Nightshade

27

The Wicca Woman shop was tucked away in a Camden side street between a store selling exotic bongs and Bob Marley T-shirts, and another that sold garish hand-knitted sweaters. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. He stepped inside and his nose was assaulted by a dozen or more scents, including orange, cloves, lavender, lemon grass and jasmine. There was a dark-haired teenage girl with half a dozen facial piercings and web-like gloves on her hands standing at a display case full of crystal balls and pyramids.

‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ asked Nightingale. A stick of incense was burning by the cash register, filling the shop with a sweet, almost sickly, scent.

‘She’s upstairs. She’s got a headache.’ The girl scratched her arm as she studied Nightingale with cold green eyes.

‘Can you do me a big favour and tell her that Jack Nightingale is here?’

‘Like the bird?’

‘Yeah. Like the bird.’

‘How do you get a name like Nightingale then?’

Nightingale frowned, wondering if she was joking, then realised that she probably wasn’t. ‘It was my father’s name,’ he said.

‘Never heard of anyone called Nightingale before.’

‘There’s a few of us around. So, can you see if Mrs Steadman has time for me?’

Before she could reply, a beaded curtain drew back and Mrs Steadman appeared. She smiled at Nightingale but he could see she wasn’t well. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, and she had always been tiny but if anything she seemed even smaller, a bird-like little woman who looked as if she might break under the slightest pressure. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, I just need some advice.’

‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’ she said. ‘Lori here can mind the shop and I think I could do with some fresh air. Wait while I get my coat.’ She disappeared back through the curtain and reappeared a couple of minutes later wrapped up in a thick black wool coat with a leather belt. ‘I won’t be long, Lori,’ she said to her assistant.

They stepped out of the shop and Mrs Steadman slipped her arm through Nightingale’s as they walked along the pavement. The heels of her boots clicked with every step, and Nightingale had to slow his pace so that she could keep up with him. ‘Are you okay, Mrs Steadman?’ he asked.

She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve had a busy few days, my energy levels are a bit low, that’s all.’

‘You’re sure? You look tired.’

‘I am tired. But I’ll be better soon. Really, you don’t have to worry about me, I’ve been around a long time.’

‘How long exactly, Mrs Steadman?’

She laughed and it was a sound like birdsong. ‘A long, long time,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

They walked through Camden market, weaving their way through the throngs of shoppers and tourists towards the canal. They followed the towpath for a few hundred yards and sat down on a wooden bench overlooking the water. They watched a brightly coloured barge go by, then Nightingale reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out half a dozen of the photographs he’d taken at the McBride farm. He held them in his lap. ‘I need some guidance, Mrs Steadman. About black magic.’

Mrs Steadman gasped slightly. ‘You know that’s not my field of expertise,’ she said quietly.

‘I remember you telling me once there was no black or white magic, it was all magic.’

‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘Magic is power and can be drawn down for good or for evil. In the same way that electricity can be used to save a life, or take one.’

‘But you understand the mechanics of both?’

‘I know messing around with the dark side is a very dangerous thing to do,’ she said. ‘As I’ve told you several times.’

Nightingale nodded. A man walked by with two Jack Russell dogs and he waited until they were out of earshot before continuing. ‘I need to know if this is a real black magic altar or not,’ he said. He passed her the photographs.

Mrs Steadman looked through them in silence, spending several minutes staring at each one. When she had finished she looked up at Nightingale. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘I took them,’ he said. ‘It was in a barn up in Berwick.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’ve heard the story about the Devil and Berwick?’

‘The Devil’s thumb? Yes.’

‘It’s a very strange place, Berwick. A lot of very unnatural things happen there.’ Realisation dawned and she sighed sadly. ‘The children?’

‘I’m afraid so. That was what the police found in the man’s barn.’

‘And you think something isn’t right?’

Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think that?’

Mrs Steadman patted him on the knee. ‘Why else would you be showing me these pictures?’ She smiled at him over the top of her half-moon spectacles. ‘What do you think is wrong?’

He took the photographs from her and flicked through them, then pointed at the lead crucible that he’d had analysed by the lab. ‘I had this examined and the blood in it was pig’s blood. That didn’t seem right to me.’

‘Blood is used in black magic rites, but yes, pig’s blood would be of no use. Chicken’s blood if it was a voodoo ceremony of course, but otherwise it would have to be human blood. And usually a particular type of human blood.’

‘From a virgin?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘It would depend on the rite. But it would be human. Pig’s blood, you say?’

‘That’s right. Do you mind if I smoke?’

Mrs Steadman looked pained. ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she said. ‘I’m really not feeling well. You know, I could give you something that would help you give up smoking.’

‘Nicotine patches?’

She chuckled. ‘I was thinking of a spell,’ she said. ‘All it takes is a gemstone candle containing amethyst. I have some in the shop. It’s so successful I offer a money-back guarantee.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘I like smoking,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to give up.’

‘Your one vice?’ she said.

‘Seriously, smoking makes me feel good.’

‘Even though you know the risks?’

‘I think the risks are exaggerated,’ he said. ‘And let’s face it, at the end of the day everyone dies whether they smoke or not.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t have too many vices. I figure I’m entitled to one.’

‘Just be careful, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Things that give you the greatest pleasure can sometimes cause you the greatest pain.’

‘I hear you, Mrs Steadman.’ He gestured at the photographs. ‘The fact that the blood is pig’s blood means that it’s not a real altar, right?’

‘If it was a true black magic altar, it wouldn’t be pig’s blood, that’s true.’

‘And what about the pictures?’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Whoever made that altar didn’t really know what they were doing. There are two inverted pentagrams, which are as they should be, but one of the pentagrams is the correct way up. That’s how it is used in Wicca, and no Satanist would use it that way. The goat head is correct, it’s the horned goat, the one they call Baphomet. Satanists use the goat to mock Jesus, who is the lamb of God. But the symbol is missing a burning candle on the head of the goat. Whoever put the altar together knows about the symbol but doesn’t understand the significance of the candle.’ She sorted through the photographs, then pulled one out and showed it to him. ‘And here, do you see the star and crescent symbols here on the wall? The crescent represents Diana, the moon goddess. The star is Lucifer, the son of the morning. The way the symbol is drawn, with the star to the left of the crescent, is the way that it’s used in Wicca. In a Satanic ritual, it would be reversed, the star would be to the right.’

‘So whoever constructed the altar made a mistake?’

‘The symbols have to be correct in order to maintain their power,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘It’s all about channelling the energy. With the symbols mixed up as they are, any energy would be unfocused.’

‘It wouldn’t work, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I don’t see that it would function at all,’ she said. ‘Either as a Wicca altar or as a Satanic altar. Whoever constructed it really didn’t know what they were doing. Do you think that the man who killed the children did it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale.

‘If it was him, he’s not a serious Satanist, I can tell you that for sure,’ she said.

‘I’m starting to think that perhaps it wasn’t his work,’ said Nightingale.

‘Somebody wanted to make it look as if he was a Satanist?’

‘I think so, yes. Somebody who didn’t realise the significance of the symbols and the blood.’

‘But why would anyone want to do that, Mr Nightingale? He killed those children, didn’t he?’

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,’ he said.

‘So why was it so important to make him appear to be a devil-worshipper?’

‘That, Mrs Steadman, is a very good question,’ said Nightingale.