The Devil's Dice

by Roz Watkins

  I kept my tone even. ‘Can I have a word with you, Craig? Shall we nip into my room?’

  Craig lost his bravado. ‘Whatever.’ He followed me down the corridor.

  My anger had left me and I felt very tired. ‘Craig, have I done something to offend you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was concerned about your welfare. Didn’t want you getting into trouble with Richard. Or over doing it. I know you can be a bit, how would you say it, fragile.’

  Anger sparked inside me again. I suppressed it. Told myself to play the long game. Call his bluff.

  ‘I’m fine. I appreciate your concern. I’d like us to get along.’

  He gave me a confused look which morphed into a smirk.

  I was on a tightrope. I really didn’t want to fall out with him and have him hijacking me. But with men like Craig, there was almost no line between keeping them sweet and letting them think you were weak.

  ‘Since you want to help,’ I said. ‘There’s some number plate data that I’d like you to apply your expertise to. I’ll send you an email.’

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and left the room.

  I sank onto my chair and put my head in my hands. My bump ached and my mind churned with all the different information. I could do without belligerent colleagues to add to the mix.

  I turned to my computer and stared at the information on HOLMES, trying to make sense of all the threads. Several people could have wanted Hamilton dead. But why use the casket, with or without geocaching? And I kept coming back to the carving on the cave wall. No one seemed to know anything about it but I couldn’t believe the matching initials were a coincidence.

  I wanted to see Peter Hamilton’s father and grandmother. One of them must have known something about the carving or the curse. I grabbed my case and headed for the exit.

  Fiona intercepted me on the way out. ‘Guess what? Felix Carstairs’ parents aren’t rich any more. They were Lloyd’s Names.’

  ‘Really? So they lost their fortune in a blaze of sinking ships and asbestosis claims?’

  ‘Something like that. He and Olivia rely on the income from his patent attorney firm just like normal people.’

  ‘And she doesn’t even work.’

  ‘No. If the firm went under due to Peter’s mistakes, they could lose everything.’

  *

  The sky had brightened and there was even a patch of blue up ahead. I wound the window down and inhaled the smell of fresh, rain-soaked countryside. I wished I could shift the feeling of unease that lurked at the back of my mind. I couldn’t help thinking the incident on the steps had something to do with the Hamilton case, as if someone was trying to get rid of me. But no one even knew it was me pushing against a suicide verdict. It must have just been an accident. I rubbed my strained shoulder and took the road towards Bakewell.

  Most of the villages in this area were picture-perfect tourist honeypots of stone cottages and tea rooms. But just a few miles away you’d come upon a remote settlement full of rusting machinery, bags of cement, feral collies, and farmers who’d stare blankly at you as if they’d never previously encountered someone from outside Derbyshire. I was confident Peter Hamilton’s father would live in the first kind of village, but his house actually stood on its own, a symmetrical Georgian pile on the road between Birchover and Stanton in Peak.

  I was met at the door by a nervous-looking woman in her sixties. I showed her my ID and followed her through a gloomy hallway lined with hunting prints (or possibly originals). She led me into a room which was almost completely dark. Thick curtains covered the windows and there was no artificial light. The woman proclaimed into the room. ‘It’s the lady detective to see you.’

  I squinted into the darkness. My eyes gradually adjusted and I could make out oak panelling on the walls near me, but still no person.

  ‘Come over and sit down, for God’s sake.’ The voice emanated from a far corner. ‘Mrs Brown, would you make tea?’

  ‘Can we put a light on?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, oh, yes. He likes the dark.’

  A lamp flicked on and I saw him hunched in the corner. I blinked, not sure if I was seeing him properly in the strange up-light of the lamp; not sure if I was seeing his body or if he was under a duvet or cushions.

  I walked closer. There were no cushions – it was all him. Under hooded brows there was what once must have been a distinguished face. His gaze was still sharp, but his features were engulfed in fat. He wasn’t just a bit overweight – this was a case of Take the Side off the House to Get Me Out When I Die. I tried not to stare.

  I perched on a Chesterfield chair opposite him. ‘Mr Hamilton?’

  ‘Well, I’m Peter’s father if that’s what you mean, but we have different names.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘Yes, there’s no feminist like a seventies feminist, and Lily didn’t want to lumber herself or the children with my name. Can’t blame her really.’

  A musty smell touched the back of my throat, reminding me of Gran’s mouse-eaten attic in her old house. ‘Right,’ I said, wondering just how bad his name would be.

  ‘It’s Laurence Winterbottom. Yes, I was bullied terribly at school. Lily was right not to pass that on.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’ He’d disconcerted me – taken me off my planned initial-words-of-sympathy route. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I said.

  ‘You understand why I like the dark now you’ve seen the size of me?’

  I panicked and attempted the non-committal head wobble they did so well in India. Yes or No or Maybe, or whatever you want me to say. There didn’t seem to be much point in doing the usual thing with fat people and telling him he wasn’t fat.

  He flicked the lamp off again. I could just see his outline in the half light from the slits between the curtains. It was barely light enough to make notes, but I didn’t have the heart to complain.

  A deep sigh rippled through his flesh. ‘Have you found who did it yet?’ The voice was monotone.

  ‘Not yet. I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions?’

  A faint rustling came from behind him. What the hell was that?

  ‘Yes, go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘Er, yes.’ I was distracted by the rustling. ‘When did you last see Peter?’

  ‘He visited the Saturday before he died. With Kate. For afternoon tea.’

  ‘And did you notice anything unusual about him?’

  ‘No, not at all. He seemed perfectly normal. Talked about work and current affairs.’

  I jumped. Now my eyes were fully dark-adapted, I could see a white rat snuggling into Laurence’s neck and another one squatting on the curve of his stomach. The rustling came from an enclosure behind his chair, where several more rats pottered around on wood shavings.

  ‘Meet Frederick.’ Laurence pointed at the rat on his shoulder. ‘And Fosdyke.’ He gestured towards his stomach. ‘They’re friendly.’

  Frederick glanced at me with sharp, pink eyes, then sat on his hindquarters and groomed his face, his bald tail draping over Laurence’s neck.

  ‘Oh. Er… they’re sweet. Unusual pets, though?’

  ‘One of Peter’s clients gave them to him. They were redundant lab rats and he felt they deserved a break. My sons are both rather soft. But Kate wasn’t keen to have them in the house and Mark has too many cats, so they came here. They make excellent pets.’ He turned and made a kissing gesture to Frederick, who stopped grooming himself and nestled closer to Laurence’s face, burrowing into the flesh of his neck.

  Mrs Brown bustled into the room and placed a tray on a table between Laurence and me. She must have had night-vision contact lenses or something. She poured us tea and offered me a plate of flapjacks. I took one. She didn’t offer the flapjacks to Laurence.

  He shifted in his vast chair. ‘Now, what else did you want to ask me?’

  ‘Others have suggested Peter had been depressed recently, or anxious about work, maybe even drinkin
g too much. Did you notice anything?’

  ‘No, he seemed normal to me. Who do you think could have done this?’

  ‘We’re working on that. Did you know he used to visit a cave house in the woods?’

  ‘Where he was found? No. But I’m not surprised. He was fascinated by caves as a child. He was always making up stories about odd creatures which lived in them. Preferred caves to beaches actually, especially after he nearly drowned in Cornwall.’

  ‘Have you ever been to the cave house?’

  Laurence paused a little too long. ‘No. I had heard there was one in those woods but I’ve never been. I’m not disposed to going hiking in woods these days.’ He gave the flesh of his stomach an aggressive poke, as if angry with it. ‘I assume you’ve spoken to Felix. They’ve been friends since they were at Cambridge. Although they drifted apart after that terrible accident.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘Yes, in Cambridge. Did Felix not mention it? I suppose it’s not relevant.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘That sounds like Felix. Never liked the boy much. But, yes, one of their friends was killed. I suppose it’s ancient history now.’

  I looked expectantly at him. He must have known I’d want details.

  He took a deep, wheezy breath. ‘He was killed falling off a roof. You know boys, they can be silly. He was indulging in a spot of night climbing and he fell.’

  ‘How horrific. Were Peter and Felix there?’

  ‘No, he was on his own. Awful shock to them when they found out the next morning. Peter had to come home for a few days. He was most upset.’

  ‘And he and Felix drifted apart after that?’

  ‘Well, yes. Until years later, when they were both doing patent exams.’

  ‘Did they fall out?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what went on. I did sometimes think Peter was bottling something up. He wouldn’t say. Maybe if his mother had still been alive…’

  Frederick snuffled at Laurence’s ear.

  I smiled randomly into the gloom. ‘I know this sounds strange, but it seems Peter may have thought he was… cursed? Do you know anything about that?’

  Laurence was very still. Even the rats paused their grooming activities. ‘No. Of course not. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You’ve never heard talk of a curse?’

  ‘No. I can’t believe you’re asking me this. Peter wasn’t killed by a curse.’

  ‘Okay. I wonder if it would be possible to have a quick word with your mother? Is she well enough?’

  ‘She’s not in, I’m afraid, and she’s not very coherent these days. No, I don’t think there’d be any point in speaking to her.’

  ‘Would she know about the curse?’

  ‘Don’t believe everything my mother says. She’s not really compos mentis any more.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’ll be on the moor. She goes up to the stone circle.’

  ‘How do I get to the moor?’

  ‘I really don’t advise talking to her. She won’t want to see you. It’s a surprise she’s even up. She’s become largely nocturnal in recent years. She wanders around in the dead of night and only eats fish she gets free from the butcher for her non-existent cat.’

  ‘It’ll only be a quick word.’

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Fosdyke gave me a disapproving look.

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ Laurence said. ‘There’s a shortcut across the garden. It’s over the hillock. Mrs Brown will show you. It’s best not to mention my wife, Lily. Mother gets upset. She might have one of her turns.’

  I thanked Laurence and found Mrs Brown, who gave me directions to the moor. Laurence seemed so keen for me not to talk to his mother, it made me especially eager to see her, compos mentis or not.

  Chapter 17

  I pulled my coat tight around me, and followed a path over a bleak, windswept, heather-coated area which led up to the higher ground, where I knew I’d find the stone circle. No sign of blue sky here. The clouds hung low and grey, and gusts of wind whipped through the surrounding silver birches. Something darted in my peripheral vision but when I snapped my head round, there was nothing. My muscles felt taut like piano wires. The knock on the head must have done something to me – I wasn’t normally jumpy like this.

  I paused as the Nine Ladies stone circle came into sight. The stones dated from the Bronze Age and were reputedly created when nine women were turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath, which seemed harsh. Their presence was greater than their size, which was less than waist height. I felt a tightening in my chest, as if I was being squeezed. The place had an eerie stillness. Even the rustling of the trees and the birdsong quietened as I approached.

  A woman stood at the centre of the circle, looking up at the sky. She was straight-backed and, like the stones, she seemed to still the air around her. She turned and looked at me with a cold, bird-like stare.

  Her cut-glass voice sliced the silence. ‘Are you that dreadful woman from social services?’

  Well, that snapped me out of my dreamy state. I walked closer. ‘No, no, I’m the detective. I’m so sorry about your grandson’s death.’

  I held out my hand but she ignored it.

  ‘I’m not eating those meals. My fish is perfectly good.’

  I stared stupidly at my extended hand, before retracting it and stuffing it in my coat pocket. ‘I’m not from social services.’

  ‘I know why he died. Who are you again?’

  ‘The police,’ I said. ‘Do you mean you know why Peter died? Should we go back to the house?’

  ‘You can go back. I’m not. I come up to the moor to get away.’

  ‘What are you getting away from?’

  ‘My family.’

  I jumped as a flurry of leaves spun past. Why had I thought it was a good idea to interview an insane old woman on a deserted moor?

  She stabbed a long finger at my chest. ‘I know I’m old and losing my mind. And I do get confused sometimes. But I remember everything from the old days.’ I saw a glimpse of how she must have been in those old days, her wealth and privilege wrapped around her like a silk cloak – she the lady of the manor and my sort tending pigs or pulling swedes. She was still intimidating, even though she was tiny and frail. Not that size had anything to do with it, as the neighbour’s Great Dane once told me after an encounter with Hamlet.

  She strode surprisingly briskly to one of the ‘ladies’ and leant against it. ‘It’s a bad thing with Peter, but I wasn’t surprised.’

  I followed her over to the stone. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of the curse.’

  The breeze touched the hairs on the back of my neck. ‘The curse?’

  ‘I told Laurence, he should never have married that Lily.’

  ‘So what is the curse?’ I couldn’t believe I was taking this seriously. But something about the old woman and the stone circle on the bleak moor made a curse feel all too possible.

  ‘They’ve been cursed since they accused a young woman of being a witch.’ She spat the words into the breeze. ‘Ridiculous, of course – there were no witches, just women who upset the wrong people, defied the church or stood up to boorish men. They took her to the Labyrinth and…’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Ever since then, terrible things have happened. And that house…’

  I huddled deeper into Carrie’s scarf. ‘What terrible things have happened?’

  ‘People die young. Like her. Died an appalling death, and Laurence never recovered. Look at him now.’

  I remembered the woman in the wedding photo, flushed and happy, and later in a wheelchair. Then missing from the photos. ‘What do they die of?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘What do you mean, everything?’

  She ignored me. Stared out towards the lower ground to the east. The heather shone an unnatural purple in the orange evening light, standing out against the black clouds behind.

  ‘Do you know
about the carving in the cave house?’ I asked. ‘The Grim Reaper?’

  She whipped round and blasted me with a gaze that felt like a punch. I stepped back, my foot catching in a tuft of grass, so I staggered and almost fell. She mouthed something but I couldn’t hear the words. Her lips moved almost as if she was praying under her breath. Then she started coughing. Her tiny frame shook, and I felt a wave of panic.

  ‘Cursed. Still cursed.’ She whispered the words between coughs. ‘And now she’s pregnant. Nothing good will come of that.’

  ‘What? Who’s pregnant? Are you all right?’

  ‘Leave me now.’ She gasped and clutched the stone at her side. ‘Leave me.’

  I took a step away and regarded her cautiously. She stopped coughing.

  I waited to check she was okay, then asked, ‘Who’s pregnant?’

  She waved her arm in a gesture of dismissal.

  I tried again. ‘Was Peter affected by the curse? What happened to him?’

  ‘I’ll say no more,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone now.’

  I did as she asked and walked away across the rough grass, breathing heavily. I glanced back as I lifted myself awkwardly over the stile to Laurence’s house. She looked like a witch herself, standing by the stones. A bird had landed next to her – a crow or a raven. Goose pimples tingled on my arms.

  I rapped on the kitchen door and Mrs Brown appeared. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I felt like I’d seen a ghost. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, and told her about the coughing. She promised to check all was well, and told me to go through to Laurence.

  I tapped on the door and walked into the drawing room, which seemed even darker after the brightness of the moor.

  ‘Did you find her? Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes. She did talk about the curse.’

  ‘Bloody nonsense.’

  ‘What does she mean though?’

  ‘It’s just the ramblings of an old woman. I told you – she’s losing her mind. There is no curse.’

  ‘She mentioned someone being pregnant. Do you know who that would be?’

  ‘Oh, she blathers on sometimes. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘What did your wife die of?’