The Sign of Ouroboros Page 8

  “Patchouli,” he said. “Can you smell that, Knapton?”

  The junior officer nodded, and walked around the cellar, sniffing.

  “Seems to be strongest over here, sir,” he said, pointing at a dark rectangle set low on the wall. “Some kind of ventilator grille.”

  The policemen examined the outlet. It was roughly eight inches high and a foot across.

  “No way an adult human being could squeeze through a gap that small,” said Knapton, decisively.

  “No,” agreed Healy. “I suppose not.”

  He crouched down to examine the grille more closely. It was evidently secured from the other side. Healy tugged at it, but it didn't budge. The scent of patchouli was strong, but now it masked another odor. An acrid smell, quite unpleasant. Peering through the wire mesh, he thought he saw a glimmer of yellow in the darkness.

  I'm in too deep with this malarkey, thought Healy. This is no ordinary case. I need to regroup, rethink the problem.

  “We've done everything we can here,” he said, standing up. “I've got to get to Russell Square, have a word with that Steiger bloke. Oh, and call the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals about those poor bloody hamsters.”

  As he left the cellar, Healy thought he heard a husky laugh echoing somewhere behind him.

  Chapter 6: Connections

  Marcus Valentine arrived at the Russell Hotel to find Brad Steiger waiting in the lunchroom. The Englishman ordered a light meal and a pot of Earl Grey tea before producing a file containing a sheaf of printouts.

  “I've made some progress on the possible location of the cult's new base,” he explained, spreading out some sheets on the table. “In fact, there's only one place in this country it could be.”

  Brad picked up one of the printouts, which showed a map of a rural area.

  “Wychmere?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “They named a village after witches?”

  “Nothing so exciting,” replied Marcus, with a smile. “A ‘mere’ is a pond or small lake, and the first part of the name refers to a type of elm tree. You can see that the village is clustered around a body of water.”

  “Ah,” said Brad, slightly disappointed. “But there is something special about this place?”

  “Oh yes,” said Marcus. “Look more closely.”

  Examining the map, Brad noticed an irregular dotted line forming a circle. The village, a few dozen homes, was mostly within the circle. A small legend indicated that the dots constituted a 'prehistoric structure'.

  “One of those temples to their snake-god?” he asked, putting down the sheet.

  Marcus shrugged, and passed over some more printouts.

  “So it would seem. The thirteen stones of the circle are known as the Dancers, and they're quite famous in antiquarian circles. And the locals are quite fond of them, too, as you can see.”

  Brad looked at a sepia photo labeled 'Wychmere, May Day 1908'. It showed a smiling family in old-fashioned clothes standing under a great irregular slab of granite. The stone had been decorated with garlands of flowers.

  “So they have a big celebration of some lumps of rock?” asked Brad.

  “One of our many quaint British customs,” said Marcus. “Harmless, in this case. May Day is an ancient festival celebrating the arrival of spring. And yet, when I made some discreet inquiries this morning, I found that Jonathan Clay's been trying to rent a large property in the area for over a year.”

  “I take it he's finally got one?” asked Brad.

  Marcus nodded, handing over another sheet.

  “Garlock House, a stately home, less than half a mile from the village.”

  Brad looked at the picture, read the brief history of the house.

  Is this where Kelly is staying now? Brainwashed, maybe even held captive?

  “We can't be sure she's there,” said Marcus, as if reading Brad's mind. “But obviously you want to go and see for yourself.”

  Brad nodded.

  “Will you come with me?” he asked Marcus. “I'd be willing to pay you for your trouble.”

  “No trouble,” replied Marcus, “but there is someone I'd like to talk to first. A priest who's been at a Catholic retirement home in Sussex for a while now.”

  Before he could explain further, Detective Sergeant Healy arrived, ordered a large brandy, and sat down at their table after taking a large gulp.

  “Difficult morning?” asked Marcus.

  “You could say that,” replied the detective. “And no, I don't normally drink while on duty. But I just had the strangest experience. I have a feeling you two might know something about it.”

  Healy described the abortive search at Berkeley Square.

  “A naked woman tried to hypnotize you?” asked Brad.

  “A naked woman with a cage of hamsters,” Marcus pointed out. “Remember what Kathy said about rats being delivered to the cult.”

  “I don't like where this is going,” said Healy.

  “I wouldn't normally countenance tales of shape-shifting and the like,” said Marcus in measured tones, “but there are some very well-attested cases.”

  “You're telling me this woman was some sort of were-snake?” demanded Healy.

  Marcus shrugged.

  “I don't quite believe it either,” said Brad. “But it would explain Matt Arnold being crushed to death.”

  “But has anybody actually seen this happen?” asked Healy.

  “Someone may have,” said Marcus. “I was going to tell you about this, Brad. I dug up some old newspaper references to incidents involving Jonathan Clay. There's one name that crops up twice. An Irish priest named Quigley.”

  “He witnessed the cult's ceremonies, or whatever?” asked Brad.

  “He seems,” said Marcus, “to have been present when a ceremony went terribly wrong. Whatever he witnessed left him badly shocked, and he's still mentally fragile.”

  “Poor guy,” said Brad. “Do you think he might talk to us?”

  Marcus looked doubtful.

  “He's in the care of an order of nuns. I called them up, asking about Father Quigley, and the lady I spoke to seemed reluctant to let me ‘bother the poor man,' as she put it.”

  “I've an idea,” said Healy. “This man could, at a stretch, be involved in my investigation of Arnold's death. So I could go along, give it an official veneer?”

  They agreed this would be helpful. But Brad was also be eager to go to Wychmere straight away, to try and speak to Kelly.

  “Suppose I get over there pronto while you guys follow up this lead?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Healy. “Normally, I wouldn't conduct an investigation like this, involving civilians. But what with this morning's weirdness and obstruction from my superiors, I feel justified.”

  “You could get into a hell of a lot of trouble,” Marcus pointed out.

  “True,” said the detective. “But I resent being told not to do my job. Against that, I'd very much like to keep my job. It's a bit of a bind to be in. Which is why I'm going to have another brandy.”

  ***

  On Tuesday night, Kathy Hopkirk tossed and turned on a narrow bed in a Whitechapel hostel for the homeless. Her dreams, while often troubled, had never been so strange. She found herself walking through a big, expensive-looking house she had never seen before. It was nighttime, judging by the fact that the lights were all on. She entered a book-lined room and Jonathan Clay got up from a writing desk. As she got closer, Kathy had the odd sensation of looking down at him. She recalled that in life, he was half a head taller than she was. Now he looked like a little boy trying to behave like a grown-up.

  He looks worried, she thought. Or is he scared of me, whoever I am?

  “You wanted to see me?” said a voice. Kathy realized she was seeing things from the speaker's point of view.

  “Killing the private detective was a mistake,” Clay said. “And trying to convert a Scotland Yard officer! You must see how reckless that was?”

  “Don't
be silly, Jonathan,” Kathy heard herself saying. “These people are mere nuisances.”

  “It's drawing too much attention!” protested Clay. “We are so close to our objective!”

  “Don't weaken, Jonathan,” she said. “This evocation must not fail, and nothing can stand in our way. Last time your nerve failed, remember, and it was bungled.”

  “That wasn't my fault,” said Clay. “We chose the wrong place, the wrong time. Here there is a deep-rooted tradition, a spiritual energy we can exploit.”

  “I hope you're right,” she said, moving closer to Clay, who flinched slightly. “We do not want any more failures.”

  Without waiting for a response, the speaker turned on her heel and walked out of the room. She entered a passageway and as she passed a mirror, she saw herself for the first time.

  Olivia!

  She was seeing the world through the woman's eyes. Olivia came to an entrance hall and went up a grand staircase to what was evidently her bedroom. Kathy realized that she was not just seeing through the big woman's eyes but also feeling some of her sensations. The house was cool, even a little chilly, and the lights a shade too bright. Olivia shut the bedroom door and at first total darkness engulfed her. Then Kathy found shapes forming in the blackness. One shape in particular, a small object that moved.

  It's like one of those cameras they use to film wildlife at night, she thought.

  Olivia crossed the room, and as she got closer to the glowing thing, it squealed. Kathy made out the shape of a piglet inside a small cage. Olivia stooped down and the animal became frantic, clearly sensing peril.

  Oh God no, this can't be happening.

  Olivia easily caught the wriggling piglet and lifted it out of the cage. Then she let it go, whereupon it ran under the nearby bed. Olivia laughed, and dropped on all fours.

  No, not all fours. All threes. All zeros.

  Kathy felt the body, in which her mind was a passenger, transform itself into a lithe tube of steel-taut muscle and sinew. Her night-vision became more intense, and her flickering black tongue was now an organ of taste and smell. The odor of the piglet was intoxicating to this transmuted body. She glided, limbless, towards her terrified prey, which tried to rush past her. She struck, sank fangs into the plump, quivering body. Then she withdrew for a moment, unhinged her jaw, and began to swallow her prey whole.

  Oh God! I can't stand this.

  Kathy awoke, staring at the dim-lit ceiling, still feeling a sickening mixture of pleasure and revulsion. She ran her tongue along her upper teeth, found no fangs. They had been so real a moment before.

  That Marcus did a number on me, she thought. He never said this might happen. I need him to put it right. If he can.

  It was not just the disgust and horror of being in Olivia's mind that disturbed her. In the fraction of a second, before the link had been broken she had felt something cold and inhuman brush against her thoughts. A reptilian mind had reached out and tried to catch her. Or sink its metaphorical fangs into her.

  Did she know I was there? Could she find me? What might she do to me?

  As she waited for the dawn to arrive, Kathy tried hard not to think about the piglet. Confused and afraid, she could not decide whether to contact Marcus Valentine again.

  ***

  On Wednesday evening, Wychmere Parish Council held its weekly meeting at the church hall. Bill Stroud, the Chairman, noticed that some of the members seemed distracted.

  Or drunk, he thought, uncharitably.

  “Well, let's begin with the inevitable preparations for May Day and the dressing of the stones,” he said.

  There was a murmur of agreement. Stroud braced himself for controversy as he asked the customary question.

  “Do we have any candidates for Queen of the May?”

  The effect was startling. The other four members of the council all looked at him and smiled. It was an eerie effect, especially as Stroud was expecting a dispute.

  “Now I know,” he continued, “that this often causes friction between rival families and so on. There will always be differences of opinion over which young lady is suitable.”

  “Not this time,” said the parish priest. “I think we have reached an ideal solution.”

  “Okay,” said Stroud cautiously. “Let's hear it.”

  The priest looked round at the others, who nodded.

  God, they look even more stupid than usual, thought Stroud. What's gotten into them? Or been taken out?

  “In previous years,” the priest said, “we have disagreed over which local lass should be crowned as May Queen and take pride of place at the center of the circle. This year, I think we can avoid all such controversy by having an honored guest as monarch for the day.”

  Puzzled, Stroud asked, “What honored guest? A celebrity, you mean, like a BBC weathergirl? Because it's far too late to start organizing something like that! These people are booked up months in advance.”

  The priest shook his head.

  “No, not at all Mister Chairman,” he said. “I mean one of our visitors currently residing at Garlock House.”

  “What?” exclaimed Stroud. “They're a bunch of crackpots, complete outsiders. They're not part of the community. We can't just throw our centuries-old traditions out of the window like that!”

  “I think we all understand your reservations, Bill,” said the priest, to murmurs of agreement from the other three councilmen. “But if you go up to the house and speak to Mister Clay about it, I'm sure you'll change your mind.”

  “I'm not changing my bloody mind!” declared Stroud. “And this matter is not settled! I'd rather put on a frock and do it myself.”

  The others exchanged glances that seemed more pitying than angry.

  “We've all been won over by Mister Clay,” said the priest. “I'm sure the American girl would make a fine May Queen.”

  “American?” exclaimed Stroud. “Not even British? Some shrieking moron with capped teeth and a fat arse? No, thank you. That's a big slap in the face for tradition.”

  The meeting broke up with the majority still blandly insisting on their choice. Stroud drove back to his pig farm seething with annoyance at the others bizarre fixation. He had seen his business arrangement with Clay as a good, if minor, source of tax-free income. Now he felt vaguely soiled by it, as if he had committed an act of treachery against the spirit of Wychmere. He took a stubborn pride in having rejected Clay's repeated invitations to go inside the house for a drink.

  Sod them, he thought, as he got out of his Land Rover. They can go elsewhere for their livestock.

  Stroud did his usual rounds of the small farm, ensuring that the pigs had plenty of feed. He had a whiskey as a nightcap and turned in early, as he usually did. But first, he went around the farmhouse and checked doors and windows. The out-of-kilter feel of the parish council meeting had unnerved him.

  It was just before one in the morning when the squealing of the pigs woke Stroud. They were unlikely to make a fuss if a fox or badger was sniffing around. He looked out of the window towards the sheds where the pigs slept. There was nothing out of the ordinary. There had been a heavy shower that evening. Now a bright April moon was shining on the muddy farmyard. It was, as always, rutted with tire tracks.

  There's something wrong, he thought. What is it? I'll take a closer look.

  Stroud got dressed, picked up a baseball bat he kept by his bed, then went downstairs and out into the yard. The pigs had quieted down but when he went over to check on them they seemed nervous.

  As if they sense a predator. But there are no large predators in England.

  Again, he examined the tire tracks in the yard, wondering what was bugging him about them. Then he noticed the anomaly. The marks left by his Land Rover were clear enough, fresh. But there was another track crossing over them. A single trail over a foot across led along the yard towards the house.

  Something being dragged, thought Stroud. But if so, why no footprints?

  Stroud followed the tra
il to the wall of the house, then followed it around a corner. The mud gave way to concrete and the trail petered out. In front of him was the barn where some old machinery was stored. Stroud hesitated, then hefted his bat and went into the building. He groped for the light switch, flicked it on.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary. He walked around the place, checking under tarpaulins, satisfying himself that the barn was empty.

  I'm going barmy, he concluded, returning to the entrance. Just as he turned off the light, he heard a giggle. He spun round, turning the light back on, bat at the ready. Again, he saw nobody in front of him.

  “Who's there?” he said, feeling foolish. “Play games with me, you'll regret it.”

  He raised the bat in a two-handed grip, advanced a step. Again, there was a giggle, and this time Stroud could tell where it was coming from. He looked up, heart racing, and a woman's face descended towards his. Her hair cascaded about his face as a strong hand grabbed the bat and easily plucked it away. Above her, he could make out muscular coils wrapped around a roof beam.

  “Hello again, Mister Stroud,” said Olivia. “I just thought I'd drop in and see if I could change your mind.”

  ***

  On Thursday morning, Brad set out for Wychmere, while a parcel arrived for Marcus Valentine. The parcel contained a battered hardback without a dust-jacket. A New Theory of Stone Circles by Jonathan Clay, Ph.D, Fellow of the Royal Society of Antiquaries. At first glance, it seemed dry and scholarly; hardly the work of a fanatic. But as Marcus skimmed through it, he noticed a subtle change come over the tone as well as the content.

  The early chapters were couched in the sober, careful phrases of the professional academic. There were plenty of references to learned publications, nods to esteemed colleagues. But towards the middle of the book, the academic style gave way to a more insistent, almost crazed tone. What had been suggestions became assertions, and there were no more scholarly references. Clay had begun by proposing a hypothesis, but ended up asserting a belief.

  And what a belief, thought Marcus.