Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Well, yes, he is.’

  ‘There you are, you see. That’s how I know.’

  ‘But I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  ‘That was just then. I didn’t tell you earlier.’

  ‘Well somebody must have. You want me to look in on him.’

  ‘Are you telling me?’

  ‘No, I’m saying do you want me to look in on him.’

  ‘Yes, if you’re—’

  ‘—in the area, I know.’

  That was how conversations with Maggie tended to unfold. It could be quite confusing at times, and quickly had Gladys wondering whether she had been psychically coerced into calling her. But for once, as Maggie stood on the steps of Tavistock Hall in her sunshine-yellow mackintosh, matching plastic rain-hat and wellingtons, with her bicycle held upright in one hand and a bell-pull in the other, Bryant beat her by opening the door.

  ‘You. How did you get here?’ he asked rudely.

  ‘I carried my bike over my head. It’s nice to see you too, Arthur. You look like a panda. What on earth have you been doing?’

  ‘Sorry, Maggie, we’re having a disastrous weekend. It’s turned into an Agatha Christie novel.’

  ‘You mean short?’

  ‘No, absurd. You have a knack for this sort of thing. Perhaps you can help.’

  ‘I should cocoa. I’ve been up here before, chum.’ She blew a scarlet curl from her eyes. ‘I was hired to cleanse the house’s aura. His lordship found me through my ad in Time Out. I just sprinkled some herbs about and sang madrigals. It paid for my spirit harmonium, and my bike.’

  ‘Aren’t you a bit young for Miss Marple?’ asked Pamela Claxon, peering over Bryant’s shoulder at the new visitor. ‘Are we going to let everyone in now to have a poke about? Why don’t we send for Hercule Poirot and Lord Peter Wimsey?’

  ‘Aren’t they fictional? Mr Bryant and I have worked together before,’ Maggie explained.

  ‘What, and you just happened to be passing? Jolly good piece of luck, wasn’t it? Well, as all the normal laws governing chance seem to have been suspended, come on in, why not?’ She took a drag on a Benson & Hedges Special Filter and jetted smoke over their heads.

  ‘I don’t think you have a say in this, Miss Claxon,’ said Bryant, ‘seeing as you’re one of the suspects.’

  ‘Are you Pamela Claxon?’ asked Maggie, looking up at her in awe. ‘The author of the Inspector Trench novels?’

  ‘Yes I am,’ said Claxon with unfeigned delight. ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘Yes. Trench Steps In, and Trench Strikes Back.’

  ‘Did you enjoy them?’

  ‘No, they were dreadful.’

  ‘Then why did you read two?’

  ‘I thought the first one might have been some kind of awful anomaly.’

  ‘Then I hope you can do better than Inspector Trench, even dressed as a banana. He’d have sorted this mess out by now,’ announced the irate author, blasting off in a backfire of blue smoke.

  ‘Let me fill you in,’ said Bryant, taking Maggie’s arm and walking her under the dripping, shadowed eaves where they would not be overheard.

  ‘Death has spread his wings over this house.’ She climbed on to the remains of a stone pedestal and looked up at the roof as if expecting to find some great dark creature crouching there.

  ‘It has a human form, Maggie. Don’t do this.’

  ‘But I can feel a presence.’ She touched the plastic ruby-coloured beads that looped around her neck.

  ‘It’s a crime scene, not a site of paranormal significance.’

  ‘It’s the birthplace of the Beast of Crowshott. I read about it in the local paper.’

  ‘You mean the raven-duck-wolf-type-thing that stalks the fields at night?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a real beast, obviously.’ Maggie jumped down from the wall and walked beside him. ‘The idea came about because the villagers wanted to think badly of Tavistock Hall.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The old lord’s grandfather had a twin brother, Rowley, who was born with the same features but without a fully developed brain. He wasn’t allowed to leave Tavistock Hall because he was a danger to himself, but one day he slipped away and walked into the village, to the old inn that stood where the Goat and Compasses now stands. Rowley had another distinguishing feature: a mark on the palm of his right hand. He demanded ale, and when the landlord saw his hand he refused to serve him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Country superstition,’ said Maggie. ‘Rowley explained that he had allowed a thorn to enter his flesh and it had “turned sour” – gone septic, I imagine – until it was removed and cured with mercury. But the folk around here believed that Satan had a way of entering people through their skin in what was known as an “insert”. A sliver of metal or human bone, a splinter or a thorn would be purified with a Satanic incantation, so that it could have a demon attached to it.’

  ‘And it was introduced into the body to make the sufferer a disciple of Satan?’

  ‘That’s roughly the idea.’

  Bryant nodded sagely. ‘Interesting. Does your story have even the faintest trace of relevance?’

  Maggie ignored him. ‘The landlord decided that the boy was possessed, and his worst fears were confirmed when he heard Rowley speak, because he rambled and said he had ridden to the village with witches. To cut a long story short, they tied him to a tree and cut off the offending limb. Rowley bled to death. Everyone thought that the lord of the manor took it rather well, all things considered, and granted the landlord a pardon. He interred Rowley’s body in the family graveyard at the end of the field, but for some reason the arm with the Satanic mark was buried separately nearer the house, and it was said that a hawthorn tree grew out of it.’

  ‘There’s a hawthorn just outside the window of the reception room,’ said Bryant. ‘Let me guess. From that tree came the Beast of Crowshott.’

  ‘Creatures always seem to spring from the ground. One thinks of the Hydra’s teeth. Of course it wasn’t until later that anyone realized what had actually happened. Rowley’s brother had arranged the whole thing with the landlord of the inn, to end the embarrassment of his witless brother once and for all. After the deed was done the landlord was found stabbed to death in a field. Ever since then it’s been a tradition to employ a groundsman at Tavistock Hall with only one arm as a protection against the Devil.’

  ‘Fruity wondered why he was given the job so easily,’ said Bryant. ‘We think he’s been done in. So what was the moral?’

  ‘Toffs are tricky,’ said Maggie airily.

  ‘We haven’t located the remains of Fruity’s body, but I suppose this means he’s been disposed of in some manner that befits the legend. What does this beast do, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, the usual thing, appears at midnight, roars three times, eats you. Some of the more credulous villagers still won’t come here after dark.’

  ‘Well, thanks for cheering me up, Maggie. We already have thunderstorms, cut phone lines and a psychotic murderer roaming the premises. I knew there was something missing. All we need now is some kind of biblical plague, perhaps a rain of frogs. That would make it the perfect weekend.’

  John May pushed his way through the undergrowth and found himself looking down at the spot from which the shooter must have fired. A pair of perfectly clear boot prints were indented in the mud, possibly a soldier’s army boots, although he supposed they could have belonged to Pamela Claxon, who dressed in a somewhat masculine fashion and was fully prepared for the countryside. Except it couldn’t be her, he realized, because I saw her watching Monty stroll about. He knew he wouldn’t get any kind of a match on the prints without forensic equipment.

  A search around the prints produced the single discharged brass cartridge. The attacker didn’t even bother to pick it up, he thought. I suppose it’s possible one of those blithering idiots involved in the Anglo-French war games might have fired in the wrong direction a
nd winged Monty by mistake.

  In the mud lay several cigarette ends, roll-ups with homemade filters made of cardboard. Perhaps it’s one of the hippies, although it hardly fits with their peace and love ethic. What would they gain by taking potshots at Monty? Their worlds are too far apart. Of course, Monty does look like their definition of the Man.

  He glanced across the field to the house. A single slat of sunlight had appeared through parted clouds and illuminated the façade so that it stood out against the flat green slope of the surrounding fields like a pop-up card. From this distance Tavistock Hall appeared so timeless and elegant that it was impossible to imagine the terminal collapse within. It was like the State of England, a carapace forged and hardened over centuries that hid the hushed disquiet of its inhabitants.

  As he watched from the end of the lawn, Bryant appeared, accompanied by an elfin figure in a yellow mackintosh and gumboots, who marched with legs straight and arms thrown wide like a child avoiding puddles. As she came nearer he realized that only one woman could match Bryant’s vivid description.

  Extending a hand, he introduced himself. ‘Hello, I’m John May, I work with Arthur.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard so much about you, you poor man.’ She smiled until her eyes vanished to crescents. ‘I’m Lord Banks-Marion’s witch. Your friend here was very kind to me once. Or at least he will be.’

  ‘Was I? Will I be?’ asked Bryant, confused.

  ‘You must excuse me, I’m suffering from temporal displacement. A change in the weather. Maggie Armitage.’ She shook May’s hand with a rattle of her charm bracelet, then turned it over sharply. ‘Goodness, what a long lifeline. Teeming with incident. Two accusations of murder, I see, but not until you’re much older.’

  May spoke over Maggie’s head. ‘Arthur, there was a bullet case where he was standing. He’s not bothering to cover his tracks now.’

  ‘You don’t know it’s a he,’ said Maggie. ‘Always leave the possibilities of gender open.’

  May looked down and began to form a strong dislike of this strange flame-haired little woman. ‘Arthur says you perform magic rituals,’ said May.

  ‘I take it you’re a non-believer?’

  ‘If you’re talking about those News of the World articles featuring naked women dancing around bonfires in the woods, you’re right, I’m not,’ said May.

  ‘Not a non-believer? Or not a believer? Let’s see if I can change your mind,’ said Maggie. ‘Open your hand.’

  As he did so, she held her fingers over his palm and a bright orange spark cracked between them.

  ‘Ow!’ May snatched his hand back and rubbed it. There was a blackened spot roughly in the shape of a star at the centre of his palm. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know but it hurts like buggery, doesn’t it? I learned how to do it but not what it’s for. I can teach you if you like.’

  ‘Can’t you do something useful?’ asked Bryant. ‘Exorcize the dining room, summon Asmodeus to guard Monty?’

  ‘I can’t perform a ritual cleansing today.’ Maggie sniffed the air. ‘The air is too damp. An altered atmosphere can play havoc with the Seven Stewards of Heaven. White magic is a soothing balm to the soul but in bad weather it’s like being on a roller coaster after eating a pork casserole. I could manage a general spell against the presence of evil. I’ll need lavender, ginger, sandalwood and at least seven pounds of salt. And a rat, preferably a white one. I’m staying over at Maureen’s in Knotsworth. She usually has the right equipment, but she’s still in trouble with the villagers after influencing the outcome of the Easter pageant.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bryant. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jesus didn’t come back and the Devil won.’ She touched his lapel. ‘Arthur, I tell you these things because you understand. You’re not like your partner here. He is clearly the sun and you are the moon. You appreciate the power of the night.’

  That was the last straw for May. With a roll of his eyes he beat a retreat to the house.

  ‘We’re running out of time, Maggie,’ Bryant said. ‘Is there any way you can help?’

  ‘It’s down to you, I’m afraid. You need to release your natural instincts. You’re so bottled up inside. It’s not just about your brain, it’s about this.’ She placed her hand over his heart. ‘You have to read emotions, not just things. I saw some hippies; I think we should talk to them.’

  ‘No, I’ve already tried that,’ said Bryant, looking down towards the musky mud-pit in the walled garden where the yurt and various teepees were erected.

  ‘There’s no use in me talking to the toffs, old sausage, I won’t get anything out of them. Always start with the outsiders.’ Maggie waved him away. ‘Let me do this; you have no patience. I’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘But if they ask who you are—’

  ‘They’re not going to, are they?’ said Maggie. ‘They’re hippies.’

  She set off down the field towards the ashram, drawn by the scent of incense and the plangent twang of a sitar.

  41

  * * *

  REVOLUTION

  Maggie stepped beneath garlands of plastic marigolds and made her way to the Mongolian yurt. Several of the smaller tents had keeled over in the rain, so the largest yurt was now crowded with green nylon sleeping bags.

  ‘Hello, I’m Maggie,’ she said brightly, giving a peace sign. Ignoring the overpowering smell of patchouli and marijuana, she unbuttoned her rain slicker to reveal her Andy Warhol-inspired Mary Quant smock and cyclamen-coloured leggings.

  Rising above the smoky, torpid atmosphere, a girl greeted her with the kind of hug an infant would give its mother. Clearly she recognized a kindred spirit in the white witch.

  ‘Peace,’ she said. ‘I’m Melanie. Would you like some nettle tea?’

  ‘I’d absolutely love some,’ said Maggie, dropping down and sitting cross-legged on the floor. Melanie had the look of someone lost but hopeful of finding the way. There was such innocence in her eyes that a small sound of pity caught in Maggie’s throat.

  Melanie lit a primus stove and placed a tin pot on it. ‘This is Donovan,’ she said, pointing to an emaciated young man with Edwardian sideburns and skin so pale it could have bathed the tent in moon-glow. He raised a hand in greeting and went back to his book, a dog-eared copy of Making of a Counter Culture: Reflections on the Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition. Somewhat incongruously, Donovan also seemed to have a stack of ancient girlie magazines with titles like Mayfair, Fiesta and Razzle.

  ‘And that’s Victoria,’ Melanie added. Victoria was wearing an orange petticoat, a red cape, granny specs and a floppy purple felt Jimi Hendri hat. She also sat cross-legged, sketching on an A2 pad. She set down her pencil and grinned toothily. ‘Hello there.’

  ‘I thought I’d find Harry here,’ said Maggie, looking around the sea of shaggy afghan coats, cooking pots, giant paper flowers, rubbish bags and assorted junk.

  ‘He doesn’t come down from the house when he has his wealthy guests staying,’ said Melanie. ‘He can’t adjust his karma fast enough.’

  ‘Well, he may have a point there,’ said Maggie tactfully. ‘Doesn’t he let you go to the house?’

  ‘His lordship doesn’t want us in there, darling,’ said Victoria, licking her thumb and smudging her pad. ‘The last time we snuck in Donovan broke a pot. A hideous piece of chinoiserie, but apparently rather valuable. We can’t get back on the road because we’ve got no bread. At least, not until Harry gets the money from the house.’

  ‘What will you do then?’

  ‘Maybe we’ll head to Norfolk. Or Peru. Somewhere safe, before everything collapses.’

  Maggie leaned forward with interest. ‘Why, have you heard something? Is society going to collapse?’

  ‘It’ll just get incrementally greedier and more poisoned.’ She considered her drawing from one angle, then another. ‘The music is dying, the dream is over, youth power is over, one world is over. Last year, when all the riots happened, I thou
ght everything would change. But we blew it. We should have lain down in front of the tanks.’

  Maggie waited and watched while Melanie poured tea for them. ‘Is Harry going to come with you?’

  ‘His girlfriend is here and she’s pregnant, so I bloody hope so.’ Victoria gestured at Melanie. ‘Although he’s a Buddhist Catholic, so anything could happen.’

  ‘Oh, congratulations,’ said Maggie, although nobody looked very pleased. ‘How long?’

  ‘Five months,’ said Melanie, gingerly touching her minuscule bump. ‘I’d like us to get settled somewhere before winter comes, maybe find a squat in London.’

  Maggie had an image of Melanie’s child being delivered in a frost-covered tent and shivered inwardly. ‘Yes, somewhere warm and safe would be a good idea.’ She sipped her tea. They drank in silence, listening to the falling rain on the canvas roof.

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Victoria.

  ‘There’s been some trouble at the house. The pigs are coming today, so you might want to put those away.’ She nodded at Donovan’s joint. ‘Just for a while.’

  ‘Oh, wow, thanks,’ said Melanie gratefully. ‘We can’t afford to get into trouble, not now.’

  Maggie studied them with concern. ‘Will you please all be very careful? There could be someone dangerous out there. And the army’s firing live rounds.’

  ‘Teaching to kill instead of learning to love,’ said Victoria. ‘“O brave new world, that has such people in’t.”’

  ‘You haven’t seen anything strange going on, have you?’ She looked from one drawn face to the next. These are malnourished kids, she thought. They’re harmless innocents.

  ‘It depends on what you mean by strange.’ Victoria picked up some sheets of drawing paper. ‘The whole world is strange.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Maggie. ‘That’s why I’m training as a white witch.’ That caught everyone’s attention.

  ‘You are? We study paganism,’ said Donovan.

  ‘Oh, which branch?’

  Donovan gave her a blank look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Paganism simply refers to any of the pre-Christian religions,’ Maggie explained. ‘Nobody ever used the term before this century. Most pagan religions express a world view that’s pantheistic, animistic or polytheistic, although there are some monotheistic pagans too.’