The Haunting of the King's Head Page 4

  “Who knows what went on back then?” he asks.

  “You should find out the landlord's name and add him,” I suggest, “if only for the sake of completion. Maybe there was some kind of argument back then, but that's no reason to scrub someone from history.”

  “You have a point,” he replies, “but how do you propose that I figure out the name?” He runs a fingertip against the scratched section. “Whoever did this, they made sure to destroy all the letters.”

  “Leave that to me,” I tell him. “I'll get to the bottom of it, and then we can have this sign hanging up in time for the grand opening!”

  ***

  Whereas most pubs have a literal cellar beneath the main bar, The King's Head has a cellar room behind the bar area, in a small room next to the kitchen. Pipes and tubes are hanging down from the wall, ready to be connected up to barrels of beer, and Dad's already promised to show me how to tap a barrel and get it ready for use. I've got to admit, I like the idea of being useful around here.

  First, though, I need to finish cleaning the icky grime off the floor.

  Whoever the previous tenants were, they left the place in quite a state. There's a kind of sticky black residue in one of the corners of the cellar room, and I'm having trouble getting it away. I've tried scrubbing pads and cleaning fluids and even wire wool, but I'm still not making much progress and so far I've actually made quite a mess. Couple that with the foul smell in the air, and I'm really very keen to get this job over and done with as quickly as possible. Again, though, I like being useful, and by the time I'm done in here this room is going to look spotless.

  “Just nipping to the shop round the corner!” Dad calls out. “Do you want anything?”

  “No, thanks,” I reply. “I'm fine.”

  A moment later I hear the back door open and then shut, followed after a few seconds by the squeak of the gate at the far end of the little beer garden.

  Sighing, I get back to work on the black gunk, although I'm suddenly struck by the realization that I'm all alone here in the pub. That shouldn't bother me at all, of course, but for some reason I immediately feel as if the hairs on the back of my neck are starting to stand up. I try to stay focused on the gunk, but after several minutes I feel the need to turn and look over at the door, to make absolutely certain that no-one's watching me. As I get back to work, I can't help wondering what's wrong with me, but I'm already starting to feel a little warm and breathless.

  I set the scrubbing brush down and sit back, and I realize that there's a sense of real fear starting to brew deep in my chest. It's as if I'm worried about something, but the worry doesn't have a focal point; instead, I can't shake the feeling that something really bad is about to happen, and finally I get to my feet and step over to the doorway as I find myself getting more and more breathless.

  “Come on,” I mutter under my breath, “don't be an idiot. Get a grip.”

  The sensation is getting stronger, however, so I head through to the bar and pour myself a glass of tap water. Leaning against the wall, I take a series of sips and try to force myself to pull it together. With each passing second, however, I feel more and more scared, until I start looking around in anticipation of something coming at me. I don't even know what I think is going to happen, but there are tears in my eyes and I feel as if I just want to scream. At the same time, my hands are trembling with such force that I finally set the glass down so that I don't end up letting it fall to the floor.

  “This is so stupid,” I tell myself out loud, even as my breathing becomes increasingly labored. This, in turn, makes me start panicking, and I realize that I need to sit down.

  I turn and start shuffling around the bar, but suddenly my knees turn to jelly and I drop to the floor. Rather than try to stay up, I lean back against the shelves under the bar and I force myself to breathe more steadily. The palms of my hands are getting clammy and sweaty, and after a moment I lean my head back and close my eyes and try to think of something – anything – that might help me get myself together. At the same time, my eyes are filling with tears that finally start running down my face, and a moment later I realize that I've instinctively started curling into a tight ball as I roll onto my side.

  “Please don't hurt me!” I gasp, for reasons that I don't even understand. “I don't know what you want, but I don't have anything! I didn't mean to disturb you! Please, leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me -”

  “Charley?”

  Gasping, I open my eyes and look up, and for a fraction of a second I panic as I see two eyes staring down at me. I lash out with my hands, trying to push the person away, and then I freeze as I realize that I can see Dad's concerned face. I stare at him for a moment, and then I reach up and hug him tight. In an instant, all the fear and panic drains from my body, although I'm still left with a kind of echo of the pure terror that briefly seized my soul.

  “What's wrong?” Dad asks, putting his arms around me. “Charley, what happened?”

  I try to tell him that I'm fine, but for a moment I can't speak. My bottom lip is trembling and salty tears are running down my face, but finally I pull back and I'm overwhelmed by the realization that I'm scaring Dad.

  “I'm fine,” I manage to blurt out, “really, I just...”

  I stare at him for a few seconds, and then I look around. I have no idea what just happened, but I know I was rambling on about something, as if I was talking to someone. There was no-one here, not until Dad came back, so who was I telling to leave me alone? And what did I mean when I said I was sorry for disturbing them? Nothing makes any sense at all, and I'm starting to think that I might be losing my mind.

  “Did you have a panic attack?” Dad asks.

  I turn to him.

  “It's okay,” he continues, “these things happen. You've been through a lot lately and it was all bound to come out eventually.”

  “I'm fine,” I stammer.

  “You're clearly not fine,” he replies. “Charley, maybe you should go and -”

  “You don't have to worry about me!” I snap, suddenly panicking at the thought that I'm making things harder for Dad. I'm the strong one, I'm the one who's supposed to hold everything together. “I just had a moment, that's all. It won't happen again.”

  “Charley -”

  Pushing him away, I get to my feet. Suddenly I feel completely stupid, as if I'm just some stupid kid who let everything get on top of her. Embarrassed, I start wiping the tears from my face.

  “Why don't you go into town?” Dad asks. “You might be surprised when you see what it's like. It's not exactly Blackpool, but there's plenty to do here.”

  “I'll go later,” I tell him, “but I have too much to do here right now.”

  “A few hours won't hurt.”

  “I have work I haven't finished yet. And isn't the guy from the brewery dropping by later? I know you want the place to be looking good for that.”

  “The guy from the brewery knows exactly what kind of state this pub is in,” Dad replies, “and I'm sure he'll be happy when I explain our plans for the big day a week on Saturday.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Charley, I mean it,” he adds, “you're worrying me. Go outside. Get some fresh air. See what the good town of Malmeston has to offer.”

  Chapter Ten

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  Jack lets out a gasp of pain as he drops down onto my bed, then another as he rolls onto his back. Now that I've got him upstairs, it's clear that he's more badly hurt than I'd realized, although so far nothing seems to be actually broken.

  “You're a godsend, Muriel Hyde,” he says as he stares up at the ceiling. Still clutching his side, he seems to be clenching his teeth as if in some attempt to force back further pain. “I just need to rest and heal up, and wait for the heat to die down. You know what this town is like.”

  “If you've made an enemy of the brewery -”

  “I haven't made an enemy of the brewery,” he replies, as if the idea is preposterous. “Old
Hayes knows full well that his nephew Edward is a waste of space. He'll probably be glad that I gave the boy a good hiding, it'll allow him an excuse to send him out of town. Why, in a day or two I'm sure I'll be right back in the brewery's good books.”

  “And if you're not?”

  I wait for him to answer, but he says nothing.

  “A man can stand to make many enemies in this town,” I point out, “but making an enemy of the brewery would be a terrible mistake. You can deny it all you want, but I know that they're the ones who organize all the smuggling, which means that they employ you. Jack, if they turn against you -”

  “They won't.”

  “But you said it yourself, you beat one of their own to a pulp!”

  “He had it coming. Hayes will see that. He's a man who respects strength, he'll be grateful to me for -”

  Suddenly he lets out a cry of pain, and he quickly puts a hand over his own mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet. He rolls onto his side, squeezing his eyes tight shut, and I drop to my knees and try to help him just as he seems to escape from this burst of agony. When I look into his gaze, however, I'm unable to shake the feeling that perhaps his injuries are worse than I had feared.

  “I just need to rest,” he says through gritted teeth. “That's all. Please, Muriel, don't tell anyone that I'm here. Let me rest, and in a day or two I'll be back on my feet and better than ever. I promise.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  Okay, so maybe Malmeston isn't that bad after all.

  As I wander along the main street, the first thing I notice is that there are a lot of charity shops. By which I mean pretty much every other shop. I love charity shops, of course, and I quite often used to buy clothes and books from them back in Blackpool, but I'm surprised by just how many there are here. There are lots of coffee shops, too, and the overall vibe seems to be pretty relaxed. The demographics definitely skew pretty old, but again that's not exactly a bad thing. I don't mind a slightly quieter pace.

  Stopping outside a bookshop, I see that they have some local history titles in the window. I take a closer look, and I allow myself a faint smile as I see a book titled Pubs of Malmeston: An Illustrated History, written by someone named J. Sinclair. Now that might just be a very good sign.

  ***

  “One large green tea with lemon,” the woman says as she slides a cup toward me across the counter. “Enjoy.”

  I thank her as I take the cup and head over to find a seat. One other thing I've noticed about Malmeston is that it's absolutely filled with dogs. Like, I swear there must almost be as many dogs as people; in this coffee shop alone, there are five dogs sitting about waiting for their owners to finish their drinks. I spot a Labrador, a cockapoo, two sausage dogs and – next to the seat that I take – a plump Jack Russell chewing a treat. He wags his tail at me for a moment before getting back to his snack.

  Once I'm settled, I take a look at the book I bought a few minutes ago. As I start flicking through the book, I find that the text is very dense and the book is written in quite a dry, academic style. I soon turn to the index at the back, and I find that there are plenty of entries for The King's Head. I start checking them out, one by one, hoping to find some interesting facts about the pub, and I soon discover that it was known as quite a hub for local smugglers. There are records of a few fights having taken place there over the years, and one man apparently even took a horse into the main saloon one afternoon in the late 19th century. It's so weird to think that Dad and I are becoming a little part of that place's history.

  Next to me, the Jack Russell is wagging his tail as he continues to gnaw on his treat.

  I take a sip of tea as I keep looking through the book. And then, as I check out another of the references, I find that there's actually an entire chapter dedicated to the pub, with the ominous title Murder at the King's Head.

  As I read the chapter, it becomes apparent that I've found some information about the missing landlord from the plaque, who actually turns out to have been a landlady. Muriel Hyde ran the pub between 1895 and 1910, causing quite a stir as a single woman. The book claims that there's very little information about where she came from, although she's said to have had a northern accent that made some think she might have been born somewhere in Yorkshire. She was quite a strict woman, by all accounts, and apparently she immediately made herself unpopular by getting rid of some of the pub's less scrupulous regulars. After that, the pub seems to have settled into a fairly relaxed, quiet period that lasted for more than a decade, until the beginning of 1910:

  On the night of January 3rd, a policeman was called to attend the discovery of a dead body on the nearby beach, at the top of what is now Pierce Street. The body belonged to Mr. Jack Farnham, a local trader with strong links to the smuggling scene. He'd been stabbed multiple times, with one cut running across his throat from ear to ear. A bloodied poker, found next to the body, was subsequently identified as one that came from a local pub, The King's Head. Some speculated that Farnham's murderer had hoped he'd be washed away, while others thought he'd been left in a very public spot as a warning to others.

  I turn to the next page:

  Suspicion soon fell upon Muriel Hyde of The King's Head. She'd supposedly been seen arguing with Mr. Farnham on several occasions in the months leading up to the murder, and one local claimed to have heard her making threats. Hyde denied all the claims and threatened to take legal action against anyone who smeared her good name. Her supposed involvement in the murder was never proven one way or another, but the damage was already done. Hyde's pub was by that point extremely unpopular, with one local resident claiming that only strangers and out-of-towners ever set foot in the place. Even these people rarely stayed for more than one drink, so strange and foreboding was the atmosphere.

  As I continue to read through the chapter, it becomes apparent that the title Murder at the King's Head is a little sensational. Muriel Hyde was never charged, and the evidence seems to have been circumstantial at best.

  On February 10th 1910, with the pub having not opened in almost two weeks, police forced their way into the premises and discovered Muriel Hyde's body hanging from a noose in one of the bedrooms.

  I have to read that part through a couple of times, to make sure that I really understand it, and then I feel a shiver pass through my chest. Dad seemed not to know too much about the pub's history when I talked to him earlier, and I seriously doubt that he has any idea that a woman actually died there. Feeling distinctly uneasy, I read through several pages of information about the investigation into Jack Farnham's murder, and then I come to the chapter's final paragraph:

  A distant relative of Hyde was eventually tracked down. Arriving in Malmeston, Hyde's sister arranged for a funeral, although not before she'd taken the King's Head apart in search of what she claimed was some kind of treasure. The body was left in a coffin in the pub for several nights, before being buried without fuss in the local cemetery. The pub was kept on by the brewery and the curious case of Muriel Hyde was rarely mentioned again. Some say that although more than one hundred years have passed, The King's Head has never fully recovered from the mysterious events of those first few months back in 1910.

  Leaning back in my seat, I take a deep breath and try to figure out exactly what this means. The mention of a coffin in the main saloon seems eerily similar to my dream from last night, even if I know that it must be just a coincidence. I certainly never heard of Muriel Hyde before today, so it's not as if I could have subconsciously taken onboard certain aspects of the story.

  I start flicking a little further through the book, and I soon come to a section of photos. I don't recognize any of the places, of course, since I don't know Malmeston at all. After a moment, however, I turn to one of the pages and I freeze as I'm hit by a profound sense of recognition. A face is staring out at me from one of the last photos, and I know I've seen this face before. It's the face of a middle-aged woman, ster
n and angry-looking as she glares out from the doorway of The King's Head. Even before I look at the notes at the foot of the page, I can guess her name.

  Muriel Hyde.

  I look at her face again, and I swear I've seen her somewhere, but where? I feel as if I'm on the verge of remembering, but something's blocking part of my mind. In an instant, I'm filled with the same sense of fear and panic that I felt earlier in the pub, accompanied this time by a growing nausea in my belly. I swallow hard, but I'm already getting warm and clammy, and after a moment I realize that my hands are starting to shake. I try to steady myself, but the sensation gets stronger and stronger until finally I slam the book shut.

  Next to me, the Jack Russell lets out a faint whimper.

  I look down at him and see that he looks scared. At the same time, I'm feeling flustered but at least the panic attack seems to have faded away. I wipe my brow, and then I reach down to pat the dog.

  He immediately pulls away, as if he's frightened of me.

  “Sorry,” his owner says, as the dog growls slightly, “he's not normally like that.”

  “It's fine,” I reply with a forced smile, and I set the book down as I take another sip of tea in an attempt to calm my nerves.

  In my mind's eye, I can still see that photo of Muriel Hyde so very clearly, as if it's burned into my thoughts. There's something about her expression, about the look of anger on her face, that's quite striking, and I find myself wondering what could have made someone look so furious. Was she really an evil, murderous monster, or was she just a woman who was hounded to her death by the local community? I guess we'll probably never know for sure, but one thing's certain. Somehow, somewhere, somewhen, I've definitely seen her face before.

  Chapter Twelve