The Man in the Moss

            'I know,' Willie said. 'J. S. Lucas. Occurred to me too, just momentarily, like, but I thought I were being paranoid.'

            Milly looked blank.

            'Lucas were t'name of Jack's father. Not many folk'd know that.'

            Ernie watched Willie struggling into his old donkey jacket with the vinyl patch across the shoulders. Not seen that for some years. Lad had put on a few pounds in the meantime.

            Milly Gill slid the cats from her knee. 'Well, all I can say is you seem determined, Mr Dawber, that one way or t'other, you'll not see tomorrow's sun.'

            'Time comes, Millicent, when being an observer is no longer sufficient.'

            'And what about you, Willie? Feller who liked to pride himself on his cowardice.'

            'True,' Willie said. 'But this is family.'

            'I'm just praying,' Ernie said, 'as they've not done owt to Liz Horridge.'

            Willie grinned. 'Always had a bit of a thing for Liz, dint you, Mr Dawber?'

            'She could've done no better than Arthur Horridge,' Ernie said generously.

            'And might've done a good deal worse, eh?' Willie was over by the window. 'Not slackening off at all, bloody rain. Moss'll be treacherous for weeks.'

            'We're not going to the Moss,' said Ernie. 'We're not going anywhere near the Moss.'

            He was still thinking furiously about what young Catherine had said about obsession. That he himself had been trapped just as surely as Matt Castle and Dr Hall. That there was indeed something powerfully emotionally disruptive about the bogman.

            Ernie glanced at Milly Gill, who was not, he reassured himself, in Ma's league. Not yet.

            Determined that one way or t'other you'll not see tomorrow's sun.

            Aye, well, Ernie Dawber thought, we'll have to see about that.

The tapping on the study door was firm but polite.

            Cathy opened it. They were corning out anyway, though without much direction. At some point, Macbeth had suggested they simply call the cops, but Cathy said the cops must already be looking into Moira's death; how were they supposed credibly to plant the idea that the accident was in some way unnatural?

            Chris stood in the doorway. 'We've come to a decision,' he said. 'Thank you for your hospitality, but we want to go back.'

            'Back?' Cathy said.

            'To the church.'

            'Oh,' Cathy said. 'But you can't.'

            Chris smoothed his beard, 'We're deeply ashamed, Cathy. We had no faith. We watched Joel struggling with the demon, and we thought he'd gone mad.'

            'He has,' Cathy said tautly.

            'And now this attack on Chantal. She was the only one of us whose belief in Joel was sustained when the chips were down. She went back and she was physically and spiritually attacked. Could have been killed. We let that happen.'

            'Open up, did she?'

            Chris stared at her in horror.

            'I mean to you,' Cathy said irritably. 'Did she tell you exactly what happened to her?'

            'Come on, Chris,' a woman's voice called from behind. 'It's only half an hour to midnight.'

            'I'm sorry,' Chris said. 'God protect you. God protect you both.'

            Cathy flung the door wide. There was a whole crowd of them gathered behind Chris.

            'Let me spell it out for you. All of you. You've all been used. Joel was used. Somebody wanted to break down the church's defences - these are defences built up over centuries.'

            'Yes,' said Chris. 'We were the last line of defence.' Not understanding, unlikely to be capable of understanding. 'And we were afraid. We lost faith in our brother, Joel. We deserted him when he most needed us, and it took the violation of our sister ...'

            'Sister?' Macbeth said. 'She's your goddamn wife!'

            'And Joel was right too ...' Chris backed away, 'about this man. Turn him out, Cathy. Turn him out and come with us.'

            'Of course I'm not going to bloody turn him out! He's got good reason to be angry; a friend of his died tonight.'

            Chris didn't blink.

            'Come on, Chris. In God's name,' the woman behind him cried.

            'I'm coming.'

            Cathy grabbed his arm. 'What I'm saying to you, Chris, is that it's not safe for you to go back in that church. Any of you. You won't do yourselves any good and you'll probably do us all a lot of harm.'

            Chris said pityingly, 'Our trust is in Almighty God. In whom, to our shame, we temporarily lost our faith. And for that we have much to make up. Whatever happens in there will be His will.'

            'He gave you a brain, Chris. To think with, you know? Have you given up thinking for yourselves? Letting Him do all your thinking now, is it?'

            Chris pulled his arm away, eyes full of drifting cloud. 'Pray for us, Cathy.'

            'Yes,' said Cathy when they'd gone. 'But who am I supposed to pray to?'

Because he was used to making a recce before venturing in, Ashton drove once up the village street, turned around on the parking area by the church and drove slowly back towards the pub.

            Just as well he was driving slowly. Twice, people hurried across the street, two men together and two women individually, flapping like chickens in the blinding rain.

            There were lights in most front rooms, lights in the chip shop but a 'closed' sign on the door. Water gushed down the sides of the road, down the hill. Where did it all go? Into the Moss?

            Ashton followed the water as far as the pub, where the only light was the hanging lantern over the front porch, illuminating the sign, The Man I'th Moss. No picture. What would it have shown? Why had they given the pub that name, possibly a couple of hundred years ago, when nobody could have guessed there was an ancient body in the bog?

            Or could they?

            Ashton pulled on to the forecourt and dashed for the door. Lottie Castle. He could spot a liar in seconds. He could also tell when people were deluded. And he could, of course, spot people who were daft or innocent enough to be led up the garden path.

            But this Lottie Castle.

            Now, here's a cool, intelligent woman who is definitely not lying; a woman you could, with confidence, put in a witness box in front of George bloody Carman QC.

            And here's a woman claiming to be haunted. You know why I half believe this? Ashton still quizzing himself as he huddled on the doorstep in his trench coat, ill-fitting slates in the porch letting water trickle down his collar.

            Because this is s woman who sincerely doesn't want to believe it.

            And it also, yes, an attractive widow. Well, what's wrong with that?

            The woman who answered the door, however, was not Lottie Castle. But if Ashton the human being was disappointed, Ashton the copper was back on duty the second he identified her.