Jones lay where he had toppled, but now was stretched on a piece of plastic, flaps and ties ready to be secured. Harsh light shone into his empty chest cavity and reflected from his wide and staring eyes. Stark looked away.
Ravyn kneeled near the body with Dr Penworthy.
“So, what was the cause of death, Doctor?” Ravyn asked.
Penworthy started to answer.
Stark tried to keep silent, but failed.
Ravyn and Penworthy looked to him.
“You have a comment, Sergeant?” Penworthy asked.
“No…well…no, you go ahead with what you were going to say, Dr Penworthy,” Stark stammered. He did not like the faint smile hovering over the blonde pathologist’s lips. “Well, I mean, isn’t it rather obvious how he died?”
“And how would that be, Stark?” Ravyn asked.
Penworthy’s eyes flashed darkly, ignored by Ravyn.
Stark felt he was being urged down a primrose path that would end in a nettle patch. It would hardly be the first time the guv’nor had handed him a petard upon which to hoist himself.
“The clue, it seems to me, would be the great bloody hole in his chest, sir,” Stark said. “His heart isn’t in it, is it?”
Ravyn looked to Penworthy. “Spinal shock?”
“Bloody hell!” Penworthy snapped. “Why even call me out?”
Stark frowned. “Spinal…what?”
“His neck was broke, Sergeant,” Penworthy said. “Between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. It was wrenched with such force the spinal cord was transected. I’m certain DCI Ravyn can tell you all you want to hear…and more.”
Stark nodded, but decided not to pursue the matter further with her. She appeared quite put out that Ravyn had stolen her thunder. Were she to look at him the way she was looking at the guv’nor, Stark thought, he would definitely find somewhere else to be, find something else to do. Ravyn stood from the body.
“When will the post mortem be, Doctor?” Ravyn asked.
“Sure you don’t want to handle that as well, Arthur?”
Ravyn uttered a breathy little laugh and smiled. “You know I have the greatest confidence in you.”
“Chief Inspector, you are at times quite the insufferable arse,” she said, though her voice lacked any trace of heat or reproof. “At ten, I think, maybe nine if I get back to Stafford in time.”
“That would be lovely,” Ravyn said. “I shall try to send Stark to observe the post mortem, but…” His words trailed off. “You understand. We must press forward.”
“One of you be there,” she said. “Report ready by tea.”
“Splendid.”
Stark wanted to shake his head in confusion, but refrained. He had been told by some of the lads when he was first assigned to the chief inspector that Ravyn and Penworthy had once been an item, for perhaps all of two or three weeks. He had seen nothing to give legs to that rumour, though there was obviously some kind of bond between the two. They were always civil to each other, even when at their fractious best, but it seemed to Stark as if they were ever caught between a passionate kiss and a hatchet fight.
“I know you want to dazzle Sergeant Stark with your brilliant deduction,” Penworthy said.
“Stark knows better than to expect that from me by now.”
“At any rate, I’ll be off with the body.”
“I’ll look forward to your report, Doctor.”
Ravyn went out, stripping off the protective suit, handing it to a CSI dogsbody. Stark followed him, then turned back to the tent, pushed aside the flap.
“Doctor, why did you call us…” Stark felt Ravyn pulling on his sleeve as he saw Penworthy’s eyes blaze. “Never mind, Doctor.”
Stark slipped off the suit, tossed it to the harried technician.
“It was about the cause of death, wasn’t it?”
Ravyn nodded. “She assumed we had both been taken in by the, as you put it, ‘great bloody hole in his chest.’ It was obvious from the lack of splatter that the chest was opened and the heart removed after the blood ceased pumping.”
Stark tried to recall the details of the scene when they first saw the body, or even from moments before. All he recalled was Jones’ glassy staring eyes and the hole that should have not been in his chest. There was no reason to let that image lodge in his mind, not when they could look at any number of photographs later.
Ravyn, he knew, would probably never flip through any of the dozen of crime scene snaps until it was time to assemble evidence for the CPS. Why bother? If Ravyn wanted to know where a single drop of blood had landed, at what angle the dead man’s little finger was crooked, or whether Jones’ shoes had been tied or not, all he had to do was walk through his memory. He could do so the next day, the next year, or on his deathbed fifty years from now.
“Obviously,” Stark said, “I received a different impression.”
Ravyn looked away and watched Penworthy and her team prepare the body of Simon Jones for transport. He saw Powell-Mavins, Scene of Crime Officer, direct his CSI minions wrapping up their portion of the investigation. Ravyn was not surprised, either by Stark’s failure of memory or his tendency to latch upon the superficially obvious. He had broken Stark of many bad habits picked up at the Met and had helped him improve his memory skills to the point where he could now recall most conversations verbatim, more or less, and submit interview reports that did not need to be revised more than once. But much remained to be done.
“It was a horrendous scene,” Ravyn admitted.
“I know that’s not a good reason not to observe, sir.”
“And your mind is filled with other things,” Ravyn added. “It is a war of ideas, images and events, all vying for your attention.” He paused, then added softly: “You have a lot on your mind.”
Stark’s gaze darted sharply. “Sir?”
“Your wife’s pregnancy,” Ravyn said. He did not look at Stark. He watched as the graveyard was returned to the care of the long and honoured dead. “And other issues close to home.”
“Other…” Stark’s voice trailed to silence.
“Last Tuesday, as you were heading home, you said you were having problems sleeping,” Ravyn said. “A restless mind is easily distracted. I assume the problem continues?”
“Yes, sir,” Stark said, trying to recall. “A little.”
“Well, if you think it would help,” Ravyn said, “I am sure Dr Penworthy would give you something. Shall I…”
“No thank you, sir, “I’ll be fine,” Stark said. “As you said, the pregnancy and all that. First child jitters. I’ll get used to it.”
Stark closed his mouth lest he accidentally blurt something that might lay bare his lie. He hardly recalled the comment. In grammar school, an overwrought instructor, who sometimes sipped from a flask covertly, so he thought, had tried to teach Latin to monstrous little boys. Stark had heard mendax memorem esse oportet, but never understood the maxim until DCI Arthur Ravyn came into his life. If he were not careful, he might ensnare himself in his own lies, and perhaps might do so even if he were careful.
“We should return to the witnesses still being held,” Ravyn said, heading for the church.
Stark followed, gladly. “Yeah, that bird…” He searched his mind. “Madeline Wallace. Might not be mental by now.” He rubbed his shoulder, nearly wrenched out of socket before Penworthy could jab in a needle. “Maybe.”
Most of the Ghost Tour were allowed to leave after telling what little they knew and providing contact information. The Wallace woman was resting on a cot in a storage room with a WPC nearby. Also held were the Reverend Dickerson Allen, vicar of St Barnabas Church; Alfred Pettibone and Agnes Swanner, organisers of the Ghost Tour; and Sir Phineas Smythe, the local acquire, and Prudence Holloway, his young companion, both of whom could have departed earlier, but who insisted on staying with Pettibone and Swanner.
“Two questions, sir,” Stark said. “I understand, now that you explained it, why you knew Jones didn’t die
of a heart attack.” Stark smiled at his own witticism, but saw Ravyn’s lips tighten. “But how did you know about the broken neck?”
“Jones was out of sight only five minutes or so, from what we were told,” Ravyn said. “Cutting through the sternum, pushing aside the ribs, severing the connecting tissue of…” He noticed Stark’s pale cast. “It had to be a very quick death There were no other wounds. The blood visible was purely from seepage and pooling. It also had to be silent.”
“So, a quick torque of the neck and Bob’s your uncle,” Stark said. “Just like on the telly.”
“Not as easy as all that, I fear,” Ravyn said. “It takes at least a thousand foot-pounds of torque to accomplish the task. You don’t have to be tremendously strong, but you do have to know what you are doing. The cervical vertebrae are the spinal column’s top eight bones, but trying to break a man’s neck below the fifth or six bone is a daunting task. The purpose of the spinal column is to protect the spinal cord from being severed or drastically twisted, and it is well armoured to do just that.”
Stark tried to recall a forensic anthropology seminar he mostly dozed through the previous spring at Hendon. Professor Oliver was not at all boring, but Stark had failed to see how the topic applied to him. He wished now he had been more attentive.
“To cause nearly instantaneous death,” Ravyn continued, “the spinal cord must be completely transected, resulting in immediate loss of nerve supply to the entire body, and a sudden and profound drop in blood pressure. Demise is immediate.”
“Spinal shock,” Stark said, dredging a half-remembered phrase from the morass of his memory. “Oh. That’s what set off…”
“Yes,” Ravyn acknowledged, nodding as he uttered a sigh. “I should not have trespassed into the good doctor’s bailiwick. Oh well, it’s hardly the first time I’ve put my boot into it.”
Stark shrugged.
“The flaw in trying to kill a person by breaking his neck is in not doing it well enough to kill him, or at least not to kill him right away,” Ravyn said. “For example, should the spinal cord only be damaged in the vicinity of the third through fifth vertebrae, the person might die, but from slow asphyxiation.”
“Like when toppings went awry,” Stark suggested. “Fit the noose wrong and you get a nice long death-dance at the gallows.”
“A person might be left a paraplegic or not seriously injured at all,” Ravyn said. “Not every broken neck results in death, not every spinal trauma results in injury. My spine was severely cracked about nineteen years ago, but it’s given me no real trouble since.”
Stark glanced at Ravyn. “Is that how you know so much about the spinal column, spinal shock and all that?”
“No, that came when I was seven,” Ravyn replied. “Auntie Dorcas had an extensive library of sensational literature, including several tomes of forensic medicine. She forbade me the worst of it, but you know how it is with young boys and prohibitions.”
Stark had thought there was something particularly clinical in the guv’nor’s description of injuries and trauma. No doubt he was quoting passages read covertly decades earlier. He would have to be much more careful about what he told Ravyn, make sure he did not contradict earlier statements he barely remembered later.
“You had two questions, you said.”
“I did?” Stark cut through all his distractions, pushed aside his wife and her pregnancy, Heln and his pressure. “I just wondered if you actually believe in ghosts and such. That’s all.”
Ravyn smiled. “Does it matter?”
“Perhaps,” Stark said. “Given this case, it might matter if you believe in spooks, or not.”
“Belief is too strong a word,” Ravyn said. “Let’s just say I don’t disbelieve in them. The world if full of things that cannot be proved one way or another. Ghosts are one of those things.” He arched his eyebrows. “Do you?”
“No, can’t say I do, sir,” Stark answered. “I don’t believe in a lot of things and ghosts is in that mix. But I got a second cousin, Mildred by name, who swears she saw a headless bagpipe player in a castle when she was on holiday.”
Ravyn chuckled softly. “Headless and playing the bagpipes. It does make one wonder, doesn’t it?”
“No, sir, not really.”
“It would probably be best if you did not flaunt your disbelief to the residents of Little Wyvern,” Ravyn said.
“Living or dead?”
“Just so.”
As they approached the church, the constable on duty reached for the handle. Before he could touch it, the door was flung open and a tall, gaunt figure emerged.
“I must protest, Chief Inspector,” said Reverend Allen.
“Protest what, Vicar?”
“You keeping those people in my church,” Allen said. “Base heathens, every one of them. Believers in ghosts, in a spirit world all around us. They have no business in the house of the Lord.”
“Do they not?” Ravyn asked. “The Master said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Surely that would apply to the Master’s house?”
Allen started to speak.
“Besides, Vicar, is it a sin to believe in ghosts?” Ravyn asked. “I seem to recall that when Christ came to the Apostles in the boat they at first mistook him for a spirit.”
Stark suppressed a smile. The thought of the guv’nor struggling with any recollection was worthy of a guffaw.
“Ghosts are not supported by Scripture.” Then he added: “No matter what the Apostles did or didn’t think.”
“Pardon me for mentioning it, Reverend Allen,” Ravyn said, “but is this not the wrong village in which to preach against a belief in ghosts? It is a well-entrenched tradition with residents.”
“Yes, that is the problem,” the vicar said. “I have been sent by Bishop Price to wean the villagers from such dangerous beliefs. It is not possible to believe in both Heaven and the spirit world.”
“A house divided cannot stand?” Ravyn suggested.
“Yes,” Allen said, startled. “Yes, precisely. And that is why it is very inappropriate to have these FOG people in my church.”
“FOG?”
“Friends of Ghosts,” Allen explained. “That is the group behind the lunacy called Ghost Week, the organisers of the so-called Ghost Tour. Well, you can see what came from that. And, according to the literature with which they’ve been papering the village, such tours are only the beginning.”
“Until I can arrange for another situation room, we would like to question people here,” Ravyn said. “Once we establish where the witnesses were, what they saw, and what their relationship was with the deceased we can send them home until such time as a more detailed interview might be required.”
“I don’t want to seem obstinate, but…”
“Your office will be adequate,” Ravyn said. “We shall require its use probably no more than an hour or two, perhaps a bit more.”
“Well I…”
Standing behind Ravyn, Stark crossed his arms and gave the vicar a look he usually reserved for villains hauled into the nick at Stepney. He liked to think of it as a cross between Vinnie Jones and Jason Statham, with a little touch of Michael Caine from Get Carter. It usually got some kind of reaction in a minute or two.
“Well, I suppose that will be acceptable,” the vicar said after five seconds. “Follow me, please.”
“Thank you.” Ravyn motioned to a constable on the inside to come with them. “Bring the witnesses to the first pews of the church. Ensure they remain separated and do not speak to each other.”
“Yes, sir.”
When they entered the vicar’s office, Ravyn sat behind the big desk occupying most of the room. The walls were lined with books. Along with the usual Bibles, commentaries, histories and other books common to any country church, there were books on ghosts, spiritualism and folklore. Reverend Ormsby, Reverend Allen’s late predecessor, had been a much more tolerant man.
Stark pulled a c
hair to the side of the desk, angling it. He put a digital recorder on the desk, closer to him than Ravyn. He sat down.
“Well, I shall let you get on with…”
“Please be seated, Reverend Allen.”
The vicar’s mouth gaped. “Me? I have nothing to do with what happened this evening. I was against it from the very…”
“Please, Vicar.” Ravyn gestured at the chair across from him.
Stark glared.
The vicar sat. “Should I call my solicitor?”
“After we have spoken, you may call him, if you wish,” Ravyn said. “You have not been cautioned. At this point, you are merely assisting us in our investigation.”
“As I said, I had nothing…” He sighed. “Very well. Ask your questions and let us get this over with.”
Stark reached across and activated the recorder.
Ravyn murmured the date and time, then said: “Present at this interview are DCI Arthur Ravyn, Hammershire Constabulary…”
“DS Leo Stark.”
Allen hesitated, then said: “Reverend Dickerson Allen, vicar of St Barnabas Church in Little Wyvern. Chief Inspector, I don’t…”
Ravyn lifted a silencing hand. “Vicar, how long have you been in Little Wyvern?”
“A little over a year and a half.”
“Where did you serve before?”
“At St Mary in Middleton-on-Orm,” he replied. “I was Sexton there. A vacancy arose in Little Wyvern when…”
“Yes,” Ravyn said. “Thaddeus Ormsby was well respected and liked by his parishioners. His passing was keenly felt.”
“He was a good man,” Allen said, “but much too lenient.”
Village of Ghosts Page 4