Beast of Robbers Wood

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Shudmell is the name of an Old God?”

  Zoriah gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward. As he moved into the candlelight, shadows upon his face retreated to his wrinkles, making him look like an ancient idol, a true stone man.

  “Shudmell.” His lips parted, uttering a death rattle of a chuckle. “It’s the name of the Beast, ain’t it?”

  “The Beast has never been linked to a name,” Ravyn said. “If it was known by that, it should have been preserved somehow. How is it that all but you have forgotten the name of the Beast?”

  “Some remember, but they keep quiet, don’t they?”

  “Your son?”

  “Prat!”

  “Who in Midriven knows the ancient name?”

  Zoriah’s lips curved into a mocking smile. He leaned back into darkness. As shadows again engulfed his features, his eyes glistened with blue fire. He maintained a defiant silence.

  “Two girls were taken by a servant of the Beast,” Ravyn said.

  “Not three?” Zoriah asked, taunting.

  “Two,” Ravyn insisted. “You know as well as I do that Annie Treadwell’s death had nothing to do with the Beast. Her father tried to make it look like the Beast’s work.”

  Zoriah grunted. “Worthless boy. More worthless man. And now a murderer and blasphemer. Too bad, no more toppings to be had in England these days.”

  “You’d like to see James Treadwell hanged?”

  “The noose is a fine way to die, dancing in the air, but it don’t always work so good,” Zoriah said. “Maybe better, Jack Ketch with a axe. The Old Gods like blood, they do.”

  “The first girl, Lisa Martin,” Ravyn said.

  “Hair like spun gold,” Zoriah murmured.

  “She was abducted for some ritual to do with the Beast, was she not?” Ravyn asked. “That was why she was taken on Flintlock.”

  Zoriah crossed his arms but said nothing.

  “When she escaped, another had to be found,” Ravyn continued. “But Elizabeth Jenks was taken from a village street, not from near the forest’s edge.”

  Zoriah waited.

  “You expected that, didn’t you?”

  “Did I?”

  “You said, ‘The Beast has awakened from a sleep of centuries. Now that the stars are right it will prowl the streets of Midriven, searching for virgins to drag back to its lair’.”

  The old man grinned, exposing teeth like moonlit gravestones. “What a clever, clever boy you are.”

  “Were you prophesying or giving instructions?”

  “Me?” Zoriah chuckled. “No one listens to me. Not my prat of a son, not anyone. I’m just an old man. No one listens to what an old geezer like me says about anything, do they? They all want their tellies, their machines and gadgets. They got no time for the past, no time for tradition, and no time for me.”

  “But someone in Midriven listens to you, believes in the Old Gods like you do.” Ravyn leaned forward. “Who is it?”

  Zoriah held silent.

  “When Mr Hardwick was attacked…”

  “Worthless sod,” Zoriah muttered. “We grew up together, him and I. Wanted to know secrets, he did. Said he wanted to touch the darkness, wanted me to tell him elder lore.”

  “Did you?”

  “He thought he wanted to know, but when the darkness came he hid from it, he did,” Zoriah said. “He could have seen the Old Gods, but he ran.” Zoriah’s lips curved into a smile. “Wasn’t him what the darkness wanted anyway…it was her.”

  “His sister?”

  Zoriah laughed. “Lucy ran off with a randy bloke, she did. It’s what people say, what everyone wants to believe, It must be true.”

  “What about Dolores Cooper?”

  Zoriah jerked back. “Who?”

  “You heard me.”

  Zoriah shook his head and made a low moaning sound. “Not a name I’ve heard in a long time. She? Well, she ran off too, didn’t she? Girls run off all the time. No one looks for them. No one wants to find them, not really. No one goes looking.”

  “Friends and family do, don’t they?”

  “Better thought lost than known dead,” Zoriah said.

  “Karen Ramsey looked.”

  “Oh, a right dragon that one was, even as a lass, always yelling of this or that, always making trouble.” Zoriah fixed Ravyn with a pale blue stare. “That harpy sent you amongst us, didn’t she? Yes, I can see it in your eyes.” He leaned closer. “I can see to eternity in your eyes…you’ve been touched by the Old Gods.”

  Ravyn shifted his gaze to the lines upon the walls. Now that his vision had become accustomed to the gloom he could follow their form, see the shapes they traced. He drew in a sharp breath. He had seen such symbols in the oldest books locked away in the vaults of the British Library and the Library of London, esoteric tomes that purported to reveal ancient magic and sorcery.

  Zoriah uttered a mocking laugh. “You know the glyphs, I see.”

  “What were you doing when Hardwick was attacked?”

  The old man gave him a sly glance. “Wasn’t doing nothing, was I? That prat don’t let me do anything anymore, does he? Stay hidden, old man. Be quiet, old man. Don’t speak the truths that no one wants to hear, old man. Wendell’s a prat! Too much of his mum in him. Got no head for the family business, but he tries anyway.”

  “What were you doing?” Ravyn repeated.

  “I was out front watching the fun,” Zoriah said. “You saw me there, didn’t you? Took away all the fun, you did.”

  “I also saw you coming from about the back of the shop.”

  Zoriah froze. “No.”

  “I did,” Ravyn said. “Where were you coming from? What had you been doing?”

  “I don’t remember,” Zoriah said. “Old men forget things. That is how we are. No one expects anything else from an old man.”

  “Were you walking around the village any?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you see Elizabeth Jenks?”

  “A strapper mare, she is, poor orphan tyke what come to stay with Potty Dottie,” the old man said. “Don’t believe in nothing that is real, does our Dottie.”

  “Did you see Elizabeth Jenks?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Ravyn suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Old Zoriah knew who in Midriven had evolved from believer to acolyte. Perhaps he had begun as did all in Midriven, head filled with stories about the Beast upon their doorstep. Belief in the stories segued into worship, worship into zeal. Ravyn was willing to bet Zoriah had set the acolyte into motion, led him deeper into darkness.

  That knowledge, Ravyn knew, was locked in Zoriah’s head. There was no way he could force the old man to betray the Beast. Ravyn always found a way to the truth when a witness or suspect lied, but he was helpless before a simple ‘I don’t remember’.”

  Zoriah uttered a mocking toneless chuckle. “Don’t worry none, Mr Ravyn. It don’t really matter, do it?”

  “Why do you say that, Zoriah?”

  “All things die, except the Old Gods,” Zoriah said. “Stars and worlds and all things built by man. You can’t stop death, no more than you can save that girl.”

  “I don’t believe in hopelessness.”

  Zoriah shook his head. “What hope you got against the will of the Old Gods? They once walked here and will again trod hill and forest. Down will come towers of iron and stone. When the stars are aligned, streets will be rivers of blood. The world of man is but a candle lit against the Outer Darkness.”

  “While a candle burns, there is light,” Ravyn said. “While there is light, there is hope.”

  “You see the light and believe the light is all there is and that it will endure forever, but it’s nought but a flicker in the eternity of night. And when it’s gone…” He leaned forward and extinguished the candle with a soft puff. “The night that was always there surges back, stronger than ever. Hope dies.”

  The light was gone, but Ravyn held on to his memory of
the light, studying the markings upon the walls and the face of the old man frozen in his mind’s eye. After awhile, however, he let the memories flee. Neither the symbols nor the old man held any answers to the whereabouts of Elizabeth Jenks.

  He stood, turned and walked unerringly through the darkness to the door. A pale, flickering shaft of light penetrated the gloom and transfixed the old man, who had not shifted a muscle since Ravyn had last seen him. Ravyn pondered a moment what words to leave with the ancient pagan, but ultimately left none.

  When Ravyn pushed his way through the faded green curtains, he saw Wendell Stoneman entering the shop, broom in hand. His face was red, his hair tousled by the rising wind.

  “No help, was he?” Stoneman shook his head. “Tried to tell you he don’t know nothing. Just a crazy old man who I ought to put in a home. Going to get dangerous one day.”

  “He ever tell you much about the Old Gods?”

  Stoneman laughed. “Not ‘less he wanted a row with Mum. She was no churchgoer, but she knew rubbish when she heard it.”

  “Must have made for a tumultuous upbringing.”

  “Things didn’t get any easier when she was gone.”

  “You father have any special friends in Midriven?”

  Stoneman laughed again. “Old man’s got no friends, special or otherwise. Sometimes people wind him up for a lark. You saw it at the pub. Nowadays, it don’t take much to get him going.”

  Ravyn sighed. “If you think of anyone, please let me know.”

  Stoneman nodded and accompanied the chief inspector to the door. Ravyn frowned when he saw the waning light. They would have to give up the search soon. He made his way along the dusty walk to the street.

  “Good luck, Chief Inspector.”

  Ravyn, not looking back, jogged towards Flintlock Lane.

  * * *

  “The old geezer’s got to be at home, sir,” Stark said. “I saw him go in, and he hasn’t been out since.”

  “Sure about that?” Ravyn knocked on the cottage door, harder this time. “Could he have left without you seeing him?”

  “I suppose he could have, but why would he?” Stark demanded, as if Ravyn’s question were a personal attack. “He doesn’t dare.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he does, given the circumstances.” Ravyn pounded on the door, rattling the little diamond glass panes in their frames. He stepped back onto the walk. “Though the villagers believe in their hearts the Beast is behind the disappearances, it is easier to strike out at a man.”

  Stark grabbled the handle and shook, but it did no more good than it did the first two times he tried. It was latched from within. He joined Ravyn on the walk, looking up the front of the cottage.

  “I think I can climb the trellis to that window” Stark pointed. “It looks cracked a bit. I might be able to push it the rest of the way open and get in that way.”

  “I doubt Mrs Stark would forgive me if I let you break your neck.” Hands on hips, Ravyn leaned back, looking from side to side. “Go around back. See if the garden door is open.”

  Stark thought it a daft idea. It was his experience that people who left doors unlocked ended up burgled or murdered. In the City, only a complete fool ever left any door unlocked, unlatched or unchained at any time. But this was, he reminded himself, the countryside, and what was daft in the rest of the world was business as usual here.

  Ravyn returned to the porch. Moments later, Stark opened the door. His face was grey and grim.

  “He’s in the kitchen, sir.”

  Leonard Makepeace Hardwick was sprawled on the kitchen’s flagstone floor. His wide eyes stared sightlessly at the dark-beamed ceiling. A carving knife protruded from the centre of his chest.

  “Sir.” Stark pointed to a cutlery block with an empty slot. “No planning. Came without a weapon. Used what was at hand.”

  “A murder forced by desperation or committed in a moment of anger. Either way, motivated by passion, not calculation.” Ravyn noted the way Stark stared at the body. “What is it, Stark?”

  “I should have listened to him.” Stark reached into the pocket of his old coat, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on. “He was trying to tell me something and I didn’t want to hear it. Seemed like so much drivel at the time. If I had listened…”

  Ravyn knew by Stark’s silence that he was seeking absolution, but it was not his to give. He reached for his mobile.

  Chapter 13

  Beasts of Robbers Wood

  “A single blow, driven with great force though the heart,” Dr Lena Penworthy said, standing from the body. “Death was instantaneous. Unless the murderer was extremely tall, it was an overhand thrust by an attacker about the victim’s height, perhaps a little shorter.”

  “And the time of death?” Ravyn asked.

  Penworthy looked at the form on which she had noted the liver temperature. “Ninety minutes ago, plus or minus ten.”

  Ravyn glanced at his watch.

  Stark sighed. “Not long after I talked to you, sir.”

  Penworthy had already heard Stark’s confession, twice. “There is nothing to be gained by continuing to beat yourself over the head, Sergeant. Had you done anything different, the results might be the same. There is no way of knowing.”

  “Concentrate on what’s happened, not what might have been.” Ravyn thought of Stark’s need for absolution. “As the doctor said, it may have been Hardwick’s fate, no matter what.”

  Penworthy gritted her teeth at Ravyn’s hint of predestination. It was not exactly what she had said to the distraught sergeant. Another place, she thought, another time for words.

  “Yes, sir.” Stark drew in a great breath and let it out. “No Beast in this one, and no shortage of suspects.”

  “You’re thinking of the mob?”

  Stark nodded. “One of them gets to thinking about how maybe Hardwick really is behind these abductions. It festers till suddenly he’s out the door and flying to Hardwick’s.”

  “So in a hurry he forgets to bring a weapon?” Ravyn noted. “A very unprepared murderer.”

  “Maybe he didn’t start out with murder in his heart,” Stark said. “Maybe he just wanted to confront Hardwick. Argument gets out of hand, he grabs the butcher knife from the block, and there you go. Realises he’s in trouble and scarpers out the way he came in.”

  “It could have happened that way, but for two things.”

  “Yes, sir?” Stark liked his own reconstruction because it was simple, straightforward and did not rely on any psychoanalysts with Austrian or Swiss surnames. “What are they?”

  “Anyone surrendering personal responsibility to the anonymity of a mob is not likely to pursue the mob’s action as an individual.” Seeing Stark’s confusion, he added: “Without a mob to back him up, he is a coward.”

  Stark had seen the same mentality at football matches, so he nodded. Enraged and working together, fans were as dangerous as a pride of lions and as mindless as a swarm of wasps. Separate them from each other and they became mice.

  “Okay. So, what’s the second reason?”

  “Hardwick had vital information for us,” Ravyn said. “By your theory, his murder is a random act, the result of arbitrary forces. It could have happened at any time. But, he was murdered at a precise moment, when compelled by conscience or circumstance to speak of the Beast’s acolyte. The timing is more than a coincidence. It is a meaningful coincidence—synchronicity. As you know, Jung…”

  Stark held up both hands, palms outward. “Yes, sir, I know that coincidences are hardly ever what they seem. Even so, if there is an acolyte, it could be anyone in this godforsaken village.” He made a sound of disgust. “I shall be so glad when I can shake Midriven’s dust off my shoes.”

  “Dust?”

  “It’s an old saying, sir.” Stark frowned. Why should he have to explain the Bible verse to Ravyn? The guv’nor had used it himself at times. “I just meant…”

  “The walk leading from Stoneman’s shop was du
sty,” Ravyn said. “I remember seeing my footprints.”

  Stark glanced at Penworthy, who, for once, seemed as confused as he was, rarely a good sign.

  “When I left Zoriah, I saw Wendell enter the shop carrying a broom,” Ravyn said. “I assumed he was outside sweeping, but the walkway was dusty when I left.” Ravyn let his eyelids half-close. “His face is red, his breathing heavy. Exertion, but not from chores. I was with Zoriah nineteen minutes.”

  “I suppose even a sod like Wendell could have run here and back in that time,” Stark said. “But would he have known Hardwick was going to talk to us?”

  “I was actually in the shop when you called.”

  “Then he would have heard.”

  “Only one side, but I repeated the phrase ‘bride of the Beast’,” Ravyn said. “Whether Hardwick knew the identity of the acolyte or merely that such a person existed, Wendell could not let him talk.”

  Stark shook his head. “I can see him as the murderer—anyone can kill given the right circumstances—but not as your acolyte.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He seems so dull, so ordinary.” Stark thought back to Ravyn’s recitation of the interview with Zoriah Stoneman. “His own father said he was a prat, that he hadn’t brains enough to run the store like it should be.”

  “No head for the family business,” Ravyn said.

  “Same thing, isn’t it?”

  “Contact PC Lessing,” Ravyn said. “Even if he has released the others to search elsewhere, he and another constable should still be in Midriven. Tell them to go to Stoneman’s and take Wendell and Zoriah into custody. Tell him to caution them.”

  Stark pulled out his mobile.

  “Have them search the entire shop,” Ravyn said. “If doors are locked and the Stonemans refuse to cooperate, break them down.”

  Stark paused in punching Lessing’s number.

  “I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Stark made the call. He hoped the guv’nor knew what he was doing. It was one thing to base a search on a written release from one of the homeowners, but quite another to knock down doors. If Ravyn was wrong, there would be blowback, and Stark knew of at least one who always kept a long knife handy, just in case.