The Magic Cottage (21 page)

‘Mr Sixsmythe?’ said Midge as he swung a leg over the machine.

He twisted around to look enquiringly at her.

‘Can you tell me something?’

‘Of course, providing I know the answer.’

‘Well, we . . . I . . . I wondered how Flora Chaldean died.’

He became momentarily flustered. ‘Oh, dear girl, I hope I haven’t given you cause for too much concern by overstating my case. Please forgive me if I’ve alarmed you to that extent.’

‘No, honestly, you haven’t. I’ve been wondering for a while now.’

‘Flora was a very old lady, Margaret. Nobody is quite sure of exactly how many years she had lived, but it’s reasonable to assume she had reached her eighties – possibly her late eighties.’ He smiled kindly at Midge. ‘I suppose you could say Flora died of old age itself. Her heart grew weary and she passed away in her beloved Gramarye. Unfortunately, because she was a recluse, nobody knew until weeks later, although there were those who claimed they had passed by the cottage and had caught sight of her in the garden only a few days before her body was found. But then, people are often confused about specific times, particular dates; it’s very difficult to be absolutely certain about such things.’

‘Why should there be any confusion?’ asked Midge.

‘Ah,’ the vicar replied, as though her question were pertinent. ‘It so happened that I was the one who discovered her body. I used to call in now and again to see how she was, just part of what I consider to be my regular duties, even though I can’t remember Flora ever attending my church. I make a point of always visiting the elderly of the parish when I have time, particularly during the winter months.’

He adjusted the trilby, pulling the hat firmly down over his head so that the breeze would not sweep it away when he started cycling. The brim bent the top of his ears. ‘I saw her through the kitchen window, sitting at the table, cup and saucer before her as though she had only just brewed herself a fresh pot of tea. It was an overcast day and the kitchen was very gloomy, so that I was unable to see clearly; I remember thinking how grimy the windows were, because that hindered my view also. When I tapped on the glass and got no response, well, that was when I became anxious. I’d already tried the door and found it locked, which was odd, because I had never known Flora to lock either doors or windows before. Most peculiar, I thought, and immediately drove to the nearest public phone box and called out Constable Farnes from the village.’

He shook his head sadly, as if the memory was still all too clear inside his head. ‘I waited for him at the cottage, meanwhile discovering that the door around the back was also locked, as were the windows. When Farnes arrived he broke a pane in the kitchen window and undid the latch; then he climbed in.’

Midge moved closer to me. A car sped by, a wooden dog nodding its head at us from the rear window as if it already knew what was coming next.

‘He was quite pallid when he opened the door and beckoned me inside. Because of the expression on his face, and the odious smell that came from the kitchen, I entered with some trepidation.’

Sixsmythe was looking back at the cottage, not at us. ‘As I told you, Flora Chaldean was at the table as though she had only just sat down to drink tea. But the cup was filled with a liquid green mould. And Flora’s body was so corrupted and crawling with maggots that it was obvious that she had been dead for several weeks.’

My stomach turned over like a sluggish spin-dryer and I thought Midge’s tan had become a shade lighter. She reached for me and I held on to her.

Sixsmythe appeared oblivious, his attentions concentrated on the puzzle that he, himself, had posed. ‘So the passers-by couldn’t possibly have seen her in the garden just days before. The coroner later confirmed what we already knew: the deteriorated condition of Flora’s body indicated that she had died at least two or three weeks before, alone and, for all that time until my arrival, unnoticed. Rather sad, wouldn’t you say? Yes, rather sad.’

With that, he pushed his bicycle from the grass verge and pedalled off down the road, waving goodbye over his shoulder at Midge and me without once looking back.

Which was just as well: the angry expression on my face might have unbalanced him and caused a nasty accident.

As you’d imagine, the rest of the day was somewhat spoilt. The kitchen of Gramarye lost a lot of its rustic charm with the idea of poor old Flora’s rotting corpse sitting there at the table drinking mouldering tea fixed in our minds, and Midge lapsed into a miserable silence right through until the evening. She sat on her own in the round room for a long time, and I let her be.

I felt uneasy, not to say queasy, myself and could cheerfully have throttled the vicar for his insensitivity (more than once I wondered if his graphic bluntness hadn’t been deliberate, perhaps a petty retribution for our mild scoffing at his warning – but then, men of the cloth are not the vengeful type, are they? Well, are they?).

Still, the day wasn’t all bad. Later on in the afternoon Bob called with some terrific news. Phil Collins liked one of the songs I’d co-written with Bob, wanted to record the number for an album some time during the following week, and would I care to sit in on the session? Would I? Bob took my garbled rambling into the receiver as a firm ‘yes’.

Midge was naturally delighted for me when I broke the news – our self-imposed period of not accepting any professional undertakings would be almost over by next week, and recording with a megastar wasn’t a bad way to get rolling again, especially when one of my own songs was involved. She did her best to throw off her gloom, although she was still a little subdued, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening enthusing with me. Early that night we enthused our way up to the bedroom and the excitement didn’t end there. Let’s say it was nicely rounded off.

Eventual sleep was marred for me by a dream of taking tea with the maggoty Flora Chaldean downstairs in the kitchen, tiny wriggling white things dropping from her leprous hand into the brew as she stirred it before passing me the cup.

Thank God I awoke before I drank, for the last nightmare image was of a decomposed, almost fleshless, finger floating on top of the green furry liquid.

Mycroft

The following Sunday we drove out to the Forest Inn for a snack lunch and a well-earned drink. What with the forthcoming recording session, set for the following Wednesday, and most of the tasks around the cottage now completed, we were in the mood for celebration.

I drank two pints of bitter with my lunch while Midge stuck to her customary orange juice; maybe it was because I was out of practice, but I felt fairly light-headed after I drained the last of the second pint, and more than ready for another. Midge had had enough of the pub, though, and in a way I couldn’t blame her: after the tranquillity of Gramarye, the crowd and the noise – this place was obviously a popular Sunday watering-hole for both tourists and locals alike – was a little hard to take. The bustle and smoky atmosphere were in direct contrast to the peaceful and unpolluted existence we had quickly become used to (although I have to admit I quite enjoyed the change). Without
too
much protest from me, we left and walked arm in arm towards the Passat.

It was Midge’s suggestion that we take a drive and explore some. We hadn’t had much opportunity before, apart from walks into the woodland surrounding Gramarye and shopping trips into Cantrip and Bunbury, so it wasn’t a bad idea providing we kept away from the main roads which would be busy with day-trippers. I reversed the car from the parking space and headed away from the inn, breaking into loud song as we hit the road.

We soon turned off onto a quiet lane that snaked into a dense part of the forest, the twists and turns demanding all my concentration. The upper branches of trees formed a leafy tunnel, providing a pleasant relief from the hot sun. To be honest, I think we both had an idea where this road might lead, even though neither of us voiced an opinion: we were curious about the Synergists, our interest kindled by Six-smythe’s warning rather than cooled. Not that we wanted anything to do with them – in fact, it had been a relief that neither Kinsella nor the others had visited us since the blond bomber’s departure the previous week. We only wanted to take a closer look at the grey house, the Temple itself. Nothing earnest, no deep motivation – only a destination for an afternoon drive. We’d discussed the Synergists, sure enough, and had easily come to the conclusion that they were no threat to mature and sensible people like us. Possibly Sixsmythe’s stupid disclosure of Flora Chaldean’s macabre death scenario hadn’t exactly endeared him to us, so his views were not taken too seriously. Midge had been pensive for days afterwards, but had eventually shed dark thoughts and relaxed in Gra-marye’s warm ambience once more. I’m sure the constant attention of birds and various animals around the place helped in this respect, bristling life banishing shadowy spectres. The cottage would never be
quite
the same, but our peace of mind had been only slightly dented, not permanently damaged.

As you’ve already gathered, it had been an exceptionally glorious summer, and a small price had to be paid. The debt collector was about to rap on the windscreen as we sped down that secluded lane.

The Passat had spent weeks out under the boiling sun, used regularly and, to my discredit, rarely checked over.

When I saw steam rising over the bonnet I tried to remember when I had last topped up the radiator. The temperature gauge was way up in the danger zone and a red light glared disgustedly at me.

‘Shit!’ I growled as clouds rose up in front.

Midge, who had never been machine-minded, said, ‘What’s wrong with it, Mike?’

I could glare just as hard as that bloody red light, and Midge turned her head to the front once again.

‘Sorry I asked,’ she said.

I brought the car to a halt and sat there, letting the engine and myself steam for a while.

‘Can you fix it?’ Midge ventured after a while, watching the billowing clouds as though they were part of the afternoon’s entertainment.

Forcing myself to relax, I replied, ‘Only by spitting in the radiator.’ I studied the clouds too, but with less awe than Midge.

‘Don’t you think you should try and do something?’

I sighed. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Maybe only the fan belt’s gone. You wearing tights today?’

She gave me a quick flash and dashed my hopes. Groaning, I pushed open the door. ‘Pull that thing up, will you, Midge?’ I pointed at a lever on the passenger side. She did so and the bonnet sprang open an inch.

I got out of the car and walked around to the front, muttering to myself as I slid my fingers through the gap and released the bonnet catch. Pushing the lid all the way up and turning my face away from the tumbling steam, I secured the bonnet with the retaining rod, then peered into the dragon’s mouth. The fan belt was in good shape.

Maybe the demon drink had been enough to dull my senses, or I could have just had a mental relapse for a moment or two, because then I did something stupid, something that all motorists are warned against by those who know better: I took out my handkerchief, bunched it up over the radiator cap, and twisted.

The idea was to release the pressure, but of course once the cap was loosened, boiling water exploded upwards like a thermal geyser. My left hand instinctively shot up to protect my eyes as I staggered backwards and I howled – no, I
screamed
– when my skin was scalded by the fiery jet.

I fell, clutching at my arm and writhing with pain in the roadway. I was dimly aware of Midge kneeling beside me, trying to hold me still so that she could examine the burns. Some of my face and neck had been scalded, but the all-consuming pain was in my left hand and lower arm. My short-sleeved denim shirt was wet, but had at least provided a thin barrier against the boiling water for my chest.

I managed to sit, Midge supporting me with an arm around my back; my vision was too blurred with pain-squeezed tears for me to see the damage to my hand, but the agony was more than I’d ever felt in my life before.

Suddenly Midge was on her feet waving her arms frantically in the air. I was conscious of a red car drawing up, two figures getting out and hurrying over to me, one of them vaguely familiar. They knelt in the road and the man – the other was a young girl – gently pulled at my injured arm.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I heard him mutter. Then he reached behind me and hauled me to my feet. ‘You’d better come along with us so we can quickly attend to that.’

I looked down at my injured limb, blinking away the dampness from my eyes, and saw that the skin was already beginning to bubble. Gritting my teeth, I allowed them to lead me to their car.

If anything, Midge was more distressed than me so, now I was over the initial shock, I did my best to grin reassuringly at her. It must have come out as an agonized grimace, because her mouth went down at the corners like a small child’s and she fought back tears.

I was guided into the back seat of the couple’s car, clutching my arm before me as if it were a freshly boiled lobster, and when the girl climbed into the driver’s seat I recognized the braided hair, then the face as she turned anxiously towards me: it was Sandy, the girl I had rescued from the village punks the week before.