by Phil Rickman
‘Hard to say yet. You going back to Wychehill tonight?’
‘Hope not.’
‘Only, there’ll be some uniforms keeping tabs on tonight’s young persons’ social event, at the Royal Oak. You haven’t seen the TV?’
‘Haven’t seen anything.’
‘Me neither, but it seems there’s trouble following press and TV items with a bloke called Holliday who reckons inner-city trash elements have turned his village into an apocalyptic battlefield. Mr Holliday’s now saying that he’s received personal threats.’
‘From whom?’
‘From anonymous supporters of the Royal Oak, presumably. It’s not significant enough to worry us, but I thought I’d pass it on.’
Merrily turned at a shadow and saw Lol in the scullery doorway. They had one another’s keys now.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘If I come across anything—’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s possible that Mal’s murder is linked to his former occupation, in which case I’ll probably be sidelined again. Look, I’ve gorra go—’
‘What was his former occupation?’
‘Like a number of local security advisers in this general area who weren’t formerly in the police, until six years ago, he was a serving soldier.’
‘In … Hereford?’
‘Thereabouts,’ Bliss said.
It was clear that Lol had a lot to tell Merrily, but there were things that needed to be dealt with first. Fears racing like black vapour trails across an already darkening sky.
Before she could think about any of it, there was Jane to deal with.
‘Jane’s with Gomer,’ Lol said. ‘They’ve gone to check out some details about the history of Coleman’s Meadow.’
‘She’s OK, though?’
‘She’s fine. She’s with Gomer.’
‘And under the circumstances, that’s OK? I mean, Gomer has no axe to grind here.’
‘I … I’m pretty sure it’s OK.’
‘All right. Look, thanks for … It must’ve been…’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘I’ll do it. Need to keep moving. There are some things I want to run past you, and if you tell me it’s all crap, I just might not go insane.’
Merrily filled the kettle and plugged it in. The clock said 7.01, and the light on the cream-washed walls was beginning to weaken.
‘I don’t know whether you got any of that, but Bliss is investigating the murder of a security consultant and private investigator. Who was a former member of the SAS. As was Syd Spicer.’
‘And a few hundred other blokes in this county,’ Lol reminded her.
‘I was told that Spicer’s marriage had broken up, but he tells me today he’s just sent his wife and daughter down south while he stays here. Because, he says, his “mission” is not yet over. The daughter, Emily, became a serious user in Hereford and he was worried about the proximity of the Royal Oak.’
‘Heroin?’
‘I don’t know. He doesn’t tell you a lot. And, although he’s with an anti-drug group in Herefordshire, he doesn’t involve himself in the campaign by the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group. Neither does the chairman of the parish council, Preston Devereaux. Whose eldest son appears to have had similar problems and, I’m told, went out with Spicer’s daughter. Devereaux – a man who is conspicuously sitting on a lot of bitterness and rage about the government and the way the countryside gets treated – becomes curiously blasé when you mention the Royal Oak. It won’t last, he says. Raji Khan will move on. Move on is Devereaux’s favourite expression.’
Merrily put tea bags in the pot, thinking this out.
‘Although the anti-drugs group works with the police, Spicer admitted tonight that he suspected Roman Wicklow was dealing on the Beacon and didn’t see the point in telling the police.’
‘OK, that’s odd,’ Lol said.
‘So … Spicer and Devereaux. Two strong, self-sufficient, arguably dangerous men, who know each other well but don’t conspicuously hang out together. Two men in public positions locally who, nonetheless, keep low profiles.’
‘You’re suggesting they don’t trust the police to do a proper job? They’ve got some vigilante thing?’
‘Bliss thinks Raji Khan is behind the influx of heroin, crack and whatever sells … into the market towns. Bliss suggests that Khan, with his social position, his connections, has a bit of a charmed life. I met Khan this afternoon and – just a feeling – wondered about a special relationship with Annie Howe. He’s very cool. Far less wary than … than Spicer, for heaven’s sake.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Lol paced the flagged floor. ‘SAS men are well trained in the use of knives to dispose of people without any fuss. But Wicklow – that wasn’t exactly discreet, was it?’
‘God,’ Merrily said. ‘Spicer’s a—’
‘But you don’t really have anything other than conjecture, do you?’
‘Nothing at all. He’s also a priest…’
‘Priests have done worse,’ Lol said, ‘even in your limited experience. Well, one priest. And he wasn’t even trained to kill. Look, why not just unload it all on Bliss?’
‘But if it turns out it’s nothing at all to do with Spicer, a fellow priest, what does that make me?’
‘Cautious. How does any of this tie into the killing of this guy in Hereford?’
‘Turns out that Winnie Sparke was one of his clients – Bliss doesn’t know why.’
‘You have any ideas?’
Merrily shook her head. ‘But Spicer and France had to know each other. They’re about the same age – they must’ve served together.’
‘Well … yes … but what does that … ?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just a humble bloody vicar. What do I do with this, Lol? Do I call Bliss back?’
‘I don’t know, either,’ Lol said. ‘But I can give you a very good reason to call Winnie Sparke.’
47
A Perfect Universe
‘This is Starlight Cottage,’ Winnie said. ‘Who is that?’
‘This is Merrily Watkins, Winnie.’
‘What do you want?’
When it came to it, nobody could do cold better than someone from the Sunshine State.
‘I wanted to talk to you about the Whiteleafed Oak,’ Merrily said.
Pause.
‘Whiteleafed … ?’
‘Oak.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m sorry, Winnie, but I think you do,’ Merrily said, gripping the big bakelite phone for some kind of support. ‘Whiteleafed Oak is a hamlet at the southern tip of the Malverns. It seems to be the joining point of the three counties: Worcestershire, Herefordshire and Gloucestershire.’
Winnie was silent.
‘The three counties that come together every year for what seems to be the world’s oldest music festival, the Three Choirs. Which, although it only officially dates back to the eighteenth century, reflects something a lot older. I mean, the concept of … perpetual choirs?’
It had taken most of an hour to become basically conversant with this from the information that Lol had picked up from Athena White (Oh God, Athena White?) and it was coming up to eight p.m., and half of the churchyard wall was in shadow.
At one stage, Merrily had gone up to Jane’s apartment in search of books which might illuminate the subject, coming down with a paperback entitled Sound and the Shaman and not discovering, until she’d laid it on the desk in front of Lol, that it had been published by an American company called Taliesin and written by one C. Winchester Sparke – the name appearing in small, perfunctory lettering under a picture of an Irish bodhran drum with feathers attached to its frame. One of those books which sold purely on subject, and the author’s identity was of little significance.
In the beginning, the book began, was – and is – the sound.
‘The idea of perpetual choirs seems to have begun as a Druidic concept. It also seems to link into
the theory of the Music of the Spheres, attributed to Pythagoras, way back before Christ. In which the planets are believed to resonate according to a musical pattern that maintains celestial harmony. A perfect universe.’
Merrily paused, looking at Lol. Felt like she was in the pulpit. Lol was nodding.
‘The perpetual choirs – stop me if you start to lose interest – were supposed to have maintained that level of harmony on earth. As above, so below. Each choir would have at least twelve members – monks in Christian times, bards or whatever before that. Singing in shifts so that it never stopped. And the choirs were said to have been set up in churches or temples on the perimeters of huge circles in the countryside.’
But where did this idea come from? Merrily had demanded desperately, watching Lol spreading out an OS map on the carpet. A map with black lines and circles drawn on it.
He had, after all, obtained the information from Athena White, a little old woman whom Merrily had encountered perhaps twice, in those scary early days of Deliverance. A long-retired civil servant with a child’s voice and a child’s instinctive, remorseless cunning. A repository of arcane data who’d made that intimidating new assignment seem even more like a journey to the centre of the Earth. Merrily had been slightly afraid for the woman’s soul, whereas wary, tentative Lol could casually approach Athena – real name Anthea, it helped to keep reminding yourself of that – and emerge … enlightened?
Or at least slightly infatuated. The musician lit up by this beautiful but possibly apocryphal concept resurrected in the early 1970s in England by the earth-mysteries scholar John Michell, who had suggested that maintaining the perpetual chant was how the Druids kept control over the Celtic tribes – presumably because nobody would risk breaking the sonic connection between heaven and earth. And then it was absorbed by Christian communities, perhaps using Gregorian chant, and…
‘Only fragments of knowledge seem to remain. Apparently it was thought that there were twelve choirs in a circle, like a big clock. But, as I say, only fragmentary … Three Choirs. Twelve choristers. The figures one and two adding up to—’
‘Who told you all this?’
Winnie Sparke’s voice was distant, as if she was looking away from the phone, into space.
‘Of course, you can explain anything with numbers. Biblical scholars do it all the time, but … chanting, in any religion you can name, is designed to induce a higher state of consciousness. And something – psychological or whatever – something certainly seemed to work when Tim Loste put choirs of twelve into three churches, one in each of the three counties. Two ancient churches and Wychehill, which was built on an ancient site.’
‘You did some homework.’
‘I had help. We … don’t have a record of Druidic chant, but Gregorian chant goes back a long, long way. And Elgar … while Elgar’s music is modern, it arose from his grounding in the Catholic church and I think much of it was nurtured and developed by the Three Choirs Festival.’
The festival rotates among the cathedrals of Hereford, Worcester and Gloucester, right? Lol had said. All of which are at least medieval. Obviously, Loste doesn’t have access to cathedrals, but little-used ancient parish churches are easier, and the three he chose are roughly equidistant to Whiteleafed Oak, where the counties converge. And there’s more…
‘Over the years, Elgar wrote a lot of music for the Three Choirs, I believe,’ Merrily said. ‘Having been connected with the festival since, I understand, the age of nine. Or, if you want to be esoteric about it, that would be three times three.’
‘Listen.’ Winnie Sparke’s voice was higher now, and sounding satisfyingly abraded. ‘I don’t have time for this right now.’
‘You keep saying that.’
‘You don’t understand. I have to go collect Tim.’
‘Where from, his self-defence class?’
‘Goddamn you, Merrily—’
‘I’m sorry, that was— You have something planned for tonight, don’t you? Choirs singing in the three counties from nine p.m. till three a.m. Is that because this is the last chance you’ll get to approach what you—?’
‘That your doing?’ Winnie’s voice was like cracking ice. ‘Getting us kicked out of the church?’
‘No, of course it isn’t. It had already happened when I…’
Merrily waited, the big phone clammy against her ear.
‘OK, listen,’ Winnie said, ‘I spend all of Friday and Saturday evenings with Tim. When the Royal Oak starts up. He’ll go crazy, else. I get down there well before dark and sometimes we have to get out of Wychehill. We go … we go someplace.’
‘Like Whiteleafed Oak,’ Merrily said. ‘Was that where you sent Tim when the parish meeeting was on in Wychehill?’
‘Why can’t you just leave us alone?’
‘I wish I could, but I can’t.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Because nobody tells me the whole truth. And when so much is being hidden—’
‘Sometimes things have to be hidden, you stupid woman. For the sake of preservation.’
‘I didn’t mean that. This is—’
So difficult. So easy for the cops, but a priest had no right to demand answers and you were on shaky ground even asking questions.
‘Malcolm France,’ Merrily said. ‘Do you know about that?’
‘Who?’
‘Malcolm France was found dead this afternoon, at his office in Hereford.’
Two seconds of silence almost sizzling on the line.
‘What are you doing?’ Winnie screamed. ‘Why are you lying? Why are you giving me this shit?’
‘France was murdered. He was shot, repeatedly. I’m sorry if—’
Winnie’s breathing was turning to panting.
‘I want to help,’ Merrily said. ‘I would like to help you.’
And then she kept quiet, not wanting to give away how little she knew.
‘France was killed?’
‘In his office.’
‘Listen … this is crazy. That was a personal thing. Nobody was supposed to … I got fucking human rights…’
And this was a terrible mistake. How could Merrily possibly know about Winnie being a client of France’s? If Winnie chose to push this, it would rebound heavily on Bliss.
Winnie said, ‘Who else knows this?’
‘Probably half the county – it’s been on the radio.’
‘No, the oak. The oak.’
‘Just me. And my friend Lol, who you met last Monday night. The guy you thought was the exorcist.’
‘OK, listen,’ Winnie Sparke said. ‘You wanna talk about all of this, we’ll meet you. We’ll meet you there in an hour. Give me time to talk to Tim. We’ll meet you there. But you have to promise to leave us when I say. Before nightfall. OK?’
‘Sure … OK.’
‘Park where you can and go through the five-bar gate and keep walking. You won’t miss it. Nobody could.’
‘Won’t miss what?’
‘It’s about the only goddamn place I feel safe.’
‘Winnie…’
‘One hour.’
‘Where?’
‘The oak.’
48
Neighbours
Gomer and Jane drove to the east of the city, down the deep shadow of St Owen’s Street, with its heavy, brooding Shirehall, where two police cars and a van were parked.
‘Small town, see, Janie,’ Gomer said when they stopped at the lights. ‘Calls itself a city, but it en’t like Worcester and Gloucester. Small town, out on its own on the border. Even smaller back in the 1920s. So everybody of a partic’lar class knowed each other. And them bein’ neighbours for years…’
‘It could make a difference,’ Jane said. ‘Couldn’t it? In Ledwardine?’
‘Mabbe. But mabbe not. Don’t get your hopes up. Still don’t prove that ole line’s any more’n a bit of a sheep track.’
‘Yes, but now we can show that Alfred Watkins knew about it, and it was really important
to him … and he wasn’t the only one.’
‘Dunno, girl. Comes down to it, it’s just a couple ole boys helpin’ each other out.’
They rattled through the lights to the Hampton Bishop road where Jane had come with Eirion the other day in search of Alfred Watkins. This fairly pleasant tree-shaded suburb, and the river wasn’t far away. Gomer turned the old jeep left into Vineyard Lane, where they’d looked for Alfred’s house, and then they got out into the smell of rich mown grass and walked back to the main road, towards the setting sun.
The big white Victorian house was on the corner, converted into flats now. The usual plaque revealing its historic importance. Jane hadn’t even noticed it the other night with Eirion, although it had been mentioned a few times in school, over the past couple of years.
Plas Gwyn. The white place.
For nine or ten years, these two men had been close neighbours, even if only one of them had been famous at the time.
It wasn’t really Jane’s idea of a nice house, although back in Edwardian days she supposed it must have looked really modern and flash. It had four floors and a verandah. It was … well, functional.
In those days, Mrs Kingsley had told them, there weren’t many houses around here, and Plas Gwyn had had major views across the river and the water meadows to the Black Mountains … across the border country to Wales, and Elgar had loved the idea of that when, newly knighted, at the height of his fame, he’d moved here in 1904 with his wife Alice and his daughter Carice.
Wow.
Mr Alfred Watkins and Sir Edward Elgar. It made total sense that they should’ve been mates. Elizabeth Kingsley had drawn up a chart showing that they’d been almost exact contemporaries – Elgar had been born in 1857 and had died in 1934, Watkins was born in 1855 and died in 1935.
And so much in common.
Both of them photographers – Elgar was said to have had a darkroom here at Plas Gwyn, where he also, like Watkins, invented things.
Both of them members of the Woolhope Club.
Both them fascinated by the landscape.
And most of Elgar’s Hereford years had been kind of slow and uninspired where music was concerned. He hadn’t composed much here at all, Mrs Kingsley said, leaving him time to spare for his other interests. The council, in search of some reflected glory, had even offered to make him Mayor of Hereford, but he’d politely – and wisely, in Jane’s view – turned it down.
