16.

THE WAX IMAGE

“The devil teacheth how to make pictures of wax, that by the roasting thereof, the persons that they bear the names of be continually melted by continual sickness.”

KING JAMES I.: Daemonology

P.C. COSTAIN cut across the fields to the old school house. It took five minutes less than going all the way by road to the front door.

He was on his way to confirm Johnny Hunter’s alibi with Jessie Fairfield.

The back door of the cottage gave right onto a small lawn and Costain made little noise as he approached. The door was open but there was nobody in the scullery in the rear of the place. Costain was just raising his fist to knock when a dull muttering caused him to pause with his fist in mid-air like a zealot giving the Communist salute.

The constable held his breath and listened. The sound he heard made the hair rise in the nape of his neck.

Somebody was reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards!

You couldn’t teach Costain anything about witchcraft. Home in Ballaugh there were old women who could still tell the mainlanders a thing or two about blasting crops and making cows give blue milk. Many a time as a child he had been taken home and screamed himself to sleep after a session before the fire listening to his grandmother’s tales.

Gripping his thumbs between his first and second fingers, as taught by his mother long ago in such circumstances, Costain tiptoed in the direction of the incantation.

Mrs. Fairfield was kneeling in front of the living-room fire, slowly turning round and round in her fingers before the flames a small, cylindrical object. She was so preoccupied with the task in hand that the bobby was upon her and had snatched what she was holding before she knew he was there.

“Mrs. Fairfield! Mrs. Fairfield!! For shame!!!”

There was no mistaking what the wax candle, for such it was, was dolled-up to represent. The body was shapeless, but somebody had been to a lot of trouble to comb out the wick, stain and mould it. The hairdressing was that of Laura Cruft!

Costain, helmet and all, towered over Mrs. Fairfield like an avenging angel.

“What’s the meanin’ of all this …?”

He almost said mumbo-jumbo, but remembering his Grandmother Quilliam, changed his mind. He wasn’t sure whether or not there wasn’t something in it!

“What’s the meanin’ of all this diabolicalness?”

Mrs. Fairfield was on her knees still and now clasped her hands and stretched them out to Costain. It was like a cheap melodrama, except that Costain’s posture made it look a bit like a harlequinade.

He knew the woman by reputation. Very decent and well-liked normally, she was a Celt and tended to go off at the deep-end when hard pressed. She must be hard-pressed now!

“Get up … get up, this minute!” said Costain solemnly. He threw the candle in the heart of the fire and hastily gripped his thumbs in a simple form of the Cross again, as though the Devil might himself be still hovering around.

“What’s the meanin’ of all this? Don’t you know it’s ’ighly illegal to do those sort o’ things, you wicked woman, Mrs. Fairfield? I ought to arrest and take you in right away. I ought. Very serious offence is incantating and evil-eye. Severe punishments.”

He didn’t know a thing about it, but thought that now was the time to rub it in if he wanted a proper tale from the trembling woman he had caught in the very act.

She slowly rose to her feet, panting and rolling her eyes and not knowing where to look, like a child surprised in the midst of mischief.

“I didn’t do anythin’, Mr. Costain.”

“Oh yes, you did, Mrs. Fairfield, and well you know it. In the old days, where I come from, they used ter roll women caught doin’ wot you was just doin’ down Slieau Whuallian mountain in a barrel full o’ spikes.”

Mrs. Fairfield rolled her eyes again, twisted her fingers, and moaned aloud.

“Stop that noise! I’m willin’ to overlook it this once on account of your bein’ overwrought … But on one condition.”

“Anythin’, anythin’, Mr. Costain.”

“You can tell me what it’s all about, then. Also I want a full tale about your Jessie and Johnny Hunter. Where is Jessie, by the way?”

“I sent ’er down the village shopping. Mooning indoors doesn’t do her any good. She’s two days’ holiday from work for VE days and spends her time moping about. Got on my nerves, so I sent her out.”

“And started all that diabolicalism … I’m surprised at you, Mrs. Fairfield. A woman of your age, member o’ the church and widely respected locally. Can’t think how you could bring yourself to do such a thing.”

“If you’d all the troubles I have, you’d be at your wits’ end and try anything … It’s more than flesh and blood can bear. And her such a good girl and happy till all this come along.”

“Suppose we begin at the beginning.”

“I don’t know that I ought to tell you … Secrets between mother and daughter oughtn’t to be talked about to all and sundry.”

“You’d better, Mrs. Fairfield, you’d better. Else I’ll have to book you for witchcraft, and think of the disgrace that would be …”

The overwrought woman burst into tears and howled dismally.

“Come on, now. Suppose we talk it over quietly … What about a cup o’ tea, Mrs. Fairfield? Sort o’ lubricate us, eh?”

The woman was so relieved at the mention of tea that in next to no time they had a cup apiece in their hands, and Costain was blowing on his to cool it.

“Now what’s all this about, Mrs. F.?” said Costain, drying his moustache by raising his nether lip and drawing it tightly downwards over it.

Mrs. Fairfield put her cup firmly in her saucer and looked the constable fully in the face. She was a dark, good-looking, middle-aged woman, with high cheek bones, large, troubled, brown eyes and black hair shot with grey. Very well preserved, too, and it was rumoured that the local undertaker, Sam Stopford, himself a widower, was very sweet on her, but that, being fully centred on her two girls, she hadn’t any time for him.

“It’s my Jessie that’s troublin’ me. Always fond of Johnny Hunter she’s been and as happy as a queen when his feelings turned in her direction. Then, when all seemed settled and happy, he began to cool off.”

“Why, Mrs. Fairfield?”

“You know why as well as I do. So you needn’t pretend to be so innocent. It’s all over the village. Johnny was keen on Laura Cruft before he took up with Jessie. But young Free seemed to have cut him out.”

“Yes?”

“Must I go on with this, Joe Costain? I’m only tellin’ you what you know already.”

“Tell me again, then.”

“Well … Johnny seems to have taken up with Jessie just to show Laura he didn’t care. That’s all. And my girl’s breakin’ her heart about it. He can’t seem to get Laura out of his blood somehow. And now that Free’s out of the running Jessie’s that troubled. Can’t sleep o’ nights. She’ll be going into a decline if something’s not done.”

“So you was doing somethin’, Mrs. Fairfield. Enlistin’ the help of the evil one to do it, too. Shame on you!”

“You needn’t be so righteous about it, Joe Costain. You’ve never been a mother … Never had children of your own; so you don’t know what it feels like.”

A stricken look came into Costain’s eyes. This was rubbing it in with a vengeance! Still, he’d asked for it.

“Oh yes, I do know what it feels like. No use appealing to that side of my nature. I’m here in the course o’ duty and my duty I’ll do. Where was your Jessie on the night o’ the crime between say nine thirty, pee hem, and ten?”

“Out with Johnny Hunter.”

“At that time precisely?”

“Yes. And he wasn’t very nice to her. Came in and found her lying on the bed cryln’ her eyes out.”

“Too bad! What had he been doing?”

“Don’t ask me. She wouldn’t tell me a proper tale. All I know is, he’s not been nice to her of late. Why he keeps comin’ for her and why she puts up with it I don’t know.… There’s as good fish in the sea, I keep tellin’ her. And fish as worships the ground she treads on. So there!”

Mrs. Fairfield sniffed and proudly thrust her nose in the air.

“Such as …?”

“Why will you persist in asking questions you already know, Joe Costain? Everybody knows that Mr. Shortt’s crazy about her, although I shouldn’t talk like that myself. He’s that friendly with me. Asking us both to come up and see his bungalow and take tea, and wantin’ to take my Jessie to the theatres and places in Melchester. He’s a nice man is Mr. Shortt and would make any girl a good husband, even if he is a writer.”

“I’m sure he would.”

“Yes … Quiet and gentlemanly, too. You wouldn’t think he was that sort if you was to read his books. I got one or two from the local county library. My goodness! Talk about passion! Still waters run deep with him and no mistake. The last I read was about a man and a woman who hated him bein’ entombed in a cellar in the bombing of London. Before they was rescued she was like putty in ’is hands. Swept her off her feet …”

“Yes. Yes. Pity he doesn’t use a bit of his technique in real life, eh?”

“What do you mean, Joe Costain? My Jessie’s a good girl, I’ll have you know.”

The band from the circus was in the village again. A few players blowing bleakly, followed by the elephant, a camel, a dancing bear and a moth-eaten lion in a cage on wheels. A motley procession of clowns, a woman riding on a barebacked white pony and a lorry with three acrobats throwing themselves about as it went along. Then a crowd of small children and women with babies in arms gaping with astonishment and eagerly accepting the handbills distributed by a man in a top hat, riding boots and a coat with an astrakhan collar. They passed by and peace descended again.

“I wasn’t saying anything about your girl’s morals. I merely meant that it sometimes doesn’t do to wear your heart on your sleeve like Shortt’s doing. Johnny Hunter with his indifference seems to be succeeding better. It’s often that way. Peculiar fact o’ life.”

Costain paused astonished at his own wisdom. Perhaps he’d have done better himself with Mrs. Costain if he hadn’t been so soft-hearted. However, she’d been a lot better since she thought he’d got strangled, when all the time it was Will Butt.

The front door opened and Jessie entered. She was listless and flung her gloves and shopping basket casually on the table. She expressed no surprise at the sight of Costain. He was small fry compared with the problems exercising her mind at the moment.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Costain. Not often you call.”

“Good afternoon, Jessie. You’ve just arrived in time. I’m wanting a word with you.”

She was on the defensive right away. Her cheeks flushed and she drew in her breath, bracing herself for an ordeal.

Jessie was very like Mrs. Fairfield, only more delicately built. Her hair had an attractive wave in it and her fine, white teeth set off her dark, flawless complexion. Her figure was slim and supple and she had a daintiness and poise missing in her more excitable mother.

Johnny Hunter’s a damn’ fool and Shortt’s too slow to carry cold dinners, thought Costain to himself.

“I was just wantin’ to know where you were on the night Ronnie Free was killed, Jessie. Between half-past nine and ten, to be precise.”

“With Johnny.”

She said it firmly, as though she’d made up her mind properly.

“Sure? All the time?”

“All the time.”

“Did he bring you home?”

“ Nearly to the door.”

“Why didn’t he come in with you? He was comin’-in, wasn’t he?”

Coming-in was an important stage in Ravelstonian wooings. The half-way house between dalliance and getting engaged officially.

“Of course he was comin’-in,” said Mrs. Fairfield indignantly.

“Very well. Why didn’t he come-in that night?”

Jessie’s cheeks flamed and her lips trembled.

“He didn’t want to that night.”

“Why?”

“I won’t have her bullied, Joe Costain.”

“Do you mind leavin’ me to do this, Mrs. Fairfield? Else …”

There was a deep threat in Costain’s voice. But he was too late. Jessie had rushed upstairs. Presumably to throw herself on the bed again and cry her eyes out. Costain looked more melancholy than ever. He couldn’t bear women crying.

“Look what you’ve done now, Joe Costain.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve got my duty. I want to be sure about that alibi.”

“You’re not thinking Johnny …?”

“Of course not. Don’t be silly. But alibis has to be checked. Else, what good are they? I’m very put out, Mrs. Fairfield. Very put out indeed about this.”

“Well, she’s told you she was with him all the time. What more do you want? Her Bible oath or somethin’?”

“ No. A proper straightforward answer and not so much blushin’ and stammerin’ and playin’ about. You’d better have another talk with her yourself. Tell her I’ll be callin’ again and that next time I want a full account of where they was and their movements. And now I’ll be off. And see to it that there’s no more o’ this devil’s business agen’ Laura Cruft … Or you’ll hear more from me.”

With that the bobby took a very dignified leave.

Once outside, however, Costain felt sick and tired of it all. Here the Scotland Yard man had given him a job to do and he’d only half done it! What Mr. Littlejohn would say, he didn’t know.

But when Costain met the Inspector, Littlejohn didn’t seem at all put about by Costain’s report. He appeared to be impressed and interested.

“I see, Costain. So you don’t feel convinced. Well, we’d better take up things from another angle. So far, we’ve not got a single bit of evidence to assist us, but there’s a vague sort of uncertainty in some directions that’s cheering. You know, I think a word or two with Shortt might do no harm. If he’s on the prowl after young Jessie, he might have something useful to tell us. These earnest lovers are very sensitive sometimes, especially when they’re of the artistic temperament.”

“Yes, sir. I see. Can I do anything more, sir?”

“Not at the moment, Costain. Get on with your routine duties and keep your eyes and ears open. We’ll be stumbling across something that will alter the whole course of events. I feel it in my bones that we’re getting warm, although in which direction I can’t for the life of me say.”

At the police station there was a message for Littlejohn to telephone back to Scotland Yard.

It was Cromwell with news about Paget, the thriller merchant. They’d drawn a blank at the London end.

Paget had been easy to pick up at the London terminus when he arrived from Ravelstone. He had been followed to Seven Dials, where he entered a public house, the George Canning. That seemed a bit fishy. Men like Paget didn’t frequent the Seven Dials direction for the benefit of their health. Perhaps he was in some racket or other.

But it all turned out quite simple and reasonable. Cromwell had had a drink and talked to the woman at the bar, who was also a sort of manageress. Paget had disappeared somewhere in the rear of the premises. Cromwell had just asked who he was as he passed by, he was sure he’d seen him before.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Paget, the owner of the place.”

Cromwell, with his throat full of beer had been so taken aback that he had almost choked and had to be vigorously slapped on the back by the buxom, heavy-handed woman in charge.

It seems that a certain Mr. Danks who owned the George Canning had been a Raid Warden with Paget during the bombing of London. Paget had conscientiously come down from the country three nights a week to do his bit in the stricken City. Good fellow! Well, one night he’d rescued Mr. Danks from a cellar in which the publican had been trapped, and saved his life. Danks, a bachelor with no dependants, had left Paget his prosperous little pub in his Will out of sheer gratitude and then got himself completely wiped out in a later raid. The place paid so well that Paget had kept it on and put in a manageress.

So that was that. The author was supplementing his perhaps meagre earnings from the prosperous little “public” at Seven Dials.

“Well, well,” said Littlejohn. “Wonders never cease. The more you do our job, the more surprises you get!”

Paget was a decent fellow after all. Not a philanderer making secret trips to his lady in London. Suppose he loved his wife and had heard about young Free and his affair with her, and being a bit of a criminologist, had tried to concoct a perfect crime.

“Well, I’ve another job for you now, Cromwell. You might go down to Dintling in Worcestershire, and see what information you can gather about a man called Spry, David Spry. Left Dintling about fifteen years ago. It’s a bit of a trip. Not far from Tewkesbury, I believe. Do your best, old chap …”

So far, every trail had petered out. All the same, new ones kept opening. One of them would surely bring results at the end.

Mrs. Costain appeared with some more tea and scones and this time she was much more pleasant about matters.

“Smoke if you like,” she said.

Costain’s mouth fell open. He could hardly believe his ears! Mrs. Costain gave him a proud, possessive smile as she left the room.

There had been a lot of talk around the village about the well-known detective from London. Somebody had even retailed a few of his best cases and told how he had brought unexpected criminals to book. And Joe Costain, collaborating like mad, had come in for a large measure of reflected glory. Mrs. Costain was being treated with greater respect, even deference, in certain quarters. There was a suggestion that at the next general meeting she would be put on the committee of the Women’s Institute.

Joe wasn’t such a dud, after all. Mrs. Costain was proud of him!