Wychwood - Hallowdene E-Book

George Mann

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Wychwood
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 380

Beschreibung

Former London journalist Elspeth Reeves is trying to carve a new life for herself in the sleepy Oxfordshire countryside, until she's sent to cover the excavation of a notorious local witch's grave. Three hundred years ago, her name mixed up with murder and black magic, Agnes Levett was hanged and then buried under an immense stone, to prevent her spirit from ever rising again. Elspeth investigates, but soon finds there is far more to the old tale than meets the eye, as the surrounding area is rocked by a series of mysterious and brutal murders, all of people somehow connected with the dig. She and her childhood friend DS Peter Shaw race to uncover the truth, but secrets lain buried for centuries are not easily discovered.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also by George Mann and available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Acknowledgements

About the Author

HALLOWDENE

Also by George Mann and available from Titan Books

WYCHWOOD

Wychwood

THE GHOST

Ghosts of Manhattan

Ghosts of War

Ghosts of Karnak

Ghosts of Empire

NEWBURY & HOBBES

The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead

Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box

Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

Associates of Sherlock Holmes

Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes

HALLOWDENE

GEORGE MANN

TITAN BOOKS

Hallowdene

Print edition ISBN: 9781783294114

E-book edition ISBN: 9781783294121

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: September 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 George Mann

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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FOR MUM

CHAPTER ONE

Overhead, the crows were circling.

Jenny Wren watched them turn in concentric wheels, stark against the pale sky. Their crowing had grown impatient, expectant – as if they knew what was about to happen. As if they were calling out a warning. If she’d been disposed to such things, Jenny might have considered it an ill omen, but she knew it for what it was: the natural instinct of the birds, accustomed to the turning of the earth in the nearby graveyard and expecting a feast of newly exposed earthworms.

Well, today they were going to be disappointed. It wasn’t worms they were about to unearth. She glanced at the jagged hunk of granite beside her. It was huge and misshapen, slick with moss – a pagan marker that hadn’t been moved in centuries. It must have taken scores of villagers to drag it all the way up here – it weighed at least a ton, and standing beside it, it was almost as tall as her hip. Even the crane operator had sucked his teeth dubiously when he’d seen it.

“So, could you provide our viewers with a little insight into what you’re expecting to find beneath the stone, Jennifer?”

Jenny sighed. It was only half past twelve in the afternoon, but she was already beginning to feel weary. Why she’d ever agreed to this foolish invasion of her dig, she didn’t know. A few seconds of madness, perhaps… or more likely the thought of seeing her face up there on the TV screen, running about enthusiastically like some latter-day Tony Robinson, pointing at stratified layers of mud and pretending to be positive about the lack of finds. Now, she was regretting ever entertaining the idea.

Too late now, she supposed.

Painting on her best winning smile, she turned to face the lens, almost recoiling at the proximity of the camera. Behind the cameraman, Steve Marley, she could see the young presenter who’d asked her the question, looking preened despite the waxed jacket and wellington boots.

Jenny wondered if she should have made more of an effort for the camera. She’d grown accustomed to thinking about comfort, rather than appearance, while she was out on a dig. Her hair was coming loose, and while she’d made an attempt at doing her make-up before leaving the house that morning, it was nothing compared to the pristine elegance of Robyn Baxter. And then there was the fact that the woman was almost twenty years her junior. Jenny was dowdy and parochial by comparison.

Still, what were people expecting? She was an archaeologist, not a TV presenter. Archaeologists were never glamorous, were they? Everyone had seen the endless re-runs of Time Team on the telly. She was just living up to the stereotype – even if she did look more like Phil than Carenza.

She told herself off. She was being too harsh on herself again. Her cheeks were burning. The truth was, being around these people made her feel old. She supposed that was only to be expected. She’d been at this for years, and needed to remember that her experience counted for something: she was the expert here, this was her dig, and they were her guests. She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It’s all going to be fine. It’ll be over in a couple of hours, and you’ll be sat in the Rowan Tree, sinking a pint and congratulating yourself on a job well done.

She glanced at Robyn, who offered her an encouraging smile, and then looked straight to camera, just as she’d been taught in her briefing that morning.

“Well, Robyn, it’s long been believed that this stone–” she patted the huge, moss-covered rock beside her “–is a ‘witch stone’, relating to a form of superstitious burial that, on rare occasions, was given to women who’d been denounced as witches. The practice is thought to originate from the seventeenth century, but has its roots in much earlier mythology.” She cleared her throat. “The stone was placed upon the witch’s grave as a means of containing her spirit, to prevent her from returning in the afterlife to seek revenge upon those who had judged her.” She smiled, and looked to Robyn. The camera was still pointing squarely in her face.

“And legend has it that this particular stone,” said Robyn, “marks the grave of the notorious witch Agnes Levett, who’s a figure of some fame, locally, isn’t she?”

“Absolutely,” said Jenny, nodding. “Surviving records suggest that Agnes Levett was discovered by local villagers performing a ritual with the body of Lady Grace Abbott, wife of the then Lord Cuthbert Abbott, upon whose grounds we’re now standing. She was hanged for her crimes, and buried here, beneath this stone. Or so we believe.”

“And… cut.”

Jenny looked to Robyn, who was wearing an easy, practised smile. “Perfect. We’ll get out of your hair so you can carry on with your dig.”

“Okay, thanks.” Jenny heaved a sigh of relief to be out of the frame once again. She watched as the cameraman set up in a new position, taking the opportunity to grab a brief insert from Robyn.

Jenny listened for a moment as the presenter reeled off a practised speech about how Agnes Levett had become something of a tourist attraction in the local area, and was now the centrepiece of the Hallowdene Summer Fayre, during which the villagers all dressed up in bizarre costumes and paraded an effigy of the witch through the streets, much to the delight of the local children.

That was why the TV crew were really here – to film a piece on the festival for their rural affairs programme, an example of how the British, in the wake of Brexit, were returning to their old traditions and pagan roots. It was nonsense, of course, but Jenny had jumped at the chance to have them along at the dig, to capture her moment of triumph when they lifted the stone to reveal the remains of Agnes the so-called ‘Hallowdene witch’.

She only hoped that she was right, and the local legends hadn’t led her astray. If they lifted the stone and there was no grave to be found… well, she’d look like a prize fool, and no matter what positive spin she managed to put on it, people would see her failure writ large on screens all across the nation.

She glanced around, catching sight of the crane driver, leaning against his machine and sucking surreptitiously on an e-cigarette. She couldn’t help grinning at the sight – progress was all well and good, but people rarely changed. Nevertheless, she felt a brief pang of envy. She’d given up smoking years ago, and even though they now made her feel nauseated – she’d learned this to her regret – she still craved the occasional cigarette.

Around her, the bustle of the television crew continued. She hoped they’d be done soon so she could press on.

In the distance, Hallowdene Manor was a jagged silhouette, jutting brazenly from the hillside; a bleak, man-made interloper that didn’t belong in such an otherwise unspoiled landscape. Beyond that, the trees of Raisonby Wood – once a part of the former Wychwood, which had formed a leafy mantle over this area for centuries – stood sentry-like on the horizon. To her right, the crumbling old church of St Mary erupted from the loam like a crooked finger, its lopsided spire pointing warily to the heavens. To Jenny, it looked somehow unsure of itself, as if the building itself were questioning its faith. The graveyard around the church was crowded with listing headstones – a silent audience, presiding in judgement over the events unfolding in the next field.

She’d explored that graveyard, more out of curiosity than professional interest, wandering around late one evening with a torch and checking off the names of the dead. Centuries’ worth of villagers had been laid to rest here, including Lord and Lady Cuthbert Abbott, interred in a rather ostentatious tomb inside the church itself. Agnes, on the other hand, had been buried out here, in the mud, away from hallowed ground – moved from her first grave after superstition got the better of people, and they believed her to be enacting a curse from beyond the grave. She’d been carried out here, into a field, and re-interred beneath the heavy stone. It seemed a particularly cruel fate to Jenny, a final insult for a terribly misunderstood woman.

Jenny had no time for talk of witchcraft and curses – no one did, in this day and age. She’d spoken to a number of the villagers down at the pub, and they’d all said the same thing: that the village obsession with their historical ‘witch’ was just a bit of fun, and that the truth of the matter was really rather sad – that a woman had been lynched by her fellow villagers for crimes that everyone knew to be impossible now. There seemed to be some disagreement as to whether the woman had committed murder – she’d been accused of killing Lady Grace Abbott during a ‘ritual’ – but there was no surviving evidence, and no way of settling the matter either way. That the woman had been persecuted on grounds of witchcraft, though, like so many other poor souls of her age, was, as far as most people were concerned, something of an embarrassment. Jenny found the whole thing fascinating.

She heard a polite cough and turned to see Avi Dhiri, the show’s producer, standing by her shoulder. He was a smartly dressed, tidy man, but practical, lacking Robyn’s sophisticated glamour. A bit more down to earth. He’d dressed for the occasion, opting for a stiff pair of brown leather boots, jeans, a jumper – the cuffs of which she could just see, poking inquisitively out of the ends of his sleeves – and a navy waxed jacket.

“You did great,” he said. He’d known she’d been nervous, and he’d been a great encouragement throughout the process. “Just what we needed.”

She fought the urge to correct his grammar. He was being nice, after all. “Thanks. It’s all a bit unfamiliar, that’s all.”

He smiled. “Don’t worry, I know exactly what you mean. I’ve been doing this for years, but the few times I’ve had to face the camera myself I’ve gone to pieces. Something about having that big lens looming in your face.”

She laughed at his awkward expression. Maybe this wasn’t going so badly, after all.

“Are you ready for the big event?” he said.

“We’re ready,” said Jenny. “We’ve already recorded everything we need, at least until the stone is lifted. That’s when the real work starts.” She lowered her voice. “Although I fear it’s not as climactic as you might expect. We’ve no dramatic music or anything.” She grinned. “The crane will come in and lift the stone, and we’ll get our first view of what’s lurking beneath.”

Dhiri laughed. “Don’t worry, we can add the dramatic music in post-production.” He offered her a wicked grin. “Particularly if the curse is true, and the witch comes crawling out to get us all.”

Jenny shook her head, finding herself charmed by the young man, despite herself. “You’ve been watching too many late-night movies,” she said.

“Still, it’s all a bit creepy, isn’t it? I mean, she must have done something to warrant all of this. I know they were a superstitious lot, but to bury the woman beneath a rock like this…”

Jenny shrugged. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever really know the truth. Most women accused of witchcraft were victims of jealousy, panic and misunderstanding. Like you say, people were terribly superstitious. People paid for it with their lives. I suspect her death simply coincided with some other phenomena that couldn’t be readily explained by the people of the time – a bout of a particularly virulent disease, or what have you – and as a result, the poor woman was blamed for that, too, despite already being dead. That’s why they shifted her body and placed this rock on top of her grave – to keep her unquiet spirit from enacting its revenge.”

“Thank God people have changed,” said Dhiri.

Jenny had to force herself not to laugh out loud at the irony. “All right, let’s see about getting this thing moved,” she said.

Her assistant, John, was chatting to the two young students they’d brought along to help with the digging and recording of the finds. Dhiri had already turned his attention back to Robyn and Steve, the cameraman, so she made a beeline for John, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked somewhat disappointed at having to break off from trying to impress the two young women, who in turn seemed somewhat relieved.

“We about ready?” said John. His accent was broad West Country, and always made her smile.

“Yes. I think our friends are getting anxious for some excitement,” she said. “You’d better move everyone back to a safe distance. I’m not taking any risks with that rock.”

“Worried about the curse?” said John.

“Yeah,” said Jenny, “the curse of the Health and Safety Executive.”

John grunted, amused, and then set about shepherding people back to a safe distance. Jenny noted that a reasonable crowd had begun to gather around the edge of the field: a mix of folk from the village, she presumed, and people from the manor house, come to watch the excitement unfolding in the grounds. Or else hoping to catch sight of themselves later on TV. There’d be a lot of that in the coming days, she suspected, as the preparations for the Summer Fayre began to unfold and the film crew went about cataloguing everyone’s lives. There seemed to be something of a party atmosphere amongst those who’d gathered to spectate; they formed a loose perimeter, chatting and laughing with one another. A woman in a blue raincoat was pouring people cups of tea from a large, silver flask. Jenny could have killed for a cuppa. Right after she’d finished that non-existent cigarette.

Sam, the crane operator, blew a nonchalant stream of vapour from the corner of his mouth when he noticed her approaching, unaware of the torture he was putting her through. Then she caught a whiff of what he’d been smoking, sweet and sickly and tinged with a hint of berries. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Is this what the world had come to?

Sam prised himself away from the filthy yellow machine he’d been leaning against. He scratched absently at his nose with one gloved hand. “All right, boss?”

“I will be when this dog and pony show is over and done with and I can get on with the real work,” she said. Sam had worked with her before, on numerous digs throughout Oxfordshire, and was well adjusted to her temperament and humour. He always laughed at her jokes. It was one of the reasons she liked to keep him around.

He grinned, one foot already up on the footplate of the crane. “This won’t take a minute. Just give me a thumbs-up when you’re all clear.”

Steel chains had been carefully looped around the edges of the stone for ease of lifting by the crane. Jenny had supervised the process earlier that morning, monitoring how Sam had carefully dug out around the base of the rock, allowing him to work the chains in and around it, to secure a tight grip.

Theoretically, lifting the stone should be a simple matter – but Jenny knew from bitter experience how theory and reality were rarely comfortable bedfellows. Too many times, she’d been proved wrong by the data, or something had gone awry when they’d brought in the machines and the finds had been churned or damaged, or they’d dug a hole in completely the wrong spot.

She backed away, ensuring that everyone was clear. “Okay, Sam. Let’s get on with it.” She motioned to him to raise the arm of the crane.

With a mechanical chug, the crane arm began to rise, clanking and hissing like some ancient beast angry at being disturbed from its slumber. Jenny watched as the chains slowly lifted, pulling taut, catching on the underside of the jagged stone.

For a moment the arm stopped and the crane seemed to rock forward slightly as it took the weight of the enormous stone. Then the gears made a deep grinding sound, and the stone pulled free of the clinging earth with a wet sucking sound; a laborious sigh, as if whatever lay beneath had been holding its breath all of these years and could now, finally, exhale.

Sam pivoted the crane to the left, swinging the rock aside, revealing the damp soil beneath. Jenny fought the urge to rush forward. Aside from the fact that she was intent on remaining composed on camera, she had to follow procedure and wait until the stone had been secured.

Sam slowly lowered his payload, accompanied by a cacophony of more clanking and beeping. And then it was done, and the witch stone was sitting, rude and proud, about five feet to the left of the grave.

Slowly, Jenny walked forward. John, the students and the TV crew fell in, too, remaining one step behind, allowing her to be the first at the graveside. Whether this was out of respect for her position, or fear of what they might find, she didn’t know.

Her stomach churned. She felt a rising sense of unease. She peered down at the grave. She realised she was holding her breath and let it out. Her heart was thudding.

John was standing beside her, arm extended, proffering a trowel. For a moment she hesitated, but then she took it, glanced back at the camera, and then lowered herself to her knees and began to dig.

The grave was shallow, and within minutes the edge of her trowel had struck something solid. She scraped carefully at the soil, drawing it back in layers, as if peeling back time itself. Slowly, the ground divested itself of its macabre bounty.

There, as she’d predicted, were the remains of a human being. She’d found the edge of the collarbone. She followed the line of the bone with the tip of her trowel, scraping at the damp earth, until she exposed the vertebrae, and then finally the jawbone and the lower part of the skull. She worked carefully around it, clearing away the clinging mud, ignoring the sudden gasps of the others behind her.

When she had finished, she straightened her back, peering down at the eerie visage before her. There was something unnerving about the skull – the way it was turned to face her in the soil, as if the dead woman were peering up at her and grinning, right across the centuries.

Jenny felt a shiver pass along her spine. “Right, everyone, keep back. Let’s get the boring stuff over with. John, get on and notify the coroner, and let’s get the paperwork signed off so we can take a proper look at her.”

Around her, the crew began to disperse, none of them having said a word. No triumphant cries, no high-fives. Nothing. There was a strange, melancholy atmosphere about the place, as if no one wanted to acknowledge what they’d just found, to give voice to their fears.

Jenny looked back at the dead woman’s grinning skull, and then turned away. It was time for that cigarette.

CHAPTER TWO

The café – Elspeth supposed it was a café, despite the odd appearance – was buzzing with the clatter of mugs, the hiss of steam and the chatter of at least a dozen other patrons. It was at once comforting, and maddeningly distracting. At least they weren’t playing any thumping music. Small mercies, and all that. Still, there was no way Elspeth could concentrate on her book. She tucked a serviette inside to mark her place, and sat back in her chair, sipping at her coffee, annoyed at herself for allowing it to go cold.

The café – known as Richmond’s Tearooms – was an odd sort of place that seemed to have one foot in the past and another in the present. This was evident in the overall décor – the tables were laid with red gingham and lace doilies, and the waiting staff were dressed in old-fashioned black and white uniforms – as well as the menu, which featured an eclectic mix of traditional teas, cakes and scones, alongside an array of paninis, fancy lattes and chorizo stew.

Even the place itself seemed unable to decide what it really was; while most of the old building had been given over to the café, the area behind Elspeth had been lined with racks of cheap trinkets and books; a gift shop, of sorts, in which most of the stock related to the local legend of the Hallowdene Witch. The figure leered at her off the shelves: a caricature of a crooked old woman with a hook nose, claw-like fingers and black robes, with a mane of ragged white hair. Her image was emblazoned on the front of the menu cards, too, and the tables were adorned with black candleholders in the shapes of cats and broomsticks – she’d clearly become something of a mascot for the village. Broomsticks hung from the roof on fishing wire, and the soup – Elspeth could see someone cautiously sipping the hot liquid from a spoon at a nearby table – was served in little cast-iron cauldrons.

Presently, the witch was a hot topic of conversation amongst the tearoom’s patrons. Elspeth took another sip of her coffee, surreptitiously turning her ear to the table across from her. An elderly lady, fingers stained yellow from years of nicotine abuse, was chattering loudly about the archaeological dig going on up at the manor, and how they’d better all watch out because of old Agnes’s curse.

“In my experience,” she said, “things that are buried should remain that way. No good ever comes from stirring up the past. These young ones would do well to remember that.”

Her companion, whose fading glamour reminded Elspeth of a television or movie star whose time on the silver screen had long passed, nodded enthusiastically. “Aye. Leave well be, that’s what I say.”

Others, clearly, had different ideas – as she’d arrived, Elspeth had overheard a man and a woman talking excitedly about how the dig might drive up attendance for the coming fayre. Most people, she’d gathered, seemed to see it all as a bit of fun, wilfully playing up the stories, tongues firmly planted in cheeks.

Elspeth had vague memories of the Hallowdene Summer Fayre, of people parading through the streets dressed as Jack-in-the-Green, or wearing elaborate masks in the guise of birds or foxes. Her mum had taken her as a child, but she’d been scared, hiding behind Dorothy’s skirts, peeking out between her fingers as the villagers had marched the crooked effigy of the witch to the village cross. She’d been horrified by its twisted visage. The image had haunted her for weeks.

She must have only been six or seven, and hadn’t understood the history and ritual behind the parade. The following year, when Dorothy had insisted they return, refusing to acknowledge her daughter’s complaints, Elspeth had hidden under her bed, amongst the boxes and the dust bunnies, and refused to come out until her mum had relented and agreed to take her shopping in Oxford instead.

She hadn’t really thought about it since, and had never had cause to return to Hallowdene, at least until the previous week, when Meredith – her editor at the Heighton Observer – had asked if she’d be interested in covering the fayre for a local-interest article. This year, interest was particularly high because of the dig excavating the supposed resting place of the ‘witch’.

Elspeth had jumped at the chance – her freelance instincts kicking in – and had come over this morning to be on hand when news from the excavation broke. She’d tried to get really close to the dig, to be there when the grave marker was moved, but the site manager had refused any close access to allow a national television crew to gain uninterrupted footage. The best she’d been able to do was arrange an appointment with the lead archaeologist, Jennifer Wren, once the stone had been moved. In the meantime, she’d camped out at Richmond’s, having purchased one of their local books on the origins of the myth. It was an interesting read – if in need of a good edit – detailing the known facts surrounding Agnes’s death, alongside the more lurid and fanciful tales of occult wrongdoing. Elspeth had been busily making notes in preparation for her story.

Agnes, although clearly a beloved cult figure – if only for the local tourist industry – was portrayed as near demonic, a stooped and crooked spinster with a hideous visage, spindly fingers and wiry grey hair. It was claimed that, in 1643, she’d been caught performing a ritual with the body of Lady Grace Abbott in a copse in the Wychwood, close to her home. Her hands had been steeped in the dead woman’s blood, and Lord Cuthbert Abbott – desperately searching for his missing wife – had overheard her chanting some kind of wild incantation. Consequently, she’d been hanged by her neighbours in the village square, and then buried under the witch stone on un-consecrated grounds on the outskirts of the village.

Elspeth couldn’t help but wonder what had really gone on. If the rumours were true, Agnes had apparently committed a terrible murder. But to what end? There had to be a human story behind the caricature that she’d become. Now, no one really believed that Agnes had been a witch – the so-called witch trials of the seventeenth century had long ago been debunked – but the question that Elspeth was interested in exploring was whether she’d really been a killer. That was the story here. Was a woman who was wrongly accused of witchcraft still rightly accused of murder?

There were few surviving accounts from the time – according to the book, and a bit of digging around on the internet – so real evidence was scant. Nevertheless, she had to admit, the story had her intrigued, and she found herself wondering what Jennifer Wren would find beneath that crooked old stone, pictured there in the book in a faded black and white photograph.

She checked her watch. There was an hour before she was due up at the dig site, and the skies outside were brooding, threatening rain. She downed the rest of her tepid coffee and caught the eye of the young waitress, who was buzzing about between nearby tables, balancing a near-impossible array of crockery on her arm.

Elspeth pointed at her mug. “Can I get another coffee, please?”

The waitress nodded, offering her a lopsided grin. She was young – in her early twenties – and despite the rather formal uniform had a rebellious twinkle in her eye, a flash of blue in her otherwise blonde hair, and a matching blue plaster on her eyebrow where she’d clearly covered a piercing. The hint of a tattoo poked out from beneath the sleeve of her uniform. Her black eyeliner and slash of pink lipstick all added to the overall impression. She blew a loose strand of hair out of her eye, and tottered past, carefully stepping around the blue-haired lady’s chair leg.

“With you in a minute,” she said.

It was more like five, but Elspeth wasn’t in a hurry, and she smiled when the woman made a beeline for her table, coffee pot in hand. “Right, here you go.” She sloshed coffee into Elspeth’s empty mug with a practised flourish. “New round these parts, are you?” She placed Elspeth’s bill on the table, tucking it under the sugar pot.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Elspeth. “Recently moved back to the area from London.”

The woman cocked her head, her expression wrinkling in confusion. “You moved back here, from London?” She sounded utterly incredulous, as if the very idea of it was simply outlandish.

“Well, Heighton,” said Elspeth, sounding a little more defensive than she’d intended. “It’s not so bad…”

The woman looked doubtful. “Well, I suppose not. Still, I’d prefer something a little more cosmopolitan. I’m Daisy, by the way.”

“Elspeth.” She reached for her coffee. This time, it was too hot to drink. She blew on it. “You looking forward to the fayre?”

Daisy laughed. “Not really. I mean, it’s a funny old thing, isn’t it, all these people getting dressed up and parading through the streets. Besides, I imagine I’ll be tied to this place by my apron strings. We always get busy around the fayre, and this time it’s only going to be worse because of the dig.”

The café door opened with a tinkling bell, and Daisy glanced up. She issued a low groan. “Here we go,” she said, under her breath.

Elspeth looked over to see a man bustle in, making a show of unbuttoning his coat and stamping his feet, as if he’d just wandered in from an Arctic wasteland. He was wearing wellington boots spattered with mud, and leaving a trail of it right over the floorboards.

Daisy placed the coffee pot on Elspeth’s table and went to intercept him. “Lee, you know you’re not supposed to be in here with those muddy boots. If Sally gets hold of you…”

“Sally?” said the man. He fixed Daisy with an intense glower. “Is she here?” He stretched up onto his tiptoes, trying to see over Daisy’s shoulder. The man looked to be in his fifties, with dark hair going to grey, a stubble-encrusted chin, and a greasy complexion. His eyebrows bobbed as he looked from table to table, as if searching for someone. “Sally?”

“She’s busy, Lee,” said Daisy. She sounded exasperated. “Look, I’ll tell her you called.”

“Sally!” called the man, this time loud enough to elicit a response from most of the café’s patrons, who noticeably paused their conversations and turned in their seats to see what was going on.

The man was growing increasingly agitated. Elspeth wondered if she should try to intervene.

“Sally!”

“I’m here, Lee.” Elspeth turned to see a woman standing by the door to the kitchen. She looked flustered, red-cheeked, and had a tea towel tossed over one shoulder. She was of a similar age to Lee, with a frizz of blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a thin-lipped smile. Behind her a younger man – who, aside from the badly healed broken nose, resembled her so closely he had to be related – was glaring over her shoulder, his face like thunder.

“Right, good,” said the man, visibly calming. “I need to talk to you. About all of this.” He waved his hands at the witch-related produce on the shelves behind Elspeth.

“We’ve had this conversation,” said Sally. “And it’s no use going over it all again. Let’s not bring it up in front of all the customers?” She edged forward, ushering him back. Daisy retreated, coming to stand by Elspeth’s table, hugging herself with obvious concern.

“Look, it’s not right. Selling all of this. Turning it all into a tourist attraction. It’s dangerous,” said Lee.

“Dangerous?” Sally sighed. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a little far? It’s just a bit of fun. No harm can come of it. We all know she’s not real. It’s just a few postcards and trinkets.”

“She doesn’t like it, Sally. I’m telling you. And now they’re out there digging her up. You’re all messing with things you don’t understand.”

“Right, that’s enough, you stupid old fool. Out, now.” This from the young man, who Elspeth assumed to be Sally’s son. He pushed past his mother and took the older man by the arm, causing Lee to wince and try to squirm free.

“Get off me, you little thug. You can’t do this.”

“You’d better be off, Lee. You’re disturbing the customers.” Sally sounded somewhat apologetic, but didn’t move to intercept her son as the young man forcibly dragged Lee towards the door.

“All right! All right! I’m going.” He yanked his arm free, and turned in the doorway, glancing back at Sally. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The door shut behind him. Within seconds, a wave of quiet muttering passed amongst people sitting at the tables.

“Thank God for small mercies. But you didn’t have to be so hard on him, Christian. He doesn’t mean any harm. Not really,” said Sally, her voice low.

“He’s a mad old fool, and I’m tired of his bullshit,” retorted the young man. “Maybe this time he’ll get the message.” He stalked off into the kitchen, leaving his mother looking weary and embarrassed. She forced a smile, apologised politely to the guests for the disturbance, and slipped away after Christian. Moments later, there were muffled voices in the kitchen. The general hubbub amongst the patrons returned, soon drowning out all sounds of the disagreement.

Daisy retrieved her coffee pot from Elspeth’s table. “Well, that’s enough excitement for one day,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Waitress!”

Elspeth turned to see a man in his late sixties beckoning rudely for attention. He was shabbily dressed, his shirt poorly ironed, his jacket – which had clearly once been expensively tailored – worn and frayed at the cuffs. He was grey and balding, clean-shaven, and might have been handsome, too, if it hadn’t been for the sour expression on his face.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Nicholas Abbott,” she said, beneath her breath. “Still thinks he’s the lord of the manor.” She turned and approached his table, forcing a smile.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve ignored me for long enough, prattling on with your stupid chitchat. I want more coffee, now.” Clearly, this was a man who didn’t believe in niceties.

“Of course,” said Daisy. She leaned over the table to slosh coffee into his mug, and to Elspeth’s horror, she watched as the man reached out and cupped his hand around Daisy’s behind. “And I’d like a piece of that, too,” he said.

Daisy slammed her coffee pot down onto the table, stepped back, and glowered at him. “Do that again and you’ll pay for it,” she growled.

“I’d gladly pay for it,” said Abbott, slyly. “Just let me know how much.”

“Get out!” barked Daisy. “Before I do something I regret. Go on. Get out, now!”

The other customers had all turned around in their seats again to watch this new unfolding drama. Elspeth couldn’t help but wonder if it was always like this, in here.

“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.”