Free Ritual by David Pinner Page B

only a few hours away.
    ‘Talking of your fluting, Squire, I don’t think you played so badly at all. I stood outside the gate and listened for a good ten minutes. It was experimental, hypnotic, and a little disturbing—but I wouldn’t have said bad. The horse over there, you know, broke into a sweat as you played.’
    The white horse in the field saw the Squire, whinnied, and galloped in a sharp circle.
    ‘He doesn’t seem to like you, does he, Squire?’
    The Squire fondled the secret places of a rose. He uncurled the petals to reveal the nude centre.
    ‘Perhaps it’s you he doesn’t like, Inspector. Though, I must admit, it’s surprising what bad Stravinsky can do! So much easier to be bad avant garde than good anything, don’t you think?’
    The Inspector knew he was lying about the flute and the bow and arrow—but was clueless as to why. Clueless. That was the problem. There were clues all right, but nothing to relate them to. ‘Inspector, I can give you a poor man’s Stravinsky recital any time. Now, if you like.’ He said this, fingering his flute in one hand and a rose in the other.
    ‘No, thank you, Squire. By the way, it’s very funny you should offer to show me your garden, for that’s one of the reasons I came. Could I see your herb patch?’
    “Course, Inspector. Delighted to find the police produce horticulturists as well as post mortemists!’
    They passed the roses and the giant sunflowers. Next came cabbages, and a fleck of red in the runner beans. The earth was thick brown, nearly black. Very fertile. At the bottom of the long garden, the smell of half-ripe apples softened the cabbage tang. Five apple trees stapled their leaves on the sky cloth. And one pear tree, without a single pear, shouldered arms and saluted the sun.
    Just this side of the orchard, they reached the herb patch. The Inspector knelt down and inspected the plants; bruised mint, rosemary and parsley. With the Squire’s permission, David ripped off a curled sprig of parsley and chewed it appreciatively. The aromatic green was refreshing to his palate. Whilst he was chewing, he found what he was looking for. A small bed of garlic flowers hidden underneath a mist of honeysuckle. There were other herbs beside the garlic, whose names he couldn’t remember. But he knew they were uncommon. He wondered why the Squire grew them.
    The Squire observed the Inspector’s interest flare up, but merely remarked, ‘Vast goodness in earth, Inspector, if only we could harvest it. Surprising the amount of plants and things that are waiting for their right uses, eh?’
    ‘Squire, I think you are being deliberately obtuse. You know perfectly well that Dian Spark was found dead, clutching a spray of garlic. Very few gardens bother to grow it. But you have. Why? Did you give Dian the flowers last Sunday morning? Were you, in fact, one of the last people to see her alive?’
    ‘No! I knew the girl, true. Sometimes spoke to her on my visits to Cready. She often went with the other children to his afternoon game sessions, d’you know. Before you ask me, I have no idea what his games entail.
    ‘As for the garlic flowers, she could have got ‘em anywhere. Cready has some in his garden. Reverend White has a few. Anyone could have. Admittedly, she couldn’t have got them from her own garden—she hasn’t got a garden!’
    The Inspector interrupted this unhelpful flow.
    ‘You realise the witchcraft implications of this garlic. Of this whole murder! For it is murder!’
    ‘What are you implying, Mr. Hanlin?’
    ‘Don’t play the monkey with me, sir! You know as well as I do that garlic flowers are a powerful ingredient of witchcraft. I’m not suggesting that the mumbo-jumbo of witchcraft itself is dangerous, but the implications are. This village is sweating with fear. I know I’m telling you nothing new, but perhaps you could tell me a thing or two. For example, why was Dian Spark clutching a sprig of garlic? Why did I find garlic on her