Unholy Rites (20 page)

“Roberts didn't believe Timothy's death was an accident,” Arthur said. “Maybe he's the one who spread rumors about Marple.”

Danutia looked thoughtful. “Your mother discovered she wouldn't get any co-operation from Violet. I wonder whether she talked to Roberts.”

Arthur brightened at this new angle. “Maybe she tried to, but didn't find him, and that's why she couldn't bring any evidence or corroboration to the Parish Council.”

“We need to find him. He's had a lot of time to think about who might have been responsible for his son's death. If we're on the right track, your mother's death as well.”

“Not to mention the attempt on my life,” Arthur reminded her.

Danutia gave him an appraising look. Did she think he was redundant? It's true, he was rather a mess at the moment, sitting there in his gardening clothes with bits of privet leaves and daubs of clay all over, but he cleaned up nicely, she'd said so herself.

“That's what has me worried,” she said, to his relief. “If events are linked as we suppose, then the killer must have cut the brake line, or had it done. Marple saw us at the bakery that morning, so he would have recognized the car. We'd probably parked at the station before he walked Stephen home.”

“I took a dig at him about his experience with little boys,” Arthur said, “so he could have felt threatened.”

Danutia flipped to another document. “I've also managed to pull together bits about Marple's background. In 1973 he graduated with a three-year certificate in education from a college in Canterbury. His first teaching position was in Essex. He only stayed there for a year, and then there's a year's gap before he began teaching in the Church of England elementary—”

“Primary,” Arthur corrected.

“. . . 
primary
school in Rowsley in 1975, supplementing his income by teaching occasional art classes in Bakewell. He was on sick leave for a month after Timothy's death in 1979, and didn't return in the fall. In 1981 he entered a theological college in Yorkshire that's associated with a religious community for men. He held several temporary positions before ending up at St. Anne's.”

“Bastard. He can't handle the temptation of being around young children, so he tries to escape into the priesthood, and even so he has to move on.” Arthur leaped to his feet, and pain from his slowly mending ankle shot up his leg. Ignoring it, he searched for rocks scattered along the riverbank and began throwing them into the river. The birds that had been chittering around them fell silent.

Danutia's voice came from behind him. “That's one interpretation. There's nothing in here about the reason for his moves.”

Careful of his ankle this time, Arthur turned to face her, his arm still cocked. “Can't you drop that police objectivity for once? Doesn't any of this mean something to you?”

Danutia clasped her papers to her as though to protect them from Arthur's anger.

“Children's lives mean a great deal to me. Your life, and your mother's, do too. One thing I've learned in my job, and that I keep learning, is not to jump to conclusions. Yes, we need to keep a close eye on Marple, but he's not the only one.”

He let the rock drop. She was right, though he hated to admit it. “Who else?”

“Liz Hazelhurst, of course. One, she needed the money from your mother's bequest,” Danutia said, counting off on her fingers. “Two, we know from Stephen that your mother took one of her herbal remedies the night she died, and Liz may, for all we know, have given her more when she got to the house. We do know she removed the evidence of her medicines when she conveniently found the body. Who knows what was in them? Innocent concoctions, or something fatal to a weakened heart? Three, she knew Timothy Roberts and his mother. Four, she's well versed in pagan rituals.” She looked at him expectantly, her fingers poised. “Anything else you've discovered?”

“Not from Mum's scrapbooks,” said Arthur, returning to sit beside her. “I have a hunch about those missing pages, though. Yesterday I took the bus into Bakewell and hunted through the newspaper archives. I found articles and letters about the bereavement group disbanding because of concerns about Liz's qualifications. Several women are quoted as saying they felt pagan rituals were taking over and getting out of hand. I made copies, so you can see what you think.”

He gazed out at the river, his mind as perturbed as the rushing water. “Still, it doesn't make sense. If Liz is the killer, why didn't she cut out the material on Timothy as well, or get rid of the scrapbooks instead of returning them to me?”

“Any number of reasons,” Danutia said. “Someone might have seen the scrapbooks at her house. You would certainly notice that volumes were missing, but you might not notice a few pages. If you did become suspicious, she wanted to divert attention from herself to Marple. Everyone knew your mother opposed his appointment.”

“What about the brake line? We saw Marple the day of the accident, but I don't remember seeing Liz.”

“She lives along Mill Lane, doesn't she? She could have noticed my car parked outside Well Cottage any number of times.” Danutia stood up. “Anyway, I'm exhausted and you're missing your sandwiches. I'll call you on Sunday.”

“Aren't you coming for Blessing Day tomorrow? I've been helping with the main panel. It's quite amazing.”

“The well dressings will be up for a week, right?” Danutia said as they headed back. “I'll see them later. I've been working night and day on my presentation. I'm not in the mood for crowds.”

Disappointed, Arthur followed her across the narrow footbridge. He was proud of his petalling and wanted to show it off. As they neared the old well, he could see a knot of people gathered in front of the garage. The Reverend Marple crossed the road towards them and hurried past.

“So sorry to leave at a time like this, but I'm late for a meeting,” he muttered.

“What's happened?” Arthur called after him. Marple had reached the pub car park and gave no sign of having heard. Arthur caught up to Danutia, who stood among the loose circle of well dressers. Janet Rosson sat on a chair in their midst, crying. Beverley Bishop was bending over her with a box of tissues.

“What's going on?” he asked Justine, beside him. She gazed at Janet for a moment, as if to make sure she was being cared for, and then gestured to Arthur and Danutia to follow her into the garage.

“Janet and a few others have been helping the children with their panel in the shed behind the church hall. They finished this afternoon, and soon after you left, Janet came down to help us out. A few minutes later the vicar came in, saying he'd misplaced his key to the shed and needed to see the children's well dressing as inspiration for his Blessing Day sermon. Janet came back more upset than I've ever seen her. All she could say was that she'd forgotten to lock the shed and vandals got in.” Justine made a moue of distaste. “The vicar came with her, but he was no help, just made some excuse about an urgent appointment.”

Arthur gave Danutia a triumphant look. “Not a man you can rely on, is he? Maybe I can help.”

When they rejoined the circle, Janet was wiping her eyes. Her bony face seemed to have more color. Beverley poured tea from a large brown pot and put the cup in Janet's hand.

“Tell us what's happened,” Justine said. “Has the panel been destroyed?”

Janet shuddered. “No, something more deliberate, more horrible. Someone has put red petals around the necks of the lambs. They look like their throats have been cut.”

A startled buzz of conversation erupted. Justine spoke up, “I propose we send a few people back to the shed with Janet to assess the situation.” She put an arm around the teacher's bony shoulder. “That is, if you feel recovered enough.”

Janet Rosson wiped away the last tears. “Yes, of course I do.”

“Good,” said Justine. “We will need someone to restore the petalling. Liz?” She looked around the circle.

Beverley spoke up. “She left around four, remember? She had a client to see in Tideswell.”

Arthur could feel Danutia's gaze, making sure he noted the herbalist's absence. He refused to meet her eyes.

“Very well, I'll do it,” Justine said. Danutia agreed to give her opinion of whether this was a police matter, and Arthur volunteered to go along in case the intruder returned.

Clough motioned the remaining petallers back into the garage. “Time to get to work, if we want any sleep tonight.”

Justine set off at a brisk pace and Danutia hurried to catch up. Arthur heard her asking about Eric.

“He's at the house,” Justine said. “We invited his little brother Stephen to spend the night. Don't worry, they're safe. We left Boots there to keep the boys in, and intruders out.”

Cutting behind the church hall, they came to the shed, which was much larger than Arthur had imagined. Shed for him meant the dilapidated wood and tarpaper construction his father pottered around in on Sunday afternoons. This one was almost as big as his mother's garage and like it, had double doors secured with a padlock.

Janet Rosson pulled out a key and unlocked the padlock, then reached inside to switch on the overhead light. Ladders, garden tools, and lawn chairs had been pushed back. The well dressing panel lay on trestles in the middle of the concrete floor.

Arthur bent over the panel. Red petals glistened like drops of blood on the lambs' white necks. The lambs nestled against the children, who sat listening to Jesus. A shiver ran up Arthur's spine. Jesus, the Lamb of God. Lambs to the slaughter. Ritual sacrifice. Children. Years ago, a boy had died.

Trying to shake off his sense of foreboding, Arthur said, “This seems too deliberate to be the work of vandals. How could someone have chanced in and found red petals?”

In answer, Janet pulled off a plastic sheet covering a collection of buckets. One was half full of red carnations. “We had planned to use some red in the border, but changed our minds,” she said. “So the flowers were left over.”

“Janet, did you always keep the door locked?” Danutia asked. “Except for tonight, I mean.”

Janet looked embarrassed. “No, not always. I live in Tideswell, you see, and some of my adult helpers wanted to work late, after I'd gone home. We agreed that I'd just arrange the padlock in place and they'd lock up when they left. There's no excuse for my not locking up once we'd finished. I'd fallen into a careless habit.”

“No one's blaming you,” said Justine, already busy plucking out the offending petals and dropping them into a plastic bag.

Danutia walked around, checking windows and poking into corners. “No other signs of damage,” she said. “I seem to remember someone mentioning vandalism at Mrs. Fairweather's funeral reception. Has anything else happened while you've been working here?”

Janet shook her head. “The trouble's always come after the panels were up. A few years back, someone spray-painted graffiti on the main panel, and last year someone tried to steal the donation box.” She glanced nervously at Justine, then away again. “There were suspicions, but no one was charged. Trouble is, Mill Lane is deserted after the pub closes. Your mum tried to keep an eye on things, Arthur, but short of staying up all night, there wasn't much she could do.”

Arthur was disturbed by the thought of vandals near his mother's cottage when she'd been alone and unprotected. Now children seemed under threat. “Has anyone been hanging around?”

Janet's face became thoughtful and she took a few steps towards the open doors. “Hanging. That's it. There's a nail on the doorpost where people hang things left lying around outside, like a glove or a scarf. When the children and I came out to work on Tuesday afternoon, something was hanging there. A thin leather thong, about the size of a shoelace, but plaited.”

“You mean, just draped over the nail?” Danutia asked.

“No, it was in a loop, like a hangman's noose. I asked if anyone had lost it, and nobody had. Anyway, it seemed so trivial I'd almost forgotten about it.”

“Do you happen to have it still?” Danutia asked. “It may be more important than you think.” While Janet hunted for the thong among the scattered containers, Danutia said to Justine, “There isn't enough for the police to go on to make an official complaint, but I'll call Sergeant Oakes tonight and tell him what's happened, so he can keep a sharp eye out tomorrow. I understand he's volunteered to head up your security detail.”

“Here's the thong,” Janet said, handing Danutia a piece of leather.

Arthur crowded in for a better view. The thong was made of two pieces of leather, light and dark, plaited together. It reminded Arthur of a bolo tie he'd seen once at a costume party.

Danutia stuck it in her pocket. “I'll leave you to your work, if you don't mind. Arthur, could I borrow you for a few minutes?”

Arthur said, “If you two will be okay, I'll walk Danutia to her car and come straight back.”

“We'll bar the doors from the inside,” Justine said. “Just shout when you want in.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Danutia took his arm. “I'm so tired I could faint, but we can't stop now. That piece of leather . . .”

“Like a hangman's noose, or a garrote. For strangling.” A solitary car drove past.

“It might be coincidence, just a kid playing games,” Danutia said. “But it wasn't a kid, or even a destructive teen who altered that picture. Someone was making a threat. Someone who knew the group's work routines.”

“Marple seemed in a panic to get away when he saw us coming. He could have been trying to cover his tracks by asking Janet to go back to the shed with him.”

“You said he objected to Liz's design for the main panel because it wasn't Christian. Why would he deface the children's panel? That's as Christian as they come.”