GHOSTS IN THE CLOISTERS ANIL BALAN KINDLE EDITION COPYRIGHT 2011 ANIL BALAN All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. GHOST WALK Jennifer did not know who she blamed more for her present predicament – Professor Hodge for making that oblique comment about her essays on English Medieval History ‘lacking sufficient empathy’, her best friend Gillian for suggesting that she do an interview with a guide from one of the city’s infamous ghost tours to gain the said empathy, or herself for listening to either of them. ‘Hear spine-chilling stories from Oxford’s past’ proclaimed the lurid red on black letters on the sign in front of Trinity College. Jennifer saw a figure, presumably the tour guide that she was supposed to be meeting, dressed distinctively in a top hat and flowing black robes like a Victorian undertaker standing on Broad Street just outside the famous blue gates and railings of Trinity – an attempt to heighten the eerie atmosphere she guessed. Wishing that she could be just about anywhere else in the world at that moment but realising that it was probably too late to back out of this now, Jennifer approached the guide with caution. “Hi, I’m Jennifer… from BNC?” The guide turned and looked at her suspiciously. Close up, Jennifer saw that he was wearing a considerable quantity of make-up that had turned his face as white as that of a Parisian street mime. In an attempt to maintain an appearance of polite courtesy Jennifer tried not to look too closely to determine whether the guide was also wearing mascara and lipstick, as the unnatural colour of his eyes and lips seemed to suggest. “BNC?” said the guide with a scowl. “Brasenose College. You may remember that we spoke on the telephone about me doing an interview – you are Steve aren’t you?” “Oh yes, that’s me. Steve Partridge.” he said and took her hand with a grin, moving up close to reveal his mottled yellow teeth and unwittingly giving her a taste of his halitosis. Jennifer had preferred it when he had scowled at her – it was also clear close up that beneath the clown make-up the guide was considerably older than he had first appeared. “Well, where would you prefer to do this?” Jennifer looked around and saw a couple of suitable meeting places – there was a cosy coffee shop just opposite and the convivial White Horse Tavern was also only a few yards away from where they were standing. For a brief hopeful moment, given their location, Jennifer wondered whether Steve was somehow connected with Trinity College. With its famous gardens, just visible through the splendid wrought- iron gates, Trinity was one of the prettiest colleges in Oxford, with lawns and trees that would do credit to the finest country house. Conducting the interview in such peaceful and secluded environs might actually make the whole experience half- bearable. Her nascent optimism was quickly dashed by Steve’s next words however. “Oh no, we can’t go anywhere now – it’s almost six o’clock.” he said, tapping his wristwatch and pointing at the sign behind him. Following his finger Jennifer read with a sinking heart the words which were underneath the title that she had seen earlier: ‘Guided Tours Start at 6.00 pm every week day - £12 Adults, £8 Children/Concessions’. “But, the interview…” she started, her voice forlorn. “This is it.” Steve said, flashing her what he presumably thought was a winning smile, wider and hence even more yellow that the previous one. Jennifer mentally kicked herself for not realising as soon as she saw that he was in costume that Steve was about to start a ghost tour. Seized with a sudden panic (What if anyone she knew saw her? She would never live down the embarrassment!) Jennifer tried to make her getaway. “I can see that you’re busy Steve – that is, Mr Partridge – perhaps another time…” “Nonsense, I’m an expert at multi-tasking. Anyway, it’s too late to back out now – here comes the rest of the group.” Jennifer turned to see a crowd of about a dozen people of varying ages approaching. From their cameras and belt-bags, as well as their leisurely gait and wide-eyed appreciation of their surroundings, she immediately identified them as foreign tourists. Before she even heard their accents close up she guessed that they were from the USA or Canada – it was obvious from the fact that they were wearing shorts and t-shirts in early March as well as from their red faces and bulging waistlines. There might have been healthy and toned tourists from North America, of course, but Jennifer had never come across any of them in Oxford. It was an uncharitable thought, she knew, but it reflected her mood at that moment. As soon as they spied Steve, the tourists eagerly formed a semi-circle around him. His expression turned sombre as they did so, as if he was getting into the dour character of the undertaker that he was portraying. From the slight twitching at the corners of his mouth, however, Jennifer could tell that he was relishing every second of this. “Welcome one and all, welcome to Oxford, home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties!” Jennifer saw one of the female tourists nudge the man standing next to her, who she guessed was her husband, and heard her whisper “Didn’t I tell you Chad, in Oxford everyone’s so clever that even the tour guides are poets!” Jennifer rolled her eyes and, in an even lighter whisper, said “I think that he’s got Matthew Arnold to thank for that one.” “The ghoulish manifestations of countless ghastly acts wander the streets of Oxford and in the next hour I shall take you to the scenes of some of the darkest, bloodiest and most unspeakable events in the city’s long and gory history. But first you must all experience what for many is the most frightening part of the tour, the moment that has even reduced many grown men to tears…” At his words Jennifer saw a mixture of reactions on the faces in the group. A small boy who looked to be no older than seven was staring at Steve, his eyes rapt with attention, while the woman holding his hand, presumably his mother, frowned slightly, perhaps wondering suddenly whether the tour was too scary for her child. A couple of the male tourists had knowing smiles on their faces while a little girl was hiding behind another of the young women in the group, her face buried in her mother’s skirt. Jennifer herself was barely moved, however, as she had a good idea what Steve was building up to next. “… This is the moment when I must ask for your money!” he finished with a flourish. There was laughter and even a couple of cheers from the crowd, as well as some audible sighs of relief, and then everyone was busy digging around in their pockets, wallets and purses for notes and coins to hand over to Steve. All of the money tendered went into a large black pouch which then disappeared somewhere inside the undertaker’s cloak before he turned to address his audience. “I’m Steve,” he said, beaming at the group, “Just remember that name, as last week one tourist thought my name was Geede!” Steve pointed at the ‘Guide’ badge on his lapel, prompting another round of laughter, and even some clapping this time. Jennifer gritted her teeth at the thought of the hour ahead – for her it appeared that the horror of the tour had only just begun. In the event it came as a pleasant surprise to Jennifer to find that the early focus of the tour was on history rather than the paranormal. Steve told how Broad Street, where they had all stood at the start of the tour, had formerly been the Oxford city ditch and was also the exact spot where the bishop martyrs Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, and Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London, were all burnt at the stake for heresy towards the Crown in the realm of Bloody Mary. Just as Jennifer was about to grudgingly give Steve credit for being better informed than she might have expected the guide of a ghost tour to be, he ruined the effect by standing on a manhole in the middle of the street and loudly proclaiming that it was the exact spot where the burnings had taken place, as was evidenced by the scorch marks that were still visible there to this day, and the screams of the unfortunate victims, which could apparently sometimes still be heard early in the morning. As a pair of passing students, overhearing this, giggled loudly and a couple of shaven-headed local teenagers loitering nearby said “Ugh, tourists” in audible whispers, Jennifer reflected that Oxford hospitality did not appear to have improved since the time of the bishop martyrs.