Blood Bath (Seven Free Jack Nightingale Short Stories)

  Grainger had followed them in. He seemed much less apprehensive about the room than his wife. ‘Not much to see, now I’m afraid. The first thing Sarah did was to pull out the plug and get me out. Once she’d finished disinfecting the scratches, she came straight back in here and cleaned the bath out. Sorry.’

  ‘Natural I suppose. Was the window open when you were in here?’

  ‘Yes, it was pretty warm and I didn’t want the place steaming up.’ Nightingale always started with the obvious, so he spent ten minutes tapping the walls and the floor, until he was pretty sure that there were no trap doors, priest’s holes, secret panels or any other obvious ways of entering the bathroom. The wicker basket was indeed full of towels, and wouldn’t have held a woman anyway. As far as he could make out, you came in by the door, or you didn’t come in at all. There was nothing to show that any mysterious woman had ever been here. The only thing even vaguely out of place was a small brown feather on the windowsill. Nightingale shoved it in his pocket...maybe he could identify it later. Then it was more questions.

  ‘Mrs Grainger, did you see anything at all in here when you first came in?’

  ‘No, nothing. Just as I burst in, Rich stopped screaming, but there was nobody here...just him...lying in that awful water...’

  ‘There were no wet footprints on the carpet?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. There was a lot of water on the floor, as if Rich had been thrashing about...but no sign of anyone else.’

  ‘Maybe I should take a look outside now.’

  The four of them went back downstairs and out the front door. Nightingale took a good look at the house. Architecture wasn’t his strong point by any means, but it looked old.

  ‘Elizabethan?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Apparently, though according to Rich’s solicitor parts of it have burnt down and been restored over the centuries. A lot of modernisation inside. Let’s walk round to the back, and you can see the bathroom window.’

  They walked off to the left, and Nightingale got a better view of the duck pond as they turned down the side of the house. Out in the middle of it swam a solitary brown duck. ‘Are there fish in it?’ asked Nightingale.

  Again it was Sarah who answered. ‘I think so. And plenty of newts or whatever. Our little friend seems to find plenty to eat. She showed up last month.’

  Jenny looked puzzled at that. ‘All alone?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Odd, they usually come in mated pairs.’

  Nightingale looked impressed. ‘I didn’t know you were a twitcher, Jenny.’

  ‘I’m not. Just a country girl. Show my father a duck and he reaches for his shotgun.’ They reached the back of the house, which looked out onto a few more acres of garden and grounds, ending in a small wood. Nightingale looked up at the back wall, counted up two storeys and eventually found the bathroom window. It was much smaller than any other one, and free from any convenient ivy by which a naked redhead might climb up and surprise the lord of the manor. The nearest tree was two hundred yards away.

  ‘Any ladders about?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a few step ladders. Nothing anywhere near long enough to reach up there.’

  ‘It seems unlikely that your redhead would arrive with a fireman’s ladder over her shoulder, or be able to squeeze through that window.’

  The husband gave a look of annoyance. ‘Look, I know it sounds like a load of old crap, and I don’t blame you for not taking me seriously. All I can do is tell you what I saw...or thought I saw.’

  Nightingale wiped the smile off his face, and spoke very quietly and slowly. ‘On the contrary Mr Grainger, I am taking this seriously. Very seriously indeed. Perhaps it’s time we went back inside and took your wife up on that offer of coffee now.’ Nightingale was pretty twitchy by now, so stood outside the house to smoke a cigarette and talk to Jenny while the Graingers went in to organise the coffee. ‘What’s going on here, Jack?’ asked Jenny. ‘This simply isn’t possible, if they’re telling the truth. And what would be the point in making it all up?’

  ‘Those scratches are real enough, and as you say, what’s to be gained by making up such a daft story. No, I think there’s something nasty going on here.’

  ‘You’re not talking about that bloody Ouija board stuff, are you? I had enough of that last time. There must be some sensible explanation.’

  ‘Well, let’s go in and see what we can find out.’ They walked back through the front door, along a panelled hallway lined with yet more portraits and into what Nightingale might have called a lounge if it had been half the size, but he supposed it qualified as a ‘Drawing-Room’. It was bigger than his entire flat in Bayswater. The furniture seemed to owe more to the Modern Yuppie school rather than any other period, which meant that the sofa he sat on was comfortable rather than valuable. The coffee was poured, Nightingale took a few sips, then started on more questions. ‘So, do you live here alone?’

  Yet again the woman took the lead, since her husband seemed lost in thought. ‘Yes, it’s a huge place, but we’re not really the type to think in terms of servants. It’ s not an Australian thing. We have two women come in three times a week to clean, and we pay a couple of gardeners. Old George and Young Steve. Father and son. We’re really still sorting stuff out, replacing old furniture and some bits of renovation. Fortunately there’s plenty of money, and old Uncle Cedric seems to have kept the place in good order.’

  ‘Was Mr Grainger his only relative then?’

  ‘Yes, apparently he never married, and lived here pretty much alone after his parents died.’

  ‘Do you know anything about the history of the house?’

  ‘Not much at all...though we were thinking that maybe some of the books in the library might have some information.’

  ‘Hmmm. Worth a try. Do you mind if we take a look?’

  Sarah led the way into the library, and Nightingale’s heart sank. It was another huge room, with every wall lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all crammed with books of varying sizes, ages and states of repair. Finding anything useful in here was going to be well-nigh impossible, unless....

  ‘Is there a catalogue? An index?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, Mr Nightingale, though this is the one room we haven’t really explored much...it just seemed like so much work.’

  Nightingale nodded. If the answer were in here somewhere, then he’d probably die of old age before finding it.

  ‘There is always the possibility of selling up, you know. Maybe returning to Australia?’ This time it was Mr Grainger who spoke.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said his wife. ‘This is our home now. It’s been in the family for generations apparently. We’re not going to be frightened out of it.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen as much as I need to now. I need to go back to London and get started on some enquiries with a few people I know. In the meantime, I suggest you lock up the bathroom and don’t let anyone inside it.’

  ‘Do you think we’re in danger, Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘I hope not, Mrs Grainger, but stay out of that room. And it might be best to stick to quick showers from now on. I hope I’ll have some information for you by the end of the week.’

  As they drove back to London, Jenny had plenty of questions. ‘What in God’s name is going on there, Jack?’

  ‘Whatever it is, I doubt that God has got much of a hand in it. I need to talk to some people, take some expert advice.’

  ‘Expert advice in what, Jack? Who do you know who’s an expert in being raped and attacked by mad redheads in an old bath?’

  ‘Well, since you put it like that, maybe it is rather a specialised area. I’ll have to put out a few feelers.’

  ‘Honest, Jack...you’re so bloody vague...half the time I have no idea what you’re talking about. And best you stay in ignorance, my love, thought Nightingale. If you knew half of the truth it would probably drive you mad. Apart from Nightingale himself, there were precious few people
who did know the full truth of the last year’s events. And most of those who did wouldn’t really qualify as ‘people’ anyway. He shuddered.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jack? Cold?’

  ‘Not really, just someone walking over my grave.’ He hoped not, after all he used to think that was just a phrase. Jenny dropped him at his flat in Bayswater around nine. He got himself a takeaway order of duck noodles from the Chinese downstairs and a few bottles of Corona from the off-licence opposite. Once his nutritional requirements were taken care of, he took out his mobile and switched it on. He’d planned to make a call to his oracle on all things supernatural, Mrs Steadman, but he noticed a message in the inbox from a number he recognised but had never expected to see again. ‘In town tonight. Meet me at the Ritz anytime. JW.’

  Nightingale ran down to street level and was in a cab heading for the West End inside three minutes. Some of the richest and most stylish people in the world regularly pass through the foyer of the Ritz, and it’s a mark of how well the reception staff are trained that the girl who dealt with Nightingale gave no indication that he didn’t belong amongst their number. Not by a flicker of an eyebrow did she suggest that the worn suit, noodle-stained tie and sad looking Hush Puppies were not the epitome of current male fashion. Nightingale gave his name and the name of the guest he’d come to see, and was taken up to a fourth-floor suite. The uniformed bell-boy knocked, opened the door and announced Nightingale. A familiar voice boomed at him.

  ‘Come on in, Jack, make yourself at home.’ The tall, black Texan sprang to his feet, put his huge cigar into an ashtray and walked over to shake Nightingale’s hand.

  ‘Joshuah Wainwright. It’s been too long. How long has it been? Or is this the first time?’

  ‘Hah! That’s a mighty good question, Jack...but I suggest you don’t try to find an answer to it. It sort of brings up too many paradoxes. Let’s just leave it that I know you and you know me, and we both remember a little business we’ve done in the past.’

  ‘Fair enough. So what brings you to London?’

  ‘A few more bits of business. And I thought maybe I might give a little help to an old friend while I’m here. Take yourself a seat. Jack.’

  Nightingale slumped down on a sofa that was roughly the size of his lounge and lit a cigarette. ‘What makes you think I need help?’

  ‘Well, first of all because you have a habit of blundering into things you don’t understand, so you’re pretty much always way outta your depth. And second, I’ve seen one or two things.’

  ‘What, you’ve been watching me from the Astral? Hovering over London?’

  ‘Not as simple as that, Jack, and it’s best not to joke about it, but some of us adepts see and feel things without needing to look. Trust me, I’m not your guardian angel, but I check in on my friend from time to time. Anyway, never mind how I know, what you’ll be interested in is what I know.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I know you need to read that book.’ Wainwright pointed to a slim, old volume lying on the writing desk. It was covered in what appeared to be very cracked brown leather, though Nightingale was never too confident in his ability to recognise book-binding materials.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s John Stearne’s diary. The original, one and only.’

  ‘Very nice too. Who’s he?’

  ‘These days, I guess he’s nobody. In the days of your English Civil War, he was assistant to Matthew Hopkins, the guy who liked to call himself the Witchfinder General. Between the two of them they killed over three hundred people they claimed were witches. When Hopkins died, Stearne went back to his farm and wrote a book called A Confirmation And Discovery Of Witchcraft. I’m probably one of the few people alive who’s read it. But this is his personal diary. You might try looking in June 1644.’

  ‘I can take it? Isn’t it valuable?’

  ‘I guess, since it’s the only copy there is, but it’ll come back to me. Now, I hate to be a poor host, but I’ll be needing to get along with some of that business I talked about. I guess there’s no point telling you to take care, you’ll just need to trust to that luck of yours.’

  A bone-crushing handshake later and Nightingale was on his way, with the book in a Ritz carrier bag. The commissionaire hailed him a cab and he headed back to Bayswater. His own sofa felt like a sack of second-hand springs after the luxury of Wainwright’s hotel suite, but he opened another Corona, lit a cigarette and settled in to read Stearne’s diary.

  The farmer’s handwriting was none too good, and spelling worse, but after a while Nightingale started to get used to it. June of 1644 had been a busy month for the Witchfinders, and the diary entries were a horrendous tale of torture, brutality and death. The entry Nightingale needed was for 21 June. To Bletchingford in the County of Suffex, where My Lady Bletchingford had denownced Mistreff Neffa Kannard as a Wytche, for that she had bewytched her husband with a love potion, that he knew not his own Wyfe. Mistreff Kannard was a comely wench of some five and twenty, with hair of deepest red. A red most lyke unto fire, with which I was much taken and think of to this day. Master Hopkins ordered that she be swum in ye duckpond of the Manor House. This being done, it was seen that Mistreff Kannard did float upon the water, larfing the while, and shouting ‘Know you not that the water be mine element? It shall never harm me.’ Master Hopkins ordered that she be brought to shore, whereupon she fell to cursing My Lady Bletchingford, swearing that her marriage should never prosper, nor should any marriage ever prosper in the Manor House. She was conveyed to ye gaol, there to await execution upon the morrow.

  Nightingale had started to sweat by now, and opened another Corona before he turned the page to the following day’s entry. Something fell out onto his lap as he turned the page, but he picked it up without looking and placed it next to him on the sofa. A great mistery today as when the cell was opened no trace of Mistreff Kannard could be found. The bars of the window were untouched, nor was the lock disturbed, and the gaoler took his oath that none had been near. Master Hopkins was heard to say that truly there was wytchcraft abroad. No sight of her has been reported. Nightingale would surely never have believed any of it a year before, but he wasn’t about to dismiss anything these days. The idea of a five hundred year old witch returning to visit vengeance on the new owner of Duck Lodge seemed pretty credible compared to his encounters with demons from the gates of Hell and Shades who’d taken on children’s bodies. But what was he going to do about it? He had no idea. But he knew a woman who might.

  The following morning found Nightingale outside the Wicca Woman shop in Camden Town a few minutes before ten. At ten on the dot a small woman dressed in black arrived to open up, gave Nightingale a smile and ushered him inside. ‘Ah, Mr Nightingale. How nice to see you again.’

  ‘You don’t look surprised to see me, Mrs Steadman.’

  ‘Hardly that, my dear. One hears things. I suppose I’ve been expecting you.’ The shop door opened and in walked a teenage girl, also dressed in black and with a faceful of assorted piercings. ‘Tansy, my dear, I’m going to need to chat with this gentleman for a little while,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You’ll be alright by yourself?’ The girl nodded, and Mrs Steadman showed Nightingale into the back room. She made tea and opened a new packet of Hob Nobs, to which Nightingale helped himself, since he knew she wouldn’t let him smoke. ‘Now then, Mr Nightingale. Suppose you tell me how I can help you this time. I assume you’re in need of help?’

  Nightingale told her everything, from the attack on Grainger through to what he’d discovered in Stearne’s diary. The mention of Stearne and Hopkins caused an outburst of anger. ‘Those evil, evil men. Murdering swine. Such ignorance.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they must have done for quite a few witches.’

  ‘Not at all. I consider it very unlikely that a true Adept would have been caught by such buffoons. More likely innocent women with enemies who’d denounce them when their cows fell sick, or as a love rival. An evil time in history
indeed.’

  ‘But what about this Nessa Kannard... could she have been a true Adept?’

  ‘Well, I have no way of knowing, but it certainly seems as if she was amusing herself at the expense of her accusers. And that curse is quite specific and rather nasty. It might certainly tie in with the attack on your friend.’

  ‘But surely, not even a real witch could still be around after five hundred years? Witches aren’t immortal, are they?’

  Mrs Steadman gave a sad little sigh. ‘Far from it, Mr Nightingale, far from it. Of course, some Adepts can achieve a certain power over death, but it merely delays the inevitable. Though, quite often, abilities and learning can be handed down through generations.’

  ‘You’re saying this mystery woman could be a descendant of Nessa Kannard?’

  ‘Many things are possible, Mr Nightingale. Power takes many forms, some of them hereditary.’

  ‘But what can this woman want? And how could I stop her?’

  ‘Stopping her might be difficult, if she has such power. As for what she wants...I suppose you could ask her.’

  ‘And exactly how do I go about finding her?’

  ‘Well, we know what form she can take, when she wishes.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘I believe you have the clue in your pocket, or so you told me.’

  Nightingale took out the brown feather and looked at it carefully. ‘This?’

  ‘Exactly. From a duck I suspect.’

  ‘Oh no. You’re not suggesting this woman can turn herself into a bloody duck? That’s just plain ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it, Mr Nightingale? I’m sure you’ve heard legends of people who can transform themselves into bats...or cats...or even wolves?’