She was ushered into a room furnished with a semi-circle of metal and canvas chairs by a woman with bushy grey hair who was indeed wearing a ‘curtain’, Tim’s name for a full-length floral skirt, usually of the home-made variety. Juliet sighed inwardly. Perhaps Tim had been right. She took a seat at the edge of the semi-circle, moving as silently as she could, and focused her attention on the two men seated on a small raised dais at the top of the room. She divined that one of them was Richard Lennard, the President of Fenland Folklore, and that he was introducing the evening’s guest speaker in somewhat fulsome terms.
“ . . .Francis Abbott, who will talk to us about his researches into the East Anglian oral folk tradition and how some of the tales became associated with Christian moral teachings, especially after they were written down. We’re very fortunate to have Francis with us this evening, because he is the foremost authority on . . .” Juliet barely listened to the rest of this encomium. She was focusing on Richard Lennard himself. She knew that he was the headteacher at the local girls’ High School. He was tall with aquiline features and an abundance of wavy black hair. Self-consciously debonair and charismatic, he seemed an unlikely person to be associated with a modest, amateurish organisation like Fenland Folklore. She caught his eye once and he stared right through her.
Francis Abbott rose to his feet and walked the few steps to the lectern that had been placed to one side of the podium. He was a tubby little man dressed in lovat green tweed who cleared his throat anxiously several times before he began to speak. Juliet’s heart sank further. Quirky amateurishness she could stand, but not an evening of boredom made the more excruciating by the inept delivery of a nervous speaker.
She needn’t have worried. Once Francis Abbott had warmed up, he spoke with eloquence and grace. Juliet quickly became absorbed in his narration of some of the folk tales that he’d gathered that were particularly associated with Spalding and its hinterland. The last of these was especially compelling.
“There was once a shy and simple fair-haired boy who fell in love with one of the girls in his village. She had magnificent thick, long, dark tresses that were threaded through with just a glint of gold. The girl took no notice of the boy, who was pining away because of her indifference to him.
“In desperation, his mother suggested he visited a strange old woman who lived in a hovel at the end of the village to ask for her help. Some of the villagers thought the old woman was as wise as she was ancient, but more were afraid of her and her mutterings and avoided her as a witch. The boy’s mother had no way of telling the truth, but she did know that her son would die if he couldn’t be rescued from the wasting disease triggered by his distress.
“The dame was gentle and kind to the lad. She gave him a box of sweetmeats to present to the girl, but said that there was one condition: he must not arrange to meet her after she had eaten them. Instead, he must return to the old woman, who would herself tell him how his gift had been received.
“The boy had intended to give the sweetmeats to the girl on the following morning, but it took him most of the day to find her. It was therefore dusk when he finally returned to the old woman’s house. She invited him in, offered him a seat at her hearth. When he became uneasy and said that he should return to his mother, the old woman told him to calm himself. She said the girl had not yet had time to eat the sweetmeats, but when she’d finished them the crone would know and give him the information he craved immediately. He would have to stay where he was until then: otherwise, he might meet the girl again accidentally and then the spell would be broken.
“At nightfall, the boy’s mother went to knock on the old woman’s door to ask when her son would be returning. The old woman didn’t reply, but the boy shouted through the door that he was quite safe and would come back to her as soon as his business was done. Reluctantly, the mother trudged home.
“Towards midnight, the villagers heard terrible sounds emerging from the hovel, but were too afraid to investigate until the following morning. Led by the boy’s mother, a small deputation then demanded entry. The old woman welcomed them with smiles and let them in. Inside, the tumbledown cottage was neat and tidy. Everything was in its place, except for a single blood-stained rag which had been thrown into one corner. The old woman explained it by saying that it had been used to wrap meat. The boy’s mother thought that she recognised it as a fragment of her son’s shirt, and stepped forward for a closer look, but the old woman barred her way. The villagers were overcome by a terrible chilliness combined with a foul stench in the air, and left.
“The boy did not return home. The villagers were certain that the old woman had harmed or killed him, but dared not return to the hovel to accuse her. From time to time, they heard moans and banging noises coming from the dwelling, but ignored them.
“After many years, when the boy’s mother is herself old and bent, a large animal is seen loping through the village. It has yellow fur and fierce black eyes. The villagers see the door to the old woman’s cottage has been left swinging open. They gather up the courage to go inside. There they find the emaciated body of a middle-aged man. It is still warm; he has only just died.”
Juliet found this story haunting. It was the last of the tales to be told by Francis Abbott that evening. After a prolonged round of applause orchestrated by himself, Richard Lennard courteously gestured to the speaker to resume his seat while he led the debate about what meaning this folk-tale might have had for its early narrators and listeners. Juliet could see that Frances Abbott was only half-engaged with this part of the proceedings: she guessed he belonged to the school of thought that said that folk tales should be allowed to exist in their own right, not as primitive romans à clefs – a sentiment that on balance she shared. But Richard Lennard ploughed on, clearly in his element. Having offered his own views, which Juliet found hard to follow but seemed to be based on elaborate sociological theories that struck no chord with her, he invited the members of the audience to share theirs.
“Yes?” he said. “Veronica?”
“I’d say it was a warning not to get too carried away by infatuation,” she said. “Whatever it is you love, the sacrifice can never be worth it. You just end up getting trapped and horribly damaged.”
The woman spoke softly, but there was an edge to her voice. She was sitting almost at the centre of the semi-circle. Juliet leant forward so that she could see her more clearly. The woman was in her late thirties, slightly-built and very pale.
“Thank you, Veronica,” said Richard Lennard, somewhat patronisingly, Juliet thought. He moved on swiftly, clearly not encouraging debate on the point the woman had made. “Anyone else have anything to say?”
“Well, if you insist on reading summat into it, I’d say it was a champion attempt to warn men not to let women get out of hand. Female dominance leads to male emasculation. End of story.”
Everyone laughed. The speaker was a powerfully-built man in his seventies who sported a patriarch’s long white beard. Richard Lennard beamed at him.
“Ever true to your principles, aren’t you, George?” he chaffed. “Well, if none of us has anything to add, I’m going to ask Francis Abbott to wind up this session by giving us his own views about this tale. Francis, it’s a very powerful story, is it not?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“What do you yourself read into it? Tell us your own view, now that you’ve heard some of our thoughts.” Richard Lennard preened himself a little as he spoke. Juliet saw that he considered the explanation he had offered to have most merit. It was certainly the most sophisticated.
Francis Abbott, who until this point had been meek and compliant to the point of self-effacement, suddenly skewered him with a look.
“There’s no point in trying to read anything into tales of this kind,” he said, quite fiercely. “They grew up over long periods of time and were subject to the memories and the imaginations of those who told them. The ver
sion I’ve given you is itself an amalgam of the three most authentic versions of this story I could find. To attribute to it a ‘meaning’, as if it were a deliberate parable, would be both to give it a didactic weight that it can’t sustain and to detract from its beauty as an evolving piece of literature originally passed down as part of the oral tradition.”
Richard Lennard possessed the type of near-flawless olive skin which did not blush easily. Nevetherless, Juliet thought she saw his complexion darken. He almost stammered his reply.
“Quite so,” he said. “And now it remains for us once again to thank Francis Abbott in the usual way, before we adjourn for refreshments.”
There was another enthusiastic round of applause.
‘Refreshments’ consisted of coffee or wine. Juliet debated whether to stay and decided that on this occasion she wouldn’t. She didn’t know anyone else in the room and thought it would be too daunting to try to insinuate herself into one of the little gatherings that were now beginning to form near the trestle table on which coffee pots and a few bottles of wine were standing. Much better to arrive before the start of the next meeting and get to know one or two people then.
The folk tale had made a deep impression on her. Mulling it over on her way home, she thought that, although she agreed with Francis Abbott’s strictures, it probably did contain a moral for those who looked for it, but not about the battle of the sexes. She believed its message was that you should find the strength to question happenings that seem strange or sinister and to challenge acts you have witnessed that cannot be accounted for in a ‘good’ way.
Chapter Six
WHILE JULIET WAS attempting to bring an extra dimension into her life by absorbing local culture, DC Andy Carstairs was sitting in the Pied Calf pub with his older sister, Shelagh, who had recently been berating him for showing interest in nothing but his job. As a result of this nagging, he’d been talked into meeting Shelagh’s friend Jocelyn for a ‘casual drink’. It was not so much a blind date as a managed date, with Shelagh in attendance as the mistress of ceremonies. He felt restless and awkward.
Shelagh was more direct than Andy, who prided himself on his subtlety. Where the interests of her little brother were concerned she always declared herself to be totally onside, which in Andy’s book meant bossy. Periodically, Shelagh took Andy in hand by devising some kind of project to enhance the quality of his life: hence, over the years, his wardrobe had had a makeover, his hair had been stylishly ‘feathered’ and, for some months now, Shelagh had assumed the role of presiding genius of a punishing gym regime that had resulted in no significant improvement to his shape. This mystified Shelagh, who despite her sharpness seemed to have no suspicion that after a session at the gym Andy habitually recharged his batteries by calling in at his local for a pint or two, an enterprise aided by the fact that both the gym Shelagh had selected and the hostelry were within handy walking distance of his flat.
Why Shelagh had decided that Andy’s existence had become unbearable without a petite amie was not easily comprehensible, as she herself was now in her mid-thirties and had been ‘between boyfriends’ for some time. Yet it was clearly preying on her mind that, after a short disastrous relationship with a girl called Ruth four years previously, Andy hadn’t had a single date. She’d pointed out that he was pushing thirty and had neither the good looks nor stellar career that would guarantee plenty of choice. Andy was too much of a gentleman to retaliate that Shelagh had herself passed that milestone half a decade ago and too lazy to resist when she suggested she should introduce him to Jocelyn, one of her more recent friends.
Agreeing with Shelagh had seemed like the only option at the time, but now that he was awaiting the arrival of a woman whose sole recommendation was an endorsement from his sister, he felt trapped. Jocelyn was bound either to look like the back of a bus or to be an air-head. At the same time, he was irritated and embarrassed by the fact that she was now twenty minutes late. It was one thing to feel lukewarm about a proposed encounter, quite another to have to face the humiliation of being stood up.
“Another drink?” Shelagh asked brightly. “Jocelyn must have been delayed. When I’ve got the drinks in I’ll give her a call.”
“Lime and lemonade, please,” said Andy morosely.
“Is that all? Don’t you think a drop of something stronger might help you to relax? Tell you what, why don’t I buy a bottle of wine? I’ll ask for three glasses. It’ll break the ice when Jocelyn arrives.”
“Sorry, Shelagh, I’ve already told you: I’m on call tonight and I can’t drink alcohol in case I’m needed somewhere.”
“How likely is that?”
“On a weekday evening, not very, but . . .” As if on cue, Andy’s mobile started ringing.
“Hello? DI Yates. Good evening, sir. Yes. Yes, no bother. I’m on my way.”
He looked up slowly, flinching from his sister’s furious glare, yet relieved.
“I’m sorry, Shelagh, it’s just one of those things. Can’t be helped. Please explain to Jocelyn – if she turns up.”
Shelagh’s face and neck had turned brick red, a sure sign that she was angry.
“She’ll turn up. You’re not the only one who has a demanding job.”
Despite her anger, she looked vulnerable sitting there, her plans for the evening in tatters, both of her match-making targets behaving in a refractory way. Andy’s resistance melted. He stood up and embraced her.
“I know you think you’re doing your best by me, and I’m grateful, honestly I am. Do explain to Jocelyn. We’ll fix a date another time, if she’s still game.”
Andy straightened to his full height, circumnavigated the closely-packed tables and pushed his way through the crowd standing at the bar. When he’d almost reached the door, he turned back to give Shelagh a wave. She responded with a tiny flick of her wrist, then, to his surprise, suddenly leapt to her feet, her face transformed by an ear-to-ear grin.
“Jocelyn!” she called.
Facing forward again, Andy saw a tall, willowy woman framed in the doorway. She had long, straight dark hair cut in a fringe at the front. She was wearing a cherry-red duffle coat and jeans. She smiled back, her eyes twinkling, to expose even white teeth. Andy was impressed enough to pluck up the courage to introduce himself. He took the few steps necessary to reach her and tapped her gently on the arm.
“Jocelyn?” he said. “I’m Andy Carstairs. I’m sorry, there’s been an emergency and I’ve been called in to work. I do apologise. Perhaps we can rearrange some other time?”
She pouted a mock reprimand.
“Shame!” she said. “I’d been looking forward to meeting you. Still, I suppose that we have now met, at least, and Shelagh and I can have a drink together and a good gossip if you can’t stay. Some other time, you say? Yes, certainly. Suggest some dates to Shelagh and I’ll find one that fits. Make it quite soon – otherwise I may forget about you.”
She laughed lightly. Andy nodded and carried on through the door into the street. He looked over his shoulder as the pub door swung to behind him.
“Fuck!” he said.
Chapter Seven
KAYLEIGH GRUMMETT WAS still resisting Verity Tandy’s attempt to prise the dog pyjama case from her when suddenly the fat young woman looked up and beamed.
“Hello, Mr Cushing!” she chirruped in her squeaky voice. Tim, who was standing nearby, recognised the name at once: Cushing was the neighbour from down the road who had taken responsibility for looking after Philippa Grummett. He was standing in a shaft of light thrown by one of the big lamps that had been set up by the firemen, so Tim could see him clearly. He was a gnome-like little man with a large bald head.
“I thought you might like a cup of tea,” said the small man. He had an incongruously deep and confident voice. “I can bring it down for you if you like, or you can come up to the house.”
Verity Tandy looked at Ti
m for guidance. He could see she thought he’d likely refuse. He knew Verity would welcome a cup of tea – she’d been standing there in the freezing fog for at least two hours. He was curious to meet the other daughter and he also thought they might get more sense out of Kayleigh if they accepted. For all he knew, the girl was suffering from the shock of witnessing the damage that had been done to her home and needed a warm drink. Perhaps she was less stupid under normal circumstances. He turned to Peter Cushing.
“I’m DI Yates, South Lincolnshire Police,” he said. “That’s a very kind offer, sir.” He saw the Chelsea-bun-faced aunt hovering in the background. “How many of us can you cope with?”
“As many folk as would like to come,” said Cushing expansively. He was relishing his temporary importance.
While they were talking, Kayleigh absent-mindedly let go of the pyjama case. She appeared not to notice what she’d done, so absorbed was she in what Cushing was saying. Verity, who’d been holding one corner of it, passed it discreetly to Giash Chakrabati, who bagged it and took it away.
Tim and Kayleigh, Verity and the Grummett uncle and aunt formed a straggling procession and walked up the lane in the wake of Peter Cushing. He led them to the side entrance of a foursquare yellow brick bungalow dating from the early 1960s.
“We’re here, Mother!” he called, as he opened the door and stepped inside, gesturing the others to follow. They all crowded into a small kitchen, which was warm and damp and poorly-lit. A large pan of something was bubbling on the stove. A thin woman wearing an apron bustled in from the room beyond.
“Goodness, don’t stay in here!” she said. “Come through into the living room.” She gave Kayleigh’s cheek a solicitous tweak, causing her chins to wobble. “You all right, duckie? Terrible thing to have happened.” She looked around at the others for confirmation. Kayleigh’s lip trembled and her sluggish eyes filled with tears. “Now then, sweetheart. Come and have some tea.”
The Crossing Page 3
