Cherringham--The Curse of Mabb's Farm Page 2

  Her mother emerged from the ground zero of her kitchen with, not the usual roast beef girded with potatoes and Yorkshire puddings, but something else entirely.

  “Mum,” Sarah said, “what is that?”

  It looked like a design for a modernist football stadium, except instead of being covered with shiny, silver sheets of metal, it was covered in crackling.

  “Crown Roast of Pork,” she said proudly, putting it down, a spaceship landing.

  “Really?” Sarah gave her kids a smile as they studied the dubious-looking item.

  “Yes! Saw Ramsay do it on the telly, tracked down the recipe, had the butcher cut it properly, then bound it into a circle—”

  Her mother would have then continued with every detail of the pork chops’ epic journey if she had not been gently stopped.

  Which luckily Michael did, raising his glass of wine to the gathered crowd.

  “To friends, to family,” he said.

  “Hear, hear,” Tony said.

  And everyone clinked, even the kids with their minute amounts, a family tradition that Sarah remembered from when she was a young girl.

  And yes — the red wine would indeed be delicious, thought Sarah as she raised her glass of sparkling water and prepared to suffer for the next two hours.

  “So anyway,” said Daniel, “when the Romans had chopped all the Druids’ heads off, they stuck them on pikes in a big circle on top of the hill to scare off the Ancient Britons. But the Druid leader laid a curse on the Romans, and he turned all the heads to stone and the Romans were scared and that’s why they made their town here in Cherringham and not on Mabb’s Hill.”

  “Bravo, Daniel!” said Michael, slapping his grandson on the back. “A fascinating story and beautifully told too. Don’t you think, Vicar?”

  “Very entertaining.”

  Sarah assumed that the Vicar was unused to eleven-year-old boys chatting about executions and curses. In fact, she’d noticed that throughout the conversation about the strange goings-on up at Mabb’s Farm, he and his wife Emily had said nothing.

  Sarah’s mum had started it — number one topic on her usual “hottest Cherringham gossip” list.

  And to Sarah’s surprise — since she had been out of the loop working all week — it seemed that not just the village but every member of her own family had an opinion on “the Curse of Mabb’s Farm”.

  And while everyone had an opinion, there was no argument about the facts. Within the last month alone there’d been two unexplained fires up at Charlie Fox’s farm. His cattle had somehow escaped through a supposedly stock-proof fence and trampled a field of wheat. His slurry tank had sprung a leak and polluted a stream that ran down into the river. And Charlie himself had been involved in a punch-up with another farmer at the Ploughman’s over an unpaid debt.

  All these incidents, combined with a rumour that he’d sacked his only farm-hand, had led the village to the inescapable conclusion that the ancient Curse was doing its evil worst again.

  “Anyway — who’s to say Daniel’s story isn’t true?” said Michael, opening another bottle of wine. “The old Roman road runs along the crest of the hills there. And there’s plenty of evidence that the Romans faced stiff resistance when they moved into these parts.”

  “You may be right, Michael,” said Tony Standish. “However — excuse me, Vicar — I’m more inclined to believe the witches are behind the Curse.”

  “Witches?” said Chloe. “You mean we had witches here in Cherringham? Brilliant!”

  “I’m not sure witches are ‘brilliant’, Chloe,” said Helen, giving what may have been an embarrassed smile to the Vicar and his wife.

  Oops, thought Sarah. If we offend the Vicar, I’ll be the one getting it in the neck from Mum …

  But like Chloe, she couldn’t wait to hear more.

  “It’s a fascinating story,” said Tony. “In the seventeenth century, Mabb’s Farm was owned and run by three sisters. Run well by all accounts. They took over the farm after the death of their father in the Civil War.”

  “What kind of magic did they do?” asked Daniel.

  Sarah realised that this lunch was far exceeding the expectations of her two children — and she had to admit that even without the red wine, she was enjoying it too.

  “Oh, any magic was of a strictly herbal variety, Daniel,” said Tony. “According to the records they ran a pretty good sideline in health-cures.”

  “You mean eye of newt, and rats’ tails and stuff?” said Daniel.

  “More like valerian and garlic, I expect,” said Tony. “Ancient knowledge — actually pretty effective most of the time, I expect. And usually harmless. However — it appears that one day one of their ‘clients’ died unexpectedly — at which point the village turned on them in a fury and pronounced all three of them to be witches.”

  “How awful,” said Sarah’s mother.

  “Yes, I rather imagine it was,” said Tony. “They were taken away to Oxford, tried, found guilty—”

  “And hanged by the neck until they were dead!” said Daniel gleefully.

  Now Sarah shot her son a look. He could barely suppress his grin.

  “Precisely,” said Tony. “But before they died, they said that the fields of Mabb’s Hill would — exact words here — ‘run with blood and that the fires of Hell would wreak their revenge’. Hence we have the Curse of Mabb’s Farm, which seems to be capturing the imagination of the whole of Cherringham this month.”

  “Awesome,” said Chloe.

  “Gruesome,” said Daniel, grinning.

  There was a pause while Helen dished up seconds and Michael poured more wine and passed down Cokes for Daniel and Chloe.

  “What do you think, Simon? Can a place be cursed?” said Sarah to the Reverend Hewitt, genuinely interested in what he might have to say.

  “We know a place can be blessed,” he responded instantly. “Few of us would therefore doubt that places where real evil has been committed can exude an air of evil themselves.”

  “So you think the Curse could be real?” said Sarah, putting down her knife and fork.

  “Never underestimate the power of Darkness,” he said seriously.

  The table went quiet. Suddenly the light-hearted chatter about Druids and witches had become a discussion about the reality of evil.

  “Ooh! I forgot the crackling! Who wants seconds?” said Sarah’s mother, instinctively filling the silence in the only way she knew how.

  With relief, Sarah saw that everyone suddenly wanted extra crackling in lieu of more banter about the power of Darkness, and in the flurry of plates and demands it seemed that the awkward moment had passed.

  But then the Vicar’s wife surprised her.

  “Simon and I have agreed to differ on this one, Sarah,” said Emily Hewitt, seriously. “You see, he believes that prayer is the answer when evil is afoot. I don’t disagree. But I also believe one can take physical action too. In fact, I believe that one must.”

  “I’m sure,” said Sarah, not at all sure what the Vicar’s wife was getting at.

  Emily held Sarah in a long gaze, and Sarah felt that the she was delivering a message directly to her.

  But what? And why here, at Sunday lunch of all places? After all, she hardly knew the woman.

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  4. A Surprise Invitation

  After lunch the Vicar left early to prepare for an Evensong service. Sarah dispatched Daniel to her father’s study to help him paint a new batch of Napoleonic soldiers, which had just come in the post, and Chloe and Tony went to help Helen with the washing up.

  So Sarah found herself alone with Emily in the sitting room.

  “Shall we take our coffee into the garden?” said Emily. “It looks like the rain’s stopped. Bit of a sailor’s coat …”

  “Good idea,” said Sarah, picking up her cup of coffee.

  She opened the French windows and stepped outside. Although it had rained for much of September, the gar
den still looked pristine. Sarah wondered if she would want to manicure a lawn like her father when she reached his age. It seemed unlikely.

  “I hope you don’t mind me bringing you out here,” said Emily. “It’s not too cold, is it?”

  “Not at all,” said Sarah. “I’m glad to be out of the office. And there’s still warmth in the sun. Just about!”

  She and Emily walked side-by-side down the wide lawn to the little jetty that jutted out into the Thames. Compared with her own tiny semi-detached house in the middle of an estate built in Cherringham in the sixties, Sarah felt her parents lived in luxury. She’d left home before they’d been so comfortably off so she always felt she was visiting a hotel rather than a family home.

  “All this stuff about curses is nonsense, you know,” said Emily suddenly, interrupting Sarah’s domestic thoughts. “Absolute rubbish.”

  “Oh, it’s just a little bit of fun, don’t you think?” said Sarah.

  “Not at all,” said Emily. “It’s dangerous. It allows people to abdicate responsibility. It celebrates victimhood.”

  Sarah had never imagined that the usually demure Vicar’s wife could be so forthright.

  “You sound almost personally involved …?” asked Sarah gently, wondering what Emily was going to say next.

  The other woman stopped in her tracks and spun to face Sarah.

  “Well I am — or at least, I feel I am,” she said. “Very involved. Which is why I need to talk to you.”

  “Me? What can I do?”

  “You’re good at finding stuff out, Sarah,” said Emily. “I’ve heard that. You and your American friend. And I know you believe in doing the right thing.”

  “Well, I hope I do. But what are you talking about here? The Curse? The farm?”

  “I’m talking about Charlie Fox — or rather, his wife, Caitlin.”

  “Go on.”

  “You know they’re the couple who live up at the farm, yes? They have a baby, Sammy. Such a precious little boy,”

  Sarah nodded. She motioned Emily to a little bench that faced the fast-flowing river, and they both sat with their coffees.

  In the distance beyond the far bank, she could see the village of Cherringham.

  “Now Caitlin’s hardly what I’d call a church regular, but well, little Sammy was christened at St James’s last year, and I’ve tried to keep in touch. Anyway, she came to the rectory yesterday in such a terrible state. Sobbing her eyes out. And all because of this ridiculous ‘Curse’.”

  “Had something else happened?”

  “The way she told it, it sounded like some kind of supernatural attack. From where I stand, however, it’s just another event in a run of bad luck, which besets that poor family. Now, most of it is no doubt the result of her husband’s feeble planning, ignorance, laziness, anger, pride. Most — but not all.”

  “So what did Caitlin want?”

  “She wanted Simon to go to the farm and exorcise it. I mean — exorcism — how ridiculous. ‘Like in that film’ she said. ‘Get rid of the evil spirits that are ruining everything’.”

  “And what did Simon say?”

  “Well, he suggested that the two of them talk about what’s been happening at the farm and perhaps pray together. But she didn’t fancy that. Not at all. She wanted something quick and more drastic. She said if Simon wasn’t going to do it, she knew somebody else who would. We tried to reason with her. But she just upped and left.”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “What did she mean — someone else?”

  “To be honest — that’s what really worried me. A lot of people in the village have been getting very worked up about this whole Curse thing. But I do believe there are one or two who do very nicely out of a good supernatural scare.”

  “You mean the New Age lot up at the hippy shop? What’s it called?”

  “Moonstones,” said Emily, almost spitting the name out.

  “I’m sure they’re harmless, Emily.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Emily. “That woman Tamara who swans around in there with her Tarot Cards and her Scrying Stones. You know the one I mean?”

  Sarah felt that now wasn’t the time to admit that when Moonstones opened she’d popped in to try out Tamara’s hot-stone massage. Half the price of the spa out at the Country Club and not actually that bad.

  “Hmm, yes,” she said. “I’ve seen her around the village. Very flamboyant! For Cherringham, at least.”

  “Yes! And I’m convinced she’s the one who’s whipping this whole thing up. At the beginning of the year they were all but going bust. Since this Curse thing took off, that shop bell of hers hasn’t stopped ringing. Not to mention the till!”

  “So Emily … what if it is?” said Sarah. “Surely the whole thing will blow over — it’s just a fad, isn’t it?”

  Emily put down her coffee cup on the bench.

  “Caitlin is a vulnerable young woman, Sarah. Her husband is on the very edge. He’s already had one fight. He and Caitlin can’t be far from having one themselves. They’ve had fires break out, animals escape. A farm is a dangerous place at the best of times — when things are going wrong it can be lethal. That little boy of hers is caught in the middle.”

  “Okay. Do you think that Tamara is using Caitlin for her own ends?”

  “Exactly,” said Emily. “Caitlin is silly and naive — and I think she’s easy prey.”

  “But why are you telling me all this? Why not call the police?”

  “Well obviously that was my first suggestion to Caitlin.”

  “But?”

  “Her husband hates the police. I imagine he’s been on the wrong side of the law numerous times and the last thing he wants is their help.”

  “So what about social services?”

  “Nothing wrong with them. But once they’re involved the whole weight of the state is brought to bear — and the bureaucracy that comes with it. Would you want them looking over your shoulder?”

  “Good point.”

  “You and your American friend, however, are … how can I put it? Independent. Light on your feet. And successful — from what I hear.”

  Sarah laughed at that. “Thanks, I appreciate the compliment — but I don’t really see how we can help.”

  Emily leaned forward and gently gripped Sarah’s arm.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “You could find out what’s happening up at that farm. Who is causing all this trouble? Who is hiding behind the Curse? Who is responsible for this misery? And — Sarah — I think you simply must do it — before somebody gets themselves really hurt, or even killed.”

  Sarah sat back and stared across the river at the hills in the distance. Mabb’s Farm was somewhere up there although she wasn’t sure exactly where. Did she want to get involved in this weirdness? Curses? Evil witches? Farm accidents and fires?

  “Emily, did my parents know you were going to ask me to do this?”

  “Good Lord, no.”

  “And Caitlin?”

  “Of course not. She thinks it’s all the work of the Devil.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Jack first,” she said, though she wondered whether it would be his cup of tea. Then again …

  Emily smiled and stood up.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “Now — it’s time I was off. You’ll probably want to get started. When do you think you’ll solve the case?”

  Another laugh.

  Solve the case indeed.

  What case?

  But Sarah realised that whether she liked it or not, she had just been hired — not that there was ever any money in it — to solve the Curse of Mabb’s Farm.

  5. War Games

  Jack squatted down at the edge of table and peered across the river and into the distance.

  “Recognise the view?” said Sarah.

  “Amazing,” said Jack. “Hardly anything’s changed. Apart from the farm buildings around Ingleston. Otherwise it could almost be Cherringham today.”

 
He stood up and nodded appreciatively. In his youth, he’d dabbled for a while in table-top war-gaming — but nothing on this scale.

  In front of him, transformed into hand-made models, spread the familiar landscape of Cherringham, with its rolling hills, its water meadows, the lazy curves of the Thames and the medieval stone bridge.

  But this wasn’t present-day Cherringham.

  This was Cherringham as it had been in the seventeenth century.

  “Yes,” said the creator of the table who stood next to him. “If you ignore Cromwell’s forces camped in the water-meadows. And the Royalist flags up on the crest of the hills. Not all that different …”

  Jack looked at Sarah — she was clearly just as impressed.

  When she had told him about their ‘commission’ from the Vicar’s wife he’d felt straight away that this might be an opportunity to find out a little more about Cherringham’s history, curses and all.

  And who better to talk to than her father’s friend and local historian Will Goodchild?

  Discovering that he was actually in the middle of running a massive English Civil War battle using an accurate model of the area in the 1640s was a real bonus.

  “My father said you knew more than anybody about the area,” said Sarah.

  “Really? Kind of him,” said Will, taking off his glasses and wiping them on a little cloth he kept in his jacket pocket. “He’s no slouch at the local history either. Still — I’m sure he didn’t send you here to pass on his compliments. What exactly are you after?”

  Jack realised that the historian’s skills didn’t stretch to being sociable. So he decided to just jump right in.

  “You’ve heard all this stuff about Mabb’s Farm going round the village?”

  “Heard it. Hard to avoid it.”

  “And what do you make of it?”

  The historian laughed. “Not much. This country has always been full of superstitions and superstitious people. Nothing new there.”

  “So,” Jack said, “this talk of a Curse?”

  “Throughout time, my American friend, people have liked to blame the bad things that happen to them on something, anything — the fates, the gods, the stars, curses—”