Daedalian Muse Page 7

After putting enough space between ourselves and the Mews we slowed in our pace and walked down the lane towards town. There had not been a word said between Jill and I since we fled, and it in part due to the fright and confusion, but also due to the sheer lack of any words to verbalize what had occurred.

  She suddenly stopped, and I passed her by a few paces before I realized that she had. I turned to face her.

  “What the hell was that??” she asked as though she had only just seen the phenomenon that occurred a quarter mile back.

  “I am not quite sure,” I said, my sense having returned to me and rational thought back in control. “If there was a fire then there would have been smoke. It could be that there was a gathering of people down there. After all, we did hear voices. The warmth I felt could be accredited to the combined body heat and the orange light could have been artificial. Are there any secret societies based in this area?”

  “Are you dense?” she spat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  She was right. Of course. “If they were a secret society then you wouldn’t know of them, would you?”

  “Tempus, you idiot, I saw a flamin’ ghost and so did you!”

  I shook my head. “I saw something rustle past my lens. In retrospect it could have been anything...”

  “You saw it with your lens. I saw it with my naked eye. It was a ghost. It vanished halfway past the bottom of the stairs, just like before.”

  “Then we once again have repeating patterns. This makes it more and more likely that this is a controlled phenomenon.”

  “Oh just wait here,” she muttered, leaving the main road and stepping into the trees that lined the path. At first I thought she sought to relieve herself, but then I saw that she was hiding her air rifle under some shrubs. She then began to unbutton her camouflage trousers when she stopped and glanced up at me angrily. “A little privacy?” she spat. I turned. “Watch for any traffic, God forbid.”

  A few moments later Jill came back to the road, wearing the denim dress she had worn the previous day, as well as the same bonnet the held her long dark hair. “Can’t go marching about town dressed like that, can I?” she asked. “I’d scare the regular folk.”

  While her dress sense had reverted her nature had not, at least not for my benefit. We carried on down the road, eventually passing a few young lads with fishing poles, perhaps hoping beyond hope to catch something in the shallow stream. I felt need to warn them against approaching the ruins but I feared against acting out of hysteria. Besides, it was likely they had another spot, away from the Mews, where they were told to go. Jill’s acting ability became apparent to me as she greeted the boys with the same timid grace she had allotted me the day before. After they had passed she turned to me, her smile long gone, and explained that they were the children of her clients. Normally I'd have been amused by a fifteen year old girl referring to a handful of boys clearly her senior as 'children', but my mind was hardly in the right frame for levity.

  “So what do you know of the history of the Mews?” I asked, bringing the subject back into play. “Were any of the Morrows involved in odd religious pursuits?”

  “You mean like that weird one that involves eating a man's flesh and drinking his blood? What’s that one called? Oh I know, ‘Christianity’.”

  “Other than that one.”

  “No, not that I know of. The last one was an atheist, which was pretty racy back in those days. The only sacrilegious activities he took part in was sleeping in on a Sunday morning. Now scandal he was good at, but not sacrilege. It doesn’t matter though. I’m telling you there is no secret society down there. That would actually make Greyfield seem a bit interesting.”

  “Mr. Barberwart tells me that the fire was started in a mad rage,” I started, hoping that she would finish the story with highlights not revealed by the mayor.

  “This whole village was built around a fire. The entire place burned to the ground back in the 1800's.”

  “Yes, he told me such.”

  “No, I mean the whole town. Everything and everyone. The only 'survivor' was one of the Morrow son's, who came back and rebuilt it all from scratch. Every last one of the people here are descended from the workers who built their own village of tents and cabins to live out of while fixing up Lord Fancy Pants' stables.”

  “Fascinating. He had left out that detail.”

  “Yeah, well, he probably doesn't like admitting that he's descended from rabble, does he?” she muttered. “Our house has been around for a while, but I'm told it's been built on the foundation of what used to be a tailor's shop. That would explain why it wreaks of boredom.”

  “What about the fire that ravaged the mews?”

  She gave a short laugh. “Yeah, the bachelor finally settled down, apparently. What was his name? Gordon James, Wilfred Gordon, Randall Wilfred...Christ they weren't very inventive, were they?”

  “I believe it was Gordon Randall Morrow.”

  “Whatever. He got married and it didn’t work out. Who didn’t see that coming? He was in the war, so that probably made him appreciate living life to the fullest. When he had to chose a profession he picked medicine, as he saw how many lives could be saved by skilled hands in the war. Plus it sounded good, didn’t it? Ain’t that all that matters to this rich sods? Anyway, he gave up his bachelor ways and found a good lady wife, but he ended up shagging some of the staff, apparently. The ball and chain finds out, throws a wobbler, and throws a few of their marital gifts into the fire. One object happens to be an oil lamp. That’s the story, anyway. Either way a fire occurred, and there wasn’t a single survivor.”

  We reached a crossroads, just across from the pub - The King’s Heart.

  “I must go visit Mr. Grisham.”

  “The vicar? Why?”

  “I need to speak with any resident of this village who may be familiar with its history, and he seems as though he knows Greyfield and its inhabitants quite well.”

  “Listen mate, I may be young, but I’ve been here longer than he has. Do what you like, but you’re on your own. I don’t like churches.”

  “Suit yourself. Tell me, where does your family live? Jack is taking care of Aristotle and I must collect him later.”

  “Is that your cat? Oh don’t worry, I’ll have him bring it round to Mrs. Tellman’s later this afternoon. Good luck with the church thing.”

  We parted ways, with her taking the left and myself taking the right.

  When I arrived at the church I found it to be the usual affair for such a small village, a small stone building capable of holding only a handful of parishioners, which just happened to be the town’s population. The heavy door creaked as I peered in and I saw the vicar, Mr. Grisham, at the pulpit with the young Constable Richards, looking as though they were discussing grave matters. As curious as I was, I did not wish to intrude upon their affairs. I simply waited at the entrance for them to conclude their business. I examined the few small stained glass windows. There were a few that depicted several stations of the cross, but there were not enough windows to portray them all so it was an abridged version. Above the pulpit there was a larger yet more simple work depicting the crucifix surrounded by four successive rings of varying colours.

  “Yes, Mr. Fugit, thank you for your patience,” the vicar called, summoning me as the young constable passed. He did not acknowledge me, but it was not due to my scolding him two days prior, but rather that he looked so forlorn and preoccupied that I could have been anyone and still might not have existed. I walked down the aisle to the pulpit and accepted Mr. Grisham’s hand, which he shook as though it had been more than a few hours since we last spoke. “You’re back already. Tell me, what did you uncover?”

  “Very little,” I lied. “The Mews leaves quite a sad corpse, but otherwise I saw little to excite the senses. My investigation is far from over, however.”

  “Good, good,” he said distantly, hurriedly. />
  “Is everything alright?” I asked.

  Mr. Grisham smiled, attempting to confront whatever plagued him with what seemed like his usual joviality, but it was clear that he had not sufficient ammunition. He sat upon the step leading to the alter. I gauged that it would be expected and appropriate that I sit down alongside him.

  “The Gallows Boys,” he began. “Tyler and Taylor. Two lads. Twins. They inherited their farm from their father, Jacob Gallows - a well-respected resident who sadly passed away only two years ago. Oh I don’t know the crux of the argument, but there was a dispute of rights. The land was split equally between them - I know this as I read the eulogy and the will - but they’ve feuded over acreage ever since. Such a wretched way to honour their father’s memory. I’ve been told that their feuds have been heated, even violent at times, but this...I would never have suspected this.”

  “What has happened?”

  The vicar glanced over to me, but only held eye contact for a moment. “Taylor, lad. He’s killed his brother. Hit him over the head with a shovel. Quite deliberate, and quite fatal. These are large boys. There was no underestimating their own strengths. I buried their mother too, only a year ago. So tragic, yet how relieved I am that she is not hear to be given such news.”

  “This is horrible.”

  “Aye, lad. It is. I must deliver last rites to Jacob this afternoon, though I hope his soul is already on its path to salvation. As for his brother, well...that is for the law to decide, isn’t it?”

  Provided the 'law' in these parts was greater than the sum of Constable Richards' authority, I would have to agree.

  “I shall not keep you any longer then,” I said, bowing my head in my deepest sympathy. “Yet before we part might I ask you...how long have you lived in Greyfield?”

  He seemed surprised by such an irrelevant question, but nonetheless offered me his answer as cheerfully as he could muster at the time. “Oh about eight years now. I was transferred here from Bromley. A bit of an adjustment period was required, as you can expect, but I’ve come to quite enjoy it here. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I replied. “I’m just trying to build an appropriate snap shot of this lovely village. I thank you for your time, vicar.”

  I left the church alongside Mr. Grisham, who then took another direction. I decided to head back to Mrs. Tellman’s establishment and see what would develop with the film and what postulates I could form given these new occurrences. Upon entry I was told by the old dear that a young boy had come around soliciting an animal, at which point Justin clarified that it was Jack returning Aristotle. “I last saw him in the back chasing butterflies,” he had told me. I assumed he meant Aristotle. Satisfied with the knowledge of his safe return I went up to my room to set down my camera, remove my jacket and vest, loosen my tie, and sit at my desk to start scribbling some thoughts upon the paper before they left me in the confusion of all that had occurred.

  My next duty would be to turn this bedroom into a dark room, but I decided to wait until a later hour. I had the supplies that I’d need, I just did not wish to make my alternate use of this room too apparent in case the landlady disapproved. I poured over my notes for a time until it drew near the dinner hour. I wanted to bring Aristotle in before I settled down for my meal as I’d have no time afterwards. I descended the stairs and went out into the back garden but could not see him. I called his name a few times, but to no avail. I continued to search the small garden but found no trace. I peaked under the patio, as he was like most cats and preferred enclosed spaces. The only place that was left to investigate was a small shed at the bottom of the allotment. Continuing to call his name I approached the shed and opened the door.

  And I saw him.

  And I apologize, but I fear I cannot explain what I saw.

  It’s alright, really. It was not a terribly big issue.

  He was only a cat.

  He was only the last companion I had left after my father had died.

  He was of very little consequence.

  I’m sorry. I do not wish to speak of it anymore.

  CHAPTER EIGHT