Edges of the World: An Anthology of Otherness

by Ward,Matthew

  She snorted. "If that's true, best bloody coppers in the county, us."

  PC Haley emerged from beneath Bannow Farm's thatched porch, and closed the heavy timber door behind him. "House is clear, guv. Search can begin whenever you want."

  Penhallow nodded. "Good. You'll coordinate that, Tom? I'll leave you a few uniforms to help out."

  "Sure." Better that than another round of twenty questions with the Bristol mob. "Hang on? What do you mean, the house is clear? We've only got ten of 'em out here. Where's that last one?"

  "Shit." Penhallow's eyes flicked back and forth across the corralled suspects. "It's Jimmy Stanton." She pulled a radio from her jacket pocket and raised it to her lips. "All units, all units. We've got a runner. IC1 male, short blond hair, glasses. I want him found." She clicked the radio off, and rounded on the unfortunate Haley. "You're with me. We'll search the cottage again, just to be sure. Tom?"

  Marsh was already moving. "I'll try the path to the lake."

  "Watch your step, city boy. Don't want you fallin' in."

  *******

  Marsh thudded down the overgrown path, alert for any trace of movement. He remembered Stanton well – nervous sort, didn't seem to fit in well with the boozy bravado of his mates. Frankly, Marsh would've pinned him as more likely to be a victim than a murderer, but it took all sorts.

  Had Stanton killed Taplow? Marsh's gut said no. But in which case, why had he run? He certainly made for a better suspect than Weeping Marya, whatever Penhallow thought. The vines were problematic, what with them mirroring the tale the inspector had spun the previous night, but maybe Taplow had repeated the story, and Stanton had arranged a prank that had gone horribly wrong. Certainly wouldn't be the first time for that. And if it was... If it was, that meant a portion of the blame for Taplow's death fell on Penhallow's shoulders for spinning the tale in the first place...

  The path took Marsh past Taplow's oak. The body was gone, but the blue and white tape was still in place, bright against the encroaching dusk. For some reason Marsh couldn't explain, the tree looked incomplete, empty – as if Taplow's body had been meant to hang from the bough. Marsh ran on.

  He was almost at the lake, and still there was no sign. Maybe Stanton hadn't fled at all. Maybe Weeping Marya had got him too. Angrily, Marsh shook the thought away. Penhallow's nonsense was getting to him. He was tired, that was all.

  A final crash of brambles, and Marsh reached the lakeside, the cool waters of Lynn Bannow reflecting the angry colours of the evening sky. To his right, the remains of the old brick boathouse cast a long, oppressive shadow. To his left, on the narrow outcrop of rock, gazing forlornly out across the water...

  "Oi, Stanton!" The lad looked up at once, a hunted look in his eyes. "Don't you even think about running!"

  Stanton tensed, giving the impression of a wild animal about to burst into flight, but he didn't move. He just stood by the lakeside, tears streaming down his face. "It were an accident. That's all, an accident."

  Marsh slowed down, and held up his hands in what he hoped was a calming manner. Had he called it? Had Taplow's death just been a stupid joke gone wrong?

  "It's okay, Jimmy. I'm not going to hurt you. Tell me what happened. You'll feel better."

  Stanton stared at him for a moment, pathetic hope gleaming in his eyes. "We were just being friendly, wanted to talk, but she'd have none of it. Went running off past the boathouse."

  Annie. He was talking about Annie Brecken. "Who's we, Jimmy? Was Danny with you?"

  Stanton gave a vigorous nod of the head. "When she fell in the lake, he reached in, tried to pull her out, but the weeds 'ad her." The words tumbled out in fits and starts, tumbling over his lips like they had a life of their own. "The more she thrashed, the quicker she went under. I wanted to dive in, get her that way, but Danny stopped me, said I'd be a goner. An' then it were too late."

  Marsh watched him, speechless. The narrative of Annie Brecken's death, the one he'd clung to since he'd found her earring in Taplow's car, crumbled away. "Why didn't you tell us before?"

  "Danny said you'd never believe it. Better to keep quiet, that's what he told me. So that's what I did."

  Marsh felt sick. It was an open question just how 'friendly' the two lads had been. However, if Stanton was telling the truth – and Marsh had the horrible feeling he was – then Taplow's only crime had been lying about what had happened. Marsh told himself that lie, and those it had spawned, had put Taplow in the frame, but it wasn't that simple, was it?

  "And what about that earring?"

  "Danny found it the next mornin', snagged in his jacket sleeve. He reckoned it caught there when he tried to pull her out."

  "Shit!" Marsh rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Shit. Shit. Shit!" He took a deep breath, and strove to calm himself. "Why're you telling me this now, Jimmy? Did you kill Danny?"

  Stanton's eyes went wide. "No! He was my best mate."

  "Then why? Why did you run away? You've got to know how it makes you look."

  Stanton looked down at his feet. "She'll kill me, like she did Danny."

  A chill shivered along Marsh's spine. "Who, Jimmy?" he demanded. "Who killed him?"

  Stanton told him.

  Marsh took a deep breath and stared out at the setting sun. "I'm going to make this right. I don't know how, but I swear I will. Do you believe me?"

  After a brief hesitation, Stanton nodded.

  With a trembling hand, Marsh retrieved his radio. "This is DC Marsh. I've found Stanton. He's by the boathouse. Tavistock, I need you and Haley to take him off my hands, over."

  Tavistock's voice crackled back. "Acknowledged."

  Marsh nodded, and thumbed the channel open again. "DI Penhallow from DC Marsh, over."

  "Penhallow. You found our runner?"

  "I have." Marsh paused, still not wanting to believe what Stanton had told him. "But there's another thing. Can you meet me where they found Taplow?"

  *******

  Marsh trudged wearily up the hill and into the growing dark. To his tired mind, it felt like every thorn and bramble reached out to greet him, ripping at his shoes and trousers.

  He wanted nothing more than to slink back home, throw himself into his bed's welcoming embrace. Well, almost. There was one thing he wanted more – and yet he didn't want it at all. If he knew, then he knew. Until that moment, he could pretend what Stanton had told him wasn't true.

  The vine-wreathed oak was majestic in the moonlight, a regal remnant from another time, one when Penhallow's spriggans and piksies roamed freely across the moor, rather than lurking away in folktales and hidden dells.

  Penhallow stood just beyond the line of tape, her back to the path. She turned when Marsh approached. "What's going on, city boy?"

  Marsh hesitated, but there was no point beating about the bush. "I'm not going to ask why you did it, guv. I already know that. I just want to know how you could."

  Penhallow laughed. "Jesus, Tom, you're more tired than I thought. Go home, get some rest."

  "Jimmy Stanton saw you. He saw you." Marsh stepped closer, his weariness burnt away by rising anger. "Taplow came out for some fresh air, pissed out of his skull, and passed out a bit further up the hill. You dragged him down here – after all, he was a scrawny bastard, can't have weighed much – and you strung him up."

  "Is that what Stanton said?" Penhallow shook her head. "And you believed him?"

  "Yes, I do."

  She regarded him unblinkingly for a long moment.

  "Poor city boy. You don't understand."

  "I understand just fine," he snapped. "You're a murderer."

  "I brought Annie Brecken some justice."

  Marsh laughed bitterly. "Justice? Is that what you think? That's what's behind your stories about Weeping Marya? Are you really so far gone you think they'll make any difference."

  Penhallow stared at him, eyes blazing. "Oh, Marya's real. That's why I set Taplow loose on the moor. We'd failed, and I wanted her to do what we couldn't. Like she
did with Ian Trevellick. Like she did with my uncle, and a dozen others. I couldn't sleep last night, so I came up here. You know what I found?"

  "That Marya had let Taplow live? Of course she bloody did. She's not real!"

  "Stop saying that!" she shouted. "You don't understand!"

  "What? What don't I understand?"

  Penhallow's voice took on a soft, fervent tone. "She wanted me to prove my dedication."

  Marsh stared at her in horrified disbelief. He'd wanted to confront Penhallow alone, figuring he owed her that much. But this? Was Taplow even the first? Was Weeping Marya anything more than an excuse, a name Penhallow hid behind? He'd come to the oak assuming Annie Brecken's death had tipped the inspector over the edge, but now... "Tell me about your uncle."

  Penhallow shook her head. "God, but he was a wicked man. Used to beat my aunt half to death when I was Annie's age. One night he got a bottle of scotch in him, beat the other half out of her."

  Annie's age. Fifteen years old. Just like Marya. It made a certain twisted sense. "And 'Marya' killed him?"

  Penhallow nodded, apparently oblivious to the emphasis he'd placed on the name. "Hung him from the bridge at Tarr Cross. Served the old bastard right. I saw her. Hair like river weed, and skin pale as snow. She was beautiful." She threw a lop-sided smile at Marsh. "I know what you think, city boy. I'm not mad. She's real. As real as you or me."

  "Sane people don't kill."

  "Danny Taplow deserved everything he got."

  Marsh sighed. "That's the worst thing. You're wrong about that too."

  Penhallow jabbed an accusing finger. "He killed Annie Brecken."

  Marsh shook his head. "No. She slipped on the rocks, and the weeds pulled her under." He looked up, forcing himself to meet the inspector's gaze. "Taplow tried to save her. If he'd succeeded, you'd be calling him a hero."

  Penhallow's face went rigid. "You're lying."

  "It was a stupid accident, nothing more."

  Penhallow's eyes widened, and the colour drained from her face. All at once, she looked lost and afraid, as if the weight of her crimes had at last come crashing down. "You need to get out of here, Tom. Now."

  "Rose Penhallow, I'm arresting you for the murder of Danny Taplow. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." Marsh took another step forward. "Come on, guv. You know how this works. Don't make it harder than it has to be."

  "You don't get it. You don't get it." Penhallow glanced feverishly around. "He was innocent. She's coming for me."

  "Leave it out, guv. It's done. Don't..."

  Then he heard it. The sound drifted through the trees, a thin melody of heart-wrenching sobs, broken by stuttering, choked gasps. It came from everywhere and nowhere, growing louder with every passing moment. It was the sound of lost innocence, of heartache so terrible it defied words. It was beautiful, and yet bleaker than the coldest winter. The vines on the oak tree stirred at the sound, the fronds swaying like snakes lured by a charmer's song.

  In that moment, Marsh believed everything Penhallow had told him about Weeping Marya. His blood ran cold as ice. The small, animal part of his brain begged him to turn his heels and flee.

  Marsh grabbed Penhallow's arm. "We've got to get out of here."

  "It's too late. There's nowhere I can go she won't find me."

  Penhallow twisted free and shoved Marsh away. He staggered, flailed, and fell to one knee. Straightening up, he found himself staring at Weeping Marya.

  She wore a white dress, thick with algae and smeared with green stains. Sunken eyes, rimmed with thick, dark tears, stared out from a face as pale as the moon. Her features were framed by sodden black hair, and thick fronds of riverweed that slowly twisted and curled about her thin shoulders. A shadow prowled at Marya's shoulder, tall as her, but gathered on all fours, and coiled to ready to spring. Marsh had a brief impression of slitted yellow eyes, the smell of waterlogged fur. Then the shadow roared, and pounced.

  The last thing Marsh heard was his own scream.

  *******

  Marsh awoke shivering in the soft glow of the dawn, his back resting against the rough skin of the oak. He took in the tree towering above him, the sound of the thrushes warbling in the upper branches. Where the hell was he? Why was he cold? Every stitch of his clothing was soaked through, as if he'd plunged into a river.

  He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Stifling a yelp, he twisted to see DCI Nance staring at him with a mixture of confusion and worry.

  "Tom?"

  Memory flooded back. Penhallow. Marya. Scrambling to his feet, Marsh looked up into the branches once more. Hanging from a branch some thirty feet clear of the ground, ivy swathed tight around her limbs and throat, were the mortal remains of Detective Inspector Rose Penhallow.

  Marsh closed his eyes, and tried to will the sight away. It didn't work.

  "Tom?" Nance's voice grew harder, angrier. "What the hell happened up here?"

  Reluctantly, Marsh opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, and launched into a story he knew no one would believe.

  The Sigh of the Sea

  Trekerris, Cornwall

  The car crunched to a halt on the gravel, the purr of its engine dying at the turn of the key. Kerren peered through her windscreen at the blackened timbers and lime-washed walls of the Highwayman's Rest. The wooden sign still bore the familiar sun-bleached image of a tricorne-hatted man slumped before a roaring fire. He held a foaming tankard, and his muddy boots rested on a bewigged worthy kneeling on hands and knees.

  Kerren slumped in her seat. She was always surprised how exhausting a long drive could be, especially in Cornwall. The high banks and looming hedgerows made the sunken roads seem more like tunnels, each winding mile carrying her even deeper into a different, time-lost world. Six long hours with only the radio for company, and now all she wanted to do was turn around and go back to her London flat. She was gripped by the ironclad certainty that if she opened the car door – if she as much as set a foot in Trekerris – she'd never leave.

  She shook her head, cheeks warming with embarrassment. "You're being stupid." But stupid or otherwise, Kerren still couldn't bring herself to open the door. "Go on. Start the engine. You'll be back in your bed by midnight. No one need ever know."

  But what if she wasn't overreacting? What if something had happened to her dad?

  Taking a deep breath, Kerren yanked the door release.

  The sea was two miles to the north, up away behind the Highwayman's Rest and the gorse-tangled slopes of Cardon Tor. Its breeze lingered inland all the same. The crisp, salty air blew away the cobwebs from her long drive; the soft, sweet scent of the gorse awakening memories of long walks between Trekerris and Arthur's Torch. She couldn't see the lighthouse from there, of course, and was glad of it. She wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

  Kerren grimaced at her reflection in the wing mirror. Her hair was a tangled mess. Rummaging in the pockets of her jeans for a hair band, she drew the unruly black waves into a loose ponytail. Better. A bit better, anyway. With a last fleeting glance at her car and the freedom it offered, she ducked inside the Highwayman's thatched porch.

  The pub's interior was just as unchanged as its exterior: the battered bar counter, its true colour lost under chipped layers of black paint; the crossed swords set above the uneven fireplace; the notice board full of darts team fixtures, parish announcements and newspaper clippings. One clipping in particular caught Kerren's eye. Locals Fight Lighthouse Closure. She'd seen that headline – or rather, its variants – many times. Seemed the government were always wanting to douse the Torch. Maybe they'd have more luck on this occasion. Probably not. Arthur’s Torch was a relic that hadn’t seen modernisation since the 1960s, but the villagers loved it.

  Name plates from Trekerris' dwindled fishing fleet adorned the uneven walls. Kerren knew them all: Smuggler's Grin, Moontide, Bal Maiden's Fancy, Rot
hercage, Spriggan. The list went on. Tourists loved the folksy names, missed the darker truth. Each name plate belonged to a boat no longer at sea; each marked the death of a livelihood. And then, in the far corner, the worn limestone statue of a knight entangled in gorse. The landlord called him Arthur, after the lighthouse.

  "Kerren Morgan, as I live and breathe!"

  Kerren turned at the familiar voice. There were perhaps a few more strands of white amidst the man's steel grey hair, and maybe his face had a few more furrows to mark the passing years, but his smile was that of a young man, as was his laugh. Had Kerren not known better, she'd have said he was barely into his fifties. In truth, Tomas Cavell was nearer his seventieth year than his sixtieth. Still beaming, he embraced her.

  Kerren braved the short, vicious stubble to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Hello, Uncle Tomas." He wasn't her blood uncle, of course, but blood didn't always make family.

  Tomas released her, and stepped back. "I thought you'd gone for good. What brings you back to our crappy little backwater?"

  Kerren winced. That was the phrase she'd used on the day she'd left for university. Her dad hadn't wanted her to go. The Morgans had always been lighthouse keepers in Trekerris, but she'd had dreams of her own, dreams that'd never be realised in a rain-lashed fishing village, miles from anywhere.

  University had been an excuse as much as one of those dreams – the culmination of three years of escalating rows, and a reason to escape the tedium and the same old faces. In all the years since, her dad had never repeated the phrase. Not to her, anyway. But she found it all too easy to imagine him propping up the Highwayman's timeworn bar, telling all who'd listen how his daughter had been seduced away to the bright lights of London. It was a common enough lament in Trekerris; it had been for decades. The old ways were dying. The three lonely fishing boats in a harbour once crammed with them proved as much. Once, Trekerris's sons and daughters had inherited their family's trades. Now they left the village as soon as they dared.