Beast of Robbers Wood

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “For you?” Ravyn asked.

  “Yes,” Stark replied. “But for Aeronwy more.”

  Ravyn waited. When it became apparent Stark was not about to divulge anything further, he asked: “What is left for you here?”

  Stark shook his head. “I’ve talked to everyone I can, reviewed what CCTV footage there is, tried to get latents from the syringe fragments. No joy there—gloves. I filed an incident report. Unless forensics finds something, or some flaming prat of a witness crawls out of the woodwork, it’s all a wash.”

  “We need to get back to Midriven,” Ravyn said.

  “It’s late in the day.”

  “You can stay here if you want, Stark,” Ravyn said. “Otherwise you won’t be back till after dark. I’ll probably stay there. You can join me in the morning.”

  “No, sir, it’s all right,” Stark said. “I’ll call Aeronwy, tell her I will be late. It won’t affect her like it used to. She’s doing very well.” He did not mention Aeronwy had stopped her drinking.

  “Good to hear, Stark,” Ravyn said. “Too many marriages are done in by the job. A wife is to be cherished.” He paused. “No matter how much time you have, it is never enough.”

  “Sir?”

  “Did you e-mail the background information about our friends in Midriven?” Ravyn asked as he headed for the lift. “And all the girls who vanished?”

  Stark ran to catch up. “Yes, sir, as much as I could in the time I had. It’s not much, but…”

  “I’m sure it will be helpful.”

  After a quick call to Aeronwy, Stark drove out of the station car park. Ravyn opened his laptop on his knees and accessed his mail. Stark kept his gaze trained on the road, not letting it stray to Ravyn. He still found it disconcerting, and bloody annoying, were he to be honest with himself, the way the guv’nor skimmed through documents a page a second. When first he had seen it, he assumed Ravyn was trying to show off for him. Later, he realised that when the guv’nor appeared to consult his notes or study letters or reports at length, that was all for show. Yes, it was very bloody annoying, he thought, gripping the wheel, staring into the fading afternoon.

  Ravyn’s mobile chimed.

  “Ravyn,” he said. “Yes, Mr Teype, what…” His brow furrowed, he listened intently. “We’ll be there shortly.”

  Ravyn reached under the fascia panel. He activated the siren and flashing blue lamps set above the number plate.

  Stark instinctively jammed the accelerator. “What is it, sir?”

  Ravyn, who had punched a number into his mobile, held up a silencing palm.

  “Constable Lessing?” He paused. “Yes, I know. What are…” He waited a moment. “Very good. Have everyone follow the same search patterns as Sergeant… Very well, then. We are enroute now. What is the address? No, that’s fine, just give it to me. Thank you. I will have Sergeant Stark drop me off there, and he will join you.”

  Ravyn returned the mobile to his pocket.

  “Another girl,” the chief inspector said. “Elizabeth Jenks. I will interview her aunt, Dorothy Jenks. I want you to meet up with PC Lessing on Flintlock Lane. Take charge.”

  Stark’s knuckles grew white on the steering wheel and his jaw tightened. He edged the accelerator closer to the floorboard.

  * * *

  Ravyn exited the car before it fully stopped, and Stark jammed the accelerator to the floor before the door entirely closed. The chief inspector opened the gate of Willow Cottage and made his way up a meandering cobble walk. As he reached the porch, the door opened and an elderly woman stepped out.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I am DCI…”

  “Arthur Ravyn,” she finished, smiling. “Yes, I recognise you. I’m sure you don’t remember me though. It’s been so very long.”

  Ravyn peered through half-lidded eyes. Remembering people was easier than recognising them. In his mind, they were frozen in time. A long-ago impression of him was far more likely to trigger recognition for someone else than his static memory would for him. Time wreaked vast changes on people, yet some aspects remained untouched—an ear’s curve and its lobe, the orbits of the eyes and the eyes themselves, and the shapes of mouth and chin.

  He reviewed more than fifty years of incidental encounters and passing introductions. The old woman took a half-breath.

  “It was, maybe, four decades ago,” he said, purposely vague. “A fine autumn afternoon at the vicarage of St Mary’s in Ormsport. I believe Aunt Blossom introduced you to me as ‘my good friend Dottie, a very sensible woman who rightly believes all occultism is rubbish,’ if I am not mistaken.”

  “Oh my,” she said with a little gasp. “I thought Blossie rather boastful, but I should have known better. How is she? I’m afraid I have not kept up with her since then. People do grow apart when the circumstances that drew them together vanish.”

  “Still going strong, Miss Jenks.”

  “Dottie,” she said. “Please call me Dottie. Everyone does.”

  “She’s now the vicar at St Mary’s, but being considered for bishop,” Ravyn said. “Still writing monographs about the Minor Prophets, still firm in her belief all occultism is rubbish.”

  “She was quite the rara avis in those days, a female verger, but I knew she would one day be vicar, even if she had to petition God Himself to get it done.” She smiled at the remembrance. “Please come in, Arthur.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should call you…”

  “Arthur is fine, Dottie,” he said.

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked. “The kettle is already on. There was a constable here about some time ago.”

  “Tea would be lovely,” he said. “PC Lessing?”

  “Yes,” she replied, heading into the kitchen. A moment later she returned with a tray. “He asked some questions about Lizzie and I gave him a photograph.”

  Ravyn sat. “I shall probably cover some of the same ground as did he, so, please, bear with me.”

  Dottie sat close to him and poured out. “I hope I have not caused trouble. It’s just that…” Her hand trembled and she put her cup down. “I know what people say, but Lizzie is not the kind to run off. She’s quiet and studious, much as I recall you were. She said she was going to visit a friend, but when I called…” She paused. “First the Martin girl, then that terrible affair with poor Annie Treadwell. I immediately thought… Well…I’d’ve called the resident constable, but… Then I remembered someone said you have taken rooms…Mr Teype…I hope I haven’t…”

  “You did the right thing,” Ravyn said. “No need to fret.”

  She breathed easier. “Lizzie did not run away.”

  “No, Dottie, I don’t believe she did.”

  “And, I won’t bring the Beast into it either,” she said. “All occultism is rubbish and that includes bugbears like the Beast. Even as a little girl I knew that much. Never believed all the folklore the other kids took as gospel. Don’t think I didn’t get my hide tanned regularly by Mum and Gran when I told them that to their faces.”

  “Who was the friend she visited?” Ravyn asked.

  “Jill Coldspring, the Rockaway, Shadow Lane.”

  “You called the Coldspring home?”

  “Yes, to make sure she arrived,” Dottie said. “I talked to Jill’s mum, Mabel. They expected Lizzie, but she never came.”

  “Shadow is nowhere near Flintlock,” Ravyn said. “Other side of the village.”

  “Off the high street,” she said. “I started calling. Among others, I talked to Mr Stoneman at the General Store and Mr Teype. Lizzie would have passed both, but neither had seen her. Then Mr Teype said he would call you and that constable from Deeping Well. I suppose you know everything that has happened since?”

  He nodded. “Does Elizabeth live with you or is she a guest?”

  “She lives with me, and a joy to me she is,” Dottie said. “We’re all each other have anymore. Poor little mite, she had nowhere else to go but live with her fuddy-duddy maiden aunt when her mu
m and dad were killed earlier this year, a motor accident.”

  Ravyn fought back a lucid vision he had thought banished from his dreams—the car hurtling upside down, the sea rushing towards him, his hand gripped till he thought it might break, and a keening wail he eventually recognised as his own scream.

  Her hand was on his arm. He put down his cup and pulled back.

  “I am so sorry, Arthur,” she said, letting his arm move away. “I forgot about…”

  “No, it is all right,” Ravyn said. “It happened a long time ago. Memories fade with time.”

  “Yes, thank goodness for that,” Dottie said. “It’s been only nine months, but I think Lizzie is starting to accept it.”

  “How is your niece related to you?”

  “Great-niece,” Dottie said. “Her father, Walter, was my nephew by way of Andrew, my brother.”

  “Did she know either Lisa Martin or Annie Treadwell?”

  “Annie slightly more than Lisa, her not being Midriven bred, but neither of them extremely well,” Dottie replied. “As I said, Lizzie is more the bookish type, always studying. She’s always first in line when the county bookmobile makes a stop at the Green, and she’s quickly devouring her way through my library.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Jill’s father, Oliver, has an antiques shop in Stafford and a library at home filled with old books. I suspect that may be the reason for Lizzie befriending the girl. Only fifteen, but she can be quite mercenary when it comes to books.”

  “She ever have reason to walk along Flintlock Lane?”

  “None!”

  The vehemence of Dottie’s reply startled him.

  “And no reason at all to even go near Robbers Wood,” Dottie added. “She knows better than to go on Flintlock or into the woods, for any reason.”

  Ravyn raised a quizzical eyebrow. “She might be curious. She will certainly have heard stories from the other children.”

  “She is a curious girl, but she has common sense up to here.” She touched her hairline. “The Beast is piffle, as is the phantom highwayman, but both the lane and the woods are dangerous even without injecting superstition. The existence of spiritual evil may be a subject for debate, but there is no doubting the evil that men do.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Ravyn agreed.

  “Too many dirty geezers down there with nothing better to do than ogle the girls who go by,” she said. “Take Lenny Hardwick.”

  “What about him?”

  “Did you know he takes photographs of girls?” she demanded. “Sometimes the little tarts show off for him, flirt with him. He has not been right in the head since his sister disappeared, but that is no excuse for him to act like that. Tried to take my picture once when I was young—he almost lost his camera through not dodging the rock quickly enough. And he doesn’t just takes snaps down on Flintlock. He may be a harmless old git, lonely and off his nut, like people say, but maybe he isn’t…harmless, that is.”

  Ravyn nodded. “No one knows whether a man’s heart is filled with darkness or light, but it’s prudent to assume the worst while hoping for the best.”

  “Sounds like something Blossie would have said.”

  “Aunt Lysandra, actually.”

  “Oh, her!” Dottie blushed a little. “The man-hater.”

  Ravyn sighed. “She and Aunt Blossom rarely see eye-to-eye about anything.” A little disconcerted with himself by the personal turn he had allowed the interview to take, he sipped his tea. “Are there any other friends your niece might be visiting?”

  “She has a small circle of friends.” Dottie excused herself and returned with a laminated sheet of A4 paper. “Lizzie made this list for me—she is abnormally organised. They either share one or more of her interests or have large family libraries. I believe she tutors the ones with whom she has no common interests.”

  Ravyn glanced at the two-column list, then passed it back.

  “I called them all,” Dottie continued. “No sign of her.”

  “Do you feel all her friends are on that list?”

  “Yes,” Dottie replied, with a wan smile. “She actually issues an update when someone is added or falls away. As I said, abnormally organised, though I think it a project that has helped her fit in since moving here. I’m sure you know, Midriven is not the friendliest of places to strangers. Even being related to a long-rooted family only gets an outsider so far and no farther.”

  “Anyplace Elizabeth might have stopped on the way to visit the Coldspring girl?” Ravyn asked. “Any errands she may have had?”

  “Not for me,” Dottie said. “There’s not much in Midriven for the young people, not even a cinema. Have to take a bus to Stafford for that, not that there’s anything worth seeing any more. There was some talk of trying to build a youth centre, but you can probably guess what happened to that idea, as well as which families were set against it—they did not want to foot the bill to… ‘To give those no-good council estate yobs a place to congregate and plan mischief and crimes,’ was how it was put in a village meeting.” She sighed and an expression of sadness flickered across her face. “I shall miss little Annie, but Midriven will be well rid of that brute.”

  “Anyone along the high street she might have dropped in to see?” Ravyn asked. “Any acquaintances she might chat up?”

  “She knows Patsy, but who doesn’t?” She concentrated. “She was drawn to older residents, people with stories about Midriven. She didn’t believe in garden fairies, wandering souls or bugbears, but she surely loved a good story about them.”

  “What about Zoriah Stoneman?” Ravyn asked.

  “He’s a good source of old stories, aye, but he’s also mad as a badger,” Dottie said. “Young Wendell keeps the old man on a short chain and a good thing too. It’s one thing to talk about the Old Gods, but another thing entirely to talk to them.” She shook her head. “I thought to ask as well, but no one saw her at all.”

  “Does Elizabeth have a mobile?”

  “Yes, and I’ve tried it to no avail.”

  “What is her number, and yours as well?”

  Dottie told him. “What’s being done now?” she asked.

  “A search of the woods and the village,” Ravyn said. “That, of course, includes canvassing along the high street. My sergeant has no doubt already extended the search to include everything up to the Coldspring doorstep.”

  “I appreciate everything you are doing.” She stood when Ravyn rose. “Is there any hope, Arthur?”

  “There is always hope,” Ravyn replied. “Fortunately, you called us in early. If she has been abducted, the time element limits the scope of where she can be.”

  “I should never have let her…”

  “It’s not your fault in any way, Dottie,” Ravyn said. “We will find her and bring her back to you. That I promise.”

  “Oh, Arthur,” she said with a sigh. “I’m quite sure Blossie told you to never make promises you might not be able to keep.”

  “I never do. I’ll give you a bell if there are any developments.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Is wolfsbane common here?”

  “Yes, but not this time of year,” she replied. “It grows only in places where there is runoff from melting snow, so it only makes an appearance in the spring. Some places along Old Pike, a patch near the woods’ edge on Flintlock, some places around the village. Most people tear it out when they find it. It’s poisonous, you know, and no one wants their dogs to get into it.”

  When Ravyn left Dottie’s cottage, he headed for the high street. In a village like Midriven, already jittery from recent events, it was inconceivable a girl could walk on any part of the main street and not be noticed by every peeping eye. He called Stark.

  “Lessing had everything in full swing when I caught up with him,” Stark reported. “It’s uncanny, the way locals take to him. By Midriven standards we’re both foreigners, but he’s the prodigal son and I’m a bloody cross-eyed Chinaman.”

  “London is another planet to them, bu
t, yes, it is interesting,” Ravyn said. “Something to keep in mind.”

  “Sir?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “On Flintlock,” Stark said. “Another group is coming from Old Pike where we found the Martin girl. A few volunteers, but mostly uniforms. Lessing is taking the village…I’m not in the mood to be called Sergeant Strapper today.”

  “Understandable.” It was good, Ravyn thought, that Stark could not see his smile. “I’ll be along the high street. Keep me informed.”

  * * *

  Stark moved to the edge of the woods. His gaze swept the cottages. No sign of surveillance, but he knew they were watching, probably salivating over the prospect of them finding another savaged body. Old ghouls! Then he saw a figure waving at him.

  “Bloody hell,” Stark murmured. “What in blazes does that old git want now?”

  “Sergeant, has another girl been taken?” Hardwick asked when Stark drew near. “Has there?”

  “Do you have any information about it, Mr Hardwick?”

  “Who is it?”

  After a moment, Stark said: “Elizabeth Jenks.”

  Hardwick frowned. “Annie Treadwell’s death had nothing to do with the Beast.” His words were soft, reflective, more intended for his own ears than Stark’s. “But Lisa was taken for the Beast. The Bride…the ancient fulfilment. But if the Intended One is lost.” His head turned sharply to Stark. “Lisa Martin did come back, did she not? She was found, wasn’t she?”

  Stark regarded Hardwick with cool detachment. The guv’nor seemed to think the old man out of the frame, but Stark could not fully let go. He passed himself off as an historian, but it was half-possible it was nothing more than a ruse, an excuse to lurk about and take snaps of passing girls.

  “I thought someone said so when I was in Stoneman’s, but it was so confused,” Hardwick continued. “I would ask, but I don’t dare go into the village…not at the moment.”

  Stark smirked. “I thought you all were as thick as thieves here, Mr Hardwick. Don’t tell me you’re on the outs now that everyone knows some of your dirty little secrets.”