Murder on the Thirteenth (4 page)

“Sorry I'm late, all.” Miss Sprong strode in humming her favourite hymn, “The Devil and Me”. She wore her navy blue, red-trimmed Salvation Army uniform. “Great band practice.” She stood, her sturdy but shapely legs apart, in front of the fire, warming her backside. Her lantern jaw jutted forward and her clear blue eyes appeared even more
luminous against the deep windburn of her face. She walked daily in Coote's Paradise, rain or shine.

“Evening, Patricia,” Tretheway said. “Why don't you give us your report now.”

“Okay.” She looked around the room. “Is it my turn?”

“Yes,” Tretheway said. “Tremaine's just finished.”

Tremaine sat down.

“Well, it was all very orderly,” Patricia Sprong began. “A few violations. Most were forgivable. But I have some names here to report.” She went on to describe an efficient patrol. As a professional major in the Sally Ann, Sprong tended to be harder or easier on offenders in direct relation to their wealth. All the names she handed in were well-to-do folk. The poor and meek she forgave. And Tretheway couldn't help but notice that, unlike Mary Dearlove, Major Sprong was no stranger to unlit streets or dark alleys.

“That's about it, then?” Tretheway looked around the room.

Everybody looked around the room.

“That's fine.” Addie stood up and flicked some crumbs from her apron. “Perhaps some sandwiches would be in order.”

“Good idea,” Jake said.

“What about the lecture on sand bags?” Gum asked.

“And some beer,” Addie finished.

“We'll do the sand bags later.” Tretheway stood up.

For the next thirty minutes, everyone socialized. They made short work of the tasty, substantial sandwiches (most of the men washed theirs down with ale) and helped themselves generously to the apple tarts Addie had made after saving up food coupons for weeks. Her home-made dandelion wine moved slowly. Fat Rollo stole a tart, but Fred was blamed for it. Finally, everyone wandered back to their seats and waited for the meeting to continue.

“I thought we'd go right into, ‘How to Fill an Efficient Sandbag'”, Tretheway began. “Then perhaps a little euchre.”

Agreeable murmurs were heard, except from Mary Dearlove. She had no objection to playing euchre; something else was bothering her.

“Just a moment,” she said to Tretheway. “What about
your
report? I mean, we've heard a lot of rumours.”

“About what?” Tretheway asked.

“The light,” Miss Dearlove persisted. “The light on the marsh.”

“Come clean, Tretheway,” the Squire chided. “Who was signalling the Luftwaffe?”

“I heard it was marsh gas,” Patricia Sprang offered.

“Corpse's candles?” Cynthia Moon said.

“A form of phosphorescence,” Tremaine Warbucks stated. “Ignis Fatuus.”

Gum giggled and Garth Dingle guffawed loudly.

“All right.” Tretheway held his large hands up, palms out partly in defeat and partly to control the meeting. “Settle down.”

He had told Zoë and Beezul about the light. Jake had been there. Gum knew about it. And then there were the people who had phoned in. So it was no secret.

“We saw this light,” Tretheway said. “Just where it was reported. Definite blackout violation. Coming from Hickory Island. So we investigated.”

“You mean you went out there?” Addie asked. “Across the ice?”

“That's right.” Tretheway had their attention. “Not that far. Made it without incident.” He looked sideways at Jake. “We ascertained that someone had built a fire. Never found anyone. A bowl of wax had overflowed and flared up. That was the light we saw earlier.”

“Wax in a bowl?” the Squire asked.

“That's right.”

“Was the bowl bronze, by any chance?” said Cynthia Moon.

“Could be.”

“And
only
wax in it?”

“I think so.”

“Where is it now? Could I see it?”

“All right.” Tretheway nodded at Jake.

“I'll get it.” Jake left the room.

“And there were some diagrams in the snow. Circles,” Tretheway continued.

“What size?”

“One very large one around the fire. Then some smaller ones. And stars.”

“Stars?”

“Pentacles, perhaps?” Warbucks asked.

“They were half-trampled out. As though someone tried to get rid of them. And some numbers.”

“What numbers?” Cynthia Moon asked.

“One, six, nine, two.”

“Don't understand that,” Cynthia said.

Jake came back carrying a bowl and an envelope. He put the bowl on the table. Everyone crowded around. Cynthia scratched at its hardened wax contents, releasing an unpleasant aroma.

“Smells like sulphur,” Beezul said.

“Brimstone,” Cynthia corrected. “There,” she said finally.

“What?” Tretheway peered into the bowl.

“A pin,” she said. “And I'll bet there are more. Deeper down.”

“What do you make of that?” Gum asked.

Cynthia Moon didn't answer. “Was there anything else?” she asked. “Anything?”

Jake glanced at Tretheway, who nodded. He emptied the envelope onto the table beside the bowl.

The knotted cord looked untidy, unclean. And the nine feathers tied into its multi-coloured length were misshapen or broken. On Hickory Island it was just a piece of string swinging from a leafless tree. Here, in Addie's comfortable common room, in the warm light of the fire, it appeared alien, almost evil.

Cynthia Moon gasped. “A Witch's Ladder!” She grasped the largest amulet hanging amongst her beads and turned away from the table. Her eyes suddenly went glassy and as round as coasters. She pointed to the back of the room. Then she screamed; a primeval echoing. At that moment, Fat Rollo struggled to his feet and bolted with surprising speed under the shaky card tables in the direction of Cynthia's accusing finger. On his dash, he bumped into, or at least brushed against, several pairs of legs. Zoë Plunkitt and Mary Dearlove screamed. Fred's hackles rose and she started to bark. Addie squeezed the breath out of Jake. Twenty-six pounds of charging cat rammed the French doors that separated the room from Tretheway's back yard. Cynthia Moon fainted.

Garth Dingle recovered first. “It was a cat,” he shouted. “Looking in the window. Just a dumb cat.”

Patricia Sprong confirmed Garth's sighting. “That's right. A striped cat. It ran away.”

In the next five minutes things calmed down considerably. Beezul helped Cynthia Moon to the couch. Addie brought some brandy in from the kitchen.

“I'm sorry,” Cynthia said finally. “But everything happened at once. Hearing about all those things. And seeing the bowl. And a cat looking in the window. At night. A death sign…”

“That's all right,” Addie comforted. “Just take a sip.”

Tretheway noticed that Cynthia Moon was clutching her amulet again. He had always thought of her, despite her eccentricities, as a solid, both-feet-on-the-ground person.
She painted unusual, abstract canvases; her clothes were different; she told fortunes with tea leaves or tarot cards for amusement only and dabbled in mysterious sciences almost as a lark, a harmless hobby. Perhaps, he thought, Cynthia Moon's knowledge of the occult was not as shallow as he'd first surmised.

“If you know anything about these things,” Tretheway said kindly, “Maybe you'd like to talk about it.”

Cynthia Moon nodded. Everyone waited.

“Well.” She took another sip of brandy. “There are a number of things. They may sound silly alone. But all together…” She looked at Tretheway.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged.

“The blackout was on the thirteenth, for a start. A full moon. Close to midnight. The witching hour. What you saw on the island sounds like an altar. A witch's or devil's altar. A place prepared for evil. For casting spells.” Cynthia looked around the room. No one said anything for seconds, but it seemed longer. Then everybody tried to speak at once.

“Rubbish,” Patricia Sprong said.

“Oh dear,” Addie said quietly.

“You're not suggesting some sort of witchcraft?” Mary Dearlove asked.” In 1943?”

“You mean that Tretheway and Jake almost caught a witch?” Gum said.

“Can't remember the last one we caught,” Garth smiled.

“Seventeen twenty-seven,” Warbucks stated. “In Scotland. Janet…ah Home, I think. They say she turned her daughter into a flying horse. Laughed when they threw her onto the fire.”

“Oh dear,” Addie said again, louder.

Tretheway glared at Warbucks. “Let Cynthia finish.”

“Make fun if you like.” Cynthia reached for the brandy again, then thought better of it. “But when I think of
witchcraft, I think of a religion. The craft of the wise. Wicca. It began before Christianity and will be with us forever. Now, I know there's a certain occultism involved. A spirit world. An intangible, primitive dimension that no one in this room can explain.” Cynthia looked around for an answer before she went on. “But it's a harmless, nondestructive form of witchcraft. In ancient tales, white witches have shrunk goitres, banished melancholy, staunched bleeding and even aided lovers in their quests. They've raised cones of power that have changed the paths of history.” Cynthia stopped. This time, she had a good swallow of brandy. She rearranged her strings of beads. Everyone waited. “However, what we have here is no old-time religion. This smacks of sorcery. Black magic. Devil worship. Everything points to evil. The demon's circle. The pentacles. The perverted rosary with its nine feathers. A bronze bowl. Fire. The wax and the pins that I'm sure were stuck into an effigy before it melted. Image magic. Brimstone.”

She stood up. Her eyes, glowing with enthusiasm and brandy, transfixed Tretheway.

“There was something out there. A witch. A wizard. A warlock. An impish presence. Bent on malevolent mischief.” Her voice rose. “Perhaps to raise a storm. To spoil a crop. To poison a well. To make a pact with the devil.” Cynthia's eyes dilated. Her body twitched slightly. Exhausted, she sat down heavily on the couch.

The fire crackled. Fat Rollo stretched out again. Fred whimpered softly in mid-dream. The quiet conversation of two student boarders was muffled behind the kitchen door.

“On the other hand,” Tretheway cleared his throat, “It could have been some FYU students.”

“Having a lark?” the Squire suggested.

“Possibly some secret fraternity ritual,” Beezul said.

“Maybe divinity students on a research project,” Mary Dearlove suggested.

“Or raising a little hell,” Garth said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Everyone nodded except Cynthia Moon.

“Couldn't it have been something like that?” Addie asked her.

Cynthia stared into Addie's hopeful eyes. She realized everyone was waiting for her answer.

“Of course it could.” Cynthia smiled. “I didn't mean to alarm anyone.”

“I mean,” Addie went on, “nothing happened really. No one was hurt, or anything.”

“You're right, Addie,” Jake said. “Let's have some sandwiches.”

Addie brightened. A hum of conversation began.

“All right.” Tretheway tapped his night stick on the table again. “We'll do the sandbag thing another night. I think we've covered everything.”

“Except for the bat,” Garth Dingle said, almost under his breath.

All talk stopped again. Cynthia's smile disappeared. Zoë blinked furiously. The worried look returned to Addie's face.

“The what?” Tretheway said.

“The bat,” Garth repeated. He stood by the fireplace innocently kicking ashes across the hearth. Jake recognized his tone as the same one he used when he baited members of the WSGCC about an obscure rules infraction on the course. “The giant sliding bat that moved toward the light.” He continued to stare at his feet. No one breathed.

Tretheway looked daggers at Jake. Jake stared straight ahead, his neck reddening.

“Jake?” Tretheway said quietly. Jake straightened up uncomfortably on the arm of Addie's chair. “Perhaps
you'd like to answer this one?”

Jake stood up, glanced sheepishly at his boss and put his hands in and out of his pockets before he stammered his way into the explanation. By the time Tretheway had once again taken off across the marsh, most were smiling, some snickering. And when the great bat fell, everyone laughed. Even Tretheway had to smile.

The relief of laughter continued longer and louder than the story warranted. Tretheway noticed Zoë Plunkitt, handkerchief in hand, dabbing, trying to save her eye makeup from the running, hysterical tears. At the time, he put it down to the simple relief of tension.

I
n the heart of Fort York's business section was a pleasant sward of parkland known as The Gore. It had evolved from a raw firewood market in I860, with small spindly saplings, into a lush boulevard that split King Street for three downtown blocks. At the west end, a giant benevolent statue of Queen Victoria, guarded by sculptured lions, stared haughtily down on her people from a high concrete column. An inscription read, ‘Queen and Empress/Model Wife and Mother'. At the other end, a lifesize copper replica of Sir John A. McDonald stood on a similar column flanked by two twenty-four pounder ship's guns from the War of 1812. In the centre of The Gore, a magnificent fountain, continuously spouted noisy but soothing jets of water around its three-tiered, circular design. Flowers and mature trees ran the length of the park.

Here, on warm summer afternoons, tired shoppers, layabouts, people waiting for buses and visiting servicemen rested, cooled off and contemplated their uncertain futures. On Saturday, February 13, about thirty minutes past midnight, The Gore was cold and deserted except for the dead rabbit.

“Tretheway's.” Jake was first to reach the phone. “Hi, Wan Ho.” Jake smiled into the receiver. “What's on your mind?”