Unholy Rites (14 page)

She handed him a wad of tissues from her daypack. “Can you move? We need to get out. You never know when a gas tank will blow up.”

“My leg hurts and my door won't open,” Arthur said.

“See if you can crawl across to my side.” She clambered out with care.

A
BMW
had stopped behind them and the driver ran over. “Need any help?”

“I'm okay,” she said, though she could hear the tremor in her voice and feel it in her hands. “My friend's hurt. Can you help me get him out?”

“What's going on? Where's Eric?” said a voice behind her. She turned to find Hugh Clough striding up the road.

“I haven't seen him,” she said.

“He was supposed to be stopping traffic from this side while I moved the flock.”

“Under the haystack fast asleep,” said Arthur.

Danutia turned back to Arthur, relieved that he was still capable of making a joke. No wonder she'd had such a hard time making up her mind about him. Grumbling one minute, and then coming through in unexpected ways. Yes, they could be friends, and good friends.

He'd made it across the gearbox and was struggling to hoist himself off the seat, bloody tissues clamped to his nose. The two men helped him out, Arthur wincing with pain when his left leg touched the ground. He stood leaning against Clough's shoulder while the good Samaritan, a tweedy man in his mid-forties, brought his
BMW
closer. When they'd lowered Arthur onto the back seat, Danutia stripped off his shoe and sock and gently felt his leg. “No broken bones, as far as I can tell, but we'd better get some X-rays. Can one of you call an ambulance?”

“It could take an hour to get one out here,” Clough said.

The good Samaritan said, “I was on my way into Buxton. I could give you both a ride to the hospital.”

Danutia looked up at Arthur. His nose had stopped bleeding but he was biting his lip against the pain. “Thanks,” she said. “He needs a doctor. I'll wait for the tow truck.”

“You're pale as a ghost yourself,” Clough said. “You go with Arthur and let me take care of the car.”

Danutia contemplated her car. The brakes were fine when she parked at the station. Why had they suddenly failed? She half rose to have a look. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit her and she sank down again.

“You've had a nasty shock,” the good Samaritan said. “Why don't you come along with me and let the hospital sort you out.”

Danutia hesitated. She felt sure this was no ordinary accident, but she'd be no use here if she passed out. If she couldn't trust Clough, who could she trust?

“Maybe you're right,” she said, slowly standing up. “I'll get a few things from the car.” She retrieved her daypack, put Ethel's scrapbooks into Arthur's backpack, and locked up while the men helped Arthur stretch out in the back seat of the
BMW
.

“Now at least you have plenty of room,” she said, as she placed his backpack beside him. He smiled wanly. She turned to Clough. “The car's rented through Buxton Constabulary. I'll get them to send someone out. In the meantime, don't touch it.”

She gazed at the car tilted against the dry stone wall. “Whoever comes out will want to talk to Eric when you find him,” she said.

Arthur's swollen foot and
leg, propped up on sofa cushions, ached mercilessly. Trying not to dislodge his ice pack, he reached for the painkillers on the coffee table and then slumped back, empty-handed. He didn't want to be groggy when Danutia arrived. He had something to show her.

Kept awake last night by his throbbing leg, he'd gone back to his mum's scrapbooks. Yesterday he'd taken the most recent one with him, intending to show Danutia the reference to Marple. When she'd made it clear she didn't want any personal involvement with him, he'd backed off. The accident had knocked some sense into him: he couldn't let hurt feelings keep him from pursuing the truth about his mother's death.

He heard a brisk knock. “Come in,” he shouted.

A moment later Danutia appeared in the entrance to the sitting room, a shopping bag over her arm, a styrofoam take-out box in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Arthur was about to ask what had taken her so long, but after a glance at her pale, set face, the comment died on his lips. She must have been more shaken up by the accident than he realized.

Mindful of his manners, he swung his feet towards the floor. The ice pack slid off and pain shot up his left leg. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.

“Don't get up,” Danutia said, handing him the paper, no longer neatly folded. “Sorry I'm so late. My sister called and I missed the bus. At least I had the
Times
to read.” She regarded him with pursed lips and wrinkled forehead. “You look like someone beat you up. I should have just plowed into those sheep.”

Arthur patted his face, careful not to touch the stitches on his nose and forehead. That wasn't where he hurt, so he hadn't thought about how he must look. “Groom of Frankenstein,” he said lightly. “At least I won't sue you. Clough's sheep must be worth a few quid.”

“And you're not?” she said, perching on the wing chair beside him, the takeout box filling the air with rich curry smells. “Tell me again what the doctor said. I couldn't understand a thing you said on the phone this morning.”

Arthur sank back onto his pillows. “Aside from the superficial cuts and bruises on my face, just a sprained ankle and a bruised knee and leg from hitting the dashboard. No fractures. I should be right as rain in a few days. They sent me home in a taxi with an ice pack and some painkillers.”

“I'd better heat the curry and get the rest of this food into the fridge,” Danutia said, heading for the kitchen.

From the sofa Arthur could hear dishes rattling, water running, the whoosh of a gas burner being lit. Shit. He'd meant to do the washing up yesterday before she came, and hadn't. Today there'd been no way he could manage. He
had
bought real coffee earlier in the week. Maybe that would make up for the dirty dishes.

Soon Danutia returned with a mug in one hand and in the other, a steaming plate of rice and curry, a knife and fork precariously balanced on top.

Arthur propped himself up and took the plate. “Aren't you having any?”

“I'm not hungry,” Danutia said. “Especially after going into your kitchen. What is it you have against washing up? The smell made me feel quite ill.”

“Maybe you're in shock,” Arthur said. “You don't look well.”

“Nothing showed up when I was examined, but I was advised not to drive for a couple of days.” She sighed. “No problem there. The car's locked up in the police vehicle pool until they have time to look at it.”

“Why don't they just have the brakes fixed and sue the rental company for negligence?”

Danutia hugged her cup with both hands. “It might be negligence or a freakish mechanical failure of some kind, but I don't think so. I slammed on the brakes at the tea shop, remember? They were fine then. Anyway, there's no point in speculating. We'll know in a few days.”

Arthur nodded towards the pile of scrapbooks beside the sofa. “Why don't you have a look at Mum's note about Marple while I eat? It's in the volume marked 1993, near the end.”

Danutia hunted through the stack, then settled back with a scrapbook on her lap. He applied himself to the curry, using his fork to gather every last bit of fragrant rice. For a few minutes there was only the scrape of his fork against the plate, the hiss of the gas fire, the soft slap as a page turned.

“I didn't know your dad wrote poetry,” Danutia said into the silence, a hint of melancholy in her voice.

Surprised by her tone, Arthur put down his empty plate. “Sounds like you've found the poems Mum discovered at the bottom of Dad's toolbox after he died. What is it you're reading?”

“The handwriting is hard to make out. I think it's called ‘Elegy for a Railway Village.'”

“Pretty bad, isn't it? Full of clichés about the sun setting over shining tracks and so on.”

Danutia gazed over at him. “How can you say that? It's so sad, the way he describes the village dying after the railway closed down.”

Arthur felt embarrassed by her response, as if he'd been too quick to judge his father. A wave of sadness ran through him. “I'd almost forgotten the early years with my dad. On Sunday mornings he'd take me to see the engines in the railway sheds. He always took a cloth with him, and polished the iron wheels and brass handles as we walked around. After we moved to Stockport he was a different man, watching television all weekend or popping out to the pub. He turned into a bitter, withdrawn man, and Mum said I shouldn't bother him. I guess I thought it was my fault.”

“Kids always do, it seems. That's why child molesters go unreported for so long.” She turned the page. “Speaking of which, here's your mother's note about Marple. ‘This man is dangerous. But no one listens to me.'”

“If only she'd said more.”

“I see there's a note in light pencil, ‘Death: See 1979–84.' Do you know what she's referring to?”

“The earliest of the three scrapbooks that were at Liz's. I was looking at it last night. Let me show you.” He found the right volume and motioned Danutia to sit beside him. Her hair smelled of lemon and her thigh was warm against his. Think of England, he told himself, flipping through the first few pages. “Photos of my visiting relatives from Australia, a review of a school play I was in.”

He came to a double-page spread with clippings jammed together, some glued only at the top so as not to obscure the ones below. He pointed to a large black headline:

BOY DROWNS IN ROWSLEY MILLPOND

“This must be what Mum was referring to. It's from June 21, 1979.”

“Rowsley,” Danutia said. “That's just south of Bakewell, isn't it? I've driven through there.”

“That's right,” Arthur said. “It seems to have been a freak accident. On Saturday, June 16, the Rowsley well dressers put their panel frames to soak in the millpond, with carrying ropes attached. The next morning, an eleven-year-old boy named Timothy Roberts was found dead in the pond, entangled in the ropes. He had a serious head injury. Speculation was that he had dived in and struck his head on a submerged rock, and in fighting to get to the surface, had wound the rope tighter and tighter around his neck. So he both strangled and drowned.” His eyes met Danutia's. “A nasty death.”

“What child's death isn't?” Danutia paused, seeming lost in thought. “I wonder why your mother was so interested, though. You were living in Stockport by 1979, weren't you? Did she know the family?”

“Not that I know of. I remember hearing the story on the radio when it happened. Mum warned me not to swim at night, and that was the end of it.”

Danutia had taken the scrapbook from him and was examining the articles. “Why do you think there's a connection with Marple? I don't see his name mentioned.”

“If there's no connection, why would she refer to this incident right next to her note on Marple?” Arthur reflected for a moment. “It's true I don't know what the connection is. Maybe he taught in a school in or near Rowsley. Or maybe he was connected to a church the Roberts family went to. I wonder when he became a vicar?”

Danutia lifted up a newspaper photo of a thin boy in a school uniform to look at the articles underneath. “These pages are overflowing. It's like she collected everything she could about the boy and his death.”

“She must have added some of the articles later on. The next pages look like she moved things around to make room.” Arthur's bowels had been sending him intermittent signals he could no longer ignore. He grabbed his crutches from the end of the sofa, wincing at the pain. “Sorry, I have to go to the toilet.”

Turning down Danutia's offer of help up the stairs, he thumped to the old loo out back. When he returned, Danutia was hunched over, and silent tears ran down her cheeks. He settled himself on the couch while she composed herself and then asked gently, “What's up?”

“This photo.” Danutia pointed to a page nearer the end of the scrapbook than Arthur had reached. The photograph showed a boy's bedroom. On the bed, a soccer ball, art supplies, and board games were arranged around a pile of clothes, topped by a school cap. “It reminds me of my nephew Jonathan. He plays soccer and hockey. Or did. This spring he's been sick a lot.” She swallowed hard. “He's only seven.”

“I'm sure he'll be fine,” Arthur said absently, his attention caught by the headline accompanying the photo: “Plucky Mum Turns to Bereavement Group.”

“Listen to this,” he said, summarizing as he read. “The article is about Violet Roberts, Timothy's mum. After two years of mourning, during which she kept everything of her son's—that's what the photo shows—she helped to form a group for other parents who had suffered similar losses, to be run by a local health practitioner. As a sign of her intention to move on, she donated her dead child's clothes and toys to a charity shop in Stockport, where her parents lived. She's quoted as saying, ‘I know there are people in the village who could do with them, but it would bring it all back if I saw a local boy wearing Tim's clothes.'”

Below the article, a color snapshot showed a brunette in her early thirties with sad brown eyes and a long, melancholy face. She was holding a blue and gold school cap over her heart. Beside the photo his mother had written in neat black script “Violet Roberts July 1981.” He showed the photo to Danutia. “I don't get it,” he said. “This school cap looks like the one we found in the steamer trunk upstairs. Why would Mum have it?”

“Didn't you say she ran a charity shop in Stockport? That must be where Violet Roberts took her son's things.”