Wychwood Page 21

  “You can get it yourself,” said Dorothy, laughing. “This isn’t a hotel.”

  Elspeth grinned and got to her feet. There was a knock at the door. “You expecting anyone?”

  “Not today,” said Dorothy. “I’m off out with the girls for dinner tonight, mind, so you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

  Elspeth nodded as she crossed to the door. She opened it to find a rather ragged-looking Peter standing on the step. “Peter? You’d better come in.”

  He gave her a tired smile as he shrugged his jacket off. “Hello, Mrs Reeves,” he said.

  “Afternoon, Peter,” said Dorothy. “I’ll put the kettle on. There’s some bacon left if you fancy a butty?”

  The look on Peter’s face was so grateful that Dorothy might well have told him he’d won the lottery. “If it’s no trouble, Mrs Reeves, I’d appreciate that. I’ve been up all night again.”

  “All night?” said Elspeth. “I thought you were heading home after you dropped me off?”

  “I was,” said Peter. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, while Dorothy set about making him a sandwich. It didn’t look as if Elspeth was going to get any more bacon, after all. “But I was called back out around three.”

  “Michael Williams?” ventured Elspeth. “DCI Griffiths said she was launching a manhunt. Did they find him?”

  Peter nodded. “But it’s more bad news, I’m afraid.” He glanced at Dorothy, who was busily spooning instant coffee into a mug with her back to them.

  “Don’t tell me he was found dead, too?”

  “In the Wychwood, not far from his house,” said Peter. “Another apostle, another ritual ‘sacrifice’.”

  Elspeth returned to her seat. She lowered her voice. The kettle was boiling noisily, and her mum was studiously ignoring them, although Elspeth suspected she could hear everything. “So the blood in the summerhouse was his?”

  “We won’t know for certain until we get the forensics, but it’s probable, judging by the way he’d been wounded. He’d been hit around the head with something solid, although we’ve not been able to ascertain what, yet.”

  “Which apostle?”

  “The Master of the Pentacle,” said Peter. He swallowed, looking decidedly peaky at the thought. It seemed even he was having difficulties remaining entirely objective. “He’d been posed just like the woodcut, mirroring the story. His hands had been nailed to the ground, and he’d had ritual markings carved into his back with something sharp. There was a knife in his heart.”

  Elspeth put her hand to her mouth. “That’s awful.”

  It made a horrible kind of sense that the killer would select Michael Williams as The Master of the Pentacle. His knowledge of the mythology and symbolism of the Carrion King was detailed and thorough.

  Dorothy stirred Peter’s coffee, then placed it before him on the table, along with the promised bacon roll. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” he said, before tucking straight in. “I’m famished.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Dorothy. “Right, well I’ve got things to be getting on with. I’ll leave you to it.” She picked up her half-empty mug and wandered off into the living room.

  “Everything alright?” said Peter, when she’d gone.

  “She’s just worried,” said Elspeth. “And I can’t say I blame her. We’ve pretty much had a murder take place in our back yard, and then Patricia Graves, and Rose, and now this. The TV news is getting everyone worked up into a frenzy, too. It would be bad enough even if I wasn’t involved.”

  Peter nodded, chewing on his sandwich. “Are you saying you want out? I wouldn’t blame you. You didn’t come back here for this.”

  “No, no, not at all. Just that I can see it from Mum’s point of view, that’s all. I’m seeing this through.”

  “Alright. But I promise you, it’s not always like this.” He grinned, and took another bite of his butty.

  They sat in companionable silence while he finished eating.

  “What did you tell Griffiths yesterday, by the way?” she said, when he’d finished. “Up at the Williams’s place. She said you’d explained the situation. I was certain you were going to get into trouble.”

  “I told her the truth,” said Peter. “That you were in the car with me when I got the call, and that I decided to respond as a matter of urgency. I didn’t want to leave you alone with David Keel, as I wasn’t sure I could trust him – he might yet prove to be involved in the murders – and so I kept you with me while I went into the house.”

  “And she bought that?”

  “She bawled me out for not waiting for the squad car, but like I said – she’s more interested in results. I expect I’ll get a more formal warning at some point, but there’s not much I can do about that now.” He shrugged and downed his coffee.

  “You want another?” she said.

  “No. I’m going home to get my head down. Tell your mum thanks again for the bacon butty.”

  “I will.”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  “I promised I’d go to the cinema with Mum,” said Elspeth. “But then on Monday I’m going along to Patricia Graves’s funeral in the afternoon, then over to Chipping Norton to interview Millicent Brown, the social worker on the Thomas Stone case.”

  “Okay. Well, give me a call if you need anything, and I’ll keep you up to date, too.” He stood, grabbing his coat from the stand by the door.

  “See you,” she said.

  After he’d gone, she tidied up the plates and mugs, and then wandered through to find Dorothy watching an old Agatha Christie drama on the TV. She dropped into the sofa beside her.

  “I thought you had work to do?” said Dorothy.

  “I do,” said Elspeth. “But it can wait a few minutes while I watch some TV with my mum, can’t it?”

  Dorothy smiled. “I suppose I’d better fill you in on what’s happened, then.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It was cold in the crematorium, and Elspeth found herself wishing she’d brought a coat, rather than the thin, sober jacket she’d worn over her black ensemble.

  She’d expected the place to be bustling with people, just as it had been the day she’d come here to see off her dad. Then, she’d barely been able to move for the well-wishers and mourners, who’d jammed themselves into the tiny chapel, standing around the edges and looming over those sitting in the pews.

  The vicar had droned on about Jesus, Heaven, and the resurrection, and all the things her dad had done with his life – some of them she’d never even heard before – and her mum had cried, and dabbed ineffectually at her eyes with a handkerchief. Then the curtains had closed and the casket had been slowly drawn away, and she’d felt that dawning sense of loss all over again.

  Afterwards, she had walked the chapel grounds in a dazed fug, staring at all the wreaths of pretty flowers and listening to further platitudes, and to people chatting, and even laughing with one another. She couldn’t understand how they could all be so normal at a time like this, as if they didn’t understand the magnitude of what had happened.

  It was an experience that had stayed with her, and today, sitting there on the pew in that same chapel, all of those old emotions stirred again, and she felt hollow and forlorn.

  Today, the chapel was almost empty. Aside from Elspeth herself, there were three elderly ladies, sitting together on the front pew, clutching their handbags on their laps; a liver-spotted old man; the vicar, and one other man standing at the back. He was in his late sixties, she guessed, greying at the temples but still with a fine head of hair, and a craggy, weatherworn face.

  She watched the vicar take a final look at his paltry audience, and then step up to the lectern, unfold his notes, and welcome them. She didn’t really listen as he began his sermon, too intent on her own thoughts.

  Was this really it? Were these the only people left whom Patricia Graves had made an impression upon in her life? It seemed impossible that someone could live to the age of seve
nty-seven and have only six people – Elspeth excluded – turn up to her funeral.

  The police had confirmed there were no living relatives, of course, and that her husband had died years earlier, but still – she must have friends, old colleagues, and neighbours. Had she really lived a life so devoid of companionship?

  The vicar was in full flow, summarising the woman’s life in a matter of a few sentences – and reading it from his lectern. He was insisting she’d been a good, Christian woman, particularly in how she’d helped those less fortunate than herself, taking in so many waifs and strays and helping to set them on the path of righteousness. Elspeth wondered why she’d never had any children of her own. Had she and her husband been unable to conceive? It was nothing but conjecture, of course, but Elspeth found herself wondering if that was why she’d taken in the foster children.

  She glanced over at the three women, who were watching the vicar intently as he talked, their faces stoic as they listened to his brief soliloquy on Patricia’s life. Now, he was talking about loneliness, about the disconnect between the aged and the youth, and how society had failed this woman by refusing to reflect back to her the kindness she had shown to others in her own life.

  He urged them to stand for a hymn, and Elspeth joined in out of a sense of obligation, despite feeling like a hypocrite throughout.

  Then, with no one having anything else to add, the vicar said his final prayer, the curtains were drawn and the casket was coaxed slowly back. It was over in a matter of moments.

  Elspeth waited until the others had filed out of the chapel, and then followed them out into the gusty morning. Only three wreaths had been laid out in tribute, on a small patio area directly outside the chapel entrance. While the others drifted away to their cars, Elspeth stooped to read the labels.

  One, a wreath of white lilies, was marked ‘FROM BENJAMIN, WITH LOVE’; another, a fantastic spray of colourful violets and peonies, read ‘WE’LL MISS YOU AT THE SOLITAIRE CLUB. MARGERY, CLAIRE AND JACQUELINE’. This latter was clearly from the three ladies who’d been seated at the front, and were now clambering into a taxi by the crematorium gates.

  The final wreath was bold and red, standing apart from the others. The card read, cryptically: ‘THOSE THAT KNOW THE MOST MUST MOURN THE DEEPEST. GEORGE’. Elspeth guessed it had to be a quote from somewhere, although the name immediately leapt out at her. George Baker, the foster child who’d been in the Graves’s care at the time of Thomas Stone’s disappearance. If he was the George who had sent the flowers, it might mean he’d be easier to track down than she’d imagined.

  She checked no one was watching her, and then slipped her phone from her handbag and took a quick snap of the card. It was probably nothing, but if Millicent Brown wasn’t able to give her any leads, then perhaps she could call around the local florists.

  She stood, watching the last of the cars pull away, stirring the gravel. It was quiet, save for the distant crowing of the birds in the trees.

  She paused for a moment, allowing the memories to wash over her. Then, hoisting her handbag over her shoulder, she set off along the avenue of trees for the short walk to the car park, before setting out for Chipping Norton and her interview with the Graves’s erstwhile social worker.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It was a pleasant enough drive along the Burford Road, through the sweeping green belt, which was peppered with the scattered remnants of the forest that had once carpeted the entire region.

  It didn’t take her long, and she hit Chipping Norton just before the school rush. It was busy, and similar in size, population and architectural appearance to Heighton. She’d visited before, of course, but not for some years, and the road system was largely unfamiliar.

  She followed her satnav as it guided her through the town centre, past the old town hall, and out along a road lined with pubs, restaurants and takeaways. She turned off into a small side street, followed the road for a short while, and turned again to find herself navigating a warren of quiet suburban streets. Most of the houses here appeared to date from the late eighteenth century, and many of them had been turned into flats. Similarly to Heighton, the roads – built in a time before cars had proliferated, and thus with no provision for parking – were lined with stationary vehicles, filling every available space.

  She found the right address, and then continued down the road until she located a suitable parking space, into which she executed a parallel park that, twenty years earlier, would have wowed her driving instructor. She cut the engine, grabbed her notebook, and then paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts.

  She’d been straightforward with the woman on the phone, explaining that she was a journalist who had recently had the misfortune to happen upon Patricia Graves’s body, and was now engaged in trying to understand what had happened to her, and why.

  The house was a ground-floor flat in a beautiful Georgian terraced house, with tall sash windows and a small set of steps leading up to the front door. Peonies, laid low with the rain, drooped across the flagstones in the front yard, and a little black railing separated the property from the street. She couldn’t see anyone through the ground-floor window, which was obscured with old-fashioned lace drapes.

  Elspeth mounted the steps, found the correct buzzer, and gave it a short burst.

  A moment later she heard footsteps, and then a chain being slid into place on the other side of the door. The door opened and a wizened face peered out through the crack. “Yes? Who is it?” The woman sounded fragile and old, like ancient porcelain.

  “Mrs Brown?” said Elspeth. “Elspeth Reeves. I’m the journalist from Heighton who contacted you on the phone.”

  The door closed again, and Elspeth’s heart sank. Had she changed her mind? She considered ringing the buzzer again, but decided against it. She couldn’t go pestering an old lady, especially on a hunch.

  She was just about to turn away when she heard the chain being removed from the latch, and the door swung open again.

  “I suppose you’d better come in,” said Millicent Brown.

  * * *

  One more. One final reflection from the past; one last act of vengeance. He would relish this one. He had saved her until now, the woman who had shaped his early life, who had stood by, unmoved, while he faced such horrors. He would ensure this one was slow.

  Just like Patricia Graves and Rebecca Williams, he’d studied the decrepit old woman, watching to establish her routine, to choose his best moment. And now the time was approaching.

  Now, deep in the heart of the Wychwood, surrounded by the trees that gave him such strength, he felt his heart racing. Tonight, it would all be done.

  He peered into the empty mirror, waiting…

  * * *

  The décor in the flat had once represented the height of sophistication, and while well maintained, seemed dated, now. A brown carpet ran throughout the hall, and the walls were covered in a bright yellow wallpaper, spotted with peacock feathers.

  Millicent led her through to the sitting room, where she left her for a moment while she organised some tea. It was a crowded room, claustrophobic despite its size, with dark wooden panelling on the walls, a looming empty fireplace, and an ancient CRT television set in the corner. The leather armchairs were cracked and worn, but cosy, and there were numerous little tables dotted about the place, each of them cluttered with porcelain figurines, mismatched lamps, photographs in silver frames, sewing baskets and coasters. Boxes were stacked by the television, and a heap of old magazines had recently slumped into a glossy landslide by the window. It smelled of camphor and lavender. A large gilt-framed mirror hung above the mantel.

  After a few minutes, Mrs Brown ambled through to join her, shakily carrying a tray. Elspeth jumped up to help her, taking the tray while Mrs Brown fetched out one of the tables for her to rest it upon. Then, with a satisfied sigh, she dropped into the armchair opposite Elspeth’s and propped her feet up on a little round footstool.

  She was in her eight
ies, and obviously lived alone. She walked with a slight stoop, and her skin was pale and paper thin, stained and creased with the passing of time. Her hair was wiry and a little wild, and Elspeth didn’t suppose she’d bothered to brush it that morning. She was wearing a flower-print dress and a green woollen cardigan, and she smiled at Elspeth expectantly. “So, Patricia’s dead, then. I heard talk on the television that it was murder.”

  Elspeth was a little taken aback by the directness of the question. “Well, that’s what the police think, although they haven’t yet been able to rule out suicide.”

  Mrs Brown leaned forward in her chair, turning her head and presenting her ear, as if she hadn’t heard correctly. “Suicide?”

  “That’s right,” said Elspeth. “That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to get to the bottom of why she did it. There was no note, you see.”

  Mrs Brown shook her head in apparent disbelief. “She always was a selfish cow, that one. Never thought about anyone but herself.”

  “That seems an odd thing to say about a foster carer, someone who took other people’s children into her home.”

  “Ah, well, that’s presupposing she had any desire to help them, see? I was under no illusion, though. For her, it was never about the kids. It was because she couldn’t have children of her own. It was her way of getting what she wanted. There was nothing altruistic about it.”

  “Was she a good foster parent?”

  Mrs Brown laughed. “Well, she lost one of them, so what do you think?”

  “But you still let her take in more kids?”

  “Times were different then, love. People didn’t want to know about foster children. They’d have rather pretended they didn’t exist. Most of the kids were in orphanages or care homes. It wasn’t a good life. Patricia Graves, for all her faults, offered them something better than that.”

  Elspeth set about pouring the tea. “What do you think happened to Thomas Stone?”

  Mrs Brown shrugged. “God knows, poor boy. I suspect he’s dead, if I’m honest. I’ve thought that for a long time. Life on the street for kids that age is no life at all. Kids need a guiding hand, a place to call home. And if someone picked him up, well… I hate to think what happened to him after he ran away.”