Chapter Twenty-Two

Sixsmythe

 

 

31st October 2016

 

THE INSIDE OF St Thomas’ Church was warm with low and gentle light when John opened its heavy wooden doors. Alice followed him across the threshold and inhaled that oddly distinctive smell that churches have – must and wood polish, old books, candlewax, fresh and dying flowers.

She’d barely been in a church since she was a child, she realised. Her marriage had taken place in one and when Emily had been born, Alice had relented enough towards religion to have the child christened, if only to please Andrew’s parents and her own. The low light gleamed on polished wood and brass holders, gleamed on tall slender windows.

Her footsteps clicked on the wooden floor as she walked up the aisle; even so, what caught her most of all about the church was its stillness. A Christian colleague had once spoken of going to church ‘in search of spiritual peace’. She’d thought it, at the time, a trite and pretentious turn of phrase, but now thought she understood better. Where else, in a city, in the howl of daily life, would you find a building dedicated to silence and stillness? This was a place where you came for quiet contemplation, to take stock and think; to step away from your life’s clutter and day-to-day concerns in search of meaning and understanding.

Well, it was now, maybe always had been for the privileged few. For the common herd, it had most likely been the kind of place where someone would scream at you from the pulpit about original sin, eternal damnation, and how the Labour Party was the Antichrist – at least, she vaguely remembered her grandmother, a Catholic, claiming the local monsignor had declared as much back in the ’fifties when they nationalised the railways.

She shook her head. She could quote chapter and verse – no pun intended – on the iniquities of organised religions, on the evidence of human hands in drawing up their rules and regulations to control the lower orders, of their deep loathing and fear of women – yes to all of that, you couldn’t deny what logic showed. But at the same time there was no denying this place had some quality that called to her, that made her wish she’d come here on some other day, by herself, without mysteries to solve or ghosts to exorcise – or, at least, not that kind of ghost. It was like the feeling she experienced beside a sea, a river or a lake, or the heart of an autumn wood as it breathed. A sense of peace, of stillness, of connection to, or awareness of, something bigger. It was what she’d gone to Browton Vale for in the past, until the presence she’d sensed there – the ogre? – had corrupted it.

She’d picked a fine time to get religion, Alice thought; still, there was quiet and contemplation enough now. John seemed to feel it, too; Alice was grateful for that. She clicked her way down the aisle towards the altar. The pulpit stood to one side, a lectern to the other; a great cross of polished brass shone below the stained glass windows.

“The life of St Thomas,” said a voice. Alice jumped, turned to see a thin, grey-haired woman limping determinedly towards them with the aid of a stick.

“Sorry?” Alice said.

The woman smiled, pointed with her free hand. “The windows,” she said. “They show scenes from the life of St Thomas. Only to be expected, of course, in a church named after him. Hm?”

The smile was mischievous, as was the twinkle in her bespectacled eyes; Alice smiled back. The woman limped closer, and Alice saw that under her thick jacket the older woman wore black, with a white dog-collar at her throat. “Reverend Sixsmythe?”

The smile brightened. “Ah – Miss Collier, I presume?” Sixsmythe switched her cane to her left hand, shook with her right. “Then this handsome fellow must be Mr Revell.” Another handshake. “Very handsome fellow,” she said. “If I were twenty years younger and didn’t have a heart condition...” She laughed. “I’m sorry. Your faces are a picture. Yes, yes – guilty as charged. Galatea Penelope Sixsmythe, Reverend, C of E. Local historian, tea drinker and devourer of cakes. Spiritual guidance offered at an affordable rate. Come this way!”

Sixsmythe turned and limped around the front row of pews towards the left side of the church. Alice exchanged glances with John, and they followed.

Sixsmythe had stopped before a particular spot on the wall. As they approached, Alice saw there was a good-sized brass plaque set into it, glinting dully in the light.

“I think this is what you’re here about,” Sixsmythe said, tapping it with a bony knuckle.

 

Of your charity, pray for the soul of

ARODIAS THORNE

1778 – 1851

‘Judge not, lest ye be judged’

– Matthew 7:1

 

“Arodias Thorne,” said John.

“A man so well-loved that this was the only place they could give his bones a safe burial,” said Galatea Sixsmythe, nodding at the wall. “But you know that already.” She looked at Alice. Her eyes were dark grey, putting her in mind of Welsh slate in the rain, or cold iron. Hard, unyielding, but a strength to be relied on. “So, you’re the new tenant at Collarmill Road?”

“Owner,” said Alice, “I bought the place.”

Sixsmythe smiled again. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever really owned that spot,” she said. “Not even him.” She nodded again at the wall. “Let’s sit.”

Sixsmythe lowered herself into a pew. “Now,” she said. “I’ve heard some little from Mr Revell, but if he doesn’t mind keeping shtum for a minute or two, I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth – not that I’m comparing you to a horse, my dear, in spite of one or two superficial resemblances.”

“Eh?”

“Begin at the beginning, Miss Collier. I know Mr Revell well enough by reputation to guess that something’s afoot in that house. So kindly tell me what you’ve experienced. Don’t leave anything out.”

“Did Mr Revell tell you –”

“That you’re worried you might not be right in the head? It’s a common enough concern, Miss Collier. But some things can’t be suffered without leaving a mark. I think you know that very well.”

“What –” she glanced at John. “What did you –”

“Mr Revell hasn’t breathed a word regarding your personal life, my dear, you can rest assured on that. When we spoke on the telephone, he was in an agony of indecision about how much to tell and how much to keep to himself. But I’m not blind. Apart from the usual – births, marriages and deaths – people tend to come to their vicar with problems of one kind or another. So I can see when someone’s been troubled. When there’s been grief, or loss, or... well. You don’t need me to tell you. In any case, the best thing I can suggest is that you tell me everything you’ve seen or think you’ve seen. If in doubt, spit it out. And I’ll do my best to decide. All right?”

“Okay.”

“All right, then.” Sixsmythe beamed happily, clasped both hands atop her cane and propped her chin on top. “Whenever you’re ready, my dear.”

Alice reeled off the whole catalogue of events, spending most of her time studying the polished floor, occasionally glancing up at Sixsmythe, who smiled benignly back and nodded her eagerly on, or at John, who sat studying her with a hand resting on the back of the pew – not touching her, but resting only inches away, close enough to take without effort should she need it.

At last she was done. She omitted only the dream in her hotel room. She desperately wanted to believe that it had been only a dream, that the scraps of red cloth would prove to have a straightforward explanation.

She looked up at John, but he was looking past her, at Sixsmythe. When Alice turned towards the rector, her head was bowed, lips touching her clasped hands as if in prayer. Slowly the older woman looked up, and nodded.

“Well,” she said, “you have got yourself in something of a pickle, my dear. I think you’d both better come with me.”

She stood, wincing slightly as she straightened.

“Where to?” said Alice.

“Why, to the Rectory, of course. I can offer tea, coffee, something stronger if required, and – if we’re very lucky – cake.”

 

 

THE RECTORY WAS only a short drive away, in Irlams o’Th’ Height. Sixsmythe went in a small, battered-looking Honda, while John and Alice followed.

“What do you think?” said Alice.

“I think we should listen to what she has to say,” was all John said.

They rounded the Broad Street roundabout, went off the A6 onto Bolton Road, then turned down Park Road. Night had already settled over Lightoaks Park, and the line of bristling trees stood out against the light-polluted sky. It was still quiet when they pulled up outside the rambling Victorian townhouse that served the Reverend Sixsmythe as home.

Ivy clung to a trellis around the door, and a mock-Victorian lantern shone beside it. The lights were on inside, and a warm smell of spices and cooked dough washed out as the door opened. “Luck’s in!” said Sixsmythe cheerily. “Dora’s been baking, God bless her.”

“That you, Rev?”

Sixsmythe motioned Alice and John inside and slammed the door. “No, Dora, it’s the Yorkshire Ripper.” To Alice’s surprise, she was answered by a loud raspberry.

A young woman emerged from the end of the hall, wiping floury hands on an apron. She had short brown hair, no make-up, and wore jeans with turned-up cuffs, together with boots, braces and a lumberjack shirt. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry, Rev – I mean, Reverend – didn’t know we had guests.” She had a soft Welsh accent.

“Yes, well, we do. Could you be a treasure, Dora? I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”

“Coming up.”

Sixsmythe turned to Alice and John. “You?”

“Er – coffee, please,” John said. “Black with two.”

“White coffee, no sugar,” said Alice. “Please.”

“We’ll be in my study, Dora,” said Sixsmythe.

“Right you are, Rev. Will you be wanting cake? Just made some coffee and walnut.”

“Oh, go on then.”

Dora vanished back into her fragrant domain. Sixsmythe shooed Alice up the stairs, John following. “Dora’s my housekeeper. An absolute godsend. Cooks like an angel, too, as you’ll see. Now – this way!”

Sixsmythe’s study was in a front room, overlooking the road and the park. Streetlights glowed in cages of shedding leaves among the trees opposite. The Rector switched the lights on. “Take a seat, take a seat.”

A wide, leather-bound desk was beside the window, with a well-padded swivel chair. A couple of leatherbound armchairs were braced against a far wall. The rest of the room was taken up by bookcases, bulging with elderly volumes of one kind or another.

“Unread, half of them,” called Sixsmythe, flapping her hand as she crouched before the desk to address the door of a square black object tucked underneath it – a safe, Alice realised. “Now whatever is that bloody combination? I have a great appetite for broadening my knowledge of Scripture and theology and much else besides, but it does rather outstrip my reading time. Ah!”

She got the safe door open, and heaved out a large, heavy box-file.

“Now these,” she said, “are just copies of the originals, which are in our safety-deposit box at the bank. As such, I can at my discretion let you borrow them. I suspect you’ll find them useful, but I think you’ll find it wiser and safer to peruse them elsewhere. Tuscany, maybe. I’m told that’s nice this time of year.”

“What are they?” asked John.

“Documents, Mr Revell,” Sixsmythe said. “Documents pertaining to the site in question – 378 Collarmill Road, and its environs – and to Mr Arodias Thorne, formerly of this parish. Smoke?”

“Oh. No. Thank you.”

“Miss Collier?”

“No, thanks. I gave up.”

“Very wise.” Sixsmythe slipped a packet of Sobranie Black Russians from a desk drawer, clasped a gold filter-tip between her thin lips and lit the black cigarette with a small silver lighter. She thumped a heavy cut-glass ashtray on the leather desktop before her and leant back. The smoke was richer-smelling than most tobaccos – in small quantities, even to a non-smoker, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Take it you’ve no objection if I do?”

“Your house,” said John. “And you’re helping us out here.”

“True. But it’s good manners to ask.” Another twinkle in the eyes. “Just as it’s good manners on your part to say yes. Anyway.” She leant forward and blew smoke from the side of her mouth. “I take it Mr Revell has put you in the picture?”

“About –”

“About Arodias Thorne, Springcross House, St James’ Church, the Red Man and the Beast of Browton, among other things?”

“Not the last two, not yet.”

“Mm. Well, we’ll come to them in due course. This is all connected in one way or another. But first, let me come back to the subject of Arodias Thorne. You know, of course, that he once owned the land your house stood on? That he built Springcross House on top of the hill now occupied by Higher Crawbeck?”

“Yes. Yes, John told me. And that he paid for –”

“The church, yes. St James’.” Reverend Sixsmythe took a long, thoughtful drag on her cigarette. “That was quite a lot of money, as you can imagine. But you see, Miss Collier, Arodias Thorne wanted that piece of land. Very specifically, that piece and no other would do. So he was more than prepared to pay any price for it. The land – almost all of it – belonged to the Church. The old church on the hill – St Winifred’s – had served as a chapel of ease for some years in any case, and the new one would in fact be far easier to reach for local residents. So the decision was made to sell. Personally, I believe that to have been most unwise. And others at the time felt the same way – it certainly wasn’t what you’d call a unanimous decision among the relevant authorities. But they were greedy. A terrible sin. Although comprehensible and forgivable, I think, where Dora’s coffee and walnut cake is concerned.”

The study door opened on cue and Dora slipped in, bearing a tray with three steaming mugs, a large cake, a knife and three sideplates. She deposited it on the table. “Dinner’s in the oven, Rev,” she said, “an Irish stew. Just pop it on for half an hour when you get back from the service.”

“Spot on.” Sixsmythe stubbed out her cigarette. “Thank you, Dora.”

“Will that be everything?”

“Oh goodness, yes. Get yourself out of here.” Sixsmythe smiled as Dora went out. “She has the loveliest little boy – her wife picks him up from school, but Dora always likes to be home in time for tea. Still, never mind that now. Where was I?”

“Greed, I think,” said John, sipping his tea.

“Quite. Which reminds me – who’s for some of this cake?”

Having cut them all a generous slice, Sixsmythe went on. “Yes, there were those who didn’t feel the Church ought to part with that particular piece of real estate – and perhaps, too, those who felt that it certainly shouldn’t fall into the possession of a man like Arodias Thorne.”

“Why not?”

“We’ll get to that, my dear. Just to clear up a pair of loose ends first: Old Harry and the Red Man. You weren’t familiar with either of these?”

“No. But this Red Man –”

“In a moment.” Sixsmythe, Alice decided, took a downright pleasure in spinning her tale. Her lips were puckered in that mischievous smile again. “Old Harry, first. Well, you’ve seen Browton Vale for yourself. Very pleasant spot now, of course, but in older times – and bearing in mind that Browton generally was pretty desolate – decidedly less so. The marshes there were considerably more extensive, the woods a lot wilder – at least until they were cut down to build houses. The marshes were drained at the same time, but up until then, they were considered very dangerous; a lot of children went wandering there and came to grief. And that, in part, is held to be the origin of Old Harry, otherwise known as the Beast of Browton. Have you ever heard of Jenny Greenteeth?”

Alice blinked. “No.”

“Some sort of water-spirit?” said John. “Supposed to live in the Irwell?”

“Quite. A malign water-hag, a little like the Russian rusalka. There are different versions of her elsewhere in the country, and in many others. They haunt rivers, streams, pools, lakes – take your pick – and if anyone gets too close, especially unwary children, they’re dragged into the water and drowned. But Jenny Greenteeth was specifically identified with the Irwell. She was said to have long, green hair, looking very like the growths of water-weed you’d see in the river any day. She was a monster who also made a very good cautionary tale to keep children out of danger.”

“And Old Harry was something similar?”

“In part,” said Sixsmythe, “but only in part.” She was watching Alice closely. “You see, it’s a very old legend. Goes back centuries. Anglo-Saxon times, at the very least. Perhaps earlier, but there’s nothing about it in Roman accounts, although as I’m sure you know they settled the Manchester area. And they knew certain aspects of the local legends very well.”

Before Alice could ask what that meant, Sixsmythe had breezed on. “But yes, the Beast of Browton. Put simply, Miss Collier, it was an ogre.”

The room seem to grow still. “An ogre,” Alice said.

“Quite.” Sixsmythe plucked some papers from the box file, positioned her glasses further down the beak of her nose and read. “Let’s see... ‘About twenty foot in height, with a piebald hide covered in patches of fur... its general form is human, but for the greatest part it runs on all fours like some huge monkey or ape. A matted beard hangs about its dreadful maw. Its eyes, slit-pupilled as a cat’s are, jar with its low and bestial aspect, for they are very large and a most delicate shade of blue...’ Does any of that sound familiar, Miss Collier?”

Alice licked her lips. She took a gulp of coffee. “I think you know it does, Reverend.”

“Yes.” Sixsmythe put the papers back in the box-file, pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Old Harry, the Beast of Browton, as described in a pamphlet on ‘Folklore and Superstitions of Lancashire’, circa 1850.”

“Why ‘Old Harry’?” said John.

“Not sure. Perhaps a corruption of ‘Old Hairy’? Ah well, that’s a puzzle for another day. The pamphlet says ‘described variously as an ogre, hobgoblin or boggart,’ but the first seemed the aptest of the three. Anyway, he – and it’s most definitely a he, as a number of accounts of unfortunate women meeting a fate worse than death on Browton Vale testify, my dear, so you can think yourself lucky in one respect at least – he’s been around there for quite some time. Sightings of Old Harry persisted well into the nineteenth century. In fact, I do believe the last recorded one...” Sixsmythe leafed through the box-file “... was in... yes... 1911! A courting couple in the woods below Browton Vale had their illicit session of nookie disturbed by ‘a sound of twigs and undergrowth trampled underfoot’ and reported seeing ‘a huge black figure, covered in hair, with luminous blue eyes and pupils like a cat’s.’ Luckily for them, discretion proved the better part of valour and they lived to fornicate again. I don’t think anyone put much stock in their story at the time, but in the light of your experiences, Miss Collier, I think you’ll agree it’s not to be dismissed out of hand.”

“Yeah.” Alice nodded, although she knew that a fortnight ago she would have done just that. It couldn’t be true, she would have reasoned, and therefore belonged in this box or that – the ones marked lies, hallucinations, and madness. But now – Christ, what use were probability or reason as tools here, to determine what might or might not be true?

“Old Harry seems to have been most in evidence up to the seventeenth century, and the first half of the eighteenth. As the Industrial Revolution kicks into gear and the surrounding area becomes increasingly urbanised and so forth, his legend persists, but the old feller himself seems to become rather more bashful. Although, as you see, the last reported sighting was just over a century ago. But Old Harry’s really just a sprog compared to the Red Man.”

“Who is the Red Man? Please – I want to know what this is all about.” Alice heard the strain in her voice. She couldn’t stomach the thought of more of Sixsmythe’s dancing around.

But the Rector just smiled and nodded. “And you have every right to, my dear. Now eat your cake and I’ll tell you.”

Alice exchanged a glance with John, who shrugged. His slice was already gone, with golden crumbs speckling his sweater while he stole what she suspected was only the latest of a succession of glances at the remaining cake. She took a bite, expecting little, but the cake was both sweet and richly flavoured, and she found herself chewing long and slowly to savour it the better.

Sixsmythe chuckled. “I’ve told Dora her cakes should be available on the NHS,” she said. “So – the Red Man. He goes back a long way. A long, long way. He’s a rather more persistent figure than the Beast; he was last sighted in 1972. He’s also a rather more interesting character, too. More... ambiguous, anyway.”

“Ambiguous?”

“In some accounts he’s just a man in a red robe, like a rather unorthodox monk. But in others he’s a warrior, a soldier – even a knight. And some stories present him as demonic, while others are more, shall we say, complimentary. It tends to depend who he was fighting against and who wrote the account, of course. One theme, however, remains constant throughout – that he is some sort of guardian.”

“Guardian?” The last of her slice of coffee and walnut cake was already gone; Alice chased it with her remaining coffee and resisted the urge to look longingly at the rest of the cake. “Guardian of what?”

“Well, now – that’s the big question, isn’t it? The hill, Miss Collier, or at least, something on or in it. The Romans certainly appear to have had some sort of set-to with him.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Did you never wonder where the name ‘Collarmill’ comes from? It used to refer to the upper part of the hill – the part that was by and large uninhabited until the late nineteenth century, when Crawbeck expanded so noticeably. The summit was known as Collarmill Height.”

Alice shrugged. “I thought it just meant there’d been a mill there once.”

“Oh no.” Sixsmythe shook her head. “It’s from the Latin. Colle miles rubeus, they called it. How’s your Latin?”

“Very rusty, I’m afraid.” They’d studied it at school, and it had been once of Alice’s better subjects, but she’d forgotten most of what she’d learned long ago.

“Colle means hill, rubeus is red, and miles means soldier, warrior – even knight.”

“The hill of the red knight?”

“Precisely. In fact, if you look at records going back before the Industrial Revolution – that is, back when Crawbeck was just a tiny village at the foot of the mount – you’ll find it was simply known locally as Redman’s Hill.”

Alice realised she was still holding her empty cup and sideplate. After a moment, she propped them on the arm of her chair.

“So,” Sixsmythe went on, “after tangling with the Romans, our friend the Red Man went on to knock heads with the Saxons, the Danes, the Normans – basically every fresh round of invaders who’s thought to put their stamp on our green and pleasant land has had an encounter of one kind or another with him. Including the Church, when its fathers first attempted to build a place of worship there – back in the ninth century, as I recall.”

“As old as that?” John said.

“Oh yes. I mean, the church itself was rebuilt several times for one reason or another, but... well, I take it you’re aware that the Christian Church established itself in Britain less by destroying or banning pagan customs, festivals or holy sites but by – er – incorporating them, shall we say?”

John nodded. “Christmas replaced the pagan winter festivals like the Norse Yule and the Roman Saturnalia – that’s where the tradition of giving gifts and making merry came from. And the Roman New Year supplied the traditions of lights, greenery and charity. Just like Easter w –”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Mr Revell.” Sixsmythe scowled. “I’m the one displaying the breadth of her learning here. It’s considered very ill-mannered, you know – for obvious anatomical reasons – to get into a pissing contest with a lady.”

John opened and closed his mouth and might even have blushed. Alice bit her lips to avoid helpless laughter. Sixsmythe nodded, then shot Alice a wink. “Anyway, you understand the basic concept. Some aspects of paganism were demonised, and others... Christianised. As Mr Revell would no doubt have gone on to tell us, an awful lot of saints’ days were pagan celebrations of one kind or another. I’m sure he hadn’t forgotten that tonight is in fact one of the best-known, and was only saving it till last for maximum effect.”

John harrumphed and looked down at the floor.

“I refer, of course, to Halloween. The greatest of all pagan festivals, and thus Christianised into All Saints – or All Souls – day. Or ‘All Hallows.’ As you were no doubt about to tell us, Mr Revell?”

John harrumphed again. Sixsmythe chuckled. “Quite. All Hallows Eve, or Even – Hallowe’en. Although the less said about the bloody trick-or-treaters, the better. By the same token,” she went on, “pagan places of worship became Christian places of worship; pagan holy sites, Christian ones. St Winifred’s Church, on Collarmill Height, was one such.”

“So there was a pagan holy site on top of the hill,” said Alice, “and the Red Man – guarded it?”

“Yes. Caused quite a lot of mischief to the early fathers, I believe, and there was much praying and exorcising and general gnashing of teeth. The official account has the Red Man’s hash apparently settled once and for all, but luckily its author was long-dead and safely beyond embarrassment when the fellow popped up again a couple of centuries later to – er – remonstrate with the Normans. In every case, save one, the Red Man succeeded in his apparent aim: that is, safeguarding the source of the Craw.”

“The Craw? You mean the stream?”

“Oh yes. The spring was in a cavern at the very summit of the hill, you see, and its waters collected in a small, circular pool outside the cave entrance. We’re not sure if the pool was a natural formation or if early worshippers excavated it. Anyway, from the pool a small stream, or beck, emerged to run down the hillside. Hence Crawbeck. More cake?”

“Please,” said John, trying not to sound too eager and failing.

“No – I mean, yes,” said Alice, trying to consider her waistline and failing just as miserably.

Sixsmythe chuckled again and cut three more slices.

“So what was the actual sacred site?” said Alice. “The spring?”

“Holy springs are quite common,” admitted Sixsmythe, “although it seems to have been as much the pool as anything else. There were various miraculous properties attributed to the spring waters, but only where they emerged fresh from the rock or collected in the pool outside the cavern entrance. The waters of the Craw itself were no more magical or blessed in nature than any others. Hence the belief in some quarters that the pool itself was man-made.”

“Perfect place to let the waters collect,” said John.

“Quite so.”

“What kind of miraculous properties?” Alice asked. “I mean, you know, supposedly?”

“Almost any you can think of, Miss Collier,” Sixsmythe said. “If you drank, or in some cases, bathed or were washed in the waters – well, it depended on what you were looking for. They were supposed to have healing properties, of course – there are a lot of claims of wounds healing magically, or even untreatable diseases such as leprosy being cured. But others talk of those who drank the waters seeing visions of the future, or of the past – where father buried the family treasure, that sort of thing – or of events occurring far away. What you got from the spring largely seems to have depended on what you needed. Some...” Sixsmythe paused, putting her cake down for a moment. “Some claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary, Jesus, even God Himself. The Virgin in particular, actually – there were quite a few sightings of her, or at least a female figure, all glowing and ethereal, that kind of thing. And not only be people who drank the water. Just added to the place’s reputation. The Virgin of the Height, it was called locally. Of course...” Sixsmythe sighed.

“Of course what?” asked Alice.

“Well, much as I’d love to point to this figure as a miraculous proof of mine being the true faith – although my Catholic colleagues would probably point out that it rather vindicates theirs more – the fact is that the stories of the Virgin go back to pre-Christian times. She’s been around for a while, this one. She was particularly associated with the groves of rowan trees that grew on the hill – it’s a tree with various magical properties ascribed to it in folklore. People used to make little talismans out of the rowan twigs – dolls, and later crosses – to invoke her aid.”

Alice swallowed.

“Another case of the Church incorporating a pagan symbol?” asked John, eyebrows raised.

Sixsmythe glared at him, and he looked away. “Cheeky, Mr Revell. But essentially, yes. The last sighting of her was in the mid-’nineties, if I recall. Interestingly, from the 1930s onward, she was also seen in the area called the Fall.”

“The landslide,” said John.

“Correct,” said Sixsmythe. “Back in ’29, a good-sized chunk of Collarmill Height ended up displaced into Browton Vale. And there are probably more rowan trees growing down there now than there are on the hill itself.”

The glowing figure in the hallway when she’d used the cross; the hazy shape when she’d hidden in the rowan trees on the Fall. Alice clasped her hands together, tight.

“Anyway,” said Sixsmythe, “all this is probably where the identification with the Grail came from, although some contend it was the Arthurian connection that came first...”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” John held up a hand. “The Grail? Arthur? As in King Arthur?”

“Yes, dear.” Sixsmythe frowned at the interruption. “A grail – or to use the Old English, graal, is, in the literal sense, more a bowl than a cup, and the pool was, according to contemporary accounts, a perfectly circular, bowl-shaped hollow in the ground – which was taken as more evidence for its being man-made. If you look back over the centuries, over the documents referring to the area, you’ll see the name change. Crawbeckbecomes Crawlbeck, then Grawl-beck, and, finally, Graal-beck.”

“In other words, Grail beck,” said Alice.

Sixsmythe smiled. “Quite so. The legends of the Holy Grail tend to ascribe miraculous properties – particularly of healing or longevity – to any water drunk from the cup. So the two were put together. There is a local legend that the Holy Grail was hidden for a time on Collarmill Height, guarded by a hermit or some such who used it to help deserving cases – and that afterwards, when the Grail was taken elsewhere, the miraculous spring first appeared. Another legend says that Sir Percival, while seeking the Grail, came to Collarmill and defended its heights against some horde of aggressors or other who wished to make evil use of the spring. It’s only a fragmentary, local story – no connection to the big myth cycles – but it is interesting that it should be Sir Percival, specifically, of all Arthur’s knights, who features in the story.”

Here went Sixsmythe again, playing her little games and dangling her knowledge in front of them. The older woman’s eyes were bright; she clearly couldn’t wait for someone to ask her. Alice sighed. Might as well play the game. “Why’s that?”

“There’s more than one warrior known as the Red Knight in Arthurian legend,” said Sixsmythe. “For example, there’s a knight called Esclados who guarded a mystical fountain in the forest of Brocéliande. Interesting, no? Both Gawain and Galahad were known as the Red Knight in different myth-cycles – Perlesvaus and the Lancelot-Grail cycles respectively, if I recall. And yes, there’s that Grail again. But Percival – out of all Arthur’s knights, that’s the one most strongly identified with the title. In Chrétien de Troyes’ cycle, the original Red Knight is the Red Knight of Quinqeroi, who steals a cup from Arthur’s court. Percival – who, in the beginning, is a boy of humble birth – vows to bring the cup back to Camelot: in fact, it becomes his quest, on the fulfilment of which his knighthood depends. And when Percival finds and kills the Red Knight in battle, he takes his foe’s armour.”

“So the Red Knight changes from being an evil character –” John began.

“To a noble one,” finished Sixsmythe. “Quite so. And there’s even a quest for a drinking-cup.” She smiled. “And no, I’m not making any judgements as to the historical truth of the Arthurian legends here. What I do think is that the legend of the Red Man – and the Collarmill Spring – bore sufficient similarities that they were partly reworked into Arthurian myth.”

“So is that why Thorne wanted that piece of land?” Alice said. “Because of the legend?”

Sixsmythe, pushing the last of her cake into her mouth, shrugged. “Who can say?” she said when she’d finally swallowed. “The original site of the spring itself was there somewhere – although the cave was blocked off and the pool filled in by the Roundheads during the English Civil War, as they considered it idolatrous. They burned down St Winifred’s Church as well; it was rebuilt during the Restoration, but the spring itself was forgotten. Obviously the source can’t have been blocked entirely, as the Craw continues to flow. Perhaps Arodias Thorne hoped to find it and make some use of it. But it is hard to imagine what else Collarmill might have had to recommend it.”

Sixsmythe settled back in her chair and lit up a fresh Sobranie. “Of course, I could be reading far too much into it. Perhaps Thorne was simply drawn to the otherwise unspoilt hilltop and its rather commanding view of the area? Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps he just liked being the monarch of all he surveyed.”

“But you don’t think so,” said John.

Sixsmythe tapped the box-file. “You’ll find a good deal more in here. He died childless, leaving Springcross House to a Mrs Wynne-Jones. She almost immediately sold it to the city corporation, on condition Springcross House be pulled down in its entirety and the site used for building new homes. As it was. Among them, Miss Collier, yours.”

Alice wondered just how far her house was from the spring’s source.

“Much of what I’ve told you,” said Sixsmythe, “comes from the Church’s own records. Some is from other sources, freely available elsewhere. But there were certain papers in Mrs Wynne-Jones’ possession at her death. Her family wanted nothing to do with them, and so they eventually came to the Diocese of Salford, as the hill was under their jurisdiction – and thence into the safe-keeping of one of my illustrious predecessors.”

Sixsmythe settled back in her chair, puffing contentedly on her cigarette. “So...” began John.

“So?” She eyed him benignly over the top of her spectacles.

“So what happens now?”

“Now?” Sixsmythe chuckled. “Now, I suggest you acquaint yourself with the material in this file. But as I’ve already said, I suggest you do it somewhere other than 378 Collarmill Road.”

“You think it’s dangerous?” said John.

Sixsmythe sighed. “What do you think?”

Alice looked at the box-file, then at Sixsmythe. “This isn’t the first time, is it?” she said. “Something like this has happened before.”

“Of course it has, woman!” Sixsmythe snapped. “Do you seriously think a place with that sort of history would just stay quiet until you came along?” She sighed, closed her eyes and breathed out. “I’m sorry.” When she lifted her cigarette to her mouth again, Alice saw her hand shook a little. “There’ve been occasional reports from other houses on Collarmill Road. The Red Man is commonest, and the children.”

“The children.” Alice leant forward. “Who are they?”

“Alice,” began John, but she waved him to silence.

“I think we need to know, John, don’t you? Who are they supposed to be, Reverend? What do they want? Why are they trying to kill me?”

God, that sounded insane when she came out and said it, but Sixsmythe sighed again and nodded. “I can’t give you an exact answer, I’m afraid, Miss Collier. But we can make educated guesses.”

“Thorne,” said Alice. “That’s it, isn’t it? He was some sort of child-killer.”

Sixsmythe shook her head. “There was far more to Arodias Thorne than appeared at first glance. It’s all here.” She pushed the box-file towards Alice; it almost tipped off the edge of the desk and she had to catch it before it hit the floor. “What I will say is this: there were minor incidents and reports from other houses and locales around number 378, but nothing on the scale of what we’ve heard from that place over the years, Miss Collier.”

“You mean – other people?” Alice saw John half-rising from the corner of her eye, heard her voice rise too, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “Those things tried to kill someone else and nobody said anything to me?”

“Sit down.” There was a real whipcrack of authority in the Rector’s voice and both Alice and John sank back in their chairs. All of a sudden, it wasn’t remotely hard to imagine Galatea Sixsmythe preaching to her congregation about the torments of Hell. Her hands were clenched on the desk, brows bent in a frown, the grey eyes cold. “You came to me for help, Miss Collier. Don’t forget that.”

“I seem to remember John saying you were downright eager to see me.”

Sixsmythe breathed out. “True. True.” She lit a fresh cigarette. “Don’t tell Dora,” she said absently. “I’m only supposed to smoke five a day and this takes me over my limit.”

“Dora’s gone home, Reverend,” Alice said.

“Oh, yes, of course she has.” Sixsmythe puffed on her cigarette. “The answer to your question is yes and no, Miss Collier. There’d been reports of activity at 378 Collarmill Road for some time, but it’s varied from occupant to occupant. People have heard children’s voices at night when there weren’t any children in the house. Some have even glimpsed them. From time to time there’s been... well, I suppose the only term for it is poltergeist activity. Objects breaking suddenly, being flung through the air – bursts of loud, angry, inchoate energy that come and go, vanish as quickly as they appear.”

She tapped ash from her cigarette. “The thing is that no two residents have had quite the same experience. Some have lived there and never seen – or at least, never reported – anything remotely out of the ordinary. Others get the sounds, or the sights, or the poltergeist activity, but all three at once, that’s rare.”

“And no-one’s actually had the children try to kill them?”

“No. Or reported the experiences you’ve had outside the house – the cavemen and the chap with the spear. But there’s usually something. Did the estate agent not tell you that 378 was unoccupied for a good five years before you moved in?”

“I think she may have mentioned something. But aren’t they supposed to tell you if a house you’re buying has that kind of reputation?”

“So I’m told,” Sixsmythe said. “Sounds to me as if someone at the estate agents was a bit naughty. I know – an estate agent, lying in order to clinch a sale? Surely not. It’s like expecting a BMW driver to behave like an arrogant moron compensating for his erectile dysfunction.” She coughed. “Anyway, it was rented out for a number of years, up until about ’98, ’99, I think. After that there’s been a succession of owners. Some, as I said, complained of... incidents. Others didn’t. But no-one actually stayed long. It might have been as little as a feeling that they weren’t quite welcome there. But time and time again, it’s gone back on the market.”

“And no buyers in five years?”

“The last owner was a quite elderly lady, as I recall. Very independent soul. She fell ill – cancer of some kind – and died in the Christie hospice, in Manchester. She never reported any problems while there. Her family were scattered up and down the country. Some of her possessions they kept, the rest they sold, and the house was on the market ever since. And interestingly, while Higher Crawbeck isn’t the back end of hell, it’s hardly a crime-free paradise either. The premiums for buildings insurance on an uninhabited property are pretty damned high. In spite of which, the house wasn’t broken into, or even vandalised, while it was on the market. And then you came.”

“And woke the place up with a vengeance,” Alice muttered.

“It certainly looks that way,” Sixsmythe agreed. “If I’m honest, Miss Collier, I had a feeling I’d be hearing from whoever moved in there sooner rather than later, but the worst injury any civilian’s suffered up until now has been a cut cheek from some broken glass. Whatever’s there would seem to have a distinct interest in you, Miss Collier, which is why I suggest that if you are going to probe its mysteries, you do so at a safe distance.”

“But... I mean, can’t you do anything about it?”

“Such as?”

“What about an exorcism?” Alice felt a little dizzy saying the words; two weeks earlier she’d have said that only a superstitious fool would suggest it or think it could do any good.

“An exorcism?” Galatea Sixsmythe smiled at her, but it was a grim, mournful one. “My dear Miss Collier, whatever makes you think that hasn’t been tried?”

“When..?”

“1989,” said Sixsmythe. “A quarter of a century ago, while the Berlin Wall was falling down, two priests attempted to carry out an exorcism of 378 Collarmill Road. It didn’t go very well.”

“What happened?” asked John.

“One of the priests suffered a massive stroke. He never walked or spoke again for the remaining seven or eight years of his life.”

“What about the other priest?”

“The other priest?” Sixsmythe winced as she stood. “The other priest,” she said, picking up her cane, “still needs this to get around.”

That revelation bought a moment’s silence, which Alice finally broke. “I thought you said the worst injury anyone had suffered was a cut cheek?”

“No,” said Sixsmythe. “I said that was the worst injury to a civilian. There’s a marked difference between living under a wasps’ nest and trying to smoke the wasps out, burn the nest or beat it flat with a shovel. Which is essentially what an exorcism boils down to. Take my advice – get out of there and read the file. Then take steps to sell the house, or rent it out – whichever you prefer. My advice, for whatever it’s worth, is to sell it. Sever every possible connection to the place.”

“That’s it?” said Alice. She’d risen to her feet too, and was moving automatically towards the door.

“That’s all the advice I can give. If what I’ve said hasn’t convinced you, perhaps what’s in here might.” She’d picked up the box-file and held it out to Alice.

Alice took it. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks, Reverend.”

“Reverend,” John said.

Sixsmythe shook hands with him. “Look after her, Mr Revell. God be with you both.”