Murder in the Green (13 page)

‘Like what?’

‘Stupid things like trying to investigate when it should be left to the police,’ said Libby, feeling the colour mounting into her face. ‘That’s why he gets mad at me.’

‘See, you do know a lot about it,’ said Gemma. ‘I just thought –’

‘That I could talk someone into confessing? Or into not shielding someone else? No chance. They wouldn’t listen to me. People always think they know best. They watch television programmes and see the heroine go into the dark cellar, and they say “Oh, don’t be daft! She wouldn’t do that!” then they go and do virtually the same thing themselves.’

Gemma’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, in a dispirited voice.

‘Do you actually suspect any of these people in Bill’s group of being his murderer?’ asked Libby. ‘Or do you think there’s something going on with them down here? That they’d have thought of him as a sacrifice?’

Gemma looked scared. ‘I know it sounds silly,’ she said, ‘but I knew about Goat’s Head Morris, and then all the others were going after them into the woods…’

‘But Bill didn’t die down here.’

‘No, but the Green Man is symbolic and in some rituals is killed off.’

‘Not in modern south-east England he isn’t,’ said Libby. ‘Not in the middle of a parade. Now, if there were any
clandestine
rituals it would have happened then.’ She paused suddenly.

‘What is it?’ said Gemma, after a moment.

‘Do you know anything about Tyne Chapel?’

Gemma’s brow wrinkled. ‘Isn’t it somewhere near Steeple Mount?’

‘Just outside, part of an old estate,’ said Libby.

‘Why did you want to know?’

‘No reason.’ Libby looked at her quickly. ‘I just wondered if Cranston Morris had ever used it, that’s all.’

‘What would we use it for? Isn’t it derelict?’

‘Not completely,’ said Libby. ‘I thought you might use it as a rehearsal space.’

‘Good heavens, no!’ Gemma laughed. ‘That has to be in a pub, or the men would want to know the reason why. Beer’s part of the tradition of Morris dancing.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Libby, ‘the archetypal Morris dancer: Arran sweater, beard and pewter tankard.’

‘Accordion, fiddle and bodhrun as side options. And the trouble is – it’s true! Dan and I even conform in that we’re teachers.’

‘Oh, well, you can’t have everything,’ said Libby obscurely. ‘At least you look more cheerful now.’

‘I suppose you’ve made me see I was being a bit silly,’ said Gemma, although Libby still didn’t think she looked entirely happy.

‘Well, if they sneak off into the woods tonight, why don’t you follow them,’ said Libby. ‘Then you’ll be able to have a good old laugh at whatever it is they’re doing.’

‘Not if it’s sacrifice.’ Gemma shuddered. ‘It might be a rabbit or – or – a goat.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, tonight’s Mannan Night, isn’t it? They won’t do anything awful tonight. They’ll be too busy showing off.’

Chapter Thirteen

Lewis, Jerry and Boysie had had no luck in tracking down Bernie Lee, but had managed to record some colourful locals talking about their previous experiences of Mannan Night. Florian Malahyde, however, despite being on view at his shop, refused to talk about it, or about anything, in fact.

‘All he’d do was nod,’ said Lewis over lunch at the terrace cafe. ‘I asked if he’d given permission for us to film and he nodded. Then I asked him if he could tell us something about the history of the festival and he shook his head. And so it went on.’

Lewis bit into a giant-sized pasty. ‘And you’re right – he is weird,’ he said with his mouth full.

Boysie nodded in agreement, long hair flying. ‘Weird.’

‘Swings both ways, I reckon,’ said Jerry.

‘Hangs straight down, more like,’ said Lewis.

‘Asexual,’ Libby added sagely. ‘A sort of hermaphrodite.’

‘So Bernie Lee’s off somewhere preparing for tonight and Florian Malahyde won’t talk to us. What did your mate have to say?’ said Lewis.

‘Not a lot that was relevant,’ said Libby. ‘All she would say is that Goat’s Head Morris have a reputation for conducting sacrifices.’

‘What?’

‘Bloody Hell!’

‘Phmph!’

‘That’s what I said.’ Libby took a bite of her pasty. ‘As far as I can see it’s only a rumour, probably put about by Goat’s Head themselves to create a bit of mystery and perhaps keep people away if they’re doing something a bit iffy.’

‘Like what?’ said Lewis.

‘Drugs, maybe? Gemma said they’re all Goth types. Or just simple, straightforward orgies. You never know.’

‘Are orgies simple and straightforward?’ asked Jerry, looking interested.

‘How do I know?’ Libby made a face at him. ‘But they’re not illegal, are they? Just immoral.’

‘How do we find out?’ said Lewis, wiping crumbs from his mouth with a paper napkin.

‘That’s not part of your remit, is it? You’re just looking at Mannan Night and the history of it.’

‘Yeah, but it’d be good to get a bit of smut in as well,’ said Lewis with a grin.

‘Bet your producers wouldn’t like it, and anyway, you’d have to get permission or be sued.’

Lewis sighed. ‘There is that, of course. So, what next? Do we go up and have a look at this wicker man thing before tonight?’

‘I’ve had a look,’ said Boysie. ‘Can’t get near it.’

‘Oh.’ Lewis looked dispirited. ‘What do we do, then?’

‘See if there’s a museum?’ suggested Libby. ‘They might have something about it.’

Mr Jones, when applied to for information once more, suggested they try the museum in Plymouth. ‘Nothing here,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Although the reception at the holiday park might have something.’

‘Holiday park?’ said Libby. ‘Where’s that?’

‘Up on the cliffs to the west,’ said Mr Jones, waving vaguely. ‘Not a holiday
camp
, you understand, more upmarket.’

Following his instructions, all five of the party crammed themselves into Lewis’s SUV and set off for the upmarket holiday park, which proved to be a group of “lodges” set round a large central pavilion which housed a swimming pool and fitness centre. The reception area and attendant receptionist were both sleek and prosperous-looking, and the receptionist was extremely well informed.

‘There’s no museum nearer than Plymouth,’ she said. ‘All the local attractions have leaflets and things, but nothing else.’

Asked about Mannan Night, she simply shook her head. ‘I know it happens, but it’s just like a firework night, isn’t it? There’s no carnival or anything.’

‘There’s a bit of a fair, I think,’ said Lewis.

‘Oh, well, if you find out anything tonight, would you let me know? It’d be useful to tell the punters – I mean, clients.’ She blushed prettily.

‘It’ll be on the telly, anyway,’ said Lewis. ‘You’ll get a plug from that, won’t you?’

‘Oh!’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m ever so sorry – I didn’t recognise you.’ Her colour deepened. ‘Here –’ she fished out a notebook from a large handbag ‘– can I have your autograph?’ Jerry and Boysie looked bored and Libby looked on with interest. This was the first time she’d seen Lewis in his role as a television personality.

‘Well, we didn’t get very far there,’ said Jerry as they went back to the car.

‘Yes we did. We found out that there’s not much point in looking for a museum,’ said Libby. ‘And I like the look of those lodges. I wouldn’t mind staying in one of those.’

Lewis shuddered. ‘Right out here on the cliffs? With all that sea around?’

‘Lovely!’ Libby grinned at him. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to civilization.’

‘If you call Portherriot civilization,’ muttered Lewis, swinging himself into the driver’s seat.

They made a detour to the top of the cliffs above Portherriot bay, in case they could see the erection that contained the wicker man, but were deterred by temporary fencing cutting off the point. Lewis wanted to go and question Gemma again about Goat’s Head Morris and their supposed sacrifices, but Libby was firm.

‘It was bad enough with me this morning,’ she said. ‘You’d throw her into a complete spin if you started in on her. We’ll just watch what happens tonight.’

‘If we can see anything,’ grumbled Lewis.

‘It’s up to Jerry and Boysie to “see” things. You’ve got to talk to people.’

‘If they’ll talk to me. Haven’t had much luck so far.’

‘You said you talked to people this morning.’

‘Yes, but they didn’t know much. I want the history.’

‘The dirt, you mean,’ said Libby, amused.

‘Well, yeah. Was it fertility, sacrifice, or what?’

‘And you think because Goat’s Head Morris have this reputation for sacrifice, that’s what the Mannan figure will be? A sacrifice?’

‘Well, why not? Stands to reason, dunnit?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, it’s chucked in the sea for the sea god, so yes, it is a sacrifice. Except it’s not a real person.’

‘It would have been once, wouldn’t it?’ said Lewis.

‘When I looked it up, as far as I can remember, it said that the Druids burned men inside wicker cages made in human form. But after that, it was just wicker giants paraded through the streets. Like tonight, I suppose.’

‘Yeah, but they don’t parade it, do they? They just set light to it and chuck it in the sea.’

‘It’s the same thing,’ said Libby.

Mr Jones had opened the restaurant early to accommodate visitors who wished to attend the celebrations, so Libby, Lewis, Jerry and Boysie congregated in the bar at 5.30 for a pre-prandial drink. Although Libby was the only one with alcohol.

‘Can’t,’ said Jerry. ‘Drunk cameramen are as much use as a chocolate teapot.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Libby looked mournfully down at the tonic water and two lemonades. ‘I feel guilty, now.’

‘We’ll make up for it after,’ said Lewis. ‘Or they will, anyway.’

After dinner, Jerry, Boysie and Lewis collected their various items of equipment and met Libby outside the Portherriot Arms.

‘Here we go a-wassailing, then,’ said Libby.

‘Huh?’ Jerry looked puzzled.

‘Never mind,’ said Libby. ‘Looks exciting, doesn’t it?’

And, indeed, it did look exciting. Although the sky was still blue, torches had sprung up all over the little square, on the beach and up the lane beside the hotel. Libby noticed that all the seaside paraphernalia hung outside Florian Malahyde’s shop had gone, presumably as it would cause a fire hazard, although, she realised, Florian himself wouldn’t be there anyhow. He would be somewhere on the cliffs, presumably in whatever outfit suited his role as Mannan Night organiser.

Another path, not discovered as yet by Lewis’s party, was lit, leading from the little jetty opposite the terrace cafe. As it appeared that this was the favoured route, Lewis set off to follow the steady stream of spectators. Libby trailed behind, feeling excited. There was something about this event that took her straight back to childhood. Perhaps it was torchlight against the evening sky, perhaps it was because, for the second time in a week, she could see the bright and garish colours of an old-fashioned carousel, but she could almost be twelve years old again and going across the common to the travelling fair, accompanied by her schoolfriend Mary and Mary’s older brother, Stuart, whose instructions from both sets of parents had been to “stick close to those girls and don’t let them go on the waltzers!” Needless to say, Stuart had disappeared the minute they’d arrived at the fairground and been enveloped in the special candy-floss, engine oil and fried onion smell of the fair.

Nearing the top of the lane and the site of the festivities, no longer roped off, Libby felt the same excitement that she had then, all those years ago. She wondered how Mary was now, how Stuart was, if he’d married his girlfriend. She really must write to Mary.

‘What are you dreaming about?’ Lewis turned round and came to a stop in front of her. ‘You goin’ to help me with this interviewing?’

‘Am I supposed to be?’

‘Thought you might want to. Don’t have to. You can go off and do your own thing.’

‘I’d rather, if you don’t mind,’ said Libby. ‘I want to see if I can find Gemma.’ And find out what goes on in those woods, she added privately, even though she herself had said there would probably be no time for private ceremonies that night. You never knew what might happen after the main event.

As the sky darkened, the revellers revelled harder. All the old-fashioned fairground stalls were there; coconut shy, hoopla, roll-down game, duck-shooting gallery and a fat lady photo-booth. As well as the gallopers, there was a proper helter-skelter and a chairoplane. Candy floss and hot dogs were almost as popular as the beer from the beer tent, manned, Libby wasn’t surprised to see, by two of Mr Jones’s youths, perspiring heavily and looking harassed.

At last a voice bellowed out from a megaphone – no electronic nonsense here, thought Libby – and the audience was exhorted to come to the site on the edge of the cliff where the giant wicker man stood on his plinth. All the rides shut down and all the lights went out. Libby joined the press of people around the enclosure and could just make out Lewis, with Boysie’s fluffy microphone waving above his head.