Chapter 36
STEPHEN
He can’t quite believe his eyes, but the detective is clearly seeing it too. This time, he’s definitely not hallucinating.
There’s a secret room behind a fake wall. He uses the crowbar, prying off the rest of the plasterboard, enough to form a hole big enough to fit through.
The light from the hallway isn’t enough to pierce the darkness beyond, so Stephen uses the torch function on his phone, holding it aloft as the detective steps forwards and attempts to squeeze himself between the wooden joists.
After several failed attempts, it’s clear that Detective Williams is a little too large to fit between the joists and beams. It isn’t merely a blocked doorframe, but a room hidden behind a structure built into the wall.
‘Allow me, Detective,’ says Stephen.
‘Are you sure you’re feeling up for an exploration?’
Stephen’s touched by the detective’s warmth and concern. ‘I’m quite all right, thank you.’
‘Because if you pass out in there, I’m not going to be able to come in after you.’
Stephen nods. ‘Noted.’
The detective moves aside. Stephen takes a breath and holds it for a moment as his mind drifts back to his fear of the dark.
The fear still lingers in the background, like an old friend, reminding him that it’s okay to be afraid from time to time.
It’s what makes him stronger, more determined to succeed and fight those demons.
In he goes.
The dust particles attack his lungs and throat straight away, and the old cobwebs cling to his jacket and hair as he squeezes his slender body in-between the first joists. He ducks under the lowest beam until he reaches a wider space. It’s a room; the third mysterious bedroom.
The barricaded window is at the back of the space, blackened by dust and grime.
Along one side is an old bed and a pillow, a large pile of books that had probably once been stacked neatly, and a cardboard box that looks rotten enough to collapse if he picks it up.
Every surface holds a thick layer of dust, enough to tell him that it’s been several decades since the place was last cleaned.
He moves closer to the box and pulls back the lid, peering inside.
Several books, along with various newspapers and photographs are nestled inside.
He pulls the box closer, but the sides fall apart at the seams, unable to hold together against the pressure.
The books and newspapers spill across the floor at his feet.
‘Damn it.’
‘Have you found something, Mr Mallow?’
‘Yes, I believe I have.’ Stephen bends and picks up the nearest book on top of the pile that has scattered. It isn’t a book after all, but a diary. Its pages are filled with writing, diagrams, charts and drawings. Not a single page is clear.
The first page bears a name: John Hammel.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ whispers Stephen. He grabs another, and another, flicking briefly through each one, finding more of the same. Drawings. Writings. Charts. All in black ink. Swirly writing. A lot of the penmanship is smudged, having suffered from the damp over the years it’s been in here.
On the front page of each diary, along with John’s name, is a date. 1920. 1924. Stephen even finds one from 1915. Stephen picks up as many as he can carry and passes them through to the detective who is waiting by the entrance.
‘Diaries?’
‘Lots of them. All written by John Hammel.’
‘Interesting. Good work. Hopefully there is something in these diaries that can help us.’
Stephen returns to the room, retrieving the rest of the items. It takes him several trips, by which point, when he hands the detective the last of the newspapers, his arms are trembling.
‘Go and sit at the kitchen table, Mr Mallow. I’ll pop the kettle on. Is there anything else in the room of interest?’
‘I don’t believe so, but I’ll do another quick sweep.’ He takes one last look around at the long-forgotten room. Had Sophia found this space too? For a moment, when he first entered the area, a morbid thought had entered his mind. Would he find Sophia’s body hidden in the walls?
There is no rotting smell, other than damp and mould. Thankfully, there is also no sign of a body.
Where are you, Sophia?
Ensuring the room is clear, he squeezes himself between the beams, exiting into the hallway, then joins Detective Williams in the kitchen where a mug of coffee is already waiting for him.
The detective has also piled the diaries and newspapers onto the kitchen table.
There are so many that barely a piece of the table itself is visible.
‘I have a feeling this is going to be a long day,’ says Stephen. ‘Luckily, we have time before I need to meet Frank.’
The first thing they do is gather all the diaries together and work out the dates of each one. The earliest is 1912 and the latest is 1925. The diary from 1925 is only partially completed, stopping in October of that year.
The month he died.
The newspaper articles are next on the list to sort.
They are crudely cut out, sometimes ripped.
Nothing jumps out straight away, but there are mentions of residents who have died in the war.
There are also a few notebooks, all with scribbles and lists inside.
Stephen picks one up and reads through the first couple of pages.
Bethgelert Village Council
John Hammel Sr
Dafydd Davies
Margerie Bevan
Aled Griffiths
Then, it lists the names of their family members, including spouses and children.
‘It seems young John’s father, John senior, was a member of the village council,’ says Stephen.
‘Also, these surnames are all familiar. I’m not quite sure what the village council does, but I assume it involves knowing a lot of what goes on and giving the go ahead for planning.
’ He looks to the detective for confirmation.
Detective Williams nods. ‘That’s correct. They seem to have a lot of power within the local community. There’s a meeting once a month, which I told you about. The day I moved in, a bunch of them turned up at my door and introduced themselves, explaining a few things to me regarding the cottage.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like … I wouldn’t be able to change any of it, internally, or build an extension.’
‘Surely, that’s not up to them? That depends on whatever is said when you apply for the planning permission.’
‘Not according to the village committee.’
‘So this … village committee, or whatever you want to call them … they hold power over the village that goes back a hundred years, which means that whatever happened to young John Hammel was probably a result of him finding out what they were up to back then. Look at this …’ Stephen hands the detective one of the journals.
Detective Williams looks over the page that’s open. ‘Human sacrifice?’
‘A hundred years ago it wouldn’t have been so unheard of.’
‘Yes, perhaps, but … are you saying that the members of the village committee potentially sacrificed that poor girl ten years ago? For what?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, I’d say it does,’ snaps the detective.
Stephen sighs. ‘Human sacrifice may still be prevalent, even today. Most recently, a shrine of twenty-four human skulls were found in Uganda with injuries pertaining to human sacrifice. It was a widespread historical practice across many cultures for a multitude of reasons. The most obvious one was to appease deities, ensuring fertility or good harvests, but it could also be used to maintain social order, to terrorize lower classes, display authority, and maintain existing social hierarchies. It was also used as a means of showing devotion or to accompany the deceased into the afterlife.’
‘But this is the twenty-first century, Mr Mallow. We’re in the middle of rural Wales, surrounded by sheep and family farms.’
‘I’d say that makes it even more likely. In some cultures, sacrifices were used to promote fertility in the land and ensure successful harvests. According to the village magazine, the same farmers win the village show every year.’
‘Yes, but sacrificing a human is a tad dramatic, don’t you think?’
Stephen shrugs. ‘I’ve heard of worse reasons.’
Detective Williams nods. ‘Hmm, you may be right there, Mr Mallow. I’ve also noticed that the most successful farms in the area are all run by members of the committee, including Hammel, Bevan and Davies, although Frank must have run into some financial trouble in the past.’
‘It seems Frank Hammel, Diane Bevan and William Davies have just moved to the top of our suspect list.’ Stephen swallows, attempting to dislodge the lump in his throat. ‘To think … a father sacrificing his own daughter for the sake of the community.’
Detective Williams sighs. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve encountered such horrors. You remember Tyler Jenkins, right?’
‘How could I forget? But what about Griffiths? Do you know anyone with that surname?’
‘Not that I can recall. But I’ll bet there’s a Griffiths still in the village.’