Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

“But of course,” the publican replied, manner instantly full of bonhomie. “I’ll just call the wife.”

“I’ll leave you with Reg then, lass.” Jack Lewis grinned at Anthea. “I’ll arrange for your car to be fixed in the morning. Hope I’ll see you again before you go on your way.”

Twenty minutes later Anthea had signed the register and was relaxing by a cosy gas-fire in the small chintzy bedroom to which she had been shown by a fat and chuckling Mrs Feltham. She had been served toasted ham sandwiches, a pot of tea and a large brandy – “On the house, my dear, to get the chill out of your bones.” The deep armchair was soft and comfortable and Anthea dozed.

She was jerked from sleep by a steady knocking at the bedroom door. For a moment she was disorientated, wondering where she was. Anthea glanced at her watch. She had been asleep for a couple of hours. There was a stale taste in her mouth and she drained the dregs of cold tea. It helped a little.

She had a fuddled impression of a disquieting dream but was unable to recall details. There had been half-seen figures in a fogscape and there had been some sort of tall column. Phallic symbol? Wonder what Freud would make of that? She shook her head. Of course, the answer was obvious. She had had an anxious time this afternoon and now she was lodged at The Maypole pub. She had probably been dreaming of the fog and the old inn-sign. Phallic symbol was right. She glanced towards the latticed window. The fog outside was still thick.

The knocking continued. Anthea pulled herself from the armchair and went to open the door.

The tall woman who entered was dressed for bad weather in the countryside – waxed jacket, green gumboots, man’s tweed cap – but there was no disguising her striking beauty.

“Hello. Do forgive the intrusion. We don’t get many strangers in Naysham, you know.”

Anthea took the proffered hand. “Anthea Moore,” she replied.

“I know. I peeked in Feltham’s register. Tell me, are you the Anthea Moore who wrote Ancient Cultures and From Dark Memory ? You are? I’m so pleased.” The woman gave a bright smile. “I’m sorry. I must seem very rude. My name’s Melissa Taybourne. If I were a man, I suppose you’d say I was the squire in these parts.

“Jack Lewis came to see me about something and mentioned that a young woman was stuck here. I wandered over out of curiosity to find out about you. Imagine my pleasure when I saw your name. I thought it was too good to be true that you should be one of my favourite writers on folklore. Anyway, regardless of who you had been, I intended to offer you dinner this evening. Bonny Feltham’s a dear but her cooking leans towards the homely. Do say you’ll accept. And I’ll insist that you sign my copies of your books.”

Anthea laughed. “In the circumstances, I can’t refuse,” she said. “And I would have been at a loose end. Pubs aren’t much in my line and I haven’t even got a decent book in my overnight bag. Of course I’ll come to dinner, and thank you.”

Melissa Taybourne nodded. “Good. About seven o’clock then. Feltham will show you how to get to my home. It’s only a few minutes walk.”

When Anthea descended a few minutes before seven, Reg Feltham was waiting for her at the foot of the narrow staircase. “This way, Miss. I’ve got strict orders from Miss Melissa to get you to her house.” He led the way to the front door, moving with a peculiar strutting gait as if one leg was slightly longer than the other. “Fog’s lifted a fair bit,” he added, “reckon it’ll be clear later tonight.”

He was certainly right in part. Although the air was still misty, visibility was now several hundred yards. Reg Feltham pointed down the street. “Go back the way you came here,” he instructed. “Past the church, across the road and it’s the big detached house a little way beyond the police station. You can’t miss it. Enjoy your evening, now.”

Anthea found the house easily. As she passed through the gateway, the front door was flung open and Melissa Taybourne was there to greet her. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited another guest,” she said as she took Anthea’s hand to draw her into the house. “Our rector, Mr Luckhurst, is another folklore enthusiast and he’d not forgive me if he missed the chance to meet you. He’s in here, in the sitting-room.”

It was a comfortable, chintzy room and logs crackled and blazed in the fireplace. A thin man in clerical garb leaned against the mantel, sipping from a glass of sherry. His face, in profile, was fine and sensitive-looking, with fine lines radiating from the corner of eyes and mouth. Sandy-white hair, a trifle too long, maybe, was brushed straight back from his brow.

“Rector,” Melissa Taybourne called. “Come and meet Anthea Moore.”

The man turned towards them and Anthea struggled to keep from gasping. The rector’s features, so pleasing in profile, were marred by a purple, warty birthmark which clung like a cancer to the left side of his face. But his handshake was warm and dry and reassuring and his voice, as he greeted Anthea, was pleasantly deep and soothing, exuding charm.

Dinner was served in a small, panelled dining-room, the only illumination coming from tall white candles in a silver candelabra. “I don’t usually put on the dog like this,” laughed Melissa Taybourne. “But it is good to have a new guest. We tend to be very insular in Naysham.”

Anthea enjoyed the meal and the conversation. It quickly became evident that neither Melissa Taybourne nor the rector were claiming devotion to folklore for the sake of politeness and entertainment. Both were knowledgeable and Mr Luckhurst was scholarly in his approach to the subject.

Over coffee, the rector said, “Although we’re grateful for your presence here, Miss Moore, what on earth could have brought you to this remote place?”

Anthea drained her cup and accepted a refill from her host. “I just suddenly decided to come to Bresslingham Market for the holiday. I wanted to witness their May Day celebrations.”

“They are interesting,” said Luckhurst. “But before travelling on you must come and see our own modest maypole ceremony. We hold it very early in the morning, so there will be no bar to your continuing on to Bresslingham once your car is mobile again.”

“Yes, do. It would be a pleasure to have you attend,” added Melissa Taybourne. “Hardly anyone but the villagers come and we could do with some new blood.”

“I’d like that,” said Anthea. “I wonder why I’ve not heard of this village and its May celebration.”

“As I said earlier, we tend to insularity. I can’t think of anyone in the village who’d want tourists tramping everywhere.”

“I concur,” said the Reverend Luckhurst. “You must promise, Miss Moore, that if you write about us you will give the village a fictitious name.”

A light ground mist lingered when Anthea finally left Melissa Taybourne’s house, but above the sky was speckled with stars. “It looks as if it will be fine tomorrow,” observed the rector. “That’ll be good for the maypole ceremony.”

“We’ll call for you early, Anthea,” said Melissa Taybourne. “You’ll find the ceremony unusual but I hope interesting. We’ll involve you so that you don’t feel left out of it. Good night and sleep well.”

Anthea walked back towards the pub, mellowed by fine food and feeling pleasantly tired. As she neared St Alaric’s she heard a creaking noise, as if of a door opening on rusty hinges, and there was a glimmer of scarlet light spilling from the church. A huge shadow detached itself from the church doorway and turned towards The Maypole. It had to be the policeman Jack Lewis.

Anthea almost called out a greeting, then checked her tongue. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something almost furtive about the way Lewis was moving, as if he had something to be ashamed of and wished to sneak away unseen.