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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