Ritual (11 page)

‘My God, this toast’s cold!’

‘So sorry, sir,’ simpered Gregory Peck, flirting his eyes towards Cready. ‘But it was hot when it left the kitchen, sir, but cooled during the journey.’

He set the tray down on the altar, deliberately provoking Cready. Cready stuttered with inarticulate anger. ‘Get get that bl—bloody tray off the altar—get—get it off!!’

Martin lowered his sleek neck and picked up the tray. This time he sat it on the black carpet. He smiled indulgently, pouted his lower lip to a glistening pink oval and left the room.

‘He will pout once too often and then I’ll have him!’ seethed Cready.

David tabulated the remark on his brain slate. He stroked the velvet on the altar.

‘Yes, Mr. Cready, I think you are really evil. Very soon, today or tomorrow, I will crush you—even though your health is on the decline. Fortunately real evil’s hard to come by. It’s rarely so blunt as yours. Usually it’s studied, insidious. In fact, a profession. But it always has a definite smell of rotting flesh. It’s the prologue to the Final Solution. I only need the proof, Cready, and then I’ll get you. You’re bound to overplay your hand. That is one of the rules of evil. It’s never satisfied with the simple act. It has to elaborate, add the frills and the bats’ wings. I need a definite action to clinch it. I’m sure you will oblige.’

Cready removed the Inspector’s hand from the altar and led him to the bookshelf. He ignored everything David said. Only his teeth sweated. Quickly he selected a thickish album from the shelf. He flicked through the pages, occasionally showing the Inspector a photograph. It was Cready’s theatrical scrap book. The pictures covered his varied career.

‘I was an actor. Beloved for my cameos in the Classics. My father, of course, was a vicar—so naturally I wanted to be a commando. But my father’s disciplinary precautions made me study for the Ministry. After two years of constant Theology, I was already a great actor. Especially to myself. You need to be a good Thespian to study two years of Theology. My life has followed the usual pattern of a vicar’s son. I’m an advanced atheist with a coy love for the Devil. Actually, I met the Devil once; club foot, phallic tail, brimstone fart and all, in a Ladies’ Public Convenience—which was convenient as he was in fact a she! And as black as a Liquorice-Allsort. She told me confidentially that she was homosexual. But one should never believe the Devil...’ During this diatribe, he showed David a photograph of himself in gangrene tights, playing Satan in a doubtful adaptation of
Paradise Lost
.

Suddenly he avoided showing the Inspector a number of pages at the end of the scrap book.

‘May I?’ enquired the Inspector.

‘No, they wouldn’t interest you. They’re pictures of a mutilated girl that I came across last summer. They would only be of interest to a Sadist, First Class Honours, Cambridge. They would bore you. Or make you puke. Depending on your degree of decadence. No, please! I must insist you don’t...!’

David snatched the book from Cready. He examined the pages in question. They were filled with photographs of Dian Spark. Head, shoulders, close ups, and full lengths, lying in twisted positions on a lawn. Some of them were in colour and a few shots of her staring eyes in black and white. There was blood streaming down her neck from her mouth. And various blotches of blood on her bare arms and calves. She was dead.

11

‘Charming photographs, aren’t they?’

‘When did you say you took these photos? When? I said, when?’

‘Yes, I thought they would stimulate your question computer. Last year, actually. Last Midsummer. I find them disagreeable now. Like a stale cod taste after the sweet course. Effective, though, don’t you think? Admittedly, a touch over the top in the melodrama.’

He gently scratched his finger on a splash of blood that squirted from the girl’s mouth in a particularly nasty photograph.

‘What did you do to her? This is obscene!’

‘No, it’s not. It’s Tiptrees Raspberry Jam. She said she liked the taste. A bit sticky, I thought. But she was the victim—so Tiptrees Raspberry Jam it was. And before you ask any more questions, I will tell you I play games with the children. Charades and things. And this time last year, three hundred and sixty five days ago—or was it a leap year—no, it was...’

‘For Christ’s sake, let’s have the facts and less of the Julian Calendar!’

‘Oh, so sorry, I thought you were enjoying it. Well, the children wanted to play murder and as it’s one of my favourite games—we played murder. We killed poor little Dian. Before the oak tree did, that is...’

‘Come on! Come on!’

‘All right! All right!’ protested Cready as David interrupted him. ‘Well, we beat her to death with axes. I think they’re in this room somewhere. Oh yes, behind these books.’

Cready removed three volumes of necromancy and pulled out a handful of candy-striped cardboard tomahawks. ‘I made these one Sunday during one of Pastor White’s sexy sermons. Cute, aren’t they?’ He handed them to the Inspector.

‘Well, when we killed her—she didn’t look very dead—so Fat Billy went into the kitchen—with Martin’s permission, of course—one has to be so careful not to offend the artist among his runner beans, doesn’t one? And Martin is very sweet but inclined to balletic hysterics, if you follow me. Yes, I’m sure you do...’

Cready’s greying mouth blossomed into two polished grapes as he savoured the prospect of Martin performing Swan Lake in his runner beans. David felt balletic hysterics twinging his toes.

‘As I was saying, before I rudely interrupted myself with thinking, Martin gave Billy a handful of runner beans and some Tiptrees Raspberry Jam, which Billy brought out and set in the middle of the lawn. The jam, that is. He’d already scoffed his way through the runner beans. So, we all thrust our sweaty fingers into the red mush and spread it thick and sticky over Dian’s pink mush—to coin a noun. In fact, we spread it over every available nude area of flesh. You do notice she is wearing a dress, don’t you? Nice candy stripes. The raspberry jam went quite well with them. And to complete the ritual, I photographed the gory mess for Hammer Productions. Shall we visit the garden? I could show you the very spot. The daises grow there in profusion.’

David had to admit that it was ridiculous. Filth is rarely as entertaining as this. He couldn’t help noticing that the Reverend White and Mr. Cready had the same pompous speech mannerisms. Too many words to say too little.

Cready interrupted his private reverie. ‘Yes, Mr. Hanlin, the Reverend and I are both actors and both ministers—of one God or another. Please don’t look surprised at me reading your thoughts. I have a small gift for tuning in on peoples’ mental images. But I can only see what is going on in your mind when it concerns me, personally. Let’s go into the garden.’

He led David out of the Museum, locking his secrets behind him. They began the long walk through the passages, down the stairs and through the passages to the garden.

As they went, Cready elaborated. ‘That’s why, when you attack me with your theories on my Iago ability, that’s why I don’t have to listen. I can see them in your head, shuffling round. I noticed them first over the breakfast table. They’re not very nice, are they? In fact, they’re very nasty. You’ll like the garden. It’s only vaguely evil.’

Well aware that Cready was trying to blind him with cheap poetics, the Inspector decided to play things by the book.

‘Where were you when Dian Spark was murdered?’

‘Concerning the resemblance in speech of the Reverend to myself, it is simply we are of the Johnson School of verbal linguistics. By Johnson, I naturally mean Samuel rather than Ben. I do not particularly care for the name Ben, in any case...’

‘Shut up, will you? Will you shut up and only answer the questions I ask? You’re boring me! Understand that! To be a sadistic pervert is one thing! But I will not tolerate boredom so early in the morning!’ David shouted at Cready, who seemed oblivious to the explosion.

Now they were walking on the wet lawn. The grass had been cut yesterday. Green feather blades stuck to their shoes. Dew swished on the bottom of their trousers. A cheeky blackbird was yammering music. Feeling a fleck of dew quiver on the hairs of his leg, David stopped. He dearly wanted to shake Cready by his moustache! In fact, he wanted to pull it off that supercilious mouth.

‘What in hell’s name were you doing on the murder of the morning? I mean for hell’s sake, on the morning of the murder?’

Cready noticed David’s agitation for the first time. He thought for thirty seconds by his wrist watch, and said, ‘I was practising my archery. Another of the treats I have in store for you. Come this way.’

Cready walked to the end of his everlasting lawn. He indicated three stripped willow wands shivering like locusts’ antennae in the sea breeze. David looked at the wands.

‘Cready, can you prove that you were practising archery? If you can’t, I must ask you to accompany me to the local Police Station to help us with our inquiries.’

‘Have you a warrant? I think not.’

Cready lifted his head back and made a curlew’s call towards the house. Once. Twice. Martin appeared like Robin Hood looking for Maid Marion, with a long bow in either hand and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. The aluminium variety, of course. David presumed that he must be the Sheriff of Nottingham. ‘You’re wondering how Martin knew I wanted the archery equipment, aren’t you?’

David was indeed wondering how Martin knew Cready wanted the archery equipment, so he replied, ‘I was wondering no such thing!’

‘Well, since you’re so inquisitive, I’ll inform you. It is yet another manifestation of my agile, though, I hasten to add, amateur skill in thought transference. I also understand I have limited medium powers. Only limited.’

Hanlin realised that Cready wanted him to believe that all his occult powers were small.

Yes, but he still has to boast about it. I feel a crisis is very near. In the next half an hour or so. Another of my unofficial hunches. My Super would go spare if he knew the deviousness of my subconscious.

During this thought process, Martin reached them.

‘Yes, sir, Mr. Cready was performing archery last Sunday morning.’

Another example of Cready’s thought power, presumably! Martin handed Cready one of the long bows and a quiver of arrows. Cready slipped the quiver over his left shoulder. Odd, thought Hanlin, he must be left handed in archery, and yet I swear he’s right handed with everything else. If only my brain was an organised computer, instead of an indulgent imagination. If I had a scientific mind, I would be able to correlate all the details of the last twenty four hours into an arresting whole. And I mean arresting!

Cready led David back until they were standing some three hundred yards from the willow wands. Notching an arrow into his bow string, Cready drew it viciously past his ear and let zing! An eye blink after the arrow split the wand a little off centre, some four inches from the wet grass. Cready then proceeded to commit three more archery miracles with the three remaining wands. David watched his relaxed face. He noticed Cready didn’t even look at the targets as he aimed. He concentrated inwardly as he drew the arrow past his ear and then simply closed his eyes and shot. Each time his eyes were closed when he loosed the arrow!

It’s impossible! Must be a trick. He’s probably squinting under his eyelashes.

Cready beckoned to Martin.

‘Martin, sugar plum, give me a non-blown-on handkerchief. That’s right. Now tie it round my eyes.’

Martin obeyed his master, with a wet simper.

‘No, no, tighter, boy! That’s more painful! Much better! I land me my bow. Thank you, sugar plum.’

Without a pause, Cready fitted an arrow onto the string, aimed and allowed it to scream through the quiet sunlight before splitting one of the centre wands. Almost immediately Cready split the next one. And then the other two.

‘It’s like magic, isn’t it?’ Cready said, removing his blindfold. ‘Well, I suppose, in a way, anything to do with harnessing the power of the mind can be called magic. But you could do it. Anyone could. If they put in the time. But you and the others won’t. I actually learnt it from a Japanese master of concentration. After the war, I stayed in Japan. I was interested in Kabbuki and things. And I met Hu Kwan To, and for four years he taught me the miracles of concentration. For the first two years he wouldn’t even allow me to notch an arrow in my bow. No, the bow itself was sufficient in itself. Day in, and day out...’

‘How did you make a living, Mr. Cready?’

‘Day in and day out, I would face a willow wand and draw the bow beyond my ear and fire my concentration through the summer air. And that was all. One day I questioned his wisdom, like you have mine. And he blindfolded himself and did exactly what I’ve done. By the end of my third year, I could hit the target once in four, blindfolded. And now when I’m not tired, I can hit the target every time. It’s impossible to miss. I will it onto the target. It never fails. And it has about as much to do with witchcraft as flying a broomstick! If you have the odd four years to spare I will teach you some other slit-eyed wonders!’

‘Cready, you seem to have done too much in too little time too often. Especially corruption!’

The iron gate in the wall shuddered open. It was situated opposite the middle of the lawn. And the Indians whooped onto the grass.