The Witch Maker (3 page)

‘And they got away with it?' Paniatowski asked incredulously.

‘Some of them did. The authorities couldn't try the whole village for the murder, naturally. But the crime couldn't go unpunished either, so the high sheriff had the ones who'd played the biggest role arrested.'

‘And who might they have been?'

‘The fellers who actually tied the poor bloody woman to the post an' burned her. Who else?'

‘What happened to them?'

‘They were hanged in Lancaster Gaol. An' on the day of their execution – at the very moment when the trapdoor was due to be opened – the village burnt Meg Ramsden in effigy.'

‘Why?'

‘There you've got me, lass. Maybe as an act of defiance. Anyway, whatever their reasonin', twenty years to the day after the men were hung, the people of Hallerton burned a second effigy. An' they've kept on doin' it – every twenty years without fail – ever since.'

They had almost reached the crown of the last hill before Hallerton. Woodend slowed, and then pulled over – perhaps because the drive had calmed him down, perhaps because he was starting to regret his mechanical cruelty to his faithful car engine.

‘Come on, Sergeant, it's time to spy out the land,' he said.

Paniatowski joined him on the edge of the slope, and together they looked down at the village.

Not that there was a great deal to see. The hamlet was made up of perhaps a hundred and fifty dwellings. Most of them were clustered around the main street, though there were a few outlying farms. The village green stood out as a bright patch in the midst of all the mounds of grey stone, and the cars – almost like models at this distance – were distinctive enough to be clearly identified as police vehicles.

‘Welcome to the seventeenth century,' Woodend said dourly.

If Paniatowski heard him, she gave no sign of it.

‘Somethin' on your mind, lass?' Woodend asked.

‘This was the sort of place that Bob used to bring me to,' Paniatowski said wistfully – and almost to herself.

‘An' it is
used
to, isn't it?' Woodend asked.

There was an edge to his voice, because he remembered – even if she didn't – that the affair between Detective Inspector Rutter and Detective Sergeant Paniatowski had almost been enough to ruin both their careers.

‘Yes, it's
used
to,' Paniatowski replied. ‘We only see each other now when we have to.'

Was that strictly true? Woodend wondered.

Had the passion which had burned between them completely died down? Or did they perhaps still contrive official reasons – reasons that probably fooled even
themselves
– to spend time together?

It was none of his business really, he told himself. They were both grown-ups and had the right to slash their own paths to hell if they wanted to. But Bob Rutter had been his protégé, the son he'd never had. And as for what he felt about Monika ... well, that didn't really bear examining too closely at all.

‘Look at that!' Paniatowski said.

‘Look at what?'

‘That! Just beyond the village.'

Woodend turned his gaze in the direction his sergeant was pointing. In a field close to the main road – a road, which, either by design, or accident, completely bypassed the centre of the village – there were signs of considerable activity. At one end of the field, a number of battered-looking caravans were parked almost in a circle – like a wagon train in the western films. At the other end, a couple of dozen men were busily involved in erecting temporary structures, most of them roughly round in shape, all of them painted in garish colours.

Woodend groaned. A funfair. A bloody funfair. He should have expected this. Should have
remembered
it. There was
always
a funfair at the Witch Burnings. But it was the last thing he
needed
there to be.

‘When do you think it arrived?' he asked his sergeant.

Paniatowski considered the question. ‘Judging by how far they've got already, I'd say they got here yesterday afternoon at the latest,' she pronounced, ‘which, of course, was several hours before the murder.'

‘Wonderful!' Woodend said.

Paniatowski looked down at the village again. On the surface, there was nothing abnormal about it, she thought. There were dozens of other villages which were almost identical. Yet even from a distance, it was starting to make her flesh creep.

She lit up a cigarette. ‘It doesn't really mean anything though, does it?' she asked lightly, in an attempt to dispel her growing unease.

‘
What
doesn't really mean anything?' Woodend asked.

‘The Witch Burning. I mean, it's just a harmless tradition, isn't it? Like dancing round the maypole, or hanging up a stocking for Santa?'

‘I wouldn't be so sure of that,' Woodend said, walking back to the car.

It was not the answer Paniatowski had been hoping for. ‘You wouldn't?' she said. ‘Why not?'

‘Them two men who were hanged for the murder of Meg Ramsden – they were brothers.'

‘So what?'

Woodend opened the driver's door of the Wolseley. ‘An' their name was Dimdyke,' he told her.

Paniatowski almost choked on her cigarette.

‘Dimdyke?' she repeated, after she'd finished coughing. ‘But that's the name of the current Witch Maker! The man who was murdered this morning!'

Woodend slid into the driver's seat. ‘Aye, it is,' he agreed. ‘Makes you think, doesn't it?'

A
ll the villages she'd ever visited had been almost inordinately proud of their fêtes, Paniatowski thought. And that pride showed even before you got to the village itself – in the advertisements the fête committees had erected all along the country lanes leading to the place. She remembered some of the ones she'd seen in the past – huge, brightly coloured hand-painted signs offering countless delights from sack races to donkey derbies; elaborate papier-mâché models of warm and cuddly woodland creatures; streamers and balloons – all manner of inventive and endearingly amateur inducements. At the boundary of Hallerton, all she saw was the standard county-council-issue sign – a metal plaque with black raised letters on a white background which announced only the name of the village.

‘I thought you said the festival was a pretty big thing,' she said to Woodend, as they drove past it.

‘An' so it is,' the Chief Inspector replied. ‘People come from all over to gawp at it. The one I saw attracted busload on busload of tourists, includin' a fair number of Yanks.'

‘Well, you'd never guess any of that from what we've seen so far,' Paniatowski commented.

‘I said it got a lot of visitors,' Woodend told her. ‘What I didn't say was that the visitors were made to feel particularly welcome. In fact, from what I remember, the locals gave the outsiders a bit of a cold shoulder.'

‘Strange,' Paniatowski said.

‘Aye, it is,' Woodend agreed. ‘But there's nowt as queer as folk – an' from what I've heard there's no folk as queer as them that come from Hallerton.'

They had entered the village proper. The main street was cobbled, and barely wide enough for two cars. On either side of it stood stone cottages, their small windows seeming to gaze disapprovingly at what passed before them. The feeling of disquiet that Paniatowski had felt on the hill only intensified now that she was in the village itself. It was almost, she thought fancifully, as if they had driven into the mouth of a snake and were now making their way through its dark and dangerous body.

The village came to an end as abruptly as it had begun, and ahead of them was the village green.

But it wasn't like other village greens she'd seen, Paniatowski thought. In this, as in so many other things, Hallerton managed to be different.

True, she added in fairness, the police cars and the crowd which had gathered must have somewhat distorted its normal appearance. Yet even allowing for that, it was still not the restful place that most greens were.

It was impossible to imagine cricket matches being played there on lazy summer days, for example. And it was inconceivable that courting couples would stroll round it as they discussed their future together.

It was, despite its lush grass, a
dark
place.

Woodend parked his Wolseley next to an unmarked Land Rover, then glanced across at the Green. Standing next to the Witching Post was the Land Rover's driver – a small dark figure in a heavy sheepskin jacket and light, colourful sari.

‘I see Doc Shastri's already here,' he said to his sergeant. ‘You have to admit one thing about yon lass – she's as keen as mustard.'

Paniatowski felt a stab of jealousy. She knew it was unworthy of her, but she still couldn't help it. Until the arrival of Dr Shastri, she'd been the only female in Central Lancashire closely involved in the investigation of violent crime, and whilst – on the one hand – she welcomed the addition of another woman to the job, she could not quite avoid – on the other – mourning slightly the fact that she had lost her own uniqueness.

A policeman in his early thirties, with sergeant's stripes on his arm, marched briskly over to them and saluted.

‘Sergeant Gough, sir,' he said. ‘From Lancaster headquarters. We've secured the area.'

‘Good,' Woodend replied, not quite managing to hide his grimace.

The sergeant noticed the expression. ‘Is there something wrong, sir?' he asked.

Woodend sighed. ‘Just your choice of words. “Secured the area” – for God's sake! It only used to be the senior officers, with their arses firmly anchored to their office chairs, who talked in that kind of jargon. Now it seems as if even ordinary decent bobbies have got in on the act. Whatever happened to good old Lancashire English, an' callin' a spade a bloody shovel?'

Gough looked flustered. ‘I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to—'

‘Nay, lad, don't apologize,' Woodend said. ‘You've just done right. You'll need to use all that fancy talk if you're to get on in the modern police force. Is there a local bobby around?'

‘Yes, sir. Constable Thwaites. I've sent him home.'

Woodend raised an eyebrow. ‘An' why was that?'

‘He ... er ... he was surplus to requirements, sir. My team knew what to do, and it seemed to me we could get on with it more efficiently if we didn't have to stop to explain everything to him.'

‘
That
bad, was he?' Woodend asked.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘You're a good lad,' Woodend told him, ‘an' it's only right you stick up for other officers – even if they're not your own mates. But I do need a clear picture of what's really goin' on. Understand what I'm sayin'?'

Gough swallowed. ‘Constable Thwaites seemed a little overwhelmed by the whole thing, sir,' he said. ‘I thought it might do him good to have a bit of a break back at the police house.'

Woodend nodded. ‘You're probably right about that,' he agreed. ‘But I
will
need to speak to him, so make sure he's here when I get back from examinin' the body, will you?'

He turned and walked towards the crowd. It was densely packed, but without Woodend saying a word it somehow managed to part in order to let him pass.

Crowds always
did
part for him, Paniatowski thought, following in his wake. It wasn't because he was a big man – though he undoubtedly was. Nor was it that he looked as if he'd turn nasty if he didn't get his own way – because for all his size, no one would ever have taken him for a bully. There was just something about Cloggin'-it Charlie – some presence, which, if it could have been bottled, would have made his fortune.

Dr Shastri, an exotic bird of paradise in the sea of grey which surrounded her, smiled broadly when she saw Woodend and Paniatowski approaching.

‘Well, if it isn't my two favourite law-enforcers,' she said in her singalong voice. ‘Both I, and my friend at the post, are delighted to see you. He's not very talkative, to be honest, but I get the distinct impression he is tired of hanging around, and would appreciate being taken down soon.'

Woodend grinned. ‘Bein' a bit ghoulish is all very well in its place, but I'm really gettin' seriously worried about the state of your mental health, Doc,' he said, not meaning it.

The dead man was in his early forties. His face was bloated. His eyes bulged. That he was still upright was due only to the fact that his arms and legs were tethered firmly to a heavy stone post which had been turned jet black by generations of witch burnings.

A second piece of rope, shorter and thinner than the one attaching him to the post, was wrapped around the victim's neck. A loop had been made in this shorter rope, and before it had been tightened, an iron bar had been inserted.

‘He's been garrotted,' Dr Shastri said. ‘As a method of execution, it has much to recommend it. It's very simple, very effective – and very traditional.'

‘How do you mean? Very traditional?' Woodend asked.

The doctor shook her head in mock despair. ‘You English!' she said. ‘You live in this damp, drizzly country all your lives, and you do not even know your own history.'

‘Educate us, then,' Woodend suggested.

‘It is popularly believed that when people were burned at the stake, they were alive for much of the time the fire was consuming them,' the doctor said. ‘In fact, that was very rarely the case. The burning was a cleansing process, you see, rather than a method of execution. Before the fire had properly caught, it was common for the executioner to show mercy by strangling the condemned person – just as has happened here.'

‘So
we
might be ignorant buggers, but we're lookin' for a murderer who
does
have a sense of his own history,' Woodend said pensively.