Murderer in Shadow

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  There were three banks of floodlights on collapsible stands, one illuminating the sandy earth which had yielded the mortal remains, now resembling an archaeological dig, two shifted so their glow climbed up the rock wall behind. The lines and swirls incised into the stone were deep, about three inches. They rose from ground level to about twenty feet up. The edges were worn smooth.

  “Many of the same symbols as on the stones above, sir.”

  Ravyn had not heard the sergeant’s approach.

  “Symbols of magic and sorcery,” Ravyn said. “But much older than the stones. These predate by…” He shook his head. “Aeons.”

  “And the stones have been there since before the beginning of time.” Stark thought of Ware’s assertions. “Daft villagers.”

  “Not just symbols, Stark, but Mhoggam too.”

  Stark followed Ravyn’s sweeping hand, saw the strange marks that flowed around and through the symbols. There was a certain sense about them, the impression of some sort of communication. It was, to him, like looking at Arabic or Sanskrit – he might not be able to gather any meaning from the marks, but he knew instantly a language had been rendered from verbal to visual, that there was an intelligence manifested in them. But here, the marks were such as never would have been rendered by human hand or mind, nor could he imagine them being voiced by human tongue. He thought back to what Ware had said about the sky-clad revels of the Stryker Clan.

  “Mhoggam?” He stumbled over the word.

  “An ancient language used in ceremonies by the earliest tribes of England,” Ravyn said. “Few examples are known, it has not been studied extensively, and many linguists have never heard of it.”

  “Can you read any of that, sir?”

  Ravyn shook his head. “No one can. In 1783, an antiquarian by the name of Thaddeus Syn published a monograph claiming he had deciphered Mhoggam, linking it to a tribe of demon worshipers who fled the Plain of Shinar after the fall of the Tower, but none took his claims seriously.”

  “I can’t imagine why not, sir.”

  “His credibility was not helped by the fact that he wrote and published from his cell in Bedlam Hospital.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stark said. “I can see how that would prejudice folk against him. They might even dismiss it as the ravings of…”

  “Yes, Stark, quite so.” While Ravyn appreciated Stark’s need to use humour as a shield, it did, at times, become a little grating. “It may not have anything to do with the case, but…”

  “The Stryker murders?”

  “And the murder of Dale Stryker,” Ravyn said. “Accused of a terrible crime, yet all these years…down here…”

  Stark waited a moment. “You think it’s him too then? I mean, in spite of what Dr Penworthy said?”

  “Synchronicity, Stark.”

  The detective sergeant tried to recall all the guv’nor had said in the past few months about the Jungian concept. His brain hurt from the effort, but he managed to grab a scrap.

  “Coincidences occur, but rarely, and when there are too many of them it’s no coincidence at all, but a sign of significance?”

  “More or less.” Actually, it was less than more, but Ravyn let it go. Not all memories held equal force in the minds of other men, a truth he reluctantly accepted, meaning, he reflected, that his powers of recall did not define normality.

  Stark frowned. He thought he had pulled up the right phrase, but perhaps not. At any rate, he had tried his best. More or less.

  At times, the chief inspector wondered if Stark would ever rise to his own potential. Others, seeing only a copper bounced from the Met for reasons obscure, had cautioned him against investing trust in Stark, for anything. So far, though, despite warnings from Karen Ramsey and Lena Penworthy, Stark had not yet given him a reason to regret his investment. As far as he knew.

  “Old blathering, that.” Powell-Mavins gestured at the wall. “No telling what it has to do with your case – likely none – but I ordered photos of all, one to one, edge to edge.”

  “A mosaic then,” Ravyn said.

  “Aye, if you want to spread it out, for who knows why.”

  Stark swept his gaze up the wall and could not imagine why.

  “All the prints will be numbered,” Powell-Mavins said. “Only need a floor big enough.” He laughed. “If the Stafford Ballroom is not free, maybe you could sweet talk the canteen manageress into moving out the chairs and tables for you.”

  Ravyn shot the forensics chief a sour look.

  “All right, all right don’t get your wind up.” His laugh was forced. “We know it was all her.”

  Stark was surprised there was a rumour about the guv’nor he had not overheard. He wondered if this one had legs. Most of them did not, just whispered jibes about an unpopular chief inspector. In the political and increasingly activist world of the police, any man who did not play the game, who seemed unconcerned with personal consequences in cases involving the rich and powerful, and who listened more than he spoke was outside the fold. It also did not help that Ravyn went through detective sergeants as other men did through tissues. In staying as he had, Stark had saddened those who had bet in the unofficial pool about his departure, though the Police Widows and Orphans Fund had benefited from his tenacity.

  “Anyway,” Powell-Mavins continued, “it’s all yours.”

  Stark looked at the writing on the wall and knew the forensics supervisor had wasted his film. Ravyn did not need snaps taken to study the engravings. One look, and the chief inspector could jot all the engravings without error that evening or the next day. Or a week later, Stark thought, a year or any number of decades. It was a trait to which Stark was privy, but obviously not Powell-Mavins.

  “If the superintendent assigns the case to me, it will be mine. If not…” He shrugged. “I’m not lacking for work.”

  “Aye, the wee man will give it to you, sure.” He glanced back, as if the ‘wee man’ might materialize out of the shadows. “A case thirty years cold, thought settled but now busted to smithereens, a cock-up if there ever was one. Old Highchurch got sent to pasture for it, and you’ll be up against bigger odds.” Powell-Mavins gave Ravyn a sad, knowing smirk. “Who else would Heln saddle with the whole bollixed thing but you?”

  * * *

  PC Hillary Ware paused when she saw her office door ajar. Visitors were not unusual, but they usually closed the door after entering or leaving. Besides, Mildred and the boy were on their way to Stafford, and anyone connected with the search had either gone to work or home, or to The Broken Lance for some self-congratulatory pints.

  After dropping Winsell off, she had decided to check her office for messages before meeting the county pathologist and the forensic team in the pub’s car park.

  She entered cautiously. Knight’s Crossing was not a dangerous place, but these were odd times. Her chair was occupied and turned from the door. She saw a length of blue sleeve, and a delicate white hand holding a file that had been locked in her desk drawer.

  “Enjoying your read?” she asked, her tone frigid.

  The file closed slowly and the chair turned.

  “Superintendent Heln!”

  Heln stood up, which made almost no difference at all. He put the file on the desk. He did not smile.

  “Congratulations are in order, I understand?”

  “Yes, sir, we found the Drinkwater boy, safe and mostly unhurt, just scraped up and a little frightened,” she said. “He and his mum are already off to hospital.”

  “So I heard on the way over.”

  She fidgeted. “What brings you here, sir?”

  “The body in the well,” he said. “I heard about that also.”

  “Sinkhole, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Not a well, sir, but a sinkhole.”

  He glared at her. “How was it discovered?”

  “When DS Stark went down the sinkhole looking…”

  “For the missing boy,” Heln said, sharply.

  “Yes, sir,�
� Ware replied. “At Stryker Farm, once we searched all other possibilities, it was Chief Inspector Ravyn who worked out the existence of…”

  “Do you think me a fool, Constable Ware?”

  Her heart crashed into her stomach. “No, sir.”

  “Did I not tell you to do your job?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To not show any weakness to Ravyn and Stark?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To keep them out of the investigation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then perhaps you can explain why you disobeyed my direct orders.” Heln moved around from the desk, forcing her back, nearly to the door. “I make the trip in my personal motor, hoping to find you’ve taken proactive steps to further your career, only to discover you have not only ignored my orders, have spurned my advice, but have actually allowed to take over the search a man who, unlike me, not only does not care about you, but could use influence with the Chief Constable to derail your career.”

  “It wasn’t like that, sir.” Ware’s throat was so constricted she could barely breathe, but she forced out the words.

  “What was it like, Constable?”

  “Neither DCI Ravyn nor DS Stark took the investigation from me.” She kept her eyes trained on Heln’s, focusing on maintaining even breaths, a calm tone. “At no time did I cede the case to their control. What they did, they did at my request.”

  “You asked for help?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you do that after I specifically forbade it?”

  “Because it was necessary,” she replied. “Important.”

  “More important than my orders?”

  “Yes, sir.” When the superintendent made no comment, Ware added: “A man in the village, one Henry Winsell, was threatened by violence because of some yobs. They suspected he had something to do with the missing boy. He hadn’t, of course. I had already cleared him, but the mob had been whipped to a frenzy.

  “I could have quelled the mob, handled the yobs, but it would have taken me away from the search,” she continued. “I asked Chief Inspector Ravyn to take charge of Winsell’s safety while DS Stark and I removed Mrs Drinkwater from the scene and took her out to Stryker Farm, where a local search coordinator, Franklin Knox, was experiencing trouble maintaining discipline.”

  Heln’s frown changed from one of anger to confusion.

  “It’s Stryker Farm, sir,” she explained. “It has a reputation, the murders decades ago, and then there’s…” She paused, embarrassed to reveal local superstitions before an outsider. “Well, folks around here hold that it’s haunted, not so much by the spirits of the people murdered, but by demons and elementals summoned by…”

  Heln raised a silencing palm. “Please, Constable. I do not want to hear what ignorant villagers believe.”

  “Well, I not only have to listen to what they believe, I have to take them seriously, if I want them to take me seriously.” She saw the look in Heln’s eyes and added: “Sir.”

  “Regardless of beliefs, Constable, you were told…”

  “I was told to find a lost child, not that I needed to be,” Ware interrupted. “Had I not used my judgement, asking DCI Ravyn and DS Stark to assist me, the boy might not have been found, at least not in time to save his life.” Thinking of what might have happened had darkness fallen before the boy could be found, she fought a rising anger. “Was not finding young Harold my top priority?”

  “Yes,” Heln said. “Yes, of course it was.”

  “Then I stand by my decisions.” She straightened her shoulders. “If there is any disciplinary action, I am fully prepared to accept…”

  “No.” Heln’s tone was harsh, the word abrupt. It would do no one any good to pursue this. He had counted too much on the silly cow being intimidated by mere words. He smiled and softened his tone: “You are young and inexperienced. You’ll learn. That’s what a probationary status is for, learning the job.”

  “Yes, sir.” She was confused by his sudden turnaround, but did her best not to show it. “I appreciate your understanding.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure you do. In the future, however, I hope you will not allow yourself to be swayed by a man like Ravyn. He is not going to help your career, as I will. I’ve promised to take you under my wing, so to speak, help you achieve your full potential. I see no reason to change that intent, not because of what might be termed a youthful indiscretion, one best kept to ourselves.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No matter how affable Ravyn appears, he is not your friend.”

  “I know that, sir, but he seems…” She paused. There obviously was some animosity between the two men, and it was never a good idea to get between two sparring mongrels. “DCI Ravyn seems very compassionate, a decent man, very concerned about…”

  Superintendent Heln shed his avuncular tone. “Compassionate? Decent? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Admittedly, I am not as well acquainted with the chief inspector as are you, but…”

  “No, you are not,” Heln said. “I’ve already told you how out of step he is with modern policing policies, part of the old guard that keeps us from integrating with the Twenty-first Century. We would be much better off without him and his kind.”

  “He was awarded the George Cross, sir.”

  Heln looked as if he had swallowed a very bitter bug.

  “I’ve heard his success rate is the highest in the CID,” Ware continued, emboldened. “And his cases the most difficult.”

  “Have you?”

  She felt combating dogs close in, but she could not help herself. It was as if losing her fear of Heln had broken open the floodgates. All she knew at this point was that she liked DCI Ravyn very much, even DS Stark a little, but Superintendent Heln not at all. Whether he could help her career or not, she now regarded him as she might something that had slithered from under a river rock.

  “Yes, sir, I have,” she said. “I’ve read about them in newspaper accounts, heard others talk about them, including old Albert Dorry, our former village constable.”

  “Drunken reprobate.”

  “Several cases were used as teaching models in police college.”

  Heln frowned. He had not known that.

  “But I don’t judge people by what others tell me or what I read about them,” she continued. “I don’t judge them by their awards or even by their good works, for I know that many a black heart has hid behind a silver shield.”

  Heln regarded the girl with a sneer. Ignorant cow, giving him an old village maxim as if it were from the Bard’s works.

  “I judge people by what I observe and what I feel.”

  Heln made a derisive snort.

  “I may be young, but I think I’m a good judge of character.”

  Heln allowed himself a deep breath. “Character is overrated.”

  Ware wanted to argue the point, but decided she had dug her grave deeply enough. Now it was time to see if Superintendent Heln was going to chuck her in and start shovelling dirt.

  “I’ve decided to overlook your insolence, this time, Constable Ware,” he said after a long silence. “I understand you are tired and stressed, though that is no excuse for your outburst.”

  She nodded, not trusting her mouth.

  “Perhaps I was wrong in thinking you have a bright future in the Hammershire Constabulary,” Heln continued. “Perhaps this was merely a momentary…” He paused. “…blip. We shall see.”

  She moved aside as he headed for the door.

  “I will tell you one thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Putting your trust in Ravyn is foolish,” Heln said. “Others who have done so have suffered professional and personal catastrophes, even death.” He saw the look on her face. “I do not exaggerate. A young girl, so very beautiful, so full of life.” He regarded her with a critical eye. “No older than you are now, dead because she put her trust in Arthur Ravyn – murdered. Not by Ravyn’s hand, of course
.” A shadow seemed to cross his eyes. “But his fault nonetheless.”

  Not knowing what to say, Ware chose silence.

  “Well, you’ve been warned, Constable Ware.” Heln reached for the uniform cap he had placed on the low bookcase by the door as he had entered. “What you make of your career is now in your own hands. Choose wisely.”

  He started out the door, then turned.

  “One last thing, Constable.”

  “Sir?”

  “I was never here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door closed.

  Constable Hillary Ware breathed, steadying herself against the desk. Moody and silent, she hurried to the Broken Lance’s car park.

  ***

  “The skeletal remains recovered from a sinkhole at Stryker Farm, Knight’s Crossing are human and of a single individual, confirmed by observation and reconstruction, both at the site and, later, in the Stafford morgue.” Penworthy spoke clearly, at a measured pace, as much for the observers as for the microphone above the autopsy table. “Measurements of the pelvis and skull, of femur and humerus head diameters, and radii of the femur, tibia and humerus, confirm the remains are those of a post pubertal male. An estimated age of thirteen to fifteen years is suggested by the eruption of teeth, the wear and tear on the teeth, the appearance of the ossific centre and epiphysis union, as well as measurements of the long bones.

  “The absence of tooth and claw marks indicate little or no predation, but periodic flooding shifted major bones and scattered phalanges.” She glanced at the observers. “Forensic analysis of the minerals deposited on the bones, along with the rate of lichen growth, especially on the skull, by the Hammershire SOCO suggest the bones have remained in situ thirty to thirty-five years.”