It takes just a couple of rings for the sergeant to answer his mobile. His voice surrounds them, his breathing audible and wheezy.
‘Guv – I was just looking for you – I’m in your office right now.’
‘Aye – something came up.’
‘Where are you, Guv?’
Skelgill surveys their environs, his gaze lingering upon the expanse of water flashing through the trees that line the highway to starboard.
‘Just passing Bass Lake.’
‘Right, Guv.’
DS Leyton’s tone suggests he harbours some suspicion of Skelgill’s motives.
‘Don’t worry – I’ve got Jones to witness I don’t stop.’
‘Course not, Guv.’
‘Leyton – anything more on Pavlenko?’
DS Leyton lets out a grumbling growl.
‘I missed a call from my contact in Kiev, Guv – while we were having our meeting. He’s not been answering his phone since. I’ve tried their main switchboard but they don’t understand English.’
‘Probably they don’t understand Cockney, Leyton.’
‘Could be that, Guv.’
‘Aye, well – keep trying. In the meantime see what you can find out about the owner of Blackbeck Castle – Wolfstein.’
‘Doctor.’
This is DS Jones who pipes up.
‘Aye, that’s right, Leyton – he called himself “Doctor” when we crossed paths.’
‘Righto, Guv – any particular angle you have in mind?’
Skelgill tuts impatiently – perhaps it is the proximity to Bassenthwaite Lake that irks him; so near yet so far, on such a fine day with little prospect of fishing.
‘I don’t know, Leyton – use your initiative – start with any previous as a werewolf.’
DS Leyton emits a nervous chuckle; uncertain of whether this is a joke or an insult. An outright laugh carries the risk of riling his superior.
‘Leave it with me, Guv.’ Now he hesitates for a moment, though he inhales to make it clear he has something to add. ‘Er, when will you be back, Guv – in case anyone’s looking for you?’
They all know he refers to the Chief – or, at least, to DI Smart, should he be successful in his quest to conscript DS Jones.
‘No idea, Leyton – this could take all day. You know what it’s like.’
Though the explanation makes no sense whatsoever, DS Leyton is obliged to yield.
‘Right, Guv...’
Still he hesitates to offer a farewell.
‘What is it, Leyton?’
‘Er, nothing really, Guv – just that I was going to take the pies home later – for me and the missus, like.’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Thing is, Guv – there’s only one left in the box.’
‘Can’t help you there, Leyton.’
Skelgill reaches forward and terminates the call. DS Jones glances sideways at her boss, but quickly averts her eyes when he senses her gaze. She must be wondering if, despite his denial, they are in for an unscheduled halt at Peel Wyke, “just to check the boat”. However, as the turn for the old coaching inn approaches, Skelgill leans over the helm and hammers on towards Cockermouth.
‘Wolfstein translates to wolf stone, you know, Guv?’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘You do German, too?’
‘Only a little, Guv – I studied it for a year.’
Skelgill scoffs.
‘A year? I did French for five and I can’t remember what day of the week it is.’
DS Jones laughs at his cryptic logic.
‘I looked up the origin – apparently when a corpse had to be buried in a shallow grave – such as stony ground – they’d lay a large flat rock over it – to stop wolves from digging up the remains.’
Skelgill seems intrigued by this notion.
‘Cairns – they’d do the same job – you know, out on the fells, I’ve often wondered if it’s more than a pile of rocks I’m passing.’ He takes in a sharp breath, almost a reflex. ‘They built one over Mallory.’
‘It’s a scary thought, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head. Then he digs into the right-hand pocket of his jacket and produces an object in a foil tray.
‘Bite of pie?’
11. THE HAVEN
‘A witch, Guv?’
They have turned into a narrow truncated street that appears sheared off to the sky. It can only be an optical illusion, caused by the upward slope, and a cliff top. Indeed this is Whitehaven, northern England’s most westerly outpost, perched on the edge of the Irish Sea, two centuries ago a major commercial port for coal and iron ore. Today it is the haunt of tourists admiring the fortified harbour that withstood American raiders during the War of Independence, and its intact Georgian town plan, reputedly the inspiration for the design of New York City.
Parallax aside, George Place on the outskirts of the small town is no Fifth Avenue. A mere three parked vehicles ranged against a dozen satellite dishes tell their own tale; the properties bleak and harled and huddled, and fronting directly onto the patchy asphalt of the inadequate sidewalk. Skelgill conducts the car with care as they count the numbers; it turns out the house they seek is the last on the left, its nameplate ‘The Haven’.
Skelgill yanks up the handbrake and kills the engine. Then he regards the view that has now unfolded. Ahead of them across a t-junction rusting railings enclose ramshackle allotments that tumble into unruly scrub. Somewhere below is the shore, and, seventy miles beyond the watery horizon, County Down.
*
‘Mrs Roberts, it’s very good of you to see us.’
‘Inspector, Sergeant – you are most welcome.’
The woman bows graciously towards each of her guests. They are seated around tea things in a tiny sunroom enclosed in a walled yard at the rear of the property. There have been passing peeks at a sitting room with television and sofa, framed graduation photographs of offspring; and a kitchen-diner where a pot bubbles quietly on a hob, filling the small property with the resinous pungency of rosemary. Rhian Roberts could be in her late sixties; she is unostentatiously attired in a white blouse with lacy sleeves, and a matching calf-length white skirt of soft material and a fine floral pattern in violet; her jewellery is conventional, a modest gold chain around her throat, a wristwatch and bracelet, and pendant earrings with small white opals that correspond to the stone set in a ring on her right index finger. More distinctive is a thick head of wavy raven hair, though cut short in a kind of bonnet; this, along with skin that is smooth and unseasonably tanned, and a pronounced physiognomy, contrives a Mediterranean look enhanced by eyes so deep a brown as to approach black.
Skelgill begins uncharacteristically with an ‘ahem’, as if he has neither rehearsed his opening line nor finds the right words materialising in the moment. Since their admission at the front door there has been no mention of their purpose, and little conversation beyond them having had a safe journey from Penrith (and the agreeable weather, naturally). DS Jones sits demurely, while Skelgill wrestles with what is – to the two detectives, at least – the proverbial elephant in the room. But the woman waits serenely for him to find his tongue, like a veteran doctor schooled in forbearance by a lifetime of apprehensive patients.
‘Mrs Roberts –’ (she nods encouragingly) ‘I’ve heard of you through my family – I believe you – helped – an aunt of mine some years back – by the name of Graham – from Buttermere.’
‘And how is she – Mary Ann?’
There is an involuntary straightening of Skelgill’s posture.
‘She’s doing good – thanks – fit as a fiddle.’
‘I am glad to hear it – perhaps it was the spell.’
From such mundane pleasantries this little word – spell – leaps clanking and hooting into their midst like a one-man-band that has been conjured from some Victorian street scene. Rhian Roberts, of course, is entirely unperturbed, and regards her guests with an inquiring look. Skelgill is clearly diso
riented, though he eventually manages to force a response.
‘Perhaps?’
‘Inspector – I could not honestly claim to be one hundred per cent sure of my magic – because it may be that in some cases it is the power of suggestion that achieves the desired effect, and in others it might be sheer coincidence. Of course, there are hundreds of people who consider I have assisted them – and I could refer you to many of these.’
Skelgill nods willingly. The woman looks at him with a glint of amusement in her eye.
‘But demonstration is not easy – I cannot turn you into a frog because that is contrary to the laws of nature. But I can for instance help you with a matter of the heart – for it is quite possible that someone may fall in love with you – these are forces that already exist and thus I can bend them to my wishes. Were I able to turn you into a frog and back there could be no denying I can work magic. That I can make a beautiful girl fall in love with you could happen anyway, and so it could be attributed to coincidence or suggestion.’
She watches Skelgill for a moment and then turns her gaze with gentle admiration upon DS Jones. Both officers look scared to death. Skelgill has his hands clasped firmly on his lap.
‘So you do... do actual... spells?’
She smiles patiently.
‘When I was learning my craft, I found it important to adhere to spells – to the letter; it facilitates concentration. I have an ancient grimoire that was bestowed upon me at my initiation, four decades ago. But as my confidence grew I discovered that I could often work without such a crutch. The most powerful weapons a witch can possess are her own mind and her will. With correct training and experience she should be able to perform magic simply of her own volition.’
On Skelgill’s brow is enacted a little battle between bewilderment and the business at hand.
‘If you don’t mind my asking – what exactly happens?’
‘I channel natural energy – my own, that of my subjects, that which envelops us.’
‘And it causes real changes?’
‘I believe so. Although there are some things I cannot accomplish alone. I take them to the coven to which I belong. The combined strength of thirteen minds is very powerful.’
Having somewhat awkwardly surmounted the hurdle of spells, by comparison Skelgill now seems to take the idea of a witches’ coven in his stride.
‘What sort of things do you try to achieve?’
‘As I have intimated – people seek help concerning romance – then there is health and wellbeing – and of course financial hardship.’
Skelgill glances about the room, an involuntary a clue to his thoughts.
‘You are wondering why I live so modestly, Inspector. If I could work magic to make money?’
He holds apart his palms, realising there is no point denying such.
‘It is not for a witch to act for her own ends.’ She speaks with a calm assuredness, and no hint of regret or avarice. ‘I would not even wish to enrich a subject – our power is primitive and dangerous, it seems to take the shortest possible route to fulfil itself. Imagine if the outcome were compensation for the loss of a limb, or insurance for the tragic death of a loved one.’
She stares hard at Skelgill as this rather macabre idea sinks in. He nods grimly to reflect his comprehension.
‘To focus upon the person’s career would be more prudent. But I can only help those who help themselves.’
‘In what way, Mrs Roberts?’ Skelgill’s eyes narrow as though he envisages some participation in a mysterious ritual.
‘If you want a new job, Inspector – or promotion, Sergeant – I can only assist if you fill out some applications!’
She chuckles and they follow suit, relieved to learn of such a mundane necessity.
Skelgill grins wryly.
‘Keeping mine’s normally more to the point.’
‘But you are not here for your own advancement.’
It is a statement rather than a question, again reflecting the acuity of her perception.
‘I suppose the first thing I wanted to be sure about – to understand – is that there is witchcraft taking place.’
‘Of all shades – from white to black, with fifty of grey in between – from genuine to sham.’
‘What makes the difference – for it to be genuine?’
‘Inspector, the word witch – it means wisdom – an ancient descriptor derived from the Anglo-Saxon wicce – just look online.’ (Skelgill nods – it would appear he has done some rudimentary research.) ‘The inner circle of witchcraft is effectively closed – you have to be born a witch to enter.’
‘So – Mrs Roberts – how do you go about becoming involved?’ Skelgill appears perplexed. ‘I mean – it’s not like you can walk into a church or something.’
Her dark eyes shine like polished chestnuts; she looks calmly from one detective to the other.
‘In my case I began to experience a degree of clairvoyance from a young age. My powers gradually developed and I was introduced to wise people who were able to guide and instruct me. Witches recognise one another sooner or later. I was initiated into a coven of which today I am the Magistra.’ She glances briefly at DS Jones. ‘The leader is always female, Inspector.’
‘And – black magic – are you saying it’s all a sham?’
A shadow seems cross her features.
‘There are witches who prefer the left-hand path, Inspector – one I know has been a lifelong friend – but the dark side attracts the psychologically disturbed who see it as a short cut to their heart’s desire. So there exist occult groups that make useful receptacles for such would-be witches, the self-deluded, the highly suggestible. They may however be led by those with genuine ability.’
Skelgill has been captivated (and DS Jones likewise; she sits unmoving, out of deference refraining from her customary brisk taking of notes), but now he seems to notice his tea. He lifts the cup; it has cooled and he drains it in one go. His hostess responds by reaching for the pot to provide a refill.
‘Ah, thanks – very much – Mrs Roberts.’
While she pours Skelgill ferrets in the inside pocket of his jacket. He produces the clear polythene bag that holds the necklace prised from the dead fingers of William Thymer. He pulls it out by the broken leather cord and holds the bead dangling. Carefully, but without hesitation, she takes it from him. A wry grin creases the corners of her full lips, though she awaits Skelgill’s explanation.
‘A man has been found drowned in suspicious circumstances. He had this in his possession.’
The woman’s demeanour stiffens respectfully.
‘Inspector – I thought for a moment you might be intending to test me – like a vampire with a cross or bunch of garlic.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘This is a charm to ward off witches.’
‘Ah.’
‘But a white witch would have no fear of such an amulet – though I don’t doubt it is an authentic talisman – and there is a hex sign lightly marked.’
‘What’s that?’
Skelgill leans forward as she proffers the item for his closer inspection. Indeed there is engraved – scratched so faintly as to be almost invisible – a rough circle containing a star.
‘Amber was revered by the ancients – for possessing the power to repel witches – and the hex sign is of pre-Christian Teutonic origin – if you know your German...?’
Intuitively she looks to DS Jones, who responds to the unspoken command.
‘Hexe – it means witch.’
Skelgill casts a somewhat piqued glance at his colleague. Perhaps not to be outdone, he fishes out his mobile and locates the photograph of William Thymer’s forest bender. He presents the handset to Rhian Roberts.
‘This is the place in the woods where we believe the old man lived. His camp was draped with bunches of recently harvested elder twigs – you can see the leaves are only partly wilted.’
‘A more local tradition.’ She nods slowly an
d weighs the phone thoughtfully in the palm of her hand. ‘Like the rowan it protects against evil – planted at the door, and hung over the chimney breast and from a rafter in the barn.’
‘There were markings on the forest floor.’ Skelgill leans across and indicates with a finger. ‘See around the shelter, scored into the earth – a circle with points – another of these hex signs?’
Surprisingly she shakes her head with some determination.
‘No – it is a pentagram – perhaps an amateur attempt to deter hag-tracking – when a black witch will circle her victim in their sleep, making an incantation.’ The woman’s eyes narrow. ‘But in vain I fear – for there is a more sinister thing.’
She proves to be adept with a smartphone – with a swipe and a flick she enlarges a portion of the background of the image. Then she presents the handset at arm’s length for both detectives to view. DS Jones lets out an involuntary cry of revulsion. Illuminated by the flash – and fixed to a tree beyond the entrance of the bender – is the horned head of a sheep, its dead eyes staring purple and opaque.
‘It’s a tup – Herdwick ewes don’t have horns.’
Such taxonomy seems somewhat superfluous, and Skelgill’s interjection is perhaps borne out of self-reproach for overlooking the gruesome object in the evening gloom of the forest. Hence it is DS Jones who pursues the underlying issue.
‘Mrs Roberts – what can it mean?’
The woman does not answer – indeed she sits back, her wicker armchair creaking, and presses Skelgill’s phone between her palms; simultaneously she closes her eyes. When she opens them, she is staring directly at Skelgill, and her expression seems to flush with wonderment – contrary to the disquiet that might be expected, given her macabre discovery. For a few moments she is silent, until she blinks decisively and turns her attention back to DS Jones.
‘The ram is a recognised symbol of the occult – records of its worship reach into the mists of time – the oldest depictions of Amon the ram-headed god can be traced to Berber mythology dating back over ten millennia – cults have worshipped something similar ever since – right up to the Wicca of today.’
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 10