by Syd Moore
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘We’re not saying that you did.’
‘Someone’s having a laugh,’ she said and looked at us with accusation in her eyes. Which was a bit rich really, as Sam and I must be the only ones here who definitely could not have got up to any of these jinks, high or low.
Sam cleared his throat. ‘Chris said you mentioned something to do with the Devil and a bell? Another rumour perhaps?’
A sigh leaked out of Carole’s thin mouth. The air seemed to go out of her momentarily so that she leant on the counter and said, ‘I didn’t say it was the Devil. I ain’t stupid. I said it sounded a bit like the story. You know – from the church.’
‘Carole, remember we’re not from here.’ I added, ‘We work with Trace at the museum. Now, we’ve heard the one about the Devil and storm.’
For clarity, Sam expanded. ‘The roof came off. Edgar, the vicar, told us there was another incident where the Devil, made manifest, ran between a parishioner’s legs. A friar if I remember correctly?’
I waited for Carole to come out with some crap pub joke humour but she didn’t. She looked worried. ‘There was a bell. He dropped it because we got Bell Hill Wood. It’s still there – the hole it left. They call it the Bell Crater.’
‘Interesting,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll check it out.’
Just then Sophia bustled in. ‘The group are going to walk into the village for lunch and a session at The Griffin. Chris wondered if you wanted to join them?’
I looked at Sam who shook his head. ‘I think my time is better spent researching the legend.’
But at the thought of the pub an opportunity presented itself to me. ‘Is your son, Ben, in?’
Carole’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘I think so. Why?’
‘I want to ask him about his YouTube channel. That okay?’
She nodded without enthusiasm. ‘If you can find him, you can do what you like with him.’
I turned back to Sophia. ‘I’m in.’
Stand on the highest point of Essex and you can see the world. Or that’s how it must have felt for centuries before photographers and then the media allowed us a window into exotic climes us Britons barely knew existed.
I don’t think you could help but be impressed by the majestic sweep of the hills and mounds that led the eye into the distant ridge. I was back atop the highest point of Damebury, looking at the view that I’d been unable to appreciate yesterday in the rain.
In the distance purple clouds brushed low over tawny heaths. As I watched, the cloudbank broke and a singular golden beam shone a brief spotlight over this little patch of England. For a brief moment, the scene looked utterly glorious, and I thought it no wonder that the people of Damebury should choose to inter their dead here, as they had for centuries in the nearby churchyard. Their dearly departed would be as close to heaven as possible, and should be very happy with the ever-changing view.
‘Oh mighty Apollo, Isis, sun goddess,’ said a voice beside me. Starla was stretching her arms skywards, curls of blue hair caught by the wind flowed and danced like party streamers. ‘Come to us, warm our skin. Give us your blessing now.’
A bird hooted in a nearby hedgerow.
Nicholas made a tutting noise and continued to walk alongside Chris and Cullen on to the path by the churchyard.
As speedily as they had parted, the clouds closed ranks and blocked the sun out once more.
‘Och, now. Give it up. Let’s be quick,’ said Robin, who was at the front of our group, having taken upon himself the mantel of guide. ‘To the pub! Before the rain comes back.’
Starla brought her arms down to her sides. Her brows had a thick crease between them.
Jocelyn shrugged at me. ‘Each to their own. I’m looking forward to this workshop. It’s one of the reasons I came onto the course. Devlin’s a very successful writer.’
I nodded. The wind blew onto my face. In it I could feel dampness. Robin was right – we should rev up a bit, for grey spray was darkening the horizon. Down the hill the breeze brushed the grass and rippled it, like the hairs on the back of a great sleeping beast.
I fell into step with Jocelyn and Tabby. Monty’s auntie was the oldest in our walking group, as Imogen, Laura and Margot had opted out and were getting a lift to The Griffin. Couldn’t blame them really. It was a hilly walk. But it was certainly the prettier way.
We hurried along the path by the graveyard. Overhead the trees’ skinny arms held each other, creating a skeletal arbour, a passage to the graves and their underworld below.
We scuttled past the churchyard. A couple of our party sent glances over to the church. I thought about meeting Dorcus. More precisely the way he looked when he laughed: the spritely dancing of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw, the certainty and confidence of his gaze and sparking intimacy that existed for that brief moment before I left him. I did really hope I’d bump into him again.
I had no time, however, to linger on Dorcus because Starla had caught up with me, and was edging between Jocelyn and Tabby.
‘Poor Graham,’ she said.
Tabby and Jocelyn squinted at the church. Mr Peacock would forever be associated with those strange tombs now. Unless we were able to unpick what exactly was going on. But it was quite messy.
I thought over it – Graham had died on Monday night. We had arrived on Tuesday and talked to some of the writers. Wednesday we had gone straight to the church and discovered the theft of body and effigy. Then we learnt the residents of the Hall had heard banshees during the night. Carol had talked about witches in the wood. Then last night there was the ‘commotioning’ and Devil calls or something. I couldn’t work out exactly what Chris meant by his descriptions, but the point was – strange stuff was still going on. Despite the fact that Graham was dead.
Which, basically, meant if it had all been designed to scare Graham to death then the objective had been achieved. One had to wonder why therefore the ‘haunting’ or scaring continued.
Who else was being targeted?
I had no answers at that moment but, in the past, once I’d let such questions marinate in my brain fridge then answers would eventually pop up. We just needed to dig as Monty instructed we should.
We reached the pub as the others arrived in the car. The men had already gone in so I stood back and let Imogen and Laura go through the front door, while Margot brought up the rear. Cullen to my surprise showed great gentlemanliness and held the door open for us to pass through. Once Margot had limped ahead, Cullen closed it and followed us in.
Our little group snaked alongside the bar heading towards the snug at the end. We passed a couple of older men leaning against it, nursing half-filled pint glasses. One with tufty white hair and a zip-up cardigan with leather patches turned and surveyed us and said, ‘Hello ladies!’ with a smile and a leer.
The other, who had thinning brown hair that was silver at the sides and who was wearing a navy jacket, followed his friend’s gaze and then smiled and said, ‘You back again?’
But nobody said anything.
I squinted and tried a smile.
But the guy in the navy, who had more than a couple of empty pint glasses on the bar next to him, shrugged and went, ‘All right then. Suit yourself.’
Cullen nodded at them and they almost smiled back, but we hastened on, weaving between the tables and chairs, and entered a room through a large archway. A thick red rope across the front bore a ‘Reserved’ sign.
It was cosy within: a brick fireplace already had a fire on the go. There was a window to the rear of the snug, fairly high up the wall, which overlooked the back and the car park. The sky through it was the colour of dirty ice stippled with oil – the rain had broken. It was misty out there.
Three tables had been pulled together into the middle of the room so that they formed one big square with enough space for four people on each side. With only eleven of us it was quite relaxed and roomy.
As we arranged ourselves a young waitress who was cheery, but clearly busy, handed out the menus and a
sked if five minutes would be enough to choose lunch. We all agreed it would be and spent some time scanning them.
When we’d ordered, Chris Devlin took to his feet and threw back his shoulders.
‘Welcome my lords and ladies,’ he announced with a deep bow. ‘May you now have the pleasure of Chris Devlin’s Greatest Fears workshop.’ Then he flashed his super-bright gleaming teeth.
Margot began clapping and the others fell into line.
I wondered how often the writer referred to himself in the third person. In my book that was kind of odd. Though Devlin seemed very comfortable with the idea.
‘Right,’ he continued. ‘Now I realise you’ve been writing stories, some of which I’ve heard, some of which the bestselling author hasn’t managed to read because of flight delay etcetera etcetera.’ He stuck out his little finger and waved his hand around. ‘He pinky-promises to get on to that soon. But now we must hear something from those who haven’t read them out yet. Then after that we’ll commence the workshop – which is all about fear. How to perceive it, how to convey it, how to harness your own feelings in that process: to be aware of your fear, my fear and fear itself, right?’
Nicholas rolled his eyes.
‘Fear – oh yeah, baby,’ Devlin continued. ‘Don’t for one minute assume that this is going to be an easy ride,’ he went on, eyeing each of us one by one. ‘I want you all making notes. Get a pen if you haven’t got one. Here’s some produced by my publishers for the latest book.’ He produced a small silver pot full of biros and put them on the table in front of him. They had a slogan printed down the length: ‘Don’t go out – on your own!’
As they were passed around, I thought now might be a good time to duck out and pop upstairs to see Christmas Junior.
‘Come on,’ said Devlin. ‘Let’s start with you Jocelyn.’
The young woman pulled a sheaf of notes out of her bag. ‘Actually,’ she said. ‘This story is perfect for the session really. It’s about a woman whose greatest fear is reality.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Devlin with approval and punched the air. ‘That’s what I like. Rock on, Joanne.’ He gleamed at her.
Jocelyn ignored the misnomer and began to read, rather surprisingly, in an American accent. ‘I could tell you a thing or two ’bout my soon-to-be-ex-husband,’ she cooed like a Southern Belle. ‘And not much of it would be pretty.’ Then she winked at Starla, on my right, who started.
Tabby, who was on the other side of the blue-haired one, chuckled at her reaction. Blimey Jocelyn was good. I was tempted to stay.
‘Saying that,’ she went on, immersing herself in the character of the narrator. ‘Even I had to admit, as I looked out the window this morning, ole Ron was starting to develop great taste in broads. His latest flame was a knockout.’ Jocelyn sent a lazy smile over her clearly rapt audience. ‘Which was about time.’
Nope, I couldn’t be pulled into this. As enjoyable as it might be to sit in a chair with a glass of diet coke and listen to people telling me bedtime stories, I had some serious sleuthing to do.
Muttering to Margot about needing the loo I exited discreetly from the nook.
I passed the fraught waitress and asked her how I could get up to the private apartment so I could see Ben Christmas. I made it sound like I had a message from his mum. She knew about Carole’s work up at Ratchette Hall, so it all sounded plausible enough for her to direct me to the back of the pub where a door led into a short hallway and a set of stairs carried me up to the first floor.
The front door to the flat was open, but I did knock.
I waited a decent amount of time, but there was no answer so I pushed it and popped my head through. ‘Hello?’
Still nothing though, other than a shuffling somewhere within which indicated a human presence or maybe massive rats. Preferably the former. With that in mind I stepped rather cautiously over the threshold into a narrow passageway. It was old up here. The floor was uneven, the floorboards squeaking as I trod on them and sloping slightly downwards to the right. Overhead, low beams signified another level of accommodation on top of this. In between the beams, plaster was painted white. The place looked clean and tidy, but I thought, could probably do with an update.
At the end of the passage I pushed the door open and saw a young man nodding to music on his earphones. A quiet tinny rattle came out of them. He was sitting at a table in an open-plan kitchen-diner, fumbling around with a toolbox and screwdrivers and reams and reams of fairy lights, some of which he was taking apart. Christmas decorations I supposed.
‘Oh hello!’ I said. ‘I’m Rosie Strange.’
The boy immediately jumped. His upper torso receded back into the chair, lips forming a terse o-shape.
I laughed involuntarily then added, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you. The door was open. I did call out but you couldn’t have heard.’
The lips closed then formed a tight flat line. He pulled an earphone off one ear and brushed back a fuzz of gingery hair. I wasn’t sure how old he was – his skin was kind of soft-looking and he had roundish eyes, which made him look young and innocent. But his build, concealed behind a fake Dolce and ‘Gabana’ t-shirt, was sturdy and there was a smattering of bumfluff on his chin. He could be anything between seventeen to twenty-five, I reckoned.
‘I’m Rosie Strange,’ I repeated, while he removed the second earphone. ‘I’m doing some investigating up at Ratchette Hall,’ I added. ‘Carole said I might be able to have a few words with you. That okay?’
Now he completely removed the headset and put it on the table. ‘Carole?’ he said and tensed. ‘What about?’
I tried to look friendly and smiled. ‘There have been quite a few strange happenings at Ratchette Hall, as I’m sure you’re aware?’
His eyes dropped to the small parts scattered across the table top, which he began to clear away. ‘Yep, heard about that.’
‘The barman downstairs …’ I tried to remember his name but failed. ‘He told me that you like to film pranks. You’ve got a YouTube channel, I understand. Have you been pranking during the night? Filming them outside Ratchette Hall?’
A smirk suckered in his cheek. ‘In the night? Er, that wouldn’t make for good footage, would it?’ His tone was laced with smug sarcasm. ‘Filming in the dark is pointless.’
I made a big thing of nodding and considering this. ‘You should try night vision cameras or thermal imaging. I’ve used both. The image contrast isn’t spectacular but you can see what’s going on.’
Gratifyingly stunned by this information, Ben screwed his eyes up and paid me closer attention. ‘What do you do again?’
‘I’m an investigator. Did you do any trick-or-treating on Halloween?’
He laughed at me. ‘How old do I look?’
I wanted to say that I wasn’t sure but thought that might rile him so changed tack.
‘Where were you last night, please?’ I got straight in so there was no chance for prevarication and alibi building.
For a second, he floundered. Then he shook his head and said, ‘At work.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’m a specialist cleaner,’ he said with disdain.
‘What kind of specialist?’ I asked and wondered if he was one of those crime scene cleaners? If that was the case then it might be worth keeping a very close eye on Mr Ben Christmas’s movements.
But he said, ‘Animals.’ Which was disappointing. As long as he was telling the truth, that is.
‘Can you prove it?’ I asked, trying to be casual, which was a struggle as it wasn’t really that kind of question.
And in response Ben’s eyes popped. ‘Prove it? Why? Why do I need to prove it?’
I narrowed mine and leant towards him. ‘I see. Does that mean you can’t?’
Ben bent forwards, across his nose and about the fleshy parts of his cheeks, a sunburn-red was spreading. Indignation, I thought and watched him reach into the back pocket of his jeans and produce a leather wallet. Curling his bottom li
p he pulled out an ID card and laid it on the table in front of him.
I couldn’t see the writing. There was a logo made from a bent tree and a paw print, beneath which was a photograph that very clearly matched the man in front of me. ‘My ID card swipes me in and out,’ he said.
Bugger. I thought I was on to something for a moment. ‘So you didn’t have anything to do with Graham Peacock’s death?’
Now the attitude vanished. Ben shook his head quickly. ‘It wasn’t me. I was at work that night too. I can prove it. When you swipe your card through the stiles, they keep a record, for timesheets. I’m sure you can contact my employers if you need to.’
This time, his eyes were wide. There was no bullshit going on.
I believed him.
Without anything left to ask him about, I turned and made for the door. ‘Okay, well thanks. I might be back with some questions,’ I said. ‘So don’t leave town.’
It occurred to me that Ben hadn’t asked me for my ID which meant he might have mistaken me for police. Now that was certainly something I could put to my advantage if I needed to at a later date.
Downstairs the pub had filled up a bit. I slipped round the bar, surprised to see Cullen talking to the two old men there. I smiled at them as I passed. When Cullen saw me, he made a point of stopping and saying, ‘Instructions to the gents. You haven’t seen the men’s toilets have you?’
I said, ‘Oh no, sorry,’ and continued to the snug, but cast a last glance at the bar before I entered: he was still with them.
My salad had arrived while I’d been upstairs, so I slipped along the table next to Starla and tucked in.
The mood in the snug had sombred.
Robin was talking about his partner back home and how he had once grabbed a drink from his bedside table and glugged down about ‘100 millilitres of water and a live moth’ which flapped around in the back of his throat till he managed to cough it up and then free it from the room.
‘Greatest fears,’ whispered Starla. ‘Robin is afraid of moths crawling into crevices.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Very Freudian.’
I shuddered and shovelled in another mouthful of feathery salad leaves.