Midwinter Mystery - " The Town of No Return " - Chapter Nine

_{Midwinter Mystery – Chapter Nine}

_{"Wayward Souls"}

"Wheee ..” George whistled in astonishment, 

_{“.. no wonder he's barmy !” he leant over the small table and gently dropped the book back down. John's brow furrowed as he considered the more somewhat fanciful facets of the strange ecclesiastical tale. Struggling to see the relevance, if any, this had with the curious disappearance of Sergeant Keel and the lost time with the 'outside world'. He ran his fingers slowly over the surface of the books, occasionally moving one aside to view the ones beneath, taking stock of their titles along the way, ' Folklore, Myths and Legends', ' Mysticism in Mistry' and ' Tales of Mystery and Imagination' were ones that stood out as being of particular interest. “ It appears that your Sergerant is quite the prolific reader, but these are all fairytales and superstitions without any basis in truth or reality.” he announced reassuringly. John was concerned that this morbid little library might be more an indication of a unstable mind, than an interest in the supernatural. His thoughts drifted back to the room as he caught sight of an old suitcase pushed far back under the bed and then became aware of the wall with it's faded photographs, obviously of a young Sergeant Keel, accompanied by family, friends and other such acquaintances. With all this he added the recent discoveries of the wardrobe with it's collection of clothes still occupying hanging spaces, and the chest of drawers which had given up it's hidden treasures: a silver plated, full hunter pocket watch, with the engraving inside that read 'To David, Happy 21st Birthday ! May you always find time to enjoy life, love Mum and Dad', and a WW2 medal. John felt compelled to mention it to others, with a growing sense of admiration for the unaccounted sergant, “I found a medal in the drawer,” he explained pointing towards the chest, “ it was presented to 'Petty Officer David Keel' for 'Conspicuous Gallantry in 1942. Looks like he was quite the war hero, did you know that ?”}

_{"Yeah, he was in the navy during the war, saw quite a bit of action by all accounts,” volunteered Buster. “He seems like a good man, someone you could rely on, someone I'd like to have around,” John said, with a growing sense of respect for his absent Sergeant, making a conscious effort not be too obvious about his feelings about the rest of 'team'. “Well we now have a full name and confirmation of a war record, I'm starting to build quite a picture of the man, all that's left to do... is find him !”}

_{Taking everything into consideration, the personal effects - the man may have left but his life was still very much present - and the condition of the room, beyond it's general state of disorder, convinced John that there was no evidence of any struggle taking place, Indeed, he surmised that whatever happened to Sgt.Keel he had probably departed of his own volition, and in all likelihood had expected to return the same way. The fact that he hadn't suggested that he had been prevented from doing so by someone... or something. The preliminary search of the room gave rise to his belief that there may be more to be gained from within it's old walls, that missing lives and hidden secrets were still lurking, waiting to tell their own story.}

_{John gave the situation his deepest consideration, before reaching an inescapable conclusion, “ I think it's best if I move in here, in this room..” he announced, not that he was seeking their approval more as if he was justifying the action to himself, “.. until we find the Sergeant, that is.” John looked at one and then at the other to gauge their reactions at this unexpected revelation, but they seemed only mildly uncomfortable with the prospect of having to share a 'full house' with him.}

_{"As the highest ranking officer present I should be here at the center of things, offering my guidance and support to you both and indeed to anyone in need of help in a time of emergency,” stated John with a congenial smile to lighten the move.} 

_{“Wot about all the sergeants clobber, then ?” George asked boldly.”} 

_{“Leave that to me, I'll make sure everything's stored away safely, AND take full responsibility for it until he comes back, fair enough ?”} 

_{“ 'Ere if you're gonna stay with us yer gonna have to pay yer way, you know !” Buster chimed already grappling with the complex fiscal practicalities of it all. “ Don't worry about me, I'd rather take care of care of myself anyway, if that's all right with everyone ?” John confirmed as he commenced tidying the books into some sort of order.}

_{"If that's how you want it, but it were always good enough fer the Sergeant,” Buster excepted.} 

 _{“Well, I'm not the Sergeant, and I prefer to do things my own way, thank you very much,” John leaned down with both hands on a small stack of books as he pressed home his intention. “ Actually, all this talk of belongings reminds me that I still have some luggage of my own at the train station that requires picking up.” He thought for a moment and then looked at George, “ As the owner of the only vehicle around here, I'd appreciate it if you'd drive over there and collect it for me,”} 

_{“Yeah, course I will, I was heading over that way this aft'rnoon, anyway,” agreed George. “Good ! that's settled then, I'll make a start on clearing things up in here, you'll run out to the station and you..” John's train of thought derailed slightly as he looked at Buster, “ ..you, just go somewhere, ANYWHERE, PLEASE !” “ He can come with me, if you like, I could do with another body to move some stuff,” offered George.} 

_{“ A BODY, HIM ! I'm not sure if he qualifies for that position. I mean look at him, he can barely move himself let alone anything else !” John shook his head slightly at the situation.} 

_{“ Just what do you expect of him ?”} 

_{“ Well, Ballast you could say !” replied George. “Ballast ?”} 

_{“ Yeah, y'know like weighing me down,”} 

_{“ Well, that I CAN believe,”} 

_{“ No, it's the car's suspension see, it's shot on the driver's side, probably 'cos of that near run in I 'ad the other night, anyway I need something to balance things out,”} 

_{“Oh, you mean like a - dead-weight,” followed John.} 

_{“ Yeah, I guess yer could say that,”} 

_{“Well, in that case you definitely have the right man, take him with my blessing …. you'll need it,” John looked between the two of them, and then as an after thought. ”Oh, and I advise you to get those springs checked over as soon as you can, before matters get any worse,”} 

_{“ Will do, chief !”} 

_{“ Well then, don't just stand there get going, the pair of you. I want to get this all finished by tonight !” They dawdled their way - almost in concert - towards the door only just avoiding a mid-door collision at one point.}

_{As the door closed behind them, an air of serenity descended upon John and he allowed a small sigh of relief to escape. He was pleased to be alone once more, and the opportunity to begin his investigation in earnest, in the orderly and professional manner that he was accustomed to. Where would the investigation take him ? Was there an ulterior motive to Sergeant Keel's interest in folklore ? Were his two officers trustworthy - they were certainly hiding something ? And had a crime even be committed here, or was it simply a case of incompetency ? Ironically, the one person whose word John felt he could trust right now, was the man he was investigating ! But until he knew more about things, this was his station, and he was going to be run it his way, with his rules, and from here on in he was going to be watching everybody, very closely.}

   _{It was a chilly dreary afternoon, not unlike the inside of the station, when John finally stepped outside. He pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, as far as they would go, over a set of blue tinged hands numb with the cold, and proceeded along the short front path towards the street beyond it's gate. After a time consuming and questionably productive morning he had succumbed to a call of nature, and ventured out in search of something to eat, or at least whatever semi-hot, mildly-digestible – or semi-digestible, mildly hot - offering he could track down on this desolate excuse of a Sunday.}

_{He walked leisurely towards the Crow Inn, or 'the scene of the crime' as he preferred to call it, which was guilty of passing food off as being edible, but he didn't have much choice in the matter as it appeared to be the ONLY place in the village that was open. And since he needed to check out of his room there and collect his belongings, it seemed an open and shut case of ' two birds with one stone' or perhaps more aptly ' one crow on two accounts'. As he approached the pub, from the other side of the road, he noticed that it was almost directly opposite a church with a strangely looking twisted spire, a fact that he'd missed when he passed it by earlier that day. Slowing to a virtual standstill, as his curiosity was roused by some wild flowers, sheltering under a rampant hedge that supported the wooden stake fencing skirting the cemetery grounds. He had just crouched down to get a closer look at them when, “ Ahh, there you are ! You little devil !” came a voice from out of nowhere. “Who's there ?” John called out, spinning his head around to isolate it's invisible source. Although he had been startled by the unexpected interruption, part of him questioned if anyone was really there at all, or if it was just another of his mental aberrations. “Come on now, show yourself !” he demanded, becoming increasingly agitated with the continual surprises, the darker aspects of the case, and feeling the outsider to everything and everyone, all these factors were taking a toll on his nerves.     “ Oh, I am sorry. I didn't know any anyone was standing there ,” a clean shaven middle-aged gentleman with short receding grey hair, swept back to one side, which currently was in a state of disarray, rose from behind the hedge. “I suppose I was too taken with my 'big game hunt'... MOLES !” he explained holding up a curious little contraption. “They play havoc with the stones, you know,” he pushed a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses back from the brink of his nose.} 

_{“ Right, so you're setting traps for them, then?” John asked.} 

_{“ Yes, well I don't wish them any harm you understand, we are all god's children after all. No, I'll just capture them and release the lot into the arms of mother nature,” replied the stranger, gently dropping the trap to the ground. “ Well, it's good to have a hobby, ” John mused. “ Ha ! I'm not sure it's so much a hobby, more a necessary evil,” the slim would-be trapper replied, a twinkle in his eyes revealing the humour in the situation. “ Actually, this rather reminds me of an account in France, many years ago, where a church actually resorted to issuing an excommunication order on their mice population, forbidding them from attending services.” 
“ I take it, that it didn't work ?” surmised John. 
“ Heavens, no ! Don't you know... rodents are terrible at Latin, ” the stranger replied, with a mischievous smile.} “Personally, I think I'd prefer mice in the chapel to... bats in the belfry !” he finished, extending an invitation to meet him at the cemetery gates for a friendly rendezvous.

_{"You must be that Inspector fellow, the one everyone's talking about,” he assumed.} 

_{“ Yes, I am that DETECTIVE. Inspector fellow ! So, who 'must' you be then ?” John returned, scrutinizing his challenger's appearance for any tell-tale signs of his profession, but none were apparent. His attire was garden casual in theme, a pair of well worn denim dungarees, with a cream, checked twill shirt under a light green, corduroy overcoat. “ Lord, how amiss of me, I do apologise. I'm obviously a bit out of practice meeting new people,” the stranger dismissed his oversight, removing one of the garden gloves from his left hand he extended it towards John. “ Father James, pleased to meet you,” came the introduction, as they shook hands. “ Detective. Inspector John Foxe, how do you do, “ John replied.} 

_{“ My goodness, that's quite some moniker you have there. Why, it's almost as long as one of my sermons,” the vicar quipped. John stared blankly at the vicar, it seemed everyone had something to say about his title, which he was determined to keep, as it had taken most of his adult life to achieve it,} 

_{“ Hmm, quite,” he responded. “ That's an unusual looking church you have there. It's not Catholic, is it ?”} 

_{“ No, we're a non-denominational church, I'd be rather surprised if you've heard of it – The Sacred Order of Wayward Souls.”}

_{“ You're right, that's a new one on me.”} 

_{“ Actually, it's a very old one, Inspector. Old and decaying, I'm afraid to say. We face imminent extinction in these changing times of ours. We're spread few and far between the coastal lines of this fair isle, but what we lack in numbers we more than make up for in devotion, I can assure you.”} 

_{“ Why only the coastal towns ?” John found the notion of a regional religion somewhat of an oddity. “ Ah, well it's a belief that was borne by the villagers who lived and worked in the areas that were dependent on the sea for their livelihood. They banded together seeking what little solace or comfort they could, in the darkness of adversity. Sunken ships, the loss of precious cargo's and their poor unfortunate crews, consigned to the watery depths for all eternity,” responded Father James. 
“ 'Wayward Souls', huh ! Tell me, is everything different around here ?”} 

_{“ Do you mean different or unfamiliar, Inspector ? I admit that Mistry life requires a certain period of... readjustment, shall we say,” empathized the Father.}

_{"That's something of an understatement, Father,” agreed John. “ It's just that things seem rather backward around here, I guess"} said John, looking beyond the vicar at the cemetery behind, and it's collection of unusual, semi-subsided headstones. 

“ 'Backward', no I wouldn't say that, exactly” the vicar spoke in a soft reverent tone in defense of the village's reputation. “ You must appreciate, Inspector, that this place has a long and intriguing history, one that almost predates sense or reason, as we know it, an existence forged from the fires of superstition and fear. If anything I'd say it was the world that moved and simply left Mistry behind. We seem to attract the lost and forlorn, those who are either running away or searching for something. And some just feel- for whatever reason - abandoned by society and it's modern ways. So, perhaps you can hardly blame them for their little foibles or 'eccentricities', they are as much trapped here as... you or I, in a way.” 

“ I'm NOT trapped here ! “ John denied vigorously. 

“ I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you any distress, I was merely demonstrating a point that you were unable to leave here right now, even though you so wished to ! ” 

“ I'll leave when I'm ready, and not before, Father.”          

“Yes, of course, Inspector,” said the vicar, allaying Johns's stance while he cleaned his eyeglasses with an old handkerchief. “ Well, I hope you'll join me for a drink and a friendly game of draughts sometime. We have to make a our own entertainment here most nights, except on Thursday's,” offered the vicar returning his glasses to their original position.                         “ Why, what happens on Thursdays ?” “ Ah, we have the pleasure of, 'Jay, and his organ', over at the Crow Inn.”  

_{“ I'll bare that in mind for the future, thank you,” said John, wincing slightly.} 

 _{“Actually that reminds me, I have to get over there now, before they stop serving food for the day. Otherwise my stomach will never forgive me !” he explained.} 

_{“ Of course, Inspector. Go in peace, so don't order the game pie,” the vicar mockingly advised. With that John took his leave, and set off across the road towards the Inn. Father James watched the policeman's progress with curious interest, not even distracted by the mysterious gruff voice from the hedge, “ He sounds like trouble, to me !”}    

_{“ Yes, I fear you may be right, Edward. In which case..” the vicar answered without turning around, “.. he's come to the right place, hasn't he !”}

_{lifeandfunnies.blogspot.com}

Midwinter Mystery - Chapter Eight - " The Tale of the Mad Monk of Mistry"

  They sat in an irregular semi -circle around the fire engaged in their respective brews – united by consumption, separated in their own worlds. John discreetly studied his two new 'comrades' continuing to assess if he could really truly on their support and just how much, if at all, they were implicated in this affair. “ I suppose you have your own questions about me, but first of all just answer my question first. Why hasn't divisional H.Q received any reports from this station in the last three years ?”  John pressed his inquiry. Buster returned a blank look and then passed it over to George when he had finished with it, “ I don't know nothin' about no reports, Sergeant Keel was in charge of all that stuff weren't he, Buster ? “ George explained. “ Aye that's right “ He did all them 'ficial things, “ Buster piped up, “ always writin' things down on bits 'o paper, he were, Buster recalled. “ Wait, are you're saying that he DID fill in all the reports ? So, where are they now, then ?”  John asked disbelievingly. The pair looked briefly at each other and then back to John, speaking almost in unison they delivered the same verdict, “ Dunno ! “                                                                  “ I'm beginning to come to the conclusion that it might be easier to ask you two, just what DO YOU KNOW !” John regrouped his thoughts and proceeded. “ Well if we work on the assumption that Sergeant Keel was indeed responsible in his duties, then what would he have done with the paperwork, once it was completed ?” he reasoned. The small pendulum clock hanging over the fireplace didn't tick as loudly as the stony silence from the confounded officers, John waited in anticipation for the reply, before his impatience finally got the better of him, “ Let me guess, you ' duuno' anything about such matters ?”                                                                                                      “ That's right ! But, we're not stupid you know, we jus' never handled those things, that's all.  The only one who can answer your questions is Sergeant Keel, 'imself ! ” George stated .                             “ Believe me, I wish I could ask him !” John inhaled deeply, and slowly released it along with some of his frustration. “ Look, it's honestly not my intention to make anyone feel stupid, however I do need to find out what's been happening here these last few years, and for that I need answers longer than two syllables, that's all.” John endeavored to be more compassionate. Turning in his chair he looked around the small forlorn chaotic room in search of any possible clue, “ Just where do you file all your paperwork and records,” he paused in thought for a second, “ CRIMINAL records that is, NOT THE  L.P VARIETY !” he added.
“ It's jus' like we keep trying to tell you, Guv'nor, we don't know nothin' abou' things like that. You'll just 'ave to go up to his room and have a butcher's at it yerself !” George declared, swallowing the last dregs of tea.                                                                                                                                               “ WHAT ! HIS ROOM ? YOU MEAN TO SAY HE ACTUALLY LIVES HERE ! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE. MAN ? WHERE IS IT ? “ John exclaimed, catapulting out of his chair.                                                                                                                      ” Upstairs, where else would a bedroom be ? Buster responded with a slight air of superiority, pointing to a door in the far corner. “ Follow them stairs up and you'll find two rooms, take care to go in the door on the left. Whatev'r you do, don't venture into the other one.” he cautioned.                      " REALLY ! Why, what's wrong with it ? John challenged.                                                                      “ IT'S MY ROOM !” declared George jumping to his feet in defence.                                                    “ I see ...” John viewed his young constable's rather disheveled attire and unkempt grooming , “ .. thanks for the warning, I'll try to give it as wide a birth as I can. So, you and Sergeant Keel both live here in the station, then ?”                                                                                                                        “ And Buster  ! “ George concluded.                                                                                                       “ SO, ALL OF YOU LIVE IN ! That's absurd, there's hardly a place for the prisoners !” applied John making his way over to the door.                                                                                                                “ Yeah, well we have to, don't we ! Neither of us have been paid any wages now for the past three years,” Buster followed.                                                                                                                               “ Yeah, that's right enough, Guv'nor ! We've had to take care of ourselves all this time, one way or another, ” finished George, bringing up the rear.                                                                                        “ Hmm, so from what you're saying the files and the wages went astray roundabout the same time, interesting, ” considered John standing up. “ But, what about the telephones, surely at least one of you  have tried calling and reporting the situation to the branch station ?” he questioned stepping onto the first step of the stairs.                                                                                                                            “ Yeah, course we did !” protested George. “ But it didn't do any good, the line was down, weren't it, Buster ?”                                                                                                                                                      “ Well, that's not entirely unsurprising I suppose, given the unusually hilly terrain around here. But you have to keep trying at these sort of things, you know !” concluded John, continuing his assent of the stairs.                                                                                                                                                   ” No you don't get it, the line is ALWAYS DOWN no matter where or when we call. I swear it's  like the main line is cursed or somethin' !” George trailed a few steps behind Buster, with John leading the way and about to enter Sergeant Keel's room.                                                                                           “ Let's put the cursing to one side for a moment, shall we. I'm only interested in the facts, and not your local colour, thank you very much. So, what excuse were you given about this line then ?” John pushed the bedroom door slowly open and cautiously entered.                                                                  “ The big pole won't stay up !” Buster jumped in.                                                                                          At this stage John was only half listening as he was more pre-occupied with entering the room than listening to Buster's ramblings, but he felt compelled to challenge what he thought he'd just heard, “ The WHAT, won't stand up ?”                                                                                                      “ The main line that connects Mistry to the exchange, keeps gettin' knocked over. It's keeps gettin' hit by  cars or struck by lighting, caught fire.. a couple of times, chopped down by accident once and … oh yes, it's had dry rot too !” Buster kept a tally on his fingers itemizing the various calamities.          “ Then there were all those poles they had to be replace on accoun' of that big landslide the other year, ” prompted George, peering over Buster's shoulders to watch John at work.    
         The atmosphere in the room was slightly stuffy, a mix of stale air and old socks, the single bed looked clean and well made, it's corners tucked tightly underneath, but the rest of the room was in a state of disarray, heavily decorated with cobwebs around it's corners, light fitting and other areas that invited such activity. The solitary window was closed and it's curtains drawn, John circumnavigated his way round a small high table and chairs in the middle of the room on his way over to it. Pulling back the thin brown curtains he turned a catch unlocking the window and dropped it down on it's old wooden sashed frame admitting long needed fresh air and light. “ Huh, so basically the mail, payroll and ...any other form of communication has been discontinued for all this time, correct ?” John surmised still semi-distracted by the room and the possible secrets it may contain.                                 “ Yeah, that sounds abou' right, Guv'nor !” agreed George, nodding to secure the fact.                          “ I see, well it seems a visit to your Post Office may be called for, if only to corroborate stories, ” John  confided with his fellow officers.                                                                                                   “ Wot'cha mean ?” George looked more than usually puzzled.                                                               “ I mean, that I need to secure the details before I start forming any opinions or theories. It's what is commonly known in police circles as 'conducting an investigation',” John answered with a hint of derision. He continued to scour the room for any indication of what may have befallen it's resident. His eyes fell immediately upon a number of opened books and sheets of papers strewn across and around the table. Picking up a handful of the papers he commenced to sift through them, a  cursory glance revealing they were covered with a collection of scribbles, symbols, passages of text - probably taken from one of the surrounding books – and rough sketches. Diverting his attention to the books he noted that they had either been bookmarked or had corners turned over, a clear indication that Sgt. Keel had obviously found something of interest or importance contained within their pages. “ Is this everything ?” John asked searching the remaining part of the room, peering into the large door-mirrored wardrobe and fumbling through the small chest of drawers. “ Yeah, this is the lot, we ain't touched a thing. In fact, we ain't even been in 'ere since he left, 'ave we, Buster ?” George confirmed proudly.
 “ Aye, there weren't nothing worth having in here !” Buster volunteered all to truthfully.                      “ I'm sure Sergeant Keel appreciates your warm sentiments  … wherever he is, ” John gave Buster a judgmental frown. “ So, no files, no reports, no clue ! Just a fistful of ramblings,” John returned to the table and the written pages, drumming his fingers across their surface. “ We're no further along now than when we started. Look, surely there must be something else, something he may have said or did that seemed out of character at the time ?” he pressed with mounting frustration.                                    “ Nah, he kept pretty much kept to hisself , 'specially the last few times I saw him” Buster explained joining them by the table.                                                                                                                           “Yeah, he was always takin' himself off into the woods, I reckon'd he must be one of them bird fanciers, or somethin' !” George revealed.                                                                                                  ” An ornithologist ? What made you think that ?” John queried.                                                           “ Well, he would spend a lot of nights up in the woods all alone with jus' a thermos, a round of sandwiches and a pair of old binoculars. Then he'd creep back in 'ere in the early hours of the mornin' upto his neck in mud, lookin' even worse than, Buster ! ” George lifted one of the books from the table, and started to casually run his eyes over one of it's opened pages.                                                “ Wait, did he own a camera at all ?” a sudden idea flicking a switch of hope.” If he did then there may be some photographs under this little lot or perhaps there's an undeveloped film lying around here somewhere !” John grasped desperately at the prospect.                                                                   “ I don't think so, besides there's nowhere around 'ere to develop it,” George replied in an apologetic tone. “ Hmm, that's too bad,”  John accepted disappointingly, he picked up the top sheet of paper from a pile of other loose papers, and raised it closer to to his face for further examination, “ There appears to be a sketch of a hooded figure on this one, does that mean anything to either of you ?”                                                                                                                                                                           “ That's odd, this book 'ere 'appens to be open on the legend of 'The Mad Monk of Mistry'. Y'know, I bet that's who's the picture's of !” George's deducted.                                                                                “ The Mad Monk of Mistry, eh ! I suppose it could be some kind of religious garment at that,” concurred John studying the drawing more closely. “ So, what's the story on this misguided monk then ?”                                                                                                                                                       “ Ah, it be a dark tale from Mistry's past, it's long forgotten past” Buster stared strangely into the distance as if he were reliving the account himself. “ But now it's returned to carry out it's ghostly ways on us all !”                                                                                                                                        “ All right there Jack-a-nory, that's quite enough story telling for now, thank you very much. I prefer to hear the unvarnished account if you don't mind,” John gestured to George to commence reading from the old book.      
         'The Tale of the Mad Monk of Mistry,' George read the chapter title slowly and deliberately, before finding himself completely immersed in the account.

                                          ' When the bell doth toll from yon abbey's tower                                                                                              spectres long past will soon be found.
                                                Take heed tales of woe or deathly power,
                                             as cold bones will rise from hallowed ground
                                                 fingers reaching out for souls hell bound '

         In the middle of the seventeenth century at a time of great civil and religious unrest under Cromwell's Commonwealth England, many people found the changing political and social landscape hard to accept. Never more so than at the sleepy abbey of Mistry which was forced to seek alternative areas of revenue to address the dramatic change in their fortune, the continuing loss of wealth and lands threatening to ruin their very existence, in order to address this situation the Abbot finally succumbed to looking outside the Abbey's walls for it's salvation.
       Brother Nathaniel, a young naive novice, fresh from vows of obedience, celibacy and virtue, was also struggling with changes of his own, adapting to his new surroundings and the enforced strict disciplines of life in a Medieval Monastery. Among his many duties was the procurement of new sources of income within the village and the offering of his services for private tuition among it's locals. Over the year the monk took on a number of students from various backgrounds and ages, and became a highly regarded and respected figure within the community, but to one pupil he was something more.
       A wealthy trading merchant, Ezekiel Smallbone, long since widowed, employed Nathaniel to instruct his youthful, high~spirited and beautiful daughter, Grace, further in her studies of art and religious matters, with hopes that his presence might provide the much needed peace and serenity that she so sadly lacked. At first her contempt for the new tutor was plain for all to see, and she could constantly be heard challenging his authority and teachings. Slowly over the course of time a degree of understanding and mutual respect seemed to develop between them, much to her father's joy, growing srtonger and steadier with each passing day. Seasons passed, the days grew shorter whilst the nights became longer, darker, and somewhere amidst all this the two became one – and fate interceded spiraling their lives together hopelessly out of their control.
       With the summers final breath Grace, fell with child, bringing with it conflicting times for them all.  She was delighted at the prospect of motherhood, but distraught at the thought of confessing all to her father, whereas Nathaniel, was torn between his devotion to the church and his all consuming love. Ezekiel, a deeply proud man was bitterly ashamed and disgraced to hear his daughter's story, and struggled with the loss of face within the village. As Grace's pregnancy approached ever nearer it became impossible for her to conceal it anymore, just as her father couldn't hide his disapproval, they could only wait and bide their time until fate showed it's hand.  But Ezekiel knew, deep down, that an inescapable dilemma was drawing nigh and that  eventually he would have to make the hardest of choices - family or honour, love or loneliness – with a heavy heart his decision fell and he disowned his own flesh and blood, casting her out into the streets. With no means of support, she was forced to beg on the streets for alms, and sought refuge in a ramshackled old barn on the outskirts of the village. Ezekiel incensed beyond reason screamed out at the abbey's gate exposing the monk's behaviour and the illegitimate child to all inside, denouncing him and demanding retribution. The church could ill afford to defend the strayed member of their order, fearing reprisals for any incidents of sin or stigma during these perilous times, so sided with the locals to assuage their already troubling overtures. The Abbott bathed Ezekiel in platitudes and assurances that Brother Nathaniel would face expulsion, excommunication and be held accountable for his actions by a higher power.        
      The night of the birth fell on a stormy desolate evening, the couple held each other tightly in their arms, hearts full of love but weak of  pocket, they could not afford the services of a physician or the much needed medicines. Complications arose and a slow arduous labour followed dragging on into the early hours of the morning, but come first light both mother and newborn child had sadly perished.
      The great loss of love and faith finally took it's toll on Nathaniel's fragile state of mind sending him into a deep spell of despondency, from which a darker spirit re-emerged, twisted and damned beyond recognition. His soul was forged from denial and rejection, vilifying all that he had once believed in, some say he'd made a blood oath with Beelzebub himself to preach the innate virtues of evil and the dark arcane practices that existed unseen by the ignorant or the self-righteous. He spread the word wherever to whoever would listen, but they were few and far between and in the end the villagers became fearful of him and everything he stood for. The Abbott rallied a small group of citizens together and confronted the fallen monk in an attempt to dissuade him from this twisted path, but to no avail, he did not falter from his course nor take heed of their plea to recant his ways. Instead the encounter seemed only to exasperate Nathaniel's fevered conditioned pushing him deeper into his malaise, he turned away from them and surrendered himself to powerful demonic thoughts.
        That night, grim clouds massed releasing a torrent of rain upon the earth, while thunder and lightening danced across the sky as if heaven itself was voicing it's disapproval of his conduct. The monk had scaled the abbey's high walls and paraded across it's walkway shouting, screaming out words of blasphemy and heresy against the world and it's elements, he was nothing more now than just an instrument of hate and anger. The hard rain lashed at his face, the thunder threatened to drown out his words and the lighting struck down faster and furiouser. From the abbey's high bell tower came it's haunting toll punctuating the howling storm along with Brother Nathaniel's delirious rantings. Twelve times it rang out, twelve long chimes, midnight had fallen. At the zenith of the monk's frenzied calling for followers and the damning of all things that represent love and hope, a spear of lightening struck at the wall beneath him. Crumbling, disintegrating the wall collapsed and his body dropped like a child's toy crashing to the ground buried under the ensuing cascading stones of the old wall. The storm slowly subsided, the clouds eventually cleared, the full moon glowed, all was silent, all was peace once more.
      And so there he lays to this day, so folklore says, a forgotten spirit in an unmarked grave in unhallowed ground. It's said that under the light of a full moon, on the final srtike of the witching hour the monk rises again scouring the abbey's grounds still searching for followers or for those who no longer knew how to live, souls he could claim for his masters bidding.'
        The story told, George slowly lowered the book sporting a slightly paler complexion from when he began, there followed a brief moment of silent reflection between the unlikely trio. John had listened to the tale, but his thoughts were more haunted that this, for the time being, was to be Mistry's police force -the young, the old and the … lost.

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