Murder by Magic (24 page)

‘Remember
your training.’

His
words are a command – he refers to a course he runs for police recruits,
the basic escape from a mineshaft or pothole, accomplished with more
rudimentary hand-tied
Prusik
loops – but DS Jones nods as though
it were a question.

‘Yes,
Guv –
but what about you
?’

Skelgill
glances anxiously over his shoulder – for DS Jones almost cries out these
last words.  It has dawned upon her that he has forfeited his own means of
escape.

‘I
didn’t bank on there being three of us – my mistake.’  He grins ingenuously. 
‘Now shift.’

‘But,
Guv – what will you do?’

‘Improvise.’

‘But
–’

He
grabs her face between his hands and speaks with renewed urgency, almost
spitting the words.  ‘Listen to me.  From the top you might have ten minutes’
head start.  Get the moon at your back and run if you can.  When you
meet the wall turn left.  Stay on the path.  After half a mile look
for a strip of cloth on a branch.  Untie it.  It marks the way to the
bottom of the mine – in the gully where it’s boarded up –
remember?’  (She nods once.)  ‘There’s a bin bag under a pile of
bracken, to the left of the tunnel entrance.  It’s got warm clothes, energy
drinks, mint cake – and my phone – if you can get a signal.’

He stoops
to pick up the rope, and then from behind he reaches around her waist to secure
the running end.  This could be a hug of sorts – but the action is
swift and he steps away and delivers her a stinging slap across the buttock.

‘Up
you go, lass.’

His
unexpected prompt sees DS Jones respond accordingly.  He moves aside to
give her space – there is the splash of water as he inadvertently treads
in the shallow margins of the pool.  She begins to ascend – and
immediately it becomes clear what he has done with the rope: as she goes up, so
it does too – and within thirty seconds there is no loose end that could
be shaken by a pursuer attempting to foil the escape.

But
Skelgill is well and truly stranded.

All
the while from afar the quietened chanting has floated reassuringly – if
it ever could be such – telling Skelgill that the coven has been
otherwise occupied.  But now that changes.  The drumbeat drops in
tempo, and it is apparent that the coven is making its ponderous return to the
Apse.  Skelgill must be cognisant of the danger – for he stoops to
fumble for his knife – though he has eyes only for the moonlit shaft
above, and the two spectral figures that slither towards safety, silhouetted
against the midnight blue of the sky.  Already they are well out of reach,
halfway to heaven, and another minute will see their bare soles kick to
salvation.

In the
black hell beneath, Skelgill turns to face his foes.  The incantation, at
first growing in volume as the group approaches the altar stones, suddenly dies
away.  There is a deathly silence, not a breath, not a cry of alarm
– only the cold drip of water behind him.  Then comes the shuffling
of feet.  Darker than the darkness twelve figures slowly materialise,
ranged six on either side of the great upright, the void beneath their
monk-hoods blacker than coal.  And from behind the monolith a thirteenth slowly
emerges – the butcher with the sword – the
Magistra
it would
seem – for embroidered on the cloak Skelgill can discern the glinting motif
of an inverted pentagram incorporating a ram’s head.  And grasped in one fist
– now raised aloft – is the real thing, blind eyes opaque in the
moonlight, tongue lolling, blood congealed about the severed neck.  If the
coven has been thwarted in its despicable act...

*

Though
no person moves, gradually the chant resumes – no drum now, just an alien
phrase of five syllables, stressed on the last and repeated.  There has
been no debate, no recriminations over the missing girls, no discussion about
what to do next – it is as though the coven operates as one mind, a
sinister subterranean predator that has seamlessly transferred the focus of its
hypnotic powers to its new quarry.

The
Magistra
levels the sword to point directly at Skelgill.  He stands rooted at the
edge of the black pool, arms akimbo, his expression impassive.  He might
be at bay but he appears determined to reveal neither confidence nor fear; he knows
that every second’s procrastination increases the chances of the girls’
escape. 

The
stand off seems interminable.

And
then he makes a move – a small step...
backwards
.

Some
members of the coven respond, and in a minor way break ranks – the
incantation for just a moment loses its unity – as if certain voices
reveal a tremor of jubilation; and then the chant resumes its harmony, its
vigour renewed and its volume raised.

Skelgill
takes another step; the water rises over his boots and up to his shins. 
His eyes are fixed upon the sword, unblinking.

And
then – another step – and another.  The water reaches his
knees – his thighs – and engulfs his waist.  But rather than
raise his arms he holds them stiffly – and now his hands are beneath the
surface.

He is
a good twenty feet out in the pool, and still, slowly, he backs away – seemingly
mesmerised, moving like an automaton that is commanded by the will of the
coven.

The
deeper water must be freezing, placing Skelgill at risk of succumbing to cold
shock – and indeed as the rising tide reaches his chest his lips part and
his breathing starts to become more urgent, deep and rasping.

At thirty-five
feet from the shore Skelgill’s shoulders submerge.  His face is little
more than a pale oval in the darkness that thickens beyond him.  The
chanting has become more frenzied and disorderly, as though its exponents are excited
by the impact of their magic; rogue shrieks of triumph punctuate the rhythm of
the incantation.

As if swayed
by the collective hysteria, and sensing the moment, the
Magistra
raises
the sword – and then makes as if to cast it point first at Skelgill.

Skelgill’s
head disappears beneath the surface.

There
are a few bubbles.

Then
nothing more.

The
coven is silent.

After
perhaps five minutes the
Magistra
turns and walks through the line of
hooded figures.  The assembly, resuming its chant, falls in and follows.

As the
stream reputed to be the source of the Black Beck trickles from the rudely barricaded
mine entrance, DS Jones and Irina Yanukovych huddle like itinerant beggars
against the rock wall of the narrow canyon.  They have unearthed the
concealed bin-liner and now each wears a baggy fleecy and what might be
ski-pants (though they exhibit signs of having been pressed into use for
fishing); items that Skelgill had hurriedly selected – presumably with DS
Jones and himself in mind.  The Ukrainian girl is hungrily devouring a bar
of Kendal mint cake – probably for the first time in her life – and
DS Jones has an open bottle of juice in one hand and Skelgill’s mobile phone in
the other.

Their
frame of mind is hard to discern.  From high the full moon illuminates two
blonde crowns – their eyes are hidden in shadow beneath their
brows.  The impression is of a kind of exhaustion – no surprise
given their harrowing experience, the tranquillising effects of the narcotic,
and the physically demanding escape.  But if they rest in reverie like
climbers who have successfully scaled their target peak, they must know the task
is but half complete; once recovered they must press on – and, as
Skelgill is wont to point out, most mountain accidents occur on the descent.

And
there is no phone signal.

DS
Jones waves the handset in the prescribed figure-of-eight pattern – but
even if there were a signal in this part of the Langdales, the rock walls of
the gully in which they hide would shield its reach; they might as well be in a
cave.  She glances at the girl beside her – they are not so different
– in age and physique and appearance – though she cannot fail to
have noticed that Irina Yanukovych was beginning to flag as they traversed the
steep wooded hillside from the point marked by Skelgill’s coded signal. 
Now they must surely fly – for this cannot be the most expedient of sanctuaries
– if pursuers approach, they are cornered with nowhere to run.  But
Skelgill made no suggestion for what to do next.  DS Jones is checked by
indecision.

Then
comes a sound.

The
girls hear it simultaneously, and Irina Yanukovych instinctively grabs DS Jones
by the wrist.  They stiffen, listening intently.  Crouching together
in the moonlight, they could be a pair of ancient forest inhabitants, caught
out up to mischief when they ought to be safe with their kin.

It
comes again – and again – and again – growing in intensity, though
regular, perhaps every two seconds – a disturbing noise, a short rasping hiss,
as if a creature is suffering some kind of maltreatment.

Though
they turn their heads from side to side it is plain that they cannot identify
its source – yet it is closing in upon them – it seems to be in the
air – like some winged demon that circles above, nearing with each pass.

DS
Jones prises herself free from her panicked companion.  She scrambles to
her feet and stumbles to Skelgill’s hidden cache.  Amongst its remaining
contents is an axe.  She steps in front of the other girl – now
cowering in terror – pluckily facing down the gully towards the black
shadow of the forest.

‘
Here
!’

The
strangled cry comes from behind.  She spins around – her face a mask
of shock – for the voice is harsh and anguished... yet terrifyingly
familiar.

Skelgill.

Panting
like a dog – his features drawn into a fearful grimace, his hair
plastered across his forehead, his skin smeared with blood and clay, his shirt soaked
and torn – he clatters against the planks that bar the entrance and
stretches imploringly through the gaps like a desperate refugee, as though at
his back is some great dread – a tsunami – a volcanic eruption
– the devil himself.

‘
The
axe
!’

Again
his hoarse cry implores his colleague to act – but DS Jones drops the axe
and hurls herself at the partition, first grabbing his hands and then forcing upon
him a desperate embrace, their bodies separated by the rough barrier.

‘Guv
– Guv – what happened – what happened – it’s all right.’

In
contrast to her vigorous greeting, her voice is soothing – and the contact
she initiates seems to quell Skelgill’s disquiet.  He does not resist her
attention, though his breath comes hard and fast, and anguish haunts his eyes.

‘The
girl – how much – English – does she – understand?’

Between
gasps he blurts out the disjointed question.

‘Not
so much, Guv.’

‘He’s
– in there.’

‘Who,
Guv?’

‘Her
boyfriend – I won’t – say his name.’

But DS
Jones mouths the word.

‘Pavlenko?’

Staring,
Skelgill nods.

‘I had
to swim for it – through a sump – that pool’s an offshoot –
of the beck – I nearly – didn’t make it –
aargh
!’ 
He suddenly cries out as if there is a stabbing pain in his temple.  He
closes his eyes and pulls a face in revulsion at the image that must be
conjured.  ‘There’s a body – jammed in the sump – my lungs
were – bursting – I just pulled it free in time – I felt his
– missing tooth.’

Again
Skelgill makes an agonised groan.  DS Jones reaches up and, much as he had
clasped her face – just a short while ago – she now does the same
to him.  And again it is as if her touch conducts away some of the dread
– for his eyes now recover their focus, and his jaw takes on a determined
set.

‘The
axe.’

‘Sure,
Guv.’

She
retrieves the tool – a hefty hatchet, a good two pounds or more –
and slips it through the bars of what is about to be a short-lived prison.

‘Stand
back.’

She
does as he bids – and he wastes no time in smashing the barrier, hacking at
a plank at its middle, and then attacking the intersections where cross-members
are nailed.  He yells with some abandon, as if it helps to release the
tension of his ordeal.  But he only goes so far as create the necessary
gap to squeeze through.  DS Jones steps forwards – but now he pins
her arms to her sides.  He glances at Irina Yanukovych; she shivers anxiously.

‘You
pair feeling better?’

DS
Jones nods decisively.

‘I
think the fresh air’s helped – and the mint cake.’

Skelgill
forces a grin.

‘You
need to go – it’s not safe to stay here.’

Now a
look of alarm returns to DS Jones’s features.

‘But,
Guv – what
now
?’  She registers that his command excludes
himself.

Skelgill
turns away; there is a resolute look in his eyes.  After a moment, he speaks
over his shoulder.  He has chosen to ignore her question.

‘No
phone signal?’

‘No,
Guv.’

‘Come
on – bring the bag.’

He
leads the way out of the moonlit gully, its steep sides velvety black, the beck
at its centre a silvery ribbon.  At the mouth of the cleft he stops and
turns and puts out his right arm like a traffic policeman.

‘Stay
dead level on the contour.  You’ll pass Ticker’s camp among some pines
– then just after that there’s a cliff with a waterfall.  Follow the
beck all the way to the culvert.  There’s a grassy area with a standing
stone –
Meg’s Hat
.  Just bunk down there – keep warm
– don’t show yourselves to the road – even if you hear a car
passing.  I’ll know where to find you.  Go.’

DS
Jones inhales to reply, her face questioning – but Skelgill strides away,
axe at the ready.  Though his features have lost their horror-struck cast,
it is apparent that he still bears a certain burden.  While he has spoken
of the discovery of the corpse of Leonid Pavlenko, what he has not said is that
older remains lie in the submerged tunnel through which he escaped.

*

From
his vantage point on the cliff above the quarry, Skelgill can see the coven,
dark shapes, still hooded, outlined against the paler slate of the bedrock. 
Its members stand in a loose assembly of individual clusters – they do
not appear to be listening to a single voice.  The
Magistra
is
apparent in one such clique – the metallic embroidery upon the cloak
glints beneath the stars.  This person seems shorter now – perhaps
because alongside is a much taller figure, bending to confer – and with
these two is the ‘guard’, whom Skelgill spied earlier.  His wiry form and
paramilitary garb, and the casual manner in which he drapes his broken shotgun over
his right forearm, tell Skelgill a good deal.  He knows this man: Jed
Tarr, gamekeeper to Blackbeck estate.  The pair of German Shepherds he
holds on the leash merely confirms the identification.

And between
the gathering and the cliff are parked vehicles that also come in for
Skelgill’s scrutiny.  For a start there is a black Porsche Cayenne with
damage to its nearside front wing.  Beside it is a short wheelbase Defender,
Coniston Green, if his eyes are not tricked by the moonlight.  Others
include a new plate Range Rover, an Audi estate painted with the livery of a
well-known local firm of land agents, a matching pair of popular marque fleet
cars – also new – a small white van of the type employed by
tradesmen, and three more modest motors, making ten in all.  Skelgill nods
pensively.  Certain of these are familiar for obvious reasons – and
some he has seen parked outside the Langdale Arms.  Together they comprise
the convoy that almost ran him off the road.

But
now there is the sound of another vehicle.

As
Skelgill’s ears prick up, so too do those of the coven – and it is
evident from their reaction that this is an unexpected arrival.  The
figures turn as one towards the track that leads up to the disused workings
– and, for the first time, a single voice is raised sufficiently for
Skelgill to make out the words.

‘I
thought the gate was supposed to be locked?’

It is
a male that speaks – the tall figure beside the
Magistra
–
and the question, uttered rather accusingly, is directed towards Jed Tarr. 
Skelgill at once recognises the privately educated tones as those of the
landowner.

Tarr
does not reply, for he is now regarding the bright beam that has swung like a
searchlight into the quarry, illuminating its shattered cliffs, to home in upon
the gathering beneath Skelgill.  Tarr would wish to shield his eyes, but
with the gun over one wrist and the dogs restrained about the other all he can
do is dip his head and squint into the oncoming headlamps.  Members of the
coven raise their cloaked sleeves against the blindness.  Skelgill, in his
lofty eyrie, is not troubled – indeed he can see the nature of what
approaches.  It is a tractor with a bulldozer attachment, and –
going by the splintered timber rattling in the toothed bucket – it has
accounted for the locked gate.  But of equal significance is what follows
– a second convoy – this time consisting of farmers’ pick-up
trucks.  These vehicles fan out, forming an arc perhaps a cricket pitch short
of Tarr, who stands his ground before the uninvited visitors.  The coven
members, on the other hand, have backed off and converged into a tighter group,
brooding and silent.

Leaving
their lights blazing and engines running, the shadowy occupants of the pick-ups
begin to disembark, though most – having noted the shotgun – stand prudently
for cover behind their open doors.  But not so the pair from the tractor. 
The driver – a big man – lowers himself from the cab with practised
ease; the passenger – clearly unfamiliar with the arrangement of
footholds – makes a less dignified landing.  Then together they
begin to advance upon Tarr.

‘Reet
– is it thee who’s bin killing t’yowes?’

If he has
not already recognised the powerful – if a little bowed – frame
silhouetted by the array of headlights, Skelgill instantly knows this voice as
belonging to retired hill farmer, Arthur Hope.  And, though an armed
adversary confronts the man, he demonstrates little regard for his own safety.  Beside
him the second figure is more wary.  Short, stocky – and, frankly,
somewhat overweight – and now placing a restraining hand on the farmer
– and moving ahead alone – taking charge as the only professional
trained to deal with such a situation – is the unmistakable form of DS
Leyton.

‘Put
the gun down.’

If Arthur
Hope’s tone of voice sounded typically blunt, then DS Leyton’s carries a note
of threat – one that belies the easy-going character who is always ready
to cheer up his colleagues and fetch unlimited rounds of tea when times get
tough around the office.  He repeats the words and takes another pace
forwards.

‘Tarr
– put the gun down.’

Skelgill
has risen to his feet.  He may wonder what thoughts are running through
Jed Tarr’s mind at this moment.  That he is a hard case is not in
doubt.  Just meeting him confirms that fact – not to mention the disreputable
CV that DS Leyton’s team has unearthed.  He will not shirk at using
violence.  But will he be computing the odds?  The gun is a
traditional side-by-side affair.  He might have more ammunition in his
pockets, but two shots are all he has in hand.  And, if he has counted, he
and the coven behind him – for what it might be worth in a fight –
are lined up against a menacing Londoner and fifteen aggrieved Cumbrian farmers
– with whose precious livestock (indeed very livelihoods) he and his
coterie have taken severe liberties.  Discounting the belligerent Cockney,
whom he could shoot, who on earth would sensibly take on fifteen aggrieved Cumbrian
farmers?  (Ask the 1972 All Blacks.)