The Devil's Chair Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles from Priscilla Masters

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  A Selection of Recent Titles from Priscilla Masters

  The Martha Gunn Mystery Series

  RIVER DEEP

  SLIP KNOT

  FROZEN CHARLOTTE *

  SMOKE ALARM *

  THE DEVIL’S CHAIR *

  The Joanna Piercy Mysteries

  WINDING UP THE SERPENT

  CATCH THE FALLEN SPARROW

  A WREATH FOR MY SISTER

  AND NONE SHALL SLEEP

  SCARING CROWS

  EMBROIDERING SHROUDS

  ENDANGERING INNOCENTS

  WINGS OVER THE WATCHER

  GRAVE STONES

  A VELVET SCREAM *

  THE FINAL CURTAIN *

  * available from Severn House

  THE DEVIL’S CHAIR

  Priscilla Masters

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Priscilla Masters.

  The right of Priscilla Masters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Masters, Priscilla

  The Devil’s Chair. – (The Martha Gunn mystery series)

  1. Gunn, Martha (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Randall, Alex (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  3. Shrewsbury (England)–Fiction. 4. Missing children–

  Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8389-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-535-2 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To all my friends and colleagues at the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital – I’m going to miss you. And particularly Ana Ireland, office sharer. Thanks for the book about Church Stretton.

  ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’

  Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

  PROLOGUE

  Over my fireplace hangs a painting. It is a very old work, painted in the sixteenth century and unsigned. I have mused about this and come to a conclusion: perhaps it is unsigned because the artist, competent though he undoubtedly was, was not quite comfortable with the subject. So why was he painting it, you may ask. Was someone paying him handsomely for his skill in portraying such a scene?

  I have often wondered as I have sat in my armchair and looked up.

  It is graphic, painted using dingy oils, on an oak panel. A beechwood frame surrounds it, which is probably the original. There are numerous woodworm holes. The shape of the Devil’s Chair, in the background, though very dark, is easy to recognize, so there is no doubt of its geographical location. One wonders, in its five-hundred-year-old story, where it has hung. Not in a school or a church, that is for certain. Its subject matter and title would preclude it from most, if not all, public places. So I have come to the conclusion that my picture has probably lived out its life in a place very much like its location today. Hanging over a fireplace, in a private home, where its owner can gloat over its subject matter alone and without witness.

  I say the painting is graphic. It is exactly that. There are a variety of expressions on its subjects’ faces. The innocent babies, not knowing for what purpose they have this attention, are wide-eyed and curious. The older children, however, are more cognisant. They look anxious; one in particular looks frightened. He is a small boy with large, dark eyes and the sallow complexion of an Italian. Perhaps that is a clue to the painter’s origins. I don’t know. The boy’s mouth is open as, still running, he looks behind him. Fear etches a line of worry across his young forehead. A small girl has tripped over her long skirt and lies sprawling in the mud, her face pressed down hard into the dirt. And even though her features are completely hidden – you cannot tell if she is pretty or one of nature’s plain children – one can still interpret her terror because her skinny little shoulders dig into the dirt as though she is trying to bury herself into her own grave. From what are the children running, those that are able, you may ask. The babies and toddlers are frozen, for all but the very youngest child knows that above them, behind them, racing towards them, flies evil. One can read it in the crone’s face, intent on her ghastly business. Her eyes are burning coals, her mouth toothless, her body scrawny. She is, in many ways, exactly as we would all imagine her.

  Not all who flee are children. There is one old man who looks back in terror, his bony knees seeming to shake on the canvas. Is he one of them? Does she want him too? Why? The answer lies beneath. I have said that the painting is not signed. Who would own to spending such time finding this hideous idea, selecting the right brush, the right strokes, the right colours even? No one would own to this but the title, skilfully brushed in below, proclaims itself without bashfulness in letters which are easy to read.

  Harvesting the unbaptized.

  ONE

  Sunday, 7 April, 2 a.m.

  Church Stretton, Shropshire.

  She didn’t believe the stories. It was all nonsense. Meant to frighten people and keep them away. She glanced in the back of the car. Daisy’s eyes were wide open. She was too terrified to cry. She clutched the sodden Jellycat squirrel and kept sucking it, which annoyed Tracy even more. Bloody kid.

  The child’s dressing gown flopped open. In her haste, Tracy hadn’t tied it. And she would have sworn that the little sod had wet her new pyjamas. She turned her attention back to the treacherous road. Shit. She didn’t dare look down. Too far to fall. But
she was going to do this, she was going to get there. She smiled at herself and peered into the gloom. She was going up there. All the way to the top. And then some.

  In the back Daisy sniffed and Tracy took her eyes off the road for a second. ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said. ‘Just put a sock in it, will you?’

  She turned around and for a second – just a second – she had a pang of guilt. She shouldn’t be doing this.

  Then she squared her shoulders. She would see this through. She’d show him. She could leave him behind. She didn’t need him. She glanced up. The top was shrouded in mist. She almost laughed at her stupid superstition. Of course the Devil wasn’t sitting in his chair. The child’s eyes were still wide open and she sucked the soft grubby toy even more noisily. Tracy jabbed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The vehicle wasn’t a powerful one. It was a tired old VW which had done more than the mileage necessary to justify its existence. But Tracy had a fondness for it because its registration letter was T. It struggled with the steep hill, whining in protest. Whining like the child. Tracy sucked in a long, deep breath. She simply couldn’t stand it. The car whined, the child whined, Neil whined. She checked the rear-view mirror then focused on the scene outside. She’d climbed as high as an eagle’s nest. An eyrie, she believed they called it. She spluttered to herself, amused at the joke. Eerie it bloody well was. She hiccupped with humour and peered through the windscreen again. Eerie. And as black as the grave. The car lurched, complaining. She forced the accelerator down again and continued to peer through the windscreen, trying to penetrate the mist. God, it was empty around here. There was no one. No one but herself, the child, the Devil and his demons. And up here in this godforsaken place one could believe in it all. Tracy gave a snort. Ever since she’d been a kid she’d been threatened with being abandoned up here, on the Long Mynd, food for the Devil and his imps. And now?

  Bang.

  She stopped dead. Then she looked up, out of the windscreen. What the …?

  It wasn’t possible. No.

  Tracy tried to put the car in reverse but the engine screamed in mechanical protest. And she joined the car in its screaming terror as she felt the wheels slide backwards.

  TWO

  Saturday, 6 April, 11.50 p.m.

  Two hours, ten minutes earlier.

  It had been a typical evening, an evening of sour bickering, of veiled threats, and as the evening wore on and their blood alcohol levels slowly crept up, the threats and insults became less veiled and more aggressive. Even the TV remote control was the subject of a war.

  ‘Give me that.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to watch football. Let’s see a film.’

  Neil’s mood was as bad as his breath. ‘Oh, piss off, Tracy. Give it here.’

  He lumbered towards her and she screamed. ‘Get away from me, you brute! I bet you wouldn’t treat your beloved Lucy like that.’

  Neil Mansfield hovered over her, swaying slightly as though on the deck of a ship. ‘She isn’t my beloved Lucy. She’s just …’

  ‘A client?’ she mocked, her voice high and tight. ‘Just like I was, Neil? You think I don’t know what’s going on?’ She sank back into the sofa, her face thin and hard. Her smile was a mirthless gash in it. ‘Some people never learn, do they?’

  Mansfield returned to his chair, reached for another lager, drank glumly and lit another foul-tasting cigarette. What else was there to do? From somewhere, maybe way back in his English literature GCSE, he dragged up a quote. ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’

  Bollocks, Mr Tolstoy, he thought, his mouth twisting. All unhappy families resemble each other too. There’s always rows, Mr Tolstoy. There’s always alcohol, Mr T. There’s always violence, Leo. And there’s usually some poor little kid stuck right in the middle.

  THREE

  Sunday, 7 April, 6 a.m.

  ‘Which service do you require?’ The girl was bored. Saturday nights/Sunday mornings were the worst. Lots of drunks and pranksters, relatives concerned about an elderly mother or father, people panicking with chest pain or breathlessness or sometimes simply the lonely, desperate for someone to talk to so they would dial the magic number. Then there were the teenagers ‘missing’ – not back when they said they’d be. Sian’s lip curled. When were they ever? And so they dialled the number: the number that was always picked up and met with a human response rather than a robotic voice assuring you that you are valued, moving your way up an invisible queue and being subjected to hours of dreadful music.

  She waited for the caller to make his or her decision.

  ‘Don’t rightly know.’

  Man or woman?

  The caller continued, ‘There’s a car gorn orf the Burway. Wrecked. Someone’s inside ’urt. A woman.’

  Sian’s hand immediately pressed fire engine, ambulance and police. Ring-a-ding-ding. This would get the lot. She knew the Burway, had watched her father back gingerly into a passing place and almost swallowed her heart as she’d looked down the long, steep drop into Carding Mill Valley below.

  ‘Is the woman still breathing?’

  ‘Aaagh.’

  ‘I need your name and contact details.’

  There was no response.

  Sian glanced at the caller ID. It was a landline. Good. That would make identifying the caller easier. As she tapped out the details into the computer, she smiled to herself. It never failed to surprise her how many callers were reluctant to reveal their identity. She tried again. ‘I need your name, caller.’

  Again, no answer. She glanced at her screen. He, or was it a she, was still on the line. She tried once more. ‘Is the woman in the car conscious?’

  The question provoked a chuckle. ‘You’ll have to come and see tha-at for yourselves.’ Sian gave a deep, exasperated sigh. How could anyone even think this was remotely funny?

  Try doing my job, wanker.

  She tried again. Her performance would be monitored. ‘Is the person alive?’

  This time not only was there no answer but the caller had hung up. The screen was now blank.

  Great, Sian thought. If this was a hoax she would personally make sure the caller paid a ruddy great big fine.

  Sunday, 7 April, 11.30 a.m.

  Afterwards, Neil would try and grasp the memories but they were hazy, unclear with large black patches preventing continuity, slippery as eels. If he closed his eyes he could see Tracy’s drunken fury, her repeated accusations about him and Lucy. Shouting rang in his ears. The smell of alcohol, of stale cigarettes. And then the piercing scream of the child as her mother raised her from the cot. He squeezed his eyes tight shut. He needed to clean his teeth. Another scene: Tracy running up the stairs. Thump, thump, thump, anger in every step. The child’s screams melting into pathetic crying. And then, abruptly, silence.

  Then thump, thump, thump. She was coming back down the stairs. In her arms was the child, in a pink dressing gown.

  He stretched out his arms for her. ‘Daisy,’ he said softly. ‘Daisy.’

  But Tracy whirled past him like a banshee, the child struggling, holding her arms out back to him. He thought he heard Tracy say the name of her friend, Wanda.

  Another blank patch. Somehow he was outside, in the road, reasoning with her, pleading with her. You’re not fit to drive. At least leave Daisy behind. And then … The car door slammed. The door frame swallowed him up. He fell backwards into the house, still trying to reason with the empty room.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘Come back here.’

  And then the sofa curled him up into her arms.

  He was vaguely aware of the child’s fright and felt a fizz of anger. Trace could do what she liked, his angry, fuzzed-up brain insisted. But Daisy, well, that was different. She was just a kid.

  It was his last coherent thought. The last thing he remembered hearing was the hollow slamming of a second car door and then an engine revving up too hard.

  FOUR

  Monday, 8 April, 8.30 a.m.
>
  The day had started with a chilly drizzle that shrouded the approaching spring and mocked the citizens of Shropshire, reminding them that winter was a ghost always chasing behind them and spring was out of arm’s reach. They could not have it – yet. The spectre of the ghost was gaining on them however hard they ran.

  Maybe this year spring would not come at all; neither would summer. Like Narnia under the grip of the white witch, it would remain forever winter.

  Just to rub it in, on the great rounded hump of the Long Mynd it had snowed early on Sunday morning. A light powdering iced its summit, turning it into a huge round cupcake. This, of course, was a great challenge to climbers. The intrepid would have climbed right into the snowline and beyond except that the police had closed down the entire area. Late Saturday night/early Sunday morning it had been the scene of a serious car crash. The driver was in a coma in hospital.

  Monday, 8 April, 9 a.m.

  The coroner’s office, Bayston Hill, Shrewsbury.

  Martha could always tell from Jericho’s demeanour when he had important information to ‘impart’. (Impart being one of his favourite words, usually said with intense emphasis and deliberation). However, this morning was patently not one of those mornings, Martha observed as she walked through the door. Jericho obviously had little to impart and it was visibly pissing him off. His head jutted forwards, his chin on his chest, his shoulders bowed and his face contorted into a deep and sullen scowl. Martha had seen this before. This was Jericho sulking because he was not ‘in the know’.

  She smothered a smile as she closed the door softly behind her. Her officer was so easy to read. ‘Good morning, Jericho,’ she said briskly.

  He hardly looked at her. ‘Mrs Gunn,’ he mumbled and she eyed him. This was a real and very deep sulk.