The Murder of Busy Lizzie

Before he could collect himself, however, the fear was dissolved and the moment of horror passed. Ritual was involved, but not ritual murder. The robed priestess presented the point of the gleaming sword at Ransome’s breast and again began to intone. She reminded him that he was entering a new life and must solemnly promise to be faithful to it and never to betray its secrets.

At this solemn and impressive moment there was a rude and noisy interruption. Without previous warning— they must have moved like cats along the passage—three men leapt, one after another, down the ladder. Fiercely they fell upon the astonished coven. One seized and flourished the athame, the sacred knife which had been replaced on the altar; another flung the priestess to the ground and, as she dropped it, picked up the ceremonial sword. The third man found the scourge and proceeded to lash the naked bodies of the witches, who yelled, shrieked and swore and, seizing any clothes which came nearest to hand, scrambled up the ladder and made off, leaving Ransome, bewildered, bound and blindfolded, still standing helpless in front of the improvised altar.

‘What’s up? What’s happening?’ he cried, twisting his naked body against his bonds. The intruders wasted no time in answering him. Producing more cord, one of them stooped and bound his ankles, then the three of them bundled him towards the mouth of the cave and, hooking his bound ankles from under him, precipitated him full length on to the sand with his head towards the sea and his whole body well below the tide mark to which the water would rise. Then, still without having spoken a word, they returned to the ladder and were gone.

Whereas, so far as Sebastian could tell, all the actions of the priestess, however threatening they might appear, had been innocent and symbolic, the intention of the three intruders was plain. Ransome, bound, blindfolded and helpless, was to be left to drown and to suffer the mental torture, moreover, of knowing that in time the encroaching tide would wash around his body and finally engulf him.

There was a picture in Sebastian’s mind, a vision of the hapless witches clutching armsful of clothes and fleeing, as their predecessors must have done, from their persecutors. Along the tunnel they must be making their panic flight, then between the dark sides of the overgrown quarry. They must be looking like glimmering ghosts, but, unlike ghosts, they must be conscious of the rough going for their bare feet, and the brambles, nettles and stinging branches of low-growing bushes which tormented their naked bodies as they gasped and stumbled in the moonlight to a place of safety.

He wondered where they would make for, but, as these thoughts crowded his mind, he saw another picture and, this time, not a mental one. Less than a dozen yards from his hiding-place he could make out the hapless figure of Ransome, bound and blindfolded. He was in the water, but a faint white blur showed that he was at least face-upwards and not, at the moment, in danger of being drowned. Sebastian crept towards the far end of the cave and, at the foot of the ladder, strained his ears. He could hear nothing, so he returned to the prostrate man and felt for the cords which bound him.

‘Never mind that, whoever you are,’ muttered Ransome. ‘Pull me up above the tide-mark. The tide’s on the turn and it comes in fast.’

He was much bigger and heavier than Sebastian, but the boy, seizing him by the ankles, heaved and strained against the resisting sand. Then, as soon as he had pulled Ransome to a place of safety and rolled him over on to his chest, he wrestled and sweated with the knots until at last Ransome was free. Ransome pulled the bandage from his eyes and stood up.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, for Sebastian, so far, had not uttered a word and he could not see him in the darkness. Sebastian told him.

‘Better come back with me to the hotel,’ he said. ‘You’ll be safe enough in my room for the rest of the night.’

‘No, that’s all right. Got a torch, by any chance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Switch it on while I find my confounded clothes.’

They both looked around, but there were no clothes left in the cave. The witches had snatched up every garment they could lay hands on in their panic.

‘Damn! And I’m frozen!’ said Ransome.

‘Have my jacket. I’ve got a sweater. What are you going to do, then?’

‘Make for my cottage and some trousers.’

‘I could fix you up, I expect.’

‘Couldn’t get into your things. Can’t get into this jacket, for a start.’

‘Have the sweater, then. That will stretch.’ He peeled it off and they made the exchange. ‘I say, what was it all about?’

‘Vigilantes.’

‘Why, what have you been doing?’

‘Nothing. They must think I’m an informer.’

‘Did they really mean you to drown?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. Just a warning, I reckon.’

‘But what could you inform about?’

‘That’s telling, isn’t it? Look, they’ll be back to untie me before the tide’s much higher. Let’s go, while the going’s good.’

‘By the way,’ said Sebastian, ‘is the farmer home again yet? I should like to meet him and his wife.’

‘All in good time,’ said Ransome. ‘He’s there, but Lucy still isn’t back.’

chapter thirteen

Unsatisfactory Verdict

‘Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,

Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, sir, find out that bee

Which bore my love away.’

Robert Herrick

« ^ »

Margaret heard her brother come in. She opened her bedroom door, crossed the tiny sitting-room and tapped. Sebastian opened his door.

‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ he asked.

‘You made such a row getting in.’

‘You must have been wide awake to hear me.’ She had entered the room and seated herself on the bed, so Sebastian went on: ‘Out of it. I want to get some sleep.’

‘Did you have any fun?’

‘Lots. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.’

‘Tell me a little bit now.’

‘Couldn’t. It can’t be told in bits. Hop it into your bed and leave me mine.’

‘Where’s your sweater?’ asked Margaret, as he removed his jacket.

‘On Ransome. Now get out of my room or I won’t tell you a thing, either now or in the morning.’

‘It’s the morning now.’

‘I know. I shan’t be in time for breakfast if I don’t get some sleep. Also my trouser-legs are wet, my fingers are sore with undoing a knotted rope and I’m so cold I shall get pneumonia if you don’t get off my bed and let me get into it.’ He began to take off his trousers. Margaret accepted the ultimatum and went back to her own room. She had to wake him in the morning to get him up in time for breakfast.

‘Not a question, I promise you, not one,’ she said, ‘until we’ve got to the toast and marmalade.’

‘And not then, not at the table with those two damned bird-men listening-in with their ears flapping. What I have to disclose is first for you and then for Laura.’

‘Are you hoping she’ll pass it on to Dame Beatrice?’

‘That is the thought at the back of my tiny mind. Go along to the dining-room and give our usual order. I’ll be