by Syd Moore
‘Sometimes what?’ I said.
‘Sometimes, well, a few times now, you could have ended up dead.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘That. You’re such a stickler for health and safety, Samuel Stone. Really you are.’
A hint of a smile escaped the left side of his lips and dimpled his cheek. ‘Am I wrong though, Rosie Strange?’
I would have liked to have said, yes, but he wasn’t.
There had been that time with the Serbian mafia and accompanying evil alchemists. Unfortunately, one of them had shot at me, which like it or not, did put that particular scenario into the ‘life-threatening/possible death’ category that he was talking about. But that was it, I thought, then remembered more recently a couple of villagers had drugged me, put me in a shed, doused me in petrol then attempted to set me on fire. Which possibly also embodied ‘threat to kill’. Then there was that guy in the cellar with the sex trafficking … but, you know, these were details. You could get bogged down with them. ‘Unlucky, that’s all,’ I managed.
He shook his head, tawny hair tumbling down over his ears. Needed a trim. ‘And if, as Monty has suggested,’ he was saying, ‘there is something less than straightforward here, then we must think about our safety. That was the point I was trying to make. We need to consider things carefully, weigh up the pros and cons. Not rush into decisions.’
‘We’re here,’ I said and got out of the car to shut him up. The bloke had a point, but he could go on a bit. ‘Come on Sam.’ I strode up to the entrance porch and rang the bell, then stepped back and let my eyes roam over the place. Encircled now by a flimsy mist, the house wouldn’t have been out of place in a Dickens novel. Although I’m no expert on architecture, I think its build may have been Georgian. For it had large sash windows, a bundle of chimney pots on the roof and, though half of it was ivy-clad, you could still see tell-tale reddish bricks fashioned from the London Clay that had once been so popular in the area. The hall was elegant from what I could see, and large and uncluttered. Without whimsy. A good solid building with a small extension to the side. The kind of thing I might buy if I ever won the lottery.
‘And this,’ said Sam, catching me up, and poking a finger in my ribs. His eyes had gone all stormy again. ‘This is what I’m talking about. What happened to casing the joint before making contact, eh?’
I winced. That term was so clichéd and American. ‘I forgot.’ I hadn’t, but we could do that later. In fact, I’d insist on a tour once we were inside. The place looked rambling. It would be necessary to orientate oneself. I was guessing there were at least three reception rooms downstairs if not more. And it had another two storeys on top of that. A posh person’s house. Or had been once upon a time. Lord Ratchette’s I expected. Now that was a good name for a baddie. Bet he was too. My experience with lords of various manors hadn’t been so good lately.
Or ever, come to think of it.
‘Rosie please,’ Sam said, emphasising the sibilance of my name, ‘come on. Work with me here.’
I refocused on his face. ‘I plan to,’ I said and stroked his arm. ‘Honest. I promise to consult you about everything from here on in. All right?’
He nodded, only half convinced.
‘But I want to hear about your family issues sometime, yeah? You know an awful lot about mine.’
Again, he looked away, his eyes travelling past the car, over the lawn, into the trees that lined the lane. Darkness was netting them fully now but you could still see their black outlines. Above their fluttering tops the stars were beginning to come out. Hallowmas Night was upon us and a touch of frost was in the air.
Before Sam could answer, a woman in her late thirties answered the door and coughed, not to draw our attention but because she was wheezing.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Tail end of a cold.’
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s Rosie and Sam. We’re the investigators from the Witch Museum. Agent Walker called us in.’
The woman had fine blonde hair, held off her forehead by an Alice band, and a doll-like face which crunched into a frown of confusion. ‘Agent Walker?’ she said, not budging or inviting us in. ‘I’m not sure I know Agent Walker …’
Before she could continue, another little figure had shuffled up to the door, an older lady who only came up to the height of the door knocker, with grey hair in a bun, navy chinos and a sweatshirt with a picture of the Mona Lisa on the front. With one quick movement of her hip, the newcomer, nudged the door-hogger out of the way, reached out and grabbed my hand.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ she said. I noted she had a very firm grip for someone of advanced years (she had to be in her seventies). ‘Come, come,’ she insisted and pulled me and beckoned Sam in. Then she looked up at the door-hogger. ‘Oh Sophia, do get out of the way. These are the people I was telling you about. Now be a good girl and put the kettle on. They’ll be wanting refreshment after their long journey. Let’s go into the day room and see the others,’ she said to me and winked. ‘It’s the cosiest.’
The Sophia-woman’s mouth dropped open briefly. She hesitated for an even briefer moment, then exhaled loudly, peeved, and stepped aside so we could enter.
The hallway we found ourselves in was not as grand as the exterior might have suggested. It wasn’t shabby, just functional. An elaborate chandelier hung down in the centre. Meticulously clean and gleaming, however some of the crystal parts were missing. The hall walls were a plain whitewash. Despite its charming appearance there was something in the atmosphere here that made me shudder. A vague sort of lurking feeling that was not pleasant but disturbing. I felt a flutter of anxiety, but it went as soon as it came.
The only furniture in the lobby was an occasional table with a deep mahogany finish. The place had a kind of lived-in stately home feel, which was accentuated by a quaint old-fashioned telephone that perched on the table, above which hung an antique gold-framed mirror. I checked my lipstick. All good. Across from us a rather elegant wooden staircase led to the next floors but I couldn’t take in any more detail because the fierce dwarf-woman was pinching me in the back, and simultaneously directing me to a room with a wood-panelled door in the corner.
‘Go, go,’ she said. ‘In here. That’s it.’
The air pressure changed as the front door slammed shut. Our footsteps echoed across the chequerboard marble tiles. I was pleased I’d got out of my heels and into my purple cowboy boots. They had good grip and it looked rather slippery down there. Gleaming with polish. Someone had certainly looked after it well.
We entered a large room and said hello to the three people who were sitting there on an assortment of armchairs and sofas. Everything was positioned to face a well-made fire spluttering in the hearth. A brass bucket of kindling and a coal scuttle stood sentry either side. On the mantelpiece an antique sword was displayed, propped up on two mounts. It looked old. I took a step closer to inspect it. The weapon was really quite substantial, about two and a half feet long and in good condition with a distinct edge. The handle had been restored with a sturdy leather covering. At the end of that there was a sort of round bit, in the middle of which was a crucifix. Though to me, it looked upside down. Depends on which way you were looking at it, I supposed. Odd though.
‘Yes,’ said the spry little lady. ‘Interesting isn’t it? Still bites,’ she said with a grin. ‘Not surprised you went straight to it. You have a sense for these things, I expect. What with your occupation. My nephew’s the same. That sword,’ she said nodding towards it, ‘was found in one of the knights’ tombs. You know,’ she said and jerked her head towards the door. ‘At St Saviour’s, down the road. There are reminders of them everywhere round here. That neat little blade is said to have been pulled from the body of a six-headed serpent in Antioch. Whoever holds it can conquer all their foes. Of course there’s a price to pay – your soul.’ She grinned and revealed a full set of teeth. Or possibly dentures. Maybe implants. ‘Flies off straight to Satan of course,’ she continued, oblivious to my dental check. �
�The priest who found it wouldn’t have the thing in the church. Sold it to the lord of the manor down at Wooden Ferret. The family got rid of it after he stabbed his brother in the throat. Thought it had something to do with the curse. And somehow it ended up here. Very impressive I think. You can see the workmanship. It’s lasted for centuries.’
I looked at it again; it was elegant and certainly powerful. You could sense it rippling the air around it. I wondered how heavy it was and put my hand out to touch it but Tabby said, ‘Later. Come, come,’ and directed me and Sam to a vacant padded stool and armchair that were situated close to the fire. She settled herself in a nearby two-seater next to a silver-haired woman, who, though visibly younger than her, seemed to have half the older woman’s energy. The woman stirred in her chair and blinked, like a giant tortoise coming out of hibernation.
‘This is Imogen Green,’ said the little lady and poked her fireside companion. Imogen manoeuvred a chubby moon face out from her oval body and sniffed the air. Bulgy eyes swivelled over us. ‘She’s psych thrillers.’
‘Really?’ I said. She did not look particularly psychologically thrilling. Still, there’s none stranger than folk. Apart from me. And although I am Strange by name I am completely normal by nature. People just fail to realise this.
Imogen nodded her big bulbous head. ‘It’s an increasingly popular genre,’ she said between yawns. ‘Which means increasing readership. My work in progress is all about a woman who thinks she’s woken up in someone else’s body.’
Yes, I could imagine the concept appealing to her. Not everyone could be as blessed in that department as my good lady self. Though there were some basic mistakes people could make: this one’s roughly cut bob looked self-inflicted. There was something very Richard the Third about the style she’d given herself.
The little woman next to her wriggled and nodded brightly and said, ‘Imogen’s idea is marvellous. Could be a tricky execution.’ Her eyes twinkled and she slipped a wry smile. ‘Which brings me to the point. Some of us think that is exactly what has happened to poor poor Graham. An execution. Of the phantom kind.’
It was all getting a bit difficult to follow. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Who is Graham?’ Then I stopped. ‘No hang on – first things first – who are you?’
Her smile widened. ‘Me? Why, I’m Tabitha Walker of course. Call me Tabby. Montgomery’s aunt. I thought he might have briefed you? Or sent over a file of some sort. I’m sure he must have one on me, actually.’ She tapped her nose. ‘Used to dabble with communism, back in the day, oh yes. I’m sure they bugged me. Monty is so clever with that sort of thing. Gadgets. A bit Q. You know – the Quartermaster.’ She finished tapping and winked. ‘Do you like Ian Fleming? I find him rather pedestrian I’m afraid.’
I could see a resemblance to her nephew in the slightly beaky nose, but not much more than that. Monty was a tall man, broad shouldered, and his aunt was, well, neither. She peered at us over half-moon glasses with an expression that indicated immense interest in our coming response.
I was a bit dazed by her conversational quicksilver, so just tackled the last question. ‘I prefer contemporary fiction.’
Imogen started. One of her eyebrows twitched. ‘Do you like crime?’ she asked. There was a lilt there, definitely north of the border. The border being Watford.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’m on a sabbatical from Benefit Fraud, so I’m kind of dependent on it for a living. Liking it is neither here nor there. It happens. Like the proverbial brown stuff.’
‘I think Imogen, I think she’s referring to the genre – crime fiction,’ said Tabby, then lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘She’s obsessed,’ she said to me, even though her neighbour could hear.
Her words made Imogen smile and reveal two weird rows of little triangular teeth.
I tried not to shudder.
‘Well, yes, I do like the genre,’ I told the bulb-headed one. ‘Spent my early teens tearing through Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham, Josephine Tey …’
‘All women,’ said the only man in the room. Apart from Sam. He was thin and bald, and wearing a jumper that would have looked better on Sarah Lund. He shook his head in weariness and rolled his eyes.
‘I like James Ellroy?’ I offered.
‘Don’t we all?’ he said in a mocking tone. Or was it just because he was Scottish? Sometimes accents can play havoc with emphasis.
I decided to err on the side of caution. ‘And who are you?’
‘Robin Savage,’ he said with a nod. ‘Yes, as in Savage Books.’ Then he closed his eyelids and fluttered them for a bit.
I looked at Sam who shrugged. Neither of us had heard of him.
A quick scan of Mr Savage’s clothes revealed him to be a sartorial conservative with an average standard of hygiene, but I got nothing more. My senses were sluggish. I think, in retrospect, they had been numbed by the events of the summer, but at that point I just thought I was being lazy. Robin Savage looked like an ordinary middle-aged man with no distinguishing features other than an old-fashioned habit of combing hair over his bald pate. Which was noticeable because you never really saw that any more. Men these days seemed to go straight for the clippers when male pattern hair loss reared its bald pate. I didn’t mind bald heads. But I preferred them auburn and flaming and attached to curators of witch museums.
‘And this,’ said Tabby pointing to a long Chesterfield pushed against the far wall, ‘is Starla Ocean.’
She was the youngest of the three, perhaps mid-thirties, with straggly blue hair and matching eyes, wearing a velvet skirt with symbols of the zodiac embroidered on it. Not expertly either. Probably a home-made jobbie.
‘Blessings,’ she said. ‘I hope you can help restore this place of sanctuary to harmony.’
Oh dear.
‘Yes,’ said Tabby. ‘They will, won’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer, she ploughed on. ‘Nicholas and Jocelyn are smoking in the garden.’ She gestured out the window. ‘Cullen and Laura have gone out for a walk to clear their heads. And Margot is writing upstairs in her room. She’s taken the whole thing quite badly.’
‘And what is the “whole thing”?’ asked Sam, taking the stool next to me. He looked very business-like in that suit, borderline suave. I reckon we both did. I didn’t brush up too badly after all, and despite the fact I’d changed my stilettos for the purple boots, I reckoned I could still rock my own black suit. Maybe we’d have to start wearing that sort of thing for assignments like this. Although Monty had told us that this evening’s manoeuvres were strictly off-record and unassigned. Completely deniable in the event of anyone finding out our expenses were being covered.
‘Graham Peacock has met with a foul end.’ This from Robin, who lingered on the last word and then enlarged upon the drama with, ‘An unnatural end, for sure.’ He stood up and went to the windows that backed onto what I assumed was the garden. ‘Tell them Tabby. Tell them what’s happened.’
But it was blue-haired Starla who spoke. ‘Dark forces have risen around us.’ The lingering twangs of an Australian accent were evident now as she spoke. Her voice was low and rich but it quavered a little. ‘I am sorry that I may have had a hand in that.’ Her fingers trembled and flew to her face where they fastened on a cheek and chin. ‘Yesterday,’ she gulped, eyes almost pleading with me and Sam. ‘In the church I chanted an incantation for renewal and regeneration. But it was about the dead … I hope I didn’t … you know … upset Graham …’
Robin turned to her and then went and sat in one of several high-back chairs tucked under a wooden table at the back of the room, so his posture was more upright and rigid. ‘Yes, why did you do that, Starla?’ His eyes narrowed accusingly. ‘Ah thought it odd at the time and ah think it odd now.’
Starla’s voice turned bleatingly high. ‘It was all about the season. Halloween is the end of one year and Hallowmas the beginning of the new. I thought it a way of registering that change. ’Tis the season in which we move towards rebirth and light.’
Robin shook his head, ‘As the nights grow longer and the solstice approaches? The shortest day of the year! Ach, I dinna believe you.’
Clearly affronted, Starla got to her feet. Her heavy skirts swayed and shook as she spoke. ‘It’s true, I tell you.’
‘Look,’ said Sam, standing up and going over to calm her. ‘Let’s all take a breath,’ he glared at Robin, ‘and start at the beginning. When did this course begin? What day did you get here?’
He had said it gently to Starla but Robin rolled his eyes and replied. ‘We arrived at varying times on Sunday afternoon or evening. Graham met us then showed each guest to their room for the week. We are meant to leave next Sunday but …’ he trailed off and looked at the floor. ‘Ah, suppose, now it’ll be cut short. What with poor Graham …’
Imogen’s voice rang out like a bell, a large one, like Big Ben, with a low pitch. ‘The course started on Monday proper. We had a session in the morning with Laura where we talked about what we wanted to get out of the week …’
‘Laura?’ Sam interrupted.
Tabby piped up. ‘Laura, our tutor. Her pen name is L.D. Taylor-Jacobs. Very accomplished in her genre.’
‘Which is?’ I enquired.
Robin huffed out a sigh and crossed his short, corduroy legs. ‘Crime, mystery, etc.,’ he said and did an even bigger eye-roll with an extra eyelid flutter.
‘Oh right.’ I took my notebook out. ‘We’ve just arrived. Assume we know nothing.’
‘That’s not hard,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Okay.’ My fingers twitched themselves into a V. But not for victory. So I put a pen in them and began writing down the names. ‘Laura = L.D. Taylor-Jacobs. Crime writer.’ That figured.
‘It was during the afternoon that the tone of events started to darken,’ Tabby picked up. ‘Laura had arranged for us to do our session in St Saviour’s. It’s very atmospheric.’