Beast of Robbers Wood
A DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery
(DCI Ravyn # 3)
by
Ralph E. Vaughan
Dog in the Night Books
2017
Beast of Robbers Wood
©2017 by Ralph E. Vaughan
Contact Email: [email protected]
www.amazon.com/Ralph-Vaughan/e/B001KCJ7MY/
Cover by Ralph E. Vaughan
DISCLAIMER
This novel is fiction. All characters and places, even Hammershire County and its villages, are fictional. No real people or places should be inferred from any of the descriptions. In the rare instances where actual historical persons or places are mentioned, they are used in a fictional manner.
NOTE
Because the characters in this novel are English and the setting is England, I have opted for British English spellings in dialogue and narration. In vocabulary I have tried as much as possible to adhere to England’s national conventions and to regional variations found in Hammershire County and other parts of eastern England. I have tried to do so consistently, and I apologise (especially to my British friends and acquaintances) for any lapses that crept in, despite my best efforts.
Table of Contents
Some Notes on Hammershire County
Prologue
Chapter 1 Watcher
Chapter 2 Missing Girl
Chapter 3 Schoolgirl’s Story
Chapter 4 Pub Tales
Chapter 5 Second Girl
Chapter 6 Historian
Chapter 7 Body
Chapter 8 Found Girl
Chapter 9 Dead Girl
Chapter 10 In Hospital
Chapter 11 Third Girl
Chapter 12 Elder Woods
Chapter 13 Beasts of Robbers Wood
Epilogue
Britishisms for the Bewildered
About the Author
Also by Ralph E. Vaughan
How to Contact the Author
Call to Action
Coming Attractions
Some Notes on Hammershire County
A traveller in Hammershire will note large tracts of primeval forest. In most of England, woods have been extensively developed but not here. A Roman or Druid, transported from his remote period, might find only Hammershire still ‘like home.’ Foresters and farmers take wood from the edges or along well-trod trails, but rarely do axes ring in the forest’s heart. Though Parliament has enacted laws to protect our sylvan heritage, only in Hammershire do they seem effective. In reality, the laws merely ape established customs. Antiquarians and folklorists find hauntings and curses where woods are ‘protected.’ Near Midriven, on the River Orm, is Robbers Wood, once known as Freya’s Forest, perhaps commemorating an old Norse intrusion. Here, we have two legends, one of comparatively recent origin, the other ancient in the extreme. As the forest’s name suggests, it was notorious for highwaymen preying upon travellers on the old London road. The worst of them, Ned Bly, not only deprived victims of their purses but also their heads. Bly’s rapacious career ended in a hangman’s noose in 1837, though folklore holds that his ghost wanders the road still. Older is the story of the Beast, a creature blamed for disappearances over the centuries. None can describe it, only that it has always been there, existing before the advent of humanity. It joins England’s many other phantom beings, such as the Black Dog of Middlesex, the Mystery Cat of Exmoor, and even the infamous Spring-Heeled Jack, all favourites of so-called cryptozologists and ‘Forteans.’ Of the Beast and Ned Bly’s wandering ghost, more people fear the Beast. After all, Ned Bly got his neck stretched, but the Beast is still out there, perhaps sleeping, liable to awaken at any time to begin a new reign of terror.
—The English Counties: The Journeys of an Antiquarian
by Alfred Herron Altick,
James Nisbet & Co., Publishers
21 Berners Street, London
1979 (revised)
Prologue
No one knew the whereabouts of Billy Tremble. He was betting his life on that. The signs he left indicated him bound westward, but he went east. He evaded searchers, some passing within inches of him. Had he wished, he could have cut their throats or stabbed them from behind, but he was smarter than that, smarter than them all. Twice he came within sight of Irongate, but they were none the wiser.
Life in prison, they had said. No mercy. Just as he had shown none to his victims. Life was what they told him six years ago, but now he was free. Yes, much smarter, he thought.
For two nights Tremble travelled through desolate countryside. He stayed away from roadways and even the smallest villages. By day, he hid in barns, one on a deserted farm, the other a place so isolated no one would have heard screams, had it come to that.
At dawn the third day, he came to a forest by the River Orm and a village he did not know. He knew he was in Hammershire County, and he knew that if he followed the winding Orm he would eventually come to Stafford. There, he could find the resources to create a new identity and get out of England altogether.
A road ran by the forest. On the opposite side were old cottages, mostly inhabited, he saw, by pensioners. He thought about breaking into one of the cottages. He had planned to strike out at dusk for Stafford, but the prospect of decent food and a good rest was tempting. In addition to creature comforts, he might also pick up some cash, which would come in handy in Stafford.
He hesitated at taking such an action. The sooner he reached Stafford, the sooner he could put England behind him. Time was against him. Eventually, his false trail would betray him; eventually, the police would turn their search eastward.
There were more immediate dangers. No matter how deserted a lane might look, there was always a frustrated spinster or half-drunk old git with nothing better to do but watch the lane. Half senile or pissed, they would still note all goings and comings by the clock.
Then there was the inevitable mess left behind. Tremble knew what kind of people lived in these one-horse dorps, same as Mum and Dad had been. They kept themselves to themselves, but, even so, someone would eventually come knocking. Or the smell would get bad. Either way, it would bring attention he could ill afford. He would keep to plan.
That morning, a few kids walked the lane, then again in the afternoon. The schoolgirls had pipe cleaner limbs and mascaraed raccoon eyes. He resisted them for the same reasons he bypassed the cottages. But he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully when he saw a duo become one. He liked blondes. Very much.
Later, he killed a coney and ate it, not risking a fire. Tremble kept to the fringes of the woods, within sight of either road or river. He avoided the forest’s heart. He did not like the darkness, the silence or the claustrophobic closeness of the trees.
In the waning afternoon, Tremble made his way to one of the river paths, but a commotion drew him back. Two panda cars were parked at either end of the lane. Men entered the forest. He fell back into the depths.
Tremble did not easily panic, but he came close when searchers moved in. They shouted a girl’s name and he realised he was not the object of their search. He avoided them, moving and hiding as necessary. They gave up at dusk. Tremble was deep in the forest by then, with no clear idea of direction or distance.
He sat on a fallen log, cursing the darkness, the cold, his luck, and the damn fool girl for whom they had searched. There was nothing to do but wait till dawn, get his bearings, and flee as best he could. He also cursed himself for not breaking into a cottage.
Tremble slid off the log and crouched. He barely breathed. Something had moved in the blackness. Pulling a knife taken from one of the f
arms, he listened for a predator’s padding paws. What he heard was a slithering sound, like a snake’s coils passing over loamy earth, whispering through brush.
Were Tremble a prey animal, like his own victims, he would have run, but his nature was as predatory as that which hunted in the darkness. Like all predators, he knew when to attack and when to avoid a fight he could not win. He waited till the sounds faded, then moved away, though he could not tell whether he was moving toward men who wanted to kill him, or deeper into the woods where something hunted him.
Chapter 1
Watcher
The Beast watched two schoolgirls on Flintlock Lane from the edge of Robbers Wood. The Lane traced a great arc along the edge of the forest. It eventually led to Midriven’s centre, but was ill travelled. It was the old road. Newer routes had taken its place. More than a century and a half had passed since any highwayman had taken either purse or head, but the lane still had an ill reputation.
The girls walked on the side opposite the woods. Most leaving Midriven Comprehensive took the main road, two lanes with light traffic, lined with council houses. The cottages along Flintlock Lane were as old as their inhabitants. Separated from the lane by well-tended gardens, those gimlet-eyed pensioners watched for signs of mischief to their properties but little else.
Lisa Martin and Annie Treadwell passed a fag between them, along with whispered secrets and giggles. Neither girl actually liked the acrid smoke, the rawness it brought to throat and lungs, but that was one secret they did not share with each other. Their school ties were loosened, the top two buttons of their blouses undone, and the waists of their skirts rolled so the hems were well above their knees. Annie would get herself sorted out after leaving Lisa, well before her father could see her.
“The Mitchell is such a pig,” Annie said. “It was just a note.”
“No need to go mental,” Lisa agreed. “A pig and a prig.”
“Call to your mum, for sure.”
Lisa giggled. “As if my mum cares. Too busy with herself.”
“And Roger!” Annie squealed, taking back the cigarette.
“Shut up, Annie,” Lisa said, though her words lacked any heat or actual reproach. “Besides, what if she calls your mum and…”
Lisa stopped, hand frozen in the air as she reached for the fag Annie had grabbed. She swivelled her head slowly without turning her shoulders. Her smooth forehead furrowed, her eyes narrowed, and the corners of her mouth dipped.
“What is it?” Annie asked. The dark-haired teen also looked around, but had no idea what she was looking for. “Come on, Lisa. I got to get home.”
“I thought I…” Lisa’s words faltered. She brushed her blonde hair back with both hands, away from eyes and ears. She watched and listened, but she could not say she had really seen or heard anything. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s go,” Annie said.
“It feels like…” Again, Lisa fell silent. She felt an intense urge to run, but fought it. Had she been alone, she would have run, but with Annie watching she did not dare. “Did you hear something?”
“Bloody hell!” Annie dropped the cigarette that had burnt down to her fingers. She started to pick it up, but left it where it had fallen. “What are you on about?”
“I thought I heard something,” Lisa said. “In the woods.”
Annie looked toward the impenetrable mass of Robbers Wood. The gnarled trees were so close together, their boughs interweaving, blocking out sunlight, it was impossible to see more than a few feet before gloom overwhelmed sight. She listened intently. Lisa was not an imaginative girl, rather stupid at times, she thought, so if she said she had heard something, it was likely she had. Yet, try as she might, Annie heard nothing.
Annie shook her head. She finally stooped and picked up the smouldering fag. She blew on it to dislodge the dirt. Its tip flared. She took a deep draw, expelled the smoke as slowly as she could, and offered it to Lisa, who ignored it.
“Don’t be a berk.” Annie was annoyed the other girl did not take the proffered cigarette, but was more annoyed they were still by the side of the lane when she should be more than halfway home. “What? You think you heard Ned Bly’s horse?”
Lisa’s attention was so firmly fixed on the forest, she did not respond to Annie’s snark. Normally, she would have whirled about and punched her friend in the arm. She was not physical with any of her other friends, but there was something about Annie that made her want to hit her from time to time. Inevitably, Annie would rub the injured arm, look hurt, but continue on as if nothing had happened. Had Annie ever actually protested, even once, Lisa might have been dissuaded, but she never did.
“Or is it the Beast?” Annie made her voice sound spooky by drawing out words and varying her pitch. “The Beast is coming to get you, Lisa, coming to take you to its lair.”
The taunt finally penetrated Lisa’s concentration. She whirled around, closed her hand into a fist, and punched Annie’s arm harder than usual. The dark-haired girl staggered back and dropped the cigarette. It rolled onto some wet leaves and went out. Annie rubbed her arm, pushed out her lower lip, but said nothing. A new bruise would form on top of the old, she knew. That, at least, was good, an incident she could cite, should the need arise.
“Maybe I didn’t exactly hear a sound, but there’s something in the woods, back in the darkness,” Lisa said. “I feel it watching us.” She paused. “Watching me.”
Annie plucked at her friend’s sleeve. “If there’s anything there, it’s probably just an animal.”
Lisa shook her head. “No, it’s not that.”
Annie pulled more insistently. She did not believe any of the stories Gran was always going on about, tales of the Beast or the head-lopping ghost of the old highwayman Ned Bly, but they came flooding back in the silence of the moment. She had never liked taking old Flintlock Lane from the Comprehensive, but Lisa always insisted. Here, they could pass a smoke between them without the risk of being seen by anyone they knew.
She glanced at the cottages by the lane. No doubt some of the old wrinklies had eyes on them now, but who cared about that? It was not as if any of them mattered. They were all well past their sell-by dates and kept to themselves. They would not tell anyone anything, and nothing would ever get back to her father.
“If someone is in the woods, so what?” Annie said. “Probably just some queer fish playing silly buggers.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Lisa said. She started walking, Annie falling gratefully into step. “Maybe some wanker gawking birds.”
“If there’s anyone there at all,” Annie said. With any luck, Lisa would hit her again. “Probably just your imagination.”
Lisa stopped and faced the forest. “Sod off, you manky nutter!” She shot Annie a harsh look. “There is someone there.”
Annie shrugged, then followed after her friend.
“Where’s that fag?” Lisa asked.
“Back there,” Annie said. “I dropped it.”
“No use lighting another,” Lisa said. “Not many left anyway. Have to have Roger get me another pack.”
“Your mum know?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Why does he buy them?” Annie asked.
“Because I ask him to.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.” Lisa shot Annie a nervous glance and was relieved when she saw no hint of further curiosity. “That’s all.”
They walked in uncompanionable silence till they came to Maple Walk. The brick-paved path wound up the hill behind the cottages to Water Street where Annie lived. Lisa lived on Autumn Lane, about a quarter-mile further up Flintlock. Lisa hesitated at the branching. Annie looked back.
“Mind if I walk home with you?” Lisa asked. “I don’t want to go home just now. I could use your telephone to give Mum a bell.”
“I don’t think so, Lisa.” She did not know if her father would be at home, but it was a possibility. “It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Lisa sto
od at the intersection, staring up the walk. She seemed small against the dark immensity of the woods behind her.
“Sorry,” Annie said, continuing up the walk.
Lisa waited a moment, then moved on.
Annie took several slow steps forward, then turned, but Lisa was already out of sight. A shout, Annie knew, would draw her friend back, but her throat was frozen. She let the moment pass, then resumed her journey.
* * *
Detective Sergeant Leo Stark crumpled the paper he had found on his desk upon returning from lunch with his wife. It had been tucked under the keyboard, only a corner showing. Before pulling it out, he glanced around. No one was paying him any mind, and Ravyn was still in his office with the ACC. The words typed on the paper were no surprise: The window is almost closed.
At lunch with Aeronwy, he had thought about sharing with her the pressure he was being put under by Superintendent Heln. In the end, he held silent, smiling as he listened to her go on about some colours she wanted for the nursery. He feared the knowledge would cause her and the baby undue stress, but what he feared most was that she would encourage him to accept Heln’s offer. After all, promotion would be good, and who was Ravyn to them?
Out the corner of his eye, he saw DCI Arthur Ravyn enter in the company of ACC Karen Ramsey. Both looked rather grim. He shoved the slip into his pocket.
“Grab your coat, Stark,” Ravyn said. “Going to Midriven.”
Stark took his coat from the hanger next to his desk. It looked like something chucked out the back of a charity shop. His coat, like the rest of his clothes, was clean and serviceable, but its best days were long gone. Since he found it difficult to find clothes to fit a torso too lean, arms and legs too long, and a height well above average, he held on to his suits as long as he could.
Beast of Robbers Wood (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 3) Page 1