by Jason Foss
‘We’ve got to meet him. It’s just that now we do it on our terms.’
‘You don’t really think he was planning to kill you this afternoon?’
‘Why not? Why else choose an isolated chunk of marshland, two miles from the nearest house, with a convenient channel of murky water close by. This guy is evil and desperate, Vikki.’
‘And you never thought of asking the police along?’
‘Can we trust them? Honestly? After all you found out about Temple-Brooke and his contacts?’
‘Okay, but this seems just a little complicated. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
Flint started the engine at the third attempt, crashed reverse gear, then jerkily manoeuvred the Spitfire out of the car park and on to the deserted road. He almost knew what he was doing, though his judgement was blurred by anger at the blatant attempt to poison him.
He found a disgusting thrill in mastering the Spitfire, enjoying its crude immediacy lacking in more modern cars. Coursing the straight, quiet roads of the flatlands, he was flying into battle with a damsel at his side. He felt confident and bouncy, the real danger had been side-stepped and a solution was within his grasp.
The Poet lived on an island, reclaimed progressively from the sea, now little more exciting than a promontory in the estuary. It was a bitter, ice-blue afternoon as the Spitfire crossed the girder bridge over an empty creek which was all that divided island and shore at the point of closest approach. Flat and bleak, the enemy’s kingdom beckoned.
Nerves, excitement and sheer trepidation prevented any serious conversation so Flint jabbed one finger at the play button on Tyrone’s tape deck. Blaring loud, clear and ominous, Wagner heralded their arrival; Gotterdammerung, the Twilight of the Gods, Act III, the Death March. Flint groaned. Tyrone knew he would play that tape. The boy was sick.
Foxstones was the name of Temple-Brooke’s manor, a cubic block of buff sandstone which stood like a tomb against the bright southern sky. Visible for over a mile behind a thin screen of leafless trees, its very isolation permitted any excess on the part of its lord. Roads of decreasing grade led towards the target, a trio of cottages lined the road and lonely farms dotted the horizon. Somewhere in the direction of the sun, lay an arm of the river estuary. The tide was low at noon, scuppering Tyrone’s first suggestion of making an approach by water, and landing at the jetty some quarter of a mile or so beyond the house. The O.S. map had a ford marked near the same point, which might have offered a surprise southern route by which to approach Foxstones, but Flint could see no advantage worth the trouble.
Standing sentry were a pair of tall, lichen-scarred gateposts, each surmounted by a fox baying at the moon. The gates stood open; intruders were not expected this far from civilisation. One rutted roadway veered towards the farm which lay beyond the hall, whilst a metalled drive led directly to the front door. The house had pretensions to be a castle, with battlements around the roof-line and tiny turrets on the front corners.
Perfect, thought Flint. He should have come at night, alone, with the moon high and a mist rising. Then he would have been really frightened.
Valhalla was about to erupt in flames when Brünhilde was silenced in mid-cry. Flint parked so as to box in the green Range Rover that stood before the Doric porch, and killed the motor. As Flint was climbing out he noticed the white wing of another vehicle just visible around the corner of the house.
Vikki set her Dictaphone running and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket. There was no need to ring the chain-pull bell, the Spitfire did not have a quiet engine and its approach had clearly been heard. The man who pre-empted them by opening the door was no butler. White stubble sprang from his chin and eyes that had known the marshlands for sixty years burned back at the uninvited guests.
‘I have an appointment to see Mr Temple-Brooke,’ Flint stated, ‘the name is Flint, Doctor Jeffrey Flint.’
A muffled question came from within.
‘Flint,’ the rustic drawled.
Another set of commands.
‘No, he’s with a young lady.’
With reluctance, the man allowed them to tread the stone floor of the hall. A double staircase swept off to left and right, to meet again on an oak balcony at first-floor level. From an open door ahead and to the left, came the figure of a country squire. Tweed jacket, no cap.
‘We agreed four o’clock,’ The Poet stated in a brusque, irritated tone.
‘I keep rotten time.’
‘And alone.’
Flint let his eyes wander to take in the grandeur of oak and brass, oil paintings and ancient weaponry. He was no materialist, but this was material he could love and cherish.
‘Hancock, check what he’s carrying.’
The underling, dressed for the outdoors, approached Flint from behind and frisked him. Flint raised his arms to shoulder height and permitted the indignity. Vikki presented her Dictaphone to prevent any embarrassment.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Corbett,’ The Poet said with mock charm, taking the Dictaphone and turning it off.
Vikki gave a mock smile in response.
The master of the house was square-set, but not tall. In his mid-forties the man’s features spoke of class and privilege, handsome, blue-eyed. Flint thought a face like that belonged in the Paratroopers or the Guards or the SS, not amongst cheerful witches and eccentric old ladies.
Temple-Brooke looked at his servant and motioned towards the outside. ‘Check there is no one else, then close the gate.’ He turned back with an expression of suppressed annoyance. ‘Could you come into the study?’ He turned and walked away.
They followed him under the sweeping stair, then through the oak-panelled door. The Poet showed them in, with an ‘Excuse me for two minutes.’ Then closed the door.
Flint was relieved when a key was not turned in the lock. The study was the size of Flint’s flat and its every feature delighted the conservative eye: walls lined with leather-bound books, a delicious desk, a bright but bleak southern aspect through massive leaded bay windows, and a log fire.
‘Ready to do your interview?’
Vikki gave a smile. ‘I mentioned our poet to my boss yesterday and was given a final warning not to harass our shareholders. So here I am, harassing our latest shareholder.’ She gave a dismissive flick of her head. ‘But I thought ‘What the hell?’’
He loved that cheeky grin and her careless way with the savage side of life, but Flint had only moments to watch Vikki’s firm jaw laugh away danger, before the door reopened.
‘We were to meet at four,’ The Poet repeated as he came into his study.
Flint turned to him, adopting a nonchalant pose, with hands in pockets. ‘I didn’t fancy a deserted piece of marshland in the dusk. One loyal gamekeeper could have brought me down at two hundred yards. Duck shooting accident, oops, oh dear...’
The Poet’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have a melodramatic imagination. Can you suggest one reason I would want to have you killed?’
‘A hundred and one.’
‘You flatter yourself, Doctor Flint. You seem to think you threaten me. You are wrong, you’re simply an irritation.’
‘Then why choose such a perfect spot for a murder, and why insist I come alone?’
‘Because I didn’t want her present.’ The Poet jabbed a finger at Vikki. ‘You and I could have sorted this out like men.’
‘Let’s not be sexist.’
The Poet turned and grabbed at a gun satchel by the fire. ‘Do you know what’s in here?’
‘Twelve bore?’
‘Money.’ He displayed a bag full of creased and very obviously used notes. ‘I’m not rich, I’m no millionaire, but I have my reasons for not wanting publicity.’
‘You know I can’t be bribed,’ Flint said. ‘I’m an archaeologist, I have taken a vow of poverty.’
‘This is no time for clever puns, Doctor Flint.’ The Poet seemed to have no sense of humour.
‘Does your wife approve of you being a warloc
k?’ Vikki asked flippantly. ‘Or does she even know?’
‘I don’t need your meddling!’
‘So you sent me a poisoned cake?’ Flint said with anger.
The Poet showed surprise and lack of comprehension. It registered in Flint’s mind, and immediately confused him.
‘I was sent a poisoned cake yesterday.’
The Poet winced, clearly ruffled by the news. ‘Again, melodramatics. I am sure you are mistaken.’
‘Let’s try a firebombing...’
‘…or having me beaten up,’ Vikki chipped in.
‘Add that to conspiracy, kidnap, arson, adultery, murder...’
‘And where is your proof? You are an academic. You should know about proof.’ The Poet shook his head in sheer amazement.
‘I have enough evidence.’
‘You have nothing.’
‘Try telling that to the tabloids, they will love it.’
‘And I’ll sue you for every miserable penny you have. And your college, and any newspaper which repeats the libel. You, Victoria, should see sense. You know I’ve bought shares in your miserable newspaper. One word from me and you are on the streets.’
Vikki stuck out her jaw in a defiant gesture. ‘You can shove that job right up your trap-door, mate. This story is too big for that crummy rag.’
‘There is no big story,’ The Poet said, hands forming two fists to punch out his derision. ‘Will you be reasonable?’
Flint walked over to the window. ‘Okay, try this. Attractive but impressionable female student is drawn into the occult by Piers Plant, the High Priest of a coven. A confused, introverted man who believes his own gobbledegook. He becomes besotted by her and in no time, she is The Maiden, standing in the stead of The Goddess. But she has no time for him, she seeks the attention of another, one she cannot name, one who appears masked, but who holds mystery and power. The Horned Man, The Protector, higher even than the High Priest. She gives her all in what she believes are sacred rites. She becomes pregnant.’
The Poet’s face had set in concrete. ‘Pregnant?’
‘Lucy Gray was pregnant,’ Flint stated. ‘So, come May eve, Beltane, the May Games, she could exercise her sacred right to claim the father of her child as her husband. It’s the ancient lore, but terribly inconvenient if the man is married according to a different custom. Worse, if he is important and has ambition – the Sunday papers would not understand. So, Lucy never made it to May Day. On February eve, Imbolc, there was a mistake in the mixing of the Kat, the sacred potion. Someone introduced some additional, and fatal, ingredients. The girl is taken away by Piers Plant in his car to a little cottage. Some time that night, she dies and is buried at Harriet’s Stone, secretly.’
‘I read all that fantasy in the paper.’
‘In the paper you read that Piers Plant concocted the brew and it was he who murdered the girl through jealousy. But Plant had already been fighting back in his own way, trying to find a copy of a supposedly magical book, which he imagined would help him wrest control of the coven, and Lucy, back from The Protector. Once we start to investigate, he goes completely insane and hides. He is an embarrassment, a risk to the one who really murdered Lucy Gray. He too is served a lethal concoction and someone else is conveniently out of the way.’
‘You still haven’t mentioned how I am connected with this.’
‘There is evidence every step of the way. You are The Protector, The Horned Man, you are the father of Lucy’s dead infant.’
‘Preposterous!’
‘Ever heard of DNA fingerprinting? Lucy and her foetus were still in a good state of preservation when they were found. The police forensic team will be interested to take a sample of your blood...’
He gave a snort to protect his own disbelief. ‘The police have closed the case.’
‘I’m sure they would reopen it. We’re talking double murder, it’s hardly a trivial offence. You might imagine you have influence but you are wrong. This isn’t the Middle Ages.’
‘I know everything about you, Flint. You are not the only one who can employ researchers. I know all about your background, know all your papers, understand your views. You, of all people, should understand what we are doing in the Valley.’
He gesticulated heavily, the pair were boxing around the room, exchanging intellectual blows, both in their element. Flint’s strike.
‘I can understand Michelle and her immature friends having secret moonlight parties. I can’t understand intelligent and wealthy people stooping to such antics.’ He employed flattery as a form of abuse. ‘Pagan beliefs is one thing, but black magic is just...’
‘Means to an end.’
Flint was stopped momentarily as he absorbed the brutal reality behind the poet of gentle vision. ‘So the end is to get kicks out of making people do as you please? That’s why Plant couldn’t find De Nigris; it truly doesn’t exist. You just circulated a rumour that you had found a powerful occult work in order to awe the feeble-minded.’
‘Well done, bravo.’ The Poet made three slow hand claps. ‘Piers Plant was a sad person, mentally ill, who believed his myths and folklore too much, and did not grasp the new reality. What we are talking of is a Pagan revival. A whole new mass movement linking ecology, politics and religion. Capitalist Christianity has failed the West as Godless Communism has failed the East. The old social order is dying in a mess of drugs and violence, and people like yourself with no respect for authority.’
‘You talk about morality? Free sex, drugs, debased rituals, intimidation?’
He was ignored, the Poet was in full flood. ‘This is what we have to save.’ He waved out at the fields from his window. ‘This is what the Green Revolution is really about. It’s not about whales and rainforests, it’s about England. The real England, the England of Mallory and Blake, Elgar and Wren. This is what I am going to save.’
He used the personal pronoun singular. His hands switched to a grasp, his face to an intense appeal to reason. ‘We need a new code of morals if England is to survive into the next millennium. We need to strip away short-term materialism, insert new beliefs, strong beliefs, or we will fall into the pit.’
Flint was warming to the debate, still manoeuvring his quarry, physically and intellectually. ‘So, you’ve given yourself the role of the prophet of the new Millennium.’
‘But don’t you see where the true path lies? Everyone will know their place. There will be peace and good order and personal contentment, no continual striving for a bigger car or a bigger mortgage. No more strikes, no more inflation, no more balance of payments deficit, and no hankering for the afterlife. This is what I believe, and this is what my followers believe.’
‘So that’s why you’re buying all these silly little magazines,’ Vikki chimed, ‘so you can spread your daft ideas. Why don’t you come out in the open and say all this? Give me an interview right now and we’ll let the world know the Messiah has returned.’
‘One day I will,’ The Poet snapped. ‘When the time is right.’
Now he was being sincere and sincerity is disturbing. Flint looked out at the green and pleasant land, washed by clean, wholesome winter sunshine. The Poet’s vision was alluring, if dangerously elusive. For a few moments Flint considered this Eco-Fascism, this worship of a mythical Arthurian resurrection. His own hatred of cars, junk culture, capitalist imperialism, and brainless consumerism rose to attack his senses. Paganism had merits, Green politics had merits; the two merged neatly. Then he thought of Lucy in her cold, lonely grave, the terror at the museum and Amelia Winter’s slaughter-house. This was not the way.
‘I don’t care about your views,’ he stated, ‘asinine or not. I don’t care if you have a kinky fling at midnight. You can be a Pagan, Green, Fascist, Freemason, UFO-worshipper, whatever you like, I don’t care. What I will not have is people murdering my students.’
‘I did not murder Lucy.’ His denial was flat, certain.
‘He called her Lucy,’ Flint said to Vikki, ‘it sounds
as though they were close.’
‘It was her name, Goddammit! I did not kill this... this student, nor did I murder Plant or arrange to have your miserable boat burnt, nor commit half a dozen other crimes you have accused me of.’
‘Then who did?’ Vikki now intervened. ‘You are the all-powerful one. You seem to know what’s going on, so who’s behind it all?’
Flint sliced in again. ‘You are The Protector, you are in charge, you forced Monica Clewes to send the phoney postcards, you organised the threats and attacks. It all points in your direction.’
‘You can prove nothing.’
‘We can nail Monica for the postcards and for the cake. After that, the police wake up and start asking questions seriously. Sooner or later it comes back to you.’
‘Cakes! We are back to cakes.’
‘Are you familiar with pollen analysis?’ asked the archaeologist. ‘Or land snail study, for that matter?’
‘Should I be? They sound tedious.’
‘Piers Plant was a herbalist, he learned his skills from his aunt. Piers usually mixed the Kat, correct? At Imbolc, someone stirred an extra ingredient into Lucy’s portion and she died a horrible, slow, agonising death. Someone that weak could easily be convinced that he had made some dreadful error.’
‘He did it deliberately,’ The Poet sneered, ‘the police know that.’
‘Okay, let’s switch to Forest Farm, where Piers Plant is supposed to have killed himself from remorse, using poison of his own concoction. Except that the foxgloves which poisoned Piers were not picked in the Forest of Axley, but down here, near to the marshland. I’ve got the lab report if you want to read it. It will be interesting if the pollen profile matches that from the jar in Monica Clewes’ shop, and also, incidentally, a cake which is sitting uneaten on my desk. I don’t believe there are two murderers around, so logic says that if we can prove who poisoned my cake, and who poisoned Piers Plant, it tells us who killed Lucy.’
