‘The lady of the Bines in person?’ The Rev. Simon St John was slumped like a tired choirboy on a hard chair he’d pulled into the centre of the studio floor, his cello case open beside him. ‘Scary.’
He hauled the cello out of its case. It was every bit as dented and scratched as a much-toured guitar. Simon drove the bow over the cello strings, and the sound went up Lol’s spine, like a wire.
‘It was scary at the time.’ He’d decided he had to tell somebody. It wasn’t so long ago that a vicar would have been the very last person he’d have opened up to, but there were aspects of Simon St John that made him more — or maybe less — than what you thought of as a normal clergyman.
Lol had spent the night, as usual, alone in the stables. Prof had said he should move over into the cottage, but he felt more comfortable in the loft room above the studio. All last evening he’d been somehow expecting Stock to turn up, with an explanation of the newspaper story, but Stock hadn’t shown. And then, this morning, when the footsteps sounded in the yard, it had been Simon St John in jeans and trainers, carrying his cello case, looking like a refined version of Tom Petty.
Prof had mentioned that Simon would often drop in on a Monday, to unwind after an entire day of being polite and cheerful to his parishioners. Before moving to Knight’s Frome, he’d been in some bleak sheep-farming parish in the Black Mountains, which thrived on threats and feuds and general hatred and where the vicar was expected to be hard-nosed and cynical.
‘But — am I right? — you didn’t know the story of the Lady of the Bines at the time you saw this woman,’ Simon said.
Lol sat a few feet away, on the hardwood top of an old Guild acoustic amp he’d picked up in Hereford last year. ‘No.’
‘That is quite spooky.’ Simon’s bow skittered eerily across the strings. He winced. ‘And naked, hmm?’
‘And bleeding from superficial cuts, like she’d just run through some spiny bushes or brambles or-’
‘It’s how ghost stories are born,’ Simon said. ‘Give me your chord sequence again. B minor, F sharp…?’
‘Then down to E minor for the intro to the verse.’ This was the River Frome song, for which there were still some lyrics to write.
‘And you made a careful exit,’ Simon said. ‘Wise.’
‘I was thinking drugs, I was thinking witchcraft. I was wondering, should I call the police in case she’s been… you know? But she was… smiling. She seemed relaxed. Have you ever met Stephanie Stock?’
Simon pushed the bow over the strings of the cello in a raw minor key, recoiled. ‘Ouch. I’m just so bloody atrocious these days. No… when he comes to Church — and he’s actually been a time or two recently, the cunning bugger — he comes on his own. She’s a mouse, they say — quiet, goes off to work in Hereford in her little Nissan. Making the best of the dismal place, presumably, when she gets home, because she never goes to the pub with him.’
‘So, what do you reckon?’
‘Dunno, is the short answer. I don’t know what you saw. Why don’t you ring her one night while he’s out? Why were you naked in the old hop-yard, Mrs Stock?’ Simon lifted his bow. ‘No, wouldn’t be such a good idea. Anyway, it doesn’t change my view of the situation. He’s a lying git. “I need an exorcism, Si, soon as you can.” Jesus!’
‘That was what he was asking for when he came here? And you said no.’
‘Damn right. An Anglican exorcism, sanctioned by the Bishop of Hereford, would put God and the Church of England firmly on Stock’s side. Comes to a civil court case, I get called as a witness. Stuff that.’
‘But why would he then go to the papers? Why would he expose himself to public ridicule?’
‘You think that bothers him? He’s a PR man. He knows how transient it all is. News today, chip-paper tomorrow… except in Knight’s Frome. Here, it might send a slow ripple up the river… Still, what’s he got to lose?’
Lol persisted. ‘OK… Prof suggests Stock’s making up the haunting bit to put pressure on Adam Lake to dismantle his big barns and stick them somewhere else. But that still doesn’t quite add up. Getting rid of the barns might put a few thousand on the value of the place. But when you think how many people’d want to live in a house well known as a murder site — and now even better known — at the end of the day, Lake’s going to be the only person really interested in buying it.’
‘All right.’ Simon leaned forward, letting his arms droop over the body of his cello. ‘I’ll tell you what I think, why I think Stock wouldn’t talk to Lake’s lawyer when the first approach was made. I think, in normal circumstances, he’d sell that place tomorrow. He’s a townie, an arch-townie. He hates it here. But I don’t think he can sell. Not to Lake, not to anybody. What did Stock say to you about the reason Stewart Ash left them his house?’
‘He said Ash didn’t bequeath his house to Gerard Stock, he bequeathed Stock to Adam Lake. He wanted to be sure there was someone in that house who wasn’t going to do Lake any favours.’
‘Yeah, but Stock doesn’t do anyone any favours. Especially not someone who’s both dead and stupid enough to leave him a house.’
‘But it was his wife’s inheritance.’
‘His wife does what she’s told. She’s a mouse. What other kind of woman would Stock marry? What I’m trying to suggest to you is that Stewart Ash would never leave his house in the hands of someone like Stock to make sure it didn’t fall into Lake’s hands… if he hadn’t already taken steps to make sure Stock couldn’t sell it, anyway.’
‘You mean some kind of — I don’t know the legal term…’
‘Restrictive covenant. Stock wants us to think he doesn’t want to sell the kiln, when in fact he can’t. I’d put money on it.’
‘It makes sense,’ Lol admitted.
‘It’s the only explanation that does. He’s buying time until he can find some way — legal or otherwise — around it. Maybe the place is going to mysteriously catch fire one night, maybe one of the extra candles he needs to combat the awful darkness topples over. Oh, there are lots of things he could do.’
‘And still emerge looking clean and innocent?’
‘He doesn’t care, Lol, long as he stays out of jail. Look… he wants — ostensibly — to get back at Lake for what he did to the house and to Stewart Ash. He also wants — perversely, it might seem, but not when you get to know him — to get back at Ash for saddling him with a saleable country property that he can’t sell. Which means he’s almost certainly looking at a way of turning the situation into money — maybe even now selling the story, a book, a TV documentary. Something…’ Simon stood up, leaned his cello against the chair seat.
Lol stood up, too. ‘What if you’re wrong? What if he really has got problems in that place?’
‘Why are you so bothered?’
Lol shrugged.
‘Anything to do with your forlorn and possibly unrequited love for the Reverend Watkins?’
Lol sighed. ‘Good old Prof.’
‘Yeah, yeah, he called in at the vicarage before he left for London. And then, lo, she rang me herself. Apologetic, in case she’d said something to the press that might have offended me.’
Lol went still. ‘Merrily?’
‘I truly hope your friend has the sense not to get involved. You don’t have any influence there, I suppose?’
‘I’m a songwriter, Simon. I write songs.’
‘And don’t you go making any silly connections between some doped-up woman and the Lady of the Bines.’
‘Am I allowed to write a song about it?’
Simon made a thoughtful, sibilant sound through his teeth. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m going to tell you the truth about the Lady of the Bines, OK?’
Lol sat down again.
‘According to the legend,’ Simon said, ‘if you see her, your hops will start to wither before the season’s out. Right?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Once the Wilt hits somebody’s yards, the old codgers in the pub will start muttering about the Lady. You’ll have seen the signs: Keep Out. Danger of Infection. Most big yards have them. The Wilt’s voracious and it can be carried by people just walking in and out of a field. Most people observe the restrictions. Kids, though, are another matter. Always been a problem keeping kids out. And I guess that’s why they made up the story.’
‘Made it up? Who made it up?’
‘They did. I don’t know who, but it’s bollocks, Lol!’ Simon threw out his arms; you could almost see the bat wings of a surplice. ‘The story was made up to scare kids away from the hop-yards. The history of hops in Herefordshire doesn’t go back as far as the days of knights and ladies.’
‘Sally Boswell was spinning me a line?’
‘Maybe she made it up. She’s a clever lady; she’s been around long enough.’ Simon had picked up his bow and was tapping it against his leg like a riding crop. ‘This is the country, Lol. In the country, in certain situations, everybody lies.’