Paranormal Sleuth Mystery Book Series

Jake Conley by John Broughton

Series Excerpt

Ebberston, North Yorkshire, May 2019

Walking away from the church, Jake reflected on the ambience of Ebberston. On the surface, he mused, it was a pretty little Yorkshire village, just one of many. But on closer scrutiny, everything about it was out of the ordinary, not least Ebberston Hall. He walked past the main entrance off the busy A170 for another four hundred yards, where a former drive was now a grass track flanked by horse chestnut and lime trees. He preferred this approach, as it gave less to the eye, and as he had discovered, whereas once the Hall was open to the public, now it was privately owned. As he only wanted to get a glimpse of the building, there was no need to present himself. He had read a leaflet for tourists about Ebberston Hall from among those supplied by Gwen.

He flipped open his notebook, found the entry and refreshed his memory. Built in 1718 for William Thompson, reputedly for his mistress – apparently, she found it beneath her station and refused to live there. Perhaps this was because it was constructed as a summer retreat or hunting lodge, without great pretensions. In fact, he had noted, it was called the smallest stately house in the country. One of its former owners, George Osbaldeston, had ruined himself by reckless gambling, and he, known as the Hunting Squire of England, had been forced to sell and move out. This fact added to the unsettling feeling Jake had about the atmosphere of the village. There was something about the place that disturbed him, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Through the line of trees, he studied the attractive edifice. Right away, he realised how tiny the building was for a stately home. Nonetheless, it was charmingly constructed in Palladian style with a three-bay loggia with Tuscan columns on the first floor. No doubt the architect had planned it, Jake calculated, with an eye on the view along the narrow Kirk Dale. He wondered why Sir Charles had left it in favour of his newly built Dalton Hall. Probably he, too, wanted something grander to impress his aristocratic peers. Jake smiled. Personally, he’d be happy living in a gate lodge of a house like this. He turned away. This brief sighting was enough to give him a feel for the man who’d built the grotto, and it served to soothe his nerves after the nonsense the churchwarden had spouted as freely as a gargoyle in full spate. He chuckled at this image and muttered, “Poor Mr Hibbitt, his rubicund face is hardly that of a carved monster!” But then he thought of the hard eyes and the threatening voice, and his smile faded. Why should he change the subject of his novel? His mind was made up; Aldfrith it would be.

Having reached the main road again, he walked past the entrance to the Hall drive and took the hedged lane to the right, which he followed for a hundred yards. On the right of the lane, the hedging gave way to dry stone walling, and he spotted a wren bobbing on a capping stone, but the tiny creature, alarmed by his presence, darted into a hole where, no doubt, it had its nest. At the end of the walling, he crossed to turn left up a rough track, which in turn forked left, taking him on to a stony track between high bracken-clad banks overhung with blackthorn and rowan. They provided shelter from the wind.

Over years of country walking, Jake had learnt that walking quietly gave him a much greater chance of spotting wildlife. Today was no exception. He froze, for up among the trees, he caught a glimpse of the white belly of a fallow deer. A doe, judging by her size. Given how the mottled upper body camouflaged the animal, he congratulated himself on his sharp eyes for having spotted her. Uplifted by the gracefulness of the deer’s movements, Jake followed the path as it curved right, ascending until he could see the circular stone monument that was Sir Charles’s grotto.

His cheerful, edified mood evaporated at once. Something was wrong. In trepidation, he approached the structure. In front of the entrance, the acrid odour of charred wood pricked at his nostrils. Someone had lit a fire in front of the cavern. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end. Where the entrance to the cavern should have been blocked by a large boulder and land-filled, now he gazed incredulously at the empty blackness of a cave entrance! Someone had removed all the obstructions, but as he gazed around him, there was no trace of the boulder or other obstructing rocks, nor of the explanatory board. Slowly, he approached the cave, heart thumping wildly. Two feet from entering, he heard a shuffling sound from within and cried out, at which silence fell, and he called, “Anybody in there?”

No reply, but a chilling sensation numbed him, and he felt malice emanating from the depths of the cavern. So strong was the sensation that without thinking further, he turned and fled the way he’d come. Twice, he glanced over his shoulder, but no one was in pursuit. Halfway down the track, he stopped to catch his breath, aware that he had been breathing badly because his heartbeat was too frantic. He leant against the bank and glanced fearfully back up the track – nothing, no one! He breathed deeply, sucking in air greedily. Had he imagined it all? Of course not! But how was it possible to clear away the boulder and rubble in so short a time and leave no trace? To do that they would have needed heavy machinery, but there was no sign of disturbance on the ground surrounding the grotto. Another Ebberston mystery! What was he to do? As his heartbeat calmed, he began to think coolly. Should he phone Mr Hibbitt and confess to ignoring his advice? If not, who could he turn to as a witness to the extraordinary circumstances? Nobody, so he’d better keep this to himself for the time being.

What a morning! He thought back on the day’s events so far. First, the strange conversation with the churchwarden. The man himself had spoken of old wives’ tales, but in fairness, it had been Mr Hibbitt who had put him on to Sir Charles’s correspondence. That in itself was odd. Why hadn’t he wanted to tell him about these occurrences until after he had read about Sir Charles Hotham-Thompson’s ‘mysterious and awesome occurrences’ for himself? Why not simply give him an outline and warn him off? Now, he had a mysterious and awesome occurrence of his own to contend with. He must go back and find an explanation. He straightened and took two steps back up the lane but stopped. He dared go no farther. Hadn’t Mr Hibbitt spoken of dead bodies and raving madmen? For the first time, he didn’t dismiss this talk as nonsense. Yet, he couldn’t explain what had happened in any rational way – and it was this, rather than cowardice, that stopped him going back to the cavern. Even as he decided against going, he knew that he would have to return to the cursed spot – just that he wouldn’t go right now. The feeling of malice coming from within Elfrid’s Hole had been too strong, too diabolical.

He took two paces back to the spot where he had rested and leant there again, considering the events once more. Was there no rational explanation? He came to the dreadful conclusion that there was not. To calm himself, because he felt as though his head would explode, he thought about positive things like the jenny wren and the fallow deer he had seen. Basically, this was why he loved rambling. Since this was the case, why didn’t he find another destination to kill time before lunch?

He had an idea. He could visit the site of the battle and the beck that flowed past. With this in mind, he took out his OS map and located his current position. There it was, to the west of Ebberston, adjoining the main road, written quite clearly, Bloody Close, and the gothic lettering used for historical sites indicated Ofwy’s Dikes. Jake rifled in his rucksack and pulled out a leaflet he’d taken from his room, now folded and the worse for his rough handling, about the history of the area. He skimmed through the content until he came to: The tradition is, that Alfrid was wounded in a battle within the lines of Scamridge, (either Six Dikes, or Ofwy’s Dikes) near this place. The entrenchments at Scamridge near Ebberston have from time immemorial been known by the name of Oswy's Dikes, probably because Oswy's army encamped there, before engaging with the forces of his rebellious son. He read on a little more: There are many early earthworks in the area to the north of Ebberston and Snainton. Scamridge Dykes occupy approximately three square miles of moorland. They possibly date from the Stone Age. Here, over a century ago, a communal thatched dwelling was found among the mounds and ditches, and 14 bodies dating from 1,000 years BC.

There was plenty to capture the interest of an archaeologist or historian in the area, he mused. His finger traced the route he would follow. First, he’d reach The Grapes, have lunch there again, and then proceed on the footpath near the pub on the left. That would take him to the Bloody Close, otherwise named Bloody Field.

After a most satisfactory lunch washed down by an excellent craft ale, good humour restored, Jake left the pub. He found the public footpath and followed it through the Bloody Field. He had feared he might be tormented by some peculiar feelings at the site of a slaughter, given his recent heightened sensibilities, but fortunately he felt nothing except his own historical awareness. He looked around the field, seeing nothing special in the surroundings, but the thought that a ferocious battle had been fought where he was standing. He calculated swiftly – 1304 years before, men had died here. He wondered if a metal detector might find ancient weapons in the earth. With his final thought, he set off in search of the beck. Passing through and carefully closing three gates, he turned right, passed through the gate at the corner of the field, and strode on to a bridge crossing the stream.

There he stopped and placed the fingers of both hands against his forehead because a sudden feeling of dizziness had assailed him. He swayed, momentarily unsteady on his feet, and leant against the side of the bridge, clutching at it for support. As he leant against the structure, he glanced down at the flowing water and to his horror – he blinked and shook his head – the water was running red! This was the sort of thing he had been dreading. What was the matter with him? Had the accident made him insane? Dr Emerson thought not, but then, she wasn’t staring at a beck known as Bloody Beck because the water had run red with the blood of the slaughtered…yes…but 1304 years ago…not now!