Skelgill must make some inadvertent movement, for she fixes him with a penetrating stare.
‘Inspector?’
He shifts uneasily in his seat and then, with the heels of his hands pressed together and his fingers spread and pointing upwards, he forms a kind of crown.
‘What about a ring of posts with sheep’s skulls and bones attached to them?’
‘How many posts?’
‘A dozen – but the circle was small – it would fit into this conservatory.’
The woman considers the area around them, a shrewd smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Meanwhile DS Jones has fixed Skelgill with a frown of consternation. From where does this information spring?
‘I can tell you that when my coven meets, the Magistra’ (she touches her breastbone with the fingers of one hand and then extends the arm with a sweeping motion) ‘marks out a consecrated circle with a ritual knife called an Athamé – one’s reach is rarely more than five or six feet from the centre. Yet there is ample space for twelve members – and the leader.’
‘I’ve always imagined something more on the scale of Castlerigg – or Long Meg and Her Daughters.’
Rhian Roberts shakes her head.
‘A pre-match huddle of the Marras would be closer to the mark, Inspector.’
Skelgill grins; she refers to the local rugby league team.
‘Thirteen players, as well – they could do with a bit of your magic.’
Now she smiles modestly – but she turns inquiringly to DS Jones, divining her wish to speak.
‘Mrs Roberts – what would someone be trying to do – by displaying the sheep’s head near his camp?’
‘It is hard to know – what can you tell me about him?’
‘His name was William Thymer – the locals called him Ticker – he’d lived as a tramp for over twenty-five years in the forest above Little Langdale. We understand he gave character readings at shepherds’ meets and village fairs.’
‘It is plain he knew some folklore – in trying to protect himself – he must have believed someone wished to harm him – or perhaps to drive him away.’ She still has Skelgill’s phone, and she hands it back to him with a flourish. ‘The symbolism seems rather territorial, don’t you think?’
DS Jones reaches to place a hand on Skelgill’s sleeve.
‘Guv – there was that skull hanging in the mine entrance – that felt like a warning not to enter. And the mutilated sheep – it’s as if they’re saying they can act with impunity – wherever they choose.’
Skelgill stares at her broodingly; then he turns to Rhian Roberts.
‘Sheep have been found – with the head cut off and the thorax split open.’
She receives this information dispassionately.
‘I have heard that in some traditions a sheep’s heart is studded with nails – in lieu of a human sacrifice. From what you have told me, Inspector – it sounds that a black coven may be at work – or at least a group that is masquerading as such.’
Skelgill grimaces at the prospect.
‘The shepherds don’t believe local folk could be responsible.’
‘People will travel a long way for their beliefs, Inspector – it may be part of their secrecy.’
Skelgill nods.
‘How would we know them?’
‘I could tell you if someone is a true witch.’ She smiles coyly. ‘A kind of identity parade – though I do not imagine my opinion would carry much weight in law. But mere minions are unlikely to be riding broomsticks – it is not as if there are signs so obvious as those that indicate you are left-handed, Inspector.’
Skelgill starts; she chuckles mischievously.
‘I say that not because of telepathy, Inspector – but by the way you drink your tea and wear your watch – it is easier to fasten the buckle with one’s good hand, is it not?’
She raises her own right arm to make the point. Skelgill grins ruefully.
‘What about coven meetings – are they always held at the same place?’
‘There is no such requirement, though certain prehistoric sites are more auspicious – by their very nature they are likely to facilitate meditation and concentration. I suspect those misguidedly drawn to the occult would be more impressed by stereotypically eerie surroundings.’
Skelgill nods. However, before he can respond she adds a rider.
‘Meticulous precautions are normally taken to avoid discovery, Inspector – although timing would be in your favour. The moon is a reliable calendar.’
‘The full moon?’
She pauses to consider her answer.
‘For a white coven the power is greatest when the moon is waxing – especially just before it is full. The waning moon and dark period are when black magic is practised. As a rule covens meet once per month – and in addition celebrate four main festivals – Candlemas, Beltane, Llamas and Halloween. These ancient dates have a power of suggestion in their own right – it strikes me that a black circle would endeavour to channel such energy.’
Skelgill inhales to speak but DS Jones pre-empts his response.
‘Mrs Roberts – what could be their underlying intention?’
But now she shakes her head.
‘It is not within my direct experience. For someone such as myself the craft is a vocation – a calling. I have been bestowed with certain limited powers and believe I am to use them for the purposes of good. I spent my working life as a nurse, and in many ways the sense of duty is indistinguishable. My coven executes work of a benign and beneficial nature – we go to great lengths to ensure nobody is harmed as a result of our magical influences.’ She looks from one detective to the other, her eyes deep coal-black pools. ‘For those that take the left-hand path – for their personal ends, whatever they may be – one can only conjecture that it concerns the attainment power of over others, perhaps for financial enrichment, perhaps for self-gratification.’
DS Jones is leaning forward, clenching her hands, fingers interlocked.
‘Can black magic really do this – if it’s just ordinary people who’ve decided to become involved – without actually having any special ability?’
Rhian Roberts holds out her creased palms in a reluctant gesture of powerlessness.
‘The answer to your question may be academic, Sergeant – it is what people believe that matters – just look at the influence of the world’s major religions upon the actions of their adherents throughout history to this day – and those religions cannot all be right.’
Skelgill nods vehemently; her point evidently strikes a chord. He makes to rise – as though this is an appropriate juncture and he is concerned about overstaying their welcome. But now it is Rhian Roberts who springs to her feet with an alacrity that belies her years and places a gently restraining hand upon his shoulder.
‘Inspector, and Sergeant – you cannot have failed to detect the smell of food – and I could not possibly allow you to leave on empty stomachs having tantalised you with the aroma.’
Skelgill begins a half-hearted protest, but she is already past them and on her way to the kitchen.
‘Make yourself comfortable, Inspector, please – it will delay you only a few minutes.’
Skelgill grins rather sheepishly.
‘Don’t mind if I do, madam.’
He glances at DS Jones, who is smiling at him knowingly.
Rhian Roberts disappears from sight, but then her head pops back around the door.
‘Inspector, I ought to mention – given our conversation there is one unfortunate aspect – it is lamb hotpot.’
*
‘Guv – you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Skelgill is staring at the screen of his mobile phone. He stands, stock still, one arm loose at his side. The street is silent, and empty but for the two detectives, the front door of ‘The Haven’ now closed at Skelgill’s back. DS Jones is a couple of yards away beside the car, waiting for him to finish and find his keys.
He look
s up – directly at DS Jones – but there is apprehension in his eyes and he seems to see straight through her. Then he turns to his left and walks away, continuing across the little t-junction until he comes up against the iron railings that separate the local residents’ allotments from the road. He appears to halt only because of the barrier, like an automaton that otherwise would keep going. Now, facing the glassy blue curve of the Irish Sea, he stands again, unmoving.
DS Jones is unsure of what to do – but, watching him from behind, an expression of alarm seizes her features – for he seems to wipe a cuff across his eyes. Gingerly, she crosses the twenty yards of tarmac that separate them, treading softly in her rubber-soled sneakers.
‘Guv – are you okay?’
Skelgill does not respond, though neither does he object as she nears, tentative in her approach and wary of eye contact. She stops half a pace short, a yard to his side. Beyond the fence, immediately in front of them, this particular household uses its plot for leisure purposes: there is a meagre area of patchy grass, some half-trodden daffodils around the edges, an obliquely leaning swing, and discarded child’s playthings.
‘I’ve got three brothers.’
Skelgill stares seawards, his eyes glistening, his jaw jutting. His words are a statement but DS Jones replies.
‘Aha.’
The breath hisses between his teeth, and then he inhales deeply through his nostrils.
‘Older than me by ten years and above.
‘I was the baby of the family.
‘They thought I was the last mistake.
‘Until little Carol came along.
‘I was six when she was born.
‘Reckon I was jealous – nose out of joint.
‘She was a live wire.
‘Like a kitten on a skate.
‘This night she was ill.
‘Two years old, she was then.
‘Ma didn’t get a wink of sleep.
‘But the fever was worse in the morning.
‘My brothers were away at the crack of dawn.
‘They all worked on farms.
‘I’d wanted my breakfast before school.
‘But they needed to take Carol to the hospital.
‘My dad had this old battered van.
‘It was frosty and it wouldn’t start at first.
‘Then he got it going and he came in for them.
‘But I’d pestered Ma to cook me egg and bacon.
‘Carol was in a chair by the fire.
‘Wrapped in the pink blanket she’d had as a baby.
‘They carried her out, I remember she looked at me.
‘I went to school, I just used to walk it.
‘Came home for my dinner.
‘There was no one in.
‘I made a jam butty or something.
‘Then I went back to school.
‘Got back after school finished – still no one.
‘I wanted my tea.
‘I was starving by then.
‘And angry – I couldn’t get the telly working.
‘I remember waiting.
‘For ages, looking out the window.’
He pauses, almost panting, as if the entire monologue thus far has come on the back of a single lungful of air. His irises seem enlarged and greener than their regular greyish hue; it must be a constricting of his pupils and the reflected blue scatter from sky and sea. His lips barely move as he continues.
‘Then finally the van pulls up.
‘Dad walks round dead slow and opens the passenger door.
‘I dash out, shouting I want my tea.
‘Then I see Ma’s face.
‘She’s got Carol’s blanket folded over her arm.
‘Only the blanket’s come home.
‘I keep running down the path and straight past them.
‘I’m in the fells all night.
‘It takes the Rescue to bring me back.
‘I’m convinced it’s my fault.
‘Those ten greedy minutes this morning.
‘Else they might have got her there in time.
‘She had meningitis.
‘A light’s gone out today.’
Now he falls silent, unmoving, though his eyes track a Herring Gull, its melancholy cry fading as it passes out to sea and fades from sight.
‘That’s why I joined the Rescue when I was still a kid.
‘Lied about my age.
‘Probably why I joined the police, too.
‘I never had the brains to be a doctor.
‘But I figured if one day I could save just one life...’
He turns to look at DS Jones; tears are streaming down her cheeks. He steps close and hugs her. While his outward manner might be parental, his childhood brogue clings on.
‘Hey up, lass – Ah should be bubblin’ – not thee.’
12. ESKDALE TO LANGDALE
‘I’ve never breathed a word about Carol, not to a living soul.’
Skelgill is driving again. They have departed Whitehaven, heading south on the coast road. This is not the way back to Penrith, but if DS Jones has noticed she has perhaps concluded that to interrogate her superior along such lines would be an intrusion during these first few miles. Now, his statement breaks the reflective silence.
‘What made you, Guv?’
Skelgill stares at his companion – for overly long – and she looks alarmed that he takes his eyes off the road.
‘Don’t worry, lass – we’re protected by magic.’
DS Jones gives a nervous giggle. To her relief he tightens his grip on the wheel and gazes ahead.
‘You won’t believe this – but when I checked my phone – you know how you get a preview of the texts and calls you’ve missed while it’s been on silent?’
‘Aha?’
‘I saw the words, “Carol” and “Peace” – I swear it – but then I unlocked the screen,’ (he shakes his head) ‘and there was nothing there – just junk from Leyton and HQ and whatnot.’
DS Jones’s eyes widen, though she seems to want to offer a plausible explanation.
‘Guv – perhaps it was just a combination of words – or even letters – that your brain selected from all the phrases that were displayed? It sometimes happens to me when I’m reading.’
Skelgill’s demeanour is dark and brooding.
‘But she had my phone, didn’t she?’
‘Mrs Roberts?’
‘Aye.’
They round a curve in the road and the towers and chimneys of Sellafield nuclear power station swing into view on the horizon. It is possible to live in the Lakes and imagine that Mother Nature’s beauty abounds on all sides, soaring fells and tumbling becks, gambolling lambs, walled pastures rolling on endlessly. Not so. If their conversation had not anyway reached an abrupt hiatus, this disquieting vision provides one. It is another minute before Skelgill speaks again.
‘Look – don’t mention any of this to Leyton – that we’ve seen the Roberts woman.’ (DS Jones nods obediently.) ‘He thinks I’m barmy enough as it is.’
‘What about me, Guv?’
‘You know I am.’
DS Jones chuckles, but her mirth is short-lived. Skelgill has slowed the car to a crawl: they are following a lycra-clad cyclist up an incline towards a blind summit, and it is not safe to overtake. Except, as Skelgill puts it (with expletives deleted) the impatient “idiot that’s been up their backside for the last five minutes” does overtake. A gleaming black Porsche Cayenne, driven by a balding male in late middle age, roars past towing a shiny aluminium trailer loaded with purchases from a builder’s merchant. As he does so a car crests the brow of the hill. The Porsche cuts in, its trailer missing the cyclist by a whisker, and forcing the approaching vehicle to take evasive action, rattling up onto the footpath (where thankfully there are no pedestrians). The cyclist throws a middle digit in irate protest, while the oncoming driver blasts his horn. Skelgill and DS Jones can only watch helplessly as the near miss unfolds, DS Jones making a sh
arp intake of breath while Skelgill trots out his full repertoire of curses.
But in a flash the incident is over. The Porsche disappears from sight; the oncoming car resumes its position in the carriageway and continues north; only the shaken cyclist remains ahead of them, pedalling rather more unsteadily than before. Skelgill waits all the way over the rise – until he can see the road is clear – before taking a wide berth. The rider raises a thumb of approval, and they exchange glances to the effect that the Porsche driver should be committed.
‘That’s when you wish you were on traffic patrol, Guv.’
‘Aye.’ Skelgill nods grimly. ‘I’m tempted to catch him as it is. I’ve seen a guy get six years for causing a death doing an identical overtake.’
‘I got his number, Guv.’
Skelgill casts a sideways glance at his efficient subordinate.
‘You’ve memorised it?’
‘Aha.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘Maybe pass it on to the Whitehaven boys – he’s no tourist, not with that trailer. At least they can keep an eye out for him.’
DS Jones nods reluctantly. The incident has grounded them, an uncomfortable touchdown on planet police work, a land where misdemeanours minor and major abound – a reminder of the continual need to assess where and when to intervene. The interview with Rhian Roberts must begin to seem distant, metaphysical, and somewhat unreal.
Skelgill slows the car – a junction approaches, and a sign for Santon Bridge.
‘Where are we going, by the way, Guv?’
‘Home – by the scenic route.’ He scowls innocently. ‘I’ve got a thing or two in mind.’
DS Jones grins. She must suspect that afternoon tea is next on his agenda. However, her geography of Lakeland is sufficient to tell her that not only will this circuitous route take them over the oft-treacherous Hard Knott and Wrynose passes, but also that it leads into Little Langdale. So maybe there is more to Skelgill’s navigation than fruit scones and the eating up of time that may otherwise see her ensnared by the scheming DI Smart.
But first they find themselves cast upon the horns of a dilemma.
Rounding a sharp right-hand bend beyond the hamlet of Santon Bridge, beneath the wooded hill known as Irton Pike, the southern outlier of the Wast Water Screes, they come upon a road accident. It involves only one vehicle – a black Porsche Cayenne.
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 11
