‘That’s still the forbidden country,’ Stephen said. ‘I soon learnt not to try and invade. There’s a private line between those two and nobody else gets on the wavelength.’
‘Perhaps women with Medmelton eyes are like Midwich Cockoos. They know each other’s minds.’ Maltravers was only half joking; secret and incomprehensible, the relationship between his wife and his stepdaughter had troubled Stephen for a long time.
‘I sometimes think that. Did you notice Michelle’s eyes? They’re not the usual way round. She has the green one on the right.’
‘Is that meant to be significant?’
‘It’s the mirror image and is very rare. The old wives’ tale is that everything is reversed in women who have it. Good is bad, Hell is Heaven, the Devil is God. They’re all meant to be left-handed as well.’
‘Is Michelle?’
‘She’s ambidextrous.’ Stephen grimaced. ‘Close enough.’
‘Whoever teaches biology at your school should be able to explain it without any difficulty. All I can remember about Mendel’s Law is that it started with him playing around with peas, but it means that I’ve got blue eyes and am right-handed. There’s no great mystery about it.’
‘I know all that, but you’ve got to take Medmelton superstitions on board as well. There are legends — and a lot of people believe them.’
Maltravers shrugged dismissively. ‘I don’t know how many traditional old wives you have around here still turning out instant eye of newt and wing of bat soup, but I’ve seen a satellite dish, so the late twentieth century appears to have reached Medmelton,’
‘Believe me, Gus, I sometimes wonder about that.’
Against all reason, it would not be long before Maltravers would also be having doubts.
TWO
‘Have you ever heard of Ralph the Talespinner when you’ve been in Devon before?’ Stephen asked as they drank their tea at the kitchen’s pine refectory table. Veronica was preparing a casserole cooked in beer — she had taken little part in the conversation since they had come down — and Michelle was still outside trying to preserve the suntan from their Greek summer holiday into an English autumn.
‘Never heard of him,’ Maltravers replied. ‘Who is he?’
‘Was,’ Stephen corrected. ‘Village idiot or rustic genius, depending on your point of view. Born in Medmelton about 1720 and never left the place all his life. You name it, Ralph had a story about it. Did you see the grooves in the north wall of the church when you drove up?’
‘Didn’t notice them.’
‘About twenty feet off the ground, now known to be caused by some geological fault in the stone. According to Ralph, it was all the work of the Medmelton Cat.’
‘The Medmelton Cat,’ Maltravers repeated.
‘That’s it. Look out of your bedroom window and a mile or so down the valley there’s a small hill. Put your imagination into overdrive and you can convince yourself it looks like a cat curled up asleep. Ralph’s tale was that at midnight on New Year’s Eve it woke up, came into the village and sharpened its claws on the church wall.’
‘Did they leave a saucer of milk out for it?’
‘No, but any virgin — you know the sort of Freudian hang-ups all these stories have — who was not indoors would be eaten by it.’
‘Dragons had similar tastes,’ Maltravers commented. ‘I’d have thought any intelligent girl would have done something about her condition as soon as possible to have herself taken off the menu. The word must have got around that it was a fate considerably better than death. What else did Ralph come up with?’
‘You name it. Misty castles that appeared once a year, endless ghosts, some Arthurian knight who wandered in from Cornwall, flying giants, two-headed unicorns, assorted witches — and that a group of Bronze Age standing stones were seven maidens who had been instantly ossified for dancing on a Sunday. The stories were all collected and published. We’ve got a copy somewhere. I’ll try and find it for you.’
‘I’ll make it my bedtime reading,’ Maltravers said. ‘I might find some ideas I can steal.’
Veronica put the casserole in the oven. She had given the task all her attention, but was now ready to talk.
‘When’s Tess arriving?” she asked.
‘Two or three days,’ Maltravers said. ‘Depends how long she’s tied up in Bristol doing these voiceovers for the BBC Natural History Unit. Doesn’t pay much, but it’s better than resting. Good acting parts haven’t been thick on the ground lately.’
‘We saw her in the television adaptation of The Country Wife,’ Veronica added. ‘She was marvellous.’
‘So when’s the big break coming?’ Stephen asked.
‘You can’t make that happen,’ Maltravers replied. ‘It either does or it doesn’t. Tess isn’t much bothered. She’s offered enough work to be able to choose the parts she likes, which makes her a damn sight luckier than most. She nearly landed ...’
He was interrupted by a woman erupting through the kitchen door from the back garden. Small and slender with what would be a pretty face when not flushed frantic pink, her chestnut hair appeared not to have been in the neighbourhood of a comb since she woke up that morning.
‘Veronica! Panic!’ She was as agitated as a startled bird. The crisis sounded at least of local earthquake proportions. ‘Have you got any red wine?’
‘Yes, Ursula. Calm down.’ Veronica’s assurance carried echoes of similar dramas in the past as she opened the pantry door. ‘How much do you need?’
‘Only enough for coq au vin. I could have sworn I had some, but when I looked ...’
‘Here you are.’ Veronica handed her a half-full bottle. ‘Got everything else?’
‘I think so. I was halfway through preparing it when I realised. Thanks. You’ve saved my life again ...’ She suddenly stopped and looked embarrassed as she saw Maltravers. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise I was interrupting.’
‘I told you we were having visitors,’ Veronica said. ‘This is Gus, a friend of Stephen’s from London. Gus, Ursula, my sister-in-law.’
‘Hello.’ Maltravers stood up and held out his hand. She held out the hand still holding the bottle, then agitatedly corrected herself.
‘Hello. Nice to meet you. How long are you ...’ She let go of his hand as though it was red hot. ‘Oh, God! I left everything on the kitchen table! The cat’ll be eating it! I must get back. Thanks, Veronica.’
She fled in the same whirlwind state as she had arrived, clutching the wine as though terrified of dropping it. Totally unaffected by the visit, Veronica began to fold a tea towel as though the incident had not occurred.
‘I hope the cat leaves something,’ Maltravers remarked.
‘She’s only next door,’ Stephen told him. ‘It’s probably not even in the house, anyway. Ursula lives in perpetual crisis. She constantly expects the worst to happen, so it usually does. We’re used to it. There’s an obvious explanation as to why she had no wine as well. Anything alcoholic lying around in that house tends to disappear.’
‘Gus isn’t interested in family gossip,’ Veronica said quietly.
Maltravers saw the warning glance she gave her husband; she was clamping a tight lid on his conversation. Ursula drank, which Veronica would see as weakness. People with such inner strength, their emotions straitjacketed, often found it impossible to comprehend — or forgive — any inability to handle life. It was a stupidity, dismissed as not worth thinking about. Diplomatically, he changed the subject.
‘I could do with stretching my legs,’ he said to Stephen. ‘How about the fifty-pence village tour?’
‘Sure.’ Stephen finished his tea. ‘Dinner about seven is it?’
‘Yes,’ Veronica replied. ‘See you later.’
Finished in the kitchen, she left the room and went upstairs to tackle whatever was next in her organised life. Maltravers and Stephen went out by the front door; Michelle did not acknowledge them or even move as they passed.
‘I don’t thin
k I said thanks for coming,’ Stephen said as they walked alongside the church wall. ‘It’s getting heavy round here and I felt I needed some help.’
Raised so immediately, Maltravers reflected that whatever had caused Stephen to invite him was obviously as serious as he had concluded from the letter. Sometime student union president at a redbrick university, assistant to a left-wing Labour MP and energetic fundraiser for War on Want, Stephen Hart had been the classic radical whose firebrand youth had burnt out. To the faithful, he had sold out, but others would say he had done no more than grow up. He had ceased to be hot-headed and become level-headed — and should not be alarmed by things that on the face of it struck Maltravers as little more than mischief.
‘How long has whatever it is been going on?’ he asked.
‘It began in May, although at first I didn’t take any notice.’ Stephen smiled sourly. ‘It seemed harmless then. I couldn’t put all the details in my letter, so I’ll fill you in from the start.’
They had reached the road through Medmelton and Stephen led the way across the narrow pedestrian path over the ford to St Leonard’s lychgate.
‘You know about the Lazarus Tree where Patrick Gabriel’s body was found, don’t you?’ he asked as they entered the churchyard.
‘Yes. In fact I stopped to look at it when I arrived.’
‘Well, that’s where it’s been happening.’ They reached the sweet chestnut and Stephen crouched down, indicating a crevice where the trunk sprang from the ground. ‘Bernard Quex, our rector, found a cheap plastic doll here. Sort of thing you can buy in any shop. What made it odd was that a moustache had been painted on it.’
‘Some toy that a child had lost?’ Maltravers suggested. ‘Most kids have paintboxes and decorate things.’
‘Possibly,’ Stephen agreed as he straightened up. ‘But it appeared to be brand new. Its price label was still on it.’
‘What did your rector do?’
‘Mentioned it casually to a few people then forgot about it.’
‘Did he keep the doll?’
‘Yes, and it’s now part of quite a collection. A lock of hair, an old scent bottle with what looks like dried blood in it and a bunch of wild flowers all turned up in the same place.’
‘Are you sure it was blood?’ Maltravers asked.
‘Not positive, although I could take it to school and have one of the science staff test it.’
‘Well, it’s certainly worth confirming. It could be anything ... but even if it is blood, it could still be nothing more than children’s games, couldn’t it? Local kids dabbling in what they think is witchcraft. Comes of reading too much Stephen King at a susceptible age. They grow out of it.’
‘I know they do,’ Stephen agreed. ‘But this has been going on for four months. Kids aren’t usually that consistent. They mess about with these things for a while, then lose interest.’
‘Any pattern to it? Always on the same date of the month for instance?’
Stephen shook his head. ‘No. It seems to be done during the night because the last time it happened, Bernard had been out late and walked past the tree around midnight. He’s certain there was nothing there then, but the flowers were there in the morning.’
‘It might not be in the night,’ Maltravers pointed out. ‘If it’s some kid who lives nearby, they could slip out and do it first thing in the morning.’ He looked at Stephen closely. ‘I need some more input from you here. You’ve not asked me to Medmelton just to talk about silly games in the churchyard. What’s really worrying you about this?’
Stephen stared at the hiding place at the foot of the tree for a few moments. ‘I’m worried that Michelle could be mixed up in it.’
‘And what makes you think that?’
‘I saw her here in the churchyard a couple of evenings in the summer. She wasn’t doing anything, but this isn’t the sort of place she comes to. She hangs around with other kids or goes to their homes to play records. She stopped having anything to do with the church long ago.’
‘Did you talk to her about it?’
‘Yes, but it was a waste of breath. She just clammed up.’
‘What about Veronica?’ Maltravers asked. ‘Is she worried?’
‘No. I asked her to talk to Michelle, but she said it wasn’t anything important.’
‘Perhaps she’s right.’
‘And perhaps she’s not. I know you’re thinking I’m being irrational, Gus, and I wish I could convince myself I am. But it’s ... I don’t know. Medmelton’s schizophrenic. Picture postcard village, but full of things you can’t put your finger on.’ Stephen waved his arm at the gravestones surrounding them. ‘There are people buried here who go back to Tudor times and you can find the same names in today’s telephone directory. There was no running water here until the 1930s and it’s only since the Second World War that outsiders from Exeter have started moving in. This place was isolated in a time warp for centuries.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Maltravers protested. ‘There are hundreds of villages just the same. I know places in Norfolk that have hardly changed since the Domesday Book. But they haven’t opted out of the twentieth century. Don’t try to tell me Medmelton doesn’t watch Neighbours or hasn’t heard of Madonna or Gazza. Has moving to the country addled your brain?’
‘No, it hasn’t,’ Stephen replied firmly. ‘But superstitions ruled here for a very long time and there are people alive who can remember Medmelton when it was still like that. You and I have had discussions about old magic and you didn’t dismiss it out of hand.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘But this looks no more than kids messing around. Kids who buy pop records and trendy clothes. Living in Medmelton probably bores them stiff, so they make a bit of excitement for themselves. I’m sorry, Stephen, but you’re not being logical.’
‘But you still came after I wrote to you.’
‘Your letter didn’t spell out the details and I thought there was something serious.’
‘But now you don’t think it’s serious.’ He sounded disappointed.
‘Frankly, no.’ Maltravers held his hand up to stop Stephen speaking again. ‘But hold on a minute. I’m talking the way that you would have done before you left London. So either you’ve started to go mad or ...’
‘Or something else is mad?’ Stephen said quietly.
‘Something else is certainly odd. But explainable without things that go bump in the night — and in any case what do you expect me to do about it? If you can’t get to the bottom of whatever it is, why should I be able to?’
Stephen shook himself as though frustrated. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps because you’re not as close to Medmelton. This isn’t going to make much sense, but after we moved here I started to become ... involved. It’s a lovely village and it was marvellous living in the country. And I was crazy about Veronica. There’s an almost mystical side to her, incredibly still and secret. I wanted to try and reach that, so I began to let myself be absorbed in this place to understand her better. I became ...’ He stopped. ‘Christ, I can see it in your face. You’re trapped in a country churchyard with the village idiot.’
‘I’m in a country churchyard with someone who is highly intelligent and not frothing at the mouth,’ Maltravers corrected. ‘You’re right, it doesn’t make much sense, but when I last saw you around the beginning of this year, you were still rational and perfectly normal. Now you know you’re not being rational and are worried enough about it to ask me if I can help. I don’t know if I can, but I think I should try.’
‘Thanks, Gus.’ Stephen looked relieved. ‘Ever since you agreed to come, I’ve been trying to work out how to explain it without you calling for men in white coats. I feel like that woman in The Cocktail Party who asks the doctor to tell her she’s mad because if she isn’t it means that the world is mad and she couldn’t stand that.’
‘I don’t think you’re mad,’ Maltravers assured him. ‘But the world can be — anyone who reads political history knows that �
� and Medmelton might have its share of insanity.’ He looked down at the grass beneath the Lazarus Tree. ‘And what about the fact that Patrick Gabriel had a moustache and his body was found here?’
‘That’s what makes it worrying.’
Maltravers took out his cigarettes and offered them to Stephen who shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten you’d given up. Spare me your lectures.’ He lit one thoughtfully. ‘Has anybody any idea who killed Gabriel? Or why?’
‘No,’ Stephen replied. ‘Only that it was almost certainly somebody local. Medmelton doesn’t attract visitors, even in the height of summer, and it’s almost impossible that a stranger wouldn’t have been noticed. I was one of the people questioned by the police for no more reason than that I’d chatted to him in the Raven a few times. As far as I could make out, there wasn’t the smell of a motive and precious few clues.’
‘But now odd things are happening where his body was found ... so what do the police think?’
‘They haven’t been told. Bernard insists there’s no need. I don’t think he wants the church to be the centre of another scandal.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Maltravers protested. ‘You’re dealing with an unsolved murder here. The police aren’t going to be best pleased when they find that something’s been happening that might be connected — however unlikely it may seem — and it’s been deliberately kept from them. Sod all around your rector’s feelings, why haven’t you gone to them?’
Stephen looked defensive. ‘Because I’m worried about Michelle, Gus. I have to know how far she’s involved — if she is involved — before I do anything.’
‘That’s a luxury you can’t afford and you ...’ Maltravers glanced at him with a sudden sharpness. ‘Hang on. Are you thinking she was mixed up in the murder?’
‘I’m trying not to,’ he replied levelly. ‘But I think she may have something to do with these things beneath the tree and ... well, that’s the problem, Gus. I don’t know what to do.’
The Lazarus Tree Page 2