A Ticket To Happiness Read online

It was a hot, sunny afternoon and Helen Spalding stood alone in the old churchyard at Steeple Bayford. She gazed at one of the crumbling tombstones and could just make out the words "Raph Spaldynge" and the date "1568".

  It had taken her two years to trace her ancestors back to Raph and this corner of East Anglia. She was only here, in the churchyard, because of a passage in the slim, Victorian book she was holding. Helen glanced at the worn volume, its title lettering speckled with age, "Antiquities of Steeple Bayford" by Graham Willis.

  She opened the book and re-read the passage that had brought her here,

  “.... The oldest gravestone stands under the great elm and is that of Raph Spalding, a wealthy merchant of the town and local landowner, who was buried here in the year 1568.

  Before passing on from the churchyard of Steeple Bayford, we must note the curious legend of the churchyards one and only haunting, reputedly that of an Elizabethan lady who was burnt for the murder of her husband. Legend has it that she was wrongly accused of her crime and that her sad and sorry ghost still seeks the last resting place of her husband, of whom she was most unjustly deprived. The name of the lady, if she existed at all, is not recorded...."

  Helen smiled and glanced back at the tombstone. Without warning the hairs on the back of her neck and on her arms seemed to stand on end. She later described the feeling as like being caught in the field of a giant electro-magnet.

  Unable to move, Helen felt the shock of the rush of cold air that instantly replaced the tranquility of the hot afternoon. She could do no more than stand like a statue as she became aware of the gently swirling mist that began to appear on the far side of the headstone. Gradually, the apparition of a young woman appeared in the mist and stood at the head of Raph’s grave. Helen inwardly trembled as she realized how much the face of the woman who stood before her resembled her own.

  As the manifestation slowly raised an arm to point at her, Helen was struck by the sheer misery expressed on the face. The lips did not move but Helen heard the pitiful voice,

  “My Lord Hugh of Whaplod, he knows. You must tell the Bishop, Whaplod knows.”

  Suddenly the spectre vanished and Helen felt the warmth of the sun instantly restored to her skin. She looked around but the churchyard was empty. As she regained the ability to think, she realized, with some surprise, that she was not afraid. Whatever it was, had had a calming effect on her. She felt as if the phantom had been waiting for her and was somehow connected to her past.

  As she walked towards the churchyard gate all she could think of was the reference in the book,

  "...the name of the lady, if she existed at all, is not recorded..."

  The next day, Helen was seated in the study of the local vicar. The Reverend Mark Wakeford was a man with a consuming interest in all matters of the paranormal. He freely admitted that it was things that he had discovered in his studies that led to him being ordained.

  Since being installed as the parish priest at Steeple Bayford this was only the second time he had sensed the presence of something extraordinary. He sat back and listened quietly as Helen explained the events in the churchyard, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his fingertips lightly touching in front of his lips. Although he did not move, the expression in his eyes told Helen that she had his undivided attention.

  “When I left the churchyard”, she said, “I went to the old museum in the High Street. I spent the rest of the day going through the old parish records and discovered that a Hugh Whaplod had been Chancellor to the Bishop of Steeple Bayford during the 1560s.”

  She looked for some reaction from the priest. When he did not move she continued.

  “In the Episcopal Register for 1568 I discovered that my ancestor, Raph Spalding, had been murdered. Wedged between the pages of the register I found this.”

  She held out an old piece of paper, tightly folded in four and in surprisingly good condition. The priest reached out and took the document.

  “I was unable to read it myself”, she said, “it’s rather flowery writing and, obviously, in old English.”

  Mark studied the document and, as he examined it, became convinced of its authenticity.

  She continued, “I also discovered that Raph had married a Margaret Spriggs in 1565. She was from this parish, the seventeen-year-old daughter of a farrier. The trouble is, apart from this letter, which she seems to have written, I can find no other reference to her. Oh, except that they did have a son, Henry Spalding, in 1567.”

  The priest sat quietly for a full five minutes turning everything over in his mind. Finally he spoke.

  “This letter isn’t the original” he said, “it’s a copy. However, it is authentic. It was indeed composed by Margaret Spalding but it was common practice in those days to employ a scrivener or, if you like, a professional letter writer. Fortunately for us, scriveners made copies of everything they wrote and that is what this is. No doubt Hugh Whaplod destroyed the original.”

  Helen listened attentively as the priest explained the importance of the church in those days. When it came to the crime of murder, the usual punishment was hanging. However, the Church could insist that the perpetrator of the crime was charged with petty treason, having deprived the Monarch of one of his subjects.

  The punishment for treason was to be burnt at the stake.

  In those days nobody was cremated because it was believed that the burning of a body, which meant that there was no burial, prevented resurrection of the soul.

  After a brief pause, he went on, “furthermore, if a man was murdered by a member of his family, then his estate went to the Church, as a family could not profit from the wrongdoing of another family member.”

  “It would seem”, he said, still scanning the letter, “that the murderer of Raph Spalding was the Bishop’s Chancellor, Hugh Whaplod. He would have known that if he could have Raph’s wife convicted of the crime, then the estate would go to his employer, the Bishop, by which means he would hope to curry favour.”

  He looked at Helen and softened his expression as he concluded, “this letter explains that Margaret, the wife of your ancestor, was falsely accused of the murder. It would appear that she was burnt, deprived of Christian burial and to this day remains earthbound.”

  Helen slowly shook her head as she tried to take it all in.

  “And it’s all explained in that letter?”

  Mark nodded, “If I read the letter to you, you”ll see what I mean.”

  Helen sat spellbound as he read aloud.

  "To my lorde Hugh of Whaplod, chancellor to my goode lorde hys grace the byshoppe,

  sir, I beg of you in alle mercye, as you hope to obtayne mercye, not to procede agaynst mee in thys your wyckid designe. My innocence in my goode husbands death you are aware of, beyng guilty therein yourselfe of that horryble cryme. But I pray you, my lorde, yf you cannot drawe back from this your greate wyckedness, then beseeche my lord sheriff that I be charged not with petty treason for the murder of my husband to the burnyng of my bodie, but with commen murder that I myghte be hanged to the resurrection of my bodie in Christian buryall. I beg you mercy, sir, even in this your unholie cause, remembering that alle oure deeds are knowen unto God. your servaunte and dailly orator Margaret Spaldynge".

  As he finished reading the letter the door to the study opened and Mrs Whapple, his new housekeeper, entered carrying a tray of tea. Mark watched her cross the room and frowned as he sensed again the unease he’d experienced when they first met. She had appeared, out of the blue, on the very day his last housekeeper had left.

  She was good enough at her job but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d engaged herself. The interview had been all one sided and he felt he’d had no choice. As he thanked and introduced her, she looked unblinkingly at Helen. She put the tray down between them and then, to Mark’s surprise, she spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you and the Reverend were talking about. It seems to me that you have discovered a
terrible crime, but,” she continued, anxiously, looking at the priest “I’m sure you and the Reverend will do your best to put things right.”

  She turned to the priest, “you must acknowledge the awful deed done in the name of the church.”

  Without another word she left the room and for once in his life Mark Wakeford was dumbstruck. The room remained silent as he mentally began to fit the pieces together. Just as the puzzled expression on his face changed to one of enlightenment the silence was broken by Helen.

  “Can we do anything, surely there’s something we can do?”

  Mark looked at her, “we can certainly try”, he said, rising, “come here at 11 o’clock tonight and we’ll visit the grave.”

  Later that night Mark Wakeford, dressed in his full regalia, approached the grave. He spoke in hushed tones.

  “Where exactly did she appear before?”

  He stopped as he felt the unexpected coldness in what, until then, had been a warm and sticky night.

  Helen knew she had no need to answer as they both saw, in the moonlight, the mist forming at the head of the grave. Slowly the spirit of Margaret Spalding appeared before them. Helen felt encouraged at the expression of childlike anticipation on her face. The spirit seemed to know that for the first time in over four hundred years she might, at last, be helped. Helen heard Mark chanting something but was too mesmerized by the events to listen closely.

  Suddenly she felt again the rush of cold wind that she’d experienced the day before. Next to the white serenity that shrouded Margaret’s spirit there arose a swirling, fiery cloud. As she watched there appeared a figure dressed in the finery of a man of some importance. She shuddered and for the first time felt afraid. She took a small step to be nearer to Mark sensing that they were now in the presence of evil.

  “Hugh Whaplod”, she heard Mark say authoritatively, “you have been summoned to atone for the wrongdoing to this poor creature of God.”

  With a contemptuous sneer the ghost turned to Mark.

  “You will confess before God to the crime you committed that she may join her husband and find eternal peace.”

  Mark began chanting words unintelligible to Helen and she half expected the ghost of Hugh Whaplod to say something. She was surprised, instead, to see his face contort as if he was suddenly engulfed in agony. A piercing scream filled the churchyard as the fiery cloud engulfed the spectre and then flew off into the distance, finally disappearing as a pinprick of red light.

  Mark’s voice changed from the droning chant to take on a gentle prayer-like quality. Helen briefly glanced at him still unable to understand the language he was using. She watched as Margaret, for the first time looking at peace, moved onto the grave of her husband and slowly sank into it.

  The warmth of the night returned and Helen looked at Mark with a sense of gratitude and admiration. As she felt him take her arm to leave she just caught the words he uttered to himself.

  “Two down, one to go.”

  Helen returned with Mark to his study in the vicarage, aware that the events of the night had taken a great deal out of him. He was pale and seemed to be troubled by something. As they sat in the chairs they’d occupied before, he opened a drawer and took out a small bottle of brandy. Helen refused his offer and watched as he poured a shot into a glass and, throwing his head back, swallowed the contents in one gulp.

  The warmth of the brandy brought colour back to his cheeks and they both looked towards the door as it opened. Mrs Whapple entered and stood in the centre of the room looking at the priest. Her voice had a strange, almost distant quality as she spoke.

  “Tonight, you have administered a spiritual justice that will never be forgotten. You have not only righted a great wrong to Margaret Spaldynge, you have also lifted the curse on the descendants of Hugh Whaplod. We may now all rest in peace.”

  Only Helen seemed surprised and sat open mouthed as Mrs Whapple, or Whaplod as she used to be known, slowly faded from sight.

  Per Ardua ad Astra

  or

  The Longest Night of the Year