Village of Ghosts

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Rarely,” Ravyn admitted.

  “Is it a matter of policing philosophies or is it personal?”

  “Superintendent Heln thinks me old-fashioned, both in goals and techniques,” Ravyn said. “He makes that a very public view.”

  “But not to the Chief Constable,” Stark said; he added: “From what I’ve heard.”

  “I have a good relationship with Sir Geoffrey,” Ravyn said. “The ACC and the Chief Superintendent as well. I should warn you, Stark, you must always be wary about what you hear. No doubt others have given you quite an earful about me. Only a fool would not have asked around, and I would never think you a fool.”

  Stark remained silent. Dropped abruptly into the Hammershire Constabulary from the often politically charged environment of the Metropolitan Police, he did what he had always done, searched for allies and foes. What he had heard about Ravyn made him either the greatest detective since Sherlock Holmes or the most incompetent wanker ever to carry a warrant card, who kept his job only through the goodwill of the Chief Constable. The latter was not true, Stark had discovered, but he was still unsure about the former.

  “You should apply to all you hear the same common sense you did to Mrs Banberry’s narrative,” Ravyn continued. “All people have a point of view shaped by beliefs and eccentricities. It is part of their unalterable natures.” Ravyn smiled. “If you want to roll your eyes again, please feel free to do so.”

  “No, I…” Stark let his protests die. “Well, you do go on about it often, sir…quite often.”

  “Knowing that people stay true to their natures is the greatest tool in our arsenal,” Ravyn said. “If it is in a man’s nature to lie, you have to take that into consideration when he claims to tell the truth. Even if he is telling the truth, there will be an undercurrent of untruth with which you must contend. We are shaped into who we are by what we are, and we can never completely escape our natures. We can only hope to channel them into constructive outlets, else we will surely be consumed or destroyed by them.”

  “I suppose if Heln had actually ever done any real policing, he might have a more realistic view of…”

  “You should not underestimate Superintendent Heln,” Ravyn interrupted. “He is very intelligent even if he is, as some might say, inexperienced in the ways of the street. He has risen very fast in the ranks, all without ever having walked a beat. He is where he is due to his nature rather than his skills. He is well connected, politically and socially, but I rather doubt he will ever rise any higher than where he is—the brass above him don’t want him on their level.”

  “Like letting a cobra into the nursery,” Stark murmured.

  Ravyn shot Stark a sharp glance. “Nothing of this conversation ever goes beyond the two of us. None of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stark said. “You can trust me on that.”

  “At the very most, I can only hope to trust you,” Ravyn said. “It is the best any of us can hope for in this world, so do not take it as a personal slight. It is merely a fact of life.”

  “No, sir, I won’t,” Stark said.

  Despite his words, Stark’s tone betrayed some level of personal umbrage, even as he felt the irony of those feelings. He had survived his family and his profession by never entirely trusting anyone, yet the idea that the chief inspector might not entirely trust him stung. He thought of his early morning meeting with Heln and felt that sting even more.

  “When we return to the station, pull up everything you can on the Hatton Garden Heist,” Ravyn said.

  “Jones’ being questioned is a tenuous link at best,” Stark said.

  “Seventy-five million pounds is a very strong motive,” Ravyn pointed out. “Even for a tenuous connection.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stark said. “Anything else?”

  “Dig even deeper into everyone’s background,” Ravyn said. “We are hitting far too many blank walls.”

  Stark nodded. As a silent moment stretched into quiet minutes, he realised Ravyn had not truly answered the question he had put to him. He thought about letting it go, but found he could not.

  “Sir,” he said. “Is it personal?”

  “It is not personal, not for me,” Ravyn answered. “As to why it is personal for Heln, that is something you would have ask him yourself, should you have the opportunity.”

  Ravyn leaned back, sorting out the world with half-lidded eyes. Stark bit down on his lips to keep pent-up words from tumbling out. Neither man spoke the remainder of the journey.

  * * *

  The post mortem room smelled simultaneously fresh and foul. It reeked of disinfectant and cleaning solutions, but there was also a hint of corruption, something of the grave and the undying worm. Bright lights glinted off polished chrome and scrubbed porcelain, but they seemed dark compared to the arc lamp directly above the autopsy table. Steeling himself for what was to come, Stark lowered his protective plastic faceplate and approached.

  “Ah, there you are, Sergeant,” Dr Penworthy said. “I thought for a moment you might share the chief inspector’s aversion.”

  “Not my first time here, Doctor,” he said.

  She smiled. “No, of course not.”

  The body had been cleaned. A modesty towel had been draped across the lower torso, though Stark was unsure whose modesty was being protected. The skin was waxy. Creepy crawlies had left their marks upon the body, but those not collected for testing had been washed away. The eyes were whitish and sunken. To Stark, it did not look like a man at all; had he been raised in Little Wyvern, he might have thought the cadaver was that of a hobgoblin.

  “You ready, Sergeant?”

  “Yes.”

  Penworthy reached up and pulled down an articulated metal arm on the end of which was a foam-padded microphone. She gave the case number, the date, and stated who was in attendance.

  “Normally, I would begin with a Y-incision, but someone has rendered that impossible, hence I am modifying the procedures to adjust to the situation,” Penworthy said. “The individual is a well-nourished male in his mid-fifties. An examination of the body shows no tattoos, birthmarks or scars. The chest cavity was cut open post mortem and the heart removed by means of…”

  For the next fifty-six minutes, Penworthy laid bare the secrets of the man found in Pooks Wood. The incisions to the chest cavity had been made with an extremely sharp blade about six inches long. The knife had likely been wielded by the same hand as in the Simon Jones case. As the doctor had surmised at the scene of the crime, the cause of death was spinal shock, received when the neck was violently torqued at the second and third vertebrae.

  Stark watched and listened with all the impassivity he could manage. As he had told the doctor, it was hardly his first time, but he had never quite inured himself to the idea of a man being carved with the impersonal precision of a pig on a butcher’s block. Every time he watched some poor bloke under a pathologist’s blade, with all the intimate details of his death recorded in a passionless voice for posterity, he could not help but see himself in the same situation, as that day would come to all, sooner or later.

  Suddenly, he realised the post mortem had concluded, that the doctor had said something to him. “I’m sorry, Doctor. What?”

  “I asked if you had any questions.” She covered the body and moved specimens to an examination table at the side.

  “No, Doctor,” he said. “Very thorough. When will the written report be ready?”

  “Normally, I’d tell you tomorrow, about mid-morning.”

  Stark opened his mouth to speak.

  “However,” she continued, cutting him off, “I know how your guv’nor is, so I’ll e-mail it to the both of you before six.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “I’ll let the chief inspector know. I appreciate you doing that.”

  “It’s no trouble.” She smiled. “Well, not much trouble. Arthur can be very difficult at times, but I expect I need not tell you that.”

  Stark made no reply as he removed the prot
ective face-shield, the gloves, and the other garments of the operating theatre. He had no idea how close Penworthy and Ravyn really were. He did not want any comments to get back to Ravyn, or to anyone for that matter, so he kept his feelings to himself.

  “Do you enjoy working with Ravyn,” she asked.

  “He’s an excellent detective,” Stark replied. “It’s instructive.”

  She laughed. “Yes, it that, if nothing else. I find him brilliant at times, unbelievably naïve at others, and infuriating all the time.”

  Stark was grateful when he escaped. He had enough problems without adding whatever might, or might not, be going on between the doctor and Ravyn. Perhaps their words were idle chatter about a common acquaintance, but there might be much more.

  At his desk he waded through the information that constituted the lives of the people involved with the murders in Little Wyvern. He saw a constable approach.

  “Sarge, Mr Pettibone and Miss Swanner have been brought in,” the constable told him. “About identifying a body, they said.”

  “Have them wait; I’ll be right there.”

  “Right, Sarge.” The constable vanished.

  Stark called Penworthy, then met the two FOG members in the lobby. Agnes was furious about being brought in; Pettibone glanced about nervously, perhaps reliving bad memories, Stark thought.

  “I don’t understand why we’re here,” Agnes said.

  “A body was found in…”

  “Yes, I know all about that,” she said. “Everyone in the whole bloody village knows about that, and how he was killed.”

  “What Aggie means is that the ghost who…”

  “Shut up, Freddie,” she snapped.

  “Thank you for coming by,” Ravyn said as he approached. “We appreciate your continued assistance.”

  “We’re just about to view the body, sir,” Stark said.

  Ravyn nodded. “Very good.”

  “As I was telling your sergeant,” Agnes began, “I don’t see…”

  “Mr Pettibone,” Ravyn interrupted. “Did you bring the files?”

  “Yes, sir.” The little man dug into his pocket and pulled out a memory stick. He blew off a piece of lint and handed it to Ravyn.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Agnes tried to stop Pettibone, then made an effort to snatch it from Ravyn’s grasp. “That is confidential!” She whirled on Pettibone. “You fool! that’s our bread and butter.”

  “Sorry, Aggie, but…” He shrugged. “I had no choice.”

  “That is our property,” she told Ravyn. “You have no right.”

  “This is a murder enquiry, Miss Swanner,” Ravyn said. “I believe FOG’s files are important in pursuing the investigation. The information will be treated as strictly confidential and will not be disclosed unless it has a direct bearing on the case. You have my word on that.”

  “And what good is that?” she demanded.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Ravyn said. “Please go with Sergeant Stark. Afterwards, we’ll arrange transportation back to Little Wyvern.”

  “We can take care of ourselves,” Agnes said.

  “As you wish,” Ravyn said as he turned away. “Good day.”

  Stark looked after the detective. He wished he knew what had happened in his meeting with Heln, what had been said about whom, and whether his name had come up at all. He devoutly hoped it had not, but he could not deny the burning sensation of his ears.

  “If you’ll come this way, please,” Stark said.

  They entered a small, ill-lit room devoid of furniture, slightly longer than it was wide. On the wall across from the door were heavy curtains. Beneath the curtains was a round metal speaker and a toggle switch. When they were ready he drew the curtains back.

  Penworthy stood behind a sheet-draped trolley. A nod from Stark, then she pulled back the covering, exposing the head and upper shoulders of the dead man.

  “Oh my God!” Pettibone gasped. “It’s Mr Gaites.”

  Agnes groaned. “We’ll never get our money now.”

  “For the record,” Stark said, “you’re identifying the body found in Pooks Wood as that of the man you knew as Jameson Gaites? That correct? Both of you?”

  They nodded. “Yes,” Agnes said. “That’s the bastard.”

  “Thank you,” Stark said. “I’ll take you back to…”

  “We can find our own way out,” Agnes snapped. She grabbed Pettibone by the arm. “Come on, Freddie. We’ve got to go. With the Gala coming up we…” She shot a furtive look at Stark. “Come along, Freddie, we’ve got things to discuss, decisions to make.”

  They flew out the door. Stark stuck his head into the corridor to make sure they did not make any side trips on their way to the lobby. He heard Penworthy rap against the glass.

  Penworthy flipped the toggle on her side. “Sergeant…”

  “You heard them, Doctor,” Stark said. “It’s definitely FOG’s missing benefactor, Jameson Gaites.”

  She held up a paper. “Results from the fingerprints I sent to the Met. He may be Jameson Gaites now, but ten years ago he was Matthew Nevis, burglar, master safecracker and all-around menace to society.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Penworthy lifted the paper. “Scotland Yard is.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Stark closed the curtains. At reception he confirmed with the duty constable that Agnes and Pettibone had indeed departed.

  “Went out with a full head of steam, Sarge,” the constable said. “Impressive as a battleship making for the open sea, with one tug in tow…and a very wee tug at that, if you take my meaning.”

  When Stark entered the chief inspector’s office, he found him staring at his monitor. He was not at all surprised to see how fast the data was scrolling up the screen. All the deep, dark secrets of Little Wyvern, and Stark knew Ravyn would expect him to familiarize himself with them all. For him, that meant hours of intensive study. He was on the verge of disclosing Penworthy’s discovery when he saw at Ravyn’s elbow the fingerprint results.

  “One wall shattered, thanks to Dr Penworthy.” Ravyn paused the scrolling information, swivelled his chair about and handed him the data from Scotland Yard. “Mr Nevis’ background makes him quite interesting to us, don’t you think?”

  Nevis’ involvement with crime began early, apprenticed to his grandfather, Otis Nevis, a cracksman with talented fingers and a penchant for nitroglycerin when a safe’s tumblers refused to divulge their secrets. He took over when the old man retired. He had been suspected in dozens of knockovers, but convictions were obtained only in the Lord Sandaman burglary and in the Threadneedle Affair. In both cases, he had been grassed by police informants, and in both cases the informants later come to bad and untimely ends.

  “Just the kind of bloke to take part in the Hatton Garden Heist,” Stark said, handing the paper back. “I think I read a memorandum that put him on a list. He knew security systems. Nothing came of it, just like the other leads. They thought he might be dead.”

  “He might as well have been,” Ravyn said. “Your background check could not crack the life he created around himself. When he reinvented himself as Jameson Gaites, Matthew Nevis died.”

  “If he was involved in the heist, there was no need to do that,” Stark pointed out. “In fact, it was the worst thing he could do. There was no evidence. All he had to do was ride it out.”

  “Which suggests he was in hiding, but not from the police,” the chief inspector said. “From whom then?”

  Stark shook his head. “Whoever, he did a good job of it. He left no ties at all between old life and new. I couldn’t bust through the wall, as you call it, and as far as my mates at the Yard knew, he was just who he said he was, Jameson Gaites.”

  “Nevis gave way to Gaites, living an unremarkable and very low profile life,” Ravyn mused. “He refrained from any activity that made a ripple on- or off-line, anything that would draw a glimmer of attention to himself. He did so for
ten years, and enjoyed a decade of safety and absolute anonymity.”

  “Then he chucks it all to become Father Christmas to a brigade of ghost-hunting nutters,” Stark said. “He was careful, what with secret meetings and Pettibone sworn to silence, but it’s still coming into the open. Why? Because he’s mental too? I don’t think so, not after ten years of playing it safe and lying doggo.”

  “I agree,” Ravyn said. “The reason is in Little Wyvern, but it has nothing to do with ghosts.”

  Stark pointed at the monitor. “Did you put that on our drive?”

  “I haven’t,” Ravyn answered. “I thought you were busy enough with your other work. I saw no reason to inflict a thousand years of ghosts on both of us.” He paused. “I could, though, if you wish.”

  Stark hesitated. It would take hours simply to read the FOG data, on his own time. He knew what Aeronwy’s reaction would be.

  “As you say, sir, both of us, not necessary.” Stark thought he saw a glimmer of disappointment in Ravyn’s eyes, but, perhaps, also a measure of understanding. “If ghosts are not at the centre of what happened, does this nonsense have real value?”

  “In the Year of Our Lord 1645, there dwelt in the settlement of Little Wyvern, within the ill-regarded County of Hammershire, a man called Hezekiah Boil, a Warlock and Agent of Satan.” Ravyn’s eyes were half-closed, and Stark knew the guv’nor was reciting an account word for word. “The villagers lived in terror, for it was told that he stole and consumed the hearts of travellers, and engaged in all manner of Mischief and Deviltry. For this reason was dispatched the exalted Matthew Hopkins and his good company.”

  “Blimey,” Stark murmured. “He took people’s hearts and ate them? That’s from FOG’s files?”

  Ravyn opened his eyes. “Yes, an account Pettibone came upon during an information gathering trip to London.”

  “Do you think anyone in Little Wyvern knows the Warlock had a taste for hearts?” Stark asked.

  “It’s mentioned in seven oral accounts gathered by the Swanner woman,” Ravyn said. “Four were willing interviewees; the others resisted to varying degrees.”

  “Resistance is futile,” Stark quipped. “Even the Borg would give Agnes a wide berth.”