“I would think Nevis underestimated Post,” Stark said. “Nevis would kill for a farthing, and probably tried to, but Post got the better of him. Nevis flees into obscurity. Post, knowing that Nevis, is still out there, has to do the same. Jones is left dangling, but what can he say? Well, he can’t say anything, can he? But at least he knows that no one is going to kill him.”
“And how does he know that?”
“They would have to come out of hiding to get him,” Stark said. “Neither would take the chance. As long as he doesn’t know where they are, he’s no danger, and he still can’t say nothing to no one.”
“That brings up Nevis and Jones both being in Little Wyvern,” Ravyn said. “Did Nevis take an interest because it might give him a chance to safely dispose of Jones, or was Jones drawn here because of Nevis’ interest in funding FOG?”
“Jones was hired after Nevis started slipping money to Freddie and Aggie under the table,” Stark said. “It looks now like Nevis was already dead by then. Maybe Nevis really had an interest in ghosts. Lacking his share of seventy-five million pounds, maybe he was looking for a boon in Little Wyvern to replace his busted nest egg. Maybe him and Jones being there at the same time, sort of the same time, was a coincidence.” He held up a hand before Ravyn could say anything. “I know how you dislike and distrust them, and with all due respect to Dr Jung and his theory of synchronicity—you see, I occasionally do listen to you, sir—sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence.”
“Are you quite finished?” Ravyn asked, smiling.
“Yes,” Stark replied. “For the moment.”
“I agree, Nevis could not have known Jones was going to be hired to lead the Ghost Tour and helm other events,” Ravyn said. “He knew someone would be hired, but not who. And Jones was something of a last minute step-in, an also-ran when none of their better prospects worked out.”
“That still doesn’t mean Jones didn’t know about Nevis’ being in with Freddie and Aggie,” Stark pointed out. “They offered him only a few pounds and some pie-crust promises, but if his goal was to get close to Nevis after all these years, he might have taken even less. That still doesn’t explain Nevis being here. If not to get hold of Jones, or an interest in the spectral realm, then what?”
“I think he was there looking for the loot,” Ravyn said.
“But, if he thought the loot was in Little Wyvern, then…” Stark uttered a low whistle. “No wonder he was on the sly. If the loot was here, then so would be Post. I know, if I was him, I wouldn’t be content to drop all that swag in a hole, then go off and hope it wouldn’t be found. I’d want to keep an eye on it. A close eye.”
“And Little Wyvern is full of newcomers these days,” Ravyn said. “Or so the Old Guard complain.”
“It explains why Nevis was hot to get hold of FOG’s research,” Stark said. “Between Freddie and Aggie, they peeled that village like an onion…then diced it for good measure. I’d wager there’s not a secret left uncovered.” He reddened a bit as he remembered how he had declined Ravyn’s offer. “Is there?”
“Precious few,” Ravyn answered. “The newcomers might not have been able to say much about the places in which they live, but that did not stop their neighbours’ gossiping. And we both know what a valuable commodity gossip is in a village,”
“So, Nevis somehow traces Post to Little Wyvern, finds out that Aggie and Freddie have done his work for him, and pretend an interest in ghosts to get at their research,” Stark said. “Knowing they are cash starved, money is the key that turns the lock.”
“We know none of the money he gave Swanner and Pettibone was from the robbery,” Ravyn added. “Not one of the banknotes caused so much as a ripple of interest. When it comes to such a quantity of cash, banks do not observe statutes of limitation. Those serial numbers are still in the system, ever being scanned for by watchful electronic eyes.”
Stark shook his head. “Kinda funny, sir.”
“What is?”
“He bides his time, covers his trail for a decade, then emerges from hiding just to get himself killed by Post,” Stark said. “If Post killed Nevis, then he also killed Jones, but why is he bringing in all this mumbo-jumbo about the Warlock? Just give them a quick neck-twist and be done with it. Why draw attention to the killings this way? Why try to tie it into village history?”
After a moment: “His nature, Stark.”
“Sir?”
“No matter how many changes a man institutes in reinventing himself, no matter how many habits he suppresses or acquires, he is helpless against his own nature,” Ravyn said. “He can change what he does and how he looks, but, barring neurological damage, he cannot change who he is or how he thinks.”
“So, you’re saying he emulates the Warlock because he…” The sergeant’s words trailed off and his mouth dropped open. “But then he would have to…” Stark shook his head. “Security companies are very thorough in background checks.”
“What company in this age of information actually employs an investigator to knock on doors and ask questions?” Ravyn shook his head. “Now background checks are conducted at the lowest echelon, an underpaid computer clerk who never leaves his cubical except to escape at day’s end. It’s pure information, Stark, and we have seen how information can be manipulated.”
“Bur, sir,” Stark protested. “Victor Boil and Lester Post?”
“It would explain what happened to young Boil after the fire, and why Post is compelled to emulate the actions of a man three centuries dead,” Ravyn said. “It would also explain why…”
“Sir?” Stark asked after a moment. “What is it?”
Ravyn stood. “We’ve got to get to Little Wyvern immediately.”
“Why?” Stark asked. “Do you know who Post is?”
Ravyn grabbed his telephone, punched in dispatch’s extension, and ordered the nearest patrol unit sent to Margaret Banberry’s cottage in Wrait Lane, Little Wyvern. He rang off abruptly, grabbed his coat and rushed out of the office. Stark pulled on his own coat and caught up with him in the car park.
Stark leaped into the passenger seat and almost had the door closed when the vehicle shot into motion. The acceleration pressed the air from his lungs. He pulled the restraining belts tight.
“Sir, what’s the matter?” Stark asked, catching his breath.
“If Lester Post was formerly Victor Boil, that would explain the compulsion behind his murders,” Ravyn said, not taking his eyes from the road. “Young Victor fancied himself a reincarnation of the old villain. A return to Little Wyvern could possibly retrigger atavistic behaviour, though, being older, he might now be better able to control his actions in public.”
Stark gritted his teeth as the guv’nor pinned the speedometer needle to the far edge, easing only slightly at turns. He flipped the toggle that activated the sedan’s flashing blue lamps. It was unlike Ravyn to forget any protocol, but he decided this was not the time to point it out.
“It would also explain why Margaret Banberry might mistake him for the Warlock, Hezekiah Boil,” Ravyn continued. “She knew Victor as a boy, hated him according to the statement taken after the fire that killed his parents.”
“But, if she recognised him that night…” Stark shook his head. “If he is in the village, as you think, how did she not recognise him before? There’s no hiding in a place like Little Wyvern. Everyone knows everyone else; everyone sees everyone else sooner or later. You can keep yourself to yourself, but eventually you’ll be seen…in a shop, on the high street, whatever. And if you do try to hide, then that draws even more attention to you.”
“Memory is a complex process, something I have devoted much study to, for obvious reasons,” Ravyn said. “She might have seen him before, possibly several times. You are correct—no one can hide in a village, or dare to. Those times, however, she saw him in a social matrix that reinforced another identity.”
“I’m not sure I…” Stark thought a moment, then said: “If I don’t see a bloke for
twenty, thirty years, then walk into a post office and see him behind the counter, I’d maybe see him as the postmaster but not my long-lost mate. That it?”
“High marks for you, Stark.” Ravyn smiled. It seemed Stark was finally starting to unlearn many of his bad habits, to widen his view. “The setting reinforces the postmaster identity and obscures your previous relationship. If he says or does nothing to trigger a recognition, you’d walk out of the post office, none the wiser.”
“But that night,” Stark said. “What was different?”
“The late hour, the moonlight, the haunted woods—all of it told her she was seeing a ghost, one familiar and one not,” Ravyn said. “But she did not know which spirit it was. As she said, so many ghosts frequent Little Wyvern, it’s easy to become confused.”
Stark smothered a derisive sound. “She wouldn’t have known Nevis from Adam, but if she had seen Post before…”
“Yes, he seemed familiar, but she could not identify him with any living being she knew from the village…”
“Ah—because she knew he had to be a ghost.”
Ravyn nodded. “She had heard stories about but had never seen the Warlock, but she had seen Victor Boil.”
“Years ago,” Stark pointed out.
“Some features change as we grow older, others do not,” Ravyn said. “In the moonlight, she saw something that reminded her of Victor Boil, the evil child of her youth who often channelled the Warlock. Once that subconscious connection percolated to the surface, the ghost who was familiar became the Warlock.”
“And she…” Stark gasped. “And she’s been telling anyone who will listen that she saw the Warlock.”
“Yes,” Ravyn said, grimly. “She may even have mentioned it to Lester Post.”
Stark’s heart sank as the car screamed into Wrait Lane. Ravyn fishtailed them to a stop. Two panda cars were outside the cottage, blue lamps flashing. Crime scene tape was strung. A constable stood at the garden gate against the curious, drawn out of their cottages by the sudden activity.
“Upstairs, sir,” the constable said, lifting the tape so they could pass under. “Bedroom. Pathologist and SOCO on the way.”
Two constables pointed the way up, then sought air that did not smell of death. At the head of the stairs, Ravyn and Stark met a young constable with a bloodless face. She silently pointed to an open doorway, but stayed where she was.
Margaret Banberry lay in her bed. Her head was at an unnatural angle. Her blind eyes stared at her visitors. Her gown was open and stained with blood. Her chest was in shadow, but not enough.
“My God.” Stark was not sure whether he screamed the words, breathed them, or merely thought them.
“Same as the others.” Ravyn’s voice was tight, a little raspy. “The neck broken, the heart…” He paused, and Stark thought he heard a slight catch in the guv’nor’s breath. “The heart has been taken,” Ravyn continued after a moment, “from the chest cavity with more precision than previously seen.”
The image of the dead woman started to fade for Stark. He did not remember turning away. His memory was already protecting him from the image taken in by the eye. In time, it would become a vague impression, a sad feeling, and little more. For the first time, Stark felt almost unbearable pity for Ravyn, for whom the scene would never change, never fade.
Stark forced himself to look back. This was not the first time someone he knew had been killed. He had not been close at all to Margaret Banberry, just the association of a half-hour. From the beginning, he had counted her barmy, another nutter from a village of assorted nutters. But she was also a dear old thing, a kind-hearted woman who sat a place at tea for a husband thirty years dead, and pushed a three-tiered cake-stand full of biscuits a little closer to a sergeant than a chief inspector, simply because his stomach rumbled. Stark wanted to close his eyes, but knew he dared not, for if he did they were surely fill with tears.
“Stark,” Ravyn said, softly.
The sergeant tore his gaze from the thing on the bed.
“Take the constable on the landing and the two downstairs,” Ravyn continued. “Start canvassing the lane. You know the drill.”
Yes, sir,” Stark said. “Thank you, sir.”
Ravyn took a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coat, snapped them on, then began to examine the room.
* * *
“I can hardly believe how many people turned out for the Ghost Gala, just look at the size of this crowd,” Sir Phineas said, beaming with pride. “I really have to hand it to you two. Everything you have accomplished on our meagre resources is nothing short of amazing. I suppose the bigger-than-expected turnout for the Haunted Cottage walkthroughs and Witch’s Trial Re-enactment really helped beef up our finances, not to mention our percentage from the Blithe Spirit. It’s good news for all concerned.”
Pettibone glanced anxiously at Agnes. He had wanted to tell Sir Phineas about their windfall, but she would have none of it.
“Much better than expected, Sir Phineas,” Agnes said. “Even some of the old guard were poking through the cottages. I really think the attitude in the village is swinging our way.”
“I feared the loss of poor Simon would strike a mortal blow, not to mention leaving us in the lurch,” Sir Phineas said. “Well done, the both of you, filling in as guides.”
“Aggie was the star,” Pettibone said. “I just…”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Freddie.” Agnes slapped her friend on the back, then said to Sir Phineas: “Freddie should have been an actor. He even sounded afraid at times, and don’t think the tourists, not to mention potential investors, didn’t pick up on that.”
“Well, actually, I…” Pettibone started to say.
“You two young people have much to be proud of,” Sir Phineas said. “You certainly justified my faith in you and your plan. Don’t you think so, Prudie?”
“Actually, I think old Mrs Banberry had more to do with the increased interest than anything Aggie or Freddie did,” Prudence said. She looked over the crowded lawn outside Spectre’s Haven, at the crowds starting to drift inside where the band was playing. “Still, it’s good to see you got all the bills sorted out. Some of the vendors even called Phinney. Isn’t that right, Phinney? Phinney?”
“What?” Sir Phineas said after a moment. He looked confused. “What did you say, Prudie?”
“Phinney, are you all right?” Prudence asked. She snaked a protective arm around the older man, much to the disgust of Agnes and Pettibone. “What’s the matter, Phinney? You’ve gone pale as a garden statue.”
“Poor Margaret,” he said. “I gave her away at her wedding, her having no Mum or Dad, though I had second thoughts when I saw she wanted to wed that lazy git Harry Banberry.” He sighed. “Still, they were in love.” He looked around the lawn, let his gaze follow the crowds back to the manor house ablaze with light and vibrating with the sounds of macabre dance-party music.
He whipped back to Pettibone and Agnes. “Is that why they’re really here? No interest in the occult or supernatural; not looking for a good investment; not even seeking to keep an English village from dying on the vine? Are they all jackals? Are they eating my canapés, drinking my champagne, all the while waiting for someone else to be murdered horribly?”
“Now, Sir Phineas,” Pettibone said. “There’s a percentage, a small one, focused on ghoulish matters, but I’m sure that most of the people here are truly and passionately interested…”
“Is that why you’re all here?” Sir Phineas shouted. “To see one of us die?”
A few members of the crowd glanced his way, but most ate and drank with studied indifference. More people drifted toward the light and life of the party in the main house.
Prudence touched his arm. “Phinney, your blood pressure…”
“Hang my blood pressure!”
“Sir Phineas, get a grip on yourself.” Agnes stepped close and spoke through gritted teeth, her voice a growl. Prudence started to move between Sir Phinea
s and the big woman, but held back when she saw Agnes’ expression. “Yes, it was terrible what happened to Mrs Banberry, but it has nothing to do with us or what we are trying to accomplish in Little Wyvern.”
“But it didn’t start until our plans went into action,” the Squire said. “First Simon, then the man in the Pooks Wood, and now poor Margaret Banberry. And everyone is saying it’s the Warlock come back to Little Wyvern to exact revenge on us.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Agnes snapped.
“Margaret told everyone she saw the Warlock—that’s what I heard—and she was killed the same way Hezekiah Boil killed his victims,” Sir Phineas continued. “And the Warlock killed that man. And let’s not forget people heard that Madeline Wallace person say she actually saw the Warlock, both at the oak and in the cemetery when Simon was murdered.”
“Ballocks!”
Sir Phineas staggered back as if he had been slapped.
“You heard me,” Agnes said. “That Madeline creature was a mad bitch so besotted with Simon she has no idea what she really saw, if anything. And, yes, Margaret Banberry was a sweet old lady, but she was also as batty as they come. As far as the stranger found in the woods, we have no idea whatsoever if or how he fits into what’s happening, and it’s more than likely he was attacked by an animal, maybe a fox or a feral dog.”
Pettibone winced at her last declaration.
“The police will catch the killer,” Agnes said. “When they do, they’ll find out it was probably someone trying to discredit us, one of the villagers trying to bring down FOG.”
Sir Phineas frowned. “A human hand? How can you say that?”
“It was a ghost,” Pettibone said. “You told Mr Ravyn that. And you know as well as I do no man could kill like that.”
“Grow up, Freddie,” Agnes snapped. “If we have a maniac going around killing people, Ghost Week is a bust. No one in their right mind would stay here. But a killer ghost? That will draw them like flies to fresh meat.” With both hands, she indicated the milling crowds. “And look—it has!”
Village of Ghosts (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 2) Page 17
