The Shift Key (17 page)

‘We thought you’d been boning up on all this stuff!’ said one of them.

Seething, Vic was more than customarily rude to his afternoon classes … though in his heart of hearts he was relieved to think that his article was not after all going to appear in the
Chronicle
, at least in the form that he remembered.

He’d promised it to Jenny Severance. He must get in touch and apologize.

Luckily, this term, he had arranged to have no extra duties on Friday. He was able to pile into his car immediately the final bell rang and head for home.

Or, more precisely, for Weyharrow Green. He wanted to talk to the returning pilgrims.

It was going to be another rainy night. Chris was much relieved about that; it would discourage people from coming out later on and messing with the camp-site. A good few of the younger locals, met last summer, had dropped by to say hello – some visibly tempted by the idea of cutting loose from their roots and taking to the road rather than hanging around here where there was neither work nor fun to be found – and
some had warned of exactly what he feared: an attack on the hippies under cover of dark.

On the other hand, the drizzle did make it hard to keep the fire alight …

Such problems, though, paled into insignificance when he saw a familiar orange car draw up behind the bus, a baby Renault. He exclaimed aloud.

‘That’s Vic’s car, isn’t it? Vic Draycock’s?’

Indeed it was. Hair tousled, looking harassed, Vic emerged to shake their hands and kiss some cheeks. He still looked excessively respectable in suit and tie, but one had to make allowances; it was because of his headmaster’s stuck-in-the-mud attitude, and he stood to lose his job if he gainsaid the guy.

The pilgrims had debated the problem last summer, and come to the conclusion, if reluctantly, that it was better on the whole for there to be some people like Vic around, who might help to open children’s minds a bit.

But when they invited him into the shelter of the bus, the first thing that he said was most unpromising: ‘I daren’t stay long, I’m afraid. Carol’s expecting me for supper. I just dropped by to say hello and find out what’s going down.’

Going down? Oh, well
…

Chris shrugged. ‘We’ve spent all day talking about it. We think the ancient power is stirring again. We don’t know why, but it could be to do with the weather, or the pattern we created when we came here in the summer … What do you think?’

After a pause Vic muttered, not looking at him, ‘I’m almost ashamed to admit how out of touch I’ve been. I had to be told what’s been happening by the kids.’

‘Well, you do remember we performed some rituals … Say, we were talking earlier to Cedric. Have you seen him this afternoon?’

Vic shook his head. ‘I’ve been in school.’

‘It’s very odd. He went off to try and talk Colin and Rosie into letting us in the pub – they’re putting up barricades – and Stick went with him, and we haven’t seen either of them since … Speak of the devil!’

Stick himself was banging on the door of the bus, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. Now the rain was thickening; Rhoda made haste to let him in.

Shaking wet from his hair, he climbed aboard and sat down, bestowing smiles and greetings. ‘Hi! Hi, Vic! Hi! Listen, Cedric said you’d asked if I’m holding, and the answer’s yes, so –’

‘But what’s become of Cedric?’ interrupted Rhoda.

‘Chickened out.’

‘What?’

‘After we left the Marriage he got back on his bike. Went home, I suppose.
I
don’t know why! I don’t think it was anything I said … I’ll make a guess, though.’

All faces looked expectant.

‘There’s been a crisis at the stately home. His old man took leave of his senses yesterday, just like the parson, right?’ Stick gazed seriously at each of his listeners in turn. ‘And if I know Cedric, he got scared. He found Colin and Rosie treating this bit about the Devil literally. That hadn’t crossed his mind before. I don’t know for sure if that was it, but it could be. Could be.’

He sat back, linking hands around one upraised knee.

‘That’s not what I came to tell you, though.’

‘Then what?’ – from half a dozen throats.

‘You got some hangers-on. Some steaming nits who think they’re holy beggars. Seems a few of them decided this is the bit of the world that owes them a living today. So the fuzz are back. In force.’

Chris started. ‘We didn’t hear –’

And at almost the same moment Vic said, ‘Where? I didn’t
see them.’

‘Down by the river. Didn’t have the lights or sirens on. But I was on my way home and I saw them picking up a bunch of
samideanoj
–’

‘What?’

‘It’s Esperanto.’ Stick was forever coming up with improbable scraps of information; sometimes people pestered him with questions about his past, but he never talked of it, not even to Sheila. ‘Means “people with the same ideas”. I remember someone suggested we ought to invent the word “milver” so as to have a rhyme for “silver”, which there isn’t … Where was I? Oh, yes: the fuzz.

‘I had a word with Joe Book and apparently Tim – the chef at the hotel – caught them raiding his larder.’

‘Not our lot!’ Chris exclaimed.

‘Nobody I recognized,’ Stick concurred. ‘But Joe said they’d taken a side of beef –’

‘We don’t eat meat!’ Rhoda cried.

‘I know, I
know!
And this lot weren’t planning to eat it either. Said they wanted it for a blood sacrifice at midnight. Not that I see how that could work, do you?’

Rhoda said in a dead tone, ‘Sounds like the lot we didn’t let come with us to church this morning.’

Chris bit his lip before remembering how swollen and tender it was. He heaved a sigh.

‘You could be right. Shit! That’s going to get us the worst possible publicity. Here we are trying to be non-violent and respect other people’s ideas, even if we don’t hold with private property, and … A sacrifice? Oh,
shit!
I knew the vibes were bad round here, but this is worse than any of us thought. Right?’

A chorus of agreement followed.

‘Maybe we should sort them out,’ someone proposed.

‘Too late.’ Stick spread his hands. ‘The fuzz already did.’

There was an empty pause. Vic broke it by rising to
his feet.

‘I’ll see you in the morning, friends. There’s a lot I want to talk about. Right now –’

‘Right now,’ Stick interrupted, ‘why don’t you tell the people about tomorrow’s meeting?’

Vic shook his head, one hand on the bus’s door.

‘Why is it that I always seem to be ahead of everyone with news?’ Stick pulled a face. ‘It’s set for eight, in the village hall. All we’ve got to do is survive the next twenty-four hours. You planning any rituals?’

Chris and Rhoda exchanged glances. She said at length, ‘Maybe a private one.’

‘My advice is: keep it private. After what those nitwits did … Well, I’d best be on my way.’

‘Me too!’ Vic said, as though released from mental bondage. ‘Want a ride home? It’s raining pretty hard.’

‘Sure, thanks … I’ll see you in the morning, gang.’

The door slammed shut. Despondent, Chris said, ‘I knew the vibes were bad. I said so, didn’t I? But this is
bad.
We better work the rite. There’s power loose, and I don’t like it much.’

‘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?’