The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page B

scene of the crime an’ then garrotted him.’
    â€˜Maybe it wasn’t robbery, then,’ Thwaites suggested. ‘Maybe one of the fairground people had a grudge against Harry.’
    â€˜In that case, he’d have to be a
world champion
grudge-holder.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon, sir?’
    Woodend sighed. ‘Even if it’s the same fair – an’ we haven’t established that it is yet – it’s one hell of a long time since it last came to Hallerton. Now as far as I know, most fairground workers don’t have the same approach to life as office clerks do. They don’t put in their forty years on the same job for the sake of the gold watch they’ll collect at the end.’
    â€˜They could have—’
    â€˜Most of the fellers who were with the fair twenty years ago will either have left it, retired or died by now. An’ even if we stretch belief to breakin’ point, an’ allow that one or two blokes who are here now might have been workin’ for the fair the last time round, how likely is it that one of them would have waited nearly a quarter of a century to get his revenge for somethin’ Harry did to him back then?’
    â€˜Maybe it was a
family
grudge,’ Thwaites said. ‘You know how clannish these carnival folk can be.’
    â€˜A bit like the people of this village?’
    â€˜It’s not the same, sir. It’s not the same at all.’
    â€˜Let’s assume for a minute that one of the fairground people
wasn’t
the killer,’ Woodend said. ‘Who is there in the village who might not be too unhappy to see Harry Dimdyke dead?’
    â€˜Nobody. He was the Witch Maker.’
    â€˜Is that the answer to every question in this village?’ Woodend asked, exasperatedly. ‘That he was the bloody Witch Maker?’
    Thwaites face creased, as if he really
did
want to explain – really
did
want Woodend to understand – but, despite that, he was still having trouble finding the words.
    â€˜The village is nothin’ without the Witch Burnin’,’ he said finally.
    â€˜Oh come on,’ Woodend said, doing his best to sound reasonable – and just missing the mark. ‘I know the Witch Burnin’ brings a lot of visitors’ money into the village, but that’s only once in a generation, isn’t it? There has to be more to this place than that.’
    â€˜It’s not a question of money, sir,’ Thwaites said petulantly.
    â€˜Still, there must be plenty of it comin’ in durin’ the Witch Burnin’.’
    Almost as if it had been done on cue, a loud voice behind them said, ‘I’ve told you before, I don’t want your custom. Not your custom – an’ not any your mates’ custom, either.’
    Woodend turned. The speaker was the landlord, and he was addressing a young man with long greasy hair, a kerchief round his neck, and a gold ring in his ear, who standing at the other side of the bar.
    â€˜I don’t have to drink it here,’ the young man said reasonably. ‘If you don’t want me in your pub, I’ll take it back to my caravan.’
    â€˜There’s sellin’-out shops in Lancaster that’ll give you what you want,’ the landlord told him.
    â€˜But that’s fifteen miles away!’
    â€˜Fifteen miles or a thousand, I don’t give a bugger. You’ll still get nothin’ from me.’
    â€˜I don’t see why you won’t—’
    â€˜I’ve a right under the law to refuse to serve anybody I don’t want to serve. An’ before you say any more, there’s a police constable sittin’ at that table. Do you see him?’
    â€˜I see him,’ the young man said, in a surly manner.
    â€˜Then bugger off before I set him on you.’
    The young man slunk out of the pub, and a smile which seemed both proud and complacent came to Constable Thwaites’