Elfrid's Hole | Book by John Broughton

Nov 4

Nov 4 Elfrid's Hole (Jake Conley Book 1)

Book summary

After a coma leaves Jake Conley with synaesthesia and heightened psychic abilities, his research on an ancient Northumbrian king leads him to Elfrid's Hole. But when paranormal events turn deadly, Jake becomes a prime suspect. Now, he must clear his name and bring peace to a tormented spirit from centuries past.

Excerpt from Elfrid's Hole

Fulford Road Police Station, York

D.I. Shaw tried to keep any trace of satisfaction out of his voice as he recited the obligatory words:

“You are under arrest on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Jake offered no resistance as a burly constable pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists. The situation struck him as unbelievable. How was he ever going to convince the obtuse detective of his innocence? Not that he blamed the policeman too much; after all, not many police officers anywhere in the world could claim to have encountered inexplicable supernatural forces as criminals. He needed a good lawyer, one who believed him.

In the interview room of the police station, Shaw and another officer Jake hadn’t seen before sat opposite. As expected, Mark Shaw was hostile towards him, but the other officer came over as more relaxed and understanding. The usual interrogation procedure began with the detective announcing date and time to a recording device. Then came the bombshell.

“Do you know…” Shaw consulted his notebook for a name. “…Abigail Wells, Mr Conley?”

“Abi? Of course, she is –er – was Livie’s best friend.”

“So, you’d agree that they shared confidences, secrets, intimacies?”

“I suppose they did. They got on very well.”

Shaw stroked his chin and stared hard at the suspect – his usual ploy.

“How would you react if I told you that the evening before the murder, Miss Greenwood confided in her friend that she was going to surprise you in your flat with the intention of starting over again with you?”

Jake swallowed hard. He hadn’t expected this, and in reality, he’d have been delighted to start over with Livie.

The detective looked triumphant.

“But it wasn’t a surprise, was it, Mr Conley? More of a nasty shock.”

“I don’t know what you mean, detective. The only nasty shock I received was when I came home and found Livie dead.”

“You see, I believe you returned home, had a row with your fiancée, and attacked her with a sharp weapon. The pathologist reports seven deep wounds to the head and body.”

Jake paled and turned to his lawyer, a young woman the police had provided for him.

“You’re not obliged to say anything at this stage,” she whispered. Then in a louder voice said, “My client has no comment.”

“Actually, I have a question,” Jake said. “I loved my girlfriend. Why would I kill her? And can you show me the murder weapon?”

The inspector glared at him.

“All in good time, sir. Perhaps you’d care to comment on Miss Wells’s allegation that her friend confessed she was scared of your reaction to finding her in your flat by surprise.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about! Abi hates me, always has, ever since I shunned her at a sixth-form dance. She’ll take any opportunity to cast me in a bad light. Livie might have been a little frightened of my verbal reaction because, as I freely admit, I’d been verbally aggressive towards her after my accident. It was the reason we split up. But I never laid a finger on her, ever.” His voice rose in indignation, sounding shrill to his own ears. “Surely you can find character references for me out there? I’m a pacifist, you know.”

The fair-haired lawyer looked over her blue plastic-framed glasses.

“It seems a very thin case you’re presenting, Inspector. Unless you have something more than the word of one witness against that of my client, I’ll be applying for bail at once.

Shaw pursed his lips, stared at the table, cleared his throat, and said, “I think we’re done here today. The interview concludes at eleven twenty-seven.”

He switched off the recorder and glared at Jake.

“You’re not going to get away with this nonsense, you know.”

He gathered up his folder and notebook, marched to and knocked on the door, which a policeman opened from the outside. Jake’s lawyer addressed the remaining policeman, “I’d like five minutes alone with my client, please.”

The constable nodded and pointed to a glass panel, rather like a window, but opaque.

“One-way glass,” he told Jake. “We’ll be watching your every move.”

With that, he knocked, too, and was let out of the room.

The lawyer, she couldn't have turned thirty, smiled at Jake. He noted the brace on her teeth and thought it a shame how it detracted from her decided prettiness. But her professional skills were what really interested him. He hoped she would be as clever as she was attractive.

She spoke in a low voice.

“I’ll soon have you out on bail, Mr Conley. From what we’ve heard so far, they haven’t got much of a case against you. I presume you have no criminal record?”

“None at all.”

“Good, that means I can press for a relatively low sum of money to be deposited. You understand, the judge sets it to ensure your appearance in court as and when required. No, the only problem is this.” She puffed out her cheeks. “With the serious nature of the accusation, the police can hold you up to ninety-six hours, but I’ll fight for thirty-six – maximum. One last thing – there isn’t anything you aren’t telling me, is there? You know, a lawyer can work better with all the facts. I’m not obliged to betray confidences.”

Jake looked at her askance.

“Nothing. I’ve nothing to hide. The best thing, Miss – er–”

“Mack. Kate Mack.

“The best thing, Miss Mack, is for you to speak with Father Anthony at St Wilfrid’s. Then you’ll have a real grasp of everything.”

“Why, are you Catholic, Mr Conley?”

“I’m not, actually, but I’d urge you to do it.”

She gave him a strange look and held out a hand, which he shook.

“Very well,” she said with a smile, “I will. By the way, I believe you’re innocent.”

These last words helped him ward off depression when he was confined in a cell alone. The police had removed his belt and shoelaces. Did they really suppose he was going to kill himself? They could think what they liked – they had as low an opinion of him as he had of them, apparently.

With nothing to do but think, to pass the time, Jake reflected on his plight. There could be no other arrest, nobody to remove suspicion from him and lead to his exoneration, because there was nobody. Unless the ghost confronted D.I. Shaw in a murderous attack on his person, the detective wouldn’t believe a word of his story. Shaw was as adamant of his guilt as Jake was certain of his innocence. Something needed to shake the policeman’s certainties.

That something might have come the next morning in the local newspaper, THE PRESS, given to him by Kate, who had come to tell him that bail had been granted and that he would be released no later than, she glanced at her watch, calculated, and said, “about seventy-two hours, at worst. Now you should read the article on page five. We’ll speak later, Jake.”

He noticed with pleasure her use of his first name and wondered whether…in a different context…but these were idle thoughts. He turned to page five of the tabloid, and his mouth fell open. The headline was PSYCHIC ENCOUNTERS GHOST IN CITY CENTRE. Jake sat down on the cold, hard bench and read.

Well-known York psychic, Muriel Dow, working name Mystic Mu, claims to have seen the ghost of an ancient warrior close to the Minster. “It was horrible,” said the clairvoyant, “standing there with an axe dangling by its side and an expression of hatred on its face. I’m surprised it was out in the daytime. These troubled spirits usually come out at night.” When asked about the appearance of the ghost, Mystic Mu described a warrior in a mail shirt and pointed to a similarity to the those seen in Anglo-Saxon re-enactments. “I believe I saw the ghost of a long-dead Anglo-Saxon warrior. The worst thing about the encounter was the aura of evil surrounding the ghost. I could detect a definite wickedness about him, and his axe head…well, it was caked with dried blood.” Quite what a ghost might be doing outside the gates of St Wilfrid’s Rectory the mystic lady could not explain. Jake clicked his tongue. He thought he could explain it. He read, St Wilfrid’s is not an ancient church but was built in the nineteenth century. Was the ghost familiar with the wooden church erected on the site of the nearby Minster in 627 for the baptism of Edwin, King of Northumbria? “York is a very historic city,” Mu told our correspondent, “it should be no surprise that troubled spirits, mostly invisible to us, frequent the places once known to them. The more troubled the ghost, the more likely it is to manifest its presence. I suppose I was lucky to catch sight of him.”

“And to live to tell the tale,” Jake muttered.

At this thought, Jake shuddered. Was the ghost stalking Father Anthony? He fervently hoped the gentle priest wasn’t in danger. If only he’d come and visit me, I could warn him.

When the cell door finally opened, it was to admit the unsmiling detective inspector.

“Your lawyer’s got you out on bail, Conley. You can collect and sign for your belongings at the desk in the entrance hall. You haven’t got away with your crime, you know. I’m building the case against you.”

Jake thrust the newspaper at the policeman.

“You should read this.”

Did he detect a fleeting look of uncertainty in the hard eyes?

“I’ve read it. Tripe! Journalist a friend of yours, is she?”

There was no point in arguing. Jake knew that for the detective, he’d murdered his fiancée, and a lightweight newspaper article wouldn’t make him change his stubborn mind.

As a priority, on his release, Jake went to speak with Father Anthony. Part of his motivation was to warn the priest against the lurking danger of the ghost; the other, more urgent part was a desire to learn how to open the eyes of the world to the truth, since he felt the clergyman would know.

Father Anthony was generous with his time and showed his visitor into his study. It contained a desk covered in books, papers trapped under paperweights with religious motifs, and an overwhelming bookcase crammed with aged volumes. The effect of the room on Jake was very sombre, as the Victorians, no doubt, had intended.

“I was dismayed when the police took you into custody.” Father Anthony’s expression certainly indicated dismay.

“The fact is, Father – and it’s the main reason I’ve come to see you for advice – that I can’t breach the Inspector’s refusal to consider the existence of the ghost. How can I prove my innocence unless he accepts its existence?”

“Son, this is a battle the Church has been fighting for centuries. It’s clearly stated in John 5:19.

We know that we are of God, and that the whole world lies in the power of the evil one. In Revelations, we read the heart of the problem, Jake.” He paused to ensure that his words were being received in the correct spirit. Heartened by the look of concentration and no signs of argument or scepticism, he continued to quote:

“And the great dragon was thrown down, the serpent of old who is called the devil and Satan, who deceives the whole world.” The priest clasped his hands together and shook them gently backwards and forwards in a reassuring gesture of authority. “Do you see, Jake? It’s in those last words. We’re bound to come up against a wall of incredulity, of disbelief, when we try to refer to unseen entities. But listen, Saint Paul wrote to the Corinthians, And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing, in whose case the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelieving so that they might not see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ.”

The furrowed brow of Father Anthony unwrinkled, and with a serene expression, he regarded the younger man with an encouraging smile. “The fact is, my friend, there is only one way forward for you. Again, in the words of Saint Paul, The very first step in arming yourself for battle against the devil is to gird your loins with truth. And when we engage the battle with God’s weapons of warfare that are not of the flesh, but divinely powerful for the destruction of fortresses, we attack those lies and lay waste to them, destroying speculations and every lofty thing raised up against the knowledge of God…”

“That’s all well and good, Father, but I’ve been telling the truth, and it’s getting me nowhere. People don’t want to believe in demons and ghosts in the twenty-first century! How am I going to persuade a judge and jury that not only do they exist but that they are here among us, ready to commit terrible crimes?”

“What can I say, Jake? I’m a priest, and I believe you, but I’m only one poor cleric, so unless we draw upon greater forces, what hope is there? We must have faith. Listen, my last quote for today! It comes from an eighteenth-century Catholic priest: Every attempt to disguise or soften any branch of this truth in order to accommodate it to the prevailing taste around us either to avoid the displeasure or court the favour of our fellow mortals must be an affront to the majesty of God and an act of treachery to men.”

Jake considered this for a moment. He looked into the hooded eyes of the priest and found them tired, gentle and concerned.

“So, what you are saying is that I must stick to the truth and somehow lay it bare for everyone to see and understand.”

“It will require courage and persistence, son. But above all, you will have to ask God to help you. You are confronting dark and terrible forces.”

“That’s why you should be careful, too, Father. Did you see in today’s paper…?”

He recounted the page five article as briefly as possible.

“I have no doubt this woman, Mystic…whatever she chooses to call herself, has the sensitivity to perceive spirits, and it can be no coincidence she described your ghost and located it at my door. We must proceed with caution.”

The priest reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a pendant crucifix.

“Take this, Jake, wear it at all times around your neck, and believe in the power of the Lord. Now, you must begin your mission to expose the ghost or the malign demon it is!”

Father Anthony stood up and walked to the door.

“You know where to find me if you need help,” he said as he opened it and waved Jake out.

“One last thing, Father. Should we need an exorcist, do you have a contact?”

“I don’t. But I’ll see what I can find. Keep me informed, and above all, pray and tread carefully!”

Walking down the neat path of the Rectory garden with renewed resolve, Jake slipped the leather thong of the crucifix over his head and dropped the cross under his T-shirt. The feel of it against his breast was comforting, but as a reflex, he pressed it to his chest under his sweatshirt as he walked through the rectory gate out to the street. He did it for defence against the lurking ghost whose unseen presence he sensed.

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