by Phil Rickman
‘Tonight, if you like, but only for a short time. We’ve had to put him in a side ward, for the sake of the other patients, so if you ask the nurse who—’
‘Tonight could be a problem,’ Grayle said quickly. ‘But if you could tell him not to worry, that everything’s being looked after this end?’
And his sister sends her best wishes?
Maybe not.
‘He wanted to be here. Cindy sat on the counter, hitched up his tweed skirt, lit a cigarette. ‘And so he is. The shamanic solution, I suppose you might call it.’
‘Nothing to do with you not wanting to be recognized, then,’ Bobby said, patting the masterless Malcolm, poor confused creature.
‘Well, that too, naturally.’ Cindy blew a spontaneous smoke ring into the cold air. Cindy didn’t smoke, but Imelda Bacton apparently did.
Subtle padding made him stocky. His blond wig was shoulder-length. His foundation cream was a deep bronze, his lipstick scarlet, his glasses black-rimmed and businesslike. He was sitting on one of the packing cases they’d fetched from the truck. It contained a couple of thousand copies of The Vision and, for display purposes, a set of atmospheric colour photos of High Knoll taken by a woman called Magda Ring, who’d been Bobby’s girlfriend for a – mercifully, in Grayle’s view – short time. In one of the pictures, blown up big, a formation of white clouds resembled two praying hands. The picture had been taken just after the Green Man killings had ended.
‘You saw it coming, didn’t you?’ Bobby said.
‘I don’t …’ Tears threatened Cindy’s make-up. ‘I felt something coming. I didn’t realize it was going to be Marcus. Marcus was … invulnerable.’
‘A force of nature,’ Grayle said.
‘It was one of the absolute worst moments of my life. About to try mouth to mouth, I was, until I saw the look in his eyes.’
Cindy found a smile. Last night he’d been a mess. Prowling the windy ruins, a ragged spectre of despair. He’d killed Marcus, just like he’d killed the BMW family and the plane guy and the guy who’d married a gold-digger less than half his age. Killed them all. Cindy, the walking curse.
After talking it over with Bobby, Grayle had called the hospital at midnight, learned that Marcus was sleeping. She’d told Cindy that Marcus had whispered to a nurse to tell Lewis that it wasn’t his fault, that he had to pull himself together, see it through. A necessary lie.
This morning they’d had a call from Amy at the pub to say Cindy had left for Overcross before six a.m.
‘We’re gonna have trouble with him, though, Cindy.’
‘Marcus? Yes. Taking it easy, obeying doctor’s orders … not his way. Mind, I didn’t even know he had a heart problem.’
‘Nor did he,’ said Grayle. ‘He hadn’t seen a doctor in twenty years. He just saw Mrs Willis. Like, if he did have a heart problem, maybe it didn’t matter with her around.’
Bobby looked at Cindy, who really didn’t look at all like Cindy. ‘Does he have a sister?’
‘I have no idea, Bobby.’ Cindy pulled up a wrinkle in his tights, flexed a leg. ‘But if he did, this is what she would be like, and if she doesn’t achieve a fifty per cent reduction in Marcus’s stall rental, she won’t consider herself worthy of the family name. Now, listen to me, children – close those tent flaps – there are things you need to know.’
Arriving early was always useful, Cindy said. It was barely light when he got here and freezing cold and the restaurant marquee wasn’t open. So Imelda Bacton had gone up to the house, where the woman who cleaned the kitchens had taken pity on her.
This cleaner was one of the temporary staff hired for the festival, a big, cheerful cockney lady called Vera, who made coffee for Cindy and herself in the vault-like kitchen where dinner was to be prepared each night by a catering company from Worcester. And, of course, they’d gotten talking and Imelda had said she was only managing the stall for her brother, who’d had a heart attack, and Vera said she’d been forced to take this miserable job because her husband had died recently, leaving her short.
Like old friends, the two of them, in no time at all. Vera was cynical about the Festival of the Spirit and appalled at the amount being paid by the house guests attending the Victorian seance.
And the thing was, she said, it was all going to be a complete con. She’d taken Cindy up to the baronial dining hall where, behind screens and false bookcases, all was revealed.
‘Projection equipment,’ Cindy said, ‘for the creation of ghosts. Hidden spotlights to illuminate the muslin and chiffon gauze used to simulate ectoplasm. Tables with mechanical rapping devices built into the legs, a platform with a floorboard that rises when a foot pedal is pressed, thus causing the table to rock. Need one go on?’
Grayle’s eyes widened. ‘A scam? The whole thing’s gonna be a scam?’
‘And a rather obvious one, it seemed to me. Obvious to us, today, that is, but convincing enough, evidently, to the likes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and other believers in the early part of last century.’
‘But – hold on – how does this equate with all the bullshit Campbell’s giving us about seeking the scientific solution?’
‘Perhaps he wishes to demonstrate how those early researchers were frequently fooled, which they undoubtedly were. Such was the craving for mystical experience that there was considerable money to be made in those days.’
‘In New York’, Grayle said, ‘there was a woman had a hole in the front of her dress, used to pull this glowing ribbon from a roll she kept up her snatch. Sure. All kinds of scams. But why would Campbell wanna bother with this garbage?’
Cindy moved to the tent flap, peered out to ensure they were alone. He took a small notebook from his fitted tweed jacket, opened it.
‘A look at tonight’s guest list – which the delightful Vera showed to me with a certain contempt – offers a possible explanation. I copied down a few names. For instance, we have the Chairperson of the Heart of England Tourist Board, the MP for Worcester, officials of the Malvern Chamber of Trade, the Elgar Society, the Chief Executive of Forcefield Security. Also, Lord …’
Bobby looked up, like a bird just took a shit in his lap.
‘… and Lady Colwall. I don’t think I need go on. It’s a collection of local dignitaries and notables to launch the event. None of them will be paying, of course, they’re here to bestow upon it Establishment credibility. And, because attitudes have changed considerably since Victorian times, one can’t imagine any of these people accepting the invitation if they thought it was to be a real seance.’
‘So they’re not even gonna pretend?’
‘Of course not. It’s to be a civilized after-dinner entertainment, an exhibition of deception and human folly. We see how the magic lantern was used to project phantoms, how sound effects and the deployment of light and shadow would simulate the atmosphere of a haunted house …’
‘Big deal.’
‘Ah, but then …’ Cindy laid down the notebook ‘… what if, at some point in the evening, there is an imperceptible change? What if we shift from simulation to an invocation of … who knows what? What if the obviously fake gives way to the semi-convincing and then – in front of this august assembly – to the terrifyingly inexplicable? And what if afterwards, as the somewhat timid applause dies down, the guests come to realize that what they have just witnessed is …’ Cindy raising his hands, fingers moving like undersea creatures ‘… the reality of it?’
‘This is where Callard comes in?’
‘I don’t know, little Grayle. I won’t be there. Only you will be there, among the dignitaries.’
Grayle moistened her cold lips.
Bobby said, ‘But that’s just what you surmise will happen?’
‘Of course,’ Cindy said lightly. ‘And if nothing happens but the fakery, nothing is lost, no reputations are damaged. But if it does, particularly in front of this distinguished group, think of the kudos for Kurt’s venture.’
‘Hold on here,’ Grayle said. ‘Are we talking
about Clarence Judge? Because that’s what they’re gonna get from Callard. Just Clarence freaking Judge and his slimeball smell. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, Cindy.’
‘No,’ Cindy said. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t.’
‘Maybe we put two and two together and made sixteen.’
Bobby said, ‘I don’t suppose Seward was on that guest list?’
Cindy looked disparaging. ‘I know he’s a popular figure now, but is that really likely, Bobby? Even rejected for the Lottery Show once, he was. I think it was the idea of the big money balls in the hands of a known felon … Hush a moment …’
Cindy lifted a finger. There came the unlikely sound of ragged, unaccompanied singing. Bobby stood up, walked over and spread the tent flap. Grayle went to peer over his shoulder.
‘Aw, this always happens.’
Over on the cindered parking lot, a minibus had drawn up, a bunch of people gathered around it. They were singing a hymn. Two of them carried a banner between two poles. In black stencilled lettering, it carried a not unfamiliar appeal.
IN THE NAME OF JESUS, STOP THIS EVIL!
The banner took some holding steady in the wind, but maybe they had support from above.
‘Whenever you advertise any kind of big New Age event, you get these militant evangelicals,’ Grayle said. ‘Happens a lot back home.’
Cindy joined her and Bobby in the opening. Quite a few more New Age stallholders had emerged, so there was some kind of audience – if not the kind likely to be on the side of the protesters.
‘Open your minds, why don’t you?’ yelled this woman in a long, grey woollen cloak. ‘There’s more than one narrow little way to God!’
The evangelicals carried on singing, led by two guys in clerical collars.
‘How long will they keep this up?’ Bobby wondered.
‘Oh hell, Bobby, they’ll be here all day and then I guess another bunch’ll take over. Less, of course, the security guys move into action, but that’s not too likely. Throwing out a Christian on his ass is not what you’d call good PR.’
‘Now there’s interesting,’ Cindy said.
‘Huh?’
‘See the person on the end with the handwritten placard?’
Small guy in a suit and tie, not singing, just standing there holding up his placard.
‘What’s it say? Oh.’
The sign said
THEY MURDERED
JOHN HODGE
‘The gamekeeper?’ Grayle said. ‘The shotgun accident?’
Cindy turned to Bobby.
‘Go and have a word, boy. You are the detective, go and detect. Grayle and I will mind the shop.’ He seemed suddenly alive with an excitement Grayle hadn’t seen in him in such a long time. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for. The answers always lie in history. Get him out of here, Bobby. Don’t let anyone see you.’
XLIV
HE HAD A LONG PIECE OF STICKING PLASTER DIAGONALLY ACROSS HIS forehead.
‘Oh, yes, they did that,’ he said diffidently in the snug, panelled bar of the Unicorn.
‘The security men?’
‘Well, you see, I landed on a piece of barbed wire. This was when they slung me off the site. I don’t suppose they meant it to happen, but they never came out to help me. I could’ve lost an eye, I suppose, for all they cared.’
‘Just let me get this right. This is the Forcefield men?’
‘Is that what they’re called? Anyway, I came back. I paid my entrance fee and I came back. And when these religious people arrived, I decided to attach myself to them. I explained that this was an example of the kind of evil that resulted from all this meddling. Had to say I was thinking of joining their church, but at least it meant I could make my protest without getting assaulted. Stand there a while and hope someone would come along who’d take a bit of notice. And now here you are, sir.’
He raised his glass to Maiden.
Get him out of here, Bobby. Don’t let anyone see you.
They’d thrown his placard face-down in the back of Marcus’s truck and then Maiden had driven him through the gates, the man’s face turned away from the Forcefield gateman, and four miles to the Unicorn, which was three pubs distant from Overcross and almost empty, thankfully.
‘I’ll go back again,’ he said. ‘Got to keep it up, sir. I promised.’
He was a slightly built man about Marcus’s age, gingery-white hair and a small, pointed face as inoffensive as a hedgehog’s. His name was Harry Douglas Oakley. John Hodge, gamekeeper to Barnaby Crole, was his great-grandfather.
‘You really are the police?’ He spoke quietly, the way informers spoke in pubs, the way Vic Clutton would speak, only a little more refined and with none of Vic’s irony. Mr Oakley had a small bicycle shop in West Malvern.
Maiden displayed his warrant card. ‘But, I’ll be honest, this is not my area. And I’m on leave, anyway.’
‘So, can I ask what your interest is, sir? Do you mind?’
Maiden hesitated. ‘This would be in confidence?’
‘Surely.’
‘I don’t know about John Hodge being murdered, but people have certainly been killed since and I’m looking for connections with some friends. We’re not sure what we’re after. I’m sorry to be so vague.’
‘If you’re sincere, that’s good enough for me, sir.’
Maiden said, ‘Would you mind not calling me “sir”? I have a bit of a problem with it. My name’s Bobby.’
‘Certainly, Bobby,’ said Harry Douglas Oakley.
By early afternoon many more vehicles had entered the site and the tents were taking on a new allure, signs going up proclaiming palmistry, crystal-healing, Tarot readings and a big caravan, where you could attach yourself to devices that altered your brainwaves. There were practitioners of Reiki and a feng shui adviser. An Asian band with a range of hand drums set up in a corner of the field and beat away the cold.
Cindy and Grayle finished laying out the stall. Even with the dramatic colour pictures of the Knoll and one oblique photo of Castle Farm, home of The Vision (silhouetted against the sunset, its location unidentified; Marcus would kill them first), it all still looked a little sparse, even for a cover, a smokescreen.
Grayle had brought a small case containing the long black skirt and the high-necked Edwardian-style blouse she guessed she’d need to wear for the period seance. ‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling uneasy about tonight, Kurt Campbell coming on to me and all. And what happens if … when … Callard spots me?’
They were standing with Malcolm the dog in front of the tent, watching the build-up of cars and vans. Grayle was looking for a Jeep Grand Cherokee with a woman at the wheel. She’d already checked the cordoned off exclusive parking lot up by the castle. Was Callard coming here at all, or had Marcus got it all wrong?
‘She won’t give you away.’ Cindy lit a cigarette. ‘She wants an end to this. It’s been going on too long. Longer than she knows.’
‘What’s that mean? What are you saying?’ Puzzled by this new animation around Cindy. Everything he said seemed pointed and penetrating, like a needle teasing a splinter out of the skin.
‘I think’, he said, ‘that Bobby may be able to complete the picture when he returns. But ponder this, Grayle: the only purpose-built haunted house? What does that mean?’
‘Means they were ambitious. They were aiming to call down spirits at will. Scientifically.’
‘But how many ghosts is it reputed to have? You’d think a hundred, wouldn’t you? And yet … John Hodge, the gamekeeper. The sole apparition. Just poor John. Accidentally shot, here in the grounds, with his own gun. I wonder where, precisely.’
‘They probably put the damn toilets over the spot.’ Grayle glanced briefly over at the Portaloos. ‘You’re saying you think there’s a connection between the death of John Hodge and what’s happening now? Or is that shamanic intuition?’
‘If we think of Anthony Abblow as the Kurt Campbell of his day … a man whose interest in the
paranormal had little of the mystical about it. A man who—. Something wrong, is it, Grayle?’
‘Sorry, I just saw …’ Grayle was staring at a big vehicle heading up the main drive towards the castle. ‘Cindy, you see that van? Wait till it comes out the other side of that clump of bushes … OK, you see the symbol on the side panel?’
‘A blue rose?’
‘Right. Well, this is probably nothing, but I would swear that is the same firm we saw taking stuff out of the flat we thought was Barber’s. In Cheltenham.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘I’m almost sure it’s the same company. It may not be the same van. I mean I wouldn’t recognize the licence plate or anything. Maybe this is the outfit everybody uses in these parts. Coincidence.’
‘You are saying this could be the van which departed carrying furniture and effects from the room in which Persephone Callard conducted a seance for Sir Richard Barber?’ Cindy’s eyes flared. ‘Grayle, in such a situation as this, there can be no such thing as coincidence.’ He clipped on Malcolm’s lead. ‘Come on.’
‘What about the stall?’
‘Would all these spiritually developed people help themselves to free copies of The Vision?’
‘Only if they haven’t read one before.’
Grayle followed Cindy and the dog up towards the castle. It looked bloated against the light.
‘My mother died earlier this year, Bobby,’ said Harry Oakley. ‘She always used to say to me, “The truth won’t come out in my time, there’s still too much prejudice. But perhaps before the end of your life it might.” So I promised her, you see, that one way or another I’d make sure it did come out. Not quite on her deathbed, but it was a promise.’
‘What did she mean by too much prejudice?’
‘Prejudice in his favour. Nobody in the locality would hear a word against Barnaby Crole. You see, not only was he the local benefactor, he was the only one there’d ever been around here. He built almshouses for the old people. Built the school. Turned a blind eye, the locals, out of pure self-interest, Bobby.’
‘So … how do you think your great-grandfather died?’
