by Will Harker
“Jericho.”
“Of course.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re one of the travelling people.”
“I am,” I confirmed. “And in fact, I support a lot of your opinions, Doctor. Especially what you say about vulnerable people being exploited by psychic con artists. But do you consider what you’ve just done—making a publicity stunt out of my aunt’s death—just as cynical an act of exploitation?”
That dour little mouth puckered. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr Jericho. I assure you, such a motive was not at the forefront of my mind. However, if you think me cruel then I’ll gladly accept that criticism. Kindness is a luxury the rational world can no longer afford. If we continue to indulge the superstitious, then all too soon the human race will find itself in a new Dark Age.
“You don’t understand, belief in the paranormal is not on the wane. Indeed, ghosts and Ouija boards and telekinesis and astral projection and whatever else you care to name are now more popular than ever. You might think, so what? Let the fools indulge their inane fantasies. They aren’t hurting anyone, are they? But I assure you, such nonsense has real-life consequences. Today it’s a ‘harmless’ visit to a clairvoyant, tomorrow it’s belief in invisible voices telling us what to do, and demonic possession, and blood sacrifice, and religious wars. You say I’m unkind, but no one has ever read my books and then gone out and butchered people in the name of reason.”
“No,” I agreed. “But they may have lost some hope that was dear to them.”
“Then they should find new hope in science,” he scoffed. “In the perfect patterns of mathematics, in the structural beauty of the double helix, in the awesome but predictable clockwork of the universe. There is nothing there, I assure you, to inspire the slaughter of witches.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“The slaughter of witches,” I echoed. “I wonder why you’d use an expression like that?”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s just a turn of phrase.”
“Is it? You also referenced witches in your press conference just now, didn’t you?”
“Well, considering the circumstances of your aunt’s murder—the ritualistic nature of it—I suppose a natural association of ideas came to mind.”
“Then tell me, Dr Gillespie, where did you get your information about Tilda Urnshaw’s death?”
He stared at me through those tortoise-shell glasses, his suddenly wary eyes magnified. “I believe… uh… I mean, it’s the gossip of the area, isn’t it? Perhaps I overheard one of the reporters talking about it. I really can’t recall.”
“You can’t recall where you learned the explicit details of a ritual murder, even though you probably only heard about it in the past few hours?” I let the question hang. “All right. Let’s see if your memory is any better concerning the events of yesterday. You were standing right on this spot when you likened people such as Darrel Everwood to a brain tumour that had to be cut away. Burned out. You’re also on record as saying that you’d stop at nothing to eradicate belief in the supernatural. Just how far would you go to achieve that aim, Doctor?”
“You think I’d murder each and every psychic in existence?” He laughed. “My boy, I really wouldn’t have the time.”
“But maybe one or two would do, as a warning to the others? Could you fit that into your schedule of after-dinner speeches, Joe?” I knew I had only moments left before the doctor’s bluster gave way to questions of his own. “What time did you leave the fair last night?”
“It’s Joseph,” he corrected. “And I left at eight-twenty. Before the murder, certainly.”
“You’re very precise in your timekeeping.”
“I happened to glance at my watch. I was running late for another engagement.”
“Another engagement? But you’d finished delivering your speech to the crowds at least half an hour before you left. Why would you hang around if you were needed elsewhere?” When he didn’t answer, I tried a different tack. “What did it feel like when you lost control of the audience last night? I bet that was a unique experience for such an accomplished performer. Did it make you angry?”
“It was… unfortunate,” he admitted.
“You should never let your disciples see you weakened, Doctor,” I advised. “If they realise that their god is just flesh and blood—perhaps even as fallible as the believers he laughs at—what might they do then? There are always other gods, aren’t there? Just waiting in the wings, ready to steal your halo.”
“I must get on,” Gillespie snapped and began to move away.
“I’ve just been speaking with Genevieve Bell’s sister,” I called after him. He stopped and turned back to face me. “Not your biggest fan, I’m afraid. Though, like me, she has some time for your arguments. Can I ask one last question before you disappear? What did you really think of Genevieve? I’m not talking about as a psychic, I mean as a person.”
He fiddled with his cuffs before answering. Not that preening gesture this time, but something like a nervous tic.
“She was… badly damaged,” he said slowly. “Even before the podcast recording began, she looked grey, worn down. Mr Jericho, you might think that my work is designed purely to feed my ego, and maybe there is some truth in that. The spotlight can be addictive. But when I met Genevieve Bell, it brought home to me, very powerfully, the corrupting nature of the supernatural. Her life had been twisted by her convictions. Beliefs founded upon shifting sands that could no longer bear the weight of her self-deception. That was why I said we should not sentimentalise her legacy. After the podcast, after I’d shown her how she’d fooled herself for so many years, I’m sure she would have agreed with that statement.
“But as for the woman herself? I felt sorry for her. She was a child when this lie was sewn into the soil of her mind. In my opinion, that was a form of abuse. To deny an innocent the solid reality of her world, and then to misshape her thinking so that she believed herself capable of speaking to phantoms? It was wicked, and if there really is a God of the Old Testament, then surely that act is deserving of all his fury and vengeance. It certainly reinforced my own conviction that belief in the paranormal is an evil that must be expunged. That said…” He hesitated, picked again at his shirt cuff. “In hindsight, might I have treated her more gently?”
“Well?”
He sighed. “It wasn’t my proudest moment.”
And with that, he walked back to join his followers.
I’d just spotted a red Ford Mondeo parked not far from my own disintegrating Mercedes when Deepal appeared out of the forest road. She waved when she saw me and I walked over. It was difficult to make out from this distance, especially with the sun in my eyes, but I thought the couple in the car was probably Mr and Mrs Chambers. While Dr Gillespie was no doubt right concerning the existence of ghosts, the grounds of Purley Rectory were certainly being haunted by these grieving parents. I wondered again if Nick had really seen them coming out of Tilda’s tent last night or if his addiction had conjured that from thin air?
“Damn it,” Deepal muttered when I reached her. “Looks like I missed all the fun.”
“He put on quite a show,” I admitted.
She looked over to where the doctor was speaking to a vigorously nodding reporter. “Sick, isn’t it? Like a vulture picking over the bones of the dead.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But you didn’t seem particularly squeamish yourself last night.”
“Touché.” She held up her hands. “Would you think better of me if I said I’d had second thoughts about the whole ‘Darrel defies death threats’ angle? I’m not sure his manager would have gone for it anyway.”
“And it would be stretching the truth a bit too, wouldn’t it?” I said. “Because he hasn’t actually received any direct threats. No strange notes, no nasty phone calls, no weird wax dolls left on the doorstep?”
“Wax dolls?” Deepal frowned. “No, nothing like that. Calls, notes, emails, yes, but that’s pretty standard for a celeb.”
&nb
sp; “Understood. By the way, I still need to speak to him. Has Nick sorted an interview for me yet?”
“He hasn’t,” she said. “And I won’t let him. I’m sorry, Scott, there’s no way Darrel would ever consent to talk to you about any of this. He’s paranoid as hell, remember. If you go in all guns blazing, firing off theories about your murdered aunt and how Darrel might be next, that could prompt a complete meltdown just days ahead of broadcast. Do you realise how much that would cost him, not just financially?”
“Strange attitude,” I observed. “Especially for someone who twelve hours ago was thinking of using the danger of his position as a publicity stunt.”
“I’ve told you—”
“I know.” I began walking away down the forest road. “You had second thoughts. But one way or another, Deepal, I will speak to Darrel Everwood.”
Coming onto the side ground, I found a large group of showpeople outside Tilda’s tent. Old and young, broad-backed and stooped, they stood proudly in their finest clothes, holding onto each other as a little girl stepped forward. Stretched around the tent, a length of blue-and-white crime scene tape snapped in the breeze and made Jodie jump. She recovered herself quickly and added her small bouquet to the mountain of flowers stacked outside the door. The fair would reopen today—had to, if these people were to survive the winter—but for now, they would pay their respects.
I took a sharp breath. Haz had emerged from the heart of the group. Dressed in his black suit with a pink carnation in the buttonhole—Tilda’s favourite flower—he knelt and wiped away Jodie’s tears. He seemed to ask a question before giving her an encouraging smile. Then, turning round to face the others, they linked hands and began to sing.
“Abide with me; fast falls the eventide…”
I listened for a while, giving way to my own tears, overwhelmed by the beauty of their harmony. I realised that my phone had been off for most of the morning, ever since I’d received the call from Garris. They’d probably tried calling to tell me about this tribute. But here wasn’t where I was needed. Sal and Haz could comfort Jodie better than I ever could. My role in Tilda’s death wasn’t to grieve but to seek out and to punish, and so I moved away before any of them could see me.
One other person was absent from the memorial. I found my dad in his trailer, on speakerphone to a man who sounded like he’d not only been born with a silver spoon in his mouth but had swallowed the entire canteen of cutlery.
“As I say, George, I’m terribly sorry about what happened. Awful. Just awful. But you’re sure the police have given you the green light to reopen tonight?” My dad said yes, and catching sight of me, waved me into a chair. “Jolly good. I’m old school chums with the chief constable, and if there had been any trouble… But there. This man Tallis sounds like a good egg, and I’ve been in touch with Mrs Manders, of course.”
“Mrs who?” my dad asked.
“I’m sorry, Miss Rowell. An absolute gem. Couldn’t do without her. Loyal as a dog, that one, and twice as trustworthy. Married to our old gamekeeper, many moons ago. Manders. Terrible villain. Led her a merry dance—booze, drugs, other women. He buggered off one night with one of our lesser-known Gainsboroughs and great-grandmama’s diamond tiara. That was when he and Mrs Manders were with us up at the big house in Lincolnshire. The old girl had no idea, of course. Police never caught the blackguard and she reverted to her maiden name. Hasn’t accepted a raise in years. Feels she owes us, I suppose. A loyal dog, like I said, and does a fantastic job for us at Purley.”
The conversation went on for another minute or two until Dad finally managed to hang up.
“Lord Denver?” I asked.
“Bloody hell,” he said drily. “How did you work that one out, Sherlock? His lordship called to offer me his condolences. Really, though, it was to check we were opening up tonight. There’s a clause in our contract that we only owe Denver rent for days we’re open. Anyway, how’ve you been getting on?”
I was about to make my report when a sharp tap sounded at the door. A second later, it was open and Inspector Tallis’ boyish face poked into the room.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr Jericho, but I’d like to speak to your son.” He held out two fingers, stained bright red, as if with blood. “Now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I followed the inspector down the steps and past a slumbering Webster. Lucky for Tallis the juk was dreaming or I wouldn’t have fancied his chances. There wasn’t much meat on the detective, true, but Webster was always ready for a snack.
En route to what I was certain would be an official bollocking, I thought about what I’d just heard concerning Miss Rowell, or Mrs Manders as she had been. Given her personal history, I wondered if her strange antipathy towards Darrel Everwood suddenly made sense. I remembered her words as she pointed up at the billboard that night. “Men like that. Duplicity runs through them. Their kind of deception is wilful, unforgivable, cruel.” A cheating husband who had lied and stolen and then left her to face the music. Consumed with misplaced guilt following his crime, she’d left what was probably the relative comfort of Lord Denver’s ancestral home to bury herself away in this draughty, Victorian rectory, refusing any raise in her wages, making do in her tattered tweed. On his behalf, she had served her husband’s penance. And then into her martyrdom had intruded a brash, cocky echo of the man she had sacrificed so much for.
It fit. And yet the theory didn’t feel entirely complete. Her dislike of Everwood had an abstract quality to it—a sense that it went beyond the simple comparison of two flawed men. That it wasn’t just personal with Miss Rowell but philosophical. A loathing of dishonesty itself. I wondered why I kept coming back to the image of that elastic band around her wrist and to her hurried flight from Purley on the night of the murder. I recalled the hem of her skirt splashed with mud and the impressions left in the ground outside Tilda’s tent—the marks of someone kneeling to fasten the doorway.
A short distance from Dad’s trailer, Tallis turned to face me. “You’ve been to Cedar Gables.” He held up his red-stained fingers again. “It was raining heavily in that vicinity last night and the slush from the pebbles on the drive is all over your wheel arches. I caught sight of it as I passed your car just now. That and a conifer leaf under your windscreen wiper.”
I smiled and shook my head. “You are good, Inspector Tallis.”
He didn’t match my smile but nor did he look particularly pissed off. “As are you, Mr Jericho. I won’t threaten you again about interfering with a police investigation, but if I find you’ve jeopardised my case with your own inquiries, then your balls are mine. I won’t tolerate any personal vendettas, understand?”
“I’ll play fair,” I promised.
“Not quite the answer to my question,” he observed. “But I’ve said my piece. Now, if you’re interested in helping me solve this case, I’m happy to exchange certain information. You first. What did you discover after speaking to Evangeline Bell?”
I told him about the potential victim connection with Darrel Everwood. Genevieve had mentioned his name to her sister, saying she felt guilty for having inspired ‘another generation of liars’, and so I could now reveal that link without shining a spotlight on Nick Holloway. I explained my theory of a killer focusing his obsession for destroying witches on Gennie Bell and her legacy. Catching Tallis’ expression, I stopped mid-sentence.
“But you’d already made that link,” I said. “That’s why you offered to have constables stationed at the fair last night. You’re already trying to protect Everwood.”
He nodded. “Evangeline mentioned in her first interview with me that Gennie had spoken about Everwood. I’d been meaning to contact her again this morning and ask if the sisters had known a Tilda Urnshaw. Then I saw your car, realised where you’d been, and touching base with her, I got the full story.”
“Then maybe I can suggest an idea you haven’t considered.” I explained to him my theory about the dolls, the mutilations, and the historical m
ethods of torture and execution employed by the witchfinders. “If I’m right, there are at least two more victims to go. One to represent the hanged witch, one to represent the burned. He’s going back and forth along Gennie Bell’s timeline, eradicating those who influenced her and those she herself influenced.”
Tallis nodded. “It explains the different post-mortem injuries, the different dolls. So apart from Everwood, do you have any idea of a fourth victim?”
“Not yet. But a clue may lie in a book Gennie wrote.”
“Hearing the Dead. Yes, I’ve got my team trying to track down a copy.”
“Of course you do.”
I caught his eye and we both laughed. For the first time since my imprisonment and disgrace, I felt a yearning to be back on the force, working a case again as part of a proper Major Investigations Team. True, I’d never been overly popular with my colleagues—far too temperamental and abrasive to be an effective team player—but this man, Tallis. The thought of collaborating with him made me almost nostalgic for those post-shift pints in The Three Crowns when Garris and I would happily pick apart personalities and motivations and alibis by the hour.
“So who are your suspects, Inspector?” I asked. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
Tallis shook his head. “You show me yours and we’ll leave it at that, shall we?”
“Now who isn’t playing fair? In that case, can I ask if you’ve interviewed Everwood yet? It’s possible he might know who’s behind all this and is too scared to say. Either that or…”
“Yes?”
“Well, as far as suspects go, I’ll give you this, according to his PA, Darrel is terrified that this Halloween event will be a complete disaster. He’s desperate to get out of it if he can.”