Elspeth the dairy maid, Mrs Fraser from Balniel, and Mrs Muirhead had resigned their memberships exactly when one would have expected they might – immediately after the meetings which had ended so horribly for each of them – but I noted as I was copying this down that although there were other fallings away – a Mrs Gow, two Misses Morton and a Mrs and Miss Martineau – none of these had left after the July or September gatherings and so did not seem likely to be the missing victims. Besides, surely a Mrs and Miss Martineau must be mother and daughter, must live at the same address and must therefore have walked home together and kept one another safe. The same had to be true of the Miss Mortons, or at least it would be easy enough to find out. Mrs Gow was certainly worth a visit, even though it was the August meeting which had seen her off, after which it had been Mrs Fraser of Balniel who had succumbed to the stranger and sent him packing with her deserving goodness and her prayers.
So much for the droppers-off. As for the joiners-in, a Mrs Torrance had come along for the first time in June; the Howies – famously – had turned up in July to witness whatever cataclysm the preacher’s wife had unleashed on the gathering and how I wished I knew! Mrs Hemingborough had finally fallen into step only in time for the meeting in September, which was rather hard luck when one considered that it was after the very next get-together, in October, that she was ravaged in the lane. September, in fact, showed rather a flurry as Mrs McAdam also had her first experience of the Rural meeting and Mrs Palmer, Elspeth McConechie’s mistress, too.
A very fruitful exercise, I concluded rather smugly to myself, tucking my notebook into my pocket, and now I should tidy the papers back into their box and be on my way. Instead, however, I continued to leaf through the pages in the file, mostly rather dreary official communications from the grandly titled Federation Headquarters or else carbon copies of earlier talks, which made my heart sink: I was no more able to pound out my talk in triplicate upon a type-writing machine, than I was able to dream up anything to say. Towards the bottom, things got marginally more interesting again, with photographed displays of handicrafts and recipes copied out in handwriting upon decorated cards. One of these, I noted, was for a concoction called Boiled Dressing (to be used in place of salad oil) and its long list of ingredients began with flour, vinegar and hot sour milk. I shuddered, praying that Mrs Tilling would never come across such a thing, and quickly turned it face down.
I was nearly at the bottom now, just a page or two to go and then something lumpy underneath. The very last sheet of paper bore some sketches in watercolour, rather nicely done, and since the notes which accompanied them were in Miss Lindsay’s writing I surmised that the painting was her handiwork too. I stared at the sheet and my heart began to bang so hard in my chest that I was sure I could hear it and glanced down at Bunty to see if she could hear it too. All of the pictures were of a heart shape or a pair of hearts entwined, some with a banner across them, some with crowns above them: in short they were sketches of the jewel that Lorna Tait, Miss McCallum and Miss Lindsay herself wore as brooches, that Nicolette and Vashti Howie – to Miss McCallum’s disapproval – had rendered in crochet-work for themselves. What was causing my heart to bang so painfully under my ribs, however, was not the sketches but the title, emblazoned across the top of the page in an extravagant copperplate with illuminated capitals and curlicued underlining. The Witch’s Heart, it said.
I lifted the sheet out of the box and reached for the final item – the heavy, irregular shape I had felt – sure that I knew what I should find. It was a roll of stiff leatherette tied with a strap, something like a needle case, which creaked and crackled impossibly loudly as I opened it. I looked warily at the door and then again at Bunty, knowing that if footsteps were approaching even from a distance she would have an ear cocked by now.
When the last fold of squeaking leatherette was released, I gazed down at what lay before me. It was set out like a travelling salesman’s display case, which was fairly close to the truth, and the sales had been going rather well. Quite half of the little loops were empty with only a couple of pinpricks on each to show where the pins had been pushed through when the roll was full. There were still plenty left though, done in blue enamel, with some white and some gold; row after row of witch’s hearts waiting for takers.
My fingers steady, although my heart continued to imitate a carpet beater, I folded the roll up again, tied the strap, and carefully replaced the pile of photographs, recipes, and documents on top. Then I closed the lid, wound the tape tightly around the fastening and pushed the file to the middle of the table. I was still regarding it, trying to digest what I had just seen, when the handle of the sitting-room door turned and the door itself swung towards me. I shrieked and shot out of my chair, joined by Bunty, who sprang up half in response to my shriek and half just in the normal way of things whenever a door was opened. Miss Lindsay, for of course it was she, gave a small squeak of her own and leapt backwards before we both laughed, apologised, flushed a little and busied ourselves with the hair-patting and hem-straightening which always ensues when one has made a chump of oneself or, in Miss Lindsay’s case, witnessed a near stranger doing so.
I thanked her profusely for letting me see the register, apologised for making so free with her sitting room as to drowse by the fire long after I had finished and, grabbing Bunty, made an undignified exit. My head, owing to holding onto a dog collar and to a desire for invisibility, was down and so I could not help but see a glint of sunshine off the enamelled hearts and crown points on the brooch pinned to Miss Lindsay’s black serge lapel.
Outside, before I had even passed beyond the schoolyard railings, certainly before I had begun to think calmly about what any of this might mean, I was hailed in hearty tones and I turned to see Miss McCallum stumping up the lane from the ford in stout walking shoes and a capacious hairy coat, like an Afghan.
‘Beautiful morning, Mrs Gilver,’ she cried. Bunty waggled her entire rear end and whined. She adores people who speak very loudly.
‘Oh, quite. Indeed. Where have you been? Is the post office not open today?’ I gabbled. I have noticed more than once a tendency in myself to turn waspish when flustered.
‘It’s not quite time yet,’ said Miss McCallum. ‘I always try to get out for a good long tramp on dry days before opening time.’
‘Jolly good for you,’ I said, trying to sound a bit friendlier and succeeding only in patronising her, I fear. ‘Rather cold this morning though, wasn’t it?’
Miss McCallum put her hands on her hips and straddled her legs, looking like a little round principal boy. ‘Not once you get your pace up,’ she said. ‘I’m as warm as anything under here now.’ And to prove it she undid the bone toggles on her coat and threw it open to reveal her grey flannel postmistress’s dress underneath. There it was, on the breast pocket, glittering in the sun. I am afraid I did not manage to stop my eyes flashing when I saw it and Miss McCallum looked down, squashing her many chins against her chest as she peered at it.
‘Admiring my brooch?’ she said. I nodded, dumbly.
‘It’s your SWRI badge, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Now it is,’ said Miss McCallum, ‘but it’s been around a fair bit longer than the Rural, believe you me.’ She gave me a broad smile and with a look towards the church clock, she scuttled off, her boots thumping.
Could this be real? Three of the leading lights of the Luckenlaw Rural emblazoned with the secret symbol of a witch’s heart. But had not Lorna Tait said that her brooch came from her mother? A minister’s wife? What did any of it mean? I headed down the lane, meaning to walk on just long enough to give Miss McCallum time to get to the post office before I retraced my steps, but when I stopped and turned, Bunty refused to follow.
‘Come on, darling,’ I cajoled, in that way that turns Hugh purple with rage. Bunty ignored me. She was standing stock still in the middle of the lane, with her ears pricked and her tail wagging.
‘Come on,’ I said rather more sharply. ‘
I don’t care how many R-A-B-B-I-Ts you smell.’ She wagged her tail even harder at me; Bunty knows how to spell ‘rabbit’ very well. ‘Heel,’ I said. ‘Now.’ She paid no heed and, looking closely at her, I began to think it could not be rabbits after all. Her nose was not twitching; she was listening to something. I put my head on one side and listened too. Very faintly, from down by the ford, the sound of whistling could be heard, but Bunty is not usually so very interested in whistling. I listened again. It grew slightly louder as though the whistler had come closer – come outside, perhaps – and then it broke off as he coughed a luxurious and rather disgusting morning cough.
Bunty yelped and before I could stop her she raced off down the hill into the trees, her paws thundering, more like a greyhound at a track than a carriage dog of impeccable breeding.
‘Stop this instant!’ I bellowed. ‘Bunty! Bad dog! Come to heel now!’ but I sprinted off after her, knowing that the commands alone would achieve nothing. Down here the frost was as thick as midnight, since no sun ever shone to melt it, and it was frost over moss which is a uniquely treacherous combination down which to sprint in polite shoes, so it was no surprise to find myself skidding, bumping down onto my behind and finishing the journey to the ford in a long, graceful slide.
Bunty had jumped the stream and was in Ford Cottage garden, wriggling with delight, and threatening to knock over an easel and some water pots set up there, as she submitted to having her ears tickled by a young man in a pink canvas smock and a silk neck scarf, wearing a soft grey hat stuck with a peacock feather. This feather waved flamboyantly as he crouched over Bunty, kissing her head and letting her lick his face joyously. I shuddered. Much as I adore Bunty, I should never let her lick my face. Hardly anyone would; in fact only one person in her acquaintance ever did. I exclaimed and he looked up at last.
‘Dr Watson, I presume,’ I said drily. ‘Or – sorry – it was Captain Watson, wasn’t it?’
‘My dear Holmes,’ said Alec, wiping his face with a handkerchief and walking towards the little footbridge. ‘What an entrance, Dan. Let me help you up.’
12
‘And actually, I’m very glad to see you,’ I told Alec, when we were ensconced in the damp little kitchen-living room of Ford Cottage, watching my coat steam gently over a rack in front of the stove. ‘I hope that coat doesn’t pucker or Grant will go into mourning until Christmas. And thank goodness my shoes escaped unscathed.’
‘It’s coming to something when you’re thankful your shoes survived, given that your legs didn’t,’ said Alec. He was rummaging in a wooden box with a red cross on the top which he had found under the sink. ‘Usual useless rubbish,’ he said. ‘An eye bath and a sling, but no sticking plaster or aspirin.’
‘I don’t need any,’ I told him. ‘Grant’s view is that cuts heal and bones mend, but when shoes and clothes are wounded they never get better again.’
‘Grant’s view has been warped by repeated inhalation of benzene, I think,’ said Alec. ‘And of course you’re glad to see me. I knew you would have come to your senses and realised I was right.’
I forbore from telling him that this realisation had dawned as recently as the evening before and had come to me by way of a chance remark of Lorna’s rather than springing from any native intelligence of my own. ‘So, you’re going to track down suspects and check alibis?’ I said.
‘Beginning with this queer young farmer,’ Alec said. I was shaking my head before he had finished.
‘I think I might have cleared up that angle,’ I said. ‘Well, nearly.’ And quickly I related the events of the evening before. ‘So you see,’ I concluded, ‘it’s probably no more than prejudice and envy that’s been arousing suspicions. Even Sergeant Doolan can see that walking around in the evenings is no crime.’
‘Fishy, though,’ said Alec. ‘And you say there was something troubling Molly? More than the natural feelings of a respectable girl upon finding herself mixed up with the police?’
‘Yes,’ I said, trying once again, and failing, to put my finger on it. ‘And although I wouldn’t like to say Molly is not respectable, I’d be surprised if she went in for quite those sorts of feelings as a rule. It can’t have been that that was bothering her.’
‘Well, I think I’ll definitely have a good close look at Jock Christie, then,’ said Alec. ‘Set up my easel somewhere on his land and hope to distract him from his ploughing as he passes. If he really does walk about at night it shouldn’t be hard to get him talking about landscape and moonlight and . . .’ Alec waved his hand with expressive vagueness.
‘If that’s your angle, the best of luck to you,’ I said. ‘It might work on young Christie but I can’t see it going down well with the more established farmers. And can you even paint?’ I asked. I had never heard of it, if he could.
‘I’m very modern,’ said Alec austerely. ‘In other words: no.’
‘You don’t look modern,’ I said, eyeing the smock and scarf. The hat with its feather lay on the table, but I could now see more clearly the rest of Alec’s get-up and it was astounding. ‘You look like Toulouse Lautrec. Where on earth did you get the boots and the britches?’
‘The cavalry boots are mine,’ said Alec. ‘But I concede to you on the britches. They came from a dressing-up box I found in the attics at Dunelgar. Quite something when combined with a smock, eh?’
‘But since you are here,’ I said, still half convinced that his entire disguise, not to mention the expense of the cottage rent, was a waste of effort, ‘at least you can listen and help me straighten some of it out, because my head is absolutely spinning, even without the trip to the jail cell last night.’ Quickly, I told him Molly’s tale, the woes of the expectant Mrs Muirhead, and all about the Miss Mortons, the Martineaus and Mrs Gow, still to be tracked down. ‘But that,’ I concluded, ‘pales into transparency beside what I found this morning. Or what I might have found anyway, although it’s so preposterous and so unlikely . . .’
‘Save the preposterous and unlikely for now, Dan,’ said Alec. ‘I want to hear about things properly. Go back to the start and take your time. First, Molly. Any smell reported? Any other clues?’
‘Well, horribly enough what she told me seemed rather to suggest that you were right,’ I said generously. ‘About things turning nastier, I mean. The stranger made a very determined effort at Molly’s virtue, far beyond the nipping and pinching I’ve heard about from elsewhere, and he smelled, on that particular evening, of whisky.’
‘Rather run of the mill, smelling of whisky, compared with his other chosen colognes,’ said Alec.
‘Indeed. Beyond that, Molly added nothing, except to say that for once, that night, the stranger was behind . . . what was it, now? Oh, some kind of coal shed or something, rather than flitting across the fields.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Alec. ‘Why would he hide and jump out that one month in particular? I’ll bet he was back to his usual routine in June.’
‘He was,’ I said. ‘He flitted down the lane to Mrs Muirhead and smelled, she told me, of smoke.’
‘And I’ll bet he didn’t do anything more than his signature “pinching” either.’
‘True.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Alec. ‘Molly’s embellishing, I’d say. I’ve never seen the girl, but does she strike you as the type who might embellish for dramatic ends?’
‘Possibly,’ I said, ‘but why, if she wasn’t going to be strictly truthful, would she make up something so nasty?’
‘Nasty?’ said Alec. ‘Read your notes again.’
‘“He was pinning me down,”’ I read. ‘“I kicked him, hard. And gave him a good smack on the head. Then I kicked him again, in the stomach and he got up and ran away.” How you can call that anything but nasty beats me.’
‘Quite simply because, my dear Dandy, it’s a tale of immense heroism on the part of Molly, intended to put her in the best possible light. Or it would be but for the fact that it didn’t happen. Modesty prevent
s us from actually trying it out, but just think: if someone is lying on top of you, you might be able to smack his head, but could you kick him? Could you kick him in the stomach? And I bet that explains the whisky too. He wasn’t actually close enough for long enough for her to smell anything, so when you asked her she made up the answer – said he smelled the way she imagined he would.’ He shook his head at me pityingly. ‘And you told me you didn’t need me here,’ he said. ‘You’ve quite clearly got hopelessly tangled in all the gossip and horrors at that Rural meeting and—’
‘Well, just listen to the latest – horrors, that is; not gossip – and then tell me if you wouldn’t have got tangled in it too.’
‘What is it?’ Alec said.
‘It’s what I was going to tell you; what I was bursting to tell you before you bullied me into giving a report, like a sergeant-major. And it’s about the SWRI as it happens. The Rural is absolutely germane to all of these goings-on, for a reason that explains far better than any disapproval of “gadding about” why some upstanding member of the parish might want to scare them.’
‘Oh, get on with it,’ said Alec.
‘I think they – the Rural ladies – are dabbling.’
‘In what?’ he asked, not having been brought up on Nanny Palmer’s euphemisms as I had.
‘In the occult. I think they are dabbling, my dear Alec, in witchcraft.’
There was a long silence; long enough for Bunty to wrinkle up her brows and look at each of us to see what was going on.
‘Dandy, my darling, from where I stood it looked as though you fell on your bottom, but perhaps you should check for bumps on the head.’
‘They have a badge with coded symbols,’ I told him, ‘and its name is the witch’s heart. I just found a stock of them at Miss Lindsay’s, along with the key to its meaning. She wears one, as does Miss McCallum and countless others. There are four points to the crown and four – as everyone knows – is a terribly unlucky number.’
Bury Her Deep Page 18
