Wychwood

by George Mann

  “Not unless you go through one of the other gardens and go round through the woods,” said Elspeth.

  “We haven’t got time for that,” said Peter. He took a deep breath, flexed his neck, and then charged at the door, throwing all of his weight behind his shoulder. The lock burst with a tremendous splinter, and the door swung open violently, crashing against the wall inside with an echoing bang. Peter was inside before Elspeth or the others had even had chance to take stock. They all hurried after him.

  Elspeth found him standing in the living room, just off the main hall. It was unnerving how much the house resembled Dorothy’s, but dressed in an entirely different way. The living-room walls were lined with reams of overstuffed bookshelves, a small desk, and a sideboard, along with only two comfy-looking armchairs. There was a half-drunk bottle of brandy on the sideboard, along with the scattered pages of Keel’s play script.

  Peter wandered back out into the hall. “Mr Keel?”

  He turned to Grant. “Check upstairs.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Grant, and hurried up to search the bedrooms. Peter walked through to the study, and then on to the kitchen, where the patio doors were hanging open, their hinges creaking noisily in the breeze. The lights were off. There was something ominous about the scene, about the way in which it looked as if Keel had just upped and left through those patio doors, heading out into the garden, drawn towards the darkness of the beckoning Wychwood beyond.

  “Nothing upstairs, sir,” came a voice from the hallway, startling Elspeth. Grant came hurrying in to join them.

  “Alright, thanks, Grant,” said Peter. He crossed to the doors. A security light blinked on when it sensed his movement. “Hang on, what’s that?” He stepped out onto the patio, and crossed to the bottom of the garden, stooping low and using the end of his pen to poke at an object he’d seen lying on the grass.

  Elspeth stepped out behind him, bracing herself against the cold. “What is it?”

  Peter looked round, as if remembering she was there. “A broken brandy glass,” he said, “and a rock that looks like it’s stained with blood.”

  “Oh, God, we’re too late.”

  “Not necessarily.” He turned towards the trees. “They might still be out there, amongst the trees.”

  She heard a noise and turned to see Catton standing on the patio behind her. “Backup’s on the way, sir.”

  “Good. But we don’t have time to wait for that. If we’re going to stop him, we have to act now. We’re going to take our torches and spread out in a line.”

  “In there?” said Catton, bristling. He was pointing at the Wychwood.

  “Yes, in there,” said Peter. “We’re trying to stop a murder here, Catton.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peter turned to Elspeth. “You’re going home. Right now. No argument. I’ll not put a civilian in jeopardy. Especially you.”

  “But surely more hands…”

  “No.” He was absolutely emphatic. “Go now. Please, Elspeth.”

  She took a deep breath. She wanted to tell him to stop being ridiculous, to stop underestimating her – but she knew he was just looking out for her. And he was doing what he had to do as a policeman, too. “Okay,” she said. “Alright.” She backed away. “I’m going. But you promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “Scout’s honour,” said Peter.

  “You were never in the Scouts,” she countered.

  “Policeman’s honour, then.” He grinned. “Grant, see her home. She only lives a few doors down the road. Then straight back here.”

  Elspeth hurried back through the house, out through the broken front door, and along the road to Dorothy’s house. Grant jogged along beside her, and then stood at the bottom of her garden path until she’d watched her go inside.

  Elspeth closed the door and fell back against it, taking deep, stuttering breaths. Could she really let this go on without her? After everything that had happened?

  “Oh, hello, Ellie love.” Dorothy came out from the kitchen holding a wooden spoon. “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah, fine, Mum,” she said.

  “Only, I saw there was a police car a few doors down, outside of David Keel’s house.”

  “Yeah. Routine enquiries, I think,” said Elspeth.

  Dorothy nodded, and turned to head back to the kitchen.

  “Mum, have you got a torch?”

  “Of course. In the kitchen cupboard with the screwdrivers. Why?”

  “Is it okay if I borrow it?”

  “Elspeth – what’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you later, Mum. I won’t be long.” She kicked off her heels and ran through to the kitchen, digging in the cupboard until she found the torch. It was large and weighty, but it blinked on when she pushed the button. She found her boots on the mat by the back door, hurriedly shoved her feet into them, and then opened the patio doors.

  “I don’t like the look of this, Elspeth,” said Dorothy from behind her.

  She turned and smiled. “Don’t worry, Mum. I know what I’m doing.”

  She only hoped that was true.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Elspeth swung her legs over the wall, dropping down into the mulch below. It was still trying to rain. Her breath was fogging before her face, and the Wychwood smelled damp and fresh around her.

  A few doors down, she could see three torch beams, flickering eerily amongst the trees, stabbing out into the darkness. She switched her own torch on, and set out towards them, using the beam to scan the undergrowth so she could see where she was treading.

  Out here, everything seemed heightened – the crunch of her boots, the rustle of the breeze through the leaves, the distant cawing of a crow. The darkness, too, seemed absolute, impenetrable, as if the feeble beam of her torch would never be enough to penetrate it. It was as if the Wychwood itself was closing in around her, warning her to stay away.

  She knew what she was doing was stupid, but she felt as if she couldn’t stop, now – as if she were being inexplicably drawn towards some final moment, to bear witness to whatever the end of this terrible affair might be.

  She pressed on, hugging herself as she walked. She was gaining on the others, now. They’d spread out in a line as Peter had suggested, and were slowly advancing ever deeper into the gloomy Wychwood. She could see Peter up ahead, faintly illuminated by the beam of his own torch. He looked ghostly and unreal, like a spectre drifting through the gnarly boughs of the trees, searching for prey.

  She waved her torch in his direction, catching his eye. He twisted suddenly, shining the beam of his torch in her face. She blinked and recoiled, raising her hand as if trying to ward off the piercing light.

  He lowered his torch and came crunching over to her, the displeasure evident on his face. “I told you to stay at home!” he hissed.

  “No, you said to ‘go home’. There’s a difference. I did go home. And I got a torch.”

  “This isn’t a game, Elspeth.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  He frowned. “Look, we haven’t got time to argue now. You’re here now. Stay next to me.”

  He turned and marched off, and she hurried to keep up.

  She had no sense of passing time out here. It was almost as if they’d progressed into another realm altogether, where everything had stopped. She imagined the backup would be arriving soon, and then the woods would be flooded with light and the sound of trampling policemen and dogs – but right now, with just the four of them traipsing along in a line, she might have been able to believe that time had somehow stopped.

  Up ahead, she caught sight of a glimmer of light amongst the trees. She tugged on Peter’s arm and pointed. He lifted his torch and focused the beam, and the light was suddenly extinguished.

  “Over here,” he hissed to the others, setting out in the direction of the mysterious light source. “Stick together, and watch your backs.”

  They crept forward, closing ranks, Elspeth beside Peter at the
front, Grant to the left, Catton to the right.

  The trees here were thinning, giving way to a natural glade. Peter stopped beside the bough of an immense oak tree, and swung his torch from side to side, searching for any sign of Miller or Keel.

  As his beam crossed one of the trees, Elspeth caught a glimpse of a man’s pale, staring face, and almost yelped in shock. She raised her own torch, and the spear of light fell first upon the trunk of another tree, and then, as she swung it slowly to the right, upon the dangling body of David Keel.

  “Over there,” she said, her voice cracking at the sight.

  Keel had been suspended from one of the overhead branches by a rope that had been looped around his neck. His eyes were closed, and blood had run freely from his head wound down the side of his face – evidently where he’d been struck by the rock Peter had found in the garden.

  His body was still twisting slowly back and forth on the rope, as if he’d only just been suspended. A church candle had been set on the ground nearby – evidently the source of illumination they’d seen earlier.

  Elspeth felt sick.

  Peter rushed to Keel’s side. “He’s still breathing. Catton, quickly, get me something we can use to cut him down. He’s unconscious, but there’s still time.” His fingers scrabbled for the knot.

  “Hang on, Peter,” said Elspeth. “Something’s wrong. If Keel’s still alive, then Miller might still be here.”

  “Oh, you’re too clever for your own good, Miss Reeves.”

  The shadows behind Peter stirred as if they were alive, and Elspeth watched in horror as they appeared to detach themselves from the boughs of the nearest tree, slowly resolving into the form and shape of a man. He’d been lurking there all along, this nightmarish apparition, this man draped in a thick black mantle of crow feathers.

  He turned toward her and she almost recoiled at the sight of him. He’d daubed his face in stark white stage paint, smearing it on so that, in the low light, his face took on the aspect of a fleshless skull. His cloak of crow feathers was draped across his shoulders, tied around his throat by a thick golden cord. She could see that there were scores of dangling crows’ heads nestled amongst the downy feathers, as if he’d stitched the carcasses of whole birds into his gruesome, totemic cloak.

  He wore a necklace of bone fetishes – presumably more animal bones, strung on black string – and from his belt hung other bizarre shamanistic tokens: a rabbit’s foot, a sprig of holly. He was clutching a sword, and pointed the wavering tip at Peter’s midriff. “Get away from him, DS Shaw. It’s too late to stop me now.”

  Peter held his ground, but didn’t say anything.

  Catton stepped forward into the glade, fixing Miller in the beam of his torch.

  Elspeth took a step forward, and Miller reacted by jabbing the sword in Peter’s direction, warning her to keep her distance.

  “It’s over, Byron,” said Elspeth. “You must realise that. The police are looking for you. No matter what you do here, you won’t get very far.”

  Miller smiled. “Soon it won’t matter. Keel’s a fool, but he has to die. For that, I’m truly sorry. He doesn’t deserve it, but there’s no other option. Believe me, I’ve spent years trying to find one. This is the only way.”

  “George,” said Elspeth. “Listen to me.”

  Miller paused. “Don’t you dare use that name!”

  “I know what happened. I know what they did to you after Thomas went missing. I know why you’re so angry.”

  “Went missing?” He practically spat the words. “You know nothing about it. You have no idea what they did. But I’m going to save him. I’m going to bring him back.”

  “Back from where?”

  “From the dead.”

  Elspeth gaped. She glanced at Peter, but he wasn’t taking his eyes off Miller. The tip of the sword was only inches from his gut.

  “Thomas is dead?” she said, trying to keep Miller’s attention on her.

  Miller shook his head. “Not for much longer. There’s only Keel, and Millicent Brown, and then no one will be able to stop me from bringing him back.”

  He was clearly delusional. Had that really been what all of this was about? All those murders? A missing boy from nearly forty years ago?

  Peter looked as if he was preparing to make a move. Elspeth knew she had to keep Miller talking.

  “Tell me what happened?”

  “They killed him,” said Miller. “They killed him and hid his body in the Wychwood, Patricia and James. They were the ones who were supposed to protect us, but they took him away from me. They hid him from the world and told everyone he’d run away. They made me lie to the police. They were going to kill me, too.”

  “Why, George? Why did they kill him?”

  Miller looked pained, as if the very act of remembering was like reliving it all over again. “We’d been playing in the woods out the back of the house, just like we always did; me, Thomas, and Becky. We’d come home late, covered in mud. But Patricia and James were having a party that night, and James went apoplectic when he saw that Thomas had traipsed mud up the hall carpet.”

  She had Miller’s attention now, and out of the corner of her eye she saw that Peter had begun to slowly inch away from the sword tip.

  “What did he do?” she prompted, hurriedly.

  “He forced Thomas to get down on his knees and scrub it. He wouldn’t let me help. He said it was Thomas’s mess, and he had to clear it up. Thomas was there for over an hour, scrubbing at the carpet with a wire brush until his fingertips bled. But James wouldn’t let him stop. He just stood over him and bellowed at him to keep on scrubbing, or else he’d send him back to the care home he’d been dragged up in.

  “That was what did it, you see? Thomas turned around and said that he wished James would send him back to the care home, that anything would be better than living with him, and James just lashed out. He hit Thomas across the side of the head, and Thomas fell. He bashed his temple against the edge of the radiator. There was blood everywhere. I saw everything from the top of the stairs.”

  “Why didn’t they call for an ambulance?”

  “Thomas was already dead, and James was terrified he was going to get the blame. So Patricia wrapped him up in a bundle of towels and snuck him out to the Wychwood. They buried him right where we used to play.” Miller’s voice had risen in pitch as he’d talked, as the fury boiled up inside of him. “Can you imagine that? Can you? They took our special place, and they desecrated it.”

  “And now you’re going to bring Thomas back to life?”

  “Only the Carrion King can do it, you see? Only the Carrion King can obtain mastery over life and death.”

  “Is Thomas still out there, in the woods?”

  “Beneath the sacred tree,” said Miller. “Sleeping until the Carrion King comes to rouse him.”

  “What about Rebecca?” said Elspeth. “Why did she have to die?”

  “She abandoned me!” said Miller.

  “She was just a child.”

  “I hated her for leaving me. I had no—” He was cut short as Peter leapt at him, grabbing him around the shoulders and sending them both sprawling heavily to the ground.

  “Cuffs, quickly!”

  Miller grunted as Peter struck him in the jaw, and the sword tumbled from his hands. Catton rushed forward to grab it, while Grant emerged from the trees behind them, where she’d obviously been creeping round, ready to grab Miller from behind. She stooped low and snapped the cuffs around his wrists while Peter pinned a squirming Miller to the ground.

  “Get Keel down!” called Peter. “He might still be alive.”

  Catton hurried over with the sword, and Elspeth went to help him, taking Keel’s weight while Catton used the blade to saw through the rope. Keel slumped forward suddenly, and she staggered under the burden, but then Catton was helping her, and together they lowered him to the ground.

  Hurriedly they loosened the noose around his neck and checked his airways. He still
had a dull pulse.

  “He’s still alive,” she said. “Barely.” In the distance, Elspeth could hear the wail of sirens.

  “Finally,” said Peter. “Catton, make sure the paramedics find him and get straight to work.” He got to his feet, and dragged Miller up behind him. Grant was standing over him, her baton clutched in her fist, ready to step in if he tried anything. It was clear the fight had gone out of him, though. He looked distraught, his eyes flicking about him, tears streaming down his cheeks, white paint running in long streaks down his face. He bowed his head. “What about Thomas?” he mumbled. “I only wanted to see him again.”

  “Thomas wouldn’t have wanted you to become this,” said Peter.

  He stooped to retrieve his torch, clicked it on, and led Miller away towards the oncoming sirens.

  Dazed, emotional, and elated, Elspeth leaned back against a tree and sank to the ground. Finally, it was over.

  She hugged her knees to her chest, took a deep breath, and then looked to the sky as the heavens finally opened, and the rain came, pattering down upon her upturned cheeks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The remnant of the Wychwood close to Patricia Graves’s house – known locally as Heighton Woods – was just as Elspeth had imagined it.

  Softly decomposing leaves formed a thick carpet that came up around her ankles, and the smell of the damp earth filled her nostrils. She’d always equated that scent with a feeling of wellbeing, and finally, now it was all over, she thought she might be able to reclaim that, to learn to enjoy the woods again.

  She walked slowly, avoiding the low hanging branches, the mossy creepers, the fallen logs. Beside her, Peter trudged through the undergrowth like a truffle hound, eager and intent on his target.

  They’d followed the instructions that Miller had given in his interviews, parking the car on Windham Road and tracing the meandering public footpath around the back of the terraced houses and up into the Wychwood. She could see why it had appealed to Thomas, Rebecca and George as children; like the woods at the back of her parents’ house in Wilsby- under-Wychwood, it reeked of adventure.