Lost Lovers' Beech

The people of Southwold had christened it ‘Lost Lover’s Beech’. The tree had stood for decades at the perimeter of the village playing fields, where the neatly mowed grass merged into the sprawling spinney. Children were cautioned not to enter the small gathering of trees or go near the Beech. Parents warned their sons and daughters that there were spirits wandering the woods or that the badger setts in there were home to goblins. Harmless myth to keep local kids from being stung by nettles or twisting their ankles tripping over tree roots. However, even the adults seemed wary of those trees, not attempting to enter it despite the tempting shade it offered on hot summer days or when the carpet of bluebells was so picturesque that it would make any photographer or painter weak at the knees. There was an unwritten rule that the Lost Lover’s Beech and all the land behind it was out of bounds.

Rosaline thought it was all superstition. Just countryside tales to pass from generation to generation, a spark of mystery to brighten up this dull but picturesque South England village. She’d been hard pressed getting any of the locals to tell her about it beyond the various myths about goblins, ghosts and ghouls which dwelled among the trees. They knew exactly the incidents she wanted them to open up about but mostly she got a surprised look or a solemn shaking of a head before their cheerful, country-bumpkin attitudes dropped and turned cold. 

Notepad and pen in hand, she decided to question the pub owner’s son. He seemed more the type to give her what she needed to hear. The countryside community cliqueness hadn’t sucked him in, judging by the eyeliner, dyed hair and lips rings. The kid probably couldn't wait to leave here and go to London or Manchester. Anywhere but a village where the most entertaining thing to do was get drunk in a graveyard and bother elderly neighbours.

“So, Lost Lover’s Beech, what's the deal with it? Why has a tree got a name like that?” She presses. The teen, who had introduced himself in a gruff voice as Sam, smirks.

“It’s because a bunch of couples in the sixties carved their names into the tree. You know, just initials in a heart. But then each of them died together after doing that. The ways they died were really weird, completely impossible.” He says, leaning back into the oxblood leather seat of the pub’s interior. Rosaline notes it down. This was what she had been looking for. 

The various newspaper articles she’d pulled off the database never gave the specifics of the death. It was vague. ‘Car accident’, ‘sad incident’, ‘unfortunate circumstances’ were all that was disclosed, accompanying a picture of the deceased teens. The names of the three couples were given: Rosemary Bark and Matthew Willis, Nancy Holden and Mark Black, Cynthia Allen and Cormac O'Reilly. No mention of the tree was ever presented. That's why she was here. She had to unearth the significance of that Beech tree since it was the only common denominator tying all six lives together.

“It's all very hush-hush though. People round here will blather all day about elves and fairies in the spinney like a bunch of kids but you say one word about the incidents and they shut right up.” Sam adds, now picking at chipped back nail varnish on his fingertips.

“Why are they so ‘hush-hush’?” Rosaline probes. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of asking a teenager sooner. Of course they'd disregard the fairy-tale nonsense and be far more absorbed in the grisly reality.

“Well, some of it is because their siblings are still alive and they don't want to speak ill of the dead or they’re traumatised or something. Rest of it is a stupid reputation thing. They don't want to lose out on getting visitors to come here. Dumb decision because I swear we’d get more tourists if we did tours or something. Like they do with Jack the Ripper in London.” His tone is snarky. Clearly he’s at the stage in puberty where everything in his small hometown irritates him. Rosaline has an inkling that she’d hit gold with this one.

“I noticed the relatives were cagey when I tried to interview them. Since no one wants to talk about it, how did you end up knowing so much? Is there anyone else who would talk about it?” She asks. There has got to be more people who know or are just simply willing to speak sense. 

Sam leans in closer. 

“Old Crackpot Jack. He’s the one who found Cynthia and Cormac’s bodies so he knows that what happened to them was fucked up and no way was it just an accident or a suicide pact. He told me all about it one day when I was smoking in the graveyard. Tries telling everyone who listens but no one believes him since he's Old Crackpot Jack. That's how he got his name.” There's a grin on the boy's face. He sits back in the chair once again, smug now he's relayed something of use.

Rosaline writes the name down. Easier for locals, who talk of supernatural occurrences, to brand the one who talks sense as a ‘crackpot’. It was brilliantly ironic.

“Where would I find Jack?” She concludes, readying herself to walk to wherever he was located and finally have a successful interview. The sooner she got the story, the sooner she could get the train back to London. A weekend in the countryside was quite enough pastoral tweeness for her. It brought back all too many memories of failed Duke of Edinburgh expeditions.

“West-Point church. Right next to the playing fields. He’s the groundskeeper there so he basically never leaves the place. If not, his cottage is the one out on White Horse Road. It’s the one with all the junk in the front garden.” He replies, smiling. She thanks him and exits the pub. The pub owner doesn’t wave to her as she leaves, merely glares when he looks up from tending to the rose bushes by the door.

Crackpot Jack was indeed at the church when she opens the whining cast-iron gate and steps into the cool graveyard, thick with yew trees. Despite it having a groundskeeper, the grass was long and lush. Great crops of cowslip bloomed between the crumbling headstones.

Jack was gnarled, like the yew trees themselves. Years of toiling under the sun and in rain had hardened his skin to resemble bark. He was stooped and swayed as he walked. One eye was milky and cataracted. Rosaline felt a degree of eeriness encountering this man. Perhaps the villagers did have a point about avoiding him purely because he wasn't exactly pleasant to look at.

“So, Jack, what can you tell me about Lost Lover’s Beech? I've been struggling to get any conclusive story beyond fairy-tales from anyone else here.” Rosaline figures an explanation like this would land Jack on her side and make him more open to helping her. The old man tuts and leans on his spade.

“Oh you won't be getting any sense out of them lot. None at all. Don't want to face the truth. Rather spin old wives tales. Load of nonsense, the lot of it!” He seethes, shaking his head.

“I gathered as such. I was hoping you could cast some light on the real story behind that tree.” Rosaline was hoping he'd take the bait and talk. Jack gives a nod.

“Come into the church here. We can sit in the utility room and have some tea. Away from any listening ears.” 

The church's interior was chilly, smelling strongly of the incense burned there every Sabbath. Perching on an old garden chair, Rosaline sips at the weak tea made with some long life milk. She fondly remembers the many soya lattes she ordered back at work in London.

“Back when I was a boy, before any of the deaths, the tree was a meeting place for young people, specifically couples. Far enough away that they wouldn't be seen but not so far that they couldn’t get back home before their parents got suspicious. All the kids knew about it. But it wasn't called Lost Lover’s Beech back then, we all just called it ‘The Tree’.” Jack explains, staring off at the distance, recalling days when he wasn’t old and rough as worn leather. Rosaline tries to imagine him as a boy but he seems just too ancient for that idea to even be conceivable.

“Then in, ooh let's see, 1964, Rosie and Matt decided it was ‘their’ tree, since they always met up under it. They carved their initials on it. Course, all us kids saw it and some of us were annoyed at them for doing since the tree didn’t belong to them, it was for everyone. Some adults grumbled about them ‘defacing’ it but it was hardly an important issue.” Rosaline recalls the heart-shaped scars she’d seen upon the  trunk.

“So, Rosie and Matt were found dead June 19th, 1964, correct?” Rosaline asks, checking the notes she’d made from trawling the newspaper archives. Jack replies with a slow nod.

“Mick Patterson found them when out walking his dogs. Just looked like they were standing under the tree. They’d been hung up with bailing twine, feet still on the ground and all. Course, everyone said it was some sort of suicide pact. It was impossible for them to die with the way they’d been hung. Plus, neither of them had any real issues with, you know, their minds. Both happy teenagers who were in a puppy-love phase.” Jack’s eyes become stony as though he was staring right at the scene he’d described. Rosaline takes a moment to process what had just been recounted to her. It was starting to sound like maybe a ritual killing or even a serial killer. Similar to the Zodiac Killer who also targeted young couples. Something about suspending the bodies to make them appear alive made her skin tingle.

“So, everyone just denied that it was suspicious? No police investigation?” She asks. Surely police had to have come along and gathered that this was undeniably macabre.

Jack chuckles coldly.

“Police were the worst of them. Came, took the bodies away and declared it as suicide. Everyone just accepted it. After all, the police are to be respected, they know what's what, don't they?” He raises one wiry eyebrow at her.

“You and the other kids, what did you all think?” Rosaline queries.

“Oh, we knew something was up. None of believed the adults when they said it was suicide. Talk started about it being a curse or old ritual, maybe Pagan or Satanic. Some of it was just cheap gossip, to scare the younger ones. Deep down, all of us knew it wasn't right. Started avoiding that tree. My friends did anyway.”

So far, so good, Rosaline thinks to herself. If she manages to get together a report on this, she’d definitely be going places at work. No more reporting on dull, trivial garbage. She could almost hear the words ‘promotion’ slipping from her boss’s lips. He told her to deliver a sensational story to drive up readership and she was going to serve up a historical mystery murder case.

“Then the others, they all carved their names too and died in the same way?” Dusk was beginning to set in. The light which had been beaming through a skinny rectangular window had become a mere trickle in the shadowy room. The growing dark exaggerated the creases and contours of Jack’s face.

“Oh no, all died in different ways but equally with no scientific explanation. After Rosie and Matt, the other two couples went ahead and carved their names. It became a sort of trend with the teenagers, but most others did it to different trees, not the Beech.” Jack explains.

“So, what can you tell me about the deaths of,” Rosaline checks her notes again, “Nancy and Mark?”

Jack leans back in the chair, which creaks, exhaling deeply.

“Mark could drive. You see, he was a bit older than Nancy. He was twenty-one and she was seventeen. Her parents didn't approve but that didn't stop them being together. Anyway, a farmer found them out on White Chalk Road. Car was completely wrecked, like what you would expect with a head on collision. Only this was a tiny country road and there was no other car at the scene. Not even evidence of another car, no skid marks or anything. There were no trees either which they could have hit. No cows or horses or deer were found dead or injured which could have collided with the car and come through the windscreen. Police just closed it all up, said it was a traffic accident and that was that.” Jack was recounting it like it happened yesterday. Rosaline scribbles notes furiously. There had been no pictures of the crash in the article, but she figured it was all too horrendous for a little village newspaper to publish such a thing.

“Then Cynthia and Cormac were next-” 

“You want another cup of tea? I think there's some Digestives in the tin here.” Jack interrupts, hauling his stiff body from his seat and hobbling towards the cheap plastic kettle. Rosaline humours him, concluding that he wants a breather before having to recount the fact he’d found the last pair of bodies. She accepts another cup of basically undrinkable tea and a stale Digestive biscuit. Once repositioned in his seat opposite, he takes a sip of tea and looks solemnly at the table.

“I found Cynthia and Cormac. It was August 25th, 1968. I was out for a run, since I’d just made the local cross-country team and needed to train. There’s an old iron park bench just by the entrance to the playing fields. I saw two people on the bench as I came down the path to go onto the fields. I recognised Cynthia’s hair. Hard not to miss, since it was peroxide blonde. So, I thought ‘Oh, that's Cynthia and Cormac’. I recall being confused why they were out at seven in the morning. I got close to them and said hello. Obviously, there was no reply.” He drinks more tea then takes a bite out of a biscuit. His chewing motion reminds Rosaline of that of a goat’s. Done thoroughly masticating the biscuit, he swallows.

“They looked normal. Alive but very still. I walked until I was right in front of them. Being that close, I realised they were blank and waxy. Like shop mannequins. Then I just knew. I knew it was to do with that tree. I ran all the way home and called the police. I don't know how they died, there wasn't a scratch on them. But they were sitting, arms linked together, just as though they both stopped breathing at the same instant and stayed there.” The old man quivers, hand over his mouth. Rosaline feels awful for bringing up something he’d been burying deep in the murk of his mind. Nevertheless, she’d got exactly what she needed. Curiosity pushed her manners and empathy aside.

“The police, did they ever say what the cause of death was?” Surely they had something to comment on. Jack shakes his head.

“No one said a thing. We all knew it was the tree. That's the only common factor among them all, apart from the fact each of their deaths were nearly unexplainable. From then on, the whole village avoided that tree like the plague. Nobody dares cut it down in case it kills them too. Whether it's cursed or ancient magic or something else, I don't know. But that tree has taken six lives.” Jack finishes, eyes wistful and staring blankly. Rosaline is a tad disappointed all he could add about the tree was that it was cursed (yet more superstition). She’s thankful that it wasn't fairies or goblins this time round.

There was a niggling thought, an idea, which kept whispering to her. Just to test out the whole ‘cursed tree’ theory. Now that would give her article a whole new twist, making it really rope readers in until the very last full stop. If she could prove the tree wasn't responsible for killing off three sets of teenagers, then she could speculate about a serial killer. Everyone knows newspapers sell like hotcakes when a serial killer is involved.

***

It was just after dawn. A mist hung low in the field, slowly melting as the sun cast its rays down. Pocket knife in hand, Rosaline runs her fingers over the old wounds of the hearts and initials. There was plenty of space for another. She digs the blade into the trunk, jaggedly etching ‘R + Y’, the Y for Yvonne, her partner. It took her only a few minutes. She snaps a picture on her phone and stows the knife away in her bag. Now she must wait and see if she mysteriously dies or if this cursed tree is a load of mumbo-jumbo. 

From the graveyard, Jack watches her walk away.