Читать книгу White Lies - Rachel Green - Страница 8

Chapter 2

Meinwen Jones shifted her leg an inch or two and tilted her head to the right, relieved to hear a crack as the bones realigned from her hour of motionless vigil. She pulled her cape around her, trying and failing to close the gap where her belly had outgrown it. At least the dawn had crept slowly over the chalk, backlighting the heavy clouds that had poured rain onto her for the past thirty minutes.

She looked up into the dome of her umbrella, the rainbow segments barely visible against the sky. She’d rigged it to a tripod with a series of adjustable clamps, figuring that if the Goddess wanted her wet, she wouldn’t have given her the idea. Meinwen rubbed her face and yawned. She’d also had the idea of using a tent, one of those fisherman’s tents with an open front the garage sold at a discount with a tenner’s worth of petrol. Would that be cheating? Would the Goddess deem her an unworthy supplicant and send a cat to piss all over the carpet like last time?

It hadn’t really been fair. She’d researched the ritual carefully, piecing it together from clues scattered in half a dozen seventeenth century texts. It was supposed to grant clear vision to one’s heart’s desire which at the time had been to lose forty pounds and about ten years but she’d had to substitute five pink candles for a hand of glory because honestly, where could one get the desiccated hand of a hanged man these days? The substitution had sent her an incontinent tomcat instead. She wouldn’t have minded so much if she didn’t rent the house. She’d had little to offer a cat and it had soon stalked off to find easier pickings at the Catholic priest’s house next door.

“Christians have it easy.” She spoke the thought aloud, momentarily tempted to convert from her fifteen-year practice of Goddess worship to the simpler once-a-week luxury of an indoor church. It would make vigils a damned sight easier. She’d have to be Anglican, though. Her only other choice would be Catholic and she couldn’t be doing with feeling guilty about everything. St. Jude’s wasn’t as fancy as St. Pity’s but it was more in touch with the life of the town.

It was also drier than sitting out here on the top of a hill.

Meinwen checked her watch. Eight twenty-three was long enough after sunrise to have officially done her duty to the spirits of Nature and the Sun. She’d kept the vigil all night and the sun had officially appeared on the autumnal equinox. She was cold, tired and very hungry. The cheese sandwich and thermos of nettle root coffee hadn’t lasted past midnight.

She stood, pulling the hood of her parka tight over her curls and stamped her feet against the wet earth to get the circulation going. Christianity was becoming more attractive by the minute. She stretched her fingers and made fists several times before packing up her supplies in her voluminous bag, taking the umbrella off the stand and dismantling the tripod. The little fire had gone out ages ago, a victim of the sudden downpour at two in the morning. She folded the blanket and slung it over the top of her bag. She’d give it a wash and sell it on as a genuine prayer blanket. Couldn’t get much more genuine than an all-night vigil for the Holly King.

She stumped down the hill past the waterfall known as Lover’s Leap. People really had jumped into the foaming depths but it was rare for any of them to survive. There had been a warning sign here, once, but the enamel had chipped off and all it notified passersby of now was “Gazza” in yellow spray paint.

The path dipped steeply, as if it was racing the river to the bottom of the hill, leaving Meinwen grateful for the flint and tree roots that made natural steps every few yards and the occasional handrail that served to curtail the gradual increase in speed the slope encouraged. Without them she’d have been running pell-mell down the slope and come to a sticky end in the river at the bottom.

Meinwen was just passing the plunge pool, where the waterfall crashed and roared into depths it had cut from the rock over the course of the centuries when she slipped on a patch of slick, wet mud, falling on her ample posterior and releasing her hold on her bag. The contents scattered across the path but the tripod, weighing more than anything else in the bag, seemed to make a willful beeline for the water’s edge.

Its suicidal plunge was stopped by the leather-clad foot of Mr. Jasfoup, one of the gentlemen from Laverstone Manor on the other side of the river. He leaned to pick it up, then held out a hand to Meinwen. “Are you quite all right, Ms. Jones? That was quite a tumble you took. Alas that I was powerless to prevent it.”

Meinwen accepted the hand and hauled herself upright, looking down at her mud-encrusted form in dismay. By contrast, Jasfoup looked immaculate in his gray suit with hardly a speck of mud on his soft leather shoes. He looked to be out for a stroll on a sunny afternoon in Provence rather than tramping through wet fields in Wiltshire. “Thanks. I got all the way down without so much as a slip and go head over heels on the last part.”

“The last bit is always the hardest.” He handed her the tripod and stooped to gather the rest of her belongings. “What have you been up to? Making sure the sun comes up?” This last said with a smile, his tone mocking but a twinkle in his eye suggesting a tease.

“What if I didn’t keep a vigil and it didn’t come up? What would you have to say then?”

“I’d apologize from the bottom of my heart and offer you a candle to light the darkness.” He offered her a short bow. “Then I’d pull all my investments out of solar energy.” He smiled. “I need you to keep the sun rising, Ms. Jones. It makes me a goodly sum in dividends.”

“Perhaps you should give me a proportion then.” Meinwen couldn’t help smiling back.

“Ha! Very good. May I think about it?” He stooped again to pick up her thermos. His face fell as he rose and he shook it experimentally. “I’m afraid your flask has warmed its last. I hope no tea was wasted?”

“No. I’d finished it.” Meinwen took it from him and stowed it in her bag. “It was nettle coffee, anyway.”

“Marvelous. Two of my least favorite things in the world combined into one disgusting concoction.” He shuddered. “Chances are the flask committed seppuku rather than risk carrying such a dreadful brew again.” He looked her up and down. “Oh, dear. You are exceptionally muddy, you know. Would you like to come back to the house to wash up? Perhaps Julie could do something about the dirt. She’s a marvel with Marigolds and a wet sponge.”

“No, that’s fine, thanks. I’ll scoot home.” Meinwen pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at what she could see. “I’d rather just get out of these wet things and into the shower.” She looked up, momentarily unnerved he was still watching her. “What brings you out here?”

“Me? I was walking the dog.” He looked about and whistled, then shrugged apologetically. “She’s probably found a rabbit trail and hared off.”

“Ha-ha” Meinwen forced a smile. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Jasfoup.”

“My pleasure. Can I give you a hand with your bag at all?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” Meinwen gave him a final nod and walked on, soon passing the little bridge marked Private that led to Laverstone Manor. The dog Jasfoup had referred to, a breed that looked more wolf than dog, lay on the bridge, rain pelting down onto its fur as it worried at a bone between its paws.

Meinwen swallowed and hurried past. The bone looked fresh enough to be a kill and large enough to be human. She could feel the animal watching her as she headed between the sheltering oaks.

The path took her to a point where she could turn left to come out on Oxford Road or right to enter the park. She took the latter fork without pausing, for beyond the park stood the spire of St. Pity’s and just past the church was home. The spire wasn’t much more than a shadow against the dull gray of the mist and the clouds beyond.

The park was quite busy for a wet Thursday morning, mostly with mothers leading children to Pity’s infant’s school, dog walkers and people hurrying to jobs in town. Margaret Holdstock was just opening the Museum Café as Meinwen walked past and she waved a greeting.

“You’re out early.” Margaret stood in the shelter of the porch, her arms folded and clasped against the chill. “You been out researching?”

“Something like that.” Meinwen shifted her bag to the other side and rubbed her shoulder. “I’ve been at the Leat stone all night.”

“All night?” Margaret shook her head. “You’ll catch your death looking for goblins and pixies all the time. Do you want a cuppa? I’ve got the kettle on.”

Meinwen sucked air through her teeth, grinned and shook her head. “I can’t say I’m not tempted but I’ll get off home. What I really want is a hot shower followed by poached eggs on toast and a pot of tea, then about six hours sleep.”

Margaret uncrossed her arms, obviously relieved by the answer. “As you will then, pet. See you later.” She gave Meinwen a final nod and withdrew to the warmth of the café’s well-appointed kitchen. There was already a gaggle of young mothers approaching the door.

Meinwen plodded on, passing the school just as the bell went, forcing her to battle against a minor tide of young mothers and grannies as they swept away from the school gates. She recognized most but acknowledged only those who said hello first. Many people didn’t want it spread about that they frequented the witch’s shop on Knifesmith’s Gate.

It wasn’t until she’d actually pushed open the entrance to her cottage and marched halfway up the long path that she noticed the man lurking at her door. Her step never faltered despite the thrill of fear. If he meant her harm, he wouldn’t skulk about in full sight of the street, surely? Besides, he was quite attractive, in an action-hero kind of way. He had a classic inverted triangle body shape, broad shoulders topping a narrow waist. She was willing the bet he was well muscled under the shabby shirt and jacket. Big hands, too. Big hands generally indicated a big cock. She took a breath to get her thoughts in order. “Can I help you?”

He took a couple of steps forward. “Meinwen Jones?”

She nodded affirmation. “If you’re here about the electric, I paid it the day after tomorrow. If you’re selling anything except religion. I’m not interested and if you’re selling religion, I’m definitely not interested. I’ve nothing worth stealing and the house is rented so I shan’t be buying any guttering or windows and besides, I have some already.”

“I’m not looking to sell you anything. I need your help.”

“Oh?” She ducked out of her bag and fished her keys out of her pocket. “Charms and potions I can do, spells and the like by discussion.”

His face creased as if she’d asked him to explain Euclidean geometry. “Spells? I don’t want any spells, love. Peters sent me.”

“Peter? Peter who?”

“Sergeant Peters at the police station? They say my brother killed himself and I don’t believe a word of it. They won’t reopen the case on my word so he sent me to you. Says you’re a sort of private investigator.”

“Am I indeed?” Meinwen jiggled the key until the door clicked open. It had become troublesome when the latest batch of wet weather had made the door swell, but come the sun and it would shrink again. Until then it was a nuisance she could live with. “And did he happen to mention how much I charge for these private investigations?”

The man grinned. “Truth be told, he said you’d probably do it for nowt.”

“Nothing?” Meinwen sighed. “Not exactly nothing, though I charge less than most. You’d better come in Mister?”

“Fenstone. James Fenstone, though people generally call me Jimmy.”