Guardians Of The Haunted Moor (10 page)

“
What about Guldize, Sergeant? It feels barely Christian to be
asking in the light of what’s happened, but do we need to call off
crying the neck?”

There
wasn’t a flicker of Christianity in Dark’s version of the
harvest-home rites, but leave it to Jen to serve it up on a doily.
Still, she ran the parish council ably and well, and Gideon needed
her on-side. “Where is it this year? Up by the Bowes’
farm?”

“
That’s right. John said we could scythe the little field by
hand and do it properly, all according to tradition.”

“
Then—much as I hate to say it—I think you’d better postpone. I
don’t think Bligh and Dev Bowe will want people frolicking up by
the farmhouse tonight. And you’ll be coming back right over the
moor after sunset, so—”

“
You
do
think
it’s the Beast, don’t you?”

Gideon met Bill’s eyes. He, Sarah Kemp and a handful of the
other people in this room had seen too much, last Halloween but
one, to deserve a flat denial. In any other village in the world,
Gideon might have stood here and preached common sense.
There is no Beast. For God’s sake pull yourselves
together.
But the people of Dark lived with
their moors and their legends and their ghosts, and no-one from the
outside ever came to help them. They shaped the world around them
for themselves. “I don’t know what to think,” he said honestly.
“There’s CID and forensics guys working up at Carnysen now, and I
hope to God they’ll tell us what to think soon enough—because until
then I don’t know who my enemy is, and until I do, I can’t look
after the rest of you properly. So will you try and protect
yourselves, and offer every cooperation—including staying well out
of the way—to the police?”

Bill
gave a snort. Under the murmur of assent that followed, Gideon
thought he heard himself being called a worse bloody preacher than
his brother, but he could live with that, if only the rest of them
would meet his efforts halfway. There was no Beast of Bodmin, not
by any sane reckoning, but maybe they could all behave as if there
was until John Bowe’s killer was caught, and all would be
well...

The hall
door flew open. Gideon jumped as Lee appeared in the sunlit space,
out of breath and pale. “Gid,” he said, gesturing back over his
shoulder. “Trouble.”

***

As well
as a Beast, several numinous tors and stone circles, Dark had its
own local witch. She didn’t fit the bill in many ways, living in a
tiny modern terrace on the village outskirts and wearing nothing
more outlandish than last season’s M&S, but for as long as
Gideon could remember, if you wanted your palm read, your toothache
eased or your warts transferred to someone more deserving, you went
to Granny Ragwen. Recently she’d developed Alzheimer’s, and was
only maintained in her own home by the efforts of her increasingly
frazzled daughter, Madge. She’d lived quietly enough before her
illness. You had to know by word of mouth where to find her. Now
she’d taken to occasional tours of the high street, declaring to
anyone who would listen that she had the mojo and she wasn’t scared
to use it, and so—Gideon guessed, anyway, jogging in Lee’s wake up
Pellar Street, counting heads and raised voices, trying to sort out
his problems in advance—her fame had spread.

Poor Dev
Bowe had found her, anyway. He was standing on the pavement outside
her house with a group of the Carnysen farmhands around him. He was
gesticulating, almost poking Madge Ragwen in the chest. Madge,
never one to take abuse lightly and well used to having to defend
herself, was poking back at him, yelling into his face. This was
all understandable, or would be in a minute once Gideon got them
dragged apart and their separate stories told. What he couldn’t
work out was the presence of the squad car parked neatly a few
yards down the road, and the immaculately uniformed sergeant
standing by it with his arms folded, as if he’d arrived in time for
some fascinating local folk drama.

Gideon
grabbed Lee’s arm to slow him down. “Who the hell’s that
guy?”

“
I don’t know. Thought he was one of yours.”

“
Looks like he is, not that he’s doing anything to... Oh,
wait.” He dropped his pace to a walk so as not to plough into the
scene like a bulldozer. “I think he might be one of yours. Sergeant
Weird-Shit, I presume?”

Lee gave
a choked bark of laughter. “Oh, no.”

“
You go introduce yourself while I break up this brawl. Do I
even want to know how you knew this was happening, by the
way?”

“
Granny Ragwen gave me a call.”

“
She doesn’t have a phone, Lee.”

“
Nevertheless.”

“
Great.” Gideon gave him a swift, hidden caress to the spine as
they parted. They’d both managed to find a working-day mask, but
Lee beneath his looked just about ready to die. It was half past
nine, time for Tamsyn’s second feed and a game of where’s-the-dog,
a ritual that never seemed to get old for the baby or Isolde. If
Gideon was working late shift, he was often around to take
part.
Where’s the dog? Where’s the
six-foot policeman? Oh, here they both are under the stairs
again.
Shrieks of joy, enough to make the
neighbours think the child was being murdered... “Right,” he said,
stepping between Dev Bowe and Madge. “Back up, the pair of you.
Dev, I’m very sorry for your loss, but if you try to dodge under my
arm and lay a finger on a woman in my presence, I swear I’ll arrest
you.”

“
But her ma... Granny Ragwen...”

“
Is an eighty-year-old lady with Alzheimer’s. Yes?”

“
There’s nothing wrong with her! She just pretends! She’s a
witch, and she knows all about what happened to our John—she
said
she did!”

Madge, twice the bulk of frail skinny Dev, lurched against the
flat of Gideon’s palm. “She
said
she was courtesan to Charles the bloody Second
yesterday, when I had to stop her taking off her knickers in the
grocery store! What were you and your bunch of pitchfork-bearing
oiks gonna do to her, anyway?”

Gideon
glanced at the oiks. There were only three, and matters hadn’t yet
got to the pitchfork stage, thank God. He pointed at the
least-aggressive face. “You! George Miller. I never saw you coming
out of Ross Jones’s house with a packet of dope in your hand, did
I? Good—in that case, come over here and sit Dev quietly down on
that wall, while Madge goes in and puts the kettle on for her ma,
who’s probably scared out of her wits.” He waited until these
instructions were obeyed, Madge inside and the door safely closed
behind her. “I’m ashamed of you lads—really, properly ashamed.
Where’s Bligh Bowe?”

“
Up at the field with the poliss,” George sullenly replied. He
was blushing to his ears, as if suddenly as puzzled by his presence
here as Gideon was. “He’s got no time for Dev anyway.”

Gideon
knew that. John had been the loving parent in the family since
Farmer Bowe the elder and his wife had died last year. He’d been
fifteen years older than Dev, a good guardian to the runt of the
litter. He took gentle hold of the boy’s chin and lifted it. “Come
on, Dev. This isn’t like you. Why are you really here?”

“
Because...” Dev looked away, tears welling, a big improvement
on the blank rage. “I don’t rightly know. She did say she knew why
my brother had to die at Guldize. And she does have all that stuff
in her house—a skull, and a great big blackthorn stick.”

“
Have you been inside?”

“
No. George told me years ago, after he’d been to get his palm
read.”

“
That really
does
seem hypocritical.” Gideon glanced at George, now puce. “Not
many years back, a village thought itself lucky if it had a
cunning-woman, someone to help with the weather and people’s aches
and pains. It was seldom they did any harm. And now they’re dying
out, which ought to please you fine young heroes. It had better not
happen any faster here in Dark because of you. Do you
understand?”

Dev
nodded. Gideon waited until the other lads had done the same, then
he sat down on the wall beside Dev and offered him a handkerchief.
A few yards away on the pavement, Lee looked up from his
conversation with the weird-shit sergeant and frowned, as if
scenting trouble on the air. Christ, Gideon hoped not. He’d had
enough to last him through Guldize, Allantide, Montol and Golowan.
“Thing is, Dev,” he said, “you’ve had a horrible shock. And
although you might think you’re thinking straight, you’re a long
way from it. Who’s at home to care for you?”

“
Nobody. John cared about me. No-one else.”

“
Well, your godmother was practically climbing a hedge to get
to you this morning. If I let you go now, will you let George take
you down to the shop? You could help her a bit, make yourself
useful. That often helps more than you’d believe.”
It’s almost working for me.
“Agreed? And as for you other two, if I catch you near this
house again, you’ll be celebrating harvest-home from an overnight
cell in Truro.”

Well,
that was another fire extinguished. For now, anyway—Gideon hadn’t
liked the look of Dev Bowe one bit. He went to shake hands with
Lee’s companion, scrambling through his brain for the right name.
Sergeant Weird-Shit had fitted too well, not your traditional
double-barrelled title but strangely assonant. “Good morning. Sorry
about the ruckus. It’s Sergeant Pendower, isn’t it? Very good to
meet you. Gideon Frayne.”

“
Rufus, please.” Pendower held out his hand. He was a small,
upright figure in his immaculate uniform, making Gideon aware of
the barley-dust and pollen adhering to his own. “That was very
interesting.”

“
What was?”

“
How you handled them. A combination of sympathy and force.
Pretending to fall in with their beliefs, and then the
boot.”

Gideon
raised an eyebrow. “I’m with you as far as the boot,” he said.
“But...”

“
Your speech about the village cunning-woman. Very good. Do you
understand the meaning of the word
cunning
in that context?”

If I didn’t understand, I wouldn’t bloody use it.
“Kenning. Conning in the French sense of
connaître
—somebody who
knows things. A wise-woman.”

“
Yes. Marvellous! It’s not often I meet someone who shares my
fascination with the origins of words.”

“
I tell you what, Pendower—next time you see a street brawl
break out between a lone female and a group of big lads, do feel
free to jump in.”

“
Ah. DI Lawrence might have told you that my role’s purely
observational. Anyway, I could see that the cavalry was on its
way.” He turned to beam at Lee, who was watching him in polite
astonishment. “While you were busy, I’ve been making the
acquaintance of Mr Tyack. I was meant to meet him later, but I’m
sure his presence here is far from a coincidence.”

“
Well, nor is yours, Sergeant,” Lee said pleasantly. “Rufus
here was just telling me how he met the Carnysen lads down in the
village, rampaging round and looking for a fight. So he asked
them—given the ritual aspects of this case—if anyone around here
happened to dabble in such things.”

“
Wait.” Gideon rounded on Pendower, who took a step back.
“You
sent
those
lads up here?”

“
Of course not. They were going to go
somewhere
, though, and I—”

“
You just directed the flow. Then drove up here in your panda
car to watch the results.”

Pendower
looked delighted. “Panda car? I haven’t heard that in ages. Yes, I
was very interested to see how Mrs Ragwen would respond when
directly confronted with an accusation of witchcraft. It’s a pity
that her daughter intervened.”

Gideon met Lee’s gaze. The days were long gone when Lee could
convey only
calm down, Gid
with such a look. Now it said, through the growing
intensity of their bond,
keep calm, and at
some point today will be over, and I’ll take you home and shag you
by the fire
. “Never mind,” Gideon said
civilly to their new colleague. “I’m sure there’ll be other
opportunities for you to scare an old lady to death. What exactly
is your remit here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“
I’m sure DI Lawrence has already told you. I’m to work with Mr
Tyack here in looking into any folkloric, esoteric or apparently
paranormal aspects of this case.” He beamed at Lee. “I don’t mind
admitting I’m a huge fan. Have you been watching Spirits of
Cornwall, Sergeant Frayne? I don’t know if you’re aware of his
approach, but...”

Gideon
couldn’t resist. DI Lawrence clearly hadn’t told Pendower
everything. He picked up a look of resigned permission from Lee,
and smiled broadly. “I know a thing or two about him, yes. He’s my
husband.”

Pendower
blinked. Gideon could see the cogs whirring, Cognitive dissonance,
he’d learned it was called, when evidence came along to clash with
an established world view. It wasn’t a homophobic response—just an
insular Cornish one, and left untended could result in the
blossoming of UKIP posters in front gardens around election time.
“Husband,” Pendower echoed, as if he hadn’t quite heard right, or
Gideon had just got his words mixed up and made an embarrassing
mistake.