The Magic Cottage

SIXSMYTHE

You MAY HAVE guessed by now that I'm not one of the world's greatest heroes, and you'd be right. But I do have my moments; it so happens that the evening of Kinsella's visit was not one of them.

I didn't mention what I'd seen to Midge, not wanting to alarm her unduly and feeling slightly ashamed that I hadn't gone over to investigate anyway. Once inside the cottage, I'd run upstairs and peered out of a window in the round room; although the light was murky, I could see the figure had gone. It certainly hadn't had time to cross the clearing to the cottage, so it could only have moved back inside the cover of the trees. When Midge had asked me what I was looking for, I told her I thought I'd spotted one of the famous New Forest deer, which was a mistake because she became excited and I had to dissuade her from going outside to look for it. Too dark, I'd told her, and the animal was probably well inside the forest by now.

She'd reluctantly agreed and wistfully watched the clearing until night fell completely (I watched her, but apprehensively).

I was very much on edge when we turned in later, even though I'd done my best to rationalize matters throughout the rest of the evening. The scuffle earlier in the day, the peculiar change in Kinsella while we drank wine, the expected storm that hadn't materialized: I reasoned that all these things had strung me out, making me a little overwrought. I never doubted I'd seen someone watching from the woods, but the preceding events had made me nervous, and that nervousness had become exaggerated on seeing the mystery watcher once again. You might have felt the same under the circumstances.

I slept badly, waking often to listen to night noises, imagining prowlers trying the windows downstairs, testing the doors. Creaks were footsteps, and soft taps were fingernails on glass.

It was a relief when morning finally broke.

I'd just finished cutting the grass at the back of the house and was cleaning mulch from the mower blades when the Reverend Sixsmythe arrived. Midge, in shorts and T-shirt, had been busy in the front garden when the vicar had called hello over the fence. She'd been caught unawares (I'd neglected to inform her of his proposed visit), but naturally had welcomed him graciously. She brought him around the side of the cottage to where I was working, pulling a face at me that he was unable to see.

"Good morning, Mr. Stringer," he said cheerily, striding forward to pump my hand. Today he wore a brown trilby, which only served to make him look like a kid dressed in Dad's clothes because it was a size too big for him. "Good to see you hard at work. Mowing twice a week, I hope?"

"Three times. The grass is overhealthy here."

He looked around appraisingly. "Ah yes, you'll find plant and animal life extremely abundant in this area. I believe Flora Chaldean had quite a job keeping it all under control. I haven't come at a bad time, have I? We did agree yesterday."

"No, I was about to grab a break," I replied.

"Me, too," said Midge. "Would you like some tea, coffee? Or lemonade?"

"A lemonade would be super, Mrs.—ah, Miss . . ."

"Gudgeon," she finished for him.

"Gudgeon," he repeated. "Now that name rings a bell . . ."

"Margaret Gudgeon," I told him. "Children's books?"

"Why of course, yes indeed!" He positively bristled with the thrill of it. "Let me welcome you to our parish, Miss Gudgeon. My goodness, I'm very familiar with your work having three young sprogs of my own. My eldest daughter is only just going on to other things, but she still keeps her collection of your books. How marvelous that you should choose to make your home here. And, of course, in this particular cottage! You are aware, I take it, of (iramarye's meaning?"

"Yes," she said. "It means Magic."

I looked at her in surprise. She'd never told me that.

"How appropriate," Sixsmythe prattled. "How very appropriate. Isn't Magic what many of your stories are about?"

"I only illustrate the books."

"Yes, but the pictures are the stories, aren't they? The words are really there to serve your pictures, Miss Gudgeon. Now, may I call you Margaret? And it's Mike, isn't it? Surnames are so formal, and we're all friends here."

I wondered if I should call him Pete.

"Lemonade for you, Mike?" Midge was smiling at me and she also passed on a secret look that said, who is this guy?

"Terrific." I grinned back.

We'd bought a small garden table and a couple of cheap chairs from the village and arranged them around the old bench; I waved a hand toward them and the vicar sat in one, taking off his hat and placing it on the table top. I sat opposite him on the bench. From that position I could see the forest behind him and, not for the first time that morning, I scanned its fringes, searching for you-know-what.

"I must apologize for what happened in the village yesterday," said Sixsmythe, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. "I suppose there has to be an unruly element in any community, and unfortunately you bumped into the worst of ours. They're not bad lads really, just at odds with themselves and at loose ends with the world itself."

"I'd almost forgotten about it," I lied (funny how you tend to lie more to men of the cloth, assuming a kind of false piety). "No real harm done anyway."

"Good of you to take it that way. We're usually a peaceful community, Mike, and perhaps we have too gentle a lifestyle in some respects for this day and age. However, it suits most people hereabouts and I can't imagine any drastic changes taking place over the next decade or so. Unless they decide to build a highway through our part of the forest, that is, but I don't think it's very likely."

He gave a short laugh, but I had the uncomfortable feeling he was watching me closely. I fervently hoped he was not going to suffer from the same hysteria as our friend Kinsella had yesterday.

We discussed the weather, the countryside, and briefly touched on the state of the nation, and I had the impression that he was awaiting Midge's return before going on to more personal topics.

Return she did, and not before time (I'm not very good at small talk), carrying a tray of glasses and iced lemonade. I took pleasure in the distraction of her slim legs, now lightly tanned and, as ever, velvety smooth from top to toe. I caught Sixsmythe having a sneaky look too, but then he was only flesh and blood despite the sweat-smudged white collar.

Midge sat next to me on the bench and poured lemonade from the jug. It was another glorious day—that summer had to hold some kind of record for continuous sunshine—and the very pleasantness of my surroundings allayed my nervousness from the night before. Almost. There was still that niggling unease at the back of my brain, a disquiet that couldn't be sensibly clarified. I sipped lemonade and tried to keep my attention on the cleric, and not on the woods behind him.

"So, Margaret," said Sixsmythe, having swallowed half his drink in one go, "are you working on a new book at the moment?"

"Oh no. Mike and I decided we wouldn't take on any more work for at least a month, not until we'd made ourselves comfortable in Gramarye. You could call it an adjustment period, too."

"Very wise. And what is your line of business, Mike? Are you an artist also?" He was genuinely interested, his clear, schoolboy's eyes eager bright.

"I play guitar, write songs when I can."

He seemed disappointed. "I see. You don't work regularly then?"

Midge and I laughed.

"Yes, he does," said Midge, still amused but indignant too. "Mike plays at recording sessions mostly, although occasionally he goes on the road."

"On the road?"

"I back other performers," I told him. "You know, as part of a touring band."

"Ah."

"And when he's not doing that, he works very hard at song writing. In fact, Mike's got the basis for a musical—"

"Midge . . ." I warned good-naturedly.

"Sorry." She squeezed my leg, then said to Sixsmythe, "We have an agreement that we never talk about ideas for future projects in company. Mike and I feel it takes out some of the energy for the work itself."

"Yes, I think I understand that. I suppose pre-explanation can take the edge off creativity."

"You got it," I said. "Too many good ideas, particularly in my business, get talked to death before they even get off the ground."

"My word, but what an exciting time you both must have."

We chuckled again at that.

"When a new book is published, or work's going really well—that's when things get exciting," said Midge. "Otherwise, it's usually self-disciplined hard slog."

"Nevertheless, you must meet some very interesting people," he insisted. "I do hope you won't get bored too easily with us simple folk."

"Believe me, half the reason Mike and I moved here was to get away from certain so-called 'interesting' people. We find country life quite refreshing."

"Yes, I was being somewhat harsh on myself and my parishioners. You'll find that many of us are not quite as dull as you might at first think." He nodded to himself, then gazed up reflectively at the cottage walls. "Yes indeed," he mused, "there are quite a few interesting characters in these parts. I think you'd have found Flora Chaldean fascinating, for instance. A most extraordinary individual."

Midge rested her elbows on the table, clasping her hands before her. "Did you know her well?" she asked.

"Flora? No, I'm afraid nobody knew her well. Very much of a recluse, you see. But the villagers and many of the local people came here to see her in time of trouble." He smiled almost wistfully. "In fact, many of those I failed to help would visit her, and perhaps she was of greater comfort to them than I. Oh, they never let me know of their visits, kept them very much a secret. But I knew. I knew their old country ways."

I shifted on the bench, and I could tell Midge was intrigued.

"What sort of help did Mrs. Chaldean give them?" I asked. "Was she just one of those who people like to tell their troubles to?"

"More than that. Yes, much more, I believe." He suddenly frowned. "She was a great healer. A healer of the spirit as well as the flesh, apparently. Sadly, I'm hopeless at the latter, and only sometimes good at the former. It seems that Flora had a gift that was centuries old."

Birds fluttered close, landing near our feet. If Sixsmythe hadn't been there they would have been on the table itself, chirping for food.

"Her solicitor did mention that she was a healer of sorts," said Midge. "Are you telling us now that she was a faith healer?"

"Not exactly. Oh, I'm sure that much of her effectiveness was due to people's utter belief in her powers to cure, but that wouldn't have explained everything. She made up potions of the kind you might find in books on ancient remedies, those that are passed down from generation to generation, but she also had the ability to cure without any such medicines, by talking, or laying on of hands. Not that she would oblige just anybody! Goodness no! There were some she would not let inside her garden gate!" He shook his head, grinning like a ventriloquist's dummy. "And then, of course, she had a wonderful way with animals. Could cure them of ailments almost overnight, I'm told."

Midge stole a quick glance at me.

"You'd quite often find a sick cow or pony tethered outside here for a day or so, who were inevitably in fine fettle by the time the owners arrived to take them home again. Dogs, cats—quite a menagerie on occasions! Now you can't tell me that animals had faith in her powers, so it's hard to fathom how they became well again. Yes, yes, a wonderful gift had Flora. Pity that I only got to know her toward the end of her life. May I have another glass of lemonade, Margaret? It's rather cooling on a day like this."

She poured and was obviously engrossed with the cleric's account of Gramarye's previous owner. "I'm surprised her fame wasn't more widespread from what you've told us."

"Heavens, no! All kept very secret in these parts, you know. Yes, very hush-hush. Flora would bind those who came with their problems to secrecy before she would even attempt a cure. However, as with all such delightful mysteries, there were always whispers, a confidence here, a hint there. I think the locals felt that to admit these things openly would somehow break the old lady's spell."

"That's an odd word for a vicar to use," I remarked.

He looked reasonably abashed. "Yes, I admit 'spell' has certain mumbo-jumbo connotations, but I'm merely recounting what went on in the minds of the local folk. I think it's quite charming, don't you?"

"Uh . . . yeah, I suppose so. I'm just surprised to hear a vicar talk in those terms."

He laughed aloud at that. "Quite so! I can understand your surprise. But spells, incantations and yes, Magic itself, have a lot to do with my particular trade, wouldn't you agree? When we clergy preach the almighty power of the Lord's divine goodness, we are, after all, speaking of Magic."

"I . . . hadn't thought of it like that," I admitted.

"Of course not. And I'm teasing you a little. Remarkable though Flora Chaldean was, I'm afraid that such sorcery went out of fashion a few hundred years or so ago. The microchip is the new Magic, isn't it?" He gulped down more lemonade, obviously very thirsty. (I learned from Midge later that Sixsmythe had cycled from the village in the belief that the exercise on such a fine day would do him the world of good. Although the oversized trilby had kept his neat-lined hair in place, it hadn't done much for his body temperature.)

"Mike," he said, placing his glass back on the table and regarding me with a beagle-eyed expression, "these Synergist people—you told me yesterday they'd visited you here a number of times."

Wondering what was coming, I nodded a "yes."

"They also used to visit Flora Chaldean."

I had no particular comment on that; it seemed reasonable enough.

"The point is, they were very unwelcome. Flora hated this pseudo-religious group with all her heart. So much so, in fact, that she even complained to the village constable, but there was very little he could do to stop them coming here." He gestured at the landscape behind him. "These woods are common land and so are the paths around the cottage: they had the legal right to pass by or linger at any time they chose to do so."

"Wait a minute. Are you saying they harassed the old lady?"

"From what I've been led to believe, yes, most definitely."

"But why should they do that?" cut in Midge. "The three we've met couldn't be more friendly, or more harmless. Why on earth should they try to upset Flora?"

He raised his hands slightly, then let them fall onto the table. "Who can say? Flora was a very private person, despite—or perhaps more correctly, because of—the discreet services she provided to those in need. She was certainly eccentric, not to say a trifle cranky on occasions, so she might have taken a particularly strident dislike to them for any number of personal reasons."

"I got the impression yesterday that not many of the locals do care for them, so she wasn't alone in that respect," I said. "I still can't understand why they're so unpopular, though. What have they done to pis—to cause such resentment?"

"They're strange people, and they live in a strange way."

I sighed. "That's hardly reason—"

"They're a suspect organization, Mike, not unlike a few others I could mention that are around nowadays. They came here five years ago, led by a man named Mycroft. There were only a few of them at first, and they moved into Croughton Hall, keeping very much to themselves. Others followed, though, people from different parts of the world, assembling on the Croughton estate as if it were some focal point for their religion. And it wasn't long after that they set out to recruit more followers, many from around here, locals, mainly youngsters, enticing them away from their families, brainwashing them to accept their ways, Mycroft's teachings, so that they never wanted to leave, no amount of persuasion from their familes or loved ones drawing them back into the real world again."

"Surely the authorities would have stepped in if it's as bad as you say." Midge's eyes were sharp with concern.

"Since there were no minors involved, and no laws have ever been broken, they deemed they were in no position even to investigate. Odd cults and religions are hardly rare these days, after all. The Synergists aren't even registered as a charity, so even their financial status cannot be questioned as long as their records are carefully maintained and presented."

"Isn't there some law against secret societies?" I asked.

"The Synergist Temple is hardly that. They keep very much to themselves, but I wouldn't describe them as a secret society."

"Have you ever met this man Mycroft?" Midge watched the vicar over the top of her glass while she drank.

"No, never, even though I've called at the house more than once. I suppose I should refer to the place as their temple, but it's awfully difficult for me to regard it as such. No, our Mr. Mycroft always appears to be either indisposed or away on business at the time of my visits. As a matter of fact, I don't believe anyone hereabouts has ever set eyes on the man."

"You haven't explained why they should be interested in Flora Chaldean," I said. "She was a bit ancient to become one of their Fosterlings, wasn't she?"

Sixsmythe raised his eyebrows. "You know how they refer to their followers?"

"One of the three who've been visiting us regularly dropped by yesterday evening to thank me for helping out the girls in the village. He told us something about the Synergists."

"I see."

I grinned. "Don't worry, he wasn't trying to convert us. We were interested, so we asked. And he gave us answers."

Sixsmythe was quiet for a moment or two. Then he said, "I firmly believe that you both should take the utmost caution where these people are concerned. Yes, I'm well aware that they appear to be extremely affable, even rather innocent, yet I can't help but feel there's something more to them than they would care to admit."

"That sounds very sinister."

"Perhaps so."

"Oh come on, you'll have to give us something more than that," Midge scoffed mildly.

"I'm afraid I can't. Call it a gut feeling, one that's shared by many of my parishioners. If it was anything more, any evident acts of misconduct on the Synergists' part, then our local council might have been able to exercise its authority and have done something about their presence in the district. As it is, they keep to themselves and, so far, haven't committed any public offense."

"Then why all the fuss?" Midge was quite irritated by now. "Just because they don't conform to the natural pattern of life around here, it's no reason to shun them."

"Dear girl, if only it were that simple. As I said, call it gut feeling, intuition—whatever you like—but the locals are wary of them and, as a man of God, so am I. There's an air of secrecy about them that we find extremely disturbing."

Midge giggled and Sixsmythe frowned.

"I didn't intend to amuse you," he said, somewhat crossly I thought. "We may lead rather sheltered lives in this part of the country, but I can assure you we are not all superstitious country bumpkins. I've proffered my advice, and there's little more that I can do." He reached for his hat and made ready to leave. "In my view, this Synergist sect is not to be trusted; however, I leave you to make up your own mind about that."

I was taken aback by his touchiness. "Hey, look, we're not mocking you and we really do appreciate your coming out all this way to tell us about them. We hardly know these people, but they seem neighborly enough, so it's difficult for us to blindly accept what you're saying. You've gotta own up, you haven't offered any firm evidence."

His miffed expression softened, but he stood anyway. "Yes, I do understand how it must look to you," he said. "I imagine I sound extremely foolish, yet all I ask is that you take heed of my words. And if you should have any concerns whatsoever—anything at all—promise me you'll phone me at the vicarage. Can we agree at least on that?'

"Sure," I replied, rising with him.

Midge was less obliging, and I could see why: the first arrow had been fired at her Shangri-La; she didn't really want to know about bad neighbors, especially when she had already taken a shine to them. Nevertheless, she politely got to her feet and we accompanied the vicar back to his bicycle. Sixsmythe was well aware of her mood and probably felt a tiny bit contrite, because he did his best to direct the conversation onto other, more pleasant matters—Gramarye's beautiful situation, the wonderful garden, the loveliness of the forest itself (even lovelier, according to him, in the autumn months when the trees held a vast canopy of countless shades of russet golds), and whether or not he could welcome us to next Sunday's services at the church (I knew that would come up). Synergists didn't get a mention.

I opened the gate for him and he went through, slid clips around his trouser ankles, then pulled his bicycle upright from the fence where it had reclined as if exhausted by the journey.

"Mr. Sixsmythe?" said Midge as he swung a leg over the machine.

He twisted around to look inquiringly at her.

"Can you tell me something?"

"Of course, providing I know the answer."

"Well, we . . . I . . . I wondered how Flora Chaldean died."

He became momentarily flustered. "Oh, dear girl, I hope I haven't given you cause for too much concern by overstating my case. Please forgive me if I've alarmed you to that extent."

"No, honestly, you haven't. I've been wondering for a while now."

"Flora was a very old lady, Margaret. Nobody is quite sure of exactly how many years she had lived, but it's reasonable to assume she had reached her eighties—possibly her late eighties." He smiled kindly at Midge. "I suppose you could say Flora died of old age itself. Her heart grew weary and she passed away in her beloved Gramarye. Unfortunately, because she was a recluse, nobody knew until weeks later, although there were those who claimed they had passed by the cottage and had caught sight of her in the garden only a few days before her body was found. But then, people are often confused about specific times, particular dates; it's very difficult to be absolutely certain about such things."

"Why should there be any confusion?" asked Midge.

"Ah," the vicar replied, as though her question were pertinent. "It so happened that I was the one who discovered her body. I used to call in now and again to see how she was, just part of what I consider to be my regular duties, even though I can't remember Flora ever attending my church. I make a point of always visiting the elderly of the parish when I have time, particularly during the winter months."

He adjusted the trilby, pulling the hat firmly down over his head so that the breeze would not sweep it away when he started cycling. The brim bent the top of/his ears. "I saw her through the kitchen window, sitting at the table, cup and saucer before her as though she had only just brewed herself a fresh pot of tea. It was an overcast day and the kitchen was very gloomy, so that I was unable to see clearly; I remember thinking how grimy the windows were, because that hindered my view also. When I tapped on the glass and got no response, well, that was when I became anxious. I'd already tried the door and found it locked, which was odd, because I had never known Flora to lock either doors or windows before. Most peculiar, I thought, and immediately drove to the nearest public phone booth and called out Constable Fames from the village."

He shook his head sadly, as if the memory was still all too clear inside his head. "I waited for him at the cottage, meanwhile discovering that the door around the back was also locked, as were the windows. When Fames arrived he broke a pane in the kitchen window and undid the latch; then he climbed in."

Midge moved closer to me. A car sped by, a wooden dog nodding its head at us from the rear window as if it already knew what was coming next.

"He was quite pallid when he opened the door and beckoned me inside. Because of the expression on his face, and the odious smell that came from the kitchen, I entered with some trepidation."

Sixsmythe was looking back at the cottage, not at us. "As I told you, Flora Chaldean was at the table as though she had only just sat down to drink tea. But the cup was filled with a liquid green mold. And Flora's body was so corrupted and crawling with maggots that it was obvious that she had been dead for several weeks."

My stomach turned over like a sluggish spin dryer and I thought Midge's tan had become a shade lighter. She reached for me and I held on to her.

Sixsmythe appeared oblivious, his attentions concentrated on the puzzle that he, himself, had posed. "So the passers-by couldn't possibly have seen her in the garden just days before. The coroner later confirmed what we already knew: the deteriorated condition of Flora's body indicated that she had died at least two or three weeks before, alone and, for all that time until my arrival, unnoticed. Rather sad, wouldn't you say? Yes, rather sad."

With that, he pushed his bicycle from the grass shoulder and pedaled off down the road, waving good-bye over his shoulder at Midge and me without once looking back.

Which was just as well: the angry expression on my face might have unbalanced him and caused a nasty accident.

As you'd imagine, the rest of the day was somewhat spoiled. The kitchen of Gramarye lost a lot of its rustic charm with the idea of poor old Flora's rotting corpse sitting there at the table drinking moldering tea fixed in our minds, and Midge lapsed into a miserable silence right through until the evening. She sat on her own in the round room for a long time, and I let her be.

I felt uneasy, not to say queasy, myself and could cheerfully have throttled the vicar for his insensitivity (more than once I wondered if his graphic bluntness hadn't been deliberate, perhaps a petty retribution for our mild scoffing at his warning—but then, men of the cloth are not the vengeful type, are they? Well, are they?).

Still, the day wasn't all bad. Later on in the afternoon Bob called with some terrific news. Phil Collins liked one of the songs I'd cowritten with Bob, wanted to record the number for an album some time during the following week, and would I care to sit in on the session? Would I? Bob took my garbled rambling into the receiver as a firm "yes."

Midge was naturally delighted for me when I broke the news—our self-imposed period of not accepting any professional undertakings would be almost over by next week, and recording with a megastar wasn't a bad way to get rolling again, especially when one of my own songs was involved. She did her best to throw off her gloom, although she was still a little subdued, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening enthusing with me. Early that night we enthused our way up to the bedroom and the excitement didn't end there. Let's say it was nicely rounded off.

Eventual sleep was marred for me by a dream of taking tea with the maggoty Flora Chaldean downstairs in the kitchen, tiny wriggling white things dropping from her leprous hand into the brew as she stirred it before passing me the cup.

Thank God I awoke before I drank, for the last nightmare image was of a decomposed, almost fleshless, finger floating on top of the green furry liquid.