Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Or someone’s covering their tracks.’

  ‘Do you really think it’s connected to what happened with Graham Peacock?’

  Sam swivelled round and joined me in staring at the hole. ‘I would think so. It’s too much of a coincidence for them not to be linked, and yet we must assume nothing. My feeling is that it’s likely the finger in Graham’s hand came from the absent effigy.’

  ‘Or somewhere else,’ I said helpfully. ‘Let’s agree that the finger in Graham Peacock’s hand was planted there, rather than grabbed off the Avenging Knight,’ I proposed. I felt like we needed to establish a foundation of facts, as Sam had so spontaneously put it yesterday.

  My friend smacked apricot lips and thought for a moment. ‘It’s the most obvious conclusion.’

  I slipped into the pew opposite. ‘But if that is the case, as Mr Sutcliffe suggested last night, that points to a strong element of premeditation.’

  Sam nodded. ‘We should see if Monty can run a background check on Graham, if he’s not already done so. See if he has any enemies.’

  ‘And the rest of them,’ I added.

  The door at the back of the church opened and we saw Father Edgar enter. His face was still screwed up with frowns. Maybe he looked like that in his natural state of repose.

  I turned back to Sam. ‘Although, it’s got to be said – we shouldn’t lose sight of the outside chance that this theft is unrelated to Mr Peacock’s demise. In terms of motive anyway.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Maybe Graham’s death drew attention to the church and its effigies and attracted the eye of an opportunistic burglar.’

  He shivered again. ‘Ah, quite. Yes. Good point.’

  ‘Even so, if that’s the case, you’ve still got to wonder why this lot have been stolen? Could the body and effigy be of value?’

  There was a sniff and a cough, then Father Edgar padded over. ‘Collectors,’ he said through pinched lips. ‘Anything goes these days. If you desire to have something, however whimsical or abhorrent that might be to the many, there will always be someone who will procure it and then sell it on to you. Whether it be a human body part, a corpse, a tomb or even a still-living human being. Money has become an evil god. If you’ve got it and worship it, money will duly proclaim itself master. Root of all evil, if you remember, deep down with the Devil himself.’

  He sounded a little preachy, but I knew that he was right about there being a market for everything. We had actually had some experience with most of the things Father Edgar had listed: body parts, skeletons, human trafficking. But not a tomb and desiccated corpse. Now I guess we could tick that one off too. Much as humanity filled me with hope, in its most depraved aspect, it terrified me utterly.

  I made a noise which was half a moan coupled with a resigned grunt of agreement.

  Father Edgar’s beady eyes snapped onto me. They were a luminous indigo-blue. ‘It’s part of our battle against the encroaching darkness. I know it’s unfashionable to believe in the Devil, but he is out there, securing his place in the hearts of men.’

  I was surprised to hear this old-school talk, but then again if you were going to find it anywhere I supposed it was most likely in a church.

  Sam stood up. ‘We heard yesterday,’ he leant against the pew and rubbed his arms, ‘that there has been talk of devil worship and witches in the woods about Ratchette Hall.’

  Father Edgar started when he heard the mention of the writers’ retreat. Or maybe it was the Devil again. His eyebrows wrinkled along the top. ‘Witch Wood. Yes. Now hang on a minute – have you got anything to do with poor Graham’s death?’ He shuffled back a couple of paces.

  I cleared my throat and said, ‘Yes. I mean no. I mean we have been asked to investigate the circumstances by a government agency.’

  Sam shot me a questioning look. I thought the allusion to Monty might buy us a bit of credibility and to my surprise the gamble paid off.

  Edgar looked at me and nodded and said sadly, ‘Oh. I see, all right.’

  Sam made his forehead go all frowny and asked Edgar. ‘And the woods?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, his shoulders deflating slightly. ‘The witches.’ He took a pew to the side of Sam and sat with his legs sticking into the aisle, tapping absently at the carving on the end, a deer with huge elaborate antlers. ‘There has always been a dark side to Damebury,’ he went on. ‘The Devil has been said to run amok here.’ He motioned to the aisle. ‘Squirming between the legs of parishioners. People saw him mounting the altar and springing around the church from side to side.’

  Now that was an image straight out of an animated horror film, I thought, and regarded Edgar’s face to see if he was winding us up. He wasn’t – his eyes were full of energy as he spoke, the conviction within unsettling.

  I felt the coolness of the air in the old building and detected an aroma that smelled uncannily like aniseed. It was strange. The combination of sensations and the vicar’s words prompted an involuntary shiver to creep across my shoulders.

  ‘And according to folklore, on the 24th of May 1402,’ Edgar went on with rehearsed detail, ‘during a terrible storm, they say the Devil appeared as a grey friar and behaved very lewdly, frightening the congregation. As he danced around and exposed himself a great tempest of wind enveloped the church. Thunder and lightning descended from the heavens and destroyed the roof. The chancel was allegedly “rent and torn to pieces”.’

  I tried to disassociate the image of a friar flashing and wind. It was crude. It was vulgar. It was pathetically tickling me. But totally not the kind of thing that should amuse a grown woman of thirty-four. ‘So what does that have to do with stone tombs?’ I asked to distract myself.

  Edgar looked at me and stared, seeming to forget that he’d been conversing with us at all. ‘Tombs?’ he said, as his eyes focused on mine. ‘Stone? The missing effigy was made of wood. Not like the others.’

  That made Sam stand up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it looked like stone but it was actually sculpted from ancient timbers.’

  ‘So this one …’ Sam gestured to the cavern where the knight had so recently been discovered. ‘Was its finger missing?’

  Edgar looked over to the cavern. ‘I can’t recall. There was some damage around the torso. From centuries of damp, but that was it. We have been raising funds to restore it.’

  My colleague folded his arms and looked at me. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Interesting?’ Edgar was outraged.

  Sam nodded. ‘Wood, however, is more portable.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ snapped Edgar. ‘And bother bother bother, it could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘Which also means,’ Sam said to me, ‘that the finger that the late Mr Peacock was clutching was definitely NOT from this, or the other two knights. Not if it was made of wood. The stone ones are intact. And Cullen definitely said he found a stone finger in the administrator’s hand.’

  ‘Blimey,’ I said to Sam while Father Edgar tutted. ‘You’re right. So unless Graham habitually wandered around the house with a spare stone finger in his pocket, someone placed it there in his hand during or post mortem.’

  Sam raised his head and nodded slowly, ‘To suggest the E. Nesbit story.’

  ‘And that the knights had done it,’ I added.

  Edgar shook his head. ‘But the knight that is missing isn’t made of stone,’ he said, not following our thread.

  Sam looked at me. ‘But someone didn’t know that. Someone who placed a stone finger in the deceased’s hand.’

  ‘They wanted people to assume it had come from a stone knight,’ I confirmed, nodding, and sucked in my lip. ‘Father Edgar,’ I said, grinning at him, ‘do many people know that the most recently discovered tomb effigy was made of wood?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It’s been big news locally. All the parishioners and villagers came to see the discovery.’

  I locked eyes with Sam. ‘Not a local
then.’

  ‘Narrows it down,’ he said. ‘Quite extensively.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Suggest we interview the housekeeper today,’ I said to Sam as we waited for someone to answer the door at Ratchette Hall.

  ‘Why?’ he said reaching inside his jacket. He was going for his notebook. He kept it in that pocket with a pen in the little one outside just under the lapel.

  ‘Because Sophia said she’d given her the afternoon off. Which therefore means she’s definitely local. We can find out if she knew that the missing knight was made of wood. Plus she might know if anyone held any grudges against Graham.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ said Sam flicking through the pages of his spiral bound. ‘I believe … ah yes. Her name is Carole.’

  I stepped away from the door as it opened.

  ‘We should also ask if she read Man-Sized in Marble,’ Sam continued rifling through his notes. ‘Then proceed with tailored questioning after that’s confirmed. Or not.’

  Sophia’s face appeared in the crack. She was paler than yesterday and the bags under her eyes were swollen. ‘Oh hello,’ she said. I couldn’t tell if she was relieved to see us or concerned. ‘The housekeeper, you say? Carole? Christmas?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I said, double-footed by the non-sequitur.

  Sophia nodded to herself. ‘Oh yes, of course you don’t know. That’s her name. Carole Christmas. Carole Blanche Christmas actually.’ She grimaced. ‘One presumes sadistic parents.’

  Sam stifled a laugh. ‘Is she full of glad tidings and good cheer? We could do with some of that.’ Then he stepped across the threshold. I followed.

  Sophia said, ‘Mmmm,’ and led us into the day room where we had met the others last night. Reclining on the sofas this time, were Jocelyn and Nicholas. Tabitha was sitting at the table in front of a laptop. Across from her Robin was reading the paper. He didn’t look up when we came in.

  ‘Thank goodness, you’re here,’ said Tabitha at once. ‘We had an awful night. Nicholas, get Cullen and Laura. Margot. Where’s Imogen?’

  Nicholas shrugged. He was wearing a white silk shirt that was undone a button too far in my opinion. He shrugged and tossed his hair back. ‘How should I know?’ he said as if he was completely unbothered. There was strain in his forehead and tension in the shoulders which, I observed, he held a lot higher than yesterday.

  Jocelyn got to her feet, flicking her long slinky hair over her shoulders. ‘I’ll get them. I think they’re in the seminar room.’

  I noted Sam’s eyes flick over her slender silhouette and thought, ‘She’s young, she’s pretty, she’s vivacious, she’s kind. She’s exactly the kind of person he should be with. What was I thinking that he might ever want me? What a fool I’ve been.’ Then I sighed out loud accidentally and everyone glanced my way. Including Sam.

  So I cleared my voice and pretended it was a wheezy cough. We both stood aside to let the lovely Jocelyn squeeze past us, and then went and sat on the sofa.

  ‘What’s up, Tabby?’ I asked the old girl, purposefully making my voice bright. It was as much for inner persuasion as external appearance.

  Her silver hair was less groomed than yesterday. Strands of it were falling out all over the place. One had a hair grip dangling from it.

  ‘Last night,’ she said and clutched a cameo pendant hanging from her neck, ‘we were awakened by the most terrific howling.’

  Nicholas nodded to confirm her story. His complexion, I saw now, was ghastly. ‘Pretty grim,’ he said and swallowed. Then he looked down at the carpet and let his hair fall over his face and added, ‘And pretty loud.’ His voice broke slightly over the last consonant, betraying a lack of control in the breathing department. It was, I guessed, irregular because of anxiety, although the young man was trying desperately not to show it.

  I suddenly realised the louche hipster role was all a camouflage. Nicholas was shaken.

  I regarded him again with fresh eyes and realised he was really quite young. Perhaps no older than twenty-four. It was his instilled public-school-boy confidence that made him, at first meeting, seem older. But now that was fraying, uncertainty and inexperience were becoming more visible.

  I wondered if I would be upset if I had stayed here and experienced the series of events that had played out over the last two days. I couldn’t tell.

  ‘What did it sound like?’ I asked. ‘Exactly?’

  Robin, the bookseller, cleared his throat. ‘To my mind, a banshee,’ he said. The word, as he expressed it, fully announced his Scottish accent.

  ‘A banshee?’ I repeated and screwed my face up. The noun summoned up images of a strong punk chick and a man with yellow hair who had the name of a brightly coloured Australian pet bird.

  Robin gulped and nodded, reading my confusion. ‘The spirit of a wailing woman said to herald a death in the house,’ he enlightened the gathered group. ‘Nonsense of course. Superstition, folklore, etc.,’ he finished. His words were sounding convincing, but his face wasn’t matching them.

  ‘But,’ he went on and hauled himself to his feet. ‘We talked over breakfast this morning and there’s this here. Cullen pointed it out. It’s from the magazine article that Laura sent us. About the discovery of the knights in the tomb.’ He began to read. ‘The body was tolerably perfect. The flesh, except on the face and throat appeared exceedingly white and firm … The whole body conveyed the idea of a hearty youth …’ He brought it over and pointed at a line. The paper quivered as he passed it to me. ‘Where the pillow supporting the head had rotted away, the head, stretching the throat back, had lacerated it and caused decay there.’

  Tabby spoke up now. ‘And that’s what it sounded like. A howling through damaged vocal chords.’ Her fingers pattered around her own neck. Some of her dotty energy had receded. ‘A kind of “ohhhhh-arghhhhh”. The most terrible lamentation, I tell you.’

  I wondered if it was the same thing we had heard last night as we left – the wolfish wail?

  Both Nicholas and Robin nodded. They looked slightly ashamed or maybe just embarrassed. Robin went back to the table, turned the chair round and stared at me.

  I realised a kind of terror was beginning in all of them.

  ‘You all agree, do you?’ said Sam, after a while.

  The three nodded.

  No exceptions. Not even Nicholas.

  Then the door opened and Sophia trundled in with a thin middle-aged woman whose auburny hair was drawn back tightly into a ponytail. ‘Carole,’ she proclaimed.

  A whiff of something like Dettol came into the room with her.

  ‘All right,’ said the newcomer. ‘What d’you want?’ Now that was a proper Essex accent.

  She was scrawny around the chest and a bit wrinkled on the breastplate, so probably shouldn’t have gone for the grey scoop neck top that she had on. Though it highlighted a pair of mounds that I imagined might be enticing enough for some. Too small to be falsies but with that pert perky quality that cosmetic surgeons liked to dispense. She looked after them. But not the rest. Along with the disinfectant I smelled fag smoke on her.

  ‘Ah hello,’ Sam began. ‘The legendary Ms Christmas.’

  He smiled.

  She didn’t. Her mouth tightened, revealing lots and lots of fine little lines around the top and bottom lips.

  I took up the reins from my colleague. ‘Did you read the story that the writers were sent, Carole? The one about the knights?’

  Her pencilled eyebrows rose up high, she’d plucked them virtually bald. ‘Who are you then?’

  That was fair enough – we hadn’t been introduced. ‘Rosie Strange. Essex Witch Museum and this is my curator Sam Stone.’

  She looked us up and down, her face really quite ruddy. ‘My cousin-in-law works there. Trace.’

  ‘Oh right, yes we know Trace and Vanessa. They’re great,’ I said. She shook her head at me and said, ‘They ain’t mad.’

  I paused for a moment and then Sam said, ‘Indeed.’

  But Carole hadn’t
finished. She looked round at the gathered writers and appealed to them, ‘Essex Witch Museum? What’s that all about, eh?’ She made it sound like the punchline to a joke. A not very good one.

  The others didn’t really know what to do, so to avoid embarrassment or awkwardness, I snapped my fingers and said, ‘And you’re back in the room. Now can you answer my question please Carole? Did you read Man-Sized in Marble?’

  ‘You what?’ she said, and looked back at the writers as if I’d cracked another joke. Then she stuck her hand on her hip. It had a tea towel in it. ‘You’re ’avin’ a laugh, aren’t cha? Me? I’m paid to look after the place. Not run the bleedin’ courses.’ She sucked her mouth in so tightly it looked momentarily like a cat’s bum. ‘You want me readin’ the stuff, you gonna have to stump up for it. Bloody cheek!’

  Yes indeed, Carole Christmas was full of good cheer and glad tidings.

  Sam however looked quite amused by all this. ‘It didn’t whet your curiosity then?’

  She puckered her arse-mouth again and rolled her eyes. ‘Not interested, darlin’. Now wetting my whistle – that’s a different story.’ Her lips stretched into a gape. The laugh that came out of them was just like machine-gun fire – har har har har har.

  To emphasise her hysterical pun, Carole’s bony elbow nudged Sophia hard in the ribs. The events organiser flinched then smiled weakly and said, ‘Oh yes. Ha ha ha. Yes.’ She took a step away from Ms Christmas and explained. ‘As well as keeping this magnificent building going with Graha—’ she paused, then remembered the dearly departed and changed tack. ‘As well as housekeeping, Carole runs The Griffin pub in the village, where she is the assistant manager.’

  I nodded. ‘That can’t leave you much time.’

  Her face straightened into a sombre expression presumably to match the weight of responsibility her job entailed. She sniffed. ‘No, that’s right. Helps that I live there. Only have to commute up and down the staircase.’ She smacked Sophia on the arm and laughed. Again. ‘Eh?’ she added. ‘Ain’t that right? Up and down the staircase.’

  Sophia grimaced. ‘Oh yes, Carole. Ha ha. Very good.’