Revenge of the Bones: a sequel to The Judge’s Parlour

By Arthur Walters

It has been just a year since the tragic death of eleven people, nine of whom were innocent of any wrong doing. Despite six bodies having never been found, life in the village of Lingtree had gradually begun returning to normal. But then Detective Chief Inspector Eversden is called in to investigate the suspicious death of a pipeline contractor called Harris. Unfortunately for the detective, he was unaware that prior to his death, Harris had handled a number of skulls exposed in the pipe trench. He dismissed these as just skeletal remains of prisoners brutally executed for breaking centuries’ past Stannary Laws, the laws relating to tin mining.

As his investigations proceed, events begin to challenge even the vast experience and abilities of Eversden and his colleague, Sergeant Jones. However, unbeknown to him, even the best detective in the force would face the gravest difficulty in dealing with future incidents which have their roots in the past.

Two years later, the village has undergone a major change, a change which no one relays to two visiting students, Sally & Helen. Ignoring the weather forecast and a warning from their guesthouse landlady, they set off to explore ‘The Path of the Dead’, the route taken by coffin bearers in the 13th Century, to meet their obligation to bury their dead in the graveyard of Lingtree church. What follows, is a tale of horror beyond anything ever told by even the hardiest and bravest of traveller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Sep 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803133485

Arthur Walters

Arthur Walters grew up in the village of Lydford and surrounding Dartmoor. Like The Judge’s Parlour (2017), this sequel, The Revenge of the Bones, is also inspired by historic events and myths from his childhood. Another story of Cornish tin mining led to his book The Curse of Wheal Hingston (2019).

Book preview

Contents

Preface

BOOK ONE

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Room Eight

Room Nine

The Livery Yard

The Rectory

The Judge’s Parlour

The Rectory

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

The churchyard

The Judge’s Parlour

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

BOOK TWO

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Two Weeks Later

Thirty-Six

The Next Day

Two Years Later

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Five Years Later

Forty-Six

Two Hours Later

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Epilogue

Preface

The events of 2016

‘It is time for you to return. I may have a need for you to fulfil. You will be accomplished in the practice of medicine and use your skills to help others. You will not know when I have called upon you, but you will find yourself compromised. This will then be your destiny and cannot be changed.’

Learning of the death of his childhood friend, Gareth Pettit, Brendon Gallagher, an MI6 agent, returned to the village of Lingtree for the funeral. Surprised to hear Gareth had been found dead on the dungeon floor of the Norman castle, Brendon’s natural curiosity soon discovers that pub landlord Phil Clegg, together with Simon Enscale, Rev. David Soby, Caroline Pettit and her son, Nathan and daughter, Ellie had each made their lives financially comfortable by employing Swedish workers to illegally extract silver from a disused mine in the village. Much to these individuals’ dismay, Brendon’s subsequent probing and interference rapidly brings the mining to an end.

During his prolonged stay at Clegg’s pub, a supposedly haunted sixteenth-century coaching inn called The Judge’s Parlour, Brendon renews his acquaintance with Sue, a woman he’d known from his distant past. Having agreed to join forces, they brutally murder two other of Brendon’s childhood friends, Pete Grayson and Jim Evans, who had become poorly paid gophers for Phil Clegg and Co. willingly carrying out any task asked of them. Brendon had eventually lost his patience with their continual goading and attempts to obstruct his movements.

When growing up in the village, Brendon had always admired Caroline. Although losing out in the romantic stakes to Gareth, Caroline had asked him to be godfather to her daughter, Ellie.

At Gareth’s wake, Caroline made it clear to Brendon that she also had feelings for him and over the next couple of days, invites him to share her bed, with a view to them having a future together. Despite accepting her invitation, following the deaths of Grayson and Evans, Brendon and Sue immediately disappear, without saying goodbye.

Shortly after their disappearance, Rev. Soby looks for Jim and Pete in The Judge’s Parlour. Whilst waiting for Clegg to change a barrel, the vicar spots a headline in The Daily Telegraph detailing the death of Brendon Gallagher whilst on active duty in Aleppo, a number of weeks before he attended Gareth’s funeral. The initial shock causes Soby to drink a quantity of beer-pipeline cleaning fluid, having mistaken it for a bottle of Scotch. Although not killing him, it leaves its mark on his vocal cords.

Later, Brendon’s mobile phone is found under the bench in front of the pub, and it is not long before his unlocked car is discovered behind a campervan in the pub car park. Inside is his wallet and credit card.

Gathering to discuss the newspaper article, Clegg, Soby, Enscale and the Pettits conclude it must have been a delayed false press announcement by the government to cover up some failed MOD mission or other. Perhaps Brendon had been told to lay low, hence why he’d stayed on once Gareth’s funeral was over. As there seemed to be no other explanation for his hasty departure, they had to assume he’d been summoned to return to duty and needed a different identity, an explanation also accepted by the police. Clegg told them the wallet and credit card had been found in Gallagher’s room – no mention was made of the car, which was hurriedly driven away by Simon.

Although at one stage Caroline had agreed to the disposal of Brendon by the Swedish miners, a fact Brendon was aware of, she is convinced this was only because of the pressure put on her by Soby and had nothing to do with her greed for more silver. Consequently, she was sure Brendon would forgive her and would soon be in contact. However, a fortnight after his disappearance, even she begins to have doubts he will return, especially as she realises that he must have taken with him the exceptionally attractive, and much younger, Sue. They’d probably used her car, not that she could recall ever seeing her in one, but then, apart from Clegg, nobody else seemed to know much about her.

‘Turned up here out of the blue and asked for a job,’ he’d told them. ‘Got on well with Gallagher. Enjoyed a bit of flirtatious banter, but that’s it.’

Nevertheless, Caroline’s mind continues overruling her common sense. For a month, she preserves the belief that losing her husband, Gareth, had been preordained and, as a result, would lead to Brendon’s return to the village. With Gareth dead, the way would be open for her and Brendon to eventually become more than just casual lovers. Once they were married, her share of the silver proceeds would provide a comfortable life for them both in retirement.

It is this constant niggling belief which finally drives Caroline to succumb to a breakdown and subsequent admittance to the psychiatric ward at Truro Hospital.

During her stay, she never mentioned she knew it was Jim and Pete who’d murdered Gareth, nor did she admit to any doctors that she’d killed John Wakeham, the London estate agent who was in danger of interfering with their silver extraction business, and also Frank Hatcher, the private detective and part-time archaeologist, who, like Wakeham, was getting too close to their operation. Hatcher’s body was never found.

In addition to these deaths, two police detectives, DCI McKenna and DS Jenny Pearson, were also murdered, the former in a hit and run by Grayson and Evans and the latter by two of the Swedes, the same pair who were responsible for raping and murdering two waitresses, Melanie and Jan. Sadly, due to dysfunctional families, they were never missed, nor their bodies discovered.

The verdict on McKenna’s death was deemed an ‘open conclusion’ by the coroner, whilst Pearson’s car, having been found in the waters of Lingtree Gorge, suggested she had died following an accident. Her body was never found, the river current and depth of some of the cauldrons making them too dangerous to explore.

The accident verdict was justifiable, as her colleagues knew she hadn’t been well for a few days prior to the crash. Consequently, it was suggested a still weak and light-headed Pearson may have hit her car’s throttle rather than the brake, causing her to lose control halfway down the hill from the village. This would explain why the skid marks, where she’d left the road and demolished the stone wall, were faint and non-indicative of intentional braking. Alternatively, she may simply have passed out and released the brake.

With regard to Hatcher, Soby’s assertion that the archaeologist had said he was off to Africa to join a dig was eventually reluctantly accepted by DCI Eversden, who had taken over the investigation. Police resources didn’t extend to paying for journeys into deepest Africa and not knowing his destination or on what day or from where he’d departed, confirmation of his leaving would have been time-consuming and possibly expensive. The case was still open, but the file had been relegated to the bottom of the pile, as was Wakeham’s, whose body had been found in the gorge with a bullet in his head, teeth and hands removed.

* * *

During her stay in hospital, Caroline received a couple of visits from Detective Chief Inspector Eversden. She’d answered his questions without obvious implication and therefore assumed he’d finally accepted she was not involved in any way.

With all feelings of guilt in respect of her crimes ostensibly erased from her memory after six weeks of treatment, she convinced the doctors it was only the sad loss of her husband and the impact of having to sell the farm which had mentally drained her. Consequently, she’d been declared well and subsequently discharged.

* * *

Jim and Pete’s disappearance never appeared on police radar. Jim’s wife received a very healthy cash sum from the last of the silver proceeds in exchange for her silence. Her grief had lasted less than a day and she’d eagerly looked forward to spending her hush money on the various TV jewellery channels and online bingo. She’d detested her constantly inebriated husband for years and only stayed with him as she was too lazy to leave the moron. Fortunately, there were no other relatives to inform. If any villager enquired after his whereabouts, they were told that following the death of his close mate, Pete, he’d made the rash decision to kick his wife into touch and start a new life with relations in the Midlands.

Apart from Pete’s allegedly bedridden sister, Celia, who, shortly after his coming out as gay, had had very little contact with him, there were no close family members. Like the villagers, she was told he’d fallen into one of the most inaccessible parts of the gorge whilst helping his mate Jim fell some trees on a hedge just above the cascading waters. Although her situation meant she was unable to attend his staged remembrance service, she’d been extremely happy to learn she was the only beneficiary of his will. The alleged discovery by David Soby, of a signed and witnessed ‘variation’ to the original, had removed the need to involve the sister of Pete’s late husband. Immediately putting her deceased brother’s house on the market, Celia had booked an around the world holiday.

* * *

Whilst the police investigation remained ongoing, albeit with just two junior detectives, life in Lingtree carried on as it had always done. Visitors passed through, some residents commuted to and from work, whilst others made the best of their retirement. The few children growing up in the village played in the street, in the nearby sports field, the gorge when it was closed in the winter or in the grounds of the castle. Standing in the keep’s arched entrance, the young teenagers often looked up longingly at the remains of the old stone staircase leading to the ramparts, where it was said their similarly aged predecessors had once climbed. However, following the discovery of Gareth Pettit’s mutilated and mangled body, The Trust had installed a padlocked wrought-iron gate at the base of the stairs, thus preventing any future unauthorised and possibly fatal entry.

BOOK ONE

One

February 2020

‘I didn’t sign up for this,’ moaned Private Wayne Bennett. ‘One thing going off to Afghanistan and places and shooting the Talibastards and what have you, but killing your own… nah, it’s not right!’

‘For fuck’s sake, Wayne, just get on with it. If we let these fuckers get away, who knows how many others will die?’

‘Yeah, I know you’re right, Gerry, but a woman and two young kids as well?’

‘We’re just following orders. Now c’mon, they can’t be far ahead of us, not in this fucking snow.’

The two marines had been tracking the escapees for over an hour. It was now three in the afternoon and the light was already beginning to fade. As it had done for the last fortnight, snow had been falling on and off all day on the barren moor, engulfing the flowerless heather and gorse. With the ever-strengthening wind, five to six-feet-high drifts were forming on the north-easterly side of the large, granite boulders. The weather was the reason the Coleman family had decided to make their break from quarantine in the hope they wouldn’t be followed; however, they hadn’t bargained on the moorland snowfall being so heavy.

* * *

‘It’s the only way, Julie. If we stay here, we’re going to die along with the rest of them. At least if we go on the run, we can seek help from a doctor. You know those faceless officials in their fancy white protective suits and breathing masks don’t give a toss. We need to see someone who’s not in the pay of the government.’

‘I know you’re right, Tim, but you can’t expect these two to walk far.’ The short, plump, thirty-three-year-old mother looked at their children, Patrick aged eleven and Brodie aged nine. They were asleep, tucked up in quilts in the corner of their lounge, the only warm room in the house.

* * *

Owing to an alleged problem at the local sub-station, the electricity supply to Lingtree had failed fifteen days after the scientists moved in. Whilst some residents had open fires and cylinder-gas hobs and ovens, others, like the Colemans, had to rely on a wood burner for heating and cooking. However, half-full cylinders wouldn’t last for ever but requests to fly in replacements, together with generators, were instantly turned down by the authorities.

‘Far too dangerous in the prevailing icy, wintry conditions,’ was the official reason given, this despite helicopters already being used to drop in crates of tinned food and fresh bread.

It was a decision which had claimed the life of seventy-five-year-old Sandy Brokenshaw. Attempting to fell an ash tree to provide wood for his fire, he’d miscalculated where the highest branches would land.

‘Too bleedy slow. Slipped up trying to get out the way, the stupid bugger,’ his wife Beryl had told everyone who’d called round to see her. ‘Still, at least he died quickly, squashed like a raspberry jam butty,’ she’d added valiantly, whilst wiping away the tears as she scratched the puss-stained bandage covering her ulcer-stricken leg.

Among the first thirty-eight to have suffered a slow, agonising, disease-ridden demise, was Reverend Alison Hobday, the lady vicar, who’d taken over following the sudden passing of Reverend David Soby. Hobday had died as she lay in front of the church altar, a crucifix clasped in both hands, her deathbed prayers unanswered.

The scientists who’d been sent in by the government, two days after a no-go zone had been declared, had set up their base in The Judge’s Parlour pub. A ‘Closed until further notice’ sign on the door kept out all but authorised personnel. Once the electricity was cut, power for their equipment was provided by a generator. To avoid conflict with the residents, they said it was normal procedure to have a backup source. They added it had been brought in by lorry, just twenty-four hours before the ban on land-based transport was invoked. Few, if any of the locals, believed them.

Three weeks after the scientists’ initial investigations, they’d concluded that no cure would be found for whatever was triggering the bright red, painful rashes on the faces and limbs of the sick. Consequently, after much discussion with officials of the World Health Organisation, their policy had evolved into one of containment, rather than cure.

As far as the academics were concerned, their experiments were now finished. The sooner they left, the sooner the village could follow its inevitable fate. Informing next of kin of sad losses would be sorted out by the four members of the admin team left to deal with any matters outstanding.

A day after their leaving, instructions were given to reduce the number of helicopter provision drops. Two days later, the mains water was disconnected. Those in the village who bothered to enquire as to why the disconnection was necessary, were told that an already leaking pipe had been contaminated by effluent from the damaged, recently installed sewage system. Thereafter, the village spring, one established in Anglo-Saxon times, became the only source of clean water.

The white-suited admin team continued to give false encouragement to the suffering, although the ailing who remained conscious knew they were only being paid lip service before the inevitable ulceration. Once the bleeding and weeping began, it would be a matter of hours before they’d be wrapped in a body bag and flung into the mass grave dug in a field near the caravan site, along with the partially decayed corpses already in occupancy. Following the departure of the admin team, villagers had to arrange the burials of their fellow residents.

The field had been chosen as it was the most convenient and furthest from any stream or river. Like the cattle in the 2001 foot and mouth outbreak, the bodies would be incinerated as soon as the final casualty was safely deposited.

It was clear to the majority of those yet to fall foul of the disease, that no one would be leaving the wire-fenced boundaries of Lingtree alive, even if, by some miracle, they survived.

* * *

Thirty-six-year-old, marathon-running Tim Coleman had been employed as an aircraft technician at Newquay airport and was by nature very thorough and methodical. It was these skills he’d used when plotting his family’s escape route.

‘There’s a weakness in the fence where it crosses the cycle track,’ he assured his wife, the night snow began falling. ‘The land either side of the shallow embankment floods, so it’s hard to patrol. I reckon if we approach via Brackenworthy Down, we should be able to reach the fence unseen. The electric current bypasses a length of twelve metres; I checked it out the day after they told us we weren’t to leave until further notice.’

That day had been almost six weeks ago, since when ‘until further notice’ had progressed into ‘never’.

‘Clear of the fence, the hedge and the avenue of trees on the side of the road up to the Huntsman Inn should provide us with sufficient cover. Once there, we’ll be on the moor. Two miles along the old arsenic works railway line, we can follow the stream to Melkthorpe, past the dam.’

‘But Tim, that’s a helluva a distance and over the moor…’ she shook her head, ‘the kids will never make it.’ Julie Coleman was already resigned to dying in Lingtree, not that she’d told her husband. At least they’d all be together, and someone would hopefully look after their children if she and her husband died first. ‘And what if the soldiers realise we’ve gone and start following? You know we’ve all been warned they’ve been told to shoot to kill.’

Tim’s shoulders dropped. ‘I know, darling, but what’s the alternative? A slow death, as all our flesh eats itself? We’ve got to try.’

* * *

As he’d predicted, the land on either side of the cycle track was indeed flooded and, with a pair of bolt cutters, Tim was able to make a large enough hole in the six-foot-high, wire-mesh fence for them to crawl through. However, he hadn’t bargained on the water being so deep, or so icy. By the time the four of them reached the relative safety of the boundary field’s hedge on the other side of the fence, all their clothing was soaked, as were the rucksacks carrying their meagre supply of rations. Leaning against a solitary oak tree, they tipped out the water from their wellingtons.

‘Patrick… Brodie, if we run, we can keep warm and your socks will begin to dry out,’ encouraged their father.

Their efforts to beat the cold lasted forty metres; it was Brodie who was the first to complain.

‘Dad, I can’t run anymore, I’m too tired. Can we stop?’ She’d never taken to joining in the sports activities at primary school and, although not obese, she was carrying more weight than experts would consider ideal.

‘Wimp,’ chastised her brother, a keen mini rugby player until the quarantine. ‘You shouldn’t have eaten all those chocolate bars Mum had stashed in the cupboard.’

‘I didn’t eat them all, you had some.’ She caught hold of her mother’s hand. ‘Tell him, Mum, tell him I didn’t eat them all,’ she pleaded, tears running down her cheeks.

‘Paddy, she didn’t eat them all, but let’s not argue about it now.’ She smiled at her daughter. ‘When we get to the pub at the top of this hill, we can take it a little slower.’

In their heavy, water-laden, feather and down anoraks, they walked as quickly as Brodie’s legs would allow. Reaching the Huntsman Inn, Tim told his family to wait in the trees. Standing on the edge of the tarmacked road, he checked to the right and the left for signs of any army or civilian vehicles. A lack of tyre marks in the clean, white snow suggested no vehicle had passed either way for some time. For the moment at least, it was clear.

He scanned the building opposite. The windows of the pub were boarded up and its inhabitants evacuated. Located on the busy road between Melkthorpe and Chilstoke, the Huntsman Inn had a reputation for being a vibrant and well-patronised establishment. Seeing it now, in its eerily empty state, reinforced to Tim the seriousness of the situation being faced by Lingtree. By road, it was a couple of miles from the infected village, but as the crow flies it was barely more than a mile; consequently, its closeness had deemed it vulnerable.

* * *

Whilst the experts had concluded there was a ninety-eight percent certainty the disease could only be passed on by physical contact – a handshake, a hug, a kiss, or even brushing against a fellow human being – they couldn’t afford to totally ignore the two percent possibility of contamination by air or vehicle. Government personnel passed through anti-bacterial air showers when leaving the cordoned-off area.

Although on the one hand, whatever was ‘eating’ the population of Lingtree had to be contained, on the other, it was felt essential that any risk of mass hysteria and panic must at all costs be avoided. Therefore, only properties within a rough one-mile radius of Lingtree were abandoned and their occupants put up in guest houses. When questioned as to why they had to leave, the police officers informed individuals their water supply was in danger of becoming contaminated. Compensation could be claimed for loss of business and all reasonable accommodation expenses would be refunded.

Oblivious to the horror unfolding in a neighbouring community, residents of surrounding villages continued to go about their daily business.

Friends and relatives wanting to contact those living in Lingtree were told the residents were suffering from cholera, contracted from the local water supply following last year’s installation of a new sewerage works; subsequently a cordon had been put in place. They would be able to visit once the all-clear was given, probably in just a matter of weeks. They couldn’t communicate by telephone or email, as unfortunately the numerous unseasonal thunder and lightning storms experienced in recent weeks had critically damaged the local exchange and mobile phone masts and these were proving to take some time to repair.

Government officials had instructed the media not to speculate on what was causing the challenges currently facing Lingtree. Instead, it was to factually report that an outbreak of cholera had gripped the village. As it was so severe that sadly the weak and elderly could die, it was important to ensure it couldn’t spread to the outside world.

The incredulous propaganda fooled very few (if any) members of the press and television; however, any journalist seen to be showing more than a passing interest in events was immediately taken into army custody. Families and work colleagues were then told the respective individuals had caught the disease and were in quarantine. There was a possibility they wouldn’t recover. In truth, it was likely they’d already been disposed of.

So far, there had been no reports of any non-resident of Lingtree displaying symptoms of the infection.

* * *

Tim waved to his wife. ‘Hurry, there’s nothing moving.’

She held the hands of her children and hauled them across.

‘We should be safe now,’ he assured them. ‘Once we get on the moors, we can have a rest.’

Unfortunately, he’d not bargained on the keenness of Corporal Gerry Miles, who, in spite of the weather, was dedicated enough to leave the warmth of the tepee-style tent erected as an outpost fifty metres from where the Colemans had negotiated the fence.

‘C’mon, Wayne, you lazy bastard, time for a walk round.’

‘Bloody hell, Gerry.’

‘No bloody hell about it. We’re paid by the Queen to do a job and do that job we will. Now get on your feet, Private, and let’s get out of here.’ He only used his close mate’s rank when reiterating an order.

Putting down his half-full coffee mug, Private Wayne Bennet picked up his rifle. ‘She ain’t going to fucking know whether or not we had a walk,’ he grumbled to himself as he followed his non-commissioned officer into the snow. ‘Plus the fact, no bugger’s going to be out in this weather.’

Without turning, Miles shouted, ‘Don’t forget to tie up the flap.’ He was just a handful of strides from the cycle track gate.

‘Yes, sir, three bags full, sir, anything you say, sir,’ muttered Bennett, pulling the string tight. Unlike his corporal, he wasn’t so enamoured with this role. He’d been sold a ‘lifetime of excitement and travel’ by the careers officer, not an hourly stroll along a section of a perimeter fence around a poxy village on the edge of Bodmin Moor, even if they did occasionally get allocated to a stone-built station.

Despite having to practise three-monthly on a variety of ranges, he hadn’t fired his weapon in anger in years. In active service, he’d been credited with six kills to his name, plus another four probables. Unlike many of his comrades, he’d been fortunate to return with all limbs intact; however, being single and still only twenty-eight, given half a chance he was more than happy to have another go at any insurgent or terrorist who popped his head over the parapet. Happy to stay a private, once this brain-numbing duty was over he’d promised himself he’d apply to special forces. He had no idea it was a promise he’d break even before the day had ended. As he closed the gate behind him, he heard Miles on the radio.

‘That’s right, sir, footprints. Looks like two adults and two children. Heading across the field and onto the road towards the Huntsman Inn. Can’t have passed through long ago, as the prints are still clearly visible.’

As Miles continued his conversation, Bennett climbed the field gate into the road. The four sets of shallower footmarks on the tarmac were fading as the falling snow filled in the gratuitous evidence left by the desperate family. A moment later, he was joined by Miles.

‘This will please you, Wayne. Lieutenant wants us to track the culprits and eradicate them accordingly. Says we should be more than capable of handling it without recourse to backup. Can’t fly the helicopter in this weather anyway.’

Bennett considered his corporal’s instruction.