Haunted Ground (15 page)

“What is it?” I asked.  I was still terribly uneasy, and Aidan’s silence scared me even more.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Aidan finally said, his brow furrowed as he continued to puzzle things out.  “People in the seventeenth-century were deeply religious and took burials very seriously.  It was of paramount importance to be buried in hallowed ground, and I’ve even heard of instances where women who’d given birth to stillborns or whose babies died before the sacrament of baptism, secretly buried their children on the outskirts of church graveyards just to have them lie in consecrated ground.  Why would someone forego a church burial and hide a casket in the cellar of their home?”

“I have no idea, but it creeps me out.”  The idea of sharing a house with someone’s remains made me feel very uncomfortable. 

“There’s something else,” Aidan continued as his eyes met mine.  “The skeleton in the sarcophagus seems to have been buried naked.”

“How could you know that after all this time?” I asked, staring at him in shock.

“When I looked inside, there were no bits of cloth, metal, or leather.  Something would have remained, such as buttons, shoe or belt buckles, or a sword, had he been buried with one.  There was nothing at all except for some loose dirt at the bottom.”

“Maybe he’d been buried in a shroud and the fabric had decomposed after all this time,” I suggested, shivering at the gruesome thought.

“Maybe, but did you notice that there was no smell when I opened the lid? Had he been buried right after he died, the smell of decomposition would have been trapped inside the coffin and been released.  All I smelled was dust and stale air.  And where did the dirt come from?”

“So, what are you suggesting?” I asked, suddenly realizing that I would have to come to some kind of a decision about the tomb.  I could hardly just leave a sarcophagus in the basement while paying guests were upstairs unaware of the sinister room just below their feet. 

“I don’t know.  It’s just all terribly strange, don’t you think?” Aidan asked, his face aglow with curiosity.  He didn’t seem to be disturbed by our find – just intrigued.

“I think that’s the understatement of the year,” I replied as I glanced uneasily toward the sunlit ruin.

I knew it was silly, but I left the light on as I prepared for bed that night.  Knowing that there was an occupied tomb two floors beneath my room made me feel as if I’d just watched a scary movie and expected something to jump out at me at any moment, despite knowing that it had all been a product of someone’s imagination.  I wasn’t frightened, exactly, but I shivered at the thought of sharing my house with someone who’d been dead for hundreds of years.  I jumped out of bed and locked the bedroom door; as if the skeleton would suddenly rise, slide open the lid of his stone casket and come wandering through the house in search of the American usurper, who now owned his resting place.  I let out a nervous giggle at the thought, still amazed at our discovery.  Had the last owners known of the secret room, or had they never ventured that far into the subterranean space?  It didn’t seem as if any work had been done on the house in decades, so it was possible that no one actually went down there. 

I finally turned out the light, but sleep wouldn’t come.  My mind kept spinning, imagining all the possible scenarios that could have played out on this very spot in the seventeenth century.  It’d been a bloody time in English history, and there were any number of ways my new housemate could have died.  I must have eventually fallen asleep, but my mind still wouldn’t rest.  I was haunted by images of battlefields running crimson with blood as riderless horses wandered between the fallen, and soldiers of the victorious army walked from body to body, stabbing them with their swords to make sure they were really and truly dead.  The air was filled with an acrid smell of smoke, which mixed with spindly fingers of fog to cover up the horror beneath. 

Then the scene changed and I was in the village, watching from somewhere up above as a rickety cart filled with corpses rolled down the narrow street, stopping periodically to accept more dead from the terrified families hiding behind doors.  The doors did precious little to protect them from the plague which killed so rampantly in those days, claiming the lives of young and old alike, with no consideration for social status or wealth.  The corpses in the cart were covered with sores and their own filth, already decomposing as they made their final journey to a mass grave dug on the outskirts of the village where a young reverend muttered words of prayer as several men whose faces were covered by handkerchiefs tossed bodies into the yawning hole, and quickly covered them with a thick layer of earth to keep the disease from spreading.  A plague doctor in a hideous birdlike mask stood in the shadow of a tree, his eyes peering through the holes in the mask as he watched the proceedings dispassionately, resigned to the futility of his task. 

I woke up screaming, my face covered with cold sweat and my hands frantically searching my body for plague sores.  It took me a few minutes to finally calm down and banish the dream from my mind as I lay back panting, terrified to fall back asleep for fear of reliving the nightmare from which I’d just awoken.  Thankfully, dawn wasn’t far away.

***

Cranky and tired after a restless night, I made myself a cup of strong coffee and some breakfast as I considered my plans for the day.  The men would be here in about an hour, so I would be wise to get out of their way.  They would be breaking walls in order to start laying plumbing for several bathrooms that would be installed in the guestrooms of the second and third floors.  In other words, I had to make myself scarce.  Aidan had mentioned talking to the vicar, and there was no time like the present.  Maybe he could shed some light on the Carrs of this area.  The manor house had been built by the Hughes family, but there had to be some connection to the man entombed in the cellar, and I meant to find it, one way or another.

I put on a strapless sundress and a pair of sandals, then, after a look in the mirror, grabbed a denim jacket from the closet.  It didn’t seem proper to go into a church in a strapless dress.  A little decorum might go a long way in obtaining information, especially if the vicar was an elderly man.  I hadn’t set foot inside a church in years, but if my past experience was anything to go on, modesty was always the right answer.

“Where are you off to looking so pretty?” George called out as I walked past him in the front yard.  Colin was by the truck, watching me as usual with that hooded look that made me feel uneasy.  I included him in my greeting, but my instinct screamed to give the young man a wide berth, so I walked the other way which led me past Declan.  I wouldn’t care to be alone with Colin in the house or anywhere else for that matter.  Declan just gave me a warm smile as I passed.  He was engaged in a spirited discussion with the plumber, debating the merits of copper pipes.  The plumber, who was a tubby little man with a balding pate, was vehemently advising against copper, saying that they corroded faster in a rural environment.  I made a mental note to research pipes once I got back to the house.  It was just another thing to add to my list of things I knew nothing about.

“I’m just going to pop into the village.  Need anything?” I called out.

“A kiss would do,” George replied, blowing me a kiss which I pretended to catch and slip into my pocket.  I liked George.  He reminded me of construction workers back home who considered it their duty to whistle at every pretty girl and call out something suggestive.  Some of my friends bristled at the insult, but I found it kind of sweet as long as the comments weren’t degrading or mean.  I never took being admired for granted, and George’s comments were always more good-natured than lewd. 

I passed through the gates and set out down the lane that led to the village.  It was a bit of a hike, and I suddenly wished that I had accepted Aidan’s offer of cleaning and oiling the bicycle he’d found in one of the sheds.  It would be useful in getting around until I bought a car.  The bicycle had an old-fashioned basket which looked childish, but was probably most useful when bringing home shopping bags.  I couldn’t help wondering who the bike belonged to.  Mrs. Hughes had been too elderly to be whizzing around on a bicycle, but it might have belonged to one of her daughters
—
possibly Kelly.  I was probably better off walking after all, I thought.  I wasn’t ready to ride a dead woman’s bike.

It took me a moment to realize how negative my thoughts had become, so I forced my brain to put all my worries on hold and concentrate on the beauty around me.  The morning was brisk, but full of promise, as the sun gradually began to warm the air.  Dew glistened on emerald-colored grass like shards of crystal, and the air was filled with glorious birdsong, uninterrupted by the sounds of traffic or passersby.  I stopped and looked over the lush landscape, breathing deeply as I felt the stress drain away and a feeling of serenity take hold of my troubled mind.  Whatever happened, happened, and nothing could or should mar my joy at living my dream.  I was exactly where I wanted to be, doing what I’d fantasized about for years.  How many people were as lucky?  I suddenly felt dizzying happiness flow through my veins like mercury.  I was the luckiest girl in the world and no skeletons in the closet could ruin that. 

I began to walk faster, driven by my newfound exhilaration.  All this was just research into the past and an interesting story to regale my guests with.  It had nothing whatsoever to do with my real life, and I’d be wise to remember that.

The old Norman church occupied pride of place in the village, its gray façade overlooking the village green and presiding over all the happenings like a silent sentinel who’d been on duty for centuries.  I walked through the gate and down the stone path that ran through the graveyard, dotted with headstones old and new.  Some were so ancient they leaned drunkenly to the side, the inscriptions almost completely erased by time and the elements.  The newer stones appeared to be farther away from the church since the cemetery must have grown and expanded over the years, but the stone wall that encircled the graveyard seemed to be as old as the church itself, the church’s territory marked in a distinct and unyielding way. 

I suddenly imagined desperate young women sneaking into the churchyard at night, and burying their unbaptized babies close to the wall or under the yew trees that grew throughout the cemetery, praying that no one would notice the freshly dug earth and evict their beloved children from consecrated ground.  How heartbreaking it must have been to think that an innocent baby would be consigned to Limbo for eternity.  Luckily, most people didn’t believe that anymore, but centuries ago the prospect was very real, and considering the amount of children that died before, during, or after birth, Limbo must have been teeming with tiny souls, crying for their mothers.

I forced myself to put my morbid thoughts aside and entered the church porch which was shaded and almost entirely covered in ivy.  I pushed open the door and walked into the cool interior of the church.  It wasn’t large, but very pretty, in that way that old churches tended to be.  I’d never liked the modern churches that were so bright and devoid of ornament.  This old church, although Anglican, instantly made me feel peaceful and calm.  The colorful rays of sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows and cast a kaleidoscope of color onto the wooden pews and stone nave.  The church smelled of polish and flowers, which were at the moment being arranged by some old biddy from the village. 

“Oh, hello, dear,” she called out as I walked toward the altar, the heels of my sandals clicking on the stone floor like hammers on an anvil. 

“Good morning.  I was looking for the vicar,” I replied, feeling suddenly very awkward.  I hadn’t spoken to a member of the clergy since my confirmation half a lifetime ago, and I didn’t remember that as a particularly pleasant experience.  I’d been nervous and apprehensive as the priest explained to me the Sacrament of Confirmation as outlined by the Catechism of the Catholic Church.  I thought he’d be the one performing the confirmation, but it had been performed by the bishop, which was even more intimidating.  To make matters worse, my father had insisted that I go to confession a week before the ceremony, which left me nearly paralyzed with fear.  I had nothing to confess other than having some uncharitable thoughts about a girl in my class who’d been mean to me, and more embarrassingly, some impure thoughts about Brad Pitt after watching
Legends of the Fall
with my mom. 

I mumbled my confession after being prodded several times by the priest, and exploded out of the confession box like a circus performer who’d been fired out of a cannon.  That had been my first and last confession, and I had resolutely refused to go to church with my parents after that.  My obstinacy resulted in many fights, especially with my father, but I stuck to my guns and eventually proclaimed myself an atheist which made my father hit the ceiling.  He never did forgive me my rebellion, but he learned to live with it.

The elderly woman finished her flower arrangement and disappeared through a door in the apse, which I assumed to be the sacristy or an office of the vicar.  She reappeared about a minute later, followed by another woman who beamed at me as if she’d been waiting for me all her life.  It took me a moment to realize that I was looking at the vicar of Upper Whitford. 

“Good morning, and welcome,” she said as she offered me her hand.  “I’m Vicar Veronica Sumner.”  She was no older than forty, with thick dark hark worn in a ponytail, blue eyes that sparkled with good humor, and a smile that lit up her face.  She was a little chubby, her cassock stretching across her ample breasts in a way that seemed incongruous on a member of the clergy.  I felt instantly drawn to her, and all my nervousness evaporated as she invited me to sit with her in the first pew.

“I’m Lexi Maxwell.  I bought the Hughes place,” I began by way of introduction.

“Yes, I heard.  Lovely old pile, isn’t it?  Shame for the family to let it go after all these years, but sometimes change is good.  I hear you want to open an inn.”  She seemed genuinely interested, so I gave her a quick rundown of what I had in mind.

“Splendid.  Absolutely splendid.  This village can use a little new blood, not to mention some income from tourists.  An eighteenth-century manor house hotel is just what we need to put us on the map.  Have you got a name picked out?”

“I thought of calling it
The Maxwell Arms
.  Too pompous?” I asked, watching her face closely. 

“Not at all.  In fact, I quite like it; has a nice ring to it. As long as you don’t call it the Queen’s Head and have an image of a severed, blood-squirting neck.  Every time I pass that sign I cringe.  You’d think they’d have come up with something a little less gory by now, but the villagers seem to love it.  It’s their bit of Tudor history.”

I was glad to see that Vicar Sumner was more amused than dismayed by the ways of her parishioners.  Fire and brimstone were clearly not part of her repertoire.  I was curious what her sermons were like, but I hadn’t come to church for spiritual guidance. 

“Vicar, speaking of history, I was wondering how far back the parish records go?  There was someone from the seventeenth century I wanted to look up and thought I might find some information here.”

“The records actually go back to the sixteenth-century, and would have gone further back had there not been a fire in 1562.  And,” she added triumphantly, “they’re all on my computer.”  She smiled at my expression of surprise and leaned forward a little, her voice conspiratorial as she explained.  “My son is a bit of a rascal, to say the least.  He gets into trouble routinely, so I devised a punishment for him a few years ago that would benefit the community.  I had him transcribe all the records into a database which the villagers could use when putting together their family trees and searching for lost relatives.  Who did you say you wanted to look for?”

It took me a moment to recover from this bit of information.  Of course, I had forgotten that Anglican clergy were allowed to marry and often lived with their families in the vicarages attached to the church.  They were not required to take a vow of celibacy, and I had the briefest image of Vicar Sumner in a compromising position with a faceless man before I gave myself a mental slap and turned my attention back to the purpose of my visit.

“Carr is the family name,” I replied as I rose to my feet to follow her to her office.  “Actually, Brendan Carr is the person I wish to find.”

“Ancestor of yours?” the vicar asked breezily as she plopped into a well-worn leather chair.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, no matter.  We can look him up in a tic.”  The vicar sat in front of her computer and brought up the database, entering “Carr” into the search field.  Nothing came up.  She tried “Brendan Carr” with the same result.

“Are you sure you’ve got the correct spelling?” she asked as she looked up at me.

“Fairly sure.  Can I ask you something, Vicar?”

“Of course.  That’s what I’m here for.  Fire away.”

“Why would someone in the seventeenth century choose not to bury a corpse in a churchyard?” I expected her to be shocked by the question, but Vicar Sumner just shrugged her shoulders as if she had no clue and turned away from the screen.

“My best guess would be that the person who died was of a different religion.  There were many secret Catholics in England during that period, so the person might have received last rites from a Catholic priest and was interred somewhere where the family thought their resting place was safe.  They likely wouldn’t want to bury a Catholic in an Anglican churchyard.  Does that help?”

“Yes, I think it does.  Would there be any other possible reasons? 

“Had it been a suicide, the person would have been buried at a crossroads, as was the custom back then.  Other than that, I can’t think of any other reason why someone would forgo being buried in hallowed ground.”

“What if the person in question was a traitor and the family didn’t want their grave desecrated?”  I wanted to explore all the possibilities, although I could think of no others beyond that one.

Vicar Sumner leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap, her eyes clouded with thought.  “The seventeenth century was a very volatile time in English history, so one man’s traitor might have been another man’s hero.  Perceptions changed so quickly in those days.”

“Where did this village stand, politically I mean?” I asked.

“I can’t answer that with any certainty.  Good or bad, Catholic or Protestant, England had always had a monarch until the execution of Charles I.  The common people had never thought to question the rights of a king, seeing him as God’s representative on Earth; nor had they thought to question the rights of man.  These were radically new concepts in those days.  Of course, some people supported the new order, but others were terribly frightened and longed for the old ways.  In general, I would have to say that most of the common people tried to keep their heads down and survive as best they could.”

Vicar Sumner sighed before she continued, obviously warming up to the subject.  “After Oliver Cromwell had himself declared Lord Protectorate, more people began to question his motives, now seeing him as someone who, for all intents and purposes, crowned himself king.  Maybe the Protectorate would have endured had Cromwell’s son been a stronger leader, but the Protectorate was followed by the Restoration, when Charles II was invited to come home from exile and retake his father’s throne.  It was a period of considerable joy.”  The vicar looked at me to see if I was following the history lesson.  I’d read some of this in the past, but it was interesting to hear it from a person rather than a book.

“Were people that happy to have their king back?” I asked, trying to envision that period in history.

“Many saw it as a return to the divinely ordained way of things, and others were just happy to see Puritanism wane.  The theaters reopened, music and dancing were once again permitted, and there was a period of general joie de vivre,” the vicar said, making a wholly Gallic gesture with her right hand.  “And of course, none of this answers your question.”

“No, but it helps.  Thank you for explaining it to me,” I said, reluctant to leave.  I had really enjoyed talking to this fascinating woman. 

“Oh, anytime.  I’m forbidden to speak about history at home.  My husband and children just roll their eyes and suddenly remember important things they have to do like taking out the rubbish bins and cleaning their rooms.  I’m always eager for an audience.”

“Well, you can have an audience of one.  I love history, but it comes truly alive when someone knowledgeable tells you about it.” 

“Just pick a subject and I’ll gladly tell you more,” the vicar promised, glancing at her watch.  “I’m afraid it won’t be today though.”

“I’d love to hear about what happened after Charles II died and his brother was exiled due to his religion, but I can wait.” 

“That’s a story that can take several hours,” the vicar replied as she rose to her feet and adjusted her cassock.  I still had a hard time believing that this approachable woman, who was also a wife and a mother, was the religious leader of this community.  I’d never thought I would think it, but I suddenly longed to go to church, if only to hear her sermon. 

“I hope to see you on Sunday,” the vicar said as we shook hands in front of the altar. 

“You just might, Vicar.  You just might.”