Unholy Rites (13 page)

“I just happened by,” Marple said hurriedly. “I saw Stephen out playing, and thought I'd make it up to him for objecting to the maypole dancing.” He leaned over the boy, pursing his large, fleshy lips. “I said sorry, didn't I, Stephen?”

“Yessir, and then you said we'd have a sticky bun.”

“Please excuse us,” Marple said, shaking hands again. “Little boys know what they want, and they don't like to wait.”

“You seem to know a lot about little boys,” Arthur said. “Maybe it comes from your educational experience.”

Marple's face turned red and he sputtered, at a loss for words. Then he muttered, “Come along, Stephen. Mustn't miss the sticky buns.”

Danutia waited until the tea shop door closed behind them. “What was that all about?”

“My mother strongly opposed Marple being appointed as vicar at St Anne's, according to the Rev Pat, though she didn't know what Mum's objections were. After his blow-up at the well dressing meeting, I decided to try to find out. In Mum's most recent scrapbook I found a Parish Council notice about the Rev Pat's retirement and the applicants for her job. Next to it Mum had pasted a clipping about Marple's abrupt resignation from a boys' school down south twenty years ago. She'd scribbled on it something about him being a dangerous man. I thought she might be referring to Marple's temper, but seeing him with Stephen—” Arthur broke off.

An Audi had pulled in, almost scraping her bumper. “I'd better move the car,” she said. When Arthur had settled into the passenger seat, she asked, “Are you buckled up?”

He stuck the Thermos between his legs. “To go half a mile? It's not worth the effort.”

Danutia hated driving a passenger without a seatbelt, but she couldn't forcibly buckle him in as though he were a recalcitrant child. “It's your life,” she said, heading up the road towards Clough's farm. Her thoughts turned back to Marple.

“There's been so much publicity about clergymen abusing children, you'd think Marple would have more sense than to lay a hand on the boy. Of course if you're a pedophile, you can't control your impulses. Or so they say.”

“‘Instincts make us destroy the innocence of children. Instincts make us the victims of our passions.'”

Danutia glanced quizzically at her passenger.

Arthur shrugged. “That's what Marple said at the meeting. I remember thinking he was the one who seemed to be a victim of his passions. At the time, I thought religion was his passion. Then I found that clipping. Maybe his passion is little boys. You could check him out, or get your friend Kevin to do it.”

Danutia frowned as the road narrowed, with dry stone walls on both sides. “Idle speculation isn't enough to justify a criminal record check. Even if I found out something, I couldn't share the information with you without compromising any future investigation. Now, no more serious talk while I'm driving.”

“Here's a story for you, then,” Arthur said. “There's a little village a couple of miles ahead, no more than a collection of farmhouses and a church, really. It's called Wormhill, a name that appears in the Domesday Book in 1086. See that hill over there? That's the hill the village is named after. Those indentations look like they were made by a dragon coiling itself around the hill. ‘Worm' is an ancient name for dragon.”

“A very peaceful place for a dragon,” Danutia said, liking the way Arthur brought the area to life for her. In the distance she caught sight of two figures beside the stone wall, one tall, the other much shorter. “There's Clough,” she said. “And that must be Eric with him.”

Danutia parked near the spot and they joined Hugh Clough, who was watching as Eric tried to fit a stone into a gap. The boy dropped it onto the pile beside him and tried another. Then he wedged a small stone underneath and stepped back for Clough to inspect his work.

Eric had filled out in the weeks since she'd seen him last, Danutia noticed. His arms were well muscled, his chest broader, his jeans too short and bulging at the seams. When she called out a greeting he turned away and stood staring down, his mouth clamped shut.

Clough must have told him that she and Kevin had been asking questions about the recent break-ins. Maybe Eric was in touch with his friends, in defiance of the Community Service Order. Kevin had talked to three of his mates; they had denied having any contact since Eric's release. Eric had stopped hanging around with them at night soon after the New Year, they claimed, saying his dad would beat him if his mother complained again about him slipping out. They thought he was lying, because once or twice they'd seen him down by the river with an old man. When they did hang out, Eric talked about Satan and pentagrams and such. “It's like we're not good enough for him any more,” one kid had said, and another retorted, “Or bad enough.”

Remembering this conversation, Danutia toyed with the idea of asking Eric about cults, but this was neither the time nor the place.

Clough tested the newly laid stone. “Well done,” he said, then turned to his visitors. “We're repairing some winter damage and getting in a little practice for Tuesday, when we'll be helping a Wildlife Trust team mend the wall above the quarry. Young Eric here is catching on fast.” He gestured towards the pile of stones. “Did you come to give us a hand?”

“Not me,” Arthur said, brandishing the key. “I came across the key to the garage and wanted to give it to you before it went missing again. We're planning to park at the station and walk the Monsal Trail, so this seemed a good time to drop it off.”

They said their goodbyes, Eric ignoring them, Clough smiling knowingly. It's not what you think, Danutia wanted to say; we're just friends.

By the time they parked at the station, the day had warmed up. As Danutia retrieved her daypack, she noticed Arthur putting his cord jacket on the back seat.

“I'd better lock your jacket in the trunk,” she said.

“Don't bother,” said Arthur. “Someone would have to be pretty desperate to steal that.”

“What about your backpack? Are you going to bring it?”

Arthur hefted the blue nylon bag. “You're right. I can't possibly carry all this weight. I'll just take one scrapbook.” Danutia put the other two in the trunk and locked the car.

After Arthur stopped in the washroom and bought an ice cream from the van, they set off eastward along the viaduct that had carried the railway line high above the river and the road below. Irritated by the many delays, Danutia strode ahead. It was almost noon, and she liked to start early, while the morning was still fresh. After fifteen minutes, there was a shout from behind her. She stopped.

“How far did you say it is?” Arthur asked, already panting as he caught up.

“A mile or so to Monsal Mill, and another two or three beyond that to Monsal Head.”

Arthur leaned on the stick he'd picked up somewhere. “We'll never make it for lunch before the pub closes. Unless we turn around now and pick up the car.”

Danutia contemplated his glum, sweaty face. How could she think about being in a relationship with someone who didn't share her love of the outdoors? Reluctant to give up the outing altogether, she said, “Let's at least go as far as Monsal Mill. I have this morbid desire to see where those children died.”

Arthur sighed. “I guess I can make it that far.”

Danutia picked up the pace before he could change his mind. Beyond the viaduct the trail ran flat along the side of a wooded hill, the Wye winding placidly below. Trees still awaiting their green gowns gave way to an open meadow bright with cowslips and dandelions. They passed through a railway cutting overgrown with brambles and wild strawberry and there, on the left, was a sign for Monsal Mill.

She turned and followed wooden steps downwards through damp woodland where the stiff green leaves of bluebells pushed up through fallen leaves and the scent of wild onion filled the air. An old wooden footbridge led across the swollen Wye, which threatened to burst its banks. When she reached the other side, stone cliffs rose up beyond the paved lane, and the voices of climbers drifted down like confetti.

There she waited for Arthur to catch up, eating trail mix and staring down the lane towards Monsal Mill. Beyond stone gates lay desolate stone buildings. The largest, which she presumed to be the mill itself, was a massive two-storey gray structure running parallel to the river. Each floor had twelve full-length windows, some with the glass broken, some boarded up. An ornate black clock like the one on St. Anne's tower faced her, its hands stopped at forty minutes past eight. How little the exact time would have mattered to the apprentices, she thought, working from long before daylight to long after dark. A miserable life, and for many, a miserable death. Suddenly she felt tired and her back hurt. She must be coming down with something.

Arthur panted up beside her. She didn't look around, simply handed him her water bottle. He took a long swallow, then slipped an arm around her waist and said, so softly she barely heard him, “‘A luminary clock against the sky/Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.'” Though she didn't fully understand them, the melancholy lines sent a shiver up her spine. For an instant, she felt a deep kinship with Arthur. He too must be moved by the thought of the child laborers' hunger and pain and loneliness.

“My favorite American poet, Robert Frost,” Arthur added in his normal tone, breaking the spell. “A bleak little poem. I'll find you a copy.”

She moved out of the circle of his arm. “Time to head back?”

“Give me a few minutes,” said Arthur, moving away. He took a pipe with a long curved stem out of his jacket pocket and began filling it with tobacco.

If she needed proof of their incompatibility, this was surely it. She could hear the accusing note in her voice as she asked, “What's with the smoking?”

“I started when I was eleven,” Arthur replied, as though she'd simply asked for information. “I'd sneak into Dad's shed and puff away on the pipe he kept there. Mum wouldn't allow smoking in the house. Neither would my wife, Thea, so I finally gave it up. The first night I was back, I was looking for a corkscrew when I found a whole drawerful of pipes. My mum must have kept them when Dad died. This one's a churchwarden,” he said, holding it out for her inspection. “It was my dad's favorite, and reminds me of him.”

Danutia gazed at the long, slim pipe, caught between sympathy for this man who'd lost both father and mother and her own need not to give in, not to give herself up so that a man would like her.

Arthur tamped down the tobacco, held a lighter to the bowl, and drew in noisily. When the tobacco was burning, he took the pipe from his mouth and cradled it next to his chest, just about where his heart would be. His hazel eyes held hers as he said, “I figure she must have decided she'd rather have him with all his faults than not have him at all.”

Danutia felt her face flush. Arthur had understood her question for what it was, a ploy to put him in the wrong. She'd wanted more openness from him, but now she found herself withdrawing behind her own defenses. “I'm sorry, Arthur. We're just too different.”

“I understand. Some women are okay with casual sex, but you're not one of them. And you don't think I'm capable of anything more.” Arthur dumped the smoldering tobacco and ground it into the dirt, then put the pipe back into his pocket. “I meant what I said on the phone last night. I'd still like to be friends.”

He looked sad, which surprised her, knowing the type of women he fancied, how fleeting his attachments were. She felt a little sad too. So she said, “I'd like that.”

He adjusted his backpack. “Fine then, how about some lunch? I'm starving.”

They ambled down Mill Lane to the Reward, where Danutia insisted on paying, though she found she had little appetite. Arthur didn't bring out his mother's scrapbook, and Danutia didn't mention it. Though they'd agreed to remain friends, she felt something unresolved between them, and she suspected he did too. As they were about to part at Well Cottage, Arthur remembered the scrapbooks in the trunk of her car.

“No problem, I'll drop them off on my way back,” Danutia said.

Arthur held up a hand. “No, it's time for the new, responsible me. I'm the one who decided to leave them, so I should fetch them back.”

They took the footpath that ran alongside the church, then climbed steeply upwards to the Wormhill road, coming out not far from the station. Danutia's car sat by itself in the station parking lot. She unlocked the trunk and handed Arthur the thick books.

Gazing over her shoulder, he said, “Guess I'll see you around then.”

“Climb in,” she said, taking pity on him. “I can at least give you a ride back.”

Again he refused to buckle up.

“Don't be pig-headed, Arthur,” Danutia said, but she didn't want to start another fight, so she turned out of the station. As she rounded the steep curve under the railway bridge, she saw a tide of woolly backs on the road ahead. She stepped on the brake but the car didn't stop, didn't slow—she tried again and again but the car plowed onward, picking up speed as it approached the tightly packed animals. Dry stone walls ran along both sides. There was a bare spot on the left where the shoulder widened enough for cars to pull over. She'd have to risk it.

“The brakes aren't working. Hold on!” she yelled, yanking the wheel and bracing herself for the impact. It came in a sickening crunch of metal as the front bumper caught the wall and scraped along the side. She felt a thud as Arthur was thrown forward and then slumped back.

“Are you all right?” she cried. Silly question, how could he be? No seat belt. It was his own fault—

“I think so,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Just a little bump.” He took his hand away. Blood ran through his fingers and poured from his nose.