Page 128 of The Silent Appeal

11:16 a.m. Lucas wrote:

I know, just bear with me, G. I promise it’ll all be fine.

From a page in Reverend Joshua Harries’s sermon notebook:

Fairways charity “Sleep Out’ ” 4/26/25

The Ghost of Lockwood Lane

Not everyone believes in ghosts, because we choose what we believe.

When I first arrived in Lockwood twelve years ago, the previous vicar, some of you may remember Father Bill, spent a week or two introducing me to the parish and on his last day, told me the legend of Lockwood Lane.

He said that before the First World War, this area was mostly rural. The parish was all farming families, farmhands, and domestic staff who worked in the larger houses. The road that now runs between the church hall and vicarage was a simple lane that skirted the fields and took what little traffic there was—mainly carts and workers on foot—through the copse that gave Lockwood its name.

A prosperous landowner by the name of Crispin Tully, a tall, angular man of military bearing and middling reputation, lived in a large house situated approximately where the vicarage now stands. He had married young, but not long after, his wife, Ruth, was confined to bed with a sickness no doctor could identify, much less cure. Crispin grew to depend on his housekeeper, Mrs. Bedford, and as the years passed and Ruth failed to recover, there were many rumors as to the true nature of the relationship between master and servant.

Then Crispin returned from a business trip to London in the company of a young woman, Sarah Larkin. Tully put it about that Sarah’s fiancé had been killed in the Boer War, and with her prospects of marriage gone, it was an act of charity on his part to take her in.

Rumors swirled around the parish once more. A wealthy man with an ailing wife sharing a house with a single woman was scandalous, but it was also said that Mrs. Bedford was incensed by the new arrival, as she had harbored aspirations to be lady of the house herself one day. The two women were at loggerheads and Crispin was in the middle.

One morning the milk boy found the house unusually dark and silent. Mrs. Bedford, who always took the milk in, was nowhere to be seen. When he knocked, the kitchen door swung open and the boy immediately noted a strong odor of cordite in the air. Fearing for the residents, he followed it up the main staircase, until a gruesome discovery sent him running for the local constable.

Crispin Tully lay dead on his bedroom floor, fatally shot with his own army service revolver. But that was not all. Sarah Larkin and Mrs. Bedford were also dead, both killed by the same gun that lay equidistant between the three.

Had Ruth Tully recovered her strength and killed them all? The police constable dashed to Ruth’s bedroom, only to find her too, dead, lying peacefully in bed, her illness apparently having claimed her at last. Had a third party entered the house and murdered them all? It seemed unlikely when the murder weapon was Mr. Tully’s own firearm, usually stored in a locked cabinet. Had Crispin, upon Ruth’s death, fallen victim to one of his two suitors, who then turned the gun on her rival and herself? From that day to this, no one knows exactly what happened.

But as the years passed, local folk became wary of using the lane after dark. They said a tall, angular figure would appear ahead, linger long enough for the unsuspecting traveler to notice its sickening, blank, and eyeless face, before it would flit across their path as if from a terrible event it never escaped in life.

There is only one soul not at rest, and that soul is Crispin Tully’s, the man who may not have pulled the trigger, but whose actions, or lack thereof, led to the violent deaths of two women.

Well, I’ve crossed this lane hundreds of times in my twelve years here and I’m pleased to say I’ve never seen the shadow. Yet.

Message exchange between Myra Briggs and Kevin MacDonald on April 26, 2025:

5:37 p.m. Myra wrote:

Had green buble tee in town

5:38 p.m. Kevin wrote:

That’s nice, but we’re about to leave so it’s a bit late to add bubble tea to the sleep out menu. Sarah-Jane has packed a little rucksack with everything Sammy needs for the evening.

5:39 p.m. Myra wrote:

cant babsit bubba soz

5:39 p.m. Kevin wrote:

You can’t babysit after all? Oh no.

5:44 p.m. Kevin wrote:

I’ve just told Sarah-Jane that she has to look after Sammy all evening.

5:45 p.m. Myra wrote:

sick as parot