Murder by Magic (23 page)

‘No
bother – it’s like the Marie Celeste in here – they’re all up at
Carlisle.’

‘In
the grey cabinet there’s a file from the Oakthwaite case – it’s all in
order, Jones did it.’  (For a second he hesitates, caught out by the
memory.)  ‘There’s a school roll, goes right back – there’s a name I
want you to check – look between 1970 and 1975 – send me a text.’

*

‘Guv
– how’s it going – caught a whopper?’

‘Leyton
– are you still in the pub?’

DS Leyton
inhales, inured though he is to his boss’s brusqueness.

‘I am,
Guv – it’s gone a bit dead – that conference lot all cleared off
half an hour ago.’

‘Listen
– we don’t have the time to do this by the book – pay attention to
what I need you to do.’

All
the while that Skelgill makes frenetic preparations with rope and harness, an
ungodly chanting emanates from the gaping black chasm that is the splintered roof
of Blackbeck mines’ so-called ‘Apse’.  Kneeling, he works assiduously in
the silvery light, every so often pausing beneath the moon to check his watch,
which tells him midnight is fast approaching.

There
is no wind and the sky remains clear, and a frost is beginning to sparkle on
the bracken shoots that rise around him like hundreds of tiny serpents, cloned
and frozen for the moment in their race towards the spangled firmament. 
But despite the cold, perspiration streams from Skelgill’s brow – for the
past two hours have seen him row, ride and run like the devil, beginning with a
sprint across Bassenthwaite Lake that would have had the coxless four gaping in
admiration.  Making a cursory mooring and stowing his fishing tackle as
best he could, he had leapt astride his trusty Triumph and roared off eastwards
along the A66.  Upon reaching his home, there arrived a requirement for
‘thinking clearly under pressure’ – like some frantic burglar he had
ranged about his garage and shed and the back of his car, grabbing items of
gear and jamming them into his largest rucksack – whether there was some
method in the madness only he knew.  Back on the road he had retraced his southward
journey of yesterday eve, passing the shimmering lakes of Thirlmere, Grasmere,
Rydal Water and the northern tip of Windermere, as he turned west into the
mountains crowding Little Langdale.

Immediately
beyond the locked track to the quarry he had been confronted by a small convoy,
their dazzling halogens all but blinding him – it was the most he could
do to stay on the road, ducking his head and holding a line against its tight
curves as one oncoming vehicle after another swept past him in quick succession. 
But he had survived and continued, passing the driveway of Blackbeck Castle, to
reach the spot where he had urged DS Jones to mount the verge nine days
earlier.  Opposite the boundary wall of Blackbeck estate, across the
narrow lane, is a dense thicket of rhododendrons – it was into here that
he had steered his motorcycle, comprehensively concealing its presence.

Thus
the final leg of his nocturnal triathlon had begun – a lung-busting yomp
up through the forest, following his nose and the gradient until he met the
towering wall that circles the castle grounds.  He glanced at the recessed
grey gate without apparent inclination to stop – but a little further on
he drew to a halt, pausing to tie to a twig a strip of pale cloth – torn
from a shirt that had come to hand in his garage – thence to take a brief
detour off the path.  A couple of minutes later, onwards and upwards he
had laboured, driving himself beneath the watchful face of the moon and the
weight of his pack.  Emerging from the edge of the forest he had struck
directly at the shining lunar disc.  Arriving at his present destination
he had deposited his rucksack and jogged the two hundred and fifty yards to the
cliff that overlooks the quarry.  A minute later he had returned, his
features grave.

And
still from beneath echoes the ominous chanting.  The collective gender of
the irreligious choir is indeterminate – though surely both male and
female – and there is a curious murmuring harmony that masks any single
voice.  The language, too, is impenetrable – as far as Skelgill is concerned
it could be Latin or Greek or even ancient Cumbric – but its sentiment is
unmistakable, at once imploring and demanding, its rhythm reinforced by the low
rumble of a base drum, an underlying pulse that seems every half minute or so
to emanate from the very body of the earth, a four-note warpath riff with its
relentless promise of crescendo.

Skelgill
drops to a sitting position upon a patch of springy turf.  He wriggles
into his climbing harness, raising his hips and pulling the leg loops hard up
into his groin – better suffer and adjust to the discomfort now than be
half-castrated in mid air.  He wrenches the waist strap tight before
doubling it back through its buckle.  His rope is prepared – this is
a popular abseil and a sturdy iron ring bolted into an outcrop of slate has
served generations of adventurers.  He unclips the
Sheriff
from his
belay loop and pairs it with the rope before locking them both into the
karabiner.  His fingers work overtime – and perhaps it is the mantra
about
speed
and
haste
that plays upon his lips.  Finally he
shrugs his shoulders into the rucksack, rises to his feet, leans against the
rope and edges towards the abyss.

However,
rather than reverse over the rocky rim, he kneels and then inches forwards upon
a jutting shard of slate, taking care not to dislodge any loose fragments that
might reveal his presence.  The floor of the cave is a good fifty feet
below and this sinkhole perhaps fifteen feet in diameter.  Peering down
the shaft, for the first time he is able to see into the chamber.  Almost
directly beneath is the ‘altar’ slab and thrusting up towards him the crude
‘reredos’ – how ironic that he showed these spectacular monoliths to DS
Jones – for she stands tied against the vertical rock, while another girl
– a striking blonde whom Skelgill recognises from Leonid Pavlenko’s
photograph as Irina Yanukovych – lies similarly restrained, upon the plinth.

*

The
dizzying rush of disbelief is a test of Skelgill’s willpower – yet
somehow he resists the urge to cry out or launch himself like a comic book
superhero – or even to topple, disoriented by vertigo and the mesmeric
chant that resonates about his bewildered brain.  It is clear his heart is
racing; his chest heaves with breaths hissed between bared teeth; his eyes dart
about wildly as he strives to understand what is taking place.

But as
he clings on he becomes accustomed to the gloom and begins to process the
various components of the scene.  In fact the darkness is not uniform. 
Set closely around the pair five candles make a regular pattern (the points of
a pentagram?); they burn steadily in the still air.  And the angled beam
of the moon, a faint cylinder of light defined by the aperture and the millions
of tiny water droplets suspended in the moist ether, strikes the shattered
rocks and lays down a circular pool of light that bathes the prone girl –
up to her shoulders – and creeps closer to cover both her and DS Jones in
their entirety.

What
is shocking to behold is that the two girls are dressed in white gossamer –
little more than tightly wrapped sarongs that expose the thighs and much of the
breasts – and it is plain, even at this distance, that they are otherwise
naked.  As the incessant chanting is punctuated by the tantalisingly climactic
throb of the drum, the females appear both alert and yet curiously passive.

Skelgill
edges around the rim of the chasm, so that the upright rock is between him and
DS Jones.  He can no longer see the two girls, but his view into the cave
lengthens.  Outside the ring of light cast by the candles and the
spotlight of the moon there is near darkness, but he can just discern a
semi-circle of hooded figures.  As he watches, their line divides and one
of their number comes forwards leading a tethered animal – a Herdwick
ram.  In what seems like slow motion – but must only take half a
dozen seconds – another person follows and draws a ceremonial sword
– and as the relentless chanting increases in ferocity and tempo the
sheep is slaughtered – the head is hacked off and the body cavity split
asunder.

It is
not clear if the girls witness this act of butchery – or indeed if they
are looking at all – but now the ‘executioner’ approaches them bearing a chalice;
it drips black with blood.  Skelgill scrambles back to his original
position – he watches with a morbid fascination as the figure anoints the
girls in turn – marking a counter-clockwise swastika upon the exposed
flesh of the left breast above the heart.  The prone Irina Yanukovych is plainly
trembling, but DS Jones holds her nerve, though she closes her eyes while the
symbol is daubed.

Then
abruptly the drum signals a change and the monotonous chant assumes a slower
tempo.  The black coven – for of course that is what they must be
– has crowded around the altar – but now the leader holds up the
chalice and walks through the throng, who turn and follow.  They disappear
from Skelgill’s line of vision – and, though the incantation continues,
its volume diminishes.

He checks
his watch – and this might provide the explanation – for it is eight
minutes to midnight – and below he can see that the patch of moonlight
has extended across the body of Irina Yanukovych and is now falling upon the
bare feet of DS Jones.  Perhaps the coven is undertaking its final vile preparation
before returning to the altar at the witching hour.

Skelgill
must act.

He shrugs
the coil of rope from his shoulder and tosses it into the aperture.  He watches
through narrowed eyes as it snakes down into the void.  He knows its
length and that it will comfortably reach the ground.  It falls directly
behind the shard to which DS Jones is secured.  There is a space of about eight
feet at which he can aim between the rock and the pool of water that extends
into the invisible depths of the cavern.  Now he takes up the slack and
begins to back over the edge.  There is always a point in abseiling when
trust must be transferred to some higher power (even if that be the
manufacturers of the rope or of the expansion bolts that hold the anchor point
in place) – it is a point of no return – but Skelgill shows no
hesitation as he dips his backside and then pushes off, simultaneously reducing
the friction on his belay device so that he drops well beneath the overhang and
the attendant risk of a crack to the skull.  Smoothly, he descends the
shaft, taking just ten seconds to touch down gently upon the rough-hewn stone
floor.  He has no stopper knot on the rope and briskly hauls the running
end free of his harness.

He casts
about.  The chanting – certainly now coming from somewhere beyond
the exit to this great chamber – has taken on a more urgent note, more
strained, more frenzied; but it sounds as though they have been left alone
– and why should the coven worry?  For there is only one way out
– and they have numbers and, as Skelgill’s reconnaissance has already
determined, a guard patrolling the quarry.  Cautiously he rounds the immense
upright and vaults onto the flat ‘altar’ slab.  He moves nimbly and before
she can react he has his hand pressed firmly over DS Jones’s mouth.  There
is sudden fear and alarm in her eyes – but Skelgill hisses into her ear
and she realises it is he.

‘Keep
dead quiet.’

DS
Jones nods.

The
other girl appears petrified; Skelgill kneels and whispers to her, too. 
She seems to grasp she is to be silent, though she recoils when he reaches over
his shoulder and pulls a glinting blade from his backpack.  Swiftly he
cuts the bonds that fasten her wrists and ankles.  Then he rises and
releases DS Jones.  She sways forwards as the binding that pinned her drops
away, and Skelgill has to support her weight, wrapping his arms about her body. 
He can feel that she is cold, chilled and damp and her nipples press through
the fabric of the flimsy sacrificial garment.

‘Are
you okay?’

His
words again are whispered directly into her ear.

‘They’ve
given us something, Guv – to subdue us – I feel numb.’

Skelgill
grimaces, though in their embrace she does not see his concern.

‘Getting
worse or better?’

‘Better,
I think, Guv.’

Skelgill
steps away.  Keeping a grip of her elbows he helps her down off the
horizontal slab, which is about three feet higher than ground level.  He
leads her to the rear of the vertical shard.  She walks sluggishly, and he
gathers in the dangling rope and feeds it into her hands for support. 
Then he darts back and similarly assists Irina Yanukovych.  It is hard to
tell if she is more or less affected by the drug – in the gloom she
regards him languidly, but she manages to walk unaided and, albeit unsteadily, to
join DS Jones in hanging on to the rope.

Skelgill
rips off his rucksack and tips out its remaining contents.  There is a
second harness and various lengths of rope and sundry gadgets.  He has
little more than darkness in which to work, which is perhaps just as well for
now he guides one after the other of the Ukrainian girl’s bare feet into the
leg loops of the apparatus and slides it up to her waist, doing his best to tuck
in the sarong to preserve some sort of modesty.  Then he stoops and grabs a
handful of climbing paraphernalia – these are ascenders, devices for
climbing a rope, he clips them on and secures them to the harness.  He looks
at DS Jones and mouths an instruction.

‘She’s
got to climb.’

DS
Jones whispers to the girl, who nods and speaks in turn into DS Jones’s ear.

‘She’s
done it before, Guv – national service.’

‘Tell
her to go.’

The
girl, despite her obvious lethargy, understands what she must do – and
though fear has the power to immobilise, now it drives flight.  Slowly
– painfully slowly to Skelgill’s anxious eyes – she begins to scale
the rope.

He unbuckles
his own harness and lets it drop to the ground.  He kneels and, carefully
holding the leg loops in position, he presents it to DS Jones.  She steps
into the loops and allows him to raise the gear to her waist. Again there is an
awkward intimate moment, but the exigency means decorum must be set
aside.  Indeed, Irina Yanukovych is getting the hang of it and is already
above head height.  Skelgill reaches to rig up the remaining ascenders for
his colleague.