by Deryn Lake
‘What’s the matter, little angel? What’s troubling you?’
It was too much. Olivia collapsed weeping against his comforting chest, the lamb running round his feet. ‘There’s been another murder,’ she gasped.
Giles eased her away and looked aghast. ‘Who?’
‘Debbie Richards, that little tot who was a friend of Billy’s. I saw her last night. She was picnicking in the woods and got lost. She came to my house because the lights were on.’
‘My God,’ said Giles softly. ‘I think it’s time for a few vigilantes.’
‘Oh, Giles, you wouldn’t. I mean it’s against the law. And the police are keeping an eye on that area, I can assure you.’
‘I’m sure they are. And no disrespect to your boyfriend, but maybe they could do with a little local backup.’ He picked the lamb up again. ‘Got something stuck in its foot. Limping like a good ’un.’
‘Poor thing. Well, I’m off to the Great House to see Nick. He’s a good listener when it comes to pouring out your troubles.’
‘He is that. I might come down for a lunchtime pint. It all depends on the sheep. Incidentally, don’t say a word about my vigilante idea. I’ve got to consult a few of the lads first.’
‘I won’t say anything. Thanks for being such a good neighbour.’
‘Promised your mum I’d look after you and I never go back on my word.’
By the time Olivia reached the village, the word was out. People were standing in small clusters in the High Street discussing the terrible facts and looking very pale about the gills. Others – the majority – had packed the Great House, despite the fact that it was barely lunchtime, and fortifying themselves. Jack Boggis sat in his usual chair, fulminating.
‘I think it’s time that they reintroduced capital punishment. That’s what I’d do to bastards like child killers. I’d hang, draw and quarter ’em in full public spectacle.’ He drew deeply on his tankard and looked round to see who was agreeing with him. Nobody was, in fact no one was even speaking to him. Nonetheless he continued at full spate. ‘I ask you, what normal man would go round molesting little children and then killing ’em, that’s what I want to know. And it’s no good looking at me like that, young man. I was out in the desert, let me tell you, and I know a thing or two – and I’ve seen a thing or two as well.’ He drained his tankard and set off in a rather wobbly direction for the bar.
Olivia, following him with her eyes, said, ‘He’s truly pathetic, that man.’
Nick answered, ‘I know. But don’t let him hear you say that. He thinks he’s cock-of-the-walk.’
‘Why does that always sound vaguely obscene?’
Nick grinned and said, ‘It’s good that you can still smile.’
‘I don’t know how I’ve got the face to do it after what I’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours.’
‘That’s what makes us human, God be thanked. If every shock and every blow and every disappointment we had ever had removed our ability to smile, then we would turn into a race of ghastly, gloomy gnomes that would plod round the earth in misery.’
Despite everything, Olivia grinned. ‘You vicars have a way with words,’ she said.
‘Happen,’ said Jack Boggis to no one at all as absolutely nobody was listening.
Much later that evening after Tennant had spent hours at the incident room briefing the house-to-house brigade, doubling the strength of the patrol round the fields and calling in Mr O’Hare, who said he couldn’t make it till seven o’clock, Dominic went to see Susan Richards. He had first telephoned the WPC and asked the situation. He had been told that Mrs Richards had been forced to calm herself as her younger child, Jonathan, needed attention. She was currently making him boiled egg and soldiers for his supper. Tennant had nodded, satisfied, phoned Olivia to warn her that he was going to be late and had gone for a quick hike round the fields in order to see for himself the amount of cover they had.
It struck him forcibly, walking round the perimeter, what a fickle creature nature was. Now, standing in the blessed light of a May sunset, with birds calling from the trees, pink and white blossom smothering the branches like a bride’s veils, the air so clear that one could see a leaf drop a mile away, Dominic thought back to the field’s recent history. On Saturday it had been the scene of an historic event, with people dressing up and taking part enthusiastically. Arrows had shot through the air, morris dancers had leapt as one, beautiful maidens had been pursued by the grinning wicked hobby horse. And then douse the candles, put out the lights, and wickedness had crept out of the darkness and killed an innocent little boy. The next night, the same thing. A small girl had been dressed as a scarecrow and her poor wispy head had been bludgeoned in with a spade. And now the hours of darkness were coming once more.
He spoke to Potter on his mobile. ‘Mark, go and see the leader of that longbow team. Get his view on the entry point of the arrow. Take some photographs with you. He will probably be in by now. His address is on the file.’
‘You mean the man from The Closed Loop?’
‘I think they all belong to that but the one that seemed to be in charge, yes.’
‘I’m on my way, as they say in Star Trek.’
‘Thunderbirds Are Go.’
‘Blimey, that dates you, sir.’
‘Oh, God,’ the inspector answered, and rang off.
It was time to end his evening sojourn and go to see the stricken Mrs Richards. WPC Monica Jones – one of the most caring and finest at dealing with this sort of situation – had obviously worked her own particular magic because the house was quiet when he rang the bell. Eventually the policewoman answered it after the brief sound of someone going upstairs.
‘She’s taking Johnnie up to bed and I’ve promised to read him a story so that she can speak to you.’
‘How is she?’
‘Stricken to the heart. She blames herself for some reason.’
‘What about the husband?’
‘Traded her in for a younger model.’
‘I suppose he’s in the Algarve.’
‘Got it in one. He’s been telephoned and he’s flying back overnight. Should be around tomorrow.’
The inspector sighed heavily and at that moment Susan came down the stairs.
‘Hello, Inspector. Go into the sitting room, will you.’
He did so and she followed him in, saying, ‘Do take a seat. Would you like anything? A cup of coffee?’
‘No, thanks. I just hope that you can bear to tell me the story of exactly what happened yesterday evening and night.’
‘I’ll try to. I’m not lying if I say the wrong thing. It’s just that I’m trying to get it straight in my mind.’ Tennant nodded. ‘Well, it’s school holidays as you know and that means that Debbie spends a lot of time playing with her friends. Johnnie joins them sometimes. But not all the time. Anyway, on this occasion he stayed with me and had a friend over to tea. Debbie had gone to Belle’s house for a picnic, to be followed by a sleepover. It seems they went off to Speckled Wood, which is quite pleasant I believe. I don’t know if Belle’s grandmother – she calls her Mummy because it is the only one she has known – went to sleep or what but the two girls wandered off and, according to Debbie, Belle began to tell her the grimmest kind of ghost story, saying the woods were haunted and that there was something like a Blair Witch figure living in them and if she saw them she would kill Debbie. Anyway the poor child was so scared that she ran away and knocked on the door of the only house she could see. It was owned by quite a famous woman, Olivia Beauchamp, some kind of violinist. Do you know her?’
‘Oh yes, we’ve met,’ Tennant answered, straight-faced.
‘Well, she phoned me and I went to get Debbie straight away.’
‘Go on.’
‘I told her that she mustn’t listen to silly stories that Belle told her and that if she went on like that I wouldn’t let Debbie play with her any more.’
She paused, her face flushed and mottled. ‘Would you m
ind if I had a drink?’ she asked. ‘Can I tempt you to one?’
‘Unfortunately not. I’m still on duty, I’m afraid.’
She went to the sideboard and poured herself a treble gin and tonic, then took a seat. She had started to cry again.
‘It’s just the pity of it all,’ she said. ‘Her little dead face looked as if she were only asleep, not finished.’
‘Can’t you try and think of her like that?’ Tennant said quietly.
‘No,’ she screamed at him, ‘no, no, no. That was my child, the creature that started in my womb and which I brought silently into the world. It was such a quiet moment, you see. “One last push” said the midwife and I gave one and I felt her slither out. There was total silence for a moment and then someone said “Give her to me” and I heard them smack her – yes, they smacked her bottom – to make her take that first, vital breath. And now what is it for? She has been snuffed out and there is nothing anyone can do or say ever that will take away the hurt.’
Tennant sat very still, not knowing how to deal with her, wishing that he had a child so that he could know something of the pain she was feeling. Instead he just put out his hand and covered hers, trying to take some of the suffering away from her. She looked at him, her face barely recognizable, so twisted was it with hurt.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You are very kind.’
At that moment WPC Jones came through the door and took in the situation with a glance. ‘There, there,’ she said, going to Susan and kneeling by her. ‘Don’t cry, my love. The inspector has to ask you a few questions just so that we can find this monster and put him away forever.’
Susan blew her nose with vigour. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ She gulped down the gin in one go and said, ‘Can you give me a refill, please.’ Then she turned her poor face to Dominic and said, ‘Sorry, Inspector.’
‘So, Debbie slept at home last night.’
‘Yes.’
‘And she didn’t go out at all that you knew of?’
‘No. I went to bed early and read for quite a long while. I heard somebody go to the lavatory – either Debbie or Johnnie – but I didn’t call out. After that, I slept like a log till this morning.’
‘When you presumably put your head round the door and discovered her gone?’
‘I looked all over the house and found the back door closed but unlocked.’
‘You won’t mind if the forensic team move in for a day or two?’
‘Must they? Why?’
‘There may be vital clues as to where she went.’
‘Or even if somebody came and snatched her,’ put in Monica Jones.
‘But I would have heard them, surely.’
‘Not necessarily,’ the policewoman answered, and her eyes flicked briefly over the gin bottle.
Tennant’s mind was racing ahead. By this late stage, particularly with an active small boy and a frantic mother in the house, most of the evidence would be badly corrupted. But it would be worth a try. Yet who could have crept in so silently and summoned Debbie from her bed? Probably nobody. He imagined that someone threw a pebble at her window until she woke up and looked out. So she must have known her attacker. But that threw the field wide open, from great friend to casual acquaintance. Yet whoever it was must have offered some attraction for the child to go out, her feet thrust into wellingtons, nothing on beneath her nightdress. He stood up.
‘Mrs Richards, you have been most kind and tolerant to allow me in at such a difficult time. I would suggest that you and Johnnie go away for a couple of days while forensics look at your house. That is, if you would like that.’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I want to be around when they turn my house upside down.’
‘As you wish, of course. Goodnight, Mrs Richards. Try and get to bed early.’
‘There’ll be no rest for me tonight. If I go to sleep I might have bad dreams.’
In the hallway he muttered to WPC Jones, ‘For God’s sake keep an eye on her. She looks fit to do anything.’
‘I will, sir, don’t you worry. I’ll sleep at the foot of her bed, if necessary.’
‘As if she were Queen Elizabeth I?’
‘Just as if.’
‘Chamber pot and all?’
‘Well, one must draw the line somewhere,’ answered Monica Jones and smiled quietly.
FIFTEEN
Potter was having a most peculiar time with Nigel Cuthbert-Campbell, who – or so it seemed to the sergeant – dwelled entirely in the past. By day he worked for the council in some capacity or other, but by night, and most definitely at weekends, he buckled his sword at his side, metaphorically speaking, and became Sir Nigel, ruled by strict obedience to the laws of chivalry.
He answered the door to Potter’s knock dressed in a pair of tights which left nothing to the imagination, and an emerald green tunic. Like it or not, Potter’s eyes were drawn immediately to the man’s crotch, which seemed extremely padded out.
‘Come in,’ said Nigel in a voice which should have been fulsome and round but which, instead, was very slightly whiny. ‘And what may I do for you, good sir?’
Potter showed his badge at which Nigel’s face underwent a slight transformation, from merry rat to bad-tempered rodent.
‘What’s it about?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry to have to inform you, sir, that there has been a second murder and we are questioning everybody who took part in the Medieval Fair the other day.’
‘A second murder, you say? Who was the victim?’
‘A small girl called Debbie Richards. She was one of the maypole dancers.’
‘Ah the maypole.’ Nigel was off. ‘An ancient sign of fertility. It represents, of course, the phallus, standing straight and erect.’
Potters eyebrows shot up.
‘While, of course, the hobby horse is the male predator, trying to pull under his skirts an innocent virgin. Could this have been why the child was murdered? At her age she was bound to have been virgo intacta.’
‘I don’t think so, sir. She was dressed up as a scarecrow at the time.’
‘Ah, of course, this definitely has undertones of Wicca. The ancient Greeks used blocks of wood to guard their fields, all carved in the image of Priapus, who was hideously ugly but had a permanent enormous erection. Ever since, the use of men and women made of rags and with, perhaps, a mangel-wurzel for a head, has very dark associations. Very dark indeed.’
‘May I sit down?’ said Potter.
‘Of course, my dear sir. May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of mead perhaps. Very restorative.’
‘No, thank you, I am on duty.’
‘Of course, of course. You were talking about the murders in the cornfield.’
Potter hadn’t the strength to correct him but asked, ‘If I may make so bold, sir, where were you last night?’
God, I’m getting to sound like him, Potter thought.
‘Last night?’ Nigel counted on his fingers. ‘Monday. I was out riding my one-eyed steed named Basil.’
‘Gracious. May I ask where you do this?’
‘Indeed you may. It is over the Downs near Ringmer. I meet up there with fellow knights and we indulge in a small joust and then we repair to an hostelry where we indulge in even further horseplay – if you’ll forgive my jeu de mots – with the fillies.’ He roared with laughter and tightened his tiny eyes.
‘And what did you do after that?’ continued Potter, fighting with his sanity.
‘I repaired to my couch and slept.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, quite alone. There was something boring called the day job looming.’
‘I see. And now I would like to talk to you about the first murder. It was done with an arrow and the victim was a boy of ten. He was fixed to the maypole by the ribbons which were wound round him after his death. He was also standing on something which was removed, presumably, before the winding took place. I would very much like to have your comments on the murderer.’
> ‘Well, I don’t know who it was but I would reckon that the archer must have gone down on one knee to deliver the shot.’
‘I’ve brought some photographs. Would you like to see them?’
‘Like would hardly be the operative word but I shall do so out of a sense of duty.’
Nigel hastily downed another glass of mead while Potter produced the packet of prints. The would-be knight regarded them in a stony silence.
‘Um,’ he said eventually.
‘You have a comment, sir?’
‘Well, the arrow entered straight. In other words, it wasn’t aimed up or down. This means that the archer was definitely either sitting on the ground or had to be on one knee. He was also reasonably short. As for the victim – may God’s mercy receive his soul, amen – he was standing on something – a box, a stool perhaps – which was later removed. Poor little soul. May I suggest that this was a blood sacrifice to ensure the crops go well?’
Inwardly Potter sighed, deeply, but he turned a bright face on Nigel. ‘That is something we are looking into Mr Cuthbert-Campbell. We are aware that there are people who still practise devil worship in this remote country area.’
‘Yes, but are you aware how seriously they take it? It would not be chivalrous of me to mention any names but look no further than the band of morris men who danced at the fair.’
Potter put on his knowing face and nodded, wondering if by any chance the man could be on to something regarding the blood sacrifice. But there was another line of enquiry that he wished to follow.
‘Can you tell me anything about your archers?’
‘In what regard?’
‘Just their general background.’
Nigel sat up very straight. ‘It would be wrong of me to criticize any of my loyal hearts.’
Here we go again, thought Potter, with certain resignation.
‘But of them all, Reg Marney is the most troublesome. The other two, Eric and Alan, are married men.’ Nigel’s little eyes got as close as they ever would to twinkling. ‘Though, of course, like all men of the Middle Ages, they have flirtatious encounters – that is all there is to it – with serving wenches.’