Page 43

An Old Secret in the Woods

Kelly had to admit to feeling somewhat relieved after Ambrose, following a couple of drinks, explained to her that for the last couple of weeks the village had been involved in a kind of live audition for the upcoming dramatisation of the story of William Medhurst and his missing sheep. It was likely that there would be additional dramatised scenes explaining some of the other supposed supernatural happenings, and that almost everyone in the village had been getting in character for some kind of role.

She wasn’t quite sure what Martin Longtooth had been auditioning for. Maybe as a light-hearted side character to provide some gags. But both Esmeralda and Miranda had been auditioning to play the role of Gail should a segment on the Howling Gail Inn be produced. Therefore, it was difficult for Kelly to believe that anything she had seen, or anyone she had met, was not in some way involved.

It turned out that the voices she had heard on the aqueduct belonged to a producer and one of the actors discussing the layout of a certain scene involving the former mayor, William Medhurst, pushing a government soldier off the aqueduct in order to make his escape.

When Kelly had pointed out to Ambrose that the aqueduct, built in the eighteenth century during the mining boom, wouldn’t actually have been in existence during William Medhurst’s reign as mayor, Ambrose had just shrugged, chuckled, and said, ‘It’s all artistic licence, isn’t it? They’ll probably just green-screen something else in anyway.’

Kelly wondered whether she ought to put her hand up and volunteer to play the role of the missing journalist, Jack Mellion. Even though she was a girl, that probably didn’t matter too much to a television company who seemed disinterested in any proven truth.

However, when she woke up the next morning, surprisingly only a little hungover, she couldn’t help but feel a little downcast. After all, she’d been building herself up, believing that there was a big mystery to be solved, only to discover that most of the mysterious occurrences she had experienced were part of the production.

She had been planning to write a couple of investigative pieces on the mysteries that she was digging into, but now wondered if it was all a waste of time and she’d be better off just phoning in a couple of café reviews or light-hearted interviews. Certainly, she had met no shortage of people willing to talk on camera. However, if much of what they had to say was in jest or just plain made up, she wasn’t sure how much interest it would be to The Brentwell Daily’s readership.

And she might find her job back on the chopping block after all.

Still, it was a pleasant morning. The sun was peeking out from behind a scattering of fluffy clouds, warm when it was out, cool and autumnal when it was in. There was a chilly breeze in the air, the kind that nibbled at your exposed skin. Not quite cold enough for hats and gloves, but definitely jacket weather.

There was one thing she still wanted to do that she’d not yet managed, and that was to go up to the hilltop and get a good look at the Hanging Tree. On her previous attempts she’d either got lost or been chased. But now, on a bright morning, she had no trouble following the trails that led up through the woods to the hilltop. Trails that, in daylight, weren’t particularly complicated and weren’t particularly long.

She found herself emerging onto a grassy plateau which had a vast panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Directly below her, Briar Speckles was tucked into the valley, looking both quaint and innocent, and also much smaller than it felt when she was among its houses. It was surrounded by rolling hills and wooded glades, with a couple of little tributaries of the larger Willow River, which she could see glittering between a couple of hills somewhere to the north.

Nearby, a cluster of rooftops hinted at the village itself, while in the far distance she could see Brentwell.

Up here on the hilltop, everything felt so small, and Kelly couldn’t help feeling slightly underwhelmed, as though everything she had built up was actually just a microcosm.

But despite everything, the Hanging Tree itself—a great gnarled, wind-bent and twisted oak that looked half-dead and ancient—clung to the very edge of the plateau before the ground dropped steeply down. At first it was a grassy slope, which then turned into a shingly, gravelly incline.

Standing at the foot of the tree, which towered some twenty feet above her but was almost as wide as it was tall thanks to the wind’s relentless buffeting, the slope down which Gail’s husband had fallen didn’t look all that threatening. It was possible, with a little care, to walk down the grassy slope to the top of the shingle incline, which could probably also be negotiated if one were careful, despite the sign warning of falling rock.

However, she could understand that at night, were someone to trip or even be pushed in the dark, the fall could prove treacherous, maybe even fatal. It was therefore likely that there could be some truth to this element of the legend.

Kelly stopped for a while, took a few pictures, and then sat at the base of the Hanging Tree to eat a sandwich she had prepared with some items pilfered from breakfast.

The weather was still good, although the wind was blustery up here on the hilltop. Kelly decided, after her short stop for lunch, to explore some of the trails heading into the woodland that was visible in the next valley along.

A couple of signs indicated nature walks past spots of interest, including a glade of beech trees and a supposedly historic pond, which the sign gave no mention of having any paranormal connection.

She was reminded that this was the area Clive Dawkins had made his fortune from, the area that had been planned to be developed but was then abandoned and left to go wild. So while there were signs warning of possible sinkholes, as long as she stayed to the path she would be fine.

Strapping on her backpack, she headed off into the woods.

It was cool beneath the trees, many of them still clinging to their leaves even though they were beginning to turn golden brown, red, and orange. She found the little pond and was delighted to see a number of ducks gliding gently across its surface while large rainbow trout flitted through its waters.

She stopped on a newly installed bench overlooking the pond and drank a cup of coffee from a flask.

There was a path leading around the pond, and halfway there she found it roped off. She changed direction a bit and found another path leading away that was also roped off, with a sign saying KEEP OUT tied halfway across.

Beyond it, the path looked overgrown but otherwise in good condition.

Kelly stared at it for a long time, wondering what might be down there. Then finally, unable to resist her curiosity, she climbed over and headed along the forbidden path, planning only to go as far as the first corner, have a quick look, and then come back.

However, upon reaching the corner, she found the path still traversable, although a little overgrown, winding down a gentle hill towards what looked like a house set among the trees.

It was creepy, she had to admit, but it looked far larger than any of the houses in the village, perhaps a farmhouse or even a mansion. And it was clearly abandoned because she could see, even from a distance, how brambles snaked up its walls and climbed in through broken windows.

A sudden thought came to mind, one that she couldn’t refuse.