The Eighth Witch (27 page)

“As I said, Haiti. I got fairly friendly with one of the local houngans—a kind of witchdoctor. He taught me a lot.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Harry. It’s no wonder Crozier values you so highly.”

“It’s a pity he doesn’t pay me more then, isn’t it?” He rested his hand on Annie’s shoulder. “Come on, Annie. Let’s go and meet your vicar.”

“He’s an interesting man,” Jane Talbot said once Bailey and Annie had gone. “Talked all the way up here. Some of the stories…”

“Harry’s one of a kind,” Carter said. “He left the department after his own personal demons drove him to the bottle, but after closeting himself in Ireland for a few years, he seems to have got his act together again.”

“This job!” Jane said scornfully.

“What about it?”

“It ruins lives.”

“It can…if you let it,” Carter said grimly.

It had been a hell of a night. Holly had hardly slept at all and now her eyes were gritty. There was a dull aching behind her eyes, and she desperately wanted to pee. Diana obviously didn’t think of that very basic need when she paralyzed her. Holly swiveled her head to look at Laura, but the woman hadn’t moved all night. She lay like a stone statue, eyes closed, only the steady rise and fall of her chest as she took in air and breathed it out, giving any indication that she was still alive.

“Laura,” Holly hissed at her. “Laura, can you hear me?”

Rise and fall, rise and fall, but no answer.

“Oh for God’s sake, this is ridiculous!” Holly’s voice rose in frustration. The bedroom door opened and Diana swept into the room. She was dressed totally in black. Black jeans, black T-shirt covered by a black sweater, with black pumps on her feet. She had tied her hair back, making her look much more conservative.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “I hope you slept well.”

Holly swallowed, trying to work some saliva into her mouth so she could speak. “What do you care if I slept well or not? It’s not as if you’re concerned for my well-being.”

“Ah, but how wrong you are,” Diana said, settling herself down on the edge of the bed. “I’d hate it if anything happened to you, Holly. I’ve waited much too long for something to go wrong now.”

“Waited for what?” Holly said, exasperated by the woman’s enigmatic pronouncements.
 

Infuriatingly Diana just smiled benignly at her, but the smile never reached her eyes. They were cold and calculating and Holly suddenly had an insight into just how dangerous Diana was. When she spoke next she moderated her tone of voice. “I need to pee,” she said.

“Go on then,” Diana said and blinked her eyes.

Holly felt a tingling sensation in her toes that travelled through her feet and up her legs, and suddenly she could move again. She swung her legs to the floor and stood shakily.

“Second door on the left,” Diana said, watching her closely.

Holly waited for the woman to stand and accompany her. When it was obvious she wasn’t going to, Holly walked uncertainly to the door and opened it. She glanced back at Diana who was still sitting on the edge of the bed, her attention now focused on Laura.

Feeling slightly confused, Holly slipped from the room and made her way along the corridor to the bathroom.

Once she’d relieved herself she left the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind her. If she turned left she would find herself back in the bedroom with Diana and Laura. Turning right led her along the landing to the stairs. She turned right.

The stairs were kind to her. They didn’t creak as she tiptoed down them. She was holding her breath, only pausing to exhale softly once she reached the bottom. She crept through the narrow hallway, stopping every few steps to listen for any movement from above, but there was nothing to hear. There was a green-painted door at the end of the hallway. Inset into the door was a window with an orange art deco sunray design. The door had a single lock with a brass knob. It all looked normal enough. Taking a deep breath, she twisted the knob, pulled the door open and stepped outside into the early morning sunlight.

The door gave onto a small front garden with beds filled with multi-colored tulips and vivid, purple-blue clumps of aubrietia, flanking a red brick path, the bricks flaking and moss-covered. At the end of the path was a cream-painted wooden gate that opened onto a wide mud-track, its surface ridged by tire tracks and spotted with water-filled potholes.

She walked up the path to the gate and pushed it open and looked to her left along the track. It curled away into the distance, becoming lost in the trees of the surrounding woodland. The view to the right was identical. She stepped through the gate and mentally tossed a coin. Right or left. It didn’t really matter. She had no idea where she was, and anyway, whichever direction she took would lead her away from the house and Diana. She glanced back at the house to check whether her absence had been noticed. There was no sign that it had.
 

Right it is then,
she thought. She turned, took one step along the path and stopped dead.
No,
she thought.
This is too easy.
Why was Diana not trying to stop her?
 

The question was answered by a low growl to the left of her and she stopped dead. Very slowly she turned her head to look back over her shoulder. The dog was sitting on its haunches, large and black. It bore a vague resemblance to a Rottweiler, but the head was broader, the brow more pronounced. Saliva drooled from its mouth as it sat watching her and it sniffed the air once or twice, trying to catch her scent.

She wanted to run. Her heartbeat increased as adrenaline coursed through her veins, a typical flight reaction, but she knew she could never outrun the dog should it decide to chase her.

Very slowly she edged back to the garden gate, her hand stretched out behind her, reaching for the wooden palings. The dog gave another rumbling growl and Holly could swear she could feel the ground vibrating beneath her feet. Her arm was beginning to shake with the effort of trying to reach the gate, and the shaking was beginning to spread to the rest of her body, turning her knees to jelly and robbing them of strength.

Finally her fingers curled around the rough wood of the gate. She tensed her muscles, pulled at the gate, darted inside and slammed it behind her, shutting out the dog. She started to run back to the house, and for an instant she thought she’d evaded the dog. But the triumph was short-lived. She was halfway up the path when she glanced back to see the dog smashing through the gate, powering through it and sending wooden palings spinning into the air.

With a cry of despair she ran faster, but knew she didn’t stand a chance. The dog hit her in the middle of her back with its giant paws and brought her to the ground. She rolled over and threw up her arms to protect herself, but the dog was straddling her, its huge, misshapen head inches away from hers. As it opened its jaws to reveal long, sharp, yellowing teeth, hot, fetid saliva dripped from its cavernous mouth into Holly’s eyes.
 

She wanted to scream, but she didn’t have the energy. She simply made a small whimpering sound as the dog gave a final, feral snarl and lunged at her unprotected face.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Holly opened her eyes and found herself staring up at the bedroom ceiling.
 

Bewildered she looked around her. She was in the bedroom. She hadn’t been anywhere. Diana was still sitting at the end, smiling at her indulgently.

But the dog! The teeth!

Holly gasped and threw her hands to her face, expecting to feel bite marks, but they encountered only smooth, unbroken skin. Confused, she looked at Diana.

“You were saying you wanted to use the bathroom?” Diana said.

Holly could feel the pressure in her bladder. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”

“Off you go then.”

“But…”

“Off you go. We wouldn’t want you wetting the bed.”

Holly climbed from the bed and crossed to the door. She reached the threshold and paused, glancing back at the room. Diana hadn’t moved. “Well, go on,” she said, her smile widening. “Make sure you come straight back. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Holly looked from her to the other bed. Laura’s eyes were wide open and she was staring at Diana, a look of total loathing on her face. Holly’s mouth opened to speak but Laura saw her and gave a tiny shake of her head and Holly’s mouth snapped shut. Laura’s eyes closed again.

She walked from the room and carried on along the landing to the bathroom. She shut the door behind her, crossed to the toilet bowl, crouched down and vomited. When she pushed herself to her feet her whole body was shaking. Diana had given her a warning. She had gotten inside her head and planted the image of the dog and the attack.
 

That’s what is waiting for you outside should you try to escape.

“Oh shit,” she whispered quietly to herself.

The interior of the church was still and quiet. Their footsteps echoed off the stone floor and the sound seemed to fill the place, an unwelcome intrusion into the peace and serenity. The two gray-haired women arranging the flowers in the nave obviously thought so. They stared at Bailey and Annie with ill-concealed irritation, their morning communion shattered by the unexpected arrivals.

The vicar stepped out from the vestry, clutching a sheaf of papers. He was a young man with prematurely gray hair and a slim, athletic body. His shirt was partly covered by a black windcheater and he wore black jeans and black, polished loafers. He passed the two women arranging the flowers. “The church is looking lovely, ladies. It’s a credit to you.” He turned to walk up the aisle but stopped when he saw Bailey and Annie standing at the back of the church.

“Hello there,” he said brightly. “I’m afraid you’re a little early for Matins.”

“Hello, Peter,” Annie said.

A smile lit up the vicar’s face. “Annie, is that you? I’m sorry, I can’t see a thing without my glasses.” He fished in the pocket of his windcheater and pulled out a pair of horn rims that had seen better days. He perched them on the bridge of his nose. “That’s better,” he said and turned to Bailey, a question in his eyes.

“This is a friend of mine, Peter. Harry Bailey.”

“A new parishioner?” Peter Wright said hopefully.

“Afraid not,” Bailey said. “Just visiting.”

“And Annie brought you here to show you the beauty of our church?”

Annie shook her head. “Harry wants to delve into your parish records, Peter.”

“Does he indeed? Another one raiding the history of Ravensbridge. Writing a book, are we?”

Bailey shook his head. “Haven’t the talent, I’m afraid. Has someone else been asking to see the records recently?”

Wright nodded. “Another acquaintance of Annie, I believe. Professor Norton.”

“Ah, I see,” Bailey said. “Any idea what he was looking for?”

A slight frown crossed Wright’s face. “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to share that information,” he said.

“Henry’s dead,” Annie said flatly. “He died yesterday.”

Wright looked shocked. “I know. It’s awful. Annie, you have my deepest sympathy. Was it a long illness?”

“It wasn’t an illness, Reverend,” Bailey said. “He threw himself off the roof of Calderdale Royal Infirmary.”

“Oh my Lord! That’s shocking news. Why would he do such a thing? I only met him once or twice and he never struck me as a potential suicide. He was a vibrant man, full of enthusiasm and drive.”

Annie was nodding in agreement.

Harry Bailey decided to play it straight with the vicar and tell him his suspicions. “I think he was coerced into killing himself.”

The two women arranging flowers in the nave had stopped to listen to the conversation.

“Come through to the vestry,” Wright said. “We can talk about this…in private.” He glanced at the women to make sure they had heard. They withered under his gaze and went back to torturing their flowers into uncomfortable-looking arrangements.

There was a small, baize-covered table in the vestry with two chairs. Wright ushered them into the seats and opened a folding wooden chair that was leaning up against the wall. He settled himself into it across the table from them and leaned forwards, folding his hands, resting them in front of him on the blue baize. “Surely this is a matter for the police,” he said. “Not the subject of an amateur investigation. I take it that’s why you’re here.”

Bailey nodded. “I’m trying to get to the bottom of it, yes. But the police are involved. I’m assisting them.” He reached into his pocket, produced his Department 18 ID card and slid it across the table to Wright.
 

The vicar picked it up and peered at it through his badly fitting spectacles. “Should this mean something to me? I’ve never heard of Department 18.”

“You and most of the population, Reverend, so don’t worry, you’re not alone.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “We’re a government department dedicated to investigating the paranormal.”

Something glimmered in Peter Wright’s eyes, but Bailey couldn’t decide whether it was interest or annoyance. It looked more like the latter. Wright confirmed it with his next words.