The trees came to within a few yards of the burning Wicker Man. Someone could just have set the fire then retreated fast. And the dense forest gave perfect cover.
The fire had started fast, with a whoomph of hot air. Jack had seen enough arson to know that natural fires didn’t ignite that way.
He turned back to the Wicker Man and scanned the grass around it. There was no sign of matches or gas cans. He couldn’t smell petrol — in fact he couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. But he also knew there were accelerants around that left no odour.
He grabbed a stick that had fallen from the fire, and poked around at the still-burning Wicker Man’s base, a pool of black discolouration in the grass …
Then, the top half of the Wicker Man suddenly collapsed inwards, sending out a blast of sparks and heat and smoke. Jack retreated quickly until he was level with Charlie.
“It’s the damn Curse,” Charlie said, almost to himself.
“Why do you think that, Charlie?” said Jack.
Charlie turned now, his face bitter. Jack could hear the dark anger in his words.
“Why’ve you lot come up here?” said the farmer. “You and the girl. What are you after? Want my farm do you? Trying to frighten me off?”
“No, Charlie,” said Sarah, who Jack now felt at his side. “Like we said, we want to help you.”
“Right,” said Jack. “We want to find out who’s doing this to you. Maybe we can stop them.”
“Caitlin says it’s the Devil,” said Charlie. “You two think you can stop the Devil?”
“I don’t believe in the Devil,” said Jack.
Nature made fires. People set fires. Or accidents happen.
In Jack’s universe, there was no need for any Devil.
Charlie stared at Jack then shook his head. He held out his hand for the shotgun.
“That’s my gun,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t use it on you. Yet.”
Jack handed the gun over, but not the shells.
“Now like I said before — get off my land.”
“Come on, Jack,” said Sarah, nodding to him to leave.
“Think about accepting our help, Charlie,” said Jack.
“No need to!” said Charlie. “I’ve got your face now — I don’t want to see you again anywhere on my property.” He gave his unloaded shotgun a shake. “You know I mean that.”
Jack looked at Sarah, who shrugged.
Right, Jack thought. They weren’t going to get anywhere here.
Together they turned and left the clearing.
They walked in silence through the dark woods. Jack felt as if he truly was in a foreign land here, the trees packed so close together and the whole place so quiet.
What had happened to the wildlife?
When they emerged into the meadow, he was glad to see that there was still light in the sky. But even in the pale rays of the setting sun, it felt to Jack as if Mabb’s Hill and the stone circle did indeed cast a spell across the land.
“Wouldn’t want to spend too much time in there alone,” he said, as they headed down the muddy track to the car. “Kind of a strange place.”
“Spooky,” said Sarah. “I thought it was just me. And with that fire. I mean, what do you…?”
“Didn’t smell anything. No devil I’m guessing. But what caused it? Beats me.” He took a breath. “For now.”
When they reached the broken fence at the bottom of the hill, Jack paused and turned to look back. A whisper of black smoke could still be seen, spiralling up behind the trees.
“And that is one helluva mixed up guy, really scared,” he said.
“Not someone you want walking round with a shotgun,” said Sarah.
“I’m not surprised his wife is getting edgy,” said Jack.
“Maybe we should try and talk to her.”
“Not with Charlie around, that’s for sure,” said Jack.
“I’ll ask around — find out when she comes into the village,” said Sarah. “We ought to get some background on the farm too.”
“Great idea. How about your pal Tony?” said Jack. “You think he’ll give us anything off the record?”
“If I ask him nicely,” said Sarah. “Plus — there’s the heavenly Tamara.”
“Tell me more …”
“She’s the lady who knows all about the Curse — remember?”
“Oh yeah. The one with the hippy shop …”
“Fancy having your chakras checked?” said Sarah.
“She’ll have to find them first,” said Jack. “Don’t use my chakras much these days.”
The both laughed at that as they reached Jack’s car, and Sarah waited while he unlocked it.
“So — how do you think the fire might have started?” Sarah asked as Jack started the engine and turned the car round.
“With a match, I’d guess,” said Jack.
“Brilliant. Wotta detective,” Sarah said putting on what to her must have sounded like a real New Yawker accent.
“And,” Jack said, “we’re going to find out who lit it.”
He nodded briefly back towards the hill.
“When that fire’s died down I think I might head back up there. Sniff around a bit. Threat from Charlie or not …”
And find out what’s really going on here, thought Jack.
7. A Family Affair
“You went to Mabb’s Circle?” said Grace, handing Sarah a coffee. “Really? You wouldn’t get me up there now, not if you paid me.”
Sarah leaned back in her office chair. She was surprised — her assistant Grace was tough as nails and the last person she could imagine would believe in curses or the supernatural.
“I’ve got to admit,” said Sarah, “the whole place did have a bit of a vibe. Especially the woods.”
“I bet it did,” said Grace. “Though in the old days I don’t think we were that bothered.”
“By old days,” said Sarah, smiling, “I guess you mean when you were at school?”
Grace laughed.
“Long time ago to me,” she said. “Anyway, there was a crowd of us used to go up to the stones, chill, play music … You know …”
“I can guess,” said Sarah. “In my day, we used to go down to Ingleston church. Sit on graves. Not quite sure why. Maybe something about not being afraid of the Grim Reaper?”
“Whatever gets you out the house,” Grace said, laughing.
“So did the farmer never kick you off?” said Sarah.
“Nah. In those days? That was old Harry. Wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose.”
“Harry?”
“Harry Fox,” said Grace. “Charlie Fox’s dad. He let the whole top of the hill grow wild, didn’t seem to care who used the fields as a short cut.”
“What happened to him?”
“Died, I suppose. Shame. He was a nice old bloke.”
“So when did Charlie take over the farm?”
“Hmm — I’m not sure,” said Grace. “To be honest, I thought his brother had taken it over.”
Sarah put her coffee down. This was getting interesting.
“Brother?” she said. “I didn’t even know he had a brother.”
Grace shrugged.
“Maybe I’m wrong.”
“Interesting though. Tell you what, Grace — if you get that quote for the council job done this afternoon maybe see what you can dig out on all the history of Mabb’s Farm for me?”
“Sure,” said Grace. “I’ll fire off a few texts, see who knows what. You guys turning into real Ghostbusters, now then?”
“No such thing as ghosts, Grace.”
Grace loomed over Sarah’s monitor.
“No such thing as ghosts — but there’s no escaping the Curse of Mabb’s Farm, roowahhh!”
Sarah handed Grace her empty mug.
“Now put that in the dishwasher and get back to work, slave,” she said grinning.
Grace laughed. “You bet boss — but only because I’m taking my own there as well.”
And Sarah thought — time to do a little digging myself…
Tony Standish finished pouring Sarah’s tea and put the pot back on the silver tray on his old mahogany desk.
She sat back in the leather armchair and thought how much she loved his office.
It was like time travelling, with its red Persian carpet, dark furniture and tall sash windows looking out onto Cherringham’s main square; the room probably hadn’t changed since the thirties.
Apart from the slick silver laptop on Tony’s desk of course.
Sarah took the pretty little porcelain cup and sipped at her tea.
“The Foxes have never been clients of mine,” said Tony, stirring sugar into his own cup. “But of course — one gets to know what’s what in a village like this.”
“Solicitor’s privilege,” said Sarah. “I hope you don’t feel you’re betraying any confidences talking to me?”
“Not at all. As far as I know I’m a completely disinterested party.”
“So what’s the history?” she said. “By which I mean the family stuff, not the Cavaliers and Roundheads and witches.”
Tony came round the desk and sat in the matching armchair by the fireplace.
“Well, it’s a tangled web,” he said. “The Fox family have farmed that land for a couple of hundred years. Few hundred acres. They own the land — they’re not tenants. It’s not a big farm by modern standards. Has some steep hills of course, which makes life a little difficult. Mixed arable — in the old days I think they used to have pigs, sheep, chickens — whatever.”
“But profitable?”
“Well, perhaps marginally — not greatly so, I imagine. But they never sold up. So they must have made a go out of it somehow.”
“From the sound of it Harry Fox was getting on a bit — did you know him?”
“Harry? Gosh that’s going back a bit,” said Tony. “He was still around when I first arrived in Cherringham. Real old-time farmer. Sat on a tractor all week in his old suit — put on his best suit on a Sunday for church then the pub. He died, oh about five years ago.”
“Then his son took over?”
“That’s right,” said Tony. “Ray. Bright lad — went to agricultural college. Worked out how to maximise yield, profits, get EU grants and so on.”
“From what I hear that’s the way you have to be these days.”
“Spreadsheets not muck-spreading,” said Tony. “Times change, hmm? And according to some of my clients, he was damned good at it. Used to help them out, did Ray, pulled some of them into the twentieth century — if not the twenty-first!”
“So he was popular?”
“Very. Worked night and day to build the farm business. Moved into pedigree dairy — bought a herd of Jerseys. Premium product — small numbers. Very canny.”
“They’re the brown cows aren’t they? I saw some in the meadow there.”
The solicitor laughed. “Very good Sarah — maybe we’ll make a country girl of you after all?”
“In your dreams Tony,” said Sarah, smiling. “Cows come in two colours — black and white or brown. Unless you count ‘mottled’ as a colour. That’s all I need to know and all I want to know, thank you.”
“Well in truth that’s about the limit of my bovine knowledge too,” Tony smiled at her.
“So what happened to Ray?” said Sarah. “How come he’s not around?”
“Sad story,” said Tony. “He walked out one morning about a year ago. Locked the farm behind him — and never came back.”
“Hmm, I think I remember reading about it in the local paper. He just … disappeared, didn’t he?”
“That’s right,” said Tony. “Amazing, really. Word is, the pressure got too much for him. Sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. No social life. No wife, no kids.”
“So where is he now?”
“Nobody knows,” said Tony. “He talked a lot about selling up — emigrating to Australia. In the end, perhaps he just couldn’t wait. Left a brief note, got in his car — and off he went.”
“So how come Charlie is running the farm?”
“When it looked like Ray really wasn’t coming back — he stepped into the breach.”
“And moved in?”
“I don’t blame him. He was living in a flat on the estate. One bedroom, bit cramped — and I think he and his wife were planning a family.”
“Caitlin.”
“That her name?” said Tony. “Never met her.”
“So while Ray was running the place, they were doing well. And when Charlie took over, things fell apart a bit — is that right?”
“Ray had the training. I think Charlie drove a fork-lift down at the country store. You can ‘do the math’, as Jack would say.”
“Not quite the same as running a farm.”
“Quite,” said Tony. “Must have been quite a learning curve.”
“And was there no other family to help out?”
“Just Charlie. He was the older brother in fact.”
“What’s the legal position then?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Ray’s not dead, but Charlie’s moved in?”
“Ah — I see. Well as far as I know, the farm is still legally Ray’s. Charlie’s taken on the contracts, the stock, the responsibilities.”
There was a tap on the door and Tony’s receptionist put her head around.
“Your two p.m. is here.”
“Ah — is it that time already?” he said. “Five minutes.”
The door gently shut.
Sarah got up and put her cup back on the tray.
“That’s been very useful, Tony, thank you.”
“Just general knowledge, really,” he said. “Glad to be able to help.”
“One more thing,” she said. “You said Ray was popular. Am I right in thinking Charlie isn’t?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment on that, Sarah,” he said with a wink. “Even with being officially ‘disinterested’. But I’m sure there are plenty of people in the village who could.”
“Ever the diplomat …”
“Now hang on — you wouldn’t want me any other way,” he said, deadpan.
“Absolutely.”
At the door, Sarah turned.
“And Ray’s never been back? Never been in touch with his brother?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Tony shrugged.
“To be perfectly honest, Sarah,” he said. “Very little surprises me these days.”
“But?”
Sarah watched Tony. She knew he weighed his words carefully.
“I will say this. If you’d spent five tough years building a successful business — would you walk out on it just when you were beginning to reap the benefits?”
He held her gaze until she nodded.
“Give my love to Michael and Helen,” he said.
And she left, mulling over his final words.
8. A Woman’s Touch
Jack opened the door to Moonstones, the New Age shop, and felt immediately transported in time, back to the West Coast in the seventies and his very brief hippy days.
Actually, it was just that one summer if he was being completely honest.
Ah, youth …
But nothing had changed in all that time: same incense, same overpriced crystals and totems on the shelves — heck they’re even playing the same music.
Sitar is definitely an acquired taste.
There was nobody behind the counter. Either the owner never had trouble with shoplifters or the shoplifters knew not to risk bad karma by stealing the crystals.
The shop was small and low-ceilinged — much like all the others in this maze of alleyways at the heart of the village — but it was crammed with stock.
Jack slowly made the tour, noting the incense, crystals, geodes, mystical Mexican bags, Indian shawls, dream-catchers, drums, bells of all sizes, meditative CDs, books, jewellery wit
h special ‘properties’.
He picked up an alpaca hat and tried it on. One look in the mirror and he took it off again.
On a noticeboard by the door he saw a list of small ads: he quickly took in the range of alternative services being offered in this part of the Cotswolds and started to jot down the number of an organic dog-food supplier.
Just recently he’d been feeling guilty at some of the stuff he’d been giving his Springer Spaniel, Riley, to eat — and Riley certainly didn’t seem that enthusiastic about feeding time. Maybe a detox would do him good …
“Anything particular you were looking for?” came a voice from the back of the shop.
‘Sing-song’ would be the best way to describe it.
Jack would have expected nothing less, assuming this was the proprietor.
He turned. A woman had appeared behind the counter. In her forties, tall, and dressed in bright purple and orange loose silk clothing. She had quite startling blue eyes, highlighted by dark make-up.
“Hi,” said Jack, smiling. “Are you Tamara?”
“I am.”
“I’m Jack. We spoke on the phone this morning.”
“Ah, yes. Nice to meet you, Jack. Come through to the treatment rooms.”
She turned and headed into the back. Jack followed, not quite sure what he’d let himself in for.
The “treatment rooms” turned out to be a tiny room above the shop, with just enough space for a massage table and a small sofa. While Jack filled out a brief form, Tamara questioned him about his physical health and his ‘spiritual’ needs.
She ran through the treatments she offered: holistic aromatherapy, Reiki, Balancing, Soul Connection, Tarot …
Jack nodded at each one and tried to look as if he knew what she was talking about. She seemed perplexed when he told her that he already felt pretty centred, what with sitting on the deck of his boat, fishing …
“Not a bad path to inner peace, right?”
Tamara said nothing, obviously not agreeing that such a simple activity could solve one’s issues with the universe.
When she asked about spirits — and he made a joke about Martinis — he felt perhaps he’d gone too far. But luckily he realised that the cheap gag had just passed her by completely.
Cherringham--The Curse of Mabb's Farm Page 4
