Dead for a Spell (8 page)

“You are a native of Warrington?” I hazarded.

“Hoh yes, sir! Born and bred, as they say. Man and boy. Twenty-nine years come Michaelmas.”

“And did you know the murdered girl?”

“Most everyone knew Lizzie,” he said. “Been selling 'er flowers in the square as long as I can remember.” He shook his head sadly and let out a long sigh. “I swear as 'ow I don't know what this country is coming to, sir, I don't. 'Ad 'er throat slashed from ear to ear. 'Orrible, it were. Like a pig as 'ad been bled, sir. She din't deserve that an' no mistake. I mean, 'oo does deserve something of that sort? Must 'ave been some pervert from Liverpool, if'n you ask me, sir.”

“You think it was someone from Liverpool?” I said.

“Stands to reason, don't it?” He pointed to a gate into the church graveyard. “We'll cut through 'ere, sir. Save us a bit.” He let me through first then made a point of closing the gate behind us. “'Ave to keep this closed, sir, so the hin'abitants don't get out.” He chuckled at his own cemetery humor. “Now then, where was we? Yes, it 'ad to 'ave been someone from the big city. I mean, no one around Warrington would ever do a thing like that, would they? I mean, what would be the reason?”

I nodded agreement and followed as he led the way between the gravestones, around the end of the church, and out of a side gate into a field beside the church. A large, dilapidated stone barn with half of its roof fallen inward stood a short distance away. It seemed an unusual shape, with the end rounded and the broken top rim jutting up higher than I would have expected. I commented on it to the constable.

“Aye, well it would, wouldn't it, sir,” he said enigmatically. “Stands to reason. It used to be a windmill, you see. O' course, the sails is long since gone and most the top part's fallen in'ards.”

He led the way there, through nettles, dock, and bracken struggling to emerge from months of stifling snow.
A windmill
, I thought.
Just as on the tarot card.

“Watch where you walk, sir,” he cautioned as we entered the structure. “'Ooever did the deed picked out the only solid floor for their devil's ritual, so mind you don't go fallin' through any rotten boards.”

The place smelled of stale, musty hay and rotting wood. One or two pieces of rusting farm machinery stood in the corners. A mouse scampered away from our feet as we walked across to the wooden steps leading up to the hayloft. Constable Hudson made a point of testing each step carefully before placing his not insubstantial weight on it. We eventually emerged on the upper floor, with the weak sunshine poking fingers through a multitude of holes where slates were missing from the roof. Up the far end from where we were was the milling machinery, or what remained of it; great wooden-toothed gear wheels above massive granite millstones.

“This is it, sir. What there is to see. Don't know what you'll be able to make of it. Hinspector Whittaker didn't seem able to make much of it even when it was fresh, if'n you ask me.”

I moved forward slowly, studying the floor. A large upturned tea chest sat in the middle of the storage area. The constable indicated it.

“That's where they found the body, sir.”

I nodded. It didn't take me long to be able to make out the chalk designs on the rough floor, though they had been well trampled over.

“She was all laid out with 'er arms crossed on 'er chest just like she was peaceful sleepin', only she'd 'ad 'er throat cut somethin' cruel.” He turned his head away as though he could still see her lying there.

“They was drawin' pretty pictures, as you can see, sir.” He continued after a moment. “What sort of a . . . ?”

“Yes. Thank you, Constable,” I said. I needed time to think. I pulled out the notebook I had brought with me and spent some time copying the designs, as accurately as I could. I could hear P.C. Hudson shifting his weight from one foot to the other, obviously ill at ease as he waited on me.

“If you'd rather, you can wait for me downstairs, Constable,” I said.

“No, sir. Thankin' you. But the hinspector said as 'ow I weren't to leave you 'ere alone, sir. Beggin' your pardon.”

“Of course. Sorry to take so long.”

“No, you go right ahead, sir. I'd rather be 'ere waitin' on you than filin' reports back at the station.”

I made a note of the layout of the barn and its north-south alignment, just in case that was important. I paced around the hayloft—mindful of the rotting floor—to get some perspective. One thing that did strike me was what looked like the word “
primus
” chalked at the top of the stairs. I seemed to remember that there had been a similar, if not quite the same, word as we had entered the rehearsal warehouse where poor Nell Burton's body had lain.

It was nearly an hour later that I returned to the police station with Constable Hudson. He had been very patient, I thought, as I had carefully checked and double-checked everything, measuring and sketching all that seemed in any way connected to the crime. I knew there would be no opportunity to return here, so I didn't want to leave anything to chance. I thanked the good constable and asked the desk sergeant if Inspector Whittaker was available. He shook his head.

“Saturday, sir,” he said.

“Er, yes. Yes, I'm aware of the day, Sergeant.”

“Saturday the inspector goes into Hoylake, just outside of Liverpool, to the golf club there. The
royal
golf club, as he likes to point out, sir. Has done for over a year now, to my knowledge.”

“Golf?” I had heard of the game, but I had not realized its growing popularity. “So he won't be back today?”

The sergeant shook his head. “You might catch him tomorrow, sir,” he suggested. “Sometimes looks in for a half hour or so on his way back from church.”

“I see. Thank you, Sergeant.”

So much for the Warrington police extending to me every courtesy . . . and the inspector's “important work.” Just so long as it didn't interfere with his leisure time, it seemed.

I thought it might be prudent to speak with the local vicar, but I found that he, too, was away, tending to his flock, for the rest of the afternoon. I determined to catch him immediately after the Sunday morning service, before I went to speak with the inspector. I didn't fancy sitting through a full Warrington church service, so I planned to mingle with the crowd as they exited the church and introduce myself to the vicar at that time.

I
t was a small group that emerged from the church on Sunday morning. Inspector Whittaker was not among them. As I stood in the shelter of an ancient yew, with rainwater pattering onto my raised umbrella, I heard the swell of the organ music as the service came to an end, and then I saw the vicar emerge and take up his place just inside the open doorway, ready to bid farewell to the faithful. The congregation was comprised of what looked to me to be elderly farmers and shopkeepers and their wives. I saw no young people, though the vicar himself was fresh faced and pink skinned and apparently still full of the fervor of the seminary.

I kept expecting to see Inspector Whittaker, but the trickle of worshippers eventually petered out with no sign of him. As the vicar waved farewell to the last of them and turned to go back into the building, I moved forward and hailed him.

“Good morning, Vicar,” I said.

He turned and smiled, a quizzical look on his face. “Good morning to you, too, my son. I don't recall seeing you . . .”

“No. I'm afraid I was not at the service.” I shook his hand. I explained who I was and why I was there. He introduced himself as the Reverend Prendergast.

“I expected to see Inspector Whittaker here,” I said. “Did he not come to the service?”

The reverend's smile remained. “Ah! I have already learned not to rely on the appearances of local constabulary. The inspector is a busy man. I see him or I don't.”

“His duties keep him away a lot?” I asked.

His smile became even broader. “Duties most often, but we cannot discount this modern game of golf. The inspector is a convert to that, and it is not easy to discipline such conversions.” He laughed. “Time will tell, I am sure. I have a feeling that this game of golf is but a passing fad. Tell me, is there anything I can help you with? You say you are investigating that most regrettable murder of Miss Elizabeth Scott?”

I nodded. “I wondered if you could tell me anything of which the police might not be aware. Anything that perhaps you have remembered in recent days?”

Reverend Prendergast's face became serious as he slowly shook his head. “Believe me, young man, I have searched my very soul for the minutest of details that might help bring this monstrous person to justice. The good inspector and his men have done their best, I know, and we have even had Scotland Yard come up here from London. But to no avail. You say you are part of some further investigation?”

I explained more fully the similarities between the two murders and the interest and knowledge of my boss.

“Ritual killings?” The vicar beckoned me inside the church. I folded my umbrella and gratefully followed him in, as the light rain had swelled to more of a downpour. “The Scotland Yard man—and the second one who came more recently—was very closemouthed about exactly what it was that they had found here, but I did hear something about mystic markings and rumors that poor Lizzie was not simply murdered but was killed as part of some strange rite, or so it was hinted. I know not how seriously. I was questioned on that score, but I am afraid my seminary training did not extend in that direction.”

“I was wondering, Vicar, if you had heard of any similar activity—not including actual killings necessarily—anywhere in the area? Any individual or group that was into that sort of thing?”

We sat down at the end of the last pew. He ran his finger around his clerical collar as though to ease it, while he seemed to ponder the question.

“You know, I was not asked that before. But now that you mention it, I do recall my predecessor once complaining about some minor desecration of the graveyard. Overturned gravestones and that sort of thing. It was before my time and was put down to juvenile high spirits. I have only been here since the end of last year. I was called in on the third Sunday of Advent, when my predecessor had a heart attack. But now that I give it some thought, I do recall that the Reverend Swanson claimed there was what he termed ‘satanic activity' in the area. Very old-school, was the Reverend Swanson.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Very superstitious, if I may say so.” The smile returned to his face. “Of course, I suppose we are in the business of superstition, are we not?”

“I would like to speak further with you on this, if I may?” I said.

“Of course. Of course, my son.” He looked about him at the empty church. “I have some clearing up to do, but I'd be happy to spend some time with you this afternoon. Come along to the vicarage. About two of the clock?”

*   *   *

I
t was Tuesday before I, thankfully, got back to London and to the dear old Lyceum Theatre. I made my report to my boss, and he seemed to think that I had done excellent work. I was pleased. He sat and studied the diagrams I had made and asked me several times to read aloud from my notes . . . perhaps my handwriting was not all I had thought it to be.

“So the Reverend Prendergast had heard reference—if only vague—to a satanic group in the area, Harry?”

I nodded. “Heard mention of it from his predecessor,” I said. “He had no details when I first asked, but he was kind enough to dig back through the church records for me when I visited him at the vicarage. It seems the older vicar had been long plagued with doubts about some of his flock. There was never any positive proof, but the Reverend Swanson suspected a link to an old club run by Sir Francis Dashwood in the last century. The young Reverend Prendergast did not concur and put down any shenanigans to exuberant and misguided youth.”

Stoker pursed his lips. “Hmm. I don't think I would be so quick to dismiss events.” He did not expound on his thoughts.

“Just what was this club, sir?” I asked, thinking back to my day out with Jenny and her aunt. “Jenny's aunt Alice mentioned something like it, though she couldn't recall the exact name. And something about an ancestor named Potter who was a member. I looked in a couple of books and found something called the Hellfire Club. Could that have been it? I must admit the name sounds oddly familiar, but I have no idea of any details.”

“Aah!”

There was a wealth of meaning in the sound that issued from Bram Stoker. I settled back in my chair and waited.

“The Hellfire Club it was, or that was its common name. And a Mr. Thomas Potter was indeed a member at one time. He was a politician and a well-known rake, though I'm sure Jenny's aunt Alice is unaware of that fact! Sir Francis Dashwood was a young buck of the last century. At the age of sixteen, on his father's death, he inherited a large fortune. Like many a young man in such circumstances he went a little wild, though to be honest he had been pushed from the straight and narrow a year or two earlier.”

“Oh?” I was intrigued. I knew my boss loved to tell a good story, and it didn't take much to get him going. I tried to show my interest, which I most certainly had.

“He had done the usual grand tour of Europe, as all well-bred young men did. With his tutor he had visited Paris, Geneva, Barcelona, Florence, Rome, Venice, and so on. However . . .” Here Stoker made a dramatic pause. I couldn't help but think how much of the theatre he had absorbed without actually treading the boards. “It was in Rome that the telling event took place.”

“Yes?” I sat forward in my chair. It was so easy to get caught up in his storytelling.

“Late one night, after an evening of carousing and debauchery, young Sir Francis retired to his chamber and fell into a deep sleep. But it wasn't long before he was awakened. To his bleary eyes there appeared two demons crying out and fighting for possession of his very soul.”

I took a deep breath.

“But even as he watched,” continued Stoker, “an angel dressed all in white entered the room and chased away the demons.”

“Wonderful,” I murmured.

The big head nodded. “Indeed.”

“But?” I said. I knew there had to be a “but.”

“Ah no! Do not be too dismissive, Harry. The whole affair had a profound effect upon young Sir Francis. He returned immediately to England and became most religious and devout. He donated money to hospitals and paid for the installation of stained glass windows in more than one church.”

“But?” I persisted.

A smile slowly but surely spread across Stoker's face, and he nodded.

“But it was not long before the true story of what had taken place emerged. In no time Francis found himself the laughingstock of London.”

My mouth hung open.

“It seems that his tutor, the person in charge of this young man, merrily explained to all who would listen that in fact, on that fateful night, it was two mating cats not two devils on the rooftop outside Sir Francis's window, responsible for the yowling and screaming.”

“And the white-clad angel?” I asked.

“None other than the tutor himself, in his nightshirt, who shooed away the creatures disturbing his master's sleep.”

I couldn't help laughing.

“Yes,” said Stoker. “All of London was soon laughing, too. Consequently, Sir Francis changed overnight. He cursed the Church, as though it was their fault. He turned away and, to show his contempt for religion, gathered his friends about him and formed the Friars of Saint Francis of Wycombe, better known as the Hellfire Club. They would frequently hold their fiendish rites perhaps fittingly beneath the ground in the caves of West Wycombe.”

“And what was their purpose?” I asked.

“To ridicule religion.” The big man got to his feet and moved across to look out of the small window of his office. “He restored the old ruined Medmenham Abbey—putting in stained glass windows depicting himself and his ‘apostles' indulging in various lewd acts—and developed satanic rituals for the club members. They held what were termed ‘Black Masses' with women of a certain type, hired for the occasion, dressed as nuns and brought by ornamental barge to the abbey by way of the river.”

I didn't know what to say.

“A variety of notables were members at one time or another,” continued Stoker. “Including your Mr. Thomas Potter. But eventually, over the years, Sir Francis and the other principals died and the club, supposedly, faded away.”

“Supposedly?”

He turned to look at me, his bright, gray green eyes overlarge and his head with something of a halo effect from the backlighting of the window. “Whether directly descended from the original Hellfire Club or not, there have been episodes brought to the attention of the police where devotees of Beelzebub have performed Black Masses and even made sacrifices, usually of young virgin women. The cult—for that is how I see it—has cropped up around these Sceptred Isles and even reared its ugly head across the broad Atlantic. I doubt there is a county in all of England that is free of some sort of association with this corruption. And from what I have heard, America is just as bad. I believe this incident outside of Liverpool that you were kind enough to investigate for me, Harry, may well have been one such example of our home variety.”

“And our own Nell Burton also?”

“Again, I believe so.”

There followed a long silence while we both absorbed all that he had said.

“Why do you think there will be a third such ritual, sir?” I asked.

“The dates, Harry. Now reinforced by a clue that you have just brought to light.”

I sat up straight. My boss continued.

“In the ancient pagan calendar, certain dates were celebratory, just as they are in today's Christian calendar. Indeed, many of the latter were borrowed from the former, but that is neither here nor there. Two of the major ancient celebrations took place at February Eve, known as
Imbolc
, and at May Eve, known as
Beltane
. Halfway between those was the spring equinox,
Ostara
, which was a third slightly lesser celebration. The slaying of the Liverpool young lady took place at Imbolc. That of our Nell at the equinox. It seems highly likely, then, that a third might well occur at Beltane—would you not agree?”

He was right, as he always was, it seemed to me. If there was such a bloodthirsty group operating, then odds were they would follow that ancient calendar. It was certainly well to be aware of the possibility and to take whatever precautions we may.

“The Germans refer to this coming date as
Walpurgisnacht
,” said Stoker. “Some consider it the most important of the dates, on a par with our All Hallows'. Incidentally, the very first meeting of the original Hellfire Club was held at Sir Francis's home in West Wycombe on
Walpurgisnacht
1752.”

“Have you apprised Inspector Bellamy?” I asked.

Stoker seemed to shake himself and moved back to his desk, sitting and shuffling papers on its surface.

“I somehow doubt that our good inspector would take a great deal of notice until the dreadful deed has been done. No, Harry. I think it will be up to us.”

“You said that I had revealed a clue, sir?”

“Ah yes, Harry. Indeed you have, and I am grateful to you. In your notes on the Liverpool murder, you mention—and show in your meticulous drawings—that there was a particular word written in chalk at the top of the stairs, where one enters the ritual area. That word was ‘
primus
.'”

His meaning was no clearer. “Sir?”

“Latin for ‘first,' Harry. Now—was there not a word written at the top of the steps into Miss Burton's ritual area?”

“Er—I believe so, sir, but don't ask me what it was.”

“It was ‘
medius
,' Harry. Meaning ‘midway.'”

“Midway?” There I was echoing him again.

“Midway. So if we have a ‘first' and then a ‘midway,' must we not later come to a ‘last'? Confirmation, I think, of my supposition that there will be three such sacrifices.”

It seemed to make sense, as did all my boss's suggestions.