A small wicker cage had been hung from a branch and set alight. Inside, on the bottom, was a charred shape, black and still. What it was I could not tell. But one fact was certain. If it had once been a living creature, it had met a horrible death.
Sixteen
I set Hercules down and he scurried, whimpering, under the nearest bush, his eyes reproaching me for abandoning him so callously. Then, with my cudgel, I slashed out at the last fiery remnants of the wicker cage, hitting them to the ground. They fell in a shower of sparks and charred black specks that clung to my hands and sleeves, the wet grass effectively dousing the rest of the flames. Reluctantly, I approached the remains and stirred them with the end of my stick, prodding cautiously at the burned lump, half expecting to uncover what was left of some small animal or bird. To my relief, however, it disintegrated, and I could only guess that it had been another of the corn dollies that I had previously seen, along with the rag ‘clooties’, tied to the branches of the trees.
I knew what the wicker cage and the corn dolly were meant to represent. It was a re-enactment, in miniature, of the old Celtic practice of human sacrifice, burning the victims alive. Often, the wicker cages had been woven in the shape of a giant man – or, at least, so had said Julius Caesar in his condemnation of the ancient British Druids. (Which, when one considered the barbaric customs of the Romans was like the pot calling the skillet black.)
But that was beside the point; the point being that I was not alone here, on the Upper Brockhurst ridge, as I had fondly imagined. The hairs began to lift on the nape of my neck. Someone had been very close, and recently enough to set light to the little cage so that it was still burning when I found it. Its woven twigs would most probably, at that time of year, have been damp, but nonetheless, it would have burned quite quickly. Had that mysterious someone realized I was near? Was the ‘sacrifice’ a warning to me?
I took my cudgel in a firmer grip, hissed at Hercules to follow me – an injunction he resolutely ignored: did I really think he was that much of a fool? – and walked forward along the track that led out of the opposite side of the clearing. After advancing two or three yards, I paused to listen, but the only sounds were the sighing of the breeze through the leaves, the faint, barely audible rustling of grasses and the twittering of birds among the branches.
A sudden rush of wings made me start, as one of the birds flew low overhead. I called out, ‘Hello! Is anybody there?’ But it was a stupid question, and silence was the only answer. As I had realized once before, endless acres of woodland stretched all about me; and for anyone who was familiar with its secret paths and tracks, overgrown and invisible to the eye of a stranger, remaining concealed would pose no problem. I was wasting my time and possibly endangering my person, as well. It was time I returned to the Lilywhites’ cottage. If I had signally failed in what I had come here to do – to sift through what I knew of Eris Lilywhite’s disappearance – I had at least solved one mystery to my satisfaction, even if the solution was of no benefit to anyone living.
I retrieved Hercules from under his bush and tucked him beneath one arm. He remained unmoved by my accusation of cowardice, licking my face in slavering subservience as we started downhill, across the pasture, heading for the smallholding near the bottom of the slope. The winter day was fading, the darkening sky riven by a shaft of light as cold as steel. It was also beginning to rain, the drops slanting against my face like splinters of ice, yet another reminder that winter had not yet given up the ghost, even though tomorrow, Sunday, would be the last day of February. And the feast of Saint Patrick was only seventeen days away. I had to leave Lower Brockhurst soon or break my promise to Adela.
I tilted my head, looking up at the white sword of light drawn through the leaden clouds, and demanded irritably, ‘Well, Lord? What is it you want me to do? Am I performing Your work here? Or are You simply playing at cat and mouse? Is Eris Lilywhite safe and sound somewhere, while You’re just laughing up Your sleeve to see me running around in circles? I mean, I’d like to keep my word to my wife, if it’s all the same to You. So for pity’s sake, give me a sign!’
But, of course, nothing dramatic happened. Why did I think it might? God doesn’t work like that. Not ever. You have to wait, slowly and painstakingly piecing together the scraps of information that He condescends to give you until, finally, you can see the picture, whole and entire.
The bright day had settled into a stormy night of wind and driving rain. The Mistress Lilywhites and I huddled close to a fire where the logs crackled and sparked across the red-hot sods of peat, while the wind moaned and whistled through the hole in the blackened roof, blowing showers of woodash into our laps and faces, causing our eyes to water and smart.
The two women had received news of the invalids’ condition when they had visited the village during the course of the afternoon, in order, so they said, to purchase flour from the mill. Their information was therefore more recent than mine, and they were able to reassure me that both Lambert and Sir Anselm were making good progress. Indeed, the priest insisted that he would able to conduct all services the following day and also to hear confessions first thing in the morning. Mistress Bush, who was still dancing attendance on him, had pursed her lips and shaken her head doubtfully, but her patient was adamant.
‘And she won’t dent the old man’s determination, once he’s made up his mind,’ said Theresa. ‘Sir Anselm’s as obstinate as they come.’ She added reproachfully, ‘We expected you back by dinnertime, Roger. We didn’t anticipate having to go chasing after the news ourselves.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mother-in-law,’ Maud begged her tartly. ‘The walk did us good. Besides, Master Chapman’s our guest, not our errand boy.’
‘No, no! Dame Theresa’s right,’ I apologized. ‘I should have had the courtesy to call in and tell you what I’d learned. But is there any more news, do you know, of Tom Rawbone? Has he been found yet? Have the village elders organized a posse?’
The older woman shook her head. ‘We’ve heard nothing on either count. Between ourselves, I think the Rawbone family – Ned and his father, to be more precise – have brought pressure to bear on members of the Village Council to let matters rest as they are. Or, at the very least, to delay sending anyone in pursuit until it’s far too late to catch up with Tom. No one’s dead, after all-’ her voice faltered for a moment, thinking of her granddaughter no doubt, but she rallied and went on – ‘and, so long as Tom doesn’t return to Dragonswick, there’s no occasion to make an enemy of Nathaniel. Generally speaking, communities like Lower Brockhurst – isolated, dependent on one another’s goodwill, especially in winter – prefer to keep on speaking terms with their neighbours. Tom’s the one people have it in for. His treatment of Rosamund Bush disgusted them: she’s well liked in the village. And in many ways, they secretly admire the old man for being able, at his time of life, to sneak Eris from under Tom’s nose. They feel it served him right.’
I asked, ‘Do you both believe it was Tom who attacked the miller and Sir Anselm?’
‘Of course!’ Maud exclaimed sharply. ‘What other explanation can there possibly be? He’s run away, hasn’t he? And the mask he wore was discovered in the Rawbones’ undercroft.’
‘But why would he beat up the priest? Lambert I can understand, but Tom seems to have had no grudge against Sir Anselm. At least, none that anyone has mentioned to me.’
Maud shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘To make people ask that very question, I should suppose. To throw dust in their eyes so that, like you, they begin to doubt that it was Tom who assaulted either man.’
Theresa gave a snort of derision.
‘Tom Rawbone hasn’t the brains or the subtlety to think up a plan like that.’ She turned to me. ‘So what are you implying, chapman? That someone else wanted to make people believe that Tom Rawbone was the culprit?’