Here is the Omnibus Edition containing HENBANE episodes 1 to 16 - a saga in itself:
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3.02.01 - Clucking and Wailing
Occasionally, during the excavation of ancient hearth sites, burnt stones are found in discarded crock-pots, usually made of very lightly fired earthenware or even a basket waterproofed with clay. In such circumstances, it is not beyond the wit of certain archaeologists to smile and announce, "Ha! Stone Soup, they must have been starved out of their minds." The true explanation, as they know full well, is that if you want to boil water, but don't have properly fireproof cookware, the answer is a very hot stone placed in the container you do have. Either a neat, intelligent and very ancient use of resources or the workings of pure magic, depending on your mind-set.
In a fairly remote village such as Little Mardlingham, there are people who will happily believe either explanation. Unfortunately, there are also people, particularly among the denizens of Maggie's Stewe, who while knowing the truth, will include a few dangerous herbs, add an incantation and stir up all sorts of trouble. The Rev. Cedric W.Jimpson is no stranger to this:
“I predict,” says the Vicar, who is visiting The Big House, and who we catch in the act of flipping up the tail of his coat to warm his posterior before the marble temple of the Morning-Room fireplace, “That there will be a wailing in the hen-coops.”
“Do hens wail?” asks Rosamunda, pouring best Darjeeling from an elegant floral teapot, recently acquired from the Spode factories of Stoke-on-Trent, into a matching gilt edged bone-china cup.
“These ones do,” says her brother, nodding his thanks as he takes the cup and dares a first sip, “The clucking old hens in the domiciles of Little Mardlingham.”
“Ah - Those hens,” says Rosamunda, sitting back in her elegant chair. A floral upholstered extravagance with gilt edging, not dissimilar in decorative design to the tea-service, “Do then they cluck as well as wail?”
“Their opposition is most vocal,” says the Vicar, “They predict awful consequences if the Mark-Stone is moved.”
“But it's already been moved!” protests Rosamunda, “What awful consequence has there been?”
“What awful state does Sir Marcus now inhabit?” says the Vicar, “Sitting in his study staring out at the river.”
“He will soon recover,” says Rosamunda, “The events at the Mill were an affront to his dignity.”
“The old biddies of the village claim cause and effect,” says the Vicar, “Ancient spirits disturbed and wreaking havoc.”
“By havoc, you mean prancing Pratts and a spilled bag of flour?” grins Rosamunda.
“By havoc, they mean Sir Marcus being led back to the Hall as pallid as a ghost,” says the Vicar, “They mean fire-spitting Hell-cats flung into rivers, and the magical way the stone returned to its seat.”
“Floured, not pallid,” says Rosamunda, “And we all know that the Pratts replaced the stone. However, they may be right about Miss Roberts.”
“The truth does not enter the picture,” says the Vicar, “When the artists' brushes are dipped in henbane.”
“Surely, Brother,” smiles Rosamunda, “You are above belief in such witchcraft?”
“Of course,” says her brother, “But it's not my belief that counts.”
“As far as the stone is concerned,” says Rosamunda, “Cousin Greg has it in hand. There's to be a meeting of the Parish Council and an official order drawn up for its relocation.”
“All well and good,” says the Vicar, “But I also hear that, come the full moon, a coven is to meet at Maggie's Stewe.”
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Author's Note:
It is often said with a knowing wink, that no rural community, however small, is without some sort of den of iniquity (DoI), although the degree of such iniquity may vary somewhat. A DoI in a community with lofty ideals, may be considerably higher in the spectrum of morality than one in those with lower standards. In Little Mardlingham the role of DoI is played by Maggie's Stewe, a sort of low-life drinking house and haunt of general moral laxity. Maggie herself, is a considerable character, the centre of numerous nefarious circles, none of which can be said to be motivated for the common good. Around the Mardlinghams, She and her inner-circle of like minded women are known, for good reason, as The Coven.
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3.01.02 - Behind that Green Door
It is the tap-room of the Crossed Arms. The remaining shell of a goodly chunk of tree smoulders strongly on a bed of embers in the generous fireplace. The bellied cauldron, usually bubbling away with Bea's thick winter soup, is empty and along with its sturdy wrought-iron arm, has been swung away from the heat. The regulars are beginning to drink-up and wend their frosty ways homewards. Four men sit around a barrel on low benches and play cards in the glow from the fire:
“Oi've sed'ut afore,” say Jarge flik'n ova hiz las'kard, “An'Oi'll say'ut agin....”
“Wut?” say Stan, scoop'n th'pot, “A fule an'hiz munna ar'sune part'd?”
“NOo,” say Jarge, “Thet Oi thort th'Bailiff hed shut Owd Maggie down.”
“He did,” say Jimma, “Nail'd a gret ol'wudden deal across har door.”
“So why dew Oi hare thas biznuss as usual, down a'th'Stewe?” say Jarge.
“Sumbudda cut har a new gate inta th'back-lane so they kin use th'green door in th'back-yard,” say Young Rattle, “Owta site, owta moind.”
“Wull thet wunt me,” say Jarge, gath'rn th'kards fer a deal, “Wuz thet yew, Rattler?”
“Nah! Tho'thet moight'a bin Buggie,” say Rattler, meen'n hiz susta's hubby, Burgoyne th'builder.
“Dew he still stray?” say Jimma, “Oi hard he'd bin nobb'n'ut wi th'Baptists.”
“Wut he dew wen yer look'n at'im hint th'searme as wen yew arn't,” say Rattler.
“So Maggie's at'ut agin,” say Bea, dripp'n beer on th'kards as she top-orf their tankards frum a gret ol'China jug, “Geneeva Gin and Jigga-jig-jig.”
“Now, now,” say Jimma, “Oi'll nut hev ena sweet'art a moine tork'n loike thet.”
“Least nut in public,” grin Bea, “Jus'yew stick t'wut yew kin git a'th'Crorst Arms, moi Boy! Or th'nuptials wunt be th'only things wut git cut orf.”
“Council meet'n Sat'dee,” say Stan, “Bu'thas th'new mune termorra nite.”
“Maggie's Mune-lite meet'n a'hags?” say Jarge, “Dew th'Bailiff know?”
“Yew wunt git him owt tween midnite an'dawn,” say Jimma, “Ena rudd, Oi'd say thas more a jarb fer th'Wicar.”
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3.02.03 - Phil and Millie
With Young Johno eloped with Miss Roberts, and by now well on the way to Castle Gardens in America, the Mardlingham Watermill is short of a labourer. As a result, a reluctant Philip Pratt, one of Old Johno's nephews has been forcibly recalled from his interesting job as the Vicar's gardener-cum-stablehand, and given the boring one of shifting sacks for his evil uncle. (Note: The Castle Gardens located by the Lower Manhattan Battery, were the forerunner to Ellis Island for the reception of immigrants into the United States.)
Normally a bright cheerful lad, after one day at his new job, Young Philip is now morose, recalcitrant and liable to skive off whenever he thinks he might get away with it. This dark winter morning he is up before the Johnos and having partaken of a crust of toast and mug of milk with his cousin Millicent, who as mainstay of the Pratt household, has to be up before everybody, he has just left the Mill-house by the kitchen door intent on some dawn fishing:
“Kyor Blust 'Bor!” he say, bust'n back inta th'candlelit kitchen, ware Millicent hev jus'begunta black-lead th'range.
“Wut izzut?” she say, smudg'n har nOos, “Did Owd Johno ketchya?”
“Nut sOoz Oi notuss'd,” say Phil, “Th'Stuns gorn!”
“Wut stun?” say Millie, “Oh! Yew meen that Stun.”
“Yis,” say Phil, “Th'Mark-Stone. Gorn!”
“Nah!” say Millie, “Thas tew dark ter see. Yew bin lett'n yer gaze gOo t'th'rong plearce.”
“NOo Oi hint,” say Phil, “Fell in th'bludda hole, dint Oi?”
“Whoy wud th'Johnos wuntta muve'ut agin?” say Millie, “Dunt mek nOo sense.”
“Wull, if thet wuz them,” say Phil, “They dint weark me up t'dew ena a'th'bludda wuk.”
“Praps thas summon else?” say Millie, “Sir Marcus?”
“Dew we tellum?” say Phil, “Th'Johnos, thet iz?”
“Maybe arter brekfuss,” say Millie, “Git thet kittle orn, 'Bor.”
“Dunt think thettle'll fit,” say Phil, sett'n thet orn th'torp a'hiz hed.
“Gawd!” say Millie, pok'n him in th'bella wi'arf a ham, “Wut ar'yew loike?”
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3.02.04 - Buttercream and Walnuts
When Young Philip Pratt was recalled from his job at the Vicarage, the Vicar felt suddenly alone. It's not that the gardener-cum-stablehand had provided any particular form of company, but seeing him around the place spreading manure or harnessing the pony, gave his reverence a comforting sense of place. Now, with his sister Rosamunda having recently advanced her 'Millinery' career by taking up residence in Sir Marcus guest wing, the Vicar's household was down to himself and the Strange Girl who came in each day to 'do' for him in the kitchens.
It had been Rosamunda's intention that her place in her brother's household was to have been taken by their cousin Gregory Alexander, but for some reason of his own the gallant Lieutenant had taken a room with the Dawsons at Home Farm instead. However, despite his somewhat treacherous domestic relocation, there is nothing to stop him visiting the Vicarage. So it is in the parlour of that hallowed manse, that we now find him, along with Stan and the Vicar. Their discussion of the forthcoming Parish Council meeting has just been interrupted:
“Ah, Bella,” says the Vicar, as the Strange Girl from the kitchen enters with her laden tea-trolly, “Tea and walnut cake? I trust.”
“Bes'peeko-tops, yer Rev,” say Hisabella, “Korfee spunge, bu'ur'creem'n'wolnut, scons an'medlar consarve.”
“Splendid,” say Greg, “Plum jam! My favourite.”
“Art'nune Izzy,” say Stan, “How's yer mum?”
“Werry well, ta eva sOo, sir,” say Izzy-cum-Bella, “Now thet feartha's hum frum th'sea.”
“Yes, good,” say the Vicar, “Well, er, thankyou Bella. That will be all.”
“So,” say Greg, “The stone's gone again. Do I call out the hounds?”
“Will they find it?” says the Vicar, “If as I hear, the Coven has it, it'll take more than earthly hounds to track it.”
“Nut th'Johnos, then?” say Stan, “Mischief of a diffrunt order.”
“What has Sir Marcus to say?” says the Vicar, “If this time, the Miller is innocent, our Lord of the Manor no longer has a case to prosecute.”
“There's no real problem with the boundary, there never was,” says Greg, “It was, if I may be so disrespectful as to say so, merely Sir Marcus throwing has weight about.”
“Betcha your Rosie'll sort'im owt,” say Stan to the Vicar, “Now she's got hiz keys on har belt.”
“More hot worta?” say Hisabella, coming in with a tall jug.
“Er, Yes, thankyou Bella, most appropriate!” laughs the Vicar, “Put it on the trolly, if you please.”
“Yew all look'n fer thet owd Stun?” say Izzy, taking her courage in both hands.
“We sartainly ar, moi dere,” say Stan, “Yew know ware thas gorn?”
“Wull,” say Hisabella, gaining confidence, “If Oi wuz a bludhund, Oi'd be up thar on th'Ling, snuffl'n thro th'hetha.”
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3.02.05 - Room with a View
If Rosamunda's arrangements for a new chaperone had not been made before her move from the Vicarage to The Big House, she could have been accused of intervening in the budding relationship between Ginny and Greg, but no such thought had crossed her mind. So it was merely bad luck that caused that handsome young Lieutenant to emit such a heartfelt sigh as his military chest arrived at Home Farm, just as the vivacious Miss Virginia's portmanteaux were being moved out. Portmanteaux, I should add, that had been purchased by Farmer Dawson specifically for the purpose of her 'making an entrance' as his niece took up her new position at The Big House.
Naturally, when Miss Roberts had decamped and Rosamunda suddenly found herself in need of a companion-cum-chaperone, her thoughts had turned to local candidates. Of all the eligible girls resident in Little Mardlingham, most had attended the village school during Rosamunda's time as headmistress. Therefore, it was with prior knowledge that Rosamunda had chosen Young Ginny Dawson from Home Farm. A brief discussion with the Vicar, followed by a briefer one with Virginia's uncle, and Rosamunda had offered her the post over a most agreeable pot of Hisabella's best Pekoe-Tips in the Vicarage Parlour. Ginny was delighted, if a little nervous, and arrangements had not only been made there and then, but put in hand forthwith.
The most fortuitous consequence of these relocations, although its significance is yet to appear, was that Greg was now the proud possessor of a generous and lofty window in the gable of Home Farm House, which gave him a splendid panorama to the north-east. In the foreground, cart and cow sheds, parr-yards, pond and pasture; in the middle distance the ruts, verges and hedgerows of Mill Lane; then a narrow patchwork of cropped, harvested and fallow arable covering the lower slopes and bordered by the first scrub, bracken and brambles of Mardlingham Heath; the feature most likely to have put the 'ling' in Mard-ling-ham.
The Heath, a high sandy plateau, when approached from the village, starts off as mostly scrub and heather, apparently quite flat but with unexpected undulations, sandy ravines and occasional hidden dells. The least expected, deepest and most extensive of these being known perversely as Oak Tump. An ancient, spooky place avoided by most villagers, with a few such obvious exceptions as Maggie's crew.
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3.02.06 - Knowing your Place
There are some in Little Mardlingham, for whom such things are important, who measure the social achievements of others by the way they are allowed to approach The Big House. For instance the Vicar and any members of his family would feel perfectly at home calling at the front entrance, a somewhat intimidating classical portico. Jarge, however, would begin any call he might need to make by knocking at the Tradesmen's Entrance, from where he would be escorted to wherever in the house the importance of his business entitled him. Stanley, as parish clerk on parish business, would probably be accepted in through the portico, but would feel more at home following Jarge's path via the kitchens. Others, such as most of the habitués of Maggie's Stewe wouldn't dare to set foot on the estate, unless under the cover of darkness and on nefarious business of their own.
Ginny has now to get used to the idea of sometimes using the front entrance without embarrassment, subject, of course, to the normal gate-keeping responsibilities of Fribbins the Butler, or any minion of his that might answer the door. Her smart new portmanteaux had arrived that way and she had entered with them, to be greeted by Rosamunda, thus fixing her position in the household as a guest, rather than a servant, but with the added subtlety, at least in the eyes of the staff, that she was in fact only a ‘paid’ guest, and therefore still one of them at heart.
On a day to day basis, as Rosamunda had explained to her new companion, she should feel free to come and go using the Garden Door, a pleasant entrance of domestic proportions situated in the South Elevation, next to the conservatory. The Portico, as you will already have realised being on the West Front facing the river, and the Tradesmen's Entrance being on the East, approached through the Stable-Yard. Lieutenant Gregory Alexander, when being appointed Estate Surveyor, had received similar instructions from Sir Marcus, but with his day to day access being via the Gun-Room door on the North Face, approached through the walled garden.
These social niceties could well have fated Greg and Ginny never to meet again, at least not during their duties in The Big House, but that is to ignore the Raggs factor. For Raggs's entire life he has shared home-territory with Ginny; the business of ownership, whom by who? has never before arisen, but is now a matter on both their minds. Raggs is the Home Farm dog, he accepts that, it's his territory; any place beyond the stable yards which link the farm complex into the Big House are out of bounds. That means his beloved Ginny has moved beyond reach and her bedroom is howlingly empty at night:
“Excuse me,” calls Greg, from the curve of carriage-drive that swings south round the gardens to link the Portico approach with the Stable-Yard and receiving the reply “Oh moi goodness, Raggs!” from Ginny as she steps out from the Garden Door, “Oi was just on moi way to th'farm.”
“He's missing you a lot, kept me awake all last night,” says Greg, smiling at the tongue washing Ginny has been unable to avoid, "Begod, I'm glad he's not that fond of me.”
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3.02.07 - Drunk Under a Hedge?
The Little Mardlingham Parish Council had met on the Saturday, the one day when the village school-room was not in educational use. The expected motion had been passed to remove the missing Stone from the list of official boundary markers. Apart from the antiquarian interest, this was no real loss as the latest plan of the Estate and thus the village, was perfectly clear as to the line of the boundary and the points where it changed direction.
Sir Marcus, acting as chairman, smouldered quietly in the background, as that and all other items on the adjenda were passed without serious dissent. He made no mention of the Millers, presumably preferring to bide his time.
Of all the items they had considered, the only one requiring immediate action was to send the Bailiff back to Maggie's Stewe with a second wooden deal, hammer, nails and a full-blown eviction order. The latter being a replacement for the previous notice which merely required her to cease trading in illicit alcoholic beverages and allowing immoral services to be offered on her premises. The Bailiff had set off at once to gather his men in time to mount a raid just before midnight on that same Saturday.
The next day, St. Andrew's Sunday morning service had been extremely well attended, most of the gossiping classes having arrived early to enjoy the spectacle of Sir Marcus's newly augmented party debarking from their carriage and processing from the Lytchgate to the front row of the pews. Villagers with social pretensions had secured their rightful but subservient pews according to strict protocol and a certain amount of silently vicious manoeuvring, and had then waited in the nave. The rest of the congregation had strolled nonchalantly among the gravestones and Junipers until the star party arrived. Then piled into the church behind them.
Surprised at the sudden popularity of his mid-morning Sabbath offering, the Vicar had taken particular note of those attending and those absent. Naturally there were those constantly conspicuous for their absence, but for the Bailiff's wife to be unaccompanied was unusual, and he had made a point of intercepting her on her way out. Said wife had then expressed her concern, and admitted that her husband had not been seen since setting out on official duty the previous evening. As leading the exodus was their accepted feudal right, Sir Marcus and his party had already departed, so it was Stan that first received the news. He took it straight to the Tap-Room at the Crossed Arms:
“SOo, hew wuz wi'him?” say Bea, sett'n up th'tankards, in rank and file, as th'fearthful gather afore th'bar loike th'hoard's a David at th'riverside.
“Th'tew Futmen frum th'Hall wi'halberds, Josh frum Hum Farm wi'his Brown Bess,” say Jarge claim'n a file a'ales frum the bartop rank, “An'Young Rattler hare wi'th'deal, an'Buggie Burgoyne wi'hiz tools.”
“Thet gOo orrite,” say Rattler, “Thar hint nOobudda thar, sOo we set th'deal acrorst th'Yard-dore, drive hum the nails, tack th'notuss ova th'tarp and set orf hum, jarb dun.”
“SOo wut'appen'ter th'Bailiff,” say Jarge, “Didger see'im hum, tew?”
“Buggy hed foud a hul tun a gin,” say Ratty, “They went orf tergitha, him an'th'Bailiff, tew quaff'ut orn thar own, Oi spuz.”
“Hah!” say Jarge, “Oi'd a thort yew'd orl a'hed sum Geneva, by then 'Bor.”
“Wull,” say Ratty, “Oi'm nut say'n we dint. Thas jus'thet sum'a'rus dint fanca shar'n'ut wi'Bailiff, thas orl.”
“So didja see th'Bailiff agin?” say Stan, “Or mebbie Buggie, praps?”
“Buggie wuz hum s'marn'n,” say Ratty, “Saw'im nex'dor wen Oi wuz putt'n owt th'aashes.”
“SOo wut did'appen t'th'Bailiff?” say Bea, “Spuz he's still owt thar, spew'n an fart'n unner sum hedge.”
“Thet wunt be th'fust toime,” say Jarge, wi'a gret ol'larf, an'they orl jine in loike a string a'dickkas.
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3.02.08 - Neither Dead nor Drunk
Now, when the Bailiff had set out to gather his little gang of enforcers, he had picked them largely for their bulk and past proven willingness to obey his orders. Rattler and Burgoyne, he had added at the last moment for their superior tool-wielding abilities and easy access to the necessary supply of timber deals. The fact that Buggie Burgoyne was a known habitué of their target for the night, Maggie's Stewe, had not crossed his mind.
Buggie, as the master of the busiest local building firm. was quite happy to work for anyone who could pay, and preferably pay promptly. The Bailiff fell into this category, but unfortunately for that brash officer of Sir Marcus's Estate, so did Maggie. Consequently, as soon as they were alone and the Bailiff had paid Buggie his owings for the evening, the builder had proposed broaching their confiscated tun of Geneva for a celebratory quaffing. The Bailiff, never averse to a hearty drink, had agreed, and as soon as he'd bent over the small cask to liberate its content, Buggie started earning his second fee of the night by using his right fist as a hammer and attempting to drive an imaginary nail into the back of the Bailiff's skull. Had we been there, the subsequent conversation would probably had sounded like this:
“Izzy ded?” say Maggie, arriv'n inna bitova puff, “Oi dint wunt'im ded.”
“He'int ded,” say Buggie, “Stunned, thas orl.”
“Chuck'im in th'tumblie,” say Maggie, wave'n har lanthorn at the Muck-boy's tumbrel, as it looms owta th'dark.
“Izzy ded?” say the Muck-boy, patt'n th'pony's nOoz.
“NOo, he'int ded,” say Maggie, “Zif yew care, after he bruk yor cart Mika'muss afore last.”
“Tew menna ded'uns orredda git a las'ride hum in thus hare wehicle,” say th'Muck-boy, “Thas allus me wot hev t'hoike'em owta th'rud.”
“Wull,” say Maggie, “Dunt let me stop yer dew'n th'searm fer thissun. T'nite hiz hum is th'owd Ook Tump.”
“Ware we tuk th'stun?” say Buggie, fars'nin th'tale-flap.
“Thas th'way, 'Bor,” say Maggie, gathr'n up har skirtz and strid'n orf, “Oi'll wate fer yew thar.”
“Howz she gornta git thar fust?” say th'Muck-boy, as he tickle th'pony inta a staardy trot, “Oi dint see nOo broomstick.”
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Author's Note: - Jack'O'Lantern
True Jack'O'Lanterns are not, as commercially popularised today, scary Halloween lamps formed from hollowed pumpkins, nor even carved and illuminated turnips, but wild wraiths of the night, in parts of the country also known as Will'o'The'Wisps or Hobbedy's Lanterns. Each one a glowing blue apparition often seen flickering intermittently across marsh, bogland or graveyards. Assigned by some the character of a spiteful spirit whose aim in death is to lead the traveller astray, then drown them in the mire, or tip them unshriven into any handy grave-pit left unfilled at the close of day. To the logical person, however, a few simple experiments will explain this altogether natural phenomena as the result of the spontaneous combustion of marsh methane or the gas released by the decomposition of corpses.
3.02.09 - Jack, Will or Hob himself?
It is early in the morning after the midnight raid on Maggie's Stewe: The Bailiff's absence is as yet known only to those who arranged it, even he has not yet awakened to the fact; Sir Marcus is snoring the just snores of a landowner, magistrate and husband-to-be; His inamorata, Rosamunda is in her chamber, chaste and charming, dreaming the lusty dreams of a maiden ripe for the plucking, while nearby her young chaperone, Virginia tiptoes the cottonwool clouds of slumberland in the company of bold young men in brave uniforms. Missing from that latter squadron, Lieutenant Gregory Alexander is actually awake and sitting at his Home Farm bedroom window gazing out at the shadowed farmyard, the pale rutted strip of road and beyond to the moonlit heath. At his feet Raggs is sprawled like a thrown rug, his breathing slow and heavy.
“Well now, my canine friend,” says Greg in a soft low voice, “It seems you sleep quietly enough when you know such state escapes me.”
“Fffffffffuff,” say Raggs, but it's not clear from which end the sound has emanated.
“Your conversation,” smiles Greg, raising his eyes to gaze out of the window, “Is as lacking in sparkle as my only other entertainment; a purple plane of dull and distant heather draining the life from each moonbeam as it falls.”
“Ssssnurffff,” says Raggs, flicking an ear at a dream-fly.
“I see,” says Greg, “Then I shall cheat you and sleep here in my chair.”
A small flock of minutes pass, echoed in the sky above the farm-house by a moon-veil of thin clouds. Then that lady glides free and her slowly moving shadows sharpen where they ripple across the uneven planks of the beeswaxed bedroom floor.
“Gggggrrrrrr,” says Raggs, raising his head and cocking an ear at the window.
“Now what?” mutters Greg, stirred from his doze, “Am I never to be allowed a moment's peace?”
“Grrumph!” says Ragg, standing up, his hackles raised.
“What is it Boy?” says Greg, joining him at the window, then continuing in sarcasm, “Ha! At last a sparkle to your conversation. Well done my boy, you've conjured up a jack'o'lantern.”
“Huffle huff,” says Raggs with a perfunctory shake, then “Yowww!” as he scratches at the staircase door.
“Stand easy, there,” orders Greg, staring out of the window, “Patience is a virtue.”
Whether it was the wraith, Jack with his lantern, Will with his wisp of flame or Old Hob himself, something was carrying a light through the bushy maze of Mardling Heath. From the distant window, it was just a spark in the darkness, but a spark that jigged in the same way as a man walks. Greg with Raggs at his heels, leaves his room, crosses the farmyard, climbs to the hayloft, wakes one of the plowboys and sends him to fetch Stan and Jarge from the other end of the Village. Then carrying a lanthorn and armed with his sword and a brace of pistols, he follows Raggs across the paddock to Mill Lane and thence across the arable towards the heath.
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3.02.10 - All Sessile in the Bosky
As Greg, with a tight grip on Ragg's collar, stumbles his way out onto the heath in search of the Jack'O'Lantern, his call for reinforcements has now reached the Vicarage:
“I'm coming, I'm coming,” calls the Vicar as he throws on a cloak, pulls his nightcap closer about his ears and flaps down the Vicarage stairs, “This is Mardlingham, y'know, not Jericho.”
Beyond the sturdy panels of the Vicarage front door, shaking as they are from the thump of Stan's fist, the Home Farm plow-boy again blows his hunting horn, a cracked but penetrating note that would never have passed muster for Joshua's famous battle, but which nevertheless has the loose paint flaking off the wrought-iron curlicues of that elegant Regency Porch.
“Well?” glowers the the Vicar, as he half opens the door, "Has Armageddon arrived so soon?”
“Tis yer cousin,” says Stan, still out of breath from hurrying.
“Lieutenant Alexander?” says the Vicar, “What's happened to him?”
“Thar's trubble afoot,” say th'Plow-boy, “Marsta Greg, he say thet Owd Hob hev come t'Mardl'm heath, an'tell me t'fetch Stan.”
“Oi've sent Jarge an'Jimma, hot foot an'armed,” say Stan, “But if th'devil's loose, thas gonna need a parson.”
“Break out the governess cart,” says the Vicar, “While I gather my wits, kit and caboodle.”
— • —
Meanwhile, on Mardling Heath, on the bosky lip of a sandy ravine, Lieutenant Alexander is using his knees and elbows to squirm forward beneath an arcade of browning fronds of bracken. Beside him, Raggs is squirming with excitement, restrained only by the firm grip Greg has had on his collar ever since they started. With great care, Greg changes hands and after shaking the stiffness out of his newly freed fingers, shushes and calms the dog before raising the last leafy veil and gazing down at Old Oak Tump.
Although Greg's grasp of geology doesn't stretch that far, what he is looking at is a natural dell, formed by the collapse of an isolated ice dome, left there as the great ice-sheet retreated, to later melt and form an almost perfect semicircular amphitheatre. Had it retained the melt-water and maintained it from artesian spring or rainfall, it would have been a perfect moon-pond or mere, but some fault in the strata had run off the water, forming the ravine. Subsequent weathering has mellowed the shape but maintained the form, a fact apparently noticed and taken advantage of by the builder of the tump, a round barrow just west of central in the half-circle of the hollow. Off-centre by the same amount but opposite the tump, a gnarled and very ancient oak grows squat and craggy, its spiky crown hardly reaching above the level of the surrounding scarp. Below the bare and broken die-back, the lower canopy still retains its autumn colours, the pendiculate leaves hiding a copious crop of sessile acorns in curiously hairy cups.
In the moonlight, Between the oak and the tump, a small crowd of pale shrouded figures surround an indeterminate, but bulky object. Each figure carries a tall staff topped off with what looks like an illuminated goat's skull, complete with horns. Unexpectedly a muted humm of conversation drifts up from the dell, more like that of an audience waiting for a concert, than what you might expect from the moonlight tryst of a hag's coven.
— INDEX —
3.02.11 - The Oak and the Stone
Now that the moon has gone behind a cloud, only the glow from candle-lit goat-skulls illuminate the scene. The Bailiff and the Mark-Stone, both abducted by Maggie's Coven, are leaning together, chilled blue stained bare flesh against hard cold stone. Shoulder to shoulder, this disparate pair crouch halfway between the supposedly prehistoric Tump and Ancient Oak. The man, naked apart from a few stripes and whorls of blue woad, has a plaited leather halter about his neck. He is tethered to the wrist of a bulky cowled figure with a horned goat-skull staff. Around them a small crowd of staff-bearers are mulling over some problem. Despite their slubby homespun cowls and robes, the two most prominent among the speakers are easily recognisable, by both voice and gesture:
“Tis th'plearce forrut thar,” say Maggie, prodding at a deep hollow between two of the thick spreading roots buttressing the base of the oak, “Tis th'mortuss fer yer tennon, a cunny fer yer mason's prong.”
“Thet unt fit,” say Buggie Burgoyne, jerking the Bailiff's tether and encouraging him to try the stone again.
“Th'man's rite,” say th'Bailiff, fear causing him to revert to the vernacular, “Thet unt fit, less yew pare away th'bark.”
“Tek mor'un thet.” say Buggie, “How many yare hev they bin paart'd?”
“Thet wuz Owd Pratt's granfer thet set'em asunder,” say Maggie, “May he be ever acursed.”
“Lotta wud grow inna sensh'ry or so,” say Th'Bailiff, “Dun't see whoy thar shud be eny mortuss left arter orl thet toime.”
“Dunt see whoy we hevta put'em back tegither a'torl,” say Buggie.
“Sum things wuk bes'tergitha,” say Maggie, “Yew wunt try a'hawl'n a brick wagon wi'owt a mule, now wudger?”
— • —
Beneath his bracken bower, Greg has been following this exchange more from its pantomime, than by eavesdropping. He is now joined by Jarge and Jimma, both piratically armed and eager for a confrontation. The Lieutenant calms them down, just as he had done with Raggs and asks when Stan is expected.
“He'z orf t'git Wicar,” say Jarge, “Wut n'Earth ar'they a'dew'n down thar?”
“They are replacing the stone,” say Greg, “Back in what I suspect is its true home.”
“Cud be, at thet,” say Jarge.
“You're not surprised?” asks Greg, “You knew about this?”
“Just owd stories,” say Jarge, “Plearce loike thus iz fulla'em.”
“Wunt yew an'Maggie a'skule tergitha?” say Jimma.
“NOo skule in them ol'daze,” say Jarge, “We orl jus'run wild in th'woods.”
“So wut wuz she loike?” say Jimma, “Maggie runn'n wild?”
“Nivver run wi'rus,” say Jarge, “We usta creep up on har plearce and chuck stuns. Kuddn't niver hit har tho.”
“Oi spus she wuz too fleet on har feet,” say Jimma.
“Nah, jus'stood har ground, an'wotch'em fly by,” say Jarge.
“Wut she dew wi'th'stuns? Tarn'em inta tuds?” say Jimma.
“Jus'flung'em back,” say Jarge, “Streart as a boy, hit'cha eve'toime.”
“Hush-up, did you see that?” say Greg, “There's something further up the ravine?”
“Lights,” say Jimma, “Must be more of em, come ter th'meet.”
— • —
Just as there seem to be fresh visitors approaching the hollow from the north-east, certain late-comers from the village approach from the south-west. A governess cart has struggled up the loose gravelled lane, more flood-gully than roadway, and reached the point where it branches into the Oak Tump ravine:
“Are we nearly there? Stanley,” asks the Vicar, as he climbs down to join Stan staring into the darkness beyond the fork.
“We need th'carriage lamps,” say Stan, “Wiv'thus ho-hum'd clowd acrorst th'mune.”
“Ho-hummed, it is,” says the Vicar, “Ho-hummed dark as Ho-humm's arm-pit.”
“Hare, teark a lamp,” say Stan, handing him one of the pair, “An'less see wut thar iz t'see.”
“I smell gin,” says the Vicar, “Is it you or the lamp?”
“Sin?” says Stan, “Thas nOo s'prize,”
“Gin, Stanley,” smiles the Vicar, “Gin!”
“Sin or Gin,” say Stan, “Nut guilty, nut orn neither count, nut me nor th'lamp.”
“Then it must be blowing down the ravine,” says the Vicar, “There must be a powerful host of Geneva spirits to smell this strong.”
— INDEX —
3.02.12 - The More the Merrier
Stan and the Vicar are following their noses into the Village end of the Oak Tump ravine. They move carefully, keeping to the margins of the track where scrubby bushes and spindly birch cling to the base of the low sandy cliffs. One each side, flitting from cover to cover, showing as little light from the shaded carriage lamps as possible:
“Hare be!” say Stan, in his most conspiritorial voice, “Heap a'casks, wun broach't.”
“Gin!” whisper the Vicar, taking a long breath as he crosses the track, “I knew it.”
“Mus'be Maggie's hulsearle d'partm'nt,” say Stan, “Har bes'smuggled stock, orl brung up frum th'coast.”
“Goodness,” say the Vicar, “I had no idea she dealt at such a scale.”
“Thar's a light up ahead,” say Stan, dousing his lamp, “Mus'be har midnite meet.”
“I have my crucifix, bell, book and candle,” say the Vicar.
“Wull, Oi hope they're orl loOd'd wi'buckshot,” say Stan. “Mesel' Oi rely orn a pare a'orse-pistols.”
“Well,” grins the Vicar, “I hope they're loaded with cart horses.”
— • —
Some way away, at the entrance to the opposite and longer limb of the ravine, a dozen pack-mules and their well mufflered minders are soon to add brandy to Maggie's wholesale enterprise, behind them at a distance two members of the Elshum police force are scouting ahead of what they hope will be a sufficient squadron of mounted militia. This force is accompanied by their Superintendent, one John Chambers seated on the box of his favourite Black-Maria and driven by Police cadet, Frank Farthingale. a rocket with a blue light will be the signal, assuming at least one of the scouts, Billy and Harry, sergeant and constable have remembered the lucifers.
“Thas a rumm'n,” say Billy the sergeant, who has taken his eyes off the distant mules for a moment, “Wun min'ut they're thar an'nixt they're gorn.”
“Hades, Oi recon,” say Harry, “Down inta th'grown, kin yer smell th'brimstun?”
“Dut tork s'daft, Constable,” say Billy, “Thet mus'be th'ravine we bin 'spect'n.”
“If yew say so, Sarge,” say Harry, “Shull Oi fire-orf th'rock't.”
“Nut yit, y'fule,” grunts Billy, “Nut til we see ware thar gorn.”
“We cud close up a bit,” say Harry, “Now thar outa site down a grup.”
“Fust sensible thing yew sed terday,” say the Sergeant, “Gawd moi dogs ar'raw.”
“Oi din't think sergeants wuz allow'd blisters,” say Harry.
“Blust Boy,” say Billy, starting to limp, “Rekon, Oi'll hev gangrin afore th'nite's over.”
“Yew kin wash'em in brandy,” say Harry, “Wen we ketch th'buggas.”
“Now thas a thort!” say Billy, perking up.
— INDEX —
3.02.13 - A Shilling says you won't!
Of the watchers in the bracken on the lip of the ravine, Raggs, with one eye half open and a single ear cocked, is the most alert. Their hiding place is down-wind from the ravine. Being raised, as it is, some ten feet or so above the floor of the natural amphitheatre around the Oak and the Tump, all scents pass their way: Candles burning in goat skulls; Sweat running over woad stained flesh; Gin from spillages and the breath of half-drunk heathens in heavy homespun robes. All nasally noticeable to Lieutenant Greg Alexander, Jarge and Jimma, but it takes the dog's long nose to spot the latest additions: mules and brandy from the north-east; Stan and the Vicar from the south-west:
“Hush Boy,” say Jarge, as Raggs rises to his feet and points his nose down into the limb of the ravine leading towards the village, “Blast, see thet? - Tis a creep'n Wicar.”
“So tis,” say Jarge, “Dew yer reckon he know th'siza th'cowpat he's abowt ter step in?”
“By cowpat,” says Greg, in a low voice, “I assume you mean Maggie's crazy coven?”
“Shud we giv'im a showt,” say Jimma, “Let orf a pistol ar'sumthun?”
“I'd rather we did it silently,” say Greg, “If it wasn't for the scarp, we could send a runner?”
“Thet hint tew steep,” say Jarge, “Thet'll ony teark a sandy bum ter slide down an'pass th'wud.”
“Rite,” say Jimma, “A sandy bum, thet iz. Yew kin count orn me.”
“Tell'im,” say Jarge, the moonlight glinting on the long barrel of his sporting gun, “Thet if he hev ena trubble, we'll shoot th'lites owta a few goats.”
“Blust me, 'Bor” say Jimma, slipping over the edge, “Oi'll betcha a shull'n yew nivver dew.”
“I'll have a shillings worth of that,” say Greg, “And another if you douse a goat-skull before I do.”
“Grufffff,” say Raggs, swinging his nose northwards.
“Look loike th'tide come in,” say Jarge, “Loded pack-mules, up frum th'coast, Oi'd say.”
“Contraband?” say Greg, “Is that what this is all about?”
“Gawd,” say Jarge, addressing the dog, “Dunt know thar born, harf'a'um.”
— • —
Beyond the range of even Raggs's professional and highly experienced olfactory talents, the subtle aroma of blisters bursting in a police sergeant's boots meld with the sharp night air:
“Cut me a wark'n-stick, Harry,” say Billy, dropping the sergeant-constable relationship while he sits down to remove his boots.
“Birch or hazel?” say Harry, “Oi'd say hazel's best, meself.”
“Whoy arsk, then?” say Billy, tetchie from the sting of the blisters.
“Be loike thet,” say Harry “An yew kin cut yer own.”
“Thas nOo way ter tork t'yer s'perior,” say the Sergeant.
“Oi wunt tork'n tew a s'perior,” say Harry, “Just a bloke Oi know wi a sore foot.”
“Ah, humm, err yes,” say Billy, “Jus'shar'n th'sting a th'bludda things.”
“Wull dunt,” say Harry, cutting a stick with his clasp knife, “Yew shudda got yersel'sum wusted stokk'ns, loike me ma told yew.”
“We dunt orl hev t'dew wut yor ma say,” mutter the Sergeant, “She hint th'Superintendent.”
“Pitta,” say Harry, handing him the stick, “Oi reckon, we'd ketch a lot more crinimuls, if she wuz.”
“Yew may be rite!” say Billy, then having lined his boot with a neckerchief, he gingerly ties the laces and gets back on his feet, “Now less git back ter bee'n prarper Peelers.”
— INDEX —
3.02.14 - Gobbets of the Stuff
A romantic philosopher might debate on whether it was it the wind, the Moon or the clouds that are, this night of the coven, not mindful of their duties. Should the Moon display constancy by illuminating the scene, the clouds blanket it in lasting secrecy, or the seemingly ascendant wind rend that silvery veil into shadows splashed and moonbeams flashed. To the eyes of the watchers, the inconstant light is both tiring and frustrating; no sooner has Sergeant Billy spotted his quarry then they step into a cloud shadow and disappear; As soon as Lieutenant Greg thinks he has all his targets tagged, moonlit goat skulls condense into glowing candlelit eye-sockets; and the Vicar with his Bell, Book and Candle, expecting to be seen as he steps out into the amphitheatre of heathen ritual, becomes nothing more than a dark shape against the black background:
“Quick Stanley,” he hisses, “Shine the lamp .... No! Here, on me.”
“Yew tew,” say Stan, handing the sandy-bummed Jimma the other carriage lamp.
“HOLD!,” says the Vicar, pale face and white lace cravat seeming to float in the lamplit gloom. Then in his best pulpit voice, “CEASE, DESIST, Set aside this evil and disperse in shame to the hovels from whence you spawned.”
“HA!,” says Maggie, swinging to face him with her goat-skull staff levelled, the horns pointing at his chest and spilt candle-wax flaring, gobbets of the stuff falling to the ground between them.
“I say again ...” begins the Vicar, but is interrupted.
“If Oi hed an'ovel,” say Maggie, “Oi'd be a'spawn'n thar rite now, but thussear cretin, thus Bailiff, hev driv wun nail tew menna in th'wud a'm'door, an so we orl mus'pay th'price.”
“You cannot blame the Bailiff for enforcing the law,” says the Vicar, suddenly wondering what on Earth he was doing, getting involved in all this.
“Oi'm nut blame'n'im for thet,” say Maggie, “Oi'm doing yor jarb, an'blame'n'im for moral laxity wen he bruk ar'contract.”
“Oh?” says the Vicar, rather lamely, “What contract might that be?”
“Ter stay owta moi buzness,” say Maggie, “An'keep th'resta yew owt an'orl.”
“You can't just corrupt people like that,” exclaims the Vicar, “It's immoral.”
“Izzat orl yew kin say,” laugh Maggie, “Tis immoral?”
“Well....” begins the Vicar, his mind working, but doing him no good.
“Bell'zi'bub,” says Maggie, “Look a'cha, Bell, Book an'blow'd owt candle, but no balls.”
“There are still the laws against witchcraft,” says the Vicar, stung back into action, “And I am here to enforce them. I say again, CEASE and DESIST.”
It is at this point that Maggie takes a lunge at him with her staff, and Stan discharges a horse-pistol over their heads. The mules who for the last two minutes, have been filing into the clearing from behind the Tump, panic at the unexpected noise.
“Holy Maria!” says the woad stained Bailiff, barely managing to leap aside to the full stretch of his tether, as the first mule charges past.
At the other end of the tether, Buggie Burgoyne is swung into the path of the mule and knocked sideways by one of the casks slung across the pack-saddle. Bandied by the brandy, one might say. Seeing chaos breaking out below, Greg and Jarge fire their guns and confusingly, three goat-skulls bite the dust.
Hot-foot behind the mule-train, despite a certain blister, the Elshum police dive for cover. It is too dark to see what's going on, and they assume it is they who are being shot at. The Sergeant opens fire, with both pistols while Harry launches the signal rocket. Everybody is wearing either dark-blue or black, except the members of the Coven in their pale cowled gowns. Realising that they are the easiest targets, they fling aside their goat-skull staves, and grant the Vicar's demand for dispersal without further ado. Only Maggie remains facing the Vicar. He steps forward, grabs her staff, snaps it over his knee and holding the pieces in front of him like a large cross, drives her back against the stone.
— INDEX —
3.02.15 - Wildfire
When Lieutenant Gregory Alexander rose onto one knee to take aim at the brightest goat-skull on the tallest staff, he ceased hold of Raggs's collar. In the shallow ravine below a dozen panicked pack-mules were milling around the low bracken covered hump of the Tump. To a dog with his instincts, any group of animals behaving in such a way was definitely his business. His obvious duty was to do something about it. What exactly should be done, he was unsure, but launching himself into the vaguely moonlit void as a sandy scrabbling avalanche seemed like a good way to start. The leading mules, stung by the flying sand and faced by a whirling, barking, prancing, teeth-snapping, hairy red dervish, stopped dead in their tracks, only to be barged aside by the following ranks of the stampede. Once all the mules had joined the melee, it took no more than a split second for them to arrive at a new consensus. Having shed their loads of brandy in all directions, both by the slosh from the stove-in, or by the whole bounding, bouncing rolling cask, the pack-mules reversed their direction.
— • —
Close by the stone, now standing among the oak-roots in its refurbished socket, the Bailiff is laying half across the unconscious cowled form of Buggie Burgoyne. They are tethered to each other wrist to neck, and it's the Bailiff who is choking against the plaited leather. Pulling against the noose, he loosens it enough to take a fresh grasp on life, but he can't get it off his captor's wrist. He drags Buggie up onto his shoulder which gives him plenty of slack in the cord. Beside him backed against the stone by a cross weilding Vicar, his arch antagonist, Maggie shows a length of wrinkled neck below her cowl. He throws the loop of the tether over her head then tightens it around her throat, and pulls back against the stone.
— • —
The Superindendant of Elsham Police, having caught up with the advance party consisting of the Sergeant and Constable, instructs Cadet Farthingale to rein-in the team of the Black Maria. The squadron of Mounted Militia, with bayonettes in their hands, but muskets still slung, raise their tarred torches and blaze out of their limb of the ravine. They are met by a dozen stampeding pack mules, who having changed their minds once are not prepared to do so again. Militia and torches fly, mounts and mules fly, the remaining brandy flys. Dry winter bracken burns, flames leaping and cracking, wildfire spreading joyously into the surrounding scrub. Over every brandy spillage, there is a sudden flare as Jack'O'Lanterns, like dancing blue spectres, rise from the spirit. Within moments the entire amphitheatre is bathed in bright red light.
— • —
The members of the Coven who had made themselves scarce when Greg and Jarge had opened fire, can now be seen, dispersed among the scrub as they scramble to escape the flames. At the Stone under the Oak, the Vicar, like a great scrawny raven, is trying to separate the Bailiff, Maggie and the unconscious Buggie Burgoyne. The Elsham Police think he is the attacker, after all he is the one in black, and fire several rounds in his direction. He falls, dragging Buggie with him. The tethers tighten about their respective throats. The Stone keels over, further tightening the cord. Behind them, Raggs, being soaked in brandy is trailing blue flames as he runs yelping back along the ravine in the direction of the Village.
— INDEX —
3.02.16 - A Flaming Finale
