Unholy Rites (27 page)

“The same reason he tried to kill you before, by cutting the brake line. You're getting close to discovering the answer to your mother's questions, but the culprit doesn't want to act openly,” she said. “The first thing is to find out about these figures. Who makes them, who sells them, who buys them. Let's start by phoning Liz Hazelhurst.”

Arthur looked doubtful. “I remember seeing wicker baskets at her stall on Saturday, but nothing like this. You aren't going back to considering her a suspect, are you?”

“No, not at all,” said Danutia. “She knows more about Celtic practices than anyone else around here. I'll try her at home first. Do you have her number?”

Liz was at home and awake, despite the early hour. “I've just come back from Alice's,” she said in explanation. “The tea shop is closed on Mondays, so Bev is staying with her today. Is it something about Stephen?”

Quickly Danutia told her about the Wicker Man figure. “Can you tell me who makes them or sells them locally?”

“I certainly don't,” Liz said. “The Wicker Man comes from the dark side of the tradition. Some people treat them as toys, which is a great mistake. The ones I've seen are simpler and come from China. Sorry I can't be more helpful.”

“Maybe you can help us with something else,” Danutia said. “We know the Wicker Man ritual is associated with Beltane. Arthur says that Beltane is on May Day, May 1. But if there's a link to Stephen, why would the figure appear now? May 1 was two days before he disappeared.”

There was silence at the other end of the line. Finally Liz said, “It's true, May Day has passed. However, many pagans calculate the Celtic festivals by the astronomical calendar, with Beltane falling halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. That's when our circle celebrates. This year, Old Beltane, as it's called, falls on May 5.” Again she fell silent.

Danutia drew a deep breath. “May 5. That's today.”

An hour later they
were sitting in Inspector Royce's office at Buxton Constabulary. Arthur fidgeted as Danutia laid out their speculations about Stephen's disappearance and a ritual killer at large. To him it seemed as though she put together a convincing case: Timothy Roberts's peculiar wounds and the Celtic triple death. Ethel Fairweather's investigations and her unexpected death. The staged accident that could have cost them their lives. The sheep mutilations and the satanic symbols at Monsal Mill. The desecration of the children's well dressing and this morning's Wicker Man.

“We don't know yet how all these events are related,” Danutia concluded. “Nevertheless, we're convinced that the same person or persons abducted Stephen Ellison. If we're right about the connection with the Beltane ritual, we only have until tonight to find him alive.”

Displayed on Royce's desk were the few objects they had to support their theories: Ethel's scrapbooks; the coded note in Eric's handwriting and the sheep bone from the mill; the leather thong from the well dressing shed; and the Wicker Man, the baby still inside, and a few red petals like flames.

Inspector Royce regarded the strange objects for a moment. His piercing blue eyes lifted to the two seated across from him. “Presumably you have a suspect, or you wouldn't be here.”

Arthur felt a glimmer of hope. Media pressure to find Stephen was intense. Maybe Royce was ready to take a chance. “We've narrowed the list to two people,” he said. “One is the Reverend James Marple, who was recently appointed vicar at Mill-on-Wye.” Rushing ahead despite the skepticism he sensed, Arthur outlined Marple's abrupt departure from his first teaching post, the gossip connecting him with Timothy Roberts's death, Ethel's opposition to his appointment, and his absence since Stephen's abduction.

“Even if Marple is in the habit of molesting young boys, as you're suggesting, why would he abduct Stephen?” Royce asked. “And then kill him in some ritual? Priests get caught with their hands in kid's knickers all the time, and the worst that happens is they get their knuckles rapped because no one will press charges.”

Arthur, fumbling for a response, was grateful when Danutia spoke up.

“Marple may be desperate,” she said. “He entered seminary late and since he was ordained, he had filled nothing but temporary positions until he was appointed at Mill-on-Wye. He had been pressuring Stephen to become a server, and who knows what else. Stephen may have threatened to expose him. Stephen's mother dotes on him, and would pursue any allegations he made. Marple may believe that his alibi for the time of Stephen's abduction is strong enough that he won't come under suspicion. I admit this is all supposition. The only way to rule him out is to find him and check his alibi.”

Glancing at Arthur with an expression that said “sorry,” she continued, “There is a second suspect, and a much stronger one.”

Arthur watched Royce closely as Danutia explained about Cameron Roberts, Timothy's father.

“With Roberts the motive is more complex,” she said. “According to his ex-wife, he never believed that Timothy's death was an accident. He went off the rails, drinking, losing everything, and finally turning to crime. After six years in prison, he was released in January. Since then he seems to have been in hiding around Mill-on-Wye, where he made contact with Eric Ellison, Stephen's brother. When I searched Monsal Mill yesterday, I found not only the sheep bone and the note from Eric that you have before you, but also drawings associated with satanic cults. Bob Ellison is a driver for the firm where Roberts worked before he was jailed. My theory is that there's bad blood between the two men, and that after brooding about it for six years, Roberts has abducted Stephen in revenge.”

Danutia paused, and Arthur was aware of how thin her explanation must seem. “These two men need to be questioned,” she said.

Royce shifted in his chair. He wasn't convinced, Arthur could tell, and he didn't mince words saying so. “I wish to hell you had a shred of evidence to back you up,” he said, shoving the Wicker Man towards them. “Then I might be able to wring some manpower out of the Chief Inspector. Right now he's too busy covering his ass over the airport demos. I lost three more officers this morning. That leaves only three to follow up the leads on Ellison and everything else. You know the odds. In a case like this, finding the father has to be our first priority. If we find Ellison and Stephen isn't with him, then we'll pursue other leads.”

He stood up and held out his hand. “Come back if you find anything connected with Stephen, anything at all.”

Arthur fumed as he and Danutia clumped down the stone steps to the station's semi-circular forecourt.

“So there's no bucking the official line,” he burst out angrily. “Christ, I'd be happy as anyone else if Bob has taken Stephen, and he turns up safe somewhere. But what if we're right about Beltane? What happens to the poor kid then?”

“That's always the way in police work,” Danutia said wearily. “There are never enough resources. At least Royce didn't threaten to put us in jail.”

“What do we do then, give up?”

“Of course not. We carry on doing what we can. My bet is that Roberts is in hiding somewhere around Mill-on-Wye, and Stephen is with him.” She glanced at her watch. “I'm due to meet Hugh Clough at ten to discuss getting out the Mountain Rescue team again. If you want to wait while I change clothes, I can drop you at the cottage.”

“No thanks. I'm not giving up on Marple. No one has seen or heard from him since Saturday. I should be able to get a bus to Ashford before long. If I have to wait,” he said, pulling his pipe from his pocket, “at least I'll have some consolation.”

“Off you go then,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “But be careful. I may be paranoid to think the killer is setting a trap; still, you have to remember that you're the one who can connect him to the other deaths, not Stephen. He's already made one attempt on your life.”

“Don't worry, I can take care of myself,” Arthur said. Touched by her concern, he gave her a quick hug and turned away.

It was a ten minute walk to the bus stop on Market Square. He strode briskly, barely noticing the stately trees leafing out, the solid brick Victorian houses behind their wrought-iron fences, the vehicles squeezing between parked cars. His anger propelled him forward, anger at faceless bureaucracies, at brutal fathers, at everyone who professed concern for children but did nothing to help them, like that hypocrite Marple. Danutia could chase the phantasmagorical Mr. Roberts if she wanted to. He was more and more convinced that Marple's rigid Christianity was mere window dressing, hiding darker impulses that had broken through when the time was right.

As Arthur turned onto Market Square he heard someone call his name. He stopped to let Dr. Geoff catch up. As usual, Geoff looked every inch the prosperous young professional, his mustache neatly trimmed, his leather shoes gleaming, and the stylish lines of his tailor-made suit set off by a red silk tie.

“Fancy seeing you in Buxton at this time of the morning,” Geoff said, with the smile Danutia unaccountably found so irritating. “Been visiting your lady friend, have you?”

“Not at all,” Arthur said. “We've been to the police about Stephen Ellison.”

“Sad business, that,” Geoff said. “Let me buy you breakfast and you can tell me all about it.”

“Sorry, another time,” Arthur said, although his stomach was rumbling. “I'm catching a bus to Ashford.”

“I've finished my rounds and I'm on my way home. Let me give you a ride. Much more comfortable than the bus.”

“That's very kind of you,” Arthur said as Geoff led him towards a small white van.

“I didn't know you had a van,” said Arthur, getting in. “I've just seen you in your Mercedes. Very well fitted out, too.” The back seat had been removed and a single mattress and large chest installed. Along the opposite side, straps held an easel, a folding chair, and, incongruously, a wheelchair. Turpentine and other chemical smells permeated the interior. Arthur rolled down his window.

“You forget I'm an amateur painter,” said Geoff. He paused to check the traffic and then pulled out into Terrace Road. “I like to do landscapes and buildings. Much easier to carry the equipment in a van, and more secure too.”

“What's the wheelchair for then?” Arthur said. “People who are overwhelmed by your art?”

Geoff laughed. “The van belonged to my parents. My mother is an invalid now, but she still likes to go on excursions when she comes to visit. You never know when a wheelchair will come in handy. Just think of your accident. Another thing I keep handy,” he said, producing a hip flask from the glove box, “is a little pick-me-up for after rounds. I've already had mine, but you look like you could use one.”

“Better than poached eggs,” Arthur said, unscrewing the cap and taking a long swig. “Strong stuff.”

“A special single malt from a grateful patient,” Geoff said. He thrummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, waiting to enter a roundabout. “The bloody A6 gets more clogged up every year. But tell me, what's taking you to Ashford?”

“I need to have a word with Marple,” Arthur said, taking another swallow. The stuff seemed smoother this time.

“Ah yes, the good vicar. You aren't rushing to him for spiritual counseling, I dare say.”

Arthur couldn't see the harm in letting Geoff in on their search. “I don't know how to put this without making it sound ridiculous . . . The bottom line is that Danutia and I suspect Marple may have abducted Stephen Ellison. Or at least I do.”

Arthur sneaked a look at his companion, expecting to see Geoff's usual satirical smile. The doctor's expression was thoughtful, not ridiculing. “What makes you think so?” he asked.

“As you probably know, my mother was vehemently opposed to Marple's appointment. She seems to have believed he was responsible for the death of a boy in Rowsley almost twenty years ago now,” he began.

Geoff made sympathetic tsk-tsk sounds. “Your mother was right to be concerned. Priests, teachers, parents even, take advantage of their positions of authority to abuse children. As a doctor I see cases like that all the time.” He went on to tell several lurid stories, to which Arthur paid scant attention. He was having trouble concentrating.

“Do the police share your suspicions?” Geoff asked at last.

“Not at all,” Arthur said, “even though Marple hasn't been seen since Stephen disappeared. He asked the Rev Pat to take services yesterday, claiming he had to go to London because of an ‘urgent family matter.' He's supposedly due back this morning.”

“I see . . . Oh you idiot!” Geoff braked hard as a motorcyclist pulled in front of him. “So you're off to beard the lion in his den, as it were?”

Arthur agreed, though he found his determination wavering as Geoff turned off the A6 into Ashford. “Actually, I'm feeling a little woozy,” he said. “Not used to drinking so early.”

“A couple of these will set you up,” Geoff said, handing him a small bottle from his jacket pocket. “There's water in the Thermos beside you.”

Arthur swallowed the tablets and gazed about him. Ashford-in-the-Water was a posh village of identical stone cottages, each with an immaculately kept garden. It had been dark in February when he'd come to dinner at Marple's invitation, and so he had little sense of where the vicar's cottage might be. Somewhere near the church, he thought, though Geoff drove past without stopping.

“Haven't we gone too far?” he asked, struggling against the drowsiness that threatened to overcome him.

“You're looking decidedly seedy,” Geoff said. “I'd better give you a going over at the house before I turn you loose on Marple.”

As Geoff turned down a drive with dense shrubbery on either side, Arthur caught a glimpse of a familiar landmark.