The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer Page B

as they usually did. What they
did
look was worried!
    Zelda pointed in the direction of the village green. Pat shook his head. Zelda pointed again, jabbing her finger violently through the air this time. Pat looked at the ground, scuffed his feet, and said nothing.
    Now what the bloody-buggering hell was that all about? Hettie wondered.

Thirteen
    I t was well past six o’clock when Woodend noticed the old handloom weaver’s cottage which stood in splendid isolation on the other side of the Green to the pub. It was the fact that it looked well cared for – but not lived in – that intrigued him, but it was not until he got closer to it that the mystery of what it was – and why it was there – was solved.
    The answer came in the form of a small sign – skilfully hand-painted but still obviously amateur – which was mounted on the wall next to the door.
    â€˜The Meg Ramsden Museum,’ Woodend read aloud.
    There were no opening times listed, nothing about the cost of admission. If it was being run for a profit, then whoever was behind it was keeping very quiet about the fact.
    The door was ajar, if not exactly open. Woodend pushed it, and it swung further, to reveal a long room which must once have been a handloom-weaving gallery. That it
was
a museum was obvious from the exhibits, which were displayed in free-standing cabinets or else mounted on the walls. Woodend looked around for the inevitable box which would invite voluntary contributions, and could find none.
    â€˜They don’t want your money,’ said a voice.
    Woodend glanced in the direction it had come from. Standing at the other end of the gallery, partly hidden by one of the displays, was a tall, bald man in his fifties, dressed in a heavy wool jacket with leather elbow patches.
    â€˜What was that you said?’ the Chief Inspector asked.
    â€˜I was merely remarking they don’t want your money. They don’t really want
you
, if truth be told. The only reason they open the museum to the public at all is because, if they didn’t, it would be like admitting that they’d got something to be ashamed of. And they’d never do that.’
    Woodend took a few steps further into the room. The other man was wearing a white-and-green checked shirt and knitted brown tie beneath his jacket, and there were a number of tiny holes in the shirt which indicated that he was a pipe smoker. He was, Woodend guessed, either a schoolteacher or university lecturer with a keen interest in local history.
    â€˜Are you from the police?’ the man asked.
    â€˜That’s right,’ Woodend agreed.
    â€˜Thought you must be.’
    â€˜An’ why’s that?’
    â€˜Because you’re certainly not a local. Nor do you have the look of a casual sightseer who’s wandered in here by accident and is now wondering if it’s worth the effort staying for a while.’
    â€˜I take it you’re not a local either,’ Woodend said.
    The other man laughed. ‘Quite correct. I’m an outsider too. John Tyndale’s the name.’
    â€˜Charlie Woodend.’
    â€˜Yes, I’m an outsider, all right. I was born and raised not ten miles from here, but to the people of Hallerton, that’s about as foreign as coming from Outer Mongolia.’
    â€˜Aye, I got the impression it was a bit of a tight-knit community,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜That’s not the word for it,’ Tyndale told him. ‘If you examine the history of most villages in this area, what you’ll be tracing is a gradual decline. And then you come across Hallerton!’ He paused. ‘But I don’t want to bore you,’ he added, half-apologetically.
    â€˜I’m not bored at all,’ Woodend assured him. ‘I’d be very interested to hear what you’ve got to say.’
    Tyndale smiled with the gratitude of someone well used to seeing others flee when he embarked on his particular