The appearance of Chris (bloody) Devlin apparently changed everything.
Of course I had heard the name before: his books had huge marketing spends behind them – you saw posters on train platforms, sides of buses. I remembered I had even seen one on the telly once. But it was a bit rubbish and just had a woman walking into a room and then turning round really quickly and gasping. I recalled thinking if that was the best bit of the book then I wouldn’t be queuing up at midnight the night before it was released. I think it did well anyway because he was on loads of chat shows, sprawling over sofas in his puffed-up leather jacket, trying to sound manly and louche at the same time. Reckoned he was a bit of a ladies’ man too. You could just tell. Oozed self-assurance. Not the public-school type but the kind of sureness that was born from being told you were brilliant by hundreds of thousands of fans, a hundred thousand times, and assured of your place at the top of your tree which in this case was represented by the many branches of the action/crime/thriller bestseller lists in both the UK and USA. Oh yes, indeed. A lot of people thought a lot of Chris Devlin, including Chris Devlin.
He walked in a kind of swaggery way – Tom Cruise meets Liam Gallagher. And no one moved like that naturally. He must have spent weeks in front of a full-length mirror practising it.
And then there was the money thing. It hit you in the face. The quality of the jacket, the Rolex on the wrist, the chunky gold choker, the US designer jeans – they all shouted, ‘I’m loaded, baby’.
Nice work if you can get it. And quite clearly Cullen, Robin, Margot, Starla and Tabby really wanted to. Fawning was the word that came to mind as their faces changed when recognition kicked in. Even Jocelyn and Laura came over a bit blushy.
Sophia took the lead, ‘Oh Chris! How wonderful,’ and went and greeted him, holding out her hand, then colouring vividly when Devlin went in for the cheek kiss and bear hug. Lots of introductions and handshaking. Some of the ladies broke into a sweat.
Only Imogen and Nicholas seemed relatively unmoved. I wasn’t sure if anything, anyone or any substance had any physical effect on the former, whilst the latter was struggling to keep his ‘I don’t give a flying one’ face in place.
As the other writers grinned and giggled over the newcomer, Imogen inched over to us. ‘Do you want me to tell you about Monday night?’ she asked out of the side of her mouth.
I shrugged. ‘I’m guessing you’re going to say you went to bed and didn’t hear anything?’
She nodded. ‘Yes I am. And to save you some work – the others all said the same. I asked them all. Individually.’
Sam and I regarded her for a minute, then he said, ‘Thanks. It does help.’
I wondered if this was a particularly professional thing to do – let one of the suspects do some of the investigating? But then Imogen was probably right. And anyway – we weren’t the police. We were here at the behest of Monty. If we found evidence that should be turned over to the police then we certainly would. I for one, wasn’t exactly over the moon about being here, when we had things to do back at the museum. Especially as we weren’t being paid for it, just merely repaying a favour.
‘Which makes me more than certain it is foul play,’ Imogen said suddenly. ‘No witnesses. Not sure why Graham was the victim, though. Doesn’t seem to make sense. You talk to Carole and she’ll tell you he didn’t have an enemy in the world. Perhaps there may be something in his background? I didn’t know him for long, but he seemed extremely personable. Though you never can tell, can you?’
Sam nodded. ‘We have a friend in Intelligence who may be able to look into Mr Peacock’s background. But I’m beginning to think you’re right, Imogen. There are certain indicators that suggest malice aforethought.’
Over by the doorway people were dispersing.
Sophia turned to Imogen and called, ‘We’re going to go into the kitchen to have lunch. Chris wants to get to know the students. Then he’s happy to run a workshop later.’ She stopped and watched Imogen rise. Nicholas hopped off the arm of the Chesterfield and sighed like he had nothing better to do. As an afterthought Sophia asked, ‘Rosie and Sam – do you want to join us?’
Sam looked at me. ‘Could do? Get to know them a bit better?’
‘What have we got lined up for today?’ I wondered out loud, reading through my mental To-Do list. ‘Phone Monty, check the woods, walk back to the church, ask around the village about trick-or-treaters and witch legends.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sam. ‘Not much.’
I thought he was being sarcastic, but he turned to Sophia. ‘We’d be delighted to join you, thanks.’
In the event, however, we weren’t able to enjoy more than a bite of quiche, as the phone rang and Sophia informed us the police were at the church and required our presence pronto.
She suggested we come for breakfast tomorrow instead. We accepted. I was feeling exhausted already and wanted to go home and check in on the Witch Museum. And there was an old lady in the village who died last Christmas Day. A relative from America had contacted us with a view to selling some of the witchy paraphernalia that he had found in her house. I’d promised to phone him this week. Apparently, she had quite a few stuffed cats. Sam wondered if some of them might be mummified. It was once an old British custom to keep them in your cottage walls to ward off bad spirits and apparently prevalent in Adder’s Fork. I thought it was a bit grim and nasty but Sam said as far as blood sacrifices went this was quite tame. I left that one alone and thought about Hecate and how she would simply not have put up with that at all. Wasn’t sure if she’d take to the mummies either. We’d have to see.
Anyway, we said our goodbyes and trudged down the drive and up the road to the church where we’d left the car. We had wanted to see how long it took to get from there to Ratchette Hall.
It was a weaving, writhing route that periodically gave out to spectacular views over the countryside. Little cottages and large, more stately houses punctuated the wayside. Some of the chimneys were smoking. I turned up the collar of my jacket and stuffed my hands in my pockets. Should have brought gloves.
As we walked, my eyes wandered over the heath. Little patches of yellow Dwarf Gorse, at the end of their seasonal bloom, bobbed in the hedgerow. In the valley beyond, dark pines rustled. Closer to the road, clusters of leaves were turning to rust. Loosened from their branches they were swept up and tossed about by the bitter north-easterly wind. I watched a little cyclone of them spiral and chase each other at the side of the pavement and suddenly imagined them as little playful imps: all different colours – lemon-peel, copper, chestnut brown – and different sizes – star-shaped, oval, petalled, but moving in a similar way, almost as if they had a collective purpose. That kind of thinking could have got you hanged in the past and quite often did. I thought of Ursula Cadence and her alleged familiars: Tittey, Jack, Piggin and Tiffin. Two cats, a toad and a little white lamb. There was something rather pathetic, or childlike, about the way the pamphlet recorded her listing them. I remember detecting a doleful yearning there, as if Ursula did crave these pets, perhaps for company and how Sam had told me about another ‘witch’, Elizabeth Chandler. Elizabeth had been so poor and reviled and lonely that she gave names to two wooden sticks: Beelzebub and Truillibub. One she used to help her walk. The other stirred her cooking pot. Matthew Hopkins, the demented self-appointed Witchfinder General, decided that because the old lady talked to them they were demonic. Of course, Elizabeth denied this, but she was poor and friendless so got hanged anyway.
Beelzebub. I ran my tongue over the word. That was the second time I had heard the name today. Associated with the Devil. Lord of the Flies. Probably not the best name for an old woman to choose. Though to be sure, a girl should really be able to call her sticks what the heck she liked.
Of course, Sam had told me on the way over here, Damebury had its own witches. Had to really. There was a reason why Essex had at one point been called Witch County. This lot were Joan Smythe, Widow Stokes, Susan Spilman and a man too – John Smythe. Which was unusual. I wondered what he’d done. We hadn’t got into the nitty gritty of that yet or found out if they had been executed for their crimes. No doubt that would come.
I was guessing it was to them the howling in the woods was attributed. Witches were the habitual scapegoat for anything that went wrong or got weird – they were usually poor, ergo powerless, commonly at the bottom of the social scale and more often than not uneducated and put-upon.
When I looked up at St Saviour’s I noted there were woodlands around it. No doubt more ‘devilish witchery’ was nestled about there.
In the past, back in Leytonstone, whenever I had thought of Essex, my mind had conjured images of the seaside and new estates, modern semis with integrated garages and little greens for all the kids to play out on. However, since Adder’s Fork had beckoned, my perceptions had undergone quite a change. Now I couldn’t look across the fields and copses without wondering about the events that they had seen, the stories they knew and the secrets that they kept. Sometimes I could hear the county groan. Sometimes, I heard it breathe. And sometimes, very occasionally, the land of Essex spoke to me. But not often. And, of course, it might just be my inner voice. But I was opening my mind to the idea.
When we reached the church we found Father Edgar bent over by the hole with a mug of tea in his hands. Hearing our footfalls he at once straightened up and greeted us.
‘They’re here,’ he shouted into the cavern below.
I didn’t realise he had company and looked down into the hole, just as Sue Scrub’s face filled it. ‘I’m starting to think you two and hocus pocus,’ she said, and rolled her eyes, ‘go firmly hand in hand.’
‘Occupational hazard, Sue,’ I said with a grin.
We’d met Sergeant Scrub during the incident at the Witch Pit. Although she hadn’t warmed to us at first, by the end of the caper, she had thawed considerably. In fact, I might go as far as to say that she’d even been sweet. She didn’t look sweet now. She looked decidedly put out and irritated.
To be honest I wasn’t surprised: I would have thought that church thefts might have been beneath her pay scale.
She must have read my mind, as she reached out for the ladder and began to climb. ‘Edgar’s my brother-in-law,’ she explained. Ah, well that explained why this Yorkshire lass had ended up in Essex, then. ‘It’s a strange one,’ she went on as she reached the top and lurched over to get a footing on the ground. ‘Edgar said you think the missing items have something to do with a recent death at Ratchette Hall.’ It wasn’t a question but a demand for a full explanation at once.
Edgar swilled the tea in his mug. ‘You insinuated that, didn’t you?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It might not.’
‘But it also might,’ Sam finished. ‘It’s a stunning coincidence if you consider the circumstances surrounding Mr Peacock’s death. One must keep an open mind.’
‘Unambiguous and as helpful as ever,’ Sue muttered under her breath. ‘Now do me a favour …’ she said and held out a hand.
After some considerable heaving we got her up out of the excavation/extension and into the church.
She straightened out the same raincoat that she had worn during the summer. At the time I thought her overdressed. Now it was quite peaky I was thinking maybe she should have put on more layers.
While she brushed the dirt off her hands, she sort of sighed and said, ‘Look, I’m going to ask you this once and get it over and done with – have you two nicked the body?’
Sam and I did some energetic and emphatic head-shaking.
‘The effigy on top?’ she continued.
More vigorous denials.
‘Good,’ she breathed and slipped her hands into her pockets. ‘Thought it unlikely, but I have to ask these things.’
‘Yep,’ I said.
‘We know,’ added Sam.
‘Father Edgar says there’s CCTV footage.’
‘We were advised to put up cameras over the doors that we still use, when we discovered the new tomb.’ Edgar cleared his throat. ‘So we’ve run through the tapes. It’s puzzling. I’m the last person out of the church last night. And the body and effigy were certainly there when I left. Then no one goes in until you two turn up, this morning.’
‘How curious,’ said Sam.
‘That’s a word you could use,’ said Scrub. ‘I could suggest several others but I’m in a church and wasn’t brought up with a potty mouth.’
I couldn’t think of what to say, so went and sat down at a pew with the griffin carved into the end and stared at the mythical creature. It was definitely draughty in here. I supposed it was an old building. But even so you’d have thought they’d have sorted it out – some poor mugs had to sit here for over an hour on Sundays. I pulled up my boots and zipped my jacket shut.
‘So,’ said Scrub coming over to join me. ‘How the heck can this effigy theft be linked to Graham Peacock? The way I heard it, sounded like natural causes.’
I watched her slip along the pew in front and button up her trench coat. ‘Mmm, they might have had a helping hand,’ I said. ‘So to speak. How long have you got?’
When we had finally finished explaining the ins and outs of the whole palaver – the E. Nesbit story, the timing of Halloween, the detached stone finger found in Graham’s hand – Scrub and I sat there scratching our chins. Sam and Father Edgar came over and sat down next to me.
‘So,’ Sue said at last. ‘I suppose I’d better take a closer look at Graham Peacock’s background.’
Sam and I nodded. That would be one less thing to ask of Monty.
‘Any chance you could let us know what comes up?’ Sam added.
But it was the vicar who replied. ‘Oh yes, well if they’re linked you’ll have to, won’t you, Sue?’
You could tell that grated on her, but she tried to conceal it with a smile that wrinkled her nose and pronounced her teeth, which reminded me of a squirrel about to chow down on a nut. ‘If you keep me informed about what you find out at the Hall. Deal?’
We nodded, but Father Edgar said, ‘Deal,’ and put his fisted hand into the centre of our little grouping. Weirdly, Sam and Sue joined him, so I kind of had to as well. When I put my hand there we all fist-bumped each other and Sam and Sue said, ‘Agreed,’ too.
It was a bit of a cringe.
As I withdrew, trying to supress a shudder, I inspected Father Edgar more closely. He was a very different type of minister to our Karen, who was short, trendy, young(ish) and female. In many ways he was the polar opposite: tall, dress sense out of last century, old, male. In fact, there was something very Professor Plum about old Edgar, which included a faint odour of mothballs and orchids.
Cluedo again. I wondered if my subconscious was trying to tell me something. That game was about deduction. Perhaps I should spend some time thinking a bit more about the people on the course and who might be eliminated. Which, at the moment, was only Carole Christmas: I was pretty sure she was not faking it when she denied reading Man-Sized in Marble and requested payment should that be required. I shivered as I recalled her cackling laugh. It sounded like a murder of crows sighting carrion.
But that was her out of the picture anyway.
Not much elimination.
This was not a particularly impressive analysis.
One had to think about motive, yet that was very unclear. One of the policemen who I had met earlier in the year (and snogged and very nice he was too, thank you very much) had told me that the two main reasons for murder were sex and money in some form or another. It didn’t sound like Graham Peacock was loaded, if he had to work and live at Ratchette Hall, but you never knew.
‘Can you get access to his bank accounts?’ I asked Sergeant Scrub.
She just raised her eyebrows in a don’t-you-tell-me-howto-do-my-job style which reminded me of just how terrifying she could be when she wanted. So I decided this was the time to make our exit and go and worry the locals.
The sky was darker outside and swirling.
But Sam didn’t want to go for cover. He touched my arm and said, ‘You want to have a quick look at those woods?’
The clouds above were touching their grey underbellies to the ground. Certainly they appeared full and swollen with moisture. ‘Quickly then,’ I said. ‘Looks like rain.’
We crossed the churchyard and found a path that ran alongside a cluster of trees. Hurrying along we reached a gap that opened onto a beautiful view down the hillside and onto the south of the county. Well, it would have been a beautiful view if we had been able to see it, for at that moment the heavens opened and dumped a mother lode of rain.
We spun on our heels and legged it back towards the church.
I made it there first. It was locked. Scrub and Edgar had gone, the latter taking no chances with the security of the two remaining knights. When I turned round to check where Sam was, an empty churchyard spread out before me. The wind picked my hair up and lashed it against my face. The rain was hard now, coming at me almost horizontally.
I blinked into the landscape. Where was he?
I called his name but if he replied it was lost in the wind.
Sheltering my eyes with my hand I tried to look more closely.
It was no good. The whole place had darkened.
All I could see were the trees waving back and forth amongst the jagged tombstones that stood still at odd angles over the yard.
I began to move forwards, searching for him. When I reached the middle of the yard I finally spotted him under a bushy yew. He was squatting over a grave, hunched and rather little-looking. As I drew closer I noticed a dark streak running over his cheek. His head was bleeding.
‘Sam! Sam! Are you okay?’ His features had frozen, the eyes were vacant, unfocused, gazing into the mid-distance. ‘What’s happened?’ I yelled against the wind.
He didn’t answer at first, then when I shouted again, he looked at me and pointed unsteadily to the headstone.
‘Look,’ he said eventually, his hair, picked up by the squall, blew all around. ‘I slipped on the grass and cracked my head. But look, look at the name.’
He touched his forehead where the skin had split.
I hurriedly got out a hanky and started dabbing at the cut.
He swatted me off and grabbed my hand and held it. ‘Rosie, look at the name.’
At last I turned and looked at the old lichen-clad headstone sinking crookedly into the earth. Sam had obviously pulled some of the moss away from the inscription for there were clear patches where the lettering was clear. I read: ‘In ever loving memory of Samuel Stone. Son and brother. May his memory be eternal.’
Ooh, that was a surprise.
I sat back on my heels. ‘Freaky,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said, still rigid, but urgent. ‘The birth date. It’s the same as mine. To the day, only a hundred years earlier.’
‘Oh yeah!’ I said and turned back to him. ‘So what? Strange coincidence.’
But he looked aghast and shook his head. I waited for him to say something.
‘He didn’t.’
So I tried to get him up and said, ‘Yes, I see.’
The rain was soaking us. I could feel my mascara sliding over my cheeks.
Now standing, I continued to try and heave him to his feet.
He resisted. ‘And,’ he said, jabbing crazily at the tombstone, ‘this person, Sam Stone, dies next year.’
I let go of his hand and shook my head. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘This Sam Stone died ninety-nine years ago. Now, come on! You’re soaking. If we stay out here any longer, we’ll catch our death of colds and pop off this mortal coil much sooner than either of us anticipate.’ God I sounded like my mother. Who wasn’t my mother. But this was no time to go into that.
Sam didn’t move. He just sat there and said, ‘It made me fall, so I would take notice.’ He put his fingers to the fresh wound. ‘It’s a warning.’
This wasn’t like Sam at all. I could only think that the knock on the head had concussed him.
In the end I grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to his feet, and once I had managed that, took his hand and pushed and pulled him towards the church.
The old building sheltered us somewhat from the rain.
‘You okay?’ I asked, as we got round the side, and the thousand-yard stare seemed to recede.
He shrugged but said nothing.
It was only a short walk from here to the car park so I got to it quickly, frogmarching him round the outside walls of St Saviour’s over to where the car was parked.
Once in it, I examined his head. He’d broken the skin but I didn’t think he’d need stitches. I had a first aid kit in the glove compartment, so fished out an anaesthetic wipe, cleaned the wound and stuck a plaster over it.
‘There,’ I said, admiring my handiwork. ‘You look like a proper little soldier.’
But he didn’t laugh.
As we pulled out of the church car park, trundling down the lane, he gestured up ahead. ‘Look, there’s The Griffin. Can we stop and have a drink?’
Still pale and strangely quiet, I thought a brandy was in order. Something was needed to put the colour back into his cheeks. And anyway, there was a good logistical reason for the stop-off: we had planned to ask the locals about trick-ortreating customs in Damebury. This pub was as good a place as any to tick that off our list.
I pulled in past a tall pub sign that depicted a mythical griffin dancing on the top, just like the one at the end of the pew. We parked round the back in the car park.
It was a well-maintained building, whitewashed and wattled with red tiles on sloping roofs and a look of the eighteenth century. There were a couple of outbuildings dotted around the yard – one looked like a modest function room, the other a store room for the pub.
The windows of The Griffin were proper old-looking and panelled, the frames painted a violet-grey. We entered via a side door painted to match the windows.
Inside, the décor was pleasant – wooden floorboards and refurbished armchairs which wouldn’t look amiss in a pub uptown. The surviving fireplaces were very old indeed, much earlier than the outside might suggest. Two were brick and iron but another was wider. The hood jutted out, sheltering a large chimney.
While Sam went and found a table I ordered the drinks.
The chap who served me was polite. Young with a bit of a bent nose and cropped black hair, he wore a badge which read ‘Keiron’. His demeanour was friendly too so I fired out some questions without sugar-coating any of them.
‘We’re just staying at Ratchette Hall,’ I lied. Sort of. ‘Thus the brandy. It’s not been the same since Graham died.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Kieron, squirting the diet coke into a glass. ‘Heard about that. Wasn’t he frightened to death or something?’
I nodded. ‘Trick-or-treaters. You know many kids or teenagers round here that might do something like that?’
‘Well.’ Kieron paused for a moment and looked out the window. ‘Oh yeah, course. We’ve got our fair share of young people here – good and bad. There’s a couple who might be up for pranking. It’s trendy now isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, leaning on the bar and giving him a nice wide smile.
‘You know – they film themselves and put it on YouTube to get followers.’ He shook his head. ‘My nephew – he’s only ten, but reckons he’s going to make a living out of it when he grows up. Vlogging, I think they call it. I dunno.’ He shrugged in a kind of ‘young people today’ manner. Even though he was barely out of school.
‘Is that so? Crazy,’ I said and sipped the coke. ‘I suppose it’s better than wanting to be a reality TV star.’
He turned his back on me and went to the optics. ‘It’s a phase, isn’t it?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘There’s a couple of kids round here, Ben and Stevie, who have a channel. Prank Anthem TV. They do practical jokes. Harmless mostly. But the naughtier the better. It’s how they rebel, I suppose.’
‘Like what?’ I asked.
He put the shot on the counter. ‘Like filming themselves eating scotch bonnet chillies raw,’ he said and made a face.
‘Raw?’
‘Yeah,’ Kieron laughed.
At least they weren’t the double strength ones straight out of my dad’s allotment. ‘Painful.’
‘Got a lot of views. And likes. They keep going on about “monetising” it. Reckon they can get sponsorship and ads if they get enough views.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘And that’s what they’re after? Do you think they could have pranked Graham? For likes?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t set out to hurt anyone. They’re not like that.’
‘What’s the point of it all?’ I asked.
‘A bit of a thrill. There’s nothing much for them to do, you see.’
I looked around. The place was rural but not remote. ‘What about Chelmsford? That’s not far.’
He put both hands on the counter. ‘It’s tough getting back. Cab fares are steep if you haven’t got money.’
I gestured around the pub. ‘They can’t hang out here?’ It seemed quite nice.
‘No chance,’ he said. ‘Ben wouldn’t do it. And his mates wouldn’t fancy it either. They’re nineteen/twenty but some of their girlfriends are seventeen so can’t drink in here.’
I laughed disbelievingly. ‘Don’t the kids of today do fake ID then?’
He laughed back and shook his head. ‘Ben would never let them. It’s his mum’s pub. She’s tough, Carole. You do not want to cross her.’
‘Carole Christmas?’ I wondered out loud. ‘I thought she was the assistant manager.’
‘Well, she’s like a manager really. We have an area manager that supervises across several pubs. Cost-cutting.’
‘Right,’ I said and picked up the drinks. ‘Yes, well I can imagine Ben would not want to incur his mother’s wrath. Might put a dampener on things.’
Keiron picked up a glass and began to rub it with a towel. ‘I know they been hanging outside lately. Some of the youngsters go down to the common with cider. When it’s not raining, like today.’
I stopped and leant my elbow on the wood. ‘Really?’
‘We’ve all been young once,’ he said with a wink. Then someone else waved a note and he went off to serve.
I thought I might hover for a bit but whoever was putting their round in was making it a big one. Anyway, Kieron had delivered some useful information. We’d definitely have to check out Ben Christmas and his mate Stevie. I rummaged in my hand bag for a notebook or phone and noticed it felt a bit light. After further investigation I realised my mobile wasn’t there. It wasn’t in my pockets either. Damn! It must have fallen out when I was helping Sam up by the other Sam’s grave. I’d have to go and look for it.
I took the drinks over to not dead Sam, who was sitting at the table staring out of the window.
I gave him his drink. He didn’t even say thank you.
‘Sam, I’ve not got my phone. I think it might have fallen out in the churchyard.’
He raised his head wearily. ‘Do you want me to go and look for it?’
‘No, no, you have your drink. I won’t be a sec.’
And I stepped into the twilight.