Murder in the Green Read online

  ‘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.

  Around the wicker man, fashioned in the form of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, even down to two sets of arms and legs inside a giant wheel, stood three Morris sides. Cranston Morris had fielded only their male dancers, although a few of the women, including Gemma in full Goddess regalia, stood beside them. Another traditional side stood to attention, holding rappers and wearing startling white shirts and green and white faces and finally, on the far side, sinister in black, feathers floating from their jackets and hats, which were surmounted by animal skulls, were Goat’s Head Morris. The only noise now was the hissing of the torches and the occasional jingle of bells.

  A figure stood below the wicker man on the plinth. It appeared to have long white hair and beard and be dressed in an old-fashioned magician’s robe. As the crowd watched, it bent forward and lifted a large shallow bowl, in which fire suddenly sprang up. Then in a voice which seemed to be neither male nor female, but carried over the whole headland, it chanted:

  ‘On the day of Midsummer, the people of this place give tribute and sacrifice in honour of him who keeps the Gates between the worlds, their first king, Manannán mac Lir, Lord of the Waves, Son of Nine Mothers. Bring forth your offerings to he who makes possible all your journeys between the worlds.’

  A member from each of the Morris sides, and Gemma, as the Goddess, stepped forward and placed something in the bowl. ‘Salt, sea, flower, stone,’ chanted the figure as they did so. As they stepped back, an even more imposing figure in black, complete with cloak, stepped forward from among the Goat’s Head Morris and joined the white-haired figure. Together they lifted unlit torches high in the air before plunging them into the still-burning bowl in front of them. Then together with what seemed to Libby to be an elemental cry, they threw the lit torches into the wicker man.

  Almost as soon as the torches landed, the whole edifice began to move, rolling down a prepared ramp towards the edge of the cliff, gathering speed. It was a terrifying spectacle, the figure of the man inside the wheel almost seeming to move as the flames swept along the limbs towards the torso. As it hit the edge of the ramp, it seemed to rear up into the air before plunging, turning over and over, towards the rocks below.

  A huge cheer went up from the spectators and at once the air was filled with noise. The lights came on, the rides started up and, by the plinth, the dancers began to dance. Libby made her way over to where she had last seen Gemma and, sure enough, found her watching the traditional Cotswold Morris that the three sides were now performing in perfect unison.

  ‘That was impressive,’ said Libby.

  Gemma turned quickly. ‘Oh, Lib, it’s you!’

  ‘Well, duh! Who else did you expect it to be?’

  ‘Could have been anybody,’ said Gemma, looking round furtively.

  ‘You have got the wind up, haven’t you?’ said Libby, tucking her arm into Gemma’s. ‘Are you off duty, now? Shall we go and get a drink?’

  ‘We’ll never get served,’ said Gemma. ‘Too many people. I’ve got a bottle of wine in my basket over there, though, if I can creep round and get it.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Libby. ‘Shall I wait here?’

  Gemma nodded and began to edge round the perimeter of the enclosure. The crowds had drifted off now, only a few diehards remaining to watch the dancers. The plinth above them was now deserted, the black and white figures nowhere to be seen. Gemma arrived back with her basket.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘screw-top bottle and two plastic glasses. I bought one for Dan, but I expect he’ll have beer with the boys.’

  Libby found a convenient tree and eased herself down onto the ground, using it as a back rest. ‘So were you up as close as that last year?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ Gemma shook her head. ‘Last year I stayed back. Some of the other women go forward, but unless I need to I’d rather not.’

  ‘And that was Goat’s Head Morris, I take it? And was the figure in black Bernie Lee?’

  Gemma nodded.

  ‘And the white-bearded one Florian Malahyde?’ Gemma nodded again, concentrating on pouring wine into plastic cups.

  ‘Well, I don’t see what there is to be so scared of. This Manannán person would seem to be quite benign, and there isn’t any human or animal sacrifice involved, or any dark invocations.’

  ‘You think I’m just being silly, don’t you?’ sighed Gemma. ‘Well, just you wait. They’ll all disappear off into the woods in a minute, and our lot with them.’

  Libby had by now got a shrewd suspicion as to what was going on in the woods, and it wasn’t sacrifice.

  ‘Does Dan go with them?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no, it’s only a few of them. Diggory, of course. Bill used to, and John and Willy. Some of the others.’

  Libby looked down into her wine and then up at her friend. ‘Gemma,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn, but don’t you think there’s a rather obvious explanation for all these furtive goings-on in the wood?’

  Gemma plucked at the fabric of her heavy robe. ‘I expect that’s what it seems like,’ she said in a muffled voice.

  ‘So why are you so sure the Goat’s Head lot are up to no good? If they want to go off and have orgies under the guise of fertility rites or whatever, it can’t matter to you, surely? Especially if Dan doesn’t go?’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Gemma, ‘and I’m sure that’s what a lot of it is. But why have all these rumours been circulating? Either there’s something in them, or someone is trying to conceal something else.’

  ‘By spreading rumours about sacrifice to keep people away from whatever they’re doing? So what is it? Drugs, do you reckon?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know.’ Gemma was impatient. ‘I just know they scare me.’ She looked across at where the dancing was coming to a stamping, shouting end. ‘That Bernie Lee scares me.’

  ‘He isn’t there now, is he?’

  ‘Yes, look.’ Gemma pointed. ‘Standing at the back. You can see that awful hat.’

  The lowering figure almost disappeared into the dark of the trees behind him. Libby could make out nothing but the occasional glint of white from his eyes.

  ‘I bet he’s a pussycat really,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder if Lewis got to talk to him.’

  ‘He’s always in the background,’ said Gemma, ‘except for that bit where they set light to the Mannan.’

  ‘He’s not now,’ said Libby, levering herself upright. ‘I must see this. Look. Lewis caught him!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The black figure was hemmed in by Lewis, Jerry and Boysie. Seeing Libby approaching, Jerry waved her over impatiently.

  ‘Here, hold this,’ he said, flipping something open with a practised flick of the wrist. She found herself holding a portable reflector, which she nervously adjusted according to Jerry’s barked instructions.

  ‘…Bernie Lee,’ Lewis was saying, ‘who I hope will tell us a bit more about this ceremony. Mr Lee?’

  ‘It’s been revived to do honour to the sea god M
anannán mac Lir. Used to be sacrifice inside that wheel.’ The voice seemed to arrive in the air without conscious volition.

  ‘And how long has it been going on?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Like this, ten years or so.’

  ‘Like this? What happened before then?’

  ‘No one remembered it.’

  ‘So who revived it?’

  ‘We remembered it.’ The voice deepened, grew more gravelly, and Boysie made a face, leaning forward.

  ‘We? Would that be you and Mr Malahyde?’

  ‘Malahyde built the first wheel,’ said Bernie Lee.

  Lewis was beginning to sweat. Bernie Lee was not exactly forthcoming. ‘Well, thank you Mr Lee,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could talk to Mr Malahyde now?’

  But Bernie Lee was gone, already disappearing into the wood, only a slightly denser black than himself.

  ‘Romanichal,’ said Boysie, doing something complicated to his equipment.

  ‘What?’ said Lewis and Libby together.

  ‘Gypsies. Romanies. That’s what he meant.’

  ‘What he meant what?’ said Lewis.

  ‘When he said “we”.’ Boysie stood up straight. ‘Anyone for a beer?’

  ‘He’s Romany?’ said Libby, handing over her reflector. ‘Did you hear that, Gem?’

  Gemma had followed Libby to the interview site and hovered in the background. She nodded.

  ‘I didn’t know Gypsies believed in Celtic or Pagan religions,’ said Libby, frowning. ‘I thought they were descended from far-eastern tribes.’

  ‘I thought it was Romania,’ said Gemma hesitantly.

  ‘They got there a bit later, I fancy,’ said Libby. ‘Didn’t they, Boysie?’

  The others all looked at him. He grinned at Libby.

  ‘Far as I know,’ he said.

  ‘You?’ Lewis stared.

  ‘Course. There’s lots of us around,’ said Boysie. ‘Even Michael Caine.’

  Lewis spluttered and Libby and Jerry laughed.

  ‘True. His dad was a Romanichal. And Charlie Chaplin. And Elvis.’

  ‘Elvis!’ they chorused.

  ‘His family were descended from English Romanichals.’ He looked round at the rapt faces. ‘Come on. I want a beer.’