Tovey eyed his new found friend. Paul Cooke was a mountain of a man- built like the proverbial brick shithouse with hands hired from Poclains. Beneath a shock of white, wavy hair, keen blue eyes sparkled in an angular, florid face, the whole supporting a square, dimpled jaw. It was a kind, honest, unpretentious face and, Tovey thought, an untypical one as vicars go.

His host ushered him into the vicarage entrance hall and called out:-
"Rosie?? We've got a visitor. Can you come on strong with the tea and the sympathy love?"


A woman's voice answered from the deep recesses of the house. "Ten minutes Paul.... where will you be? In the study?"
"Yes love!!" He turned to Tovey "Now then mate.... get this wet coat off and those sodden training shoes- you can toast your feet in front of the study fire... and don't worry- I don't mind the pong, mine are worse!!"

Divested of these wet accoutrements Tovey was led into a book lined room containing a desk, computer, three piece suite and a crackling log fire.
"Get yourself down in that comfy chair by the fire while I go see about getting you coat dried. I'll be back in a tick!"

While his host toddled off Tovey surveyed the room. The first thing he noticed was that everything seemed to have a yellowish tinge- the plaster ceiling, even the books on the shelves all seemed to be coated with some kind of yellowish stain. On the desk Tovey spied a cigarette box and a large ashtray piled high with stubbed out dog ends. This explained the yellow, Tovey thought, the vicar must be a chain smoker.

His host returned, the vicar's opening words confirming what Tovey had just thought, as he grabbed the cigarette box and stretched it out in Tovey's direction.
"Wanna coffin nail?"
Tovey shook his head. "No thanks. Don't smoke. Leastways not nowadays."
"You don't mind if I do?"
"Not at all".
The vicar pulled a lighter from his pocket, lit up, and flopped out into the large easy chair at the other side of the fireplace, the cigarette in his podgy hand sited well in range of the crackling embers.
"You say your name's Tovey. Aren't you that new chap who's moved into Butterkeld?
Tovey nodded. "That's right. We moved in a few months ago. I say 'we'.... I'm afraid my missus has just walked out on me!"
"Sorry to hear that. Is that why you've come down to Chipping Welburn?"
"Sort of. I wanted to collect my car- she'd left it parked in the village you see."
There was a knock at the door.
"It's OK Rosie... you can come in- we're not practicing sex therapy in here you know!"

The door opened and Cooke's wife entered carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, milk and biscuits. She placed it on the desk. Tovey found himself looking at a plump, fair haired woman in her early forties
"Rosie, this is John Tovey,the new chap living up at Butterkeld- Mr Tovey... my wife Rosie."
Rosie smiled. "How do you do Mr. Tovey. I hope you like the tea. It's an hourly ritual with Bluto here you know".
"Bluto?"
"Yes! That's what his mates used to call him at work- before he shaved, went grey and became a vicar that is!!"
"I see."Tovey turned to his host. "I must confess you appear to me the most unlikely man of the cloth I have ever encountered!"
'Bluto' laughed "They all say that! One lump or two? Or are you one of those anorexic types?"
Tovey smiled."Well, actually... I'd like three please!"
"Aha! that's what I like to hear!"

Rosie withrew discreetly from her husband's study while Tovey's host began to elaborate on the origins of his curious nickname.
"... Well I used to be an engineer you see.... castings, welding, fabrications and all that. Used to work at Brown's in Sheffield. Big engineering works- you've heard of it perhaps?"
Tovey nodded. "Does ring a bell".
"Well I worked there for fifteen years until my mother got cancer that is. I had to give up working and look after her during the last months. I had a friend in the church who offered a lot of sympathy and help... my mum was a churchgoer you see (although I never was!). Well it was him who broached it to me if I'd ever fancied a career in the church myself"
"And what did you say to him?"
"Not a lot! I was gobsmacked! Me? in church? I laughed at him and called him a daft bugger! But in the end, after I'd thought about it for a bit, I decided I'd like to find out more. He arranged for me to go on a course, and well, to cut a long story short, I never looked back. One thing led to another and before I knew where I was I'd been appointed the industrial chaplain for Handsworth!"
"So how did you finish up in Chipping Welburn?"
The vicar smiled. "Oh that's another long story! Basically you have to go where the Church sends you, and eventually they posted me here."
Tovey grinned. "Bit more upmarket than Sheffield then eh?"
"Oh yes. Lot more cliqueish too. Most village folk are churchgoers you know, but they see it rather as an exercise in social graces than an expression of Christian faith. In Sheffield the church was half empty- here you get a full house every Sunday, but here they also take their religion off with their sunday hats!"
"I'm sorry to hear it".
"Don't be. That's how it is here- that's how its always been- a vicar has to make the best of what he's got. Anyway- less about me. (A vicar is also supposed to listen you know!). How's about explaining to me what on earth led you to take on Butterkeld?"
Tovey took a gulp of tea. "You sound surprised that I did. Were you?"
"Well frankly, yes." The vicar gave a wry smile "Yes I was surprised. No-ones lived up there for donkey's years,"
"But how did you know that I'd moved in there?"
He laughed. "Ha! there's no secrets in this village old son! Actually, I saw you in the pub some time back chatting with Old Sam Brockley. I asked Charlie Mills who you were."
"I see. And what did Charlie tell you?"
"Not a great deal. Just said you'd been asking questions about Butterkeld. Not surprising really, it's the sort of place that invites questions."
"You know it then?"
"Only in passing. Rosie and I visited it a few years ago while on a ramble. It was derelict then. Sad kind of a place. Most amazing mediaeval baptistry though."
Tovey glanced up from his cup. "By that I presume you mean our wellhouse. Do you know anything about it? It's a rum sort of a place isn't it?"
The vicar nodded. "I know a little about it. When I was there the windows had been bricked up but the door was damaged and you could see inside-quite amazing really. It got me very excited I can tell you!"
"Excited?" said Tovey, "How do you mean?"
"Well you see, I fancy myself as a bit of an antiquarian. You might think that's daft for an engineer, but it goes well with being a clergyman. I was dead keen on history at school, and living out here, well it's a paradise if you love the past. St Alkelda's- my church you know- dates back to Saxon times. Well after I'd seen your wellhouse I got on the blower to a friend of mine at the county archives. He sent me all kinds of interesting bumph about the place."
Tovey pricked up his ears. "Bumph? what kind of bumph?"
The vicar smiled. "Well it's largely culled from the writings of victorian antiquarians- but there are a few stats of old records as well. Hang about. Lets go see what we can dig out".
Tovey's host got to his feet and shuffled across the room to lay a massive hand upon a grey filing cabinet beside the bookcase. He opened the top drawer and began to flick through the files.
"Now let's see..... 'Burtree Cottage'.... Ah yes.... 'Butterkeld'." He pulled out a wadge of papers fastened up in a frayed buff folder and slapped it down on the desk.
"I've amassed quite a collection of things while I've been here you know. I've got material on just about every old building in the area. I'm donating all to the local antiquarian society when I move on."
"You mean you're planning on leaving?"
His host laughed. "Oh no! We're not planning on leaving just yet. But I'm sure we'll have to leave eventually. The Church likes to keep its vicars on the move you know."


Putting on his glasses the vicar opened the folder and spread out the contents on the desk. Tovey got to his feet and shambled over.
"Right. Let's see what we've got. Ah! Here we are....Enwright- Antiquities of the County Palatine of Lancaster- 1875. 'THE BUTTERKELD BAPTISTRY'"
The vicar adjusted his spectacles and read on:-.

"......At Butterkeld Farm, a small homestead in the Parish of Chipping Welburn, Bowland, there is a most unique and curious structure built over an ancient well which issues from a low precipice at the back of the house. Local tradition asserts that the well was used by the druids in days of yore. The present Baptistry reputedly dates from sometime during the middle ages,(its architecture suggesting the 14th century) and is a unique survival being the only known example of such a structure in the North of England. The wellhouse is 18 feet long by...'...He gives the dimensions... ah! here it is......' and is similar to other such buildings we have encountered whilst travelling in the Celtic parts of Britain-... particularly in Cornwall, Brittany and Western Ireland.'"

"What's all this about druids?"
The vicar grinned. "Druids?? Oh nothing much really. It was a foible of victorian writers. Anything dating from prehistoric times was put down to the druids- You must understand that victorian archaeology was a form of pseudo-learned vandalism- little more than glorified treasure hunting. They based their knowledge on written history- which begins with the Roman Tacitus and his account of the conquest of Britain. That's where the druids come in. The fact that the druids were very late performers on the prehistoric stage was quite lost on victorian writers. It took 20th century archaeology to discover this."
"I see. But you're telling me that my wellhouse has origins in prehistoric times?"
"Certainly. Romano-British times and possibly earlier. Any well which was worth having a cover building constructed over it must have had religious significance long before Christianity came along."
"So you're saying my wellhouse was probably a place of pagan worship then?"
"Oh yes, originally- before the well was consecrated that is."
"And when would that have been?"
"Oh long ago. Way back in the Dark Ages. Your well is dedicated to St. Helen you know."
Tovey shook his head. "But I don't understand. One moment you're telling me it's a pagan shrine and the next you say it's a holy well. I thought the Church was supposed to frown on pagan practices?"
His host smiled. "It does. But you must understand we're not talking about the C of E but about the early Roman and Celtic Churches. When missionaries like Paulinus and St. Augustine came here preaching the Gospels in the Viking Age they weren't in a position to dictate to the locals, who indulged in all manner of long established pagan rites and traditions. The Christians had to tread carefully and convert people to the new faith not by force but by compromise. People were tied much more to the landscape in those days than they are now. To their mind every unusual tree, rock or spring was likely to have its guardian spirit which would usually demand some form of appeasement from passers by. All these sites were (in their minds) connected by a web-like network of magical currents. The Chinese call it Feng Shui- our ancestors called it earth magic. Well the early Christians couldn't hope to stamp out these ingrained beliefs and practices, and one of the ways they got around the problem was by turning some of those ideas to their advantage."
"But how?"
"Oh it was quite simple really. They would remove pagan idols from temples sprinkle the place with holy water, and dedicate the site as a church to a Christian saint- most commonly to St.Michael."
"Why Saint Michael?"
"Why not? He is the patron of all Angels- most convenient if you're undertaking a 'conversion job'! He could be used to gloss over a multitude of sins!"
"You sound cynical!"
"Perhaps I am! But then again I don't live in the Dark Ages! No, the fact was compromise was not only convenient but necessary. In their eyes there was a sincere need to get the Christian foot in the pagan door! To do this successfully it was necessary to maintain some sort of peaceful continuity. You don't get that by destroying sacred places! "
"So they christianized wells in the same way?"
"More or less. A common method was to christianize the presiding deity. Always a saint of course- and usually female. St. Helen and St. Agnes seem to have been the best choice for wells, although sometimes you get St. Bridget, who was a christianized version of the old celtic goddess- Bride. You've heard of the name 'Bridewell' haven't you?"
"Why yes- but..."
"Well there you have it! In Cornwall and Ireland of course you get obscure saints with the most weird and wonderful names. That's because they never existed- they're just old gods in new clothes!"
Tovey shook his head. "Well you live and learn!"
"Don't you just! Of course centuries later the Catholic Church was to pay a high price in England for this 'marriage of convenience'. When the Reformation came those old saints and odd traditions were seen as 'popish mummery' and stamped out. Popery and witchcraft were lumped together in the same boat in Tudor and Jacobean England. The old Catholic shrines and icons were ruthlessly destroyed by the Protestant authorities."
"But my wellhouse seems to have survived!"
"Yes... but that's only because it's in a remote place, well off the beaten track. And also because its in Lancashire!"
"Lancashire?. Is that supposed to be significant".
The vicar smiled. "Very! Lancashire was the chief stronghold of the 'Old Faith' in those days. They didn't accept the C of E lightly. They stuck to the old Roman practices and they paid dearly for it."
"But why?"
"Well you must understand that there were severe laws against Roman Catholics in Elizabethan England. You could be fined for not attending the Anglican Church, and imprisoned for hearing a Catholic Mass. And if you were caught harbouring a Catholic Priest, the penalty was imprisonment and death for the priest".
"So that's why they built 'priest holes'?"
"Right. The Lancashire recusants (that's what they called the diehard Catholics)- had a secret network all over the county for the safe passage and concealment of priests from the continent. It was all a bit like 'secret army'- with us cast in the role of the Germans!"
"But wasn't it hard, hiding all these foreigners?"
"Oh they weren't foreigners. They were as Lancashire as the families to which they ministered. They were local lads born and bred. They were sent to what was called 'The English College' at Douai in France, where they were trained to be Jesuits. When they had been ordained as priests they were smuggled back into England. From then on they had to be on their guard all the time against spies and informers".
"So it was a dangerous business?"
"Very. The offence was treason and the penalty was death- the slow, painful kind- priests were hanged, revived, castrated, disembowelled and then hacked into pieces. Lancashire had its share of catholic martyrs I can tell you!."
"Do you think there were priests then up at Butterkeld?"

Paul Cooke scratched his head. "I'm afraid I don't know. It's certainly possible that its owners- the Caldwells- might have been recusants, although I have no evidence to say so. It would certainly have been a good place to harbour priests- out of the way and a ready made chapel in which to hold Mass!"
"You mean the well house?"
"Yes. It would have been perfect for the job, and if anybody did come noseying around they would have been able to hide the vestments and silver and pass it off as a mere architectural ornament. Clever eh?"

Tovey's attention now wandered back to the rest of the papers.

"Have you got anything here about the people who lived up at Butterkeld?"
The vicar shook his head. "Not much. Just a few mentions culled from old records. Let's see......Hmm... here's the oldest one- 1390... Butterkeld was owned by a forester- one Adam De Caldewell. Next reference is 1640- 'John Cauldewell- Yeoman. Bequeathed Butterkeld to his eldest daughter Agnes, who died childless in 1665'.
Tovey scratched his head.
"Well that's odd! If he passed it onto his daughter and she died childless. Well what happened to the Caldwell line? Surely they would have become extinct?"
"Well yes...."
"But they didn't did they? They lived at Butterkeld right down to the early part of this century."
"Another branch of the family perhaps?"
"Maybe- but yet..." Tovey looked at him earnestly "... I get the feeling that something like this has happened at Butterkeld since. There's something strange about all this."
"And there's something you've not told me isn't there? And please don't give me your 'who? me?' look!. Counselling people with problems is my job. I've heard the story about old Waddington and his two sons you know- about how they were forced to leave the place on account of the water going bad. But that's not what was said in the village... it was rumoured that the place was haunted, and that they had been driven out by something queer." He looked Tovey squarely in the eye. "Is there something queer??"

Tovey hesitated a moment then took the plunge. It was no good- it was time to make a clean breast of it. At first hesitantly, and then with increasing confidence he related to his new found acquaintance all that had transpired at Butterkeld since he had first discovered the garden dug over. When he had finished, the vicar, who had been sitting in the corner twiddling his thumbs, finally got to his feet, lit up a cigarette and stood by the fire, his arm leaning on the chimney breast.

"Well....that's a good tale if ever I heard one! So you think this Eliza Caldwell is trying to drive you out?"
"I'm certain of it- but I don't know how to stop her- could you perform some kind of exorcism ceremony perhaps?"

Cooke flicked his cigarette stub into the fire and looked up.
"Now hold on!! I might be a man of the cloth you know, but I'm afraid exorcism is a bit out of my league! I deal with the sight of the living not visions of the dead! I'm afraid the only unearthly light I'm familiar with is the one you get when you strike up a mig welder!!"
Tovey frowned. "So you don't believe me then. You think it's all down to an over active imagination?"
Cooke sighed. "It's a bit hard to swallow I must admit! But no, old son, I believe your story. I know you're not the first person to have had problems with Butterkeld. It was a bit odd you seeing things here in Chipping Welburn though. I wonder if this Eliza woman is buried in our churchyard?"
Tovey shrugged. "Perhaps... but there are no gravestones by that big yew tree, where I saw her. Just a grassy lawn."
The vicar smiled thoughtfully. "But there used to be! The headstones were taken out nearly ten years ago now. That part of the churchyard was disappearing under thick ivy and undergrowth- turning into regular gothick horror you know!! We had a bunch of lads on an MSC scheme, clearing it out, but it was a short term affair. We realised that the weeds would soon grow back again and we had no money to keep it neat and tidy. Then there was the accident-"
"Accident?"
"Yes- a group of the youths were hacking ivy off the headstones, and it turned out that that was all that was holding some of them up!! A big headstone fell and badly crushed a lad's foot. He was lucky- he was wearing safety boots. If he'd been in the way of the slab it would have crushed him flat!"
"Charming! So what happened then?!"
"Well that was the last straw for us. We decided that the best thing to do would be to take the lot out and grass it over. So much pleasanter and much easier to manage. Of course we left the older part of the churchyard alone- village history- but the part we cleared didn't have any graves older that the turn of this century."
"So the graves were removed?"
"No not the graves- only the headstones. We leave the dead where they are... they don't cause any problems."
He paused and smiled, recognising the irony of his words.
"Well not usually! Judging by what old Sam Brockley said your Miss Caldwell must have died during the 1940's, so if she was buried in Chipping Welburn she would almost certainly have been buried in that part of the churchyard."
"Well that would explain a lot."
The vicar lit up another cigarette and flicked the match into the fire.
"Look old son ... here's what I'll do. I'll get in touch with my friend in Lancaster and see if I can find out anything more about the Caldwells. As regards your ghost- well I don't know what I can do, but I'll have a think about it. Are you planning on going back up to Butterkeld tonight?"
Tovey shifted uneasily in his chair.
"Well... yes I suppose so. I was planning to head out to my mother's in Oldham - before fate blew me into your churchyard that is. It's a bit late now, so I suppose I'll have to go back there and set out in the morning."
His host looked serious. "Well, old son that's up to you... but you don't have to go back up there if you don't want to. I know Rosie would be happy to put you up in the spare room if you like. I must admit that if I was in your position I'd be inclined to give the place a wide berth until further notice!"
Tovey smiled at him. "Well thanks but no thanks. I suppose I'd better go back there tonight if only so I can turn off the power and lock the place up in the morning. I think I can put up with my friend Eliza for one more night.!" The reverend Paul Cooke frowned gravely.
"Well I hope so old son......... I sincerely hope so................"

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