Wicked History

"Show me the cellar. That's the real reason I'm interested in the place."

"Sure." The landlady, Martina Davenport, forty but feeling sixty, opened what looked
like a cupboard door from the hallway that led the way down stone steps. Clive
Shippley followed, eyes wide with intrigue. His hands were buried deep in the pockets
of his long coat, face half in shadow within the confines of his upturned collar.

"I've cleared everything out," Martina told him. "I think you'll agree it's a nice large
area. There are several possibilities here. A second bedroom, a study or perhaps just a
storeroom for those knickknacks which everyone seems to accumulate." She smiled.

Shippley stood in one place and looked around him. It was completely bare; three
walls of granite and concrete, one of bare brickwork. It was a little draughty and
damp, but the man appeared to be in his element. "I'll bet this cellar has quite a
history."

Martina said, "I really don't know when the house dates back to, only that it's pre-First
World War."

"No," corrected Shippley, "I'm talking about events. What situations of note have
occurred within the confines of this room?" It was a curiously formal manner of
speech.

Martina frowned. "I'm not with you. Like what, exactly?"

"Like anything," he said with impatience. "Has nothing sinister taken place within these
Walls?"

It was certainly a strange question. Perhaps she was being tested in some way. Very
few people would wish to live in a house where something unsavoury had happened.
"Not that I know of."

"Then this place holds no interest for me." Shippley turned his back on her and
walked towards the steps.

Martina thought quickly. This prospective tenant was going to be lost unless she did
something fast. She badly needed to rent out this apartment. Her cash flow situation
was severely restricted. If she secured this transaction perhaps she could persuade
him to pay two months in advance.

"Wait!" she cried. "Mr Shippley, do I understand it correctly that you have an interest
in the macabre?"

He turned. "In so far as it relates to this cellar."

"Forgive me," she said, "but in general people are turned away by gristly tales. This
room has more wicked history under its belt than you can shake a stick at."

"Such as?"

"What about the escape artist, Bernard Roxwell. He worked with Houdini for a time,
before breaking out on his own when the great man died. Legend has it he went
missing after performing the greatest of all escapes. The truth is that event took place
in this very cellar. It was a private function rather than an organised show, so that's
why it's not widely publicised. He was bricked up in a wall and simply disappeared.
Of course, no one thought to collapse the wall and take a look." She indicated the
offending wall.

"Interesting," was his only comment.

"That's not all. In 1951, a journal of events leading up to the outbreak of war was
discovered here. Three years later a body was found hanging in this very room. When
police revealed his identity and looked into his background, they learned the
Englishman had been hanged publicly by the SS for hiding members of the French
underground movement during the German occupation of France. Now, you might
think that's strange enough, but during the original hanging the rope snapped. It was
decreed that divine intervention had taken place and the man was released, whereupon
he fled back to England. The German officer was so shamed that he, too, was forced
to flee in fear of his life. Although the hanging in this cellar was never fully explained,
it's believed the German officer came to England years later to finish the job."

"Intriguing," was the simple comment from Shippley.

My God! How many unmentionables was it going to take to satisfy this individual? If
she wasn't so desperate for money she'd have kicked him straight out on his backside.
Her mind whirled, clutching at any tall tale she could imagine.

"Then there was the time element mystery. In the twenties, the woman owner of this
entire house (before it was split into apartments, you understand) entered this cellar
and couldn't get out again. The very next day her perfectly clean skeleton was
discovered with a piece of clothing brown with age and on the edge of disintegration.
Apparently, she'd written a note something to the effect of: 'How can this be? The
steps which I used to enter this place are gone. The portal is no more, as if never
having existed. I fear I will die here. The waiting is the worst, fading away slowly. Why
does no one come? What have I done in life to deserve such retribution?'

"The note was brittle like parchment and faded with age. When questioned, the
woman's husband said he searched the cellar several times during that one day she
was missing."

Shippley stared at her, eyes glittering.

He's definitely coming around, she thought.

"The only other legend I know of involves a wine collector. The last owner but one
reportedly saw a ghost. Years before, a priceless wine collection was stored in here.
During a burglary he was struck on the head and subsequently died. Every last bottle
was stolen. The ghost was supposedly seen on several occasions placing bottles on
racks which hadn't existed for decades. If you believe that sort of thing," she added.

"Do you believe it?" asked Shippley.

Martina shrugged. "I prefer to keep an open mind."

"Why aren't you making money from this?"

"It's only legend passed down through word of mouth. There's no official
documentation to support any one of them."

There was an uneasy silence before Shippley said, "Would two months in advance be
acceptable?"

It was as if he'd read her mind. "I'll take it," she answered.

When she returned from business in the north just short of three months later, Martina
was stopped by police at the entrance to her apartment building.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"And you are?" enquired the uniform sergeant.

"I own this building. What's going on?"

A young plain clothes man overheard her from behind the open door. "Let her in,
Sergeant."

As she pushed her way through, she said, "Just tell me what this is all about."

"There's been an ... ah, incident. This way, Miss ..."

"Davenport."

"Inspector, this is Miss Davenport. She owns the building." The young man handed
her over to a silver-bearded man in an Italian suit.

Martina was led to her most recently rented apartment and on to the cellar. "What the
hell is this ..." She stopped. They'd reached the bottom of the stone steps and she was
allowed to progress no further.

It wasn't necessary.

Even from here she could smell the blood and carnage, see the bodies, hear the
buzzing flies. She dry-retched and turned her head away.

"You wouldn't normally be allowed to see the crime scene, but this is an unusual
situation, to say the least," explained the inspector. "I'm hoping you can throw some
light on what might have happened here."

Martina steeled herself and scanned the room. There was a body dangling from a
hangman's noose. The head was angled unnaturally, the mouth agape, eyes bugged.

In the far corner was a human skeleton partially clothed in rags. It sat slumped as if
defeated, resigned to its fate. The frame appeared at first to be moving; and then she
saw the beetles. It was like an insect's adventure playground. She noticed small
clumps of flesh still clung to the bones in places.

A short distance away stood a portable wine rack containing a few bottles. Underneath
it, on the floor, lay the body of a sixty year old man. The top of his head had been
smashed in by a heavy blow. A pool of blood extended from it. Nearby, a broken
bottle of red lay. The drink mixed with the blood to form a literal claret.

Martina felt sick to her stomach. How could a child of God behave in this manner? It
was downright twisted. She felt guilty and partially responsible, and with reason. Had
she given Shippley the ideas, or was this simply a random outlet for a psychotic
disorder?

"Do you know who any of these people are, Inspector?"

"Only the hanged man. Jonathan Barker. Apparently his grandfather was somewhat of
a hero, helping the French Resistance during the war."

Martina looked up, horrified. As a thought occurred to her she suddenly rushed
across the cellar to the brick wall.

"Wait a minute! Forensics haven't finished yet."

The Inspector grabbed her arm, but she shook herself free. "You've got to remove
some bricks from this wall. I believe there's a body inside!"

"Now, how would you know that?"

But the Inspector didn't argue. "Help me get this wall down," he instructed two of his
people.

The moment two bricks were removed the stench hit them like a sledgehammer. Far
worse than what was already in the room. "My God!" the inspector muttered. Martina
clamped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth.

"Is it a body?" she asked, feeling extremely nauseous.

A detective constable stuck his head into the recess as soon as the hole was large
enough. He opened his mouth to speak, and then noisily threw up into the cavity.

"Oh, lovely!" commented the Inspector. "Get out of the way and find me a torch." He
shone the light inside and frowned. "It's mummified!" he said.

"That's not possible," said a shocked Martina. "I've only been away three months."

The Inspector turned back to Martina. "You've got a great deal of explaining to do,
young lady."

On the other side of town Clive Shippley (or Robert Stapleton, as he now called
himself) stood in a damp and empty cellar. "I'll bet this cellar has quite a history," he
said.

END