“I make a point of only smoking Guinea Gold cigarettes and drinking French brandy, Benson. I fear nothing else will do.” Templeton Black exhaled slowly, smoke pluming from his nostrils. His cigarette drooped languidly from his bottom lip.
“Then you, sir,” replied Benson, striking the billiard ball with the tip of his cue, “are nothing but a frightful bore.” He stood back, admiring his handiwork as two balls clacked together and a red one tumbled into a pocket at the far end of the table. He took a swig from a near-empty whisky bottle he’d left resting on the raised lip of the billiard table.
Black raised a disapproving eyebrow. “You understand, Benson, that it’s terribly uncouth to drink from the bottle like that?”
Benson laughed, nearly spluttering on his drink, and Black chuckled heartily, reaching out his hand. “Oh go on, give it here, foul stuff that it is.” He took the proffered bottle and downed the last of the caramel-coloured spirit, shuddering as it hit his palate.
“A drink’s a drink, Templeton,” said Benson, placing his cue on the table. “And a win’s a win. That’s a guinea you owe me. Unless you want to up the stakes for a rematch?”
Black shook his head, taking another long draw on his cigarette. “No,” he said, hopping down from where he’d been sitting on a window ledge and blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I must find Newbury. Apparently there’s something he wants to discuss.”
“Hmm,” murmured Benson, unhappy to be losing his playmate. “I’m not sure why you bother attending these house parties, you know. You’re never here for more than five minutes before you go and get yourself caught up in another ridiculous investigation. You should tell Newbury to keep his mysteries to himself.”
Black laughed, slapping Benson heartily on the back. “Now you’re being drunk and petulant,” he said, warmly. “Go on, go and find someone else to beat at billiards.” He looked up at the sound of footsteps to see a pretty young woman in a black, floor-length gown enter the room. “Jocasta will play, won’t you?” he said, laughing.
“In this dress?” she replied, with a winning smile.
“Oh, come on, old girl!” said Black. “Otherwise Benson will lapse into another of his foul moods and spend the rest of the party scowling at everyone. You know how he is.”
Jocasta laughed as she closed the gap between them. She put a hand on his arm. “Do you like it?” she asked, demurely. “The dress, I mean.”
Black grinned. “Oh, come on, old girl. You know you’re not my type.”
Jocasta rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, more’s the pity. I suppose I shall have to make do with Benson and his billiards.”
“I can hear you, you know,” said Benson, with mock hurt. “And I think your dress is terribly pretty,” he added.
“There you are, then,” said Black. “Benson has someone to beat at billiards, and you have someone to appreciate your dress. The world is a happy place.”
“Go on,” replied Jocasta, sighing, “go and find Newbury before I change my mind.”
Black started toward the door. “Play nicely,” he called over his shoulder.
“You still owe me a guinea!” bellowed Benson, behind him.
Sir Maurice Newbury was lounging on a sofa when Black found him in the drawing room a few minutes later.
He was a handsome man in his late thirties, with a pale complexion and a square-set jaw. He wore his raven-black hair in a neat side parting, falling in a comma across his forehead, and tended toward black suits with starched white collars and colourful silk cravats.
Now, he was nursing a half-empty glass of claret, and appeared to be deep in conversation with an older man who sported an impressive set of white whiskers.
Newbury looked up when Black entered the room, and beckoned him over with a wave of his hand.
Dutifully, Black made a beeline toward them, ignoring the two other conversations that were taking place in the large drawing room: a cluster of four women had gathered on a seat beneath a tall, mullioned window, while two other men spoke in hushed tones across the far side of the room, standing before the fire. Black had been introduced to them all, of course, but he was damned if he could remember their names. He realised this was something of a weakness in a Crown investigator, but he seemed to get by.
“Ah, Templeton, have you been properly introduced to our host, Sir Geoffrey Potterstone?” said Newbury, as Black joined them.
Black turned to regard the older man, extending his hand. “I believe not, although I do fear I’ve rather been taking advantage of your hospitality, Sir Geoffrey.”
Potterstone laughed warmly. He was a ruddy-faced man, in his late fifties, with narrow blue eyes and the scarlet nose of a heavy drinker. He took Black’s hand in his own, giving it a firm squeeze. Black resisted the urge to grimace in pain. “You’re most welcome, Mr Black. Most welcome indeed. Any friend of Sir Maurice is a friend of mine.” He finally released Black’s hand, adding, “And besides, he speaks most highly of you.”
“Does he, indeed?” replied Black, with a quick glance at Newbury, whose expression was giving nothing away. “Well, it’s both a pleasure and an honour to be considered a guest at your impressive house, Sir Geoffrey.” Black glanced at the empty chair beside Newbury. “May I join you?”
Sir Geoffrey waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t mind me, Mr Black. I’ve been ignoring my other guests for too long as it is.” He planted his hands firmly on the arms of his chair and pulled himself up. He was not a large man, but portly, and was clearly having some difficulty with his right foot. Probably gout, considered Black, given the overall appearance of the fellow and the evidence of his most comfortable lifestyle.
Sir Geoffrey turned to Newbury. “Regarding that other matter, Sir Maurice...?”
“In hand, Sir Geoffrey,” replied Newbury. “Say no more.”
“Excellent,” replied the other man. “Then I’ll ask the two of you to excuse me while I mingle for a while.” He turned and tottered off in the direction of the four women by the window.
Black turned to Newbury. “What was all that about?” he enquired, searching out his silver cigarette case and withdrawing another Guinea Gold. He lit it, leaning back and taking a long, pleasurable draw.
Newbury watched him for a moment, smiling. “A little problem he’s asked me to look into,” he said, after a moment. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I rather fear I’ve volunteered our services.”
Black laughed. “I imagined you might.”
Newbury grinned. “I could use your help. And besides, I thought you might find it interesting.”
“Don’t I always,” replied Black, with a chuckle. “So, go ahead, enlighten me.”
“It’s the valet,” said Newbury. “He’s missing.”
“Missing?” enquired Black.
“For three days,” replied Newbury. “No one has seen hide or hair of him. He requested the morning off on Wednesday, claiming he had a personal errand to run. Said he was heading into the village. He never returned.”
“And no one here has any idea where he might have gone?” asked Black.
“Apparently not. Sir Geoffrey says he’s a very private man. Keeps himself to himself, spends most of his free time alone in his room, reading novels. His name is Henry Blakemore.” Newbury shrugged.
“Family? Might he have received word of an emergency and taken off without notice?”
“Hardly the actions of a dutiful valet. Even if he’d been called away by an emergency, it’s been three days. He’d have sent word by now.” Newbury took a swig from his brandy. “And besides, he has no family left. No parents, no siblings. No one to run to.”
Black smiled. “A real mystery.” He exhaled another cloud of cigarette smoke. “So, where do we start?”
“Apparently the servants are saying all sorts of fascinating things about the haunted woods on the edge of the estate,” Newbury became more animated as he spoke, and his face seemed to light up at the very prospect, “but I imagine our first port of call should be to search his room in the morning.”
Black laughed. “Don’t think for a minute that you can pretend you didn’t know about these so-called ‘haunted woods’ before we set out for this party. I can see now that’s the only reason we’re here.”
Newbury looked scandalised. “I’m shocked that you’d think that, Templeton.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I had heard that Sir Geoffrey has a rather impressive and plentiful wine cellar, too.”
Black shook his head in mock dismay. “You’re incorrigible. I’m turning in. I suppose I’ll see you at breakfast?” He stood, crushing the stub of his cigarette into a nearby ashtray.
“Indeed,” confirmed Newbury. “And then our investigation can begin.”
“I can hardly wait,” said Black, with as deadpan a tone as he could muster.
Breakfast consisted of a small portion of bacon and eggs, followed by copious amounts of black coffee and cigarettes. Black had risen early, unable to sleep, and having eaten, he decided to take a stroll around the extensive grounds of the manor.
It had rained during the night and the air smelled damp and earthy. Water droplets glistened on the immaculate lawns as the sun attempted to break through the canopy of grey clouds, spearing shafts of brilliant light onto the ground.
Black paused for a moment on the stone terrace at the front of the house, surveying the horizon. There, on the far edge of the estate, were the “haunted woods” Newbury had mentioned the previous evening. Black didn’t put much stock in talk of ghosts and ghouls but, he had to admit, the dark, spiky stretch of woodland did not appear particularly inviting. The leafless trees seemed somehow threatening as they clawed at the sky with their jagged fingers. He could see why they’d attracted such a sinister reputation.
He turned at the sound of footsteps on the terrace behind him.
“Ah, there you are,” said Newbury, coming to stand beside him. “Your friend Benson said you’d be out here.”
“Benson?” asked Black, surprised. “I’m astonished he’s managed to rouse himself so early.”
“It seems he couldn’t keep away from the bacon and eggs,” replied Newbury, deadpan. “And I gather he’s smarting from losing at billiards.”
Black almost snorted as he attempted to fight back a guffaw. Newbury smiled. “I must say, Templeton—you do seem to have a fondness for rather raffish company.”
Black grinned. “We are here for a party, Sir Maurice.”
“Well, some of us, perhaps,” replied Newbury. “Are you ready to assist me in examining Mr Blakemore’s room?”
“Mmm,” mumbled Black, taking a final draw on his cigarette and stubbing out the still-smouldering butt on the stone balustrade. “Yes. Coming.”
He turned to find Newbury was already holding the French doors open for him, but he couldn’t resist one final glance over his shoulder at the brooding, ominous woods in the middle distance.
Henry Blakemore’s room was immaculately kept, ordered to an almost military precision. The furnishings were sparse and functional: a bed, a wooden nightstand, a small gentleman’s wardrobe. The man’s belongings appeared just as minimal, with very few personal effects, save for a hairbrush and toiletries, a handful of neatly shelved novels and a drawer full of papers and old photographs. A few carefully pressed suits hung in the wardrobe. A small window looked out upon the gardens. To Black it seemed more like a prison than a home.
“It seems he lives a rather spartan existence,” he said, picking out one of the novels and turning it over in his hands. He read the title on the spine: The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. It looked well thumbed, with some of the page corners turned over. He returned it to its place on the shelf.
“A military man, I’d suggest,” said Newbury, glancing around. “We can confirm that with Sir Geoffrey, of course.”
“You think it’s pertinent?” asked Black.
Newbury shrugged. “Anything could be pertinent at this stage. It would certainly explain why he doesn’t appear to place much value in material acquisitions. Perhaps also why he leads such a private existence, and why he might have chosen not to share his problems with the rest of the staff.”
Black nodded. “Makes sense.” He crossed to the dresser. “There’s little here that might help us to discover what’s happened to him, though. The whole place seems devoid of personality.”
“Hmm,” murmured Newbury, distractedly. Black turned to see him folding back the bed sheets and lifting the pillow. “Ah-ha!” exclaimed Newbury a moment later, fumbling beneath the pillow for something small and blue.
“What have you got there?” asked Black, joining him by the bedside.
“A small bottle,” replied Newbury, holding it up to the light. It was corked and no more than six inches tall. A dark liquid sloshed around inside as Newbury turned it over in his hand, searching for a label. A little square of brown paper had been pasted on the side, with a handwritten legend scrawled upon it. It read: WARNER’S LUNG TONIC.
“Quack medicine,” said Newbury, with distaste. He handed the bottle to Black, who took it, bemused. He shrugged and pulled the stopper free, bringing the vessel up to his nose, before recoiling in abject disgust.
“Who the blazes could even consider ingesting such a foul concoction?” he asked, quickly forcing the stopper back into the neck of the bottle. He fought a brief wave of nausea, hoping that the oily, acrid scent of the tonic would soon clear from his throat and nostrils.
“Someone who was very desperate,” said Newbury, thoughtfully. “Someone who had nothing to lose.”
Black placed the bottle on the bedside table and glared at it balefully as if it were a living thing. “Someone with an iron stomach and no taste buds,” he said.
“Nevertheless,” said Newbury, “it gives us something to go on.”
“You think he might have disappeared because of an illness or affliction?” prompted Black, when it seemed clear that Newbury was not going to elaborate. “What if he simply collapsed somewhere by the side of the road? He could be lying in a hospital, or even dead.”
“Quite,” replied Newbury. “But let’s not alarm everyone just yet. We don’t know anything for certain.”
Black nodded. “Of course, if he is seriously unwell, then someone must have noticed. No matter how private a man he might be. You can’t hide things in a house like this. Not from everyone. We should speak to the servants, see if anyone has observed any change in his behaviour.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Newbury. “Sir Geoffrey told me he’d spoken with them all, and that no one knew where Blakemore might have gone. But this is a different question entirely, isn’t it?” He smiled brightly. “I’ll start with the footmen if you begin in the kitchens.”
“Excellent,” replied Black. “That way I might be able to charm the cook into rustling me up some elevenses.”
“It’s not even ten!” said Newbury, with a disbelieving shake of his head.
“Details,” said Black. “Mere details.”
It was the cook—the portly and generous Mrs Braddock—who turned out to be just the mine of information that Newbury and Black had been searching for.
Black had spent the two hours following their brief search of Blakemore’s room enjoying varied and enlightening discourse with the four women who inhabited the kitchens, sitting on a stool by the fire while they buzzed around him, readying a cold buffet for lunch and making early preparations for dinner. The pungent scent of herbs and spices filled his nostrils, causing his stomach to rumble.
Mrs Braddock had a colourful turn of phrase—one that might have caused a less worldly man to blush—but Black could tell she had a kind heart and, rather than embarrassment, he derived a great deal of enjoyment from her outrageous asides.
“I’d always considered him a bit of an arse,” she said of Blakemore, when finally she found time to take a short break, joining Black by the fire for a cup of tea. She was redfaced and hassled, but still smiling. “Bit aloof, if you know what I mean. As if he didn’t want anything much to do with the rest of us. Up ’imself, like.” She fixed him with a stern gaze, gesturing upward with bunched fingers as if mimicking something unspeakable. “But I was wrong. Very wrong.”
“You were?” prompted Black.
She faltered slightly. “Well, I don’t think that I should say any more...”
“What’s the matter, Mrs Braddock?” asked Black in his most reassuring tone.
“It’s just... well, I’d be betraying a confidence, is all. That’s the problem with bloody secrets, ain’t it? You’re supposed to keep ’em to yourself.” She looked rueful.
“Ah. I see your dilemma. But then, there are secrets, and there are secrets, if you follow me?” said Black, conspiratorially.
“Not really, love. No,” replied Mrs Braddock, with a frown.
Black sighed. “Mr Blakemore is missing, and quite possibly in need of urgent assistance. Surely, if it results in his safe return, he won’t hold it against you if you’ve told me in confidence whatever it is you’re keeping secret for him.”
Mrs Braddock slurped noisily at her tea. “Oh well, when you put it like that,” she said, hurriedly, “then I don’t suppose I have a choice!”
“I’d say not,” encouraged Black, stifling a laugh.
“It was last week, it happened. It was late in the evening and I’d popped down for a tot of rum.” She cupped her hand around her mouth and leaned closer to Black, as if worried that someone might overhear. “I’m in the habit of takin’ a small measure before bed, you see. Just a snifter.” She sat back, straightening up on the stool and acting as if her little aside had never occurred. “Well, he was bent double by the back door, hacking his guts up. Bloody disgusting, it was. Literally. It was all over the floor.”
“What did you do?” asked Black.
“What do you think?” replied Mrs Braddock, incredulous that he should even ask such a thing. “I went to offer my help. He was flushed and disoriented, so I loosened his collar and opened the back door to let in some fresh air. The place stank.” She took another swig of her tea, which, Black decided, must have been tepid by this point. “The cold air seemed to bring him round a bit and his coughing subsided. I got him up and walked him through here, to the kitchen, where I cleaned him up. At first he was all apologetic, a bit sheepish, like, but he thanked me for my efforts, once he realised there was no need to be embarrassed. So I fixed him a hot toddy and dragged out a bucket and mop to sort out his mess.”
“I take it he hadn’t simply over-indulged at the village pub?” asked Black.
Mrs Braddock shook her head. “Not the way he was carrying on. You should’ve heard him. Sounded like he was about to expire. His lungs were giving him gyp. And all that blood...” She trailed off. “Well, it was clear as the day is long that he was in a bad way.”
“Did he talk to you about it?”
Mrs Braddock nodded. “Aye, and in truth they might have been the first real words we’d shared since he joined us over a year ago. Possibly the last, too.”
“And?”
“He told me it’d been going on for weeks. That he’d been to see the doctor, who explained there was nothing they could do. He has a lung condition, you see, and it’s only a matter of time...” She looked stricken at the memory, and Black remained tight-lipped while she composed herself.
“He said he’d tried everything. Tonics and potions, the lot. But nothing was working. So I... I told him about Martha.” She shook her head and issued a long, heartfelt sigh. “Look at me, ruddy fool that I am. Getting all maudlin.”
“Tell me about Martha,” said Black. “Tell me what you told Mr Blakemore.”
Mrs Braddock frowned. “I should never have said anything. I shouldn’t have given him hope. It’s just that...”
“Go on.”
“Martha’s my sister-in-law, annoying bat that she is. She told me a story, about a woman who can heal people, using the old ways. Claims she knows a man who was brought back from the brink of death.”
“The old ways?” asked Black.
“Magic,” replied Mrs Braddock, in a sepulchral whisper. “Funny stuff. Rituals with herbs and plants. That sort of thing.”
“Herbs like the ones you’re using in your kitchen? They smell delightful,” said Black.
Mrs Braddock frowned. “No.” She paused. “Well, perhaps. But it’s all about how you use them,” she said, a little defensively.
“I see,” said Black, trying to keep the scepticism from his voice. “And you think Mr Blakemore might have gone in search of this woman?”
“Wouldn’t you? If you’d run out of options, if you’d tried everything else. Wouldn’t you at least want to try?”
“Yes. I rather think I would,” conceded Black. “Do you know where I might find her?”
Mrs Braddock shook her head. “I told Mr Blakemore to ask in the village.”
“Then Sir Maurice and I shall do the same,” said Black. “My thanks to you, Mrs Braddock. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Do you think you’ll find him?” she asked suddenly, her guard slipping.
Black shrugged. “We’ll try.”
She nodded, getting down from her stool and smoothing the front of her apron. “Was there anything else?”
“A crumpet, perhaps? Or a piece of that rather spiffing-looking pie?” chanced Black, with a grin.
“You cheeky bugger!” was her only response.
The village, it transpired, was little more than a hamlet: a cluster of small stone cottages around a central square, with a single inn—The Saracen’s Head—and an old, decommissioned well. It was picturesque and welcoming, but Black couldn’t help thinking that, if forced to remain in such environs for more than a few days, he’d be at serious risk of dying from boredom. Quite literally, in fact, given there was nothing to do but ensconce oneself at the inn and drink. And he did like a drink.
Save for the gentle wisps of curling smoke that rose from a handful of chimney stacks, the village appeared utterly devoid of activity. No figures could be seen on the quiet lanes; no sounds of chatter or toil from the surrounding fields.
Given this apparent paucity of life, Newbury and Black settled on The Saracen’s Head as the most obvious destination at which to glean the information they sought.
Inside, the inn was an austere, functional sort of place, with roughly hewn wooden tables and stools, and a spitting open fire. Two rust-coloured spaniels lounged luxuriously before the hearth, warming their bellies, and a gaunt-looking man with a balding pate was propped against the bar, apparently engaged in deep thought.
Black hovered by the door and lit a cigarette while Newbury approached the man, coughing politely to gain his attention.
The man—evidently startled by the unexpected arrival of customers—turned to Newbury with a surprised smile. “Oh, ah, hello gentlemen,” he stammered. He moved smoothly around to the other side of the bar, looking at Newbury expectantly. “What’ll it be?”
“Oh, well...” began Newbury, as if to explain to the man that they were only there to ask a few questions, but Black cut in when he saw the crestfallen expression on the barman’s face.
“A gin and tonic, please,” he said, taking two strides forward to join Newbury by the bar, “and whatever my colleague is having.”
Newbury glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “Well, I don’t suppose a small brandy would do any harm,” he conceded.
The barman nodded, shooting a grateful look at Black, and reached for two glasses.
“Gin and tonic? At this hour?” whispered Newbury when the man’s back was turned.
“Trust me,” replied Black, with a cheery smile. “Buying a drink will help loosen his tongue.” He took a pull on his cigarette, expelling the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “And besides, I’m thirsty.”
Newbury sighed and reached for his wallet.
“There we go, gents,” said the barman as he placed their drinks on the wooden counter. He glanced at Black. “Sloe gin. Made from local berries.”
Black took his glass and peered at it for a moment, then took a swig. “That’s very good,” he said, enthused. “Do you cultivate the berries yourself?”
“No,” replied the barman. “They grow wild in these parts. Wild things seem to flourish here.” He glanced at Newbury, who passed him a few coins. “Will you be requiring accommodation?”
Newbury shook his head, reaching for his glass. “No, thank you. We’re not planning to stay.”
The barman gave him a quizzical look. “If you don’t mind me saying, gentlemen, you make an unlikely pair of visitors to these parts. Are you guests up at the big house?”
Newbury grinned. “Guilty as charged.”
The barman laughed. “It’s not often we receive patronage from the manor, but you’re the second in as many weeks. There must be something in the air.”
Newbury glanced at Black. “Well, that’s actually why we’re here. We’re looking for someone.”
The barman narrowed his eyes. “Now don’t go expecting me to get involved in anything nefarious. I prefer to keep my nose clean.”
Newbury put his drink down and spread his hands in a placatory fashion. “Oh no, nothing nefarious. It’s Sir Geoffrey’s valet from the manor. He’s gone missing. No one has seen him for three days, and we’re trying to help. We were led to believe he might have come this way to enquire about the location of an old woman, a healer?”
The barman’s shoulders sagged. “Not been seen for three days, you say?” He dashed his hand against the counter in obvious frustration. “He didn’t listen to me, then. The damn fool.”
“So you did speak with him?” prompted Black.
“Oh, yes. I spoke with him. Warned him off. Told him to give it up. But the dogged idiot didn’t listen, and now he’s missing.” The barman’s voice raised in pitch as he spoke, as if the anxiety was physically strangling him.
“Warned him off?” asked Newbury. “From what?”
The barman grabbed a bottle of brandy from beneath the counter and poured himself a generous measure. He swallowed it in one, quick slug, gasping as he dropped the glass on the bar. “He’s not coming back, you know.”
“Tell us,” said Black, levelly.
The barman raised his head, meeting Black’s gaze. “The old woman,” he said. “No one’s seen or heard anything of her for months. She used to be a familiar face around these parts. She lives in a cottage in the woods, and people would go to see her with their ailments, pay her a few coins for her help. She’d recommend herbal remedies or find ways to heal people. Some of the methods she employed were... old fashioned. Ancient ways, handed down through the generations. Always worked, though. Whatever she did, she always found a way to help.” He paused to pour himself another brandy. “Some people—superstitious types—called her a witch and wanted nothing to do with her, but most of us know her as Old Mab, and she’s a kindly sort. A little eccentric, perhaps, but harmless.”
“And this is the woman Mr Blakemore, the valet, came looking for?” asked Newbury.
The barman nodded. “Yes. He said he needed her help.”
“Then why did you warn him off?” said Black. “It sounds as if this ‘Mab’ character might have been able to help him.” He glanced around for an ashtray, and finding none, extinguished his cigarette in his now-empty glass. Newbury shook his head in dismay.
“As I said, no one’s seen anything of her for months,” replied the barman, draining his second glass.
“What’s become of her?” asked Newbury, his brow furrowed. “Has anyone been to search for the woman?”
“That’s exactly the problem,” said the barman, quietly. “They have.”
“And she’s missing?” asked Black.
“No. They are.” He looked from Newbury to Black, as if judging their reactions. “No one who’s gone into those woods in the last four months has come out again. God knows what’s become of them. Whatever fate has befallen Old Mab has befallen them, too. There’s something in there. Something unnatural.”
“The ‘haunted woods’ that Sir Geoffrey spoke of,” said Newbury. “That’s why you warned Mr Blakemore against searching for Mab.”
“Precisely,” said the barman. “No matter how desperate he was, he should never have gone near that wood.”
“How many people are unaccounted for?” asked Black.
“Half a dozen, including Mab,” said the barman. “And the local bobby, too. He went in looking for some of the missing village folk. Never returned.”
Newbury pulled his pocket watch from his jacket and popped open the cover. He consulted the dial. “We still have a couple of hours of light,” he said to Black.
“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed the barman, clearly taken aback. “After everything I’ve just said, you’re considering going in there?”
Newbury shrugged. “Someone has to get to the bottom of what’s going on,” he said. “And I do enjoy some old-fashioned haunted woods.”
“You’re mad!” said the barman, shaking his head.
“Quite possibly,” said Newbury. “Are you with me, Templeton?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied Black, clapping Newbury on the shoulder.
“Then God help you both,” muttered the barman, dramatically. “God help you both.”
The woods were as sinister up close as they had appeared from the terrace at the manor that morning. Towering trees, divested of their foliage for the season, stood like stoop-backed sentries, guardians protecting some impregnable realm. Their branches were spiky and gnarled, and to Black seemed like the jagged limbs of an ancient, tentacled beast, poised and waiting to strike. A dark path, shrouded in shadow, led deeper into the heart of the wood.
“It does seem rather... unwelcoming,” said Newbury. “I can understand why the villagers have come to believe there’s something supernatural going on. There’s a definite atmosphere about the place.”
“You can say that again,” said Black. “Are you sure you want to go in there?” He paused, and then decided to say what was on his mind. “We could come back tomorrow, when there’s more light. We could be better prepared.”
“For what?” said Newbury. “How can we prepare for something that may not even exist? We don’t know what we’re going up against, if, indeed, we’re going up against anything at all. There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the missing people.”
“Like a wild animal with a big appetite,” muttered Black, knowing all too well that Newbury was not to be dissuaded from his current plan.
“You have your revolver?” asked Newbury, as if that would be an end to the matter.
Black looked surprised. “What revolver? I never carry a revolver.”
“You don’t?” said Newbury, frowning. “Then what about last week, when I went charging into the midst of all those oriental gangsters? You were covering me with a revolver then, weren’t you?”
“I was not,” replied Black.
Newbury swallowed. “But... I told you to cover me. What if I hadn’t been able to fend them off?”
“You bellowed ‘cover me’ as you went barging in,” said Black. “You didn’t give me chance to ask what with!”
Newbury raised both eyebrows, and then shook his head. “Remind me to buy you a revolver,” he said. He clapped his hands abruptly. “Right, come on. No time like the present.” He trudged off in the direction of the tree line.
Sighing, Black hurried to keep up.
The path through the woods was flanked on either side by an avenue of ancient oaks, and had obviously been cleared many years earlier to form a bridle path. Now, the fingers of the old trees were beginning to encroach, feeling their way out tentatively into the human world, reclaiming the habitat that was once theirs. Black found himself twisting and weaving to avoid them where the path became narrow.
Underfoot, the dirt track had given way to a spongy carpet of moss that was slowly consuming everything, including the fallen branches of long-dead trees, and the trunks of those still living. He wondered how many people had come this way in recent years—he suspected very few. With a shudder, he considered whether the missing villagers might be under that mossy carpet somewhere, their corpses slowly succumbing to its cloying embrace. There was certainly no sign of them or their recent passing, and the place had an air of desolation about it; wild and untamed.
The light was beginning to fade and the setting sun cast long, eerie shadows all about them. Black couldn’t help feeling hemmed in by the looming trees. He had the ridiculous notion that their progress was being observed. He pressed on regardless, however, trying to keep up with Newbury, who seemed intent on pushing ever deeper into the woods in search of answers. He’d noticed this tendency in Newbury before—an unrelenting need to get to the truth, no matter the consequences or personal risk. It was an admirable trait, but also a deeply infuriating one. Black considered suggesting they turn back for the day, try again the following morning, but there would be no stopping Newbury, not now his mind was made up. Black trudged on, his feet sinking in the bracken.
Presently, the trees on either side of the path began to thin and open out, and the path itself became wider, eventually giving way to a large copse. From here the path wound away deeper into the heart of the wood, but it was the presence of an old, tumbledown cottage that drew Black’s immediate attention.
The building was small and constructed from local stone, and was in a terrible state of disrepair. It had about it the sense of somewhere that had been abandoned for years; trees had forced their way inside the structure, their branches poking through the shattered windows and splintered stonework, or growing up and out through large holes in the thatched roof. Moss and lichen clung to the lintels; vines and creepers dripped from the guttering. No lights burned in the windows, and Black suspected they had not for some time. If this was the house belonging to Old Mab, then she had clearly quit the place a good while ago—far longer than the handful of months implied by the barman at The Saracen’s Head. Everything about the cottage suggested it was returning to nature, left to spoil and degenerate, given over to the trees and the moss.
“I think this must be the place Mr Blackstone was searching for,” said Newbury, approaching the building and peering in through one of the windows. What remained of the glass was smeared with mossy spores, and a thick bundle of ropey branches erupted from the hole, obscuring the interior from view. The door, however, was hanging open on one damaged hinge, hinting at a shadowy room beyond.
“Well, there’s clearly no one living here,” said Black, glad for the brief respite from their forced march through the trees. He reached into his jacket and withdrew his silver cigarette tin, popping it open and extracting a Guinea Gold. He rested it between his lips while he sought out his box of Lucifers. “Perhaps Old Mab has moved on, and when the valet discovered the house, he abandoned his search.”
The light was thin and pale now, peeking through the treetops in narrow shafts and pooling on the mulch by their feet.
“Then why didn’t he return to the manor?” asked Newbury as he circled the decrepit building, searching for any signs of life. The wind whistled loudly through the overhead branches. Pools of dead leaves stirred near Black’s boots. “Surely even the most stubborn of men would want to be surrounded by familiar faces as he faced death?”
Black shrugged, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “Perhaps,” he said, noncommittally. “Or perhaps he wasn’t ready to give up yet. Either way, it doesn’t appear that he found what he was looking for here.”
“Hmm,” said Newbury, unsure. “I’m going to take a quick look inside. You wait here.”
Black watched as Newbury picked his way around a twisted knot of tree roots that had erupted from the soil by the threshold, and pushed at the door. The rusted hinge creaked in protest and the door broke free, clattering noisily to the ground. The sudden sound was like a thunderclap in the clearing, and startled birds burst out of the surrounding trees, cawing as they took flight. Startled, Newbury stepped back, glancing over his shoulder at Black. Then, with a shrug, he turned and disappeared inside.
Black took another long draw on his cigarette, kicking idly at the dry leaves. Newbury would return in a few moments to report the house was empty, and then hopefully he’d relent, allowing them to make the long trek back to the manor before night set in. They’d have to resume their search for the missing valet in the morning.
“That was qui—” Black sensed movement and glanced up at the cottage expecting to see Newbury in the doorway, but everything was still and the words died on his lips. He paused, listening intently, tuning out the background sounds of the wood. There it was again: a noise like the rustling of dry leaves. This time it was followed by something that sounded very much like a strangled gasp.
“Sir Maurice?” Without hesitation Black rushed to the door of the cottage, ducking his head beneath the lintel and scrabbling in to look for Newbury. It was gloomy inside, and the first thing that struck him was the thick, mouldy stench of the place. The second was that Newbury appeared to be grappling with a writhing tree root that had snaked around his neck and was attempting to lift him off his feet.
“Get... it... off... me!” gurgled Newbury, when he caught sight of Black in the doorway, cigarette still drooping from his lips. Newbury’s arms flailed dramatically, beating ineffectually at his wooden attacker.
In the dim light of the building it was difficult to ascertain exactly what was happening, how best to help. The single room that comprised the ground floor of the building was festooned with hanging roots and branches, curling down from the ceiling, sprouting up through the broken floor, or worming in through cracks in the dry stone walls. They curled and writhed like the tentacles of some dreadful sea monster, alive and full of malicious intent.
Dead leaves covered the floor like a shifting carpet, and the detritus of a former, inhabited home created bizarre juxtapositions: a framed tapestry of two herons nestled amongst sinewy vines; a mahogany tea trolley clutched in the embrace of two claw-like branches; the contents of a bookcase blooming open like paper flowers, speared on the ends of new shoots.
Most disturbingly, at the heart of all this, a figure sat in the ruins of an armchair, nestled amongst the rustling branches. She had once been human—most likely the old witch whom Newbury, Black and the valet before them had sought—but now she was something else entirely, a twisted amalgam of a human being and a tree. Five or six supple branches erupted through the front of her chest, curling about her like probing tentacles; vines snaked around her throat; a thick, translucent root burst from the back of her skull. Her eyes had taken on a dead, milky aspect, and her flesh was dry and smooth, as if it were slowly transforming into the pliable bark of the parasite that had infested her body.
All around her, discarded amongst the dry, brown leaves, lay the desiccated husks of the dead, their hollow bodies ensnared in the web-like roots. One of them was attired in the remnants of a police constable’s uniform. Others were less discernible, left for too long to degrade amongst the mulch. These, then, were the missing villagers, the people who had come to Old Mab in search of her help. Black felt bile rising in his gullet.
At her feet lay the recently dead corpse of a man—the valet, Black presumed. More of the translucent roots pierced his chest, slowly draining the fluid from inside of him. Black could see it being drawn into the root system as if it were being sucked through a straw.
“Temple... ton!” bellowed Newbury, and Black fell back just in time to avoid the lash of one of Old Mab’s branches as it whipped out toward his head. He stumbled and caught hold of the doorframe, and the witch-thing cackled loudly, dead leaves tumbling from her open mouth as she turned to glower at him with her dead eyes.
Black fought rising panic. They had to get out of there before they ended up like the valet, like the dead villagers.
Black rushed to Newbury’s side, leaping over a trailing branch and grasping hold of the limb that held him. Black wrenched sharply but the branch simply flexed in his grip, and Newbury spluttered and hacked as it constricted around his throat.
Black cast around for something he could use as a weapon, but the branches were all around him now, curling around to ensnare him. He felt something close around his calf and glanced down to see roots snaking up from the ground, weaving around his boots and left leg. All the while, the witch-thing continued her hollow laugh.
Newbury’s breathing was constricted, his face swelling, his cheeks flushed. Black had moments to act.
He reached for the cigarette that still dangled from his bottom lip. Steadying himself, he took one last, long draw, and then twisted in the grip of the roots that were now clawing at his waist and flicked the butt towards the old woman. It landed amongst the dry leaves on her lap, disappearing from view.
Newbury kicked out as the branch lifted him wholly off the ground, and his thrashing uncovered the remnants of a shattered mirror amongst the fallen leaves. Jagged teeth of glass were scattered around a gilded oval frame.
Straining against his bonds, Black stooped low and snatched up a fragment of broken glass, curling his fingers around it as the roots that clutched his legs constricted more tightly, twisting him about. He thrashed, lashing out, jabbing the sharp edge into the sinewy branch that held Newbury, slicing deep into the thick, pulpy flesh. The witch-thing screamed, and Black struck again and again, worrying away at the limb that held his friend. Its grip loosened fractionally, and Newbury frantically dragged air into his starving lungs.
By this time the leaves in the woman’s lap had begun to smoulder. Black could smell them burning, and he twisted, watching as the smoke thickened and intensified until sprightly flames began to lick at the edges of the chair. He felt the grip on his ankles loosen and began to pull free, but was forced to watch in horror as Newbury was flung bodily across the room. He crashed into an old sideboard and dropped heavily to the ground. Empty tumblers and shards of broken glass rained down upon his back as he lay still and silent, face down in the dirt.
Old Mab threw her head back and screamed—a shrill, guttural shriek that caused the hair on the nape of Black’s neck to stand on end—and one of her branches flicked out, striking him painfully in the chest and sending him sprawling to the floor.
He bashed the side of his head against an overturned lamp stand and rolled, fighting a wave of nausea. He scrambled to his knees, dodging a flailing appendage as she took another swipe at him, this time narrowly missing his face.
His right palm was bleeding where he’d caught it on something in the fall, but he had no time to worry about it. He had to get to Newbury.
He could feel the heat of the fire on the side of his face as he dragged himself to his feet, and a quick glance at the witch-thing told him the Guinea Gold had done its job. The flames had spread to Old Mab herself, hungrily consuming her ancient, tattered clothes and her strange wooden flesh. As she squirmed, her flaming limbs served to spread the fire, dripping incendiary puddles around the room and igniting more of the brittle leaves and dry twigs.
Black staggered across to where Newbury was lying, dropping to his knees and rolling the other man over. Newbury’s head lolled, his complexion pale. His eyes were closed, and blood streamed from a deep laceration in his left cheek.
Black felt his heart race, panicked that he was too late, that the witch had already squeezed the life out of Newbury, or that the sudden blow that had tossed him across the room had caused his heart to give out. He put a hand on Newbury’s chest, and felt a flood of relief when he realised the man was still drawing shallow, but regular, breath.
“Sir Maurice?” he said, his voice an urgent croak. “Newbury?”
Newbury stirred, his face creasing in a deep frown as his head turned slowly towards Black. He didn’t open his eyes. “Templeton?” he said, quietly.
The crackling of the flames had now become a desperate roar as the fire crept up the walls, licking at the ceiling. Oily smoke stung Black’s eyes, causing him to hack and splutter. All the while, the screaming, violent death throes of the witch-thing continued behind him.
“Get up!” bellowed Black, grabbing Newbury beneath the shoulders and hauling him up to a sitting position. “Now!”
Newbury opened his eyes and looked woozily at Black, struggling to focus.
“My apologies, Sir Maurice,” said Black, drawing back his hand, “but please don’t consider this my resignation.” He brought his palm back round with a sharp swing, striking Newbury hard across the right cheek.
Newbury howled in shock, lurching back, pushing at Black. For a moment he glowered at Black accusingly, but then his eyes appeared to regain their focus and he shook his head as if clearing the fog. He glanced from side to side, getting his bearings.
“I... I...” he stammered, searching for words.
“Can you walk?” asked Black, getting to his feet. He kept his back stooped to avoid the thick pall of smoke that was settling over the room.
“I think so,” replied Newbury. Black grabbed him by the forearms and pulled him up, taking care to steady him as he tottered.
It was difficult now to discern the opening of the door from the walls of angry flame that surrounded it; difficult even to be clear about which direction they were facing. Black decided he would have to trust his instinct. Any longer at the heart of the inferno and the two of them would be asphyxiated or roasted alive.
“This way,” he said, grabbing Newbury’s upper arm and leading him carefully—but swiftly—towards where he thought the door to be. The interior of the cottage now resembled a Hellish inferno, and the two men were forced to run a gauntlet around blazing stumps, flaming coffee tables and collapsing timbers from above.
“There!” bellowed Newbury from beside him, pulling free and staggering towards the door. Black stumbled after him, gasping for breath. The heat of the fire was searing his lungs, the smoke making it almost impossible to see. He watched, his eyes streaming, as Newbury almost fell out into the clearing beyond, and then paused on the threshold to glance over his shoulder at the burning form of Old Mab, still poised in her armchair at the heart of the conflagration as the flames utterly engulfed her.
Then, with every inch of his body screaming at him to get as far away from the burning cottage as possible, he turned and ran.
It was hours later when the two men—tired, dishevelled and aching—tramped their way along the gravel driveway to Sir Geoffrey’s manor. They’d barely spoken during the long walk back, despite numerous attempts by Black to engage Newbury in conversation. Newbury was brooding, Black realised, distracted as he mulled over the day’s events, and so they had trudged side by side along the gloomy dirt tracks, each of them pleased to be putting some distance between themselves and that diabolical cottage in the woods.
They paused for a moment on the terrace, standing in the shadow of the great house. It was dark now and the moon cast a watery, silver light upon the grounds, shimmering upon the surface of the lake. Music and chattering voices spilled out from an open window somewhere in the house, the gaiety incongruous, sitting ill with Black’s mood.
He turned, glancing back at the woods on the horizon. Even from here he could see that the cottage still burned fiercely, a funeral pyre flickering brightly in the darkness.
“What are we going to tell Sir Geoffrey?” he asked, as Newbury came over to stand beside him. “Surely we can’t tell him what really happened?”
Newbury sighed. “I’ll deal with that. You should get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
Black nodded, although he wasn’t sure if the gesture was wasted on the other man, who now seemed fixated on the view.
“Sir Maurice...?” ventured Black. He paused, but when no response appeared forthcoming, decided to press on regardless. “What...” He trailed off, then decided to rephrase his question. “How did she end up like that? Old Mab, I mean.”
Newbury kept his eyes fixed on the burning cottage in the distance. “Only she knows for certain,” he said, “but I’d wager I have a notion.”
“Well?”
“She fell foul of the darkness, Templeton,” said Newbury. “I have no doubt she set out with the best of intentions—a little arcane knowledge, a little ritual here or there to heal people’s ills, remedies passed down through the ages. I believe she was drawing strength from the plant life around her, imparting it to the ailing people who came to her for help. But she took a step too far. She consorted with things she could not control, bonding with the trees to absorb more of their energy, doing it to help more people, with ever greater ailments.” He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words. “I believe I understand that impulse, Templeton. That desire to help people, to sacrifice oneself to achieve one’s goals. The draw of it, however, becomes too strong. At some point Old Mab lost sight of who she was, blurring the distinction between herself and the trees. In doing so she became something terrible. She began to draw the life from anything and everything indiscriminately, including the people who came to her for assistance. That hunger was all that was left. It consumed her, just like the trees.”
“And she ended up like that. A monster, feeding on people,” added Black, quietly. “Quite a cautionary tale.”
“Indeed,” replied Newbury.
They lapsed into silence for a few moments, standing side by side on the terrace, Newbury’s words weighing heavily on their minds.
“Well, I suppose I should seek out Sir Geoffrey and apprise him of the situation,” said Newbury, after a while. He clapped a hand on Black’s shoulder. “I rather fear I’ve ruined your weekend, Templeton.”
Black waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Newbury, with a grin. He crossed to the door. “Are you coming?”
Black shook his head. “No. Not yet. I think I’ll stay out here and... well, have another cigarette.”
Newbury laughed. “Yes, you do that.” He hesitated. “And Templeton?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” Newbury opened the door and slipped quietly inside.
Alone on the terrace, smiling, Black reached for his silver cigarette case and extracted another Guinea Gold. He struck a Lucifer on the stone balustrade and brought it up to the tip of his cigarette, enjoying the sound of the crackling paper as the tobacco took to the flame. He filled his lungs with the pungent smoke.
Then, with a sigh, he turned his back on the view and decided he would follow Newbury indoors, regardless. It was time he challenged Benson to a rematch. The poor man was probably going stir-crazy with only Jocasta to keep him company, and besides—Black wanted to see if he couldn’t win that guinea back, after all.