Herald of the Hidden (10 page)

William Sorrell Requests . . .

I think one of the most disturbing matters in which Ralph Tyler and I were involved was that which concerned the hamlet of Hubgrove, not far from our home town. The huddled settlement —no more than twenty buildings and two farms—is bounded on three sides by ancient, damp woodland
now quite forlorn and of no commercial use, so that it is left pretty much to grow wild and untouched. Unyielding fallow fields stretch away beyond; for the area is poor agricultural land too. A single narrow road winds through, with less distinct tracks leading from it to private houses.

There are few amenities in the place; no shop, church, pub, hall or anything of that kind, only a small pillar box emptied twice a week, and a noticeboard, used for local elections and to announce services at the nearest church, St Helen’s in Merrow.

As often happens in outlying rural areas, where gossip is an important form of entertainment, the inhabitants of Merrow were quite inclined to mock at their secluded neighbours in Hubgrove. Proverbs about their moroseness and dullness were regularly invented and exchanged in idle public bar or market day conversation. I remember hearing a few of these myself, on the days when I visited the area, and one which I have no cause to forget was to the effect that the most exciting thing that ever happened in Hubgrove was when someone changed the announcements on their old noticeboard.

As I have said, these places lie quite near at hand, and so our occasional bicycle rides take us in their direction often enough. We were peddling furiously through Merrow on a particular Sunday, aiming to arrive at a cheerful inn we knew in time for a pint or two and a ploughman’s lunch, when our progress was impeded by the slow manoeuvres of a sleek black hearse into St Helen’s churchyard. There were no accompanying cars. Slamming on our brakes, we ground to an undignified halt and waited with as much indifferent respect as we could muster. Personally, I find our ceremonies of death and interment distasteful in the extreme, and I had no wish to linger. But Ralph was observing the procession with idle interest, and, gathered at the dark wooden lichgate, so were a gaggle of villagers.

It was from listening in to their conversation that I heard another snippet of the popular repute of Hubgrove. The deceased was, it seems, a William Sorrell, and although he had lived in that hamlet for a dozen years at least, not one of his neighbours had turned out to the funeral. The good people of Merrow discoursed upon this circumstance with delighted shock; how could those Hubgrove folk be so callous? Were they really that averse to going out from their wretched little place? I followed the pointing fingers of the onlookers and saw that, indeed, only the undertakers’ men, the vicar and an assistant, and one other, were at the graveside. I gathered that the sole mourner was a cousin from Suffolk, the nearest known relation. Looking at Ralph, I saw that he too was listening to the talk, but when I muttered, ‘Come on, let’s push off,’ he nodded assent, we re-mounted and rode off.

In the White Hart, our pleasant destination, we commented at the rather melancholy episode we had just witnessed.

‘You’d think,’ I pointed out, ‘that in a closed-off sort of community like that, a funeral of one of their number might be a major event. They’d all put on their sombre suits and have a jolly good day of it. Instead of which . . . nothing.’

Ralph shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps they thought a funeral was inappropriate.’

‘How do you mean ?’

‘Maybe he was the sort who wouldn’t have wanted that kind of send-off.’

‘Ah, yes, but even so . . .’ I began to object.

‘Or perhaps they just resent having to turn out in Merrow.’

Finishing off my second pint, I suggested, ‘Let’s go back by this fabled place, it’s not much of a diversion.’

I was half-joking, but the brief excursion would at least break up the routine of the usual way back. It was agreed, and in twenty minutes we were weaving along the battered lane that led away to Hubgrove.

In our times, there are the most complex technological devices around us; our society is more organised and arranged than ever before; every part of our land is mapped thoroughly and precisely; yet still places like Hubgrove exist, where it is possible without undue sensitivity to feel a complete and utter stranger, an object of suspicion and unease. The people keep to themselves, they opt for a remote and unvarying existence, and they are at pains to keep it that way.

But Hubgrove was a disappointment, of course, when Ralph and I rather whizzed in on our bikes. No sign of life at all. Around what might be called the green, almost picturesque stone cottages clustered, but their gates, windows and doors were closed, and no-one was about in the well-kept gardens. Rather larger residences stood at a distance from the road, shielded by high hedges and winding drives, and possessed of sprawling lawns, shiny cars and outhouses. Pre-war brick terraced houses filed in a row at right angles to the road.

I gazed defiantly around. ‘Bit dead’ was my somewhat injudicious summary directed at Ralph. He hummed agreement, then pointed to one corner of the place, on a grass verge.

‘There’s the famous noticeboard and post box,’ he proclaimed in mock excitement, recalling the Merrow jibe.

‘This I must see,’ I responded, in similar vein.

White paint was peeling in shreds from the old wooden post, and the four or five pieces of paper were nearly all faded and blurred. There was a notice of a ballot for the district council (last year); a list of services at St Helen’s Church for the next few months; a closely-typed reminder of municipal by-laws; and an advertisement for a folk fayre in another village some miles away, a month ago. But it was the fifth item which caught our attention, and it began it all.

It looked recent: it was smart and of immaculate design. It was a black-bordered card, decorated with a solemn urn. It bore gothic style handwriting in deep ink, and its message read: ‘William Sorrell requests the pleasure of the company of Mr Gerald Davidson.’

It took some seconds to sink in, then I must have frowned pretty seriously and looked at that card again. I swallowed, and turned to Ralph.

‘Isn’t Sorrell that chap they’ve just buried?’

My friend nodded calmly.

‘Yes, rather an unpleasant little trick isn’t it?

Downright sinister I thought it, urging someone to join the company of a dead man. I scanned the houses of the hamlet. There crept across me the feeling that we were being watched, though I could find no rational source for this conviction. The place seemed as lifeless as when we had arrived.

‘Not much to do here,’ I pointed out, perhaps somewhat anxiously. ‘Let’s move on.’

I could see that Ralph was intrigued by the macabre little card on the noticeboard, but frankly I saw no avenue for further enquiry into the matter, and said as much. Somewhat reluctantly, Ralph followed as I began to depart, glancing behind as we left.

I had no doubt that Ralph had become interested in the forsaken huddle that was Hubgrove, and we paid a return call there on the following evening, a Monday. It was little different to our first sojourn. Hardly any activity about the place, but an intensity and nervousness around us that was the more irritating because it was intangible: but there was a new card. It was pretty well identical to the first, but William Sorrell’s invited guest had changed; this time he sought the company of an Arthur Hammond. I felt inclined to knock on the nearest door, and ask if they knew what was going on, and whether some practical joker with a black sense of humour was at work; but it seemed such a foolish thing to do, and the response so unpredictable, that at Ralph’s advice, I desisted.

I was at work all week, but Ralph Tyler’s days were rather more flexible, and he spent some time in further visits to the secluded hamlet. When I called at his rented rooms in the civic edifice called Bellchamber Tower, on the following Wednesday night, he plunged almost at once into a rapid narrative of events there.

‘Somehow,’ he began, ‘the cards get changed. When I went there Tuesday there was yet another one: this time the name was Pamela Darby. So that was my first problem; who does it, and when? Well, it probably happens under cover of darkness, but short of watching for hours on end, in a very conspicuous position and a somewhat ridiculous situation, I couldn’t resolve that immediately.

‘So, the next problem. Why bother at all with the charade unless the locals take some notice? In other words, whoever’s responsible knows that the people in Hubgrove are looking at the cards, and are responding to them. But I’d never seen anyone about, so when?’

I nodded encouragement. The matter might only be a trivial act of spite, but Ralph was tackling it methodically and with an open mind.

‘Well, I went there early this morning, about six o’clock I suppose, and saw that once again the card had been changed. Same as before, black-bordered, elaborate style, William Sorrell requests . . . but a different name. This time, I took the card down, tore it in half, then placed it carefully in my wallet, put that inside my jacket pocket and got back on my bike. Note that I did all this as openly and obviously as I could, almost as if I was in a one-man play. Then I waited. It got the desired effect.’

Ralph paused, selected a cigarette, lit it, waved away the initial smoke, and continued. I was listening rather eagerly now, as he could very well tell.

‘Out they came, quite a crowd of them, and all pretty grim and sullen-looking I can tell you. First, just a few women from the cottages round the green, those who’d been watching I expect, though I could never see them; then some heavy looking farm labourers who’d been fetched I don’t doubt, and before long, others from the “outposts” as it were, as word had spread. Never seen anything like it. I rather wanted to make a bolt for it, supposing that were possible, but . . . curiosity got the better of me, I’m glad to say.

‘ “Give us the card” one of them demanded, abruptly. “Why?” says I. “It doesn’t belong to you,” pipes up another one. “So what?” I return, I’m trying to provoke them of course. There’s silence for a full minute, till I can’t stand it much longer myself, and I burst out; “There’s something pretty bloody sick going on here and I’m making it my business to put a stop to it. At least I was at William Sorrell’s funeral, which is more than anybody here can say.” And I was about to go on in much the same vein, but I was interrupted by a woman, rushing forward from the edge of the group, close to tears; “We need to know whose turn is next: For God’s sake tell us: Tell us!”

‘As she subsided into silence, sobbing, a general hubbub began and I could see that they were uncertain about what to do or say next. I raised my voice, said I was sorry to intrude, but I meant to help, and if they would only let me know what was going on, it might clear up any misunderstanding. A pale, rather dignified woman then announced that she would explain everything, and asked me to join her and some of the others in her house, to which I naturally agreed. An odd scene it must have been, at that time in the morning, as we tramped rather wretchedly up the long gravel drive of one of the big detached houses, called “The Oaks”, and into a comfortable lounge. Some of them waited outside.

‘Introductions were made; she was Mrs Hammond, by the way; and I explained why I had such a persistent interest. That seemed to reassure them a bit; I mentioned the Herefordshire case, which she remembered vaguely on account of the national ’papers.

‘Then they gave me the story. First, why none of them had gone to Sorrell’s funeral. He was detested, and the sentiment was mutual. It began years ago it seems, in a dispute about fencing off some land. Then Sorrell had a go at one of the youngsters in the place who’d dared to trespass in the new ground he’d claimed—knocked the kid about a bit, and got as good in return. So a feud developed. Oh, all sorts of things passed between them: snaring the local’s animals, spraying their vegetable plots with noxious stuff and so on. Of course, he came off worse, being on his own against fairly well everybody else, and so he shut himself off, and as we may imagine, nursed his grievances bitterly and unpleasantly for a long time. So they were glad to see the end of him really, and it was a few days before his demise was discovered, on account of his isolation.

‘Then the invitation cards began. One a night, every night, since the eve of his funeral. They never see who does it. Always the same kind of card. Gerald Davidson, Arthur Hammond, Pamela Darby . . . and the next day, the named person falls into a . . . well, coma is the best word. She showed me her husband. Since he saw his “invitation” he has succumbed to a state of extreme apathy. Won’t eat, talk, just stares straight ahead, a blank look in his eyes. It is all they can do to force water through his lips. The others are the same, apparently. As they pointed out with great significance, they “might as well be dead”. So you see what a pitch it’s got to. They’re all waiting to see who’s, as they put it, “summoned” next.’

‘But hang on a minute,’ I objected. ‘What are they doing about it? Have they called a doctor, or the police, or even the vicar or what?’

‘They have not. Consider their position. They don’t like outsiders interfering, and they keep fairly close. Call a doctor, and the victims are whisked away to a far-off hospital, with doubts about their mental health; call the police, the same happens, but in addition the ’papers get to hear, and all sorts of enquiries begin; and they don’t seem to have much faith in a priest. Apart from which, they all seem to be in an obsession of fear and uncertainty, a less intense form of what has afflicted the three called by the cards.

‘Because there’s more, Some of them believe they’ve seen or heard movements in and around Sorrell’s old house, and you can imagine what construction they put upon that. Others chipped in to say that the kind of malicious attempts he used to make—creeping around in their gardens—have started up again.

‘Nonetheless, I’ve told them that if I could do nothing, then they would have to call in the authorities before long. Things can’t go on as they are. They saw the sense in that, if, somewhat reluctantly.’