Guardians Of The Haunted Moor

by Harper Fox

  He kept it up for a fathomless stretch of time. Behind him the air went quiet, as if some great watching force had finally seen what it had been looking for and could depart. Rain pattered on his neck, and then, with a pinging sensation like cold elastic bands being snapped, big storm-born August hailstones. A hand closed on his arm. “Sergeant Frayne?”

  He stopped his chest compressions and sat up. “Yes?”

  “Paramedics. You can step aside.”

  Gideon hadn’t heard them arrive. Falling back a step or two, he saw that the lane was ablaze with swirling blue lights. The real storm was breaking over Carnysen now, hail slamming into the empty furrows, thunder beginning to peal. The mobile mast on top of Minions Hill would soak up most of the lightning, but after that the farm was the highest point. Anyone left outdoors would be in real danger, a peril Gideon could understand and fix. He waited until the medic looked up and confirmed what he already knew—sorry, Sergeant, he’s gone—and then he turned away.

  He found poor Jenny Salthouse crouched beside the wall, her arms folded over her head. He picked her up gently, sheltered and calmed her until she rediscovered the use of her legs and went stumbling off to the gate. That was one. He scanned the field for more. The hailstones were melting into heavy summer rain, soaking his eyelashes, half-blinding him. The ambulance lights were sweeping the field like swallows’ wings. It was empty now, surely, everyone under cover in the house or barn.

  Wait. Had a sheep got in here somehow? There was a huddled white shape on the ground, about twenty yards from where he’d found Bligh. A few strides nearer, and the sheep became a person—a girl, it looked like, tangled up in a heavy white nightgown, although no women lived at Carnysen, no daughter or sister to have found her way out here and been overwhelmed by the storm. Lee was kneeling beside the prone body, his stance hard to read. Shielding or restraint? He sat up suddenly, waving. “Gideon! Over here!”

  With a cold shock, Gideon recognised Dev Bowe. He was curled on the ground, his face an unconscious blank. His skinny limbs were tangled in the folds of a cotton nightdress, complete with lace and frills. “Bloody hell. What’s he doing out here?”

  “Don’t know. I found him like this. He must’ve come down in all the chaos and been frightened, or...” Lee stroked the boy’s hair, the action diagnostic as well as kind. His expression darkened. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine. Is Bligh...”

  Gideon shook his head. Dev didn’t need to find out just now that he’d lost a second brother. “Let’s get him indoors. Here, I’ll carry him.”

  He scooped him off the ground. He weighed little more than the sheep Gideon had initially taken him for, and a weird pang of pity went through Gideon’s marrow. What had possessed the lad to run around dressed like this? A nightie was one thing—no weirder in principle than Elowen borrowing Lee’s pyjamas—but Gideon had a feeling that this great meringue of lace and cotton had belonged to Dev’s mother. He focussed on Lee, who was running ahead to pull open the gates. He wanted to be home with him, to lose the weirdness and fear of this night in his arms, in the warmth of their new communion. But police lights were meshing with those from the ambulance now, patrol cars wailing and bumping up the farm track, and God alone knew when they’d be allowed to retreat to their own bed tonight...

  The crowd from the kitchen and the barn were emerging cautiously. Lee began to ease his way through, clearing a path for Gideon and his strange burden. Gideon picked out the first intelligent face—Jenny Salthouse, recovered from her fright now and clearly mortified at having been so overcome. “Sergeant,” she said, pushing towards him. “I’m so sorry I was a nuisance. It was terribly noisy, that’s all, and I thought I heard something—felt something, anyway... My God, is that little Dev Bowe?”

  “Yes. I need Mrs Waite up here, fast as she can come. Do you have her number in your mobile?”

  “Of course. All the WI members.”

  Gideon held back a smile. She could probably raise an army. “Just one will do.”

  “Right. I’ll call her now.”

  “Tell her to get a taxi. I’ll pay.” Gideon swung round at another sudden bustle in the crowd, and saw Pendower limp out from behind the barn, swaying beneath the weight of two small children. “Good heavens, Rufus,” he said, because the man looked entirely human now, all signs of his authority left behind him in the mud. “Where on earth did you get those from?”

  “Little beggars sneaked out to watch the Guldize. That’ll teach ’em.” Pendower squinted into the barnyard dazzle. “Oh, hell, here comes DI Lawrence. What am I supposed to say to her? What happened here tonight?”

  Gideon thought for a moment. He needed a story of his own, more badly than his colleague could know. “Well, there was a storm. Perhaps it was ball lightning.”

  “Ball lightning?” Pendower echoed, and Lee turned round in the kitchen doorway and took him in, scorch marks and refugee children and all. “More balls than most, Sergeant,” he said admiringly, and Pendower blushed pink as a sixteen-year-old girl being offered her prom corsage.

  ***

  “It isn’t very good, really, is it, Sergeant?”

  Gideon didn’t need to ask what. He stood at attention by the Bowes’ empty fireplace, soaked to the skin and off duty, still very much accountable to his boss. “No, ma’am.”

  “A second Bowe brother dead, at a gathering which I specifically advised was not to take place. This village is under your jurisdiction, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A tremendous throat-clearing rang out from the corner of the room. DI Lawrence turned in her chair. “Sergeant Pendower,” she enquired politely, “did you catch a cold out there, or do you have something to say?”

  “No, ma’am. I believe I was struck by lightning.”

  Gideon compressed his lips. He looked at the dark-raftered ceiling with its array of shining copper pots and horse brasses. This was a house of death. Poor Dev Bowe was lying upstairs, bereaved and sedated, and Gideon was about to get the giggles. He controlled himself fiercely. It was just that Pendower’s hair was still on end, and his solemn little mug beneath it was too much of a contrast.

  “I do have something to say, though.”

  Uh-oh. Here it came. Gideon didn’t suppose he’d been a model of police procedure tonight, running around manhandling people into his idea of safety, never pausing to call for backup or help until the crisis was over. He braced up. But Pendower cleared his throat once more, drew back his shoulders and looked DI Lawrence in the eye. “I don’t think Gideon—er, Sergeant Frayne—was in any way responsible for what happened here tonight, ma’am. If anyone should have prevented the gathering, I should—I was here from the beginning, and Sergeant Frayne came in on his off-duty. Furthermore, he acted with great resourcefulness and courage when the storm broke. Many more people would have been injured without his help.”

  Wonders would never cease. Lawrence looked from one to the other of them in astonishment. “Well,” she said at length, “point taken, Pendower. Nevertheless someone was killed, and given his identity and the location, that death is at least as suspicious as his brother’s.”

  “Hardly, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so. John Bowe was torn apart. Every indication suggests that Bligh overtaxed himself and died of a heart attack.”

  “But I do mind you saying so, Sergeant.” Lawrence got irritably to her feet. “Kindly don’t jump to conclusions. We haven’t even seen a preliminary path report. Frayne, have you taken steps to secure the village?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One patrol car at Upton Cross, one on the A38 route. Can I ask that we review the roadblock in the morning? People have to get to work.”

  “They can go to work when they’ve been interviewed and eliminated from our enquiries—every single person here tonight, and for preference anyone conspicuously absent. Furthermore, anyone with a grudge against this family now has only one target left. Sergeant Frayne—” />
  “Officers posted at the main gate and both house entrances, ma’am.”

  “Very well. I’m assuming Dev Bowe is safe for now?”

  “He’s upstairs with his godmother. Lee’s there too.”

  “Ah. In what capacity?”

  “Concerned neighbour, ma’am. Unless anything else becomes necessary.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll have to interview him too, and the nice old lady.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “And I’d like to see the boy for myself. You say he was found in his deceased mother’s nightgown?” Lawrence shook her head. “Strange business, Frayne. Very strange indeed. You’d best come upstairs with me, and...” She spared Pendower a glance. “You too, Sergeant, I suppose. This case must be right up your street.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but... I think I’ll stay out of Mr Tyack’s way. I had doubts of his ability, and I’m afraid I made them rather clear. I’m sorry about that now, and... anyway. I don’t think I’d be welcome.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Gideon rumbled, still dangerously close to laughter. Shame it had taken a lightning bolt to turn Sergeant Weird-Shit into a nice guy. “Lee isn’t one to bear grudges. And he’s been doubted by bigger things than you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lee was sitting in an upright chair by Dev Bowe’s bed. He was holding Dev’s left hand between both his own. When Gideon came in, he said, as if they’d been alone in the room together, “Oh, Gid. Don’t ever let me be this empty.”

  Gideon forgot about Lawrence and Pendower in his wake. He forgot Mrs Waite, perched anxiously at the other side of the bed. “I won’t,” he said, leaning over Lee and taking him into his arms. “I promise.” He pressed his brow to Lee’s skull and felt there the strange shifting currents, the direction of the stream. “Don’t let him drain you, all right?”

  “He isn’t. There’s just a natural energy gradient. He’s got nothing, and I... I’ve got you.”

  “Er... Sergeant Frayne?”

  Gideon let him go. Lawrence had her arms folded and was looking at her feet, good equal-ops boss as she was. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m reversing my usual order of business here, but it might be useful if Lee could give us any insights he has prior to our investigation. We won’t let them colour our findings, but since he’s here, and he seems to have some kind of connection with this poor boy...”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s all right for you to ask him yourself.”

  “Ah. Well, Lee—”

  Lee snapped his head up. He focussed on Lawrence with an intensity Gideon knew well: blind and visionary at the same time. “No, he wouldn’t be better off wearing something else. Those are your own concerns you’re addressing, Detective Inspector—you’re a nice person, but you don’t like seeing a man in women’s clothes. Why shouldn’t he wear his mother’s nightdress, if it comforts him?”

  Now it was Gideon’s turn to look at his feet. Poor Lawrence was open-mouthed, too honest for denial but clearly mortified. “That... That is his mother’s, then?”

  “Yes.” Lee’s voice altered. “I put it on every night once John and Bligh have gone to bed and no-one will see me. She was a really good person, better than any of you lot. She understood about the black fields. That’s why my brothers made her go away.”

  “Hoi,” Gideon said warningly. Dev’s face was still serene and blank, but his hand had closed tight on Lee’s. “Remember who you are.”

  “Okay.” Lee drew a deep breath, swimming for the shallows. “My name is Locryn Tyack-Frayne, and Gideon is with me, and nothing can dislodge my soul. Rufus Pendower is dying to start making notes. Elsie Waite is afraid we’ll think less of her for not wanting to take Dev in. She has to keep the shop open, has to earn a living. It’s all right, though—the doctor’s on the phone downstairs, trying to get him a bed on Fletcher Ward at Bodmin hospital.”

  “Bloody hell!” Pendower whispered. “I am dying to make notes.” He pulled out his pad, and Mrs Waite gave a guilty sob that confirmed her feelings too. “How is he doing this, Gideon?”

  “Dev’s trying to pull him in too far. So he’s using us as handholds, as anchors.” Gideon had no idea how he knew this, but Lee gave a fraught little nod. “He’s sorry. He knows it isn’t good manners. He’ll try not to look at anything you don’t want him to see.”

  “Christine Lawrence is embarrassed. She’s making a mental note to attend the next diversity-awareness day.”

  “Great,” Lawrence growled. “What do you mean, the brothers made old lady Bowe go away? That was a carbon-monoxide accident at their caravan.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Brothers fixed the gear.”

  “Oh, you have to be kidding me. Why would they do that?”

  “Because my mother—Dev’s mother—knew about the dark. The black fields.”

  Lawrence shook her head. “This is crazy. Frayne, I know I asked Lee to do this, but I think we’d best stick to our usual procedures. Maybe you should take him home.”

  Gideon wanted nothing better. Something was tugging at the edges of his mind, though. He laid a hand on Lee’s shoulder. “You said Dev feels empty, love.”

  “Yes. Like a shell.”

  “Do you know why that is?”

  “Because he has to leave room for... Oh, God.” Lee jolted upright, tearing his hand out of Dev’s. “Sorry, DI Lawrence. You’re right—this is nuts. I must be picking up on his nightmares, or the way his schizophrenia expresses itself. I’m not gonna be much more help to you here tonight.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Lawrence sounded relieved. A lot of people did, when Lee switched off his searchlight and the world could regain its familiar shadows once more. “If you come up with anything definite, feel free to give me a call. I will pull up the records for that carbon-monoxide case, but...”

  “It’s paranoia, probably. He’s very ill.”

  “Yes, poor lad. Best we leave him to the doctor for now. Mrs Waite, Sergeant Frayne will have a chat with you in the morning, if that’s okay.”

  “All right. I’ll stay with Dev until they take him to hospital.” Her expression became resentful. “It’s not that I’m not fond of him, you know. Your Lee must be awful to live with.”

  “Horrible,” Gideon agreed, putting an arm around him. “I don’t get away with much. Mind you get a taxi to take you back home.”

  Down in the hallway, the doctor was just hanging up the phone. “Right,” he said placidly, as if he got called out to murder scenes every night. “That’s the admission sorted out—I’ve managed to swing a bed for him in Fletcher Ward.” He politely ignored Sergeant Pendower’s gasp of delight and the frantic scratching of his pen across another sheet of notes. Gideon could guess the gist—Tyack not only identifies primary concerns of everyone present in the upstairs room, but correctly predicts psychiatric facility. Marvellous! Well, as Lee and Paul Simon had pointed out before, proof was the bottom line for everyone. “To be honest,” the doctor went on, “from the look of the lad, he should’ve been in some kind of care before now. Anything more I can do for you tonight, Detective Inspector?”

  “No, that’s all. Just have the hospital call me when he’s well enough to be interviewed.”

  “Not sure when that’ll be, but right you are.”

  He jogged off up the stairs. Lawrence watched him go, then turned back to Gideon and Lee. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’m sorry to raise such a painful subject, and I know this probably isn’t the time, but... you two really did get handed a raw deal with regard to your baby. I don’t want to say anything definite, but I’m sure one of our colleagues in France could find a reason to pay the child’s mother a visit. Just to see if there are any welfare issues, you know.”

  Lee smiled wearily. He pushed his shoulder against Gideon’s, and the wave of grief passed between them—strong, unstoppable, bearable because finally and perfectly shared. “Were you thinking of frog-marching my sister home?”

  “No, not at all
. Just a few routine enquiries.”

  “It’s all right,” Gideon said, taking hold of his hand. “We’ve decided to leave it for now.”

  ***

  My name is Locryn Tyack-Frayne, and Gideon is with me, and nothing can dislodge my soul. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death... Gideon recollected his wandering thoughts. One manic preacher in the family was enough. All he needed to pray for was strength to justify Lee’s faith in him.

  He rubbed his eyes in the morning sunlight. It was past time he was out on the mean streets of Dark, tackling the string of interviews that would fill his day from this bright dawn until the late summer dusk. No bad thing, to be kept so busy, and Lee had said he’d be occupied all day as well, taking up his interrupted work on the Spirits of Cornwall script. Work was best for both of them. Still, Gideon had let him sleep through their alarm. Given himself five quiet minutes too, between pulling on his uniform shirt, checking his duty belt and heading out the door. He just wanted to sit here in the window of the bedroom where he and Lee had shared so much—sex, rambling small-hours discussions about everything and nothing at all, their first morning of waking up alone with Tamsyn and realising fully at last that they were parents—and watch his husband sleep.

  He did it with an abandoned grace that showed nothing of the nightmares that stalked his daily world. He was lying on his stomach, the quilt tangled up round his hips. The sunlight took the smooth olive skin of his back and turned it to gold, the colour of the beach at the foot of his borderland cliffs. His hands were lightly clasped on the pillow, his breathing deep and regular. When Gideon listened to that, he lost track of all the evil and sorrow in his own life and the broader world around him. It was as if Lee stripped away his outer layers, all the roles he’d taken on, father and brother and husband and son. He didn’t even feel like a copper anymore—just a man, sharing a sunlit silence with the other half of his soul.