The Witch Maker Read Free

way to police headquarters. True, he was held up for quite some time by road works – somebody had told him there were four thousand holes in Whitebridge, Lancashire, and, watching the council workmen fill in one of them with asphalt, he could well believe it. True, too, he would have rather the Chief Constable’s car had
not
been parked in its allotted spot – would have preferred it, in fact, if Marlowe had been attending one of those conferences on senior-level policing which were always held conveniently close to a good golf course. But these were but minor irritations, and on such a fine day he was quite prepared to live and let live.
    He smiled at the constable on duty outside the main entrance, and at various colleagues who were entering the building at the same time he was. He smiled at the desk sergeant.
    Then the sergeant said, ‘Mr Marlowe would like to see you immediately, sir.’
    And the smile melted away.
    â€˜A bit late in this morning, aren’t you, Charlie?’ asked the Chief Constable, moving documents around on his desk in that irritating way that he had.
    â€˜Road works,’ Woodend explained.
    Marlowe frowned. ‘Perhaps you should have taken that into account when you decided what time to set off from home. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there at the moment.’ He picked up one of the pieces of paper he had been shuffling. ‘Have you ever heard of something called the Hallerton Witch Burning?’
    â€˜Aye,’ Woodend said. ‘Takes place once every twenty years. Quite a spectacle, in its way.’
    â€˜So you’ve seen it yourself?’
    â€˜Not the last one. Couldn’t make it. I was up to my neck in muck an’ bullets at the time.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜The last one was in 1944, sir. There was a war goin’ on, in case you’ve forgotten.’
    Marlowe’s frown deepened. He had spent his entire war in a cushy billet in Chippenham, and knew that Woodend
was well aware of the fact.
    â€˜We were all a little inconvenienced during the period of hostilities,’ he said frostily. ‘So, it was an earlier Witch Burning you saw, was it?’
    â€˜That’s right, sir. The one that happened in 1924, when I was no more than a nipper.’
    â€˜Even so, you probably have more idea of what it’s all about than I do.’ Marlowe glanced down at the paper again. ‘Apparently, the chap in charge of it, who, for some reason, is called the Witch Maker—’
    â€˜He’s the one who makes the Witch,’ Woodend supplied helpfully.
    â€˜â€”this Witch Maker, was found murdered this morning. On the very spot, so it would seem, where this Witch Burning is to take place. There’s already a uniformed team on the scene, led by a sergeant from Lancaster, but since time is pressing, I’d still like you to get up there as soon as possible.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ Woodend asked. ‘Time is pressin’?’
    â€˜The Witch Burning, which, as you’ve already pointed out, only happens rarely, is due to take place on Sunday, which is only three days away.’
    â€˜Well, unless we can crack this case in record time, they’ll just have to call it off, won’t they?’ Woodend said.
    â€˜No, Chief Inspector, they will not,’ Marlowe said firmly.
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir?’
    â€˜The Witch Burning will go ahead as planned.’
    â€˜But it can’t!’ Woodend protested. ‘The place is crowded for a Witch Burnin’. The handloom-weavin’ folk-art freaks travel from all over the country to see it. There’s busloads of tourists who come an’ rubber-neck. I can’t have them tramplin’ all over the crime scene.’
    â€˜The Witch Burning is a major cultural event,’ Marlowe said. ‘It reflects both the richness and the diversity of this county’s history.’
    â€˜You sound like