The Eighth Witch (34 page)

“Please, Penny,” Holly beseeched her. “Help me get away from here.”

Penny Chapman’s face twisted contemptuously and she shook her head slowly. “I always had you figured as a thick bitch, Holly. I wasn’t wrong.” Her fist shot out and caught Holly on the point of her chin. Lights exploded in her head and her knees buckled. As she sank to the ground, her eyes focused on Penny Chapman’s face.

But it was already changing again.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Jane toppled backwards as the dog lunged, her hands flying up to protect her face. But the dog sailed past her and began to run towards the dirt track. Harry Bailey had the metal stake raised but the dog shot past him too and the stake hung impotently in the air. When the dog reached the dirt track it checked itself, started to bark furiously and began to run again.

Bailey rushed across to Jane, dropped the stake and helped her to her feet. “What the hell was all that about?” he said.

“Sshh, listen,” Lacey said.

They listened and heard it. Almost inaudible at first but rising steadily in volume—the sound of a car approaching.

The dog had reached the road and stood there panting as a red Ford Fiesta streaked with brown trails of rust came into view. The small car signaled a turn and swung off the road and onto the dirt track, bumping over the pitted surface towards them, the dog trotting contentedly behind it, wagging its stump of a tail.

“It’s not often I have visitors,” Florence Tibbs said as she hauled her arthritic body from the Fiesta. She turned and reached into the car to retrieve a stout bamboo walking stick from the back seat. Once she had it clenched tightly in her fist she planted it firmly on the grassy earth and started to limp towards the house, the dog at her side. As Bailey, Lacey and Jane made to follow, the dog stopped, turning to watch them. He started to growl again.

“Be nice, Bruno,” Florence Tibbs said. “Be nice,” and then to them, “Don’t you mind Bruno. He won’t hurt you. Come inside and I’ll get the kettle on. Why was it again you wanted to see me?”

“We didn’t actually say,” Jane said.

Florence Tibbs glanced back over her shoulder at them. “You’re not from Social Services, are you? Because I’m not wasting good tea bags on you if you are. Don’t need bloody do-gooders here, do we, Bruno?” She reached down and ruffled the dog’s neck.

“Nothing like that,” Jane said.

“Good. Come on through then,” Florence said and entered the house.

She showed them into a comfortable lounge with chintz-covered sofas and a low oak coffee table. In the corner of the room stood a polished mahogany credenza, the top of it cluttered with framed photographs. The photos were mainly of dogs, Labradors, German Shepherds, Pointers. Alongside a recent color photo of her current dog, Bruno, was a faded black-and-white portrait of a strikingly good-looking young man dressed in the uniform of a naval officer.

“Your husband?” Lacey said, leaning forwards to study the portrait.

“Arthur, my brother,” Florence said. “A fine man with a good heart. Bloody Germans torpedoed his boat. Sank it. I’ve never forgiven them.”

Jane settled deeper into one of the sofas. It seemed less and less likely that this frail, elderly woman could have anything to do with their investigation. She glanced across at Ian Lacey and from the expression on his face it was obvious he was thinking exactly the same. Even the dog looked innocent and harmless. It had moved its massive bulk to the rug in front of the fireplace and settled there, folding its huge front paws over its face. It was now beginning to snore gently, eyelids fluttering between open and closed.

“Have you lived here long?” Lacey said, moving to the other sofa to sit down next to Harry Bailey.

“All my life,” Florence said. “And my parents before me. I was just a girl when that photo of Arthur was taken. I’m seventy-five now.”

“You look well on it,” Lacey said.

“Try telling that to my bloody legs,” Florence said, a chuckle in her voice. “Arthritis. I hate it as much as I hate the Germans. Now, tea?”

Once she’d left the room, Jane said, “I think we’re wasting our time.”

“You think so?” Bailey said with heavy irony.

“I’m not so sure,” Ian Lacey said. “Go and look at the photographs.”

Both Bailey and Jane rose from their seats and went across to the credenza.

“What are we supposed to be looking for?”

“This, I should think,” Bailey said. He reached out and plucked a small snapshot from the corner of a silver frame where it had been wedged. He studied it for a few moments and then passed it to Jane.

She studied the photo for a moment before turning to Lacey. “But this is Laura Sallis. Who’s the woman with her in the picture?”

“Three guesses,” Ian Lacey said.

Bailey took the photograph from her, placed it back in the frame, on the credenza and then went to sit on the sofa.
 

The house on Pett’s farm was falling down. Corrugated iron sheets covered the windows to keep out pigeons and more human vandals. A larger sheet covered the front door but it was only a token gesture. The nails holding it to the doorframe had long since rusted through and it slid easily on, squeaking hinges, when Carter pushed it to one side.

They entered the house but it only took a few moments to realize that it had been unoccupied for some time. All the rooms were empty and dilapidated, the furniture and carpets stripped out. Bird droppings peppered the floor and there was evidence that mice and rats were in residence.

“There’s nothing here,” Annie said unnecessarily.

Carter hadn’t said a word since entering the house. He simply nodded in agreement.

“What about outside?” Annie said. “The barn?”

“It’s coming from somewhere,” Carter said.

“What is?”

“The bad feeling. It’s weaker in the house.”

“Can you identify what it is yet?”

Carter shook his head, turned on his heel and strode from the house, leaving Annie to run to catch up with him.

The barn was in a better state of repair than the house. The woodwork of the walls was intact and the two twenty-foot-high doors looked sturdy enough. They were secured by a heavy padlock attached to a black-painted, pressed-steel hasp. Carter pointlessly rattled the lock.

“We need to see inside,” he said. “Whatever it is that’s infecting this place has its origins here.”

“Well,” Annie said. “This is where they found the bodies of the Yardley twins so it figures there will be a few negative vibrations.”

“I agree,” Carter said. “But what I’m picking up is disproportionate to a four-hundred-year-old tragedy.”

“Murder,” Annie said.

“Nevertheless…”

Carter took a step backwards, lifted his foot, kicked out at the doors, paused and kicked again. And then he checked the lock and hasp that seemed as solid as they had been before.

“We need something heavy to smash the lock,” Annie said and glanced about her as if half-expecting to see something just lying about that she could use.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Carter said. “Look.” He pointed at the lock.

As they watched, the screws holding the hasp to the doors were starting to rotate. Millimeter by millimeter they disengaged themselves from the wood as if being turned by an invisible screwdriver. The padlock and hasp dropped with a clatter to the ground and one of the doors started to swing open.

Carter moved forwards but Annie grabbed his arm, holding him back.
 

“It’s okay. I know what I’m doing,” he said.

“It’s a trap,” Annie said.

“Yes.” Carter took her hand from his arm and let it fall. “I’m sure it is. But I wouldn’t want to disappoint whomever, or whatever, set it. Wait here.” He flashed Annie a smile and stepped into the barn.

“Tea,” Florence Tibbs said as she returned to the lounge, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and four china cups. The tray tilted at an alarming angle and Lacey sprang to his feet to take it from her. He set it down on the coffee table.

“Shall I pour?” Jane asked as Florence lowered herself gingerly into an armchair.

“Be my guest,” Florence said. “White, two sugars please.”

There was silence in the room while Jane poured the tea into the cups and passed them round. Florence Tibbs took a sip of hers and then rested the cup and saucer in her lap. “So if you’re not from Social Services, who are you?” She pointed to Ian Lacey. “You don’t need to answer that. You’re a policeman through and through. But you two…” She gestured towards Bailey and Jane. “…you two I can’t get a handle on.”

“We work for Department 18. A government body set up to investigate paranormal occurrences,” Bailey said.

“And what would they be, these paranormal occurrences?”

“Ghosts,” Bailey said.

“And witchcraft,” Jane added pointedly.

“Witchcraft, eh?” Florence said. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place, haven’t you?”

“In what way?” Jane said.

“This valley has been steeped in witchcraft for centuries.”

“And are you a witch?” Jane said.

Lacey and Bailey glanced at each other. Jane hadn’t been kidding when she said she would come out and ask Florence Tibbs directly.

The old woman stared hard at Jane for a moment and then her face creased into a smile. She began to chuckle and then a few moments later she was laughing so hard there was a danger of her spilling her tea into her lap. She pulled a tissue from a box on a small occasional table next to her and dabbed at her eyes.

“Oh, my heavens, girl, whatever gave you that idea?”

Jane smiled and shrugged, and said nothing.

Lacey leaned forwards in his seat. “We’re investigating a number of deaths in the area that may be related to witchcraft,” he said, his voice hard, official.

Florence Tibbs snapped her mouth shut and the laughter stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. “That’s not funny,” she said. “Not funny at all. Who were these poor souls?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” Lacey said. “Do you know any practicing witches in the area?”

Florence’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you mean
helping the sick and needy
type witches, or the type that supposedly ride on broomsticks and cast evil spells on people?”

“Either. Both,” Jane said.

Florence Tibbs nodded slowly. “Well, there are both types here in the valley. I suppose you want to know who they are.”

“That would be very helpful,” Lacey said.

“I’m sure it would, son, but I’m afraid you’re speaking to the wrong woman. I don’t know. I know there are both black and white witches in the area and have been for centuries, but I can’t tell you who they are.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Harry Bailey asked.

“I don’t gossip,” Florence said pugnaciously.

“That’s a laudable sentiment, Mrs. Tibbs,” Lacey said. “But not one that helps our investigation.”

Florence folded her arm across her chest. “I won’t be browbeaten,” she said defiantly. “I could name names…but what if I’m wrong? What if I get some innocent person into trouble?”

Lacey pressed her. “If they’re innocent they don’t have anything to worry about.”

Harry Bailey was watching the old woman closely throughout Lacey’s mild interrogation. Every time witches or witchcraft were mentioned she’d steal a furtive glance at the credenza.

“How well do you know Laura Sallis?” Bailey said.

Florence Tibbs almost flinched and made an effort to gather herself. “I’ve known Laura since she was a baby,” she said, steering her gaze towards Bruno lying on the rug and keeping it fixed on the dog. “Edith, Laura’s mother, and I are friends from way back. Mind you what with my arthritis and her illness we haven’t seen much of each other over the last couple of years. Why on earth would you want to know about Laura?”

“She’s missing,” Lacey said gently. “No one’s seen her in over a month and you have a picture of her over there.”

A sob broke in Florence’s throat and she threw a hand to her mouth as if to contain it. “She’s not…”

“We don’t know if Laura is one of the victims,” Lacey interrupted. “But we believe strongly that her life may be in danger.”

Jane got up from her seat, went across to Florence, squatted down beside her chair and laid a comforting hand on the older woman’s arm. “We didn’t come here to upset you, Mrs. Tibbs, but any information you have could help us find Laura before something bad happens to her. You have a photograph of Laura on the credenza. Who’s that with her?”

Florence’s face twisted into a scowl. “Diana,” she said, almost spitting the name out. “You ask me about witches? Well she was a bloody witch if ever I’ve met one. A witch of the darkest kind.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell us about her,” Jane said gently.

Florence Tibbs sniffed away her tears and nodded slowly. “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
 

Chapter Thirty-Seven