The Serpent Wand (Jake Conley Book 6) - John Broughton

The Serpent Wand - book excerpt

Chapter 1

Warwickshire, 2022 AD

In the early phases of my psychic investigations, I received letters from trolls and cranks as well as from a few people with a genuine interest in the supernatural. Thankfully, they have become fewer as my investigative work is now largely under the aegis of HM Secret Services. However, the recent events connected with the finding of the Ely Abbey Treasure has set me under public scrutiny once more. This is reflected in the number of begging letters, cranky notes and abusive missives that now overflow from bags destined to the paper recycling plant.

Luckily, my wife, Alice, acts as my assistant and sorts the correspondence, eliminating the dross and creating a small in-tray of those worthy of attention. I trust her implicitly with this task. Occasionally it happens that I’m urged by her outraged expression to inquire about some of the worst examples and to share in her indignation, generally ridiculing the sender enough to transform her face into one of amusement.

I was settled in the brown leather swivel chair of my study sorting through the mail when I came upon a letter from Tewkesbury in Gloucestershire:

Dear Mr Conley,

I’m writing to you because I’ll spare you the tedious details and get straight to the part that caught my eyemy attention was first drawn to the line by the unusual behaviour of the birds. Geese fly along it, never deviating from place to place. At the end of the summer, swallows invariably follow the same course. Only when I studied it on an ordnance survey map, did I notice the arrow-like route passing through various sites of a particular nature. If I might be so bold, I believe there is an earth force joining them. Thus began my daily walks along the sixteen-mile route upon which I felt I was beginning to have a deeper insight into the world around me and in particular, the wildlife, the buzzards circling overheadthere followed a long series of examples of creatures of various sizes and species ending with a discourse of communing with assorted plants and even inanimate rocks. I would have dismissed the writer as simply another crank at this point, but something written below stopped me from crumpling the sheet and tossing it in the bin. Sadly, I have been forced to abandon my uplifting walks. A shadowy being began to haunt my path. At first, I put it down to my imagination but on subsequent occasions, its presence was accompanied by sensations. The hair on my arms stood up and I felt a tingling followed by an unnatural coldness given the warmth of the day. Sir, I’m convinced this entity meant me no harm but that it was not of our time. I’m not a courageous person and could not find it in me to continue my walks. I feel sure that if I had, I would have finally seen the ghost. Surely, it would have manifested itself to me as more than a shade. Your reputation as a psychic who has had dealings with the supernatural spurred me to contact you. I hope you will not consider this impagain, I’ll cut to the essence of the letterand so, if you are interested and could spare the time, I would be honoured to invite you to a meeting in my home. Please call me on 7549 176[I have truncated his number out of correctness] if you could see your way to obliging me.

Best regards,

Aria Gough

Alice had thought it sufficiently interesting as not to consign it straight to the bin. She’d placed it on the small to-be-read pile and I admit my interest was more than a little piqued. I’d reached a state of boredom waiting for Sir Clive Cochrane’s dreaded call, made more fearful in my mind the longer it failed to come. I called through my open study window to Alice who was wielding a soapy spray, hunting spider mites among the multicoloured zinnias.

She came over and accompanied a smile with a raised eyebrow.

“This letter from Tewkesbury, what do you think of it?”

She frowned, pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m not sure, but there’s something intriguing about it and more than Mr Gooch

“Gough, Aria Gough. Unusual name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, well, I think he’s holding something back. I don’t know why, call it an instinct. In any case, it looks quite your sort of thing, Jake. I know you’re restless. Why don’t you ring him?”

“From the letter, it sounds like a ghost is haunting his footpath and if that’s true, I’m interested, all right. I’ll phone him now.”

Alarm bells should have started ringing the moment I discovered that Mr Gough was an intelligence researcher who commuted the ten miles along the motorway to the Doughnut the Government Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham. With hindsight, it surprises me I didn’t go straight on the defensive. I put that down to his pleasant, reliable appearance. In his early thirties, he was dressed conservatively, clean-shaven, tidy haircut and a charming smile. He surrounded himself with reassuringly normal books and boxed sets of TV series, some of which I’d enjoyed myself since I tend to binge-watch those that grab me. Physically in pretty good shape, Gough was very tall with walnut skin, grey hair and green eyes. He confessed to his love of hiking, “…which of course, is why I wrote to you, Mr Conley. If you’ll allow me,” he reached for a rolled-up chart and spread it across a wide tile-topped coffee table, which looked home-made, and deliberately cleared to create space for this demonstration, which was a pity for him because at that moment, his wife, Ishbel, another scientist, chirped, “Move that map, Aria, I need the table for tea and biscuits.”

I was impressed that he obeyed instantly with nothing more than a loving smile and a nod. A very stable character, Mr Gough.

As soon as the ceremony was overand I must say, I do appreciate white tea, and Ishbel’s home-baked biscuits were quite delicioushe spread out the map and with some relish pointed out the route of his regular walk, which began nine miles from his home at Pershore Abbey, where he parked, then hiked passed Bredon Hill, through Beckford, Little Washbourne, which I knew as a splendid Cotswolds village, and ended at Winchcombe Abbey. My first thought was what a coincidence as the route started and ended with an abbey and I said so.

He looked up and smiled, “As a matter of fact, it was pure coincidence, at least, I imagine the first time I walked it, I’d had enough tramping and felt that ending there was appropriate – but with what I know now,” he said mysteriously, “I’m not so sure. Look!” He moved rapidly to a cupboard and came back bearing a metre-long ruler and pencil. Laying it on the map, he joined the two abbeys and firmly pencilled a line joining them. Removing the wooden straightedge, “What do you observe, Mr Conley?”

Before I could assimilate the details, I was surprised to hear Mrs Gough, in the background, murmur, “It’s all bloody nonsense!”

Either her husband didn’t hear her or chose to pretend otherwise, his concentration on my face never wavered, waiting for my conclusions. They were quick in coming because his point was obvious.

“The line passes through religious sites,” I tapped the first abbey, St Mary’s church, Beckford, and the final abbey.”

“And?” he pressed, like a schoolmaster, which irritated me.

“And…ancient monuments,” my finger indicated again, “Elmley Castle, here, Bredon Hillthat’s an Iron Age settlement, isn’t it?he nodded assent and I continued, “an ancient manor house here, and, finally, the Belas Knapp long barrow.”

He grinned at me, his green eyes shining with enthusiasm, “And look here, just off the line, but close enough to count, is Sudeley Castle. Do you know what we’ve got here, Mr Conley? A ley line!”

“Piffle!” Ishbel said. The scorn she put into the one word was worth a volume. I imagined her scientific mind was far too sceptical to cope with anything even vaguely irrational. It prompted me into a reaction, “As Cardinal Newman said, one cannot rationalise about the irrational, Mrs Gough.”

It earned me a scowl and a query, “Are you Catholic, then, Mr Conley?”

“Please call me Jake, both of you…and no, I’m not a Catholic, but the cardinal had a point. I suppose you’ve read about my encounter with a homicidal ghost at Elfrid’s Hole?”

She frowned and tilted her head, wrinkled her nose and said, “There are some things about that I’d like to take up with you.”

Her husband cut in, “Not now, darling, perhaps over dinner. You will stay for dinner, I hope Jake? Ishbel’s a great cook!” He cast her a loving glance.

Since her biscuits were a recommendation, I accepted like a shot.

“I’d be delighted, thank you very much.”

“Anyway,” Aria said, “Back to business, as I was saying, it’s a ley line, I’m sure. And my ghost proves it.” He tapped his forefinger on the pencilled line at a place called Wick. I’ve done my homework,” he smiled up at me, “there are historic sightings of the ghost of a monk here. It was a funeral path, you know, from Pershore Abbey to Wick. Jake, there’s an interesting theory, and it’s why I wrote to you, that there are heightened psychic activities along ley lines. You’ll find sightings in several places on this one.”

I have to admit, at that moment, I was so taken by the possibility of encountering ghosts that I forgot about mistrusting him, something I’d decided when I discovered his profession. Instead, I was raring to investigate the psychic phenomena along his route. Little did I realise at that cheerful moment how much the investigation would change my life and what important information he had withheld.

CHAPTER 2

Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire 2022 AD

Jake awoke with a sense of disorientation and it took a few seconds of staring at the elegant William Morris repro wallpaper to connect. The hospitality of the Goughs had extended beyond the excellent dinner to offering him their spare bedroom for his stay in Tewkesbury. His attempts at not imposing, brushed aside by the lure of Ishbel’s cooking, had been easily overcome.

Alia Gough had timed his letter to Jake to coincide with their annual holiday and to Jake’s question of why they weren’t going away gave a brusque answer.

“We decided to have a complete rest at home, didn’t we, darling?”

Jake, never slow to pick up on undercurrents, noted the fleeting frown, the slight hesitation and the barely detectable resentment in Ishbel’s reply.

“Ah, um, yes. It’s been a tough year at work and we need to unwind.”

“Maybe I should find myself a hotel tomorrow, Ishbel, I don’t want to be a burden.”

Aria cut in with too much eagerness for my comfort, “We won’t hear of any such thing. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Oh, absolutely, Jake. I have to cook for two anyway, one more portion makes very little difference. It’s nice to have you with us.”

But I could tell that she was being hospitable under duress. It made me feel uneasy and now, too late, began to wonder why my presence was so important to Aria Gough.

Dinner over, and questions about Elfrid’s Hole answered without arousing any suspicions, over a glass of outstanding single malt, my favourite, Lagavulinit didn’t occur to me then that he was well-informed about the predilections of a total strangerhe offered to run me to Pershore Abbey in the morning.

It struck me that he didn’t want me to waste any time before starting my investigations, confirmed by his attitude when I wanted to look around the surviving structure of the abbey, the next morning, and I didn’t like his tone.

“That can wait, Jake, you should get straight to the path. Come this way!”

Much more of this and I’d have it out with him, but I still didn’t have the full measure of the man or any inkling of what he was up to. He left me at a public footpath, signposted for Wick, and claimed that he didn’t have the nerve to accompany me. We exchanged mobile numbers and he said he’d pick me up at the same spot when I was ready.

I set off along the grassy path, content to be alone but after fifty yards of feeling eyes on my back, turned to find him still there, staring at me with a curious expression on his face. The earlier unease returned and as I continued, leaving him out of sight, I tried to sort things out. When I plunge into deep thought, my surroundings, in this case, worthy of admiration, are blotted out. My steps became mechanical and I gave myself over to reflection. I ran through what I knew about my hosts and the most alarming aspect of their otherwise charming selves was that they worked for the government in a top-secret facility. This would explain how they seemed to know so much about me when I recounted the affair of Elfrid’s Hole. Little signs, in hindsight, that they knew more than the general public from the news and my writings, together with knowledge of my preferences and habits, rankled.

I tramped on, oblivious to my surroundings, thinking about the tension I had picked up between husband and wife. Ishbel, careful to disguise her dissent, nonetheless, was unhappy about what was going onwhatever it was. I needed to find out fast because there was something her husband was holding back. His aggressive insistence on my current activity seemed out of character for an otherwise pleasant and easy-going personality. I decided I couldn’t trust him and to find out as soon as possible whether he was acting on his initiative or whether behind his presentable front lurked some sinister figure like Sir Clive Cochrane. I shuddered and dismissed all such ideas to concentrate on my surroundings.

Hadn’t Aria told me that this was once a funeral path to Wick from the abbey? I stopped, closed my eyes and dwelt on that. At last, concentrating on my present, mind open to sensations, the strong feeling of bereavement overwhelmed me as if I’d lost a loved one. For the first time in months, the familiar dull ache between my eyebrows returned until it spread to the whole of my forehead. This was a sure sign I was in the presence of psychic phenomena. I had borne this cross in the years since my road accident that had cross-wired my brain. Perhaps, after all, I would encounter the ghost Aria claimed to have sensed. I had no reason to doubt his word on that score, but I was rapidly concluding that it was only cloaking something much deeper.

Again, casting these thoughts aside, I took stock of my surroundings. The path was taking me alongside a ploughed field, and just over a slight rise, where I caught my first glimpse of the village roofs. The track led to a road, which as I followed it into the settlement, was signposted as Yock Lane. Given the rural setting, I wondered whether the name was a corruption of yoke. My first thought was to find a pub because by now, I was indifferent to Gough’s ghost hunt. The village was small enough for me to realise, after a few minutes, that there would be no refreshing pint of ale and on asking a local with a bushy white beard and flat cap, he indicated with his walking stick that the nearest hostelry was the Star Inn back up at Pershore.

My earlier considerations had taken away any desire to continue my hike along Aria’s supposed ley line. The absence of a pub in Wick left me at something of a loose end until I saw a sign pointing to St Mary’s church, which raised my spirits because one of my main hobbies is exploring ancient rural churches. The edifice didn’t disappoint since I had the good fortune to find it open and occupied by a cordial sexton only too keen to explain the outstanding features of the twelfth-century building the nave arcade and the medieval cradle roof.

“Yes,” he said with pride, “the tub font was recut in the nineteenth century but it’s sure to be much earlier.”

Outside, I found a restored churchyard cross and looking back across the grass at the church, I admired the honey-coloured freestone walls and imagined how it might have appeared with the tower the sexton said once rose above the body of the church. Today, it was a squat building, its body articulated into three parts. The tallest feature, a square louvred bellcote perched like a chimney over the tiled roof. Not so imposing, then, as an exterior but my visit indoors had been rewarding.

In this uplifted mood, I retraced my route, this time much more aware of everything around me. The first thing I noticed was the arrow-like progress of an echelon of wild geese. Maybe there was nothing unusual about such undeviating flight and Aria had put the idea into my head, but they flew straight over Pershore Abbey. As I progressed, the earlier feeling of oppression, that sense of bereavement returned, only interrupted for a moment by the behaviour of hundreds of high-flying swifts. I know the habits of that bird well, it swoops and screeches in circles but there they were, flying straight, and that can’t have been a coincidence.

When I approached Pershore, at a point three hundred yards from the end of the path, my forehead began aching and I had the sensation of being watched. My eyes searched for signs of life ahead and saw none but just as I thought there was nobody, the air seemed to move, and a dark shade slipped away before I could focus on it. This must have been the presence Aria Gough had brought me to find. I hurried up to where I had glimpsed it, apart from it being noticeably colder there, nothing was to be seen. I gathered seven pebbles and by the side of the path formed them into a letter J as a marker.

The footpath ended near a busy road, which crossed over the River Avon. I reached it once across the water, followed Bridge Street, for half a mile until I came to the Star Inn. I could put off my pint of ale no longer. A weird feeling came over me as I passed the opening in the pub wall where a sign indicated the riverside car park. I stared at this entrance for a while and decided that it was typical of an archway for coaches in bygone times. Shrugging off my negative sensations, I entered the bar. Soon it became clear that this was a historic building, a fifteenth-century coaching inn according to the owner and the exposed beams and ancient fireplace announced as much. I settled down to enjoy my beer but the verb is wrong, as all the time I sat there I was unsettled. My head kept turning in the direction of the archway and I couldn’t help but wonder why.

It's probably for this reason that I decided against another pint despite the quality of the ale. Instead, I phoned Aria Gough and arranged for him to pick me up. Although he said he’d come at once, his tone was hostile and I couldn’t think why. I was soon to find out.

“I must say, I was surprised to find you in a pub,” his tone was sharp.

“Why?”

“I thought you were going to walk the whole route, so I didn’t expect you back till evening.” Now his voice was sulky.

“When I reached Wick, I hadn’t met your ghost and frankly I was bored until I found St Mary’s church. An interesting little”

He cut me short, “I’m glad you found it. It’s largely twelfth-century, you know. There’s an astonishing number of churches in England dedicated to either the Virgin or Saint Michael standing on ley lines.”

I ignored his manners but was developing a dislike of Mr Gough.

“You might be interested to know that, on my return, I came across your ghost.” I waited for his reaction, which was immediate.

“Ah, did you? Did you get a good look at him…er…or her?”

“To be honest, I only caught a glimpse but on investigation, its presence had chilled the air. I’ve marked the spot and will seek it out tomorrow.”

“You see, I was right. There is a ghost!”

“I think there’s little doubt about it. The footpath gave me the strangest sensation.”

This comment excited him so much that, distracted, he almost overshot a red traffic light.

“Did it?” His voice trembled with emotion, which seemed odd. “Did you sense some strange power?”

Now, why would he ask that? A peculiar choice of words that reinforced my growing belief that he was less interested in the ghost than in the ley line. Had the spectre been only an excuse to lure me to Pershore?

“Power? No, more a sensation of oppression, or of bereavementbut that’s to be expected on the funeral path that you mentioned.”

“Ah yes, I suppose it is,” he pulled into his drive, “but no other sensations, Jake?” he insisted.

“No, none, that is if you exclude my strong desire for an ale that took me to the Star Inn.”

His green eyes locked on mine and he looked grave, “Yes, that’s queer, isn’t it? The inn is on the ley line too and also boasts a ghost.”

“Does it indeed?” My interest quickened.

“I can’t remember the exact date, but the eighteenth century some time. They say a young coachman died from a fall off his horse in the archway. His ghost has been sighted on occasions.”

“In the archway.” I repeated.

I lapsed into silence and his pestering about sensations continued but I gave him no satisfaction and retired to my room to connect with the internet and research the area I was exploring. I had hoped to hear him drive off somewhere in my absence, so that I could catch Ishbel alone. I wanted to discover the cause of the tension between them over the matter of the ley line. But that tactic would have to wait because when I ventured downstairs, I found them chatting cosily on the lounge sofa, his arm draped around her shoulder.

“Sorry to intrude. I’ll go back up.”

“No-no!” they chorused.

Soon I was ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a whisky and Aria steered the conversation back to my morning hike. I was determined to keep him off the subject of ley lines and plunged eagerly into my hobby, surprising Ishbel with the depth of my knowledge about church architecture and entertaining her, more than him, with a potted gazetteer of fascinating out-of-the-way churches.

The only discordant note came over another scrumptious dinnerone of Ishbel’s specialities according to Ariaa caramelized garlic, spinach and cheddar tart. Sulkily, he said,

“I think you should make a decent effort to walk the whole route.”

It wasn’t so much the words but the tone that irritated me.

Ishbel noticed and gave him a stern reproving glace.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insistent, but with Jake’s love of churches, there’s always St Mary’s at Beckford near Little Washbourne. It’s right on the ley line.”

So, there it was, he’d resisted so far, but this remark caused Ishbel to purse her lips and avoid my gaze.

“The most important thing is to hunt down your ghost, Ariaand that’s what I’ll give priority to.”

He looked quite peeved, “But there are many other hauntings along the ley line.”

“And yet you invited me down here to sort out this particular one, didn’t you? And that’s what I’ll do.” I stared hard at him and Ishbel pushed back her chair and began to remove plates.

“Well, yes, I suppose I did. Good luck with that tomorrow then.” His tone grudging, he sounded anything but convincing.