Village of Ghosts (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  Agnes’ eyes started to water. She frowned and gave Pettibone an angry glare, as if irate he had touched a softer emotion in her. She looked away for a moment. When she looked back, her eyes were dry and flinty.

  The door opened. Stark entered, accompanied by a constable. Ravyn excused himself.

  “We finally have all names and statements, sir,” Stark said, keeping his voice low. “It was complicated because of all the media types and high rollers. Seems they’d come to see a murder.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Ravyn said. “They all cleared out?”

  “One way or another, sir,” Stark said. “But some of them had to be persuaded. There might be some complaints.”

  “As long as there were no broken noses or busted equipment, I think we can weather a few bruised egos,” Ravyn said. “It does bring more attention than we want however.”

  “Wonderful,” Agnes said. While the two men were engaged in conversation, she had stepped closer. “That’s just what we want, the right people talking about this. It will probably be on the telly!” She turned to Pettibone. “The séance will be a sell-out after people learn what they missed at the Ghost Gala. And do you know what the best part of it is?”

  Pettibone shook his head.

  “Now the Council cannot stop us from using the church for the séance,” she explained. “They don’t dare, not with Little Wyvern being in the spotlight like this.”

  “But Reverend Allen…”

  “Hang Reverend Allen!” Agnes snapped. “The whole village will be on our side, well at least the shopkeepers and anyone else who has something to sell or a story to tell. Let him protest all he wants. He’ll quickly find out there has been a shift in power.”

  “I don’t know, Aggie,” Pettibone said, rubbing his chin. “It all seems rather sacrilegious, holding a séance in a church. Spirits in the House of God and all that.” He gave her a pointed look. “Besides, we’re all set up to have it near Hopkins Oak.”

  “Hopkins Oak,” Agnes said. “St Barnabas. We can have it wherever we want.”

  “It’s a moot point, Miss Swanner,” Ravyn said. “The séance will not be held, nor will any of FOG’s other activities tomorrow.”

  Ravyn’s mobile chimed. He looked at the screen, scowled, and moved away to answer it.

  “Ravyn.” He listened a moment, then said: “I think that would be a mistake, sir.” He waited a long moment. “Yes, sir, I understand, but I do not agree.” Another moment, then: “No, sir, I have no plans to contact the Chief Constable. Do you think I should?” For about a minute, he held the mobile away from his ear. “Yes, good night, sir. Thank you for calling. I appreciate your interest.”

  He returned the mobile to his coat pocket and turned back to the others. “You will be pleased to learn, Miss Swanner, Mr Pettibone, my request for an injunction was not approved.”

  Agnes grinned. “You mean…?”

  “Yes, the activities planned for tomorrow may continue,” he said. “Including your evening séance.”

  “Are we free to leave now?” she asked.

  “Yes, but please do not leave the village.”

  “We don’t intend to,” she said. “Tomorrow will be a busy day. We’ve lots to do, especially now that it’s just the two of us.”

  “What about Prudie?” Pettibone asked.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s part of FOG too,” he said. “Well, she was through Sir Phineas. And she’s our solicitor…at least I think she is.”

  “She was never really one of us,” Agnes said. “She was just an outsider we tolerated for Sir Phineas’ sake. Don’t think her being a solicitor changes anything about why she weaselled her way into Sir Phineas’ confidence. She’ll try to take everything he had, no doubt on the basis of ‘for services rendered,’ if you take my meaning.”

  Pettibone took her meaning, and his cheeks reddened.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, keeping her from getting her hooks into his estate,” Agnes said. “Until then, I say the daft clunge can just bugger off and stay out of our business.”

  Pettibone’s jaw dropped and his face flamed at Agnes’ coarse denunciation. He had no chance to protest. Agnes grabbed his arm and ran out of the room like a runaway locomotive. His feet left the floor, and, in a moment, both of them were out the door.

  “Sometimes I feel sorry for the little chap.” Stark turned back to Ravyn. “What happened? I thought the argument we gave about public safety and the possibility of panic was a good one.”

  “It was very good and sound,” Ravyn said. “As to what happened: Heln happened.”

  “Bugger!”

  “The court contacted the Constabulary for information and was shunted to Superintendent Heln,” Ravyn explained.

  “I thought queries from the magistrate’s office had to go to the Chief Constable or the ACC,” Stark said. “At the very least to Chief Superintendent Henderson.”

  “They are, but this one did not,” Ravyn replied. “Officials can be thought unavailable. Misunderstandings and miscommunications are no one’s fault. People are usually judged blameless for trying to help out. Once the court is led to believe a chief inspector is overreacting to a situation, no higher-up will step in to correct the impression. It would be bad form, of course.”

  “What do we do now?” Stark asked.

  “The same as we’ve been doing, trying to find the wolf in the fold and protect people from their own foibles. Not that we’ve been particularly successful in that. A bit more perspicacity on my part and…well…” His voice trailed into a weary sigh.

  “Sir, there is no way we could have anticipated what happened to Mrs Banberry,” Stark said.

  “I should have anticipated it, as soon as she suggested one of the spirits seen was the Warlock,” Ravyn said, his words tinged with bitterness. “When it comes to information, I am, for lack of a better term, a sponge, but I am at times, as you frequently remind me, slow ‘to connect the dots,’ as I was with Mrs Banberry.”

  “We knew she had probably seen the murderer, but she could not provide a description,” Stark said. “There seemed no threat.”

  “But she did provide a description,” Ravyn said. “She said it was the Warlock, Hezekiah Boil. She had never seen the Warlock, no one has, there are no surviving likenesses, but she knew Victor, who channelled the Warlock. Some unconscious twist in her mind made Victor into Hezekiah. Victor, hearing of her sighting, knew it was only a matter of time before she understood the connection and told us it was not the ancestor but the descendent seen.”

  Stark had never heard Ravyn sound so distraught. He fought an urge to curse Heln and make a clean breast to Ravyn, even though it would mean admitting his deceptions. He was saved from his moral dilemma by the entry of Dr Penworthy.

  “Miss Holloway is calm enough to speak to you now, Arthur,” she said. “And she wishes to.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Ravyn said. “What can you tell us about Sir Phineas’ death?”

  “As before, spinal shock,” she replied. “Also, as before, heart removed after death, but a rushed job, as it was with Jones. Still, it shows skill with a knife and a great knowledge of anatomy.”

  “He never screamed, did he?”

  Stark was puzzled. “But, sir, we heard…”

  “No, he did not,” Penworthy said. “Death was immediate and the removal carried out immediately. If he had screamed, especially twice, as you previously indicated, you would surely have caught the killer in the act.”

  “Then who…?” Stark scowled. “The cheeky bastard!”

  “Yes, the killer screamed,” Ravyn said. “He did it as much to cause confusion at the party as to summon us.”

  “While you interview her, I’ll take the body for examination,” she said. “I did not do it while anyone was here, especially her.”

  “The post mortem will be when?”

  “First thing in the morning, about half-eight.”

  Ravyn glanced
to Stark, who nodded.

  “I’ll be on my way. Goodnight, Arthur. Sergeant Stark.”

  “Take care, Doctor,” Stark cautioned. “We ousted Fleet Street’s vultures, but members of the press might still be lurking about.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Penworthy said. “My driver is not the kind of man to let a journalist slow him down. His attitude is, we’re already enroute to the morgue; there’s always room for one more.”

  Stark followed Ravyn. “She jesting about her driver, right?”

  Ravyn shrugged. “No one knows. So far, everyone has jumped out of the way in time.”

  Prudence Holloway sat on a settee. Her skin was pale, almost bloodless. She held a sodden handkerchief in her lap, but she had ceased weeping. They drew up two chairs, and sat before her, Stark taking out his notebook.

  “I am truly sorry for your loss, Miss Holloway,” Ravyn said. “Sir Phineas was a good man.”

  She nodded her thanks.

  “Thank you for speaking to us,” Ravyn said. “Are you sure you are up to this? We can postpone an interview till…”

  “No!” Her voice was unexpectedly sharp. “No,” she continued in a softer tone, “I want to get this over with, while I…” Her eyes seemed clouded. For a moment they thought she might again break into tears, despite the sedative. “I want to return to London. There is nothing for me here, not any more.” She looked at the men with imploring eyes. “I want to shake Hammershire’s dust from my sandals and never see this place again.”

  “If you give us contact information, I think we can allow that, under the circumstances,” Ravyn said. “There will be an inquest, but a signed statement should suffice.”

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector.”

  “What about Sir Phineas’ estate?” Stark asked. “As solicitor, you might need to…I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, Sergeant, but I take no offence at the inference,” she said. “It’s no different than what everyone else in Little Wyvern thinks of me, the outsider who vamped her way into a silly old man’s heart, not to mention his last will and testament.”

  Stark lowered his gaze.

  “All I ever wanted from Phinney was his love, and that’s all I received from him,” she said. “And that’s all I’ll ever have of his.”

  “Spectre’s Haven?” Ravyn suggested. “The land and rents.”

  “All to FOG, specifically to Freddie and Aggie,” Prudence said. “I drew up the new will. It was witnessed by Cat Wheeler and Margaret Banberry.”

  “But you are a member of FOG,” Ravyn said. “As such, you have an intrinsic interest as well.”

  She shook her head. “No, I never was, not really. Everything goes to Freddie and Aggie, as it should. Phinney knew them all their lives and wanted to provide for them, so they might have resources to carry out all their hare-brained schemes.” She smiled wanly. “They are prats, but they are also the children he never had.”

  “Will you serve as executrix then?”

  “No, I will devolve that to one of the partners,” she said. “I do not mean to sound melodramatic, but it is going to be a very long time before I find any other interest in life. If ever.”

  “Why did Sir Phineas return to the house?” Ravyn asked.

  “The encounter with Reverend Allen was very upsetting,” she explained. “After that, he did not feel up to dealing with you. I told him to go on inside, that I would deal with you. If I hadn’t…” Her lip trembled a moment, then tightened into a thin bloodless band. “We met, and you know the rest.”

  “Any idea why Sir Phineas went upstairs alone?”

  She shook her head. “I thought he would mingle with the other guests. He knew his presence would be reassuring to the investors, the old guard, local squire, all that. He was very keen that Freddie and Aggie get the backing they needed.”

  “Did Sir Phineas contribute any extra money to FOG recently?” Ravyn asked. “Perhaps to meet expenses for the Gala?”

  “He could have, but he didn’t,” she said. “Phinney liked others to think he was mostly skint, but he wasn’t. When everything gets sorted out, Aggie and Freddie will each receive approximately two million pounds, plus Spectre’s Haven and all attachments. There are some small provisions for pensioning off employees and awarding freeholds to some long-time tenants, but in the main it all goes to Freddie and Aggie for any silly thing they want to do.”

  “And you’re fine with that?” Stark asked. “I mean, everybody getting all the dosh, and you not so much as a bent farthing?”

  “I’m just fine with it, Sergeant,” Prudence said. “If you’ve looked into my background, as I’m sure you have, you know I’ve never wanted for money and I still won’t. All I ever needed from Phinney was his love, and now that’s gone.” She smiled. “It’s not the sort of thing you can leave in a last will and testament.”

  “The vicar’s arrival was unexpected?” Ravyn asked.

  “He had some cheek, showing his face.” For a moment, her emotions overcame the sedative. “He was not welcome here.”

  “Why do you think he came?”

  “To cause trouble,” she replied. “That seems to be his stock in trade, from what I’ve been told.”

  “You didn’t know him well?” Ravyn asked.

  “Didn’t know him at all,” she said. “I arrived after the old vicar, a great friend of Phinney’s, was replaced by Reverend Allen. By then there was a chasm between him and Phinney. I never went to chapel, but it was horrendous and hateful, from what I heard. I only encountered the vicar at a distance, when he spoke publicly against a proposal by FOG. That was close enough for me.”

  “Do you know anything about Victor Boil?”

  “Only stories of the fire and suicide,” she said. “I visited the ruined cottage with Sir Phineas, but I never heard screams or laughter. I’m not sensitive enough, or so Aggie said. One night, Freddie conducted us deep into the forest. They heard the moans of Victor’s damned soul, but all I heard was wind in the trees.” She smiled at a lost past. “I told Phinney I heard someone weeping; it made him so happy.”

  “We think Victor did not commit suicide,” Stark said. “That he is behind the murders.”

  “Perhaps a villager, a newcomer,” Ravyn added. “Did Sir Phineas ever mention anyone seeming familiar? Even remotely?”

  She shook her head. “Phinney always had something to say about newcomers, rooters he called them, because they were trying to put down shallow roots into deep soil. He didn’t dislike them as others did, but he thought them disrespectful of village ways.” She smiled. “He was always quick to say I wasn’t like any of them because I respected their ways.”

  “But no one in particular?” Ravyn asked. “None familiar?”

  “No,” she replied. “I think he would have said something if he had. He knew Victor Boil. Aggie and Freddie were tykes—I wasn’t even born yet, of course—but Phinney had to deal with some of his mischief. Forty years is a long time. People change, but Phinney was no senile old fool.” A moment of sadness flickered across her features. “Though I think some people said so, because of me.”

  “It’s not a good idea for you to leave now. I can have Constable Barnes…” He nodded at the WPC. “…stay with you till morning.”

  Prudence looked around fretfully. “No. No, not here. I’ll take a room at the Blithe Spirit for the night. Tomorrow I’ll hire a car and driver to take me to London. If that is acceptable.”

  Ravyn nodded, then said to the constable: “Please escort Miss Holloway to the Blithe Spirit. Will you be able to stay with her?”

  “Yes, sir,” WPC Barnes said. “No problem.”

  “Stay with her, no matter what,” Ravyn said.

  Stark and Ravyn watched the woman led out. She leaned on the constable’s arm. Ravyn received a brief and disappointing report from SOCO. Finally, they sealed the doors and posted a constable at the house and at the gate.

  Stark asked: “Any ideas about who Victor is?”

  “
No,” Ravyn said. “In Little Wyvern, as in most villages, the fastest rising demographic is ‘newcomer’.”

  “It takes on a special meaning in Hammershire, doesn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes, but, fortunately, we can eliminate all ‘new’ families who have been here two generations,” Ravyn said. “Even so, that leaves too many. Pensioners, City folk with summer cottages, people who think a bucolic life will solve their problems. Even Michael Albertson is a ‘rooter,’ took over the Blithe Spirit ten years ago.”

  Stark grunted. “Thought he’d been here forever.”

  “Publicans always seem that way.”

  * * *

  Prudence Holloway noticed the slip of paper under the door and snatched it up. She unfolded it, read it, and frowned. She doubted she could tell the chief inspector anything else, but it would not take long. She slipped on her dressing gown and went to the door.

  “Where are you going, Miss?” Constable Barnes asked. “There something I can get you?”

  “No, I’ll be back in just a half-mo’,” she said.

  Prudence made her way downstairs into the dark pub. The last time she had been here, Phinney was having the time of his life, blissfully ignorant that Freddie was upstairs with a bowling ball. She saw a movement in the shadows.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I’ve come to cure your broken heart,” the Warlock said.

  Chapter 10

  The Curtain Rises

  DS Leo Stark sat at his desk, staring at a blank monitor. His mobile chimed. He let it go to message. It would be Aeronwy. She had said nothing after the call from Ravyn, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him dress in the half-dark. At least she had not expressed any of the anger that marked the other times he had been called out. But, he noted, there was none of the soft, sympathetic expression that attended her first few years as a policeman’s wife. When he kissed her, she gave him her cheek..

  “Back to Little Wyvern,” Ravyn had said. “Prudence Holloway has been murdered.”