DEATH IN THE VALLEY: While helping to search for the missing boy, Jon becomes increasingly concerned for his life. And what does Kilphaun Hall have to do with the boy?
THE INTERLOPER: Roland calls on Elizabeth both intriguing and annoying her. He suggests she go to London for one of the new modern treatments available there.
THWDY Episode 3
Last Post by Benboncan licences under CC Licence 4.0 https://freesound.org/s/62050/
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
DEATH IN THE VALLEY: While helping to search for the missing boy, Jon becomes increasingly concerned for his life. And what does Kilphaun Hall have to do with the boy?
THE INTERLOPER: Roland calls on Elizabeth both intriguing and annoying her. He suggests she go to London for one of the new modern treatments available there.
THWDY Episode 3
Last Post by Benboncan licences under CC Licence 4.0 https://freesound.org/s/62050/
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
THIS HOUSE WILL DEVOUR YOU Season One
A Podcast concerning love, madness, mystery, murder and dead gods in 1920's Ireland and England
THWDY Episode 1.03
'Death in the Valley'
Kilphaun Hall
8th November 1925
My dearest Elizabeth,
I have much to tell you. I have had a most disagreeable experience today, and together with the general strangeness of this house, it may be just as well you have been delayed, even if I do miss you so. I am also having the most uncanny and vivid dreams. They fade quickly as dreams do upon waking apart from a lingering sense of fear and dread.
Your brother told me when I arrived that he was surprised that the Hall had not been burned to the ground like so many of the big houses in these parts and he hoped it pointed to a remaining fondness for the Sanderson family name, your father having been a regular visitor to these parts. From my experiences today, I fear he is misguided in this belief and needs remain alert for any mischief.
This morning George and I, accompanied by several ground staff, went down to the market square in Kilphaun village to assist in the search for the missing boy. It was a dank morning with a persistent drizzle that pattered noisily on our oilskins.
In the thin light, the buildings around us loomed blankly, dark wet streaks disfiguring them. There were twenty of us men huddled in the windswept square, and a short shopkeeper type with the air of a martinet divided us into five groups that would be dropped off at intervals along the river. I marvelled at his assumed authority, though it wasn’t long before I realised whence it likely came.
I found myself in a group with our house steward, Mr Murphy, and two young lads. Even exaggerated by the bulky coats we wore, I’d not appreciated before just how big a brute of a man Murphy was. By contrast, our two comrades, Micheál and Padhraig, were whip thin with pinched features. While I was sorry to be in the same group as Murphy, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved not to be in the group with the missing boy’s father, unlike poor George. We were given a whistle to blow if we found anything and then a lorry dropped us off at a stone marker out of town and we clambered down to the banks of the river Blackwater.
I’ve long heard that the Blackwater valley is a most scenic and beautiful place, indeed you attested as much in your letter, but to be honest: scrabbling in the bushes by the deep, fast moving water; poking at the edges with my stick while trying not to fall in; hoping to find something and dreading to find it; it wasn’t the best way to take in the view.
The wind funnelled down the east-west river valley driving the rain before it. The southern slope gives way to fields, farms and estates and ultimately to the sea. The northern side we were on is steeper and wooded and gives way again to high fields and eventually to the remote slopes of the Knockmealdown Mountains. Along the northern slope are nestled many great houses, their southerly aspects allowing the gentry here to indulge their passion for gardening to the full. Kilphaun Hall is one of those houses, though it sits at a kink in the valley and faces west. Not today though. Only madmen like us were out in this rain that somehow managed to trickle its way in, despite my oil skins.
After an hour of poking at the water’s edge and prodding bushes for their secrets, and indeed several near misses on the slippery bank, Murphy called a halt for a smoke break by a stand of trees. The other two deferred to him and he’d assumed leadership of our little group. I didn’t care, I was well aware I was the newcomer there. There was an intense silence for a while as we struggled to roll and light cigarettes, or in my case my pipe. Every so often a gust of wind would shake heavy drops from the trees that would fall noisily on us and the leaves around us. Murphy had pulled back the hood of his fisherman’s jacket. His white hair was disheveled and stuck out at angles as he drew sharply on his cigarette. We puffed away in quiet camaraderie for a few minutes, or so I thought, until Micheál spoke.
“Are ye married to his lordship’s sister then, sir?” he asked.
I was surprised at the question but I thought to ingratiate myself with them for George’s sake.
“Not yet,” I said, “We are engaged.”
“Sure, a good Irishman and a fancy man like yourself, I’d have thought there’d be Irish girls falling all over you.”
I looked sharply at him, surprised by the familiarity of his tone and the sneer underneath it. I didn’t miss either the quick glance he gave to Murphy before he continued.
“And where are ye from sir, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
I sighed. I wasn’t sure what this was, but I didn’t like it. I was suddenly conscious of being alone with these three men that clustered close under the dripping trees, and the stout sticks we all carried.
“Dublin,” I said, not wanting to play this game or be more specific.
“Ah! You’re a Jackeen, so. Those traitorous feckers come down every so often to tell us what we can or can’t do.”
Well that made one thing clear. These men were on the losing anti-treaty side in the civil war.
“Is that you now, come down to spy on us?”
Did they think I was a Special Branch man? Before I could give that the answer it deserved, Murphy dropped his cigarette and crushed it into the mud.
“Right,” he said, “back to it.”
I stood there as the three men started off along the river bank again. I wasn’t clear what had just happened but I was sure it wasn’t over yet. We were at it for another hour and now I was careful in how close I was to the others, alert for what might be coming and not sure what I could do if and when it came. Micheál went in front, Murphy behind him and blocking out the view, then myself with Padhraig in the rear. I tried dropping back and letting him past but he always slowed to stay behind me. I found myself wondering if he might have a gun concealed in his jacket.
We came to place where the road bent down to meet the river and a lorry, not the one that had dropped us off, was waiting for us there, pointing back the way we had come. There were two men in the cab who nodded to us as Murphy led the way around the back. The rear was wooden-sided with a canvas roof. ‘Gallagher’s Butchers’ was emblazoned on the side in large letters, over a picture of a pig.
Micheál and Padhraig clambered up into the back. Murphy looked at me, his expression unreadable.
“Up,” he said.
I hesitated, the familiar feeling of impending danger growing louder in me.
Murphy stared at me.
“Suit yourself. It’s a long walk back in this weather.”
He reached up with a strong arm and hauled himself up. The engine roared into life. I looked at the three men inside, sitting still on boxes and sacks. I suddenly doubted myself. Was I reading far too much into this? I find perspective can be difficult sometimes, after the war. They were probably just trying to wind me up, to get me to make a fool of myself. I sighed and got in.
“Padhraig,” said Murphy, “Get your arse off that box and let Mr Ross have a seat.”
I would have preferred standing but I was unsure of myself now. I took the offered seat and then Micheál slid in too close beside me. Deliberately or not, I was trapped in the corner of the compartment. I ignored Micheál who was humming a jaunty tune. There were no carcasses in the van but the floor and walls were stained and above Murphy’s head were a row of empty meat hooks.
The road back to town followed the river. Instead we veered off up a road that rose through the woods of the northern slope. I looked at Murphy and he stared impassively back. Flurries of heavy rain drops from the trees on either side rattled on the roof. Micheál’s annoying humming petered out. We drove on in silence apart from the labouring of the engine.
When we were high on the valley side, the lorry pulled over and came to a halt with a squeal of brakes. The engine cut out and one of the men in front banged twice on the panel separating us from the cab.
“Smoke break,” said Murphy, rising and dropping down to the ground. The other two followed. I realised I had been stupid to get into this vehicle. Now I could only see this thing through. I remembered the fuss in Britain a few years ago in the war of independence, when local forces kidnapped General Lucas while he was fishing on the Blackwater near Fermoy to the west of here. He had been released after a month of drinking whiskey and playing lawn croquet with his captors. Somehow my companions did not strike me as the croquet playing sort.
I dropped down to the ground from the lorry, my stick casually in hand. We were up high where the woods gave way to fields of grass as the land levelled out. Near us was the edge of a rocky crag. I wondered how far the fall from it was. In different circumstances and weather, the view would have been magnificent.
The other three were close. I heard the two men up front get out but they stopped short before coming round and joining us. I heard the rasp of a match and smelled cigarette smoke. We lit up also, though my pipe was the last thing I fancied and smoked in a charade of friendliness.
After a while, Murphy said, “Lovely view isn’t it? I like to come up here to remind myself what it was we fought for, first against the Brits and then amongst ourselves.”
I waited for him to continue but instead it was Micheál that spoke next.
“Mr Murphy tells me you were a captain in the British Army, according to his lordship. Did you know, CaptainRoss, there were two types of Irishmen who came back from the war in Europe? Three, if you count the dead. Those who picked up arms when they got home and fought their old paymasters and those like you, happy to take their army pension while in the end Irishmen fought Irishmen.”
I said nothing. I’d seen more death than any of these men ever would. Why would I want more?
Murphy took a deep drag on his cigarette and then straightened up and rolled his shoulders. It only emphasised how big a man he was. Micheal took a step back out of my line of sight.
“Right so,” Murphy said.
I gripped my stick hard and tensed.
Silent Padhraig spoke for the first time.
“Listen, do you hear that?”
A look of annoyance flashed over Murphy’s faces but he stopped and listened. I could hear it too now. A faint but insistent whistle coming from down in the valley.
“Well, well, well, it looks like they found something,” Murphy said.
He flicked his cigarette into the wet grass and looked at me with a cryptic half smile.
“We’re done here boys.”
Micheál made to say something but Murphy cut him off with a glance.
And that, Elizabeth, was that. What ever had been about to happen, its moment had passed. We rode back down in silence to the Blackwater. One of the search teams had found the boy’s threadbare jacket. There was a brown stain on the front of it that was not mud.
I’ve probably got you worried now so let me touch on lighter news. Your great aunt Edith made a point of being seated across from me at dinner last night and grilled me the entire meal on my family and prospects, what I did in the war, where we two had met and my intentions! She may be a tiny old woman with a glint in her eye and a cigarette permanently on the go but she would make a great police inspector - I felt positively drained by her questions and it was a relief when the ladies withdrew. The thought of lunching alone with her (as I fear is her intention, the better to isolate me and pry) is more frightening to me than waiting to go over the top ever was. It is a battle I will only lose and will be left a pitiful eviscerated corpse.
Expect some questions from her also via your mother. I found myself a little embarrassed when I asked Aunt Edith after the new tenants of the Manse that you had mentioned, and was then unable to supply a family name, only a first and a man’s at that! If her eyebrows could have climbed higher, they would have disappeared into her hair. You must in your next letter supply me with some particulars on this Roland chap. He sounds interesting and I am sure his wife will be a welcome additional conversationalist into your circle.
George and I retired, or perhaps escaped, to the smoking room and made ourselves comfortable in the overstuffed armchairs by the fire. It had been a cold day and the house’s heating is not up to keeping the chill out. We had whiskies, I had my pipe and George those French cigarettes he affects. We sat in silence for a while, enjoying the drowsy heat of the fire.
George actually brought up the subject of Miss Lily King after ribbing me about the interrogation I’d just endured. Indeed, that may tell you everything you need to know on his thoughts on her.
Charles King, the current Lord Clonlaw and her uncle, has a sizeable estate south on the other side of the Blackwater river. George tells me that Clonlaw House is a large edifice more suited to grander times. Lily arrived during the late summer and is to stay for the hunting season and Christmas. George is clearly quite sweet on the girl and he believes his affections are reciprocated.
Well, I suggested that he have her and her uncle over for lunch or dinner. At this point George got hesitant, which is unlike him but George has had some run ins with Lord Clonlaw and therefore was loathe to invite him over.
“A most unpleasant character, who seemed to have taken against me before he’d ever met me,” was his assessment.
The man is also rumoured to be quite unwell. A long standing illness apparently, but he also lost both his sons in the war and according to George’s sources, became even stranger than before. As we talked and George described him in more detail, I realised I had met this man already. Would you believe the unpleasant fellow I had seen on the boat and who had come close to unseating me and injuring my horse is in fact her uncle, Lord Clonlaw?
Well! This was an awkward turn up for the books, as I had fully intended confronting and berating the man for his behaviour. Now though, I did not want to injure George’s chances with Lily. It had occurred to me that his good humour these days may be more to do with her attentions and not the restoration of Kilphaun Hall as I originally thought.
The upshot is neither George or Lily care to be dictated to by an angry old man and Lily will be lunching at Kilphaun Hall later this week. It was rather obvious that George wanted her introduced to aunt Edith, so that ordeal could be gotten out of the way. Anything that divides her forces is fine by me!
I tried speaking to George of my concerns about Murphy but he didn’t listen as he thinks highly of the man and the quality of his work. Admittedly I have no proof of anything but my fears. I wonder though what is going on in this valley. As we stood there in the rain examining the boy’s jacket, I had looked up at the northern slope, and there against the skyline, was Kilphaun Hall.
I wish you were here, Elizabeth, to distract and warm me with your kind and sensible nature.
Yours with love
Jon Ross
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'The Interloper'
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Clatbury, Wilts.
12th November, 1925,
My dear Jon,
It was a joy to receive your letter on such as dank dark day as it is here, though I was distressed to sense that those dark moods which have beset you since the War are still active, albeit triggered by being put in such an alarming situation out in the hills. Jon, I do hope you are taking adequate care in what to you these days is really a foreign land. Those chaps from the butchers that behaved threateningly toward you while you were engaged on a good deed sound thoroughly dishonourable individuals and I would steer well clear if I were you.
I felt it behoved me, yesterday being the Armistice, to attend the local ceremony. It was a very minor event in a village as small as ours, though Clatbury did lose a number of men in the conflict, farm hands mostly, and their loss is still keenly felt. As you know, we did not move here until a few years ago, during the recent upset in Ireland, so I did not know any of the fallen personally. But it seemed fitting to join the village in mourning their Glorious Dead.
It was a cold morning and although I was wearing my grey woollen coat and burgundy cloche hat, I had no scarf or gloves, and I felt the keen air around my throat as I stuffed my hands I hope not too disrespectfully into my pockets. Mother didn’t wish me to attend but I made an excuse about running an errand to post letters to you and left ere she had the chance to protest unduly. However Dr. Maundrell did see me at the memorial, and made some sardonic remark about no point respecting the Glorious Dead if it meant I would soon become one of their number. I played it down at the time but it is now leaving me unnerved. Perhaps he thinks my ailment is more serious than he makes out? I returned from the ceremony as quickly as I could and have remained indoors ever since, enjoying boiled eggs, buttered toast and plenty of hot tea, by the fireside.
However I did receive a visitor in the form of Roland, who yesterday had been to market day at Marlford, and ended up seeing a newsreel in which he recounted a disturbance at the Armistice Day ceremony in Dublin; smoke bombs were thrown amid general disorder. Roland warned me strongly against travelling to Ireland at this point and made some very disparaging remarks about the state of the place and its people, to which I once again forbore to respond. He must know of our family’s longstanding connections to Ireland but he prefers not to enquire of it.
He had, however, also visited a chemist in Marlford to obtain the required solutions for developing his camera film of the bonfire and has invited me into his darkroom to assist in the procedure. I must confess I am very excited to witness this process and would love to accept. But I fear the chemicals may be harsh and volatile and aggravate my chest condition? Roland was dismissive of this but has suggested I may be better off with some new sunray treatment available in London. It would be good to know your views on the matter.
Interestingly, I found out why Roland has leased the Manse by himself; he is an archaeologist and is anxious to spend time in the Wiltshire Downs to study some of the ancient features of the landscape - the better to understand the pre-Christian souls who dwelt there and constructed the earthworks. Mother thinks it is a blasphemy to disturb these long dormant sites but I am curious about these people and their ancient civilisations. After all, without study and evidence, how can we ever learn? That is why Roland also embraces photography – so he can document the sites he visits and the general landscape. But I do think he needs to be aware that there can be an “animus” hanging about such places many centuries on.
Take good care of yourself my darling Jon and write soon.
Your loving fiancée,
Elizabeth