Unholy Rites (23 page)

“Good afternoon, Miss,” said the white-haired man. “Friend of the Fairweathers, I believe. I remember you from Ethel's funeral.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “All the best ones are gone, I'm afraid.”

People or ducks? Danutia wondered, till he picked up a bright yellow duck from the back row. “Except for Number 271 here, she's a goer, no doubt about it.”

Danutia took the duck he offered. “How does this work, anyway?”

“You give me two pound. I give you this ticket with the number 271 on it,” he said, writing thick numerals with a black marker. “All the ducks get dumped into the river from the footbridge over there”—he pointed upstream, below the railway station—“at five o'clock sharp, more or less. The first plucky duck to make it to the next footbridge, down by the main well dressing, is the winner. The winner's owner—that's you—gets fifty pound. The rest goes to the children's playground. That's all there is to it.” He handed her the ticket with a flourish. “That's two pound, then, and thank you very much.”

“Here's to Number 271.” Danutia handed back the duck and fished two pound coins from her pocket. “You're quite a salesman.”

The man unceremoniously dropped Number 271 into a black bag. “You're speaking to the Midlands' finest tic-tac man, before the arthritis got into me hands,” he said, waggling his fingers. “Now I do what I can. You wouldn't want a second duck, now, in case that one founders on a bank or summat?”

From the corner of her eye Danutia caught movement around the first aid tent. Liz was leaving. “One will do,” she said, turning to follow.

The crowd along the river was thickening as the time for the duck race approached, and it was hard to keep the woman in view, even with her height and garlanded hair. Liz seemed to be making for another footbridge upstream. Glimpsing heads bobbing downwards through the trees on the other side, Danutia realized that the bridge must connect with a path to the station. As Liz stepped onto the footbridge, Danutia was struck by a sudden urge to pee—as inevitable as morning sickness, Alyne had assured her. She'd never make it to the station. She hurried towards a rocky outcrop where she hoped to find some privacy.

The sound of hushed voices ahead brought her to a halt. She stepped off the trail and, making do with the screening offered by the burgeoning undergrowth, relieved herself. Hoping the scent of wild garlic would cover the smell of urine, she adjusted her clothing and parted the bushes. Quickly she drew back.

Two figures had appeared near the rocks. There was no mistaking Eric's faded black T-shirt and dark unruly hair. The other was taller and half-hidden behind the boy. Danutia could see little more than a dark cap pulled low and a crooked nose. She didn't think it was Bob Ellison—not bulky enough—but if not, who? Wait, she'd seen a nose like that . . . a newspaper photo of a man with thick, slanted eyebrows and crooked nose. Cameron Roberts. Why would he be talking to Eric?

Maybe her suspicions of the boy had been justified. If he hadn't cut her brake line himself, he could have had an accomplice. And the break-ins—Eric must have been passing on info he'd picked up on his rounds with Clough, though she hadn't discovered how. Still, why would this pair want to injure or kill her or Arthur? It only made sense if Roberts was implicated in his son's death, and was trying to prevent them from discovering the truth.

Eric glanced nervously behind him, as though conscious of being watched. Danutia inched backwards, wishing she'd worn camouflage. Her tan and ivory outfit made her inconspicuous in crowds, but didn't blend so well with the greenery around her. The two did something with their hands—not a handshake, not a high-five. Then Eric turned and ran straight towards her, or so it seemed, though he thundered past, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. He's afraid he'll be caught out, she thought. Curious about his companion, she strolled past the rocky outcropping, looking about her like a wandering stranger. She was too late. The man had disappeared. As she retraced her steps, she paused to examine the spot where they'd stood. She didn't see anything at first, and then her eye caught a pentagram at the base of a large boulder. The sign of Satan. Or perhaps mere graffiti.

From downriver, she heard a shout go up and a volley of splashes like rifle shots. Five o'clock. She'd better find Arthur and let him know about Cameron Roberts. She turned and hurried back.

Hugh Clough stood beside the footbridge, rolling up the black plastic bags that had held the rubber ducks.

“Where's Eric?” she asked.

Clough nodded towards the other side of the river. “He scooted down the path over there. He has to beat the ducks to the finish line and grab the winner.”

Danutia scanned the crowds swarming in every direction like disturbed ants. There seemed little chance of finding either Liz or Eric. Her questions would have to wait. With her admission of defeat came a great tiredness. Slowly she made her way down the now-crowded path towards the Reward. As she drew closer, she could see Justine Clough and the Reverend Mr. Marple standing on the footbridge she'd crossed when she'd set out after Liz.

“Have you seen Eric?” Justine called. “He's going to miss the winner.” She pointed to bright yellow heads bobbing towards a length of
PVC
piping strung across the stream.

“Hugh said he took the other path,” Danutia said. “He must have got caught up in the crowds.”

“Well, he'd better hurry,” Justine said. “If the ducks beat him here, we'll have an angry mob on our hands, won't we, Vicar?”

Danutia didn't wait for his answer. Who cared about a silly duck race? She crossed the footbridge and the pub's parking lot, where the Morris dancers were gathering. The women were all in green skirts and had garlanded hair like Liz's. Had she only thought she'd been following the herbalist? And did it matter? She was tired, bone-numbingly tired, and this quest for a villain was utterly unreal. If Arthur wanted to carry on, he'd have to do it by himself.

As she approached the Reward, holiday-makers with glasses and cigarettes in their hands spilled out of the door, the smells of tobacco smoke and beer mingling with roasting meat. Danutia's stomach gave a lurch.

Inside, she spied Alice with a tray of empty glasses. “Have you seen Arthur?” she asked.

“Not since the well blessing,” Alice said, pushing a lock of damp hair off her forehead with her free hand. “Not that I've had much time to notice.” Her voice dropped. “Thanks for stepping in up at the maypole dancing.”

Danutia was about to say, “It's my job,” when she realized that this time it hadn't been. “You're welcome,” she said, so tired she could barely smile at Alice in response. “We're supposed to meet for the roast beef dinner,” she said, “but I have to have a nap. Would you please tell him not to disturb me until the torchlight procession?”

Alice said she'd pass on the message. Danutia dragged herself up the stairs to her tiny room under the eaves, hardly larger than a closet. It didn't matter. A bed was all she needed.

For the next few
hours Arthur kept a close eye on the smiling Reverend Marple. He popped into the Flower Festival on one pretext or another and chatted with the vicar on his way to meet Justine Clough, the other judge of the Duck Race. By the time he left the two of them together on the footbridge, Arthur had lost his conviction that something sinister was on the cards for this Blessing Day.

He showered and changed for the roast beef dinner and was next in line at the bar when he saw Dr. Geoff enter. “Geoff, what'll you have?” he shouted over the clamor.

“Half pint of the Jubilee Bitter,” the doctor called back. “I'm still on duty.”

By the time Arthur had ordered and paid, Geoff was beside him. They took their drinks and moved aside. Arthur was glad of the company. While on the lookout, he'd chit-chatted with acquaintances and strangers. Now he could have a proper talk with someone who shared his interests. Which wouldn't have been possible if Danutia were with him, he realized with a pang of guilt. She couldn't abide Geoff, but he couldn't understand why.

Geoff wiped foam from his mustache. As though reading Arthur's mind, he asked, “Where's that lady friend of yours?”

Arthur laid a finger on his lips. “Don't let her hear you say that. She'll box your ears. Or mine. She left word with Alice that she's having a nap and doesn't want to be disturbed. Not even for dinner.”

“I'll be lucky if I get to eat myself,” Geoff said, patting the pager at his waist. “Drink up so we can head to the dining room.”

Arthur emptied his pint and set the glass on Alice's tray as she squeezed past. There was a commotion at the door and Arthur caught a glimpse of a bright orange security jacket. A space cleared, and Hugh Clough pushed his way towards them.

“Alice, have you seen or heard anything of Eric in the last hour?” he asked.

“He wouldn't let his mother catch him inside the pub, now would he?” Alice said, passing drinks to the nearest table. “What's he done now?”

“He was supposed to take my hip-waders and fetch the winning duck from the river, but he never turned up,” Clough said. “I've been looking all over for him.”

“Probably off with those no-good friends of his. He'll be back when he gets hungry.”

“He's violating his Community Service Order. If he isn't back soon, I'll have to report him.”

“Ah, Hugh, give the lad a break,” Geoff said.

Clough shook his head, the worry lines deep in his weathered face. “Lord knows I've done my best,” he said, “and so has Justine. It's the folks who won't give him a chance that cause the trouble. Like that arsehole Phil Watson.”

As Clough told them about the incident at the obstacle course, Arthur found himself thinking about the time and energy the couple had devoted to Eric, and wondering if he himself would be capable of such a sacrifice.

Clough finished his story. “Guess I'd better have another look for Eric. Maybe he's tidying up at the games area,” he said, pulling his cap firmly in place. He nodded a farewell and made for the door, a solid, sober man among a crowd of revelers.

“There goes an unhappy man, and it's all his own fault,” Geoff observed. “I guess I shouldn't be telling you, but of course the whole village knows. Hugh and Justine married late and couldn't have children. They both taught in inner city schools, where Hugh thought he could make a difference. After years of frustration and disappointment, he fell into a depression and had to take medical disability. Coming back to the farm was his idea of a cure. But he hadn't given up the idea of being a father, you see, and so he took on Eric. Now he's looking at another failure.”

“Well, I admire his efforts,” said Arthur. “Don't you?”

“I'm a doctor, Arthur, not a moralist. I ask myself whether what people are doing makes them happy or not. Trying to be a father hasn't made Clough happy. So why bother? If children make some people happy, fine. Personally, I think they're a waste of time. But that's not the issue. The point is, Hugh will be back on antidepressants soon. Three months after that, he'll be looking for another boy to mentor.”

“And I say good luck to him,” Arthur said, moving towards the lengthening buffet line. “Just smell that roast beef.”

Soon they were sitting in front of plates heaped with meat, potatoes, and Yorkshire pudding. Geoff picked up where he'd left off. “The problem with our friend Hugh, as with your friend Brad,” he said, sawing away at his rare beef, oozing blood, “is that he believes in the supremacy of human reason. He thinks he can demonstrate to Eric the value of hard work and honesty, and then Eric will rationally choose to work hard and be honest and live in ways that Clough approves.”

He pointed his knife at Arthur. “Freud knew better, and by now we should too. Humans are full of dark impulses, and if we try to deny those impulses, we're asking for trouble. As Clough is discovering with Eric.” He shoved a forkful of beef in his mouth.

“What's the alternative?” Arthur asked. “Indulging everyone's worst thoughts and actions?”

“No, I believe people can improve and help others improve themselves. For scientists like me, however, scientific observation comes first. Scientists conduct experiments to see what works. If Clough were a scientist, he'd explore what makes Eric tick. If the lad is greedy, show him he can get more cash through carpentry than through burglary.” Geoff wiped his mustache with his napkin. “Not to say there isn't a place for indulgence. For me, that means a large helping of trifle, as soon as I've finished off this lot.”

A beeper went off. “Oh damn . . .” Geoff removed his pager, gazed at it with annoyance, and then stood up. “I'll have to phone in. No doubt Granny's fallen and broken a hip, or Dad's gone off the road and smashed himself up. Whatever it is, you're going to lose the pleasure of my company. Listen, the band's tuning up. Do a bit of Morris dancing for me!” With a wave he was gone.

Arthur finished his meal and carried a fresh pint outside to the steps. Across the road, in the pub's parking lot, half a dozen Morris dancers in blackface and ragged clothes clashed sticks to a spirited rendition of “Old Woman Tossed Up in a Blanket.”

A woman dressed in Tilley travel pants, shirt, and hat joined him on the steps, her identically dressed husband behind her. “Lord Almighty. What in heaven's name are they doing?” she asked in an unmistakable Southern drawl.

Arthur smiled. “Morris dancing,” he said. “The name comes from the Spanish for ‘Moorish Dance,' which is one explanation of why they blacken their faces. There's also a long tradition of Morris dancers disguising their faces with boot polish or soot to add to the mystery and excitement. Instead of the original swords, most English dancers use sticks, ribbons, bells, or handkerchiefs. If you want to try it, you can join the torchlight procession at ten o'clock.”