Red Horse Vale (Jake Conley Book 2) - John Broughton

Book excerpt

Chapter One

York, 2020 AD

Jack Conley sat in his favourite armchair, or to be more accurate, the only armchair of the four in his lounge he would consider, repeating a mantra to himself – listen to the still inner voice. He was not, by definition, a recluse, but he preferred to be left alone to explore his rich interior life. This was something that had become more frequent since his triumph with the media after the affair of Elfrid’s Hole.

For an entire year after that, he spent his time not in contemplation but busily writing his bestselling novel based on the life of King Aldfrith of Northumbria. Its commercial success had been guaranteed before he’d typed the first word into his computer, thanks to his exploits in the North Yorkshire village of Ebberston, where he’d located that king’s tomb.

Given that his wife, Heather, an archaeologist, lecturer and researcher at the University of Leeds, led such a dynamic and fulfilling life, Jake found that he spent much of his daytime talking to himself in their historic four-bedroom house. He spoke aloud, as now, to obviate the silence that surrounded him, but also to clarify his complicated thoughts.

“Our view of ourselves is self-centred, so we think we deserve more than we are. The alternative view is based on what we believe others think of us and is deflated because we assume others judge us more than they do. We often worry too much about the third person opinion instead of re-calibrating our own view.” He sighed and blew out his cheeks. “Yes, that’s the problem, and I need to do something active. If only I had an idea for another novel to keep me busy. But it doesn’t seem that inspiration is coming from within. What I need is a holiday! Maybe I could visit some interesting country churches. After all, look what happened last time I did that – except that this time I don’t want to be arrested for murder!”

Throughout the day, this decision grew into a firm conviction. Indeed, he went as far as to research interesting churches in the area he’d chosen for a week’s vacation – the Cotswolds. He loved the thatched cottages and the honey-coloured stone of their walls. All that remained was for him to convince Heather that she needed a break too.

That evening, when she breezed through the front door, as excited as usual to be back home with him, she gazed round the lounge. Not a thing was out of place. If she hadn’t known that her husband had spent the day at home, she’d have supposed that he’d been out and about. Knowing how obsessively tidy Jake was, it came as no surprise when he confirmed that he’d spent all day at home. His obsessive compulsion to put everything in its designated place didn’t bother Heather, whose own work, by its nature, required meticulous order.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Not too bad. A little too introverted if anything.”

Heather’s brow creased into a frown. “Why didn’t you get out a bit? It was a lovely sunny day. This mooching about the house isn’t healthy.”

He gazed into her shrewd sage green eyes and remembered the day he’d met this cool, well-posed woman; she hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, marriage had made her more self-confident.

“As ever, you’re right, my love. In fact, today I decided to get away for a week. Can you manage to persuade James to give you a break? Or will your overlord, the tyrannical Professor Whitehead, turn you down flat?”

“After what we’ve done for his career? You’re joking. I’ve got him eating out of both hands.”

“It’s settled then. A soon as you’re freed up, we’ll get away.”

“Anywhere in mind, or can I choose?” she said, half-teasing him.

Jake looked crestfallen. It was true that he tended to decide for her and recognised that it was no basis for a respectful relationship.

“You can choose wherever you like,” he said with a hangdog expression that made her burst out laughing.

“So, what do you have in mind, oh masterful one?”

“Sorry, Heather, I know I should involve you, but I confess to having studied the Cotswolds area. What do you think?”

“I love the Cotswolds, and I’ve only been once, that was with my parents, years ago, when mum was alive.” She hung her head, and her wavy strawberry blonde hair fell to veil her face. She often tied it back in a ponytail but worn loose like today pleased him better.

“Good reason to go back then; it might make you feel closer to her.”

He bit his lip at his unthinking crassness when he saw a tear spill onto one high cheekbone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right. Every now and again… anyway, the Cotswolds would be lovely.”

“Great, I’d thought of using Banbury as a base, but I’d prefer you to choose the accommodation. You’ve better taste than me in that sort of thing.”

She smiled bravely and nodded, wiping her face with a lace hankie. “I’ll call James now.”

The professor was as obliging as she’d supposed he would be, but he managed to irritate her by insisting he wanted to be a godfather as soon as possible.

“There are loads of places with vacancies in and around Banbury,” Jake pointed to his laptop screen.

“Better in the town. More to do in the evenings.” Her bright red lips formed into a perfect smile.

“There’s a lovely tenth-century church at Wootten Wawen. It’s only thirty miles away from Banbury.”

“You don’t fool me, Jake Conley, I’ll bet it’s full of Saxon spirits.”

Jake laughed. “We’ve only been married for just over a year, and you know me inside out, wife.”

“It didn’t take much working out. You’re obsessed with the Anglo-Saxons and the tenth-century.”

“St. Peter’s church, it has a ninth-century tower – if not earlier – and there’s more, but I’ll keep it a secret for the moment.”

Heather smiled and looked away from the laptop over her shoulder from her seat at the desk. “Each to her own, if we’re going to Banbury, we can slip over to Long Compton to visit the Rollright Stones. You’ll like them.”

“Sorry, you’ve got me there, Heather.”

“Never heard of them?” She went into archaeology lecturer mode. “They’re a complex of three Neolithic and Bronze Age megalithic monuments on the borders of Oxfordshire and Warwickshire. They were built from local oolitic limestone; they are now known as the King's Men and the Whispering Knights in Oxfordshire and the King Stone in Warwickshire. They are distinct in their design and purpose and were built at different periods in late prehistory. The stretch of time during which the three monuments were erected bears witness to a continuous tradition of ritual behaviour on sacred ground, from the fourth to the second millennium BC.”

“I’m not sure whether I can go there. Were there human sacrifices?”

“There might have been, I suppose.”

“You know, after my road accident I can’t cope with things like that.”

“I’d completely forgotten you suffer from synaesthesia. I shouldn’t have, really, after all the problems it caused our house-hunting. How we ever found a delightful historic home without you picking up on some horrendous event that had occurred there, I’ll never know.”

“Well, this house is a positive one. I didn’t admit it to you, but it was my parents’ first home. I was little, and I have only vague memories of it. Anyway, there are only good vibrations here. It’s not my fault my brain’s cross-wired and that I’m sensitive to psychic phenomena. After all, it’s made our fortune, hasn’t it?”

Heather scowled at him, wondering what else he hadn’t told her, but forced a smile and said, “Well, I’m going to visit the Rollright Stones. It says here they’re only thirteen miles from Banbury. You can do as you please. I just hope you don’t stir up any more murderous Saxon warriors at Wootten Whatsit.”

“Wooten Wawen. And I really don’t think it’s likely, else I’d willingly stay and mooch around here. I mean, what could possibly happen in here?”

“Right.” Heather’s jaw set and in a determined voice, said, “I’m going to find us some superior lodgings. Get your credit card ready, fellow-me-lad!”

Jake had no objection to that, and when she had accomplished her task by booking a delightful thatched cottage with two bedrooms – “In case we fall out, I can banish you from my bed,” she jested – he took over the computer and began to research the area, which was when he found an article entitled THE CURSE OF THE RED HORSE – an account through the ages. Fascinated, he began to read.

Chapter Two

York, 2020 AD

Heather came home after a long day in the archaeology laboratory to find her husband sitting pale and distressed in his usual armchair as weary as if he had fought in the Battle of Towton that he’d just finished reading about.

“Jake! What’s the matter, darling?”

“It’s complicated.”

Heather bit her lower lip at this brusque answer and considered his countenance. She hadn’t seen him like this since he was fighting to clear himself from a murder charge in Pilkington. “I’ll open a bottle of wine, and you can tell me all about it.”

He thought, She makes it sound as simple as pulling a cork.

Jake sighed heavily and wondered how different his life might have been if he’d looked both ways before crossing the road on that fateful morning, instead of walking out in front of a Jeep. The pop of the extracted cork and the sound of wine pouring snapped him out of his reverie, but where to start his explanation was more difficult. Gratefully he took the glass of ruby red wine from his pretty, smiling wife.

He plunged straight in without sipping the drink. “I saw my mother today, in our bedroom.”

“B-but you told me she died ten years ago.”

“That’s just it. She did!”

“How–”

“She was just as attractive as I remembered her but so…so…grunge. I saw her as close as you are to me. I remember she was always playing Pearl Jam and Nirvana. She was wearing a scrunchie in her long, straight hair, with ripped jeans, Doc Martin boots and a flannel shirt, just as I remember her.”

“Oh, that’s so nineties! It must have been a shock for you, Jake – she was young when she died…”

“Yes, but it wasn’t that, Heather. It was wonderful to see her again but not in that situation.”

“What do you mean? On one of your psychic excursions?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve found the explanation to that. No, it was what was going on when I saw her in the bedroom.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She wasn’t alone. My dad came storming in. He was really angry and began shouting horrible names at her like tart! trollop! and worse. He accused her of having an affair with a colleague, but you see, Heather, I never knew any of this. I always set her on a pedestal. She shouted back that she wanted a divorce, but dad told her to think about me. He said I was only five and about to start school and they had to put me first.” Jake shuddered and downed the contents of his glass in one long draught.

Heather couldn’t bear to see him so upset, so she put her drink on the coffee table and came over to kneel before him, resting her head on his knees. Without looking up, she said, “Poor darling, it must have been terrible for you. But you must continue to think of your mother as you always have done. They didn’t split up for you, after all. Respect the fact that they wanted to shelter you from their lapses.”

Jake stroked her strawberry blonde hair that he’d always loved as he had her unfailing, even-tempered nature and her sensible advice, as on this occasion. She stood, took his glass, and from the kitchen, she called, “You look like you could do with another of these, but don’t drain it down this time. You should savour it; it costs enough to be appreciated.”

As she returned with the wine, she said, “You found the explanation, didn’t you? Why don’t you tell me?”

He took the glass and smiled at her. “You’re so good to me, so understanding. Do you remember when I told you about the premonition I had years ago?”

“When those two poor lads were killed in a crash?”

“Yes. Well, a better term than premonition, in that case, is precognition, and from what I read this afternoon, people who have the gift, or curse, of precognition often have the contrary – retrocognition. It’s a term first coined by Frederick William Henry Myers in the nineteenth century.”

“Really? Was he a psychologist like Freud and Jung?”

“No, actually he was a poet and a philologist, but he founded the Society for Psychical Research. In fact, many psychologists dismissed his theories as quackery. But in the 1960s Aldous Huxley wrote a foreword to a reprinting of Myers’s book, Human Personality.”

“So retrocognition is about witnessing moments in the past, is it?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, your poor head! How does it work?”

Jake took a sip of his wine. “What I’m about to tell you is scientifically unproven, just a theory, but I believe it’s what happens to me. The universe is made up of energy. So, all past events are imprinted in the surrounding objects or environment in the form of energy that can be sensed by a psychic.”

“Wait a minute! Not just by psychics! Archaeoacoustics! There are audio recordings of prehistoric voices taken from the rock in caverns, like the one in the cave of Niaux in France. Archaeologists can do that in places that have remained undisturbed for centuries. I don’t know the science behind it, but I assure you, it’s been done. There’s a definite, proven relationship between the frequency of cave paintings and the resonance of the acoustics too.”

“Interesting,” but Jake wanted to re-take control of the conversation – once Heather got going with archaeology, she was capable of a long boring speech. Hurriedly, he said, “Anyway, a psychic can ‘tune in’ to these frequencies or vibrations, access the information and experience it. I assume it works in the same way as residual ghost phenomena. Myers explained a branch of retrocognition was psychometry, which is the ability to describe or witness the past by touching or holding the objects related to past events. These events are often highly-charged emotive events, such as a murder or a rage…”

“Hum, or a marital row?”

“Exactly.”

“Jake?”

“Yes?”

“What were you holding?”

“I’d kept mother’s bead crochet scrunchie as a reminder of her. She was wearing it in the row I witnessed. If only I’d known, I wouldn’t have picked it up in that room.”

“If you’d known, we might not even have moved into this house. But I love it so much, Jake.”

Her tone was anxious, so he reassured her. “Don’t worry, my love, I’ve locked the scrunchie away. I can’t bear to part with it. But you’re right, it’s better to cling to my memories of her rather than travel back and glimpse her…like some kind of modern voyeur.”

Heather tut-tutted. “You’re so hard on yourself sometimes. It’s not as if you meant to spy on them. You’re going to have to be careful, Jake. What if you’re holding something really old, say, a Saxon coin? Will you find yourself in a Saxon slave market or something?”