‘Not personally,’ said the oversized man with the vicar’s white collar. ‘Only through Olivia and Albert. But of course any friend of theirs … I’m Thomas Moore, vicar to this parish, for my sins …’
He chuckled richly, a warm comfortable sound. Thomas was a surprisingly muscular figure, under his black-leather motorbike jacket. He had a bluff open face, an easy-going smile, and a somewhat practised bonhomie. I had a feeling he was going to turn out to be one of those deliberately larger than life figures (‘I may be a vicar, but I’m still a regular guy’). He sat in his chair as if he was at home, completely relaxed and content in all things. He had to be in his forties, and his long greying hair had been pulled back into a single thick ponytail. He nodded to the woman sitting beside him.
‘This is my wife, Eileen. Couldn’t manage without her. Isn’t that right, dear?’
‘Might help if you tried, once in a while,’ Eileen said calmly, not looking at any of us. She seemed far more interested in the glass of wine in front of her.
‘I didn’t see a motorbike outside,’ I said, nodding at Thomas’s jacket.
‘I love riding my bike,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but Eileen hates riding pillion. Don’t you, dear?’
‘You’ll kill yourself on that thing, one of these days,’ said Eileen.
She didn’t sound particularly upset at the prospect. And she didn’t seem all that interested in meeting Penny or me now the obligatory greetings were over. Eileen was a small, self-contained woman in her forties. Hair so blonde as to be almost colourless, no make-up on her unremarkable face, and clothes so bland as to be frankly anonymous. Either because she didn’t want to stand out or because she just didn’t give a damn. Everyone at the table had a glass of wine in front of them; but Eileen was the only one who hadn’t let go of hers, even for a moment. She finished her wine, and put the glass down on the table with a deliberate thud.
‘I want another drink.’
‘We’ll be eating soon, dear,’ said Thomas.
‘But not yet,’ said Eileen. ‘So get me another drink. Unless you’d rather I got it myself?’
‘No, that’s all right, dear, I’ll get it,’ said Thomas. ‘Don’t you stir yourself.’
He smiled quickly round the table in a ‘What can you do?’ sort of way, rose heavily to his feet, and went over to the bar at the far end of the room. There was a bottle of wine already standing there, and he carefully set about opening it. I’d wondered why it wasn’t sitting on the table, but now I’d met Eileen I thought I knew why.
‘I’m Jimmy Webb,’ said the portly figure sitting opposite me. He sat slumped in his chair, almost offensively relaxed, showing off his paunch to the world and not giving a damn. Well into his forties, he wore a dark blazer and slacks and had a square self-satisfied face, topped with thinning hair gathered into a somewhat unfortunate hairstyle that fooled no one. His smile came and went without making any impression on his eyes, which didn’t miss a thing. He had the air of someone just waiting for you to get something wrong, so he could rush in and correct you.
‘You’re the local reporter,’ I said.
‘Got it in one,’ said Jimmy. ‘No story too small, no local interest left uncovered.’
‘Are you the restaurant critic for your paper?’ said Penny.
Jimmy was good enough not to actually laugh in her face. ‘We don’t run to those kind of distinctions, my dear. We’re just a small weekly rag, when all is said and done. Covering the regular grind of local events and heart-warming stories in whatever room is left after we’ve packed in all the advertisements. I’m the lowest on the food chain, the jack of all trades, so I handle local groups and meetings, make the most of what little crime there is, and write the horoscopes if everyone else is too busy. God help the readers of that column if I’ve had a bad day …’
‘Is it interesting work?’ said Penny.
‘Sometimes,’ said Jimmy. ‘I used to dream of lucking into a big story and using it to trade up to one of the dailies, but nothing ever happens around here. The last big story in Black Rock Towen was Elliot Tyrone! I’m just a small reporter on a small paper, who never even made it on to the editorial staff. I fill a niche, I serve a purpose, and I have learned to settle for that. I volunteered to cover this special celebratory meal because Olivia and Albert are old friends. Wouldn’t have missed this evening for the world.’
He toasted the closed side door with his glass, but his smile came and went even quicker than usual.
‘And I’m Valerie Butler,’ said the final guest at our table. ‘I’m writing a book about Elliot Tyrone. About what really happened here, on that night. Because it’s about time somebody did.’
Valerie was a large black woman in her forties, wearing a South American poncho of brightly-coloured patterns and intricate stitchwork over designer jeans. As though she felt obliged to appear artistic. She had a handsome face and a shaved head. And a smile aimed only at me, not Penny. There was a sense of power, of controlled strength, about Valerie. As though she was used to going after anything that mattered to her and getting it. I also had the feeling she would quite happily walk right over anyone who got in her way, and then laugh about it afterwards.
Thomas came back and placed a full glass of wine in front of Eileen. Her hand closed around it immediately, as though afraid someone might take it away. I looked around the table. All four of them were roughly the same age and they all knew each other of old. There was history between them, not all of it good. Their body language was practically shouting at me, and the occasional glances darting between them spoke volumes.
‘You’re obviously all old friends,’ I said artlessly. ‘Does that include Albert and Olivia as well?’
Various smiles came and went on their faces. Agreeing, but not as though that was necessarily a good thing. I was starting to pick up some odd emotional undercurrents among the four of them. Old secrets, old antagonisms; possibly even bad blood. I smiled inwardly. This might turn out to be an interesting evening after all.
‘We’re all of us local,’ said Jimmy. ‘We grew up together as teenagers in Black Rock Towen. Including dear Olivia and Albert, of course. Then they went away. But now they’re back, the Calverts have come home again and all is well …’
‘The Castle used to be the best of the local pubs,’ said Valerie. ‘Rough as arseholes, mind you. Cheap booze that could get you hammered really quickly, bar snacks that did everything but fight back, and the pub dog was a Rottweiler.’
‘It was soft as butter, once it got to know you,’ said Thomas, chuckling reflectively. ‘A great black beast of a dog, it would come and lean its whole weight against you and then stare at you with big loving soulful eyes. Just in case you had a crisp you weren’t using. That dog would eat anything, and all evening long if you were dumb enough to let it.’
‘The music was good,’ said Eileen. ‘And there was a special area set aside for dancing. I was so happy, then.’
‘It was rough and local and frequently unpleasant,’ said Jimmy. ‘A fight every night, usually over a woman. And if a man didn’t start it, the woman usually would. Those were the days … I loved the place.’
‘But the townspeople weren’t enough to support it,’ said Valerie. ‘And the tourists knew enough to stay well clear. They stuck to the more civilized places, in town. Family-friendly establishments; all charm and character, and never a raised voice. The Castle shut down some twenty years ago, and only the worst element like us missed it.’
‘We weren’t that bad,’ said Thomas. ‘Just young, and a little wild on occasion.’
‘The Castle’s been closed for years,’ said Jimmy. ‘Abandoned by the town, left alone to rot and fall apart. Everyone stayed away after that, even the local kids.’
‘Of course,’ said Thomas. ‘They wouldn’t come out here, even on a dare.’
‘Really?’ said Penny. ‘Why not?’
The four looked at each other, suddenly uncomfortable. There was a sense of things left un
said, because some things were best not said aloud in the presence of outsiders. In the end, Thomas shrugged heavily.
‘As far as this town is concerned, the Castle has always been a bad place.’
I expected them to trot out the usual spooky stories at this point, but none of them seemed to want to say anything.
‘I expected more of a presence from the local media,’ I said to Jimmy. ‘Just you? Not even a photographer?’
‘There will be full coverage tomorrow,’ said Jimmy, gratefully accepting the change of topic. ‘The editor has authorized enough photos for a double-page spread to cover the grand reopening of the Castle. But tonight it’s just a private gathering, for old friends. And you, of course.’
‘And a chance for the Calverts to try out their culinary skills on a few amenable guinea pigs!’ Thomas said cheerfully. ‘To make sure everything’s up to the mark before they have to serve paying customers.’
There were a few chuckles around the table; and then it all went quiet, as though the four of them had decided they’d said all they wanted to say. For a bunch of old friends, it seemed to me that none of them were exactly happy to be here. Penny took it upon herself to get the conversation started again, by smiling brightly at Valerie.
‘So what was it that first interested you about the Elliot Tyrone story?’
‘I wanted to know what lay behind the legend,’ said Valerie, quickly warming as she embarked on her favourite subject. ‘Everyone knows the story, but when I went looking for historical facts about exactly what happened here on that fateful night, I was surprised to find no one had ever written a book giving verifiable details of what the townspeople discovered when they came looking for their missing relatives. Everyone seemed to agree on the basic story, but everything else was up for grabs. So I decided if I wanted a definitive account, I’d have to write it myself.’
‘Have you had many books published?’ I asked politely.
‘I have had a number of articles accepted,’ said Valerie. ‘In all kinds of magazines.’
‘Some of which you might have heard of,’ said Thomas.
‘And some of whom might even have paid for the articles,’ said Jimmy.
‘This will be my first book,’ Valerie said coldly. ‘Several editors have expressed an interest.’
‘But not quite enough to offer you an advance,’ said Jimmy.
‘And the Calverts don’t mind that you’re writing this book?’ I said. ‘Given that they’re depending on the legend to jump-start their new business?’
‘Why should they?’ said Valerie.
‘Because the historical facts that you discover might undermine or even discredit the legend,’ I said. ‘And they’re going to need that to pull in the tourists.’
‘People will be fascinated by what I write,’ Valerie said firmly. ‘Anyway, it’s all publicity. And the kind of tourists attracted by the legend probably wouldn’t be the kind to read my book.’
‘How much of the legend is true, do you think?’ asked Penny.
‘Surprisingly, quite a lot of it,’ said Valerie. ‘Including all of the really unpleasant bits.’
‘And the Voices who told Tyrone to do it?’ I said.
‘Who can say?’ said Valerie. She stopped talking and gave her full attention to the glass of wine in front of her. As though we’d reached the limits of what she was prepared to discuss.
Jimmy leaned forward and fixed Penny with a thoughtful stare. ‘Tell me, my dear, have Olivia or Albert spoken to you yet about investing your father’s money in their new business?’
‘No one’s said anything to me about that,’ said Penny.
‘They will,’ said Jimmy. He sank back in his chair, and drank his wine in a self-satisfied way. Happy to have spread a little mischief. ‘That is why they wanted you here, when they couldn’t get your father.’
‘Jimmy!’ said Thomas, disapprovingly.
‘I’m just saying,’ said Jimmy. ‘A word to the wise and all that …’
If he was right, it was no wonder Albert had been so displeased to see Penny hadn’t come on her own. It would also explain why he’d seen me as a possible threat.
Jimmy smirked to himself, satisfied that he’d thrown a cat among the pigeons. He then remembered he was supposed to be a reporter and asked Penny all the usual questions. Where are you from? What do you do? How long have you and Ishmael been together? Penny talked a lot in return, to disguise the fact that I wasn’t saying anything. Valerie perked up when Penny revealed that she used to be in publishing, until Penny made it clear she no longer had any contacts in that area.
The side door slammed open again and Albert came bustling back in to introduce his wife, Olivia. Then he quickly stepped back to give her centre stage. One look was enough to tell me who wore the trousers in their relationship. Some people’s body language is just deafening. And some men should wear collars and name tags to show that they’re owned. They’d probably like it.
Olivia was a tall gangling blonde in a smart pastel-coloured pants suit. She had a long horsey face and smiled a lot. She moved with purpose, and had large capable hands. Like everyone else she appeared to be in her forties, though she had enough nervous energy for someone half her age. There was a determined confidence to her, in her every move and look, that was entirely missing from her husband. Olivia was used to dealing with things. She looked at me for a long moment, before favouring me with her version of the professional innkeeper’s smile.
‘We weren’t expecting you, Ishmael. Penny didn’t tell us she was bringing a friend. But of course you’re very welcome. There’s more than enough food to go round!’
‘I must say, I was surprised to receive your invitation,’ said Penny. ‘I don’t really remember you all that well, except as old friends of my father. And that must be more than twenty years ago.’
‘That’s all right, Penny,’ said Olivia. ‘We remember you. And your dear father.’
Something in the way she said that caught my attention. There was a layer of meaning in her words that I could sense, even if I didn’t understand it. Olivia and Albert both seemed genuinely pleased that Penny had turned up for their celebratory meal, but I still wasn’t entirely sure why. Something was going on here, apart from the dinner. I made a mental note not to leave Penny alone with the Calverts, even for a moment.
‘We wish Walter could have been here tonight,’ said Albert. ‘So he could have seen what we’ve done with the old place.’
‘But we’re just as happy to have you here, Penny,’ said Olivia.
And there it was again, a look that moved quickly among the other guests. Something they knew, something they shared, that they didn’t want to discuss with Penny and me present. And given that Jimmy had already spoken so openly about lending money, what did that leave?
The Calverts didn’t sit down, but seemed happy enough to hang around the table and chat amiably with their guests while the meal was cooking. The conversation moved along easily enough, and it soon became clear that the Calverts and their guests had all been very close when they were younger. Looking at faces and listening to voices, I wasn’t sure that was true any more. The Calverts had left Black Rock Towen twenty years ago and this was their first time back, as the new owners of the Castle.
Thomas smiled his easy vicar’s smile, and raised his glass to them. ‘A toast! To Olivia and Albert, old friends returned. Welcome back!’
Everyone echoed the toast, and drank willingly enough. But Jimmy smiled sardonically, Valerie smiled politely, and Eileen didn’t smile at all. And the Calverts … didn’t appear to feel particularly flattered. As though the toast was a dig at them for having gone away. Olivia gave Albert a hard look, urging him to say something.
‘We’ve done our best to recreate the interior of the Castle exactly as it was in Elliot Tyrone’s time,’ Albert said quickly. ‘Apart from the kitchen and the bar, of course. Health and Safety put their foot down there.’
‘But otherwise, everything you se
e here is exactly as it used to be,’ said Olivia, ‘based on the best evidence our researches could turn up. It wasn’t easy. There’s been quite a lot written about the murders, but very little about what the Castle actually looked like back then.’
‘Just a few old drawings,’ said Albert, ‘in a local history that predated the murders. But everything in here is accurate for the year 1886.’
‘Do you know what Tyrone himself looked like?’ said Penny.
‘Oh yes,’ said Albert. And then he stopped and looked quickly at his wife, to check if she wanted to be the one to tell it. She nodded brusquely to him, and he hurried on. ‘There weren’t any photographs, but we did find a black-and-white illustration from a popular magazine of the time.’
He pointed proudly to a framed drawing on the wall by the bar. It showed Elliot Tyrone as a large, hulking, powerful figure in standard innkeeper’s outfit, his apron spattered with blood. He had a harsh, scowling face, and dark piercing eyes. He looked like someone who’d poison a room full of people and then blame it on the Voices.
‘I don’t suppose he looked that bad in real life,’ said Olivia, ‘or no one would have gone to his inn! Most accounts agree that up until that night Tyrone was a well-liked and respected figure in the community.’
‘The drawing was commissioned after his death,’ said Valerie. ‘Based on descriptions by people who knew him. The incident was bound to have affected their perception of him.’
‘Something must have got to Tyrone,’ said Eileen.
‘Or someone,’ said Thomas.
‘But no one knows who,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s a mystery.’
‘The real mystery is what happened to Tyrone’s wife and two teenage daughters,’ said Valerie. ‘There was no sign of them anywhere in the Castle when the townspeople arrived … So did Tyrone kill them first and hide their bodies? They’ve never been found, even after all these years. Or did they discover what he was planning to do and run for their lives? But if that was the case, where did they go? I couldn’t find any trace of them in the surrounding towns, and I searched through all the local parish records for their names.’