Potter was having a most peculiar time with Nigel Cuthbert-Campbell, who – or so it seemed to the sergeant – dwelled entirely in the past. By day he worked for the council in some capacity or other, but by night, and most definitely at weekends, he buckled his sword at his side, metaphorically speaking, and became Sir Nigel, ruled by strict obedience to the laws of chivalry.
He answered the door to Potter’s knock dressed in a pair of tights which left nothing to the imagination, and an emerald green tunic. Like it or not, Potter’s eyes were drawn immediately to the man’s crotch, which seemed extremely padded out.
‘Come in,’ said Nigel in a voice which should have been fulsome and round but which, instead, was very slightly whiny. ‘And what may I do for you, good sir?’
Potter showed his badge at which Nigel’s face underwent a slight transformation, from merry rat to bad-tempered rodent.
‘What’s it about?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry to have to inform you, sir, that there has been a second murder and we are questioning everybody who took part in the Medieval Fair the other day.’
‘A second murder, you say? Who was the victim?’
‘A small girl called Debbie Richards. She was one of the maypole dancers.’
‘Ah the maypole.’ Nigel was off. ‘An ancient sign of fertility. It represents, of course, the phallus, standing straight and erect.’
Potters eyebrows shot up.
‘While, of course, the hobby horse is the male predator, trying to pull under his skirts an innocent virgin. Could this have been why the child was murdered? At her age she was bound to have been virgo intacta.’
‘I don’t think so, sir. She was dressed up as a scarecrow at the time.’
‘Ah, of course, this definitely has undertones of Wicca. The ancient Greeks used blocks of wood to guard their fields, all carved in the image of Priapus, who was hideously ugly but had a permanent enormous erection. Ever since, the use of men and women made of rags and with, perhaps, a mangel-wurzel for a head, has very dark associations. Very dark indeed.’
‘May I sit down?’ said Potter.
‘Of course, my dear sir. May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of mead perhaps. Very restorative.’
‘No, thank you, I am on duty.’
‘Of course, of course. You were talking about the murders in the cornfield.’
Potter hadn’t the strength to correct him but asked, ‘If I may make so bold, sir, where were you last night?’
God, I’m getting to sound like him, Potter thought.
‘Last night?’ Nigel counted on his fingers. ‘Monday. I was out riding my one-eyed steed named Basil.’
‘Gracious. May I ask where you do this?’
‘Indeed you may. It is over the Downs near Ringmer. I meet up there with fellow knights and we indulge in a small joust and then we repair to an hostelry where we indulge in even further horseplay – if you’ll forgive my jeu de mots – with the fillies.’ He roared with laughter and tightened his tiny eyes.
‘And what did you do after that?’ continued Potter, fighting with his sanity.
‘I repaired to my couch and slept.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, quite alone. There was something boring called the day job looming.’
‘I see. And now I would like to talk to you about the first murder. It was done with an arrow and the victim was a boy of ten. He was fixed to the maypole by the ribbons which were wound round him after his death. He was also standing on something which was removed, presumably, before the winding took place. I would very much like to have your comments on the murderer.’
‘Well, I don’t know who it was but I would reckon that the archer must have gone down on one knee to deliver the shot.’
‘I’ve brought some photographs. Would you like to see them?’
‘Like would hardly be the operative word but I shall do so out of a sense of duty.’
Nigel hastily downed another glass of mead while Potter produced the packet of prints. The would-be knight regarded them in a stony silence.
‘Um,’ he said eventually.
‘You have a comment, sir?’
‘Well, the arrow entered straight. In other words, it wasn’t aimed up or down. This means that the archer was definitely either sitting on the ground or had to be on one knee. He was also reasonably short. As for the victim – may God’s mercy receive his soul, amen – he was standing on something – a box, a stool perhaps – which was later removed. Poor little soul. May I suggest that this was a blood sacrifice to ensure the crops go well?’
Inwardly Potter sighed, deeply, but he turned a bright face on Nigel. ‘That is something we are looking into Mr Cuthbert-Campbell. We are aware that there are people who still practise devil worship in this remote country area.’
‘Yes, but are you aware how seriously they take it? It would not be chivalrous of me to mention any names but look no further than the band of morris men who danced at the fair.’
Potter put on his knowing face and nodded, wondering if by any chance the man could be on to something regarding the blood sacrifice. But there was another line of enquiry that he wished to follow.
‘Can you tell me anything about your archers?’
‘In what regard?’
‘Just their general background.’
Nigel sat up very straight. ‘It would be wrong of me to criticize any of my loyal hearts.’
Here we go again, thought Potter, with certain resignation.
‘But of them all, Reg Marney is the most troublesome. The other two, Eric and Alan, are married men.’ Nigel’s little eyes got as close as they ever would to twinkling. ‘Though, of course, like all men of the Middle Ages, they have flirtatious encounters – that is all there is to it – with serving wenches.’
‘But Reg is more troublesome?’
‘Reg lost his wife some years ago and has been indulging in dalliances ever since.’ Nigel sighed. ‘But, alas, that is the nature of man. To seek comfort at a woman’s breast.’
Potter stood up, feeling a little nauseous. ‘Well, thank you so much, Mr Cuthbert-Campbell. It has been most enlightening.’
Nigel thrust out a hearty hand. ‘A pleasure, young fellow. If ever you should feel like joining The Closed Loop just let me know.’
Potter had a brief mental picture of himself swearing enthusiastic oaths with drunken fellow revellers and shook his head.
‘Not for me, sir, though thank you all the same. Too busy with police work I’m afraid.’
Nigel raised his eyebrows in sympathy. ‘It was ever thus, my friend. But be of stout heart.’
‘I’ll try,’ answered Potter as he staggered out into the night air.
Belle had been sobbing for the last hour, terrible heart-breaking cries that shook her body involuntarily and caused her skin to grow red and mottled. Melissa felt at the end of her tether, longing for the noise to stop, yet feeling it her duty to sit with her sorrowing granddaughter and pat her hand, murmuring, ‘There, there darling,’ every so often.
It had all started much earlier in the day when Melissa had been contacted by Susan Richards and told, in an almost unrecognizable voice, that Debbie had been murdered the previous night. Fortunately Hugh had been in and had comforted his wife with all the stoicism of an Afghanistan veteran. But after the initial shock and a couple of stiff drinks, they had turned to one another and realized that Isabelle – out playing with a friend – had to be told.
‘I can’t face it, Hugh. I truly can’t,’ Melissa had said, meaning every word.
Hugh had straightened his back. ‘Very well. I’ll do it.’
He had telephoned his gardening job and cried off and when his granddaughter had come in, little fair plaits swinging out from her head, eyes clear and bright, he had been almost military in his approach.
‘Belle, my darling, I have something of a serious nature to tell you.’
‘Yes, Daddy?’
‘I want you to be a very brave girl, sweet.’
She had looked at him knowingly, momentarily like an adult. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to see Debbie any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she died last night.’ He didn’t say anything about how, or where, or any of the grisly details, of which he only knew half himself. ‘I’m sorry, Belle. Be a gallant little soldier.’
She had stood silently for a moment before a deluge of tears gushed down her face and her lower lip started quivering.
‘Oh, Daddy,’ she said, and she had flung herself into his arms.
She had been weeping ever since. In fact Melissa had wondered to herself how one small individual could produce so many tears. She felt every day of her sixty-one years and was tired and unhappy into the bargain.
‘Belle, oh my little Belle, can I get you some toast with oozing butter and a nice cup of sweet tea?’
Her granddaughter’s body had been racked with an extra loud sob.
‘N–n–no, thank you, Mummy.’
‘But, sweetheart, you haven’t eaten a thing since you came in.’
Belle answered dramatically, ‘Debbie hasn’t eaten anything, has she, Mummy?’
Melissa stopped her patting and stared at Belle, thinking that the child had been watching the wrong sort of television.
‘Now, darling, what made you say that?’
‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Dead people don’t eat.’
‘Well, their bodies don’t. But their souls might.’
‘I don’t believe we go to the arms of Jesus.’
Melissa was silenced, not because of what Belle had just said but because she felt too exhausted to argue. The mystery of whether there was an afterlife was as deep to her as it always had been. Sometimes she believed it, particularly when she thought of genuine clairvoyants and the visions they had. At other times she thought that the human race was just like electric light switches. Turned off. Now she could think of nothing to say. Silently she stood up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get you something to eat. And if you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’
‘Don’t leave me, Mummy.’
‘Just for a few minutes, darling.’
‘I’ll be frightened.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Debbie’s ghost might come and haunt me.’
‘Nonsense. There are no such things as ghosts.’
‘But you saw my father after he had died. I heard you telling Daddy about it.’
‘I was imagining it,’ said Melissa firmly, and went out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Belle let out such a piercing scream that Hugh came running up the stairs, two at a time.
‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘She thinks Debbie’s ghost is coming for her.’
‘I’ll deal with her. Go downstairs, Melissa, you look done in.’
It was with gratitude that Belle’s grandmother made her way to the living room and poured herself a weak gin and tonic before going into the kitchen to stroke Samba, who was purring in his basket.
Dickie Donkin was heading for the coast. He loved the sea, loved its moods and its changing colours. When he had been a boy, he had had a collection of postcards from places with exotic names – he had never known where they had been – but the one thing that attracted him was the differing shades of the mighty ocean. Dazzling peacock from somewhere called Crete, another vivid emerald from Madagascar. All the colours of blue that one could possibly imagine. One he had particularly liked was of a small island surrounded by sapphire waters with a great abbey built on it. It had ‘Greetings from Mont St Michel’ written on it. Dickie thought now that that had been his favourite.
He knew, though nobody had told him, that the police wanted to question him and that was why he was deliberately going in the opposite direction. They frightened him. They seemed to know things without being told. He knew that they had realized that he had killed his stepfather. But the idea of dumping his weighted clothes in Bewl Water, swimming out to where the reservoir deepened, then swimming naked back to the shore and Farmer Packham’s barn to dress in fresh gear, had saved his life. There had been nothing to pin him to the actual murder. And the good old farmer had given him a firm alibi. Said he had looked in during the night and seen Dickie sleeping like a babe.
The tramp smiled at that memory and walked resolutely on, his goal to get to Fairlight Glen, where he could rest a little and contemplate the ocean. Aching though his feet were, he plodded onwards until eventually he left the houses behind and there, overlooking the mighty monster – as he affectionately nicknamed the sea – someone had thoughtfully put a wooden seat, big enough for three. ‘In Memory of Alf Adkins who sat in this spot daily’ had been written on a small plaque attached to the back. Thinking of Alf, Dickie had lain down on the bench and fallen asleep.
He awoke slowly, muzzy as usual, but after blinking his eyes several times he saw that someone was leaning over him and smiling. Dickie smiled back, showing his rotting brown teeth.
‘Hello, sonny. Having a little kip, were we?’
Dickie swung his legs down and looked earnestly at the person speaking to him. It was a schoolboy dressed in a uniform of some kind. And then slowly the fog from his brain lifted. It was a policeman. Instinctively Dickie started to run but there was a restraining hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re Richard Donkin, aren’t you?’ said the boy.
Dickie nodded. The game was up. There was no point in struggling.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ the boy said very gently. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’
A tear ran down Dickie’s dirty cheek as the handcuffs were put on him and he was led to a nearby police car where a small girl dressed as a policewoman got out and stared at him.
‘Did he cause any trouble?’ she asked.
The boy laughed. ‘No. He’s as gentle as a lamb, aren’t you, Dickie?’
Dickie nodded. ‘Yes,’ came out of the cavern of his throat, and he managed to smile at the boy once more.
Jack Boggis was holding forth loudly. ‘I tell you that this damned village is haunted. Talk about Midsomer Murders. I should think the author – whoever he or she was – must have based it on Lakehurst. Another child last night! I’m seriously thinking of putting my house on the market.’
‘Goodie!’ shouted an unseen listener from the bar.
Jack shot them a look of pure malice and took a sup of ale. ‘As I was saying, Doctor, it really isn’t a village fit to live in.’
‘Well,’ began Kasper in his beautiful accented voice, ‘these particular murders are taking place outside. I mean, those fields belong to Sir Rufus Beaudegrave. They are not, strictly speaking, part of Lakehurst.’
‘They’re near enough. In my opinion there’s a madman on the loose. He’s clearly a child-hater and a danger to the whole community.’
‘You’re hardly a child, Mr Boggis. If your theory is right, you have nothing to fear.’
‘And that’s telling you,’ shouted the unseen listener.
The vicar walked in quietly and stood listening to the exchange of words. In other circumstances he would have been smiling, because Jack Boggis was such an old woman in his opinion, but tonight he felt stretched to his limit. The murder of two innocent children on two consecutive nights had shocked him profoundly. He had been to church and prayed that the malefactor would be caught, that the babes would be received in the hereafter, that harmony could soon be restored to the village. And he had felt slightly guilty because however hard he concentrated on the presence of evil, glorious golden Patsy had crept into his thoughts and he had wished that she lived close to him so that he could have confided his feelings to her.
Kasper spoke. ‘If you are feeling nervous, Mr Boggis, perhaps you could come into my surgery and I will give you a prescription.’
Jack had snorted like an angry old mule. ‘Tranquilizers. I don’t want any of them things, thank you all the same. Ruin you once you start on those. I knew a woman once who was still on some anti-depressant thirty years after her husband died. And still going on about feeling on the verge of suicide.’
‘You will always get those types, of course,’ Kasper said sadly.
‘May I join you?’ asked Nick.
‘All right,’ answered Boggis, none too affably.
‘I heard what you said just now and have met quite a few of them in my time,’ the vicar added. ‘I think they are attention-seekers deep down.’
‘Not so deep,’ Jack answered gloomily. ‘They dine out on being ill. As my old father used to say, “They enjoy bad health”.’
‘Well, at least they enjoyed something,’ shouted the wag from the bar, and there was general laughter.
Nick was vividly reminded of just how tough a creature mankind was. Here was this small village in Sussex, currently threatened by some evil being who could murder children and dress them up like some obscene sacrifice, yet in the face of all that the residents could still find something to laugh about. That surely must be the greatest blessing of all; that in the face of danger and menace they could still retain their sense of humour. He raised his glass to the unseen joker and said ‘Cheers’.