The Language of the Dead (12 page)

“Thank you,” he said. “I'm not sure what I'd do without—”

She put her finger to his lips. “It's all right,” she said. She smiled. “Just try not to be late.”

He drove to the hospital, where he picked up a copy of Blackwell's autopsy from Winston-Sheed, and from there to the nick. He found himself glancing out the window of the Wolseley at the sky, looking
for planes, and told himself that he must stop. He could not afford to give in to his fears and anxieties. He had too bloody much work to do.

When he arrived at the constabulary, Harding confirmed Lamb's guess that the Stukas had been on their way to attack the RAF's Cloverton airfield. The German dive-bombers had set the field's fuel depot aflame, destroyed a half dozen British fighter planes on the ground, and left the grass landing strip scarred with bomb craters. Harding added that he'd put the Hampshire police force on alert in case they were needed to assist the RAF.

Lamb said nothing to Harding of his own encounter with the Stukas. He did not want the super to know that seeing the planes had left him shaken. It was better that he give Harding no reason to doubt his ability. Instead, he delivered to the super a brief rundown of what he and his men had found—or hadn't found—in Quimby that morning.

“Very well,” Harding said, displeased by the lack of progress. “When the rest of them return, we'll meet, get everything bloody straight.”

Lamb read Blackwell's autopsy in his cramped office, sucking on a butterscotch. The report described the most savage killing Lamb had encountered in his twenty-one years as a police officer. Someone had bashed in the back of the old man's head with an oak branch; the presence of mud in his nostrils indicated that he had hit the ground face-first while still alive. The killer had then spun the old man onto his back and driven the left tine of the pitchfork into the middle of Blackwell's neck, severing Blackwell's larynx and killing him. The killer had then gouged the cross into Blackwell's head with the scythe before thrusting the tool into the old man's chest. The blade had pierced and ruptured Blackwell's heart. Blackwell had lain near the hedge long enough to nearly bleed out. In the end, birds had pecked out his eyes.

Lamb put the report on his desk, closed his eyes, and sorted the evidence he'd so far collected. It wasn't much. They'd find Abbott's fingerprints on the pitchfork and scythe; but Abbott had a convenient story to explain that. And Lydia Blackwell had confirmed Abbott's
story of how they'd found the body. He would need to speak with both of them again, press them more forcefully. And he must speak as soon as possible with Lord Pembroke and the boy, Peter.

He felt the need to escape the nick; he could still feel the anxiety the Stukas had called up in him—at seeing the pilot die—sitting at the nadir of his gut. He picked up the issue of
Sporting Life
, walked onto the sunny street and lit a cigarette, then headed for The Fallen Diva. He sat alone at a table near the back of the pub (coincidentally, the same table Wallace had occupied on the previous afternoon, at lunch), smoking and sipping a half pint of ale. Hoping to clear his mind of rubbish, he gazed at the listing of the following day's races at Paulsgrove, circling the names of horses he might bet on. He found a horse in the second race called Summer Wind.

Summer Wind—Winter's Tail?
Maybe there was something there, some symbiosis, he thought? He threw his pencil onto the table in a mild fit of self-disgust.
Summer Bloody Wind?
Why did he even entertain such ridiculous notions?

Marjorie was right; he musn't feel guilty about surviving. He'd thought he'd made his peace with that idea, and with the memory of Eric Parker, twenty years ago. Apparently that peace was more fragile than he'd known. He told himself to straighten up and get on with it. He folded the paper, tucked it beneath his arm, and returned to the nick. He found Wallace, Rivers, and Larkin in the incident room talking with Harding. He removed his hat and joined them.

“Any news?” he asked.

Rivers raised his chin. “Man named Michael Bradford claims that someone stole a chicken from his henhouse two nights ago. I took him to the shed and showed him the chicken we found on the altar. He claimed it was his.”

“Did he seem surprised that
Blackwell
had stolen the chicken?” Lamb asked.

“No. As a matter of fact, he went on a bit—maybe a bit too much—about how he
wasn't
surprised, given that Blackwell was a witch and the rest of it.”

“Do you believe him?”

Rivers shrugged. “He keeps a henhouse behind his cottage. He lives in one of the old mill houses. The place is barely fit for pigs. According to Harris, he's a widower and lives in the house with his three kiddies.”

“A boy and two girls?”

“Yes.”

“He wants the bloody reward,” Wallace interjected. “He'll tell us whatever he thinks we want to hear.”

“What else have we got, then?” Harding asked.

Larkin reported that he'd found distinct thumb and forefinger impressions on the drawing of the bird trapped in the spider's web but nothing on the altar. “I checked the prints against Blackwell's but they don't match, nor do they match those of Abbott or the niece. I haven't finished yet with the weapons. Also, I found nothing else of interest in the shed.”

He returned the weird drawing to Lamb. Harding sighed impatiently.

“All right,” Lamb said. “We'll go at the hill again tomorrow—widen things a bit. And we need to track down Abbott. Harris claims that Abbott plays the ponies, so if it comes to it we'll send a man to Paulsgrove to look for him. We'll rendezvous here tomorrow morning.”

Harding followed Lamb into Lamb's office and closed the door.

“I spoke to the man from the
Mail
, so there'll be a story in tomorrow's paper,” Harding said. “I'll assign a couple of constables to handle the bloody phones for the next few days, but I haven't men to waste.” He laid a hand on Lamb's shoulder—a gesture of trust and camaraderie he never would have displayed in front of the lower ranks. “We need a quick result, Tom. Tamp down the bloody nonsense and keep the press off our backs. This is just the sort of thing they feed on, especially with the bombings and the rest of it going on. People are looking for something to take their minds off the bloody Germans.”

Lamb nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, though he was far from a “quick result.”

When Harding left, Lamb sat at his desk and made two telephone calls. The first was to Brookings, the ancestral estate of Lord Jeffrey Pembroke.

Lamb never had met Pembroke but knew that Pembroke enjoyed a reputation as a philanthropist and a kind of rebel against his class. Some of the highborn apparently even considered Lord Jeffrey an outright traitor. He had refused to take his seat in the House of Lords for reasons that Lamb was not entirely certain of, except that Pembroke believed that the English class system had endowed people such as himself with too many advantages and that he hoped to break down those class barriers.

Pembroke was well known for his practice each summer of playing host to two dozen boys from an orphanage in Basingstoke. The boys stayed at Brookings from the beginning of June until the end of August, living in barracks that Pembroke had built for the purpose. The boys spent the summer studying the flora and fauna of Brookings, collecting specimens, and keeping journals on what they'd discovered. They also tended the estate's extensive flower and vegetable gardens. Gardening was among Pembroke's passions and he actively supervised the boys' work. The vegetable gardens provided food not only for the estate but a large surplus that Pembroke distributed free to the people of the neighboring villages, including Quimby, which bordered his estate to the west.

Lamb found a listing for Brookings in the Hampshire telephone directory. He called the number and, after a half dozen rings, a ponderous, ancient-sounding voice answered, “Brookings. How may I help you?”

Lamb identified himself and asked to speak to Pembroke.

“I'm sorry, sir, but Lord Pembroke is not available at the moment,” the voice said. Lamb imagined an ancient butler arrayed in the Edwardian manner, holding the telephone to his ear with lips pursed, slightly suspicious of the voice on the other end and, indeed, of the very existence of the telephone itself. “You may, however, speak with Lord Pembroke's secretary, Mr. Parkinson, sir,” the voice said.

“Yes, please,” Lamb said. “That would be fine.”

“Very well, sir. Please hold the line and I will fetch Mr. Parkinson.”

A minute later a clear voice fairly barked, “
Hallo
—Chief Inspector? Leonard Parkinson here. How may I help you, sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Parkinson,” Lamb said. “Thank you for taking my call. I'd like to arrange to speak with Lord Pembroke as soon as you can arrange it.”

“Well, that should be no problem at all, Chief Inspector. Might I ask what about?”

“I'd like to speak with him in connection with a murder inquiry. You might have heard that an old man was killed in Quimby yesterday. This man was said to have been known in the village as a witch and was killed in a way that seemed to suggest that some sort of black-magic ritual might have been involved.”

“Yes, I did hear something about that. And you'd like to consult with Lord Pembroke on this black-magic angle then?”

“Basically, yes. In fact, Lord Pembroke mentioned the dead man, William Blackwell, in his book. Blackwell was supposed to have seen some sort of demon hound in his boyhood. And the manner in which he was killed is similar to that used to kill a milkmaid in the last century—a story that Lord Pembroke also mentions in his book.”

“Well, it sounds a terrible tragedy and I'm sure that Lord Pembroke would be happy to help you in any way he can. Can you meet him here tomorrow morning at ten?”

“That would be fine,” Lamb said.

“I should say, though, Chief Inspector, that Lord Jeffrey doesn't have much of an interest in the supernatural these days. That was more a youthful fancy. He's moved on to more weighty concerns.”

“All the same, I believe that speaking with him could prove helpful.”

“Of course, of course,” Parkinson said. “We look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning, then. Just come to the front door and Hatton will fetch me.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Chief Inspector.”

Lamb hung up the phone and, playing a hunch, called the number of a man he'd known for twenty years. Indeed, Albert Gilley had provided Lamb his first big success as a detective, when he'd shut down Gilley's numbers ring in Portsmouth. Gilley had done three years for that, then sworn off criminal enterprise—or so he'd claimed. He now spent his days at Paulsgrove racetrack in what he liked to call a “consulting” role. He placed bets on horses for Lamb and other “clients” and then sent the clients their winnings in the post, after deducting a ten-percent fee for his trouble. It was penny-ante stuff and perfectly legal, if not necessarily savory. Gilley knew Paulsgrove and its denizens perhaps better than anyone.

“Gilley,” he answered.

“It's Lamb, Albert.”

“A pleasure to hear your voice, as always, guv. What can I do for you?”

“Have you sent the four quid I won on Winter's Tail yet?”

“I was just about to put it in the post as you called, guv.”

“Don't bother. I've got a job for you; if you come through, the money is yours.”

“I'm all ears.”

“I want you to ask after a man named George Abbott. He's from up this way, a farmer. He's an older man but powerful looking—looks as if he might be able to handle someone half his age if it came to it. He likes a drink and probably shoots off his mouth more than he should.”

“I think I might know the gentleman, guv.”

“I'd like to know if he's in deep to anybody and if so, by how much.”

“That shouldn't be a problem. Anything else?”

“Not for now, Albert.”

“All right then, guv. I'll call when I have something. The usual number, then?”

“Yes.”

“Appreciate the business, as always, guv. Say hello to the missus for me.”

Lamb hung up the phone feeling slightly more hopeful about his chances than he'd felt even an hour before. Still, he could not rid himself of the image of the young pilot burning in the cockpit and the sound and sensation of the Spitfire shattering in the distant meadow. He reached for the butterscotch tin in his right jacket pocket, then withdrew his hand, whispered “Sod it all,” found his cigarettes in the left pocket, and lit one.

He lay back a bit in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. But the first thing he saw in his mind's eye was Eric Parker's frozen-eyed face staring back at him.

Wallace wanted a drink and to see Delilah.

He'd been thinking of Delilah all day; the way she'd poured the whiskey over herself had driven him fairly wild. Even so, he'd nearly bollixed things that morning by coming in to work looking like something the bloody cat dragged in. He was surprised that Lamb hadn't interrogated him more thoroughly. Even so, he decided that he could continue with Delilah if she was willing. But he must be more careful with her, just as he must be careful with his drinking.