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Authors: Bruce Beckham

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BOOK: Murder by Magic
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‘Whereas
I reckon Leyton was a teenage getaway driver for some East End gang.’

Skelgill’s
mobile is suspended in its hands-free cradle.  He pokes at the screen.

‘Speaking
of the devil, I’d better have a word, since he doesn’t know we’re gone.’

It
takes just a couple of rings for the sergeant to answer his mobile.  His
voice surrounds them, his breathing audible and wheezy.

‘Guv
– I was just looking for you – I’m in your office right now.’

‘Aye
– something came up.’

‘Where
are you, Guv?’

Skelgill
surveys their environs, his gaze lingering upon the expanse of water flashing
through the trees that line the highway to starboard.

‘Just
passing Bass Lake.’

‘Right,
Guv.’

DS
Leyton’s tone suggests he harbours some suspicion of Skelgill’s motives.

‘Don’t
worry – I’ve got Jones to witness I don’t stop.’

‘Course
not, Guv.’

‘Leyton
– anything more on Pavlenko?’

DS
Leyton lets out a grumbling growl.

‘I
missed a call from my contact in Kiev, Guv – while we were having our
meeting.  He’s not been answering his phone since.  I’ve tried their
main switchboard but they don’t understand English.’

‘Probably
they don’t understand Cockney, Leyton.’

‘Could
be that, Guv.’

‘Aye,
well – keep trying.  In the meantime see what you can find out about
the owner of Blackbeck Castle – Wolfstein.’

‘Doctor.’

This
is DS Jones who pipes up.

‘Aye,
that’s right, Leyton – he called himself “Doctor” when we crossed paths.’

‘Righto,
Guv – any particular angle you have in mind?’

Skelgill
tuts impatiently – perhaps it is the proximity to Bassenthwaite Lake that
irks him; so near yet so far, on such a fine day with little prospect of
fishing.

‘I
don’t know, Leyton – use your initiative – start with any previous
as a werewolf.’

DS
Leyton emits a nervous chuckle; uncertain of whether this is a joke or an
insult.  An outright laugh carries the risk of riling his superior.

‘Leave
it with me, Guv.’  Now he hesitates for a moment, though he inhales to
make it clear he has something to add.  ‘Er, when will you be back, Guv
– in case anyone’s looking for you?’

They
all know he refers to the Chief – or, at least, to DI Smart, should he be
successful in his quest to conscript DS Jones.

‘No idea,
Leyton – this could take all day.  You know what it’s like.’

Though
the explanation makes no sense whatsoever, DS Leyton is obliged to yield.

‘Right,
Guv...’

Still
he hesitates to offer a farewell.

‘What
is it, Leyton?’

‘Er,
nothing really, Guv – just that I was going to take the pies home later
– for me and the missus, like.’

‘Be my
guest.’

‘Thing
is, Guv – there’s only one left in the box.’

‘Can’t
help you there, Leyton.’

Skelgill
reaches forward and terminates the call.  DS Jones glances sideways at her
boss, but quickly averts her eyes when he senses her gaze.  She must be
wondering if, despite his denial, they are in for an unscheduled halt at Peel
Wyke, “just to check the boat”.  However, as the turn for the old coaching
inn approaches, Skelgill leans over the helm and hammers on towards
Cockermouth.

‘Wolfstein
translates to
wolf stone
, you know, Guv?’

Skelgill
raises an eyebrow.

‘You
do German, too?’

‘Only
a little, Guv – I studied it for a year.’

Skelgill
scoffs.

‘A
year?  I did French for five and I can’t remember what day of the week it
is.’

DS
Jones laughs at his cryptic logic.

‘I
looked up the origin – apparently when a corpse had to be buried in a
shallow grave – such as stony ground – they’d lay a large flat rock
over it – to stop wolves from digging up the remains.’

Skelgill
seems intrigued by this notion.

‘Cairns
– they’d do the same job – you know, out on the fells, I’ve often
wondered if it’s more than a pile of rocks I’m passing.’  He takes in a
sharp breath, almost a reflex.  ‘They built one over Mallory.’

‘It’s
a scary thought, Guv.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.  Then he digs into the right-hand pocket of his jacket
and produces an object in a foil tray.

‘Bite
of pie?’

11. THE HAVEN

 

‘A
witch
,
Guv?’

They
have turned into a narrow truncated street that appears sheared off to the
sky.  It can only be an optical illusion, caused by the upward slope, and
a cliff top.  Indeed this is Whitehaven, northern England’s most westerly
outpost, perched on the edge of the Irish Sea, two centuries ago a major
commercial port for coal and iron ore.  Today it is the haunt of tourists
admiring the fortified harbour that withstood American raiders during the War
of Independence, and its intact Georgian town plan, reputedly the inspiration
for the design of New York City.

Parallax
aside, George Place on the outskirts of the small town is no Fifth
Avenue.  A mere three parked vehicles ranged against a dozen satellite
dishes tell their own tale; the properties bleak and harled and huddled, and
fronting directly onto the patchy asphalt of the inadequate sidewalk. 
Skelgill conducts the car with care as they count the numbers; it turns out the
house they seek is the last on the left, its nameplate
‘The Haven’.

Skelgill
yanks up the handbrake and kills the engine.  Then he regards the view
that has now unfolded.  Ahead of them across a t-junction rusting railings
enclose ramshackle allotments that tumble into unruly scrub.  Somewhere
below is the shore, and, seventy miles beyond the watery horizon, County Down.

 

*

 

‘Mrs
Roberts, it’s very good of you to see us.’

‘Inspector,
Sergeant – you are most welcome.’

The
woman bows graciously towards each of her guests.  They are seated around tea
things in a tiny sunroom enclosed in a walled yard at the rear of the property. 
There have been passing peeks at a sitting room with television and sofa,
framed graduation photographs of offspring; and a kitchen-diner where a pot bubbles
quietly on a hob, filling the small property with the resinous pungency of rosemary. 
Rhian Roberts could be in her late sixties; she is unostentatiously attired in
a white blouse with lacy sleeves, and a matching calf-length white skirt of
soft material and a fine floral pattern in violet; her jewellery is
conventional, a modest gold chain around her throat, a wristwatch and bracelet,
and pendant earrings with small white opals that correspond to the stone set in
a ring on her right index finger.  More distinctive is a thick head of
wavy raven hair, though cut short in a kind of bonnet; this, along with skin
that is smooth and unseasonably tanned, and a pronounced physiognomy, contrives
a Mediterranean look enhanced by eyes so deep a brown as to approach black.

Skelgill
begins uncharacteristically with an
‘ahem’
, as if he has neither rehearsed
his opening line nor finds the right words materialising in the moment. 
Since their admission at the front door there has been no mention of their
purpose, and little conversation beyond them having had a safe journey from
Penrith (and the agreeable weather, naturally).  DS Jones sits demurely,
while Skelgill wrestles with what is – to the two detectives, at least
– the proverbial elephant in the room.  But the woman waits serenely
for him to find his tongue, like a veteran doctor schooled in forbearance by a
lifetime of apprehensive patients.

‘Mrs
Roberts –’ (she nods encouragingly) ‘I’ve heard of you through my family
– I believe you – helped – an aunt of mine some years back
– by the name of Graham – from Buttermere.’

‘And
how is she – Mary Ann?’

There
is an involuntary straightening of Skelgill’s posture.

‘She’s
doing good – thanks – fit as a fiddle.’

‘I am
glad to hear it – perhaps it was the spell.’

From
such mundane pleasantries this little word –
spell
– leaps
clanking and hooting into their midst like a one-man-band that has been
conjured from some Victorian street scene.  Rhian Roberts, of course, is
entirely unperturbed, and regards her guests with an inquiring look.  Skelgill
is clearly disoriented, though he eventually manages to force a response.

‘Perhaps?’

‘Inspector
– I could not honestly claim to be one hundred per cent sure of my magic
– because it may be that in some cases it is the power of suggestion that
achieves the desired effect, and in others it might be sheer coincidence. 
Of course, there are hundreds of people who consider I have assisted them
– and I could refer you to many of these.’

Skelgill
nods willingly.  The woman looks at him with a glint of amusement in her
eye.

‘But
demonstration is not easy – I cannot turn you into a frog because that is
contrary to the laws of nature.  But I can for instance help you with a
matter of the heart – for it is quite possible that someone may fall in
love with you – these are forces that already exist and thus I can bend
them to my wishes.  Were I able to turn you into a frog and back there
could be no denying I can work magic.  That I can make a beautiful girl
fall in love with you could happen anyway, and so it could be attributed to
coincidence or suggestion.’

She
watches Skelgill for a moment and then turns her gaze with gentle admiration
upon DS Jones.  Both officers look scared to death.  Skelgill has his
hands clasped firmly on his lap.

‘So
you do... do actual... spells?’

She
smiles patiently.

‘When
I was learning my craft, I found it important to adhere to spells – to
the letter; it facilitates concentration.  I have an ancient grimoire that
was bestowed upon me at my initiation, four decades ago.  But as my
confidence grew I discovered that I could often work without such a crutch. 
The most powerful weapons a witch can possess are her own mind and her
will.  With correct training and experience she should be able to perform
magic simply of her own volition.’

On Skelgill’s
brow is enacted a little battle between bewilderment and the business at hand.

‘If
you don’t mind my asking – what exactly happens?’

‘I
channel natural energy – my own, that of my subjects, that which envelops
us.’

‘And
it causes real changes?’

‘I
believe so.  Although there are some things I cannot accomplish alone. 
I take them to the coven to which I belong.  The combined strength of
thirteen minds is very powerful.’

Having
somewhat awkwardly surmounted the hurdle of spells, by comparison Skelgill now seems
to take the idea of a witches’ coven in his stride.

‘What
sort of things do you try to achieve?’

‘As I
have intimated – people seek help concerning romance – then there
is health and wellbeing – and of course financial hardship.’

Skelgill
glances about the room, an involuntary a clue to his thoughts.

‘You
are wondering why I live so modestly, Inspector.  If I could work magic to
make money?’

He
holds apart his palms, realising there is no point denying such.

‘It is
not for a witch to act for her own ends.’  She speaks with a calm
assuredness, and no hint of regret or avarice.  ‘I would not even wish to
enrich a subject – our power is primitive and dangerous, it seems to take
the shortest possible route to fulfil itself.  Imagine if the outcome were
compensation for the loss of a limb, or insurance for the tragic death of a
loved one.’

She
stares hard at Skelgill as this rather macabre idea sinks in.  He nods
grimly to reflect his comprehension.

‘To
focus upon the person’s career would be more prudent.  But I can only help
those who help themselves.’

‘In
what way, Mrs Roberts?’  Skelgill’s eyes narrow as though he envisages
some participation in a mysterious ritual.

‘If
you want a new job, Inspector – or promotion, Sergeant – I can only
assist if you fill out some applications!’

She
chuckles and they follow suit, relieved to learn of such a mundane necessity.

Skelgill
grins wryly.

‘Keeping
mine’s normally more to the point.’

‘But you
are not here for your own advancement.’

It is
a statement rather than a question, again reflecting the acuity of her perception.

‘I
suppose the first thing I wanted to be sure about – to understand –
is that there
is
witchcraft taking place.’

‘Of
all shades – from white to black, with fifty of grey in between –
from genuine to sham.’

‘What
makes the difference – for it to be genuine?’

‘Inspector,
the word
witch
– it means
wisdom
– an ancient
descriptor derived from the Anglo-Saxon
wicce
– just look
online.’  (Skelgill nods – it would appear he has done some
rudimentary research.)  ‘The inner circle of witchcraft is effectively
closed – you have to be born a witch to enter.’

 ‘So
– Mrs Roberts – how do you go about becoming involved?’ 
Skelgill appears perplexed.  ‘I mean – it’s not like you can walk
into a church or something.’

Her
dark eyes shine like polished chestnuts; she looks calmly from one detective to
the other.

‘In my
case I began to experience a degree of clairvoyance from a young age.  My
powers gradually developed and I was introduced to wise people who were able to
guide and instruct me.  Witches recognise one another sooner or
later.  I was initiated into a coven of which today I am the
Magistra
.’ 
She glances briefly at DS Jones.  ‘The leader is always female,
Inspector.’

‘And
– black magic – are you saying it’s all a sham?’

A shadow
seems cross her features.

‘There
are witches who prefer the left-hand path, Inspector – one I know has
been a lifelong friend – but the dark side attracts the psychologically
disturbed who see it as a short cut to their heart’s desire.  So there
exist occult groups that make useful receptacles for such would-be witches, the
self-deluded, the highly suggestible.  They may however be led by those
with genuine ability.’

Skelgill
has been captivated (and DS Jones likewise; she sits unmoving, out of deference
refraining from her customary brisk taking of notes), but now he seems to notice
his tea.  He lifts the cup; it has cooled and he drains it in one go. 
His hostess responds by reaching for the pot to provide a refill.

‘Ah,
thanks – very much – Mrs Roberts.’

While
she pours Skelgill ferrets in the inside pocket of his jacket.  He
produces the clear polythene bag that holds the necklace prised from the dead
fingers of William Thymer.  He pulls it out by the broken leather cord and
holds the bead dangling.  Carefully, but without hesitation, she takes it
from him.  A wry grin creases the corners of her full lips, though she
awaits Skelgill’s explanation.

‘A man
has been found drowned in suspicious circumstances.  He had this in his
possession.’

The
woman’s demeanour stiffens respectfully.

‘Inspector
– I thought for a moment you might be intending to test me – like a
vampire with a cross or bunch of garlic.’

‘I’m
sorry?’

‘This
is a charm to ward off witches.’

‘Ah.’

‘But a
white witch would have no fear of such an amulet – though I don’t doubt it
is an authentic talisman – and there is a hex sign lightly marked.’

‘What’s
that?’

Skelgill
leans forward as she proffers the item for his closer inspection.  Indeed
there is engraved – scratched so faintly as to be almost invisible
– a rough circle containing a star.

‘Amber
was revered by the ancients – for possessing the power to repel witches
– and the hex sign is of pre-Christian Teutonic origin – if you
know your German...?’

Intuitively
she looks to DS Jones, who responds to the unspoken command.


Hexe
– it means witch.’

Skelgill
casts a somewhat piqued glance at his colleague.  Perhaps not to be
outdone, he fishes out his mobile and locates the photograph of William
Thymer’s forest bender.  He presents the handset to Rhian Roberts.

‘This
is the place in the woods where we believe the old man lived.  His camp
was draped with bunches of recently harvested elder twigs – you can see
the leaves are only partly wilted.’

‘A
more local tradition.’  She nods slowly and weighs the phone thoughtfully
in the palm of her hand.  ‘Like the rowan it protects against evil –
planted at the door, and hung over the chimney breast and from a rafter in the barn.’

‘There
were markings on the forest floor.’  Skelgill leans across and indicates
with a finger.  ‘See around the shelter, scored into the earth – a
circle with points – another of these hex signs?’

Surprisingly
she shakes her head with some determination.

‘No
– it is a pentagram – perhaps an amateur attempt to deter hag-tracking
– when a black witch will circle her victim in their sleep, making an
incantation.’  The woman’s eyes narrow.  ‘But in vain I fear –
for there is a more sinister thing.’

BOOK: Murder by Magic
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