Water Like a Stone by Deborah Crombie

Author:Deborah Crombie [Crombie, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Mystery, Thriller, Suspense, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780060525286
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 89130
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2006-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The victim clutched his head and staggered, then swayed and slumped to the floor of the inn’s lounge bar, like a rag doll divested of stuffing. He twitched and, with a final moan, lay still.

Standing over him, the murderer nudged him with a toe, once, twice, then, still holding the club, raised his hands above his head and pumped his arms in victory. He pranced around the room in an impromptu dance, face obscured by his mask, ragged clothes fluttering.

“A doctor!” someone called out from the crowd. “Get a doctor!”

A tall, skeletally thin man in a black top hat pushed through the bystanders and, kneeling beside the corpse, opened his large black bag. From its depths, he pulled a jug of medicine that looked suspiciously like cider, and a pill the size of a Ping-Pong ball. The doctor held the pill up between thumb and forefinger, displaying it to the crowd, then pushed it between the unresponsive lips of the corpse.

There was a pregnant pause, a momentary holding of the collective breath, then the corpse stirred, sat up, and gave an exaggerated shake. He spat out the pill and took a swig from the jug, which made him roll his eyes and wipe his lips with the back of his hand. Then he leapt to his feet and began to attack his assailant with the same club that had previously been used against him.

After a frenzied chase round the small open space in the pub’s center, the murderer at last fell to his knees, vanquished, and the crowd erupted into cheers. Murderer, victim, and doctor all took bows, then the doctor swept off his top hat and began passing it through the crowd to the accompaniment of clinking glasses.

“That’s barbaric,” murmured Gemma to Kincaid, who stood beside her at the bar. They’d been queuing for drinks when the play had begun and everyone had fallen silent to watch.

Tossing the change he’d received from the barman into the doctor’s hat as it passed by, Kincaid said, “Mummers on Boxing Day are a respected rural tradition. I thought they were quite good, actually.”

To Gemma, Boxing Day meant watching football on the telly, which she thought more civilized than pantomimed murder, football hooligans notwithstanding. Toby, who had clamped himself to her and tucked his face away as the villain struck his blows, now tugged on her trousers leg. “Mummy, is the bad man gone?”

Contrite at not realizing he’d really been frightened, she knelt beside him and tousled his hair. “Yes, lovey. It was all just pretend, like on the telly, or a film. See, they’re friends again.” She pointed to the actors, now engaged in a spirited conversation at a far table, and Toby stood on tiptoe to look.

“The play’s medieval, or older,” Kincaid explained as he and Gemma collected the round of drinks he’d bought for their table. “Perhaps even pagan—no one seems to know for certain. At least they don’t stone wrens these days.”

“Stone wrens?” Gemma looked at him askance.

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