He knew that for that one night, Wylshere was going to bring all the forces he could rally to bear, and that Edmund Wylshere was mad. The fifth elder, confronted with such realities, knew that as a fact.
Behind the five elders, the men in blue marched. Of the nineteen, six were unsure and wanting to leave, but they were well aware that so far that night three had died already, and one word from the chief elder and they would be dead as well. The six were frightened, as was everyone else that marched, that is, apart from Wylshere.
The man could be seen striding forward, occasionally stopping to raise the level of the chanting even higher. ‘We need them to hear us. To come when they are needed,’ he said.
The mob, disparate in their enthusiasm, unwilling individually to show dissension, chanted ever louder, each louder than the other. In the night air, their voices echoed. Up at the village, there were twitching curtains and shaking heads. The uncertainty about who would be alive in the morning was thought, but not spoken.
Of the elders, Saxby wanted to pull out. He could see the vehicles angled across their route in a vain attempt to stop their movement. Outside the front of the church were a man in police uniform and two others, one a woman. He knew that this had gone too far. ‘Wylshere, enough is enough,’ he shouted. The mob halted in their tracks; those outside the church strained their eyes to see.
‘This must continue,’ Wylshere said from behind his bull mask.
‘You cannot go killing the police,’ Saxby said. He was aware that he had committed the unpardonable sin in criticising the chief elder.
‘There is no place for cowards amongst us.’
‘I am not the only one. Speak out all those who are with me,’ Saxby said, turning to face the mob. A shaking of heads.
‘Saxby, you’re on your own.’
‘Nonsense, there are some who want to speak.’
‘They are sensible. They know the punishment.’
‘I am leaving,’ Saxby said.
‘It cannot be allowed. What do you say?’ Wylshere said, addressing the mob.
‘Sacrifice, sacrifice.’ With that, they moved forward, those with staves hitting Saxby, those with knives stabbing him. The man collapsed to the ground.
‘We continue,’ Wylshere said. The chanting recommenced, the mob stepping over the bloodied body of the man who had once been a farmer in Avon Hill.
***
The sight of a man dying at the hands of the mob sent a wave of panic through those at the church. Even though their visibility had been restricted, it had still been enough.
Tremayne, the most resolute of those at the crime scene, was taken aback by the brutality. He had always maintained a modicum of hope that sense would prevail, and that what had apparently transpired in the village since their arrival was no more than hearsay, and that the two police officers and the crime scene investigator, declared dead by Wylshere himself, were in fact still alive.
However, the brutal slaying of one of the mob convinced the policeman that Wylshere had been telling the truth. Clare, who stood alongside him, had never had such illusions, and she knew that those now moving around the vehicular blockade had only one intent: their deaths. Jim Hughes, a man whose function was to investigate the crime scene, not become a crime statistic, was back inside the church with his remaining people. ‘We’re going to make a run for it,’ one of his team said. Hughes could offer no constructive reason as to why they should not.
‘We’ll all leave now,’ Hughes said.
He went back outside the church, to Tremayne and Clare. ‘You cannot stop this,’ he said, looking at Tremayne.
‘We need to go, guv,’ Clare said.
‘There’s not enough time,’ Tremayne replied. The mob was within one hundred feet of the church. They were standing still, their robes and their masks more visible in the light from the blazing fire torches they carried.
‘You were warned,’ the man with the bull mask shouted.
‘Wylshere, why the pretence. I recognise your voice,’ Tremayne shouted back. Clare stood at his side. Hughes had left and was striking out for the safety that lay not more than thirty minutes away.
‘The mask is not for you; the mask is for them. It’s what they demand.’
‘You’re certifiable,’ Tremayne said.
‘You will never understand,’ Wylshere said, removing his mask. ‘That is why you and your sergeant are suitable.’
‘We need to get out of here,’ Clare said. She was shaking with fear. Her DI may not have believed, but she did.
The mob continued to chant.
‘It’s too late for that now. Where are the other police officers? We had two before,’ Tremayne asked.
‘They’re in one of the cars.’
‘Can they get it out of here?’
‘That’s why it’s there.’
‘Right. We’ll make a run for it and drive out of here.’
Clare, for once, could see some hope for their predicament. She shouted to the police officers sitting in the car. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay,’ the reply that came back.
‘Yarwood, make a run for it. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.’
‘I’m not leaving you, guv,’ Clare replied.
‘Don’t worry. I’m right behind you.’
The two police officers dashed towards the patrol car and jumped into the rear seat. ‘Go,’ Yarwood shouted to the driver. The car moved forward, the mob attempting to impede its movement.
‘Let them go,’ Wylshere instructed the mob. ‘They cannot go far.’
‘Where to?’ the driver asked.
‘The road out of here.’
‘The road that Dallimore and Hopwood took?’
‘It’s bound to be blocked, and there’s snow up there,’ Clare said.
‘Okay. Head up through the village and then take a left.’
‘What are you thinking, guv?’
‘You know Cuthbert’s Wood and the area around it.’
‘Well enough to know I don’t want to go there again.’
‘Any better ideas?’ Tremayne asked.
‘No.’
Once free of the mob, the four police officers headed up through the village. They passed the pub, its lights on inside. ‘We could make a phone call,’ Clare said. ‘They may have a landline.’
‘Too risky,’ Tremayne said. ‘We need to protect ourselves first, and besides, no one is coming to rescue us, not before daylight at the earliest. We can’t stall them for that long.’
‘Is this the turn?’ the driver asked.
‘Yes,’ Clare replied. The road they turned into, more a lane, narrowed dramatically until it was barely wide enough for the car to pass through. ‘That’s Elizabeth Grimshaw’s cottage,’ she said.
Two houses up, a man emerged from behind the hedgerow. Clare wound down the window on her side of the car.
‘Drive up past Adam Saunders’ cottage for as far as you can and then leave the vehicle. Elizabeth is a friend of mine,’ the man said. Tremayne held a gun in his hand.
‘That’s not necessary. I can be trusted.’
‘In Avon Hill!’
‘Some of us can.’
‘It’s not safe for you here,’ Clare said.
‘If they see me talking to you, then no, it will not be, but it does not matter. This curse that has lasted for centuries must end. The events of tonight will sever the Wylshere family’s control. If they’re not summoned, then they will cause no more trouble.’
‘Yarwood, we don’t have time,’ Tremayne said. The lights of the mob could be seen back at the pub.
‘Come with us,’ Clare said.
‘It is too late for me. You will need to move fast. I’ll attempt to get a message out of the village to summon help.’
‘Can you?’
‘I will try.’
‘Very well. Thank you,’ Clare said.
‘Don’t thank me. You’re not free yet, and your chances are slim. There is still Cuthbert’s Wood t
o negotiate.’
Tremayne realised they had lost precious time, and help, even if it were forthcoming, would not extricate them from their current predicament. The mob was still in pursuit, and some could be seen running up the road past the pub. ‘Drive, for God’s sake, drive,’ Tremayne said.
The driver put his foot to the floor, the wheels slid on the icy road. He eased his foot off the throttle hoping to gain grip. The vehicle moved forward, its speed limited.
‘Through that gate,’ Clare said.
The cottage where Adam Saunders had hidden out before his untimely death lay in front of them. It was in total darkness. The driveway, gravel turning to frozen mud, ended at the front door. To the left and the right of the cottage, there was only frozen grass.
‘Take the left,’ Tremayne said.
‘The right’s better,’ the driver said.
‘Whatever you do, do it quickly.’
Clare craned her neck to look out of the rear window; it was iced over. She opened the side window, the cold was intense. She angled herself out of the window, lifting herself out of her seat to get a better look. The mob, she could see, were close to Elizabeth Grimshaw’s cottage, not more than five minutes from where they were. ‘Drive,’ she shouted at the driver. The man looked stunned, unsure what to do.
Tremayne jumped out of the car and opened the driver’s door. ‘Get in the back with Yarwood. I’m driving.’ He slammed the car into gear and drove off the driveway and to the left of the cottage. Unable to get the car out of first gear, he kept his foot firmly welded to the accelerator. The left-hand route around the cottage appeared to have been the best choice. Up ahead, silhouetted at the top of the hill, they could see Cuthbert’s Wood. To Clare, it looked menacing, but it was their only hope, she knew that. She had walked around it that time when Adam Saunders had been discovered there. She went through in her mind the layout inside the wood. She knew that evil lurked there, but evil lurked everywhere, and those who had entered the cottage’s land were evil in physical form.
The vehicle lurched across the land at the rear of the cottage and then through an open gate into the field at the back. It was clear that it was used for grazing. A few cows could be seen in one corner. They took no notice of the vehicle and its occupants. All they did was huddle together to keep warm, their hot breath visible.
Although the frozen field was smooth, the vehicle could not move very fast. Gradually, though, Cuthbert’s Wood drew nearer, the mob behind losing ground.
‘Keep driving,’ Clare urged Tremayne.
‘Another one hundred yards and we have to get out and make a run for it,’ Tremayne’s reply.
Clare could see the trees in front of her looming nearer. She felt fear, even more than she had felt before, as she remembered her last time there. Tremayne stopped the car. ‘That’s it,’ he said.
The four police officers left the car and stumbled, walked, ran towards the trees. A barbed wire fence blocked their way. Tremayne held the top wire with his coat, ripping it in the process, to allow Clare to step over the fence. The other police officers had taken hold of one of the wooden uprights and vaulted across the fence, one of them twisting his ankle on landing.
The four entered the wood using the same path that the young Saunders boy had used, a marker left by the crime scene investigators still visible. The officer with the twisted ankle struggled to keep up, the others offering assistance as best they could. After five minutes inside the wood, the lights of vehicles on the main road could be seen. It was no more than three hundred yards across the open field on the other side once they had cleared the wood.
Behind them, the sound of the mob could be heard. Tremayne knew they were not safe yet. ‘Keep going,’ he said.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Clare said. She could see the other side of the wood, the open field beyond clearly visible.
‘Wait until tomorrow,’ Tremayne said. He knew that once he was back in Bemerton Road Police Station, once all the events had been recounted, confirmed by all those who had been present at the crime scene, there would be a massive clean-up operation. He would need to bring in additional police teams from other cities.
Clare, in her enthusiasm to leave the woods, surged forward. She did not see the fallen branch; she tripped and fell, face down. Tremayne picked her up and sat her against a tree. ‘Yarwood, are you alright?’ he said, shaking her shoulders gently.
The mob could be heard entering the wood, their chanting frenzied.
‘Yarwood, Yarwood, we’ve got to go.’
Clare dazed, but still conscious, got to her feet. The four police officers continued forward, the lights on the highway even more visible. A police car could be seen, its flashing light visible, an ambulance in hot pursuit. Tremayne hoped it was for them; it wasn’t.
‘Grab them.’ The last words that any of them heard before they were trussed up with rope and tied to nearby trees.
Chapter 36
Tremayne realised that in the struggle he had been knocked unconscious. Over to one side of the small clearing, not more than six feet away, Clare was tied to another tree. ‘Are you okay, Yarwood?’ he whispered. The mob was at least twenty feet away. Tremayne could hear them chanting again, Wylshere with his ridiculous mask the most visible.
‘They intend to kill us,’ Clare mumbled.
Tremayne did not reply directly to the obvious. ‘Let’s hope our people got the message out,’ he said. He could see that the other two officers, Constable Bradshaw and Sergeant Stanforth, were both conscious. The detective inspector, a man who never gave in and always had a plan, realised that for once he could not think of anything useful to say or do. His ability to do anything was severely hampered by his current predicament, the ropes across his upper body holding him firm, a protruding branch pushing hard into his back. The ropes around his legs had already cut circulation to his lower left leg and were about to cut it to the other one as well. He realised that he was getting too old for this, but then, he observed, the other three weren’t faring much better. Still, he knew it was up to him to provide leadership.
‘Yarwood, can you loosen your ropes? Bradshaw, Stanforth, any luck?’
‘I’m held firm,’ Clare said. The other two police officers shook their heads weakly.
In the distance, the lights of the main road could be seen; in the woods were only the men in their blue and scarlet robes. ‘It is time,’ Wylshere said, standing on a rise in the ground. Tremayne looked over at the man, his robes and his mask lit by the glow from a blazing fire torch held by one of his followers.
‘You’re mad, the lot of you,’ Tremayne shouted.
One of the group came over to where he was tied and struck him hard in the face with a clenched fist. ‘Shut up, your time will come.’
‘Leave him alone,’ Clare screamed, so loudly that it interrupted Wylshere’s flow of speech to the devoted.
‘If she speaks again, gag her,’ Wylshere said.
Tremayne, his face bloodied, looked over at Clare. ‘Stay quiet. Try and loosen the ropes; it’s our only hope.’
‘What about your gun?’ Clare asked.
‘They never checked. It’s still in my trouser pocket.’
‘We can’t shoot our way out of this.’
‘If we’re free, you and the others can make a run for it. I can hold them off for long enough.’
‘I’ll not leave you.’
‘I’ll not be far behind.’
On the other side of the small clearing, Wylshere continued to lift his followers to a crescendo with a combination of rabble rousing speeches and foreign tongues. The man was in his element. Even Mike Carter, concealed behind his stag’s mask, could see that the situation was out of hand. He knew that it could not continue, but how could he stop it. He, like all the others, was guilty of heinous crimes, and he knew that there was not one of those dressed in robes who would not be convicted of murder. Slater, with the mask of the ram, stood resolute to one side of Wylshere. The man knew that what w
as coming was stronger than any police force, and he was convinced that theirs was the right course. His ancestors had longed for it, as did he, when those that he believed in would reassert their authority over the country that he held so dear. The fifth elder said little, other than to regret that it had come to this, a turning point in his life when he would have to make a decision. He readjusted the bear mask that covered his face, realised how silly he looked, and what fools they all were to be there in that wood intent on killing. He knew that he was as guilty as the others, but his dedication was wavering between allowing what was going to happen to continue or making the ultimate sacrifice, knowing full well that the anger of the mob would be vented on him. It was either the four police officers’ lives or his.
He was not sure which way to go. He leant over to Mike Carter, identifiable by his stag’s mask. ‘Are you willing to let this continue?’ he said.
‘It is the way,’ Carter replied. A cautious man, he was being asked to make a decision with a man whose loyalty he could not trust. The fifth elder could be laying a trap for him, willing him to falter, and then denouncing him to the mob.
The fifth elder realised it was up to him. He moved to distance himself from Wylshere’s side. The man observed, said nothing.
Clare attempted to move her arms, firmly bound as they were. The cold was starting to freeze her hands, her feet had lost all feeling. The other three attempted to move as well, with Stanforth, a muscular man, flexing his muscles, aiming to weaken the knots on the ropes. ‘I’ve some movement,’ he said, as he managed to free one arm. With one arm free, he focussed on the other, and soon it was also free. Bradshaw struggled with his bindings. Clare also continued to struggle, but Tremayne, weakened after the punch in the face, did not have the strength.
‘It is time,’ Wylshere shouted to those assembled. He uttered the forbidden words, the mob following as best they could, encouraging him on. He repeated the words, the night sky darkened, the main road in the distance faded from view.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 26