The most popular theory of the accident was that the brakes seized, the armchair theorists talking glibly of the fluid boiling in the brake pipes as a result of the heavy braking immediately before the corner. They ignored the fact that the braking system fitted to the car had undergone many far more gruelling tests in Grand Prix races.
There were other witnesses of the disaster who had their own shadowy inkling of the possible cause, but preferred to keep it to themselves, because they doubted the evidence of their eyes, having seen what many had apparently failed to see. As Von Eberstraum came into the corner they had fancied that something darted out from the shadow of the bank below them into the path of the car. It was only a fleeting glimpse seen out of the corners of eyes intently focused on the car alone. After the car had gone the road was deserted.
Peter Bligh was amongst those who had vague but disturbing ideas about the accident, which he decided to keep to himself.
Mr Nelson was the only person who was not in the slightest doubt as to the cause, although he, too, preferred to keep his own counsel. His first action after his recovery from a severe nervous breakdown was to order a high and unclimbable fence to be erected all round the new corner.
Some of you may have wondered, like I did, why such a promising and costly improvement of Longbury Hill should be allowed to fall into disuse so soon. I have at last managed to get the real facts from Mr Nelson and Peter Bligh. So now you know, and may draw your own conclusions. Personally, I agree with Mr Nelson. I think there is something on the inside of that fence that is best left alone.
SINS OF THE FATHERS
David Rowlands
In the past twenty years David Rowlands has written countless ghost stories, many of them distinctly Jamesian in atmosphere and the majority featuring the delightful Catholic priest Father O’Connor. They have seen print in a number of places, including the Cork Holly Bough and Ghosts and Scholars magazine. Among his other interests are railways, campanology, and western movies, all of which—even the last—he has managed to incorporate into Father O’Connor stories from time to time. He is also the author of several non-fiction books, including The Tralee and Dingle Railway (1977). The following story is taken from his 1981 collection Eye Hath Not Seen, which contains six ‘supernatural anecdotes from the reminiscences of Father O’Connor’.
Those of you who have been kind enough to follow my recounting of the ghostly anecdotes related by my old friend, Father O’Connor, may remember an earlier reference to Black Shuck, the phantom dog who allegedly haunts parts of East Anglia and Devon. I did not give this narrative at the time, because it would have detracted from the story of ‘The Previous Train’. However a small paragraph in a daily paper recently caught my eye and recalled the old priest’s story. The item ran as follows:
‘BLACK DOG DRIVER CLEARED. A Railway Executive Inquiry yesterday cleared driver William Bramble of the charge of negligence arising from a recent night time incident on the line to Thetford. The train had entered a cutting near Wretham and Rockham when the driver braked suddenly, causing secondman, Robert Lewis, to be flung into the windscreen of the locomotive and sustain concussion. Driver Bramble said that a huge black dog suddenly loomed up on the line in front of the train, which was travelling at about thirty miles an hour. Fearing the consequences of collision with an animal of its size, he had braked hard. When he had tended to Lewis, and descended to meet the Guard, Maurice Short, there was no trace of the animal to be seen. The Railway Inspectorate gave evidence that nothing could be found to confirm Bramble’s story, but the testimony of Lewis (then recovered) affirmed that he, too, had seen the animal and thought it was a calf. None were known to be missing from local farms.’
Reading this, I doubted not that the local populace could have enlightened the Inquiry had they so chosen. Consulting the Ordnance map confirmed my impression that the most ancient of old straight tracks—the Peddars Way—crossed the cutting at this point. Any Suffolk native will tell you that Old Shuck still runs the Peddars Way nightly, just as his Devonshire appearances follow a straight line. However, on to Fr O’Connor’s tale. It will suffice to say that he was on vacation in Suffolk, sometime in the 1930s . . .
‘Having my Superior’s permission to indulge my archaeological interest to the full,’ said the old priest, ‘you can imagine I lost no time in securing the use of a bicycle, and in visiting many of the ruins that abound in Suffolk. Leiston Old Abbey came early on the itinerary as the remains are extensive and intriguing. From there I took roads (they were little more than grassy tracks) to the coast and put up at “The Black Dog”, the sole inn of a little fishing village on the receding coastline.
‘I had inspected the local church, where there was a little old glass, offset, I’m afraid, by the most dreadful modern glazing it has even been my misfortune to see. There were also a decorated font and a little carved stone in the chancel. If that helps you to identify the place, well . . . I can’t very well help it now. The much-worn font panels showed the sacraments (as expected) except that one scene, instead of “penance” (showing the vanquished devil), depicted a fearsome dog-like creature, rampant and not in the least cowed by the threatening staff of a human figure with long hair, which even in the eroded state of the fabric, I could see had been skilfully carved, and with great feeling. Just discernible, and scratched into the stone at a much later date, was “Ps xxii v.xx”, which careful thought and—I must admit—a quick glance at a handy Book of Common Prayer, identified as “[Deliver] my dear one from the power of the dog”. There was no one about in the church to ask about this unusual departure from practice and I stood pondering for some moments—long enough to become uncomfortably chilled at any rate—until roused by an odd keening noise in the air outside.
Drawing by David Lloyd
‘The wind was coming hard off the sea. The landlord had informed me they were were expecting a “blow”, and I had to fight every inch of the few yards across the road to the inn. There, I commented on the mournful sound.
‘“Yes sir,” he said (I really do not think I shall attempt to phoneticise his dialect), “Old Shuck’s calling up the storm. We shall be in for it tonight, I don’t doubt.”
‘“Old Shuck?” I queried. “Who is he?”
‘“Why, he’s the black dog, sir. It’s said he was left behind by one of them heathen gods that had come a-hunting, or something. He were something to do with thunder and they say the dog is looking for him. Heaven help him when he finds him, is what I say!”
‘I took dinner in the little panelled parlour which was empty, because the storm had kept away the regulars. Very snug it was, with a fire blazing in the hearth and the old settles creaking, and the wind howling round the house. The settles interested me greatly. They were of very old oak, in the style of church pews, and some had well-worn carved figures on the arm rests. The landlord who came in to smoke a pipe with me, said they had come from the church across the way, many, many years before when the Gothic tide was in full flood. I was interested to learn that when Dunburgh had been a thriving town in the previous century, this had been a main thoroughfare for road traffic, and the inn itself a regular lair of highwaymen and footpads. Respect for the authority of the Church had still been sufficiently strong that pursued highwaymen taking refuge in the village church had been immune from arrest there. This survival of the medieval notion of Sanctuary was intriguing. The inn’s cellar, too, had apparently been a noted local hiding place.