Unholy Rites (31 page)

A sudden rush of anger brought Arthur out of his stupor. “My mother knew, didn't she?” he said. “Danutia and I suspected her death wasn't accidental. But we were focusing on the wrong person.”

“Like your mother. She had mentioned young Roberts several times since I became her doctor. The week before she died, she even brought in a couple of her scrapbooks to show me. She wanted me to join in her crusade to persuade the police that the drowning wasn't an accident. I couldn't have that, could I.”

“You . . . you . . .” Arthur couldn't get the words out, but he could feel the adrenaline pumping, clearing his mind.

“Finished,” Geoff said, turning the Wicker Man round and round. He continued as if confiding in an old friend in a quiet corner of a pub. “I knew your mother's health had to deteriorate. She was a persistent woman and eventually she would have found evidence incriminating me. Unfortunately lead poisoning is slow and unpredictable. When she told me she'd decided to confront Marple about Tim's death, I knew I had to act. The Imbolc ritual seemed the perfect time to find and destroy the notebooks, and put an end to her suffering. I wasn't expecting her back so early, and with our young friend here in tow.” His foot nudged the boy. “That's the moment I decided who would star in my ritual.”

Stephen's head jerked up. “I heard some sounds,” he mumbled, “like boards creaking.” He must have been listening after all, Arthur realized, his heart torn between pity for the boy and grief for his own mother, whose death had indeed been untimely.

Geoff stood up. “It's time to start the Beltane ritual. We will begin with a moment of choice. The rest of the ritual will take place elsewhere.”

“Where are you taking us?” Arthur asked, feeling a flicker of hope that someone would notice them being moved. If only he could leave a clue, like Ariadne's thread or a trail of crumbs. Something Danutia would recognize . . . 

“I've told you all you need to know. It's Old Beltane, and time to move on.”

Geoff returned to the tray and removed the half-folded cloth, revealing a plate with two oatcakes. Drawing himself to his full height, he said, “The death in the millpond so many years ago was to bring back the true way, the ancient way, to honor the gift of water. Now begins the ritual to honor fire. These oatcakes present a choice. The one who chooses the oatcake with the cross burned on the underside will be the sacrifice. Stephen, you will choose first. You will say ‘the one closer to me' or ‘the one farther away.' Nothing more.”

Arthur's insides were gripped with terror as he glimpsed where Geoff's “game” was heading. Beltane was a fire ritual. Would Geoff set fire to the shed, with them inside? “Geoff, make me the sacrifice,” he pleaded. “I'm the one who can do you most harm if I live. The boy will keep your secret. He'll be too terrified to tell. Let him go free!”

“Very well then!” Geoff said, changing direction. As he moved towards Arthur, he turned the plate around. Now the oatcake that had been closer to Stephen was closer to Arthur.

Arthur took a deep breath. “The one closer to me.” Geoff held up the oatcake to show the rough cross burned on the underside.

“It seems as though you have your wish,” Geoff said, feeding Arthur bits.

As he choked down the dry oatcake, Arthur suddenly remembered the burned fragments in the stomach of Lindow Man, the burned fragments in Timothy Roberts's stomach. His throat seized up and his stomach convulsed with fear at being part of something so ancient, irrational, and terrifying. Geoff offered him a draught from his glass to help him swallow.

Arthur took a small sip, then closed his lips and shook his head. It was tempting to drain the glass, let himself sink into oblivion, but that would leave Stephen in Geoff's power, undefended. He must continue to do what he could to save the boy. If that meant making himself a sacrifice, so be it. The oatcake was again at his mouth. Arthur opened his lips.

When the last fragments were gone, Geoff crossed the room and presented the plate to Stephen. The boy stared at the remaining oatcake, his eyes filled with terror.

“It's all right, Stephen,” Arthur urged. “It's safe now.”

Stephen turned his head away. “I can't,” he whispered.

Geoff regarded his prisoners for a moment, first the boy, then Arthur. With a cruel smile on his face, he took the oatcake from the tray and turned it over. A cross was burned on the underside of this cake too.

The silence in the room was so deep it seemed like it might never be broken.

A door thudded and
heavy boots tramped closer. The interview with the so-called Grand Master must be over. Danutia had been excluded. “Sorry luv,” Kevin had said, nodding towards Inspector Royce's office. “Orders.” She'd tried again to reach Arthur—she'd phoned from the hospital while waiting for their suspect to be rehydrated—then dropped into the closest chair, dirt and all, muscles aching from her belly crawl through the tunnel. She must have dozed off.

“Any leads on Stephen?” she asked, though the answer was plain in Kevin's tired eyes and unsmiling face.

Kevin shook his head and dropped into the seat beside her. “At first the bastard denied everything. Royce pointed out that things looked bad for him, what with him having stolen goods in his possession. Then he changed his tune. He admitted that Eric had arranged a meeting, but said Stephen never showed up. So he skulked around the village and overheard people talking about Stephen going missing, and figured he'd better lie low. Says he hid out with a couple bottles of whiskey, with the results you saw.”

“I was so sure we would find Stephen with him,” Danutia said. “I still think he may know something that would help us find the boy.”

“You were right about one thing,” Kevin said. “His fingerprints confirm that he's Cameron Roberts. Question is, why has he been hiding out around Mill-on-Wye? All he'll say is that someone in the village was helping him—besides Eric, that is—but he won't say who.”

“It has to be Bob Ellison. They were working at the same firm when Roberts went to prison, remember? We need the details of that case.”

“Give me a few minutes and I'll download his file.”

While Kevin retrieved Roberts's file from the Police National Computer, Danutia went in search of a washroom and coffee. She found the Ladies, locked the door, and set to work. Nothing she could do about the bags under her eyes or the limp blond curls plastered to her head. Her face was black as a coalminer's and stinging from a couple of scratches. She splashed it with cool water and rubbed gently with antibacterial soap till her skin shone, albeit a sickly hue under the fluorescent light. Stripping to the waist, she then washed her sweaty neck and upper body with a wet paper towel. That would have to do until she could crawl into a hot bath.

She slipped back into her sweaty bra and shirt and went in search of coffee for her sluggish brain. A constable directed her to an electric kettle and a jar of instant. As she stirred the stubborn granules, she glanced up at a clock.

Almost six. She was late for her meeting with Arthur and no closer to finding Stephen than they had been at ten o'clock this morning. In a few hours it would be dark. That's when the Beltane ritual would be held, Liz had said, in the dark hours when the veil between this world and the spirit world is thin. Time was running out.

Coffee cup in hand, she hurried back to Kevin's desk. He wasn't there. She tried Arthur's number again. Still no answer. Nor was he at the Reward. She hung up, disturbed. He was as desperate to find Stephen as she was. Where could he be? Something must be wrong.

Kevin returned with a folder in his hand. “Got the file on Roberts,” he said. “Along with the coroner's report on his son. Let's have a look.”

“Hold on,” Danutia said. “Something else has come up. I'm worried about Arthur. Right after our meeting with Royce this morning, he went off to confront the Reverend Marple, and now I can't reach him.”

“Confront Marple? About what? Those rumors about Timothy Roberts?”

“Not just that. About Stephen. As far as we know, Marple hasn't been seen since the well dressing procession Saturday afternoon. He left a message for Patricia Wellcome about his absence, but she's been very close-mouthed about it. She finally told Arthur that Marple would be back this morning. Arthur set off for Ashford just about the time you and I left for Manchester. I didn't think Marple was a likely suspect, but now I'm not so sure. Arthur and I were supposed to meet at Well Cottage at five-thirty. I've called several times, but there's no answer. I'm getting worried.”

“If you want to look for Arthur, go ahead,” Kevin said. “I have to deliver Roberts to Bakewell for a meeting with his parole officer, then bring him back here. We can meet up later.”

“That may be too late,” Danutia said. “If we're right about the connection with the Beltane ritual, we only have a few hours to find Stephen, and now that means finding Arthur too. We're missing something, I can feel it. There has to be a link between Timothy Roberts's death and Stephen's disappearance. Roberts may have the key. I need a chance to talk to him, and look for Arthur at the same time. Can you come with me and bring Roberts along?”

Kevin studied his boots, splattered with mud from the river crossing. An easygoing man, he wasn't a stickler for rules and regulations; however, neither was he a rebel. In this case, Danutia guessed, he was seeking a way to reconcile his duty with his gut instinct.

Finally Kevin looked at her, his face clearing. “Royce is stuck on Bob Ellison, thinks he sent Eric to lead us on a wild goose chase,” he said, keeping his voice low. “He didn't see the lad's face when Roberts crawled out of that cave and Stephen wasn't with him. I did. I told Eric we'd find his brother. If this is the only lead we have, I say let's take it.”

“Thanks, Kev,” Danutia said, heading for the door.

Kevin put a restraining hand on her arm. “Only I've got to cover my backside. I've been told to deliver Roberts to his parole officer in Bakewell. And so I will. Only it may take me a long while to get there.”

Bakewell, Danutia recalled, was a few miles farther down the A6 from Ashford, where Marple lived. “Right,” she said. “Let's move.”

They put Roberts in the back of a police cruiser and set out. He promptly fell asleep, his snores filling the small car.

While Kevin drove, Danutia read the details of Roberts's 1990 conviction. “Listen to this,” she said excitedly. “Guess how Roberts was caught? A driver for Braden Brick Works was pulled over for a minor traffic violation. He was acting in a suspicious manner—wonder what that means?—so the officer asked him to open the back. The truck had been packed so tightly that when the back doors were opened, a large box fell out, spilling its contents. Small electronics, and all stolen goods, as it turned out.”

“Not on the delivery invoice, I'd wager,” Kevin commented wryly.

“The driver denied knowing anything about the box or its contents. The only fingerprints found were those of Cameron Roberts, who had loaded the truck, and so charges of possessing stolen property against the driver were dropped. That's the link we've been looking for,” she said triumphantly. “The driver was Bob Ellison.”

“Ellison, you say. Sounds to me like he ratted out his partner and got off scot-free,” Kevin said. “And now Roberts is looking for revenge.”

Danutia stared out at the now familiar landscape of low stone walls and grazing sheep. “I'd like to believe it's that simple, but it just doesn't add up. Roberts has had four months to abduct Eric and maybe Stephen too—if that's the kind of revenge he was after.”

“Ready to wake him up and question him?”

“We're almost at Mill-on-Wye,” Danutia said. “I'll see what I can find out about Arthur first.”

A few minutes later Kevin brought the car to a halt in front of Well Cottage.

Danutia knocked and then tried the door. It was unlocked as usual, though she'd urged Arthur to lock up when they left this morning. She scanned the front room. No sign that Arthur had been back. No note for her.

Motioning to Kevin to park at the pub, she hurried down the road to the Anglers Reward, pushed open the heavy oak door, and made her way to the bar through the cigarette haze and buzz of conversation.

The bartender repeated what he'd said on the phone: he hadn't seen Arthur all day. Danutia felt her throat tighten.

“Looking for Mr. Arthur, are you, my dear?” said a white-haired gentleman with a military bearing as he set two empty beer mugs on the counter. “The same, Harry,” he said to the bartender. “Mind you don't run them over, like the last time.”

It was the tic-tac man who'd sold her Duck Number 271. “Have you seen him? We were supposed to meet at five-thirty. It's almost half-past six.”

“Still yammering with Dr. Geoff, like as not. Those two do go on, once they get started.”

Puzzled, Danutia glanced towards the bartender. “They were in here earlier?”

“No, no, I was in Buxton this morning, getting some new glasses. Somehow I managed to drop mine on the floor yesterday and stepped on them. Usually I keep an extra pair—”

Had Arthur let himself get sidetracked? How could he, at a time like this?

“Where did you see them? What time?” she asked. “Sir—”

“Right. I'd just come out of the optometrist on Market Square, where the buses stop, you know, so convenient, when this white van pulled up a few feet away. I was about to tell the driver it was a No Parking zone when Dr. Geoff got out and called ‘Arthur!' Then they got in and drove away.”

“What time was this?” Danutia asked again.

“Must have been just after ten o'clock. My appointment was for nine-thirty—”