by George Mann
CHAPTER FORTY
They sat in the White Hart, fingers interlaced across the table top, sipping their drinks while David Bowie sang about suffragettes on the jukebox. It was quiet in there, as usual, and the other patrons were keeping their own council, sitting in small groups, chatting amongst themselves.
The events of the previous day seemed distant, now, like a horrific nightmare, although the image of Christian Jameson, the glass shard buried in his throat, seemed to rise unbidden in her thoughts every few minutes. She’d barely eaten, plagued by a constant feeling of nausea. She knew that image would haunt her for the rest of her life.
She’d spent the day with Dorothy in Wilsby-under-Wychwood, napping on the sofa, drinking cups of tea, sitting in the garden with Murphy the cat on her lap. It had all seemed so normal, so mundane, surrounded by the familiar shushing of the trees, the buzzing of insects, the chatter of her mum. Dorothy had talked about her work at the garden centre, about the fact that Nigel had been round for a curry and things seemed to be developing between them, and they’d idled away the afternoon, just being still. She could tell that Dorothy was concerned for her; that even she was beginning to wonder what sort of life Elspeth had come back to here, getting swept up in such terrible events for a second time.
Yet Elspeth, for all the horror of it, knew that she had made a difference; that she’d been there for Daisy and helped her even when the world seemed to have turned against the young woman. That she’d believed her, and had helped Peter to see the truth, too, and that had to count for something. That was her job – to help people to see the truth – and she wasn’t about to stop now.
She’d file her article the following day – an expansive piece about everything that had happened in Hallowdene, from the dig to the fayre to the murders. And she’d started to make notes about the book she was considering writing, about folklore and unexplained phenomena, too, although that would come later. She’d texted Abigail that morning and received the usual bubbly reply. Things there were good. The storm had passed, and she knew that when she next went to London to visit, it would be fun again, because she’d already made up her mind that she could come home afterwards.
Across the table, Peter seemed to be peering into his half-full pint of beer, but she knew that he was really seeing something else. He was having trouble coming to terms with what he’d seen at the village hall. He’d said as much on the walk over from her mum’s house – that he needed to find a way to explain what had happened. She’d help him with that, too. In time.
“How was Sally?” she asked, and the question seemed to startle him. He blinked, and looked up.
“Just as you’d expect, really,” he said. “I think she knew the truth, deep down – that Christian was probably responsible. But she’d buried her head in the sand. If she didn’t acknowledge her suspicions, they couldn’t be real, if you see what I mean?”
Elspeth nodded. “She’s a mum,” she said. “It’s only natural.”
“She’s still denying it, of course. But the facts are there. She just needs a bit of time.”
“I doubt it’s something she’ll ever get over,” said Elspeth. “What a thing to have to live with.”
They were silent for a moment.
“We found the missing camera in Christian’s room,” said Peter, before taking a gulp of his beer. “It’s a difficult thing to watch. It shows him bludgeoning Lee Stroud to death and dragging his body into the grave.”
Elspeth shuddered.
“It also shows Daisy up at the site later that night, completely unaware of what’s lying there in the trench.”
“God, how awful. I presume that must have been during one of her blackouts,” she said.
Peter nodded. “She certainly doesn’t seem to be acting like herself. It’s as if she’s watching something off-camera. There’s a glimpse of something, too – a flickering light. The tech guys think it’s just a problem with the recording, but I can’t help wondering if it’s something more.”
It had to be the night Daisy first saw the vision of Cuthbert Abbott, emerging from the manor house with his dying wife in his arms.
“Anyway,” said Peter, “Griffiths is happy. Christian has a motive for every murder. He must have been harbouring such resentment against Nicholas Abbott after finding out the man was his father and being turned away like that. And Lee Stroud knew all about it, and was the one responsible for raking it all up. Christian must have realised that the camera had uploaded the footage from the dig site to the cloud, and that Steve Marley was likely to realise it, too. When he found Steve already watching it… well, that was his death sentence.”
“What about Lucy,” said Elspeth, “and Daisy, for that matter?”
Peter shrugged. “We think Christian must have had a crush on Daisy. His phone was full of photos of her that he’d taken without her knowing. Bit of a chip off the old block, it seems. We think he must have killed Lucy when he found out about her relationship with Daisy, and then turned on Daisy when it became clear she was never going to look at him that way.”
Elspeth frowned. “All very neat and tidy for the police reports.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Peter.
“Come on, you know that’s not really what happened. Or at least, there’s much more to it than that.”
Peter looked uncomfortable. “What did really happen, Ellie? I’m trying, but I just can’t understand it.”
Elspeth shrugged. “I’m hardly an expert. But I felt it, Peter. There was something wrong in that village, in that hall yesterday. You can’t just ignore that. And then Christian – he wasn’t right.”
“Of course he wasn’t right. He was threatening Daisy with a knife. He’d killed four people.”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “The way he looked at you. That whispered voice. He didn’t move his lips…” She broke off, remembering again the sight of the man with the piece of glass in his throat.
“I know,” said Peter, levelly. “I know.”
“I think perhaps that Agnes, or whatever twisted remnant that was left of her, was using him: playing on his existing fear and hatred to drive him to such extremes. She wanted vengeance, to cause chaos and fear amongst the villagers. She used Christian to do it, homing in on his own dark thoughts, amplifying them. The familial link you found – it’s probably why she chose him.”
“Then why didn’t Daisy turn murderous, too? You seem convinced that she had fallen under the influence of the witch as well,” said Peter.
“Maybe she was just better at resisting it?” said Elspeth. “Maybe she wasn’t harbouring such ill will towards others in the village? That’s all I’ve got. I don’t know what else to say.”
“If you’re right about all this, what’s to stop it happening again? I can’t see anyone allowing the bones to be re-interred beneath the witch stone.”
“Carl,” said Elspeth. “Carl Hardwick. I spoke to him this morning. He and Iain are seeing to it that the bones are cleansed before they’re handed back to Jenny.”
“Cleansed?”
“Yes. Some old spell or ritual for exorcising the bones of ghosts and spirits. He’s a bit of an expert in such things. He’s promised to talk to Daisy, too, to help her understand what happened to her.”
Peter nodded. He seemed unconvinced, but Elspeth could tell that he wasn’t really satisfied with the story the police had settled on, either. At least, she supposed, it was over, and no one else was likely to be at risk. She just wished they’d been able to get to Christian sooner, to help him, or at least prevent him from carrying out any further attacks.
“So, this is going to make for another high-profile story,” said Peter. “Might make ripples. You might expect a few new job offers on the back of it.” He sounded wary – scared, even. More than he had even yesterday, when confronted with a murderous man with a kitchen knife.
“I suppose so,” said Elspeth, “but if I do, I’ll be turning them down. All that bus
iness with Abi, about London – I’m not interested. This is my home, now. I wouldn’t give it up for the world. I think I’ve finally found my niche, right back here where it all started.”
He grinned, squeezed her hand. “God, I was hoping you’d say that.”
“What about you, though? Another high-profile case solved. You made a difference, just like you said you wanted to. That promotion must be a certainty now?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But what do I want with all that?” he looked suddenly serious. “When you left the other night, to go to Daisy, I couldn’t help thinking about what would happen if you didn’t come back…”
“Peter…”
“I know. I know, it’s stupid, and I trust you, and you can handle yourself. But all the same, it got me thinking – I don’t want to be apart from you, Ellie. I’m not sure I could bear it.”
He was eyeing her intensely. She looked away, released her grip on his hand. “I can’t be the one to hold you back, though. You’d only resent it, maybe not now, but later, and—”
He reached over and took her hand again. “Ellie, I’ve made up my mind. I’ve told Griffiths. I’m here to stay.”
She looked up and smiled. “I was hoping you were going to say that,” she parroted.
“Besides,” he went on, “Griffiths is getting itchy feet. She’s said as much. Another six months to a year, and there’ll be an opening at Heighton. Maybe I’ll make DCI after all. And let’s face it, for all that talk of shoplifters and teenage louts – we’ve had a pretty busy time of late. Certainly enough to keep me busy for a while.”
“Then it’s decided,” she said. “Home.”
“There is one thing,” said Peter. “I was just thinking – maybe don’t get too settled in that apartment, eh? I much prefer it here, in Wilsby, and it’s close to your mum…”
“Hang on a minute, don’t get ahead of yourself,” she said, with a grin. “But yeah, I’ve only got another three months on the lease. Let’s see how things go, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, beaming. “Let’s see how everything works out.” He stood, smoothing the front of his shirt. “You coming?”
“Where?”
“I fancy a little walk in the woods,” he said. “Besides, we’ve got some unfinished business.”
“We have?”
“Yeah, we never finished that game of tag when we were seven. You fell and bloodied your knee while I was chasing you, and you went home to get a plaster.”
“I remember,” she said, laughing. She downed the end of her drink.
“Well, there’s something else you should know,” said Peter. He patted her gently on the shoulder. “You’re ‘it’.”
He legged it for the door.
“You bugger,” she said, rushing after him into the night.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First of all, I’d like to thank all the readers who picked up and supported Wychwood, the first novel in this series about Ellie and Peter. I can’t tell you how much your support has meant.
Likewise all the bloggers and reviewers who supported the blog tour and helped to get people talking about the book. It made a real difference.
This time around, I owe a debt of gratitude to my editors Cat Camacho and Joanna Harwood for their encouragement and support, and to my agent, Jane Willis, for being a constant rock.
Cavan Scott remained a steadfast friend throughout, helping me to bounce around ideas and encouraging me to push on when it still looked like I had a mountain to climb.
Finally, my thanks go out to my family, who are never less than extraordinary in their support and love.
Until next time, folks!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George Mann was born in Darlington and has written numerous books, short stories, novellas and original audio scripts. The Affinity Bridge, the first novel in his Newbury & Hobbes Victorian fantasy series, was published in 2008. Other titles in the series include The Osiris Ritual, The Executioner’s Heart, The Immorality Engine and The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes.
His other novels include Ghosts of Manhattan, Ghosts of War, Ghosts of Karnak and Ghosts of Empire, mystery novels about a vigilante set against the backdrop of a post-steampunk 1920s New York, as well as an original Doctor Who novel, Paradox Lost, featuring the Eleventh Doctor alongside his companions, Amy and Rory.
He has edited a number of anthologies, including Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Associates of Sherlock Holmes and the forthcoming Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes, The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy, and has written two Sherlock Holmes novels for Titan Books: Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead and Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box.
