Murderer in Shadow

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “No problem, Mr Vogt. Peg was quite helpful.”

  “Not the best accommodations,” Vogt said. “It’s an old place, not many modern amenities here, not the kind people want now.”

  “It’s comfortable enough.”

  “No WiFi.”

  “Liberated, one might say.”

  “Got a phone in back, but only for locals,” Vogt said. “Sorry.”

  “I’ve my mobile, if anyone needs me.”

  “No telly or radio in the room,” Vogt said. “Not even a Gideon Bible tucked in a drawer – not much call for that kind of reading in Knight’s Crossing.”

  “Brought reading material of my own.” From his coat pocket, Ravyn withdrew the grimoire of Dale Stryker. “My sergeant gave it to me. Thought I might spend the evening reading it.”

  Vogt stiffened at the sight of the book. His hands started to flutter, but he balled his fists and kept them at his sides.

  “Old habits become instinctual after awhile,” Ravyn said. “It’s hard to fight them.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Making the signs of warding and protection.”

  “You got me there, Chief Inspector.” Vogt spread his hands, rocked back a bit on his heels and gave a monkey’s grin. “Village born, I am, but my mum was from Denby Marsh. Just down the road, but might as well be far Cathay, if you know what I mean.”

  Ravyn pushed the book across the table, close enough to see, not near enough to touch. Vogt looked down, but made no effort to reach for it. He clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Looks old.”

  “Parts of it are, perhaps a hundred, hundred-fifty years,” Ravyn said. “Majority of it, though, no more than thirty years or so.”

  “Not really that long ago; seems to me almost yesterday.” Vogt licked his lips and forced a smile. “What is it?”

  “You recognize the symbol, I assume.”

  Vogt’s laugh was brittle. “Have to be blind not to, wouldn’t I? Half the cottages here show it for a passing, don’t they? On almost all the standing stones in the middle of the bloody village green.”

  “Also at the Stryker farm,” Ravyn said.

  Vogt shrugged. “As a young man, I was warned against going there by my uncle.”

  “Amos Lea.”

  Vogt’s eyes narrowed and he nodded.

  “So you wouldn’t have had truck with Wizard Ezekiel?”

  “He was a silly old bugger,” Vogt said. “But a dangerous silly old bugger. Everyone was afraid of him, and rightly so.”

  “Never visited the Strykers?” Ravyn said. “Not for any reason.”

  “Well.” Vogt drawled out the word and lapsed into a grin that was part embarrassment, part cheeky mischief. “Both Heather and Millie were fine-looking girls. And very…” His grin widened till it seemed his head might split like a ripe melon. “...earthy, if you know what I mean. So sad, what happened to them. A shame.”

  “Were you courting?”

  “I weren’t no older than they, and they weren’t no more keen for anything permanent than I, especially Heather, the youngest girl.” A wistful look dulled Vogt’s eyes. “That was all before. After the murders, no one but fools went out there. I’m no fool.”

  “No, of course not,” Ravyn said.

  “When I was there, it weren’t to look at symbols on rocks, was it?” Vogt said. “So I wouldn’t know whether or not if there were any of them eyes-in-pentacles things…”

  “The Elder Sign.”

  Vogt glanced around the pub, settling upon Lebbie Rodgers and his mates for the briefest moment. “Not something to say loudly, or maybe at all, Mr Ravyn.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Ravyn agreed.

  “This isn’t Stafford. People here aren’t sophisticated or posh. Outsiders think it’s quaint, don’t they, a village where magic is part of daily life. Maybe think we all run around with wizard hats and magic wands. They go see Harry-bloody-Potter at the cinema and think they know sod all about everything. We’re not fools!”

  “I never said anyone was, Mr Vogt.”

  Vogt cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr Ravyn. I was out of line there. It’s just that…” He flicked his gaze towards Lebbie Rodgers and his mates again, this time without actually turning. “It’s the way we’ve lived for centuries, even during those times when following the Old Way was something to get hanged or burned for. Folk here don’t like outsiders mixing in with what they don’t understand, and some of those folk are dangerous.”

  “Indeed.”

  Vogt lowered his voice. “Lebbie Rodgers and his mates may seem like yobs to you, but it’s no good getting up their noses if you don’t have to. Like everyone else in Knight’s Crossing, they’re not what they seem.”

  “Does the thunder speak to Rodgers?”

  “I don’t ask what Lebbie Rodgers does or doesn’t do.” Vogt’s lips were stretched pale. “He pays for his drinks and he keeps out of trouble in here. That’s all I care about.”

  The pub’s door opened and a couple of old men drifted in, then an angular woman in a red jumper, followed by Franklin Knox, who glanced in Ravyn’s direction before heading to the bar. The tension that had stretched Vogt’s features to the point of tearing mostly released him. He returned to the role of genial host.

  “Evening crowd starting now,” he said. “Is there anything I can have Peg bring you? Maybe another pint? Something to eat? How about egg and chips? Good for what ails you.”

  “Wonderful,” Ravyn said. “Mary Cadogan’s perfect comfort food, a marriage made in heaven, she wrote.”

  “Who?”

  “A writer. Wrote mostly books on children’s fiction and their creators. And about food. Sadly, recently deceased.”

  The pub owner shrugged, and Ravyn let well enough alone.

  “Speaking of books, Mr Ravyn.” Vogt gestured at the grimoire. “Might be best to keep that out of sight, to save your reading for when you’re all tucked away and safe in your bed. Alone.”

  Without looking, Ravyn slipped it into his coat pocket.

  “What kind of car do you drive, Mr Vogt?”

  “My car?”

  “Please.”

  “Ford Zodiac.”

  “Which model?”

  “A Mark IV saloon.”

  “Colour?”

  “Blue,” Vogt said. “With chrome trim. Why?”

  “Something my sergeant said today made me curious.”

  “Curiosity satisfied?”

  “Nice vintage car you have.”

  “I inherited it,” Vogt said. “From my uncle.”

  “And the money to buy the pub and most of the adjoining land you needed,” Ravyn said. “I understand you were able to barter for the land needed to expand the car park.”

  Vogt forced a sour-wine smile. “Been talking to Cousin Mabel, I take it. Word to the wise, Mr Ravyn: it don’t pay to put too much stock in anything Mabel Link might say, not about me, not about nobody, not about nothing. She’s quite a Bitter Betty, is our Mabel, since things didn’t go her way, and she’s just got to blame everyone but herself, or her saintly father.”

  “She thinks her bitterness is justified,” Ravyn said. “Is it?”

  Vogt shrugged. “What can I say, Mr Ravyn? Old Amos Lea wanted a son, but got Mabel instead. A girl is no proper holder for certain kinds of knowledge. Men don’t learn the magic what women pass down, and it goes the other way too. Not to the liking of this modern world, but that’s the way it is. Seems natural he would take a liking to me, prefer my company to Mabel’s. No one to blame for that. Just the way things were. But I tell you, I was taken aback when I learned I got everything when he popped his clogs.”

  “You might have shared with your cousin,” Ravyn said. “The milk of human kindness might not gush in Knight’s Crossing, but she was his daughter.”

  “I might have done, I suppose,” Vogt said. “But Amos was a headstrong old man, he was. Didn’t do to cross him when his mind was made up about something, no
t even when he was brown bread.” He paused. “Maybe especially not then. A dead man easily gets the Crone’s ear, and no one wants to hear her whisper his name”

  “I see.”

  “I tried, Mr Ravyn,” Vogt said. “I tried to help by arranging a good marriage to a man of means. Hardly my fault Thaddeus Link couldn’t handle his financial affairs no more than he could a horse. When I learned he’d left her without a bean, I offered to let her char for me, to work the kitchen even, but she wouldn’t have none of it. I offered; she turned down my help. What else could I do?”

  “You tried your best,” said Ravyn, dryly. “Who could possibly ask for more? After all, you have a business to run.”

  Vogt’s face brightened, a grin halved his face, and he yet again oozed the thick publican charm and geniality that one usually had to attend an old cinema to see. It was quite an act, Ravyn decided.

  “Now, you must excuse me, Mr Ravyn,” he said. “Customers. I’ll have Peg bring your food in just a lamb’s shake.”

  “Mr Vogt.”

  Vogt turned, settling an impatient look on the troublesome man.

  “Ever hear of anyone referred to as Stone Heart, Owl Screech or Hawk Claw?”

  Vogt’s face remained bland. “Never heard of them.”

  As evening settled upon Knight’s Crossing, the Broken Lance filled, but even at its most crowded, there remained two zones upon which the villagers were loath to encroach. Ravyn sat alone at his table, and no one infringed upon the opposite corner, where Lebbie Rodgers held court with Danny Tailor and Freddie Priat. The lads tossed down pints and kept an eye on Ravyn.

  Franklin Knox, off in a shadowed alcove with a glass of white wine, mostly undrunk, kept subtle watch on both corners.

  To everyone watching, and all were to some degree, Ravyn was interested in his supper, then in nursing a pint. His half-lidded eyes and relaxed stance made him appear on the verge of dozing, only vaguely concerned with his environs and the people around him. In reality, he took in every glance and movement, every scrap of conversation that drifted to his ears. But he observed the villagers of Knight’s Crossing through a translucent veil of paper, the individual pages of the grimoire he had flipped through when Stark gave it to him upon returning from Brighton.

  He watched pages shift in the air. He grouped Dale Stryker’s entries by time, by events, by themes, by people. He put aside all magical spells, invocations and carefully drawn diagrams of magic circles, arcane symbols and images of demonic entities supposedly seen by the doomed lad. While those entries were useful for judging Dale’s state of mind and the fervency of his beliefs, the imaginary did not figure into this investigation.

  Stark’s examination of the grimoire before leaving Brighton for Knight’s Crossing had been necessarily superficial, but he was spot on regarding one thing – there was a secret about the Strykers that the boy had either known or suspected, but could not bring himself to phrase in terms of reality. Had sex, either illicit or incestuous, been the source of Dale’s reticence? Or had the isolated farmhouse harboured a darker secret?

  Then there were the mysterious Acolytes. What of them? What part did they play in that secretive family? Ravyn recalled Vogt’s words about the unsuitability of women as receptacles for certain kinds of magical wisdom. Despite Mabel’s accusations of finagling against Vogt, it was clear Old Amos really had preferred Vogt to her. From her father, Mabel received only the basics of magic, the kind of defensive spells that allowed her to protect herself within the magic-infused reality of the village, where a man might lose his will to live if he merely thought he heard the Crone whisper his name during the dark of the moon.

  Certainly there must have been some finagling, but Vogt had come into his inheritance because of his gender, not his skills or inclinations. That he had so comfortably settled into his role at the Broken Lance instead of gathering about himself an aura of respect and fear might be proof that Amos Lea had not chosen wisely.

  Gender magic could explain why Ezekiel might have recruited apprentices from outside. Everything read and heard about Lemuel Stryker had painted him as a feckless fool, unable to court his own bride and suspected of impotency, both mental and physical. Allan was as weak and petty as his father; Dale was considered strong-minded but soft-hearted, like his mother, something born out by the more personal entries in his grimoire. Neither grandson would be worthy in Ezekiel’s eyes. The two girls, Millie and Heather, shared his cruelty and wickedness, confirmed by gullible yet observant Dale, but they were girls, ill-suited to wield the magical energies known to men, incapable of subjugating entities called forth from the Dark Dimensions of magic.

  Stone Heart, Owl Screech and Hawk Claw. If their names were known to Dale he never set them down. Raised in an environment where secrecy and mendacity were ingrained at the earliest age, his circumspection was natural, probably self-protective.

  Had Vogt been one? Hearing the names, he kept his features as bland as oatmeal. Mabel claimed he was, but bitterness had been her only motivation for years. If not for him, she would be wealthy and prominent in the village. Naturally, she piled upon Vogt every claim of misconduct. Existence of Wizard Ezekiel’s acolytes might have come from Martha’s lips in a weak moment, but numbering Vogt amongst them so many years later might have sprung from her own bitter heart. It would explain why she equivocated, then recanted her accusation. It could also have been, Ravyn thought, fear.

  “I beg your pardon, Chief Inspector,” Franklin Knox said. “Am I disturbing you?”

  The pages swirled away like dust in an evening breeze.

  “No, not at all, Mr Knox.” Ravyn gestured at a chair. “Please.”

  * * *

  Escaping Dr Penworthy after she drew blood was difficult. She gave Stark a full medical exam, threatening to send him to hospital for observation, then lambasted his guv’nor for letting him drive. He protested his general good health and defended Ravyn’s decision, but eventually kept his mouth shut, let her poke and prod to heart’s content. He shrugged on his shirt and scarpered with all due haste.

  But failed to escape Heln’s attention. From the car park, he saw a slight form, dark against the office light. A hand might have been raised in protest, but Stark never saw it. Not that he recalled.

  At home he ignored Aeronwy’s puffy eyes and took her into his arms. She turned her head, so he managed only a peck on the cheek.

  “Sorry I’m late, luv.”

  “You said you’d be home by supper.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.” He managed to sniff her breath. No hint of gin’s juniper scent. “I had to deliver evidence to Ravyn.”

  “Everything’s in the refrigerator.” She broke away from him and headed to the kitchen. “I’ll heat it up for us.”

  “Plus there was a little dust-up on the way back.”

  She turned from the microwave, what she called a popty-ping in Welsh slang. She gave him a look.

  “I’m fine.” He was ever his own worst enemy. “Just a dent.”

  She crossed her arms. The microwave pinged but she ignored it.

  “It was a motor accident?”

  “Minor, a dent, like I said. Only, the punter didn’t stop, so…”

  “You were on your way to deliver evidence to Mr Ravyn? In this Knightsbridge place?”

  “Knight’s Crossing.”

  “Whatever.” She glared at him. “Coming from where?”

  “From searching a house belonging to one of the investigators. He’s dead, but his son now owns it. Found an old journal that…”

  “Where was the house?”

  He was startled by her tone. “What? Oh, down on the coast.”

  “On the coast?”

  He was not lying, he told himself, just trying to spare her a little stress. He was, he realized, failing. Miserably.

  “In Brighton.” He stopped her from speaking. “I didn’t tell you because you would want to go, and there was no way you could.”

  She stared at him.

>   “I know we haven’t been able to do things,” he said. “I didn’t want a big row about something over which I had no control.”

  “You thought I would rag you about something like that?”

  “Well…uh…” He realized anything said now would be wrong. “It, uh…well, it crossed my mind.”

  She shook her head. “Leo Stark, you are an idiot.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me about that.”

  She smiled and opened the microwave. “Get the settings?”

  He hastened to obey.

  They sat across from each other at the kitchen table.

  “The incident with the car.” She looked up from the food she was toying with. “It was an accident, just an accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Just that – an accident. They don’t drive any better in the country than they do in London. Even worse, I’d say. Now, eat up. After all, you’re…”

  “Don’t say it, Leo.”

  “You’re eating for two.”

  She gave him a soft, lopsided grin. “Sometimes, ‘idiot’ doesn’t come close to covering it.”

  Chapter 11

  Too Many Magicians

  Franklin Knox placed his glass of white wine on the table and sat next to Ravyn, so he, too, faced the room.

  He gestured subtly toward those who tried to seem unwatchful, but who failed, utterly. “Despite appearances, outsiders do visit us occasionally.”

  “But not frequently.”

  “No, mostly day-trippers looking for a picturesque England that no longer exists, and antique hunters during spring and summer,” Knox said. “Few overnighters. Mr Vogt’s usual trade is in battered wives or locked-out husbands needing a place to call home till some teacup tempest blows over. Knight’s Crossing may seem quaint, even charming, but it has the same social problems as any village.”

  “I understand it’s due mostly to your diligence that a thorough search of Stryker Farm was carried out,” Ravyn said.

  “I don’t know about that, Mr Ravyn. I did what I could.”

  “Did the existence of the sinkhole surprise you?”

  “No, not really, though I thought a well might be dug there.”