Noumenon
26th Jan 2008, 19:07
Back in February 2007 I claimed...I have a little something lined up to do beforehand: my next post to Features, inspired by the Oh, Whistle... story linked to on the Ghost Stories (http://palimpsest.org.uk/forum/showthread.php?t=2771) thread, will also be a salute to the Palimp...Well, I finally finished it. So here, if Wavid will forgive my presumption, it is:
The Palimpsest
Edward Hall dipped his pen absently as he scanned the previous day’s entry. It read:Tuesday, 12th August
Today was thankfully fine. Went out in high spirits & with every intention of covering several miles before braving my objective. Met a polite couple on the town’s outskirts who mentioned the ruins of a Roman camp in the crux of the somewhat more mountainous region to the North & recommended it as a fine sight & well worth the effort of the climb. My walk proved bracing, the views from the hill’s summit all quite satisfactory.
He sipped his tea, pleased with the day’s excursion, enjoying the weariness in his robust frame. On the desk beside his journal lay several sketches of the view from that hilltop, each of the four points represented, which unfortunately necessitated dividing the town across the East and South frames, but nevertheless all acceptable renderings. He rested his pen by the well and retrieved his pack, opening it to reveal his pad and pencils, the old flask and the empty paper wrapping of his noon meal. He removed the pad, returning the pack to the floor beside him as he lifted the cover.
The ruins had been interesting, but only so much could be expected to remain after two millennia. More of interest were the dynamic valleys and soaring peaks they once guarded and which stood unchanged. With some invention Edward had selected fine views against which were placed aspects of the ruins in the foreground; also, from higher up the incline, an angled plan of the site, itself little more than a sketch of former greatness. They may not suit the taste of his eccentric commission, but worked up as water colours they should sell independently, if not as a collection.
Edward separated each from the pad and added them to the those on the desk, letting his eye wander over them as he took up his pen again and considered the day. He turned the completed page of his journal, added the date in the corner of the next.Wednesday, 13th August
Blustery but clear, racing clouds on the near horizon. Took a day from the schedule to tackle the greater climb to the old fort recommended yesterday. Landlord provided a reasonably easy route after consultation with Mr. Jefferies over breakfast, also meat sandwiches for later in the day – good chap, they proved most welcome! A hard climb even so & ruins may make an acceptable composition time allowing. Back on Duty tomorrow, moving on. Staying in Tippingswold & viewing from Wither’s Tor – this is the one I’ve been looking forward to for weeks.
Edward blotted the page with a sheet of tissue then dried his pen with the same and stoppered the ink well, carefully closing them into their case before rising and putting on his jacket. Supper would still be a few minutes, time for a light drop before the meal. He wondered if Jefferies was still resident.
-
The gentlemen took their evening meal together.
“Pleased you enjoyed yourself,” muttered the older man. He would dab at his moustaches with a napkin after each mouthful, now speaking through the linen as if blotting the words from his very lips. Edward found Jeffries entertaining company. In the ten years since retiring from the service he had grown almost nostalgic for the rough camaraderie of the trenches, if not their horrors; the careful correctness of polite society had begun to inspire in him a slight weariness, if not also a little guilt. The odd habits of the older veteran were a tonic, amusing, as if not allowing his companion to see his mouth full while speaking would make some difference to his table manners.
Edward raised his glass in brief salute. “As much for the journey as for the destination, sir,” he replied, and sipped. Jefferies speared another mouthful and rather mauled it. “If you are interested I will bring the sketches to the smoking room this evening. Although I’ve a fair journey tomorrow, by train, so I expect I shall retire early.”
“Ah, yes.” Jefferies nodded, chewing, eyes focussed distantly. “It was a hard choice for myself, but one reaches an age, does one not.” Not a question. “I’ll admit, turning my back on the regiment caused me a great pain, like abandoning an entire family, sons and elders alike, what.” He also raised his glass, toasted the air, drank.
“I... indeed.” Edward took another sip to hide a smile then continued eating. The roast was very good. He spoke louder. “I took some sketches of the site, if you would be interested.” The bushy eyebrows opposite lifted in enthusiasm.
“Quite! Quite! The smoking room, I suggest.” Edward took his glass again.
-
Edward returned to his room, quite early as suggested, collecting together the other sketches and slotting the lot into his portfolio before packing his valise in anticipation of the morning’s early start. Jefferies had tutted and huffed around the steaming bowl of his pipe and at length judged the work good, to his memory of the old camp; made him feel like the trek himself, what, he hadn’t asked.
He did ask if Edward had done any drawing during the action, enemy lines and so on, which he in fact had not. Poetry was his line at that time, although he had on several occasions drawn pictures of companions in the trenches; cameras being too delicate, or expensive, for the majority to take into a battlefield, often a man may still want something to send home that would be of value to a loved one without risking its theft for financial gain. He stopped this though. Witnessing a man exploded before his very eyes then seeing the smiling likeness on his page was too much to tolerate twice.
He selected tomorrow’s outfit and laid it out upon the desk, then closed up his writing case and placed it in the valise. Drawing the dividing sheet over these contents he disrobed and folded his lightly soiled walking clothes on top; he would have them cleaned on arrival in Tippingswold in readiness for the following day’s excursion. Edward Hall took to his bed and, on darkening the electric lamp, fell into the swift, solid sleep that was the legacy of his soldiering days, not wasting a second of rest.
-
Edward watched the moors pass steadily beyond the window of his carriage, bathed in cool bright sunshine. He wished to be back on foot, not wheel and rail; it seemed a frightful waste of good weather not to be striding a path between coarse brackens in sturdy boots, seeing the flow of the wind rippling the grasses like waves on the beach. There was a different kind of peace here though, looking past the rapid motion of the heather nearest the tracks to where a distant tree barely moved at the horizon; like the slow pace of a lone cloud, calm behind the flashing flurry of birds on the wing.
He shared the compartment with a young boy, dressed in rather shabby wear and considerably smaller in stature than the luggage accompanying him. An exposed tag, hanging from a handle the boy would likely struggle to reach, read Mr. F.C.P. Jones, plus three addresses. Probably he was a servant, escorting his master’s property ahead of him. The child had watched Edward steadily from the moment he entered and took his seat, as if anticipating theft at any moment. Edward gave him a smile.
“So, where do you travel today?” he began to ask, but had hardly uttered a word when he was interrupted with sharp and high-pitched cheek, “Don’t you touch it!” Edward snorted, rising to take some air between the carriages and fully noticing the rude child’s tensing as he got to his feet. In the rushing breeze on the footplate he smoked a cigarette instead, focusing again on the Spartan moors framed between the shaded shifting ends of the carriages; but without the sun directly falling on him or the comfort of the compartment there was a discomforting chill to the air.
As he retook his seat he found the objectionable boy staring at him again, then flicking his gaze to Edward’s own valise in the overhead rack. With a frown Edward scrutinised him for bulges in pockets or other tell-tale signs of burglary, but saw none. In any case, the child would be unlikely to have reached high enough to conduct mischief – not so to his portfolio, too broad to be stored above and thus resting against the wall of the carriage beneath the window. Casually Edward reclaimed it, saw no sign of tampering, and on opening it found all things in their correct place.
He removed pad and pencil, setting down the portfolio again, then rested both on his lap as he cast a sly eye over the boy; his gaze was boldly returned. He flipped open the pad abruptly, seized the pencil and began to draw, snatching brief glances of the boy and resisting another smile at the frown he saw deepening each time. In a minute he completed a passable caricature of a filthy, stinking urchin with a face like thunder, tore it from the pad with a flourish and deposited it upon the huge luggage as the boy leapt to his feet. The child hopped, trying to snatch the paper and with relish Edward sketched again, freezing the boy in urgent flight moments before he hit on the idea of standing on the seat to attain a sufficient height. He filled in some detail as the boy stared at his prize with a look of blank surprise, then he looked up as Edward tore off the next image and this time handed it to him. The boy looked at this one and was suddenly lit up with a smile, instantly transforming him into a grubby angel.
When Edward began to draw again the boy sat still, his attention fastened on the page and neck craning for an early glimpse. Edward now took his time, carefully rendering child, luggage and the sheets of paper held carefully in both hands. No sign of impatience; his study held position as dutifully as he had when guarding the mighty case and the final piece was quite charming. Edward looked at him directly.
“What is your name, lad?” he asked. For the first time the boy seemed shy.
“Tom - Thomas Keyes,” he muttered and Edward smiled. “Tom-Thomas it is, then,” he said, adding title and signature. “A portrait by Edward Hall.” He removed the sheet with care and passed it over, happy with the wide-eyed attention it received. Shortly the boy looked up.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “Me mother’ll love it, I know.” Edward bowed.
“My pleasure, Master Keyes.”
-
Tippingswold was barely a hamlet, marking the exposed moorland like an old scab in dire need of a peeling. Aside from the small station, serving principally as a watering point for thirsting engines, there was little about the place to inspire its population to stay. Indeed, Edward found his new accommodation hardly a match for the previous, being one of four pokey rooms above the solitary tavern. Opening a drawer, he elected to leave his garments in the valise after all, removing only his worn hiking gear and hanging it to air rather than requesting a laundry service before donning it tomorrow. It would most likely return damp and clammy, in keeping with his surroundings.
Peering through the small grey window he could however make out his next subject. Wither’s Tor was hardly a mountain, but the relentless flats all around made a stark contrast which emphasised it admirably. Edward had planned to stay and take a few profiles of it for himself in addition to the commission; had, until seeing his new digs. He sniffed, then inwardly chastised himself. He had endured far worse, and the pictures would be worthwhile; in any case, why risk regret and force oneself to return to all this unnecessarily? He would draw and then mount from the east, take his four frames, before descending to the south and drawing again. The lot could be done in a day with ease; the moors were hardly featureless but could be summarised without too great a deal of effort, surely. He would start at dawn to make the most of his time, and hopefully make his time at the free house the briefest he possibly could.
Edward took out his journal and writing case and sat at the leg-warped desk to record his encounter on the train, but on opening it his eye was caught by a passing flicker within the cover; he turned back the pages, eyebrows rising, then falling into a deep frown as he pressed the book flat. Upon the once pristine inside cover was writ:
you who read this are a fool
just as the others were all fools
Edward stared at the words, scrawled in a heavy hand most unlike his own precise copperplate, then slapped the journal shut with an oath. The boy! That insolent brat of a boy! To think that – Edward flicked open the cover again and wiped a thumb across the words, but the ink was dry. Written onto the cover itself no less, safe from being torn out and discarded. He closed the book again, feeling a flush of anger on his cheeks and putting aside the notion of writing anything in such a temper. Instead he rose and departed for the tavern below, brooding over tasteless food and sour ale at a corner table, ignoring the muttered conversations of the local drinkers. He stalked back upstairs as the evening darkened and took to bed early, though still thinking dark thoughts sleep followed only after an unusual delay.
-
The wind snapped at him as he turned onto the road pointing out across the moors. An unbroken ceiling of gray roiled above, dawn’s light so diffuse he barely cast a shadow on the cobbles as he strode towards Wither’s Tor. He had slept poorly and awoke with a sense of deep oppression, but now tried to keep his focus on the task at hand.
Edward squinted into the sharp breeze rushing off the moor. The prospect of several months travel around the British Isles had seemed an attractive one then. Less so now, as the grey overhead continued to darken noticeably. The commission made no demands on the content of the compositions bar the principle, so the only barrier to four striking images of a storm-swept moor was Edward’s desire to endure the same himself. He reached his first intended stop, meaning to sketch the Tor’s flank before the climb, but immediately the first heavy droplets of rain struck the ground with an audible slap and more followed. Resigned, Edward turned back towards the distant buildings without so making so much as stroke of his pencil. The rain came down.
-
Edward opened his journal into the blank pages, avoiding the vandalism of the cover, turning back to the page bearing his last entry. He dipped the pen, wrote briefly:Friday, 15th August
Rain has spoiled the day, been near constant since the morning. Lodgings disagreeable in every way. Will hope for better on the morrow (weather; there is no alternative to my poor shelter).
He paused, noticing a disturbance to the smoothness of the page beneath the nib as he wrote the last line. He turned it back then stared, his mouth hung open. That same thick and heavy hand now overlaid and eradicated his entry from Tuesday.february 1913
i followed the fool from his home watched over his workshop for hours until as night fell i knew my opportunity had come at last when he left to return home i drew close behind him struck hard enough to fell him immediately but i had picked my spot well dragging the body shortly into the thick woods around the beck cut about with my knife from the soles of its feet up to the navel then took both eyes
Edward looked at the words in shock, but this soon gave way to anger and disgust, and regret that he had not written up the once happy encounter on the train in detail as he had planned. The boy was a Thomas Keyes, but what was the name on that over-large luggage? Several initials before some common English surname, now lost to his memory. It was hard to credit that the boy had time to complete this foul essay with such a short window of opportunity – nor with such shocking material – yet clearly he must have. If not he, then who else? Edward stared around at the room, threadbare and cramped, and wondered.
The sound of movement in the corridor outside roused him from his inward turnings and Edward immediately noticed an urgent hunger. Pulling on his light jacket and determinedly ignoring the violated journal he went to the door, finding a mild commotion on the other side as a second guest’s luggage was roughly manhandled into the room opposite by the inn’s owner. Closing his own door, Edward was pleasantly surprised to find himself face to face with Jefferies.
“Rough lodgings, eh?” the older man asserted, oblivious to the hostile look cast his way by their departing host. “Thought I’d join you for the old Tor, I’ve half forgotten the place since I last came along this way.” Edward shook his hand with enthusiasm, smiling broadly. “I’ll be glad to have the company!” he replied, happy to distract himself from darker thoughts. “The weather has been quite as shocking as this place is!” He laughed and Jefferies’ moustaches cocked to an amused angle. “You’re hungry no doubt. Get settled and join me, I’ll order supper for us both.” Jefferies nodded and Edward trotted downstairs feeling a great deal better about the day. He had the kitchen work hard on a decent meal and when Jefferies came down an hour later they brought a reasonably acceptable fare, more filling than to be savoured, but both agreed it likely the best that had been served there in long years.
-
Edward bade Jefferies goodnight at their doors and retired intending to sleep well and make the most of the next day. He found no rest though; the whole darkened room seemed focused upon his notebook, as if it had become the centre around which all else revolved. It pulled his eyelids open, drew his blind gaze always towards it.
He re-lit the crusty bedside lamp and rose, opened his diary at random and almost dropped it. Another new entry, heavily scrawled and erasing his own. He flicked through the pages, finding more than half now detailing more horrors at the expense of his own recent history. He paused at random, reading one or another –march 1920
the little thing had no conception of what would happen walking out with me and i kept her entertained with talk of coastal history and when she was suitably comfortable with me i took her to the shore and demonstrated my knowledge of exotic doctoring and left a little something for the gulls
– each time feeling more repulsed than by the last –summer 1908
i chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate i ate 8 o how i ate
– yet seemingly unable to resist turning the page, reviewing the next atrocity. There was no trace of sanity or consistency to their content, besides their foulness, nor an apparent logic to their placement, the dates ascribed to each new murder a jumble. Then, between untouched two passages in which Edward had recollected details of his years of service, he found the words that revealed all:easter 1915
he was always the bravest facing them coming at us but when we were on advance detail i put my bayonet under his long evity and told him to scoff the mud if he wanted to keep them on he did until he gagged on it and then i lopped them off anyway and cut his throat too and left him in a crater but who would know in a place like this a waste of my time
Edward felt a great rage sweep over him, his hands white, cold and shaking, and he knew without understanding the reasons who it was had been at work here. He knew that the first insult on the inside cover, and that first entry overwriting his own, had been penned before he’d even set foot on the train, left for later discovery; he’d been wrong to blame the child, what boy could write such things? None, of course. But too much to ask not to witness the effect of his words; the bastard follows to see firsthand! And now, here, leaving his room unattended to rally a decent meal from the kitchen, he’d been repaid by his “brother in arms” – the insult! – repaid with gifts of ever more sickness. How old had Jefferies been during the Great War? Young enough still to serve and kill, evidently. Nor too old now to make play, and laugh behind his absurd moustaches at the man he was making his fool!
No sleep came to Edward that night.
-
He knocked loudly at Jefferies’ door at dawn to rouse him. “Early start, old man – I want to make the best of the good light!” he called, his tone in reply to the mumbled voice within at odds with his terse expression. Already dressed and packed, he waited outside with his breath misting in the pale sunrise, listening to the lonely birdcall and the sound of the mail train approaching from the East, watching the three windows which represented the two upper rooms and the corridor between them hawkishly.
As they walked he watched Jefferies always from the corner of his eye. The old soldier took their early exercise and lack of a breakfast in good spirit, reminiscing about past campaigns and the easy life they now enjoyed, took for granted even; but after a few failed attempts to provoke some slip of the tongue on the old man’s part, questioning him about his night’s sleep and so on, Edward rarely responded and Jefferies seemed content to provide an uninterrupted background to their little quest.
Edward picked his first spot to draw, still planning for his own little pieces in addition to the main task at hand, noticing Jefferies withdrawing to a “polite” distance to allow him to work; but he couldn’t concentrate, always glancing towards the other, or finding a burst of anger shaking his hands again and disturbing his lines. It took three full attempts to render this profile of the Tor and he abandoned any thought of doing another on the return leg; they would take the summit and the four views as per the commission and no more – or no more drawings at least.
He collected his things and struck off abruptly, forcing Jefferies to hurry to catch him. It was approaching noon and Jefferies’ stomach had become as incessantly noisy as his mouth; Edward remained tight-lipped. On “taking the hill”, as Jefferies inevitably put it an hour later, Edward made his sketches in an almost perfunctory manner. Three of the views were empty stretches of flat moorland, the fourth marred only by the wretched squat of Tippingswold and the scar of the railway. The clouds were rolling again, muffling the air, and a silence similarly heavy had fallen between the two men by the time Edward announced his work done. They trudged down the sloping back of Wither’s Tor towards the hamlet.
“Don’t know what I expected, coming along for this,” said Jefferies, his tone reproving, “but I rather thought you better company than none at all.” Edward felt himself flush hotly all over, a little prickling of sweat at his temples.
“Perhaps you should write it up in your journal,” he said.
“Don’t keep one,” came the blunt reply. “Trivial things.”
“Aha! Are they?” Edward snarled, stopping dead in the path. Jefferies had to stagger to avoid walking into him, the thick heather flanking their route preventing him from stepping around. “Trivial things? But maybe of some importance to their owners, perhaps? Who are you to judge, and how?” Jefferies puffed up in indignation.
“Self-involved, sir! A good book could and should be put to better use.”
“Taken from them, eh? A thing of value, violated, eh? Snatched away!”
Edward took a stride forward and raised his fist, his eyes wild. Jefferies stumbled away in shock, tripped and fell sideways off the path. He let out a cry of pain, floundering in the heather as Edward loomed over him, furious.
“You are a disgrace, sir! You’ll be made to regret what you’ve done, you – you filthy...” The man was staring up at him in terror and Edward swallowed thickly, then backed away, still quivering. “I’ll take your own words to the authorities. We’ll see what they make of that, and of you!” He started off down the hill again, shouting back over his shoulder.
“You’re less than an animal, Jefferies! Fit to be shot and nothing more!” He started to run.
-
Edward stormed up to his room, ignoring the landlord and the customers in the bar. He slammed his door, dropping his sheaf of new sketches onto the desk where they scattered messily. He took the journal, flicking through it the pages. As he expected, the few remaining original entries had been overwritten; Jefferies had taken his time “getting ready” that morning, alright! One page had its corner folded down and he paused there, where probably the last entry of June had once been recorded.winter 1904
that one who was always dirty or absent was always following me and then he found my special place and caught me finishing off the cat so i chased him with it and he was crying so hard he didnt watch where he was going and he fell right in and popped his head open i threw the cat in on top and told everyone i found HIM doing the same and chased him but it was an accident and they believed ME
Edward shook his head. He himself would have been, what, eleven or so at the time. Jefferies would have been a young man in his prime. Sickening. Edward went to back to the door and turned the lock, then sat at the desk for collect his thoughts. He would take the dawn train to the first town of a proper size and report the whole sorry incident to the police. His last task would be to describe this day’s events, if only to demonstrate the absolute difference between his hand and the abominable scribblings that had overcome it everywhere else. Food, and his commission, could wait.
-
Edward opened his eyes – he lay on the hard bed, unaware of going to sleep at all. Morning light came weakly through the window, still hurting his tender eyes.
Immediately he looked to the small desk, his sketches lying haphazardly beneath his journal. He rose, finding himself still wearing the previous day’s clothes, creased, stepped stiffly to look down on the page. His pupils spasmed, tight then wide, as he took in the newfound words; then he spun to the door, wrenched at it.
“Jefferies!” He crossed the corridor and hammered on the other door, then again, heedless of the sounds of annoyance rising up from the ground floor, but there was no answer from within. The door would not give, though he rattled the handle violently. He stalked back into his room looking wild, seized his pen from the writing case and bent over the pages that had once given him some satisfaction, now only provocation. Hissing the words beneath his breath he scribbled furiously –
Take this damned journal then!
– then threw down the pen and snatched up the journal, casting it across the room with an oath. It struck the far wall and fell open on the floor before the doorway.
Edward hurriedly drew on his jacket and swept the few loose papers into his valise, stepping over the journal on the way to the open door – but he paused astride the damned book, slowly putting down his valise to pick up the spread journal one last time, staring at it in wonder. No-one had entered the room in those few seconds, yet his angry words were gone. Instead, deeply pressed into the page, obliterating all trace of them, was the reply:
thats not all i shall take
His book in hand, Edward Hall stared at the words and the blood ran from his cheeks, leaving him pale as a ghost. He looked up in horror as the door flew shut.
-
The squad room was chilly and Sergeant Colesberry squeezed at the fingers of his right hand just below the knuckles, trying to ease the ache without expectation of success. He let his gaze wander across the documents spread out around the two books on his desk. Old and new reports, more of each on the way, but by no means the exhaustive catalogue necessary to close the case.
With a sigh he opened the little notebook to look at those opening lines, then turned to the final entries. The arrogant challenge to those who followed remained unanswered; no-one had seen Edward Hall since the Tippingswold innkeeper had found his room and possessions in disarray. Then there was that last admission, which had provoked all this searching, still far from finished:august 1933
i tossed that little scaly into the gap between carriages and left a note to have the conductor forward on that luggage as there was nothing worth taking in it much like that hairy lipped old fart who i moved to the next world without laying on a finger ha ha
Over sixty boasts of a couple more killings, all in twenty-nine years. No-one had heard the likes of it, and no-one had the slightest clue about where to head next.
“We’re going over the road for a quick one before home, Sarge. You coming?” One of the young whippersnappers was looking his way, while the others pulled on their coats and helmets. They weren’t bad company for kids, he supposed, although the reasons for dumping the Hall murders in his lap were crystal clear. The entries left far too many details blank to track down everything he claimed to have left in his wake; and the manhunt had been stone cold from the minute they found the old Colonel on the moors, apparently dead of a heart attack. No-one wanted to start a career on a case like that, but ending one on it was another matter; Colesberry knew his years on the force were coming to a close. It’d make no difference.
“Aye, I’ll lift a half-pint, lad,” he replied. Colesberry closed the diary again, shuffling the various police and mortuary reports back into their folders and locking them into his desk drawer. He headed for the door, patting at his pockets for his pipe in vain. He turned back and spotted it hiding under the cover of his open report book – then he noticed the rough note dominating the blank facing page.
youeel newer ketch me
piggie wick
“Very smart, you young buggers,” Colesberry grumped, slapping the report book shut and grabbing back his smoker. He turned to jab the pipe-stem at them, but the squad room was empty.
The Palimpsest
Edward Hall dipped his pen absently as he scanned the previous day’s entry. It read:Tuesday, 12th August
Today was thankfully fine. Went out in high spirits & with every intention of covering several miles before braving my objective. Met a polite couple on the town’s outskirts who mentioned the ruins of a Roman camp in the crux of the somewhat more mountainous region to the North & recommended it as a fine sight & well worth the effort of the climb. My walk proved bracing, the views from the hill’s summit all quite satisfactory.
He sipped his tea, pleased with the day’s excursion, enjoying the weariness in his robust frame. On the desk beside his journal lay several sketches of the view from that hilltop, each of the four points represented, which unfortunately necessitated dividing the town across the East and South frames, but nevertheless all acceptable renderings. He rested his pen by the well and retrieved his pack, opening it to reveal his pad and pencils, the old flask and the empty paper wrapping of his noon meal. He removed the pad, returning the pack to the floor beside him as he lifted the cover.
The ruins had been interesting, but only so much could be expected to remain after two millennia. More of interest were the dynamic valleys and soaring peaks they once guarded and which stood unchanged. With some invention Edward had selected fine views against which were placed aspects of the ruins in the foreground; also, from higher up the incline, an angled plan of the site, itself little more than a sketch of former greatness. They may not suit the taste of his eccentric commission, but worked up as water colours they should sell independently, if not as a collection.
Edward separated each from the pad and added them to the those on the desk, letting his eye wander over them as he took up his pen again and considered the day. He turned the completed page of his journal, added the date in the corner of the next.Wednesday, 13th August
Blustery but clear, racing clouds on the near horizon. Took a day from the schedule to tackle the greater climb to the old fort recommended yesterday. Landlord provided a reasonably easy route after consultation with Mr. Jefferies over breakfast, also meat sandwiches for later in the day – good chap, they proved most welcome! A hard climb even so & ruins may make an acceptable composition time allowing. Back on Duty tomorrow, moving on. Staying in Tippingswold & viewing from Wither’s Tor – this is the one I’ve been looking forward to for weeks.
Edward blotted the page with a sheet of tissue then dried his pen with the same and stoppered the ink well, carefully closing them into their case before rising and putting on his jacket. Supper would still be a few minutes, time for a light drop before the meal. He wondered if Jefferies was still resident.
-
The gentlemen took their evening meal together.
“Pleased you enjoyed yourself,” muttered the older man. He would dab at his moustaches with a napkin after each mouthful, now speaking through the linen as if blotting the words from his very lips. Edward found Jeffries entertaining company. In the ten years since retiring from the service he had grown almost nostalgic for the rough camaraderie of the trenches, if not their horrors; the careful correctness of polite society had begun to inspire in him a slight weariness, if not also a little guilt. The odd habits of the older veteran were a tonic, amusing, as if not allowing his companion to see his mouth full while speaking would make some difference to his table manners.
Edward raised his glass in brief salute. “As much for the journey as for the destination, sir,” he replied, and sipped. Jefferies speared another mouthful and rather mauled it. “If you are interested I will bring the sketches to the smoking room this evening. Although I’ve a fair journey tomorrow, by train, so I expect I shall retire early.”
“Ah, yes.” Jefferies nodded, chewing, eyes focussed distantly. “It was a hard choice for myself, but one reaches an age, does one not.” Not a question. “I’ll admit, turning my back on the regiment caused me a great pain, like abandoning an entire family, sons and elders alike, what.” He also raised his glass, toasted the air, drank.
“I... indeed.” Edward took another sip to hide a smile then continued eating. The roast was very good. He spoke louder. “I took some sketches of the site, if you would be interested.” The bushy eyebrows opposite lifted in enthusiasm.
“Quite! Quite! The smoking room, I suggest.” Edward took his glass again.
-
Edward returned to his room, quite early as suggested, collecting together the other sketches and slotting the lot into his portfolio before packing his valise in anticipation of the morning’s early start. Jefferies had tutted and huffed around the steaming bowl of his pipe and at length judged the work good, to his memory of the old camp; made him feel like the trek himself, what, he hadn’t asked.
He did ask if Edward had done any drawing during the action, enemy lines and so on, which he in fact had not. Poetry was his line at that time, although he had on several occasions drawn pictures of companions in the trenches; cameras being too delicate, or expensive, for the majority to take into a battlefield, often a man may still want something to send home that would be of value to a loved one without risking its theft for financial gain. He stopped this though. Witnessing a man exploded before his very eyes then seeing the smiling likeness on his page was too much to tolerate twice.
He selected tomorrow’s outfit and laid it out upon the desk, then closed up his writing case and placed it in the valise. Drawing the dividing sheet over these contents he disrobed and folded his lightly soiled walking clothes on top; he would have them cleaned on arrival in Tippingswold in readiness for the following day’s excursion. Edward Hall took to his bed and, on darkening the electric lamp, fell into the swift, solid sleep that was the legacy of his soldiering days, not wasting a second of rest.
-
Edward watched the moors pass steadily beyond the window of his carriage, bathed in cool bright sunshine. He wished to be back on foot, not wheel and rail; it seemed a frightful waste of good weather not to be striding a path between coarse brackens in sturdy boots, seeing the flow of the wind rippling the grasses like waves on the beach. There was a different kind of peace here though, looking past the rapid motion of the heather nearest the tracks to where a distant tree barely moved at the horizon; like the slow pace of a lone cloud, calm behind the flashing flurry of birds on the wing.
He shared the compartment with a young boy, dressed in rather shabby wear and considerably smaller in stature than the luggage accompanying him. An exposed tag, hanging from a handle the boy would likely struggle to reach, read Mr. F.C.P. Jones, plus three addresses. Probably he was a servant, escorting his master’s property ahead of him. The child had watched Edward steadily from the moment he entered and took his seat, as if anticipating theft at any moment. Edward gave him a smile.
“So, where do you travel today?” he began to ask, but had hardly uttered a word when he was interrupted with sharp and high-pitched cheek, “Don’t you touch it!” Edward snorted, rising to take some air between the carriages and fully noticing the rude child’s tensing as he got to his feet. In the rushing breeze on the footplate he smoked a cigarette instead, focusing again on the Spartan moors framed between the shaded shifting ends of the carriages; but without the sun directly falling on him or the comfort of the compartment there was a discomforting chill to the air.
As he retook his seat he found the objectionable boy staring at him again, then flicking his gaze to Edward’s own valise in the overhead rack. With a frown Edward scrutinised him for bulges in pockets or other tell-tale signs of burglary, but saw none. In any case, the child would be unlikely to have reached high enough to conduct mischief – not so to his portfolio, too broad to be stored above and thus resting against the wall of the carriage beneath the window. Casually Edward reclaimed it, saw no sign of tampering, and on opening it found all things in their correct place.
He removed pad and pencil, setting down the portfolio again, then rested both on his lap as he cast a sly eye over the boy; his gaze was boldly returned. He flipped open the pad abruptly, seized the pencil and began to draw, snatching brief glances of the boy and resisting another smile at the frown he saw deepening each time. In a minute he completed a passable caricature of a filthy, stinking urchin with a face like thunder, tore it from the pad with a flourish and deposited it upon the huge luggage as the boy leapt to his feet. The child hopped, trying to snatch the paper and with relish Edward sketched again, freezing the boy in urgent flight moments before he hit on the idea of standing on the seat to attain a sufficient height. He filled in some detail as the boy stared at his prize with a look of blank surprise, then he looked up as Edward tore off the next image and this time handed it to him. The boy looked at this one and was suddenly lit up with a smile, instantly transforming him into a grubby angel.
When Edward began to draw again the boy sat still, his attention fastened on the page and neck craning for an early glimpse. Edward now took his time, carefully rendering child, luggage and the sheets of paper held carefully in both hands. No sign of impatience; his study held position as dutifully as he had when guarding the mighty case and the final piece was quite charming. Edward looked at him directly.
“What is your name, lad?” he asked. For the first time the boy seemed shy.
“Tom - Thomas Keyes,” he muttered and Edward smiled. “Tom-Thomas it is, then,” he said, adding title and signature. “A portrait by Edward Hall.” He removed the sheet with care and passed it over, happy with the wide-eyed attention it received. Shortly the boy looked up.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “Me mother’ll love it, I know.” Edward bowed.
“My pleasure, Master Keyes.”
-
Tippingswold was barely a hamlet, marking the exposed moorland like an old scab in dire need of a peeling. Aside from the small station, serving principally as a watering point for thirsting engines, there was little about the place to inspire its population to stay. Indeed, Edward found his new accommodation hardly a match for the previous, being one of four pokey rooms above the solitary tavern. Opening a drawer, he elected to leave his garments in the valise after all, removing only his worn hiking gear and hanging it to air rather than requesting a laundry service before donning it tomorrow. It would most likely return damp and clammy, in keeping with his surroundings.
Peering through the small grey window he could however make out his next subject. Wither’s Tor was hardly a mountain, but the relentless flats all around made a stark contrast which emphasised it admirably. Edward had planned to stay and take a few profiles of it for himself in addition to the commission; had, until seeing his new digs. He sniffed, then inwardly chastised himself. He had endured far worse, and the pictures would be worthwhile; in any case, why risk regret and force oneself to return to all this unnecessarily? He would draw and then mount from the east, take his four frames, before descending to the south and drawing again. The lot could be done in a day with ease; the moors were hardly featureless but could be summarised without too great a deal of effort, surely. He would start at dawn to make the most of his time, and hopefully make his time at the free house the briefest he possibly could.
Edward took out his journal and writing case and sat at the leg-warped desk to record his encounter on the train, but on opening it his eye was caught by a passing flicker within the cover; he turned back the pages, eyebrows rising, then falling into a deep frown as he pressed the book flat. Upon the once pristine inside cover was writ:
you who read this are a fool
just as the others were all fools
Edward stared at the words, scrawled in a heavy hand most unlike his own precise copperplate, then slapped the journal shut with an oath. The boy! That insolent brat of a boy! To think that – Edward flicked open the cover again and wiped a thumb across the words, but the ink was dry. Written onto the cover itself no less, safe from being torn out and discarded. He closed the book again, feeling a flush of anger on his cheeks and putting aside the notion of writing anything in such a temper. Instead he rose and departed for the tavern below, brooding over tasteless food and sour ale at a corner table, ignoring the muttered conversations of the local drinkers. He stalked back upstairs as the evening darkened and took to bed early, though still thinking dark thoughts sleep followed only after an unusual delay.
-
The wind snapped at him as he turned onto the road pointing out across the moors. An unbroken ceiling of gray roiled above, dawn’s light so diffuse he barely cast a shadow on the cobbles as he strode towards Wither’s Tor. He had slept poorly and awoke with a sense of deep oppression, but now tried to keep his focus on the task at hand.
Edward squinted into the sharp breeze rushing off the moor. The prospect of several months travel around the British Isles had seemed an attractive one then. Less so now, as the grey overhead continued to darken noticeably. The commission made no demands on the content of the compositions bar the principle, so the only barrier to four striking images of a storm-swept moor was Edward’s desire to endure the same himself. He reached his first intended stop, meaning to sketch the Tor’s flank before the climb, but immediately the first heavy droplets of rain struck the ground with an audible slap and more followed. Resigned, Edward turned back towards the distant buildings without so making so much as stroke of his pencil. The rain came down.
-
Edward opened his journal into the blank pages, avoiding the vandalism of the cover, turning back to the page bearing his last entry. He dipped the pen, wrote briefly:Friday, 15th August
Rain has spoiled the day, been near constant since the morning. Lodgings disagreeable in every way. Will hope for better on the morrow (weather; there is no alternative to my poor shelter).
He paused, noticing a disturbance to the smoothness of the page beneath the nib as he wrote the last line. He turned it back then stared, his mouth hung open. That same thick and heavy hand now overlaid and eradicated his entry from Tuesday.february 1913
i followed the fool from his home watched over his workshop for hours until as night fell i knew my opportunity had come at last when he left to return home i drew close behind him struck hard enough to fell him immediately but i had picked my spot well dragging the body shortly into the thick woods around the beck cut about with my knife from the soles of its feet up to the navel then took both eyes
Edward looked at the words in shock, but this soon gave way to anger and disgust, and regret that he had not written up the once happy encounter on the train in detail as he had planned. The boy was a Thomas Keyes, but what was the name on that over-large luggage? Several initials before some common English surname, now lost to his memory. It was hard to credit that the boy had time to complete this foul essay with such a short window of opportunity – nor with such shocking material – yet clearly he must have. If not he, then who else? Edward stared around at the room, threadbare and cramped, and wondered.
The sound of movement in the corridor outside roused him from his inward turnings and Edward immediately noticed an urgent hunger. Pulling on his light jacket and determinedly ignoring the violated journal he went to the door, finding a mild commotion on the other side as a second guest’s luggage was roughly manhandled into the room opposite by the inn’s owner. Closing his own door, Edward was pleasantly surprised to find himself face to face with Jefferies.
“Rough lodgings, eh?” the older man asserted, oblivious to the hostile look cast his way by their departing host. “Thought I’d join you for the old Tor, I’ve half forgotten the place since I last came along this way.” Edward shook his hand with enthusiasm, smiling broadly. “I’ll be glad to have the company!” he replied, happy to distract himself from darker thoughts. “The weather has been quite as shocking as this place is!” He laughed and Jefferies’ moustaches cocked to an amused angle. “You’re hungry no doubt. Get settled and join me, I’ll order supper for us both.” Jefferies nodded and Edward trotted downstairs feeling a great deal better about the day. He had the kitchen work hard on a decent meal and when Jefferies came down an hour later they brought a reasonably acceptable fare, more filling than to be savoured, but both agreed it likely the best that had been served there in long years.
-
Edward bade Jefferies goodnight at their doors and retired intending to sleep well and make the most of the next day. He found no rest though; the whole darkened room seemed focused upon his notebook, as if it had become the centre around which all else revolved. It pulled his eyelids open, drew his blind gaze always towards it.
He re-lit the crusty bedside lamp and rose, opened his diary at random and almost dropped it. Another new entry, heavily scrawled and erasing his own. He flicked through the pages, finding more than half now detailing more horrors at the expense of his own recent history. He paused at random, reading one or another –march 1920
the little thing had no conception of what would happen walking out with me and i kept her entertained with talk of coastal history and when she was suitably comfortable with me i took her to the shore and demonstrated my knowledge of exotic doctoring and left a little something for the gulls
– each time feeling more repulsed than by the last –summer 1908
i chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate i ate 8 o how i ate
– yet seemingly unable to resist turning the page, reviewing the next atrocity. There was no trace of sanity or consistency to their content, besides their foulness, nor an apparent logic to their placement, the dates ascribed to each new murder a jumble. Then, between untouched two passages in which Edward had recollected details of his years of service, he found the words that revealed all:easter 1915
he was always the bravest facing them coming at us but when we were on advance detail i put my bayonet under his long evity and told him to scoff the mud if he wanted to keep them on he did until he gagged on it and then i lopped them off anyway and cut his throat too and left him in a crater but who would know in a place like this a waste of my time
Edward felt a great rage sweep over him, his hands white, cold and shaking, and he knew without understanding the reasons who it was had been at work here. He knew that the first insult on the inside cover, and that first entry overwriting his own, had been penned before he’d even set foot on the train, left for later discovery; he’d been wrong to blame the child, what boy could write such things? None, of course. But too much to ask not to witness the effect of his words; the bastard follows to see firsthand! And now, here, leaving his room unattended to rally a decent meal from the kitchen, he’d been repaid by his “brother in arms” – the insult! – repaid with gifts of ever more sickness. How old had Jefferies been during the Great War? Young enough still to serve and kill, evidently. Nor too old now to make play, and laugh behind his absurd moustaches at the man he was making his fool!
No sleep came to Edward that night.
-
He knocked loudly at Jefferies’ door at dawn to rouse him. “Early start, old man – I want to make the best of the good light!” he called, his tone in reply to the mumbled voice within at odds with his terse expression. Already dressed and packed, he waited outside with his breath misting in the pale sunrise, listening to the lonely birdcall and the sound of the mail train approaching from the East, watching the three windows which represented the two upper rooms and the corridor between them hawkishly.
As they walked he watched Jefferies always from the corner of his eye. The old soldier took their early exercise and lack of a breakfast in good spirit, reminiscing about past campaigns and the easy life they now enjoyed, took for granted even; but after a few failed attempts to provoke some slip of the tongue on the old man’s part, questioning him about his night’s sleep and so on, Edward rarely responded and Jefferies seemed content to provide an uninterrupted background to their little quest.
Edward picked his first spot to draw, still planning for his own little pieces in addition to the main task at hand, noticing Jefferies withdrawing to a “polite” distance to allow him to work; but he couldn’t concentrate, always glancing towards the other, or finding a burst of anger shaking his hands again and disturbing his lines. It took three full attempts to render this profile of the Tor and he abandoned any thought of doing another on the return leg; they would take the summit and the four views as per the commission and no more – or no more drawings at least.
He collected his things and struck off abruptly, forcing Jefferies to hurry to catch him. It was approaching noon and Jefferies’ stomach had become as incessantly noisy as his mouth; Edward remained tight-lipped. On “taking the hill”, as Jefferies inevitably put it an hour later, Edward made his sketches in an almost perfunctory manner. Three of the views were empty stretches of flat moorland, the fourth marred only by the wretched squat of Tippingswold and the scar of the railway. The clouds were rolling again, muffling the air, and a silence similarly heavy had fallen between the two men by the time Edward announced his work done. They trudged down the sloping back of Wither’s Tor towards the hamlet.
“Don’t know what I expected, coming along for this,” said Jefferies, his tone reproving, “but I rather thought you better company than none at all.” Edward felt himself flush hotly all over, a little prickling of sweat at his temples.
“Perhaps you should write it up in your journal,” he said.
“Don’t keep one,” came the blunt reply. “Trivial things.”
“Aha! Are they?” Edward snarled, stopping dead in the path. Jefferies had to stagger to avoid walking into him, the thick heather flanking their route preventing him from stepping around. “Trivial things? But maybe of some importance to their owners, perhaps? Who are you to judge, and how?” Jefferies puffed up in indignation.
“Self-involved, sir! A good book could and should be put to better use.”
“Taken from them, eh? A thing of value, violated, eh? Snatched away!”
Edward took a stride forward and raised his fist, his eyes wild. Jefferies stumbled away in shock, tripped and fell sideways off the path. He let out a cry of pain, floundering in the heather as Edward loomed over him, furious.
“You are a disgrace, sir! You’ll be made to regret what you’ve done, you – you filthy...” The man was staring up at him in terror and Edward swallowed thickly, then backed away, still quivering. “I’ll take your own words to the authorities. We’ll see what they make of that, and of you!” He started off down the hill again, shouting back over his shoulder.
“You’re less than an animal, Jefferies! Fit to be shot and nothing more!” He started to run.
-
Edward stormed up to his room, ignoring the landlord and the customers in the bar. He slammed his door, dropping his sheaf of new sketches onto the desk where they scattered messily. He took the journal, flicking through it the pages. As he expected, the few remaining original entries had been overwritten; Jefferies had taken his time “getting ready” that morning, alright! One page had its corner folded down and he paused there, where probably the last entry of June had once been recorded.winter 1904
that one who was always dirty or absent was always following me and then he found my special place and caught me finishing off the cat so i chased him with it and he was crying so hard he didnt watch where he was going and he fell right in and popped his head open i threw the cat in on top and told everyone i found HIM doing the same and chased him but it was an accident and they believed ME
Edward shook his head. He himself would have been, what, eleven or so at the time. Jefferies would have been a young man in his prime. Sickening. Edward went to back to the door and turned the lock, then sat at the desk for collect his thoughts. He would take the dawn train to the first town of a proper size and report the whole sorry incident to the police. His last task would be to describe this day’s events, if only to demonstrate the absolute difference between his hand and the abominable scribblings that had overcome it everywhere else. Food, and his commission, could wait.
-
Edward opened his eyes – he lay on the hard bed, unaware of going to sleep at all. Morning light came weakly through the window, still hurting his tender eyes.
Immediately he looked to the small desk, his sketches lying haphazardly beneath his journal. He rose, finding himself still wearing the previous day’s clothes, creased, stepped stiffly to look down on the page. His pupils spasmed, tight then wide, as he took in the newfound words; then he spun to the door, wrenched at it.
“Jefferies!” He crossed the corridor and hammered on the other door, then again, heedless of the sounds of annoyance rising up from the ground floor, but there was no answer from within. The door would not give, though he rattled the handle violently. He stalked back into his room looking wild, seized his pen from the writing case and bent over the pages that had once given him some satisfaction, now only provocation. Hissing the words beneath his breath he scribbled furiously –
Take this damned journal then!
– then threw down the pen and snatched up the journal, casting it across the room with an oath. It struck the far wall and fell open on the floor before the doorway.
Edward hurriedly drew on his jacket and swept the few loose papers into his valise, stepping over the journal on the way to the open door – but he paused astride the damned book, slowly putting down his valise to pick up the spread journal one last time, staring at it in wonder. No-one had entered the room in those few seconds, yet his angry words were gone. Instead, deeply pressed into the page, obliterating all trace of them, was the reply:
thats not all i shall take
His book in hand, Edward Hall stared at the words and the blood ran from his cheeks, leaving him pale as a ghost. He looked up in horror as the door flew shut.
-
The squad room was chilly and Sergeant Colesberry squeezed at the fingers of his right hand just below the knuckles, trying to ease the ache without expectation of success. He let his gaze wander across the documents spread out around the two books on his desk. Old and new reports, more of each on the way, but by no means the exhaustive catalogue necessary to close the case.
With a sigh he opened the little notebook to look at those opening lines, then turned to the final entries. The arrogant challenge to those who followed remained unanswered; no-one had seen Edward Hall since the Tippingswold innkeeper had found his room and possessions in disarray. Then there was that last admission, which had provoked all this searching, still far from finished:august 1933
i tossed that little scaly into the gap between carriages and left a note to have the conductor forward on that luggage as there was nothing worth taking in it much like that hairy lipped old fart who i moved to the next world without laying on a finger ha ha
Over sixty boasts of a couple more killings, all in twenty-nine years. No-one had heard the likes of it, and no-one had the slightest clue about where to head next.
“We’re going over the road for a quick one before home, Sarge. You coming?” One of the young whippersnappers was looking his way, while the others pulled on their coats and helmets. They weren’t bad company for kids, he supposed, although the reasons for dumping the Hall murders in his lap were crystal clear. The entries left far too many details blank to track down everything he claimed to have left in his wake; and the manhunt had been stone cold from the minute they found the old Colonel on the moors, apparently dead of a heart attack. No-one wanted to start a career on a case like that, but ending one on it was another matter; Colesberry knew his years on the force were coming to a close. It’d make no difference.
“Aye, I’ll lift a half-pint, lad,” he replied. Colesberry closed the diary again, shuffling the various police and mortuary reports back into their folders and locking them into his desk drawer. He headed for the door, patting at his pockets for his pipe in vain. He turned back and spotted it hiding under the cover of his open report book – then he noticed the rough note dominating the blank facing page.
youeel newer ketch me
piggie wick
“Very smart, you young buggers,” Colesberry grumped, slapping the report book shut and grabbing back his smoker. He turned to jab the pipe-stem at them, but the squad room was empty.