Oak

By Angela B. Mortimer

DCI Michael Campion is new to the charming Wiltshire country-side having spent his life in London. He and his team investigate the murder of a young woman in the old village of St Aethelstan. It is a strange, ancient village set along a shallow river. Its villagers are welcoming and the pub feels like a home from home, the ancient church still in Catholic hands. The old church should be Protestant, yet they fought both Cromwells and won, the victories wiped from history. But, this peaceful village has more than the usual ancient mysteries. The murder is straight-forward, the culprit soon caught and yet Michael cannot escape this mysterious village lost in time. Then come the worldwide Plagues, but not in this village which feels so comforting. What is the ancient Oak standing proud in the middle of the wood, and why does it offer Michael comfort, and why must he seek to be reborn every year at the Night of the Winds

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela B. Mortimer
• Release date: Nov 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311331540

Angela B. Mortimer

Born in the UK, married a gorgeous Aussie and have been living happily here ever since. Attended West of England college of art. Love reading sci-fi, fantasy and my fav subjects like genetics, planet sciences, philosophy, history - especially ancient, and of course space. I dreamt of being an astronaut. I've been writing since I could and painting for as long.I love the outdoors and gazing at the stars and wondering what might be out there.

Book preview

Oak

By

Angela B. Mortimer

From A Midsummer-Night’s Dream

By

William Shakespeare

Oberon:

"Then, my Queen, in silence sad;

Trip we after the nights shade;

We the globe can compass soon,

Swifter than the wandering moon."

Copyrighted Material

Oak

Copyright © Angela B. Mortimer 2015

ISBN 9781311331540

Published by Smashwords

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales are purely coincidental.

The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Dedication:

Mum, for her family’s pain, on both sides, giving her back one ancient church, if imaginary.

And

To Peter Brook, for his 1970 RSC Stratford version of Midsummer Night’s Dream.

I’ve never forgotten the First Night.

Not only for the best version of any the Dream I have ever seen, but also at the party afterwards, for Peter Brook was off to Broadway. Going against my father’s parting words on my first holiday with friends at the RSC Summer School; he warned me about red wine - I had 2.

Hope I wasn’t drunk when I spoke to Peter Brook.

Worse, I threw-up over the fountain in the garden. Next morning my friends and I, being good citizens, borrowed something to clean up my mess – but it had gone.

Since then the Dream lives in my memory.

And

Wiltshire Police.

Thanks for your help.

OAK

Chapter 1

‘Rufus. Come here boy,’ Simon Stone yelled at his ever-curious Red Setter. But the dog refused to come to heel, three more high-pitched barks ending with a tortured whine was his response. ‘Rufus, here now.’ Another bark, meaning no you come here.

Simon gripped the lead hard and strode off to grab Rufus, and pull him away from the stream. He was never this disobedient, Simon felt dread and hurried faster.

When he reached the bank he knew his apprehension was justified, a girl floated face upwards. A face as pale as the sunless autumn sky, her long, dark hair spread out, or sometimes entwined in the mesh of floating twigs, which held her body fast to the shore. Forgetting his arthritis Simon scrambled down the steep and muddy bank, sliding most of the way he landed knee-deep in the water, he hardly noticed the cold. He grabbed at the girl, he had no hope she was alive, but he had to find out.

‘Helena, Helena, not you too, not you sweetheart.’ He shivered, but he couldn’t leave her and she was too heavy for a man of seventy-five with arthritis to lift. ‘Rufus, go get Mark, go get Mark, go boy.’ Rufus gave another whining bark, waited, but at the second. ‘Rufus, get Mark now, good boy,’ the dog understood and ran off in the right direction.

‘So where’s this St Aethelstan, if it’s not on the map or that bloody thing?’ Detective Chief Inspector Michael Campion, of Wiltshire S.O.C.I.T., shoved a finger at the sat nav.

He hadn’t had breakfast, nor his heart-starter coffee, hoping for a lay-in on Saturday. The lovely Wiltshire countryside was still too big for the ex-London copper, finding it hard to come to terms with the greenery. Even in Devizes, it was if he were alone in a great sea of grass and trees. The town would have to spread out a few more miles in every direction before he felt at home.

He’d married a local girl, and so knew one day she’d want to come back. Her mother needed help with her father. He understood that, agreed it was best for him too. Another few years and he’d retire, but after three months, every day he still longed for the madness of the capital.

From the back seat, Detective Constable Mary O’Brien navigated. ‘Funny place sir, spread out on a long, flat area along a brook. The actual village is the pub and Norman church, and a few homes. Everyone else lives in hamlets up and down the stream. There’s a manor too, two miles out this way. And there’s an old forest along one side, the village owns it - if it was the manors they’d have sold it.’

‘How do you know this O’Brien?’ asked Detective Sergeant Rob Collet. He wasn’t comfortable driving along a narrow, country lane with high hedges, following and being followed by several other police vehicles. ‘And what the hell with this bloody, narrow lane that looks like it leads to a farm?’

‘Mum likes to go to mass here, I go with her when I can, the church is ancient and has a great atmosphere. Not sure how true it is, but I’ve heard the villagers are all Catholics, and St Athelstan saved them from both Cromwells - amongst others. Great place, kind of mysterious.’

‘So why constable, aren’t they crawling with Catholic tourists on this cold Saturday morning,’ this was way out of Michael’s comfort zone.

‘Not on the map sir,’ she gave a cheeky grin, ‘besides they come on Sundays.’

‘They would. I thought Aethelstan was the first English king, and he’s popular in Wiltshire, is he the same?’ Michael asked, confused.

‘He was sir, but this is a different Aethelstan, not sure of dates?’ O’Brien checked her phone.

‘Do either of you know who runs this area?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes sir, so do you sarge, it's David Wilsher.’

‘Oh yeah, good bloke, has two kids, twins,’ Rob was glad he knew something.

‘Turn right here sarge,’ instructed Mary.

To Rob’s annoyance, the lane was even narrower.

The girl Helena Mayne must have been a beauty, Michael felt annoyed, he always did when the victim was young, and she looked younger in death than her twenty years.

‘Anything yet doc?’ he asked the usual question and got the usual answer. Doctor Steph Caldwell gave Michael one of her famous withering glares.

‘Not until the P.M. - it is very hard to drown oneself in a shallow stream unless you are drugged or drunk, so you must wait for those results, and the girl was face up. I will admit there’s bruising on her neck and shoulders, and I’m told she didn’t die here, had to be upstream. It’s being searched, check with Wilsher. I will make sure it gets priority, the coroner’s informed, we have a suspicious death.’

Michael, dismissed, checked on Collet and O’Brien. O’Brien was promoted a few months before he’d moved here. Of the two detectives on the team, he found her faster and more intelligent than Collet. She thought ahead. He didn’t make an observation until he had the facts. Both of their methods worked, but best together. She interviewed the Stone family.

Simon was still there, sat in a folding chair, covered in blankets, he looked cold, his still dripping wellies, upside-down beside him.

O’Brien smiled as Michael came over. ‘Sir,’ she indicated the sitting man, ‘this is Mr Stone, his dog found the body.’ She introduced her boss, to Simon and his son Mark, standing behind with another person, Father Christopher Briant, the local priest, whom she knew. They were upset, but Simon was the worst affected.

‘Who could kill a lovely, gentle soul like Helena, no-one from this village?’ Simon Stone didn’t look his age, a handsome man with white hair and blue eyes. His son, well-built with black hair, and the same startling eyes, had his hand on his father’s shoulder. Father Briant stood behind, sandy-haired, but with those same bright, blue eyes. Michael drew some very unscientific conclusions.

‘You think Helena was murdered Mr Stone?’ queried Michael.

‘What else? Be hard to drown in there, without being murdered, it’s barely a foot deep in most places. Besides, she wasn’t the type.’ His son and the priest nodded at this.

‘What type was she?’

‘Good, you know, pure of soul, helped everyone, especially the sick and old, and any animal wanting nursing, wild or otherwise, they always brought them to Helena.’

O’Brien interrupted, speaking softly, ‘She’s been working at the pub, and doing a degree on-line. Lost her grandparents not that long ago, and her mother Catherine was murdered in a similar way when she was ten.

‘We know who did that too, that mad Damon Percy. But William Percy lied for him, gave him an alibi. Trouble is, he’ll do the same again unless you find something concrete,’ Mark was angry.

‘Who was Helena’s father,’ Michael noted what they were saying, but felt it necessary to move onto something else.

‘Catherine, her mother, was a teacher in Swindon. She boarded there, coming home weekends and school breaks, while her daughter stayed with her grandparents,’ Mark said. ‘She never married, but when she was about forty she had Helena. Most here reckon it was the elder Percy raped her. Bastards, all them Percys, utter bastards.’

‘Not keen on the Percys?’ asked Michael, in his softest voice - not his safest.

‘They’ve wanted the village back since the winds destroyed their house, and took away their wealth and lives. Lady Percy, the widow, was a good woman, she gave us the village and the wood after the disaster, and left. Her elder sons were killed, no-one to inherit but a young child. They hadn’t the money to rebuild, so they sold the land for farming. Then these bastards bought it back after the industrial revolution, so you can imagine where they got the money from,’ Simon sounded as if he were quoting something.’

‘When were these first destructive winds Mr Stone?’ asked O’Brien, looking at her bosses face.

‘We all know that,’ Simon said proudly, ‘October the 29th 1539.’

It was nearly midday before Michael and Mary left Rob, and David Wilsher to collate the findings from the murder sites. The Marlborough doctor insisted that Helena was one of the most sensible beings he had on his books, and he couldn’t believe she’d commit suicide. But Michael left nothing to chance, he told the doctor he’d call in, and have a chat. Right now Michael’s stomach had to have food, and the only place he had any hope of that around here was the pub.

Mary was right, the village was charming. The ancient Norman church still in Catholic hands was a rarity, and the pub looked as old. Michael was fond of the country pubs, better than the ones in the smoke. He wondered if his wife Christine would consider renting out the cottage and help him run one? Of course not, the kids might be gone at last. But now there were her parents to assist, not to mention his mum in London. And the house, pardon, houses and gardens, and she wanted to further her psychology doctorate. Plenty of psychology in a pub he thought.

Mary always used her good looks, and charm to best advantage. She was beautiful in that dark-haired Irish way, and her green eyes were usually laughing. Trouble was he was fifty-one, and he felt old, another four years and he had thirty up in the force. His wife was the same age as he, and she made him feel old, and one-step behind everyone else. Mary set to charm the stressed pub-owner into providing food.

She didn’t have to, as soon as they got to the bar in the Oak, Mark Stone asked. ‘Would you be ok with just steak and chips, we’re behind because of Helena, and to be honest we are not in the mood for cooking.’

On the house too, and a glass of good bitter. Michael felt better. Should have paid, but Mark refused. So he put the money in the church collection box, conveniently right by his elbow on the bar, to salve his conscience. Mark nodded as he did so.

‘How many people live in the village, Mark?’