“Surprising it was left to last then.”
“It was very overgrown.”
“Yes, very,” Ravyn agreed. “I’ve read your books, Mr Knox.”
“Oh?”
“Very well written, thoroughly researched.”
“Is your interest historical or…” He let the question hang.
“In my profession, it helps to be something of an informational omnivore,” Ravyn said. “I’ve always enjoyed reading history, and if folklore does not shape Hammershire’s history, what does? I find it all helpful to me, sooner or later, no matter how arcane.”
“In what way?” Knox asked. “I’ve tried to make my little books informative, even entertaining to a certain degree, but, I must admit, ‘helpful’ has never crossed my mind.”
“People are always a product of where they live,” Ravyn said. “The longer a person has dwelled in a certain locale, the more he may be understood through a familiarity with a region’s history. Place shapes the man more than man the place.”
“A man who has been rooted in Knight’s Crossing for only one or two generations,” Knox suggested, “would believe, think and act differently than one whose family taproot extended down twenty or thirty generations. Is that what you’re postulating?”
“Precisely,” Ravyn said. “Were I to show an old resident of the village a grimoire with the Elder Sign inscribed on its brown leather cover, he would react differently than a man born elsewhere.”
“A grimoire? With a brown leather cover?”
“As an example.”
“An oddly precise example, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Ravyn shrugged.
“I think you are correct,” Knox said. “The outsider might not recognize the Elder…well, the symbol you mentioned, much less grave it beside his door or understand its significance to a villager.”
“Or to you?”
“In my own case, you also have to take into consideration that I know there is a world beyond the horizon,” Knox said. “I am much better educated than your average villager. It’s neither a boast of my own abilities nor a condemnation of my fellow villagers, a few of whom enjoy even deeper familial taproots than my own, merely a statement of fact.”
“Do you not believe in magic?”
Knox took another sip of his wine. “It’s an interesting idea you have, understanding a man by analyzing the cultural stew in which he was raised.” He smiled. “Or braised, to continue the metaphor. It might make an excellent monograph.” From his inside coat pocket, he withdrew a thin electronic device. “Mind if I quote you?”
“Not at all.”
Knox quickly typed, then returned the gadget to his pocket.
“Your ancestors might have thought that device magic.” Ravyn said. “Or even diabolical.”
Knox smiled and tapped his personal assistant through the cloth of his coat. “Not necessarily, Chief Inspector. My own father would have had nothing to do with it, would have stomped it to pieces. Nothing to do with the magical universe. Hated all electronics. I was surrounded by books at home, but no telly or wireless.”
“The lack of a telly is hardly a deprivation.”
“Rather ghastly, I agree, but at the time it was the lure of the forbidden to a young man. I found ways to circumvent him.”
“Youths usually do.”
“We weren’t even on the phone.” He laughed, then said: “If not for my mother’s insistence, we might not have had electricity at all. As formidable as my father was, he was no match for my mother. Best to keep the peace with her, he often said.”
“Did your father consider himself a magician?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Chief Inspector, but…”
“Yes, quite right,” Ravyn agreed. “Outsiders.”
“There is that, of course, but…” He paused, pursing his lips and reflexively rubbing thumb against the index and middle fingers of his left hand, eyeing Ravyn with flinty eyes. “Here, you learn early on to keep yourself to yourself, to hold secrets, even when they are not secrets. It’s almost impossible, overcoming that conditioning.”
“As I mentioned to Mr Vogt when he…” Ravyn smiled. “Some things do become instinctive.”
Knox frowned for a moment. “Boasting that your father was a magician was as bad as admitting he was just a mundane, perhaps worse. It’s not just in your Bible that pride goeth before a fall. It’s something you’d keep from an outsider merely on general principle, but from a villager because knowledge is power.”
“Sharing knowledge gives power, but also takes away.”
Knox nodded. “I don’t know which engenders more angst and agony amongst the youth of Knight’s Crossing, raging hormones or silence in the face of taunts and jibes. Here, betraying one’s family is the worse possible crime.”
“Which allows many dark deeds to go unchecked.”
“I suppose so.”
“Both your parents are deceased?”
“I think you already know that, Mr Ravyn.” The corner of the man’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You know much more about us than we about you. I understand Lebbie Rodgers…” He flicked his gaze toward the opposite corner. “…and his rowdy mates were an open book to you. Some might say magic, but I wouldn’t.”
“Nor would I,” Ravyn said. “I would be foolish to come here without preparation of some kind. As you say, knowledge is power, thus ignorance brings weakness.”
“Troublemakers mark themselves by their actions?”
“Easy to spot.”
“But knowing them by name…”
“They become known to the police,” Ravyn said. “If they act like fools in their own village, think how they must behave when cloaked in anonymity, or so they assume, outside the village.”
“Rodgers and his lot do get into mischief, harmless enough usually, but I suppose they might act worse elsewhere.” He rubbed his chin. “The occurrence outside Venture Cottage was a bit out of character, I thought. At least from what I was told.”
“Told by…”
“People know my penchant for gossip. Let’s just say, multiple sources and leave it at that. I wouldn’t want anyone harassed due to my curiosity.” He smiled . “Perhaps his ears were burning.”
Ravyn saw Rodgers and his mates stand and head out. Those between them and the door scurried aside. He noticed no money had been left on the table. His eyes half closed, he thought back: no, he had seen no money change hands. None at all.
“You shouldn’t take Rodgers lightly, even if he is a wanker.
“Do you know Henry Winsell?”
“Winsell?”
“The occupant of Venture Cottage.”
“Oh. Is that man’s name?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I knew he was a Londoner, keeps to himself, pathologically so, but nothing more than that.”
“I’m surprised someone didn’t tell you.”
“Gossip and old tales,” Knox said. “The doings of villagers and historical bits and bobs. I don’t believe his name… Winsell, you said? Don’t think it was mentioned. Newcomers, strappers they are called, rarely interest anyone. Unless circumstances intervene.”
“Such as a missing child?”
“Rodgers obviously thought so.”
“Did you know Winsell was originally from Denby Marsh?”
“No, but what’s that worth?” Knox said. “A closer foreign part than London, but a foreign part all the same. A strapper either way.”
“Did anyone tell you what Lebbie Rodgers said to me?”
Knox made a hmming sound. “Vague rumblings. Not anything in particular. Verbal abuse. A stone was tossed at the cottage, but it was not certain the hand was his.”
“Yes, the expected taunts and threats when his kind come into contact with police, and a window was damaged, but the interesting part came at the end.” Ravyn leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice. “He said, ‘you’ll hear your doom come on the wind’.”
Knox leaned back and pursed his lips.
“What do you make of that?”
“Probably just posturing. For his mates, I suppose, but maybe the crowd too. Maybe just for you.”
“Do you think there’s anything to it?”
“Only if you believe in magic, Chief Inspector. Do you?”
“Does he?”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, if were I you,” Knox said. “In Knight’s Crossing, it’s not always a matter of what you know, but what people think you know.”
“Power is conveyed by the perception of others?”
“Just so.” The personal assistant in his pocket pinged and Knox gulped the last of his wine. “It’s been a pleasure speaking to you, but I must be off.” He tapped the device. “Let’s me know when it’s time to take my blood pressure pills.” He looked up. “Besides, it appears someone else wants words with you.”
Ravyn followed his gaze and saw Constable Hillary Ware at the closing door, looking their way.
“Two other things, Mr Knox.”
He paused and raised quizzical eyebrows.
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“My car? A yellow Prius.” He laughed. “It’s a small enough sacrifice to save the planet, don’t you think?”
“In your studies of Knight’s Crossing, have you ever found the names Stone Heart, Owl Screech or Hawk Claw in connection with anything?”
“Odd and evocative names, but, no, never.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr Knox.”
Knox glanced at Ware, then back to Ravyn. “A good girl, is our Hilly,” Knox said. “Do be gentle with her.”
With a soft, self-satisfied chuckle, Knox took his leave. As their paths crossed, Ware’s gaze darted to the departing man and her eyebrows shot upward. She said nothing, but it was clear something had been said to her.
She paused as she neared Ravyn, then approached.
“I heard you had... Well, I mean…” She looked for a moment at the closing door, then back to Ravyn. “Am I disturbing you, sir? I mean, I’ve nothing urgent to discuss, but…”
“No, please be seated, Constable.”
She sat across from him, her back to the curious villagers.
“May I order you something?”
She shook her head.
“Sir, I heard you had taken a room and I…”
He waited a moment, but when her silence became awkward he said: “Constable Ware…Hillary, if you have a question, it’s best to ask it. What’s on your mind?”
She started to speak, twice, then gulped down the heart that had lodged itself firmly in her throat. “Are you here because I did not do well enough in handling the search for Harold? Are you not through evaluating me? Is my probationary status still in jeopardy? Am I to be kept on as the village constable?”
She paused, breathless after the rush of questions, and Ravyn regarded her with a mild gaze.
“I would really like to know.” Then she added: “Sir.”
“I thought we had settled this matter earlier.”
“I know what you said, but…”
“Sergeant Stark and I did not come to evaluate, but to help, if we could.” He paused. “And if you asked.”
She held silent, breath caught in her throat.
“Admittedly, we hedged a bit in that last instruction, but I felt our intrusion was warranted given the situation.” He smiled, hoping to allay her anxiety. “As far as anyone is concerned, from the Chief Constable on down, you were responsible for finding the boy safe and sound. Stark did the dirty and dangerous work, but that why God created detective sergeants.”
She did not share his smile. “I’m not concerned about who gets credit for what. That was never my worry. My only care was getting Harold back to his mum alive.”
“And that’s all you should care about.” He reached across the table, gave her hand three carefully measured pats, then pulled back, but not too quickly. “That is the essence of good police work, and you should never make excuses. Protecting the innocent, nicking the villains, and balancing the letter of the law against the spirit of the law. That is our mandate as police officers, as outmoded as it may sound these days.”
She smiled, recalling her eye-opening interview with Heln.
“Yes, a rather old-fashioned view,” he said, misunderstanding the source of her smile. “Probably one you should not emulate if you wish to rise through the ranks with any alacrity.”
“No, sir, it’s not that.”
“Perhaps you have been told I am a dinosaur?”
Not trusting her tongue, she shook her head.
“Well, never mind,” he said with a weary sigh. “I was not sent to Knight’s Crossing to pass judgement upon you and am not here now for that reason.”
“It’s all about the old case then?”
“Entirely,” he said. “The solution to the Stryker murders was in Knight’s Crossing thirty years ago. It still is. I will not allow it to be bungled a second time.”
“I saw Mr Heln’s broadcast,” Ware said. “A lot of pressure on you because of that, I know. He made it sound as if you might solve it all in a day or two.”
“I hope to.”
She gave him a sceptical smile.
“No, I’m not boasting, Constable. Despite Mr Heln’s deliberate braggadocio, I am hopeful of reaching a conclusion in short order,” he said. “Events have already occurred indicating the murderer is in Knight’s Crossing, as perhaps he always was.”
“Hiding here?”
“In the shadows perhaps,” Ravyn said, “but in plain sight.”
“How can I help?” When he did not immediately reply, she said: “I really want to be of some help, sir. Not for anything it may do for my career, but because Dale Stryker deserved better than be thought a murderer for a generation.” She paused. “What events?”
For a moment, Ravyn considered showing her Dale Stryker’s grimoire, but decided against it. It was not so much he did not trust her as that she had not yet earned his trust. Her obsession, that he and Stark were there solely to evaluate her, that he was still in the village for that purpose even after Harold Drinkwater’s recovery, was troubling. Her preoccupation might stem from inexperience and a lack of self-confidence, but, equally so, she might also have been steered into that line of thought by someone.
“Sergeant Stark went to Brighton to follow up on an aspect of the Stryker case,” Ravyn finally said. “On his way here to meet me, he was attacked, his car forced off the road.”
“Oh my God. Is he okay?”
“Fine, but I sent him to Stafford for evaluation.”
“Why would anyone do that?” She lowered her voice at a sign from Ravyn. “Who did it?”
“Stark was…” Ravyn paused. “No injuries, but Stark was a bit rattled by the encounter.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“He did not get a good look at the other car.”
“Any description at all?”
“Dark,” Ravyn said. “Green. Probably” A pause. “Maybe.”
“Not much to go on.”
Ravyn nodded.
“Green isn’t popular these days, so it might be an older car,” she said. “Aren’t that many that would fit, but if it’s just a dark colour… You think it’s a car from the village?”
“I do.”
“I’ll look around tomorrow, see if any fit the bill, if they have body damage of some kind.”
“Front wing, possibly.”
“All right, sir, I’ll check.”
“How many cars are we talking about?”
She shrugged. “Green, a handful; dark, maybe a dozen or two.”
“It will help, if only to eliminate them.”
“What did they want, sir?”
“I’m not sure they knew,” Ravyn said. “Whoever it was might have thought Stark had found something connected to the Stryker case, was hoping for the best, and took a risk.”
“Did he?”
“Did
who what?”
“Stark,” she said. “Did he find something in Brighton?”
Again, Ravyn considered showing the grimoire to Ware. Vogt had seen it and Knox surely suspected the existence of something like it. If knowledge of it got around, as surely would happen in a gossipy village, it would be easier to trace its dissemination with only two possible origins.
“Do you know what the Elder Sign is?”
Ware’s eyes darted nervously. “Yes.”
“You know its significance then?”
“Yes.” She more mouthed the word than actually whispered it.
“It’s common knowledge?”
She nodded. “To anyone raised in Knight’s Crossing, it is. Half or more of the cottages have the…have that thing marked on them for protection from… Well, for various reasons.”
“From curses, evil spells, demonic entities, that sort of thing?”
“It covers a lot of territory, sir.” Her voice was now above a whisper, but not much. “Shield Cottage, that’s where I live, has one incised in the lintel, but it’s been up there for generations. Mum wouldn’t live anywhere what didn’t have the…have protection. It may sound peculiar to you, sir, but that’s life in this village. We all know about it, see it everyday, even on the old stones in the village green, but it’s one of those things not bandied about. You learn very early what you talk about in public and what people just know.”
“So I gathered,” Ravyn said. “You saw it on the stones out at the Stryker place?”
She nodded. “Is that why you’re asking about…”
“Is Mabel Link reliable?”
Ware, who had leaned forward while speaking, as if she and the chief inspector were conspiring about something best kept under wraps, leaned back at the abrupt change in subject.
“About most things, yes, I think so. She’s bitter about her life, the way things turned out for her, but she did know Martha Stryker better than anyone else. That’s why I asked her to speak to you. She’s not potty, if that’s what you mean.”
“Ever hear of Ezekiel Stryker taking on an acolyte?”
“To pass on his magical knowledge?”
Ravyn nodded.
“Not that I ever heard told, sir,” Ware said. “But keep in mind, I only ever heard facts from my mum, who never had much to say about it, and Albert Dorry, who said even less, except when it came to complaining about the two idiot detectives sent by Stafford.” She coloured. “Sorry, sir, but…”
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