Village of Ghosts (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  Heln tapped the end of his biro against the spreadsheet. “I hope so. The man-hours quotient is trending up again. Do you think the chief inspector is using more resources than the case requires?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Stark said. “I doubt it. DCI Ravyn is very meticulous in everything he does.”

  “What did you think of Little Wyvern, Stark?”

  “Sir?”

  “The village—how did it impress you?” Heln asked. “It’s not a difficult question, is it? You were there, weren’t you?”

  “No, sir, I mean, yes, sir.” Stark took a short breath to centre his thoughts, then let it out his nose. “Not difficult. Yes, we were there, for several hours. It’s an odd place, sir, and the villagers are, shall we say, eccentric.”

  “Little Wyvern is bloody peculiar and the residents are bloody lunatics,” Heln snapped.

  “You might say that, sir.”

  “I do say that.” Heln put down his biro, leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and regarded Stark for a long moment. “Did anything happen in Little Wyvern of which I should be made aware?”

  “I’m sure DCI Ravyn will go over the statements with…”

  “I’m sure he will, when he feels he has something he should tell me,” Heln interrupted. “Were there any incidents I should know about? Any conflicts involving the chief inspector?”

  “Nothing to speak of, sir,” Stark said. “It was traumatic for the witnesses. Lies were no doubt told. You know how it is.”

  Heln sat forward, clasped his hands on the desk, and stared at Stark. “It’s been a month since you first stood in this office, hasn’t it? Since that business in Ashford?”

  Stark nodded. “About that, sir.”

  “At that time, I spoke to you about your career, your future in Hammershire,” Heln said. “A choice was presented.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stark said. “It’s not an easy decision.”

  “Isn’t it? You’ve been here long enough to realise Ravyn is out of step with the times,” Heln said. “Service with the Metropolitan Police should have taught you the Twenty-first Century requires a different sort of policing, one more proactive and less reactive. The role of the police is no longer to simply nick villains and toss them into prison. How does that really help society?”

  Stark knew well the value of separating malefactors from those who merely wanted to live their lives free of fear and violence, but he also knew when to keep his mouth shut. Heln was not asking either for his opinion or a debate.

  “We must work to give more people a voice in how we do our jobs, especially when we do not agree with them,” Heln said. “Even when they come from social groups and strata which might seem, at first blush, to be at odds with us. You can see that, surely?”

  Stark said: “To a degree, sir.”

  “Chief Inspector Ravyn does not see it to any degree,” Heln said. “With him, it’s always Us and Them, the Innocent and the Guilty, the Citizen and the Villain. His sort of policing went out with copper buttons and police whistles. Tell me, Stark, what is the primary role of the policeman today?”

  Stark hesitated, then: “To stand between society and chaos?”

  Heln sighed, as if a bright pupil had muffed an easy question on a test. “The role of the policeman in the Twenty-first Century is to be an activist. If we make society more inclusive, less judgemental, people will no longer feel it necessary to act out their frustrations against society. Crime will likely become a thing of the past, and the police will be free to concentrate on more important issues, such as social inequality and environmental concerns. Unfortunately, a dinosaur like Ravyn is incapable of comprehending that simple truth. We know what happened to the dinosaurs, don’t we?”

  Stark remained silent.

  “I understand your loyalty, Stark, but it is misplaced.”

  “I won’t be a grass.”

  Heln gave him a cobra’s smile. “No one is asking you to grass on Ravyn. We simply want to know your activities, what you do, or are asked to do. How can we help you in your career if we do not know what you are doing? Is that asking too much?”

  “I…I’m not sure, sir.”

  Heln picked up his biro and returned to the spreadsheet.

  “You have a window of opportunity, Stark,” Heln said without looking up. “It will not remain open indefinitely. A wise man would act before it closes completely…especially one with a restless wife, and a baby on the way.”

  The computer beeped as it finished its cycle.

  Stark opened his eyes. In his peripheral vision he saw Ravyn at the end of the room, looking his way. He concentrated on the monitor, typing in names and other information. When he looked up, moments later, Ravyn was gone.

  For the next two hours, Stark delved into the criminal, financial and personal histories of everyone with whom they had spoken. Neither Agnes Swanner nor Alfred Pettibone had serious form, just a few trespassing charges, most dismissed, incurred during their ghost hunting activities, and one charge of vandalism, not dismissed, when they tore up a floor in a cottage while looking for a grave that was not there. Even that, however, resulted in only a fine and a payment to the cottager, both of which were taken care of by Sir Phineas. Other than those minor transgressions, Agnes and her little friend were as boring, to Stark’s point of view, as boiled oatmeal.

  Prudence Holloway was indeed the solicitor she claimed to be. She was connected with a large City firm, but had few clients other than the squire, a luxury made possible by a legacy from her late father, one of the founding partners of the firm.

  Huzzah for nepotism, Stark thought. It’s better than working.

  Sir Phineas had two drink driving charges, one involving a damaged pillar post, the other a hapless cow. They resulted only in restitution and fines. His name more often arose in complaints against poaching in Pooks Wood where it crossed his land. There was only one serious charge, involving Cat Wheeler, Sir Phineas’ gamekeeper. On his orders, she discharged a shotgun at a poacher caught ‘disturbing the spirits of the place.’ There had indeed been bodily harm, as claimed by the aggrieved party, a peppering of his retreating bum with rock salt, but the poacher received no sympathy, no restitution, and was fined by the magistrate for poaching and wasting the court’s time.

  Reverend Dickerson Allen was as bland as unsalted oatmeal. A widower and orphan, he entered theological college a decade ago. His own vicar’s recommendation brought high hopes, but he proved unremarkable in his studies and was handicapped by intolerance. A sexton here, a curate there, a verger elsewhere. He was a hanger on, a man on the ecclesiastical margins, a nondescript nonentity. Had not circumstances allowed him to rise from mundane functionary to vicar in a parish no one else wanted, he might have ended his days in an Anglican mission in some godforsaken heart of darkness.

  Despite Stark’s efforts, Jameson Gaites remained an enigma. He knew many who kept low profiles, eschewing social media and avoiding activities that left digital traces, but Gaites barely existed, just a flat in Soho and an account with Commonwealth, blocked without a magistrate’s order. Ten years into Gaites’ life, Stark hit an impenetrable wall, as if the mysterious benefactor of FOG had not existed before then. Through a mate at the Met, Stark learned Gaites had not been in his flat for a fortnight.

  Though they already knew Simon Jones’ shady past, Stark dug deeper, looking for connections between the victim and any others. Nothing turned up in that respect, but one item, buried deep in a life spent skirting the edges of the law, caught Stark’s eye. He read the report and whistled softly.

  “Any joy?”

  Stark almost leaped from his chair. “Sorry, sir, I did not realise you were there. I don’t know if it means anything, but…”

  “Tell me on the drive back to Little Wyvern,” Ravyn said.

  “Back? Has something happened?”

  “Indeed,” Ravyn replied. “A body in Pooks Wood. We’ll meet Sir Phineas at Spectre’s Haven. His gamekeeper wil
l…”

  “Cat…Catherine Wheeler,” Stark said.

  “Yes, she found it.”

  “Perhaps more than rock salt this time,” Stark suggested as he grabbed his coat and followed Ravyn out. He told Ravyn about the poacher’s complaint. “Perhaps it got out of hand.”

  “Doubtful, since she said his chest was opened.”

  “That would seem to put it in our case.”

  Ravyn tossed Stark the car key as they exited into the car park. “The SOCO unit will meet us there as well, then we’ll be conducted to the body. From what Sir Phineas tells me, it’s rather easy to become pixilated in those woods.”

  “Pixilated?” Stark started the engine, fastened his harness, and pulled out of the space. “Another Hammershire colloquialism, sir?”

  “No, but not a common term these days,” Ravyn said. “It used to mean, led astray by pixies, usually occurring to love-struck poets and children, but is now a synonym for confused or crazy. As I said, not commonly used. One might say daft or barmy, but the current generation might think it something to do with computer graphics.”

  “I take it Sir Phineas was not using it in the modern sense?”

  “No, in the old sense,” Ravyn said. “The poacher chased off with a load of rock salt was accused of ‘disturbing the spirits of the place.’ Sir Phineas meant just that—pixies, elves, pookas…”

  “Pookas, sir?” Stark asked, though he tried not to.

  “A kind of hobgoblin.”

  “So, Pooks Wood…”

  “Yes, stories of pookas abound.”

  “And I suppose he thinks the woods are full of ghosts as well?”

  Ravyn smiled. “Wandering spirits. Will-‘o-the-wisps.”

  “I’m beginning to think the whole blasted county and everyone in it is more than a little pixilated,” Stark said, then quickly added: “Nothing personal, sir.”

  “You may be right, Stark.” Ravyn inclined the seat back a bit and let his eyes half-close. “Tell me what you found out about the dramatis personae of our little ghost story.”

  Stark had tried hard not to grit his teeth, knowing this moment would come, but, as usual, he failed. He ungritted his teeth.

  He had printed everything about members of FOG, Ghost Tour attendees, Simon Jones, the vicar, and anyone even on the periphery of events in Little Wyvern. Additionally he had copious notes from telephone contacts. Ravyn would scan the documents upon their return, but Stark suspected it would be more to check his memory, the improvement of which was one of Ravyn’s pet projects. Mentally girding his loins, Stark began to recite, as best he could, a litany of foibles and peccadilloes and commonplace miscellany.

  “You omitted Simon Jones from your findings,” Ravyn said. “I suspect you found something that sets him apart.”

  “It’s something he was interviewed about, so it was not part of the form we uncovered on him initially,” Stark said. “It might not mean anything, but it did seem out of character for him to…”

  “Get on with it, Stark.”

  “Do you recall the Hatton Garden Heist?”

  Ravyn opened his eyes. “Ten years, three months. Fifty million pounds in diamonds and securities, and about half that in cash, taken from the vault of Universal Imports and Holdings. At least two men, possibly three, entered from the roof, disabled one of the most advanced security systems of the day, and, as the saying goes, cleaned them out. It created a flurry of interest, even in Hammershire, since it was assumed the villains would lay low in some out of the way spot. The Chief Constable put us all on the watch, but it came to nothing. The perpetrators remain unknown and no trace of the swag was ever found.”

  “One of the people interviewed by the Met was Simon Jones.”

  Ravyn’s eyebrows arched. “A confidence man and a petty blackmailer? Out of character, as you say, and out of his league.”

  “That’s why it caught my eye, sir.”

  “How did Simon Jones come into the frame?”

  “He was caught on CCTV multiple days in the vicinity of UIH, and in the building twice,” Stark explained. “He passed himself off both times as a potential client, using the name Hiram Maxim.”

  Ravyn chuckled.

  “What’s funny about that, sir?”

  “It shows a puckish humour,” Ravyn said. “Hiram Maxim was the inventor of the Maxim Gun, the weapon that gave Britain an empire. He operated a small manufactory and testing facility at 57 Hatton Garden in 1881.”

  Stark frowned. He could imagine coming across the fact during some kind of research, but not remembering it any longer than it took to read it. He wondered how long it had been since young Arthur Ravyn had read about Hiram Maxim in some aunt’s esoteric library, then decided he really did not want to know.

  “He also invented the ‘captive aircraft’ spinning rides still used in many amusement parks,” Ravyn added.

  Stark sighed, not loudly, but loud enough.

  “What was Jones’ story?” Ravyn asked.

  “That he was merely looking around, doing research for a book he intended to write,” Stark replied. “He wanted to get the ‘vibes,’ as he put it, of a large commercial workplace, what it was like to do business ‘amongst the movers and shakers’ of the financial world.”

  “And the reason for the assumed name?”

  “He was a famous author and did not want to recognised.”

  Ravyn almost choked.

  Stark savoured the moment of surprising Ravyn about anything. “He produced a letter from a publisher expressing interest about a novel of ‘lust and greed in the Square Mile’ and even showed the coppers from the City of London Police some kind of outline and notes for the novel. All rubbish, of course, but what could they say? Nothing illegal about what he did. When they could not keep him in the frame, they had to move on to other leads, such as they were.”

  “The publisher…”

  “Persephone Books, in Bloomsbury now, but Clerkenwell back then,” Stark said. “The letter was legitimate, from a junior editor hired on a temporary basis…very temporary, as it turned out.”

  “Does not seem up their alley,” Ravyn remarked. “Unknown but literate authors, with a minor in feminism.”

  “I suppose Jones always styled himself a writer, even before he churned out those rubbish ghost books,” Stark said. “Guess it comes with the territory.”

  “How so?” Ravyn asked.

  “Jones was a professional liar, and so are all writers,” Stark said. “It follows to form, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s a rather sweeping damnation, don’t you think?” Ravyn said. “Most of the truths I’ve seen written down were within the framework of fiction.”

  Stark looked doubtful.

  “You know that many official reports make J.K. Rowling look like a journalist,” Ravyn said. “Even documents from the Met.”

  As was his nature, Stark took Ravyn’s remark personally, but, going against his temperament, held silent. He knew it was unfair to take the remark in the worst way, but he felt stress from all sides. Ravyn could not know anything about the anxiety he was being put through by Aeronwy and Heln, but how did he know that Ravyn was not playing some game of his own? More than once, Ravyn had sniffed at the reasons for Stark’s transfer from the Met, though he had never asked openly. Ravyn had undoubtedly read the file which followed him from London, but, as the guv’nor hinted, truth was often an elusive quality in such documents.

  “Well, it didn’t come to anything, so Jones was dropped from the enquiry,” Stark said. “I just thought it was an odd coincidence, that’s all.” He paused. “No, not a coincidence. Just didn’t fit in with the kind of man he was, not a big job like that.”

  “Ten years and a few months,” Ravyn murmured, settling back and once more half-closing his eyes in thought. “As you say, Stark, odd coincidences all around.”

  “I don’t see what…” He let the comment fade as he glanced at Ravyn, saw he had drifted into a contemplative state.

  R
avyn appeared to be dozing, but Stark knew an active mind lay behind his half-lidded eyes. He also knew better than to disturb him with idle chatter or pointless questions. Instead, he tried to do what he knew Ravyn was doing, connecting the dots—Stark’s own terminology, not the guv’nor’s. But in doing so he found himself more confused than illuminated.

  A plain wooden sign marked the turn. After a quarter-mile they passed between weathered stone posts, one adorned with a brass plate: SPECTRE’S HAVEN. After a brief winding through deep woods, beneath overhanging limbs and with leaves almost brushing the sides of the vehicle, they came into view of the manor.

  “Looks haunted to me, sir,” Stark said. “But I think that is what Sir Phineas intended, don’t you?”

  “Renovations to achieve such an effect may be the reason why Sir Phineas has little to his name but land and house,” Ravyn said. “I tend to think, however, that his motivations for transforming a Georgian mansion into a Gothic monstrosity are born of sincerity rather than a desire for sensationalism.”

  Stark shrugged. “All I know, sir, I can practically hear the clank of chains and moaning of damned souls from here.”

  The SOCO van was outside the manor house. Sir Phineas and Prudence Holloway spoke animatedly to Angus Powell-Mavins, the head of the Scene of Crime unit. Though they were obviously adamant about something, Powell-Mavins remained calm, his arms crossed, smoke drifting lazily from a pipe. Another van had stopped behind the SOCO unit—Dr Penworthy and her driver.

  “Just in time for the party, sir,” Stark remarked.

  Sir Phineas rushed Ravyn even before he was out of the car. “It is about time you got here.”

  “Calm yourself, Phinney,” Prudence said, though it was unclear whether the advice was issued as solicitor or mother hen.

  “Perhaps you can talk sense to this fellow, Chief Inspector,” Sir Phineas said. “He is being most insolent, on my own property.”

  Ravyn glanced enquiringly at Powell-Mavins.

  “They both want to guide me to the body,” the ginger forensics expert said.

  “I know these woods,” Sir Phineas said.