Unholy Rites (11 page)

Clough didn't look too happy with the request, but he didn't object. “It will take me a while to go through the books,” he said. “I'll fax it to you.”

When they were in the car, Kevin said, “The dark of the moon is next week. We've sent a notice to local farmers to be on the lookout for another sheep mutilation. Guess we'd better add a warning about burglaries. I'll be doing some night patrols. Want to come along?”

“Anything to keep me out of mischief,” Danutia joked. Anything would be better than the long cold nights in her room. That's the way it often starts for kids like Eric, she reflected, with boredom and the need for human contact.

The phone rang and
rang again. Still half asleep, Arthur picked up, hoping to hear Danutia's voice. He'd talked to her only once since they'd ended up in bed together two weeks ago. She'd turned down his invitation to go to Spain with him over the Easter break, saying she had too much work to do. So he'd stayed an extra week, returning late last night. Maybe she'd missed him. He said hello.

A clipped English voice responded. “Hello, Arthur, Justine Clough here. Just wanted to remind you about today's well dressing meeting. Church hall, four o'clock.”

“That's very kind of you, but—”

“That's settled then,” she said. “It wouldn't seem right to use your garage without you knowing what we're up to. See you at four.”

He hung up and put the kettle on. The kitchen clock said 1:00
PM
, too late to go back to bed. So what if Danutia didn't call. He'd had a great time in Spain without her, drinking beer on the beach, chatting up prowling secretaries from London. If she regretted their night together, that was her problem. He'd been pissed off when she backed away from her promise to discuss his mother's death, but on his flight to Spain he'd resolved to forget his niggling doubts. He didn't need a policewoman around as a reminder

Arthur slipped into shorts and a T-shirt and carried his tea into the garden. Dandelions had sprouted while he'd been away. After staring balefully at them for a few minutes, he fetched gardening tools from the scullery and set to work. Warm sun and a soft breeze brought out the rich smells of grass and dirt and tiny blue flowers he couldn't identify. He dug up a dandelion, and a worm wriggled away. As he worked, he felt his muscles relax, his mind stop its busy chatter.

A large lorry rumbled by on the main road. Arthur looked up from his weeding, startled. The clock on St. Anne's said 3:15. Going to the well dressing meeting seemed a colossal waste of time, but he'd promised, back when he was feeling suspicious of the people in his mother's community. With a sigh, he put his tools away and went to change.

As Arthur approached the church hall, memories of the funeral came rushing back—the cold church with its overpowering scent of lilies, the frost-rimmed pile of dirt beside his mother's grave, the well-meaning strangers who'd shaken his hand and uttered condolences. He paused for a few puffs on his pipe to settle his nerves. When he stepped inside, he could hear the Reverend Marple's raised voice coming from the large room at the end. By the sound of it, the meeting had already started. He braced himself and pushed open the door.

Marple stood at the end of a long table, a red-faced pillar of anger. “It's unacceptable—” Seeing Arthur, he stopped mid-sentence, then subsided into his chair, obviously struggling to regain his composure. Beverley Bishop cast little sidelong glances towards the vicar, as if he were a difficult customer in her shop.

Wondering what he had got himself into, Arthur approached the group. Justine Clough, sitting opposite Marple, took charge. “Welcome, Arthur,” she said, looking around the table. “You know Liz, Bev, and James, of course. Have you met Janet? Or Alice and her son Stephen? Perhaps they should introduce themselves.”

Janet Rosson, who had a bony face and a large Christian cross displayed on her plain white blouse, said in a soft voice that she was the primary school teacher and in charge of the children's well dressing.

The woman next to her, a fortyish blonde with a thin face and a brittle, worried look, said, “I'm Alice Ellison. I'm in charge of organizing the program this year because Justine couldn't get anybody else to do it.” Amidst the general laughter and Justine's denials, Arthur sensed a current of tension. When the laughter died away, she went on, “This is my son Stephen.” The boy, about ten and blond like his mother, didn't look up from his doodling.

The door opened again and Hugh Clough strode into the room, bringing a smell of freshly cut wood and varnish. “Just set your Eric to work on a cabinet,” he said, addressing himself to Alice. “He does fine when he settles down to it.” Arthur remembered the gossip at the Reward that the Cloughs had taken on a young delinquent, and were finding him quite a handful. Now that he thought of it, wasn't the delinquent's name Ellison?

Arthur realized Justine was talking to him. “We haven't actually begun yet, Arthur. We've just learned that some items on the agenda are, shall we say, controversial.” Beverley's intake of breath was audible, but the vicar remained silent. “Anyway, just to fill you in, this is the meeting where we approve the designs for the two wells and the schedule for Blessing Saturday. Once the designs are approved, we can order materials.” She looked down at her note pad, covertly checking out Marple over the top of her glasses. “Let's start with the children's well.”

Janet Rosson stood up, took a rolled paper from the shopping bag beside her, and spread it out. The group clustered around, with sounds of warm appreciation. Arthur could see why. If the scene was Christian and conventional—Jesus in his robes addressing a group of children gathered at his feet—the details weren't. Jesus sat in a Peak District field, with a dry stone wall in the middle distance and a shepherd and sheep visible beyond it. The children were highly individualized English boys and girls in their Sunday best, probably modeled on the teacher's pupils. Lambs nuzzled their arms or lay nestled at their feet. It was a warm and well-drawn design, though a little sentimental for Arthur's taste.

“It sounds like we're approving this design. Is that right?” There were nods all around as the group took their places. “Thank you, Janet, for your work and skills.” Justine paused, fiddling with her pencil. “Before we review the design for the main well, let's settle some of the practical arrangements. First, Arthur, we need to confirm that the Well Cottage garage will be available for the petalling.”

Arthur felt himself drawn in by the warm feelings Janet's design had elicited. “Yes of course,” he said, “the garage is yours whenever you need it. It's locked at the moment, so I'll have to find the key and pass it on. Feel free to use the kitchen and bathroom as well, whether I'm in or not. I never lock the house. If there's any way I can help, I'd be happy to.”

“We could do with an extra pair of hands digging the clay. It's mucky work, though.” Clough eyed Arthur as though he was an awkwardly shaped piece of wood. “I don't know as I'd have any old clothes as would fit you. How about you, Reverend?”

Arthur laughed uncomfortably. “Not to worry about old clothes. I kept some here to help Mum with the house and garden.”

Clough nodded. “Fine then. Anyone have a calendar?” Justine passed him a pocket-sized organizer. “Today's April 6. We'll put the panels to soak and dig the clay about the twenty-third. I'll let you know. We'll also need a few more strong hands to help erect the panels early on Blessing Saturday, May 3. They're heavy buggers.”

“Count me in,” said Arthur.

Justine took off her glasses and waved them towards Alice. “Your turn. Tell us about the schedule for Blessing Day.”

“I have the draft program here somewhere,” Alice said nervously, rummaging in her bag. The other women were casually dressed. Alice, in her flowered dress with its gold-colored belt and matching earrings, looked like she'd just come from church. Maybe to boost her self-confidence, Arthur thought, as she found the brochures and passed them round. “The only problem is the torchlight procession. I have to work, so someone else will need to supervise that.”

“This maypole dancing.” The Reverend Marple held the brochure up by a corner. “I take it maypole dancing is a tradition here.”

Beverley Bishop looked around with a broad smile. “Yes, it's so pretty. The children in their costumes, with the big boys and girls helping the little ones weave the ribbons in and out.”

Marple's large lips puckered, as though he'd sucked a lemon. “Maypole dancing is a pagan ritual that has no place in a Christian community. Those children are being brainwashed.”

Clough muttered, “Come off it,” but Marple paid no notice. He leaned towards Stephen. “I can't believe a big boy like you enjoys maypole dancing. Wouldn't you rather be out playing rugby?”

Alice Ellison's face went red, though her voice was quiet. “Reverend Marple, leave my child alone. You have no right . . .”

“No, Mum, let me speak for myself.” Stephen kept his eyes on the sheet of paper in front of him, but his voice was strong and clear. “My dad makes fun of maypole dancing, and some of my friends do too, but I like it. I like showing little kids how to weave the ribbons.”

Marple shook his head, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Don't you people understand the pagan meaning of the maypole? It's celebrating fertility. It's celebrating”—the reverend seemed to be having trouble getting his words out—“the male organ.”

Liz Hazelhurst spoke up. “Tell me, Reverend Marple, what exactly is wrong with celebrating fertility? Should we not celebrate the fact that plants come up in the spring, bringing beauty as well as food? That animals, including human animals, have babies and try to bring them up with love and understanding? Do you wish to separate children from nature, destroy their instinctive connection to the earth?”

“Fertility sanctified by Christian ceremony, that's the point.” Marple's voice was rising, his face reddening again. “Instincts make us nothing but animals, coupling and killing. Our instincts make us the victims of our passions.”

If anyone is a victim of his passion, it's James Marple, Arthur thought. He was not a wishy-washy vicar full of soft words and good deeds, as Marple had tried to portray himself. This was a man whose feelings seemed barely under control. Now that Arthur was experiencing the conflict in the room, the suspicions he'd dismissed while he'd been away returned to him with full force. He wondered again about his mum's opposition to Marple's appointment. What were the rumors she'd heard, and was there any truth to them? There'd been something smarmy about the way he'd spoken to Stephen—was that it? He seemed a dangerous man, maybe in more ways than one, and Arthur's senses were on the alert.

Justine Clough's irritation with the Reverend Marple was clear in her face. “You are new to the parish, Reverend, and to our traditions. We've been planning this year's well dressing program for a long time. If you have objections, perhaps you can take them up with next year's committee. Which brings me to another issue. Before the meeting, you were objecting to the main well panel not having a religious subject,” she said, her voice steely. “What I don't understand is how you knew about that panel. We haven't seen the design yet.”

Marple cast an embarrassed sidelong glance towards Janet Rosson. “A . . . friend had seen an early draft. She gave me an idea of what was in it.”

“I see.” Justine, back in control of the meeting, spoke decisively. “Let's look at the design, then. And let's keep disagreements rational and respectful, please.”

As Arthur was wondering who had created the contentious design, Liz Hazelhurst began laying out sheets of graph paper. In her design, thick dark lines gave the effect of a stained glass window, emphasized by the Gothic letters of the title: “River Wye: The Blessing of Water.” The design itself, however, owed nothing to Christian iconography. The main panel showed the stretch of river running through the village, with the stone bridge in the foreground; anglers working the waters above it; then a thread of blue disappearing into the trees below Chee Tor. The two side panels illustrated forms and uses of water: rain falling onto green fields; sheep drinking from a trough; water spilling through a mill wheel; more water pouring from a crevice in a cliff, a crevice decorated with ribbons.

Beverley said, “This is beautiful, Liz. It's just what you see, standing on the bridge.”

“‘The Blessing of Water,'” Marple said dismissively. “How can you speak of blessing? There is nothing Christian in this scene.”

“Well dressing didn't begin as a Christian ritual, as you know,” Liz put in. “It began when the ancient Celts hung strips of cloth where water issued from the earth, to mark the places and express their gratitude for the blessing of water. I'm trying to show that ancient respect for nature coming into modern times.”

Marple turned on Liz. “The ancient Celts painted their skin blue, lived in huts made of branches, and spent their time fighting other tribes. Is that what you're suggesting we should do? I cannot approve of a design which carries that message.”

Marple and Liz stood staring at each other, like warriors challenging the other to combat, Arthur thought. He remembered Brad's comments on the dangers of fundamentalism. Strongly held beliefs of every sort create enemies and conflict, and often lead to deep harm.

“Sit down, everyone,” Justine said. “We seem to be at an impasse. Any suggestions?”

Best of luck, Arthur thought as he took his seat. A quiet voice came from beside him. “James, I think you're forgetting something.”

Marple swiveled his head towards Janet Rosson, his expression puzzled. “What's that, Janet?”