Fair Weather

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Oh, nothing like him,” said Sarah with a sigh. “Not that there is anyone like him. He was so talented you know. He travelled into medieval times of course, as the good Abbot Bernado, and knew your Vespasian. But he travelled into other centuries too, Egyptian dynasties where he learned the original secrets of Thoth, to ancient Greece and Alexandria and studied the arts of Hermes Trismegistus. He was one of the first to translate the Emerald Tablet. He was an amazing man. We shall never see the likes of him again.”

  “He knew Zoroaster,” said Ruth, pushing away the shell of her egg. “He met many of the greatest scientists in history. He was friends with Jung I believe. He even hinted once that he met Moses.”

  I stared. “If all that’s true,” I said, “how can they have killed him? I mean, he was too powerful. He had far more power than they do. What about the philosopher’s stone? What about everlasting life?”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t know,” said Sarah, shaking her head. “We aren’t adepts, like Thomas. We only really know what he told us.”

  “And what if he exaggerated?” I said, aware of sounding unavoidably rude. “I mean – sorry – especially now. But it’s such a fantastic story. It’s not that I disbelieve it, after all, I’m no one, though I go back to medieval times myself. I haven’t even any control, I just do it. But how can a man who knew everyone and done everything and has the control too – how can he be killed so easily? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He was too trusting,” sighed Ruth. “He was kind and loving and believed in humanity’s intrinsic goodness. Clearly he was taken quite by surprise.”

  “He was amazing,” I said. “But how could such a man be too trusting? If anyone understood the dangers and the evil, then he did. It frightens me, thinking about who killed him. Whoever had the power to murder a man with Thomas’s powers, then the killer must be a devil indeed.”

  “That,” said Sarah, “is what frightens us too.”

  I didn’t stay long. Although these were the only people left who could help me understand what I desperately wanted to grasp, it seemed they knew less than I had supposed. I had believed they were second only to Thomas in their powers or knowledge but suddenly they were just two sweet little ladies, cosy in their thatched cottage with their roses and their William Morris curtains and paisley cushions. They knew about astrology and had bought a modern copy of an ouroboros as a curio. They seemed to have shrunk. Thomas’s death had left them diminished.

  They saw me out to the hall. I struggled back into my coat which was still extremely wet. The sisters stood back a little while I flung rain drops around. “One last thing,” I said, as Ruth opened the front door for me, reaching out her arm from a slight distance. I could hardly blame her for not wanting to touch me. I was so cold and wet. “The newspaper says Thomas was found wrapped in an old cloak. That seems so odd. Bizarre. Did he get it from his travels? Do you know anything about it?”

  They shook their prim cherubic heads. Sarah smiled reluctantly. “Hardly the only odd thing about it all, is it? Perhaps the cloak came from your Tilda’s time.”

  “After all,” said Ruth, “we can assume it had something to do with the man you call Arthur. He sounds like the devil himself. Either him – or Vespasian.”

  I trudged back home in the rain and was sorry not to find Bertie waiting there for me with a hot drunk and his inane smile. I needed silly remarks and a new perspective on everything. I needed someone who thought the latest sports car on the market was more important than black magic and who would just want to sit by the fire and tell me about his new romance and how tiny her waist was and big and blue her eyes. The house seemed very cold and the chill hung from the ceiling like the condensation in Ruth and Sarah’s kitchen. I sat down on the white fluffy rug beside the hearth and started to lay the logs. I was using the newspaper I had bought to screw up into spills for lighting the fire, when I noticed an article I thought vaguely interesting. Three days ago the antique shop in Tramper’s Lane had been badly damaged by a small explosion, and the cause remained mysterious. Quite a few valuable articles had been scorched and a Louis XIII writing desk had been reduced to ashes.

  I read the article three times, decided it wasn’t relevant after all, twisted the page into a screw and shoved it in amongst the kindling. I held a match to the paper and it flared, bringing instant colour and the beginning of warmth. Then I wandered into the kitchen and opened a tin of soup. I felt I ought to be doing something more important, something that I had forgotten, or been too stupid to think of. I knew myself insipid and useless and I flopped onto my couch in front of the fire with the bowl of soup. It tasted chemical, without the rich, natural flavour of medieval pottage. I wondered where Bertie was. I wondered what Vespasian was doing and then reminded myself how absurd it was to think about that when he had been gone from this world more than eight hundred years ago. I watched the flames of my fire rise and stretch, shimmering into a thousand shades of red and golden sulphur.

  I had dozed, woken, and dozed again when I thought of something I could do. I rolled off the couch, put my knee in the bowl of soup which spilled pea green and sludgy across my carpet, and went off to clean myself up. It had stopped raining but it was damned damp and cold outside so I got back into my coat and walked up to the police station. Detective Constable Peterson, the Met guy who I felt comfortable with, wasn’t on duty so I spoke to the local inspector who had been both kind and helpful to me once before. It seemed a long, long time ago now but he remembered it.

  “I told you at the time, Miss Susans, that I could hardly make a habit of confiding police secrets to you.” I had not seen him during my exhausting questioning the day before but now he invited me to sit down in his office, not in the bare interview room. I knew he was going to be interesting or I wouldn’t be sitting there with a cup of tea and taking up his extremely valuable time. “You must realise that, unfortunately, you are now under suspicion yourself.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “I know, but you know I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I had my hands deep in my coat pockets and wondered momentarily what on earth the strange hard thing was that I was automatically clutching. Then I realised it was the ouroboros, which I had forgotten was still there.

  “That’s as may be, Miss Susans,” said the inspector. “As it happens, I’m beginning to believe that you’re involved after all, though probably without knowing it yourself. Do you believe in coincidences, Miss Susans?”

  “No.” I shook my head. Not anymore I didn’t.

  “A close connection to three out of the four victims of very unpleasant murders, now that could be a coincidence.” The inspector brought the tips of his fingers of both hands together and tapped them as if he was keeping time to a fast tune in his head. “This is a small community and of course, everyone seems to know everyone else. But your involvement is a lot more interesting than that. It would seem likely that you were the last person to see three of these persons alive.”

  “Apart from the murderer.”

  “Of course.”

  “I know,” I said, because I did, “that it looks bad. I feel bad, extremely bad. I liked Thomas very much. He was a newish friend but I was beginning to think the world of him. My cousin – well – I don’t even want to talk about that anymore. I actually came for a very different reason.”

  “I’m listening,” he said, lighting a cigarette and squinting through the smoke.

  “It’s the cloak,” I said. “I might know something about it.” I knew I was taking a risk but I really wanted to find out about it and I would only find out by asking. “Could I see it?”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” he said, lifting both eyebrows. “It’s the most valuable piece of evidence we have and is being examined by forensic experts. Now tell me, honestly please, why are you interested? What might you know?”

  I was disappointed. “Then describe it to me.”

  He was puffing cigarette smoke and thinking almost audibly. I watched
his brain click. Then he made a quick decision. “Tell me exactly what you know first,” he said, “and then I shall.”

  “Nothing that remarkable,” I prevaricated. Silly, quick lies, a habit most writers acquire. “Just that Thomas had one, a copy of a medieval cloak. He was terribly interested in medieval times. I only went to his cottage once, but he showed it to me. It looked very old but he said it had been specially made as a copy.”

  I don’t think the inspector believed me at all and the suspicion in his eyes deepened into a heavy frown. “What was it like?” he demanded. “In as much detail as you can remember, if you don’t mind.”

  “Green,” I said at once. “Dark green with sort of embroidered fleur-de-lis around the collar.”

  The inspector stared at me under thickening brows. His cigarette was burning down and about to drop a long stem of ash which he had forgotten all about. “We found nothing like that in Mr. Cambio’s home,” he said. “No cloak of any kind. The one the body was wrapped in was quite different.”

  Well, of course it was. I had made the other one up. “Sorry. So, what was it like?”

  He didn’t want to tell me but he’d made a bargain and finally he decided it wouldn’t hurt. “It was dark brown,” he said, “coarse wool and dyed in the ancient manner with natural bark and herbs. It had no hood and clasped under the chin with an old leather buckle. It was trimmed with rather threadbare fox fur. Well worn but in basically good condition even though it appeared to be extremely old. Our experts seem to think it might be genuinely medieval, or a very clever copy using original materials.”

  He had described Hugh’s cloak. The cloak that Hugh had lent me when I went through the forest to try and find Gerald and Vespasian, but which had been taken from me, or lost. I had left it behind in Vespasian’s castle by the river.

  “Thank you,” I said, a little breathless and deeply dismayed. I had expected the cloak to be genuine and I had wanted to know if I recognised it. I had wondered if it might be one I remembered Malcolm wearing. I had not expected it to be Hugh’s. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  “As, it happens,” said the inspector, “you trouble me quite considerably, Miss Susans. I am now perfectly sure you know more than you’re telling us. Withholding information is illegal of course, but the actual mischief you could cause is far greater than that. Do you know who committed these murders?”

  I shook my head, a little wildly. “Honestly, I don’t. I don’t know anything. I wish I did.”

  “I hope you realise it’s your duty to tell us anything you do know,” continued the inspector, his voice deepening. “You may think you’re protecting someone, but you could be allowing a killer free license to murder again. Can you live with that on your conscience, Miss Susans?”

  I gulped. “Yes, I understand why you’re all so suspicious of me, but I promise I don’t know who did it.” I tried terribly hard to look innocent but I doubt if it worked.

  “We can always take you into custody you know, for further questioning.” I liked the man but he was getting angry.

  “Truly I don’t. know anything,” I repeated. “I’m a writer. I knew three of the victims, as you keep reminding me. I’ve written crime thrillers in the past. I just want to know all the facts so that I can try and come up with solutions myself.”

  “That,” said the inspector, “would be a pointless and very dangerous game, Miss Susans. Unless you already have some clue – or know the actual truth.”

  I nodded. The inspector wasn’t the only person who kept warning me of the danger and telling me to keep out of things. Someone else had warned me to back away from the game. The trouble was, I was very deeply involved indeed and I had no idea how to get out at all.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Isat clutching the little pewter jar that Thomas had given me, container for the granules which would help me control my return to Tilda should it not occur naturally. It was the only thing I had of Thomas, the only link left, and I cuddled it as if it was a comforter or a photograph. It was quite unadorned and smooth as if polished. It looked old. The pewter was so dark it was almost black and the lid was just a little bent as though fingers had pressed into it many times over many years, but it still closed perfectly and the waxy seal inside kept the strange contents safe.

  The granules smelled unpleasant. The smell reminded me of volcanoes and decay. Sulphur and rot. But I got up and began to prepare the elixir that Thomas had taught me. There was no point staying as Molly now. I did not believe there was anything I could learn from the Ableside sisters. Without Thomas they seemed lost, and so was I.

  The stars shed glitter across the huge blackness of the night sky. This was country England and a big horizon, bare October trees and a moon closing in on full majesty. At exactly midnight as one day swung into another, I collected dew in the little glass pot that had once held marmite. Back in the kitchen I transferred the liquid into a small bowl containing one teaspoon of sea salt. I had already chopped fresh rosemary, thyme and betony. Then I added hot water and finally one grain of Thomas’s mixture.

  I took the thing into the living room and sat with it, preparing last thoughts before drinking. There was the temptation of staying. I did not know what might be happening to Tilda. But I knew that, whatever I decided first, I would end up going. I had to.

  It was one o’clock in the morning of October the thirtieth and the night was glowing, moonspun and cold. The liquid I was ready to drink was sludge green and had a quality of slime. It smelled bad and there was no tinge of herbal aroma. I held the drink in one hand, Thomas’s pewter jar in the other and then I heard the front door slam. Bertie had come back.

  He came marching into the living room appearing tired, even haggard and looked at me without surprise. I was feeling guilty but there was nowhere to hide what I was holding. “I have to talk to you,” he said.

  I nodded. “Open a bottle of something if you want. Maybe a drink would do me good as well.”

  He didn’t seem interested in the fact that I was already glass in hand and the drink it contained looked and smelled disgusting. “I’ll have a brandy. You too?”

  I nodded again and put both Thomas’s jar and the glass of green liquid on the small coffee table. Bertie handed me a large brandy which smelled a lot better, and drank his own in two gulps. “Go on then,” I said. “Tell me about it. Is she nice? Beautiful? Local?”

  “Nothing to do with women,” said Bertie. “Not this time. It’s me. I’m going mad and you have to help.” He stared at me, looming over me, looking helpless and threatening all at the same time. I stared back up at him.

  “You’ve just been terribly upset,” I said, groping for words. “Wattle and then Sammie. I mean, we all feel we’ve been going mad. Did you know there’s been another murder?”

  Bertie poured himself another brandy and drank it. “Yes, I heard,” he said, “but I never knew the guy so it’s different. In fact, it’s totally different. Would you like to know why?” He was glaring at me, trying to make a challenge out of nothing.

  “Bertie, hush,” I said. It was rare for him to become so belligerent. I wished he would go away. He was interrupting something far more important. “I’ve known you for ten years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite like this before. Perhaps you’re having a nervous breakdown. You ought to go to bed.”

  “Don’t be so fucking patronising,” said Bertie. “I asked you a question. Do you want to know why this latest murder is different?”

  “Alright.” I had to calm him down and get rid of him.

  “Because I didn’t kill this one. But I killed the other three,” he said.

  If I hadn’t already been sitting, I would have fallen. “Don’t be stupid,” I whispered. “Besides,” voice stronger, “it’s not true.” I couldn’t tell him that I already knew who had done it with some certainty. “Tell me what on earth makes you think such a thing.”

  He flopped onto the couch, clutching a third brandy. “Because I
keep dreaming it,” he said, almost shouting at me. “I dream all the details. I know everything and how it was done. I feel knives in my hands and I feel all the warmth of the blood. It’s revolting and hideous and I feel every bit of it. I’m frightened to go to bed. I daren’t sleep. Shall I go on?”

  “You have to get help,” I mumbled, “a psychiatrist.” I wondered about Ruth Ableside but she wasn’t sufficiently qualified. “You know it couldn’t have been you. Bertie, you know you couldn’t do anything like that. You loved Wattle. You loved Sammie. You’re a nice person.”

  “I loved Muriel too,” he said, still glaring at me. “I never told you but she was an old girlfriend. Older than me of course, but I was just a kid at the time, before I met you. Behind the church in the shrubbery by the old gravestones when I was fifteen.”

  “Good heavens.” Muriel had just seemed a nice little old lady, an overgrown hippie, daft and kind. “You mean, she was your very first?”

  And then it happened. Bertie’s face rolled back, all the heavy jowls and faded handsome squareness, the soft blue eyes and the shining hair, it all rolled back like the tide from the beach. There was someone else behind. Inside. “But not the first I killed,” smiled the other voice in the new eyes. “Not even the most enjoyable. I didn’t bother raping her, she’d become scrawny, but the kill was pleasant enough.”

  I couldn’t move. “Who are you?” I croaked but the words stuck. My thoughts fled into mental delirium. I wondered if I could reach Thomas’s elixir and escape. I was terrified that the thing inside Bertie would now kill and torture me, for I was the other woman who had meant something to him. Then I was terrified of who it was inside. Arthur – or Vespasian. I no longer believed this was Bertie at all.

  “Oh yes, you know me,” said the thing. The face continued to change, a dissembling and rearranging of flesh into falling, flaking skin, flaying of features, burning eyes. First in soft shadow but then in virulent detail, the bones rose like worms in a skeleton, cracking and joining across the brow, pitted blood soaked sinew, sliced muscle and blueing veins like coiled snakes. I sat in horror and watched.