“Greetings gentlemen." Edward Williamson stood as he addressed the room. "Many of you are aware I am a detective in the City of Glasgow police force. Now, this may appear a rather exciting position, yet it was only when I departed Glasgow that I encountered something so strange I have trouble believing the events I witnessed first-hand."
He nodded towards Samuel Pickman. "This good man has a nose for the strange, for it was on his recommendation my superiors despatched me down to the north east coast to investigate two most bizarre deaths.” Williamson held a bundle of papers in his hands. He examined the eager faces around him, unfolded the bundle, and began his reading.
"My journey involved travel by three carriages. After beginning in my home town, I stopped off in Gretna Green for the night, taking a second cab to the town of Newcastle…"
He'd remained in Newcastle a short while, a bustling centre of shipyards and industry. Just long enough to stretch his legs really. The smoggy air had reminded him of Glasgow. The carriage, nearing his destination according to the time on his pocket watch, currently passed through the Yorkshire moors. Beyond the window, a beautiful, untamed wilderness of purple bracken and hills sprawled off into the distance. Longing to walk that moorland plateau, feel the rough country under his feet, he wondered if he'd have time to visit them during his sojourn.
"Not bloody likely," he said under his breath, and instantly regretted it.
"Ah, I see you are admiring our moors, sir. It is very mild there you know, even at this time of year."
Williamson looked to his companion, nodded politely. The gentleman had joined him in the cab at some point after Newcastle. The man had florid cheeks, a wiry blonde moustache going to grey. With his stout boots, walking stick and thick jacket, he looked ready for the moors himself. Williamson cringed at the thought of having the insufferable man as a companion there.
Stainsby, as he'd introduced himself, appeared to be awaiting an answer. The man had nearly talked him to death at the start of their journey. He wasn't going to fall into that trap again.
"The Romans visited all over the moors you know?"
It seemed Stainsby couldn't be perturbed. "Arrived in AD Seventy-one, built signal stations all along the coast at Scarborough, Filey, Ravenscar, and Hunt Cliff."
Williamson's attention pricked up at the mention of Ravenscar, his destination.
"You are quite a fount of knowledge, sir," he replied.
The man grinned, his moustache bristling. "Oh just a dabbler in local knowledge really. You know-"
"Excuse me," Williamson interrupted Stainsby and leant forward in his seat. A change of scenery was visible outside. Beyond the untamed moors, he saw uneven cliff edges, and beyond these, the metallic blue of the ocean.
"Ravenscar Peak!" the driver boomed. "All off for Ravenscar Peak."
Stainsby, who'd leant over to look out the window himself, said, "You know that the name comes from -"
The carriage came to a quick halt. Williamson used the opportunity for a swift escape. "Time to dash!" he said, turned and offered his hand. "A pleasure to meet you sir, pleasant journey."
"A pleasant journey to you too," Stainsby replied. His hand felt warm and moist.
It came as a relief that Stainsby wasn't getting off with him, and Williamson exited the cab and closed the door behind him.
He stepped upon gravel. A small wood-panelled structure stood before him. Probably somewhere for folk to rest in this way-station in the middle of nowhere. An elderly man, sat on a bench beside the building, stared at him lazily.
"Master Williamson, sir" a voice said behind him.
Williamson turned. The carriage driver, a burly man with worn features, had his case. He passed it over, and Williamson dug into his pocket, removed some coins and slipped them into his hand.
"Thank ye kindly," the man replied. He sent Williamson a toothless grin and shook the horses’ reins, taking Stainsby and the carriage away with him. Williamson began walking. A white fence followed the road with an open gate a little ways along. Beyond stood shrubbery, and trees. Hurried footsteps sounded behind him, and a voice shouted, "Sir, sir?"
Williamson turned on his heels. It was a lad in his teens, wearing an oversized grey coat and a top hat.
"Supposed to be here to greet you sir." The lad panted as he spoke. "My apologies. You must be the policeman yes? I can tell by your bearing."
Williamson placed his case to the ground, said, "Inspector Edward Williamson, a pleasure to meet you, er…"
"George is the name sir, Georgie for short," the lad said and shook Williamson's proffered hand. "Lord Ravenscar's people sent me along sir, to pick you up and take you to the village, I am his odd-job man and messenger."
Lord Ravenscar, an old school-friend of Samuel Pickman's, and part of the reason he was here.
"All right Georgie," Williamson said, "Is it a long walk?"
"Oh no sir," the lad grinned, "There is a carriage waiting." He stepped forward, took the case, and added, "Follow me."
Georgie rushed past Williamson and headed through the gate. Another carriage, simply marvellous, Williamson thought and trailed the boy.
Beyond the gate lay a dirt road covered in horse and cart tracks. A large, boxy-looking blue carriage stood nearby. The wheels and lower sides were coated in a light brown dust.
"This is his Lordship’s carriage," Georgie said as he approached the vehicle. "Pride and joy. I polish her, feed the horses."
Williamson started in shock at the driver. His head appeared impossibly large. It took a moment to realize the man wore a black turban. He had a dark complexion, a black beard
streaked with grey.
"This is Bimalinder, our driver. Bimalinder, meet Inspector Edward Williamson."
"Sir," the man growled.
Georgie patted the carriage as he passed then opened the door, depositing Williamson's luggage inside. He turned to Williamson with a smile. "All aboard!"
Williamson paused to examine his surroundings. A large brick building, what could be a guesthouse, stood nearby. A few miles behind the carriage he saw rows of grey slate roofs, their chimneypots pumping smoke into the sky. Ravenscar, he thought, and nodded thanks to Georgie as he climbed into the cab. The lad closed the door behind him with a slam. Without any delay, the carriage started moving, the sudden jolt pushing Williamson back in his seat. He turned to see Georgie's reaction, but the lad sat staring out the window, his expression one of excitement. Williamson didn't share his enthusiasm. The road beneath them was terrible, nothing but potholes and rocks. He planted himself firmly into the seat and looked out the window himself.
They passed hilly scenery for a short while, then a row of low cottages came into view. Pedestrians stopped what they were doing to stare at the cab as it travelled onwards. Williamson turned to Georgie. "Where am I going first? Parish constable?"
"He will not be in," Georgie replied with a thoughtful expression. "Constable Foggitt is also our postman." He pulled a pocket watch from his coat. "Erm… I think he will be back soon. You might want to see the bodies first anyway sir, at the doctor's office. If he is there."
Williamson raised his eyebrows, wondering what other occupations the doctor might have.
"You may want to find somewhere to stay, too," Georgie continued. "There are two lodgings, but I recommend the Bawdy Rook, that is the pub, sir. It has the best nosh in the village."
"Bawdy Rook it is, then," Williamson replied. A sudden change in direction jolted him in his seat. A moment later, Williamson saw a man in the road waving his fist angrily at them.
"I see the doctor, just heading to his surgery," Georgie said quickly. He stood and rapped his fist on the roof of the cab, which slowed to a stop. Georgie turned to Williamson. "Best catch him before he goes back out. That’s him over there, burly fellow holding the gun and the dead birds. We shall take your case to the pub, eh?"
"Yes, certainly," Williamson replied. "Thank you ,Georgie."
Williamson left the carriage and stepped onto the dirt road. He barely had time to close the door before the carriage sped off in a cloud of dust. He'd been deposited in the village square, an area of flattened dirt with a small hexagonal stone fountain at its centre. Scanning the surrounds, he saw women and children walking past shop fronts. Across the square moved the figure the young lad had pointed out. Tall and hatless, the man had a thick black beard, a shock of black hair streaked with white. He held a gun over one shoulder of his tweed jacket, and a brace of pheasants dangled from his other hand, the birds strung by their necks. He moved purposefully along the cobbled pavement, then paused before a one-story building.
Williamson checked for carriages before crossing the square. It was an action for the busy thoroughfares of Glasgow though, not here.
"Doctor?" He called.
The man turned, watching Williamson's approach with a grimace. He didn't appear to be too happy at this intrusion to his day.
"I am Inspector Williamson, Glasgow Police," he said, and reaching the pavement, offered his hand.
The other man raised thick eyebrows and smiled. "Oh, yes, yes! No wonder Ravenscar sent his driver out in that death trap of a carriage. Follow me please."
The doctor turned, and, having ignored Williamson's hand, bustled into the building before them. Williamson stopped short just inside the door; the other man had paused to stamp his feet on a rug. The doctor continued, and out of politeness, Williamson brushed his heels against the rug.
The office was large, and cosy looking. It had green wallpaper, a varnished wooden floor and ceiling to match. The windows behind Williamson filled the room with afternoon light.
"Bloody nuisance eh?" the doctor said, and deposited the birds and gun on the large desk . He pulled a pipe from his jacket and placed it in his mouth, removed his coat and placed it on a stand by the front door .
"Oh, I forget my manners," he said. "I am Harold Britton-Jones, the town doctor."
They shook hands, the man's grip strong in Williamson's own. Britton-Jones turned and headed towards a door set in the centre of the far wall.
"I have no morgue, you will understand," he continued as he walked, "Been storing the dead in the cold room at the butcher's. No disrespect intended. We would have buried them had you not been summoned." Britton-Jones harrumphed, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The following room had similar dimensions to the first but quite different decor. Walled with whitewashed bricks, it had a white wood-panelled ceiling and floor. Two windows, on the north and the east walls, provided illumination. Cabinets and tables lined the walls, clean and filled with surgical instruments and bottles. Williamson's attention went to the two tables at the room's centre. The content of each lay hidden beneath a pristine white sheet. Body-shaped contents, he thought.
"This kind of business never happens here. Never." Britton-Jones said, and vigorously shook his head. "That is why Ravenscar pulled some strings, had a police chappy come investigate, yes?" He stepped towards the nearest table, paused and turned to Williamson.
"Yes, well… My acquaintance Samuel Pickman pulled the strings. He is a friend of my Chief Constable, as is Lord Ravenscar."
Britton-Jones nodded, beckoned Williamson over. As he approached, the doctor pulled back the sheet. The removal revealed the pallid face of a dead man. Clean-shaven, his eyes and cheeks were sunken, the black hair on his head a greasy-looking mop. Williamson caught the sickly scent of decay. He removed his hat, out of respect, and clenched it between his hands.
"This poor fellow is Justin Whateley," the doctor said, pointing with the stem of his pip. "The village tinker, discovered by the vicar on a Saturday morning, out on the moors. No obvious signs of foul play, but…" He lowered the pipe, and tapped the white forehead with the bowl. The tapping produced a distinctly hollow sound. "His head probably sounded like that before his unfortunate demise." Britton-Jones smirked, saw the empty look on Williamson's face, and cleared his throat. "Now this one," he continued, and moved to the next table, "Is a real tragedy, struck down in her prime, yes?"
Britton-Jones pulled the second sheet down, uncovering a young woman's face. Williamson grimaced. Her hair had been crudely shorn off, leaving blonde chunks and wisps on the scalp. An ugly looking laceration circled her head, reattached with rough stitching.
"My God! Did the killer do this?" He felt horrified.
"The incision and the hair? No, no." Britton-Jones stepped back. "That was I, getting into her blasted head to see what had been done."
Williamson's horror only diminished a fraction, thinking, this man is a butcher.
"The mother, of all people, found this wee girl," Britton-Jones continued, "Discovered stumbling into town last Friday morning, two days before Whateley." He tapped her head with the pipe, eliciting the same hollow sound. "Carrie-Anne Fisher; a maid at the Sunny Nook boarding house. With no real outside signs of foul play, I found a small hole in the back of her skull, like something a sharpened pick would do. I felt around there and discovered it empty. Further exploration," Britton-Jones waved his pipe over the ugly cut, "Revealed a brainpan completely drained of contents. Who would do such a damned thing?"
"Wait," Williamson said. "You say the girl was walking in this condition?"
"Yes, yes, according to the mother," the doctor replied, sounding defensive. "But I cannot believe it myself."
Head hacked open, brain removed. A maniac, Williamson thought. Britton-Jones gently replaced the sheet over the girl's face. Williamson folded his arms. "I would like to see the witnesses of course, and see the places these victims were found."
"Oh, righty-ho." Britton-Jones returned the pipe to his mouth. "Mrs. Fisher is gone, I am afraid, down to Colchester to stay with in-laws."
"The constable should not have allowed her to leave. What about the vicar? Has he also absconded?"
The doctor scratched his beard, and tilted his head in thought. "Reverend Cannon. No, if not at the church he will be at those blasted Roman ruins. It’s the remains of an old signal station, up on the moors. In fact I know he is there, as I bumped into him earlier."
Williamson put his hat back on. "In that case, I shall go seek him out. Goodbye, sir."
"Of course, yes. I shall see you out," Britton-Jones replied, and stepped forward.
Williamson shook his head, raised his palms. "No need for that, please." As he turned to leave the room, he felt Britton-Jones's stare burning into him.
Williamson got his wish of exploring the moors, but not in as pleasant a manner as he'd envisioned. His shoes weren't built for the terrain, nor his coat. As such, he walked on aching feet
with his collar pulled up.
He travelled on a path, of sorts, a hiker's trail he hoped would lead him to the Roman ruins. Back in the village, a gentleman had shown him the way, pointing west and saying a trail lay that way. He'd thanked the man, but wasn't thanking him now, or himself, for heading out so unprepared. He blamed his own damned eagerness. If Georgie had been around, he could've tried for a lift in their carriage, if a road went this way. Or he could've just waited for the vicar to return.
Regardless of his regrets, the scenery looked beautiful. Purple bracken covered the low green hills and valleys, with the occasional rock outcropping and stone mound jutting up between the flowers. This is nature at its most primal, Williamson thought. There was poetry to be written about this sweet desolation, poetry waiting for a man better with words than himself to take pen to paper.
When Pickman had asked the club members to travel to places of interest, Williamson had thought his work wouldn't allow for such a venture. Still, once word from Lord Ravenscar, concerning this peculiar case reached Samuel Pickman's ears…
Now he was here, with the dual goals of solving these murders and finding something interesting to tell Pickman and the club.
The trail had gone uphill before levelling off for some distance, before rising again, quite to his chagrin. After several minutes walking, the scenery began to change. Swaths of untamed grass, swaying in a low wind, replaced the delicate purple flowers. The distant sound of crashing waves reached Williamson’s ears, carried along by a growing wind. Across the uneven fields ahead, he spied shapes that appeared manmade, and beyond these, jagged wedges of cliff he guessed held a precipitous drop. Beyond the cliffs, the sky hung littered with grey clouds. Those nearest the horizon had reddish-purple undersides. Sunset already? He removed his pocket watch and checked the time. It was nearing five o'clock. Sunset was approaching.
The path, nothing but padded down grass now, felt easier on his shoes at least. The cold ,however, had successfully leeched through his coat. Williamson tucked his watch into his waistcoat and held his hat secure on his head. Somewhere beyond the cliff edge, a lone seagull issued a melancholy cry. The ruins were a dozen steps away now. The only Roman ruin he'd seen before had been Hadrian's Wall, hence, this was something new. Well, old new.
He stepped over the low remnants of a wall. Ahead, stood angular shapes between which the grass grew thick and unruly.
A square enclosure stood nearest, constructed from the same white stone he'd just crossed. Another, smaller square enclosure stood to its left, with a third just beyond it. The stones were weathered and ancient, worn down by the elements, lichen and moss growing within their crevices. These were foundations, he surmised, the remains of Roman towers brought down by the centuries.
A mound of rocks, enclosed by a makeshift fence, lay just the other side of the nearest foundations. The fence was crude, constructed from wooden poles and ropes, a boundary for the excavation work, he assumed. It rattled gently in the wind. As he headed on, Williamson noticed another wall, close to the cliff edges. Far to his right stood the circular foundations of a tower. He reached the mound, stepped over the fence, and looked around.
Two chairs stood behind the mound, next to a table piled with rocks and small tools. Must be base camp, he thought, and headed towards it.
"Hello?" he asked, scanning the area for the vicar. No reply issued back to him, and certainly no one was in sight. To the northeast stood a low, square stone enclosure surrounding a pit. The entrance to a cellar perhaps? Bare earth surrounded the pit's rim, well-trod by boot prints. Williamson approached, wondering if the vicar was down there. On closer inspection he saw a wooden ladder descending into the pit, a shovel and pick abandoned on the ground behind it. He went cautiously forward, stepped over the wall and paused at the pit's perimeter.
A melancholy moan rose up from the darkness, wind from an entrance deep underground. Williamson shivered.
"Hello?" he repeated, and, edging round the pit, lifted the pick by its wooden handle. The edges were blunt, bearing no residues of blood or hair. When he returned the pick, he noted an innocuous object on the ground. He leant, picked it up, and examined it in his palm. A circular chunk of green soapstone, thick at the middle and polished to a high degree. A rough star had been carved into the flat surface, at the centre of which a small squiggle was flanked by brackets. After examining it a few moments, he decided the brackets and squiggle symbolized an eye. He flipped it over, finding the opposite side blank.
"Hmm." Williamson looked toward the table. Could this be some archaeological find that had been dropped accidentally? He slipped it into his pocket for safekeeping. The pit moaned loudly, again. He took a sheepish step towards it and stared down. The darkness below appeared quite impenetrable. No one could be down there. Surely? A sudden, unexpected wave of vertigo sent him stumbling back, and Williamson was forced to place a hand to the ground to steady himself. He looked around in embarrassment, but no one was here to observe him. The wind, rapidly picking up, made him shiver from head to toe. With a final, reluctant look around, he decided to return to the village.
Night had fallen by the time Williamson saw the village lights. He felt thankful he'd made it before darkness had blanketed the moors. With the poor path and no source of lighting, he might well have lost his way. As he approached the village outskirts, he encountered a large, solitary building. It took him a few moments to realize it was a church. The gable roof stood dark against the deep blue sky, as did the cross atop it. This was unmistakably the village's place of worship.
The vicar, he thought, and changing direction, approached the wall surrounding the church. He sent a rueful glance towards the village, walked through the open gate, and followed a cobbled path to the church. Rows of weathered, ancient-looking gravestones flanked his path.
He reached the entrance door and, foregoing a knock, turned the handle and pushed. Beyond the door stood a small, stone-walled antechamber, illuminated by white candles. A white marble font stood to his left, half-filled with holy water. Not being particularly religious, Williamson left it alone and stepped through the following door.
The nave stood beyond. The large chamber echoed as he closed the door behind him. Two rows of pews, centred by a red carpet, led to the pulpit and altar. A large gold cross stood mounted upon the whitewashed wall behind the altar. Yellow candles in tall iron holders illuminated the nave with a flickering, gentle glow. The light reflected off the stained glass windows in a myriad of different colours. It felt cold here, but not as cold as outside. It also appeared empty. Where could this elusive vicar be?
Williamson headed towards the pulpit, his footsteps echoing as he walked. He felt like an intruder, and shivered involuntarily. A door stood to the right of the pulpit's platform. He approached it hoping to find the vicar beyond.
"Can I help you at all?"
Williamson froze. He turned on his heels and found the source staring at him from behind the pulpit. The man had olive-coloured skin and piercing blue-eyes. Balding, his sparse brown hair lay combed over his scalp. The black robes indicated he was the man Williamson sought.
"I am Inspector Edward Williamson," he said. "I have been looking everywhere for you. You must be Reverend Cannon?"
"Yes, sir," the man replied, "You caught me in contemplation at the altar." He pointed to the cross. "In a bit of a trance you might say." The vicar stepped forward, and descended a small staircase set in the pulpit platform. A tall man; Cannon's thin body made him appear more so. They shook hands. The vicar smiled heartily, displaying a mouth of uneven white teeth,
"I visited the Roman ruins looking for you," Williamson continued, "I was hoping to question you over the body you discovered?"
Cannon's expression turned sad. "Oh… my apologies. I did not reach the ruins today, I had to return on some church business." He walked past Williamson and stepped through the nearby door. Williamson followed, into a warm, homely-looking room. It had a roaring fire, green carpet and yellow-papered walls. A writing desk stood to the door's left, with a large circular table at the room's centre. Maps and books covered the latter. The vicar paused at the table and offered Williamson one of the tall-backed chairs surrounding it. He walked forward, accepted the chair, and Cannon, sitting in another, shuffled it round to face him.
"There is not much to say about the body to be honest," Cannon began. "I discovered the poor man on the trail just beyond the carriage tracks. I found him unmoving, cold, and obviously dead."
Williamson nodded. "Thank you. I may still need to see the location, perhaps in the morning?"
"Of course, yes," The vicar agreed. "My flock is very afraid. I hope you get to the bottom of this."
"Yes, well-"
Something on the table caught Williamson's eye. Poking out from beneath a yellow, dog-eared map he noticed a pile of familiar green soapstones. Cannon, following his gaze, reached over and lifted back the map. Dozens of green stones were revealed, bearing an identical star-shaped carving upon their surfaces.
"What are they? I know they are from the ruins. I found one myself." Williamson reached into his pocket, producing the soapstone he'd found. "They do not look particularly Roman," he added.
"May I see that?" The vicar asked, and Williamson handed it to him. Cannon retrieved a magnifying glass from the table and scrutinized the soapstone.
"Hmm, yes. I found hundreds of these in the ruins, piled up on the floor of an underground cellar." The vicar returned the glass to the table and held out the soapstone. "Keep it, as a souvenir."
"Thank you." Williamson accepted the stone and dropped it in his pocket. He checked his pocket watch and said, "I had better take my leave,now, but would like to continue things in the morning."
"Yes, of course," Cannon replied, and both men stood. "I will have to show you around the ruins tomorrow. If you have the time, that is?"
Williamson nodded. "Might be nice."
The vicar escorted him to the door. They entered the nave, and Cannon, following him out, continued speaking.
"A bloody battle occurred over that way you know, between the Romans and the locals." Cannon laughed. "They fought over the worship of a colourfully named deity called Hastur." His voice echoed as they stepped down the nave.
Here is a man who likes to talk, Williamson thought. Shame he does not have more to say about the dead body.
Outwardly, he asked,"A pagan god?"
"I believe so. References are vague. I am also attempting to deduce why the Romans buried those star-stones beneath the signal station."
They reached the antechamber. Cannon paused and offered his hand.
"Well. If you discover any skeletons in the ruins, be sure to inform me!" Williamson said as they shook hands. Cannon's face formed a brief, puzzled expression, then he grinned. "Oh yes, ha ha, we shall be knee-deep in the dead if the Romans were involved!"
They parted ways with joined laughter, and Williamson, feeling newly energized, left the church to make his way back down to the village.
Williamson drifted awake from a deep, contented slumber. At first he thought he was dreaming, the loud rhythmic tap tap tap something his sleep-befuddled mind had difficulty processing.
"Master Williamson, sir!"
The sound of his name brought his awareness to the fore, and he sat up blinking.
"Sir," the loud, urgent knocking continued. He left the bed and rushed through the darkened room to the door. Opening it, he saw a young redheaded girl dressed in a dark blue maid's uniform. The girl curtseyed and smiled.
"Sir. I am so sorry to disturb you but they found another body in the village and they told me to come find you, as all hell is breaking loose and-"
Williamson shushed her. She'd spoken frantically, without taking a breath. "Where is the corpse?" he asked, speaking calmly to try putting the girl at ease.
She took a deep breath, "Over near the fountain sir. Laid there, all dead and unwholesome like."
"Very well. Now, what is your name?"
"Millie, sir."
"Millie. Can you go down there and see about keeping everyone away from it? And if Constable Foggitt is around, please request his assistance."
The girl nodded her head vigorously, her gaze lowered as
she absorbed the information. Then she looked up and said,
"But sir, the dead body is Constable Foggitt."
"Oh bloody-" he began, then stopped himself from finishing the curse. "Just go down and do as I said, I shall be there in five minutes."
The girl nodded, turned and rushed down the corridor. Williamson left the door ajar and stepped over to the window, parting the curtains to bring light to the small, rustic-looking room. He dressed quickly. Remaining calm proved an effort, but he knew if he fumbled around things would take even longer.
Once dressed, he splashed water from the basin onto his face, wiped it dry with a cloth, and rushed to the door. Without pausing to comb his hair, he grabbed his hat from the hook and headed into the corridor. A left turn at the corridor's termination took him down a flight of narrow stairs. The bar followed, curtains closed and empty.
What time is it? As he stepped between the tables and stools, he checked his pocket watch. Just after ten. A terribly late start for him, and he recalled asking the landlady to wake him at nine. No time to worry about than now, not with another murder right under my nose. He hated to think of it this way, but a fresh scene would be a good thing, at least where finding evidence was concerned.
Williamson opened the front door, the bright light beyond causing him to blink. It took him a moment to recall his location in the village. He headed right, down a cobbled path in the direction of the fountain. He crossed the street, after once again unnecessarily checking for traffic, then cut down a narrow alley. As he neared the alley's termination a babble of voices reached his ears. Upon entering the square, he saw a large crowd near the fountain. He grimaced at the sight. Onlookers,
in his experience, did nothing but get in the way and spread
false rumours. Some anxious-looking faces spotted him, and the crowd parted at his approach, leaving a direct path to the fountain. A dark shape lay slumped against its rim. Millie stood guard before it, scowling at the crowd with her arms crossed. Williamson smiled. As he stepped between the whispering village folk, he noticed Georgie stood to the girl's right. Seeing his approach, Georgie sprightly cried, "Another corpse sir, a bloody dead body!"
Williamson paused, nodded to Georgie, and turned to Millie. "Thank you very much Millie. You have done a grand job." The girl smiled prettily and blushed. "Now could you go find the doctor, tell him to bring two stout lads and a stretcher?"
Millie nodded and rushed away. Williamson turned, raised his arms and addressed the curious, frightened crowd. "Everyone. I need you to return to your business. Please. I can only deal with this if you give me space."
Heads nodded, and voices muttered reluctant assent. The crowd took off and dispersed into smaller groups Satisfied he wasn't going to be disturbed, Williamson turned back to the fountain. So this is Foggitt, he thought, and kneeling, scanned the area before him. The dirt floor appeared dry, bearing no evidence of footfalls. From the corner of his eye he saw Georgie kneel beside him.
"Looking for clues sir?" the lad asked.
Williamson nodded, then crept forward. Foggitt was a large man, in a blue coat with a yellow carnation in the lapel. A white embroidered handkerchief concealed his face. Williamson guessed either Millie, or another onlooker, had placed it for decency. The man's back lay against the fountain, his legs spread. The heels of his black boots were caked in mud.
Noting this, Williamson said, "Georgie, has there been any rain overnight?"
"Showers on the moors, sir, a little patter across the village as I recall."
"I see." He crept closer, braced himself, and removing the handkerchief placed it on the ground.
"Oh!" Georgie exclaimed.
A pale, weathered face stared blindly forward, the wide eyes clouded and grey. This is why they covered the face, he thought, and standing, reached over to clasp the head in both hands. He encountered resistance; the head appeared stuck to the fountain. A bit more applied force, and it came away with a disgusting, sticky sound . There on the fountain was a red spot of blood, and the head itself, icy cold in his grip, felt very light. Another brain gouged out, damn.
Williamson repositioned the head against the fountain, shuffled back a step, and began searching Foggitt's pockets. All were empty, excepting the inside pocket, from which he removed a small black notepad and pencil. He stood, turned, and saw Georgie crouched beside him, face as pale as that of the corpse. The square stood empty and quiet, now. Movement caught Williamson’s eye, two men coming from the alley, bearing a stretcher. The doctor marched behind the pair, puffing heavily on his pipe. Britton-Jones waved. Williamson returned the gesture, then turned his attention to the notepad. A flick through the small square sheets took him to the final entry. He scanned it, and cleared his throat.
"Georgie," he said, and the lad stood to face him. "I think we may have found our man."
The church was locked, so their next stop, with Georgie walking dutifully by his side, was the Roman ruins. Georgie said he knew a shortcut, but it turned out to be the same path Williamson had used on his first visit. The moors were cold, the path damp underfoot. Britton-Jones had taken custody of the body, but Williamson had Foggitt's notepad, tucked in his inside pocket. The last page detailed Foggitt's suspicions concerning the vicar, and stated that he had planned to challenge the man last night.
Williamson felt a growing trepidation as they approached the ruins, a familiar feeling and, if he were honest with himself, a positive one. From previous experience, it meant he was on the right track.
Georgie, who'd been walking beside him in silence for a while, said, "Do you think he will put up a fight ,sir?"
Williamson nodded. "Possibly, but I really just want to speak with him."
The path ended and he stepped upon grass still damp with dew. It squished underfoot, and Williamson slowed his gait for fear of slipping. Georgie didn't have the same problem, most likely used to the moors interchangeable climate. He slowed down when he saw Williamson lagging behind. They crossed a ruined wall, and together approached the signal station's foundations. The vicar was nowhere to be seen.
"This way Georgie," Williamson motioned, and headed towards the mound. The fence remained still, no sign of a wind today. He couldn't hear the ocean either. A queerly quiet day, it felt like the moors and the sea were holding their breaths in anticipation.
"Look, sir!" Georgie exclaimed.
Williamson paused and turned. Georgie, having lingered a short distance behind him, stood pointing beyond the ruins. The pit. A flickering oil lamp stood near the edge, a needless illumination in the daylight. Williamson continued walking, stepping over the fence and onto the mound. He scanned the immediate area, his gaze returned to the pit.
He is down there, I know it.
The earth around the pit appeared muddy, treacherous. Upon reaching it, he placed his feet on the earth tentatively. It would be a terrible fate to slip and fall in. There were no sad, windy moans issuing from it today, but as he gingerly stepped closer, the detective thought he detected a flickering in the darkness. His eyes didn't deceive him, when he neared the rim and peered over, he saw a light at the bottom of the pit.
Is that the sound of stones being chipped? Yes, a sharp, rhythmic tapping. A soft squelching noise informed him Georgie was close behind.
"Is he down there?" Georgie asked softly.
"I believe so," Williamson replied, and after examining the pit a few moments, looked to the ladder. "I need to go down there Georgie. Can you hold the ladder while I am climbing?"
He skirted the pit, looked to Georgie and found the lad staring into it intently.
"Yes, yes of course," Georgie said, snapping out of his fugue.
Williamson crouched and turned round. He pressed a hand into a section of earth that didn't look too muddy, gripped it, and found the top rung with his foot. The ladder seemed stable, thankfully, and descending two more rungs, he found the stile with his free hand. Georgie's shoes came into view as he descended, coated with mud both fresh and dry.
Williamson paused and looked up at his companion. "Thank you, Georgie." The lad nodded, and he started his descent in earnest.
Not knowing how deep the hole was caused Williamson some trepidation. Still, he comforted himself that it couldn’t be too far. The chipping stopped, making him wonder if he'd been heard. He paused. His left hand, coated in dirt, bothered him so Williamson reluctantly wiped it against his coat. Marking his clothing was the better alternative to slipping. The pause gave him opportunity to look up. He saw a square of light above, Georgie's head in silhouette. Williamson waved, not knowing if Georgie saw the gesture, and continued down.
Suddenly, the ladder drifted away from the wall. Seized with panic, Williamson hugged the nearest rung. The ladder wasn't just moving, someone was actively shaking it from above.
"Georgie!" Williamson cried as his feet slipped dangerously. He looked up and saw a mass of dark objects tumbling towards him. He gritted his teeth and lowered his head against the coming impact… A sharp stab of pain followed as something heavy cracked against his scalp. Stunned, he dropped helplessly through the darkness.
Williamson span through a nighted abyss without end. His screams returned a thousand-fold louder from the dark gulfs surrounding him. The sight of blue and red-lit chasms, filled with leprous-looking cities, made him yearn for the return of the darkness. He felt as though he were falling not just through space, but through time, mirroring the epic journey of some unseen, but very present, entity. Darkness, once more. After countless aeons, a pinprick of light showed ahead, that gradually resolved itself into a small, fiery ball, around which dark shapes orbited, There came a sudden acceleration and, finally, a massive floodlight burst so scintillatingly bright that his eyes burned from the assault. This was the most damned of places! As he tumbled further, and the blazing light consumed his vision, roaring voices, seemingly inside his head, cried, Hastur!
Williamson opened his eyes with a groan. He felt cold, and his head and left ankle ached terribly. I am alive at least. And this shadowy place… not nearly as awful as that terrible realm he had awoken from. Before him, the ladder ascended to the hole in the ceiling. Far above, he could see a spot of dark blue sky. Memory returned of his fall from the ladder. The drop couldn't have been a long one, obviously. Sitting up onto his elbows, he felt small objects clatter beneath him. He retrieved one, and found he'd landed on a pile of green soapstones.
Williamson let the stone slip from his hand. Perhaps these cushioned my fall, he thought. He climbed to his feet, favouring his right leg as he took a step towards the ladder. He looked up again. It would be quite a climb, considering his injuries. A sudden wind buffeted his clothes from behind. Turning, he saw a pitch-black tunnel opening in the wall of the pit, from whence that chilling wind issued. The recollection of those terrible dream cities made him cringe.
He had to go up. Williamson made his limping way to the ladder and mounted the rungs. Slow going at first, as he ascended, he found he could use his left foot if he didn't push too hard on it. And so he made progress… as long as there isn't a repeat of the falling debris, he thought grimly. With this in mind, he kept his gaze on the square of night above, gripping the ladder hard. Despite the cold, he was sweating by the time he reached the top. Clambering from the pit, Williamson pressed his hands into the damp earth at the rim.
The moon stood high in the sky, the light making the ruins eerily bright. He turned, sat up, and noticed the flickering glow of a nearby lamp. The circle of light illuminated two figures crouched before the table. The sight of Georgie alive relieved him, even bound and helpless as the lad was. It also meant he hadn't been the one to send him falling. Georgie stared at the ground unmoving. Beside him, trussed up and unconscious, sat the vicar. The sound of footsteps turned Williamson's attention to the right, and he climbed falteringly to his feet to face the two shadowy approaching forms.
"I knew you would survive," a familiar voice said.
The source of the voice filled him with surprise. The man from the carriage! "Stainsby," Williamson said. The man to his left was also familiar - Ravenscar's driver, Bimalinder.
"I am more usually referred to as Lord Ravenscar," Stainsby replied, in a gloating voice.
Williamson looked from Ravenscar's chubby, self-satisfied face to the Sikh. The former nodded, smiling widely.
"You. You are the murderer, Ravenscar?" More accusation than a question, Williamson took a wary step back.
"No, my boy, I am the acolyte." The two men stepped around the pit, facing him with the lamplight behind them. "I have been trailing you since the carriage ride, hoping to get you alone here."
The Sikh cricked his neck, moving his head side to side in a strange, rhythmic manner. Ravenscar looked at the pit. "Cannon freed him by accident you know, the one I call Hastur. Though I was actually looking for him when I organised the dig." He tilted his head, indicating Bimalinder. "The first host. Quite unsuitable. You on the other hand…"
Williamson's guts turned to ice. The Sikh's skin had grown much darker, his face becoming riddled in cracks. Squirming black tentacles sickeningly bulged from his mouth, each pulsing obscenity tipped by a sharp talon. The head stopped moving, its bulging eyes turning terribly to Williamson.
"He requires more souls than this sorry little village can provide," Ravenscar explained. "He desires to explore this age, using a host familiar with cosmopolitan places." Bimalinder stepped forward, his monstrous face throbbing.
"You mean me?" Williamson asked.
"It is why I had those oblivious fools send you here. Even planted the note in our dear constable's pocket. You shall become host to the Feaster from Afar, the God of Ravenscar."
"Blasphemy!" an angry voice cried. Ravenscar and the monster turned in surprise. The vicar, now free of his bonds, charged towards them. He had the look of a maniac in his eyes. He barrelled into the Sikh, his momentum taking them both to the ground.
"No!" Ravenscar yelled, raising his hands to his face.
Williamson watched the pair struggle at the edge of the pit. Both men rolled and went plummeting down. Williamson flinched at the brutal sounds of impact. Ravenscar rushed forward, waving his arms in distress. He fell to his knees at the pit's edge and wailed. Williamson stepped towards him. "Lord Ravenscar!"
There issued from the pit a loud keening wail that halted his words, accompanied by a fetid, reeking wind. The blast sent Williamson staggering backwards. Black, greasy slivers of smoke poured forth, something terrible lurked within. Williamson had a half-glimpsed, nightmare vision of flapping wings, of whipping tendrils attached to a deformed, withered body. An involuntary jabber of terror escaped his lips. The thing paused, hovering before Ravenscar. A second, powerful gust sent Williamson to the ground. As he fell, he saw the twisted horror shooting to the sky. Then it disappeared, and the moors were silent.
Williamson had landed on something soft, wet. When he tried getting up, the earth sucked at him greedily. With some effort, he pulled himself to his knees. Ravenscar remained crouched before the pit. Williamson stood and stepped towards him. "Ravenscar?"
The man made no acknowledgment of his presence. He walked forward, sent the pit a wary glance, then saw Ravenscar's face. "My god…" he gasped, and knelt for a closer look. A hole centred the man's forehead, red at the edges but with no signs of bleeding. His eyes were opaque, lifeless. It appeared his god had taken one last meal before departing.
The sound of falling rubble returned Williamson's attention to the pit. The vicar's corpse lay down there, Bimalinder's too, their bodies broken atop a pile of ancient green stones. Like the one in his pocket… Perhaps these should have never been removed in the first place. He retrieved the stone from his pocket, examined it in his hand, and tossed it into the pit.
"Help!" a voice cried. Georgie of course, still tied up before the table.
"Just a moment," Williamson replied and made his way towards him. The going proved a little slow, with his injured leg, but he soon reached the table and Georgie.
The lad grinned. "Vicar got loose sir. He could have untied me as well," he said and scowled.
"I think, Georgie, you were safer over here."
Georgie nodded in agreement. "What did you see there? I couldn’t believe my eyes!"
Williamson said nothing, merely knelt, and began working on the ropes binding Georgie's wrists. "My lad," he said, and scrutinized the twinkling firmament. A shooting star appeared overhead, darting towards the horizon. He wondered to which distant star it might return, then turned back to the boy. "I have trouble believing it myself."
“You desired a story, Mr. Pickman, sir. I believe this one should suffice.” Williamson retook his chair as a ripple of conversation rose around the room. Some nodded agreeably, though I caught the brief, and somewhat uncharitable, murmurs of “Well, he did hit his head, you know, so perhaps not fully compos mentis.”
As always, my gaze turned to Pickman. His complexion remained pale, his lips tightly pressed together. For he knew, as well as I, that the white-haired, somewhat aged figure of Williamson had, when I last saw him a year ago, been a dark haired man in the full vigour of early middle-age…