In flagrante morte

A Ghost Story with deep apologies to Dr James

The Reverend Dr Osmund Trimble removed his scarlet and black gown, assiduously inserted the coat hanger and hooked his academic regalia onto the door, taking care not to scratch the wooden panelling. His tippet and square followed immediately, hanging on the door looking altogether like the figure of a downcast don. Trimble then turned his attention to the papers on his desk, gathering them carefully so that his treatise Against Vain Repetitions should be preserved carefully during his absence from the college. Shortly, his scout appeared to inform him that his cab was ready, goodbyes were exchanged, and the Don found himself on his way to his brother’s parish in Caxton-Burleigh.

“Why, Brother, college life has rendered you as pale as a paschal candle! What would Mother say?” opined the Reverend Mr Eadwig Trimble. It was true, Dr Trimble’s complexion had been rendered pasty, one would surmise, by the long evening hours poring over Aquinas, Ockham and Taylor whilst Mr Trimble was as fat and ruddy as an embarrassed hog and of a more gregarious character than his academic older brother. The family resemblance was unmistakable but the difference in living was very easily discerned upon both the faces and characters of the two clergymen. The one, prim, stiff and proper slightly hunched from studious scrutiny, the other scuffed, rumpled and rotund from exercising his cure of country souls in the hospitality of their country kitchens.

“Mother would have tutted loudly and forced another rasher of bacon onto my plate,” mused the Don, “and it would not have made the slightest difference to my complexion, but rather to the distress of my digestion.” The brothers gazed out at the rain-soaked park in front of the Rectory shrouded in the mist oozing lazily over the ground from the not-too-distant marshland. Moorland and marshes formed the parish boundary and made for a muddy experience for the churchgoers at Rogationtide as the Rector had quicky discovered. The Don breathed deeply, “You are, at least, blessed with cleaner air here. The college always smells of candles, cigars and Town. Though, do I detect some trace of sulphur?” “Ah! Marsh gas!” the Rector took a little pleasure in claiming rare knowledge not hitherto possessed by his brother upon his first visit to the Rectory, “you’ll get used to that. Look out of the window on some nights and you’ll see the ignis fatuus playing about on the marsh. ‘Pixy lights’ the locals call it and try to scare the youngsters away from it with tales of being carried away by the little folk.”

“Really? I believe the Scots call it ‘Will o’ the Wisp: ‘will,’ in this case meaning wily or deceitful. Of course, many simple folk are deceived as it’s merely a luminescence arising from the prevalence of the sulphide of hydrogen and methyl hydride.” The Don, as usual, did not notice the Rector’s eyes roll nor a sharp sniff escape his nostrils as he restrained once more thoughts he had been able to set aside during their years of distance. It was never clear to the Rector whether the Don did this deliberately to show his intellectual superior or whether he simply could not contain his thoughts from his time spent imparting knowledge onto both the willing and unwilling student. Either way, memories best left forgotten were crowding his head and he paused momentarily to recollect himself.

“Ah! You try telling that to my flock!” the Rector half-laughed, “they are still very much into their old ways: not so much in their practice now, but in their memories of those who did focus on the old laws of nature. For them, the reality of the dark spirits of wood, fen, marsh and glen is merely a synecdoche for the dark forces that surround Man and cause him to fall again and again.” “Oh?” the Don raised a quizzical eyebrow, “do you really indulge such fancy among your parishioners? You always were prone to fancies, even at Mother’s knee.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to be accommodating for the sake of pastoral care,” rejoined the Rector sharply, trying in vain to puncture an ego that had participated only in the nominal care of a collegiate church together with other Fellows of the college. “There’s a lot of common ground that one can make with the laity, in my opinion. I have often been able to engage people who are afraid of the spectral that they might find much protection in the Church. For example, not too far from here, they say the road is haunted. Coaches and carts have been forced off the road by a pair of enormous hairy hands that appear from nowhere and grab those of the driver and force them from the road. People are scared, but I remind them that just as our bodies can be controlled by diabolical forces, so we are still free to call out for aid to Our Blessed Lord and His Saints for protection.”

“Likewise, there is another story of the Great Black Dog – a harbinger of doom which bears but one cyclopean eye of burning yellow and prowls silently to devour the unsuspecting travellers who stray onto the moors by night. I remind them of the Compline reading to be sober and vigilant because their enemy, the Devil, walketh about seeking whom he may devour. They take great comfort when some grain of God’s truth may be found in their beliefs.”

“Well really!” scoffed the Don who could barely conceal his mirth beneath his hand rubbing his chin. “I really can't believe that you would encourage such ridiculous fancies. You are using their fear to draw them into the church, rather than dispelling it. These folk need to be told that they can be liberated from fear when they see things as they really are. Those hairy hands you mentioned probably nothing more than an hallucination arising from the panic that a somnolent driver feels when navigating a particularly uneven and treacherous stretch of road across the bleak and barren terrain. The black dog is nothing more than an appeal to Norse mythology conjured up by a memory of some deformed hound who once lived on the moors within living memory and glimpsed at twilight. Those ‘Pixy lights’ are also a case in point: there is a perfectly rational explanation for them without invoking little people of dubious existence.”

The Rector became somewhat ruddier as his face flushed with less-disguised anger. His manner became more constrained visibly as he wrestled once more with the resentment held lifelong at his brother's high-handedness. Memories of their mother laughing with his brother at the latter's ridiculing of his own childhood stories seethed up in his mind like the marsh gas in the darkness at his parish boundary. He knew, however, that it was best to let the Don have his way: he would be gone soon. As the light dimmed, the two clergymen returned to the Rectory to satisfy their appetites with a not insubstantial dinner prepared by Mrs Hobany, the Rector's housekeeper.

The brothers retired to sherry before the fire after dinner. “Will that be all, Mr Trimble?” asked Mrs Hobany keeping one hopeful eye on her coat hanging up by the front door. “Mrs Hobany, thank you. Dinner was excellent, as usual,” beamed the Rector. The Don’s face was less than complimentary but he held his tongue even though his disapproval was more than apparent to the Rector and, thankfully, less so to the housekeeper: the donnish plate had been rearranged rather than emptied. “But before you go, Mrs Hobany, I’m afraid we’re getting rather low on candles. I don’t know whether you know of any to hand.”

Mrs Hobany smiled craftily, “’to hand,’ you say, Mr Trimble? I hope you don’t think I am accustomed to walking around by the gibbet! I will have a look, sir, but I am afraid we might be getting somewhat low. Last month’s Benediction and Exposition certainly laid our candle stores rather low. In fact, you might actually do better by visiting the gibbet!” Here she laughed heartily, and the Rector laughed also but with markedly less enthusiasm, casting an eye at his brother. The Don’s eyebrows raised again. Mrs Hobany cloaked and departed into the night allowing a brief gust of winter wind to dance around the room before the door was shut for the duration.

“To hand? Gibbet?” the academic sneer was quite unmistakable, “what is this? Another superstition?”

The Rector sighed, knowing that he must give his brother an account and regretting every moment his attempt at familial reconciliation. “It is said that, in their housebreaking, smugglers, robbers and other ne’er-do-wells would remove the left hand of a hanged felon from the gibbet and fashion from it a candle known as the Hand of Glory. Once lit, it would render the occupants of the house catatonic while their house was plundered. It is said that the spell was only broken by extinguishing the flame with milk. This area was known for it – you will have noticed Gibbet Hill on your way here.”

The Don laughed; it was a mirthless laugh full to the brim with contempt but, finally perceiving the flush of impending ire upon his brother’s face, he rose from his chair to bid him goodnight. “I shall be awake for a while in order to complete my sermon for the Lord’s Supper tomorrow. Good night.”

“It’s called the Mass!” hissed the Rector to the newly-closed door.

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“Good grief, what’s that you’re wearing?” asked the Don as he placed his large scarlet and black hood over his surplice. “My chasuble!” The Rector was peeved by the constant sniping at his High Church practices. He has invited his brother to stay and to preach at Mass as a sign of good faith, a gesture of reconciliation, an attempt to forgive and let bygones be bygones. “Good Lord, is that the ‘vestment’ you think King Edward meant when…Ouch!”

The Don’s foot had connected with a heavy wooden box that protruded from behind the wardrobe. It was quite solid, about the size of a smallish tea chest. “Oh, I am sorry!” exclaimed the Rector who was not that sorry at all. “While taking out some of the box pews, one of the workmen found that wedged in a recess in the masonry.” “What’s in it?” enquired the curiosity of an established academic. “I’m not sure,” the Rector rubbed his forehead, trying to remember what the workmen had said. “something about it smelling a bit queer – ‘greasy’ was the word he used.”   

Before the Rector could protest about any filthy substances arising from the box staining his chasuble, the Don had flung open the lid to reveal a rough fabric that did indeed smell very greasy. Pushing the fabric aside with the end of a verge, the Don exclaimed, “well, that’s your lighting problem sorted out. Here are candles – lots of them!”

And so there were. “My! They’re not the best quality candles, are they?” The Don had ventured to pick one up. “They are very greasy and – see! – the wick looks as if it is made of twine or old rope - all a-mould, too! Cheap, badly prepared and treated – no doubt about that – and stuck in the wall for who knows how long.” Here, the assiduous Don went to the piscina and washed his hands thoroughly. Unnerved and a little irritated at the potential threat of mould impinging on his chasuble, the Rector rang the bell and announced the first hymn.

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The Mass was not well-received. Many of the parishioners left quickly with muted goodbyes to the Rector and avoiding the gaze of his brother. The folk who had grown up in the country customs and practices were affronted that their supernatural beliefs had been so unequivocally described as primitive fearmongering, and that three-quarters of an hour had been spent proving that thesis with quotes from Cranmer, Bullinger and the Books of Homilies. With their ways thoroughly mocked, the Rector was painfully aware of the growing undercurrent of opinion that some might prefer to return to the old religion rather than be belittled by the new. Twenty-nine years of hard pastoral work, building the parish and finding points of contact between the underlying superstition and the Doctrine of Christ were in serious jeopardy. The Don was a clever man and his critique thorough.

The clergymen unvested in silence. The box lay by the wardrobe, its lid greasily ajar.

The rest of Sunday was spent with a minimum of conversation. The Don buried his head in The Sentences while the Rector stood at the window gazing towards the marsh deep in thought. Evensong was much less attended than usual; even the choir were depleted and their music half-hearted and sullen. The sun was setting as the Office began and, by the pronouncing of the Grace, the star-punctuated gloom of a clear winter night was firmly established. The brothers left the church and, towards the marsh, they could see the little flames of blue bobbing among the vegetation. To the Rectory and Mrs Hobany’s roast lamb they repaired through the damp air.

The Don had definitely preferred the lamb dinner to the pork of the previous evening and his demeanour had certainly relaxed and become less baleful following a job that he had considered well-done at the Lord’s Supper. The Rector had not eaten as well as usual, nor had he been as willing to talk about anything more substantial that the adiaphora of the renovations of the church. Mrs Hobany, as the previous night, appeared at the door. “Will that be all, Rector? I’ll try and get those candles for you tomorrow.”

The Rector, although subdued in manner, was not subdued in his gratitude, and Mrs Hobany was warmly dismissed. She cloaked and opened the door, letting in another gust of wet wind which stole past her like a thief and whispered into the drawing room. As the door shut with its customary report a little more pronounced than usual, the draught suddenly gusted, the lights flickered and went out leaving the clergymen in sudden utter darkness. “Well, this is a fine pickle!” The Don stood and felt around for his matches, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low light. “Ach! Candles!” exclaimed the Rector, “there must be surely some around here if only one.” “Well, we know where there are candles,” smiled the Don. “Good thinking!” replied the Rector not without an edge of bitterness, “you pop out to the church. I’ll check for any stubs lurking about the house in case Mrs Hobany has squirreled some away.”

The Don felt a little uneasy about having to cross to the church alone, but the door was kept unlocked and the candles easily located within the vestry. He left the Rector who seemed uneasy and mumbling curiously to himself something about not living off the fat of the land. The Don assumed that the Rector was engaged in some personal soliloquy about his brother’s life in college away from the countryside that they both used to inhabit before their education and vocations separated them. The Don mused about how irritable his brother had become, even more so than when they parted company years back after Mother had died. The church door stood before him now, dark though caressed by the gently night wind. Across the boundary, the blue lights bobbed and weaved. There was some little movement across the marches: a night bird perhaps. Into the church stepped Dr Trimble: into the church and into a darkness that still rang with the bells and smells of Mass and Office. It wasn’t long before the vestry was reached, the box opened, a few candles procured and one lit.

The Don hated the feel of the candles. They were definitely old and even yielded a little when firmly pressed. The lit candle smelled dreadful and the strange rope-like wick sputtered and smouldered. Nonetheless, it produced a good strong light. The other candles were wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked firmly under the arm before the church was quitted and the night entered once more. The Rectory was before him bathed in the cold moonlight. In the upstairs window, the Rector had evidently found a candle stub, for there was a light burning and, yes, that must be the Rector standing by it.

Crossing to the Rectory over the green, a movement startled the Don. Something large seemed to emerge lithely before him in the darkness. A gust extinguished the candle immediately and, with his eyes unaccustomed to the sudden darkness, all the Don thought he could perceive was some form of animal stood between him and the Rectory. Some form of animal, breathing heavily in long loud pants? Some form of animal with a solitary blazing eye and a deep growl?

Fear shot through him like a spark in stubble and, for the first time in years, the Don broke into something which some might call a run. He ran away from the eye and the black shape that bore it. His aim was to get around the shape to the back of the Rectory, but somehow he felt compelled by a sudden pressure on his shoulder to veer off towards the little blue lights on the marsh. He could not be sure that it wasn’t a hand guiding him inexorably into the marsh. He strained to see behind him, looking for the blazing eye or to discern the fingers that were pushing, ensuring that his flight was away from the Rectory.

Into the vegetation and mud he blundered. His pace was slowed as the marsh almost rose up to meet his feet and pull him down. Slipping and stumbling, the Don struggled to recover control of his passage until after some time – what luck! – he came upon a flat rock onto which he clambered, gasping for air and drawing in the sulphurous gas as he tried to catch his breath. He had dropped the candles from under his arm early in his flight, but he had held fast to the one that he had lit. He had held it tightly and his fingers had sunk deeply into the wax. Hearing noises around him, the Don reached into his pocket, thankfully finding his matches and lit the candle.

The illumination was welcome, and, for a moment, the Don relaxed as he could see nothing in the marsh around him. The blue lights were moving away into the depths of the marsh, and the shape of the Rectory was plain even down to the light in the upstairs window. There was no sign of the animal that had affrighted him and the Don began to assume that he had been spooked by the darkness and the playing of the light of the candle on the unfamiliar environment. It was then that he turned suddenly to witness a large hairy hand shove him off of the rock.

The Don fell into a particularly sticky bit of mud, his left foot sinking deeply. The hand seemed to have vanished as suddenly and silently as it had come. The candle had fallen into the marsh, too, but was upright and, miraculously still burning. The Don struggled upright and pulled at his left foot furiously, trying to extricate himself from the mud. The light of the candle flickered and the Don turned to see.

The candle was indeed upright and burning, but from beneath the flame the wax seemed to be rising up, growing in size and substance. Ever greasily, the wax formed fingers, a hand, an arm. The Don’s eyes widened, pulse quickened, marsh air was taken in in gulps as before him a vague human form crawled out of the greasy wax towards him, slipping and sliding purposefully across the mud and marsh. The Don pulled more and more at his leg, tearing his trousers and his skin as the form approached. He gave a shrill scream as the slimy, waxy hand grasped the tail of his jacket and the face of the thing made itself apparent. All the Don saw were two waxy, hollow eyeholes blazing malevolently from within with candlelight, and then the thing bore him to the marshy ground with scream upon scream upon scream.

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The inspector had a mug of hot tea pushed into his hand by his sergeant. It was very welcome and dispelled some of the chill of the winter morning. “Well?” asked the inspector, “has the doc said anything?” “Yessir,” said the sergeant, “severe burns and scalding. It must have been a freak explosion of marsh gas. The silly old fool must have lit that candle, judging by that bit of stub and – poof! – up he goes! I’ve not seen anything quite as bad as that before, though!” “Is the doc sure it isn’t foul play,” asked the inspector gazing somewhat queasily at his feet at the red and blackened hand belonging to the late Don. “Well, not yet, sir,” the sergeant turned aside from Dr Trimble, “he’s still dealing with the other body.” “Other body?” “Yessir, in the house. The housekeeper found him this morning – the Rector, at least we think it’s him.” The inspector rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Go on.” The sergeant checked his note. “Apparently, they found him hanging in one of the upstairs rooms but…” “But?” “Well, here’s the odd thing, sir. The Rector was considered to be a fat man, but what was hanging from the ceiling was little more than loose skin hanging on bones.” 

“Thank you, sergeant,” sighed the inspector, “you’ve put me right off my bacon sandwich.”