Death on Allhallowe’en (7 page)

On a piece of paper Cicely wrote in block letters SHAITAN.

‘There. What do you think of that?'

‘The obvious conclusion is that either your boy had been put under hypnosis by someone skilled in it who had a very nasty mind …'

Cicely jumped to her feet and grew very excited. She rushed out to the front door and called her husband.

‘There you are!' she said. ‘What did I tell you? It was a mesmerist done it! Mr Deene just said so!'

‘I said it could have been hypnosis,' said Carolus. ‘But although it seems fantastic in this day and age one must consider another possibility. What remained in Cyril's mind in delirium could be the result of his having actually witnessed some kind of Black Mass.'

‘That's what I say.' Albert sounded solemn. ‘He must have seen them at it up at the Beacon. I told the police but they wouldn't have it. “There is no such thing,” one of them told me. And you wouldn't think there could be, would you?'

‘What I say is,' put in Cicely, ‘if he had seen something of that sort it might have been a film company. I wouldn't put it past one of them. It may look black against people round here, but you can't really imagine it, can you?' she asked, once again wavering in her suspicions. ‘There's some of them I don't think much of, I
do
admit, but not getting up to anything like that. Or using that language.'

‘The word that so much shocks you is another form of “Satan”, Mrs Gunning.'

‘So it may be, but it doesn't sound nice, particularly when it's said by a little boy who's been brought up not to listen to such things.'

‘Did Cyril mention the name of anyone he knew?'

‘No. Only young Doug. That was his mate, the boy he ran around with sometimes. “Doug!” he shouted once. I took no notice of it at the time.'

‘Who are Doug's parents?'

‘He's Ebby Smith's youngest, but you'd never have said so. You couldn't meet a nicer youngster.
He
knew nothing about it.'

‘Did you ask him?'

‘No. I didn't. Ebby wouldn't have liked anyone asking about
that. And soon afterwards he went away to live with his auntie at Redcorn, so I never had the chance.'

‘Did the police know he called out that name?'

‘I never thought to mention it. He was always on about Doug so it was nothing unusual.'

‘I said at the time we ought to ask,' put in Albert. ‘But we were both upset.'

‘Of course. I quite understand. And thank you both for telling me all you have,' said Carolus, rising hopefully.

‘It's only right,' said Cicely, ‘when anyone's trying to find out the truth.'

‘I'm different to Mrs Gunning,' Albert announced. ‘She doesn't know what to think and never has since that night. I
do
believe that something went on up at the Beacon which was the cause of it all with Cyril. It's all very well of her to say that it couldn't be the people round here, but I'd like to know who else it was. They say it's gone on from ancient times and I don't think it's a joke, like. I've got my own ideas what happened and who was responsible.'

‘If it was, we should have known,' said Cicely. ‘There's not much goes on here but what you get to hear of it.'

‘Not if they didn't mean you to.'

Realising that to ask who ‘they' were was a waste of time, Carolus made a more determined move for the door.

‘Good-bye, Mrs Gunning, and thank you again,' he said with finality.

‘I only hope you do find out what happened. I should sleep better at night if I knew.'

Carolus managed to leave the bungalow, but Albert followed him to the yard.

‘I tell you what, though, Mr Deene,' he said. ‘I'd be careful if I was you. They're a funny lot round here, and if they were to hear you'd been asking questions about them I wouldn't put anything past them.'

‘Thank you,' said Carolus.

‘I've no doubt you can look after yourself. But you have to
watch out. I don't like those people Lark up at the rectory, for one.'

‘They're new to these parts,' said Carolus.

Albert stared at him and Carolus thought there was a touch of hostility in his expression.

‘There's others,' he said.

‘Yes?'

‘You know who I've always thought had something to do with it?'

Carolus obligingly said, ‘Who?'

‘That Horseman. If I could nail that bastard I'd kill him. I'm damn sure he was to blame for Cyril's death.'

‘You don't think you're prejudiced because he's a stranger to Clibburn?' asked Carolus, surprised at Albert's sudden violence.

‘No. I don't. And I've got reason for what I say. That night, when I was going up to the Beacon, I met Horseman.'

Carolus asked sharply, ‘Where?'

‘Well, it was some way away from the Beacon, perhaps a quarter of a mile, but I'm pretty sure he'd come from there.'

‘What time was this?'

‘Must have been round about half-past three or four o'clock.'

‘Was he alone?'

‘Yes. He seemed to be in a hurry. He was carrying a suitcase.'

‘A suitcase? Now that
is
extraordinary. Did you speak to him?'

‘I asked him, of course, if he'd seen Cyril. He seemed sort of vague, as though he was thinking of something else. “Cyril?” he said. “Oh, your little boy. No, I haven't seen him.” Then he hurried on.'

‘Did you tell the police that?'

‘Of course I did. And they took a note of it, but I never heard anything more. That's the police for you. But the more I've thought of it the more I'm sure he was in it. I hate the bastard, anyway. If I could prove …'

‘But you can't, Albert. If ever there was a matter in which
we shouldn't jump to conclusions, it's this one. Perhaps the whole truth will come out in time. Till then, I'd forget it if I were you.'

A rather ugly expression crossed Albert's normally good-natured face.

‘Can't do that,' he said, as Carolus left him.

Back at the rectory he found Mrs Lark standing in the hall and had the impression she was waiting for him.

‘There's a p.c. for you,' she said with a smile, ‘from Margate.'

From her manner he might have supposed that the postcard was one of those so-called vulgar ones, still common in seaside places, a highly ambiguous text illustrated by a brightly coloured representation of fleshy women in old-fashioned bathing costumes and men in straw hats. But when she handed it to him he saw that it was a view showing a row of houses overlooking the sea with all propriety. ‘Our window', as Carolus learned from a written note, was ‘marked with an X'. It was from the Sticks. ‘Having a nice rest here,' he learned from the text, ‘and hope you are doing the same. Stick has been shrimping. Yours respectfully, Mr and Mrs Stick.'

‘My housekeeper and her husband,' Carolus said to Mrs Lark, who seemed to expect some explanation and had obviously read the card.

‘Bit old-fash, aren't they?' she said, smiling.

‘Very. That's one of the things I like about them. They've been with me since the war. Both are what used to be called treasures when the genus existed. I'm always being told you don't get that sort nowadays. Or any sort, for that matter. I'm spoiled.'

‘I notice they don't put their address,' said Mrs Lark.

The remark rather irritated Carolus.

‘On a postcard? Why should they?'

'Oh, well,' said Mrs Lark, tiring of the subject as Carolus put the card in his pocket. ‘The Rec's out. Went about elev. Didn't say where.'

‘He'll be in to lunch?'

‘Prob. Nearly always is. Tell you what, if you're not doing anything, would you like to have a chat with my husb? He doesn't see many peep and would be glad of a chat. Come through to our part of the house.'

Carolus agreed, not without some curiosity, and Mrs Lark led him to a pleasant room overlooking what had once been a kitchen garden. Ronald Lark was in a wheel-chair.

He had a pale thin face, not cadaverous but taut. His expression suggested querulousness rather than suffering. He offered Carolus a thin hand when Mrs Lark introduced them.

‘I hear you're staying here. I can't think what brings you to Clibburn. It's a detestable place.'

‘Don't say that, Ron,' Mrs Lark said cheerfully. ‘I think it's rather fun.'

‘Fun? My wife has a strange idea of fun. All we have here to while away the winter evenings is a spot of bogus witchcraft.'

‘You've got the telly,' Mrs Lark pointed out.

‘The telly!' Ronald Lark dismissed the whole world of televised entertainment with contempt. ‘Will you have a glass of beer? It's all we have in the house, I'm afraid.'

He spoke like a man of some education and Carolus suspected him of considering himself his wife's superior, which in the narrowest sense he probably was.

‘I must get back to the kitch,' Mrs Lark said, when she had put some beer on the table beside her husband.

‘I don't know how my wife can stand the people here,' said Ronald. ‘I don't have to see much of them, thank God, but from what I hear they're a lousy lot. Too much inter-breeding, possibly. Have you met a woman called Murrain?'

‘Yes. I went to see her yesterday.'

‘Phony, of course. But dangerous.'

'In what way dangerous?'

‘Half of them are afraid of her. She has the most sinister influence. She couldn't make a good hell-broth to save her life, but people say she has the Evil Eye.'

‘Interested in that sort of superstition?' asked Carolus.

‘Not really, but you get a lot of it here. Are you?'

‘Quite,' admitted Carolus.

‘Then Matchlow's the man you want to see. He's an expert. Only it's hard to make his acquaintance.'

‘I'm told his wife is more sociable.'

‘Judith? Yes. Now there's a really charming woman. But she knows nothing about her husband's peculiar hobbies. “As long as he doesn't turn me into a toad or anything he can do what he likes,” she says. I hope you'll meet her. She'll restore your confidence in ordinary people after so many exotic types. She comes here quite often and she and the wife get on like a house on fire. But I wouldn't have her old man in the house. He was mixed up with Aleister Crowley and all that lot. Nasty piece of work.'

‘I'm told he has one friend. A farmer named Garries.'

Ronald Lark gave him a somewhat wary look.

‘I don't get about much in this bloody chair, but I've seen Garries in the village. The very last man you'd have associated with all this. A big, lusty old chap—typical farmer of the old school. But there are stories. He owns the ground round the Beacon. Been in his family for years.'

‘Then how do you account for his friendship with Matchlow?'

‘To my idea they're both mad. But then most of us are in this place. Matchlow has been seen walking back from Garries' farm in the small hours.'

Carolus shot out one of his disconcerting questions on another subject.

‘I hear you're fond of shooting, Mr Lark?'

‘I suppose Stainer has been talking to you? Fond of shooting? Not at all. I just can't stand birds. They're the con men
of the animal world. Telling you all day long how marvellous they are, what sweet little things…'

‘You mean their singing?'

‘They don't sing. They whistle, squawk, croak, howl, hoot, usually at most inconvenient times and places. They are vermin. Rats with wings. Of course I destroy them. And poor sentimental old Stainer objects!'

‘Perhaps he has seen enough killing,' suggested Carolus mildly.

‘Could be,' replied Ron Lark unconcernedly. From that moment Carolus decided that the man's bonhomie was assumed and that underneath it he loathed Carolus and most other people. He could conceal his bitterness, speaking in a semi-facetious way of his hatred of birds, of the people of Clibburn and so on, but there was not much sincerity or good-nature in him. Perhaps he, too, was a little mad. ‘Most of us are in this place,' he had said.

Mrs Lark rejoined them.

‘The Rec's back,' she announced. ‘He's in the gard.'

‘I'll go to him,' said Carolus.

‘So like you, Margaret,' said Ron sourly. ‘I almost never see anyone civilised and when I do you have to drag him away.'

‘I didn't…' began Mrs Lark, but Ron waved her aside and tried to bid Carolus a civil farewell.

Margaret Lark led him out by a side-door and they started towards a door in the wall, evidently leading to the main garden. But as Carolus let her walk ahead on the narrow path there was a ping and he saw Ron Lark, his wheel-chair at the window. He was grinning and his air rifle was in his hand.

‘Just missed!' he said. ‘Bastard was in the apple-tree.'

‘Better be careful with that toy,' Carolus warned him. ‘Your pellet went quite near my head.'

‘Don't worry! It wouldn't have penetrated the skull,' said Lark ambiguously. Then, as though he had said too much, added, ‘No power behind it.'

Carolus said nothing but walked on. When they had passed
through the garden door he asked Margaret Lark how long her husband had exhibited this obsession with killing birds. Her reply and manner surprised him. She seemed to be near tears.

‘I don't know,' she said miserably. ‘Ever since I've known him.'

Another curious interview awaited Carolus that afternoon when he drove out to Garries Farm. The name had lost its apostrophe with the years—it may once have been the farm that belonged to Garries, but after so many generations it owned the name as much as they did and would have been Garries whoever farmed it. The house had been badly restored and enlarged in Victorian times, but there were remnants of a Tudor building.