The Wolfstone Curse Page 3

  A Forrest Domestic Estates Development

  Three, four and five-bedroom homes of distinction

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  SHOW HOME OPENING SOON

  There was no sign of a show home, whether it was opening soon or not.

  “Forrest is losing millions, apparently,” Crichton said.

  “The man you were talking to?”

  The professor nodded, continuing on round the roundabout and down the lane. “His investors are getting jumpy, and they’re waiting for the market to pick up. But all the time Forrest has interest payments on his loans, plus planning fees and God knows what else.”

  “You’d think he’d want to get on with it.”

  “Cash flow problems, I expect,” the professor said, in a tone that Peter guessed meant he hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. “But it’s lucky for us,” he went on,”because it means we’ve got more time to do a proper survey of the circle.”

  “But isn’t the circle itself protected?” Peter asked. “He can’t build on that.”

  “He could still build right up to it. Context is key, remember that. If we want to understand the Wolfstone Circle, then we need to know what was going on around it. Actually, that’s all we’ll ever know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Crichton took a sharp turn, and they bumped along a narrow track that seemed to lead nowhere.

  “We’re not allowed to dig inside the circle itself. We’ve tried non-invasive techniques like ground-penetrating radar, but we just get back a solid disc of rock. Could be natural, or it might be part of the construction. I’m hoping we’ll learn more from peripheral evidence. And from looking back over the results of previous surveys.”

  “There have been some, then?”

  “Years ago. Mainly amateur affairs. But yes, there’s some stuff that might be useful.”

  The track petered out. Ahead of them was a young man, his long hair blowing round his face. Peter recognised Mike, one of his dad’s post-graduate students from Hinton University archaeology department.

  Mike and Abby had walked from the Red Fleece. Abby was actually Dr Abigail Messenger, who worked in Professor Crichton’s department as a lecturer. She was already at work with tape measure, camera and theodolite.

  “To be honest,” she told Peter as she adjusted the theodolite’s tripod, “the app on my phone’s almost as good as this old thing. But your dad’s brought a newer one with a built-in digital camera and GPS. At least, I hope he has.”

  Strands of her long brown hair had escaped from the elastic band that held it in a tight ponytail, and she paused to sort it out. The wind across the exposed fields blew her hair into a frenzy round her face as she untangled the band.

  The Wolfstone Circle wasn’t actually a circle. For one thing, it was incomplete. For another, if it had been complete it would have been a flattened circle – an ellipse.

  Peter had seen stone circles before, but even so he was impressed. Out here, in the middle of nowhere with the breeze tugging at his jacket, the atmosphere was palpable. These stones had stood for thousands of years, impassive and permanent. Peter counted nineteen of them in all.

  The sun was low in the sky, silhouetting the stones. He could see why Forrest had said that the sunset would be impressive. As Peter ran his hand over the rough surface of one of the stones, it seemed to glitter.

  “Quartz, or some similar crystal – do you see it?” Mike was standing beside him.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “An unusually high level for granite like this. They chipped a bit off one of the stones for analysis back in the 1950s or “60s.” Mike pointed across the empty field. “There’s a track over there that leads back to the pub. Quicker than driving. And that way…” He turned to point in the opposite direction. “That way is Wolfstone Manor. Or what’s left of it. Forrest Estates owns all this land now, so feel free to explore, if it gets boring.”

  They both turned to watch Peter’s dad and Abby talking enthusiastically beside one of the larger stones.

  “I’ll give it ten minutes,” Peter said.

  Mike laughed. “Brave man.”

  Actually, he gave it fifteen. It looked like the professor and the others were set for the evening, so Peter said he’d see them back at the pub for a meal later. Once the professor got involved in a dig, he lost all concept of time. So Peter decided he might as well go for a wander.

  The sun had become a deep red, touching the horizon and defying the remaining skittish wisps of cloud. Peter headed for a small area of woodland. Just as far as the wood, he thought, then he’d head back to the pub. Maybe he’d see the girl again.

  Through the trees Peter noticed what looked like the remains of a stone wall. He skirted the wood. Dusk was gathering, and the area between the trees was receding into darkness.

  He was about to turn and retrace his steps when he saw the gateposts. Two large stone pillars stood in the middle of the field, and from one of them hung an iron gate. It was tilting at a precarious angle, as if it might tear free of the hinge and fall at any moment. Originally there must have been a pair of gates. In the middle of nowhere.

  Peter guessed the ruined wall he’d glimpsed had once reached these gateposts. On one of the posts – the one now without its gate – a stone plaque announced in weathered, crumbling letters:

  WOLFSTONE MANOR

  The wind was getting up, gusting through the trees so it sounded almost like a distant voice calling for help. Peter shook his head. Just his imagination.

  The pillars were stark shadows against the setting sun. They were so old, yet so much newer than the stones in the circle. He reached out for the nearest pillar and felt the stone crumble and flake under his hand. Dry and rough. Only then did he glance up.

  To see the wolf snarling down at him from the top of the pillar.

  “It scared the life out of me,” Peter admitted.

  “You never thought it was real?” David Forrest leaned back and laughed. Peter had found him in the bar again, absorbed in his iPad. Obviously David knew the wi-fi password.

  “The sun was in my eyes,” Peter said. “I didn’t see the wolf statue until I was in the shadow of the pillar. Is the manor still there?” Peter asked, anxious to change the subject.

  “Oh yes,” David said. “It’s just a shell now. About ready to fall down, I think. Best avoided, Dad says.”

  “Pity.” It might have been interesting. If anything round here could be interesting.

  “There’s probably something about it in one of the books if you want to know more.”

  “What books?”

  One whole wall of the restaurant was a single massive bookcase, with sections closed off behind glass-fronted doors. The contents ranged from old, dusty leather-bound volumes to modern paperbacks, from large-format illustrated guides to pamphlets.

  “It’s all local history,” David said, opening one of the bookcase doors.

  “And folklore, and a bit of magic,” another voice added.

  The girl that Peter had met earlier was standing in the doorway. She was leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded. She pushed herself upright without unfolding her arms and walked across to join them.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked David, ignoring Peter.

  “Just looking. Peter didn’t know these were here.”

  “It’s an impressive collection,” Peter said.

  The girl still ignored him, and he felt embarrassed and stupid. He wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

  She unfolded her arms for long enough to take a large hardback from one of the shelves. She handed it to David.

  “There’s something about the manor in here. Page 64, I think.”

  “Thanks,” Peter said. He spoke to her back as she left. Only after she had gone did he realise she must have overheard them talking in the bar to know he was interested in Wolfstone Manor.

  “Don’t mind Carys,” David said. “She’s always like that. Ah,
here we go.”

  WOLFSTONE MANOR

  Now sadly neglected and in disrepair, Wolfstone Manor was the ancestral home of the du Bois family, who lived there from the Norman Conquest up until the Second World War. After the war, following Lionel du Bois’s ill-advised liaison with Himmler, the house was left empty.

  Wolfstone Manor, as it was in 1952.

  Grade-two listed, and described by Pevsner as “one of England’s best examples of late Tudor architecture”, the manor is sadly not open to visitors. Despite its robust appearance it is thought to be in imminent danger of collapse and is listed as ‘At Risk’ by English Heritage. Today it remains little more than a shell; its legendary wild parties long since over.

  For those who are interested, the Gloucestershire County Archives include a copy of Doctor Ibbotson’s 1952 survey of the property, complete with photographs and drawings of the du Bois coat of arms – the central wolf motif echoes through the general architecture of the property.

  “I see you’ve found the library,” Professor Crichton said a few minutes later when he, Mike and Abby arrived back from the circle. “Your father joining us?” he asked David before Peter could reply.

  “He should be back soon.” David took out his phone. “I’ll give him a call, but don’t wait for us.” He went outside in search of a decent signal.

  “Plenty to read while we wait for dinner,” Abby said.

  “Anything useful?” Crichton asked.

  “Who knows?” Mike answered. “Well, Faye Seymour does, I expect. But she’s not telling.”

  “Why not?” Peter asked.

  Mike held his hands up and wiggled his fingers spookily. “Because no good ever came of anyone who dared to investigate the mysterious Wolfstone Circle,” he said in an exaggerated rural accent. “Ooh-ah!”

  Peter laughed. But no one else did. Mike went pink, and Peter realised that the room had suddenly gone quiet. He felt himself colour up as well. Guilt by association.

  “They say it because it’s true,” Mrs Seymour said quietly. “And you’d do well to remember that.” She was carrying a pile of menus. “I assume you’re eating?”

  “Sorry,” Mike muttered. “I was just…”

  “I know.” She handed him a menu. “I have no problem with you doing your survey, or taking the mickey. But you should seriously consider what’s happened in the past.”

  “It’s all just myth and legend,” Abby said. “Folklore. Superstition.” She held her hands up as if in surrender. “I don’t mean to belittle it. But we’re doing a proper scientific survey using the most modern techniques and equipment.”

  “Well, to be fair,” Professor Crichton said, studying the new menu, “that’s what they would have claimed in 1922.” He closed the menu and smiled at Mrs Seymour. “Is the Huntsman’s Pie as good as they say?” He could be charming when he bothered.

  “Better,” she told him. “You know what happened in 1922?”

  Crichton nodded. “And I agree with you. We should understand and take seriously what’s happened in the past.”

  Mike said nothing until Mrs Seymour had gone. “She’s mad as a hatter,” he told them all. “You shouldn’t encourage her. I was actually making a serious point.”

  “So was I,” Peter’s father told him. “I don’t agree with their ideas about why things happened, but happen they did. We all know that.”

  “I don’t,” Peter said. “I have no idea what you’re all on about.”

  Carys came in to take drinks orders while Mike was explaining. “No one knows what happened. There was a survey, and it never got completed. Some trouble with the superstitious locals probably. People like…” He broke off as he realised Carys was watching him. “Well, you know. Er – I’ll have a pint of Claw-Toe.”

  Carys nodded without comment and looked at Peter. It was the first time she’d looked at him properly and he felt his stomach lurch. How stupid was that? She obviously didn’t like him.

  The others were already talking about what they wanted to do the next day. At the mention of geophysics and satellite data, Peter tuned out and examined the menu.

  “Hand.”

  “Sorry?” He looked up and found Carys staring down at him.

  She sighed, and took hold of his right hand, lifting it up.

  “You going to read my palm?” Peter wondered.

  “Mum might. Not me.” She slapped a book into his hand. “Homework. There’s a whole chapter.”

  “What?”

  She was already turning away. “You said you didn’t know what they were talking about. You want to find out?”

  The book was called Neolithic Sites in the West of England. There was a photograph of a standing stone on the cover, half of it faded from sunlight. The other half – perhaps protected by another book – was bright and vivid.

  Sure enough, there was a short chapter on Wolfstone.

  THE WOLFSTONE CIRCLE

  The Wolfstone Circle – or the Dancing Wolves, as it is sometimes called in medieval literature – is not in fact a circle but an ellipse. Recent research suggests that the circle was never actually complete and one side has always been missing.

  Local myths and legends about the circle are of course plentiful. According to one story, it is a broken bracelet dropped by a giant who quarrelled with his wife. The most colourful of these stories tells how the stones are actually the soldiers of Henry du Bois.

  The legend says that Henry was given to drunken debauchery and excess. During a particularly wild evening some time in the late eighteenth century, he made advances to a servant girl, who fled in fear of her honour from Wolfstone Manor. Enraged at the rejection, Henry rounded up his private troops and hunted the poor girl across Wolfstone Moor (now mainly farmland).

  But unluckily for them, the girl’s mother was a local witch. She confronted Henry and his men and invoked a curse that would only affect them if they did not stop their revelry. But as Henry and his men continued their taunts, she turned them to wolves. And when the wolves continued to dance round the witch and her daughter, she turned them to stone. Henry, however, is said to have escaped and fled for his life. Haunted by the events, he became a recluse and made generous donations to the village church – where his effigy remains to this day. He adopted the wolf as his family emblem…

  The truth, of course, is far more mundane. The circle dates back to Neolithic times – long before Henry du Bois and his fabled excesses. As with all such monuments, the original purpose, if it had one, is unknown. Some stone circles are aligned with the movement of the sun, though there is a theory that the Wolfstone Circle is actually aligned with the lunar cycle.

  The stones themselves are also unusual and distinctive, their high quartz content meaning that they glisten in the light of the sun (and moon). A composition analysis performed by Sir Gerald Swift in the 1950s also revealed an unusual level of silver compounds.

  Photograph taken by Professor Matthias’s ill-fated survey team, 1922.

  The circle has been surveyed and studied several times – with mixed results. The noted seventeenth-century artist Tobias Fanshawe sketched the circle. A more accurate scale drawing was made by Lord Beckenhyme in 1876 as part of his Survey of the Ancient Sites of Britain.

  Indeed this was the last site he surveyed, and his death from a suspected heart attack in the centre of the Wolfstone Circle, just after he completed his work, has given rise to more legend and speculation. There is no factual basis for the subsequent claims that two of his surveyors were found torn apart “as if by wild beasts” while a third was committed to an asylum for the rest of his life.

  But even so, it was perhaps these stories and reports that led to the famous Oxford University fiasco of 1922. Professor Matthias and his three students are said to have fled screaming from the circle after attempting to chart the shadows cast by the stones in the light of the full moon. What really happened that night, if anything – for Matthias was a notorious prankster – will never be known. Professor Matthi
as lived until 1963, but for the rest of his life he never spoke of Wolfstone again…

  Peter passed the book round as they waited for the food to arrive. Everyone was keen to try the Huntsman’s Pie, which turned out to be venison and mushroom.

  “Bit sensationalist,” Crichton decided, passing the book on to Mike. “Can’t decide if it wants to stick to the facts or recount the legends.”

  “And what about 1876?” Peter asked. “Did that man really go crazy like it says?”

  No one seemed to know. Abby asked Mrs Seymour about the 1922 ‘fiasco’ when she and Carys came to clear the plates.

  “There’s a copy of the local newspaper report from November 1922 somewhere,” she told them. “They took it seriously at the time, though there’s a more recent theory that it was some sort of publicity stunt or hoax. Have a look for anything by Thomas Arterton.”

  “Is he an expert?” Mike asked.

  “Local amateur historian. But he was living here in the 1920s. He was usually pretty meticulous.”

  “And what’s he say about the 1922 survey?” Crichton asked.

  “He hedges his bets, from what I remember. But he does mention an earlier dig.”

  “The one in 1876?” Peter asked.

  Mrs Seymour turned to look at him. He was surprised how clear and sharp her eyes were. And as green as Carys’s – you could tell she was the girl’s mother from the eyes more than anything.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Two of the men went missing. Their bodies turned up a few days later. Arterton suggests an attack by some wild animal. Probably just rumour and gossip. Local exaggeration.”

  “Probably,” Mike agreed. “It happens.”

  “There are documented accounts of mutilated cattle, though,” Professor Crichton said. “There was an incident with sheep quite recently, I seem to remember.”

  “Not since the 1970s,” Mrs Seymour said. “If you call that recent.”

  He smiled. “I’m an archaeologist. That’s very recent.”