by Rachel Green
“I was just expecting something more…” Michelle shook her head “Well, something with more pizzazz about it. Disneyland for witches or something.”
“That would defeat the whole object, I think.” She led Michelle past a shop for woolen clothing and another selling trinkets for the National Trust to an unassuming, white-painted building. They turned a corner to find it was the Witchcraft Museum. “That’s a relief. I was terrified we’d be too late and find them closed.”
“Look!” Michelle pointed at a sign on the wall. “They have the same ‘Witch’s Parking’ sign you do.”
“That’s because I got it from here.” Meinwen ushered her inside and paid the entrance fee for them both.
“You’ve only got an hour left.” The woman behind the counter seemed concerned they wouldn’t get a proper look round.
“It’s okay. I’ve just come to look at one particular exhibit.” Meinwen smiled at her as she dragged Michelle past. “I’m surprised you haven’t been here before. It’s practically de rigueur for anyone dabbling in the supernatural arts.”
“I didn’t see any need.” Michelle trailed past the ‘What is Witchcraft’ and ‘The Pagan Year’ exhibits. “I mean, I’m not a witch, am I? I don’t make potions or stand around a cooking pot calling up Satan.”
“And you think I do?” Meinwen chuckled. “Granted, I do make potions but they’re generally of the rosehip syrup and elderflower cordial variety. I’m not one for eye of newt and wing of bat.” She almost bumped into a woman coming the wrong way down the stairs. “Not that I think there’s anything wrong with such practices, of course. There’s always a place for tradition.”
Her feet echoed across the wooden floor as she made a beeline for the display case entitled ‘Persecution of Witches.’ “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
Meinwen stabbed a finger at the glass. “Look at the picture behind the mannequin. That’s Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General. This symbol is the one used by his assistant, John Stearne, when they wrote up their findings. Can you see what he’d sitting on?”
“A stool?” Michelle’s breath steamed against the glass. “Maybe a box.”
“Exactly and they’ve got the box, here.” Meinwen pointed to the next display case.
“What about it?”
“Look at how robust it is. Seasoned oak, bound with iron.”
“It says ‘facsimile.’“
“That’s not the point.” Meinwen took out the envelope with the key inside. “It’s the same symbol.”
“An Eye?” Michelle shook her head. “That’s what the old man gave you, isn’t it? Is the key to this box? Let’s see if we can get someone to open the case so we can try it. This is exciting. It’s like a treasure hunt.”
“One that claimed the life of a friend.” Meinwen caught her arm to stop her rushing off. “Listen. This key wont fit because that box is a facsimile. What it does tell me is that this is the key to the real one.”
“What’s inside? Is it treasure?”
“No. Tools for declaring a woman to be a witch so that the church can seize her assets. The witchfinders got a percentage of the estate of any witch they burned, you see.”
“That’s awful. What stopped then from pointing at anyone with a wart and declaring them a witch, then?”
“Now you’re getting the idea.” Meinwen frowned. “Old women were the scapegoats of society. A dozen ills could be labeled ‘witchcraft’ and a finger pointed. It behooved the church to investigate and finding them guilty was the profitable outcome. Once in a while there’d be an outcry, so the inquisitors saw fit to decide everyone was a witch. Hence the lost villages of England and Europe.”
Michelle pointed at the oddments around the case. “Are these his tools of the trade, then? They look…brutal.”
“A scold’s bridle.” Meinwen grimaced. “A full cage that clamped to the head with spike to pierce the tongue and cheeks. A henpecked husband could accuse his wife of being a witch and they’d put her in one of those.”
“That’s awful.” Michelle looked as if she were smelling something unpleasant. “And that? A pear?”
“That was inserted internally. When the handle was turned the four quarters of the pear separated on screws. The more it turned, the further apart they got.”
“But why?”
“They thought they were saving the women’s souls. The confession of witchcraft was followed by begging for forgiveness from God and the tortured soul would go to Heaven.” Meinwen snorted. “After the woman was drowned, hung or burned at the stake.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“You won’t find anyone arguing.” Meinwen followed the second set of stairs to the curator’s office and knocked on the door.
It was opened by a portly man in his sixties with an unruly shock of gray hair. “Can I help you?”
“We’re interested in the Persecution exhibit.” Meinwen treated him to her best smile. “We were wondering where the real witchfinder’s box is?”
“Ah. Funny you should ask that. He opened the door further and allowed them into a small office area filled from floor to ceiling with books and oddments of witchery. “It used to belong to the Goodrush Estate. That’s where we got the details for our copy. Cecil Williamson, the founder of the museum when it was still in the Isle of Man, made the copy in nineteen sixty-four and it’s a good job he did. Arthur Goodrush died in ‘eighty-nine and everything went up for auction. The box was bought for an undisclosed sum by an anonymous buyer and hasn’t been seen since.”
“So what happened to the original?”
“No one knows. It never turned up again.” He sighed. “It probably resides in the basement of some collector in America, along with all the missing Van Goghs and Picassos.”
“What a pity.”
“Isn’t it just!” He shook his head, his lips pursed. “What I wouldn’t give to see the original.”
“As long as they never reinstate the Witchcraft Act.”
“Good heavens, no. Not that anyone could afford to any more.” He grinned as he showed them out. “Too many ladies in positions of authority. Imagine what would happen if someone just had to say ‘she’s a witch’ to get rid of them for good.”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about.” Meinwen caught Michelle’s arm and dragged her out. “I think that was our answer. My murdered friend and your blackmail case are linked after all. What we need to do is locate the real witchfinder’s chest.”
“Where’s that, then?”
“Somewhere in Laverstone, at a guess.” Meinwen looked around the museum foyer. They were alone, but there were bound to be cameras about and who knew how far sound travelled in an old building like this? “Let’s go somewhere we can’t be overheard.”
“All right.” Michelle followed her out and down the path, climbing up a steep lane and past a series of white-painted fisherman’s cottages mostly owned, by the look of the cars parked outside, by wealthy bankers and white-collar workers. The lane narrowed to a footpath and climbed higher, but there was a bench set into the hillside, which afforded them some protection from the wind.
“Can you hear that?” Meinwen cupped a hand to her ear to hear the waves braking against the jagged rocks. “I love to see the sea, but I don’t think we’d make it to the top and back before the light goes.”
“We need to get back.” Michelle stared down at the harbor walls below her. The tide was out, leaving the few small vessels stranded. “It took us two hours to get here. It’ll be more on the way back because of rush hour. Tell me why you think this witchfinder’s chest is in Laverstone?”
“Because Joseph told me he’d found the key on the canal tow path, opposite the railway sidings. That’s where they pulled Eddie Burbridge out of the water after his mysterious and unexpected fall from sobriety. What if the key was his and he was killed for it? This is just a theory but I think he invested all his crime money in an antique chest and when they came for him he dropped the ke
y on the towpath, hoping to return for it later. Someone roughed him up and he fell in the canal and drowned. They panicked and left him, but when he was pulled out again the next day there was no key. That’s why they stole the digger to dredge the canal and that’s why someone thinks Shirley knew where it was hidden.”
“Hence my blackmailer.”
“And Joseph’s murder when someone realized he’d found the key.”
“But who knew he had the key in the first place?”
“Joseph, me and…” Meinwen felt the blood leave her face. “Winston.”
Chapter 27
Eden stared at DI White. “You’re not serious? Are you really suggesting I’d murder someone and toss the body onto my own compost heap? I mean, I know I eulogize about environmentally-friendly funerals but even I’d draw the line at that.”
White held up a placatory hand. “Not at all, Mrs…er…Maguire. It’s just a necessary question, you understand. I don’t think you had anything to do with it at all but if I submit a form without the relevant boxes ticked it all goes pear-shaped when the wrong person is arrested. You see my problem?”
“I suppose so.” Eden rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes. “Last night? I worked here until David came home at about eight. Then we had a late dinner of mushroom risotto and garlic bread. We cleared up by about nine and he watched Long Arm on the BBC while I had a bath. We went to bed at about ten-thirty whereupon we indulged in a bondage scene for about an hour before going to bed.” She leaned forward. “Do you need to know the details of the bondage scene?”
White’s placatory hand became one of caution. “No, that’s quite all right.”
“Would you like to?”
“No, thank you. While what goes on in people’s bedrooms may be of interest to some, Mrs. White and I have been very happy in that department for a large number of years, mostly by utilizing separate beds.”
“That’s very sad, Inspector.”
“Is it? I wouldn’t know. I snore, you see, and I’d far rather have a night spent away from my beloved wife than discover she’s not slept the following morning. She can be a bit short when she’s not had sufficient sleep. The secret to a happy life is a happy wife.”
“I could use that on a gravestone.” Eden picked up a pen. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” White consulted his notebook. “Did you or your husband happen to notice any suspicious behavior last night? People poking around or trespassing? Anything on the canal bank, especially.”
“I can’t say I did, no. And David would have mentioned it if he had.”
“David’s your husband?”
“That’s right. He’s a solicitor. You’ve probably met him. He does a lot of legal aid work.”
White’s mouth turned to an O of realization. “David Maguire, of course. I’m sorry. I should have made the connection sooner.”
“That’s all right, inspector. He’s happy to keep my business and his separate wherever possible.”
“It’s almost a pity we did away with the death penalty.” White chortled over his notebook. “He could have sent business your way.”
“Is that what passes for humor in the police force?”
“Barely.” He sobered quickly by referring to his notes again. “Were you acquainted with the deceased?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know anyone called Joseph. I might know him by sight, if you have a photograph.”
“Er…I’ll have to get back to you on that, I think.”
“Why? You have a camera phone. Didn’t you take a photograph with that?”
“Actually no. I have a hard enough job sending texts. I don’t want to complicate matters.”
“Here. Pass it to me.”
“What are you going to do?” He picked up his phone and held it protectively. “This is official police property, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m just going to show you how to take a photograph.”
“Well, all right. No going through my calls, mind.”
“I won’t.” Eden demonstrated. “You just slide the lens cover at the back, look, then the image appears on the front and you press this button to take it.” She demonstrated by taking one of him and showing him the result. “See? And all you need to look at them afterward is to scroll through to the ‘pictures’ album.”
“It does look quite straightforward.” He retrieved his phone and repeated the instructions. “Stand over there in front of that painting. What’s it called?”
“Portrait of Helen.”
“A portrait?” He raised his eyebrows. “It doesn’t–”
“Look much like a portrait. Yes, Inspector. Believe it or not, you’re hardly the first to point that out, stretching in a long line from my mother who begged me to get a proper job when I left art school. I’m not certain she was thinking of mortuary work at the time, mind.” She blinked as the flash went off.
“Was it supposed to flash? It didn’t when you took one of me.”
“Yes. I set it to automatic for you. You weren’t standing in a dark corner. Have you got any more questions for me?”
“I don’t think so. Wait, yes. Will you be handling the Shirley Burbridge funeral?”
“I only heard about it this morning. It depends on the family. I hope they were pleased with the service for the father.”
“Apart from that whole business with the face.” White circled his own with his finger.
“Apart from that. I do have a clause about slippage in the contract. I don’t use formaldehyde, you see.”
“Because of the environmental thing?”
“Partly, yes, but mostly because it cuts the cost of a funeral right down. I do provide it as an extra service, but generally only for burials.”
“I see.” White stood and held out a hand. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Maguire. I’ll see myself out, shall I? I know the way.”
“Of course.” Eden stood to shake the proffered hand. “Left out of here and through the two doors at the far end.” She turned to the following day, the interview with the inspector already gone from her head. There was another funeral tomorrow. “Detective Inspector?”
He paused at the half open door.
“May I show you something?”
“By all means.” He stepped back to allow her through the door first, than closed it behind them. “Is this something to do with the case?”
“A case, anyway. Will you follow me?” Eden led him through the corridors at the back of the cryotorium to a door marked Cold Room. She typed a code into the keypad and ushered him inside.
“It’s like the morgue, only smaller.” He turned a full circle. “Only eight drawers, though? You’re not geared up for an epidemic, are you?”
“I don’t need to be.” She gestured at the empty wall opposite. “I’ve left room for expansion.” She turned him back to the drawers. “This is what I wanted to show you.” She slid out the drawer containing the late Francis Dibben. “There, Inspector. What do you think of that?”
White stared down at the body. It had seen better days. Most of them before his body had arrived at the pathology lab. Now he was in several pieces, the Y-section of his autopsy gaping open from a very loose basket stitch. Plastic bags containing his internal organs were visible past the stitches. The top of his skull and been sliced off and leaned against the side of his head, allowed the brain, safely contained in its own zip-lock baggie, to slide out. Blood and bile seeped out of the loose stitching like gravy out of a steak-and-kidney pie.
“Frank Dibben. Small time thief and occasional confidence trickster. Died of carbon monoxide inhalation from a faulty gas heater in his flat a week ago last Thursday. We thought it might have been suspicious but it came to nothing. What about him?”
“Look at the state he’s in. I’ve got to prepare him for his funeral tomorrow. What’s his family going to think when they see him like that? It looks like I’ve been practising an obscure form of witchcraft on him.”
White’s face we
nt through the process of not smiling, leaving his mouth a twisted line. “This is the Dibbens clan we’re talking about. They’ll be able to say goodbye to the brains of the family.”
Eden allowed herself a small smile. “Could you have a word with your pathology department? An internal memo or something? It really isn’t pleasant to get the cadavers in this state. It’s not all of them, mind. One of your crew has a lovely neat blanket stitch which is much more respectful.”
White nodded as she slid the drawer back. He spoke again when the clanging metal doors didn’t threaten to drown his words. “I’ll have a word with the powers that be. See if I can point out that the bodies they’re stitching up are somebody’s parents or siblings or children. I can’t promise anything will improve, mind.”
“Just making them aware of it would help. Thank you.”
“All part of the service.” He headed to the door. “Is there a quicker way out?”
“Yes, I’ll show you.” She led him to the service bay where her hearse was parked. “There, Inspector. This is the back of the building. Head left and you’ll soon find your colleagues.”
“Thank you.” He paused as he passed the hearse. “And you said my humor was bad.”
Eden glanced at the bumper sticker. David had bought it for her several months previously. “I’ve got a beautiful body: It’s in the boot.”
She smirked. “Grave humor, Detective Inspector. It’s a dying business.”
Chapter 28
Eden followed the inspector as far as the crime scene tape would allow. Malcolm’s compost bins were being carefully dismantled by three figures–Eden couldn’t tell if they were men or women–in white overalls, boots gloves and elasticized headwear. One was shoveling out the soil onto a series of sieves, a second was monitoring the particulates left behind and a third was examining the larger pieces of vegetable matter; those than hadn’t yet broken down into compost.