Wychwood--Hallowdene Page 3

  “Oh, don’t be like that. It’s only a bit of fun. I’ll finish my coffee first, I think,” said Abbott. He reached calmly for his mug.

  “I’ve asked you to leave,” said Daisy.

  Abbott calmly took a sip from his mug. In the kitchen, the argument continued to rage between Sally and Christian. They were clearly too preoccupied to have noticed what was happening out here.

  Elspeth couldn’t stand it any longer. She pushed back her chair, got to her feet and marched over to stand beside Daisy. “You heard her,” she said. “I don’t care who you are, you’re lucky she didn’t ring the police.” She took out her phone. “But they’re only a quick call away.”

  Abbott looked up at her, seemingly weighing her up. She didn’t like the way his eyes seemed to linger. “Well, look at you, Miss High-and-Mighty. I bet it’s only because you’re jealous. After all, the younger model is getting all the attention.”

  Elspeth opened her phone and began dialling.

  Abbott seemed to consider this for a moment, and then sighed, and got to his feet. “I’m going. For now.”

  Elspeth lowered the phone.

  Abbott grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, slammed a five-pound note on the table, and headed for the door.

  Beside Elspeth, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.

  Elspeth slipped her phone into her pocket. Around them, the room was silent, save for the bickering still taking place in the kitchen. Everyone was watching Elspeth and Daisy. Elspeth crossed to the door and stepped outside. Nicholas Abbott was marching away down the lane, his back to her.

  “Good riddance.” Elspeth turned to see Daisy had followed her out, and was standing on the threshold, watching Abbott recede into the distance. She was shaking.

  “Are you okay?” said Elspeth.

  “Just angry,” said Daisy, and Elspeth realised it was that, more than fear, that was making her shake. “Men like that – they think they can do whatever they want. Well they bloody well can’t.”

  “Do you want to report it to the police? I know someone you could talk to.”

  Daisy shook her head. “No, thanks. You were great, though.”

  “Are you sure? I’d give a witness statement. You could have him barred too,” said Elspeth.

  Daisy shrugged. Elspeth followed her back into the café. “He’ll get the message, one way or another. It’s not the first time.” She touched Elspeth’s upper arm briefly. “I really do appreciate your help. I’d best be getting on, though. Doesn’t sound as if I’m going to be getting much help this morning.” She nodded towards the kitchen, where the argument was still playing out.

  “You sound as if you’re used to it?”

  “The sexual harassment, or the arguing?”

  “Both.”

  Daisy laughed, but it was humourless. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.” She collected her coffee pot and went to fetch the bill for a woman who was making a fuss of gathering up her bags. Elspeth looked at her watch. It was probably time she got moving.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Detective Sergeant Peter Shaw slammed the car door shut and started the slow trudge up to the dig site in the grounds of Hallowdene Manor, feeling more than a little weary.

  He couldn’t help but think he’d been handed the short end of the stick, being called out here at two in the afternoon. It really was a perfunctory matter, amounting to nothing but a waste of police time. Of course they’d found a body on site. That’s exactly what they’d been expecting to find. And now here he was, forced to traipse through the mud, just to take a quick look and exchange a few words with the coroner to ensure it wasn’t a police matter.

  Still, at least he’d be able to get it over with quickly.

  It was cold out, and the wind was beginning to stir, ruffling his mop of unruly auburn hair. He’d had to force himself out of bed that morning, scraping shaving foam and stubble from his chin in the bathroom mirror and ponderously brushing his teeth while still half asleep. The morning had passed slowly, drowned in coffee and paperwork at the station. He couldn’t help feeling as if all his days were like this at the moment – going through the motions. Since all that business with the Carrion King murders, things had returned to a somewhat more measured pace, dealing with the gangs of teenagers who’d taken to loitering around the back of the High Street in Heighton, or investigating the occasional burglary or missing person who always turned up hours later.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to see anyone murdered, of course. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was more that, after successfully bringing the Carrion King case to a conclusion, he knew that he had something more to offer. He supposed it was a little arrogant of him, but he couldn’t help feeling he was treading water at Heighton; that he’d be able to do more to help people at one of the bigger stations elsewhere, where there were more serious criminals to be brought to account.

  It seemed the Commissioner agreed – there’d been recent talk of a promotion, but Heighton was a small station, and he knew that meant moving on. Possibly to a city like Manchester or Birmingham: places in need of police officers who had the stomach for some of the more harrowing work that the job sometimes entailed. The thought was appealing… but then, there were other things keeping him here.

  Still, he wouldn’t miss all the pomp and circumstance that seemed to accompany village life. Take for example the Hallowdene Summer Fayre. It was still days away, but as he’d driven through the centre of the village, he’d seen people up ladders, draping bunting from street lamps, someone hanging Halloween decorations in their window, another person erecting a ‘temporary car park’ sign in a vacant lot behind the village hall. It all seemed a bit parochial and mad to Peter, even as someone who’d grown up surrounded by it all. They all seemed to take it so seriously. Still, he supposed it made people happy.

  Short of breath after marching quickly up the incline towards the manor house, he veered left, heading towards the silhouette of the old church.

  There was something eerie about the crooked building, dark and sombre against the pale skyline. He felt a sudden sense of foreboding, but quashed it quickly. He’d had a few moments like that since the Carrion King case, flashbacks to the terrible things he’d seen, but worse, to the things those sights had suggested, the things he hadn’t properly understood. For all his thoughts about rolling his sleeves up, making more of a difference, he was in no hurry to find himself involved in another case like that one. It had raised too many questions that he wasn’t yet ready to answer.

  He hopped over a stile and splashed down into a muddy field, spattering his boots and the hems of both trouser legs. Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he found a path by the hedgerow, and marched across the field towards the dig.

  Up ahead, he could see a small crane sitting in the adjoining field, and beside it, a large slab of grey rock, which was still attached to the crane by a series of chains. People had gathered around a large hole and were peering in.

  Another group of people were standing off to one side, behind a loose perimeter of metal posts and fluttering yellow tape. He recognised Elspeth as one of them, her arms folded across her chest to stave off the chill. He made a beeline.

  “Morning, you,” she said, beaming as she saw him approaching. He felt a sudden twinge of guilt for even thinking about a transfer.

  “Morning,” he said, trying to remain on a vaguely professional footing, when what he really wanted to do was sweep her up into a big hug. They’d only parted a few hours ago, after he’d crawled out of the pit of his comfortable bed in Wilsby, and made his way up the hill to work.

  “This is Hugh and Petra Walsey,” said Elspeth, indicating the people standing to one side of her. “They’re the owners of the manor house and the sponsors of the dig.”

  Peter shook hands with the enthusiastic-looking man. He looked every inch the modern country squire, with an expensive navy shirt tucked into faded blue jeans, a brown, waxed jacket and a flat cap. He was thin, and relatively short –
about the same height as Elspeth – and was wearing the day’s grey-flecked stubble as if he’d been up since the crack of dawn, watching over the dig. He was holding a steel flask in his other hand. Peter guessed him to be in his mid-forties.

  “Hello. DS Shaw,” said Peter.

  Beside Walsey, his wife seemed somewhat less enthused to be out in the cold. She offered her hand, but her expression showed clear disinterest – in Peter, in the dig, perhaps even in her husband. Unlike Walsey, she had clearly made an effort to look good for the cameras – a long, form-fitting flower-print dress, a small bolero jacket, perfectly applied make-up. Even her long, dark hair seemed unruffled by the breeze. It was a studied appearance, and impressive, too, but nevertheless, Peter couldn’t help but wonder about how cold she must be, and how long she’d been forced to stand out here in the mud.

  “Quite the event,” said Peter. He glanced across at the dig, where another woman was talking hurriedly into a television camera. Others were standing in the shallow recess revealed by the removal of the stone, scraping away with trowels and brushes. He recognised the coroner, Dr McCowley, dressed in a grey over-suit and talking quietly to a woman in her fifties, whom he presumed to be in charge of proceedings.

  “Yes, all rather exciting, isn’t it?” said Walsey. “We’re just waiting on the coroner to make his pronouncement so we can get a better look.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be long now,” said Peter. “You know what these experts are like. One glance at an old bone and they can tell what the person had for breakfast.”

  Walsey laughed. His wife sighed and rolled her eyes impatiently.

  “Now, this could be interesting,” said Elspeth, peering over Peter’s shoulder. He turned to see what she’d spotted.

  An older man in a raincoat was ambling across the field, heading in their direction. “Why? Who’s that?”

  “He’s called Lee. He caused a bit of a fuss at Richmond’s café earlier on. He was claiming that the witch was unhappy with the café for selling souvenirs, that it was dangerous. He got quite agitated and they had to throw him out.”

  Beside her, Walsey groaned. “Yes, we’re all quite familiar with Lee Stroud. We’ve had a stream of handwritten letters through the door, protesting about the dig, and he came up here yesterday and started sounding off, too. The cameraman, Steve, saw him off with a few harsh words.” He shrugged. “I suppose every town or village has one.”

  “One what?” said Peter.

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” said Walsey. “One of them. A weirdo. A strange old man with funny ideas.”

  “He’s probably just lonely,” said Elspeth.

  “Be that as it may, we can’t have him disrupting the dig,” said Walsey.

  “Leave it to me,” said Peter. “I’ll head him off.”

  “No, don’t worry,” said Elspeth. “If it’s all the same, I wouldn’t mind a quick word with him. Maybe I can dissuade him from making a fuss.”

  “Be my guest,” said Peter. “I’ll be over with the coroner if you need me.”

  * * *

  Lee Stroud looked akin to a deer caught in headlights as Elspeth hurried over the muddy field to intercept him, her boots squelching in the thick mud.

  She hadn’t yet worked out what she was going to say to the man, but she saw in him an opportunity to present a different perspective in her article, an alternative local voice. Surely he couldn’t be the only one in Hallowdene with reservations about the dig? For a start, there were the two elderly women she’d overheard in the café, insistent that no good was going to come from disturbing the burial site. As a journalist, surely her job was to present things from a variety of different perspectives?

  At least, that’s the way she justified it to herself. The truth was, she couldn’t quite shake her own nagging doubts. Recent experience had proved to her that sometimes you had to retain an open mind. And Lee Stroud had seemed particularly anxious. She wasn’t yet prepared to write him off as a ‘local weirdo’ as Hugh Walsey had.

  “Mr Stroud?” she said, marching forward, her hand extended.

  He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You were in Richmond’s earlier. I saw you there, watching.”

  “That’s right,” said Elspeth. “I’m Elspeth Reeves, a journalist. I heard what you said back at the café, and wondered if you might have a moment to talk? I’m writing an article on the Hallowdene Fayre, and the dig.”

  Stroud looked suspicious. Clearly he wasn’t used to people taking him seriously. “What do you want to talk about?” he said.

  “What you said, about it being dangerous. Could you tell me a bit more about what you meant?”

  Stroud sighed. “The thing is, I’m just trying to help. That’s what they don’t seem to understand. You’ve seen the frivolous way they treat our village’s history: the dolls and lollipops and postcards and guidebooks. But that woman, Agnes Levett, she was a force to be reckoned with. She did terrible things. And people like that – they don’t go quietly, Ms Reeves. And now here they all are, stirring it all up again.”

  “You believe there’s some truth in the old curse?” said Elspeth, careful to avoid any sense of judgement in her tone.

  “I believe that atrocities have echoes, is all, and those echoes can be felt through the years, like the aftershocks that follow an earthquake. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again, as surely as the world will keep turning.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Elspeth.

  “Aye,” said Stroud. “But then you don’t seem like the type to sit still for long enough to see it. My family have lived in these parts for hundreds of years. We’ve seen it all, Ms Reeves, and if there’s one thing that’s clear to me, it’s this: everything comes around again. There ain’t nothing new in this world.”

  “So what do you think is going to happen?”

  “Stirring up things that have lain long buried,” said Stroud, “you’re likely to find things that people don’t like. And as I said, people like Agnes – wild people, who lived by a different law – they don’t rest so easy. When they first buried her, in an unmarked grave on the edge of that there churchyard–” he indicated it with a wave of his arm “–she let her presence be felt. People ended up dead – the very same people who had put her in the ground.”

  “There were further deaths?” She hadn’t got this far in the book, yet.

  “Yes. Three people. Peter Loverage, Gwyneth Coombe and Simon Kirkby. Three of the people who dragged her to the gallows. They were all struck down in mysterious circumstances, and there were reports of strange sightings and unearthly voices. That’s why they moved her here and buried her under that stone, to keep her presence at bay.”

  “Like a prison, you mean?” said Elspeth.

  “Aye. Like a prison. And now they’ve gone and opened up the cell.”

  Despite herself, Elspeth felt the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle. Whatever the truth of it, the man really believed this stuff. To her mind, it was a jumble of superstition and fear, but she’d seen too much to dismiss the idea entirely out of hand.

  “All right, Mr Stroud. Thank you for your time. I might want to talk to you again, if that’s okay with you?”

  Stroud looked surprised at the very notion. “Well, yes, I suppose so. Look, here’s my number.” He took a scrap of paper from his coat pocket and scrawled down his phone number on the back with a cheap biro. She took it and placed it in the pocket of her jeans.

  “Now, the police are up here at the moment, so if I were you, I wouldn’t worry about trying to warn anyone off. It’s a little late for that already, I think. But I promise you, Mr Stroud, your concerns have been heard, and I’ll call in the next couple of days to talk to you again.”

  Stroud seemed to consider this for a moment, before giving a satisfied nod. “Very well. Thank you, Ms Reeves. You give me hope for the future.”

  Elspeth smiled, then watched as he turned and ambled off across the field. When he reached the stile and disappeared
from sight, she turned back towards the dig.

  Peter was standing to one side, deep in conversation with Hugh Walsey. The coroner was already packing up his equipment, and the film crew were busy getting shots of the grave.

  “Ah, well done,” said Walsey, as she approached. “What did you say to him?”

  “Very little,” said Elspeth. “I just listened to him, showed a bit of interest. That’s all he wanted, really. To be heard.”

  “Well, I admire your patience,” said Walsey. “I’m not sure I could listen to that claptrap for very long. Did he go on about unquiet spirits and the echoes of the past?”

  “Something like that,” said Elspeth, feeling slightly defensive. She supposed a certain amount of arrogance was to be expected from a man who owned a manor house. She looked to Peter to rescue her.

  “All done,” he said, with a relieved grin. “McCowley has confirmed the body is of no interest to the police. Thinks it dates back a few hundred years at least.”

  “So it could well be Agnes Levett?” said Elspeth.

  Peter shrugged. “Quite possibly. I’ll leave that to the experts to decide.” He bid Walsey goodbye, and she walked with him as far as the border of the adjoining field.

  “See you at home tonight?”

  “Yes. Of course. You haven’t forgotten Abigail’s coming to stay tomorrow though, have you?”

  “Abigail?”

  “Yes. My friend from London. I told you, she’s coming to visit. I’ll have to stay at my place to keep her company.”

  He looked a little crestfallen. “Yes, yes. Of course. I forgot. It’ll be good to meet her.”

  Elspeth laughed. “You’ll get on, honestly.”

  “I’m sure we will. See you later, then.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  And then he was off, following the same track that had taken Lee Stroud back down to the road a few minutes earlier.

  Elspeth turned back to the dig. The TV crew were packing away their equipment, and she had an appointment with Jennifer Wren.