Murder in the Green (14 page)

Around the wicker man, fashioned in the form of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, even down to two sets of arms and legs inside a giant wheel, stood three Morris sides. Cranston Morris had fielded only their male dancers, although a few of the women, including Gemma in full Goddess regalia, stood beside them. Another traditional side stood to attention, holding rappers and wearing startling white shirts and green and white faces and finally, on the far side, sinister in black, feathers floating from their jackets and hats, which were surmounted by animal skulls, were Goat’s Head Morris. The only noise now was the hissing of the torches and the occasional jingle of bells.

A figure stood below the wicker man on the plinth. It appeared to have long white hair and beard and be dressed in an old-fashioned magician’s robe. As the crowd watched, it bent forward and lifted a large shallow bowl, in which fire suddenly sprang up. Then in a voice which seemed to be neither male nor female, but carried over the whole headland, it chanted:

‘On the day of Midsummer, the people of this place give tribute and sacrifice in honour of him who keeps the Gates between the worlds, their first king, Manannán mac Lir, Lord of the Waves, Son of Nine Mothers. Bring forth your offerings to he who makes possible all your journeys between the worlds.’

A member from each of the Morris sides, and Gemma, as the Goddess, stepped forward and placed something in the bowl. ‘Salt, sea, flower, stone,’ chanted the figure as they did so. As they stepped back, an even more imposing figure in black, complete with cloak, stepped forward from among the Goat’s Head Morris and joined the white-haired figure. Together they lifted unlit torches high in the air before plunging them into the still-burning bowl in front of them. Then together with what seemed to Libby to be an elemental cry, they threw the lit torches into the wicker man.

Almost as soon as the torches landed, the whole edifice began to move, rolling down a prepared ramp towards the edge of the cliff, gathering speed. It was a terrifying spectacle, the figure of the man inside the wheel almost seeming to move as the flames swept along the limbs towards the torso. As it hit the edge of the ramp, it seemed to rear up into the air before plunging, turning over and over, towards the rocks below.

A huge cheer went up from the spectators and at once the air was filled with noise. The lights came on, the rides started up and, by the plinth, the dancers began to dance. Libby made her way over to where she had last seen Gemma and, sure enough, found her watching the traditional Cotswold Morris that the three sides were now performing in perfect unison.

‘That was impressive,’ said Libby.

Gemma turned quickly. ‘Oh, Lib, it’s you!’

‘Well, duh! Who else did you expect it to be?’

‘Could have been anybody,’ said Gemma, looking round furtively.

‘You have got the wind up, haven’t you?’ said Libby, tucking her arm into Gemma’s. ‘Are you off duty, now? Shall we go and get a drink?’

‘We’ll never get served,’ said Gemma. ‘Too many people. I’ve got a bottle of wine in my basket over there, though, if I can creep round and get it.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Libby. ‘Shall I wait here?’

Gemma nodded and began to edge round the perimeter of the enclosure. The crowds had drifted off now, only a few diehards remaining to watch the dancers. The plinth above them was now deserted, the black and white figures nowhere to be seen. Gemma arrived back with her basket.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘screw-top bottle and two plastic glasses. I bought one for Dan, but I expect he’ll have beer with the boys.’

Libby found a convenient tree and eased herself down onto the ground, using it as a back rest. ‘So were you up as close as that last year?’ she asked.

‘No.’ Gemma shook her head. ‘Last year I stayed back. Some of the other women go forward, but unless I need to I’d rather not.’

‘And that was Goat’s Head Morris, I take it? And was the figure in black Bernie Lee?’

Gemma nodded.

‘And the white-bearded one Florian Malahyde?’ Gemma nodded again, concentrating on pouring wine into plastic cups.

‘Well, I don’t see what there is to be so scared of. This Manannán person would seem to be quite benign, and there isn’t any human or animal sacrifice involved, or any dark invocations.’

‘You think I’m just being silly, don’t you?’ sighed Gemma. ‘Well, just you wait. They’ll all disappear off into the woods in a minute, and our lot with them.’

Libby had by now got a shrewd suspicion as to what was going on in the woods, and it wasn’t sacrifice.

‘Does Dan go with them?’ she asked.

‘Oh, no, it’s only a few of them. Diggory, of course. Bill used to, and John and Willy. Some of the others.’

Libby looked down into her wine and then up at her friend. ‘Gemma,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn, but don’t you think there’s a rather obvious explanation for all these furtive goings-on in the wood?’

Gemma plucked at the fabric of her heavy robe. ‘I expect that’s what it seems like,’ she said in a muffled voice.

‘So why are you so sure the Goat’s Head lot are up to no good? If they want to go off and have orgies under the guise of fertility rites or whatever, it can’t matter to you, surely? Especially if Dan doesn’t go?’

‘Oh, I know that,’ said Gemma, ‘and I’m sure that’s what a lot of it is. But why have all these rumours been circulating? Either there’s something in them, or someone is trying to conceal something else.’

‘By spreading rumours about sacrifice to keep people away from whatever they’re doing? So what is it? Drugs, do you reckon?’

‘I told you, I don’t know.’ Gemma was impatient. ‘I just know they scare me.’ She looked across at where the dancing was coming to a stamping, shouting end. ‘That Bernie Lee scares me.’

‘He isn’t there now, is he?’

‘Yes, look.’ Gemma pointed. ‘Standing at the back. You can see that awful hat.’

The lowering figure almost disappeared into the dark of the trees behind him. Libby could make out nothing but the occasional glint of white from his eyes.

‘I bet he’s a pussycat really,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder if Lewis got to talk to him.’

‘He’s always in the background,’ said Gemma, ‘except for that bit where they set light to the Mannan.’

‘He’s not now,’ said Libby, levering herself upright. ‘I must see this. Look. Lewis caught him!’

Chapter Fourteen

The black figure was hemmed in by Lewis, Jerry and Boysie. Seeing Libby approaching, Jerry waved her over impatiently.

‘Here, hold this,’ he said, flipping something open with a practised flick of the wrist. She found herself holding a portable reflector, which she nervously adjusted according to Jerry’s barked instructions.

‘…Bernie Lee,’ Lewis was saying, ‘who I hope will tell us a bit more about this ceremony. Mr Lee?’

‘It’s been revived to do honour to the sea god Manannán mac Lir. Used to be sacrifice inside that wheel.’ The voice seemed to arrive in the air without conscious volition.

‘And how long has it been going on?’ asked Lewis.

‘Like this, ten years or so.’

‘Like this? What happened before then?’

‘No one remembered it.’

‘So who revived it?’

‘We remembered it.’ The voice deepened, grew more gravelly, and Boysie made a face, leaning forward.

‘We? Would that be you and Mr Malahyde?’

‘Malahyde built the first wheel,’ said Bernie Lee.

Lewis was beginning to sweat. Bernie Lee was not exactly forthcoming. ‘Well, thank you Mr Lee,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could talk to Mr Malahyde now?’

But Bernie Lee was gone, already disappearing into the wood, only a slightly denser black than himself.

‘Romanichal,’ said Boysie, doing something complicated to his equipment.

‘What?’ said Lewis and Libby together.

‘Gypsies. Romanies. That’s what he meant.’

‘What he meant what?’ said Lewis.

‘When he said “we”.’ Boysie stood up straight. ‘Anyone for a beer?’

‘He’s Romany?’ said Libby, handing over her reflector. ‘Did you hear that, Gem?’

Gemma had followed Libby to the interview site and hovered in the background. She nodded.

‘I didn’t know Gypsies believed in Celtic or Pagan religions,’ said Libby, frowning. ‘I thought they were descended from far-eastern tribes.’

‘I thought it was Romania,’ said Gemma hesitantly.

‘They got there a bit later, I fancy,’ said Libby. ‘Didn’t they, Boysie?’

The others all looked at him. He grinned at Libby.

‘Far as I know,’ he said.

‘You?’ Lewis stared.

‘Course. There’s lots of us around,’ said Boysie. ‘Even Michael Caine.’

Lewis spluttered and Libby and Jerry laughed.

‘True. His dad was a Romanichal. And Charlie Chaplin. And Elvis.’

‘
Elvis
!’ they chorused.

‘His family were descended from English Romanichals.’ He looked round at the rapt faces. ‘Come on. I want a beer.’

Lewis shook his head. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It looks like it’s true,’ said Libby. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I still can’t catch up with that Malahyde bloke. I reckon he’s the one I need to talk to.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t really buy the Gypsy’s Warning back there. It was a bit too pat. Yes, I’m sure Bernie Lee’s a Romany, but I don’t believe it was tribe memory that reinvented the old Mannan man. I think it was Mr Malahyde, with a bit of help from his friend Bernie.’

‘For profit? The old moolah?’

‘Maybe he really does believe all the mumbo-jumbo.’ Libby fell into step. ‘Perhaps he was just looking for a hook to hang it on. Mannan man doesn’t come from here, after all.’

‘You know more about it than I do,’ grumbled Lewis.

‘Um,’ said Gemma, bringing up the rear. Libby turned. ‘What, Gem?’

‘I don’t think anyone knows why it was started here. It just sort of sprang up.’

‘Who said that?’ asked Lewis. ‘Sorry, you’re Gemma, aren’t you? Nice to meet you.’ He thrust a hand at Gemma who took it gingerly.

‘Um,’ she said again. ‘Well, it was Bill Frensham, actually. He –’

‘I know, he was the one who was murdered.’ Lewis nodded.

‘Well, he was the one who started coming down here. I told Libby, I think. And he said it just grew up.’

‘And you’ve been coming how long?’

‘Only two years,’ said Gemma. ‘I don’t know much about it.’

‘You must know where to find this Malahyde, though?’

‘Sorry.’ Gemma shook her head. ‘Only his shop. Although,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder, ‘I expect he’s in the wood with the rest of them now.’

‘This the sacrifice business?’ said Lewis to Libby.

‘That’s what they put about,’ said Libby. ‘Have you heard anybody else talk about it?’

‘No one does,’ said Gemma, firmly for once. ‘You won’t get anyone to talk about it.’

Lewis regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Hmmm,’ he said.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Libby. ‘Let’s see if Boysie’s managed to get to the bar. Are you coming with us, Gem, or are you going to find Dan?’

‘I’ll – er – I’d better go and find Dan,’ said Gemma, searching the crowd with worried eyes. ‘I hope he hasn’t gone off with Richard.’

‘Who is one of those who disappears into the wood for dubious pleasures,’ said Libby, watching her friend weaving in and out of the throng in her Goddess dress.

‘So what do
you
think’s going on?’ said Lewis, as they battled their way through the beer tent towards Boysie, whose dark head could be seen over nearly everyone else’s.

‘With this festival?’ said Libby. ‘I just think this guy Florian Malahyde started it up having probably had an interest in esoteric stuff –’

‘Esso what?’

‘Esoteric – it means secret and meant only to be understood by a few. More or less.’

‘So that’s what all this Mannan stuff is?’

‘All the Celtic, Pagan and Wiccan stuff, yes. I think he – or they – have mixed it all up to make a special legend for this village, and now they’re capitalising on it. Whether there was ever an ulterior motive to it or not, I wouldn’t know.’ Libby accepted a slopping plastic glass of lager from Jerry. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t
know
any of it, I’m only guessing.’ She took a sip of slightly warm beer. ‘But knowing that Cranston Morris have made up certain parts of their own rituals, I should think that’s what most of them do.’

‘What about them Goat’s Head lot?’ said Boysie. ‘Reckon they’re Romani?’

‘Do you?’ asked Libby.

‘He is.’ Boysie jerked his head in the general direction of the woods. ‘The rest of them, don’t know.’

‘Well, whatever they are, I don’t suppose you’ll get anything more tonight. You’ve got enough to cut together haven’t you?’ said Jerry.

‘Yeah, and we’ve got the second part in the morning,’ said Lewis, sipping at a flat lemonade. ‘Yuck. Can we go back and have a civilised drink at the pub?’