No one had reported Winsell missing, but she had to take some kind of action. Outsider or not, Henry Winsell was now one of her charges. But what could she do?
She checked the windows, secured the rear door, then latched the front door behind her. Winsell’s disappearance could not have any connection to the reopened Stryker case, but she was unsure of the protocol when a senior officer was on the scene.
The last thing she needed in her embryonic career was another enemy. Heln was enough. And he would most certainly turn against her when he learned she had failed to lure Ravyn into uttering any statements that could be used to discredit him. And who was to say that Ravyn did not already have her in his crosshairs? She only had his assurances that he was there merely to help. Still, it was obvious there was no love lost between the two men.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Standing in the shadow of the stoop, she hugged her arms about her body and lowered her chin. No, the enemy of my enemy could be an even greater enemy.
As a child, she often heard rumours of rival magicians joining forces against a third. They were all cautionary tales, of course, for such alliances never ended well, no matter oaths sworn or protective spells cast. Still, if she could get Ravyn into a position of debt, he might look upon her more favourably.
It was not a strategy without peril, but…
She frowned, unwrapped her arms and squatted. By the porch, between cottage foundation and a row of plant-pots, was a pale slab of stone. She shone her torch on the rectangle, gasped, and fell. The torch clattered out of her grasp. She lunged after the torch, regained it, then crawled back and trained the beam on the stone.
The Elder Sign gleamed in the glare.
This was no relic of the past, no protective sign installed by any of the cottage’s former inhabitants. The brick was made of the finest marble, edges sharp and unworn. The incised lines of the Elder Sign were filled with untarnished silver.
The only one who could have installed this potent incarnation of the Elder Sign was Henry Winsell himself. But no strapper would invoke the Powers so boldly, not even a foreigner from Denby Marsh, though the envy of that village was legendary.
Henry Winsell – strapper, agoraphobe…magician?
A sound soft as a sigh came out of the night, breaking the train of Ware’s fevered thoughts. She shot to her feet, snapped the torch up, and played it back and forth. The mist was not as thick as it had been, but she could still barely make out the fence. She thought she saw a dark shape, but when she rushed down the path it was gone, if it had ever been there at all.
“Oi! Anyone there?”
After she spoke, she realized her challenge never rose above a whisper, as if she were fearful of what might answer her from out of the darkness. Perhaps she was afraid, she admitted. Village children, even those born into non-believing families, were warned against dangers of the night, whether ancient malevolent Powers or wicked men bent on evil deeds. Children afraid of the dark became adults afraid of the dark, it seemed.
There was, she knew, little she could do now to shed any light on the whereabouts of Henry Winsell. Best she could do would be to come back after dawn, hoping a neighbour had noticed something of a man who did his best to escape notice. At least it would give her a reason for poking into driveways and garages.
And, as a courtesy, she should let Ravyn know.
At least about Henry Winsell.
About Heln…
She sighed and shook her head. It had all seemed so simple as a little girl, wanting to follow in Albert Dorry’s footsteps and be of service to the village she loved. How hard could it be?
* * *
The pages of Dale Stryker’s grimoire swirled into nothingness at the knock on the door. Though the grimoire had not left Ravyn’s pocket since the brief glance afforded Peter Vogt, its pages had been before his eyes for all of a long, sleepless night. He was now analyzing it line by line, comparing Dale’s scribblings and drawings with other arcane books from the collective libraries of the brigade of aunts who had cared for him after the death of his parents.
The tapping on the door sounded again, this time with a hint of urgency. He slipped on waistcoat and coat and was knotting his tie when he threw open the door.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Sorry to knock you up so early, Mr Ravyn, but I’ve a message for you.” Vogt proffered a scrap of paper. “I would’ve waited till I knew you was up, but it seemed important. The caller herself was cool enough, but I could hear some geezer raising bloody hell in the background. ‘Tell Ravyn I got to see him now,’ the git kept yelling over her. In a fine fit, he was, if you ask me.”
Ravyn read: Please come to Meadowlands at once. You were not told the truth – Evelyn Dovecoate (for Morris Highchurch).
“When did this call come in?”
Vogt frowned and scratched his head. “Early. Can’t rightly say the exact time. I put it aside a bit ‘cause I was leery about waking you for something that was maybe nothing.”
“I was already awake.”
“How was I to know?”
“Did Miss Dovecoate say anything else?”
“Just what I wrote.” He paused. “Well, that’s the gist of it. She might have said more, but what with that old geezer going mental as she’s trying to talk, who’s to say? Still, I did the best I could to…”
“All right. Thank you Mr Vogt.”
“You going over to Yew’s Reach later, maybe after breakfast?” Vogt asked. “You coming back?”
Vogt’s tone made it clear he hoped not to have a policeman as a guest in his pub for another night.
“I’d appreciate you holding the room.”
Vogt sighed.
“I’m leaving right away,” Ravyn said. “If you could have a coffee flask and a bacon sandwich ready, I would appreciate it.”
Vogt nodded, sighed at life’s unfairness, and stomped down the stairs. Ravyn closed the door, then finished dressing and washing. Revisiting Morris Highchurch sooner or later had been dictated in light of the information uncovered by Stark, but he had planned on doing so later rather than sooner. The odds were against the elderly inspector remembering much of anything from Marquest’s letters. A quick glance in the mirror above the basin, a final errant hair coaxed into place, and he rushed down the ill-lit stairway.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Sorry, sir, in the dimness I didn’t…
“It’s all right, Constable.” Ravyn went by Ware and left her to follow him down. “You’ve something to report about the car?”
“No, sir, I…” She rushed after Ravyn. “It’s Henry Winsell.”
He stopped on the ground floor and turned.
“He’s gone missing.”
“What do you mean?”
She recounted her discovery of the open door and her search of the unoccupied cottage. After a long pause, she told him about the marble brick incised with a silver representation of... ‘that symbol we talked about.’
“You think the Elder…” He noted Ware’s expression. “Do you think Winsell placed it there himself?”
“Don’t see any other way. Not the kind of work you hire for.”
Ravyn let his thoughts drift back to when he first encountered the reclusive Henry Winsell. His attention was mostly on the man, some directed towards the dwindling mob, a little on the damaged window, but there was a paleness at the edge of his vision, ignored at the time. Now, he focused on it, let it drift to the centre while all else rolled away. A sharp marble corner, two curved points of a star and the upper arch of an unblinking eye – he should have noticed it at the time.
“You knew Winsell was from Denby Marsh?”
“Yes, sir. It came up when I asked CRO about him.” Frowning, she said: “Because of the boy, you know. I suppose I should have gone further in…”
“No, you acted properly,” Ravyn said, cutting her off. He had no time to listen to her justifications. “A wide streak of envy in that village, isn’t there?
Among believers, I mean.”
“With some families, yes,” Ware said. “What I told you about families here trying to get their sons apprenticed out, that applies to Denby Marsh too, though there are fewer believers there, and it’s difficult, nearly impossible for the families to find an apprenticeship here with anyone worthwhile, mostly posers wanting coin.”
“I don’t see why it would…” He stopped as the truth dawned. “Because they are strappers?”
Ware nodded. “Foreigners. A Frog or a Chinaman would have about the same chance of acceptance as a boy from Denby Marsh.”
“The Elder Sign wouldn’t be put in for decoration.”
“Or to fit in.” Ware shut up and took a step back, realizing the chief inspector was not speaking to her or for her benefit.
“No expression of empirical knowledge, but an act of faith.” His voice was an introspective murmur. “Faith is not gleaned from books. A Master? No shelved book with the Sign. Magic in general, and folklore and history, but nothing…” He paused. “A place of pride for secrets would be hidden…Knox’s books…”
Ware shifted uneasily. Ravyn lapsed into silence, motionless at the bottom of the stairs, a hand on the newel post. Anyone seeing him now might have thought him bound for Madame Tussauds. She had the impression his mind was elsewhere. He seemed not to see her at all. She recalled Mabel Link’s odd assertions, which she had dismissed because Mabel was given to all sorts of odd assertions, often bizarre ones, even by village standards. She wondered if he were having a fit. Then it was over, almost as soon as it began.
“Excuse me.” He fast-dialled Stark. “Meet up with PC Ware. Henry Winsell has gone missing. She’s also looking for the car. Yes, it’s a long shot. I’m off to Yew’s Reach.”
Ravyn listened a moment, then smiled.
“Yes, porkies indeed,” he said. “Explanations mandated.”
“Sergeant Stark is coming here?” Ware asked when Ravyn rang off. “I’m fully capable of looking for Mr Winsell. And I don’t need help to find a particular car, if it’s even here.” Then she realized the sharpness of her tone. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that I feel…”
“We don’t have time for this, Ware.” She stepped back as if he had slapped her. “I’ve told you why Sergeant Stark and I were sent, why I am here now. You can believe me or not, but you need to put aside your fears and insecurities and concentrate on the task at hand. Whether you are being persecuted by an inner demon or you’ve let someone get inside your head, stop allowing it be your motivation. If there is something preventing you from doing your job, I shall be happy to discuss it with you, help you in any way I can, but not now. I need you clear-headed and focused.”
“Yes, sir.” She gulped. “I understand.”
“Good.” He smiled and gently gripped her shoulder. “Believe in yourself. Others do. ACC Ramsey for one, Chief Superintendent Henderson for another. And so do I.”
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “But Superintendent Heln…”
“True, it was not a unanimous choice.”
Ware’s mouth snapped closed and her eyebrows crashed. In the dead silence that followed, a sense of understanding came upon PC Hilary Ware. She saw truth in Ravyn’s eyes, heard it in his words. She felt used, sullied. Everything Heln had told her was a lie, and she felt stupid for not seeing the mendacity in his reptilian eyes. Her gran told her when she was little that she probably had the Sight.
No, Gran, I don’t have the Sight at all, she thought. I’m Blind as any idiot strapper. And naive and gullible to boot!
“But keep that to yourself,” Ravyn said, misunderstanding the look in her eyes. “The important thing: you were chosen.”
She nodded, tried to meet his gaze but looked away.
“About our meeting last night…”
He waited.
“I was following instructions.”
“You were told to speak to me?”
“Yes, sir, to ensnare you in actionable statements.” With each word she felt as if she were trying to expel a stone from her throat.
Ravyn sighed. “Mr Heln?”
“He’s been after me since I started, offering to help my career, then belittling me, building me up and tearing me down, starting even before I had my interview.” She felt like weeping, but would rather die than let this man see her cry. “I betrayed you, sir.”
A corner of Ravyn’s mouth lifted. Seeing the start of a smile, she wanted to slap him.
“You’re not a very good Judas, are you, Constable?”
She shook her head, sighed and fought back a grimaced smile. “Rubbish as a backstabber, I guess, sir.”
“My advice to you.”
“Sir?”
“Do your job. Don’t worry about anything else.”
“What about Superintendent Heln?”
“No witnesses, were there?”
“No, I can’t prove a thing.”
“Neither can he. It would be more damaging for him to try.”
“But what if he…”
“You should follow any written instructions received.”
“But he won’t…” Ware stopped. “Yes, sir, I understand.”
“I have to go.”
“I’ll meet Sergeant Stark, follow his lead. And I’ll check out each and every car in the village. Thank you, sir.”
He nodded and turned.
She watched Ravyn pick up his coffee flask and wax-wrapped sandwich at the bar, saw the annoyed expression on Vogt’s face when told Ravyn would return. Memories of the hex-sign burned in her mind. She saw Ravyn pause and turn.
“Is there anything else, Constable?”
“No.” Her voice almost broke. “No, sir. Drive carefully.”
* * *
“I have absolute faith Inspector Ravyn will bring the Stryker case to a satisfactory conclusion,” Superintendent Heln said. “I thought I made that abundantly clear in my press statement.”
“Perhaps too abundantly.”
“Ma’am?”
“I thought you too assertive in your statement to the public,” ACC Ramsey said. “Any detective might have trouble living up to the image you conveyed.”
“As I said, ma’am, I have full confidence in Ravyn.”
“Sir Geoffrey was troubled by your press meeting.”
At mention of the Chief Constable, Heln straightened. “Really, Ma’am? The reopening of the case and the revelation of how poorly it was initially handled is a black mark against us. I merely wanted to assure the public there would be no repetition this time. None of the blame for the first cock-up can in any way be placed on the current administration; still you know how the public are.”
“I was asked if you cleared your statement with me.”
“I thought the situation warranted…”
“Or with Mr Henderson.”
“Gossip about remains discovered in the well at Stryker Farm, their implication that the case had been bungled, had already been widely disseminated,” Heln said. “A few irresponsible tabloids dug into their archives immediately. They put out issues citing police incompetence and prophesying more of the same.”
Ramsey nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen them. A few.”
“Damage control seemed imperative.”
“Still…”
“Ravyn is very reluctant to deal with the press.” Despite Fleet Street’s idolatry of him. “Yes, protocol demands a senior officer’s approval, but Chief Superintendent Henderson was at the Regional Ethnic Sensitivity and Diversity Conference.” He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “All mobiles collected at the door for that one, as you recall, ma’am.”
“Yes, but…”
“And I tried several times to contact you.”
She frowned.
“Both on your office telephone and your mobile.”
“I found a voice mail only on my office phone.”
Heln shrugged. “This technological world. The more complex it becomes, the more there is to go wrong. I even visited your
office and spoke to your secretary, Mr Lester.”
Ron Lester was unable to recall the exact time. Heln could have called before his visit; he could have called after ensuring she was absent. But Lester had been very sure about Heln’s visit.
“I could have contacted the Chief Constable, I suppose.”
“Yes, you could have.”
Heln frowned. He had expected more apprehension from her. It was disconcerting when people did not respond as expected, for it indicated aspects of their personalities he had yet to lay bare.
“My only desire was to assure our stakeholders we would not fail, this time” he said. “It was a matter of public safety, a way to calm a worried community beset with outside agitation.”
“Yes, as I told Sir Geoffrey.”
Again, he frowned. How he hated being surprised.
She stood, and he followed suit.
“I told the Chief Constable it was a one-time event, justified by the circumstances,” she said. “Do I make myself clear?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Crystal.”
“Good.” She turned to leave, then looked back. “Do you know Ronald Lester well?”
“No, not really, ma’am,” he said. “We belong to the same club. I think we may have played racquetball on a few occasions. Casual acquaintances, nothing more. Why?”
“Just curious,” she said. “Good morning, Superintendent.”
“Good morning, ma’am.”
He sat and gazed at the closed door. The quarterly staffing and overtime reports were demanding his attention, had been since the previous evening, but he ignored them. Anyone seeing him now would not only think his face devoid of expression, but that it was almost like a waxen mask, hardly human at all.
Stupid cow!
Through his shirt he touched the leather pouch suspended from a cord around his neck.
* * *
Murderer in Shadow Page 20
