Clare knew what she was seeing, even if Tremayne remained a sceptic.
‘They are here,’ Wylshere proclaimed. The mob acknowledged their presence. ‘We are ready with our offering,’ he said. The wind rustled through the leaves, emitting an ominous sound, and the mist swirled around their feet.
‘The woman, the woman,’ the men in blue shouted. Tremayne could see their frenzied attitude, the glances towards Clare.
‘Stanforth, are you free?’ Tremayne shouted.
‘Almost.’
‘Get Yarwood out of here and run like hell for the road.’
‘I’ll not leave you,’ Clare said. She had seen the robed men brandishing knives.
‘What is her fate?’ the mob shouted.
‘Esus demands to be honoured,’ Wylshere said.
‘They intend to hang me,’ Clare said. She had read up on the subject; she knew what they were talking about, and Jim Hughes had explained what had happened to Trevor Godwin: the stabbing wounds, the burns on his neck where he had been hanged. Clare longed for Harry to be there to rescue her, the knight in shining armour, but she knew that would not happen. A woman on the cusp of marriage, a career she loved, a boss she respected, and yet, no more than five hundred yards from civilisation, she was to die in a pagan ritual.
Tremayne wanted to rush over and comfort her, but he could not move.
On the main road were flashing lights, the sound of sirens. ‘We do not have long,’ Wylshere proclaimed. ‘Bring the woman. Her death will strengthen those who protect us.
‘There is no protection,’ Mike Carter said, removing his mask. ‘This has gone on for long enough. You cannot kill a police officer, let alone a woman.’
‘Grab him,’ Wylshere screamed. ‘Teutates, we honour you first.’ With that, the mob grabbed hold of Avon Hill’s butcher and dragged him screaming towards the water where Adam Saunders had died.
‘Get free and get out of here,’ Carter yelled at the top of his voice to the four police officers.
Tremayne was frantic, attempting to use the last strength in his body to save Clare, to save the man whose face was already in the water. Some of the mob, those who had wavered in the pub, fought with the men holding the butcher under the water. They managed to bring his head up to allow him to take a breath, while the others, wresting control again, pushed it under. Wylshere stood remote, almost in a trancelike state, reciting the forbidden words.
‘I’m free,’ Stanforth shouted.
‘Get Yarwood out of here,’ Tremayne repeated his earlier order.
The mob, distracted by Stanforth’s shouting, focussed on the four police officers.
‘Stop them leaving,’ Slater, the resolute elder, said.
Mike Carter, the pressure on his head relieved, drew another breath. This time, there was no one holding him down again. He pulled himself clear of the pond and lay on the frozen ground. He looked up to find three of Wylshere’s most loyal supporters fighting with some of the others. He could see Slater coming for him. He grabbed a knife from one of the mob and rammed it hard into the vet’s stomach. Slater fell forward, holding the knife in his two hands in an attempt to remove it. He hit the water face down; he did not come up.
Carter pulled himself to his feet and moved over to where the other battle raged. He could see the mob fighting close to the police officers, the fifth elder attempting to remove the bindings that held them.’
‘Get Clare out of here,’ the fifth elder said.
‘Harry?’ Clare let out a gasp.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t explain, it goes back too many years. I tried to warn you not to come here.’ Harry Holchester looked over at Tremayne. ‘Get her out of here.’
‘Why?’ Clare asked.
‘There’s no time for explanations. My family have been part of this for centuries. I love you, but please go. I must stop this madness.’
‘How?’ Tremayne asked.
‘I must kill Edmund Wylshere.’
‘That’s murder.’
‘Don’t you understand? He is the conduit, he and his family.’
‘Please come, Harry,’ Clare said, tears streaming down her face.
‘It’s too late. Nothing can be done to stop this. Tremayne, get Clare out of here.’ In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard coming closer.
Wylshere, his work completed, came out of his trance. He saw what was happening in front of him. He saw the four police officers leaving the woods, the female being dragged reluctantly. He did not see the knife enter his heart, or the hand of Harry Holchester as he held it firm.
With Wylshere dead, Harry focussed on the ongoing affrays. ‘It is over. Edmund Wylshere is dead. Go back to your homes. Tomorrow we will be answerable for our sins.’
The fighting ceased within minutes, and those who could walk did so, back to Avon Hill and away from the police cars on the other side of Cuthbert’s Wood. Those who could not walk were either helped or left where they were.
Harry knew there was no hope for him and resigned himself to his fate. His family had prospered under the curse that had held the community in bondage for so long. His parents had grown up there, although he had not, yet he believed in the old ways, as had they, and now it had cost him the one woman he had loved. His life he knew was at an end.
Clare was out of the wood and sitting in a warm police car, Tremayne at her side. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry, Clare. This madness has destroyed so many, including Harry.’
‘What will happen?’
‘The police will cordon off Avon Hill. All those involved will be arrested.’
‘And Harry?’
‘We can’t make an exception.’
‘But he tried to help us,’ Clare pleaded.
‘He helped you, and you know it. I, and the two others, were secondary.’
‘There’s no snow up here.’
‘I can’t explain it. Down there in the village and in Cuthbert’s Wood, the climate is different to up here.’
‘I’m going back for Harry,’ Clare said.
‘Officers are preparing to go in for him now. If the road is still blocked, we can get enough men down there on foot, and we’ll bring up some motorcycles and four-wheel drives. Avon Hill will be swarming with police today.’
Clare looked up at the sky; daylight was almost upon them. She left the car and headed back to the woods. Tremayne kept close to her. He could see that she was not rational, although he could understand. They found Harry sitting against a tree near the body of Edmund Wylshere.
‘Why, Harry?’ Clare asked. She had thrown her arms around him.
‘Others will have to tell you. I am as guilty as all the others. In time, you will forget me.’
‘I won’t,’ Clare said.
‘Did you kill Wylshere?’ Tremayne asked.
‘I’ve stopped it,’ Harry replied.
‘I’ll need to arrest you for murder.’
‘I understand.’
Harry stood up, freeing himself of Clare’s embrace. He walked over to the pond where Mike Carter had nearly died, where Adam Saunders had.
Clare was the first to sense it, although Tremayne did soon after. A wind blew through the wood and in the direction of Harry. It was bitterly cold. Clare knew what it was; Tremayne did not speak.
‘They are still here,’ Harry said. He looked up to see a large branch falling from a tree. It hit him firmly in the chest, its secondary branches piercing his chest in several places. The branch continued its trajectory, holding Harry firmly in its embrace, and lodged itself against another tree.
‘Help him,’ Clare shouted.
Two police officers came running over. One climbed the tree, the other assisting him.
‘How is he?’ Tremayne asked.
‘He’s dead,’ the officer who had reached him said.
‘Esus has his offering,’ Clare said. Tremayne led her out of the wood and to an ambulance which had just arrived.
‘She’ll need a
sedative,’ he said.
Chapter 37
To Clare, the days following Harry’s death were a blur. Her ability to remain focussed and a member of the Homicide team was compromised. Tremayne understood that, and that eventually she would return home to her parents’ house to distance herself from what had happened in Cuthbert’s Wood.
Tremayne went to see her, as did Superintendent Moulton. Moulton offered his and the police station’s condolences; not that it helped much, Tremayne could see that. The genial host of his favourite pub, the man his sergeant was going to marry, had turned out to be one of the pagan worshippers, and not only that, one of their leaders.
‘Why?’ Yarwood had asked Tremayne after Moulton had left.
‘Who knows what goes through people’s minds? Why are some people good, some people bad? What makes a person believe in ancient gods from antiquity, and others total sceptics?’
‘Are you still a sceptic?’ Clare asked.
‘Always. All that occurred, tragic as it was, was engineered by the hand of man. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, maybe I never will, but there’s no way that I will ever accede to the belief that there was something else. No one died for any reason other than a man or a woman was responsible. You know that.’
‘I know it, apart from Eric Langley, but even so, we saw things that defy explanation.’
‘And what for you now, Yarwood?’
‘It will take time,’ Clare replied.
‘There’s a job here for you when you return.’
‘I’m not sure. I’m not thinking straight. What about Harry?’
‘His body is in the local mortuary.’
‘When will it be released?’
‘It depends. It’s part of a murder investigation.’
‘You were there. You saw what happened. Do you believe that was an accident?’
‘Yarwood, I must. I can only deal with facts, not someone who sees things that aren’t there, and I certainly can’t believe in the supernatural, nor can you.’
‘But I do. I know what I saw, what I felt in that church in Stratford sub Castle and what I experienced in Mavis Godwin’s cottage.’
‘It doesn’t help to dwell on those things, does it?’ Tremayne said.
‘Maybe it doesn’t, but those events occurred, you know that,’ Clare said.
Tremayne left his sergeant, his colleague, his friend, resting. She had been given a sedative and would sleep for twenty-four hours, the doctor said. He knew that he did not have that luxury.
He had only left Avon Hill out of concern for his sergeant. He had to be back there as soon as possible to lead the investigation.
The snow that had held the body of Constable Dallimore had melted with the early morning sun, and it was only slush as he drove down the road towards Avon Hill. The area around the village within a two-mile radius had been established as a crime scene, and those in the community who had tried to leave had been stopped. This time the crime scene headquarters would not be an old wooden garage next to the church; this time it would be the pub.
Tremayne stopped twice on the drive down to the village, to check on Constables Dallimore and Hopwood. Both were dead, as stated by Edmund Wylshere, as well as the first crime scene investigator who had attempted to bring help. Eventually, it had been Jim Hughes and those who had left with him who had been able to raise the alarm. It had been smart thinking on his part to alert the police that if the road was blocked, then Cuthbert’s Wood offered the best possibility of getting through.
Tremayne stopped at the church first to check on proceedings. The equipment from London had arrived, and the CSIs were combing the ground for additional bodies buried amongst the trees behind the church.
‘We’ve found forty at least, although some go back a long time,’ Hughes said.
‘The recent ones interest us.’
‘There’s six those up at the pub are answerable for.’
Tremayne left the Avon Hill church and drove the short distance to the pub, diverting around the body of Gerald Saxby, the elder slain the previous night. An ambulance was there, as were two crime scene investigators.
‘Nasty way to go,’ one of the CSIs said to Tremayne.
‘We saw it.’
‘I’m told it was pretty rough down here after we left.’
‘It was.’ Tremayne did not feel the need to elaborate. He knew what he and Yarwood had seen and experienced. As a detective inspector of long standing, he had investigated many murders, but never once had he been so integrally involved, had almost become a victim. He shifted in his seat, the bruising left by the ropes and the branch pushing into his back still hurting. He knew he needed a complete rest, but he had to conclude the investigation. He owed that much to Yarwood, although there was nothing that he could do or say that would alleviate her suffering.
Tremayne commandeered a room upstairs at the pub; the publican did not comment. He had been one of those that had pursued them the previous night, the blue robe hanging behind his bedroom door testament to the fact. He, along with all the other men in the village, had been held pending charges. In total, there were thirty-six men in the village, although it had been possible to eliminate all of them except for twenty-three.
Outside, in the pub car park, there were six police cars and two ambulances. Due to the severity of the situation, Tremayne had commandeered virtually every additional police officer at Bemerton Road Police Station. He realised that for once his star was flying high, but it was small compensation for all that had happened.
The first person he interviewed was the publican, Albert Grayling. ‘What’s the story?’ Tremayne asked.
‘What’s to say? You were here.’
Tremayne did not like the man’s attitude, but it was not important. He wanted those who had killed Saxby, those who had attempted to kill him and Yarwood and the other two constables who were already back on duty in the village, almost certainly due for a medal for bravery beyond the call of duty. Tremayne assumed he and Yarwood would receive one each as well. He realised as he sat there looking at the pagan worshipper that he was more shaken than he had thought initially. He knew he should not be there, but there was no one else with the intimate knowledge of the night before. Bradshaw and Stanforth were both too young and inexperienced, and neither had the qualifications to run a homicide investigation.
‘We intend to prove that you were a member of the group that killed Gerald Saxby,’ Tremayne said, ‘attempted to kill Michael Carter, the local butcher, and intended to kill Sergeant Yarwood, myself and two of the police officers that were with us. Do you deny this?’
‘I was one of those who tried to stop it,’ Grayling said. Tremayne did not believe him.
‘We will prove this one way or the other.’
‘How?’
‘Fingerprints, DNA. There are plenty of ways to find the truth. If you’re lying, it will be discovered.’
‘What will happen to us?’
‘There is still the murder of Trevor Godwin. If any of you were in that mob last night, then you are all guilty of murder.’
‘You’ll not be able to prove it,’ Grayling said. Tremayne knew the man was well experienced in lying.
‘Are you willing to admit that you were in the mob that attempted to attack the church, and then was up at Cuthbert’s Wood?’
‘I was there, but I did not take part.’
‘I and my sergeant saw Saxby die. Everyone in that mob was involved.’
‘Are you going to arrest us all?’
‘After preliminary interviews here, you will all be charged with the lesser offence of causing an affray with an attempt to cause physical harm. Once at the police station, and after detailed forensics and further interviews, you, along with the others, will be charged with murder and attempted murder.’
‘This village is finished,’ Grayling said.
‘It was finished centuries ago.’
‘I will tell you what I know.’
‘In writing?�
��
‘Yes.’
Tremayne left the room, a sergeant taking his place while Grayling wrote.
Weary as he was, the adrenaline was keeping him focussed. He entered the bar, where a group of local men sat quietly. Four police officers were keeping watch over them. Tremayne walked out of the bar and phoned Hughes, the mobile phone network functional again. ‘Any updates?’ he asked.
‘We’re exhuming two more bodies. The same.’
‘Stabbing, hanging?’
‘It’s too early to be more precise, but the method of their deaths varies. Pathology will be able to tell you more.’
‘Your report is good enough for me,’ Tremayne said.
Hughes realised that he had broken through Tremayne’s reluctance to accept him as an equal. ‘Yarwood?’ he asked.
‘She’s an excellent police officer. In time, she’ll be back.’
‘Not easy to take, something like that.’
‘That’s what being a police officer is about.’
‘Seeing someone you love strung up in a tree, dead?’
‘Not that, I suppose.’ Tremayne had seen death, anticipated his own death, but he had not felt revulsion at what had happened, only a jaundiced indifference as if he had seen all the misery that life could offer, and there was nothing more that could shock him. He was aware that he was devoid of any feeling, good and bad. He knew it was unhealthy. He knew he needed to get away from Salisbury for a while.
Tremayne ended the call. He returned inside the pub and climbed the stairs to the room where Grayling sat.
‘You’ve finished?’ Tremayne asked.
‘I’m damned whatever I say and do,’ Grayling said. He noticed that the man had organised a cup of tea. He asked the sergeant who had sat in for him to get him one as well. He felt like a pint of beer, the type they served in Harry Holchester’s pub, but he knew that it would be a long time before it opened again, and even if it did, Tremayne knew that he would never go back there.
Tremayne read what Grayling had written. ‘You’ve been careful to avoid implicating yourself in any of the deaths.’
‘I did not kill anyone. Okay, I was foolish, led astray by Wylshere, but I’ve killed no one. It was good for business, surely you understand that.’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 27