Matthew Carpenter had been asked to supervise the event and he left his flat early. In the chemist shop below the lights were still on, though the door was locked. The pharmacist was checking medicines against a list on a clipboard and looked up to wave at him. Although Matthew arrived at the bonfire half an hour before it was scheduled to start groups of older boys were there before him, prodding the bonfire and annoying each other. When they saw Matthew approaching they fell silent. They treated him with respect, not because he was a teacher at the little school, but because he had been in the school on the night of the murder. They were fascinated by the macabre and melodramatic manner of Harold Medburn’s death. The murder was a vast video nasty, performed in the village for their entertainment. They talked about it in giggled whispers, creating grotesque fantasies, then accused each other of being scared.
As soon as he arrived on the field Matthew sensed that some mischief was being planned. He was an inexperienced teacher but the furtive conversations and nervous bravado brought back memories of his own boyhood.
‘I won’t have any messing about with fireworks,’ he said firmly.
‘It’s dangerous and there’ll be too many people here tonight. We don’t want accidents.’
He was surprised by the authority in his voice and the boys’ easy agreement. He spoke to a group of three, uniform shapes in his torchlight. He did not know their names.
‘We’ve not got fireworks of our own,’ one said. ‘ It’s not allowed. There’s a display.’
‘That’s all right then.’
It was seven o’clock. A huge moon was rising above the silhouettes of the trees. It lit the bonfire and the faces of the boys.
‘Aren’t you having a guy?’ Matthew asked. ‘When I was a kid we always had a guy.’
The boys sniggered and did not reply. Matthew reminded himself that they were only young – perhaps no older than eleven or twelve – unsure of themselves as newcomers in the comprehensive school.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Aye sir. We made one earlier.’ The one who spoke was braver than the rest and the others collapsed again in giggles.
‘Well,’ Matthew said again. ‘Where is it?’
They looked at each other. This obviously had not been part of the plan. The silence of their hesitation was broken by the sound of people walking down the footpath from the village, of laughter and children’s voices.
‘Come on!’ Matthew said, becoming increasingly impatient. ‘People are coming. We want the guy on the top of the bonfire before everyone gets here.’ But he realized that he was already too late for that. Family parties were starting to congregate on the edge of the field. The organizers were beginning to set out their stalls for hot dogs and drinks. In a roped-off corner of the field rockets were being set into bottles.
The boys, looking sheepish, realized that the game was over. They disappeared and returned some minutes later pushing a pram with a guy propped inside. The head and body were made in the conventional way – a pillowcase was stuffed with newspaper and old stockings and tied with string to make the neck – but it was dressed in a black pointed hat made of cardboard and wrapped around with a long black cloak. One of the boys’ mothers had obviously been to the school’s Hallowe’en party.
‘What’s the meaning of the costume?’ Matthew demanded. He felt embarrassed. A crowd was already gathering around them. He knew the point the boys were trying to make, but to recognize it would give the idea some credibility. It would be to admit that he too thought Kitty Medburn was a witch.
‘It’s a witch,’ the smallest boy said;
‘I can see that.’
‘They used to burn witches,’ another said.
‘Not on bonfire night.’
‘After what was in the paper,’ the same boy said. He was more cocky and articulate than the others. ‘We thought it would be…’ he hesitated to find the right word ‘… topical.’
‘Well I call it stupid. Take the costume off and let’s get the guy to the top of the bonfire. Which of you is going to climb up?’
Matthew could tell that the crowd around him had heard the exchange with the boys and he felt threatened by its response. He felt a suppressed tension and hostility in the watching people. Was it because he had allowed the prank to develop in the first place? Or because he had prevented its conclusion and so deprived the onlookers of the ritual spectacle of the witch’s burning. He could not tell. He put the cloak and hat into the pram and moved it away from the fire, then lifted the smallest boy up so that he could wedge the guy at the top of the woodpile.
Jack Robson had been expected for tea at Patty’s house, and when he had failed to arrive she became concerned and drove over to see him. She found him still in the chair by the fire where he had sat to reconsider Kitty’s letter after seeing Ramsay into the street. He seemed not to have heard her come in. He was feeling as lost and unsure of himself as he had in the empty dramatic countryside near Miss Hunt’s bungalow.
‘Dad,’ she said. She bounded into the room and squatted on the floor beside him, looking more like a friendly, badly-trained dog than ever. ‘Aren’t you coming to the bonfire?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘ I don’t think I’ll come.’
‘But you must. The bairns are expecting you.’
‘All right,’ he said, too tired even to stand up to her. The argument with Ramsay had taken all the fight from him. ‘I’ll be ready in five minutes.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ she said. ‘Tell me what happened at Miss Hunt’s.’
He looked up from Kitty’s letter. A lot seemed to have happened since his encounter with Irene Hunt.
‘She was being blackmailed by Medburn,’ he said flatly. ‘It was as we thought. The woman in the church was an illegitimate daughter. Medburn had threatened to tell the woman’s husband, who hadn’t wanted her to look for her mother.’
‘There you are then!’ Patty was enthusiastic and seemed not to recognize how hurt her father was. ‘ Miss Hunt had motive, opportunity. All we have to do is tell Ramsay.’
‘No,’ he said bending to lace up his shining black boots, looking up at her as he pulled hard on the laces to tighten them before fastening the knot. ‘ Miss Hunt’s daughter has recently separated from her husband. Miss Hunt herself is about to retire. She had nothing more to fear from Medburn. She had no reason to kill him.’
‘I see.’ Her enthusiasm was momentarily dampened but her usual optimism soon returned. ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘at least it shows that Kitty Medburn wasn’t the only person who wanted Medburn dead. Don’t you think we should tell Ramsay?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘ I spoke to him this evening. I found out how Medburn died. He was drugged, then strangled. He was already dead before he was strung up on the hoop.’
‘But you didn’t tell him you’ve been talking to Paul Wilcox and Miss Hunt?’
‘No,’ He could think of nothing now but the cold rejection of Kitty’s letter. ‘We won’t do anything yet. It said in the paper it could be months before she comes to trial. There’s no hurry.’
She did not have his patience and wanted the thing decided, but knew it would do no good to argue. She took his arm and helped him to the car, then they walked with Jim and the children to the bonfire. Because Jack had delayed them they were late arriving and the bonfire was already lit; sparks flew high towards the moon and flames were licking around the bare-bodied guy.
When Angela Brayshaw collected her daughter from her mother she felt nothing. The meeting with Paul Wilcox had drained her. She was emotionally and physically exhausted. And then her mother had begun to talk again about money.
‘I must press you, dear,’ Mrs Mount said, ‘ for a starting date. We’re terribly short-handed. Shall we say next Monday?’
‘All right!’ Angela said crossly. ‘All right!’