Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3)

by Heron Carvic

“But …”

  “Don’t worry, miss,” he encouraged her. “With me togged up like this they’ll think you’re part of the act.” Would be too—the Virgin Sacrifice.

  Miss Seeton would have made another protest but her companion laid the flambeau on the ground, lifted the goat’s mask above his head and dropped it into place.

  “Won’t take long, miss,” he mumbled through it. “Soon be over.” Would be too, with all the shavings and twigs they’d packed underneath the branches. And with the edges soaked in paraffin there’d be a thin wall of flame all round in a moment, which’d hold her in place till the bonfire got going. That’d make her foot a caper or two—like a cat on hot bricks. Fun. Pity he couldn’t stay to watch the end. The mask equally was made for a bigger man and Basil was finding vision difficult. He stooped for the torch, fumbled with matches and succeeded in lighting it at the second attempt. He moved forward with caution, grasping the robe with his free hand as his feet felt for the log steps. He found them and mounted. So—here went. The jig was on.

  His arrival on the platform, with the blazing torch held high, was acclaimed with fervor by the members of the cult. Miss Seeton, who had followed and was trying to see past him, gazed in astonishment. Between thirty and forty men and women, masked as they had been at the church, fell on their knees and bowed their heads to the ground. They had been eating and drinking, but this was now abandoned. They staggered to their feet and, holding hands at arms’ length, they began to weave counterclockwise around the rostrum in a stumbling caricature of a dance. Circling, they chanted:

  “Tantalus and tantal me,

  Tantal them and tantal thee.

  Up one, down two, three or so—

  Round and round about we go.”

  Well, really. Miss Seeton was shocked. Most of them had very few clothes on, and some none at all. So stupid. Apart from the silliness of the whole affair, on a late September night like this didn’t they realize they’d catch bad colds? Still unsure what she was supposed to do, she looked to her companion for guidance. He ignored her and, stalking to the edge of the platform, brought his torch down in a sweeping gesture. A thin sheet of flame shot up from the parafined logs. He stepped back satisfied and turned, prepared to jump off at the rear. He would light that edge as he went, leaving the old cow boxed in by fire. Then he’d throw the torch to the center and the prepared twigs and shavings below the structure would set the whole thing going within seconds. If anyone ever did get on to what happened it could be put down to the old bag’s nosiness in climbing up where she wasn’t wanted, trying to have a look-see. Just an unfortunate accident.

  Unfortunately for Basil Trenthorne, an accident had already occurred. His sweeping gesture had been his undoing. The torch had touched his robe: it had caught alight. The jig was on indeed and Basil footed it. His antics only worsened his condition. Punitive flames reared to envelop him: the papier-mâché mask began to burn. Shrieking, he slapped at his clothes. He dropped the flambeau and flung himself down, landing on the flame and smothering it. The torch went out, but not the man. Writhing and rolling in agony, he set fire to the shavings beneath the ill-secured branches.

  The screams roused Miss Seeton from a moment of fascinated horror. Throwing down her handbag and umbrella, she dragged off her coat and flung it over him, trying to beat out the flames, but the flames forced her back. She must get help—at once: it would all be alight… . She looked about in desperation. Fire had raced round the oil-soaked edges and she stood as Basil had intended within four walls of flame. What were those idiotic people doing? She couldn’t see them, but they must be there… . To reach them … Something to protect her head—her coat was gone—what could she …? She snatched up her umbrella, opened it and, holding it close before her face, ran to the side. At the edge the blast of heat made her falter. Forcing herself, she stepped forward into flame, she missed her footing and she fell.

  chapter

  ~18~

  Potter was the first in the village to notice the distant glow. Restless at being taken off his beat, which although he had entire confidence in his colleagues he could never feel was performed with quite the same understanding and perspicacity as when carried out by himself, he had preferred to keep an eye on things by staying outside Sweetbriars and out of the way of the superintendent, who grew more grim as the hours passed. He went in and reported:

  “Bonfire Iverhurst way, sir.”

  Delphick was indifferent. “Not unusual this time of year, is it?”

  “No, sir. But ’twould be odd for them to be lighting it at midnight. May be no more’n a flare-up from one that was damped down, but there weren’t a sign of one when I passed earlier. And a couple o’ miles is far enough for a flare-up to be seen. Doesn’t look to be near any of the farms—more south I’d say.”

  Midnight? The witching hour. A fire? Delphick’s interest was roused. “Any way we can pinpoint it? I don’t want to risk leaving here and being out of touch on some wild-goose chase.”

  “You could give Sir George a ring, sir. He’s got a fine pair of glasses and from the attic of the Hall he’d locate it quick enough.”

  Delphick telephoned. While he waited for Sir George to ring him back he went up to Miss Seeton’s bedroom, but even leaning out of the window at the rear he wasn’t high enough to see more than a pink reflection in the sky. The telephone called him downstairs. Potter handed him the receiver.

  “Sir George, sir.”

  Sir George was definite. “No bonfire, Superintendent—it’s the wood by Iverhurst church, and from the look of it, spreading. I’m ringing the fire brigade. Need some blankets and staves for beating, and get out there meself. Tell Potter to stir up the village lads—may need ’em.”

  Delphick gave Potter the message. “Sir George seems worried. You know the conditions. How serious could it be?”

  “Bad, sir. After three weeks of dry like we’ve had it’ll go like kindling.”

  “Right. I’ll ring headquarters while you rouse some men, and we’ll be off.”

  The superintendent found that headquarters already had the news. Two of the mobile units had radioed and fire engines from Brettenden, from Ashford and from Rye were on their way. He hurried outside, to find the village was astir, with Potter giving the men instructions. People in hastily donned attire were coming from their houses; cars were being backed out of garages. A fire—and at Iverhurst—was far too good to miss. The Reverend Arthur Treeves, nightshirt tucked into trousers, a coat over all, bare feet in stout unmatching boots, trotted to Delphick’s car, threw a horseblanket and a broom into the back and clambered after them.

  “You’ll give me a lift, Superintendent,” he assumed.

  Unwillingly Delphick nodded and started the engine. The reverend was too old for this. He glanced up. The sky was now hazed more orange than pink and turning red. Potter directed Stan Bloomer into the back with Arthur Treeves and leaped for the front seat as the car began to move. Behind them straggled a motley stream of cars and vans and bicycles. A message came through on Delphick’s radio from Sergeant Ranger: bad fire about a mile inland. The Water Guards said it must be Iverhurst wood; spreading fast. Should he return or stay at Judy’s Gap? Stay, Delphick decided. Get back to the boat and carry on with the patrol. If there was anybody at or under the church and his guess about the tunnel connecting with it was right, they might well break that way.

  The superintendent parked off the road well short of the church, behind two patrol cars. Even at this distance he was inclined to question the cars’ safety. The sight had been awe inspiring on their approach, with the old church outlined in defiance against the inferno of its traditional enemy. The roar of the furnace ahead of them had swallowed the beat of the car’s engine, but when they pitched out and ran forward to join the four patrol officers at the far side of the graveyard, who were beating with cut branches at upstart flames from sparks and debris carried on the wind, the effect was humbling. How could a man, or many, control an element? The dr
umming clamor was accented by the hiss and spit of oozing sap; the splintering, the crack, the crash as trees discarded tortured members.

  The church? Delphick questioned. Searched and empty, he was told. The superintendent suppressed a feeling of sickness. If—if anyone had been in the wood when this started … and the speed at which it had spread … it was too late—far too late to worry anymore. Concentrate on what could be saved. The church. He still believed that somewhere below it or near it must be the Nuscientists’ Secret Place. Try if it was possible to save the fools from roasting there.

  People were arriving and forming into a line organized by Sir George. Women, many with children, were grouped at a distance to enjoy the fun. A police motorcyclist reported that a car was ablaze by the trees on the far side of the wood. He thought the car was empty but the heat had been too intense to make certain. He’d managed to read the number and it was the car there was a call out for and he’d wirelessed H.Q. The first of the fire engines arrived. Delphick, already smoke begrimed, his clothing singed, left his place to the motorcyclist and went to consult with the firemen’s chief. What was the water situation? Bad enough; only the one well and little enough in that after weeks of dry. Best to concentrate on the church then, Delphick suggested.

  Brinton drove up, followed by two more squad cars from Ashford, the men piling out to join the fire fighters.

  “You heard about the car?” asked Brinton.

  “Yes.”

  “She might’ve got out in time.”

  “Then where is she?”

  Brinton eyed the conflagration. There was nothing more to say.

  Miss Seeton got to her feet. How very stupid to have forgotten that she was on a platform and that there would be a drop. She might easily have twisted her ankle. She turned quickly to the rostrum and gasped. It was by now a swaying mass of flame. It was—there was nothing—nothing that one—that anyone could do.

  “Hey.”

  Startled out of her distress, Miss Seeton looked around. A young man buttoning his shirt and trying at the same time to pull on a jacket was running toward her.

  “Hey,” he repeated. “You’re the one we tried to snatch the bag of. Miss Season or something.”

  “Seeton,” corrected Miss Seeton automatically.

  “You’re in with the cops or some sort of cop yourself or something, aren’t you?”

  “No,” said Miss Seeton.

  “Look,” he demanded eagerly, “when we get out of this—I’ll show you the path we hacked to the church, and help all I can—will you put in a word for me? I’d nothing to do with it. I didn’t bargain for any killing. I’ve nothing against the racket, and pinching money off the suckers, but murder … I swear I knew nothing about it. Duke and N. must be crazy. Basil would never’ve tried it off his own bat. And then the silly fool goes and makes a bonfire of himself. There’ll be one hell of a funk when Ma Trenthorne gets wind of it; they’ll be handing out lifers all—”

  Miss Seeton, who had understood little of this appeal, cut him short. “Do you mean to say you stood there and watched someone burn to death and did nothing to help?”

  “How could I?” he protested. “I—I’d nothing on. And you followed him up there. I thought it meant a cop, that the gaff was blown, and we’d all be copped. I went for my clothes quick. By the time I cottoned to what the fool was up to it was too late. There’d been a tip that this was going to be a slap-up do with a virgin sacrifice and all the trimmings, but I swear I thought it’d only be a chicken—they’ve used ’em before. If I’d …”

  They? Miss Seeton had almost forgotten her surroundings in the shock of what had taken place. She looked about her. Men with animals’ heads, women with masks, all half or wholly naked, still held hands and pranced around Basil’s funeral pyre, still chanted:

  “Up one, down two, three or so—

  Round and round about we go.”

  “What’s the matter with them?” She was incredulous. “They must be mad.”

  “Doped,” the young man answered. “They don’t know it but the wine is always spiked a bit to help them get the spirit of the thing; that’s why I never touch it. I don’t go for witch stuff and sabbaths. Me, I’m from Nuscience; I just came along for the ride and a bit o’ free skirt.”

  “But,” Miss Seeton expostulated, “they must have seen what happened. They—”

  “They think it was meant: the sacrifice walks out of the fire and the Devil burns himself and then he’ll ‘come again.’ Historical stuff. They’re happy as be damned—think it’s all for real.”

  There was a crash as the platform collapsed. Flames shot high and blazing wreckage was thrown among the happy damned. Undeterred, they capered on, apparently immune to burns; breaking hands to stoop and snatch up smoldering pieces, throwing them far and wide. Above them the trees had caught: now dried bracken in the undergrowth smoked, then broke to flame, igniting dead branches, drying leaves. Within moments fire was everywhere.

  “For God’s sake.” The young man grabbed Miss Seeton’s arm. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of this.”

  “But”—Miss Seeton looked at the madcap dancers—“we can’t leave them here.”

  “Who cares? Let ’em burn if they want to; I’m off.”

  “You …” They couldn’t leave. These people were sick, irresponsible. Somebody had to … Somehow she must make him help her. Help. She remembered. She faced him with authority. “You said you wanted my help with the police. Very well then, I will, if you’ll help me now. But if you don’t, I’ll—I’ll report you,” she threatened.

  He hesitated, moved and caught one of the women by the hand. “Come on,” he shouted, “all of you. Out of this. Follow us.”

  The woman came to him willingly, clung to him, tried to make him dance; fumbled with the buttons of his shirt; putting her arms around him, she pressed herself against him. The pupils of her eyes were dilated, all sense of time, of place, direction as confused as was her ecstasy. They tried with one after another. All the members of the cult were docile, amorous and cloud-ridden, but always when released returned to their frenetic ritual.

  “It’s no good,” the young man gasped, “we’ll have to leave them.”

  Miss Seeton looked around in desperation. She had allowed the fire to stampede her once; now she must think. There must be some means, if only one could work it out logically and calmly. Her surroundings were not inducive either to logic or to calm. Improving on Mrs. Beeton’s dictum, in her tome on household management, that fire can burn both up and down, this fire had spread in all directions. Except for the clearing in which they stood, fire was everywhere for as far as she could see. The whole wood by now appeared to be ablaze and the heat was becoming intolerable. These poor creatures seemed only to want to hold hands and dance. Very well, they should and she would lead them.

  “Tie them together by the wrists,” she ordered, “and put something for a lead on the front one that I can hold, then if I go ahead they’ll have to follow me, and you stay at the back to keep them moving and make them stay in line.”

  Instinctively Miss Seeton had found the way to deal with him. Nuscience rules were strict and the youth was used to discipline, trained to obedience. The schoolmistress was accustomed to unruly children and some semblance of order soon emerged. The young man foraged, pulled laces from discarded shoes, found ties, tore clothing into strips. Looking down, Miss Seeton found that she still held the metal frame of her umbrella, to which clung scraps of melted nylon. She dropped the useless skeleton and, joining her new pupil, set to work. Between them they got their wayward company strung in line. An elastic belt from someone’s trousers, tied round the wrist of the first woman they had caught, gave Miss Seeton the leading rein she needed.

  “Now show me,” she demanded, “this path you spoke of.”

  He pointed. To the south of the clearing an opening showed where a way had been hacked through the undergrowth. It was roofed and walled by fire: errant flames continually flic
ked across it. It was frightening; but by comparison it was clear and it was the only means of egress that they had. The young man took off his jacket and hung it over Miss Seeton’s free arm.

  “Use that to protect your face and for God’s sake get going.” He ran to the back to try to keep their charges in formation. Miss Seeton hesitated. Some word of encouragement she knew was needed, but all that came to her mind was the voice of the games mistress at the little school in Hampstead.

  “Line up behind me,” piped Miss Seeton, shrill but inaudible, “and forward STEP.”

  Progress was slow and erratic. The heat, the spitting and the crackling, the smoke, the smell of singeing cloth. The poor young man’s coat … good cloth … seemed … waste … The pain from flames that licked at her hands and legs was fuzzling Miss Seeton’s mind. All sense of urgency was gone and only deep-rooted determination kept her on her way. These silly people positively seemed to want to run into the fire. She had tried turning around to shout at the woman behind her, but her voice was drowned by the noise that raged about them and now she saved her breath since even shallow breathing in this inferno hurt one’s chest. Her recruit, acting as whipperin, was up and down the line like some unpracticed sheepdog, snapping and snarling at intractable members of their flock. Thus, with Miss Seeton half running, stumbling at their head, this strange concourse, inspired by the example of the Devil, their master, caracoled and chanted through the hell of which they dreamed.

  chapter

  ~19~

  Down in the Secret Place the atmosphere was becoming close, already a little hazy, heat and smoke were seeping through the air vents; there was a susurration, distant still, but growing; there was a suggestion of burning. The Nuscientists looked at each other, wide-eyed and questioning. Had it started? Was this the beginning of the end? How right they’d been: how right the Master. They gazed with satisfaction at the padlocked box, not unlike a coffin made of plastic, that held their valuables. As the noise and the smell of fire increased, they increased their practiced single-nostril breathing and their unpracticed prayers.