Chapter 16

"It was one of us," said Flo. The room quietened down. Some of the dancers had gathered back in Cecil's kitchen, helping themselves to tea as was customary. They had awaited his return before discussing their findings, the Aga keeping the spring chill at bay whilst they sat chatting. Once Cecil entered, a few people started up at the same time, but Flo's announcement cut through the voices.

"Explain," said Cecil. "If you have evidence against a morris dancer then you need to be sure of it, once blame has been laid there's no going back." Flo took a deep breathe.

"I reviewed the injuries as requested," she started, her voice sounding hesitant. "They were caused by a wooden stick."

"Are you sure?" asked Cecil.

"Positive. The marks are consistent with having been bludgeoned with hard wood. The mottling suggests that the stick was not perfectly smooth, as in a baseball ball, but slightly imperfect, like the ones which you dance with." She let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "And there's more. The marks are large, they would have come from one of the larger sticks, if not the largest." There was a suggestion within Flo's words of who the culprit was, and the dancers all knew what she was saying without her needing to say the name.

"The pattern of wounds was exactly the same on each victim, and I mean exactly. It's as though they performed the same routine precisely each time. It would take a stickman of great prowess to carry that out. I can only think of one person capable."

"The Lord of the Dance was pretty damn good with a stick," said a voice from the back.

"He was," Flo agreed, "but I'm not sure that he would have been able to wield this one. Besides, he was busy." She said the last part with a slight note of jealousy but was quick to continue before anyone noticed. "This was a large stick used in a precise way three times to great effect. Only one amongst you has that ability, no offence to the rest of course."

"Well I have some news as well," said Sylvia. All eyes turned to her in anticipation. "I was looking through our files and noticed some more links. The three victims weren't random attacks. We already knew that they had previous convictions. All three resisted arrest. All three required some form of restraining. All three had made accusations of morris dancer brutality in their statements. Not only in how they had been handled but in general, suggesting that we had overstepped our boundaries and thought that we were above the law." The room hung on her every word. "What's more, they were all brought in and processed by the same person."

It was at this point that Dennis spoke. "Before we start dropping names, I think that I should throw something in here. The locations were all chosen by the killer. They were all secluded, quiet, not overlooked. The chances of all three stumbling down such places, alone at the wrong time is highly improbable. I'd say that they must have been chosen and lured there. John the Thatcher was easy enough, he just needed to be coaxed outside. Slim Tony was not so straight forward, he was going to the park so I expect he had a tipoff to meet somebody there. The alley is a logical route from his house. The pub is the one which I'm struggling with. From all accounts the place was busy. It wasn't like it was a place to lure somebody to. Either he was lured outside or the killer just saw an opportunity and took it. From what I know, only two of us were anywhere near the pub  when it happened."

"It all fits," said Cecil. "It all makes sense, and this time we haven't just let ourselves be carried away. We should have done this properly in the first place. What have we become? Slovenly? Arrogant? I'm looking in the mirror and not liking what I see." It was Cecil who now had the floor and attention was on him. "There's only one dancer strong enough, skilled enough, and with the opportunity to have carried this out. But I don't understand it. Means and opportunity yes, but motive? Why?"

"Why?" came a voice from the doorway. His bells jingled as he stepped inside. His white granddad shirt was well pressed, his breaches gathered just above the calf as the standard code required. All eyes turned as one and realisation dawned on those who had not yet figured it out.

"Brian? Why?" asked Cecil, his voice registering the hope of being wrong.

"I'll tell you why. Weakness. That's why. Not mine, yours. Ours. We've lost everything which we worked for. People aren't afraid of us anymore. People don't respect us, they laugh at us. They make jokes about us and we stand back and pretend that things are the way they used to. We're lazy, we dress haphazardly, we're tardy, undisciplined. Need I go on?" The dancers were stuck somewhere between shock, disbelief and feeling that what Brian was saying had a touch of truth about it.

"You may have felt that way about us but how does that justify murder?" said Cecil.

"Murder? Who said anything about murder?" said Brian, his voice trying to stay restrained but failing. "I killed them, yes, but it wasn't murder. It was justice. We should have dealt with those properly when we brought them in, not slapped them on the wrist and told them not to do it again. You know as well as I do that loitering is just the start. It has to be nipped in the bud before it gets out of hand. Those three were asking for it."

"Asking to be bludgeoned to death!" shouted Cecil standing up and facing Brian.

"Asking for justice," replied Brian, swinging his stick up into a defencive stance.

"Brian, don't do this. Put the stick down and we can talk it through."

"Talk? I'm done with talking. That's all we've done for years now. Now is the time for action. You can either stand with me and make a difference, or you are against me. Against justice." Brian steadied himself and scanned the room, anticipating an attack from his fellow dancers. His well trained senses were on edge.

"Brian, friend. You know that this is wrong," said Cecil, playing for time more than anything else. "You know that this can't end well for anyone."

"Don't try to play me Cecil. The dancers need a new leader, someone who can return us to what we were, what we're supposed to be. Sharpies. Morris Dancers. Not comical entertainers."

Cecil picked up his stick which was leaning against the kitchen counter. Dennis and Derek instinctively did the same. Flo, Sylvia and the rest of the ladies took out their hankies and steely eyed, wrapped them around there fingers in readiness.

"OK," said Cecil, "just not in my kitchen, I've just had the counters waxed." Brian stepped outside, followed by the dancers who formed up around him.

"We need to bring you in Brian," said Cecil. "Last chance."

"Last chance for you!" shouted Brian as he swung his stick. His attack was precise and clean. He connected with every blow. First the men fell as Brian's strength bettered them. The ladies swooped with hankies flicking but Brian was able to withstand the whipping and retaliated by sweeping their legs. One by one he floored the dancers as they tried with all they had to apprehend the rogue dancer. When it was over, Brian stood looking over them, not dissimilar to how the Lord of the Dance had done not so long ago.

"You see what I mean?" barked Brian. "Undisciplined. Weak. Crime is harsh, justice has to be equal to it or crime wins. Join me or face the consequences." With that, he turned and walked away. Cecil sat up and watched his friend disappear around the lane. He could only utter one word as he sat watching.

"Shit!"