The Hairy Hands of Dartmoor | A Mabel Shirley Mystery

Strange things happen on Dartmoor. They always have. It’s not Dartmoor’s fault, there are just certain places where the dark can get a little too close.

As to its legends, they come from a time when nobody was really certain where the natural world ended and the supernatural began.

However, one legend was different.

The Hairy Hands of Dartmoor had started to affect the real world, and the incidents were becoming increasingly dangerous.

In 1921, on a road that is now the B3212, three remarkably similar accidents happened.

The first was in March, when Dr E. H. Helby, medical officer at Dartmoor Prison, was killed after losing control of his motorcycle near the gates of Archerton. A few weeks after Dr Helby’s death, a coach travelling uphill mounted the bank, leaving a female passenger badly injured.

Then, in August, an Army captain crashed at almost the same spot. He survived, but what he told the Daily Mail changed everything.

“A pair of hairy hands closed over mine. I felt them as plainly as ever I felt anything in my life.”

The newspapers did the rest.

Before long, people were talking about phantom hands taking control of vehicles on Dartmoor. Motorists became nervous of the road, locals had their own explanations, and what might have remained an odd story was rapidly becoming something considerably more troublesome.

There were practical explanations, of course. The road was dangerous, its camber was poor, and the vehicles could have easily become unstable. That explained a great deal.

It didn’t explain the hands.

Nor did it explain why the incidents continued.

Soon it was becoming a problem the Devon Constabulary wanted closed.

──✿──

Lady Mabel Hazelgrove was known to the police. Not in the way you’re thinking, but as someone who could solve unworldly problems that an ordinary police constabulary could not.

Born with exceptional abilities, her family embraced her gifts and placed her under the tuition of a local hedge witch.

During the First World War she had served with distinction and was decorated for her service. Her activities during the war also brought her to the attention of Naval Intelligence, where she dealt with those matters that didn’t sit comfortably in official reports.

Her reputation went before her.

Consequently, the Chief Constable of Devon had invited her to examine the case.

──✿──

It was now late October and Lady Hazelgrove was aboard a charabanc tour of Dartmoor. The Daily Mail article had brought people from far and wide, all eager to experience the Hairy Hands for themselves.

Mabel had dressed down for the day. This was not uncommon. Usually she had to dress up for the day when she was Lady Hazelgrove.

Her accent she never changed. Kings or commoners, they could take it or leave it.

The charabanc was approaching the place where Dr Helby had died when she saw him.

A semi-translucent man stood beside the road. He wore a leather coat, stout riding boots and a flying helmet, with his goggles pushed up onto his forehead. As the vehicle drew alongside, he raised a hand and waved in Mabel’s direction.

For most people, seeing a dead man waving at them in broad daylight would have been rather shocking.

For Mabel, it was another spirit to deal with.

The charabanc stopped and the other passengers climbed down to follow the guide. Mabel remained where she was and waited.

The figure approached.

He stopped beside the charabanc and stared at her, apparently curious that she could see him. Then the penny seemed to drop.

“You need to know.”

The words were not spoken. Mabel heard them within her mind.

She remained still.

“The reason for your death, Dr Helby?” she replied.

The figure looked taken aback.

“It only wants that which makes it incomplete.”

“Which is?”

“A lock of hair.”

──✿──

Given the situation, any other investigator would have made the rounds, asking questions and following up inquiries.

But not Mabel.

Today she intended to use her well-tested technique. There was nothing more effective with restless spirits than knocking them off kilter. It broke their sad old routine.

Add twilight, and you had a liminal space that was perfect for catching an apparition. Catch them early enough and they were not quite ready for the task in hand.

The final touch was someone with one foot in the physical world and the other in the spirit realm. It attracted them like a moth to a flame.

Mabel was the flame.

Driving up from Two Bridges towards Postbridge, she was confident the trap was set.

And, as predicted, the moth was not far away.

Further along the road, the steering wheel began to shake. For a moment Mabel resisted it. It happened again, harder this time, and a pair of hairy hands appeared above her own, grasping the wheel. She fought for control again, and then came that old familiar moment of satisfaction, the feeling of a spirit feeding off the energy of fear.

She could have asked it to stop, perhaps screamed for effect, but instead Mabel took both hands off the steering wheel and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The dynamic changed immediately. Now she could feel its fear.

The Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Tourer gathered speed with almost insulting composure. There was no great roar from the engine, merely a deepening hum as the big car surged forward. Dartmoor, however, was considerably less accommodating. The wheels struck the first rut hard enough to throw Mabel against the seat, gravel hammered beneath the floorboards and the great chassis groaned as the road began to fight back.

Mabel remained perfectly still while the Hairy Hands gripped the steering wheel desperately, its knuckles turning white as they fought to keep the Rolls-Royce on the road. Another rut sent the wheel kicking violently in their grip, but the hands held it.

Mabel glanced down at them. “Do try to keep her straight.”

Whatever had haunted this road for years had suddenly discovered that it was driving.

She sensed something else now. Part of the spirit wanted to go with her, but something behind them was pulling it back.

Interesting.

Mabel slowed the car to something approaching a sensible speed and let the hands continue driving. She wanted to see which one won.

A mile and a half down the road, Mabel was casually tucking stray strands of hair back beneath her headscarf, using the mirror in her compact, when the first murmur of contact came from the spirit. She snapped the compact shut and tuned in.

“How can you be so bloody casual about this!” the spirit demanded.

“Experience, darling. Now don’t fret, this is your lucky day.”

“Lucky? Would you describe me as lucky?”

“Keep your eye on the road.”

“What eyes?” the spirit replied.

“Point taken. Now, state the meaning of your intent. A person has died because of your deeds and others have been badly injured. The living want a solution to this, and I’m that solution.”

The spirit sighed, then seemed to dig deep, unwilling to lose what might be his final chance.

“We passed a gunpowder mill a while back. That’s where it happened.”

“Tell me more,” Mabel said, slowing the car to a halt.

“Please don’t stop. I’ve been trapped there for over half a century. You’re the only one who didn’t resist me.”

“Because I want to help. Tell me what happened and I will gladly help you find peace.”

The spirit fought against the memory of its passing, then finally gave in to it.

“I was blown to bits in an explosion at the gunpowder mill. My fault. I went back drunk and didn’t take off my hobnail boots. All to retrieve that bloody lightning stone pendant.”

“Why was the stone important?”

“The cure the white witch gave me. It was working. I could go back to my job.”

“Name the healer. It will help me to help you.”

“Betty Webb.”

“Hmm.” Mabel had met her before she died. Another cunning woman, and a good one.

“I’m the same as her, trained in the same arts. Where did you place the hair she told you to bury?”

The spirit spluttered.

“The cist at Soussons. But how did you know?”

“In a place that already knows how to keep dead things dead, you bury the hair and the condition dies away from the body. I’m guessing she told you to look beneath the slabs for the stone?”

“Yes. And not to touch the walls of the cist, then walk away without looking back.”

“So the hands. They were your condition?”

“Yes. The gunpowder blistered them so badly I could barely grip anything.”

Mabel took a breath and mulled over what he had told her.

“Then something has gone wrong at Soussons. The working wasn’t meant to leave you like this. If Betty’s cure had completed properly, you wouldn’t still be here.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we need to find out who or what disturbed the cure at the cist.”

──✿──

The journey continued, with Mabel back at the wheel and the hands resting on the passenger seat. She had turned the car around and was now heading towards Two Bridges. Her intention was to break the spirit’s attachment to the haunting by carrying it across running water. Once a spirit had passed such a boundary, it could no longer return across it unaided.

There were only two possibilities: Cherry Brook or the West Dart.

Then Mabel understood.

He had told her himself. The explosion had blown his body apart. Some of his remains must have landed on one side of the running water and some on the other.

The water had divided the body, and in doing so, divided the spirit.

Which explained something else.

Why only the hands remained at the crash location.

There was, however, one immediate problem.

Cherry Brook lay ahead.

“You said you would help me, we’re heading away from Postbridge!”

“It’s not that easy. The cist was dug up in 1903 during an archaeological excavation. Items were removed from the site, and we don’t know who disturbed your healing or where it is now. I need to go to Princetown to find the answers.”

“But why Princetown, and how?” it asked.

“Modern tools that allow people to speak over great distances. Princetown has them, and it’s the nearest.”

That night Lady Hazelgrove stayed at the Duchy Hotel, a high-quality establishment which she knew had a telephone connection. More importantly, after the dash across the moors, it had its own motor garage where the damage to her car could be attended to.

Mabel had calls to make the next day and favours to pull in, and expected to spend much of the week there. The hands stayed in the car, with strict instructions not to appear to anyone but her.

──✿──

Mabel’s training had been ongoing from the time she could stand. Her supernatural career had begun at nineteen, and she was now thirty-three. That was a lot of years in which to cement friendships and acquire influential contacts.

A few well-placed telephone calls gave her a name and a number. The person in question had already been primed for her call.

“And who was that person, Mr Worth?” she asked.

“George French, of Postbridge. He was a local Justice of the Peace and assisted with the dig at Soussons. I’ve corresponded with him for years. He’s reached a ripe old age now and, I think, is reflecting upon his life. About a year ago he enquired after the sample of hair we recovered. He had some notion of eventually placing it in a local museum.”

Worth paused.

“I thought it only right to send it to him. In essence, to send it home.”

“Was?” Mabel said, fearing the worst.

“Oh no, he’s very much still alive.”

Mabel relaxed.

“Would you like me to introduce you? I can telegraph him today.”

“Please do,” she replied.

──✿──

Two days later, Mabel was on her way to Hartland Farm, the home of George French. The hands naturally went with her.

“I can feel its presence!” the hands exclaimed as they pulled into the farm.

“Yes, but you keep quiet, or this could go badly. This is an old man, not used to the spirit world. We need to tread carefully.”

George French was sitting outside by the door waiting for her. He welcomed her with a warmth she could feel and invited her inside the farmhouse.

“Your Ladyship, welcome.”

“Mabel, please, Mr French.”

“And you must call me George.”

They took tea and talked about the dig, the local landscape and his time as a Justice of the Peace. Mabel let the conversation flow out of respect, gradually bringing it around to the hair sample.

“And you still have that sample of hair?”

“Yes, in my bureau. I can fetch it for you now,” George replied.

“Please, but in a moment. I would like you to read something for me first. It’s from the Chief Constable of Devon. I believe you know him?”

“Indeed I do, Madam.”

She reached into the map case she had brought with her and handed him the letter. He read it with little expression, as only a Justice of the Peace would, and then looked up blankly.

“I’ve seen and heard many claims in my time, but this. Is it real?”

“Yes, sir, and I can prove it now. But I must ask about your health. Are you able to face a shock like this?”

French paused for thought, looked down at the crest on the letter, then back up at Mabel.

“I’ve been in this county all my life and seen things I’d never admit to another soul. You cannot live on Dartmoor without feeling its dark past. Madam, please show me.”

She reached once more into the map case and brought out the hands.

In the presence of the hair they were now more solid, and definitely still hairy. For a moment they remained silent, then stood on end and waved at George.

There was a stunned look, then a glint in the old man’s eye, and finally a warm and hearty laugh.

──✿──

Mabel requested that George return the hair to the cist at Soussons, and advised that it be sooner rather than later. He heartily agreed and set about doing so that same day. The hair remained with him.

On the way back, the hands spoke again.

“I must go back, Mabel, to where you found me. I can feel a calling from the other part of me, and a peace I’ve not felt since that day,” said a faint voice from the map case.

“We shall do it now,” she said, taking the Postbridge road.

──✿──

Two weeks later, a local newspaper ran this report.

KIND ACT BY LOCAL MAGISTRATE

Postbridge

A small but interesting act of restitution was carried out last week at the ancient cairn circle on Soussons Hill, near Postbridge, by Mr George French, J.P., of Hartland Farm.

Mr French, who has long been interested in the prehistoric remains on the moor, returned to the site a small object of antiquarian interest which had been in his keeping for some years. The item, which had originally been removed during early excavations at the circle, was returned in the presence of a small number of local residents.

Mr French, who has served as a magistrate for many years, was noted for the care with which he saw the object laid to rest at the site. He is understood to have regarded the matter as a personal obligation of long standing.

The cairn circle at Soussons is one of the most interesting prehistoric monuments on Dartmoor, and the act is likely to be noted with approval by those concerned with the preservation of the moor’s antiquities.

The End