by Syd Moore
I’d met people like Ms Christmas before, pinched sort of types who were tight with their emotions as well as their purse and disapproving of anyone who wasn’t the same as them. My Uncle Del had a sister, Joyce, just like it, another bony mare who apparently did very well for herself despite an absence of any finesse and charm. Auntie Babs always said she could fall into a cesspit and would come out smelling of roses – other people’s roses. Reckoned the survival instinct was very strong in old Joyce. When I met her once, at a wake after a family funeral, I saw she was ruthless enough to get what she wanted whatever the cost. She had no scruples about lying and thieving, just an absolute dedication and commitment to self-preservation and self-interest. She hadn’t known I was watching as she slipped a couple of bottles of wine into her bag.
Thinking about it, I could now see that Carole Christmas had little blackcurrant eyes just like Joyce’s. She also ringed them with loads and loads of brown eyeliner too.
I continued to hold Carole’s curranty gaze and smiled and said, ‘You were there, at The Griffin, Monday night, were you? Plenty of witnesses?’
The blackcurrants snapped onto me. The cat’s arse appeared again. ‘Witnesses? Yes I bleedin’ do! I ain’t got nothing to do with poor Graham and I don’t like what you’re implying.’
Sam cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry but we have to ask everyone.’
‘Haven’t asked me,’ said Nicholas helpfully, the git.
‘So what were your movements on Monday evening, Mr Blackman?’ I asked.
‘Same as everyone else. Sat down here then went to bed.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, that added a great deal to what we know, thank you.’
The door opened and in trooped Jocelyn, Imogen and Starla. Cullen and Laura followed, making up a full house.
Ever the mischief-maker, Nicholas decided to add in a louder voice, ‘Yes. I went to bed with Jocelyn Monday night.’
The young woman immediately sighed. ‘Nicholas, you might add that we departed at our doors. And slept separately.’
‘Worse luck,’ he said and shrugged.
Starla lifted her skirts and sat down at the table. Today’s outfit was tie-dyed from head to toe. She had a matching scarf wrapped round her head. ‘We all retired about the same time and nobody saw anything unusual. We talked about it last night.’ Her blue hair still looked unwashed and greasy.
I took this on board. ‘So is there no one who stayed up?’
Everyone shook their heads. They were being more cooperative today, at least.
Sam followed up. ‘And no one heard anything?’
‘I think I’m right in saying,’ said Tabby, the dangling hair grip swinging like an air-sock in a whirlwind, ‘we all slept like logs. Not like last night.’
Starla shuddered and tapped my lap. ‘The wailing, did they tell you? It was awful. We all heard it.’
Carole’s ears perked up. ‘Did ya? Shrieking sort of noises, was it?’
Everybody nodded.
Sophia said, ‘You know something about this do you, Carole?’
‘Well, they say, there’s witches in them woods. Some of the regulars were talking. They’ve ’eard ’em. Kieron, one of my staff, said someone found decapitated animal bodies under the trees near the brook. Heads ripped clean off. The witches practice devil worship out there. All the locals know ’baht it. They say if you hear them scream then you’re a goner …’
She didn’t get to finish, for Sam began tutting loudly. ‘Can I point out here that such hearsay is very unlikely to be true. Ridiculous, in fact. And are you talking about some old legend or suggesting this is a contemporary scenario?’
Carole looked stumped for a moment. ‘Er, well what I’m saying is – it don’t just happen in the past. It’s happening now too.’ She jerked her head at Tabby and Robin. ‘And this lot says they heard ’em. Don’t they?’
Bulb-headed Imogen raised her hand to Sam. ‘We all heard the moaning in the woods last night. You can’t deny us that.’
‘Well if you are suggesting it’s witches that’s simply incorrect, I’m afraid.’ He shook his head then got to his feet and went and stood by the fireplace so that he could see everyone. ‘The witches of the past would have identified, in all likelihood, as Christians. But mostly what we’re talking about, when we speak of witches of old, is a miscarriage of justice on the scale of a massacre. Born of superstitions and seeming slights.’ He nodded to himself then pointed to the left. ‘That was then. Now if you are talking about those who call themselves witches today, they’ll most likely call themselves Wiccans. And, with regards to your woods, it is incredibly unlikely that they would do anything to hurt animals – they are a nature-based religion with huge respect and care for the natural world.’
‘Hear, hear,’ added Starla.
Sam nodded at her in acknowledgement of solidarity and carried on. ‘Likewise, Wiccans wouldn’t worship the Devil because he’s not one of their lot. The Devil is a Christian god.’
Carole’s mouth opened and she shook her face from side to side in over-exaggerated shock. ‘There ain’t nothink Christian about the Devil!’
‘On the contrary,’ Sam answered her. ‘He’s an entirely Christian creation with all the trimmings: his own infernal minions, the kingdom, Hell, as opposed to Heaven, adversarial status as a fallen angel. If you didn’t have Christianity, then you wouldn’t have the Devil.’
Starla nodded her limp blue head. ‘I dig it. Always knew it too.’
Nicholas crossed his legs and said, ‘What about Satanism?’
‘Do you mean the Church of Satan?’ said Sam. ‘Yes, well, they’re atheists. Don’t believe in the Devil or God. In fact Anton LaVey, the founder, stated anyone who believes in such supernatural entities, is probably insane.’
Nicholas smiled thinly. ‘I hear what he’s saying.’
‘Wiccans are different,’ said Sam and inclined his head to the young man. ‘There is no devil in their pantheon.’
I’d heard Sam use that word before and had to go and look it up, so I saved our gathered audience the trouble and explained, ‘Pantheon – collection of all the gods in a particular religion.’ Sometimes I really liked the sound of my own expert voice.
‘A horned god does exist of course,’ Sam continued. ‘So to speak. And his horns, like depictions of the Devil, grow out his head, true. His name however is not Beelzebub or Lucifer, but Cernunnos, god of the hunt, fertility, life, creatures. And he is an old god. Predates Christianity.’
‘They demonised the old gods,’ Starla announced.
‘I didn’t know that,’ Tabby muttered.
Starla drew herself up. ‘But they have ways of coming down, our old gods, finding chinks in time, wriggling through that very fabric so they can communicate.’ Her skirts fell down between her legs. ‘With us.’
Robin tittered.
‘Certainly the Gundestrup cauldron is old, yes,’ Sam went on. ‘Thought to date to 150 BC. There are Celtic depictions of an antlered man on the side, who many believe is Cernunnos.’ Sam looked around again and said, ‘There’s a school of thought that suggests Christian priests worked out that natives were still secretly worshipping the old gods, like Cernunnos. But instead of banning him, they absorbed the horned one into their new religion and turned him into a villain. Cernunnos was already god of the underworld so it wasn’t too much of a jump to turn him into the god of Hell. No doubt the priests hoped remaining pagans would be discouraged from worshipping a baddie. And there were associations with Baal.’
Robin cleared his throat, ‘Ah yes. Baal, he of Jezebel fame,’ he said, looking very pleased with himself indeed.
The name evoked images of Father Edgar and his apprehension of my good lady self in the church.
‘That’s right, Robin,’ said Sam. ‘Well done. Jezebel was the Queen of Israel. She earned her place in history when she persuaded her husband to worship Asherah, a goddess, and her consort Baal, instead of Yahweh.’
‘Oh yes, s
o his followers weren’t very happy with that were they, Sam?’ Robin asked, evidently enjoying the opportunity to buddy up with the most knowledgeable person in the room and show off his own education.
Sam smiled, his mouth pulling in that familiar and adorable way to the left.
But Robin continued anyway, ‘Tsk, tsk. Nae they dinnae. Yahweh was more powerful, you see.’ He bowed his head, presumably to receive adulation and praise for being such a clever boy. Personally, I thought it typical that someone like him knew all about the ancient gods of other countries but nothing of those on his own shore. There was snobbery mixed into it, I was sure.
‘And so Yahweh’s followers,’ Robin continued to explain. ‘Well, they threw Jezebel out of a window and left her body to be eaten by stray dogs.’
Imogen winced. Tabby nodded like she knew the story too.
‘Indeed, thank you Robin,’ Sam went on. ‘And of course we know that the victors write history, so Jezebel, the defeated, became associated with false prophets and lots of other generally frowned-upon female qualities: seduction, manipulation, heresy, etc.’
Witch qualities, I thought to myself but didn’t say out loud.
Starla sighed. ‘I always had an idea that the story behind Jezebel was something like that: she was guilty only of worshipping her goddess. Should have known.’
‘And Baal,’ Sam added. ‘Which generally meant “The Lord”. You see, there were lots of different Baals: Bal, Bel, Bael or Balder in Northern Europe, often associated with Beltaine, or May Day; Baal-Gad, the goat god, who shares qualities with Pan; Baal-zebub, the Lord of the Flies.’
‘Ew,’ said Jocelyn. ‘Gross. Fancy being a god of them.’
Sam laughed. ‘Ah, well his name also stood for Conductor of Souls – flies were thought to be the common forms taken by souls in search of rebirth. He was also meant to be the Prince of Devils, as in had command over devils. He was able to exorcise them. Eventually of course he just became associated with the Devil, all nuance was lost. Then he was given horns and associated with Cernunnos, who in turn becomes associated with the witches’ god, as depicted in the Goya paintings.’
I saw Nicholas yawn.
‘Interestingly,’ Sam went on, oblivious to the fact he was losing some of his audience, ‘in 1335 a French woman called Catherine Delort was burned for signing a pact with “the demon Berit”, who appeared in the shape of a purplish flame. Berith was a Canaanite lawgiving deity. Her confession featured a man with black skin and eyes of burning coals who was dressed in an animal hide. He transformed at one point into a huge goat then revealed himself to be Lord of the Sabbat, the Devil. Then she ate babies.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Baby-eating features a lot in continental witch trials,’ Sam said casually. ‘Although she did confess to all of this, one must remember it was under horrendous torture.’
Starla shook her head, not in a particularly negative way. It was more like an expression of wonder. ‘How do you know all this?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Just do. Occupational hazard. Witch Museum.’
I noticed Imogen, Laura and Jocelyn’s eyes were also as wide as saucers. The others gathered seemed to have been knocked into stunned silence apart from Robin who was sitting up proudly with a smug smile on his chops.
I forgot that stuff like this was news to some people. I’d already heard this theory from Sam and kind of agreed with it, as it was a bit like what happened with the witches: like the horned god, they had morphed from innocent to depraved over time. Human beings just seemed to soak up hangovers from the past and inherited moralities without questioning them or looking at them closely. Well, maybe I should just speak for myself, for that’s precisely what I had been doing, until I inherited the Witch Museum and then everything had become debatable. And I mean everything. Nothing was fixed any more. There was no permanence.
‘They say there’s an old ruined temple round here somewhere,’ said Carole softly. ‘Pagan.’ Then she sort of juddered and appeared to wake herself up from a trance. ‘But the heads,’ she whinnied. During Sam’s little speech, she had gone and taken a chair next to Robin and was sitting there wringing the tea towel. ‘What about the heads? The decapitated animals. That’s not natural or normal is it?’
‘Like I said,’ said Sam. ‘Wiccans respect nature. Even if they are performing rituals in the woods, it’s extremely unlikely that they would do anything to harm the habitat or the creatures who live in it. They worship nature. They nurture it.’
I decided to chuck my penny’s worth in. ‘I’ll bet your local animal decapitation problem might have more to do with hunting and trophies,’ I said. ‘Antlers and taxidermy are very in vogue right now. Just skim Elle Decoration.’
‘Mmm,’ said Jocelyn. ‘Or Living Etc.’
‘Or Ideal Home,’ agreed Imogen.
I nodded. ‘Yes. It means the desecration is more likely to have been carried out by your fine upstanding members of the establishment. Or entrepreneurial types with air guns and contacts in the world of interior decoration. Rather than witches or Wiccans.’
‘There’s nothing fine about killing animals like that,’ said Starla.
‘I was being sarcastic about them being fine,’ I told her. ‘I just meant – you know, that nastiness is unfairly associated with witches but it’s actually the hunters who are responsible. And hunters are more likely to be wealthy. The wealthy are more likely to have power and influence – ergo establishment.’
‘Bravo,’ said Tabby.
Nicholas made a noise that sounded like a car tyre letting out air. ‘Well, well, well.’ He started clapping slowly. ‘Aren’t you just the cutest little class warrior? What about farmers and the pests that spoil their crops? Some people have a perfect right to hunt.’
I looked over and saw him wobble slightly. For the first time it occurred to me that he might be drunk. ‘I’m saying hunters are more likely to have a large disposable income. A decent shotgun can put you back a grand.’ It was amazing what you learnt, hanging around the Seven Stars.
‘That’s not unaffordable,’ Nicholas persisted.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said, feeling that I might lose control of myself if this little contretemps didn’t end soon, ‘I’ll ask about that at the food bank, next time I’m passing.’ Which, thankfully seemed to do the trick. ‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘I’ll bet common ownership of the folklore, means common ownership of that land. That’s what usually happens. And farmers tend to sort out their own farms and leave public places to the council.’ Not that I’d had much experience of farmers back in Leytonstone Benefit Fraud. ‘So this might be a rogue hunter. Or someone from another part of the county.’
Nicholas continued to pout. ‘I’m just saying that wealth doesn’t always breed corruption. And hunting is, should be, considered a sport. Keeps a lot of people in jobs.’
‘Shut up Nicholas,’ said Jocelyn.
Now he was beginning to flush. ‘I’m just trying to get my point across,’ he yelled.
I stood up. ‘Yes, well, over the centuries rich powerful men have had quite a good track record in that department, thanks.’
Starla joined in and wagged a finger. ‘Check your privilege,’ she said, then faced me. ‘He’s the heir to the Blackman fortune. As in the condiments. Those orange chilli sauces that are really quite nice.’
‘Too hot for me,’ said Imogen out of nowhere. ‘I preferred the original stuff.’
‘Mustards,’ confirmed Tabby. ‘The wholegrain variety is exceptional.’
‘My great great grandfather’s wondrous offering,’ Nicholas said and bowed. ‘Colonel Blackman may have been an ass but he was an inventive one at least.’
‘Colonel Mustard,’ said Starla and nodded sagely. ‘That’s what they used to call him.’
That figured. Cluedo characters were popping up all around me. It made me feel like I was in some kind of dream.
Colonel Nicholas Mustard sighed loudly and rubbed his forehead with a kn
uckle. I could feel my anger receding. Thank god.
Nobody spoke for a minute then Carole got up and began walking across the floor to the French windows, her face still puckered in different places. The action defused the tension in the room. We all watched as she blew on a pane of glass and dabbed it with the tea towel. ‘They say if you hear a howling in the woods then next you hear the bell.’
Again, nobody spoke. I think half of us didn’t know what she meant and the other half were worried about setting off another argument.
‘The bell,’ she said again. ‘That means somethink don’t it? You should know,’ she continued and waved the tea towel round the room. ‘You’re the bleedin’ writers. “For whom the bells tolls …” or summat.’
It was Robin who got in with the quote first, ‘Never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.’ He was doing well this afternoon.
‘What does it mean?’ asked Jocelyn.
‘Didn’t you do it at school?’ This from Nicholas who sent her an accompanying smirk.
God he was irritating. Or was that how he made an impression? Left his mark on the people around him so as not to be forgotten? How terribly insecure.
Jocelyn shook her head – she was so patient – as Tabby piped up. ‘Well, John Donne was referring to funeral bells. Wasn’t he suggesting that with each bell that tolled we were closer to the grave. And that at some point the funerary bell would indeed toll for us?’
‘It’s about death,’ said Carole annoyed. ‘That story. If you hear the groans from the witches you’re going to be a goner.’ She pointed her scrawny finger around the gathered crowd. ‘So if you all heard it, well, Death will be coming this way for sure.’ Then she let go another high-pitched machine-gun cackle. I don’t think she was being serious, but no one responded with glee.
‘The banshee,’ said Robin, his voice grave. ‘It also presages death. I told you.’ He turned to where I was sitting. ‘Didn’t I? Earlier? It sounded just like a banshee to me.’
I didn’t know what to say.
Cullen swallowed noisily.
