Darkness Rises

by Jason Foss

  ‘Except no gingerbread and candies,’ Flint quipped.

  Amelia Winter’s cottage stared at them square-on, with a couple of rundown outbuildings to either side. The manner in which the tree tops opened out suggested that fields lay beyond.

  ‘The goats are round the other side,’ Vikki said.

  ‘Ugly short-haired things?’

  ‘They’re horrible; all brown and black, not proper goat colour, if you follow me.’

  ‘Sounds right.’

  A dog barked again from within the cottage, but no human seemed to respond to the warning. An old water tank provided cover.

  ‘Ready?’ Vikki asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We could sneak round the side,’ she gesticulated right, ‘then we can have a good look first.’

  Flint wondered about Amelia Winter; what sort of person she could be, who she had hired to look after her farm for the summer and how the unknown person would react to people skulking around the yard.

  Vikki mistook his hesitation for fear. ‘Come on then, chicken!’

  She was off, scuttling around towards the nearest outbuilding. After a few moments, Flint sprinted after her, making quickly for a blind spot around the corner of a long wooden shed. Vikki halted with her back to the rotting timber, panting. He scowled at her. ‘Stop pissing about, this is not a game!’

  Vikki glared back at him, then stuck out her tongue by way of reply. His heartbeat pulsing with anticipation, Flint put a hand into the door of the shed and opened it a few inches. Inside was a car, the green Skoda which belonged to the curator. Its front nearside tyre was flat and whilst he dwelled on the significance, Vikki came to his side.

  ‘He’s here,’ she whispered. ‘It’s time for that interview. And don’t try to stop me, Granddad.’

  ‘Vikki.’

  Without waiting, she darted around the corner and across to the cottage, with Flint in her wake trying to grab her elbow. He caught her just as she reached a small square window in the side of the building. She came to a reluctant halt.

  ‘Bully.’

  He chanced a glance through the window. The contrast between dazzling sunlit whitewash and shadowed interior was blinding, but his eyes made out a small dingy kitchen, a clock and a leg. He released Vikki’s arm.

  ‘Ow.’ She shook the offended arm.

  He hushed her and she looked puzzled, before she too allowed herself a long look through the window. ‘There’s someone lying on the floor,’ she whispered.

  A fly thumped against the inner window, then another. Moving on the balls of his feet, Flint cautiously advanced around the back of the building. It was L-shaped, with a scullery or dairy tacked on to the rear. Lime-wash cracked in the sun, grass grew in the gutters and the whole place seemed very rundown.

  A dog began to bark wildly in the rear of the house. At any moment an irate Rottweiler, or an unstable museum curator was going to burst from hiding and punish their daring. Flint reached the corner of the extension, realising that Vikki was gripping his hand, or vice versa.

  They edged around the third corner, to view the back of the house. Only the dog still challenged them. Vikki released her hand from the archaeologist’s and tried the scullery door. It opened to reveal clothes soaking in a basin of cold water. A stale slaughterhouse smell pervaded the room, becoming stronger as Flint followed Vikki inward. The dog had fallen silent.

  Slowly, Vikki opened the door from the scullery into the main body of the house. Squadrons of flies flooded out, and a putrid stench assaulted the senses. Batting away the vile, buzzing creatures, Flint was hardly aware of the rattle of claws on a tile floor. Frothing and barking, the Labrador threw itself at Vikki. She fell back against the wall, hitting out wildly with feeble slaps. Flint grabbed for the collar, yanked the dog away and was immediately bitten on his right hand. Forming fists, he hit out at the dog, punching, left, right, left, right. Its jaws snapped around the fist but couldn’t close. Flint retreated into the scullery, with the dog now gripped to his sleeve.

  Find a weapon, his primitive instincts urged.

  Flint’s uninjured hand grabbed at a tin washtub, pulling it down ineffectively against the dog’s flank. Swinging the tub with violence, he caught the dog on the head, causing it to yelp and step back. Grasping both tub handles, he charged the dog, using the tub as the Roman legionnaires used their heavy scutum to shunt the enemy backwards. The dog began to lose its grip on the floor, its legs scrabbled for a hold, it leaped up and was caught in mid-bound, falling back and out of the door into the yard. Flint slammed the door closed, leaving the dog outside, barking, and the intruders inside, panting and swearing.

  Man had defeated beast, but Flint felt the pain well up in his arm and his hands. Vikki needed his help before he saw to his wounds. She was standing rigid in the door to the kitchen amidst the reek of rotten flesh. Beyond, human remains lay on the tiles, half covered in swarming bluebottles. Most of the clothing had been torn from the body, leaving the visible skin blackened and putrid. The dog had been shut in the house for days, with the torso as the only source of food. Much of it was spread around the room.

  The expression on Vikki’s face said ‘I’m going to be sick’. Flint echoed the sensation. The room was unlit, dark, chaotic and appalling. The grandfather clock by the corpse was silent; time had stopped. For a moment, only the buzzing of gorged flies could be heard. Piers Plant, demon curator, lay in pieces. One of his arms was in the corner of the room where the dog’s basket lay. Other parts of his anatomy were strewn around the charnel house, mixed with dog excrement. Flint recognised the goatee on the semi-detached head. He looked away, and tried to find a focus for his stunned mind.

  The kitchen table was set for one. A stew pot sat in its centre, a bowl had been mostly finished. A teapot stood cold and a cup drained. Plant had eaten his last meal alone.

  No words were said as the two drifted around the room, taking in facts at random. A row of herb jars stood along Amelia Winter’s top shelf, a few books of quaint rural recipes lay on a dark oak sideboard. Over the blackened and cold kitchen range hung a shotgun and in the sideboard drawer lay a box of shells. Flint took down the gun and worked out how to load it, knocking away gluttonous flies as he broke the weapon. The abattoir lacked a telephone and at least one starved and manic dog stood between them and the sanity of Vikki’s car.

  ‘Find a few bags, can you?’ he asked.

  Vikki nodded through the handkerchief she held to her mouth.

  ‘The police will take this place to pieces, so we have to be smart. Just take a pinch of each of those herbs and we’ll need samples of the stew and the tea. Watch you don’t mess up fingerprints.’

  He found three zip-lock bags still stuffed into his jeans pockets and scooped up some of the stew, then dregs from the teapot, taking care not to leave fingerprints of his own. Fighting back nausea, Flint gathered up the samples he needed, but could endure no more than three or four minutes in the kitchen. Forcing himself to act, Flint left the cottage by the front door and walked into the centre of the yard. Animal lover, pacifist, sometime vegetarian, he stood awaiting the Labrador. When it appeared, snarling and rushing to do battle, he raised the shotgun and fired.

  The body of the dog was left in front of the cottage and Flint walked to the far side of the farmyard and sat down on a heap of firewood, shotgun on his knee. Vikki broke into a run, making for her car. Whilst he sat guard, she drove to the village and telephoned the police and a staff photographer.

  She returned within ten minutes, bringing a pair of local farmers and a first aid kit. Vikki and Flint dabbed and bandaged each other’s wounds. They were sitting in close contact when the first police car arrived after another ten minutes had elapsed. More cars followed, with officers of increasing rank wanting repeat statements. Douglas arrived within the hour, saying little before he had been treated to the chamber of horrors.

  The Chief Inspector came out of the house shaking his head, which seemed balder and greyer
than usual. Flint wondered if he ever wore a hat. The senior policeman looked at the archaeologist who was sitting on the logs, tugging at grass stalks with his good hand.

  Douglas leaned on the bonnet of his squad car, fumbling in his pocket. ‘When we last met, I asked you to keep out of my investigation.’

  ‘At least we found him.’ Flint had been deep-breathing to calm his nerves and clear away the nauseous odour.

  The policeman gave a harrumph and moved to light another cigarette. ‘This is a...’ He paused and tried his lighter again. ‘This is a horrible business you’re mixed up in, how long did you know Piers Plant was there?’

  ‘I didn’t, it was a lucky guess.’

  The policeman closed an eye. ‘Guess? People like you don’t guess.’

  Flint was in no mood for debate, fiddling with a bandage around the mauled hand.

  ‘Okay, it was the result of deductive thinking. Hypothesis plus evidence equals conclusion, New Archaeology applied to a modern problem.’

  He stopped bullshitting when Douglas began to discolour.

  ‘I’m not your enemy, Doctor Flint. Honest. We want to find your Lucy as much as you do.’

  ‘But you’re not doing anything.’

  ‘Wrong, Sherlock. We came here three weeks ago. Miss Winter said she knew nothing. We had a look round, found nothing.’

  ‘And you know where she is now?’

  ‘The Dordogne. She has an old penfriend, who invites her over for a month each year. She usually gets a lad from the village to look after her goats.’ Douglas appeared pleased with himself. ‘See, we’re not imbeciles. You don’t need five degrees to unravel a few basic facts.’

  ‘Amelia Winter is involved in the coven; we have proof now.’

  Douglas took a long drag then nodded. ‘We’ll have her for aiding a suspect in the arson case. We’ll be charging her when she returns.’

  Vikki strolled up, folding out her notepad. ‘Can I have a comment, Chief Inspector?’

  He straightened up, stamping out his stub in the grass.

  ‘Enquiries are continuing.’

  *

  Weary of the whole affair, Flint returned home to Jules’ flat. Jules was about to fly out to Turkey to join his wife and passed on an invitation for Flint to join him in September. The thought was very refreshing, but first came Burkes Warren, and before that, college. First thing on Monday morning, Flint took the pocketful of bags he had filled at the cottage and spread them out on to the work surface of the environmental lab.

  All white coat and black hair, Julia ‘Doc’ Savage fingered each in turn.

  ‘What are these?’ she asked, fiddling her huge glasses. ‘Let me guess; more vital evidence in your man-hunt?’

  ‘Food samples.’ Flint took out a fax sheet that had awaited him that morning. Vikki’s banner headline ‘WITCH COTTAGE DEATH RIDDLE’ explained it all.

  ‘Read this, but not over lunch.’

  Julia scanned down the page. ‘Yuk yuk yuk. This must have been awful.’

  Understatement. Flint had suffered appalling nightmares overnight and had hardly any sleep.

  ‘I know he wasn’t shot. The place was a mess, but that was the dog, I’m sure. My money is on poison, a natural poison.’

  ‘So you want me to test these?’

  ‘Scoop of soup, dregs from teapot. Pinch from half a dozen jars in her spice rack.’

  ‘Well, this isn’t a forensic lab, you know. I’m pretty busy, I’ve got to get up to Hexham by the weekend.’

  ‘Come on, Julia, you’re the only one left manning the boat.’

  ‘Really, Jeff, my work schedule is behind. I keep getting...’

  ‘Please?’ He gave his most appealing little-dog-begging expression.

  She looked at him, expressions part-masked, part-multiplied by the huge, thick lenses. ‘Okay, you win.’ She opened one packet, professional interest clearly rising. ‘Chromatography is your best bet, I’ll give it a go. Sasha is off in Turkey, so I’ll have to do it myself.’

  ‘You’re a heroine. Try a look under the microscope first. See if you can spot anything herbal — death cap mushroom, belladonna, anything of that sort.’

  ‘Real Agatha Christie stuff.’ She nodded with a wry smile.

  ‘More than real ­– too real.’

  ‘Well, I’ve spent the last four months identifying cereal grains from Scotland. I suppose it’s a change.’

  ‘Give me a pad and I’ll scribble a number for you. I’ll be at Burkes Warren for the next four weeks. It gives me a chance to do some real archaeology again, get me away from all this.’

  He needed a break, by all the ancient gods, he needed a break.

  Chapter 16

  Piers Plant lay cold on the Kingshaven mortuary slab and the trail of Lucy Gray lay equally cold. Forest Farm had been a dead end, the final burial place of Flint’s line of investigation. Piers Plant was the link to Lucy, now Piers was dead, with Douglas finding no evidence to implicate anyone else. Amelia Winter was returning to face questioning and there was no further role for the archaeologist. Vikki Corbett managed one last gruesome feature, then was left facing a summer of agricultural shows and church fêtes.

  Burkes Warren beckoned; the harvest was over and time was ripe for a raid into the past. Leaving the city behind, if not his cares, Flint made for Hertfordshire and a month in the country. The dig had been left in care of Stuart Shapstone, a reliable if unremarkable graduate of the previous year who had not yet found fulltime work. Life on the digging circuit was uncertain, but Burkes Warren offered him four weeks’ food, accommodation and pocket money.

  Stuart had begun the excavation as Flint remained embroiled in the affair of Forest Farm for a fair chunk of the first week’s digging. The site lay on the southern slope of a gently rolling hill, with the villa itself lying concealed towards one side of a large cornfield. The plan for the season was to work on the west wing of the villa, slowly peeling back the soil, grubbing up finds, teasing out the evidence. Finds of pottery, stone or iron would be placed in trays, then brought to the top of the field where a grey plywood caravan stood across the slope.

  Nightmares followed Flint to Hertfordshire. Plant was dead and the verdict of the newspapers was suicide. His motive was obviously Lucy, so Lucy too had to be lying dead, somewhere. The failure of the investigation to produce any tangible or positive result left Flint feeling cheated. He had outguessed Plant in the end, but Plant had broken the rules.

  Flint walked through the gate into the field, giving the nearest diggers a cheerful wave that was little more than a veneer. He experienced dizziness from delayed shock following the trauma of the bloated body at the farm. Sickening thoughts welled up each time his mind wandered on to the affair. Had he and Vikki not pressed the investigation so hard, perhaps the curator would still have been alive. Perhaps a different strategy might have resulted in Plant confessing what had happened to Lucy. Perhaps, if he had taken notice of Lucy’s drift towards the lunatic fringe, he could have saved her too.

  Stuart was shouting hello, several more diggers were stopping work to greet him. It was like wishing Schrodinger’s cat to be alive; events could not be reversed. He had to think positively, urge himself back into his chosen life and adopt a professional attitude to the task in hand.

  The weather had become more subdued as August progressed, the sun preferring to hide behind clouds. Pacing around the stubble of the cleared cornfield, Flint slowly relaxed and slowly reverted to type. Breezes blew across the hill, the sun burst on the scene for a few blazing minutes and he knew he was out in the field once more. The challenge of discovery occupied his thoughts, whilst the studied quiet of the digging team gradually calmed him. Few sounds penetrated the peace of the dig; a distant tractor, the occasional farm animal and the ever-present clink-clink of trowels. At intervals a volunteer would cry out a crude curse or tell a joke. Another would burst into song. After three days, even Jeffrey Flint found himself singing again.

  A sudden, unexpect
ed peak in his spirits came with the arrival of Vikki, unplanned and unannounced. In thigh-length puce T-shirt, black sunglasses and a heavy dose of bottle tan, she strode down from her car to the crest of the hill to where the command centre was situated in the lee of the caravan.

  ‘Vikki, I never expected to see you.’

  ‘I thought I’d just pop up and see how you were.’

  His heart started to increase its pumping. Here she was, vibrant, happy, bobbing up and down on the toes of her sandals, showing concern for his welfare. Masked as usual by an array of equipment, Vikki offered solace for physical and mental pain.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘How’s your arm?’

  He displayed the battle scars, flexing his fingers. ‘Fine really, and you?’

  She poked a trio of claw marks on her right arm. ‘Healing up.’

  With the anxiety of one seeking to impress, Flint took her downslope to where a pair of trenches meeting at right-angles occupied most attention.

  ‘The villa faces south, this is its west wing.’

  ‘There’s not much, is there?’ She stopped at the edge of the excavated area and peered into the shallow trench. ‘You know, I expected more, with it being a Roman villa, I expected something grand.’

  ‘Marble columns and statues sticking up out of the dirt?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘The villa was just an upmarket farm. It would have looked pretty grand in its day, but local peasants robbed out all the stone from the walls back in the Middle Ages.’ He pointed into the empty hole. ‘This is just the trench the Romans dug for the foundations.’

  Vikki picked up a triangle of chunky red roof tile. ‘Is this valuable?’

  ‘Not in a financial sense.’

  At noon, she sat with the diggers in the dirt, drinking tea from cracked mugs and gazing out across the bright fields. Vikki had brought a box of biscuits and a Swiss roll. She was an instant hit.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Vikki romanticised. ‘What a way to spend your life!’

  Stuart pulled long brown hair away from his face. ‘You should have come on Wednesday.’