The Dark Water

by David Pirie

  I know that on other occasions, faced with such mystification, I would probably have maintained a respectful silence. But the thickness of the air, as the clouds built up overhead, contributed to my impatience and I was still obsessively recalling the sight in the graveyard. An overpowering sense of failure, which I first felt on a beach in Edinburgh, had returned to taunt me. It made the complex and abstruse task in which we were now engaged seem utterly pointless, and I felt as if Bell had himself succumbed to this place’s obsession with occult lore. What was the use of solving or failing to solve arcane questions, whatever those questions were, when a woman had been cold-bloodedly slaughtered earlier in the day?

  No doubt my feeling would have found words but the Doctor found them for me.

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘The death of Charlotte Jefford was an appalling thing.’

  By now, we had made three or four stops and were walking in the thick of the woods. He was holding the line tenaciously, though it had become harder to fix an object far away so he was stopping and rechecking the compass on a landmark every forty or fifty yards.

  His intuition did not surprise me. I did not even bother to comment upon it. If he thought to distract me with his ‘method’, he would be disappointed.

  ‘I think it was avoidable,’ I said.

  The Doctor was looking straight ahead. ‘I agree. Given knowledge.’ As he spoke, once again, he stopped, studied the compass and took his line on a holly tree.

  ‘No, even without knowledge, if there had been sufficient concern.’

  ‘Concern is never sufficient, Doyle.’ He trudged on. ‘If I allowed that to rule my investigations, then I would get nowhere. I have to follow what I follow and that, as here, is the line of reason.’

  I nearly laughed out loud at this but not, I am afraid, in any great appreciation. It was more that the setting gave such a ludicrous aspect to his words. With the clouds massing over our heads, it was becoming darker even though we were in the middle of the day. And here was Bell stubbornly trudging through the gathering shadows, along his line of supposed reason, like some short-sighted philosopher studying motion as he is run over by a horse and cab. But it was only funny until you remembered that, somewhere in the village, a dead young woman lay on a slab with her head severed. If the logician, now so intent on marking out this strange line in the forest here, had actually paid any attention to her, she would have still been alive.

  So I did not laugh, indeed my tone became harsher. ‘But what exactly is the point of reason if you lack the minimum human concern for others? What is the possible gain? Charlotte Jefford came to us for help. The other victims appear to have been caught in some web we do not understand, and had no time for us. Even so, we failed them. But with her it was even worse. She had no connection here, she came to us for guidance and protection before she died. You turned your back on her appeal, indeed you barely talked to her.’

  Bell kept going forward. ‘That is true, with one reservation: I barely talked to her, beyond giving her the best advice I could.’

  ‘I doubt,’ I replied, ‘it even qualified as advice. She was here because she feared for her brother’s life and you told her in peremptory terms she should quit the place at once. You gave her no reason whatsoever for this. Even if it was your intention, why could you not listen to her at length, point out the dangers and then try and persuade her to go.’

  ‘It would probably have been counter-productive,’ he said. ‘I wanted her to leave.’ He had stopped again and was taking yet another line with his compass. ‘I did not wish to offer reassurance.’

  The answer was more brutal than even I had expected. ‘You deliberately denied it,’ I said. ‘That sounds like a cool kind of cruelty. Especially when your victim now lies dead.’

  He set on yet another distant marker and turned to glance at me before tramping on. He was not angry, but his eyes were piercing. ‘She is not my victim, laddie, as you perfectly well know. If you encouraged her to stay, she may in part be yours.’ His pace did not flag. But I realised my words had, for a wonder, struck something in him, for he continued with some intensity of feeling. ‘Indeed more than that, I truly believed, if you really wish to know—’ But then he broke off, for his eye had alighted on something, and I would not learn till later what he was about to say.

  As it was, I turned to see what Bell was staring at. It seemed to be a perfectly ordinary yew tree right in his line, but he approached it with huge excitement. ‘So we are close now,’ he said. ‘And it is time for me to see if I can apply our own spell.’

  With that, rather to my astonishment, he took one last look at the compass, put it in his pocket and grasped the hazel branch by its two smaller ends. Then he held it out at arm’s length and began to walk slowly forwards, keeping the branch parallel with the ground. ‘I have seen this done before in Glendoick,’ said Bell, utterly forgetting our argument, ‘and one of the keepers said I was a fair pupil, even though I was only sixteen at the time. Let us hope he was right.’

  At first I was lost. Why was he walking forward, holding this wand at arm’s length? Was it some further act, connected to the witch? Also, unlike him, I could not so easily forget our differences or the deaths that had caused them.

  But as he stopped and walked on, still clutching the two smaller ends of the branch, a recollection began to stir. I had not actually seen the practice performed before but I did have a vague idea of what it might be from books. The dowser, for that was the name I recalled, walks slowly forward with a carefully crafted stick or two metal rods, which quiver when he is above water. And, unlike many other country superstitions, there was, I seemed to remember, good evidence that this was a practical procedure.

  Bell turned to look at the line behind him and then proceeded slowly on. He was frowning, uncertain, no doubt desperately trying to recall the process. He was now moving far more slowly than he had been, though still keeping the line and the stick in his outstretched hands parallel to the ground, making only minute paces forward. More than once he glanced anxiously at the sky. And I knew why: for this would hardly be a practical procedure in a deluge. Once the rain started, he would have to give up. But he kept going, his hands lightly clasping the twigs as he stared below him.

  Now I sensed the tension in him. Though it was not remotely warm, whatever the oppressiveness of the air, I could see small beads of perspiration on his brow. It was clear he had set enormous store by this quest. If it came to nothing, I sensed he had nowhere else to turn.

  Time seemed suspended as he took these tiny paces without the slightest result. Fifteen, twenty minutes went by. Bell was becoming despondent. He looked around and back at the yew tree, now well behind us. ‘Nothing,’ he said involuntarily, ‘nothing.’ I had rarely seen him so dejected. His mouth set and I thought for a moment he was going to break the thing in two and cast it down.

  Then he remembered his compass and pulled it from his pocket. He stared at it a moment and his face brightened. ‘Ah, we have diverged a degree or two, Doyle, it is easily done. And he took two steps to the right. ‘There, that is better. He backed five or six paces, checked the line with the compass and moved forward. Another three or four minutes went past. He studied the compass again but on this occasion it seemed to satisfy him. He moved slowly between two trees. And now he stopped. He had seen something. But also it was as if he felt something. His hand quivered slightly. He took a pace forward and then another, he quivered more. And he looked excited. Just ahead of him there were some bushes but also moss and loose vegetation. Some fir branches were there too, though whether they had fallen or been placed there, it was hard to tell.

  Bell was on them now and his hand quivered more. It was a remarkable sight, for his face was illuminated by the prospect of discovery. ‘Doyle,’ he called urgently, ‘can you clear these branches and anything below them?’

  I acted swiftly and started to haul the wood aside. At first the task was easy, though I was amazed by the amount of loose vegetati
on I found here. Once you penetrated it, although the illusion was cunning and the moss was certainly growing, much, like the fir branches, seemed to be here by design. The Doctor put his stick aside to help me and soon we had exposed earth but the earth was notably marshy and damp.

  ‘I fear I should have brought a spade,’ said Bell. ‘But we must try with our hands, you see how wet it is.’

  My first thought was that digging with our hands would be hopeless, for even if there was water here it would be far down. But to my astonishment, the earth came away quite easily. Indeed, like the fir trees, it seemed to be another artifice that had been piled here for a purpose. Soon it was utterly sodden and then, as we clawed away more of it, water was actually starting to seep through from the sides of our excavation.

  We dug on a little and then stopped to survey the spring we had uncovered. I remember Bell’s suddenly serious look and I am sure, as we stared down, the thought occurred to us both about the same time. Namely that it was now quite large enough to submerge a man’s head and shoulders.

  THE SYMBOLS OF MORTALITY

  Bell got to his feet and turned to survey where we were. There was, now that we looked ahead rather than at the ground, something familiar about it. I do not think it came as any surprise to find we were on the edge of the clearing where Colin Harding had been discovered.

  Soon we were measuring the short distance from where Harding was found to the spring. ‘You remember,’ said Bell, ‘how exercised I was by the way they had stamped all over this place. Harding was easily dragged if the distance was so short, but I knew there had to be a trail. Only it was obliterated long before we got here.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘but it is also true that the murderer might have done that himself. He could make any number of trails to create confusion in the knowledge that the discovery would bring several men here and even the most experienced detective would assume it was their work.’

  The Doctor smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is a valid observation, Doyle. He may well not have wanted to leave a unique trail. That would be careless. It is indeed likely he churned it up, and several other paths too, and then the discoverers of the body need only complete the destruction. Thank you.’

  I found even now I was pleased he supported my deduction. But I also began to wonder how far this had led us. ‘Well at least we can dispel the talk of witchcraft, for we know how Harding was killed,’ I said. ‘But I fear it is all we have found.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Bell, ‘we have found a good deal more than that, I assure you, as you will see later.’ And we turned back in the direction of the village.

  There was, I reflected as I stared gloomily out of my window at the inn, having changed out of my wet clothes, a hierarchy of murder as of everything else. Ellie Barnes’s death, the first that could be clearly and immediately attributed to foul play, had created barely a ripple in the world outside the village. Charlotte Jefford’s death, however, was a different matter. The Scotland Yard man originally designated to come here had been recalled and a more senior officer was to replace him. As a result, nobody from that august establishment was likely to arrive for another full day at least, perhaps two. ‘Do they suppose,’ Bell had said when he heard this, ‘that the evidence will wait patiently for their arrival? It is truly a wonder, is it not, any crimes are solved at all.’ He then proceeded to point out here was Langton’s chance to cover himself in glory, though, whatever his real feeling, Langton was just as scornful about the development as Bell.

  More press were about to descend, but the isolation of the place meant we would be spared them a little while longer. News of the crime was only now reaching the larger newspapers. Even the fleetest from the capital would not be here before the following day, though the local press would no doubt descend more quickly. Even so, perhaps because of the impending storm, the street below me was utterly deserted. The black clouds were above us now, enough to create an odd light over the marsh, yet still the storm refused to break.

  I do not think I lingered long, staring out of that window, but it is true the events of that day caused me at times to lapse into old memories. For the next thing I recall, a maid was knocking on the door to tell me I was required urgently at The Glebe and the Doctor had already set off.

  The wind was very strong indeed by the time I stood again in that ugly orchard before the house. It was bending the trees and whistling around the gabled roof before me. But the rain had not yet started, which was a good thing, for I was sure it would be torrential when it did.

  The door was open and the first room I entered was empty but I could hear voices from the larger chamber where the blood was. ‘I do not understand,’ a voice I recognised as Sir Walter was saying. ‘I regard it as a liberty, sir, not the first you have taken. A man in my condition should not even be here.’

  I entered and was somewhat astonished by what I saw. Six men faced Bell, who stood with his back to the far wall, two candle lanterns at his feet behind him. It was not yet dark outside, but the place was gloomy enough for the lanterns to pick out Bell’s shadow.

  Sir Walter Monk was closest to him, his face angry. Bulweather was by the window, watching with interest. Langton was also by the window, looking slightly annoyed.

  Edward Norman had retreated to the corner furthest from Bell, wearing an expression I could only describe as peevish terror. Angus Hare was casually stationed in the middle, supercilious and expectant. The biggest surprise was the man closest to me. It was Cornelius from the asylum, who seemed like the good scientist, highly interested if sceptical as he appraised the proceedings.

  ‘I agree. And you are the man who has intimidated my son,’ said Edward Norman. ‘You terrified the boy.’

  ‘I am not sure it was my doing, Mr Norman,’ said Bell. Then he turned to Sir Walter. ‘Allow me, if you would be so good, to say why I brought you here and then you can make all the objections you wish. And you, Sir Walter, can rejoin your carriage, which waits I believe on the road.’

  ‘I will give you the courtesy of a few minutes,’ said Sir Walter. As he spoke, I noticed his eye kept straying to the bloody writing on the wall, where the words ‘witch’ and ‘here’ were so clear. Yet oddly he seemed far more interested by the less indicative part of the message, the odd incomplete O.

  ‘Please proceed,’ said Hare, ‘I am interested.’

  ‘Why could you not just tell us in the village?’ said Norman, his voice rising slightly. ‘Why bring us here?’

  ‘For one thing you might not have believed me. For another I may, I hope, have something to show you and I want to see the reactions of everyone in this room. For some of you may be more familiar with all this than you pretend.’ There was silence at this and he proceeded.

  ‘This afternoon,’ Bell said, ‘as two of you know, I discovered how Colin Harding was drowned. A spring, for which I believe there is some historical evidence, was only a few yards from his body. Inspector Langton, perhaps you will confirm this.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Langton. ‘And it must certainly have been how it was done. Dr Bell gave me instructions and I saw it for myself. Some people here have heard tales of the secret spring and of course it is in the legend.’

  ‘But it has not been seen for generations,’ said Sir Walter. ‘We assumed if it existed it was dry.’

  ‘Well it is not,’ said Langton. ‘And if he were taken unawares or knocked over the head, close to the spot, for there was a blow to his scalp, one man could have done it. Two, of course, would have an easier job. What I don’t understand, sir, is how you found it?’

  ‘Something,’ said Dr Bell, ‘you will shortly discover, but first let me say a word about Colin Harding. It has always seemed to me there was a matter of significance to be deduced from Harding’s association with Oliver Jefford. You, Sir Walter, told me you thought Jefford had played upon Harding’s nerves in some way. I believe you may be right, for it appears Harding was a deeply superstitious man. I found broken hazel sticks in his
house, and finally the working rod he had concealed carefully from others.

  ‘That showed me he had kept secret one of his own skills, namely the art of dowsing, no doubt fearing it would be taken for witchcraft. He must have thought it was a kind of magic, and who can mock him for that when science has yet to explain the phenomenon? Now what else did we know of Harding? We knew there was talk that Jefford had given him a rune, a rune evidently connected to this house, and it had frightened him. Harding then entrusted it to his friend Ellie Barnes who hid it for him.’

  Bell paced a little as he mused on the question. There was not a sound in the room, other than the great rush of the wind in the trees outside. ‘Why, you may ask,’ Bell continued, ‘did Jefford wish to pass on this so-called rune? Was he frightened it would kill him as in the legend? Or was he afraid someone else would get hold of it and Harding picked up on this fear? It is now clear to me it was the latter. For I believe, I am sorry I will correct that, I know, the rune does have power.’

  ‘We are surely not going to endure a lecture on occult magic from someone who is reputed to be a reasonable scientist,’ said Dr Hare, his lips curling contemptuously.

  ‘I will come to its power in a moment,’ said Bell without bothering to look at him. ‘But why did Jefford choose Harding for the rune? It is true he found Harding credulous, but there must have been more to it than that, for he was, as I have said, entrusting him with something of value. Harding had done Jefford some special service, I was told, and I thought of this a great deal. What could it be? It was hard to imagine a bond between two such apparently dissimilar men. Surely it must be connected to Harding’s secret skill, which I deduced some time ago from the literature in his house and the broken hazel rod was dowsing. It seemed, therefore, Harding had identified a water source for Jefford. And then there suddenly occurred Harding’s miraculous death by water. This was the key.’

  Bell had the attention of the room. Every eye was focused on his face, grey in the miserable light from that window. ‘And at that point, thanks to some luck and some skill,’ he went on, ‘I succeeded in one objective. I obtained possession of this, the rune.’