The Woman in Silk

by R. J. Gadney

  “Only if you let it lead to panic.”

  “It’s worse than panic. Don’t you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “What I want to know is—am I … am I losing my mind?”

  “I wouldn’t say so. It’s only fear that’s handicapping you.”

  “Are these things in my head?”

  “Of course they’re in your head.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean—are they real?”

  “Obviously real to you.”

  “What?”

  “I said they’re obviously real to you.”

  “Will they harm me?”

  “It depends on you. If you believe them to be real and you set out to harm them then I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed. I’m sure they’ll be as terrified of you as you are of them.”

  “You believe in them?”

  “I believe in you.”

  “Then answer my question. I want to know. Do you or do you not believe in them. Yes or No?”

  “I believe in you.”

  “Which means you do believe in them.”

  “If you say so. Yes, I do.”

  “Answer me this—there’s something else.”

  He told him about the injection Francesca had administered.

  Dr. Mackle was silent for a while. Then he said slowly: “Well, perhaps the silly girl needs reminding she’s responsible for the administration of some powerful drugs. There are professional standards to be observed. She may even have a problem with drug abuse herself. And there’s the matter of that gun you have. I hope I’m right in assuming it’s properly licensed?”

  “As a matter of fact it isn’t.”

  “Then you of all people don’t need me to tell you that possession of an unauthorized firearm is a pretty serious offense. Best surrender it to the police. Make sure it doesn’t fall into unwelcome hands. Meanwhile, it’ll be for the best if you give up alcohol. I know it’ll be hard work, what with Christmas in the offing.”

  33

  Hal did not set off immediately for Carlisle nor did he abandon alcohol. The useless consultation with Mackle was, he felt, cause for a solitary diversion: one he awarded himself in the bar at the pub in Moster Lees.

  The Moster Inn doubled as a bed and breakfast guest-house and also offered a single-story annex for hire as a venue variously for weddings, funerals, birthday celebrations and meetings. The aging Anglo-German licensees, Mr. (Smitty) and Mrs. (Cilla) Schmidt-Kingsley, had spared no expense to fill the pub with overblown Christmas decorations.

  Hal’s parents had rarely, if ever, visited the pub. His mother shared his father’s view that the pub was strictly for non-commissioned officers and Smitty wasn’t officer material. The portly man was anyway Bavarian and this was an additional reason for the Stirlings to give the Moster Inn and the Schmidt-Kingsleys a wide berth.

  Moreover, Priscilla Stirling abhorred animal sports. For her, the Moster Inn was a repository of sickening evil, a D.E.I.—a Den of Extreme Iniquity. Worse still, Smitty and his wife were apostles of the Countryside Alliance and Smitty was also, into the bargain, the sole pillar of the Moster Lees branch of the Carlisle Angling Association.

  To anyone who would listen Priscilla muttered darkly about Smitty’s crimes against the Animal Kingdom, threatening to report the atrocities to the International Court of Justice in The Hague.

  He ordered lunch and found himself a small table in the lounge bar near the open fire. He settled down alone with cod and chips, a vodka tonic and Campari, and skimmed through yesterday’s News and Star, Cumbria: Lakeland’s Favorite Magazine and Cumbria Life.

  Shortly after lunch, a group of some dozen people came into the lounge bar.

  Among them were the familiar faces of MacCullum and Betsy MacCullum; the Vicar; Smitty and Cilla Schmidt-Kingsley; Dr. and Mrs. Mackle and WPC Dee MacQuillan of the Carlisle Constabulary. Hal was on nodding terms with all of them. Without exception, they showed surprise to see him.

  “Trust you enjoyed our vittles,” Smitty said. “Sorry about Afghanistan.”

  “The Royal Scots Borderers are out there presently,” said Mackle’s wife. “Are they not, Captain Stirling? My father was in what the family calls the Kosbies. You know who they are, I daresay?”

  “Kings Own Scottish Borderers,” said Hal. “Fine regiment.”

  They had just finished the Christmas meeting of the Parish Council in the annex over lunch. “And when it came to me,” said the Vicar, “I said I hoped you’d agree to read the lesson at Morning Service on Christmas Day. St. Luke 2:1 to 20. And perhaps lead us in prayer for our boys overseas. Ecclesiastes. ‘A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.’ Mention them by name if you like. A roll of honor.”

  “Fine,” Hal said. “It’ll mean mentioning a lot of servicemen by name.”

  “How many lads and lasses is there overseas, then?” asked MacCullum.

  “As of now?” said Hal. “I don’t know … thousands.”

  “Make a good question for the New Year’s Quiz,” said Dr. Mackle.

  “Difficult one to answer,” Hal said. “It’s always a changing number.”

  “Go on,” said Betsy. “Tell us.”

  “Let’s say, give or take eight to ten thousand in Afghanistan. Eight hundred in the Balkans. Fifteen hundred in Northern Ireland. Three thousand in Cyprus. And we have men in Gibraltar, Diego Garcia and Ascension Island and maybe a few hundred more elsewhere.”

  “How are things out at The Towers?” asked the woman police officer, MacQuillan.

  “Very quiet.”

  “You’ll be well looked after by Teresa and Francesca,” MacCullum said.

  “Don’t know what I’d do without them,” said Hal.

  “Teresa’s got things buttoned up,” Betsy said. “Puts the rest of us to shame. If you need a hand with the Christmas dinner we can help.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “And the Help for Heroes’ carol singers will be calling on you,” the Vicar said.

  “Not, I trust, putting themselves out on my account?” Hal said.

  “It’s a multi-ethnic children’s choir,” said the Vicar. “The Choir of Lakeland Angels. They’ll be calling on all servicepersons’ families in the area.”

  “First time in years angels will be up at The Towers,” Betsy said. “Kids used to be too scared to go there. Christmastime being the season for the spirits. Am I right, Vicar?”

  The Vicar said: “The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness.”

  “There’s nothing at-all-at-all to be frightened of,” said Mrs. Mackle.

  Smitty puffed out his chest like a Regimental Sergeant Major about to bring the parade to order. “It’s a bit of luck you’re here, Captain. We’ve had a visitor from down south, Ghost Holidays Limited of—”

  “Guildford,” prompted Cilla. “In Surrey.”

  Cilla’s interruption appeared to sting her husband. Purple veins on his forehead protruded. His jowls wobbled, his roseate mouth twitched. He fiddled with the band of white silk thread around his wrist from which a small ornament dangled.

  “—on a reconnaissance,” he continued, “with the aim of making bookings. The young man had a tip-off that there are major hauntings in the area and he’s got access to a list of punters who are what they call paranormal investigators. They hold these ten-day vigils. Seems that plenty of people will part with good money for day and night trips of scientific interest and need local catering and accommodation. The Parish Council has no objection to them happening here. Am I right, Vicar?”

  “They’d inject some much needed resources and new spirit into the community,” the Vicar said. “Help The aged has shown an interest …”

  “So this being Christmas,” said Smitty, “seems a propitious moment t
o sound you out about it, Captain—good idea?”

  Hal shrugged. “Do these poor deluded souls pay for these tours of theirs—vigils, or whatever they are?”

  “Pay for them?” said Dr. Mackle. “They certainly do. If The Towers is to be the hub for tours it will generate a welcome boost to local tourism here and across Cumbria in general.”

  “Thanks for mentioning it,” said Hal. “I’ll mull it over and have a word with Mr. Warren. Let’s see what we can come up with.”

  “You’ve got a healthy supply of hauntings up there, Captain,” said MacCullum. “Been there for generations.”

  “I’ve never been a witness to them,” Hal said quickly.

  “Your mother saw them,” said Betsy. “Any road, that’s what she told me.”

  Hal gave a hollow laugh. “I’m afraid we can no longer call upon her services as tour guide.”

  “You can follow in her footsteps,” put in Cilla. “When the heart is willing the spirit follows. Like mother like son.”

  “And you, Captain … you’re following in your mother’s footsteps,” said Dr. Mackle. “The Stirlings are deep in the heart of Moster. A place of holy spirit.”

  “More power to your elbow,” Smitty said. “Things will never change in these parts. Not while there’s an England.”

  His wife broke into song:

  “There’ll always be an England,

  And England shall be free

  If England means as much to you—”

  The others joined in: “As England means to me.”

  A murmuring of goodwill and approval followed the brief singsong.

  And if you people believe this claptrap, Hal thought, impatient to escape, you’ll believe anything. The idea of these paranormal investigators swanning about The Towers filled him with the sort of hostility and suspicion he imagined his mother must have entertained for the villagers.

  “Trouble the ghosts,” said MacCullum, “and they’ll trouble you. They won’t disturb us, or your good self, Captain. That’s what I believe.”

  “No need to take a vote,” said Smitty.

  All of them raised their glasses. “Cheers,” they said as one.

  Hal sensed the bonhomie was intended as a taunt. He felt his fingernails press into his palms. Little wonder the younger and marginally less insane in the community had fled for urban street-lit pastures where malignant spirits might be less inclined to graze. A small patch of redness had formed in his palms, unholy stigmata, the brand for a slave or livestock, the proof of possession by another …

  “You’ll be finishing your Christmas shopping in Carlisle, then?” asked Betsy MacCullum.

  “I have a lot to do,” Hal told her.

  “You’re most welcome to join us here for the Moster Inn Christmas Feast,” said Smitty. “If it’ll make life easier.”

  “And bring Teresa and Francesca along with you,” said Cilla. “That’s all right, love, isn’t it?”

  Smitty paid her no attention. “Will you be having Christmas guests over the festive season?” he asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “Your lovely oriental lady perhaps?” Cilla asked. “Smitty called her Madam Butterfly, didn’t you, love. What’s her name, Yoko?”

  Hal looked at his watch and got to his feet. “Sumiko—Forgive me—I must get going for Carlisle.”

  WPC MacQuillan said: “Can you give me a lift?”

  “I was going to take Dee back to Police HQ,” said MacCullum, “wasn’t I, Dee? Brought you here, was going to take you back. Assisting the police with their inquiries. Do it all the time.”

  “Our Ryker’s always up to something,” said Smitty.

  “I can drop you off,” Hal suggested to the police officer. “Headquarters. Out at Duranhill nowadays, isn’t it?” He smiled at Smitty. “Thank you for lunch.”

  The Vicar said: “I’ll come up to The Towers with the text of your Christmas Day reading.”

  “No need,” said Hal, heading for the exit. “My father made me learn it. I know it off by heart.”

  He felt their eyes following him all the way outside.

  “There’s more snow forecast,” MacQuillan said. “The sky looks heavy.”

  Hal opened the door of the Range Rover for her.

  “I wouldn’t want to answer an emergency call out here after dark. Have to be a job for the Army.”

  “The Army’s already here.”

  “Oh yes, so it is,” she said. “You think that makes me feel safe? This is the beat of the Living Dead.”

  WPC MacQuillan was what his mother would have called A Handful.

  34

  “Have I been rabbiting on too much?” she said as they neared Carlisle.

  She’d talked ceaselessly about wanting to take a year’s leave from police duty to backpack around India and end up kneeling at the feet of guru Sri Sathya Sai Baba. She’d “chill out” at Sai’s ashram Prasanthi Nilayam, the Abode of Supreme Peace at Puttaparthi in Andhra Pradesh, not too far from Bangalore. She said she intended to avail herself of two darshans or daily meetings with the guru.

  “Cool,” she said. “Beats being a copper in Carlisle … I’m really grateful for the lift. Two minutes—and we’ll be at Vernons Tea Rooms. Tell you what; if you’ve time to spare, I’ve half an hour to kill. I’ll treat you. Nice hot cup of tea? Or are you in a hurry?”

  “No. Matter of fact there are things I’d like to ask your advice about.”

  “About Ghost Holidays and things—?”

  “Things at The Towers in general.”

  VERNONS TEA ROOMS

  WISHES ALL OUR CUSTOMERS

  A MERRY CHRISTMAS

  MacQuillan said: “If I were you, I wouldn’t touch Ghost Holidays with a bargepole.”

  Their voices competing against the repeating tape of Robbie Williams’s “Misunderstood,” they continued their conversation over mugs of tea next to the XXL plastic Christmas tree.

  “Your mother was a one-off,” said MacQuillan, leaning across the Formica tabletop. “A special soul. A light in the darkness. I’m sad she’s passed. You must miss her. I know I miss my mom. Think of her every day … D’you think of yours like that? You can’t get some people out of your head. Loved ones are always with us. You can be sitting quite still and peaceful and you hear this whisper and the hairs stand up on the back of your head. I think it’s out-of-body electricity. And you can feel them there, can’t you. I always know it’s mom speaking to me. She was the only person who ever called me Deidre. ‘Deidre killed herself on her lover’s grave to join him in a better world.’ Never tired of telling me. You only have one mom.”

  “True enough.”

  “In this life, true, isn’t it?” she said. “Mine was single. Lived in a world of her own. No other way for single mothers. Yours wasn’t always the easiest of people to get on with, I heard. Not everyone’s cup of Tetley’s.”

  “Who told you?”

  “It’s what the tenant farmers say about her. Only they put it a bit stronger.”

  “What did they say about her?”

  “Best not go there. We don’t want to upset her soul. The tenants would curse her, wouldn’t they? And now you. No man loves his landlord. Mind, it’s not as though the rent your mom charged the buggers was all that much. She hadn’t increased it in years. Nicer you are, the worse you get treated. Those peasant muck-spreaders don’t know how bloody lucky they are.”

  “Life would’ve been easier for all of us if she’d acted more realistically when it came to money.”

  “She must have left you comfortable—moneywise, I mean.”

  “My mother’s philosophy was that you can’t take it with you. Just so long as there was enough to preserve The Towers. That’s what mattered to her most.”

  “You … her only son, you must have mattered most to her.”

  “I like to think so. My mother believed the tenants owed it to her to pay for the benefits of making a living from the estate—her estate, not that any of them benefit
a great deal. Anyhow, she never did herself. And she preferred to have as few dealings with them as possible. And vice versa. So Warren does the donkey work and I can’t say I envy him his job.”

  “What will happen when the teenagers have all gone, I don’t know. None of them wants to stay here a moment longer than’s necessary. Most have them have left already. Leaving behind a bunch of surly bastards.”

  “I don’t entirely blame the younger ones, do you—I mean for clearing off? That’s more or less what I did.”

  “Can’t say I blame them. Main reason is that the mad families don’t like Mr. Warren.”

  “Warren—what’s he done to make them leave?”

  “Accused them of poaching, vandalism, flogging off the lead from barn roofs. He suspects they’re using explosives to kill salmon. The kids nick the explosives from the quarries. God knows why it’s still there. Some asshole locked the stuff in a strong room and threw away the bloody keys. So the kids bust in and nicked it, didn’t they?”

  “Which quarries?”

  “Cramfell and Howlbeck. Poaching’s one thing. Possessing high-explosives is something else. Didn’t you hear about the high-explosives at Gretan? These hikers found an abandoned backpack on Gretan Moor. Midsummer. You’d have been in Afghanistan. You know what was in the backpack? Seven sticks of very nasty Army-issue PE4 plastic high-explosive.”

  “Who was responsible?”

  “We’ve never found out. Daresay kids. Hoodies involved in poaching. Dropped it in a panic maybe. Kids involved in petty crime: Breaking and entering. Farmhouses. Weekend cottages. Medical centers. Nursing homes. Old people’s residential accommodation. Even BBC Cumbria in Annetwell Street. Thieving cash, TVs, drugs, and any agricultural gear they can snitch, diesel and farm machinery, you name it, they nick it. Little scummy opportunistic bastards. They’re dark and evil. The area’s rotten with the Devil.”

  “Local kids, are they?”

  “Mostly. We have our suspicions. Poachers have been working commercially in organized gangs. There’s some big money behind it. The water bailiffs have search-and-arrest powers. But you have to have a warrant from the Environment Agency. And chasing lowlifes across moorland’s tough shit. The terrain around Cramfell and Howlbeck makes it tougher. You know the area?”