“My remembering, too, is not what it ought to be, inspector. Come.”
He stepped back to the foot of the bed.
“Something very strange is here. I shall be most interested to know what you think about it.”
Purbright watched the doctor deftly untuck blankets and sheet and raise them just sufficiently to disclose the feet of the unconscious girl.
Tatooed in blueish-black on the sole of the left foot was a carefully-executed cross.
Chapter Thirteen
In an ideal world, it would have been enough for Purbright to set a couple of men in secret occupation of the building in which Edna Hillyard had been found, in order to intercept a return visit by her abductor, who, it seemed reasonable to suppose, was also the murderer of Bertram Persimmon, and thus to bring him to justice.
But the success of so simple a plan would have depended on the continued ignorance of the population at large, murderer included, of the fact that Miss Hillyard was safely tucked up in a bed of Flaxborough General Hospital.
And on that Purbright knew better than to place any reliance whatsoever.
Feeling a little like Macbeth, he called upon the secretary of the Edith Cavell Psychical Research Foundation.
Miss Teatime welcomed him warmly and said what a long time it seemed since their last meeting. The loss, Purbright assured her, had been his entirely.
With which pleasantries they ascended the little staircase in Church Close and entered Miss Teatime’s sitting room.
“I have come to seek your expert opinion,” said Purbright. He stretched back in the chair facing the window and gazed appreciatively at the view of St Lawrence’s.
“How very nice of you.” Miss Teatime dexterously transposed a bottle of whisky from the mantelpiece into a Victorian workbasket.
“What does it mean when somebody has a cross tattooed on the sole of his foot?”
Miss Teatime paused in the action of bringing forward a cushioned cane chair and glanced sharply at the inspector.
“Dear me...” She sat down. “You have been moving in peculiar circles, Mr Purbright.”
“So it seems.”
“Tell me, what kind of a cross do you have in mind? Can you describe its shape?”
“An ordinary, straight-forward cross, I suppose. Not the sort one votes with. Certainly not a swastika, either. Here...” He made a quick sketch on an envelope.
“That,” Miss Teatime informed him, “is what is known as a Latin cross. It is the ecclesiastical variety and if you have found it upon the sole of someone’s foot the probability is that he or she is a practitioner of black magic. Or, more likely, a would-be practitioner.”
“I take it that you are sceptical on the subject.”
“Witchcraft is terribly unscientific, inspector. And very messy. But simply to dismiss it as superstition is to evade an important question. What is the nature of the Force that some dabblers in the so-called black arts have undoubtedly encountered and afterwards—quite spuriously, let me say—claimed credit for unleashing?”
“Do you know, Miss Teatime?”
She gave a smile of quiet reserve. “You did not come here, I am sure, inspector, for a lecture on psycho-thermal kinetics.”
“This cross...”
“Ah, yes. The cross. Let me see if I can tell you more. This is part of what I term the messy side of witchcraft. The fart-in-the-font department, I regret my old anthropology professor used to call it. To walk constantly upon a religious symbol, you see, is supposed to be very daring and diabolical. Only really dedicated devil-worshippers have the operation done. Well, it must tickle unbearably.”
Purbright smiled. He was silent for a moment, then asked:
“Has your research led you to the discovery of any specific instances of this kind of thing in Flaxborough? I don’t need to tell you that the press has been almost embarrassingly successful in turning the town into another Salem.”
“Yes, I had noticed,” Miss Teatime said acidly.
Almost at once her helpful manner returned.
“As for investigation, it is like everything else—a matter of funds. Some research bodies are fortunate in being retained in an advisory capacity by public authorities.”
“Indeed?”
There was a slight pause.
“Others, of course, have been able to help on the understanding that the expense entailed would not need to be met out of their own funds.”
The inspector pursed his lips. “Not an unreasonable arrangement, I should have thought.”
Miss Teatime’s prim but friendly smile signalled him to speak his mind.
“My interest,” he began, “is centred upon what you have called the messy side of witchcraft and the people in this town who go in for it. I see no point in trying to conceal from your—what is the phrase?—extra-sensory perception?—the fact that there is a distinctly black magic smell about the death of this supermarket manager...”
“Ah, yes. Poor Mr Persimmon.”
Purbright raised his brow. “You knew him?”
“Not in any very personal sense. Our little organization was able to help him on one occasion when his store was being subjected to paranormal activity of quite high polterage. But please go on, inspector.”
“Another thing you might as well know, although I must ask you to keep it strictly to yourself at this stage, concerns the cross I questioned you about earlier. The person who wears it—if that’s the appropriate verb—is the young woman who disappeared last Wednesday and who has now been found.”
“Alive?” The question was urged, rather than asked.
“Oh, yes. Alive.”
Miss Teatime nodded. She looked relieved.
“Furthermore,” Purbright went on, “the story is now being told us, and not by hysterical or credulous people but by certain pretty solid citizens, that cases of diabolism were getting so serious a problem some time ago that a sort of body and soul rescue service was set up. Did you know that?”
“No, but I am not altogether surprised. Amateurism does tend to flourish in a place like this.”
“I should rather like to know, Miss Teatime, the names of some of our amateur satanists. In the strictest confidence, needless to say.”
Dreamily, Miss Teatime regarded the ancient stone of the parish church.
“You would be well advised, I think, inspector,” she said, “to observe the distinction that was so properly drawn in The Wizard of Oz. ‘Are you a good witch or a bad witch?’ Remember the line? In other words, you will save a good deal of time if you leave the merely folksy out of your calculations and concentrate on those whom that nice sergeant of yours would call the nutters.”