Unholy Rites (12 page)

“The meaning of a design depends on its context. Ms. Hazelhurst sees her design in a context you don't like. She has a right to her views, but you and I think she's missing a higher truth.”

Janet Rosson's voice conveyed a quiet happiness that intrigued Arthur. She seemed a rarity, a person of strong beliefs who didn't feel the need to impose them on others.

“That's what I've been saying, Janet.” Marple still sounded puzzled. “She's missing a higher truth.”

“The children's well dressing speaks to that truth. You can give a sermon there about the little ones who are our future. Perhaps the Reverend Wellcome would speak at the main well. Some of those present who are not Christian but open to the beauties of nature may be persuaded by her words.”

Janet Rossen's proposals clearly set the reverend thinking. After a long pause, he looked challengingly at Liz. “When I speak at the children's well, I will not tailor what I say to others' views. I will say only what I truly think.”

“No one is asking you to do otherwise,” Liz replied. “There are many roads to the truth.”

Marple frowned and looked towards Janet Rosson, who nodded to him serenely. “Very well, then, I withdraw my objection,” he said.

The sense of relief in the room was palpable. “So we're agreed,” Justine said. “I declare this meeting adjourned. Janet and Liz, you can draw up lists of the materials you'll need. Right now, I'm sure we can all use a cup of tea and some of Bev's delicious pastries.”

As everyone rose, Arthur found he couldn't shake the image of the Reverend Marple and Liz Hazelhurst confronting each other like two warriors squaring off for a fight. Before his trip to Spain he had focused on Liz Hazelhurst and her potions as a possible cause of his mother's death, accidental or otherwise. Now he was aware of another possibility. Marple would clearly fight anyone who got in his way. His mother could have become a target because of her strong opposition to his appointment. Suddenly the beach in Spain, and the avoidances which had led Arthur there, seemed far away.

Stephen shifted from foot
to foot, fingering the note in his pocket. He had to deliver it soon, before dark. If only his mum hadn't dragged him to this meeting. It was all Eric's fault. Eric had been in a temper at Sunday dinner and their dad had stormed out, saying he was going to Manchester and didn't know when he'd be back. Mr. Clough had come for Eric, and Mum wouldn't hear of Stephen staying home by himself. Now he was nervous, feeling the note there in his pocket. Would his mum never stop talking?

He sidled up to his mum, who was talking with Mrs. Clough, and tapped her on the arm. “Mum, may I go ahead? I have homework to do.”

She glanced down at him, her gold earrings dangling. “Don't interrupt, Stephen. I'll be finished here in a minute.”

Then Mrs. Clough said, “I think there are a few lemon tarts left. Why don't you have a look?”

Bloody tart yourself, he felt like saying, but of course he didn't. They were talking about Eric and didn't want him to listen. When Dad left, Mum had phoned Mr. Clough. She didn't know what to do with Eric, who was yelling and throwing things. Stephen had raced upstairs and hidden Happy's cage before Eric found him. When he was in a temper, there was no telling what he'd do. Mr. Clough had come and taken Eric away. He said Boots would keep Eric in line till the meeting was over.

He wandered over to the refreshment table and poured himself another glass of orange juice. He was silently saying “eenie-meenie-minie-mo” over the remaining pastries when a voice beside him said, “If I were you, I'd choose the scone.”

Stephen froze. It was the man whose mum died the night he walked her home.

He'd been so scared by the time he reached Auntie Liz's that he'd forgotten to tell them to call the doctor, and then she'd died and he couldn't tell anyone. He reached for the scone. It was dry in his mouth.

He began to edge away but then Father Marple hemmed him in on the other side.

“So, Stephen, have you decided yet?” he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. He spoke over Stephen's head to that man, Fairweather. “I've asked Stephen about training as a server. Only way to keep young people in the church, give them a role. Isn't that right, young man?” He beamed down at Stephen.

Stephen caught the phoniness and backed away. All through the meeting the vicar had kept blowing up. Now he was prowling around the room, making nice, just like Dad. At least he wasn't likely to hit anyone, not in front of all these people. No way Stephen would be
his
server. He did enough fetching and carrying for his dad.

Darkness was creeping in through the windows. He looked around for his mum. Now she was talking to Mrs. Rosson. He moved closer. They were talking about him, this time. Mrs. Rosson praised his artwork, but said he needed to pay more attention to maths. Maths was boring, he couldn't keep his mind on it. Though the book she'd given him last week on code-breakers in the Second World War was super, because it described all the different codes the Germans used. So far he'd only read as far as substitution codes. That's what he'd been trying on Eric's note during the meeting.

He might as well have another go. He sat down, picked up a pen someone had left lying on the table, and drew the slip of paper from his pocket. It began “DPPMJUDPQQFST.” On another sheet he'd written out the alphabet and then shifted each letter one space to the right. Gobbledygook.

Now he tried shifting one space to the left, and the letters began to fall into familiar patterns. COOL IT CO.

He was just putting in the two P's when his mum tugged at his sleeve. “Time to go, Stephen.”

He slid his hand over the papers. “But Mum, I need to finish this.”

“Five minutes ago you couldn't wait to leave. Come on, now, it's getting late.”

Stephen sat in an agony of indecision. He was dying to know what the note said, but if he waited any longer, he'd have no chance of delivering it, and then Eric would beat up on him, or worse. Over the last few weeks Eric had told him bits about the blood rituals the Grand Master performed, like gouging out a sheep's eye. Maybe he would come after Stephen with his knife.

Stephen shoved the papers in his pocket. “Coming, Mum. I'll run home, okay?” As he scooted towards the door, he heard Mr. Clough say, “Alice, can we discuss the torchlight procession?” Good. That should keep her busy for a bit. He could leave the note and she'd never know.

Late Saturday morning Danutia
squeezed her rental car into a narrow space on Mill Lane, across from Well Cottage. Beyond the platform of the old well, the River Wye rushed past, swollen by last week's rains. In no hurry to get out, she sat watching the river, half-listening to Sheryl Crow's “Sweet Child o' Mine” and wondering whether she should have agreed to this morning's outing. Arthur could be witty and entertaining, but his procrastination and sloppiness—his failure to manage life efficiently—irritated and frustrated her. Yet when they'd read the scene from
The Taming of the Shrew
, he'd been transformed into someone forceful and self-confident. Was that a part of himself Arthur generally kept hidden, or was it merely an illusion?

Arthur was full of contradictions and she didn't know what to make of them. Take this invitation for a walk and a pub lunch. Arthur had talked airily about the great hikes available around Mill-on-Wye, when she knew he disliked exercise. He'd mentioned making new discoveries about his mother's death, yet she knew he'd gone to Spain to avoid thinking about the subject. What she found hardest to accept was his assertion that they could forget about the night they'd spent together, he just wanted to be friends.

Maybe he could forget, but she couldn't. So why was she here?

It had been three years since she'd ended her relationship with a Winnipeg doctor full of sexual hang-ups and old enough to be her father. She'd been working with a therapist to understand her own hang-ups about men. Was she ready to try again? She wasn't sure. With Arthur? She was even less sure but it was no good keeping him dangling. Today she'd decide, one way or the other.

Stopping the tape, she locked the car and crossed the road to Ethel's tiny garden, now a riot of tulips. She knocked on the wooden door. No sound from within. She knocked again. There's my answer, she thought, her spirits sinking. He's still sleeping. Then she heard a heavy tread.

“Why don't you wait in the garden?” Arthur said cheerfully, as he opened the door, releasing an aroma of stale tobacco that made her stomach heave. “You're looking a bit pale and the sun will do you good.” He waggled a brand-new backpack. “I just have to put a couple of things in here and I'll be ready.” When he returned, he was wearing a brown cord jacket with leather patches on the sleeves and carrying the bulging backpack.

Danutia eyed the backpack skeptically. Arthur looked fitter with his suntan and new hiking gear, but he could still lose more than a few pounds without blowing away. “Are you sure you want to carry a backpack that heavy?” she asked.

“Mum's missing scrapbooks,” he said, patting the blue nylon. “Some clues to her death are in here. I'll show you over lunch.”

Danutia shrugged and spread out her map. “There's an easy loop down the river past Monsal Mill and Cressbrook Mill, then up to Monsal Head for lunch at the pub there. Kevin says the view is spectacular. Then back by Tansley Dale and Tideswell Dale.”

“Are you mad?” he said. “That's miles and miles.”

“No more than six or seven altogether,” Danutia said, testing him. “And lunch in the middle.”

“I had in mind a quick trot round the village and then lunch at the Reward. But I'll give it a try. Only I told Hugh Clough I'd bring him a key to the garage this morning, so the well dressers can come and go as they like. Can you run me up to his farm first?”

Finally they agreed to deliver the key to Clough, park at the railway station, and set off on the Monsal Trail from there. As they crossed to Danutia's car, a passing motorist in a black Mercedes waved. Arthur stowed his backpack in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat. “These things are nothing but a nuisance,” he said, struggling with his seatbelt. “Now if you had a real car, like that Mercedes, say, something with a little room, there wouldn't be this problem.”

Danutia resisted saying the obvious. “The man who waved—I couldn't see him clearly, but he seemed familiar. Was he at your mom's funeral?”

“That was Geoff Nuttall, you know, the doctor who got up your nose at the reception. I've been following up what he said about Liz's finances. That's the first thing I want to talk about.”

“Ah yes, Dr. Geoff, of the villainous mustache and smarmy smile,” said Danutia. “Let's wait till lunch to talk about your mother's death. I need to concentrate on driving. I'm still not used to being on the wrong side of the road.” She put the car into gear, crossed the main road, and turned up the hill towards the station.

Suddenly Arthur cried, “Stop!”

Danutia slammed on the brakes. “What is it?”

“Tea shop,” said Arthur. “I haven't had any breakfast. I can't walk for miles on an empty stomach.”

Danutia glared at him. “You almost caused an accident for that? I have some trail mix and water in my backpack.”

Arthur shook his head. “This army marches on tea and Bev's scones.”

Annoyed, Danutia pulled over beside the gaily painted shack that clung to the side of the hill. At this rate, the day would evaporate before they got on the trail. At least no one had rear-ended them. The tea shop door opened and a stout couple emerged, and with them the scent of cinnamon, apples, and burnt almonds. Danutia's stomach lurched.

“I'll wait outside,” she said.

Soon Arthur reappeared, carrying a brown paper bag and a Thermos. “Just don't forget to bring it back, luv,” the tea shop owner called from the doorway.

Twenty feet ahead, a large man stood at the entrance to the abandoned station, his arm around a young boy's shoulders. As though he sensed Danutia's gaze, the man let his arm drop. The boy dashed across the road, the man following more slowly. Now she could see his clerical collar.

“Isn't that the priest who was at your mother's funeral?”

Arthur looked up from his half-eaten scone. “So it is,” he said, keeping his voice low. “He's the other person I wanted to talk to you about. The boy is Stephen Ellison. They're looking awfully chummy, aren't they? Quite a change from the well dressing meeting last Sunday. You should have heard Marple. He objected to having maypole dancing as part of the blessing ceremony. Said maypole dancing is a celebration of ‘
the male organ
.'” On the last three words, his voice sank to an angry whisper. Then he continued in his normal tones. “Stephen, who's the lead dancer among the boys, stood up to him quite smartly. Now they seem thick as thieves.”

“Stephen Ellison, you say? Does he have a brother named Eric?”

Arthur's voice dropped again as the two approached. “Ah yes, Eric the troublemaker. Like chalk and cheese, as they say in these parts.”

They fell silent as Marple stopped and stuck out his hand, which was soft and fleshy like his face.

“Ah, Fairweather, lovely morning isn't it? ‘God's in his heaven, all's right with the world.' Browning, you know,” the cleric said, nodding to Danutia.

“Mr. Marple is going to buy me a sticky bun,” Stephen said, his eyes glowing.

“Does your mother know?” Danutia asked, searching the boy's eager face.

“Mum's sleeping, and I'm hungry,” the boy said, tugging at the vicar's sleeve. He had his mother's blue eyes and blond hair, though the hair was uncombed and traces of jam clung to his cheeks. So far he had escaped both Alice's worry lines and Eric's closed sullenness. Would that still be true in a few years?