Wychwood Read online

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  “Did you find anything else useful?”

  Peter took the proffered folder and slipped it into a bag.

  “Not really,” said Elspeth. “But I’m seeing Millicent Brown on Monday afternoon. She’s not free until then. Took a bit of digging to find her current address, but she sounded happy enough to chat. I’m interested to find out what became of the other foster child, George Baker. He sounds so scared in those interview transcripts, and the way he suddenly changed his story – I can’t help wondering whether someone was applying pressure to make him fall in line. It’s nothing more than a niggling feeling, really, but I’d like to find George Baker and see what he has to say about it all now. I can’t help feeling that whatever went on back then is somehow linked to what happened to Patricia Graves the other day. It’s the one momentous event in what appeared to have been a pretty mundane existence. It’s got to have some bearing.”

  “Well, just be careful. People can take exception when you go digging up the past. Trust me, I know from experience.”

  “Duly noted.”

  They were queuing in Lenny’s for coffee. She’d managed to make herself look half human, at least – after concealing the rings beneath her eyes with make-up – but Peter was looking a little worse for the wear.

  They reached the front of the queue, and the barista took their order for two filter coffees with a fixed grin and forced jollity that, to Elspeth, was like nails being drawn across a chalkboard. They collected their drinks and then stepped out into the brisk afternoon.

  “So we’re back to square one,” said Elspeth. “And worse, we have another victim.”

  “Not entirely,” said Peter. “As dreadful as it sounds, a new victim opens up new avenues of investigation. Our job now – or my job, at least – is to deconstruct every aspect of Rose’s life, to contrast it with the lives of Geoffrey Altman and Lucy Adams, and try to find any correlations.”

  “What did DCI Griffiths make of our theory, about how the victims were being selected?”

  Peter took a sip from his coffee, and almost spat it over himself as it burned his lips. “Bloody thing,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Elspeth smiled.

  “She agrees that we could be on to something. Or rather, she agrees that I could be on to something. Sorry.”

  “No need.” She waved her hand airily. “As long as I’m right too.”

  “That’s why I’ve asked Miller to come over, to be honest. It might help us to understand what happened to Rose, but perhaps more importantly, I want to see if we can build a profile of who the killer might be targeting next. If Miller can tell us about The Master of the Pentacle and The Fool, not to mention The Confessor, then perhaps we’ll be able to make the link in time to stop them. I can’t see them stopping now. We have to assume they’re aiming for a complete set.”

  “It’s got to be worth a go,” said Elspeth. She glanced at her watch. “What time are we meeting him?”

  “Two,” said Peter. They were approaching the market square as they ambled slowly through the town towards Postgate, and he stopped, sat on a low wall. “Which might just give us time for this infernal coffee to cool down to sub-stellar levels.”

  Elspeth laughed. “Budge up,” she said, sitting down beside him. Pigeons were scrabbling about amongst the detritus of the previous day’s market, pecking at cabbage leaves and cigarette ends amongst the cobblestones. She sipped at her coffee. “I still can’t quite believe it’s real. It all feels like some horrible dream.”

  He put his arm around her, and they sat in companionable silence until it was time to go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  They found Miller inside The Reading Stop, ensconced in the corner in a deep leather armchair, sipping a coffee and reading – somewhat ironically – a Michael Williams thriller called The Fate Caller. He placed it back on the shelf when he saw them approaching.

  “Not one of his best,” he said.

  The Reading Stop was a recent addition to Heighton’s burgeoning art scene – to all intents and purposes a café like any other, peddling the usual ostentatious array of flat whites, mocha chocolate brownies and fruit-flavoured frappés, but with the novel addition that the seating booths had all been created out of bowing cases of second-hand paperbacks. The books were all for sale, but also free to browse for anyone purchasing food or drink. The café also had an upper floor for evening events, where guest authors could give readings or submit themselves to question and answer sessions with their reading public. It had a nice vibe, Elspeth felt. She had too much of a loyalty to Lenny’s to truly defect, but she could see herself attending a few events here in the future.

  They joined Miller, taking seats opposite him. Elspeth felt herself wishing she didn’t feel quite so weary.

  “Thank you for making the time to talk to us again,” said Peter. “It’s good of you to drive over.”

  Miller shrugged. “I have no lectures today, and besides, it gave me the perfect excuse to look up a friend in the area.”

  “It wouldn’t happen to be Michael Williams or Philip Cowper, would it?” said Peter.

  Miller waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small black case. “I hope you don’t mind. I know it’s a terrible habit, but I can’t go too long without one. Since it’s regarded as a little uncouth these days, I’ve finally submitted myself to the ritual humiliation of one of these.” He opened the case and took out a vaporizer.

  Peter smiled. “I hear they’re all the rage these days.”

  Miller inclined his head. “So, how can I be of service?”

  “What can you tell us about the Carrion King’s other apostles?” said Peter. “And in particular the woman known as The Confessor?”

  Miller rolled his device between his lips. “Ah, yes. I understand a little more now, about why you requested my assistance. I take it this isn’t the first?”

  The news of Rose’s death had spread like wildfire, including – of course – the details of how her body had been dressed in what looked like a costume from the play. With so many people in attendance, it would have been impossible to attempt to contain it, and subsequently news vans had been crawling all over the area that morning. Elspeth herself had drafted a short piece for the Heighton Observer website, with a promise to Meredith that she’d provide another, longer update later that afternoon.

  Elspeth sensed Peter bristle. “I’m afraid I can’t confirm that. But as you can imagine, we’d appreciate any help you might be able to offer.”

  Miller nodded. He plumed vapour from the corner of his mouth. Elspeth found herself annoyed by his affected nonchalance. It didn’t suit him.

  “The Confessor was a witch who inveigled her way into the Carrion King’s inner circle,” he said. “It was said that in the age before the Carrion King’s coming, she had discovered the rites through which one might commune with the spirits of the dead; a medium, of sorts, who could pierce the veil between worlds both corporeal and ethereal.”

  He downed the last of his espresso as if it were a shot of tequila, and then held his empty cup aloft to the waitress, beckoning for another. “And anything for my friends, too,” he called, but both Peter and Elspeth shook their heads.

  “She had not always been this way,” continued Miller. “Once, she’d been a simple slave girl of a farmer from the nearby village. She was a striking young woman, however, imbued with a preternatural beauty that turned the heads of all the men who were lucky enough to cross her path. For this reason, the farmer confined her to a life of servitude upon the farm, away from the wandering eyes of those who might do the young girl wrong.

  “The girl, Esme, was content enough with her lot. She knew little of life beyond the farm, and the dark ways of men. In protecting her innocence, however, the farmer had done her a devastating wrong, for she had learned nothing of distrust or deception, and therefore could not recogn
ise it in others. When the ealdorman’s tax collector – an arrogant, wayward young man – called upon the farm to demand Danegeld of the farmer, he spied Esme drawing water from the well, and became utterly bewitched.

  “Day and night, the tax collector could think of nothing else. He claimed the woman came to him in his dreams, and, like a siren of old, beckoned him to her bed.

  “Driven mad by desire, the man arranged for the farmer to be summoned to the ealdorman’s home one morning. Then, knowing the farmer’s wife would be visiting the market and the girl was home alone, he forced his way into the farmhouse and raped her.

  “Confused, alone, and unable to comprehend what had happened to her, Esme fled. She had nowhere to go, and no money, and for days she stumbled through the wilderness, her strength ebbing with every passing moment. Unknown to her, the youth’s seed had taken root, and already, a child was beginning to grow inside of her.

  “Eventually, Esme stumbled upon a small hut in the woods, and in her desperation, she fell upon the mercy of the two witches who had made the place their home. The witches took her in and gave her bread and water and a place to sleep, but there was little to be done, and the girl wavered near the brink of death. The witches sensed the goodness in Esme, however, and so, at great risk to their own wellbeing, they performed a forbidden rite that would perpetuate her life. She was saved, but at great cost. The life of her child was forfeit, and Esme herself would never again age, for she was no longer truly alive. Instead, she awoke to find herself trapped in an interstitial state between life and death, able to exist on both sides of the veil simultaneously. She had become ‘hinterkind’, a walker between worlds.

  “While she was grateful to the witches for all they had done, for the first time in her life, Esme felt unsatisfied; incomplete. For now she knew the dark ways of men, and her innocence had been lost, stolen by the youth who had raped her.

  “Time no longer had any meaning to her, however, and so for twenty years she remained in the company of the two witches, learning all she could of their dark arts. The witches grew to love her as a daughter, and she them, as mothers in darkness. Her talents grew, and she regularly communed with the spirits, seeking consolation for all she had lost.

  “When the time eventually came that she had absorbed all of the knowledge the witches could offer, she bid them farewell, for she understood that the next part of her journey could only be undertaken alone. She crossed the veil and delved deep into the heart of the underworld. For six full years she searched the dark realm, until, finally, she found what she was looking for: the cacodemon, a demon that kept her living spirit bound in a gilded cage.

  “The cacodemon had the power to restore her life, to make her whole again. But it would only do so in exchange for something of equal or greater value – the secrets of a man named the Carrion King, whom it had encountered before, and greatly feared. Esme agreed, and formed a pact with the cacodemon – she would obtain for it the Carrion King’s innermost thoughts in exchange for the restoration of her living spirit.

  “So it was that Esme returned from the underworld and sought out the Carrion King, to whom she pledged her allegiance. Remember, time was of no consequence to Esme, so for many years she served the Carrion King faithfully, earning his trust, eventually being elevated to the role of apostle. She became The Confessor, keeper of his innermost secrets, his greatest confidante. But the Carrion King was a man, and she knew the truth of men, and all the while she plotted to return to the underworld and the cacodemon to bargain for her soul.

  “But the demons of the underworld are wily and duplicitous, and another had fathomed the plans of the cacodemon, and wished to retain Esme’s soul in the underworld for its own amusement. It appeared to the Carrion King in a feverish dream to warn him of Esme’s ploy. In exchange, it asked only that it might retain her living soul. The Carrion King readily agreed, and while Esme slept, he stole into her chamber and throttled her.

  “However, the Carrion King knew of Esme’s transitory condition, and so to prevent her from sharing his secrets with the creatures of the underworld, he stitched her lips with twine and bound her hands behind her back so she could never seek her freedom. He dressed her in the garb of a slave and tied her body to a stake in the centre of the kingdom as a warning to all who might betray their king, while her spirit was left to wander the underworld for eternity in silence.”

  Miller smiled and took another drag from his e-cigarette. He glanced from Peter to Elspeth. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve gone on too long. I tend to get carried away by these stories, you see. I’ve lived with them for so long.”

  “Not at all,” said Peter. “In fact, if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to ask you to carry on, and tell us a little about The Master of the Pentacle, and The Fool, if you would? I’m hoping it might help us to identify any potential targets.”

  Miller raised an eyebrow. “An encore?” he said. The waitress was approaching with his espresso. He smiled his thanks as she placed it on the table.

  All Elspeth could think about was poor Rose, silenced like the woman in the story for all the secrets she had known, and all the people she had helped.

  Miller cleared his throat. “The Master of the Pentacle was the Carrion King’s right-hand man, so to speak. He was not, in and of himself, a magician, lacking the natural ability for the realisation of such things. But he understood well the rites of magic, and guided the Carrion King in all his many rituals and spells. Where The Confessor bore the burden of her master’s secrets, The Master of the Pentacle was charged with guarding the ancient lore, and protecting it from falling into the hands of the Carrion King’s enemies – for there were many who would use such knowledge against him.

  “It is thought The Master of the Pentacle had once been a Christian monk named Edmund, who, along with his brothers, had amassed a great library of spiritual works, a collection so valuable, so learned, that it was guarded by a garrison from the local town.”

  “The abbot of this monastery believed that, in gathering all the accumulated knowledge of Him, he might prove once and for all the existence of the Christian God, for he knew that in the face of darkness, he needed evidence of light.

  “Edmund believed wholeheartedly in this crusade, and for decades he toiled, transcribing all the great Christian works, many of them now forgotten. Dutifully he pored over every word of the old texts, some so ancient that they originated from the time of Christ himself. Edmund’s belief in the Christian myth blossomed, and his heart swelled in wonder as he sought meaning in their symbolism.

  “Yet try as he might, he could not complete the abbot’s task, for the evidence they sought was not to be found in words alone. The Christian myth is founded on faith, as you know, and no matter how many books the abbot collated in his library, the empirical truths he longed for could never be found.

  “Edmund, though, was persistent, and in his hubris believed the key to the abbot’s quest might lie in the forbidden texts; those of pagan origin, which the abbot had censured and locked away from the pure hearts and uncorrupted minds of his followers. These were the dark tomes, the books that spoke of the wild magic, the spirits of the land and sea, and the ancient traditions of the time before man. Here, Edmund was certain that he would find what he so desperately craved, for if he could not find evidence of God in the works of Christian scholars, perhaps he could find it in the works of the heathen primitives.

  “The abbot, of course, would hear none of it, proclaiming the heathen texts heretical, but Edmund was not to be dissuaded, and despite the abbot’s warnings to the contrary, began to pay secret, nightly visits to the lowest level, where he familiarised himself with all the pagan works of man.”

  Miller took another draw on his vaporizer, and allowed the smoke to escape from his nostrils. “Of course, in doing so, Edmund realised his error, for rather than prove the existence of the Christian God, he convinced himself only of the existence of the ancient, heathen gods. He took his findings to the ab
bot, and was cast out for his blasphemy.”

  “How sad,” said Elspeth.

  Miller smiled. “The Carrion King, though, had long sought access to the knowledge contained in those ancient tomes, and so welcomed Edmund with open arms, and took his knowledge upon himself, sharing in his understanding of the ancient traditions and the power such knowledge and rituals could offer.

  “In Edmund he saw a repository of all that was right and honest, a truly enlightened soul, who had stared into the light and seen only darkness. Edmund was brought into the fold as The Master of the Pentacle, and remained by the Carrion King’s side in all things.”

  “I’m guessing he also came to something of a sticky end?” said Peter.

  Miller nodded. “Edmund had spent too long in the company of men, repressing his true desires. Now, set free, and understanding at last that beauty was not a sin, and that the natural world might be worshipped through congress with another, he sought the love of a beautiful woman. This woman was a raven-haired follower of the Carrion King named Catherine, whose heart was faithful to her king in every way.

  “Edmund, however, had learned many things from the pagan tomes, and he brewed a draught from rose petals and hawthorn, which he administered to Catherine one night after a great feast. Catherine was overcome by an uncontrollable lust, and Edmund had his way with her in her chambers. Afterwards, exhausted, they fell together into a deep slumber.

  “When, awakening in the night and seeking solace from his dreams, the Carrion King came in search of Catherine, he discovered her in Edmund’s arms. Finding the empty cup and realising what Edmund had done, the Carrion King dragged him howling from Catherine’s bed. He staked Edmund to the ground and, taking a single crow’s feather, etched an incantation into the man’s naked back. It was a spell of binding, taught to the Carrion King by Edmund himself, which anchored the soul to the dying body. Now, even in death, Edmund would never gain the solace of a life in the underworld. His spirit would remain tied to his decomposing corpse for all eternity, howling in torment and repentance for the crime he had committed.”