Dark Coven

by Nick Brown

  The door was opened by a tearful Margaret Trescothic, and the tears weren’t faked: from the puffy redness of her face it was obvious that she’d been crying for hours. They were shown into the Gathering Room that Viv remembered from the previous time. Inside the room, sitting on a sofa by the window, was Olga but she’d not much time to register anything else as the occupant of a sofa on the other side of the room swept across the room and kissed her on both cheeks before she was able to prevent it.

  “Seems like you’re following me around, honey; should I be flattered or worried by that?”

  Claire was wearing a floor length clingy black dress appropriate for visiting a coven; she radiated pleasure and confidence, looking Viv straight in the eyes and giggling. Round her neck Viv noticed a thick necklace with links of what looked like stumps of ivory from different ages. Claire must have noticed her staring.

  “Don’t you just love it? There’s not anything like it; an heirloom or a series of heirlooms. Now it’s been bequeathed to me. Seductive isn’t it?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, just expelled a peal of laughter before saying:

  “I’d better go, things to do, people to see, you know how it is?”

  She kissed Margaret and waved across the room to Olga who deliberately ignored her, causing another giggle. As she passed Viv on her way out she said beneath her breath:

  “We must stop passing like ships in the night, don’t you think?”

  Then she was gone, leaving Viv feeling strangely aroused and the room seeming empty. Claire had made no attempt to acknowledge Theodrakis, who Viv noticed had crossed the room to sit next to Olga, while Margaret stared tearfully at the space where Claire had been.

  There was no purpose in interviewing Margaret; they couldn’t get anything out of her beyond a series of variations on:

  “I can’t believe he’s gone like that, it was never meant to end this way.”

  And:

  “If it wasn’t for Claire I don’t think I could hold myself together.”

  Neither of these constituted effective use of police time, so, after explaining the process that would have to be completed before she could identify the body and arranging to speak when she was feeling more stable, they settled on interviewing Olga.

  She was surprisingly straight forward and cooperative, particularly with Theodrakis when he asked why she and Reverend Joyce had come to find the body.

  “I’d asked Ed to meet there because it was away from prying eyes: rather ironic in view of the way things turned out.”

  Viv had conducted enough interviews to recognise when an interviewee was prepared to talk, and to whom. She motioned to Theodrakis to continue.

  “Why? Why did you feel the need to meet with Joyce? Is there something bet…”

  She forestalled him.

  “No, there’s nothing between us: well, not in any way that you’d recognise, although beneath the smarmy surface he’s an attractive and sensitive man and that’s some compliment coming from someone who doesn’t like men much.”

  “So, why meet there?”

  “Because, like me, he feels there’s something more to this than just a series of motiveless killings. He was involved with what happened at Skendleby, you should talk to him.”

  “We will, but please continue.”

  “There’s something about Skendleby that makes bad things happen, makes them recur over and over again. Ed stumbled across evidence of incidents throughout the years in his research. Let me ask you a question: what do you know about Lisa Richardson?”

  Theodrakis looked blank and Viv answered for him.

  “She was responsible for some of the non-fatal attacks last year and was sectioned into a psychiatric unit. For a time there was a suggestion that her activities were linked to the other attacks, but there wasn’t evidence for that. Then we received the full confession for the attacks from the homeless man who later killed himself in custody.”

  She saw Theodrakis roll his eyes at the mention of the confession and was temporarily thrown off her stride. After a pause, Viv continued.

  “After that we were able to treat her as a patient not a criminal. She’d been the victim of abuse which tipped her over the edge, but she’s made a complete recovery.”

  Olga looked sceptical, replying:

  “I hope you’re right because on the recommendation of the Vanarvi women, who I notice you seem to be on such good terms with, she’s about to join our community.”

  Theodrakis asked:

  “And you don’t think that’s a good idea?”

  “No, I think it’s a very bad idea, particularly now. But I think you should look into Lisa’s relationship with Claire Vanarvi.”

  She paused before asking:

  “Or, has she cast some type of spell on you like she has over everyone else?”

  Although the reply was aimed at her, Viv saw that Olga’s eyes were trained on Theodrakis as she spoke; she was thinking of a response when to her surprise Theodrakis said:

  “Thank you, Ms Hickman, that’s all for now but we will need to see you again for a formal statement. Oh, and by the way, what happened to your hand?”

  Viv saw her eyes narrow like a cat’s as she stared at Theodrakis before answering:

  “I hit a man. It was an act in defence of someone else. I can supply witnesses and can assure you there won’t be any complaints about it.”

  “Not an act of defence like the one that put you in prison ten years ago I hope?”

  “No, not like that.”

  Watching the conversation, Viv had the feeling that beneath the surface of words there was something else that she couldn’t understand happening between the woman and Theodrakis. Then Olga spoke again:

  “So, now that I think we can agree that I’ve been eliminated from your list of suspects, let me give you some advice.”

  She looked first at Viv.

  “You need to be very careful; you can’t just walk away from this: you’re being sucked deeper and deeper into something you don’t understand. While you…”

  She shifted her gaze to Theodrakis.

  “…You are in greater danger because you do understand. Or at least understand enough to make you a nuisance, but not enough to protect yourself. I can see from your eyes that you recognise what I’m saying. I don’t think any of us is safe.”

  Chapter 19: Agents of Gramarye

  The dead man’s face kept appearing every time he closed his eyes; the awful gaze staring out of the pallid flesh. So Ed couldn’t sleep and in the early hours he gave up trying. Since then he’d sat in the kitchen drinking tea and waiting for the dawn. At first light he pulled on his jacket and crossed the graveyard to the church. Outside it was cold with a crisp, white hoar frost. Inside the church it seemed even colder, and certainly much darker. He ignored the light switch and groped his way down to the front pew where he went down on his knees to pray. But he couldn’t, it didn’t always work, but at least the effort crystallised his thinking.

  He was sure now. It was stirring, but had it anything to do with him this time? Maybe it was someone else’s problem. He hadn’t felt haunted and, apart from Carver, hadn’t felt threatened. And with what was going on at the Hall, Carver must have other priorities. He hadn’t been bothered by the shadowy, disarticulated presence that haunted the churchyard and estate wall the previous winter. It seemed to have been replaced by the jogging Mrs Carver who, if not much more friendly, couldn’t be considered threatening.

  So, his service for quieting the restless dead seemed to have worked. The mound was dormant and the crows had gone. Then he remembered he’d seen them when Olga had felled that reptile Gifford with one blow.

  He sat back and stared up into the distance at the much-repaired medieval roof, indistinct in the half light. But logical thinking worked no better than the attempt at prayer had. He was agitated and restless, knew he wouldn’t be able to settle to anything until he’d spoken to Olga. But it was still too early to do that: too
early and maybe wrong. He should have confided in Mary. What was he getting himself into? He felt guilty and fretful about this, but it was too late now.

  He decided to walk for a while then take Mary her breakfast in bed and see if he could find a way to clear all this up. He left the church and took the path that followed the estate wall, cutting across the cricket ground and circumnavigating the mound. The sun was rising through the bare winter branches to the east, the air was cold and pure and no one else was about. By the time he’d finished half the circuit he was feeling better and paused to lean against a fence to look back across the Skendleby mound at the church, his church.

  The high spire covered in frost rose above the dark of the tree line, sparkling in the rays of the rising sun - even the mound seemed benign. He was aware of someone approaching him at speed and turned round to see a figure in a skintight, bright orange running suit. He recognised Carver’s wife and mumbled good morning without expecting any response. So he was surprised and almost childishly gratified to receive a cheery “Hiyaa” in return as she flashed past. Perhaps the Carvers were no longer determined to persecute him.

  It was quiet, no birds, and he was relieved they’d gone. It still made him shudder when he remembered how they’d swarmed over him, pecking and clawing, smothering him as their foul breath filled his nostrils. He understood now that in some way they’d been helping him, giving him strength. But he also knew that this was against their will, as he’d felt their hate and rage. He took a few deep breaths and was about to continue his circuit when his phone signalled he had a new text - “Ed, can you talk?”

  It was from Olga and his heart rate rose as he pressed the button and heard her phone ringing. She answered at once.

  “That was quick, Ed.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, I’m out walking. How are you?”

  “How do you think? It feels like everything’s falling to pieces here. You certainly wouldn’t sleep in this house. It seems like every big black bird in the universe has moved into our trees. The bloody things never shut up and they’ve got to your archaeologist friends, seem to be freaking them right out. But listen, I need to talk to you.”

  “Ok, go ahead.”

  “No, not on the phone, Ed, we have to meet.”

  “That might prove problematical, Olga.”

  “Fuck off, Ed, you know what’s going on. We have to meet, something’s really wrong, you know what I mean! Really wrong.”

  He knew it was, knew there was no going back, only forwards.

  “Yes, of course, where would you like to meet?”

  “Where the documents are. I need to talk to you and see them.”

  She sounded rattled, worse than him in fact.

  “But they’re archived in the Rylands.”

  “Can you access them?”

  “Yes, I’ve a reader’s card.”

  “Ok, I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”

  He rapidly thought through his day’s commitments.

  “The best I can do is about two o’clock. I’ll meet you in the cafe on the ground floor.”

  She hadn’t seemed happy at having to wait. He felt a twinge of guilt; when he’d last seen her at the murder site in Lindow she’d been close to hysteria. This was followed by three rapidly succeeding thoughts, each worse than its predecessor. The day was colder and a drift of cloud spreading from the west was occluding the sun.

  His cognition of the weather was replaced by a shard of mortification. He wouldn’t be able to unburden himself to Mary now, he was going to meet Olga which meant he’d taken another step down the road of deception. His mind then leapt crazily back to Lindow. Why had she taken him there? There, to the exact spot where the body had been hidden. Who’d wanted the man dead? Who’d benefited from that death? The women in that house, the women who’d thought the victim, Margaret’s embittered ex, was behind the nasty attempts to frighten them out. He tried to block out the next thought but couldn’t.

  Which of the women benefitted the most? He knew the answer to that. The woman who had succeeded Ken in Margaret’s bed: Olga!

  He began to walk quickly back to the church, trying to find something positive in all this. It wasn’t easy but just as he was walking through the lych gate of his church like a miracle he was hit by a wave of hope, maybe his unformed prayer had been answered.

  Claire! Claire was with the women, he could go to Claire. She would make everything right.

  *******

  Olga was already in the cafe when he arrived, halfway through a second coffee and a large slab of Victoria sponge cake, and hard to miss. He wondered again what was he doing here but she’d seen him and was waving in his direction. He wandered between the other tables towards her, recognising in her eyes the expression of need, tinged with vague hope, that he’d seen in the faces of so many parishioners over the years. Need and hope which, in almost all cases, he’d failed to provide.

  “Sorry to have dragged you all the way out here, Ed, but things are getting pretty desperate and I needed someone I could trust.”

  The thought that things must be going badly with Margaret struck him.

  “Can I get you a coffee?”

  He didn’t want one but her trip to the counter would give him some time to think how he was going to play this.

  “Here you are, medium Americano, no milk.”

  He hadn’t thought of anything but it wouldn’t have helped if he had because she got straight to the point and the comfortable, everyday atmosphere of the café, with its postcards, mugs and the type of stuff pedalled in any upmarket museum, shed their glamour of normality.

  “Something’s manipulating us; I don’t think our community is what we thought it was. I think we might have been lured there to fulfil the purpose of something else.”

  Listening to this a year ago, Ed would have recommended a visit to the doctor and anti-depressants, but he was a different man now. All the same this seemed a bit radical. He asked:

  “Olga, are you sure you’re not a bit overwrought? Finding Ken in that way must have been a terrible…”

  He got no further.

  “Why do you think that three women terrified of Skendleby would all decide, more or less at the same time, to go and live back there? What type of logic is that? No, it’s rhetorical, don’t answer.”

  He took a sip of coffee and burnt his tongue. Through the glass walls of the cafe it looked as if it were trying to snow.

  “They were contacted, invited. Rose was given details of our community when she was receiving counselling. This personal recommendation was slanted towards her needs. You know, a community of talented women who had been damaged and deprived of their just desserts by men. She was told that there was a vacancy and she should contact Margaret. She was right about that, we were looking for new residents. But how did the counsellor even know about us. When we asked Rose who had given her the recommendation she couldn’t remember and, when she asked, none of the hospital staff knew anything about it. Strange, eh?”

  “Strange but credible, it’s quite possible tha........”

  Olga snapped back:

  “No, it’s not! Just listen, Ed. The next was Leonie. Remember, she was the one who felt she was being stalked last winter; she was scared out of her head. For a time it seemed she’d gone missing. They don’t even have her address at the unit. Then one day she gets a brochure advertising our community. She’s still got it. But there never was a brochure for the house. Why would we need one? We haven’t the heart to tell her. At first she’s suspicious, but then she finds a recommendation from an anonymous friend left on her desk. It says the house is safe and spiritual and gives Margaret’s telephone number. Once she speaks to Margaret of course, she’s sold on the place.”

  “The brochure’s odd, but the note will have been from Rose, surely?”

  “That’s what we thought, but it wasn’t. Rose never wrote it and once you know Rose and what a selfish manipulative cow she is you understand that she’d never w
ant to share the peace of our little family with anyone else. And then there’s Jan, the one you know best, such a sweet girl.”

  Ed thought that if he’d described Jan that way it would have seemed sexist, but as a description from Olga it was just right.

  “The way Jan was sourced was the cruellest of the three. She was badly broken up by a love affair with another archaeologist, a real bastard: Steve.”

  Ed flinched at this description but kept silent.

  “This creep had run off to Greece to escape his responsibilities and somehow seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Then, out of the blue, a letter arrives with a Greek postmark but no address. It says she’s in danger but there’s a safe haven where she’ll be looked after. Suggests that she contacts Leonie. Leonie recommends it so she contacts us.

  “Jenna, Ailsa and I all said no, the house is turning into club for distressed female archaeologists, and of course Rose is dead against it for other reasons. But it’s just after Kelly’s death and Margaret is too kind hearted, so we take her in. To be fair, she’s a good addition, exactly the type of creative, caring woman we need. Now, Ed, tell me, do you consider all that put together as credible?”

  He’d no satisfactory answer to that and what Olga said next floored him.

  “And now they’ve settled in, our mutual friend Claire gathers them together, away from the rest of us, and suggests that, as they’re archaeologists, they might be interested in exploring the house’s past, starting with what may be under the cellar floors. Says it would be a healing project for our community and could turn up something auspicious. What do you make of that?”

  He didn’t know what to make of it and Olga gave up waiting for an answer and changed tack.

  “Why do you think all those birds have moved to the house?”

  He thought he knew the answer to that one but decided it was too undiplomatic to articulate that he believed they were condemned to follow the source of the contamination. By the time he’d thought of an answer she’d moved on again.