Unholy Rites (22 page)

Hearing the click of the wrought-iron gate, he looked around to see Danutia hurrying towards him in the slacks and ivory shell she'd fetched from Buxton before breakfast, her blond curls whipped by the rising wind. He knocked his pipe against the sole of his shoe and slipped it into his pocket.

“All quiet on this front,” he said jauntily. “Lots of strangers admiring the well dressings—especially the artistically arranged title of the main panel, my own small contribution—but none of them skulking about with knives and garrotes.” He coughed and clutched at his throat as though being strangled.

Arthur's attempt to lighten the mood didn't work. “It hasn't been so quiet up at the station,” Danutia said. She told him about her encounters with Eric and Bob Ellison, and her abortive attempt to question Liz. “Do you have any more leads on who defaced the children's well dressing?”

“No, I haven't,” said Arthur, abandoning humor. “I talked to Justine and Janet, who suggested it must have been a well dresser from another village, playing a prank. They both insisted that no one from the village would do such a thing.” He nodded towards the church. “Marple's been in there the whole time, flogging St. Anne's like it was WONDER bread. He won't do anything before the blessing ceremony to jeopardize his star turn. It's after that we'll have to keep a close eye on him.”

Squawks and blats from the far side of the church hall startled them. “The band must be getting ready for the blessing procession,” Danutia said. “We'd better find a spot.”

The clouds had darkened overhead and rain threatened. They crossed the churchyard on the path that led to the church hall. In front of them, the band struck up and a moment later, a flag bearer rounded the corner from the school grounds, followed by the band in maroon uniforms, the May Queen and her attendants, and three gowned members of the clergy—Marple, beaming at the attention; his mother's friend Patricia Wellcome, looking frail; and a thin, somber man Arthur didn't know, limping along with a cane. The three clergy ascended the steps of the church hall. The thin man said a prayer and led two hymns. Then, after thanking Janet Rosson and the children who'd devoted so much of their time, Marple said far too many words about the well dressing and the significance of its title, “Suffer the little children.”

“‘Suffer the little children' indeed,” Arthur muttered. “What about the apprentices who suffered at Monsal Mill, and children abused by priests?” Noticing that Danutia had laid a hand on her belly, he asked if she was feeling ill.

Before she could reply, a voice beside him said, “There's a man who loves a ritual. But it's such a stupid one.” Dr. Geoff had planted his furled umbrella in front of him and leaned forward on it. A Red Cross armband circled the sleeve of an elegant cashmere sweater.

“You think so?” said Arthur, of two minds himself. While he found Marple's comments tedious and self-serving, he rather enjoyed the pageantry of the occasion.

“The Christian church took over the pagan places of worship, and look what it's come to. Anaemic hymns and a lot of blather about how sweet children are.”

“You're starting to sound like Liz Hazelhurst,” Arthur said.

“Are you trying to insult me?” said Geoff, smiling. “Her rituals are stupid too. All rituals are stupid. But better a pagan one than all this pseudo sweetness and light.” He straightened and tucked his umbrella under his arm. “Anyway, I'm taking a break from my duties in the first aid tent. Come down to the pub and I'll buy you a pint.” He looked across at Danutia, who stared back with wary eyes. “And bring your lady friend, of course.”

“Thank you, but we want to hear the blessing at the main well,” said Danutia , grasping Arthur's elbow firmly.

The band struck up “Shall We Gather at the River” and marched towards Mill Lane.

“Maybe we'll see you for the pub's roast beef dinner,” said Arthur, as Danutia drew him away.

Smiling, Dr. Geoff tipped his umbrella to them and headed towards the Reward.

“Let's watch from your mother's bedroom window,” Danutia said when they reached Well Cottage. “We'll have a better view.”

Soon they were upstairs, overlooking the crowd gathering in front of the old well and the massive panel Arthur had helped to install that morning. Its Gothic letters proclaimed “The River Wye: The Blessing of Water.” “This is creepy,” Arthur said, throwing open the window. “From straight on, the well dressing looks like a stained glass window. From this angle, it looks like the window has been shattered into dozens of pieces.”

“Has it been vandalized?” Danutia asked, pressing closer.

“No, just some trick of light and perspective,” he said. Still, he couldn't quite shake the sense that the unsuspecting anglers were being swept upwards, like shards of glass, into the black mouth of Chee Tor.

Arthur's disquiet lessened as the ceremony below unfolded without incident. Patricia Wellcome made a fine speech about the need for Christians to value nature, and the crowd responded with a ripple of appreciation. The Reverend Marple, obviously restive during her words, concluded the blessing ceremony with a reminder about the Flower Festival on Sunday and thanks to Janet Rosson for organizing the children's well dressing. He glanced around the crowd. “Anything I've missed?”

“Not a word about Liz's work,” Arthur observed to Danutia. “I wonder how she'll take that?” He didn't have to wait long to find out.

“The Morris dancing at the pub, and the torchlight procession,” Liz Hazelhurst called from the edge of the crowd. She was standing with her hands on her hips, as though daring the vicar to ignore her. Arthur was reminded of the well dressing meeting, where they'd squared off over this design.

Marple drew himself up to his full height. “Ah yes, well, that's outside my purview. Everything's in your program, folks,” he said, and smiled.

“Except whatever nasty business you've got up your sleeve,” Arthur muttered.

Danutia shook her head. “I can't see Marple involved in ritual sacrifice. He's an ass, but he seems dead set against anything outside the narrow bounds of his kind of Christianity.” She gazed out at the dispersing crowd. “Still, you're right about the nastiness in the air. I don't like that doctor friend of yours, but he put his finger on something important. There's a darkness around that no one is acknowledging. Even Justine and Janet, who saw the red petals.”

Arthur agreed. “Marple is all sweetness and light, but his message is phony because it's a cover. Underneath, not only does he fancy boys, but he's got very different kinds of ceremonies in mind. I'd wager Well Cottage on it.”

“You have no evidence, Arthur,” said Danutia. “There are gaps in Marple's employment, but no evidence that he behaved improperly with pupils. Yes, I've seen him with Stephen, and I know priests abuse children. But my intuition tells me Marple's behavior doesn't go beyond buying sticky buns.”

Arthur wasn't ready to concede her point. “What about—”

Danutia interrupted him. “It's different with Liz Hazelhurst. The evidence is circumstantial, but as I said yesterday, there's a lot of it. And now there's more. She had the opportunity to deface the children's well dressing, and the knowledge. I don't understand why you can't see this. You're the one who was suspicious about her in the first place, and pushed me when I didn't take you seriously. What's made you change your mind?”

“My mother opposed Marple's appointment and called him dangerous. Now she's dead,” said Arthur, flatly.

Danutia's frown disappeared and her face softened. “When it comes down to it, you prefer to suspect your mother's enemy rather than your mother's friend, is that it?” She seemed to find some confirmation in his expression, for she said, “I sympathize with your feeling about your mother's death, Arthur. You're right, we shouldn't dismiss anyone yet. I'm just saying that so far, the evidence points to Liz, not Marple.” She turned back to the window. Arthur followed her gaze to where Liz stood talking to Alice. Then Liz gave the younger woman a hug and began to stride towards the footbridge. “I'm going to try to get some answers from her,” Danutia said, brushing past him. “You can come with me, or you can keep an eye on Marple and meet me later for this wretched roast beef dinner.”

Arthur stood silent as she raced down the stairs. Moments later he saw her dart across the road, growing smaller with every step. Everything she said was true. And yet he was convinced that she was wrong. She didn't know his countrymen as he did. A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

Skirting the crowds around
the well dressing, Danutia hurried across the mossy footbridge and turned right along a narrow path used mainly by anglers. Soon she crossed under the main road and came out onto a large grassy area, crammed now with people and parked cars.

The fishing club's modest brick building sat away from the road and on slightly higher ground. Several tables were lined up across its front, with small children clustering around. Slowed by the swarming crowds and strangers asking for directions, Danutia worked her way towards Liz Hazlehurst, who was standing beside the last table. By the time she arrived, Liz was nowhere in sight.

Under the face painting sign sat Stephen Ellison, now in blue shorts and a striped T-shirt, applying black Spider-Man webbing to a toddler held firmly on his mother's ample lap.

“Very artistic, Stephen,” she said. “How did the maypole dancing go?”

Stephen's face tightened and his fingers turned white where he gripped the black paint stick, but he didn't answer.

“Couldn't have been better, could it, Stephen?” Janet Rosson prompted from the next table, where she was transforming a chubby girl of about four into a blue and silver butterfly.

“Yes'm . . . I mean, no'm,” Stephen muttered, his eyes focused on the toddler's upturned face. Why was he refusing to look at her, Danutia wondered. After all, she'd helped him out of two scrapes today. Or was that the problem? Eric's parting warning came back to her: “Don't forget about tonight.” Perhaps the brothers had a secret that Stephen was trying to hide. She and Arthur should keep an eye on both boys.

Whatever the reason, he wasn't going to talk to her. She changed the topic. “I thought I saw Liz Hazelhurst here a few minutes ago. Any idea where I'd find her?”

Stephen shrugged, and again Janet Rosson stepped in. “She brought Stephen a message from his mum, and then went off to talk to Hugh Clough about the duck race,” Janet said. “You'll find Hugh at the obstacle course, between here and the river.”

“Thanks,” Danutia said, and set off on the trail of the herbalist.

Past the bean bag throw and sack races, she spotted Hugh Clough. There was no sign of Liz, but Eric was there, assembling equipment. Kevin had promised to tell Clough about her run-in with the boy. The craftsman had obviously responded by putting Eric to work. She decided to see how things were going.

“Need any help?” she asked Clough, striding over. “I could use a little exercise.”

Clough straightened and ran a hand through his newly cut hair, so that it stood on end. “Thanks, but we're just finishing up,” he said, gesturing towards the circular course of barrels, balance beams, and nets. “This climbing frame is the last piece. Eric made it himself.”

Ignoring her, Eric carried on tightening bolts on the wooden crosspieces.

Danutia walked around, examining the triangular frame. It was slatted on one side, with foot and hand holds like a rock wall, and fitted with a scrambling net on the other. The surfaces were smooth, the fittings secure. Maybe Kevin was right, and the boy was salvageable. “Good work, Eric. I wish we'd had equipment like this when I was doing track and field.”

“Yeah, well, I saw a picture,” Eric muttered, reddening.

“Give yourself some credit. You adapted and enlarged it,” Clough said as they headed to the entrance, where several boys and their dads were lined up, and one lone girl. He set an empty toolbox on a waiting card table. “You can put the tickets in here. Two tickets a go. Anyone needs tickets, send them to the ticket booth at the clubhouse.”

“Yeah, right,” said a pig-eyed man in worn jeans and a flat cap. “You don't want that one handlin' money, do ye now?”

“I'd trust him more'n I'd trust you, Watson,” Clough said, his face flushed with anger. “It's six months and you still haven't paid me for that cabinet job. Go along now. You and your lad aren't welcome here.”

“Bloody arsehole,” the man said, but he moved off, jerking his son along beside him.

“Sorry about that,” Clough said, glancing at his watch. Danutia wasn't sure whether the comment was meant for her or for Eric, who was kicking the grass, his fists clenched. “I'll get you started here, Eric, then I've got to set up the duck race. I'll send someone to relieve you here so you can help me release them.” He turned to Danutia. “That's something you don't want to miss, the duck race. See the Daffy Duck sign over there? That's where you pick out your duck.”

Danutia thought she saw Liz's green skirt near where he was pointing. “That's a great idea. See you later then.” As she walked away, she could hear Clough explaining the rules and jollying Eric into taking tickets. Ahead, at the first aid tent, Liz stood talking to the loathsome Dr. Geoff, no doubt fortified by his visit to the pub. She didn't want him barging into the conversation.

Just to the right, where she could keep tabs on her quarry, was the inflatable Daffy Duck figure Clough had mentioned. Under the giant plastic figure was a table scattered with yellow bathtub ducks, each with a number painted on its back. Black plastic garbage bags filled with the critters slumped beside the table, and behind it stood an elderly gentleman in white gloves.