Murder by Magic (10 page)

She
proves to be adept with a smartphone – with a swipe and a flick she
enlarges a portion of the background of the image.  Then she presents the
handset at arm’s length for both detectives to view.  DS Jones lets out an
involuntary cry of revulsion.  Illuminated by the flash – and fixed
to a tree beyond the entrance of the bender – is the horned head of a sheep,
its dead eyes staring purple and opaque.

‘It’s
a tup – Herdwick ewes don’t have horns.’

Such
taxonomy seems somewhat superfluous, and Skelgill’s interjection is perhaps
borne out of self-reproach for overlooking the gruesome object in the evening
gloom of the forest.  Hence it is DS Jones who pursues the underlying
issue.

‘Mrs
Roberts – what can it mean?’

The
woman does not answer – indeed she sits back, her wicker armchair creaking,
and presses Skelgill’s phone between her palms; simultaneously she closes her
eyes.  When she opens them, she is staring directly at Skelgill, and her
expression seems to flush with wonderment – contrary to the disquiet that
might be expected, given her macabre discovery.  For a few moments she is
silent, until she blinks decisively and turns her attention back to DS Jones.

‘The
ram is a recognised symbol of the occult – records of its worship reach
into the mists of time – the oldest depictions of
Amon
the
ram-headed god can be traced to Berber mythology dating back over ten millennia
– cults have worshipped something similar ever since – right up to
the
Wicca
of today.’

Skelgill
must make some inadvertent movement, for she fixes him with a penetrating stare.

‘Inspector?’

He
shifts uneasily in his seat and then, with the heels of his hands pressed
together and his fingers spread and pointing upwards, he forms a kind of crown.

‘What
about a ring of posts with sheep’s skulls and bones attached to them?’

‘How
many posts?’

‘A
dozen – but the circle was small – it would fit into this
conservatory.’

The
woman considers the area around them, a shrewd smile pulling at the corners of
her mouth.  Meanwhile DS Jones has fixed Skelgill with a frown of consternation. 
From where does this information spring?

‘I can
tell you that when my coven meets, the
Magistra’
(she touches her
breastbone with the fingers of one hand and then extends the arm with a
sweeping motion) ‘marks out a consecrated circle with a ritual knife called an
Athamé
– one’s reach is rarely more than five or six feet from the centre. 
Yet there is ample space for twelve members – and the leader.’

‘I’ve
always imagined something more on the scale of Castlerigg – or Long Meg
and Her Daughters.’

Rhian
Roberts shakes her head.

‘A
pre-match huddle of the
Marras
would be closer to the mark, Inspector.’

Skelgill
grins; she refers to the local rugby league team.

‘Thirteen
players, as well – they could do with a bit of your magic.’

Now
she smiles modestly – but she turns inquiringly to DS Jones, divining her
wish to speak.

‘Mrs
Roberts – what would someone be trying to do – by displaying the sheep’s
head near his camp?’

‘It is
hard to know – what can you tell me about him?’

‘His
name was William Thymer – the locals called him
Ticker
–
he’d lived as a tramp for over twenty-five years in the forest above Little
Langdale.  We understand he gave character readings at shepherds’ meets
and village fairs.’

‘It is
plain he knew some folklore – in trying to protect himself – he
must have believed someone wished to harm him – or perhaps to drive him
away.’  She still has Skelgill’s phone, and she hands it back to him with
a flourish.  ‘The symbolism seems rather territorial, don’t you think?’

DS
Jones reaches to place a hand on Skelgill’s sleeve.

‘Guv
– there was that skull hanging in the mine entrance – that felt
like a warning not to enter.  And the mutilated sheep – it’s as if
they’re saying they can act with impunity – wherever they choose.’

Skelgill
stares at her broodingly; then he turns to Rhian Roberts.

‘Sheep
have been found – with the head cut off and the thorax split open.’

She receives
this information dispassionately.

‘I
have heard that in some traditions a sheep’s heart is studded with nails
– in lieu of a human sacrifice.  From what you have told me,
Inspector – it sounds that a black coven may be at work – or at
least a group that is masquerading as such.’

Skelgill
grimaces at the prospect.

‘The
shepherds don’t believe local folk could be responsible.’

‘People
will travel a long way for their beliefs, Inspector – it may be part of
their secrecy.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘How
would we know them?’

‘I
could tell you if someone is a
true
witch.’  She smiles coyly. 
‘A kind of identity parade – though I do not imagine my opinion would
carry much weight in law.  But mere minions are unlikely to be riding
broomsticks – it is not as if there are signs so obvious as those that
indicate you are left-handed, Inspector.’

Skelgill
starts; she chuckles mischievously.

‘I say
that not because of telepathy, Inspector – but by the way you drink your
tea and wear your watch – it is easier to fasten the buckle with one’s
good hand, is it not?’

She raises
her own right arm to make the point.  Skelgill grins ruefully.

‘What
about coven meetings – are they always held at the same place?’

‘There
is no such requirement, though certain prehistoric sites are more auspicious
– by their very nature they are likely to facilitate meditation and
concentration.  I suspect those misguidedly drawn to the occult would be more
impressed by stereotypically eerie surroundings.’

Skelgill
nods.  However, before he can respond she adds a rider.

‘Meticulous
precautions are normally taken to avoid discovery, Inspector – although
timing would be in your favour.  The moon is a reliable calendar.’

‘The
full moon?’

She
pauses to consider her answer.

‘For a
white coven the power is greatest when the moon is waxing – especially
just before it is full.  The waning moon and dark period are when black
magic is practised.  As a rule covens meet once per month – and in
addition celebrate four main festivals – Candlemas, Beltane, Llamas and
Halloween.  These ancient dates have a power of suggestion in their own
right – it strikes me that a black circle would endeavour to channel such
energy.’

Skelgill
inhales to speak but DS Jones pre-empts his response.

‘Mrs
Roberts – what could be their underlying intention?’

But
now she shakes her head.

‘It is
not within my direct experience.  For someone such as myself the craft is
a vocation – a calling.  I have been bestowed with certain limited powers
and believe I am to use them for the purposes of good.  I spent my working
life as a nurse, and in many ways the sense of duty is indistinguishable. 
My coven executes work of a benign and beneficial nature – we go to great
lengths to ensure nobody is harmed as a result of our magical influences.’ 
She looks from one detective to the other, her eyes deep coal-black pools. 
‘For those that take the left-hand path – for their personal ends,
whatever they may be – one can only conjecture that it concerns the
attainment power of over others, perhaps for financial enrichment, perhaps for
self-gratification.’

DS
Jones is leaning forward, clenching her hands, fingers interlocked.

‘Can
black magic really do this – if it’s just ordinary people who’ve decided
to become involved – without actually having any special ability?’

Rhian
Roberts holds out her creased palms in a reluctant gesture of powerlessness.

‘The
answer to your question may be academic, Sergeant – it is what people
believe that matters – just look at the influence of the world’s major
religions upon the actions of their adherents throughout history to this day
– and those religions cannot
all
be right.’

Skelgill
nods vehemently; her point evidently strikes a chord.  He makes to rise
– as though this is an appropriate juncture and he is concerned about
overstaying their welcome.  But now it is Rhian Roberts who springs to her
feet with an alacrity that belies her years and places a gently restraining
hand upon his shoulder.

‘Inspector,
and Sergeant – you cannot have failed to detect the smell of food –
and I could not possibly allow you to leave on empty stomachs having tantalised
you with the aroma.’

Skelgill
begins a half-hearted protest, but she is already past them and on her way to
the kitchen.

‘Make
yourself comfortable, Inspector, please – it will delay you only a few
minutes.’

Skelgill
grins rather sheepishly.

‘Don’t
mind if I do, madam.’

He
glances at DS Jones, who is smiling at him knowingly.

Rhian
Roberts disappears from sight, but then her head pops back around the door.

‘Inspector,
I ought to mention – given our conversation there is one unfortunate
aspect – it is lamb hotpot.’

*

‘Guv
– you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Skelgill
is staring at the screen of his mobile phone.  He stands, stock still, one
arm loose at his side.  The street is silent, and empty but for the two
detectives, the front door of ‘The Haven’ now closed at Skelgill’s back. 
DS Jones is a couple of yards away beside the car, waiting for him to finish
and find his keys.

He
looks up – directly at DS Jones – but there is apprehension in his
eyes and he seems to see straight through her.  Then he turns to his left
and walks away, continuing across the little t-junction until he comes up
against the iron railings that separate the local residents’ allotments from
the road.  He appears to halt only because of the barrier, like an
automaton that otherwise would keep going.  Now, facing the glassy blue
curve of the Irish Sea, he stands again, unmoving.

DS
Jones is unsure of what to do – but, watching him from behind, an
expression of alarm seizes her features – for he seems to wipe a cuff
across his eyes.  Gingerly, she crosses the twenty yards of tarmac that
separate them, treading softly in her rubber-soled sneakers.

‘Guv
– are you okay?’

Skelgill
does not respond, though neither does he object as she nears, tentative in her
approach and wary of eye contact.  She stops half a pace short, a yard to
his side.  Beyond the fence, immediately in front of them, this particular
household uses its plot for leisure purposes: there is a meagre area of patchy
grass, some half-trodden daffodils around the edges, an obliquely leaning
swing, and discarded child’s playthings.

‘I’ve
got three brothers.’

Skelgill
stares seawards, his eyes glistening, his jaw jutting.  His words are a
statement but DS Jones replies.

‘Aha.’

The
breath hisses between his teeth, and then he inhales deeply through his
nostrils.

‘Older
than me by ten years and above.

‘I was
the baby of the family.

‘They
thought I was the last mistake.

‘Until
little Carol came along.

‘I was
six when she was born.

‘Reckon
I was jealous – nose out of joint.

‘She
was a live wire.

‘Like
a kitten on a skate.

‘This
night she was ill.

‘Two
years old, she was then.

‘Ma
didn’t get a wink of sleep.

‘But
the fever was worse in the morning.

‘My
brothers were away at the crack of dawn.

‘They
all worked on farms.

‘I’d
wanted my breakfast before school.

‘But
they needed to take Carol to the hospital.

‘My
dad had this old battered van.

‘It
was frosty and it wouldn’t start at first.

‘Then
he got it going and he came in for them.

‘But
I’d pestered Ma to cook me egg and bacon.

‘Carol
was in a chair by the fire.

‘Wrapped
in the pink blanket she’d had as a baby.

‘They
carried her out, I remember she looked at me.

‘I
went to school, I just used to walk it.

‘Came
home for my dinner.

‘There
was no one in.

‘I
made a jam butty or something.

‘Then
I went back to school.

‘Got
back after school finished – still no one.

‘I
wanted my tea.