Wychwood--Hallowdene Read online

  “Does Christian know?”

  “Yes, he knows,” she said. “It’s why he’s been so angry recently. He found out from Lee Stroud. Lee just blurted it out one afternoon after Christian manhandled him out of the tearooms. Christian had hurt him, and he lashed out in retaliation. He wanted to hurt Christian back, I think. He told him he was just like his father – vicious and uncaring. That he had bad genes. You can imagine how it played out from there – Christian grabbed him by the collar and wouldn’t let him go until he’d explained himself.” She sighed. “Lee was devastated, afterwards. He knew he’d crossed a line. Plus, I think he genuinely cared for Christian. Back at the start, soon after he was born, Lee was there for me. He helped me get back on my feet. He had more to do with the boy than his own father, and deserved respect.”

  “So you and Lee Stroud had been close,” said Peter.

  A trumpet blared somewhere down in the village, and Sally looked away, glancing over her shoulder. She seemed anxious. “Once. Lee was a dear friend. He was the only one who knew about Nicholas. He helped me when I needed someone.”

  “But things had changed between you in recent years?”

  Sally shrugged. “He had this theory that everything moves in cycles, repeating itself over and over again throughout history. That’s why he was so interested in the legends of the witch and all the local families. But it just became too much. A true obsession. It was all he would talk about. After a while I stopped listening.” She sighed. “He did care for me, though, in his own way. Poor sod.”

  “So Nicholas never acknowledged the boy?” said Peter.

  Sally shook her head. “He didn’t see why a quick fumble with a local girl had to impinge on his life up at the manor. He was a real bastard. The thing is, I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want my boy growing up with him as a father. So when Christian was old enough to ask, I told him his father had been a one-night stand with a man I couldn’t remember, and whom I had no way of contacting.”

  “How did he react when he found out Nicholas Abbott was his real father?” said Elspeth.

  “He was furious, as you might expect. He begged me to tell him it wasn’t true. But I thought by now he deserved to know the truth. Even if it meant he’d never talk to me again,” said Sally. She dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her blouse.

  “Did he confront Nicholas?” said Peter.

  “Of course. And the result was just what you’d expect. Nicholas refused to acknowledge the truth. He said Christian was a ‘grubby little commoner’ trying to extort money, and to keep his dirty lies to himself.”

  “I presume Christian didn’t take kindly to this?”

  “He was mortified. It was the first time I’d seen him cry in years. All his life he’d pined for a father, and now, when it turned out he’d had one all along, the man wouldn’t even look at him.”

  “Was he upset enough to lash out?” said Peter.

  “Of course not,” said Sally. “Christian didn’t kill Nicholas. I’ve told you, he was at home that night watching TV in his room. It was blaring all night.”

  “Did you actually see him?” pressed Peter.

  Sally hesitated. “Well, not exactly… but of course he was there. Look, Christian might be a bit hot-headed from time to time, but he’d never really hurt anyone.”

  “Can you tell us where Christian was last night, Ms Jameson?” said Peter.

  “Yes, he was out with his friends in Heighton.”

  “All night?”

  “I presume so. He must have stayed over. He didn’t make it back until breakfast time this morning, and said he’d caught the early bus so he could help out in the kitchen. He’s considerate like that,” she said.

  Peter and Elspeth exchanged a glance. So Christian had been out all night. He could have been up at the manor.

  “Do you know how we could contact Christian’s friends, their names?” said Peter.

  Sally shrugged. “You’d have to ask Christian, I’m afraid. He doesn’t really talk about them.” She looked again down the hill towards the village. “Look, I really must be going.”

  “Just one more question,” said Peter. “Can you tell us where Christian is now?” Elspeth could hear the tension in his voice.

  “He’s down at the fayre. Where I should be.”

  “Can you give him a quick call for us? Just to find out exactly where he is, so we can have a word?” Peter was doing a remarkable job of remaining calm. All Elspeth wanted to do was scream at her to hurry up.

  Sally made a show of picking her phone out of her bag and thumbing through the functions. She held it up to her ear. It rang out, going to voicemail. “He’s not picking up,” she said, sliding the phone back into her handbag. “I’m sorry. It’s loud down there.”

  Peter nodded. “Did he say anything that might help us find him?”

  Sally shrugged. “Only that he was going ahead to find Daisy.”

  “Oh God,” said Elspeth, grabbing Peter’s arm. “Daisy.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sally, “what about Daisy?”

  But Peter and Elspeth were already running, hurtling down the incline towards the bustling village.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The parade was in full swing.

  Onlookers lined both sides of the main street through the village, culminating in a massed gathering on the green, eager-eyed revellers awaiting their first glimpse of the witch. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders, calling out excitedly to those below. It was nearly six, and the sun was still full in the sky.

  The players were nearing the heart of the village now, a riotous procession of bizarre figures drawn from pagan legend – the Green Man, wearing a suit of rustling leaves; a woman bowed low by the weight of the antlers strapped to her head, pulled along by a man wearing druidic robes; a straw bear; a man dressed as a fox; another with a bird skull mask, a fan of peacock feathers erupting from his hat; four villagers in grey, featureless robes, their solemn expressions turned towards the earth as they bore the gnarled and twisted form of the witch upon their shoulders. The booming thud of two massive drums accompanied the slow march of the parade, and the ringing bells of Morris dancers followed in their wake like a sinister call to arms.

  Elspeth was forced to pause as the procession marched past, unable to squeeze through the press of the crowd. The leering effigy of Agnes Levett seemed to peer down at her as it was carried by, lips twisted in a knowing grin. There was an electric atmosphere down here, a palpable sense of expectation and drama.

  Perhaps Lee Stroud had been right all along, she thought. History does repeat itself. Right now, she might have been a spectator back in the 1640s, a villager come to watch the hanging of the hateful witch.

  The procession passed, and she felt Peter’s hand on her arm, tugging her on through the crowd.

  “We’ll never find her in this crowd,” said Peter. “Have you got her number?”

  “Yes! Hang on.” She pulled her phone out of her bag, scrolling through her recent calls. “Here it is.” She dialled. It rang for a minute, and then Daisy answered.

  “Ellie?”

  “Daisy! Where are you? I’m here in Hallowdene, looking for you.”

  “What? I can’t hear you – the parade’s really loud.” Daisy’s voice sounded as if it were muffled, underwater. Elspeth cupped a hand over her other ear.

  “I said: where are you?” She raised her voice, shouting into the handset.

  “Oh! I’m just by the village hall—” The line suddenly went dead.

  Elspeth peered at the screen. It was blank and unresponsive. The battery! “Oh no, no, no!” she yelled in frustration. She tried to turn it back on, but all she got was a blinking image of an empty battery and a power cable, urging her to plug it in.

  “It’s no use,” she said, running back over to join Peter. “Battery’s dead. She’s by the village hall. She sounded okay. Maybe we can still get to her first.”

  “Right,” said Peter, looking back
in the direction of the village green, where the parade sounded as if it were reaching a climax.

  “Everyone’s gathering on the green,” said Elspeth. “Come on. We’ve got to find a way through.”

  Peter gave a brisk nod, and they set off again at a run.

  The crowds by the village green had grown denser, and she elbowed her way through, eliciting a stream of angry curses. Faces seem to loom down at her from all sides, hemming her in. The world lurched from under her, closing in, narrowing focus, until there was just her and those staring, laughing faces all around her – the fox and the bird, the jack-in-the-green, a pantomime dame, a goat-headed woman. She felt as if she were going to throw up.

  “Ellie.”

  Peter was ahead of her now, grasping her by the hand, pulling her forward. She shook her head, trying to clear the after-image of the looming faces, the dizziness. “I’m okay. Keep going.”

  “Just stay with me, okay?”

  She nodded, doing her best to keep up.

  She turned at the clanging of a bell. The effigy of Agnes had now reached the village cross, where four men were holding her up to rapturous applause from the gathered throng. Things were coming to a head.

  “That way!” she called, nudging Peter in the back and jabbing at a gap in the press of people ahead. “We can go around.”

  “All right,” said Peter, nodding in agreement. “Let’s go.”

  He clasped her by the hand again, and they set off through the baying crowd.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The village hall seemed to radiate a sense of deep unease that set Elspeth’s teeth on edge. She paused in her approach, holding Peter back by his hand. The air, too, had grown noticeably colder, as if the hall had been cast in a long shadow, set apart and isolated from the rest of the village. A paper sign on the door of the hall suggested that the tearoom and exhibition had closed temporarily while the parade took place. No one milled about outside, and there was no sense of any sound or movement from within the building itself. She supposed people had been drawn down to the green, where the entire village was now cheering as the effigy of Agnes was paraded before them like some latter-day offering to the ancient gods.

  Yet there was more to it than that. She could sense that disturbing presence again, unseen but pervasive: watching, influencing, repelling.

  “She knows we’re here,” said Elspeth.

  “What?” said Peter. He was frowning.

  “Can’t you feel it?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I… perhaps. Look, we have to find Daisy and Christian.” He released his grip on her hand, pulled the door open with a creak. “The lock’s been broken. Careful.” He slipped through. With a deep breath, Elspeth followed.

  Inside, the atmosphere was quiet and oppressive. The hall was empty, with disposable cups and paper plates abandoned haphazardly on Formica-topped tables, chairs left scattered, a few coats still draped over their grey plastic backs. The hall had clearly been given over to a makeshift tearoom, a pit stop for hungry villagers who didn’t want to stray too far from the action of the fayre.

  Up on the stage, the display case containing Agnes Levett’s bones was caught in a stream of sunlight that was streaking down from an upper window, dust motes whirling in the otherwise still air. Beside it cowered a terrified-looking Daisy, slowly backing away from Christian Jameson, who was brandishing a kitchen knife in his right fist. His expression was half lost in shadow, but Elspeth could see that his lips were curled in a rigid smile. Daisy was bleeding from a long gash in her left forearm.

  “Christian!” called Peter, extending his arm, warning Elspeth to stay back. “Put the knife down. Now.”

  Elspeth saw Daisy’s eyes flicker in their direction.

  “The police are here, Christian. It’s over,” said Elspeth, the tremor evident in her voice.

  He said nothing, his lips still fixed in the same rigid smile, his eyes transfixed by the sight of the terrified woman before him.

  “Christian!” bellowed Peter. He’d been slowly approaching the stage, arms held out to either side, getting close enough to try to intercept the man if he made any sudden movements towards Daisy.

  Christian turned his head to look down at Peter, and the look of malice in his eyes was cold and distant.

  “Without grace or remorse.”

  The whispered words seemed to emanate from Christian, but he hadn’t moved his lips.

  Elspeth swallowed.

  Agnes. She was here, in the room. She was making all of this happen.

  Daisy had continued to back away while Christian was distracted, and Elspeth realised with horror that she was about to go backwards over the lip of the stage, tumbling down towards the hard floor below. Peter’s eyes were locked with Christian’s, attempting to anticipate the man’s next move.

  Daisy took another step backwards.

  “Daisy, look out!” bellowed Elspeth, running forward, arms outstretched to catch the other woman if she fell.

  What happened next seemed to pass in slow motion, as if, just for a moment, the world had stopped turning.

  Daisy’s foot caught on the lip of the stage, and she tottered backwards, waving her arms and screaming.

  Elspeth’s call seemed to stir Christian into action, and he leapt after Daisy, swinging his knife around in front of him, intent on plunging it into Daisy’s chest.

  Peter, seeing the danger, swept up a chair and launched it at Christian as he lurched towards the front of the stage.

  Elspeth saw it all unravel, unspooling before her like the flickering scenes of a movie as she ran.

  Daisy landed in her arms, and they both crumpled to the floor, sprawling awkwardly, knocking the wind from Elspeth’s lungs.

  The chair collided with Christian, full in the chest. He stumbled back, arms wheeling, and then lost his footing and fell backwards into the glass display case. It exploded in a shower of sparkling fragments, collapsing under the man’s bulk. He seemed to sink into it, landing in a heap of jagged glass and old bones. Agnes’s skull rolled across the stage, coming to rest at the top of the steps, vacant eyes staring down at Elspeth and Daisy.

  Peter glanced at Elspeth, who was still sprawled on the floor beneath Daisy, and then jumped up onto the stage.

  Christian was already stirring from amongst the pit of shattered glass. His back was streaming blood, jagged fragments of glass pitting his flesh where it had embedded itself during the fall. He looked demonic, frenzied, insane. He’d dropped his knife in the fall, and it lay a few feet from him on the stage, equidistant to Peter.

  Elspeth saw their eyes meet, and then they both launched themselves toward it, Peter attempting to kick it away, Christian scrabbling at the boards, trying to get a grip. His fingers closed around the handle just as Peter’s boot connected with his wrist. He rolled, crunching broken glass, and the knife skittered away again.

  Peter took a step back, warily, as Christian rose out of the ruination like some bloodied phoenix. He was holding a jagged shard of broken glass. Blood dripped from his fingers. He opened his mouth in a silent scream.

  “Without grace or remorse.”

  He launched himself at Peter, roaring with feral animosity, swinging the broken shard in a wide arc like a dagger. Peter saw it coming and ducked at the last moment, sidestepping the attack and sweeping his trailing leg out to catch Christian off balance.

  Christian went down heavily, crashing to the ground. Peter was standing ready, arms raised in defence, expecting Christian to rise and attack again at any moment. But the other man wasn’t moving.

  “Christian?” said Peter, warily.

  The only reply was an awful, wet gurgling sound. Elspeth got to her feet. She could see a pool of glossy blood spreading beneath Christian on the stage. “Peter! He’s hurt.”

  Peter motioned for her to stay back as he cautiously approached the prone form of the other man. “Christian?”

  No reply.

  Tentatively Peter dropped to his
haunches and shook Christian by his shoulder. Christian shuddered in response, but still seemed unable to move. Peter cautiously rolled him over onto his back, and at once, they saw the horror of what had happened.

  In the fall, Christian had accidentally plunged the broken fragment of glass into his own throat.

  Blood gushed, spurting violently from the opened artery. Christian’s mouth worked back and forth for a moment, his eyes flickering in shock, and then his whole body seemed to shake, and he lay still.

  Beside Elspeth, Daisy screamed, and Elspeth grabbed her and bundled her into a fierce hug.

  Peter was attempting to staunch the flow of blood, but it was like something from a nightmare, flowing up his arms as he tried to keep it at bay. It was spreading everywhere, pattering the boards, and Elspeth knew it was too late.

  “Give me your phone,” she said to Daisy, who looked at her with a dazed expression. “Quickly!”

  Daisy continued to stare at her for a moment.

  “Daisy, now!”

  This seemed to shake the woman into action, and she slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Elspeth snatched for it and hurriedly called for an ambulance and police backup. When the call was done, she stumbled over to where Peter was still trying desperately to hold back the tide of blood. His face was ashen. Elspeth could see that Christian was dead.

  “Come on,” she said, turning and leading Daisy away towards the other side of the hall. “Come on. It’s okay. It’s over now.” She settled Daisy into a chair and wrapped someone’s abandoned coat around her shoulders. “You don’t have to worry any more.”

  Daisy looked utterly dazed. She nodded, but didn’t seem to know what to say.

  Behind Elspeth, on the stage, Peter had taken the velvet drape from the display case and was in the process of covering Christian’s body.

  He looked up, saw her watching him, and gave a wan smile. “They’ll be here in a minute,” he said.

  Elspeth sighed, and dropped into a chair beside Daisy. It was going to be another long night.