IT WAS quite late in the evening by the time Jacqui arrived home to a cold supper. Paul, who had eaten earlier, was in one of his flippant moods again. “Spotted any flying saucers yet?” he began.

“Paul, please!—this is serious. And no—I wasn’t out hunting UFOs. This isn’t about any of Grandad’s stories. But I have learnt one or two things about Wistbourne. Very strange things—sad things, even. Sorry, darling, I can’t talk about it now: I’m too tired. In the morning, perhaps. And I’m going to look out that old man Hector again—you know, the one we met after the funeral. He knows something, I’m sure—if I can prise it out of him. He’s been to Wistbourne.”

“Well, that makes more sense than trespassing on MoD land, I have to say. Oh well, good luck then! He won’t be too willing to talk, not if he’s ex-Army.”

Jacqui slept on it. In the morning, after Paul had left for work, she called in to the Mercury and asked for another day’s leave. Then she rifled through Grandad’s address book, which she had retrieved from the care home after he died. But she could find nothing under ‘B’ for Beeley, nor under ‘H’ for Hector.

She looked more closely at the book. Yes, there was something irregular in the ‘B’ section. A page seemed to have been removed: not torn out, but carefully snipped out with scissors. And yes—the missing page would have been in exactly the place where ‘Beeley’ would have been entered, in alphabetical sequence. Jacqui cursed Grandad, audibly. She tried the phone book, but there was no entry.

She cast her mind back to that brief meeting with Hector, on the day of the funeral. Something he’d said—what was it? Right at the end of their conversation. After a minute or so she remembered: ‘They’re expecting me back at the Pine Trees’. ‘Pine Trees’: it sounded like the name of a care home: after all Hector was a very old man, almost blind and in a wheelchair. Unless Imogen was his full-time carer, that is—and Pine Trees is the name of a house. Well, it was worth a try. Jacqui did a quick search on the internet and discovered that there was a Pine Trees Rest Home in West London, not too far from where she lived. She dialled their number.

“Do you have a Hector Beeley among your residents? If so, could I speak to him?”

“Who’s calling please?” was the response. Jacqui gave her maiden name.

“I’m sorry, Ms Hartmead, but Mr Beeley has left strict instructions that no calls are to be put through to him except from his daughter and other members of his family.”

“Well, could you advise me how to get in touch with his daughter, Imogen Beeley?”

“I’m sorry once again, I’m not allowed to divulge that infor­mation.”

“Could you at least pass my name on to Mr Beeley?” pleaded Jacqui. “He does know me, and he’ll know what it’s about.”

“I’ll try, but he’ll probably be still asleep at present.” There was a long pause. “Ms Hartmead? Yes he is asleep. You could try again later.”

Jacqui decided she had had enough of telephoning. She chose instead to drive out to Pine Trees herself.

*

The rest home, when Jacqui reached it, turned out to be a rather drab affair set a little way back along a residential street, hardly meriting its idyllic name—indeed, there wasn’t a single pine tree in sight. Jacqui supposed that it was either the vivid imagination of the owners, or that the trees had since been felled. But she went into Reception and announced herself.

“Ah—you’re the lady who phoned earlier. I’ll see if Mr Beeley is up yet.” The receptionist picked up her phone and dialled a number. Then she nodded, spoke a few words, and handed the phone to Jacqui.

The thin, reedy voice came through on the line. “Jacqui? Is that you? So you’ve come to see me have you? How lovely! What can I do for you?”

“I’d just like to talk to you for a while, if I may?”

“What’s it about? Are you planning to write a story about me, for that wretched newspaper of yours? The Mercury or whatever it’s called?”

“Certainly not. This is private, just between you and me.” Jacqui pressed the mouthpiece close to her lips and whispered, hoping that the receptionist wouldn’t overhear. “It’s about Wistbourne.”

There was a long pause. Then Hector’s voice came through again. “So you found something out and tracked me down did you? All right: you’d better come up then. Could you please hand the phone back to Carol.”

The receptionist listened for a few moments, then nodded. “Please take a seat, Ms Hartmead. I’ll send for someone to take you to Mr Beeley’s room.”

*

When Jacqui was finally shown into Hector’s room, she found him seated, not in his wheelchair, but in a comfortable armchair. He had discarded his glasses and there was a twinkle in his eye: Jacqui could have sworn that, his near-blindness notwithstanding, he had winked at her. The room was fairly sparsely furnished, but there were many mementos testifying to his military career scattered around the room. He gestured to Jacqui to sit in the other armchair.

“We met at the funeral of course. I don’t see very clearly these days, but I know it’s you: I recognise your voice all right. So what do you know of Wistbourne?”

“Not much, Colonel Beeley. But I’ve been there.”

“Oh, ‘Hector’, please! So you’ve been to Wistbourne, have you, Jacqui? Surely you weren’t let in!”

“Sorry. ‘Hector’. So you know about the place being cordoned off, do you?”

“Of course I know,” replied Hector. “Why, I was the one who made the proposal to fence off the place—although the direct order came from higher up: from the Secretary of State for War, in fact. I don’t suppose there’s any harm in my telling you this, although you must have already found out that any important stuff about Wist­bourne is classified. I can’t tell you much. So what do you know?”

“Only that I tried to get there, but was firmly ordered off by a soldier patrolling behind the fence. I did get to talk to one of the former residents, though. An elderly lady called Phyllis, who now lives in the neighbouring village. Phyllis Howells. Do you know her?

“Let me think,” replied Hector. “I did get to know details of all the Wistbourne residents during my posting there. Yes, I remember now: she was only a child at the time, and she left while I was there. Sent to boarding school, was it?”

“Yes. And her parents also left the village soon after. She had a younger brother, who sadly died when still a child. You know about that?”

“Ah. Now we’re coming to matters I can’t really talk about. But yes—you seem to be good at finding things out. What else do you know?”

“Finding things out is part of my job, Hector. But don’t worry: this is strictly personal, nothing to do with any newspaper; and what we talk about is strictly between you and me. Will you trust me?”

“I suppose I have to. Dammit, I’m an old man and we’re talking about things that happened over seventy years ago. Perhaps the time has come to de-classify some of the information. Maybe it has been—I wouldn’t know—I’m not in the circulation list anymore.”

“All right. What Phyllis told me was that a number of babies, fifteen in all, were found abandoned in a field near the village, back in 1950. Yes—I wasn’t quite ready to believe that—a most extra­ordinary thing! One abandoned child—yes, happened often enough in the 1950s: single parents—unmarried mothers especially—were frowned upon and stigmatised back in those days—I know that. But fifteen all at once! My guess is, there must have been some wild orgy nearby, which led to a lot of embarrassed teenage mums. But it’s still incredible!”

“ ‘Incredible’ is right, Jacqui. But go on.”

“Phyllis said that there was something strange about these babies. They were at first referred to as Foundlings—but then it became Changelings.” Jacqui was by now precise in her pronunciation of these two words as if they began with a capital letter. “That suggests to me something supernatural,” she continued: “all this ‘elves and fairies’ nonsense. Yes: I looked up what the word means. I don’t really believe that stuff. But I’ve no idea what the rational explanation could be.”

“I can’t help you out with any rational explanation—sorry,” put in Hector. “Any more?”

“Yes. I learnt that for some reason several of the families in the village took it upon themselves to adopt these babies—and that Phyllis’s brother was one of them. She also mentioned a ‘Curse’—but she didn’t say what it was.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“A ‘Curse’—did she now? I’m afraid my lips are still sealed on that one too.”

“Well, I’m wondering if this Curse refers to the fact that these Foundlings—or Changelings—died young. But no. Phyllis seemed to be implying that the Curse was upon the village before the babies appeared. So I’m none the wiser.”

“You’re right about that,” replied Hector. “But I’m not at liberty to explain. Yes, so you heard that most of the babies died as children. Oh damn! I shouldn’t have said that! There I go, and old man letting slip something that’s supposed to be a secret…”

“Ah! So are some of these—Changelings—still alive then? They would have to be quite elderly, then: over seventy.”

“That I don’t know, Jacqui. Honestly I don’t know. This time I’m not holding anything back. I was taken off the case long ago, and I’ve heard nothing since. I’ve already told you more than I should have.”

“I’m not trying to be rude, Hector,” said Jacqui, somewhat irritably, “but in fact you’ve told me almost nothing. Instead you’ve just been listening to my story. Is there really nothing more you can say?”

“Sorry—touché, Jacqui. I really can’t—and there’s a lot even I don’t know.”

“Can you at least tell me about my Grandad—about Gavin? Did he and Grandma—June—adopt any of these Foundlings? I was certain­ly never told that I might have had an uncle! This is important to me, please, Hector!”

“All right. No, Gavin and June didn’t adopt. They were already making plans to emigrate. But you remember your grandfather: always trying to find things out, he was—you take after him! He did study the Foundlings intensively and probably found out more than he was supposed to. But that’s Gavin for you!”

“ ‘Changelings’, Hector, not ‘Foundlings’. Did Grandad believe that?”

“He probably did. He made up his own name for them—but I don’t remember what it was—if I ever knew, that is. Ah yes, I’ve a vague memory that it rhymed—that’s all I can recall.”

For an instant Jacqui wondered if Hector had let slip a lead to help her in discovering Grandad’s mysterious password! But she quickly collected herself. “Are you sure you don’t know it?” she asked, trying not to show too much excitement. “I’ve always had an interest in Grandad’s ‘invented’ names.”

“Sorry. It was so long ago, and I forget so many things. I’m not even sure he told me.”

“All right,” remarked Jacqui, doing her best to conceal her disappointment. “Your memory is pretty damn good, I’d say. It’s only that it’s a pity there’s so much you can’t tell me—but I quite understand.” She stopped, realising too late, in her excitement, that she’d sounded rather patronising. “Oh, Hector, I’m sorry: I didn’t mean to doubt your word—to offend you. But tell me this at least: is there anywhere I could find out more?”

Hector paused for a while. “I probably shouldn’t, but I’ll give you the name of the officer who took over the case after I retired,” he finally said. “A Captain Dawson. But I can’t promise anything.”

“That’s great! Thanks, Hector. Do you have a phone number so I can contact him?”

“It’s ‘her’, not ‘him’. Captain Joyce Dawson. “She may also be retired by now—and no, I don’t have the number. Imogen may know. Would you like her number?”

“Yes please.” Jacqui rummaged in her bag for pen and paper, and wrote down the phone number as Hector spoke it out.

Now was a good time to change the subject, she reckoned. So she asked Hector to recount more tales of his times with Gavin during their National Service—a request which Hector was only too willing to comply with. Indeed his anecdotes lasted nearly half an hour.

But Jacqui could now sense that Hector was becoming very tired. He had kept up his end of the conversation brilliantly, but now, surely, was time to bring the meeting to a close. She stood up.

“It’s been awfully good of you to see me, Hector, and for telling me so much,” she said. “You’ve been a tremendous help.” (This was a little white lie—but she’d at least got something out of the inter­view.) “I must thank you for taking the trouble. But now I think it’s time to go.”

“No trouble—a pleasure to talk to you, Jacqui, I assure you. It’s been so nice to have a lovely young lady to keep me company. You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up. Goodbye.”

*

As she drove home Jacqui reflected on the impression Hector had made on her. He may not have imparted much information of use to her, but that wasn’t his fault: he was constrained by the Official Secrets Act. But how alert and well-informed he had been! How comprehensive his memory of events, in contrast to his obvious physical frailty! She hoped to have more meetings with him in the future, but for now, maybe she should see if she could contact this Captain Dawson.

And what about the clue Hector had, perhaps unwittingly, provided? If Grandad had indeed made up his own word for the Foundlings or Changelings, that must surely be the password to get into wistbourne.doc. It must be! Could she figure it out?

Back home, Jacqui decided to set aside for the time being any effort to track down Captain Dawson, and instead to get in touch with Phyllis once again. Fortunately she had kept a note of her phone number.

“Hello, Phyllis, it’s Jacqui. Jacqui Hartmead. I came to see you yesterday, remember?”

“Of course I remember. What can I do for you?”

“It’s about your late brother, Phyll. I’m sorry to bring it up once again: I know it’s upsetting for you, but can you tell me anything else about him. I think you said there was something strange about him—and about the other Foundlings too.”

“Well, I already told you, Theo and the others—they all looked as if they were ill—like as if they were going to be sick. But they never were. Theo never had a day’s illness in his life, as I remember. Nor, as far as I know, did any of the others.”

“Until the—” Jacqui began to say, but then checked herself, embarrassed. This was not the first tactless comment she’d made that day!

“Until the end?” came over the line, after a pause. “It’s all right, you can say it. But I really don’t know what Theo died of. Nor all the others. And if I did know, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

Jacqui pondered this information for a moment. Clearly Phyllis didn’t know that some of the Foundlings had survived to adulthood—always assuming that Hector hadn’t been lying. It was not Jacqui’s place to enlighten her.

“Are you still there, Jacqui?” came Phyllis’s voice after a pause, a little anxious.

“It’s all right, I’m still here. I was just thinking. I don’t think I have any more questions for now. It’s been nice talking to you—thanks for your help. Bye.”

“Goodbye to you, Jacqui. Please don’t hesitate to call me again if you have anything else you want to ask.”

*

Having hung up, Jacqui considered what she had learnt. The appear­ance of these Foundlings was something of importance—that much was clear. So they looked like they were about to be sick, did they? How did people look when they were feeling nauseous? Pale? Ashen grey? Green, even? She booted up the laptop once more and clicked on the file wistbourne.doc.

First of all, try the obvious words. Foundling and Changeling: neither of them worked, capitalised or not, singular or plural: that would have been too easy. Something that rhymes with ‘Foundling’ —as Hector had let slip? Sickling, Pukeling, Barfling, Vomitling, Catling, Nausealing? Ghastly words: surely Grandad wouldn’t have dreamt up anything as nasty as those—but she tried anyway. Maybe it was their appearance. Greyling or Grayling, Greenling, Ashling, Ash-Greyling (with or without a hyphen), Paleling? After a good half hour she was getting decidedly cross and tempted to thump her keyboard. Why had Grandad made it so difficult?

Look at Grandad’s letter again, she decided. There must be another clue in there. She’d been to Wistbourne (or rather, tried to get there—had Grandad known that it was now cordoned off?) Surely it must be the ‘right place’ he referred to. What about that enigmatic last sentence:

> “And don’t worry, it’s nothing unpleasant: it isn’t about lots of Bodies buried under the Village Green—nothing so Vile as that!”

The words Bodies and Vile were capitalised—unnecessarily so it seemed. Was this just a slip-up, or had Grandad meant to place some emphasis on them? Bodies … Vile? Vile … Bodies?

‘Vile Bodies’!

Something clicked in Jacqui’s memory.

No, it wasn’t an insult directed at people who were ugly or obese! It was the title of a novel; a satirical novel by Evelyn Waugh, set in the 1920s. It dealt with the high jinks and drunken escapades of a bunch of youthful socialites. Many years before, on her fifteenth birthday she thought it was, Grandad had presented her with a copy. A well-worn and somewhat dusty volume, which had apparently rested on his bookshelves for many years. Jacqui had been rather surprised at receiving this: it was out-of-character compared with Grandad’s own Sci-fi output. Jacqui had started to read it, but it wasn’t really to her taste—she didn’t find drunken and riotous behaviour amusing—and she’d put the book aside after a few chapters.

Did this book held the final clue, and if so, did she still have it, or had she given it to the charity shop along with so many other books she no longer wanted?

Frantically Jacqui searched through all the bookshelves. Yes—it was still there, gathering dust in a corner of a bottom shelf. Eagerly, she picked up the book and dusted it off. On the cover was a picture of an old-fashioned racing car being driven erratically—presumably by one of the drunk socialites in the story.

She opened the book. Yes: inside the front cover was an inscription “To my darling granddaughter Jacqueline on her fifteenth birthday, with love from Grandad.” So it was the same book. She turned to the first chapter.

It was about a very rough Channel crossing, with many passengers going down with seasickness. Being sick—that was the connection!

Eagerly she read through the chapter, trying to guess where a clue might lie. Nothing doing on the first pass through. She read it again, meticulously examining every page with a magnifying glass. It took quite a while, but in the end: yes! she found something. There was a tiny, very faint pencil mark—could have been an arrow—alongside one line which read:

> ‘Darling, your face—Eau de Nil.’

What did ‘Eau de Nil’ mean? She’d never heard of the expression, so she looked it up. Apparently it was the name of a colour, a pale shade between green and blue—the literal meaning was ‘Nile water’. Well, I suppose someone about to be sick might go that colour, she thought. Did the Changelings have skin that colour? It could be. Back to the wistbourne.doc file.

Several variations and permutations still needed to be tried. EauDeNilLing didn’t work—but then Grandad was of too early a generation to know about the internal capitals which peppered techno-speak. Possibly he’d hyphenated the phrase—and possibly he used the plural. She tried:

> Eau-de-Nil-lings

The file opened!