‘It isn’t something you can like,’ said Rhoda darkly. ‘More something that you have to suffer. But it’s loose.’
On the slippery bank of the river, as one of the police-cars drove away with the thieves, Chief Inspector Chade called out, ‘Constable Book!’
Joe made towards him cautiously.
‘A right lot you got on your hands, hmm?’
‘They’re not all like that,’ Joe said after a pause. Mr Chade was new here since last summer, working out of Hatter-bridge.
‘No? A fight in the church this morning – complaints of smoke and nuisance from that fire of theirs – complaints about them begging door-to-door – last night a lady driven crazy, today another found dead in her bed …! Isn’t that enough for you?’
Joe muttered, ‘It’s more to do with Parson than with that lot.’
‘Oh, right enough!’ Chade slapped his wet leather gloves against one palm. ‘But he’s been claiming they’re devil-worshippers, hasn’t he – the parson? And what did they say they took that side of beef for? A sacrifice! Now I don’t know about you, but I’m a God-fearing sort of person, and I’m more inclined to side with Mr Phibson than with them. Well?’
Joe said uncomfortably, They’re a right bunch, yes.’
‘I’m glad to hear you admit it.’ Chade had a sharp tongue when he cared to use it; he was doing so. ‘I think we ought to see them off our patch, don’t you?’
‘Soon as they find out there’s nothing happening –’
‘But there is something happening! Is it every day that a respectable maiden lady takes her own life, after being plagued with slanderous accusations? That reminds me: I’ll want a word with this Mrs O’Pheale tomorrow. It’s an Irish name, right? For all I know she may have IRA connections.’
Joe’s jaw dropped. But before he could object, Chade had resumed.
‘No, my mind’s made up. At first light tomorrow we’ll move them on. I’d do it now, but it would make a rumpus, and given that half of them are no doubt stoned I wouldn’t care to let them loose on any public road by night.’ He turned away, seeking one of his subordinates.
‘Just a moment, sir!’ Joe burst out. Chade scowled at him, but he ploughed on.
‘Sir, there’s something that you haven’t thought about.’
‘Such as?’ Chade curled his lip.
‘Reporters in the village, sir. Two of them at least, on top of our own local one. One’s from the Banner and the other’s from the Globe.’
Chade said slowly, ‘All right, Constable. I think you have a point. Any suggestions?’
‘There’s going to be a public meeting tomorrow. The new doctor is supposed to speak, along with Mr Phibson. Mr Mender will be in the chair. I don’t know much about Dr Gloze, but people keep saying he’s very level-headed. I bumped into Penny Wenstowe – that’s the daughter of our local builder – and she was over the moon about him. Mr Mender thinks quite highly of him, too. Wouldn’t it be better if …?’
‘If what?’
‘If we let these people be persuaded by the meeting that there isn’t anything happening here after all? I mean, even though a few people have taken Parson’s claims at face value, a visitation from the Devil isn’t something they can go on crediting for long.’ His confidence was growing as he realized that Chade was paying serious attention.
‘I gather that the archdeacon may be coming, who can put Mr Phibson in his place from the Church’s point of view. With him, and the doctor, and Mr Mender – chairman of the council – all setting their minds on clearing up the matter … Well, oughtn’t that to disappoint them enough?’
‘You mean you think that after tomorrow night they’ll pack up and leave of their own accord?”
‘I’d bet on it,’ Joe said boldly. ‘Particularly if a few people poke fun at them. They’re like most of us: they like to be taken seriously, and if everyone around is laughing at them – well!’
Chade pondered for a while. Joe added diffidently, ‘Besides, both the reporters are from Sunday papers. If we move them on by force tomorrow, it’ll make headlines. If we let them drift away on Sunday … See my point?’
With unexpected cordiality Chade said, ‘You have a head on your shoulders, don’t you? All right, you’ve convinced me. They can stick around till Sunday. But if anything else happens like that theft from the hotel –’
‘Sir!’ Joe said. The bunch that are left – I happen to know this for a fact – are vegetarians. They’re very strict. They don’t even wear leather shoes. The ones that we’ve knocked off weren’t part of the same group.’
Chade considered a moment longer, and then shrugged.
‘Very well. It’s your patch, and you say you’ve met ’em before. I’ll take what you say on trust. But bear in mind that if you’re wrong I’ll have your guts for garters!’
What a day it had been! That incredible morning surgery – and the evening one that had been nearly as busy – the death of Miss Knabbe – that damned photographer – the need to organize a post-mortem and an inquest, though the police took care of most of that – and now this approach from the parish councillors, half bribe and half threat … Hoping that his supper at the Weapers’ wouldn’t have been spoiled by keeping warm so long, Steven emerged from the bar of the Bridge Hotel pondering the implications, and halted in the porchway on realizing with dismay that it was raining hard. When he left the Doctor’s House it had been barely drizzling, and in any case he had been piled into a car. Now his own – not his, but Dr Tripkin’s, which he had the use of during his stay – was a good half-mile away.
Maybe someone here could lend him an umbrella.
He was about to turn indoors again when Jenny’s Mini pulled up and she called to him.
‘Steven! Steven! It is you, isn’t it …? Do you know where Wallace Jantrey is – the reporter from the Banner? I thought lots of pressmen would be here by now but he seems to be the only one who’s bothered to turn up!’
She was leaning across to the passenger window. The light above the hotel entrance revealed an expression of anxiety and discontent on her pretty face.
‘Apparently he’s been trying to contact me, but some idiot in the office forgot to tell me! I only found out by accident when some of us were having a drink after work!’
‘I don’t know where he is,’ Steven said stonily, ‘and I don’t much care. Not after what his photographer did.’
‘Steve –’
At precisely that moment a Ford Sierra drove past from the direction of the bridge, braked abruptly, and reversed until its tail was almost in contact with the Mini’s nose. Heedless of the rain, both driver and passenger jumped out.
‘Miss Severance?’ the former inquired. ‘Oh, good! I’ve been looking out for your car – I was given its number.’
‘Are you Wallace Jantrey?’ she exclaimed excitedly.
‘Ah … No. My name is Donald Prosher.’
‘From the Globe? Goodness me!’ At once her expression was all sunshine. ‘How do you do?’
Shrugging, Steven turned to go inside and ask about that umbrella. Catching him by the arm, the Sierra’s passenger said, ‘Are you Dr Gloze, by any chance?’
Reporters!
But the Globe was a cut above the Banner, after all. With a sigh Steven admitted his identity.
‘I’m Wilf Spout. Don and I have been looking for you too. Don, I found the doctor!’
‘Great! Look, let’s all go inside, shall we?’
Jenny was prompt to jump out. But Steven shook his head.
‘Sorry. I’ve had enough of the press for one day. Besides, I’m late for dinner.’
Darting to join the others in the shelter of the porch, Jenny said, ‘You can’t be looking forward that much to Mrs Weaper’s cooking – not after what you said about it yesterday.’
Steven was obliged to give ground. He said, ‘Anyway, I’ve just been talking to some people in there, and I said I wanted to go away and think things over. It’s going to look pretty odd
if I go straight back in. And what with one thing and another I’ve had a hell of a day.’
‘I have an idea,’ Don murmured. ‘Doctor, are you on call?’
‘Ah … No, not tonight.’
‘When we came through Chapminster this morning I noticed a Chinese restaurant. Suppose both of you let my paper take you out to dinner.’
‘Oh, you mean the Silver Moon!’ Jenny exclaimed. ‘Yes, it’s very good! Steve, come on! If you’ve really had such a bad day … And you can ring up Mrs Weaper when we get there.’
Abruptly it seemed like a very good idea. Steven gave a wan smile of agreement, and two minutes later the Sierra was swinging around the green and heading back towards the bridge with him and Jenny in the back seat.
He could not resist a mild gibe, though.
‘You gave up pretty quick on your search for Wallace,’ hemurmured.
‘Well …’ Jenny bit her lip. ‘He could be anywhere, couldn’t he? And Mr Prosher –’
He’d been listening. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Don.’ ‘– Don … He’s not even from one of the papers that I got in touch with.’
She leaned forward, grasping the back of the driver’s seat, as the car traversed the ‘new estate’ with its wipers slapping.
‘So what did bring you to Weyharrow – uh – Don? Did you hear about it from someone I did ring up last night?’
To Steven it seemed that Don suppressed a faint sigh as he braked at the edge of the village before switching his headlamps to full beam against the rain and gathering dark and making the left turn towards Chapminster.
‘At the risk of disappointing you,’ he murmured, ‘I have to admit that we were on to the story rather earlier.’
‘How?’ Jenny demanded in dismay.
Steven snapped his fingers. ‘Let me guess!’ he exclaimed. That tour guide! The one who started talking about flying saucers at Stonehenge!’
‘Precisely.’
‘But –’ Jenny began, then broke off. ‘Oh. Her coach broke down near here, didn’t it?’
‘We passed the very spot a moment ago,’ Don said. ‘And the first person I talked to this morning was the mechanic who turned out to fix it.’
‘Mr Fidger,’ Wilf supplied.
‘That’s right.’
Jenny looked, in the occasional glow of oncoming headlights, as though she could have kicked herself. She said, ‘What did Tom have to say? Or is it private?’
‘Not at all,’ Don said, slowing as they approached Powte and its thirty-mile limit. ‘He confirmed what the coachdriver had already told us. Mrs Kailet was acting quite normally – apart from being a bit agitated, as you might expect. After all, her tour was hours behind schedule, and the people were getting somewhat stroppy.’
They passed Powte School and the end-of-limit sign, and he accelerated back to fifty.
‘So what did you make of all that?’ Steven ventured at length.
Don shrugged. ‘That I was on to a non-story, of course. Matter of fact, I began to wonder why my editor had sent us here, because it looked as though the poor woman had simply broken down under overload. But that was before I heard about the parson. Then I changed my mind completely.’
‘Quite a guy, is our editor,’ Wilf grunted. ‘Got the sharpest nose for news I ever ran across.’
‘Right,’ Don agreed. The lights of Chapminster loomed ahead, and he slowed abruptly. ‘Jenny, do I go left or right at the next fork?’
‘The restaurant is on the right but there’s a no-entry further on. Take the left and I’ll show you where to park, near an alley we can cut through without getting wet.’
‘Fine.’
And none of them said any more of consequence until they were seated and studying the restaurant’s menu.
It was not, Steven feared, going to be a very jolly dinner. He himself was preoccupied; Jenny was downcast – whether she was in awe of Don because he worked for the prestigious Globe, or whether she was simply annoyed with herself for not insisting on being allowed to follow up the Weyharrow mystery instead of tamely agreeing to cover a funeral, or whatever – while Wilf was clearly taciturn by nature, and confined himself to brief utterances at extended intervals.
That left Don. And he transformed the atmosphere in two minutes flat, by handing his menu back to the waiter and addressing him in Chinese.
Astonished, the latter beamed, nodded, beamed again, and collected all their menus.
‘Was that really Chinese you were talking?’ Jenny breathed. ‘Where did you learn it?’
‘Hong Kong … I hope you don’t think I’m being highhanded, but in this kind of restaurant there are usually a few goodies not on the list. Even in a place like this they keep them for their special customers. I just told him to see what the chef can do for us, all right?’
It was indeed all right. Tiny cups of a fiery aperitif were succeeded by plates of something crispy and dark green – deep-fried seaweed, Don explained. After that came crabs with ginger, and after that chicken cooked four different ways, and after that two kinds of pork plus vegetables and straw mushrooms and, only at the very end, a dish of rice. Lastly, when Steven would have expected a dessert, there was a boiling-hot clear soup, so aromatic that it scented half the room before the waiter even poured it out.
Customers at other tables looked round enviously, wondering who these people were to merit special treatment.
‘Would anybody care for a sweet?’ Don suggested.
Steven leaned back and failed to repress a burp. He shook his head. A meal like that was capable of transforming the world, and for him it had done so; that was enough. The others declined as well.
‘Tea?’
To that they all said yes. Waiting for it to arrive, Steven realized with a start that they had scarcely spoken as they ate.
Warmly he said, ‘Don, thanks a million! I’ve only been at Weyharrow a week – no, less, because I arrived last Sunday – and I’d already forgotten what real food is like!’
Don gave a modest smile. For the first time Steven realized he was rather handsome: fifty, perhaps, but lean, with a craggy face and tightly-curling hair poised between light brown and grey. Reaching in his pocket, he said, ‘Does anybody mind if I have a cigar? I’ll try and blow the fumes well clear of you … Thanks. Anyone else care for one? No?’
When the cigar was lit – the waiter rushed up with a box of matches – he leaned back and breathed the first smoke at the ceiling. Still gazing upward, he said, ‘Steven, what are you going to say at this meeting tomorrow?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Steven admitted after a pause. ‘I was going to spend this evening thinking about it.’
‘I’d have thought something could be worked out along the lines of lies and damned lies. And …’
‘Statistics,’ Steven supplied automatically, sampling his tea and finding it still too hot to drink. ‘I’m not quite sure I follow that.’
‘Well, let’s consider what we have.’ Don set his elbows on the table. ‘Suppose we start with our unfortunate tour guide. After all, that was what brought me and Wilf here.’
‘You said,’ Jenny butted in, ‘she more than likely broke down under stress. And she’d been in contact with someone from Weyharrow who then did something silly himself: Tom.’
‘I suspect you’re thinking the way I was at one stage,’ Don said in a warm tone that made her blush with pleasure. ‘Some sort of contagious hysteria, right? How does a doctor feel about that idea?’
Steven frowned. ‘You mean the sort of thing they sometimes get in convents and girls’ schools?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Wouldn’t wash.’ A vigorous headshake. ‘I mean, if we’re still talking about what I can say at tomorrow’s meeting.’
‘I entirely agree.’ The waiter brought an ashtray and Don tipped his cigar into it. The last thing people in Weyharrow want to hear is that some collective disorder is afflicting them. On the other hand, if it turned out that through some statistical freak an u
nusually large concentration of individuals experienced, in one small area, the kind of trouble that’s going on all over the country all the time, but doesn’t get widely reported because a single nervous breakdown, say, isn’t material for headlines … Are you with me?’
‘I am indeed,’ Steven said, nodding repeatedly.
‘I’m not sure I am,’ Jenny said obstinately. There is something collective about what’s happening. It started with Mr Phibson, but it spread.’
‘You mean the fact that even a hard-headed publican and his wife – let alone the religious fanatic wife of a hard-up farmer – fell for this yarn about the Devil taking over? Oh, I think that’s about the easiest part of it to deal with, don’t you, Steven?’
All of a sudden Steven’s mind seemed to be working in top gear. He said, ‘I can think of half a dozen ways to explain that away. I could start by poking a bit of fun at people who’ve watched too many horror films on telly.’
‘That’s the kind of line I had in mind,’ Don concurred. ‘Go on.’
‘And when you consider every case in turn, forgetting for the moment about the others … Yes, I like it. Don, I’m much obliged.’
‘Spell it out!’ Jenny insisted. ‘I keep feeling like I’m left behind!’
‘All right.’ Steven tasted his tea again, found it cooler, and took a healthy swig. ‘If you examine each separate case, you can find the causative factors perfectly easily. Start with Mr Phibson. If I have to do this in public, of course, it’ll be rather cruel, but –’
‘But better that than let the notion of a diabolic incursion fester,’ Don suggested.
‘Yes, exactly. Now I don’t know all that much about the people who have been affected, but I did have quite a long talk with Mr Phibson, and I’ve also had a word with his housekeeper, Mrs Judger – whom he tried to turn out of the parsonage, by the way; did you know …? Ah, you did, Don. I could have guessed. You really are a newshound, aren’t you?’
That provoked Don to a modest smile. Another sip of tea, and Steven resumed, ticking names off on his fingers.