Marie O'Regan - The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

“And you think we may find those too great a temptation to pass over, being the lowly vagabonds that we are?”

“Not you, Mr Savage. You are an honest Lichfield son, no doubt. But the men you travel with are a coarser breed. By your own admission, one is part-negro—”

Ailen drew himself up. In that instant, he appeared less man than something gnarled and grown tall over hundreds of years. “Do not judge a man by his skin!” he thundered. The canon flinched as the mummer moved in close. “The very fact that spirits have survived beyond death and haunt your cathedral should be enough to illustrate our worth beyond the boundaries of flesh.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Nicholas’s face.

They were interrupted by Naw, materialized through the mist. He smiled, an expression that exaggerated his skeletal appearance.

“Mr Savage does love a good debate on subjects of a spiritual and religious nature. But he don’t always appreciate the force of his vigour.” Naw’s soft Welsh lilt instantly humanized him.

“Of course. It is good and right for a man to exercise his intellect. But my apologies, sir, we have not been introduced properly. I am Canon Nicholas Russell.”

Naw shook his hand. “Naw Jones of Cardiff. Mummer, spiritualist, historian.” He laughed kindly. “Please do not hold the latter against me.”

Nicholas looked newly floored by Naw’s generous spirit and evident education. Ailen almost felt sorry for the clergyman. He consulted a small brass pocket watch hidden amongst his tunic rags. “What time do the stonemasons start work?”

“At eight,” replied Nicholas.

“We have an hour.” Ailen pointed at the bunch of keys the canon carried. “Please accompany us inside. I will need to hear all the details you can offer on what has occurred within.” He slapped Naw on the back. “And, hopefully, our historian here can go some way to explaining why.”

“... very little in the way of restoration until the architect James Wyatt undertook repairs late last century. Wyatt’s idea was to create a church within the cathedral – a bullish idea to my mind – which saw the interior whitewashed, the arches of the choir filled in, the High Altar removed and seating installed right through to the Lady Chapel.” Nicholas held up his hands, indicating the magnificent restored interior. “Mr Scott has repaired this great building with flair and sensitivity.”

“It is certainly soul-rich,” murmured Naw, intent on the device he held in his palm.

The tan leather box housed a circular device with a flickering hand – not dissimilar to a compass, thought Nicholas, distracted from his efforts to demonstrate his superior knowledge of the cathedral’s architectural history.

“And that device suggests as much?” He stared at it quizzically. The hand was a shard of purple crystal.

“Amethyst.” Naw tapped the glass cover over the dial. “Wards off danger while protecting mental and psychic clarity.” Circling slowly on the spot, he cast a long thin shadow.

“Have you located the source of the apparitions?” Nicholas felt the weight of the cathedral keys at his belt.

“The source?” Naw pointed down. “We’re standing on it. One thousand Christians murdered on this spot during the Roman occupation. And what about the three spires above us – coincidental, or in homage to the three martyred kings buried at Borrowcop Hill?”

“Nothing but folklore!”

“So their prominence on the city seal is pure fancy?” Naw eyed his ghost compass intently.

Nicholas blustered, “I’m simply saying, a town as rich in history as Lichfield is bound to have an abundance of pagan lore and country legends.”

“And the shrine?” Naw pointed to the far end of the nave and the High Altar with its decorative apse. “Saint Chad died in 672. But while he was originally interred here in the cathedral, the Reformation saw his bones travel as far as France and return at last, having acquired a third thigh bone. Or so legend has it.” Naw inclined his head respectfully. “Yet still you believe, Canon Nicholas.”

The boy stood to the fore of the south-east aisle. A bird fluttered among the ceiling arches. Dawn lent the stained glass windows a subtle glow.

“Thom?” Ailen approached slowly. The lad was so still he could have passed for a statue. He appeared absorbed in study of a large white marble monument depicting two young girls at rest in one another’s arms.

“I’m not sure about this spot, Mr Savage. I think it might be colder here.” Thom cocked his head. “Are the girls’ bodies buried beneath?”

“Dean Richards said not. It’s just a monument. Commissioned when a mother lost both her daughters and husband, who was a clergyman, inside three years.” Ailen laid a hand on the cool stone of the eldest sister’s forehead. A shooting pain lanced through his arm and he pulled away.

“You all right, Mr Savage?”

“Yes . . . yes, Thom. Thank you.” He cradled his arm. The pain subsided.

“I touched the stone before you came and wasn’t hurt.” Thom sucked his lower lip.

“Could be the children sense a kinship with you. Although—” Ailen stared at the monument, half-expecting the two sisters to open their eyes and stare back. “Objects can attract and house ghosts. I’m suspicious that the sympathetic rendering of the two dead girls has attracted a poltergeist. They are drawn to the young.”

“Aye. And I remember how difficult it is to trap them buggers.”

Ailen smiled and nodded. “Difficult, not impossible. But I may need to use you as bait.”

Thom and Naw busied themselves salting the doorways; the windows were adequately protected by their ecclesiastical stained glass depicting Saint Chad and other holy entities. Meanwhile, the sounds of stone being chiselled and idle banter filtered in from outside. The stonemasons had started work

“If you are afraid of ghosts you might want to step outside so we can close the salt line behind you.”

Nicholas found he was being addressed by the mummer Knight – or Popule as the boy called him. The man had impossibly blue eyes.

“I’m not afraid,” the canon lied.

“Should be.” Popule dragged down his tunic at the neck, revealing a web of scar tissue across his collarbones. “Poltergeist pinned me to the floor of my church in Ashbourne. Poured blazing lamp oil all over my chest.” He pushed up his left sleeve. His arm was scarred by healed burns and bites. “Ghosts lash out when provoked. They learn to throw a punch . . . or grow teeth.”

“You are a clergyman?” Nicholas wasn’t sure whether to find the fact reassuring or disturbing.

“ Was .” Popule put down his pack and undid the string at the neck. He talked as he retrieved a number of items. “Once the spirits had laid their marks on me I was lost to the Shakes. Know what that is?”

Nicholas thought about Dean Richards, cocooned in eiderdowns. “I think I do.”

“I pray you never experience it yourself and know for certain. Even if you can find a Spirit Catcher to doctor you, the sickness never truly leaves your soul. It’s always hovering, just below the surface.” Popule glanced up. Surrounded by a weird cornucopia of objects, he looked like a warlock from a romantic painting. Nicholas recognized sticks of chalk, a small brass bowl, a bunch of lavender, smelling salts and a tinder box. Less familiar was a long belt fitted with cartridges of some white mineral and the gun which accompanied it.

Popule picked up the weapon and appeared to weigh it in his hand. It was a beautiful object, thought Nicholas, remembering the rusty flintlock his grandfather had used to shoot rabbits on the family estate. Popule’s gun had a long silver barrel, at least a foot and a half in length, and spiralled like a hazel branch. The loading mechanism was a traditional cylinder, but larger. The hammer and trigger were cast from an intensely black metal, the stock carved from exotic deep red hardwood. Symbols were inlaid in brass wire along it; they struck Nicholas as Arabic in origin.