If there was one thing that he hated more than anything, it was the way she had of waking him in the morning.

"Oh, just shut up will you." Roland couldn't be sure whether it was the rain dripping from the overhanging tree or the banshee wail of 'that bloody woman' that had dragged him back into the land of the living.
The watery sun was just rising as he pulled himself out from the relative warmth in the shadow of the gravestone and this was the third morning that he had been so rudely awakened by the inhuman noise. Today he was determined to find the woman and persuade her to find somewhere else to kip - he was here first.

"After all," he muttered to himself, "being homeless is bad enough, but a bloke deserves a bit of peace and quiet - especially in a cemetery!"

The church clock stuck seven and, being a man of regular habits, Roland neatly folded his cardboard and newspaper home, brushed his hair with his fingers and set off through the cemetery gates to the park, there to meet his friend, Sydney.
He had once called him Syd, only to be sharply corrected: "One has to keep one's standards, old chap."

"I think there's a woman in pain, dossing down in the crem'," said Roland as they settled down on a park bench in the shelter of an oak tree to make breakfast of a pack of stale cheese and pickle sandwiches - sandwiches that Sydney had recently charmed from the lady in the park's cafe.

"Why do you think that, dear boy?" asked Sydney, delicately nibbling at his sandwich.

"Well, I been hearing her screaming these last few mornings."

"Are you sure that it's not just your imagination, or the DTs? - that plonk you imbibe is pretty lethal." Sydney was proud to be one of the few homeless people in Winfield who had not yet retreated into a bottle.

"I knows a woman's scream when I hears one," said Roland indignantly as he stood and ambled across to the decorative fountain to perform his morning ablutions.

"Well, if it's not the vino, maybe it's the ghost of St Cuthberts."

"The what?"

"The ghost of St Cuthberts. Come to the library with me and we'll look it up in the local history section - it's quite warm in there."

"I can't go into the library. I've been banned. That snotty woman, Miss Hartington-Whatsits-Knickers, called me a smelly cretin - miserable witch."

"Well, old fellow," said Sydney wrinkling his nose. "You do whiff a touch some days."

"Sod the silly cow. I've just 'ad a wash, you saw me," said Roland indignantly.

"I'll tell you what, Rolo old chap. You nip into town to cultivate some funds and I'll make a visit to the library to find out what we need to know. Of course, I'm welcomed there with open arms," announced Sydney pompously.
Eventually, after throwing their remaining crumbs to the equally hungry ducks, the pair went their separate ways: Roland to beg a few coins from the early workers in the town centre and Sidney to charm the pants off Miss Isobel Hartington-Brown in the library. Sydney's overall aim however was to take advantage of that building's excellent central heating system. He had been often heard to bemoan the fact that the library didn't offer a cafe.

For Roland the day passed like all those before it; slowly and cold. From his regular pitch on the steps outside Boots the Chemist he collected a respectable collection of coins of varying denominations and nationalities, not enough for an evening in the night-shelter, but enough to keep him and Sydney in hot drinks. Unfortunately for Sydney, the majority of the collection was earmarked for a bottle of his favourite cheap tipple.

"So, Rolo old fellow, how went the day?" challenged Sydney as he spied the disheveled form of Roland trudging toward him in the twilight.

"Not bad," said Roland jingling his pockets. "I've got enough 'ere for an 'ot drink or two - and a little something to 'elp me sleep." He patted the flat lump in his coat pocket.

"You'll need to leave that stuff alone tonight, old bean. Just wait till you hear what I've discovered for you."

"How did you manage to stay awake for so long?" asked Roland sarcastically.

"Well, old chap, it wasn't easy," said Sydney, "but I'm proud to report that, with a bit of charm and persuasion, the glorious Miss Hartington-Brown allowed me to view some of the, shall we say, more salacious records in the library's inner sanctum".

Roland ignored the patronising tone and told him, "to get on with it."

"Don't be so impatient, dear Rolo and all will soon become clear. But I must warn you," counselled Sydney. "It's not a pretty story. You see," he continued, "during his absence, fighting for King and Country in the Great War, Lord Gordon Winfield came to hear that his spouse, the Lady Anne, was associating - I think that's a reasonable term - with certain of her husband's estate workers." Glancing up, Sydney could see that he now had Roland's full attention.
"Well, to cut a very long story short: upon his return from the battle front, the cuckolded Lord Gordon, wishing to soil neither his lilly-white hands nor his reputation, paid a local brigand to do away, one at a time, with each of the men involved in his wife's descent into depravity."

"Go on," said Roland. "You're 'aving me on."

"I assure you, my dear boy, it's all absolutely authentic - and it gets worse." Sydney settled back in his seat raising the tension and preparing to complete his story.

"Yes, but 'ow did 'e get away with it? If 'e killed free or four blokes, surely someone would've sussed out wot was goin' on?" Roland sat forward on the bench, both hands gripping the edge tightly.

"It was actually four men who met their ends during the winter of nineteen eighteen," said Sydney, a stickler for form and accuracy. "And of course," he continued, "there were no clues as to the miscreant until the following year when his lordship made his one big mistake!"

"But wot's this got to do with the ghost?" asked Roland, spotting a flaw in Sydney's story.
"If there was four blokes got rid of, 'ow come the ghost I been 'earing is a woman?" With a look of simple triumph, Roland sat back waiting for the smooth-tongued Sydney to squirm his way out of the challenge.

"Patience, dear boy, patience. I haven't finished." Sydney leaned forward to look directly into Roland's widening eyes and continued quietly, "it was late summer of the following year that Lord Winfield, not content with events so far, personally took his wife's life and, with a cruel twist of revenge, dismembered her body." Sydney smiled as Roland shivered.

"Stone me," said Roland pulling his coat tightly around him and nodding rapidly as some kind of affirmation. "So that's 'er wot wakes me up in the mornings?"

"That's right, old chap, but, to complete the story, his lordship was finally caught out by the bootprints that he left at each graveside when he buried the various parts of Lady Anne with her lovers.

"They say that her ghost roams your cemetery looking for at least one of her long lost loves. So, you see, the wailing that you hear could be Lady Anne Winfield pleading for space to spend her last days."
With that, a conceited Sydney sat back, satisfied that he had done the story justice.

"Whoa, that's spooky," said Roland earnestly. "Has anyone actually ever seen 'er ladyship, then, or will I be the first?"

"No, " said Sydney. "But many have seen the vixen calling her cubs."

[THE END]

© scrapyardsummer 2017