One thing Skelgill can be sure about, however, is that the person who met DS Jones at Penrith railway station could not have suspected she was a police officer. As Captain Shevchenko had rightly asserted, they would simply not turn up. This knowledge also suggests that the use of first the bus and then the car – left at an isolated and darkened village stop – is simply a regular precaution to avoid being identified, and was not a conscious act to lose a tail. It does not, however, explain what occurred in Keswick, and how they lost trace of her altogether. And while Skelgill has been adamant the police should not jeopardise DS Jones’s cover, he does not share DS Leyton’s optimism that it will protect her indefinitely. In the meantime can he dare to believe that she is burrowing deeply enough to undermine the foundations of whatever illegal edifice has been built on their patch? That she is waiting for the right moment to make her move and get back in touch? With a second night upon them, he needs it to be soon.
His mobile rings.
Skelgill tears at the Velcro of his gilet. The number is unfamiliar, though at a glance it seems to comprise mostly threes and sevens.
‘Skelgill.’
‘Ah, Inspector – is it convenient? This is Rhian Roberts.’
He looks again briefly at the handset, a puzzled expression crossing his features.
‘It’s fine – madam.’
‘I received a message that you need my help.’
Again Skelgill hesitates.
‘Who from?’
The woman responds with an amused chuckle.
‘Let’s say it was an anonymous source. And so we have been conducting some... investigations of our own.’
In the background behind her Skelgill can hear the light chatter of voices and the odd clink and clatter of what could be teacups and saucers. He checks his watch – it is now after nine – late perhaps for her to be socialising.
‘I see.’
He obviously doesn’t, but she does not elaborate.
‘You are outdoors?’
‘I’m fishing – on Bass Lake.’
‘Then you see the full moon?’
Skelgill turns to the southeast.
‘Plain as day.’
‘I mentioned that there are four great sabbats – tomorrow is Beltane – tonight is May Eve, Walpurgis Night.’
A look of alarm is gradually taking of hold of Skelgill’s countenance.
‘Tonight?’
‘You understand what I am saying?’
Once more, he is slow to respond.
‘Aye – I think I do.’
‘I am preparing with my own coven at this moment – a full moon on such a night is exceptionally propitious.’
‘Or not.’ His voice is quiet, mechanical.
‘Quite right, Inspector – there are those who would wish to subvert such incalculable energy.’
He stares unblinking across the pale surface of the lake. A mist is beginning to rise as the night air cools more quickly than the water. From a distant shore the ululating hoot of a tawny owl resonates with the insistent pinking of blackbirds. Skelgill is motionless; though upon close inspection the hairs on his bare forearms bristle in unison. His right hand, holding the mobile phone, has drifted away from his ear. Now the witch’s disembodied voice seems to emanate from dusk’s sharp ether.
‘If you need to act, you might have only a few hours to do so. You know where to go. We shall be with you in spirit – I have placed your cause high upon our agenda. Now, she awaits.’
*
‘Come on Merkel – pull your weight, man!’
Skelgill is jolted from his trance. He looks with some incredulity at his mobile phone, gripped tightly in the hand that has fallen to rest upon his lap. The screen is blank – in sleep mode. Then he swivels at the waist to face the source of the intrusion: a coxless four is crossing his bows some seventy-five yards off. In the gathering darkness it is difficult to make out much of the rowers – they do not appear to be wearing athletic kit – though their voices carry as if they are almost beside him. They appear oblivious to Skelgill’s presence. They are sculling hard, and their occasional breathless conversation (in the most refined of accents) tells its own story: they are sixth-formers from Oakthwaite School – they have obviously sneaked out to the pubic bar at the coaching inn just beyond Peel Wyke, and have cut fine their homeward return.
‘Quick hands, chaps – old Ravelston-Dykes will have our guts for garters if we’re not back for lights-out!’
‘Jenkins, I told you we should have drawn the line at two sherries!’
‘That was you to blame, Merkel – come on man, pull – you Jerries are supposed to be team-players!’
At the behest of ‘Jenkins’ they fall silent and set to their task – at least they seem to know what they are doing, and swiftly they make progress towards the wooded banks where the great institution lies concealed from everyday sight.
But Skelgill has activated his phone. His features are cast into strong relief by its eerie blue glow. There is something vulpine about the light in his eyes, his teeth are bared and his breath comes quickly. He locates a number and brings the handset up to his ear.
‘George?’
‘Skelly?’
‘Aye – thank God you’re on, marra – can you nip into my office and do me a favour?’
‘No bother – it’s like the Marie Celeste in here – they’re all up at Carlisle.’
‘In the grey cabinet there’s a file from the Oakthwaite case – it’s all in order, Jones did it.’ (For a second he hesitates, caught out by the memory.) ‘There’s a school roll, goes right back – there’s a name I want you to check – look between 1970 and 1975 – send me a text.’
*
‘Guv – how’s it going – caught a whopper?’
‘Leyton – are you still in the pub?’
DS Leyton inhales, inured though he is to his boss’s brusqueness.
‘I am, Guv – it’s gone a bit dead – that conference lot all cleared off half an hour ago.’
‘Listen – we don’t have the time to do this by the book – pay attention to what I need you to do.’
21. MAYDAY
All the while that Skelgill makes frenetic preparations with rope and harness, an ungodly chanting emanates from the gaping black chasm that is the splintered roof of Blackbeck mines’ so-called ‘Apse’. Kneeling, he works assiduously in the silvery light, every so often pausing beneath the moon to check his watch, which tells him midnight is fast approaching.
There is no wind and the sky remains clear, and a frost is beginning to sparkle on the bracken shoots that rise around him like hundreds of tiny serpents, cloned and frozen for the moment in their race towards the spangled firmament. But despite the cold, perspiration streams from Skelgill’s brow – for the past two hours have seen him row, ride and run like the devil, beginning with a sprint across Bassenthwaite Lake that would have had the coxless four gaping in admiration. Making a cursory mooring and stowing his fishing tackle as best he could, he had leapt astride his trusty Triumph and roared off eastwards along the A66. Upon reaching his home, there arrived a requirement for ‘thinking clearly under pressure’ – like some frantic burglar he had ranged about his garage and shed and the back of his car, grabbing items of gear and jamming them into his largest rucksack – whether there was some method in the madness only he knew. Back on the road he had retraced his southward journey of yesterday eve, passing the shimmering lakes of Thirlmere, Grasmere, Rydal Water and the northern tip of Windermere, as he turned west into the mountains crowding Little Langdale.
Immediately beyond the locked track to the quarry he had been confronted by a small convoy, their dazzling halogens all but blinding him – it was the most he could do to stay on the road, ducking his head and holding a line against its tight curves as one oncoming vehicle after another swept past him in quick succession. But he had survived and continued, passing the driveway of Blackbeck Castle, to reach the spot where he had urged DS Jones to mount th
e verge nine days earlier. Opposite the boundary wall of Blackbeck estate, across the narrow lane, is a dense thicket of rhododendrons – it was into here that he had steered his motorcycle, comprehensively concealing its presence.
Thus the final leg of his nocturnal triathlon had begun – a lung-busting yomp up through the forest, following his nose and the gradient until he met the towering wall that circles the castle grounds. He glanced at the recessed grey gate without apparent inclination to stop – but a little further on he drew to a halt, pausing to tie to a twig a strip of pale cloth – torn from a shirt that had come to hand in his garage – thence to take a brief detour off the path. A couple of minutes later, onwards and upwards he had laboured, driving himself beneath the watchful face of the moon and the weight of his pack. Emerging from the edge of the forest he had struck directly at the shining lunar disc. Arriving at his present destination he had deposited his rucksack and jogged the two hundred and fifty yards to the cliff that overlooks the quarry. A minute later he had returned, his features grave.
And still from beneath echoes the ominous chanting. The collective gender of the irreligious choir is indeterminate – though surely both male and female – and there is a curious murmuring harmony that masks any single voice. The language, too, is impenetrable – as far as Skelgill is concerned it could be Latin or Greek or even ancient Cumbric – but its sentiment is unmistakable, at once imploring and demanding, its rhythm reinforced by the low rumble of a base drum, an underlying pulse that seems every half minute or so to emanate from the very body of the earth, a four-note warpath riff with its relentless promise of crescendo.
Skelgill drops to a sitting position upon a patch of springy turf. He wriggles into his climbing harness, raising his hips and pulling the leg loops hard up into his groin – better suffer and adjust to the discomfort now than be half-castrated in mid air. He wrenches the waist strap tight before doubling it back through its buckle. His rope is prepared – this is a popular abseil and a sturdy iron ring bolted into an outcrop of slate has served generations of adventurers. He unclips the Sheriff from his belay loop and pairs it with the rope before locking them both into the karabiner. His fingers work overtime – and perhaps it is the mantra about speed and haste that plays upon his lips. Finally he shrugs his shoulders into the rucksack, rises to his feet, leans against the rope and edges towards the abyss.
However, rather than reverse over the rocky rim, he kneels and then inches forwards upon a jutting shard of slate, taking care not to dislodge any loose fragments that might reveal his presence. The floor of the cave is a good fifty feet below and this sinkhole perhaps fifteen feet in diameter. Peering down the shaft, for the first time he is able to see into the chamber. Almost directly beneath is the ‘altar’ slab and thrusting up towards him the crude ‘reredos’ – how ironic that he showed these spectacular monoliths to DS Jones – for she stands tied against the vertical rock, while another girl – a striking blonde whom Skelgill recognises from Leonid Pavlenko’s photograph as Irina Yanukovych – lies similarly restrained, upon the plinth.
*
The dizzying rush of disbelief is a test of Skelgill’s willpower – yet somehow he resists the urge to cry out or launch himself like a comic book superhero – or even to topple, disoriented by vertigo and the mesmeric chant that resonates about his bewildered brain. It is clear his heart is racing; his chest heaves with breaths hissed between bared teeth; his eyes dart about wildly as he strives to understand what is taking place.
But as he clings on he becomes accustomed to the gloom and begins to process the various components of the scene. In fact the darkness is not uniform. Set closely around the pair five candles make a regular pattern (the points of a pentagram?); they burn steadily in the still air. And the angled beam of the moon, a faint cylinder of light defined by the aperture and the millions of tiny water droplets suspended in the moist ether, strikes the shattered rocks and lays down a circular pool of light that bathes the prone girl – up to her shoulders – and creeps closer to cover both her and DS Jones in their entirety.
What is shocking to behold is that the two girls are dressed in white gossamer – little more than tightly wrapped sarongs that expose the thighs and much of the breasts – and it is plain, even at this distance, that they are otherwise naked. As the incessant chanting is punctuated by the tantalisingly climactic throb of the drum, the females appear both alert and yet curiously passive.
Skelgill edges around the rim of the chasm, so that the upright rock is between him and DS Jones. He can no longer see the two girls, but his view into the cave lengthens. Outside the ring of light cast by the candles and the spotlight of the moon there is near darkness, but he can just discern a semi-circle of hooded figures. As he watches, their line divides and one of their number comes forwards leading a tethered animal – a Herdwick ram. In what seems like slow motion – but must only take half a dozen seconds – another person follows and draws a ceremonial sword – and as the relentless chanting increases in ferocity and tempo the sheep is slaughtered – the head is hacked off and the body cavity split asunder.
It is not clear if the girls witness this act of butchery – or indeed if they are looking at all – but now the ‘executioner’ approaches them bearing a chalice; it drips black with blood. Skelgill scrambles back to his original position – he watches with a morbid fascination as the figure anoints the girls in turn – marking a counter-clockwise swastika upon the exposed flesh of the left breast above the heart. The prone Irina Yanukovych is plainly trembling, but DS Jones holds her nerve, though she closes her eyes while the symbol is daubed.
Then abruptly the drum signals a change and the monotonous chant assumes a slower tempo. The black coven – for of course that is what they must be – has crowded around the altar – but now the leader holds up the chalice and walks through the throng, who turn and follow. They disappear from Skelgill’s line of vision – and, though the incantation continues, its volume diminishes.
He checks his watch – and this might provide the explanation – for it is eight minutes to midnight – and below he can see that the patch of moonlight has extended across the body of Irina Yanukovych and is now falling upon the bare feet of DS Jones. Perhaps the coven is undertaking its final vile preparation before returning to the altar at the witching hour.
Skelgill must act.
He shrugs the coil of rope from his shoulder and tosses it into the aperture. He watches through narrowed eyes as it snakes down into the void. He knows its length and that it will comfortably reach the ground. It falls directly behind the shard to which DS Jones is secured. There is a space of about eight feet at which he can aim between the rock and the pool of water that extends into the invisible depths of the cavern. Now he takes up the slack and begins to back over the edge. There is always a point in abseiling when trust must be transferred to some higher power (even if that be the manufacturers of the rope or of the expansion bolts that hold the anchor point in place) – it is a point of no return – but Skelgill shows no hesitation as he dips his backside and then pushes off, simultaneously reducing the friction on his belay device so that he drops well beneath the overhang and the attendant risk of a crack to the skull. Smoothly, he descends the shaft, taking just ten seconds to touch down gently upon the rough-hewn stone floor. He has no stopper knot on the rope and briskly hauls the running end free of his harness.
He casts about. The chanting – certainly now coming from somewhere beyond the exit to this great chamber – has taken on a more urgent note, more strained, more frenzied; but it sounds as though they have been left alone – and why should the coven worry? For there is only one way out – and they have numbers and, as Skelgill’s reconnaissance has already determined, a guard patrolling the quarry. Cautiously he rounds the immense upright and vaults onto the flat ‘altar’ slab. He moves nimbly and before she can react he has his hand pressed firmly over DS Jones’s mouth. There is sudden fear and alarm in her eyes – but Skelgill hisses int
o her ear and she realises it is he.
‘Keep dead quiet.’
DS Jones nods.
The other girl appears petrified; Skelgill kneels and whispers to her, too. She seems to grasp she is to be silent, though she recoils when he reaches over his shoulder and pulls a glinting blade from his backpack. Swiftly he cuts the bonds that fasten her wrists and ankles. Then he rises and releases DS Jones. She sways forwards as the binding that pinned her drops away, and Skelgill has to support her weight, wrapping his arms about her body. He can feel that she is cold, chilled and damp and her nipples press through the fabric of the flimsy sacrificial garment.
‘Are you okay?’
His words again are whispered directly into her ear.
‘They’ve given us something, Guv – to subdue us – I feel numb.’
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 22