“What about the last owner of the estate?” I asked. “Didn’t he make it past thirty?”
“That’d be Jeffrey Lockwood. He did live into his seventies, but he was a queer,” Jack said with a sneer. “Couldn’t be bothered to overcome his distaste for women long enough to sire the next generation. That’s why the house went to that niece of his. Happiest day of her life, I reckon. I hear she was a manager at some seedy guest house in Sheffield before she came into her inheritance.”
“Were there any other claimants?” Kyle asked.
“Not as far as anyone knew. In fact, no one had ever heard of this niece until she showed up a few months before Jeffrey’s death. Came to look after him.”
“Did he not leave a will?” I asked.
“Who knows? He was a bit batty toward the end. Must be all them drugs he did in his youth.”
“There was a will,” Hugh said. “Jeffrey meant to leave everything to the National Trust but changed the will when she came along. She was his only surviving kin, and she did look after him.”
“What did he die of?” Kyle asked.
Jack shrugged. “Died in his sleep, which was probably for the best. By the time he went, he could barely remember his own name. Alzheimer’s,” he said, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper.
“Terrible disease,” Hugh said. “I’m still sharp as a tack, and I mean to remain that way until I draw my last breath.”
“It’s not as if you get a choice, Hugh,” Jack said.
“By the way, would you gents know of any local historians? We’d love to find out more about this curse,” Kyle said.
Hugh scratched his balding pate. “Well, there is the vicar, Jonah Hargreaves. He’s devoted his life to studying local lore. You can find him at St. Paul’s.”
“Is St. Paul’s here in the village?” I asked.
Jack nodded. “Hargreaves’ parents were run out of Ashcombe, so he has a personal interest, one might say. Has a connection to nearly every family buried in that new cemetery where they relocated the villagers’ graves.”
“Is Alys Bailey’s grave there?” I asked.
Both men shrugged, having lost interest in the conversation once a friend of theirs walked in and greeted them heartily as he sank onto a barstool and ordered a pint.
“I think it’s time we were going,” Kyle said, glancing at the clock behind the bar. It was nearly seven. “I think we got what we came for.”
“You are really good at this detective stuff,” I said once we were back in the car. “How did you know to get the barman talking about climbing? Was it just a lucky guess?”
“Not at all,” Kyle said as he maneuvered out of the tight spot. “There was a photo behind the bar of him in climbing gear, surrounded by a dozen men. Probably the local climbing club. The photo was prominently displayed, so I assumed this was something he was proud of, something that’s important to him.”
“I completely missed that,” I said. “I guess I am the sidekick after all.”
Kyle grinned at me. “Next time, you can take the lead.”
“Next time?”
“Don’t you want to go see Reverend Hargreaves?”
“Of course I do. Are you volunteering to come along?”
“Absolutely. I’m invested in this story now. I expect to be mentioned in the acknowledgements,” he added, still smiling.
“What about your own work? Don’t you need time to write?”
“Sure, but I can’t write all day long. I take recreational breaks. Don’t you?”
“When I’m in full flow, I can write for hours without breaking. Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened in some time. I thought a change of scene might help spark some new ideas.”
“And it has,” Kyle replied. “Have you ever written a ghost story before?”
“No, and I’m still not sure that I will, although I must admit, I am intrigued.”
“There’s definitely a market for that stuff—betrayal, tragedy, and a curse that still haunts the family centuries later.”
“What makes you think there was tragedy and betrayal?” I asked, curious at the way his mind worked.
“Well, there’d have to be, wouldn’t there? Someone accused this woman of witchcraft, someone credible enough to be taken seriously. Whenever there’s a violent death, someone benefits, so whoever gave her up must have had something to gain. Hence the curse. She supposedly cursed the Lockwood family.”
“Or the whole village.”
“Or the whole village,” Kyle agreed, “but that could be because no one had done anything to help her. These would have been people she’d known her whole life, people who’d watched her grow up. They would also have been the people who stood by and watched her hang, and possibly even jeered at her as the life was choked out of her.”
“How horrid people were to one another,” I said, my mind turning to the research I had done on Alfred the Great and his daughter, who eventually became the Lady of Mercia. People had known little peace during the Dark Ages. It was a wonder anyone had survived long enough to sire the next generation and fulfill Alfred’s dream of a united England.
“They still are, only in a different way. We no longer watch executions for entertainment, but the bloodlust is still there. Violence sells, the more graphic, the better. Even films and games geared toward young children have an unprecedented amount of violence. I can hardly interfere, but when I see some of the games my nephews play, I’m tempted to question my sister’s sanity for allowing it.”
“Are your books violent?” I asked. I’d never read his work, but now I wondered if I should. DI Kelly Shaw was sure to be a revelation.
“I don’t go in for gratuitous violence, but I will describe things as they are, and when dealing with modern-day crime, there’s plenty of gore.”
“Do you
