Mean Spirit

own apartment within the castle. It was here that the two men began to experiment in earnest — and in secret. Many were the rumours that circulated in Overcross and the neighbouring villages and even in Great Malvern itself, it being alleged that Crole and Abblow had experimented on animals. However, this was dismissed as nonsense by Crole, who invited the vicar and senior parishioners to dinner with Abblow and himself to explain that their activities were in no way irreligious and would be seen, when ultimately published, to have made a substantial contribution to the sum of human knowledge. However, nothing was ever published and the experiments seemed to have ceased shortly after the death of a gamekeeper, John Hodge, as a result of the misfiring of his shotgun, and the rumour that his ghost was haunting the castle grounds. These rumours persisted even after the departure of Abblow and the eventual death of Crole, who became a recluse but continued to make large donations towards the upkeep and development of the community.

Cindy smiled. How many people would be prepared to pay dearly to watch whichever medium Kurt Campbell had hired go strolling through the midnight woods attempting to have ‘meaningful intercourse’ with the restless spirit of Old Jack, the gamekeeper?

Hadn’t told little Grayle this, mind, but even as a shaman he’d always been a touch contemptuous of spiritualism. The shamanic way was to achieve intercourse with the elements and the spirits of the ancestors — in a more abstract sense — in order to attain continuity and oneness with the earth. The nurturing of a sticky relationship with a dead individual was unnatural and usually led to psychological problems. Indeed, something must have caused Daniel Dunglas-Home to have his nervous breakdown …

In fact, Cindy’s own research had indicated Dunglas-Home to be, for the most part, quite genuine — the Uri Geller, or the Matthew Manning of his day.

Or even, perhaps, the Persephone Callard?

Miss Callard. Yes. Cindy rose. Remembering also that he needed to buy some newspapers, he felt a plummeting of the soul.

Kelvyn Kite glared spitefully from his chair.

Grayle collected the Sunday papers and by nine was driving between the castle walls to find …

… still no Cherokee in the yard! Shit.

She found Marcus in his study, delving into a book. Grayle tossed her raincoat on the sofa, dumped the string-bound bundle of papers on the desk.

‘So they didn’t come back.’

‘Appears not,’ he said, like this was of only marginal consequence.

‘I knew it.’

‘Knew what?’

‘From the moment she was showing him her tits, right there on that sofa.’

Marcus looked up from his book, shocked. ‘Maiden and Persephone?’

Doing that tone of voice again. Like Callard was serious royalty, or — worse — sacred and untouchable. How could he possibly have read all those magazine stories about her and failed to take in any details of a rich, varied and predatory sex life?

‘One assumes they hit on something interesting. Stayed in a hotel.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Man’s still a policeman, Underhill. Just about.’ Marcus began untying the papers. ‘And Persephone, I fear, was probably glad to get out of here, for all the use I was being.’

‘Jesus.’ With some effort, Grayle calmed herself. ‘Uh, no-one else called, did they?’

‘You mean apart from the anonymous man asking if there was a small blonde with a hatchet on the premises?’

‘Don’t joke, Marcus.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nobody called. Neither did the dog bark in the night. And neither … bloody hell, look at this …’ laying the People flat on the desk. ‘Some poor bastard Lottery winner died after crashing his plane, around the same time that Mars-Lewis was virtually predicting it on television.’

‘Huh?’

‘Obviously, that’s not what it says as such, but the inference is pretty clear.’

Grayle leaned over Marcus’s shoulder. The main piece was a straight news story about the airfield tragedy. There was also a sidebar:

CINDY’S KITE QUIP FALLSFLAT…

‘Fortunate for him that they didn’t know of his … precognitive powers,’ Marcus said heavily.

‘Aw, Marcus, he doesn’t claim to have precognitive powers. Read it. Look, it was just an off-the-cuff one-liner. It’s all a piece of crap.’

‘If they knew the creature’s history,’ Marcus said, ‘they’d be making rather more of it.’

‘Aw, he never actually hides his interests. Anyhow, what kind of big deal is that any more? If you’re famous, you’re expected to have off-the-wall beliefs. Like Shirley McLaine and her spooks, Travolta’s Scientology … I used to write about that stuff all the time, nobody was shocked.’

But, yeah, maybe it was a little odd that nothing so far seemed to have been written about Cindy’s Celtic wizardry. Maybe this was what was meant by the shaman’s cloak of invisibility.

‘Well,’ Grayle said, ‘who can say?’ Keen to get off the subject of Cindy lest, when he showed up right out the blue, Marcus might suspect collusion. It was gonna be real perilous anyway. And at this rate there’d be no Callard around when Cindy showed. It was just too bad of Bobby Maiden not to have called. Also unlike him.

She had this awful image: a naked, post-coital Bobby, all doe-eyed and compliant, his brain turned to gloop by the witchy woman.

Marcus was looking at her, his face still pouchy after the flu.

‘What?’ she said warily.

‘Hmm,’ Marcus murmured, as though he’d read her thoughts, which like, no way, not in a million years …

‘What?’ she snapped. ‘What?’

She was standing in the doorway. She wore a pale-blue robe, like a sari, and the small glimmering was a pendant around her neck, a tiny golden cross he hadn’t noticed before.

Maiden swung his legs down from the Victorian sofa, sat up. The orange sun came out of the diamond-paned window and into Seffi Callard’s amber eyes.

‘I think …’ She looked half-asleep and vaguely unsatisfied. ‘Susan, would it be?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Not quite right, is it?’

Something slid heavily to the floor over his feet. A yellow and red striped duvet. He didn’t remember there being one last night. He sat on the edge of the sofa, naked apart from his briefs — feeling exposed now, but still bathed in strangeness.

‘To be quite honest, Bobby, she was becoming rather irritating.’ Seffi smiled at his unease. ‘Made her first moves within an hour of us meeting. You and I. Tiresome. How on earth is one supposed to compete with a pale, fragile little hand reaching delicately through the veil?’

She made a weaving motion with her left hand, and the memory came back like a silver thread winding up his spine. She came and sat next to him on the sofa.

‘I do tend to forget. Sometimes it can be even better than sex. The afterglow. Ah …’ She glanced up. ‘What about Suzanne?’

Bobby Maiden almost leapt from the sofa.

‘Good.’ She clapped her hands lightly. ‘Good.’

‘Oh God,’ Maiden said. ‘What are you doing?’

Seffi did a small, rueful smile, touched his cheek with a forefinger. ‘Suzanne, yah? And she made you cry. I tell you, Bobby, that was a hell of an aphrodisiac, but it …’ she smiled wryly ‘… it might’ve ruined everything. Not worth taking the chance.’