando units in their shiny green
foliage.
Suddenly the building emerged before him. The Old Vicarage had been home to the vicars of All Saints, Derenham, during the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But back in the 1960s the place had been considered far too grand for Derenham’s parish
priest, so he had been moved to humbler and more practical accommodation nearer the church.
The name, however, had stuck, which was particularly fortuitous, given the current housing market. The Old Vicarage conjured
images of solidity, of status; of old maids cycling to church and peasants doffing their caps to
the lord of the manor. The Old Vicarage was exactly the sort of place that attracted those who wished to buy into the rural
idyll – if only at weekends. Just the sort of place to pull in the punters from London with their well-laden wallets. With
their fat City bonuses, times might have been very good indeed for Paul Heygarth – if it hadn’t been for his problems.
Paul stopped the car and jerked up the handbrake. He sat there for a few minutes, reluctant to exchange the sealed, heated
comfort of the BMW for the chill, damp air outside.
He looked in his driving mirror to check his appearance, and the pasty face of a man who took too many business lunches and
far too little exercise looked back at him. There was no client to meet but he did this swift sartorial inspection out of
habit, just as he checked his receding hairline and the balding crown of his head in the bathroom mirror each morning, wishing
that he could turn back the tide of time.
Taking the key to the Old Vicarage from his inside pocket, he climbed out of the car. The sudden rush of cold air made him
sneeze as the door shut with a satisfyingly expensive clunk. He wore a smart dark suit with a striped shirt and bright blue
silk tie, but no overcoat: he wasn’t one to spend any more time than was necessary out of doors. He fastened a button on his
suit jacket and hurried towards the house.
Before the Old Vicarage had been used to house the local clergy and their dull and blameless families, it was rumoured that
the house had had an interesting history. According to Heygarth and Proudfoot’s brochure, there was a chance that parts of
the place might date back to the fifteenth century, and that it might once have been home to the Merrivale family, who had
links with the Earls of Devon and who, way back in the fifteenth century, had been loyal supporters of the House of Lancaster
in the Wars of the Roses. Of course, the house had been knocked about, extended and modernised in the last couple of centuries
so
that no trace of that far-off age remained.
And there was the uncomfortable possibility that the Merrivales’ home could have been somewhere else entirely. At the other
side of the village some archaeologists were digging up a field next door to his colleague Jim Flowers’ house. According to
Jim, the workmen digging the foundations for the proposed new village hall had discovered the remains of a large building
as well as a human skull grinning up at them from the soil. The experts seemed to think that the building was the Merrivales’
old manor house, but there was no need to dwell on the facts. Who was to say that those archaeologists weren’t digging up
some boring old outbuildings?
The Old Vicarage was a far more suitable abode for the Merrivales of old: and there was nothing like a bit of history for
pushing the price up, Paul thought with a smile of satisfaction. Knights of old, mad monks, visits by Queen Elizabeth I: they
were all grist to the property mill. The punters loved a bit of romance. Paul reckoned he could easily push the price of the
Old Vicarage over the million mark the way the market was going. And a quick sale would put an end to all his troubles.
As he reached the front door something caught his eye; a flash of shiny yellow to his left, screened by the ubiquitous laurels.
He walked towards it slowly, and when he rounded the bushes he saw it. A shiny yellow sports car. He stared at it for a few
seconds then turned and walked back to the front door, pausing to listen for any telltale sounds. But he heard nothing except
birdsong and the distant hum of farm machinery.
Paul unlocked the great oak front door and marched straight into the hallway – oak panelled and deceptively spacious, with
radiator and telephone point – where he stood for a few moments in the expensively carpeted silence. He stared at the closed
drawing-room door, then turned the great ring of black iron which served as a handle and pushed. The door opened a little
but there was
something behind it, blocking the way. He pushed again, harder this time, but whatever it was wouldn’t budge.
He took a deep breath before deciding to try the other way into the room, via the kitchen and the dining room.
As he walked slowly across the lush ruby-red hall carpet towards the back of the house, he felt a sudden chill in the air.
Paul Heygarth was an unimaginative soul – never one to succumb to tales of hauntings, even in properties with strange grisly
pasts – but standing there in the entrance hall of Derenham’s Old Vicarage he had an uneasy, creeping feeling that he was
in the presence of death.
Terry Hoxworthy greeted his visitors with a shotgun over his arm.
Neil Watson looked at his companion, a short young man wearing a thick grey anorak which had fallen open to reveal a tie crawling
with Disney cartoon characters. ‘Er … are you sure this is okay, Mark?’ he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Mark Telston, Assistant Planning Officer, ignored Neil’s apparent cowardice and approached the farmer with a confident outstretched
hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Hoxworthy. I’d like to introduce Neil Watson from the County Archaeological Unit. He’s in charge
of the excavation that’s going on near the church, on the site of the proposed new village hall. They’ve discovered the remains
of a large medieval building up there. Have you heard about it?’ he asked brightly.
Terry Hoxworthy nodded, his face expressionless. ‘I thought Neil’s department should be aware of your application for planning
permission. There was an archaeological excavation on your land in the 1950s, I believe.’ He looked at the farmer for confirmation.
Hoxworthy shifted the shotgun a little, and Neil noticed a pale, shiny scar across the palm of his right hand. He averted
his eyes. It was rude to stare.
‘Aye. That were when my dad had the farm. Bit before
my time. He were interested in history, all that sort of thing. Used to buy a load of rubbish at auctions and say it was antiques.’
He looked Neil up and down suspiciously, noting the long straggly hair and tattered old jeans. ‘What’s it got to do with my
barn?’
Neil glanced at Mark and then at the shotgun. He had an uneasy feeling that it was his turn to speak. He shifted his weight
from foot to foot. He was used to dealing with academic matters, and facing a potentially irate member of the public like
this really wasn’t his sort of thing.
‘The thing is, Mr Hoxworthy,’ he began, trying to sound enthusiastic, ‘it’s very possible that your barn here is of considerable
historical interest. The excavation in the 1950s found evidence of medieval field systems and various written records mention
a fifteenth-century tithe barn connected with Derenham church. It’s just possible that your barn may be, er …’ His voice trailed
off. From the glazed look that had come into Hoxworthy’s eyes, he suspected that either he was getting too technical or that
he was saying things the man didn’t want to hear.
‘So what’s that got to do with me selling it?’
To Neil’s relief it was Mark who spoke. ‘Well, if it does turn out to be a medieval tithe barn, it means you can’t just do
what you like with it. It may be appropriate to list it, and that means that all sorts of planning restrictions come into
force, I’m afraid.’ Mark Telston tried his best to look apologetic, but Neil thought he could detect a hint of triumph in
his voice.
‘So you’re saying I can’t do what I like with my own barn?’ The shotgun shifted again. Neil took a step back as if to emphasise
that he was only there in an advisory capacity.
‘Not necessarily, Mr Hoxworthy. It might turn out that your barn was built much later than we suspect. It’s just that with
your application for planning permission to convert the barn into a luxury dwelling we have to be sure. Now if Neil here could
just have a quick look at the barn …’
‘Okay, okay,’ said the farmer impatiently. ‘But don’t be long ’cause I’ve got an estate agent coming to value the place soon.
Bloody bureaucrats,’ he added under his breath, scratching his head. Neil was beginning to feel sorry for the man.
After a few seconds Hoxworthy spoke again, more quietly this time, with an undercurrent of desperation. ‘I’ve got to sell
this place. I ain’t got no choice. Do you know how far the income from this farm has dropped in the past few years?’
He looked at Neil challengingly, having selected him as potentially the most sympathetic of the pair. ‘Bloody politicians
are always on at us farmers to diversify, to think of new ways to make a bit extra. I do like they say. I try to sell one
of me old barns for conversion and this is what happens … bloody red tape tying me up again. It never bloody stops. If it’s
not Brussels playing silly buggers it’s inspectors with their rules and regulations about BSE and …’ He shook his head. Then he looked Neil in the eye. ‘Do you think I want to sell this barn? Do you think I want a load of
yuppies living at the end of the bloody lane complaining every time my cock crows or the slurry doesn’t smell of French perfume.
Do you?’
‘I’m sorry. I, er, see your point, Mr Hoxworthy, but …’
‘You’re only doing your job. That’s what they always say.’
Neil, who had never considered himself a natural member of the forces of oppression, feared that he was being cast as the
lowest form of obstructive petty bureaucrat, and he could think of no reply that would convince the farmer otherwise.
He was rescued from an embarrassed guilty silence by Mark’s timely intervention: he had clearly had more practice in these
situations. ‘If Neil could just have a look at your barn …’
‘Do what the hell you like,’ Terry Hoxworthy said
before marching off towards the house.
Mark Telston watched him go with some amusement. Neil didn’t feel like laughing.
He said nothing to Mark as he conducted the preliminary survey of the barn which, as he had predicted, didn’t take very long.
Keen to examine the construction of the roof, he climbed up to the hayloft while the assistant planning officer waited below
with his feet firmly on the ground.
It was a few minutes later when Mark heard a gasp followed by an ominous silence. He put a tentative foot on the rickety ladder
and called Neil’s name. When there was no reply he climbed up slowly and called again.
Again the only answer was a brooding silence. Mark climbed farther up so that he could just see into the hayloft. He called
Neil’s name again, looking around. His heart started to beat faster and his mouth felt dry. Either the archaeologist had an
infantile sense of humour or something was wrong.