Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

The quietness in the room made us all self-conscious.

  Then Nicholas clapped his hands suddenly. ‘Right, that’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m off.’ And jumped to his feet. ‘This isn’t fun any more. I’m getting a shitty feeling about this place and it’s not just the god-awful catering. The situation is getting worse. And I, for one, am not going to stay here and get picked off like poor Graham. I’ll be back to London on the next train and I suggest the rest of you do the same.’

  ‘Oh Nicky,’ said Jocelyn, but she didn’t move to stop him.

  Then Imogen nodded and creaked her way upright. ‘For once I think I’m in agreement with the idiot.’

  Nicholas narrowed his eyes, but then Robin pushed off from the table. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Ah better pack up now. It’s a long journey back to the Highlands.’

  Even Laura started to nod. ‘Perhaps it’s wise to abandon the course. I know we’ve been doing our best, but let’s face it, we’re all quite unnerved. These are not the optimum conditions for creative writing. It might be wise to cancel.’

  ‘I don’t think we are in a position to offer refunds, I’m afraid,’ said Sophia as softly as she could.

  But everyone heard it.

  ‘Fine,’ said Nicholas and waved his hand at her in a gesture of limp dismissal.

  The others made murmuring noises.

  ‘Suits me,’ said Carole. ‘I’ve already been paid for the month.’

  ‘Outrageous,’ Starla exploded. ‘As you know, I run a mental health clinic for cats, and have had to shell out for replacement carers to come in and help my partner out. This is most distressing.’

  Robin started walking towards Sophia gesticulating wildly ‘Ah really cannae see what your problem would be. These are exceptional circumstances – death and banshees for god’s sake?’

  ‘Not forgetting it could well be murder,’ Starla wailed, her voice rising in desperation.

  ‘OMG,’ a strange voice bellowed from the doorway. ‘This sounds awesome!’

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to locate its owner.

  We had been so caught up in the drama unfolding in the middle of the day room that none of us had noticed the shadow at the door. Though now we could see him clearly, it seemed odd that he had managed to evade our notice for so long.

  At first sight I thought it might be some tragic rocker from an early eighties stadium band – all curly black hair, shades, leather jacket and leathery tan.

  ‘Hi,’ he said and beamed us a grin that must have cost a few hundred bucks at least. ‘You simply cannot be committed writers if you’re turning this kind of experience down. Not in my books.’ He grinned. ‘Literally.’ Then he took off his shades and winked.

  ‘Good Christ,’ said Cullen. And lumbered towards the man with his hand out. ‘It’s Chris bloody Devlin.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The appearance of Chris (bloody) Devlin apparently changed everything.

  Of course I had heard the name before: his books had huge marketing spends behind them – you saw posters on train platforms, sides of buses. I remembered I had even seen one on the telly once. But it was a bit rubbish and just had a woman walking into a room and then turning round really quickly and gasping. I recalled thinking if that was the best bit of the book then I wouldn’t be queuing up at midnight the night before it was released. I think it did well anyway because he was on loads of chat shows, sprawling over sofas in his puffed-up leather jacket, trying to sound manly and louche at the same time. Reckoned he was a bit of a ladies’ man too. You could just tell. Oozed self-assurance. Not the public-school type but the kind of sureness that was born from being told you were brilliant by hundreds of thousands of fans, a hundred thousand times, and assured of your place at the top of your tree which in this case was represented by the many branches of the action/crime/thriller bestseller lists in both the UK and USA. Oh yes, indeed. A lot of people thought a lot of Chris Devlin, including Chris Devlin.

  He walked in a kind of swaggery way – Tom Cruise meets Liam Gallagher. And no one moved like that naturally. He must have spent weeks in front of a full-length mirror practising it.

  And then there was the money thing. It hit you in the face. The quality of the jacket, the Rolex on the wrist, the chunky gold choker, the US designer jeans – they all shouted, ‘I’m loaded, baby’.

  Nice work if you can get it. And quite clearly Cullen, Robin, Margot, Starla and Tabby really wanted to. Fawning was the word that came to mind as their faces changed when recognition kicked in. Even Jocelyn and Laura came over a bit blushy.

  Sophia took the lead, ‘Oh Chris! How wonderful,’ and went and greeted him, holding out her hand, then colouring vividly when Devlin went in for the cheek kiss and bear hug. Lots of introductions and handshaking. Some of the ladies broke into a sweat.

  Only Imogen and Nicholas seemed relatively unmoved. I wasn’t sure if anything, anyone or any substance had any physical effect on the former, whilst the latter was struggling to keep his ‘I don’t give a flying one’ face in place.

  As the other writers grinned and giggled over the newcomer, Imogen inched over to us. ‘Do you want me to tell you about Monday night?’ she asked out of the side of her mouth.

  I shrugged. ‘I’m guessing you’re going to say you went to bed and didn’t hear anything?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes I am. And to save you some work – the others all said the same. I asked them all. Individually.’

  Sam and I regarded her for a minute, then he said, ‘Thanks. It does help.’

  I wondered if this was a particularly professional thing to do – let one of the suspects do some of the investigating? But then Imogen was probably right. And anyway – we weren’t the police. We were here at the behest of Monty. If we found evidence that should be turned over to the police then we certainly would. I for one, wasn’t exactly over the moon about being here, when we had things to do back at the museum. Especially as we weren’t being paid for it, just merely repaying a favour.

  ‘Which makes me more than certain it is foul play,’ Imogen said suddenly. ‘No witnesses. Not sure why Graham was the victim, though. Doesn’t seem to make sense. You talk to Carole and she’ll tell you he didn’t have an enemy in the world. Perhaps there may be something in his background? I didn’t know him for long, but he seemed extremely personable. Though you never can tell, can you?’

  Sam nodded. ‘We have a friend in Intelligence who may be able to look into Mr Peacock’s background. But I’m beginning to think you’re right, Imogen. There are certain indicators that suggest malice aforethought.’

  Over by the doorway people were dispersing.

  Sophia turned to Imogen and called, ‘We’re going to go into the kitchen to have lunch. Chris wants to get to know the students. Then he’s happy to run a workshop later.’ She stopped and watched Imogen rise. Nicholas hopped off the arm of the Chesterfield and sighed like he had nothing better to do. As an afterthought Sophia asked, ‘Rosie and Sam – do you want to join us?’

  Sam looked at me. ‘Could do? Get to know them a bit better?’

  ‘What have we got lined up for today?’ I wondered out loud, reading through my mental To-Do list. ‘Phone Monty, check the woods, walk back to the church, ask around the village about trick-or-treaters and witch legends.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sam. ‘Not much.’

  I thought he was being sarcastic, but he turned to Sophia. ‘We’d be delighted to join you, thanks.’

  In the event, however, we weren’t able to enjoy more than a bite of quiche, as the phone rang and Sophia informed us the police were at the church and required our presence pronto.

  She suggested we come for breakfast tomorrow instead. We accepted. I was feeling exhausted already and wanted to go home and check in on the Witch Museum. And there was an old lady in the village who died last Christmas Day. A relative from America had contacted us with a view to selling some of the witchy paraphernalia that he had found in her house. I’d promised to phone
him this week. Apparently, she had quite a few stuffed cats. Sam wondered if some of them might be mummified. It was once an old British custom to keep them in your cottage walls to ward off bad spirits and apparently prevalent in Adder’s Fork. I thought it was a bit grim and nasty but Sam said as far as blood sacrifices went this was quite tame. I left that one alone and thought about Hecate and how she would simply not have put up with that at all. Wasn’t sure if she’d take to the mummies either. We’d have to see.

  Anyway, we said our goodbyes and trudged down the drive and up the road to the church where we’d left the car. We had wanted to see how long it took to get from there to Ratchette Hall.

  It was a weaving, writhing route that periodically gave out to spectacular views over the countryside. Little cottages and large, more stately houses punctuated the wayside. Some of the chimneys were smoking. I turned up the collar of my jacket and stuffed my hands in my pockets. Should have brought gloves.

  As we walked, my eyes wandered over the heath. Little patches of yellow Dwarf Gorse, at the end of their seasonal bloom, bobbed in the hedgerow. In the valley beyond, dark pines rustled. Closer to the road, clusters of leaves were turning to rust. Loosened from their branches they were swept up and tossed about by the bitter north-easterly wind. I watched a little cyclone of them spiral and chase each other at the side of the pavement and suddenly imagined them as little playful imps: all different colours – lemon-peel, copper, chestnut brown – and different sizes – star-shaped, oval, petalled, but moving in a similar way, almost as if they had a collective purpose. That kind of thinking could have got you hanged in the past and quite often did. I thought of Ursula Cadence and her alleged familiars: Tittey, Jack, Piggin and Tiffin. Two cats, a toad and a little white lamb. There was something rather pathetic, or childlike, about the way the pamphlet recorded her listing them. I remember detecting a doleful yearning there, as if Ursula did crave these pets, perhaps for company and how Sam had told me about another ‘witch’, Elizabeth Chandler. Elizabeth had been so poor and reviled and lonely that she gave names to two wooden sticks: Beelzebub and Truillibub. One she used to help her walk. The other stirred her cooking pot. Matthew Hopkins, the demented self-appointed Witchfinder General, decided that because the old lady talked to them they were demonic. Of course, Elizabeth denied this, but she was poor and friendless so got hanged anyway.

  Beelzebub. I ran my tongue over the word. That was the second time I had heard the name today. Associated with the Devil. Lord of the Flies. Probably not the best name for an old woman to choose. Though to be sure, a girl should really be able to call her sticks what the heck she liked.

  Of course, Sam had told me on the way over here, Damebury had its own witches. Had to really. There was a reason why Essex had at one point been called Witch County. This lot were Joan Smythe, Widow Stokes, Susan Spilman and a man too – John Smythe. Which was unusual. I wondered what he’d done. We hadn’t got into the nitty gritty of that yet or found out if they had been executed for their crimes. No doubt that would come.

  I was guessing it was to them the howling in the woods was attributed. Witches were the habitual scapegoat for anything that went wrong or got weird – they were usually poor, ergo powerless, commonly at the bottom of the social scale and more often than not uneducated and put-upon.

  When I looked up at St Saviour’s I noted there were woodlands around it. No doubt more ‘devilish witchery’ was nestled about there.

  In the past, back in Leytonstone, whenever I had thought of Essex, my mind had conjured images of the seaside and new estates, modern semis with integrated garages and little greens for all the kids to play out on. However, since Adder’s Fork had beckoned, my perceptions had undergone quite a change. Now I couldn’t look across the fields and copses without wondering about the events that they had seen, the stories they knew and the secrets that they kept. Sometimes I could hear the county groan. Sometimes, I heard it breathe. And sometimes, very occasionally, the land of Essex spoke to me. But not often. And, of course, it might just be my inner voice. But I was opening my mind to the idea.

  When we reached the church we found Father Edgar bent over by the hole with a mug of tea in his hands. Hearing our footfalls he at once straightened up and greeted us.

  ‘They’re here,’ he shouted into the cavern below.

  I didn’t realise he had company and looked down into the hole, just as Sue Scrub’s face filled it. ‘I’m starting to think you two and hocus pocus,’ she said, and rolled her eyes, ‘go firmly hand in hand.’

  ‘Occupational hazard, Sue,’ I said with a grin.

  We’d met Sergeant Scrub during the incident at the Witch Pit. Although she hadn’t warmed to us at first, by the end of the caper, she had thawed considerably. In fact, I might go as far as to say that she’d even been sweet. She didn’t look sweet now. She looked decidedly put out and irritated.

  To be honest I wasn’t surprised: I would have thought that church thefts might have been beneath her pay scale.

  She must have read my mind, as she reached out for the ladder and began to climb. ‘Edgar’s my brother-in-law,’ she explained. Ah, well that explained why this Yorkshire lass had ended up in Essex, then. ‘It’s a strange one,’ she went on as she reached the top and lurched over to get a footing on the ground. ‘Edgar said you think the missing items have something to do with a recent death at Ratchette Hall.’ It wasn’t a question but a demand for a full explanation at once.

  Edgar swilled the tea in his mug. ‘You insinuated that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘It might not.’

  ‘But it also might,’ Sam finished. ‘It’s a stunning coincidence if you consider the circumstances surrounding Mr Peacock’s death. One must keep an open mind.’

  ‘Unambiguous and as helpful as ever,’ Sue muttered under her breath. ‘Now do me a favour …’ she said and held out a hand.

  After some considerable heaving we got her up out of the excavation/extension and into the church.

  She straightened out the same raincoat that she had worn during the summer. At the time I thought her overdressed. Now it was quite peaky I was thinking maybe she should have put on more layers.

  While she brushed the dirt off her hands, she sort of sighed and said, ‘Look, I’m going to ask you this once and get it over and done with – have you two nicked the body?’

  Sam and I did some energetic and emphatic head-shaking.

  ‘The effigy on top?’ she continued.

  More vigorous denials.

  ‘Good,’ she breathed and slipped her hands into her pockets. ‘Thought it unlikely, but I have to ask these things.’

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  ‘We know,’ added Sam.

  ‘Father Edgar says there’s CCTV footage.’

  ‘We were advised to put up cameras over the doors that we still use, when we discovered the new tomb.’ Edgar cleared his throat. ‘So we’ve run through the tapes. It’s puzzling. I’m the last person out of the church last night. And the body and effigy were certainly there when I left. Then no one goes in until you two turn up, this morning.’

  ‘How curious,’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s a word you could use,’ said Scrub. ‘I could suggest several others but I’m in a church and wasn’t brought up with a potty mouth.’

  I couldn’t think of what to say, so went and sat down at a pew with the griffin carved into the end and stared at the mythical creature. It was definitely draughty in here. I supposed it was an old building. But even so you’d have thought they’d have sorted it out – some poor mugs had to sit here for over an hour on Sundays. I pulled up my boots and zipped my jacket shut.

  ‘So,’ said Scrub coming over to join me. ‘How the heck can this effigy theft be linked to Graham Peacock? The way I heard it, sounded like natural causes.’

  I watched her slip along the pew in front and button up her trench coat. ‘Mmm, they might have had a helping hand,’ I said. ‘So to speak. How long have you go
t?’

  When we had finally finished explaining the ins and outs of the whole palaver – the E. Nesbit story, the timing of Halloween, the detached stone finger found in Graham’s hand – Scrub and I sat there scratching our chins. Sam and Father Edgar came over and sat down next to me.

  ‘So,’ Sue said at last. ‘I suppose I’d better take a closer look at Graham Peacock’s background.’

  Sam and I nodded. That would be one less thing to ask of Monty.

  ‘Any chance you could let us know what comes up?’ Sam added.

  But it was the vicar who replied. ‘Oh yes, well if they’re linked you’ll have to, won’t you, Sue?’

  You could tell that grated on her, but she tried to conceal it with a smile that wrinkled her nose and pronounced her teeth, which reminded me of a squirrel about to chow down on a nut. ‘If you keep me informed about what you find out at the Hall. Deal?’

  We nodded, but Father Edgar said, ‘Deal,’ and put his fisted hand into the centre of our little grouping. Weirdly, Sam and Sue joined him, so I kind of had to as well. When I put my hand there we all fist-bumped each other and Sam and Sue said, ‘Agreed,’ too.

  It was a bit of a cringe.

  As I withdrew, trying to supress a shudder, I inspected Father Edgar more closely. He was a very different type of minister to our Karen, who was short, trendy, young(ish) and female. In many ways he was the polar opposite: tall, dress sense out of last century, old, male. In fact, there was something very Professor Plum about old Edgar, which included a faint odour of mothballs and orchids.

  Cluedo again. I wondered if my subconscious was trying to tell me something. That game was about deduction. Perhaps I should spend some time thinking a bit more about the people on the course and who might be eliminated. Which, at the moment, was only Carole Christmas: I was pretty sure she was not faking it when she denied reading Man-Sized in Marble and requested payment should that be required. I shivered as I recalled her cackling laugh. It sounded like a murder of crows sighting carrion.

  But that was her out of the picture anyway.