THE POTTERTON MEMORIAL

A ghost story for Christmas by Kate Ellis

(featuring Joe Plantagenet)

            ‘Sherry? Mince pie?’

            Joe Plantagenet laughed. ‘Bit traditional isn’t it, George? But why not?’

            ‘Never easy being on your own at Christmas, is it?’ Canon George Merryweather said as he handed Joe his sherry and put the mince pie plate on the side table. ‘It’s something you never really get used to. Since my dear wife died . . .’

            George rarely talked about his late wife and Joe had always assumed the subject was too painful. The loss of a loved one was something they had in common. Maybe it was what had bound them together when Joe had first arrived in the ancient city of Eborby to take up his post at Detective Inspector in the CID.

            The two men sat in amicable silence for a while gazing at the leaping flames inside the wood burning stove. Joe took a sip of the sherry and the taste immediately transported him back to Christmases at his parents’ house in Liverpool when his mother would give him a sly taste while she was preparing the turkey on Christmas Eve. The warm glow of the memory lasted a split second before he was brought back to the present by the sound of George’s voice.

            ‘Did I ever tell you about the Potterton Memorial?’

            ‘What’s the Potterton Memorial?’

            George sat back in his armchair and arched his fingers. ‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without a ghost story and as this is Christmas Eve . . .’

            Joe took another sip of sherry and bit into his mince pie. It was one of George’s own. He had become adept at baking since his late wife passed away and Joe suspected he was rather proud of his culinary achievements.

            ‘I’m up for a ghost story, George. Go on.’    

            George took a deep breath. ‘Thirty years ago a man called Canon Pierce acted as Diocesan exorcist. In those days it was the equivalent to my job as Diocesan Consultant on the Occult but they didn’t give the post such a long-winded title in those days. Before Canon Pierce passed away he told me a very strange tale. Very strange indeed.’

            He drained his sherry glass and poured himself another before topping up Joe’s drink.

            ‘Inside the cathedral, in the north aisle behind the choir there’s a memorial. An insignificant looking thing naming a man called Henry Potterton who died, aged thirty three in the year seventeen eighty nine – the year of the French Revolution as you’ll probably remember from your school history lessons.’

            ‘I remember,’ said Joe, feeling that some response was required.

            ‘Anyway, the spot had always had a bit of a reputation. Choirboys refused to pass it alone and the flower arrangers claimed that the flowers left on a nearby plinth never lasted. They’d wither after a day or so and had to be removed. Although I don’t know how true that is. They also said they felt they were being watched. But this was a long time ago and I haven’t heard of anything like that in my time.’

            ‘Maybe it was some kind of gas leak? A case of mass hysteria?’

            George paused before shaking his head. ‘That’s what I would have concluded but . . .’

            ‘But what?’

            ‘Something happened at Christmas in 1901, the year of Queen Victoria’s death. The incident was documented in cathedral records and I looked it up after Canon Pierce told his story.’ He sat back and took a deep breath as though he was preparing to relate a long tale. ‘It was Christmas Eve and the choir had just sung for the midnight service. The cathedral was decorated magnificently as it always is for the Christmas festivities and the flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. The boys, as boys are on such occasions, were giddy as they looked forward to Christmas Day, and three of the little boy sopranos thought it amusing to dare each other to go into the north aisle, to the tomb of Henry Potterton. One of the boys, ten year old Jacob Hurst, was chosen to approach the monument while his friends watched round the corner in the north transept.’

            ‘What happened?’

            ‘One thing I haven’t mentioned is that the monument is set into the wall and that the centre of the letter O in the name Potterton was missing, forming a small hole. Young Jacob’s dare was that he should take a torch and look into the hole and report what he saw inside the tomb to his friends.

            ‘The boys stood round the corner, giggling, while Jacob went up to the tomb. As he neared the memorial the giggling ceased and his footsteps echoed in the stony silence. The boy was small and had to stand on tiptoe to reach the memorial. He glanced back and saw his fellow choristers in their snowy surplices, standing quite still, frozen like statues, waiting to see what would happen.’

            ‘Let me guess,’ said Joe. ‘Jacob disappeared through the hole and was never seen again.’

            George shook his head, a secretive smile on his lips.  ‘Nothing like that. Of course it was explained away at the time. A severe infection, possibly of the brain and before the days of antibiotics . . .’

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Joe understood. ‘The boy became ill?’

‘He collapsed, clutching at his head. The boys called for help and Jacob was taken home where he passed away later that night. You have to remember that in those days people often died of illnesses that are survivable now.’

‘But?’

‘While the boy was still conscious he managed to say something to the friends who’d rushed over to help him.’ George took another sip of sherry.

            ‘What did he say?’

            ‘He said he’d seen it.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘The demon. Those were his only words before he lost consciousness. Everyone thought it was the result of a fever the lad was suffering from. A delusion.’ He paused. ‘But a few days later somebody, I’m not sure who, gave the order for the hole to be sealed. Since then there’s been no sign of trouble.’ He smiled. ‘And certainly no demons. But it’s strange.’

            ‘What is?’ Joe leaned forward. He found he was enjoying this Christmas ghost story. He put it down to the sherry giving him a warm glow as he waited for George to carry on.

            ‘When I first heard the story from Canon Pierce I was intrigued and I did a spot of research into the Potterton family. That was when I discovered something rather odd. The Henry Potterton interred behind that memorial was said to have made a pact with the Devil. If the evil one gave him great wealth to pay off the serious gambling debts he’d run up, debts that would have led to the loss of the family estate, he’d give the Devil his immortal soul. He was reputed to have led such a wicked life that the cathedral authorities objected to him being buried there but his family were wealthy and influential so . . .’

            ‘They tried to buy his way into heaven.’

            ‘Got it in one, Joe. Nobody told them that it doesn’t quite work like that. Anyway, he ended up in the cathedral with his ancestors.’

            ‘And the memorial?’

            ‘Still there with the hole filled in.’ George glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Time for the midnight service. Coming?’

            Joe nodded and they left the cosy warmth of the fireside and walked together across the cathedral precinct. After the crowded service with its joyful carols, George went off with the other clergy to change out of his vestments and Joe couldn’t resist taking a detour along the north aisle to see the subject of the strange story he’d just been told.

            There were a lot of memorials set into the cold stone walls and it took him some time to find the right one. Sure enough the O in Potterton seemed a little lighter in colour than the rest of the plaque. As he turned away he heard to faint, trickling sound, like something small and fragile falling to the ground.

            There was an elaborate flower arrangement on the other side of the aisle, freshly created by the cathedral flower arrangers for the Christmas celebrations. Just as Joe was admiring its colourful beauty, he saw one of the red roses shrivel before his eyes. Red one moment, brown and rotted the next.

            And when he looked back at the memorial he saw that a small sliver of plaster was missing from the centre of the letter O. Then he felt a sudden chill, as though something evil had just been released into the world.