Gareth led the way; Harry followed, admiring the stonework around the walls, with its carvings of roses, leaves and insects. He saw a procession of carved stone pilgrims heading for a shrine. The flags beneath his feet were worn smooth. For hundreds of years monks had silently trod these stones. Ahead of him, Gareth had found the source of the water sounds.
‘I have never seen anything like this,’ he was saying.
Set into the furthest wall of the cellar was a massive stone scallopshell. Water was streaming into it from a narrow pipe several inches above and then, almost like a decorative water feature in someone’s garden, it poured over the sides of the shell and disappeared into a grille. Harry held out his hand and scooped up some of the water. It was freezing. He held it to his mouth, sniffed, then dipped in his tongue.
‘Probably drinkable,’ he said. ‘Do you think this was some sort of massive priest hole for the monks? When enemies came they fled down here. With their own water supply they could probably hole up for weeks.’
‘There are several underground streams around here,’ said Gareth. ‘We had to watch out for them when we were putting the house foundations in. Maybe you can bottle it.’
‘Heptonclough Spring,’ said Harry, nodding. ‘Has a ring to it.’
‘So can we discuss this whole crypt-versus-cellar business?’ said Gareth, who was shining his torch into the nearest of the alcoves. ‘Because I can’t help thinking there are dead things yonder.’
Shapes loomed out of the fog and for a moment Tom slowed down. Then he realized there had been buildings here at one time. He was looking at their ruins.
‘Tom, stop now!’
She meant it this time. There was no mistaking that particular tone and volume. He waited until his mother and Millie had caught up. Both looked tired.
The previous night, when his mother had come racing from her studio, smelling of paint and strong coffee, to find her eldest son crouched terrified behind his bedroom door, Tom had been convinced the little girl was still somewhere in the house. He’d refused to go back to bed until everywhere – absolutely every possible hiding place – had been searched.
Joe, the lying toe-rag, had refused to back him up, to admit that he too had seen the girl, had even spoken to her. Joe had just opened his eyes until they were as wide as saucers and shaken his head.
‘Thank you,’ said his mum. ‘Now can we all stay together, please? No one is going out of my sight in this fog. OK, I think it’s this way.’
With Millie on one hip, Alice set off and the boys trailed behind. Tom kept his eyes on the ground. If Joe said anything to wind him up he would land him one.
They reached the edge of a copse of trees just as the fog seemed to lift a little. A carpet of beech leaves lay before them. The trees were old and massive. Tom and his family stepped forward until they were in amongst them. The tiny cottage, straight out of a fairy tale, appeared before them.
Harry and Gareth were standing beside a small, stone-lined alcove. The entrance was covered in intricate ironwork and the gate was locked.
‘Don’t have the key to that one,’ said Harry.
‘Really not a problem, mate,’ replied Gareth, shaking his head.
Beyond the ironwork the two men could see four carved stone coffins, set on shelves on either side of the alcove. Prone statues of men in clerical robes lay on each of them. The name Thomas Barwick was inscribed on the first. He’d been abbot in the year 1346. The writing on the other coffins was too worn for Harry to make it out. The men started walking back down the length of the cellar, shining their torches into each locked alcove they passed. They stopped at the last. Beyond the stone coffins, set into the far wall, was a wooden door.
‘Where do you think that leads?’ said Gareth. ‘I’ve completely lost my bearings.’
Harry shrugged. He had too. ‘There are some old keys in the desk in the vestry,’ he said. ‘Shoved to the back of one of the drawers.’
‘Another day, perhaps,’ said Gareth.
‘I can’t believe no one told me this was here,’ said Harry. ‘Its historical significance could be huge. There’ll be coach parties visiting.’
‘Maybe that’s why it’s been kept so quiet,’ suggested Gareth. ‘Does your churchwarden strike you as the sort of man who wants his town turned into a tourist attraction?’
‘He doesn’t own the whole town,’ said Harry, annoyed. Abbots from hundreds of years ago could be interred in this very space. It was an incredible find.
‘Just most of it.’
‘Yeah, well he doesn’t own the church. And he certainly doesn’t own this.’
‘Red Riding Hood’s house,’ said Tom, forgetting that he was sulking.
‘Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house,’ corrected his mother, as Millie toddled up to the cottage’s front door.
Unlike the ruined buildings they’d just passed, the cottage seemed solid and in good repair. The walls were intact, the roof looked sound, the front door firm on its hinges. There were even two windows, with shutters pulled tight. And a chimney.
Alice reached out and tried the door handle. Locked. She turned back to her children and shrugged. ‘Guess Grandmother’s not home,’ she said. ‘I think this must be the cottage Jenny told us about. The one she and her sister used to play in.’
Tom shivered. He glanced at Joe, who was looking down at the ground, as though he had no interest in the cottage. A sudden thought struck Tom. What if this cottage was where the girl lived?
‘Let’s go,’ he announced. Alice nodded and the family walked on until they came to the Tor.
‘Can we climb up, Mum?’ asked Joe.
‘Absolutely not,’ replied Alice. ‘In this fog and without your father, this is as far as we’re going.’
Tom was staring up at the massive pile of rocks that disappeared into cloud. There was something about the way they towered over him that made him feel nervous. And he certainly didn’t like looking up, the way his mum and Joe and even Millie were doing. Turning away, he cried out before he could stop himself.
‘What’s the matter?’ called Alice, spinning round.
‘There’s someone over there,’ said Tom. ‘In the trees. Someone watching us.’
Alice frowned and screwed up her eyes. Then she looked quickly from right to left. ‘I can’t see anything,’ she said. ‘Just trees.’
Tom moved closer to his mother. A tall, thin figure had been standing amongst the trees, watching. Once spotted, it had moved, fading back into the fog. Tom turned to glare at Joe, then stopped himself. It hadn’t really looked the right shape or height to be the girl.
‘Come on,’ said Alice. ‘We should get back. I don’t think this fog is going to lift. Quick as we can, everyone.’ Hoisting Millie on to her hip again, she set off towards the trees. Then she stopped. ‘There is someone there,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Hold on a sec, Joe.’
Tom felt a lump forming in his chest. He couldn’t see anything, or at least… his mother was reaching into her pocket. She brought out her mobile and looked at the screen. Then she pressed some keys and held it to her ear.
‘Who are you phoning?’ said Tom.
‘Daddy,’ replied Alice, before shaking her head. ‘He must still be underground.’
She looked behind them once more and then set off again, heading downhill. First Joe and then Tom followed. Neither of them spoke. Every few steps Alice slowed down and looked back. After a few seconds Tom found himself doing the same thing. Just grey cloud behind. Already the Tor had disappeared.
After a few minutes, they reached the copse. The trees seemed to Tom to have grown taller since the family had last walked past them. He moved closer to his mother and realized Joe had done the same thing. No one seemed to want to speak. Even Millie was unusually silent. Alice hadn’t put her mobile away. She glanced at it again and Tom could see her thumb hovering over one of the keys. It looked as if his mother was getting ready to press 9.