by Jason Foss
An eerie creeping sensation made Flint shudder on impulse. He knew the perfect girl for the role of The Maiden.
‘There are other titles, other roles depending on the strand the coven follows.’ Once Gratz was in full narrational flow, he was unstoppable. As he talked on, a cup of herbal tea was served by the woman in the green turban, who never spoke and was never introduced.
‘So how do I catch them?’ Flint asked when the tea cups had been emptied.
‘Identify their members, or identify their meeting place. If they are a large coven and feel secure they may chance to meet at an ancient site.’
‘A megalith?’
‘Yes. It always strikes me as being terribly melodramatic, but I suppose that fact helps the magic. Now, the next major Celtic festival is Lugnasadh, which is August Eve. As it is the festival of gathering, one might expect them to assemble in an agricultural region.’
‘It’s a sort of harvest festival,’ Flint stated.
‘Precisely. It’s the harvest festival. The C of E have simply added a few hymns.’
On the far wall, a dark oak bookshelf carried a range of hardbacks which would have cheered Piers Plant’s heart. Gratz picked off one book and passed it to Flint with a degree of pride. Published by an obscure press, Occult and the Wise by Professor L. K. Gratz retailed at six pounds ninety-five pence. Plenty of copies, at least a dozen, peeked from a Victorian dresser and Jeffrey Flint thought it politic to buy one before he left.
‘Six ninety-five?’ He handed over seven pounds.
Gratz kept the five pence and came to the door to see Flint out, ‘If you find out anything, I’m always keen to know.-
‘I imagine you’ll read it in the papers.’
‘But what do the papers know?’ He had a twinkle in his eye.
Flint halted and turned to him. ‘You do believe, don’t you?’
‘Believe?’
‘All this talk of being a sceptic; you believe there is something behind all this nonsense.’
‘I think we all need to believe there is something else, something beyond our comprehension.’
‘But I’m a scientist. I believe everything can be deduced given the evidence.’
‘Yes, I thought you were very calm,’ Gratz’s voice had acquired a strange tinge, ‘you show no fear.’
What was Gratz getting at? ‘I don’t understand,’ said Flint.
‘Are you familiar with the concept of a guardian angel? Well, the opposite can exist too. Beware the Horned Man, Doctor Flint.’
‘Now you’re being mystical.’
‘No, practical. I am a sceptic, I investigate, I expose, but I know when to keep my head clear of danger. These people you are investigating could not do the things you describe and expect to get away with them. They may be more than just a handful of harmless Earth-worshippers. They may be dangerous and you may not know how dangerous until it is too late. Just be careful, Doctor Flint.’
Chapter 13
Kingshaven Council and the County Museums Service held a joint enquiry into the museum fire, and both Flint and Tyrone were asked to attend. Chief Inspector Douglas was satisfied that arson was the cause and Piers Plant MA, ‘Acting under motives not ascertained’, was the suspect.
The four almost trapped in the museum were questioned closely and suspiciously. If their motives for the museum raid sounded perverse, the antics in the ethno gallery were almost farcical. Dumb awe greeted Flint’s description of how they had been locked in.
Jeffrey Flint was acquainted with one of the panel, the earring-decked, crop-haired Sebastian Leigh, who had risen to a senior position in the County Museums Service. Once the panel had wound up its business, Leigh was persuaded to take a quiet cup of tea in Auntie Joyce’s Tea Shoppe, and over a buttered scone was induced to talk. Poor George Carlyle was being disciplined for infringing various rules on the night of the fire and Flint wanted to plead his case. Vikki had left to cover a union dispute at the container port, but conversation inevitably turned to Lucy.
‘I assume you know that she applied for a job with us,’ Leigh said, his public-school manner always grating against Flint’s leveller instincts. ‘Piers wanted an assistant, to replace the one who resigned when he couldn’t take it.’
‘When would that be?’
‘A good two years ago. As I was saying, when this guy resigned, the post was frozen because of the cuts. Piers whinged about needing a replacement, but the answer was always no way. When Lucy wrote and asked for a job, I knew they were involved, so it stank too much of nepotism to me. When the post is unfrozen and we can appoint an Assistant Curator for that fleabag museum, we will do it properly and advertise. Even then, they need a botanist or a zoologist not another folklore freak. We made the same mistake before, when old Mr Ellsworthy demanded to have Piers as his assistant. Ellsworthy was raving mad too.’
Of course, Flint realised, that secret room of Plant’s had been there for decades; he had inherited it rather than built it himself. This saga obviously tailed back deep into the past.
Leigh went on to cover old ground, with tales of Plant’s macabre obsessions and Lucy’s eccentric behaviour. ‘I wondered what was going on between the two of them, and now we know.’
‘We do?’
‘It’s obvious,’ he sneered. ‘She was always a bit of a tart,’ Leigh said, hands itching over his tobacco pouch.
‘As I recall, you used rather like buxom blondes,’ Flint said, hiding his anger at the denigration of his student.
Leigh twitched at the subtle riposte. ‘I met Lucy at a few Dark Ants meetings. She was always the most beautiful person in the room, so full of herself and the way the old men would drool after her. Untouchable, of course. She was an arrogant snob.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Look, I’ve another appointment, can I leave this with you?’
‘Sure, we’re off to do some megalith-bashing.’
‘Great.’ Leigh rose to leave. ‘Good to see you, Jeff.’
Tyrone watched the receding back, then rolled up his nose. ‘What a turd; Lucy was never that bad.’
Flint examined the bill. ‘I suppose it depends how much you fancied her and how many times she told you to get knotted. “Tart” is way, way wide of the mark; wrong, unfair, but she clearly stirred the emotions.’
He paid the bill with Barbara’s money, then student and lecturer walked back through the old centre of Kingshaven, intent on looking into a couple of antiquarian bookshops on the way to the car. Down a narrow passageway opposite the Tea Shoppe lay a green-fronted health food shop. Flint went inside, Tyrone made some joke about rabbit food and stayed outside.
Odours pierced his nostrils as the door was pushed open. Joss-sticks burned in a wire frame, whilst potpourri baskets lay open to catch the tourists. At floor level were ranged tubs of wholefood and sacks of pulses. Above where the owner sat knitting a winter-weight Arran, a row of sweetie jars had been recycled to hold herbal teas. The music was ethereal and the atmosphere mellow. The platinum-haired woman turned a creased smile his way.
‘Can I help?’
Flint bounced on his ankles, surveying the wares. ‘An ounce of Breakfast Apple, please.’
As he watched her take down the jar and measure out the tea, he remembered something that Vikki had said about teas. She had come here asking questions.
‘Would you know the museum curator?’ Flint asked on impulse.
Something in his suspicious nature expected a flat denial; instead, he was presented with a packet of tea.
‘Mr Plant, yes, he used to come in here all the time.’
‘Seen him lately?’ Just a hint of apology was behind his enquiry.
‘Not since his disappearance.’ She gave half a laugh. ‘Are you looking for him too?’
‘In a way.’
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’
‘Excuse me; I’ve been watching too many black and white thrillers lately, I’m expecting to find clues everywhere.’
‘You’re the man in the
paper, the sociologist.’ Her pale green eyes met his.
‘Archaeologist.’
‘It must be fascinating.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Eighty pence.’
The pound slid across the counter. Flint fought against déjà vu, but he was sure he recognised the woman. ‘Excuse me, but were you at Glastonbury?’
‘Yes I was,’ she raised a finger, ‘and so were you – at the poetry reading.’
‘R. Temple-Brooke.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asked.
Flint found he liked something in her wholesome warmth. Perhaps it was the alluring odours of the shop or the lilting tones of the New Age pipes playing from a quiet cassette.
‘It was different. I was there chasing curators – it’s become an obsession of mine.’
She frowned. ‘Obsessions burn the heart. You are clearly not a born policeman.’
‘No, I certainly am not.’
‘So where are you digging?’ Her face was still stocked with polite shopkeeper interest, she folded her arms and tilted her head to listen.
‘Nowhere. No, that’s not true: Hertfordshire, next month.’
‘St Albans?’
‘No, Burkes Warren. It’s a Roman villa.’
‘I’ve got friends up there, I might just pop by. I always wanted to see a real dig, it must be totally absorbing.’
‘Please come. Everyone and his grandmother normally drops in to see us, stops us getting lonely up there. Bring some tea.’
‘I will.’
‘Better go, I’m off to stomp around a few megaliths. More clue-hunting, I’m afraid. Thanks for the tea.’
‘Come again.’
He left the perfumed air and went back on to the cobbled street. Flint felt better for the interlude. Red herrings and wild hunches were turning him into an enquiry nut.
*
Covering the dockers’ dispute put Vikki in a bad mood. Why were union leaders so thick? Why were trained lizards always employed as management spokesmen? She pondered what she could make of the fire inquest, and decided it held no scope beyond bland repetition of the facts. A little grin came to her face, thinking her colleagues would welcome something bland. Her barrage of shock headlines had brought overnight prominence not welcomed by the time-serving veterans. She had even been accused of manufacturing news.
She worked into the evening preparing a background piece on that dispute. Self-catering demanded too much organisation, so she ate supper in the reporters’ local, fending off Virile Vince whilst working through gammon and chips. Heading home, happy at last to be alone, she parked her Metro, cursing the owner of the blue van who always parked in front of her nineteen-thirties semi. Each house was much like the next, built before cars for the masses were thought of, so built without space for drives.
Her back door lay beyond a brick archway. Vikki opened the black iron gate and a finger-full of rust again reminded her it needed repainting. A fingertip ran around the key ring looking for the Yale as she went under the brick arch. It was dark; she should really get a porch light.
She was falling, she threw out her hands, then for a moment, the world blinked out of existence. Her head – something had struck her head!
And again.
Vikki felt her elbow strike concrete, the impact overwhelmed by the pain bursting into the back of her head. Dizzy blood clouded her sight. Hot and heavy hands clasped her ears and hair and drove her face down into the concrete. For a moment, Vikki lost contact with reality, all she could hear was a coarse voice snapping out threats and warnings.
The voice thumped around her mind as she rolled on to her back and focused on a slit of dark blue sky. Feet echoed away down the street. Dazed and sobbing she sat up slowly, feeling for parts to rub and to mop. Her handbag had gone; at least it had been robbery, not rape. Keys dug into her hand.
Vikki opened her door and slammed it behind her. Safe, for a few moments. Her pulse stayed high, blood trickled down her cheek and mixed with the tears. She spat out two dozen choice obscenities and snapped on the light. Her mind searched for culprits. His voice had been gruff, uneducated. She remembered the smell of tobacco, sweat and drink. Had she offended a docker? It could not have been the effete Piers Plant.
She shivered with shock, trying to remember where her telephone was. She’d call an ambulance and get herself checked over. Then, whilst waiting, she would go to the bathroom and would wash away the pain. Only when she felt safe, clean and warm, when her thoughts were her own again, only then would she phone Chief Inspector Douglas and give him a hard time.
*
Harriet’s Stone, Devil’s Ring, South Barn A, White Ring, Yarleys, Bramton West. Jeffrey Flint was dreaming of megaliths, a dozen of them, cold and proud in hissing summer lawns. Feet clumped above his head. Feet on the deck of the houseboat?
Flint yawned and rolled over. He was alone and momentarily thought of Chrissie Collings. It had never really worked, not from the start. He’d have that inscribed on his tombstone. No alternative remained but for him to regress back to the bad old days of chat-up lines and one-night stands. Bachelor-land could be a gross place.
He turned his watch the right side up. Seven thirty, no lectures, much too early to stir. The boat moved almost imperceptibly, as if it were suddenly lighter. His pulse rate advanced just a notch and he looked out of a porthole to riverside. Tourist boats sometimes chose him as a mooring point, but not that morning. Irritated, he put on his glasses, then slipped out of bed and covered his naked body with an old blue towelling robe. Barefoot, he padded through the galley to the door.
Outside, early morning at the Lock was brilliant, blue and quiet. There was the ever-present London traffic hum, but for a few moments, Flint stood on the deck, enjoying for once seeing the world at that side of nine a.m.
His mailbox lid was part-closed, its mouth choked by a packet too large to fit. It was too early for the postman, Flint realised as he cradled the brown paper parcel. He examined it in detail; the wrapping reminding him of a certain chicken’s head. Yes, the parcel had been posted in south London.
He checked the quayside and the other boats. One girl was cycling past, but no one else was about. He went back into the cabin, and set the parcel down on the bed. Leaving it whilst he pondered the subject, he lit the gas stove and put a kettle on.
‘Right, what nasties have we here?’ he murmured, then thought of the police. Would they be interested? Douglas might, just possibly, if he hit him over the head a few times with it.
The parcel was the size of a shoe-box, wrapped in brown paper and weighed about a kilo. It had a generous allowance of stamps, surely first class, but was post-marked five days before. Footsteps on the deck came to mind. Could it have been an early, enthusiastic postman making up for the delayed parcel, or someone more sinister? If the latter, why waste money on stamps?
His address had been typed on to an adhesive label much too large for its purpose. He began to pick it off and within moments, had an answer. Just beneath the label, an area of the brown paper had been cut away. The package had been posted, delivered, reopened, the address removed and his address added. The bizarre act only made sense if the parcel now contained something that wouldn’t travel through the post, but had to appear to have done just that, so that he would open it. He sniffed, expecting offal or excrement, but a tart smell came to his nose. Mothballs, naphthalene and firelighters came to mind.
‘Not on your life, mate!’ Flint backed away from the parcel, unsure what to do. He could take it onto the quayside, throw it in the water, or he could leave it on the bed and phone the police.
Perhaps ten minutes had passed since he first awoke. The kettle emitted a high whistle and he stepped into the galley to silence it. He had decided to take the package onto the shore, then call the police. Moving back into the cabin, he reached for the parcel, then stopped as the outer paper began to turn a deeper shade of brown. Mesmerised, he watched as brown turned to black, then to blue. Th
e package burst into flame.
An infernal curse, a hex on his meddling! Romantic terror struck him, as an incendiary bomb, the anarchists’ plaything, burned into the sheets. After a few seconds’ confusion, he grabbed at them, dragging them to the door, but scattering the contents of the spitting package over the houseboat floor. He jerked the burning bedclothes out of the door and yelled a pathetic ‘Fire!’ as he turned them overboard.
Back inside, a curtain was ablaze and naphtha cubes were fizzing all over the cabin. He grabbed the kettle and threw boiling water at the nearest threats, then remembered the extinguisher.
As he scrabbled beneath the sink, smoke reached his nostrils. Out came the extinguisher, off came the cap, then he paused to cough away the smoke. Out came the pin, up went the nozzle. Plywood was beginning to peel around the burning curtain as he took aim at the seat of the fire. A cloud of snowflakes burst into the room with a roar, then Flint backed out of the galley door.
A vest-clad neighbour was staring at him with mouth agape.
‘Fire!’ Flint repeated, then chanced to put his head back into the cabin. Taking a few lungful’s of air, he made a sortie into the galley, exhausting the extinguisher towards what would have been the root of the fire. Smoke continued to pour past him as he retreated for air. Then he remembered the propane cylinders beneath the gas stove and retreated to the shore. For the second time in a month, a group of onlookers gathered to watch Jeffrey Flint rub smoke from his eyes.
His reflex action had saved the houseboat. Flint sat on a bollard in his bath wrap and a pair of borrowed trousers watching firemen finish off the work he had begun. After two hours, he was admitted back on board to see what remained of his possessions. His bedding was gone, his clothes in the under-bed locker, a couple of posters and a clock were lost. Most of his books were in his office, his CD player was safe, but his Dylan LPs had been splashed with sooty water. The taped cassettes of the Bogart season seemed to be okay, the television and video had been flooded, but both were second-hand and needed replacing anyway. His thoughts turned to hassle with insurance companies and the landlord.
