Murder in the Green Page 9

  ‘What does he do, exactly?’ asked Libby, edging a little nearer.

  The group of men all turned to look at her, surprised, and she realised she was the only woman in the bar.

  ‘Gets they dancers organised.’ The thin man shrugged again.

  ‘Local dancers?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Goat’s Head they calls ’emselves,’ said another man.

  ‘Goat’s Head Morris?’

  ‘That’ll be it. Black coats and faces. They does a play at Christmas in ’ere.’

  ‘A Mummers Play?’ Libby was delighted.

  ‘Aye. With Father Christmas and a dragon.’

  ‘Great!’ Libby turned to Lewis. ‘You need to talk to the head of the Goat’s Head Morris, then. If you can’t find him, I’ll bet Gemma knows him.’

  ‘Bernie Lee, that’s who you want,’ said the thin man, stepping up to the oche and throwing the remark over his shoulder. ‘Always into that there pagan stuff.’

  ‘Pagan!’ whispered Libby. ‘See, I said it’d be interesting.’

  ‘Did you?’ Lewis made a face at her. ‘I reckon you’re just thinking of your old murders.’

  ‘Course I’m not.’ Libby was indignant. ‘The murders didn’t happen here. Anyway, there was only one murder. The other person has simply disappeared.’

  ‘That’s not what you think,’ said Lewis. ‘Unless you think the other person murdered the first person.’

  ‘Very convoluted,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘No, I don’t know, and I’m not going to think about it. I am, however, very interested in the Goat’s Head Morris. The Goat is the symbol of the devil.’

  Lewis frowned. ‘I don’t like this much,’ he said. ‘It’s all a bit weird.’

  ‘It was your idea,’ said Libby. ‘The Green Man, remember?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Lewis sighed. ‘I must have been off me rocker.’

  ‘It’ll make good telly,’ said Libby, ‘as long as they let you film the actual celebration, or whatever it is.’

  Lewis sighed again. ‘We’ll go and talk to that Flora person in the morning. You go and have a word with your mate and see if you can find out where this Bernie Lee hangs out. We need to talk to him, too.’

  ‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ asked Libby a few moments later, after watching Boysie throw three darts straight into the bull, looking bored.

  ‘Yeah. What do you want it for?’

  ‘To look up the Goat’s Head,’ said Libby, lowering her voice. ‘See what it’s all about.’

  ‘Don’t go messing with it, Lib.’ Lewis shook his head at her. ‘We’ll just talk to these people and film tomorrow night. Then we’ll go home.’

  ‘But there’s the second part of the ceremony,’ said Libby. ‘Your Shannon must have told you that.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘They fish the wicker man out of sea in the morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lewis, looking gloomy. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Anyway, you promised me a holiday. Two nights isn’t much.’

  Lewis looked at her with dislike. ‘I don’t know why I brought you.’

  ‘Yes, you do. For protection.’ Libby grinned. ‘You told me that up on the cliffs this afternoon.’

  ‘Fat lot of protection you are,’ said Lewis, picking up their glasses. ‘You ready for a proper drink now?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I want a cuppa,’ said Lewis. ‘I bet I can persuade them to make me one.’

  Libby looked over to one of the jean-clad youths from this afternoon who now lounged behind the bar.

  ‘I bet you could persuade him into anything,’ she said with a wink.

  Chapter Twelve

  After breakfast the next morning, Lewis, Jerry and Boysie set off to talk to Florian Malahyde, while Libby, after a quick call to Gemma, climbed the rest of the way up the lane and came out on to a windy plateau at the top. To her left, in front of the thick trees, a large field contained what seemed like hundreds of tents, some caravans, camper vans and a couple of static caravans. Immediately in front of the trees stood a low stone building, which Libby guessed contained showers, loos and possibly offices.

  She began to work her way down the left-hand side of the field as Gemma had told her, keeping an eye out for her friend. Who, as it turned out, was all too visible.

  In the centre of a circle of chanting people, Libby could see the Oak King and the Goddess engaged in a ritual dance. She stopped and watched as the Holly King emerged from a tent and in mime, challenged the Oak King. The performance followed exactly the ritual she had seen the previous Sunday morning, and ended with all three performers bowing to their little audience, after which Gemma disappeared into a camper van behind her, while Richard and Dan talked to the members of the audience. Libby followed Gemma into the van.

  ‘So what was that in aid of?’ she asked, after looking round the neat interior and approving it.

  Gemma had taken off her robe and her crown, which she laid across one of the benches in the living area. ‘Just explaining what we do in our celebrations. Everyone does something different.’

  ‘And what about the Goat’s Head Morris down here?’ asked Libby, and was startled by the look of fear that crossed Gemma’s face.

  ‘They’re – well, they’re different,’ she said finally.

  ‘Black faces and black coats,’ said Libby. ‘That doesn’t sound very different.’

  Gemma looked at her for a long moment, then got up with a sudden abrupt movement and filled a kettle. ‘It’s what they do,’ she said at last.

  ‘What they do? I heard they do a Mummers’ Play, but so do you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  Gemma looked frightened again. ‘Sacrifice,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sacrifice?’ Libby hooted. ‘Don’t be daft, Gem! How could they ever get away with that?’

  Gemma looked stubborn. ‘They do. It’s well known.’

  ‘Pagan ritual?’

  ‘I don’t know. They all dress up like those Goths, only lots of them are much older. Do you want coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please, black, no sugar. So where do you get this idea about sacrifice from?’

  ‘Everybody knows. They have these meetings in the woods over there.’

  ‘When? While you’re here? How many times have you come down for this Mannan Night thing?’

  ‘This is the second.’ Gemma pushed a mug towards Libby. ‘Only since Willy stopped doing the Goddess.’

  ‘And Dan?’

  ‘Same. Bill always came down, with a few members of Cranston Morris, but it all seemed a bit odd to us. Then we came last year, because Bill wanted Dan to play the accordion.’ She shrugged. ‘Then of course, this year – well, with Willy gone and Bill dead – we had to come.’

  ‘So you don’t really know that much about it?’ Libby sipped hot coffee. ‘Ow.’

  ‘You hear things.’ Gemma’s mouth was set in a stubborn line.

  ‘About sacrifice?’

  Gemma sighed. ‘Look, Libby, if you’ve just come here to laugh at me, you can go away again.’

  ‘But you asked me –’ began Libby, but Gemma interrupted.

  ‘I thought you could reassure some of our members about the murder because you had been involved in cases before. You said you couldn’t, but you still turned up at the Solstice. Now you’ve turned up down here. Are you investigating or not? And if you are, do the police know? And even if you are, why have you come down here? What have you heard?’

  Libby stared at her friend in surprise.

  ‘Good lord, Gem. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘How about answering my last question? What have you heard?’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything.’ Libby frowned. ‘I honestly came down with Lewis for a few days’ break. The only thing I’ve heard is that Florian Malahyde organises the Mannan Night and Bernie Lee is head of Goat’s Head Morris. And that came from people in the bar of the Portherriot Arms last night. What could I hav
e heard?’

  Gemma looked at her searchingly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course, I’m sure,’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘Are you suggesting there’s something funny going on down here? And that it’s connected with your murder?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Gemma, snapping her lips shut.

  ‘Except sacrifice,’ said Libby. ‘Come on Gem. You’ve already said that. You can’t backtrack now.’

  ‘Goat’s Head Morris do that, I’ve told you.’ Gemma looked over her shoulder and out of the window. ‘They go into the woods at night.’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’

  Gemma nodded. ‘And seen the bonfires.’

  ‘In the woods?’

  ‘Yes.’ She leant forward. ‘I’m serious, Lib. I didn’t connect Mannan Night with Bill’s murder, but since we’ve come down here…’ she trailed off.

  ‘Has something happened?’ asked Libby, after a moment.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Gemma frowned. ‘It’s just – well – I can’t really put my finger on it.’

  ‘Is it the people, Gem? Some of your friends?’

  ‘Well,’ said Gemma again, ‘well, yes. I don’t know how to put this without seeming disloyal, but some of them seem to have come down here for another reason altogether.’

  ‘Another reason?’

  ‘Than just Mannan Night. That’s supposed to be a rebirthing ritual, and it ties in with our Solstice celebrations. It’s Celtic, you see.’ Gemma was earnest. ‘But some of them – I’m not sure. They seem to have been whispering together.’ She made a tutting sound and sat back in her chair. ‘How pathetic that sounds. They’re not a bunch of schoolkids.’

  ‘But you think something secretive’s going on?’

  ‘Dan and I noticed a group of them went off together the night before last, then the same thing happened last night.’

  ‘Are they a group of particular friends at home? Might they not have gone off for a drink?’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘They might, but we’d all organised to stay here and have a camp fire. We’d brought beer and wine with us.’

  ‘Was Richard with them?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Richard?’ Gemma looked startled. ‘Not the first night. He stayed here with us. I didn’t notice him last night.’

  She looked uncomfortable and Libby guessed she’d been looking for Diggory.

  ‘Why do you ask, anyway?’ Gemma looked suspicious.

  ‘No reason. I just thought he seemed quite – er – fond – of you when I saw you last weekend. I thought he might be, well, flirting with you. I told you that last weekend.’

  Colour rushed into Gemma’s cheeks. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘He knows I’m married. Anyway, he’s not really one of us. Dan’s and mine, I mean.’

  ‘Your what?’ Libby frowned.

  ‘Well, we were part of the original Cranston Morris – you remember, years ago, when we first started up after the Bogshole Mummers folded.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, then Bill joined and John Lethbridge –’

  ‘He’s the one who’s vanished? Married to Wilhelmina?’

  ‘That’s him. Well, Bill knew all about all the old Celtic and Pagan rituals, and began to introduce them. Some of the members got very enthusiastic, and that’s when we started doing the Oak and Holly King rituals, with the Goddess.’

  ‘The Goddess is around at Beltane, as well, isn’t she?’ asked Libby.

  ‘And Plough Monday,’ nodded Gemma. ‘She is supposed to give birth to the Beltane at the Winter Solstice, then on Plough Monday she’s supposed to be laid in the first furrow in the form of a corn dolly, then she courts the God at the equinox – this is where the Oak King comes in –’

  ‘So it’s a bit mixed up? Some of it’s Green Man and the Goddess and some of it’s Oak and Holly King? And then down here it’s Manannán mac Lir.’

  Gemma frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘An old sea dog – I mean, god – which is where Mannan Night comes from.’ I think, thought Libby.

  ‘Well, they all come from the same root, whatever their names,’ said Gemma. ‘And a lot of the group took it more seriously than others. We just liked our dances and celebrations and rehearsals, but they used to meet at other times, too.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Discuss it all, I suppose. But then…’

  ‘Then? You’re not thinking of Bill’s murder, surely?’

  ‘No-o-o.’ Gemma looked up under her brows. ‘It’s just that, with John going, and Willy having gone, I wondered.’

  ‘Wondered what?’ asked Libby, getting exasperated.

  ‘If there was something else going on.’ Gemma sat up straight. ‘Which is why I wanted you to come and talk to everyone.’

  ‘I still don’t see how I could have done that,’ said Libby, ‘unless you’d gathered them all together and I’d given them a lecture.’

  ‘I thought if they knew how the police can be – you know, thorough – they would all be honest and we’d get it cleared up quickly. You don’t know how horrible it’s been since May Day.’

  ‘Murder is horrible,’ said Libby, ‘and you’ve got a hope if you think anything I said would encourage people to be honest. I know for a fact that people always conceal things from the police in a murder case, and not usually because it’s anything to do with the murder, either. It annoys me, and it annoys the police, I know. Ian Connell is a particular friend of ours and he gets mad – generally at me – because people interfere, tell silly lies and do stupid things.’

  ‘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.’