Village of Ghosts

by Ralph E. Vaughan

“Same as at the church,” Ravyn said.

  “Aye,” the Scene of Crime Officer agreed. “Now, it may be a different thing when we get a line of uniforms sweeping through. It wasn’t at the church, but who’s to say that…”

  “No, I don’t think it will,” Ravyn said. “The murderer has the heart, same as with Simon Jones’ heart.”

  “That may be, but I’ll still request some warm bodies to…”

  “No, don’t bother,” Ravyn interrupted. “It would be a waste of time and money. You know how Heln hates to waste either.”

  Powell-Mavins sighed. “As you wish. I hope it doesn’t come back to bite your arse…or mine. You know how that wee man is.”

  “My decision,” Ravyn said. “I’ll make sure the superintendent knows that. I have a meeting with him this afternoon.”

  “Better you than me.”

  “I’d appreciate it if I could have at least preliminary reports on both crime scenes by then,” Ravyn said.

  “God, man, you don’t ask for much, do you?” The forensics chief scowled and shook his head. “I’ll push it so you can have the report on what was found in the graveyard after lunch, but this…”

  “If you can give me something by five till three, that will be…”

  “All right, I’ll do my best,” Powell-Mavins interrupted. “But, it will be just bare bones, so to speak.”

  “I have tremendous faith in you, Angus.”

  The Scotsman snorted, gripped the pipe’s stem as if trying to bite through it, then wheeled about and yelled at his minions. No one quite understood him through gritted teeth, but his shouting resulted in a renewed flurry of activity.

  “An unrealistic deadline, isn’t it, sir?” Stark suggested. “Even a half-decent crime scene work-up takes more than a few hours.”

  “With too much time, SOCO gets lost in details,” Ravyn said. “A deadline, especially an ‘unrealistic one,’ forces him to separate silver from dross efficiently. It’s his nature.”

  “So, you think you’ll have the reports in hand at five till?”

  Ravyn smiled. “Half-two. Once Angus accepts a deadline, he will move earth and heaven, and perhaps sacrifice an underling or two, to do better than his promise. Also his nature.” He took a last look about. “Leave them to their work; let’s go.”

  “Go? Go where, sir?”

  “To question pensioners and busybodies in the cottages on the other side of Wrait Lane,” Ravyn replied. “At least one of them saw something important, though they may not know it, yet.”

  “You sound confident, sir.”

  “Too confident, you think?”

  Stark hesitated, then: “Yes, sir. People have more to do than stare out their windows day and night.”

  “Living across from a haunted forest, what would you do?”

  Chapter 6

  Cadavers and Elevenses

  Stark saw Ravyn converging on him at the last cottage in Wrait Lane. They had started at opposite ends, working toward the middle. Stark felt joyless. No one had seen anything. He hoped Ravyn had done better getting some blood from these cottager turnips, who inevitably tried to close up as soon as he opened his mouth. His heart leaped, though guiltily so, when he saw the expression on Ravyn’s face. It appeared he was right and Ravyn had been wrong, certainly a day to mark on his calendar.

  “No joy, sir?” Stark asked, trying to sound properly concerned.

  Ravyn shook his head. “It appears, if you live across from a haunted forest the proper thing to do is keep your eyes glued to the telly, and sod all else.”

  Stark set aside all the half-snarky comments he had considered when it became clear Ravyn’s idea had not panned out. It was not often the guv’nor let his language slip, but when he did, it was best not to poke the dog.

  The door of the final cottage opened as they approached. A thin woman in her sixties greeted them. Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her eyes were the colour of a winter stream.

  “Are you from the police?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m DCI Ravyn from Stafford CID.” He held up his warrant card. “This is DS Stark.”

  “Good morning, ma’am,” Stark said.

  “Oh, you’re not from around here, are you?”

  Stark sighed.

  “We’d like to ask you some questions about recent activities in the lane, Mrs…” Ravyn let his words hang.

  “My goodness, where are my manners?” the woman exclaimed. “I’m Mrs Banberry…Margaret Banberry.” She leaned forward and whispered: “Has something red happened?”

  “We’ve found a body, Mrs Banberry,” Ravyn said.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m much surprised, can I?”

  “Why is that?” Stark asked. “Did you see something?”

  “You had better come in, the both of you, before you are seen.” Her gaze darted furtively back and forth. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “The neighbours?” Stark ventured.

  “No, Sergeant,” Ravyn said. “She means spirits in the woods.”

  “Just so,” Margaret said, bestowing a pleased look upon Ravyn. “A Hammershire Man, no doubt.”

  “Abofyl,” Ravyn acknowledged.

  “A pleasant river village,” she said, then quickly added: “But do come in, please. We were just about to have elevenses. I’ll put down two more settings. Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?”

  “Tea would be delightful,” Ravyn said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Stark agreed.

  She ushered them into the parlour and bade them sit. A rose-patterned teapot and two matching settings sat on a low table, as well as a three-tier porcelain cake stand adorned with diverse biscuits. Stark’s stomach reminded him, quite noisily, how the morning’s circumstances had denied him breakfast.

  “I’ll be right back.” When Margaret returned, she put the plates and cups and saucers before the two men, poured out, and pushed the cake stand a little closer to Stark than Ravyn. “Now, how may I help you, Chief Inspector?”

  Stark glanced at the untenanted setting.

  “Oh, that’s for Harry, my husband,” she explained. “He does not always show up, but he gets ever so cross if I don’t put out a setting for him. He can be very difficult.”

  “Is Mr Banberry at work?” Stark asked.

  Ravyn sipped his tea to hide a sly smile.

  “No, I doubt Harry works any more…or any less for that matter, than he did when he was alive,” Margaret explained. “Some people are not disposed to hold a job, and Harry was one of those. At least he now has a valid reason, more or less, for lazing about.”

  Stark almost choked on his tea.

  “Though one would think that after thirty years of being dead one might put some bad habits behind oneself,” she said, raising her voice slightly. “But apparently not.”

  “Pardon me,” Stark said, daubing at his lips with a linen cloth. “Tea…a little hot…down the wrong pipe.”

  “As I mentioned, a body was found in Pooks Wood,” Ravyn said. “Have you seen anything unusual in the past week?”

  “Well, it is Pooks Wood, so there is always something to see, though it’s not always a good idea to watch the woods too closely,” she said. “Even so, I try to keep a watch out for what happens in the lane, for there is always human mischief as well.”

  “A trait your neighbours seem not to share,” Ravyn observed.

  She made a dismissive noise. “Most of them are newcomers who have not been here five minutes—three generations is not nearly enough time to grow roots in a place. The others are woolly-minded fools who don’t know what goes on outside the goggle box. Me, I keep watch because we have too many yobs with nothing better to do than the Devil’s work. Plus, it’s always good to know what ghosts are up to.” She paused. “Well, as long as you don’t know too much…like that writer chap who was killed by a vengeful spirit near the church.” He face simultaneously brightened and darkened. “Say, that body you found, does it have anything to do with
the dreadful affair at Saint Barnabas?”

  “We’re not sure,” Ravyn admitted. “Tell me, Mrs Banberry, did you notice anything odd in the lane…perhaps a week or so ago?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she said. “Just the usual sights and sounds that are part and parcel with living across from Pooks Wood. You know how it is when ghosts walk, which they are prone to do when mist rises or the moon is full.”

  “I believe it was full last Thursday, was it not?” Ravyn said.

  “How clever of you to remember that, Mr Ravyn,” Margaret said. “Yes, it was, but even the fullness of the moon can’t show anything in the woods if the Shining Ones are not flitting…” She paused. “Yes. Thursday. The moon was gloaming, the woods were black, and I had to come downstairs to get my own glass of water. That was when I saw two ghosts walking in the lane.”

  “What did they look like, Mrs Banberry?” Ravyn asked.

  “Like two men, but faint. Gauzy,” she whispered.

  “How did you know they were ghosts, Mrs Banberry?” Stark asked. “Is it possible they were really nothing more than two men?”

  Margaret gave him a sympathetic look, as an adult might give a child who had asked a silly question. He was an outsider, but he was polite, a rare quality in young men. And he was very good looking, not like so many youths with their pierced noses and spiked hair. He reminded her of a young Michael Caine, a bit cynical but kind. Caine had been a cinematic heartthrob of her younger days. But there was something about the sergeant that moved Margaret to feel sorry for him, like an aura of sadness that clung like a damp fog.

  “They were out at an ungodly hour, Sergeant, when men have more sense to be out and about, even given that most men have less sense than God gave a goose.” She raised her voice slightly toward the end, as if for the benefit of someone within hearing but not actually present. “And they entered Pooks Wood, which no one but a ghost or an elemental would do. Therefore they could not have been mere men.”

  Stark nodded, surrendering to the inescapability of Margaret’s logic. “About what time did you see them?”

  “Two after three,” she replied. “They entered the woods and one of them came back seven minutes later.”

  “That seems very precise, Mrs Banberry.”

  “One must be precise in these matters, Sergeant,” she said, misunderstanding his meaning. “And the period is very significant. Seven is a sacred number, in our world as well as theirs, further proof of their spectral natures, wouldn’t you say?”

  Stark jotted down the information.

  “Did either ghost seem familiar to you, Mrs Banberry?”

  “Very familiar, Mr Ravyn, at least one did,” she replied. “I thought it might be the Warlock, you know, the one hanged at Hopkins’ Oak in 1645, with a consecrated rope, so they say. Of course, I’ve never actually seen the Warlock, so I’m not sure how he might seem familiar to me, but I’ve heard stories, and I know others who have. So tall and black, and I did see the scarring upon his neck where the rope burned him—it was a sanctified rope, you know, blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. He was so very familiar, but if not the Warlock, then who?”

  When it became clear she was not going to answer her own question, Stark asked: “What about the other…” He paused as he composed the words he needed to force out. “What did the other ghost look like?”

  “Just an average man, probably much as he looked in life,” she replied. “I don’t think he died a violent death, not like the Warlock, for he did not seem disfigured in any way. He probably died in his sleep, poor dear, but with some mission in life unfulfilled.”

  “I don’t understand,” Stark said.

  “When most people pass on, their souls enter either Heaven or Hell,” she explained. “Usually, a ghost is created when a man dies a violent death, is too evil for even Hell to accept, or is so attached to our world he cannot let go. Little Wyvern has a long history of men like that, which is why we have so many spectral friends, and many we don’t want as friends. However, if a man is caught between two fates—trapped between a rock and a hard place, you might say—he will become a ghost doomed by his own indecision.” She leaned forward slightly and gave Stark a hard stare. “I’m sure you know what I mean, Sergeant.”

  Stark knew what she meant, but dared admit nothing, not to her, not to the guv’nor, and certainly not to himself. He was glad when, twenty minutes later, her trickle of information ended and Ravyn indicated they must take their leave.

  “I wish I could have been more helpful,” she said at the door.

  “On the contrary, Mrs Banberry, you have been very helpful to our investigation,” Ravyn said. He gave her his card. “If you should think of anything else, please give me a bell.”

  She nodded and pocketed the card. “If I could tell you who the familiar ghost really was, I’m certain it would help you more. If it was the Warlock, he is no doubt capable of murder, but the other ghost seemed so plain and inoffensive.”

  “Good day, Mrs Banberry,” Ravyn said.

  “I shall think very hard about the ghost,” she promised. “There must be a reason why the first ghost seemed so familiar, other than someone telling me a story. All I need do is give it enough thought and it will come to me, eventually.”

  Stark nodded as he slipped past.

  “Do be careful, Sergeant,” she advised.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stark muttered. “Thank you.”

  Margaret watched the two men as they made their way down the garden path. It was pleasant to have such polite and thoughtful visitors, even if they had been brought to her door by terrible events in Little Wyvern. Harry was so flighty these days he was hardly any company at all anymore.

  Her last visitor had been that abominable Agnes Swanner woman, her going on with all that nonsense about Friends of Ghosts. Friends, indeed! She had had no choice but to let her in—it was either that or lose a door—but in the end Margaret had sent her packing with a flea in her ear. It would all come to no good, she had warned, and hadn’t that come true with the death of the writer? And maybe with whomever that nice Chief Inspector Ravyn had found in the woods? The deaths gave Margaret no sense of pleasure, but being right over the likes of Agnes Swanner certainly did. No wonder the Warlock was walking in the mist and moonlight.

  It was curious about the Warlock, she thought. She had never seen the Warlock’s ghost, though she had seen others in the village. If she had recognised his shade simply through stories she had heard as a little girl, then seeing his form should not have struck such a strong note of familiarity. Things can only really be familiar when one has actually seen them before, she reasoned. And she had never seen the Warlock. It was all very curious.

  The two men paused at the garden gate, briefly glanced back at her still in the doorway, and waved. She felt so sorry for the young sergeant, whose aura was tinged with sadness and conflict. Mr Ravyn’s was odd as well, but in a way that made her not want to ask questions. Still, they were both very nice.

  She felt the sharp edges of the visiting card in her pocket. When the reason for the Warlock’s familiarity came to her—and it surely would in time—she would ring up Mr Ravyn and let him know what she had sorted out. He was such a nice man.

  When they entered the lane, the SOCO vehicle remained, but the pathologist’s was gone. Ravyn again tossed Stark the keys.

  “What did you think of Mrs Banberry’s story?” Ravyn asked.

  “I think she saw the murderer and the victim,” Stark said as he started the engine. “Two men go in, one comes out. It gives us a very precise time for the murder.”

  “Two ghosts go in, one comes out,” Ravyn corrected. “That is what she will say in her statement, and on the witness stand.”

  “The facts are what she saw, not in how she interprets those facts,” Stark said. “She’s not doing anything that others don’t do, seeing events from her own point of view.”

  Ravyn smiled. “So, she is not a nutter, like everyone
else?”

  “Of course she’s a nutter, sir,” Stark countered. “But she’s not a liar. She saw what she saw, not what she thinks she saw.”

  “That is quite a concession, coming from you, Stark,” Ravyn said. “She seems to have impressed you in ways others have not.”

  “Reminded me a bit of my Gran, on my Mum’s side,” Stark said. “A bit odd, was Granny Hildreth. Lived outside Kilkenny. Left a saucer of cream out every night. I think cats drank it up, but she claimed garden fairies. She was a nutter too, so said Father, but I liked her anyway. And I liked Mrs Banberry too.”

  “She seemed to fancy you as well, in a grandmotherly way of course,” Ravyn noted. “Seemed concerned about you, for some reason, don’t you think?”

  Stark shrugged. “Maudlin, sir. Wrinklies get like that at times. It’s their nature, you might say.”

  Ravyn made a noncommittal grunt, gave his sergeant a keen glance that went unnoticed, and settled back to toss over in his mind recent events. They drove over the bridge that spanned the river bisecting Little Wyvern, passing the steeple of Saint Barnabas.

  “Sir?” Stark said once they were on the road to Stafford.

  “What is it, Stark?”

  “Your meeting with Superintendent Heln…”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it merely to update him on this case?” Stark licked dry lips. “I know you asked SOCO to rush the reports, but… I mean, don’t you think it would have been better to get final forensics… Well, the Super might not understand that it’s early yet…” Stark felt as if he were sinking into a black, choking tarn. “He might think we were not using our resources to the best possible…”

  “A meeting with Heln is better than attending a post mortem,” Ravyn said. “Marginally.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stark said, but he did not feel the relief he thought he might. After a long moment, he said: “Sir, do you mind if I ask a question about you and the Super.”

  “I probably do, but ask it anyway,” Ravyn said. “If you don’t, it will fester like a canker.”

  “The two of you don’t see eye to eye very often.”