Moonspender (33 page)

"Major?" Too drunk to stand. "Ollie?" I
croaked, "Candice? Harold Ayliffe? Enid? Sir John? Winstanley?"

Another click, close and deliberate. The second hammer. And a
rustle, as in arms raised when somebody—

I screeched and ran
nightblind
, arms
ahead, the killer plunging after. No doubts now. I was whimpering, rushing
hunched, my eyes screwed up against malicious whipping undergrowth. Direction
didn't matter. Distance was everything.

But I swear that bloody foliage had it in for me. It snatched my
top hat off. It had a high old time lashing my face, scratching my hands, neck,
head. My thatch of hair was drag-combed over my face, thorns stabbing my skin.

The killer's breath was
stertorous
. 
I
could hear him
. I fled through a sharp groove where water suddenly sucked
my feet under. Then the forest floor slammed up, jarring me so my teeth
rattled. The ridge? A thinning, suddenly easier passage. I thrashed on in a
straight line. I must be on the Celtic ridge, higher than the rest of the wood.

And I saw the fire, only a glimpse, but a definite bonfire among
the trees. A bole thumped my chest as I changed direction,
ploughing
along the arc of raised ground. Thinner meant faster. My chest was searing so I
hadn't strength to bawl for help. Wavering, I battered yelping along the ridge
until I was about opposite the fire, then slithered down among brambles and
shoved through a small brook making a hell of a noise, no silent Trapper Jim.

But stupidly I'd made an angle for him to cut across. He
too'd
seen the fire. His crashing pursuit was to my right,
encroaching, trying to cut me off from the fire and nearly succeeding. I
flopped wetly into water, some small pond, floundered through and ran low,
blindly, arms out and careering into everything in my panic. Twenty steps, just
enough to make him change direction, then a ducking spring right, directly
toward the flickering.

Chanting. Scouts? Guides? Anyway, a trillion witnesses.

"Boothie," I gasped, shaky from exertion. God, I wished
I'd kept up circuit training, but I'd only done it once, half an hour to please
Magdelene
.

I forced through, smashing foliage. A bonfire was there in a small
clearing, but no people. Jesus. I moaned, ran as the man butted through the
tangle behind me, his breath an audible fast sough.

Fastest way across. I ran at the fire, leapt through with my
lunatic cloak flying out behind me—and tumbled on Enid.

They are there in my mind yet: Enid, eyes opening as I hurtled
onto her, three other kneeling women, mouths opening to scream. I fetched them
all down in mid-chant, their white gowns flashing legs and arms as we rolled
over in sparks, smoke, and their frightened screeches. With my yowling plea,
gibberish, it must have seemed like Doomsday.

They
scrabbled
up and ran, screaming.
All except poor batty Enid, who, with the silent calm of madness, got herself
together and knelt, eyes on me. I was spent, utterly done for.

"Lovejoy."

Billiam was there, stepping sideways round the fire. He looked in
as bad a state as me, gasping, matted, disheveled. He held a double-barreled
shotgun. It went up and down with his rasping respiration.

"No," I pleaded. I tried to crawl, put my hands together
in supplication. I'm pathetic.

He tilted his head for me to move away from Enid. I hauled myself
up beside her. She rose, solemn and docile. I stepped behind her, almost
retching. Billiam moved, aimed.

"Protect me, Enid," I panted, keeping her between me and
the gun.

"Magister?" She looked at me, eyes blank.

"The gun won't harm you," I bleated. "Honest."

Billiam sidestepped, looked along the barrels at me. And Enid,
bless her, said, "Yes, Magister." She walked one pace between me and
mad frigging Billiam. Her arms were outstretched protectively. I swear she was
smiling. I cringed and hunched over, whimpering, arms wrapped round my head,
eyes closed. The explosion made me whine one long loud whine.

Silence. The only rasping breathing left was mine. A footfall,
soft. I was untouched. What. . . ?

A dog's cold snout touched my hand. I screeched, leapt away on my
bum, and saw Decibel standing over me, coming to lick my face. Then he went to
Enid and nuzzled industriously at her cheek, sneezing when a hair strayed.

Boothie was standing over Billiam's
darkstained
prostrate form in the firelight. He held his shotgun the way countrymen do,
lock across his left wrist and the gun pointing down.

"Enid," I said. She was so still. Decibel had lost
interest and was wanting more night games, the psychopath.

"She's not hurt, Lovejoy." Boothie's remark was so full
of criticism I'd have clouted him if I'd had the strength. "It was my gun,
not Billiam's."

"You've killed him?" I got up, trembling.

Tom's leathery old face was carefully void of expression. "He
was chasing you, with intent to kill, when he stuck his foot in an ancient
mantrap. His gun went off accidentally and he blew his own face open."

"Mantrap? There's no mantrap." And Billiam hadn't shot—

Boothie jerked his chin in exasperation. "There'll be one in
a minute, Lovejoy. Gawd, but
you'm
slow,
booy
."

"And the girl?"

"She's like to remember only what you tell her." He
looked so blinking calm, ready for a fag and a pint. Decibel, bored now his
night-stalking was over, had flopped down near the fire's warmth. "Brave
lass, eh, Lovejoy?"

"He was chasing me," I blazed up. "Where were you,
you idle bugger? I told you—"

"And I'm telling you, Lovejoy. Rouse her before the peelers
come, and give her the tale." He stared reflectively down at Billiam's
corpse. "I knowed it was him. He tried to kill me at my cottage."

"You could have warned me, you burke!"

"Shush, lad.
Them
three
women'll
be by presently, bringing the whole village like
as not. Anyway, where was the evidence, my word against his? This way, he'll
not be back to do any more killing." He fetched something clanking from
the undergrowth, grunting with the effort. Chains rattled. A sickening clang
and crunch of iron teeth on bone as the mantrap closed. I retched. Boothie's
breath shrilled gently as he worked.

Enid was stirring. Decibel snored. A police whistle sounded
somewhere. In the distance undergrowth rattled.

"Here they come, Lovejoy."

"What about the gun, Boothie?"

"Why, it's the one he stole from my cottage, simpleton."
He was chuckling. "That's what I'll say. My fingerprints is on it, seeing
it was that I shot him with." He made a gentle tongue noise. Decibel rose
and was gone, hardly parting the firelight. "I'll borrow his, see it gets
back to his place. It's not been fired."

Enid was another minute coming round. I cradled her as she
murmured in alarm.

"Am I hurt, Magister?" she said. "The gun . .
."

I cleared my throat and intoned, "Have you no faith?" I
wanted the peelers to admire the tableau. "Did I not promise you
unharm
? The gun turned back upon itself, and destroyed the
evil one."

"I conjured you from the flames, Magister," she
explained.

"Eh?" I only live round the comer.

"And you protected me, Magister."

"Didn't I just," I said gravely. "My duty,
Enid."

And it was thus they found us, Enid resting in my arms and gazing
in awe from me to the huddled mass that had been Billiam. I'd told her to tell
her story to the police once, then say nothing to anyone about it forevermore.
We
magisters
have to make these decisions.

29

The statement was taken on tape in a police car. I'd refused to
accompany them to the station, but graciously let them drop me back at the
party about one o'clock.

"Doing my night rounds," I told Ledger. "I was a
bit concerned when I saw the fire. Councillor Ryan's so keen on
conservation."

"Billiam's dead, Lovejoy."

I gave a realistic shudder, easy. "Poor, poor, Billiam."
Who'd told me that Candice liked his books, if nobody else did. Who was jealous
of George's continued obsession with his ex-wife, and accordingly clobbered him
in the New Black Field, then carried poor George—dead or dazed, either would
do—to be gored by Charleston, to cast the blame on the bull, the moonspenders,
anyone. Who had killed his old confidant Ben Cox, for fear he realized the
truth about George's death. Billiam had found it easy to encourage me to go
calling on Ben, and make me suspect. He'd also tried to do for Boothie, in fear
that Tom's suspicions were accurate. I'm thick. "Quite deranged.
Ledger," I said sadly. "Came at us with that gun. I tried to protect
the girl, of course. My one thought. The others ran screaming." I paused a
second. "Do you think it might be drugs?" He snorted, baffled, angry,
and suspicious. "I'd better make a full report to Councillor and Mrs.
Ryan."

•
         
•   •

Sandy was exhibiting the Queen Victoria size four-and-a-half
shoes, having a whale of a time. Veronica smiled when I signaled that we meet
on the balcony. She came smiling, glass in hand.

"Reward time, Lovejoy. Kiss for your penny." She swayed
against me, murmuring, "You've given me quad ratings, darling. An
authentic Victorian wedding. And my
show'll
go
galactic—"

I disengaged. "Your crew still around?"

She sensed news, sobered in a flash. "Why?"

"Not far from here's a wood. In it you'll find the corpse of
one Billiam Cutting, the famous romance novelist. The witches' fire still bums.
It happened dead on midnight, at Halloween."

She drew away, staring. "Lovejoy. . . ?"

"Deadly serious, love. The wood's already roped off, police
everywhere."

"I don't 
believe
 . . ." She dropped her
glass, literally just opened her hand so it smashed. It could have cut me,
silly cow. "Lovejoy, if this is true . . ."

"They've collared one witch at the cop shop," I said.
"Name of Enid. You can ask for Inspector Ledger—"

And she'd gone, shouting for a phone, her crew,
Boysie
, Amie, Jim. ... So much for romance. The balcony
doors wafted shut on the party din. I waited there until Councillor Ryan
emerged.

He tried to be hearty. "Your
Bela
Lugosi outfit's all grubby, Lovejoy. Been rolling in the mud?"

"Shut it, Councillor." I said nothing more, just sipped
at a lemonade, an awful thirst on me. He froze, relaxed, nodded for me to go
ahead.

"You've guessed, eh, Lovejoy? Thought so."

"Only from Munting." A figure had slipped onto the
balcony behind me. I saw the movement reflected in Ryan's eyes. You can't hide
a flash of light in the dark, however small. "Billiam's shot dead.
Councillor. The peelers are all over the forest." I paused, said
conversationally, "Like a drink, Winstanley?"

A pause. Confidently I sat with my back to the trellis. I'd more
friends in the adjacent party than they, that was for sure.

"No, thank you, sir." Winstanley came round to stand by
his partner.

"Both of you were in on it, eh? You, Ryan, did the deal with
Clipper and his treasure-hunters—making it easy for them to lift all the
archeology from the New Black Field, square after square. And you Winstanley,
you brokered them."

"Why would I do that, sir?"

"Money." I saw Ryan sag in defeat. "And Miss
Minter, Sir John's secretary, was your lover. You funneled the finds into the
mitts of London dealers—who gave you first offer of their own stock for Sir
John's collection, on legit purchase. That way you also gained sly
commission."

"All this is regrettably true, sir."

"It was only when Ben Cox came doddering up to ask Sir John
if he'd bought any Roman bronzes that Sir John realized he was somehow being
bypassed. Right?"

"Indeed, sir."

"We had nothing to do with the deaths, Lovejoy," Ryan
said brokenly. "You must believe that."

"I do. You're money crooks, not people crooks."

"Thank you, sir," from Winstanley. Time to divide the
cake. Snag: it was their cake, but I held the knife. "Might I ask what
will happen, sir?"

We were all half-lit from the balcony windows. I smiled. The
moment felt great. "Generosity, Winstanley," I said.

Ryan groaned. "Generosity? Lovejoy, let's deal."

"No, ta. Dealing time is over."

"It might be very remunerative, sir," Winstanley
murmured.

I went pious. "From now on, lads, our reward's in
heaven." I meant theirs, not mine.

The news that Councillor Ryan had signed over the archeology
rights of his entire estate to Cox's trust was played up in the 
Advertiser
 for
all Lize was worth. More, Ryan even made a speech about it to the Rotarians,
playing down his generosity—to which he endlessly referred. He also funded the
Victorian wedding costs at Dogpits Farm restaurant and antiques center. His
humble eloquence brought tears to everybody's eyes, especially his own.
Sincerity's really moving, isn't it? I'd gone along, not because I like that
kind of occasion, but to jog Ryan's memory should he falter. Wise really,
because momentarily he forgot to offer his entire estate's amenity rights in
perpetuity to the local borough. I cleared my throat, and he quickly
remembered. Ergo, no building forever. A trust, headed by local archeologists,
was formed on the spot to keep the pledge. Access would be allowed for all
religious purposes, which in good old East Anglia includes Enid's merry coven.
They were still nervous at actually having had a spell work, when they conjured
me from the flames. I'd already arranged with Enid to give them weekly guidance
on the magic arts, for a small fee.