Murderer in Shadow

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “The village’s name is of interesting derivation.”

  “I’m sure it is, sir.”

  They neared the environs of Knight’s Crossing. So far, Stark had successfully, and surprisingly, deflected the guv’s every attempt to educate him. He felt his brain was full enough already. Ravyn’s evergreen memory might snag every jot and tittle for all time, but Stark ever felt his own head in danger of springing a leak.

  “Very interesting,” Ravyn said.

  Stark sighed.

  “Most interesting.”

  “Did a knight cross a road or maybe a bridge over a…” He slammed his foot against the brake. The car swerved and shuddered onto the verge, then died. “Bloody hell!”

  In an instant, Stark was out of the car, running toward a stand of woods. Ravyn saw what Stark had seen amongst the trees. He sighed, climbed out and ambled over.

  “Bloody hell.” This time, Stark said the epithet softly, baffled and more than a little annoyed. “It’s a bloody dummy. Some silly prat hung a bloody mannequin from a tree.”

  “The villagers call it a sumja glynwro.” Ravyn stood back, waiting for Stark to see beyond the crude hanging figure fashioned from grass, old clothes and a face painted on wood. “It translates from the Proto-Celtic as ‘magic-fence hanging-man.’ Magicians use them to demarcate areas where they perform workings. Previously, they used actual bodies, often a poacher or highwayman, sometimes a traveller or an annoying relative.”

  Stark looked past the effigy hung from a limb by a stout rope. He turned to Ravyn, jaw slack, then looked back into the woods. Three more hung from trees at irregular intervals. Upon their wooden heads were peaked caps, blood-coloured.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “They warn other magicians to keep away, ordinary folk, too, for that matter,” Ravyn continued. “The advantage these have over the old is that markers don’t have to be replaced nearly as often.”

  “And nobody is killed.”

  “Well, yes,” Ravyn admitted. “There is that too.”

  “I didn’t think it was real.” Stark returned to the car, conscious of Ravyn’s expression. “And I don’t think it’s bloody funny.”

  “It’s not meant to be,” Ravyn said. “Knight’s Crossing has a long tradition of magic.” He grunted as the acceleration drove him into the seat. “We’ll probably not be there long, but it might help if you learned a bit about Knight’s Crossing and its inhabitants.”

  Stark sighed, defeated. “So, sir, how did Knight’s Crossing get its name? I hear it’s…most interesting.”

  Chapter 3

  Trouble With Yobs

  By the time they turned onto the High Street of Knight’s Crossing, Stark was certain his head really had sprung a leak. He knew, if he looked at his seat’s headrest, he would see little grey cells dying on its faux-leather surface.

  In just a few minutes, Ravyn had covered three thousand years of history, folklore and gossip. He cited documents, related stories overheard as a lad, and quoted verbatim from books read decades earlier in some aunt’s arcane library. Stark tried to sort out swirling images of a knight betrayed by villagers, a lance broken by magic, and generations of magicians at battle with each other and the world at large. Yes, a leak for sure, he thought, that cracking sound not from a stiff neck being moved after a long drive, but from a skull fissuring under the pressure of too much information.

  “Oddly enough,” Ravyn said, “there were never any reports of witchcraft here. Even old Matthew Hopkins came up dry when he and his entourage visited Knight’s Crossing.”

  “Witches were fair game, but not warlocks?”

  “Actually, in Hammershire County, more warlocks were strung up, burnt or drowned than witches,” Ravyn said. “A warlock is a male witch, of course.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “But magicians and sorcerers…”

  “Who are not witches…”

  “Of course not, Stark.”

  “Silly me, sir.”

  “King James…”

  “The Bible James…”

  “…was opposed to witches, male or female, ruthlessly torturing and killing them,” Ravyn continued, “but he did not hold the same enmity for other practitioners of the dark arts. He even occasionally sought advice from an astrologer and a spiritualistic medium.”

  “Dr Dee and…and…”

  “Edward Kelley.”

  “Of course, sir,” Stark muttered. “How could I forget?”

  “Well, they are associated more with Elizabeth,” Ravyn said. “James put Dee out of mind in later years. Not a bent farthing for the old faker when he was elderly and down on his luck.”

  “Guess government pensions weren’t then what they are now.”

  “Bear to the right.” Ravyn gestured with an uplift of his chin. “There’s the Broken Lance, its car park, and an obviously restive resident constable.”

  * * *

  PC Hillary Ware watched the motorcar pull off the High Street and into the car park. When the two men climbed out, she felt her heart quicken, her mouth and throat suddenly lose all moisture. She was being silly, she knew, but after her conversation with Heln, which, of course had never happened, she felt as if she teetered upon a precipice. Steadying her breathing and moistening her throat so she would not croak like a toad when she spoke, she busied herself by opening the boot of her car and pulling out the map she would need to explain the search areas. She turned to face her ordeal.

  The older of the two, shorter by a head than the other and a bit thickset, was obviously the DCI about whom Heln had warned her. He did not appear an ogre. Actually, he had a kindly aspect about him, the sort of solid features that inspired trust. She despised her reaction. She knew enough of human nature to know the outside rarely revealed the inner man. He reminded her of an old actor Mum had fancied when she would take her to the cinema over in Denby Marsh as a little girl. He was dressed nicely, as if he had just come from a bespoke tailor in Savile Row.

  The other was tall, gangly, and looked as if he had dressed himself by jumping into a charity shop dust bin. He, too, reminded her of a cinema star, with his cynical eyes and snarky smirk, like Michael Caine in those spy films. Still, there was something about him that appealed to her, a certain confidence that made her think he might be a good man to have at her back in a fight.

  She stiffened as they neared, and she realized with a start that the DCI had extended his hand, that he was speaking to her, making introductions. She almost dropped her map grabbing his hand, and when she spoke, she croaked.

  “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector.” She cleared her throat, then did it again. “Thank you for coming, both of you. I can use all the… I mean, things are not going as I had hoped. Or at least not as swiftly toward… The search, you know.”

  “Do you know the missing boy?” Ravyn asked.

  “Oh yes, all his life, just as I know everyone in…” She realized she was on the verge of babbling. “Yes, sir, very well.”

  “He the type to run off?” Ravyn asked.

  “Not at all, sir,” Ware replied. “He’s a good lad, overall that is, not the type to land himself in trouble. He is a bit mischievous, but wouldn’t cause problems for his mum, or run off.”

  “No drugs, smoking, that sort of thing?”

  “No, that we get enough of from the Carlisle yobs.”

  Stark looked sharply at the young policewoman. He had been listening, but not fully. His gaze had been flitting over the village. He saw a pub sign with a broken lance atop a fractured pentacle, windows hiding hidden watchers, and megalithic stones in the village green incised with arcane symbols, those same mysterious signs repeated upon walls, doors and panels around the village.

  “Carlisle?”

  “Council estate, Sarge. Built five years back. Over opposition.”

  “What about foul play of some kind?” Ravyn asked. “Anything to make you consider that? Ruffians gone a bit far with harassment, a reason to take the boy?”


  “Nothing obvious, sir,” she replied. “Most of the troublemakers spend their time in the pub, or go off to Denby Marsh to raise hell. They also go to Stafford, I’m sure—drugs, drink, women.”

  “Likely we know a few,” Stark said.

  “As to kidnapping.” She shook her head. “It’s just Harold and his mum, dad having run off before the boy was born. Strapper, he was. They got nothing no one would want, just a cottage, it’s called Rosethorn Cottage, that came to her when her parents passed. She’s a cleaner for some of the other villagers. Very hand to mouth, sir. Nothing to extort.”

  “What’s your opinion, Constable?” Ravyn asked. “What do you think has happened to the boy?”

  Again, her mouth went dry, but she refused to croak. “I think young Harold has gone off adventuring, that he’s taken a tumble of some sort.” She looked away, over the village. “I think he’s out there, somewhere, waiting for us to find him.”

  Ravyn nodded. “Tell us what you’ve done so far.”

  They went to the outside tables and opened the map flat. She explained sectioning the area and allocating search parties. As she spoke, Stark stared at the map intently, following with his sharp flitting gaze, but the chief inspector listened with half-lidded eyes.

  “The area around Stryker Farm proving a stickler?”

  Ware looked up, surprised by Ravyn. “Yes, sir.”

  “What sort of people did you assign to that group?”

  “Strappers, mostly, either men from Carlisle who aren’t too bad or villagers who recently bought cottages,” she said. “And some of the locals who don’t listen to stories.”

  “Good decision.”

  “They’re led by Franklin Knox.”

  “Sensible man, or so his writings indicate.”

  Stark felt, once again, like the dark sheep who had wandered in, uninvited, to a family reunion.

  “Ah, is there anything I can get anyone?”

  The three turned towards the newcomer.

  “No, thank you, Mr Vogt,” Ware said, then gasped silently as she realized she had answered for two superior officers. A look at them reassured her. “But thanks anyway.”

  “Peter Vogt.” He was in his mid-fifties and had a grin that showed teeth like tilted gravestones. “Proprietor of the Broken Lance. Here about young Harold, are you?”

  “Yes. I’m DCI Ravyn, of the Hammershire Constabulary, and this is DS Stark.”

  “Mr Vogt,” Stark said with a curt nod.

  “So, you’ve come all the way from Stafford to show our Hilly how it’s done, have you?”

  “To render assistance, as necessary,” Ravyn said.

  “Why aren’t you out searching?” Stark asked.

  “Me?” Vogt arched his eyebrows and touched four fingers to his chest. “Well, I went door to door, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, it was a great help, Mr Vogt,” Ware said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

  “Git,” Stark said when the publican was gone.

  “He can be, but we’re better off with him here than out there.”

  Ravyn raised questioning eyebrows.

  Ware made a tippling gesture.

  Ravyn nodded. “How many areas have been cleared?”

  She pointed to the map. “All but here.”

  “Stryker Farm,” he said with a knowing nod.

  “That’s where I was when you called, sir,” she said. “Despite my best efforts to staff it with people who either would not know or care about the old stories, they started quailing, backbones melting as they drew near the place. They got scared.”

  “What about Knox?”

  “Steadfast, sir. Held them together.”

  “They’re still searching the area of the farm then?”

  “Not exactly.” She lowered her gaze. “I had the mutiny almost quelled when I received your call. I had to get back to meet you. I told Mr Knox to take them around to…” She stopped and sighed. “I suppose I should have…”

  “It’s all right,” Ravyn said. “What did you tell Knox?”

  “To search the area west and north, to come back around to the rear of the property.”

  “Between the haunted pond and the Worship Tree?”

  “I didn’t know you knew…” She cut herself off. “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s an area that has to be searched, so no harm done.” He gave her a thin, encouraging smile. “But we have to search the Stryker property soon as possible. The lad is an adventuresome sort, you indicated, so what would it be for a boy like that, bogs or bogies?”

  She returned his smile. “Bogies, sir. And bloody wraits.”

  Stark rolled his eyes. Whenever he thought it was difficult to understand his wife’s native Welsh, all he had to do was consider what the residents of Hammershire had done to the Queen’s English.

  “The best course of action would seem…” Ravyn started to say.

  The sound of breaking glass came to them.

  “Lord!” Ware slipped away and ran.

  Stark easily caught up and kept pace. “What is it?”

  “Yobs pestering Henry Winsell again.”

  “He have something to do with the boy’s disappearance?”

  “They think so, sir.” Ware was surprised the older, heavier DCI was at their heels. “They don’t like him ‘cause he’s new, only been here ‘bout seven years. And he’s odd.”

  “Odd?” Stark asked. “In what way?”

  “He doesn’t go out, well hardly ever,” she replied. “Poor old git is afraid to. Something mental, but he’s not a perv.”

  “Your roustabouts have been at him already?”

  “Yes, sir. Just before I set off to check on Knox’s group,” she said. “I thought I got them sorted out, but…” She shrugged. “I got no one I can spare to keep watch over him.” They rounded the lane and saw a crowd outside a cottage. “Oh Lord, what next?”

  “What is it?” Ravyn asked, pulling up beside the other two.

  Ware pointed. “Mildred Drinkwater. That’s the mum. And the usual crew of yobs. She wasn’t here before.”

  “Here’s what I want the two of you to do,” Ravyn said. “When we go in, separate Mrs Drinkwater from the crowd and…”

  “I can’t arrest her. That would really set them off.” Ware shut her mouth and gulped when she saw Ravyn’s expression.

  “Go, meet Knox, and take her with you,” the chief inspector said. “That will encourage the searchers. They may fear what they think they know about Stryker Farm, but they will fear her more. If they quail, she will take out her anxiety on them. Getting her away from the village will also help diffuse this situation.”

  Ware glanced at the seething crowd. Many had picked up rocks and were brandishing them. Stark gave Ravyn a cautionary look. It was apparent to him they were exceeding Heln’s orders.

  “You can sit this one out, Sergeant,” Ravyn said. “If you wish.”

  Stark’s face darkened, not so much at the guv’nor’s suggestion as at his own thoughts. After his altercation with Heln, he did not give a monkey’s toss what the little man thought of him, but he did care how he fared in Ravyn’s eyes. What happened, he wondered, to the chap who survived an administrative tempest by betraying his mates, lying to Professional Practices to keep his wife out of jail, and accepting a transfer to the back of beyond in lieu of being sacked? By moving to Hammershire, he had hoped to find a second chance, maybe some peace, but not lose any measure of integrity.

  “No, I’m fine, sir,” Stark said.

  Ravyn gave a nod. “Good man.”

  “What about the situation with Winsell, sir?” Ware asked.

  “I’ll handle it,” Ravyn said. “Separate the mum from the mob and get that farm searched. On your way, you two.”

  They moved toward the crowd, Stark and Ware heading for the missing boy’s mother, Ravyn pushing his way to the front.

  “Those are rough yobs,” Ware said, softly. “If they get ugly…”

  “Don’t worry about the guv,
” Stark said. “Take the lead with the woman. Better someone she knows than Sergeant Strapper.”

  Ware raised her eyebrows, sighed and charged in, Stark behind her. He glowered at anyone who looked their way. No one gazed for long at the tall strapper who glared like a mad badger. Mrs Drinkwater struggled a bit when Ware took her elbow, but went with them docilely, more or less, when Stark firmly hooked her other arm. They put the crowd and Ravyn behind them.

  “Where are we going?” Mildred gazed at Ware with desperate hope. “Have you found Harold? Is he…” Her eyes widened in alarm. “No! Don’t tell me he’s…” She whimpered. “My poor boy!”

  “No, we’ve not found Harold yet, Mildred.”

  “Then, I don’t understand.”

  “Please come with us, Mrs Drinkwater.” As Stark spoke, he one-handed his identity folder open to show his warrant card. “You can’t accomplish anything good here.”

  “That man knows something about Harold.” Mildred tried to pull away from the two police officers, but they held her fast. “He’s odd, that one, and Lebbie and the others are saying…”

  “You yourself called him a mooncalf,” Ware said. “Any other day, you wouldn’t believe Lebbie Rodgers if he said the sun was shining at noon. Now, on his say-so, you’re persecuting an innocent man. You’re no fool, Mildred Drinkwater, so don’t act like one.”

  Mildred cast her gaze down, but still looked sullen.

  “We are on our way to meet a search party,” Stark said. “We’d like to have you with us. It will help.”

  “It’s the Stryker place,” Ware said, tightening her grip.

  Hearing their destination, Mildred stopped. She started walking again when she found herself being dragged.

  “I know Harold wouldn’t go there. He’d be too scared.”

  “So are the searchers, from what I’ve been told,” Stark said.

  “It would buck them up to see you,” Ware said. “Like I told you before, Harold is a brash lad. He’d go there.”