The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (3 page)

“You were?” prompted Black.

She faltered slightly. “Well, I don’t think that I should say any more...”

“What’s the matter, Mrs Braddock?” asked Black in his most reassuring tone.

“It’s just... well, I’d be betraying a confidence, is all. That’s the problem with bloody secrets, ain’t it? You’re supposed to keep ’em to yourself.” She looked rueful.

“Ah. I see your dilemma. But then, there are secrets, and there are
secrets,
if you follow me?” said Black, conspiratorially.

“Not really, love. No,” replied Mrs Braddock, with a frown.

Black sighed. “Mr Blakemore is missing, and quite possibly in need of urgent assistance. Surely, if it results in his safe return, he won’t hold it against you if you’ve told me in confidence whatever it is you’re keeping secret for him.”

Mrs Braddock slurped noisily at her tea. “Oh well, when you put it like that,” she said, hurriedly, “then I don’t suppose I have a choice!”

“I’d say not,” encouraged Black, stifling a laugh.

“It was last week, it happened. It was late in the evening and I’d popped down for a tot of rum.” She cupped her hand around her mouth and leaned closer to Black, as if worried that someone might overhear. “I’m in the habit of takin’ a small measure before bed, you see. Just a snifter.” She sat back, straightening up on the stool and acting as if her little aside had never occurred. “Well, he was bent double by the back door, hacking his guts up. Bloody disgusting, it was. Literally. It was all over the floor.”

“What did you do?” asked Black.

“What do you think?” replied Mrs Braddock, incredulous that he should even ask such a thing. “I went to offer my help. He was flushed and disoriented, so I loosened his collar and opened the back door to let in some fresh air. The place stank.” She took another swig of her tea, which, Black decided, must have been tepid by this point. “The cold air seemed to bring him round a bit and his coughing subsided. I got him up and walked him through here, to the kitchen, where I cleaned him up. At first he was all apologetic, a bit sheepish, like, but he thanked me for my efforts, once he realised there was no need to be embarrassed. So I fixed him a hot toddy and dragged out a bucket and mop to sort out his mess.”

“I take it he hadn’t simply over-indulged at the village pub?” asked Black.

Mrs Braddock shook her head. “Not the way he was carrying on. You should’ve heard him. Sounded like he was about to expire. His lungs were giving him gyp. And all that blood...” She trailed off. “Well, it was clear as the day is long that he was in a bad way.”

“Did he talk to you about it?”

Mrs Braddock nodded. “Aye, and in truth they might have been the first real words we’d shared since he joined us over a year ago. Possibly the last, too.”

“And?”

“He told me it’d been going on for weeks. That he’d been to see the doctor, who explained there was nothing they could do. He has a lung condition, you see, and it’s only a matter of time...” She looked stricken at the memory, and Black remained tight-lipped while she composed herself.

“He said he’d tried everything. Tonics and potions, the lot. But nothing was working. So I... I told him about Martha.” She shook her head and issued a long, heartfelt sigh. “Look at me, ruddy fool that I am. Getting all maudlin.”

“Tell me about Martha,” said Black. “Tell me what you told Mr Blakemore.”

Mrs Braddock frowned. “I should never have said anything. I shouldn’t have given him hope. It’s just that...”

“Go on.”

“Martha’s my sister-in-law, annoying bat that she is. She told me a story, about a woman who can heal people, using the old ways. Claims she knows a man who was brought back from the brink of death.”

“The old ways?” asked Black.

“Magic,” replied Mrs Braddock, in a sepulchral whisper. “Funny stuff. Rituals with herbs and plants. That sort of thing.”

“Herbs like the ones you’re using in your kitchen? They smell delightful,” said Black.

Mrs Braddock frowned. “No.” She paused. “Well, perhaps. But it’s all about how you
use
them,” she said, a little defensively.

“I see,” said Black, trying to keep the scepticism from his voice. “And you think Mr Blakemore might have gone in search of this woman?”

“Wouldn’t you? If you’d run out of options, if you’d tried everything else. Wouldn’t you at least want to try?”

“Yes. I rather think I would,” conceded Black. “Do you know where I might find her?”

Mrs Braddock shook her head. “I told Mr Blakemore to ask in the village.”

“Then Sir Maurice and I shall do the same,” said Black. “My thanks to you, Mrs Braddock. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Do you think you’ll find him?” she asked suddenly, her guard slipping.

Black shrugged. “We’ll try.”

She nodded, getting down from her stool and smoothing the front of her apron. “Was there anything else?”

“A crumpet, perhaps? Or a piece of that rather spiffing-looking pie?” chanced Black, with a grin.

“You cheeky bugger!” was her only response.

The village, it transpired, was little more than a hamlet: a cluster of small stone cottages around a central square, with a single inn—The Saracen’s Head—and an old, decommissioned well. It was picturesque and welcoming, but Black couldn’t help thinking that, if forced to remain in such environs for more than a few days, he’d be at serious risk of dying from boredom. Quite literally, in fact, given there was nothing to do but ensconce oneself at the inn and drink. And he did like a drink.

Save for the gentle wisps of curling smoke that rose from a handful of chimney stacks, the village appeared utterly devoid of activity. No figures could be seen on the quiet lanes; no sounds of chatter or toil from the surrounding fields.

Given this apparent paucity of life, Newbury and Black settled on The Saracen’s Head as the most obvious destination at which to glean the information they sought.

Inside, the inn was an austere, functional sort of place, with roughly hewn wooden tables and stools, and a spitting open fire. Two rust-coloured spaniels lounged luxuriously before the hearth, warming their bellies, and a gaunt-looking man with a balding pate was propped against the bar, apparently engaged in deep thought.

Black hovered by the door and lit a cigarette while Newbury approached the man, coughing politely to gain his attention.

The man—evidently startled by the unexpected arrival of customers—turned to Newbury with a surprised smile. “Oh, ah, hello gentlemen,” he stammered. He moved smoothly around to the other side of the bar, looking at Newbury expectantly. “What’ll it be?”

“Oh, well...” began Newbury, as if to explain to the man that they were only there to ask a few questions, but Black cut in when he saw the crestfallen expression on the barman’s face.

“A gin and tonic, please,” he said, taking two strides forward to join Newbury by the bar, “and whatever my colleague is having.”

Newbury glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “Well, I don’t suppose a small brandy would do any harm,” he conceded.

The barman nodded, shooting a grateful look at Black, and reached for two glasses.

“Gin and tonic? At this hour?” whispered Newbury when the man’s back was turned.

“Trust me,” replied Black, with a cheery smile. “Buying a drink will help loosen his tongue.” He took a pull on his cigarette, expelling the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “And besides, I’m thirsty.”

Newbury sighed and reached for his wallet.

“There we go, gents,” said the barman as he placed their drinks on the wooden counter. He glanced at Black. “Sloe gin. Made from local berries.”

Black took his glass and peered at it for a moment, then took a swig. “That’s very good,” he said, enthused. “Do you cultivate the berries yourself?”

“No,” replied the barman. “They grow wild in these parts. Wild things seem to flourish here.” He glanced at Newbury, who passed him a few coins. “Will you be requiring accommodation?”

Newbury shook his head, reaching for his glass. “No, thank you. We’re not planning to stay.”

The barman gave him a quizzical look. “If you don’t mind me saying, gentlemen, you make an unlikely pair of visitors to these parts. Are you guests up at the big house?”

Newbury grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

The barman laughed. “It’s not often we receive patronage from the manor, but you’re the second in as many weeks. There must be something in the air.”

Newbury glanced at Black. “Well, that’s actually why we’re here. We’re looking for someone.”

The barman narrowed his eyes. “Now don’t go expecting me to get involved in anything nefarious. I prefer to keep my nose clean.”

Newbury put his drink down and spread his hands in a placatory fashion. “Oh no, nothing nefarious. It’s Sir Geoffrey’s valet from the manor. He’s gone missing. No one has seen him for three days, and we’re trying to help. We were led to believe he might have come this way to enquire about the location of an old woman, a healer?”

The barman’s shoulders sagged. “Not been seen for three days, you say?” He dashed his hand against the counter in obvious frustration. “He didn’t listen to me, then. The damn fool.”

“So you
did
speak with him?” prompted Black.

“Oh, yes. I spoke with him. Warned him off. Told him to give it up. But the dogged idiot didn’t listen, and now he’s missing.” The barman’s voice raised in pitch as he spoke, as if the anxiety was physically strangling him.

“Warned him off?” asked Newbury. “From what?”

The barman grabbed a bottle of brandy from beneath the counter and poured himself a generous measure. He swallowed it in one, quick slug, gasping as he dropped the glass on the bar. “He’s not coming back, you know.”

“Tell us,” said Black, levelly.

The barman raised his head, meeting Black’s gaze. “The old woman,” he said. “No one’s seen or heard anything of her for months. She used to be a familiar face around these parts. She lives in a cottage in the woods, and people would go to see her with their ailments, pay her a few coins for her help. She’d recommend herbal remedies or find ways to heal people. Some of the methods she employed were... old fashioned. Ancient ways, handed down through the generations. Always worked, though. Whatever she did, she always found a way to help.” He paused to pour himself another brandy. “Some people—superstitious types—called her a witch and wanted nothing to do with her, but most of us know her as Old Mab, and she’s a kindly sort. A little eccentric, perhaps, but harmless.”

“And this is the woman Mr Blakemore, the valet, came looking for?” asked Newbury.

The barman nodded. “Yes. He said he needed her help.”

“Then why did you warn him off?” said Black. “It sounds as if this ‘Mab’ character might have been able to help him.” He glanced around for an ashtray, and finding none, extinguished his cigarette in his now-empty glass. Newbury shook his head in dismay.

“As I said, no one’s seen anything of her for months,” replied the barman, draining his second glass.

“What’s become of her?” asked Newbury, his brow furrowed. “Has anyone been to search for the woman?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” said the barman, quietly. “They have.”

“And she’s missing?” asked Black.

“No.
They
are.” He looked from Newbury to Black, as if judging their reactions. “No one who’s gone into those woods in the last four months has come out again. God knows what’s become of them. Whatever fate has befallen Old Mab has befallen them, too. There’s something in there. Something unnatural.”

“The ‘haunted woods’ that Sir Geoffrey spoke of,” said Newbury. “That’s why you warned Mr Blakemore against searching for Mab.”

“Precisely,” said the barman. “No matter how desperate he was, he should never have gone near that wood.”

“How many people are unaccounted for?” asked Black.

“Half a dozen, including Mab,” said the barman. “And the local bobby, too. He went in looking for some of the missing village folk. Never returned.”

Newbury pulled his pocket watch from his jacket and popped open the cover. He consulted the dial. “We still have a couple of hours of light,” he said to Black.

“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed the barman, clearly taken aback. “After everything I’ve just said, you’re considering going in there?”

Newbury shrugged. “Someone has to get to the bottom of what’s going on,” he said. “And I do enjoy some old-fashioned haunted woods.”

“You’re mad!” said the barman, shaking his head.

“Quite possibly,” said Newbury. “Are you with me, Templeton?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied Black, clapping Newbury on the shoulder.

“Then God help you both,” muttered the barman, dramatically. “God help you both.”

The woods were as sinister up close as they had appeared from the terrace at the manor that morning. Towering trees, divested of their foliage for the season, stood like stoop-backed sentries, guardians protecting some impregnable realm. Their branches were spiky and gnarled, and to Black seemed like the jagged limbs of an ancient, tentacled beast, poised and waiting to strike. A dark path, shrouded in shadow, led deeper into the heart of the wood.

“It does seem rather... unwelcoming,” said Newbury. “I can understand why the villagers have come to believe there’s something supernatural going on. There’s a definite atmosphere about the place.”

“You can say that again,” said Black. “Are you sure you want to go in there?” He paused, and then decided to say what was on his mind. “We could come back tomorrow, when there’s more light. We could be better prepared.”

“For what?” said Newbury. “How can we prepare for something that may not even exist? We don’t know what we’re going up against, if, indeed, we’re going up against anything at all. There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the missing people.”

“Like a wild animal with a big appetite,” muttered Black, knowing all too well that Newbury was not to be dissuaded from his current plan.

“You have your revolver?” asked Newbury, as if that would be an end to the matter.

Black looked surprised. “What revolver? I never carry a revolver.”