Unholy Rites (21 page)

“That would be too obvious, and it would be harder for him to get access to Mum's garage. Maybe he's trying to throw suspicion on Liz.”

“Who was conveniently missing at the time,” Danutia pointed out. “We know she has the skill to add the red petals, which I doubt is true of Marple. At any rate, we'll have to keep an eye on both of them tomorrow.”

“I thought you were planning to give Blessing Day a miss.”

“Lord knows I'd like nothing better than to sleep all day,” she said, leaning more heavily on him on the uneven ground beside the river. “But I can't help feeling something is about to happen. I'll be here.”

“There's an extra bedroom at Well Cottage.”

“No need to shock the good people of Mill-on-Wye. I'll stay at the Reward. We can meet there for breakfast at seven. Now go back to the shed. I'll be okay from here. The pub's just up the road.” She turned to go, then faced him again. “Arthur . . . don't leave Justine and Janet until they're back with the others. Make sure the shed is locked and lock your own doors. I don't think anything more will happen tonight, but I'd hate to be wrong.”

So would I, thought Arthur, watching Danutia move away from him, her briefcase over her shoulder like a schoolbag, her slow steps making her look smaller and more vulnerable. His mind returned to the red-necklaced lambs. Full of dread, he hurried back towards the shed.

“Here you go, luv,”
Bev said, thrusting two napkin-wrapped sausage rolls and a paper cup of lemonade at Danutia. “Enjoying the fete, are you?”

“Very much, thanks.” Danutia handed over a five-pound note. “Keep the change. I have a pocketful.”

Bev dropped the coins into the cash box. “Ta. We need every penny for the new playground.”

Outside the refreshment tent, light clouds scudded across the sky, carrying away the final trumpet notes of a popular tune. Danutia found a shady spot in front of the old railway station where she could watch visitors streaming in.

The brass band in their maroon uniforms were seated in front of the maypole she'd helped erect early this morning. Its oak shaft, eight feet long and polished to perfection, was topped with a wicker crown and clamped into a wagon-wheel base. They'd raised the pole with much laughter about the unmistakable phallic symbol that had so enraged the good Reverend Marple.

Open-air tents poked up from the far end of the parking lot, where she'd left her car the day of the accident. There the Well Dressing Society sold homemade jams, secondhand books, and well dressing mementoes. There too local craftspeople displayed their wares. Danutia had made several rounds so far; each time Liz Hazelhurst had been busy with customers.

Danutia munched her sausage rolls, hyper alert and on edge. A stakeout should have a clear purpose: waiting for a drug deal to go down, a suspect to make a move. This was too nebulous. The red petals around the lambs' necks were surely a threat, but of what, and to whom?

She'd informed Kevin Oakes about the vandalism and, without naming suspects, explained their reasons for believing that a ritualistic killer was preparing to strike again.

“You must be daft,” Kevin had protested.

Thrown back on their own devices, she and Arthur had made a plan over breakfast. She would keep tabs on Liz Hazelhurst and the station area. Arthur would watch the lower level of the village, with its two well dressing sites and St. Anne's, where Marple was presiding over the Flower Festival. They would meet before the blessing procession to compare notes. Now, surveying the bustling scene as she devoured her second sausage roll, the plan seemed feeble. She pictured Arthur below, having a real lunch. Lucky bastard. Pregnancy was making her ravenous.

Time for another stroll around. Between the station and the tents Janet Rosson had arranged a row of artwork on easels and stands, a foretaste of the exhibition inside. Danutia paused beside a watercolor of Monsal Mill she'd noticed earlier. On a first viewing, she'd found the watercolor of the squat gray building both realistic and slightly menacing, and she couldn't figure out why. This time she spotted the reason. A flick of orange at one of the deserted lower windows. An accidental blob or a suggestion of fire? She searched for the artist's signature. Nothing. Was this another warning, like the red petals and the noose hanging from the doorknob?

Don't be silly, she told herself, and headed for the Trash and Treasure booth, searching for something to send her nephew. She'd called her sister from the Reward early this morning. After she'd listened to Alyne's worries about Jonathan, who was still sickly, she'd told her about the pregnancy. They'd both cried. Now, flipping through an Arthur Ransome book about children's holiday adventures, she felt tears rise again.

Then, hearing a child cry out in pain, she dropped the book and hurried towards the sound.

Three booths away, she discovered Eric Ellison clutching his brother's ear while trying to wrest something from Stephen's arms. “C'mon, give over, she'll never miss a couple of pounds,” she heard Eric whisper.

“Is there a problem here?” Danutia asked mildly, careful not to inflame the situation or let her dislike of the older boy show.

Eric dropped his arms and glared at her. “Nothing you could do about it if there was, is there? My dad says you don't have any authority here. Anyway, there's no problem, is there, Stephen? I was just having a little joke, and Stephen's such a baby, he got all upset. Isn't that right, Stephen?”

Stephen stared at the ground. Eric shrugged and sidled off, hands in his pockets, then wheeled around. “Don't forget about tonight,” he hissed at Stephen. Then he melted into the crowd.

“What was that all about?” Danutia asked.

Stephen unclenched his arms and thrust a small rectangular wicker box towards her. “It's Auntie Liz's money box. She asked me to mind the stall while she fetched some lunch. Eric tried to snatch it, but I got it first.”

“You were very brave,” Danutia said, gazing around at the lavender sachets and bath salts, the packets marked
HERBS FROM LIZ'S GARDEN
. She looked up as the herbalist approached.

“All the money goes towards the new playground,” Liz said curtly. She was dressed in a long green skirt and white peasant blouse, with a crown of white flowers in her hair. She held out a paper bag and bottle of water. “Here's your lunch, Stephen. It's almost time for the maypole dancing. You'd better take this with you and get ready.”

As Stephen trotted off, Liz sighed and retreated into her booth. Why doesn't she want me talking to the boy? Danutia wondered as she poked among the offerings. “Nothing here for headaches? All this noise is getting to me.”

Liz's intelligent dark eyes met hers. “Would you expect Dr. Geoff to be here giving out prescriptions to anyone who asked for them? I'm a professional, and I don't dispense herbal remedies casually.”

“Of course not,” Danutia said, “I wasn't thinking. Frankly, the vandalism of the children's well dressing has me worried. I believe you were away—”

“If you'll excuse me, I have a customer,” Liz said, greeting a large woman who was smelling the bath salts.

Not much chance of questioning Liz in these conditions, Danutia thought, making her way towards the maypole. The brass band launched into the hymn “Jerusalem,” a tune she recognized instantly. She'd been active in track and field in high school, and her coach had shown them the video of
Chariots of Fire
, with its rousing rendition of “Jerusalem” at the end. This time the phrase “dark satanic mills” caught her attention, and her thoughts drifted to the wretched apprentices at Monsal Mill.

The tune ended to loud applause. The band put away their instruments and the maypole dancers gathered around, the girls in pink and white dresses with contrasting pinafores, the boys in black pants and white shirts. She spotted Stephen Ellison's blond head, almost hidden behind the maypole. One by one he was releasing the multi-colored ribbons into the hands of the older girls. She looked around for Eric. He was nowhere in sight.

A lively fiddle tune filled the air and the dance began, the girls skipping towards the pole and back again; then they began weaving, pairs of girls moving clockwise and counterclockwise, dipping under and raising their ribbons. Soon the maypole was wrapped and unwrapped to loud applause.

Stephen and the other boys who'd sat on the rim of the wagon wheel for ballast stood up to take their places for the next dance.

“Lovely, isn't it?” said a woman next to her. Before Danutia could reply, angry voices from the other side of the circle caught her attention. She elbowed her way through the onlookers, milling about now like spooked horses.

“I said leave him be!” Alice Ellison stood between Stephen and the man who must be her husband, a fortyish man with a bit of a beer belly, dark hair, and a face contorted with rage.

“Stephen's coming home with me,” the man said, swiping at Alice's shoulder. She staggered backwards, a scratch on her face oozing a little blood. “No son of mine's going to prance around in public like a poofta.”

Danutia planted herself beside Alice. “Sir, step back please.”

The man cocked a fist at her. “Well if it isn't the troublemaker, Miss Royal Pain in the Ass. You got no authority here.”

“Everyone has a right, and a duty, to prevent someone being harmed,” Danutia said.

As though emboldened by Danutia's words, Alice took a step forward, her face ashen but her eyes on fire. “You've gone too far this time, Bob, you bugger. I put up with your bad temper for years because of the kids, and look what it's got us. A lot of bruises, one kid in juvie, and another so scared he can't sleep. Go pack your stuff and get out. I don't want you around when I get off work tonight.”

Before Danutia could move in, Bob snatched Alice's arm and twisted it behind her. “Just wait, you cunt, you'll be sorry for this.”

A flash of sunlight reflected off an orange security jacket as Hugh Clough laid a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. “Don't make this worse, Bob. Let her go and bugger off. I've radioed for Sergeant Oakes. If you're still around when he gets here, he'll have you in the lockup.”

Bob must not have fancied the idea of jail, because he dropped Alice's arm and sidled off with a backward sneer, the spitting image of Eric's expression earlier that morning. No question who had inherited the dad's genes as well as his disposition.

“That's sorted him out. Are you all right, Alice?” Clough asked.

Alice was kneeling with her arms wrapped around her son. Stephen stood stiffly in her embrace, his cheeks red. Janet Rosson, who'd left her perch by the sound system when the ruckus started, raised questioning eyebrows. Danutia nodded. Best to get the kids moving. Janet headed back to start the music.

Danutia put a hand under the kneeling woman's elbow. “It's all over, Mrs. Ellison. Let Stephen dance and forget about it. You need a band aid for your face and a cup of tea.”

Alice rose and Danutia heard a small sigh from Stephen, who straightened his shoulders and smiled reassuringly at his mother. The music started, a tune in waltz tempo that swept the dancers to and fro, in and out. Danutia shepherded Alice to the refreshment tent, where she left her in the kindly hands of Beverley Bishop. The stall holders were temporarily closing up for the blessing ceremony. Danutia was sure that Liz Hazelhurst would be among them.

It was almost time to meet Arthur in the churchyard, as they'd agreed. As she crossed the Wormhill road, she saw Kevin hurrying up the footpath in response to Clough's message. She quickly filled him in on the incident with Bob Ellison.

“Too bad I wasn't there,” Kevin said. “I wouldn't have given him a second chance. I'll have a word with Alice, see if I can get her to press charges. From what you say, there were lots of witnesses, so this time it wouldn't be her word against his. I'll ask Clough to keep an eye on Alice in case the bastard comes back. Then I've got to get back to make sure traffic's under control for the procession.”

“See you there,” Danutia said, stepping aside to let a noisy group of teens precede her down the path. From where she stood she could take in the sweep of the deep valley cut by the River Wye. Below lay the oldest houses in the village, strung out along the usually busy road from Tideswell to Buxton. Spectators spilled into the barricaded road, and more were pushing past her to join them for the blessing ceremony.

Danutia hurried downwards, thinking about the blood on Alice's face and the rings of red petals around the lambs' necks. Could Bob Ellison have altered the children's well dressing panel in such a sinister way? She dismissed the idea. Ellison was violent, but also, judging by today's performance, impulsive and out of control. He surely wasn't capable of sending such a subtle message. So who was? She hadn't made any headway with Liz Hazelhurst. She hoped Arthur had had more luck.

Arthur sank onto a
bench in St. Anne's churchyard. No Danutia. For once in his life he was early. Itching for a quick smoke, he filled and lit his dad's favorite pipe, the churchwarden, and drew in a lungful. From here he could see the name
FAIRWEATHER
on his parents' gravestone but not the names and dates underneath, his mother's death date newly chiseled. Tendrils of grass reached towards the new sod, and pink and blue hydrangeas sprang from a vase left by one of the well dressers, most likely. He hadn't been here since the funeral, not wanting to face the dark hole down which, it seemed, his past had disappeared.

And the future? As insubstantial as the smoke rings that hovered for a moment, then vanished into thin air. A line from Frost floated into consciousness: “home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Now there was no one who had to take him in: not his ex-wife in Victoria, not his friends in Manchester, not his mother in this sleepy little village, alive today with well dressing activities. Blessing Day. Count your blessings, Arthur. He drew a blank.