Unholy Rites

The third book in the Danutia Dranchuk mystery series reunites
RCMP
constable Danutia Dranchuk with her friend, drama critic Arthur Fairweather. Danutia is observing a youth rehabilitation program in England when Arthur returns to the Peak District to attend his mother's funeral. Suspecting foul play in her death, Danutia and Arthur question the feuding villagers. They soon discover the dark and dangerous side of ancient Celtic rituals still practiced in the town.

In a region with chilling reminders of child labor during the Industrial Revolution, Danutia must navigate through a community with a complex and layered history. When a boy from the village is abducted, the race to save him leads Arthur into extreme danger. Only Danutia has a chance of rescuing both Arthur and the child from an “unholy rite.”

PRAISE FOR
Sitting Lady Sutra

“
Sitting Lady Sutra
works both as a mystery and a synthesis of our beliefs and sorrows: honest and complex storytelling.”

—Don Graves,
The
Hamilton Spectator

“[Stewart] keeps the action moving and the characters peppy.”

—
The Globe and Mail

“Stewart's literary background shines in this breakout novel . . . a complex novel with rich layers of plot and characters reflecting the Canadian multicultural stage.”

—Lou Allin, Crime Writers of Canada

“Stewart loads the novel with issues and manages to keep everything on track, while maintaining suspense in the mystery and fascination with the character development.”

—
Times Colonist

“A well-written mystery with a solid plot and sub-plots that intertwine and surprise. Stewart knows how to write a compelling novel with dialogue that is sharp and believable . . . It's always a pleasure to find a strong female protagonist who is also good at her job. Danutia Dranchuk is definitely one.”

—Mystery Maven Canada blog

To Cousin Joan and Cousin Ann

Stephen stared down at
the man's head and torso, fascinated. It wasn't a leather shirt he was seeing, it was dried, wrinkled skin. One arm lay out to the side, two bare bones reminding him of the chicken wing he'd had at dinner. He felt his own arm between wrist and elbow. One bone or two? Hard to say. He'd ask his teacher. Mrs. Rosson knew lots of stuff. He wouldn't tell her why he was asking, though.

He moved his fingertips across the bony skull where the man had been hit hard, then down the back of the neck to the thin cord used to strangle him. When his fingers reached the cuts in the throat, he held them there as though to stanch the flow of blood. He could almost feel the warm red fluid pulsing out, as his own palm had pumped out blood when Eric cut him.

“Stephen,” called a voice as if from another world.

He jerked his fingers away, slapped the scrapbook shut, and stacked it on top of the others, knocking down sprigs of lavender hanging from the low rafter in the process. No time to clean up. He fumbled frantically among the books and papers on Auntie Liz's small desk. Where was his textbook anyway his mum would kill him—

“Stephen,” the voice called again, and then his mum's tired footsteps on the stairs. He bent over a page of numbers, pencil in one hand, maths text under the other.

The door creaked open. “Stephen, didn't you hear me calling you?” His mum looked worried as always, but the soft light in her eyes let him know he wasn't really in trouble.

He put on his most apologetic look. “Sorry, Mum. Is it time to go already?”

“No, Mrs. Fairweather isn't feeling well. I said you'd walk her home.”

Mrs. Fairweather! Stephen's eyes strayed to the scrapbooks. Ethel Fairweather. That was the name neatly penned on the inside cover. What if she found out he'd been reading them? Maybe she had the second sight and knew already. First she'd give him a lecture, and then she'd tell his mum, and his mum would tell his dad, and Dad would— No, maybe Mum wouldn't tell Dad, because she knew what would happen. Still, better not to take any chances. He fixed his gaze on his mum. “But what about my homework? Mrs. Rosson will kill me if I haven't finished.”

His mum sighed. There were dark smudges under her blue eyes, and when she spoke her voice was tired. “Be a good boy, Stephen. It's only five minutes down Mill Lane. Some fresh air will do you good.”

Slowly he laid down his pencil and pushed back his chair, stiff as an old man. He was tired too, tired of being Mum's good boy. He wanted to be bad like Eric, tell his mum and dad to fuck off, leave him alone, smash things—

“Yes'm,” he said.

After what
seemed like ages, Stephen had done what he could for Mrs. Fairweather. He pulled on his boots and was out the door before she could think of anything else.

The cold and snow smacked him in the face but he didn't slow down. Then he caught a movement on the footbridge, just past the old well that Mrs. Fairweather had gone on about. The moon had risen, silvering the rushing water and the dark shape outlined against the trees. Metal glinted. Someone was beckoning him. Eric said the Grand Master wore a black cloak with a silver pendant. Eric had been to his cave, with its candles and silver cups filled with blood, but wouldn't show him.

“Nobody goes in there except the Grand Master and me,” Eric had said. “He'd kill us both if he found out I'd told you about it. Swear you won't tell.” That's when Eric had cut his palm, to bind him to his promise.

An owl hooted. That meant somebody was about to die, Mrs. Rosson said. Stephen began to shiver, then his feet took over again and propelled him onward, down the road to Auntie Liz's and safety.

The Transpeak bus slowed
to a stop in front of St. Anne's Parish Church, Mill-on-Wye, Derbyshire. As
RCMP
Constable Danutia Dranchuk stepped onto the icy pavement, she glanced at the clock on the square stone tower. She was late.

The church was dim, lit only by flickering candles and February's weak sunlight. The scent of burning candles and massed lilies was almost lost beneath the smell of damp wool. Through rows of dark-coated shoulders she could just glimpse her friend Arthur Fairweather in the front pew, his coppery head bent forward. She slipped into a back pew as the organ died away.

The man next to her passed over an Order of Service. Danutia fumbled with the pages, her fingers still numb from the biting cold. No photograph, merely the words
ETHEL MARIE FAIRWEATHER SEPTEMBER 17, 1933–FEBRUARY 3, 1997
. She'd never met Arthur's mother, though Ethel had apparently been eager to meet her. She needed Danutia's advice about a problem, she'd told Arthur.

A rustling drew her attention to the front. A petite gray-haired woman in a green cassock had stepped to the lectern. The Reverend Patricia Wellcome, according to the program. Danutia was surprised to discover a female Anglican priest in this tiny village, having imagined that it would be as conservative as the small towns she'd known on the Canadian Prairies.

“Black is for mourning, and we are here to mourn the loss of a woman who was dear to our hearts.” The priest paused to clear her throat and push her round granny glasses into place. When she began again, her voice was stronger. “We are also here to celebrate life, Ethel Fairweather's life, and the larger life of which we are all a part. And so I am wearing green, as a reminder of Ethel's love of life, and of the life force struggling to break through our sorrow and bring us joy again.”

“Amen.” The deep bass came too loudly and too quickly, this priest's black gown flapping crow-like as he hurried towards the lectern. The organ swelled. “Let us sing,” he said, motioning the congregation to stand.

Danutia rose, glad for the chance to move. The damp cold had seeped upwards through the stone flooring and turned her legs to ice.

Only Arthur remained seated, his head bowed, shoulders hunched. No stiff upper lip there, Danutia thought with a rush of tenderness. There's hope for men yet.

He was alone in the front pew except for a woman who stood but didn't join in the singing. She was tall like Arthur, with dark silver-streaked hair in a braid down her back. An aunt? Danutia wondered. Surely he had at least one relative among this crowd.

When the hymn ended, the woman swept up the steps to the lectern, a sheaf of papers in one hand. Danutia consulted her program. This must be Elizabeth Hazelhurst, who was to give the eulogy. No mention of a family relationship. But then there wouldn't be. She would be known to everyone else here. Putting her papers aside, the woman arranged her shawl, burgundy and gray like her long dress, and began to speak in a clear, strong voice.

“A little over a week ago, Ethel Fairweather was in my home, celebrating Candlemas among her friends. By the next morning she was lost to us. Her death was both untimely and unexpected . . .”

As the words sank home, Danutia felt a sharp pang of guilt. Perhaps she shouldn't have dismissed Mrs. Fairweather's concerns so lightly. She could have come straight to Derbyshire instead of sightseeing in London. Now she would never know why Mrs. Fairweather wanted her help. Unless she'd told her friend. Danutia brought her attention back to the woman at the lectern.

“As most of you know, Ethel and I grew up in Mill-on-Wye. Her family lived on a farm above the station, up Wormhill way, and every morning she would ride in with her dad when he brought his big canisters of milk to the train. I'd meet her at the station—my dad worked in the lime works—and we'd stand there shivering with excitement as the train roared in.”

Listening to the story of what seemed a very ordinary life, Danutia wondered again why Mrs. Fairweather had wanted her advice. Perhaps, like all mothers, she simply wanted to check out someone she considered a potential daughter-in-law. She needn't have worried. Arthur had helped Danutia solve her first homicide case and they'd become casual friends, that was all.

“Then Ethel met and married a handsome railway conductor,” Elizabeth Hazelhurst said, “and my life took a different path.” She pulled the shawl more closely around her and stood silent, looking down at the lectern. Danutia wondered what her story was: more troubled than that of her friend, she surmised.

The woman was gazing at Arthur now. “Your mother was a great comfort to me when she chose to live here after your father's death,” she said, choking on the words, “and I hope I was a comfort to her.”

Regaining her composure, the woman took up her story. “When Ethel returned to Mill-on-Wye, she immersed herself in village life. Most particularly, she helped to keep the primary school going by reviving the ancient tradition of well dressing. For that, we owe her a deep debt. This is the Ethel we knew and loved. The Ethel that today we lay to rest. Well done, my friend.”

What in the world is well dressing, Danutia wondered as she followed the other mourners into the churchyard for a blessedly short burial service. Though it felt warmer outside, the grass was still tipped with frost. She hung back as the casket was lowered, the final words murmured, the symbolic handfuls of earth dropped into the cold dark hole. At a signal from the green-robed priest, Hazelhurst sang out, “May there always be sunshine . . .” As the women on each side touched her hands, Danutia felt her own tears well up. A few months ago she'd sung this same song in honor of women who'd died at the hands of men, and in celebration of the river of life that flows ever onward.