by George Mann
“I’m trying to establish his motives, Ms Wren, to understand what drove him to act the way he did. In doing so, it might help to unlock why he was killed,” said Peter.
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Finally, then, could you tell me your whereabouts between 9 pm and 1 am last night?”
Jenny laughed. “Oh, how I wish I could tell you some salacious story about my love life, but I was at the Rowan Tree, down in the village. I’ve been staying there for the duration of the dig. The TV lot are usually there too, although they were out in Heighton for dinner. I had a steak-and-ale pie in the bar, and a couple of glasses while I read my book, before heading to bed about eleven. Alone.”
Peter made a note in his police notebook. “All right. Is there anything else you can think of to tell me?” he said. “Anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant it seems.”
“No,” she said, rolling the brandy glass around in her fingers. “No, I can’t think of anything. Except – you might want to talk to that journalist, Elspeth Reeves. She talked to Lee Stroud at the dig the other day, if you remember?”
“I remember,” said Peter, smiling inwardly. “All right, DS Patel will be along shortly to escort you to the station.”
“Will it take long? Down at the station?”
“A couple of hours,” said Peter, “but you won’t be able to get back on site for a day or two, I’m afraid. Forensics have to do their thing.”
“I’m pretty much done here anyway,” she said. “I’ll be examining the bones back at my lab in Oxford. The organisers of the fayre have requested they be displayed for the weekend at the village hall as part of an exhibition they’ve been putting together about the Hallowdene Witch, so I’ve got my work cut out preparing them for the public.”
“I can’t see that being a problem,” said Peter. “They’re not connected to the murder. At least, not directly.”
“I wasn’t asking,” said Jenny, “but thanks all the same.”
Peter put it down to the shock and the booze. He left her in the sitting room and went to find Walsey, who was sitting on the stairs next to his daughter, who’d clearly been crying.
She looked up when Peter approached, then rose, turned around and hurried back up the stairs, trailing streamer-like earphones in her wake.
“I’m sorry,” said Walsey. “Lucy’s finding it hard. The move, the house… my marriage.” Peter noticed he had a large wet patch on his shoulder, where her tears had soaked into his shirt.
“It’s a difficult age,” said Peter. “I know how I felt. Everything and everyone was against me.”
“Sometimes I feel like they still are,” said Walsey. “Here I am in the house of my dreams, enough money in the bank to retire, and the only thing I can’t do is keep the important people in my life happy.”
Peter supposed it was true what they said about money and happiness. “I’m sorry, Mr Walsey, but I do have to ask you a few questions.”
Walsey nodded.
“Lee Stroud. Did you have much to do with him?”
Walsey frowned. “Only in as much as he’s been a constant thorn in my side since I filed plans to develop the land down by the church.”
“In what way?”
“Constant objections. He seemed to have nothing else to do with his time except write letters to the council insisting that they refuse planning permission because of the important local landmark of the witch stone.” Walsey looked annoyed, even at the thought. “I really thought at one point I was going to have to rethink all of my plans. But it turns out the councillors were a little more understanding than Mr Stroud. That’s why the dig went ahead – to ensure anything of historic or archaeological interest was preserved before the diggers move in.”
“So it’s fair to say he cost you time and money,” said Peter.
Walsey looked hesitant. “Yes… but… Oh, I see what’s going on here. That’s Lee Stroud out there, isn’t it, in the ditch, and you’re trying to establish whether I had a motive to kill him.”
Peter looked at him expectantly.
“Well, yes, he did cost me time and money, but that doesn’t equate to me wanting him dead. The council granted my planning permission and the dig’s practically done and dusted. If I’d wanted Lee Stroud out of the way, DS Shaw, I’d have seen to it a lot earlier. I can assure you, his death has nothing to do with me.”
“Except it was carried out on your land, just yards away from your house,” said Peter.
Walsey nodded, conceding the point. “Apart from that,” he said. “But I can assure you, none of us are involved. Lucy and Petra were both here, at each other’s throats as usual, and when they finally stopped arguing, Lucy went to her room and Petra and I watched a movie. We didn’t hear anything, we didn’t see anything. If we had, we’d have called for you immediately.”
“All right,” said Peter. “Thank you.” He wasn’t surprised that none of them had heard anything, what with the noise the two women had been making earlier. He wondered what it was all about.
“What about the dig site?” said Walsey, as Peter was turning to leave.
“DS Patel will explain everything,” said Peter, “but no one’s to go down there for the time being, and the forensics team will need constant access for a few days. I trust that won’t be a problem?”
“Not at all. And the body…?”
“We’ll be moving that presently, sir,” said Peter. He hesitated. “Oh, and one last thing – Nicholas Abbott. He was also murdered, two days ago, as I imagine you’ll have heard. Have you any reason to suspect the two murders might be related?”
Walsey looked baffled. “Surely that’s your job, not mine, Detective?”
“Can you think of any reason that anyone would have to want him dead?”
“I’d suggest you talk to his family. Thomas Abbott. Feelings were certainly running high. Other than that, no. I have no idea,” said Walsey. “My business transaction with Mr Abbott was smooth and straightforward. I understand that people found him to be a… difficult man, shall we say, but most of my interactions with him were pleasant enough. He seemed to like the colour of my money.”
“All right, that’ll be all for now. Thank you.” He glanced up at the stairwell to see Lucy resting against the banister, peering down at him. She was wearing her earphones, but Peter had the distinct impression she’d been listening to everything he’d said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
With Abigail safely deposited at the train station in Charlbury – and promises made to meet at Paddington the following night for the party – Elspeth had struck out for Hallowdene and her appointment with the co-organiser of the Hallowdene Summer Fayre, Iain Hardwick.
That had been an hour ago, and she was still trying desperately to find a route through the traffic. She’d already put a quick call in to Iain via her hands-free system – which she absolutely abhorred – and he’d seemed very understanding, telling her to get to him when she could. Nevertheless, she could feel herself getting wound up, the muscles in her neck and shoulders tightening with every incremental tick of the clock. It was an essential dichotomy of Elspeth’s life that she hated being late, but was, inevitably, always the last to arrive. She could never explain why this was. She always set out to be on time, but then something would happen, and by the time she arrived at her destination she’d be running behind schedule and feeling fraught. Today was no exception.
She willed herself to breathe steadily as she threw the Mini around another corner, saw an opportunity to make a break for it, and put her foot down. Peter would approve, she thought. She finally left the city behind and sped off down the back lanes towards Hallowdene, nudging seventy miles per hour on a road that was capped at sixty, Wolf Alice blaring on her stereo.
She arrived a short while later, parking outside the front of Iain’s house, having successfully negotiated the winding lanes of the village. It was bigger than she’d realised, the houses spreading back from the main thoroughfare to form a numb
er of small estates she’d never seen before – although none of the houses appeared to be younger than a hundred years old. Iain’s house was no exception; a beautiful thatched cottage with brightly coloured hanging baskets, a front garden filled with wondrous-smelling flowers, thick, whitewashed walls and an irregularly shaped front window.
He met her at the door, a broad grin on his face. He was a tall, balding man in his forties, with a ruddy complexion and an appealing, friendly manner. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans. “I’m so sorry you’ve had such a nightmare journey over,” he said, ushering her inside. “I’ve got the kettle on, and I’ve got cake.”
“You’re a man after my own heart,” said Elspeth, with feeling. She followed him towards the living room where another man was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. He looked up and smiled, folding his book on his lap.
“This is Carl, my husband,” said Iain. “Carl, this is Elspeth Reeves, from the Heighton Observer.”
Carl shook her hand and looked at her with renewed interest. “Ms Reeves of Carrion King fame,” he said. “You’re most welcome.”
She’d had this occasionally in the months following the coverage of the Carrion King case – people who’d been fascinated to follow all the details of the story, reading along with her articles and blog posts. “The very same,” said Elspeth, smiling. “Mind if I…?” She gestured to the chair.
“No, no, you make yourself at home,” said Iain, as she plonked herself down in an armchair. “Now, you look to me like a coffee drinker…?”
Elspeth laughed. “I don’t know what that says about me, but yes, thank you, you’re right.”
“And cake, of course,” said Iain. “I shan’t forget that. Back in a mo.”
Carl had found a scrap of paper to mark his place in his book – a history of Roman Oxfordshire, she noted – and popped it on the side table by the sofa. “So, you’re interested in our local witch,” he said, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. He was younger than Iain, in his late thirties, she guessed, with short hair, coffee-coloured skin and startling green eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Elspeth. “I’m writing a piece on the fayre for the paper.”
“And no doubt the murder of our former lord and master, too?”
Elspeth nodded. “I’m afraid so. Man on the ground and all that.”
“He was an utter bastard,” said Carl, “but he didn’t deserve that. No one does.”
“I saw what he was like,” said Elspeth. “Couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
“Or his vile opinions,” said Iain, carrying a tray back into the room. “You should have heard the things he’d say to us whenever he saw us together.”
Elspeth could imagine.
“But like Carl says,” he went on, pouring the coffee into mismatched mugs from a bright red pot, “it’s terrible what happened to him. Do the police think they know who’s responsible?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any inside track,” said Elspeth, offering them an apologetic smile. It wasn’t far from the truth, either. She knew that Peter had spoken to both Thomas Abbott and Daisy, but wasn’t sure who else he had in his sights. She hoped to glean a bit more from him later. “Anyway,” she said. “Tell me more about the fayre.”
“Well, I presume you’re aware of the history? The story of Agnes Levett? That’s the reason the fayre even exists.”
“I’ve been reading up,” said Elspeth, “and talking to people up at the dig, but I’ll be honest, there’s not much detail to the accounts. As far as I know, Agnes was found performing a ritual with the body of Lady Grace Abbott in Raisonby Wood, and was executed for witchcraft by the villagers. Ever since, subsequent generations have ‘celebrated’ her passing with an annual parade.”
Iain looked at Carl and grinned.
“Well, that’s a grave oversimplification,” said Carl, “but essentially right.” He accepted the mug that Iain had proffered him and sat back in his seat.
“I’m afraid Carl is something of an expert on such matters,” said Iain. “He’ll bore your socks off if you’re not careful.”
Elspeth laughed. “No, please, go on. I’m interested to hear more.”
“Well, since you’ve twisted my arm,” said Carl, grinning. “What do you know about Agnes herself?”
“Only what I’ve read in the guide book I picked up in Richmond’s, or the pictures I’ve seen. She seems to be portrayed more as a caricature than a real person, as if the myth has overtaken the history, and there’s very little of the real Agnes left.”
Carl glanced at Iain. “She’s clever, this one.” They all laughed. “You’re spot on, of course. The Agnes you hear about today bears little resemblance to the historical figure, or at least what we know of her. Just like the parade, really – it’s all a bit of fun, but doesn’t really reflect what happened.”
“So who was Agnes, then?” she said.
“Well, that’s the trouble. It’s all become rather distorted over time. As far as I can tell she was a spinster, living in a small cottage close to the woods. Her brother-in-law had been a woodcutter, but he and her sister, Ruth, moved away during the onset of the Civil War and left her to fend for herself. She’s quite a melancholy figure, really. The Levett family had lived around these parts for years, but were almost obliterated due to a nasty dose of scarlet fever, from which only Agnes and her sister survived. Ruth was the younger of the two, and soon found a husband, and Agnes, it seems, never really recovered from the loss. She never married, and in many ways became the last of her line, survived only by her sister’s children.”
“That’s awful,” said Elspeth. “So what happened to turn her into the evil character we see today?”
“It seems she got a bit of a reputation amongst the villagers,” said Carl, “as a healer, a wise woman. They would come to her for traditional treatments when their Christian prayers let them down.”
“Herbal medicine, that sort of thing?”
“Yes, but probably dressed in the guise of pagan rites and healing spells. You can see where this is going – it’s what happened to a lot of these women, during the witch hunts. People whose lives had been saved by these women turned on them, decrying witchcraft, and pointing to their remedies and rituals as evidence.”
“You think that’s what happened to Agnes? What about the murder?”
“Ah, well, that’s where it gets interesting,” said Carl. “Cuthbert Abbott claimed to have discovered Agnes in the woods, performing a ritual with his wife’s corpse. She’d apparently been stabbed in the belly, and had pagan symbols inscribed all over her flesh. He claimed that Agnes had murdered Lady Grace as a means of attempting to commune with the other side.”
“The other side? In that she was trying to commune with the spirit world?” said Elspeth.
Carl shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s all just supposition. The most interesting elements, as far as I’m concerned, are the specifics of the stories used to justify Agnes being lynched. She was accused of practising ‘rites that violated the true laws of nature’ and ‘attempting to commune with the spirits of the dead’. That’s not your typical, off-the-shelf witchcraft.”
“What do you think she was up to, then?” said Elspeth, fascinated now.
“It’s almost impossible to tell,” said Carl. “I’ve tried to marry what brief account there is of the ritual with other contemporary references to occult practices, but there’s very little that bears comparison. There’s one ritual to do with directing the spirits of the dead, and another that appears to be a sort of resurrection spell, but neither of them quite fit. Whatever ancient art she was attempting to harness is lost to us now.”
“But whatever it was, it sounds as if she’d taken Lady Grace as some kind of sacrificial victim,” said Elspeth.
“Unlikely,” said Carl. “Human sacrifice doesn’t usually play a part in the traditions of English witchcraft.”
Elspeth nodded. “So Agnes
was lynched, and I know there are stories about a curse, and her body being moved…”
“That’s right. It’s all very melodramatic. Agnes swore as she was dying that vengeance would be forthcoming. No one believed it, of course. How could she do them any harm? She’d been hanged. But then, soon after she’d been put in the ground, three villagers died in quick succession, one in a fire at his home, another trampled by a spooked horse, the third of apparent fright. It might well have been a coincidence. Yet… it’s recorded that people from around the village claimed to hear Agnes speaking to them in those days immediately following her death, and in one case she was said to whisper to the victim right before he died.” Carl grinned. “To help silence her unquiet spirit, the vicar had the body moved and sealed beneath the witch stone, along with a score of fetishes, one for each family in the village.”
“Do you put any stock in it all?” said Elspeth. “The curse, and Agnes’s unquiet spirit?”
Carl shrugged. “It’s just an old story, told to scare children at bedtime. But it is interesting, isn’t it? Agnes was apparently dabbling with practices involving the spirits of the dead, and then, days after being buried, she was said to have found a way to speak to people, before driving them to their deaths.”
Elspeth shuddered.
“And now the witch stone has been disturbed,” said Iain, “and the killings have started again.”
“You can’t really believe that Nicholas Abbott’s death is related to the excavation?” said Elspeth. “You said yourself, he was a difficult man with lots of enemies in the village. Surely it’s just a coincidence?”
Carl was smiling again, his grin lopsided, knowing. “Just like the unusual deaths in the 1640s, you mean?” He laughed. “Yes, of course you’re right. It’s nothing more than a coincidence. What else could it be?”
Elspeth sipped at her coffee.
“Right, cake,” said Iain, sensing a change in the tone of the conversation. He handed her a little side plate bearing an enormous slice of Victoria sponge. “Here you go.”
Elspeth dug in. “So, the fayre,” she said, between mouthfuls, “how did that all start?”
