by George Mann
Christian nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine. It’s just… I suppose I’ve been thinking a lot about things, recently, that’s all.”
“What things?”
He sighed. “About my dad. About the fact he’s never been around. I guess – I know it’s different, but I thought you might understand, that’s all. You’ve been through so much, and look at you – you’re so strong. I don’t know how you do it.”
So that’s what all of this had been about – what he’d been trying to get off his chest. Daisy stepped out and wrapped him in a tight hug. For a moment he didn’t seem to know how to react, sucking in his breath as if he’d just been dunked in freezing cold water, and then slowly he brought his arm up around her shoulders and held her for a moment. Then, as if embarrassed, he gently pushed her away.
“I’m all right. Really. It can wait. You’re busy.”
“I’m sorry, Christian. I mean it, though. Another time, we can talk. And for what it’s worth, I miss my parents too.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Daisy.”
* * *
Peter was waiting for Elspeth and Abigail when they arrived at the White Hart a short while later, nursing a pint by the snug. He stood to greet them – an oddly formal gesture that betrayed his nerves at meeting Abigail. Elspeth leaned in and kissed him.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking Abigail’s hand. “Drink?”
“What’s good?”
Peter looked perplexed by the question. “They do a good pint of Landlord,” he said, with a shrug.
“Get her a G&T,” said Elspeth, laughing. “And I’ll have an orange juice.”
He nodded sombrely and headed for the bar.
“So, this was your local while you were growing up?” said Abigail.
“Yeah, they couldn’t keep us out of the pub. They started us drinking at the age of four. That’s what it’s like out here in the outback.”
Abigail laughed. “And Peter lives here, too?”
Elspeth nodded. “Yeah. Peter’s just over the road. It’s just convenient, that’s all. And cosy. We could go into Oxford, but…”
Abigail nodded. “Students.”
“Something like that.”
Peter returned with the drinks.
“I read Ellie’s piece on the Carrion King case. She did make it sound exciting around here,” said Abigail. “You’ve lived here all your life?”
Peter laughed. “I have. Although I’m not sure exciting is the word for it. The Carrion King case was a bit of an exception. Out here in the sticks, it’s usually nothing but robberies and car crime, really. At least ninety per cent of the time. I’m pretty busy at the moment, though.”
“You make it sound as if you’re bored,” said Elspeth.
“Not bored. Just that I think I could do more,” said Peter.
“That’s what I was saying to Ellie earlier, in the car,” said Abigail. “There’s so much more opportunity in London for someone with her skills.”
“So you’re thinking of going back?” said Peter, warily.
“No. Nothing like that. I’m going to a party with Abi, that’s all. A launch for a book she’s been involved in.” She glowered at Abigail, warning her not to contradict her. Abigail took a sip of her drink. “But this is new – this talk of doing more?”
“It’s nothing,” said Peter, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Someone brought up the idea of a transfer, a quicker way to get a promotion, but I’m not going to pursue it.”
“A promotion?” said Abigail.
“Yeah. But it would mean transferring to another district.”
“You mean like Oxford?”
“No. One of the big suburban cities. Birmingham or Manchester. Newcastle, maybe. Somewhere like that.” He took a swig of his pint. “As I say, it’s not worth talking about.”
Elspeth glanced at Abigail, who gave her a pointed look, as if to say: that’s what he’s been holding back, Ellie. That’s what’s giving him pause.
Elspeth wished she’d ordered something stronger. What was he saying? That she was holding him back? That what he really wanted to do was up sticks and move on, and the only reason he was hanging on in a place where he was bored, in a job that wasn’t going anywhere, was because of her?
She thought again about the conversation with Abigail in the car, about her hesitation, the tug that she’d felt when Abigail had mentioned the job. Was she doing the same? Were they just two people, clinging onto one another through familiarity, unable to push forward for the worry of what it might mean for the other person?
She felt suddenly nauseous. “Excuse me for a minute.” She pushed her chair back and practically ran to the loo. She locked herself in a cubicle and sat for a moment, trying to straighten it all out in her head.
What she really wanted to do was talk to him about it. To ask him what he wanted. But with Abigail there, it was impossible. And besides, she wasn’t sure she was going to like the answer. She wasn’t even sure what she’d be able to say in return.
She heard the door to the ladies creak open and someone come in. “Ellie, are you okay?”
Abigail, ever the trooper, come to make sure she was okay.
“Yeah, fine. Be with you in a minute.”
She stood, took a deep breath, and then flushed the loo, painting on her best winning smile.
Abigail was waiting for her by the hand dryers. “Oh, Ellie, you do pick them.”
Elspeth rinsed her hands. “Don’t I just.”
“Look, you can dump me here for the evening, if you want. Go and talk to him. Get it off your chest.”
“No, no. It’s fine. You’ve come all this way, and we’ve all had enough of my ridiculous love life.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lee Stroud tramped over the uneven ground, his shoes sinking into the mud with every step. He cursed as he almost turned his ankle on an unexpected molehill, stumbling and throwing out his arms to maintain his balance. His raincoat rustled in the darkness.
Up ahead, he could see the silhouette of the crane, stark against the moonlight, unwelcome and unwanted by the landscape. Beside it was a large, dark shadow, squat and uneven and seeming to absorb all the light: the witch stone. He felt his stomach constrict. The open grave was only a hundred yards away.
Why had they wanted to meet out here? Perhaps they were going to do something to disrupt the dig, and thought he might be a good ally for their endeavours? He’d certainly been loud enough in recent days, making his feelings known. He’d never been one for taking real action like that, though. Protesting, yes – trying to get his point across – but he’d never resorted to sabotage.
The problem was, no one around here seemed to care. No one except that woman from the newspaper who he’d talked to yesterday. She’d listened to what he had to say, and she hadn’t thought he was mad, either. At least, she hadn’t given that impression, and he could usually tell. Why couldn’t they all be a bit more open-minded, like her? Instead, they’d just forged ahead blindly, merrily opening up the grave. Well, they’d have to suffer the consequences, wouldn’t they?
He circled around a large cowpat on the field, and carried on his way. He’d brought a small torch along with him, but hadn’t used it yet, navigating instead by moonlight. He didn’t want to draw any attention to the fact he was up at the dig site late at night.
He knew they’d removed the bones now, so there was little chance he’d encounter any security – apart from the crane there was nothing left to be stolen – but the manor house was only a short distance away, and there were lights on in the facing windows. He’d already seen the girl, Lucy, looking down from one of the upper-storey rooms, her face clear and bright in the artificial light.
He rarely saw her about the village. Perhaps she was just busy being young and carefree. He’d added her name carefully alongside the others on his genealogy charts, and knew that the Polish woman, Petra, wasn’t really her mother. He wondered what that must be like, to have a stepmother
who was only a few years older than her. It must be a difficult thing for a young woman to deal with.
The Polish connection had been difficult to trace, so he’d only gone back one or two generations. The Walseys themselves had already featured, of course, having been in the village for generations – at least until a few years ago, when Hugh had upped and left – but now he was back, and he’d done well for himself, bringing his wife and nineteen-year-old daughter in tow.
It was a difficult job, keeping track of all the comings and goings amongst the villagers, but he’d started nearly forty years ago, and now saw it as a kind of duty. If he didn’t keep it up, who would?
He knew there was a tendency for people to look down on those interested in the minutiae of local history, to see them as lacking the imagination to look beyond their own boundaries. He’d fallen in love with this village, though, growing up here as a child, with its crooked buildings and even more crooked history. The remnants of the ancient Wychwood provided a deep, mythical backdrop, and his imagination had been fired. He’d dreamed of fauns and secret hollows, of Carrion Kings and Herne the Hunter. He’d read books about folklore and lost himself in tall tales.
Then, as he’d grown older, he’d realised all of those stories he’d loved – they had their roots in something real. Something tangible. And so he’d set to work, digging deeper into the past like Jenny Wren and her spade, excavating the stories. In doing so, he had constructed a history of the village like no other he had seen. He’d mapped a woven web of people’s lives, drawing it out on his charts. That was the thing that so many missed. History wasn’t about events: it was about people.
That’s why they should have listened to him about Agnes. He knew what she was capable of. The deaths that had followed her execution should have served as a warning to them all. And now, they’d gone and dug her up, and he was too late to stop them.
He’d reached the graveside. He looked around, but there was no sign of anyone else. He hesitated, but then positioned himself with his back to the manor, withdrawing the torch from his coat pocket. Surely they wouldn’t notice if he just took a little look? He’d keep himself between the manor and the torch beam. There wasn’t much of a risk.
He twisted the head on the little metal torch and it flickered to life. Cupping his hand around the end of it, so as to narrow the beam, he passed it back and forth across the grave.
He could see where the ground had been disturbed, and little white, numbered markers had been pinned into the soil. There were some discoloured patches, too. Nothing to suggest a person had even been buried here. Nevertheless, he felt a chill running up along his spine.
This is where she’d lain for centuries. Trapped beneath the stone.
He felt suddenly claustrophobic, and clicked the torch off. Better to stand there in darkness, he decided.
Across the grave from him, he could see a little red light, hovering in the darkness in the shadow of the witch stone. He narrowed his eyes, wondering what it could be. Some kind of insect? It was tiny, just a pinprick, and he hadn’t even noticed it on his way up here. He sidestepped around the edge of the grave, careful not to lose his footing. He was just about to lean in to peer more closely at the light, when he heard the scuff of a boot from behind him.
“Ah, so you made it,” he said, his head turning just as something hard struck him across the side of the skull. He heard something break, and dropped unsteadily to his knees. The vision in his left eye was foggy, and he could feel hot blood coursing down the side of his face.
He sensed someone hovering over him, scrabbled with both hands before him, still down on his knees, begging for help, but his only reply was a clear and sombre whisper, right in his ear.
“Without grace or remorse.”
“Agnes?” he mumbled unintelligibly, just as the metal bar struck him again and again, battering his face and hands, splitting his flesh and breaking his bones.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Daisy’s phone vibrated again to alert her to another message. She looked down at the screen, and sighed.
“Oh, come on,” she said, reading the message back. “Really?” She thumbed a quick reply and hit send.
She was pacing back and forth in the darkness, growing increasingly impatient. She understood things were difficult, but to leave her standing out here, alone, in the dark… there had to be something better, or easier, than this. She kicked at a stone in frustration, sending it hurtling down the path towards the rear wall of the courtyard, where it skittered to rest amongst some overgrown weeds.
She looked up at the big house. There were lights still on inside. She walked along the boundary wall, careful to keep to the shadows. She didn’t want to be seen. That would give everything away.
What was she going to do now? Had she really traipsed all the way up here for nothing?
Her hand was still throbbing, and she adjusted the bandage absent-mindedly. She still wasn’t clear what had happened to her the previous night. She’d spent the entire afternoon in bed after leaving Richmond’s, and felt a whole heap better for it – but running back through the events in her mind, she still felt deeply unsettled.
Two missing hours, in which she’d wandered, without memory, deep into Raisonby Wood.
Perhaps it was all the stress. She’d been putting herself under a lot of pressure recently. Maybe she needed a holiday, a break from all of… this. She’d thought twice about coming out again tonight, but at least it would have given her the opportunity to talk to someone about it all. Now, here she was in the middle of the night, skulking about, alone.
Again.
Well, screw that. At least she could get a decent night’s sleep before her shift tomorrow. And that pretty woman from the newspaper was coming around tomorrow, too, so she’d have something to take her mind off it all. She wondered whether Elspeth would let her paint her, in the end. She hadn’t seemed keen on the idea. Perhaps when she’d seen the other stuff Daisy had been working on. It was the best work she’d done. She was sure of that. She’d not been lying, though, when she’d told Elspeth she wasn’t sure if she was any good. She could feel the doubt creeping in again. It was an ever-present spectre, making her question everything she was doing.
The trouble was, she didn’t really understand her own process. It was something primal, instinctive – but that made it sound pretentious, and she was anything but that. It was as if the sounds and the colours built up inside her like a tidal wave, and she had to find a way to let it all out, or else she would burst. She painted in stuttering bursts of hyperactivity, unable to do anything else but work while the inspiration was flowing, an almost ritualistic purge that went on until the piece was done. Then she’d be left floundering again, unsure how she’d managed to get through it, how the piece had even come together in the end.
She wondered if that was what last night had been about: a sudden burst of insanity, a brief, unchannelled flare in the darkness. The thought scared her. Maybe she should go to see the doctor. But what if they told her that’s exactly what it was? That there was something wrong with her, and she needed medication, or counselling, or both – something to take the edge off. Would she still be able to paint in the same way, dosed up on drugs?
Her phone thrummed again in her palm. She looked down, then shook her head and slid it back into her jacket pocket. “Fine.” She wasn’t even disappointed. She’d grown so used to it now that she just felt mildly irked. And what did that even say about the whole situation?
Shaking her head, she struck out in the direction of home, skirting round the side of the manor to the dig site. The light was wan, but she could just make out the wide depression in the ground where the witch’s remains had been uncovered. She had to admit she felt a grisly fascination when it came to the bones. She knew they’d been moved now, but she hoped they’d be put on display at some point. Just the thought of all that history and mythology wrapped up in them intrigued her. Perhaps she’d paint them, too. That would add anoth
er dimension to her sequence of portraits – a study of what comes after, what awaits us all. She liked the notion of that: a theme to bring her sequence to completion.
Well, perhaps her trip out here hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all.
She turned at the sound of a man’s voice, coming from the direction of the manor house behind her. Someone was coming out.
Hurriedly she looked for somewhere to hide, ducking behind the arm of the crane. She peered out, careful not to reveal herself. Had someone spotted her? Was it Hugh Walsey, coming out to confront her, or worse, a security guard making his rounds? She’d never seen one up here before, but then, they’d never had a high-profile archaeological dig on site, either.
The figure emerged. He was wearing a white shirt, and seemed to be surrounded by an odd, diffuse glow. Daisy felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. Something here wasn’t right. She crouched lower, trying to keep herself out of view.
The man was carrying another person in his arms, a woman. She was limp, her head hanging loose, hair trailing over the side of his arm, billowing in an absent wind. She was wearing a nightgown. Was it Petra? And was that blood on her nightie? Daisy felt her heart lurch. She felt sick. What the hell was going on? What if it were Lucy?
Daisy tried to focus, but somehow she was struggling to see clearly, as if a fog had suddenly descended, muting everything with that same soft, diffuse glow that she’d noted around the figure of the man.
He was whimpering, repeating something over and over as he ran across the lawn. The sound made her skin crawl, like the mewling of a wounded animal. He was heading for Raisonby Wood. Daisy wondered if she should call the police. Had Hugh done something? Was someone hurt? Something about the scene caused her to think twice. If Hugh had suddenly flipped and done something to Petra, perhaps he’d try to hurt her, too. But why was he running for the woods? Why not send for an ambulance? She didn’t know what to do.
