Unholy Rites (32 page)

“Thanks. You've been a big help,” she said as the bartender set down the man's two mugs, overflowing with foam. The tic-tac man picked them up and turned away, shaking his head and muttering.

She asked for a phone directory and use of a phone, which the bartender grudgingly supplied. He brightened when Danutia laid a five-pound note on the counter. “This should cover the calls,” she said. “Keep the change.”

Soon she was back at the cruiser, a takeout coffee for Roberts in one hand.

“We have to get to Ashford,” she said. “Arthur hasn't been around all day. He was seen in Buxton this morning, getting into that doctor's van, Geoff Nuttall. I tried calling both him and Marple. No answer. They both live in Ashford. Maybe the doctor gave Arthur a ride to Marple's house and he ran into trouble. Unlock the back, will you? And hold this coffee till I rouse Roberts. I want to see what I can find out before we get there.”

Soon Roberts was half upright, cradling the paper cup between cuffed hands. Danutia turned in her seat to talk to him. Roberts was staring out the window, looking puzzled.

“That's where Miz Fairweather used to live, innit?” he said. “What're we doin' here?”

This was unexpected. “How did you know Ethel Fairweather?” Danutia asked.

Roberts slurped his coffee. “None of your bloody business.”

She didn't have time to waste sparring. Royce and Kevin had questioned him for more than an hour without finding out much. Her only hope was to level with him. “It's time I introduced myself properly,” she said. “I'm Corporal Dranchuk, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I'm in the
UK
on secondment to a training program in Derbyshire. I have no official standing and no police powers.”

“I know who you are,” Roberts said, unsmiling. “Eric told me about you. Interfering bitch.”

Danutia took a deep breath and went on. “Arthur Fairweather, Ethel's son, is my friend. Arthur believes that the Reverend James Marple kidnapped Stephen Ellison. He went off this morning to confront Marple, and no one's heard from him since.”

At the mention of Marple's name, Roberts's face flushed. He glared at Danutia from under bushy eyebrows. “That bastard. He did for my son. What're you sayin' about him?”

“My friend Arthur went to see him and hasn't returned. I'm worried about his safety as well as Stephen's. I think you may know something that can help us find them both.” She paused for a moment, trying to find the right approach. “I understand you never believed Timothy's death was an accident.”

“Accident!” Roberts burst out. “You're bloody right it was no fuckin' accident. I told everyone it was that art teacher what did it, only nobody would listen.” Coffee sloshed from the cup, unheeded, and dripped down his arm.

“I've heard about the rumors,” she said. “There doesn't seem to be any evidence to back them up.”

“What about the bloody note then?”

“What note?” Danutia said, leafing through the police report on Timothy's death. “I don't remember any mention of a note.”

“‘Gone for a midnight art adventure,' it said. Couldn't be clearer than that, now could it? Didn't want his mum and me to worry if we found his bed empty during the night, did he? Only it must have blown off his pillow or something, 'cause the wife found it in a corner of his room a few days later. And by then it was too late.”

“There's nothing here. You're sure you turned the note in to the police?”

“Fuckin' right,” Roberts said. “Leastways there's no police in the village, see, so the wife took it to the doctor, Dr. Winslow. He said the police would investigate and let us know if they found out anything. They never did.”

Danutia turned to Kevin. “I don't see this Dr. Winslow's name in the file, just the medical examiner's. What's the procedure here?”

“Winslow was likely their family physician. The coroner would send a copy of his report, along with the medical examiner's, to him, and he would explain the findings to the family.”

“Wouldn't they get a copy?”

“Not unless they asked for it. Too much specialized medical jargon. Is that what happened, Roberts?”

“Who cares about all that mumbo-jumbo,” Roberts said. “Tim was dead, that's all that mattered, and that bloody art teacher done it, all right. It wasn't just me as thinks so. Old Miz Fairweather, she thought so too.”

“How did you get to know Arthur's mother?”

“She came to see me in prison, she did, to talk about Tim. Seems she'd heard about the way he died from Violet. She was a smart lady. She asked a lot about the art teacher, and got all excited when I told her about the note. Seems he'd turned into a priest and wanted a job in her church. She wanted to stop him getting the job and to bring him to justice. She said when I got out, I was to come here and she'd help me, if I'd help her. Then she died and it was left to me.”

This was an angle they hadn't considered. “That's why you came to Mill-on-Wye? To bring Marple to justice?”

Roberts laughed, but there was no humor in his face. “I'm going to bring him to
my
justice. I'll leave the courts out of it.”

“But you haven't put your plans into action?”

Roberts squirmed uncomfortably, as if unsure how much to tell her. “Not yet. Satan speaks to me through the ceremonies, he does. It's not the right time.”

The word “ceremonies” rekindled Danutia's earlier fears. Tomorrow night was the new moon, the time of the sheep mutilations. Was Roberts planning to take revenge on both his enemies by killing Stephen and pinning the blame on Marple? She shifted to a new line of questioning.

“It was working with Stephen's dad that landed you in jail, wasn't it?”

“Who told you that? Ellison?” Roberts demanded. “Bloody snitch. You're right, we did a little business on the side. That arsehole left me holding the can.”

“When you got out of prison, you made friends with his children so you could get back at him. Is that it? Now you're holding Stephen somewhere.”

“No, no, you've got it all wrong. I mean . . .”

“Now listen to me. You're looking at a whole string of charges, from violating parole to kidnapping. You co-operate and I'm sure the police will return the favor. Right, Kevin?”

“I'll do what I can,” Kevin said. He'd pulled into the turn lane for Ashford-in-the-Water. “Well, Roberts? We'll be at Marple's in a couple of minutes. Then it will be too late.”

“Okay, so that was my plan. I says to myself, I'll hang about, meet his boys, kidnap them, and get back my share of what we made. And make the arsehole suffer. I'd take my time, like, bringing them back. But then I met up with Eric, and he was desperate to learn from me and take part in the ceremonies. And he told me Stephen was keen to become an Acolyte too. But I swear I've never had anything to do with Stephen. If I had met him, like, I wouldn't have harmed him. Eric said he was blond and liked to draw, just like my Tim. He would be like the son I lost, don't you see? He wouldn't even have to do the ceremonies.” Roberts crushed the paper cup between his manacled hands. “But maybe you can't understand that.”

“I believe you.” Danutia had lost her only brother in a motorcycle accident, and so she understood his longing very well. His account was supported by what Eric had said about their relationship. The only new piece of information she'd gleaned, Timothy's note about the midnight art adventure, was reason enough for questioning Marple, though his motive for abducting Stephen still seemed weak.

The sun was low in the sky as they drove into Ashford-in-the-Water, postcard pretty with its tidy cottages and well-tended gardens. Kevin double-parked outside the stone wall of the churchyard.

Danutia glanced up at the squat church tower. A black-faced clock like the ones at St. Anne's and Monsal Mill gave the time as 7:15. The line of poetry Arthur had quoted came back to her: “A luminary clock against the sky/Proclaimed the time is neither wrong nor right.” The long clock hand jerked forward, and her mouth went dry. The time was very wrong. And it was slipping away, faster and faster.

“Wake up, Fairweather.
It's
time for the Beltane ritual. You wouldn't want to miss anything, would you?” The voice was Geoff's, though it seemed deeper, coarser.

Eyes too heavy to open, Arthur struggled to fling himself at that hateful voice. Cold metal pressed against his throat and he sank back. He was still bound to the wheelchair, and though his mouth wasn't taped, he couldn't seem to open his lips. His throat was dry, so dry.
It's the drug. I've got to fight it
. He forced his eyes open.

“That's better.” Geoff loomed over him, his carving knife poised. The Coleman lantern in Geoff's other hand threw dark shadows onto his sneering face. His expensive suit had disappeared, replaced by cheap blue serge with a waistcoat and watch chain, like an old-fashioned farmer, dressed for church in his Sunday best. Only the red silk tie remained.

Arthur's mouth worked open. “Why are you dressed like that?” he blurted.

“It's all part of the ritual, Fairweather. You'll understand in good time.”

His mind beginning to clear, Arthur strained to see into the shadows. “Where are we? Where's Stephen?”

“He's here, safe and sound,” Geoff said, stepping aside and holding the lantern higher.

Arthur could make out the boy about ten feet away, tied to an old kitchen chair. He was slumped against his ropes, his head bent forward. Arthur's breath caught in his throat.

“Don't worry, it's just the Rohypnol,” Geoff said. “It must be building up in his system.” He consulted his pocket watch and returned it to his waistcoat pocket. “Time to lay the fire. Were you ever a Boy Scout, Fairweather? No matter. I've had lots of practice.” He hung the lantern from a bracket and stepped outside, leaving the door ajar.

Beltane ritual, Geoff said. Fire. It was all coming back. Arthur looked around for a means of escape. They were in a room about twenty by twenty. There was only the one door, with a window beside it. A cold breeze came from somewhere, chilling his back. There must be another window behind him. Arthur craned his neck and tilted his head. Yes, a large arched window with broken panes. If he could get to it . . . He tried scooting forward. The wheelchair brakes were locked.

He heard a whisper. “Is he gone?”

“He'll be back,” Arthur said. “Are you all right?”

“I feel dizzy, and the rope's too tight. What's he going to do? I'm scared.”

“Just remember, the more we can slow things down, the more time the police will have to find us,” Arthur said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. By now, Danutia would have discovered that he'd never made it to the Reverend Marple's. Would she trace him to Dr. Geoff's? Then what? Even if Danutia found evidence that they had been held there, she wouldn't know where he'd taken them, any more than Arthur did.

The arched window and floor of large, uneven stones suggested they must be in an old abandoned warehouse or factory. No rumble of traffic or trains, no sound of people passing. He thought he heard the lap of running water, and the breeze at his back carried a marshy smell that blended with the dust and ancient stones. The smell triggered Arthur's memory. They must be in one of the ground floor rooms at Monsal Mill. He'd played in the mill as a child, soon after it closed. He and his friends had ignored the
KEEP OUT
signs and climbed in through an unlocked window, then ventured from the ground floor rooms to the machine rooms above, empty of machines, but full of a space so large it was daunting.

Maybe, he thought now, it wasn't the space that was so daunting but the stories that swirled around it. The big kids told the little kids that Ellis Jenkins, one of the original founders of the mill, was still alive, immensely old, and looking for children to torture. Now these stories seemed to fill this desolate room with a chill that went beyond simple physical sensation.

“He's coming,” Stephen whispered.

Arthur heard the sound of footsteps and Geoff's tuneless humming. The door banged open, bringing a sudden rush of cold air. Geoff entered, carrying an armful of wood scraps that he added to a pile across the room from Arthur. He twisted sheets of newspaper into circles, laid them in the middle of the room, and built a small tent over the newspaper with pieces of kindling. Taking down the lantern he approached Stephen.

A rising anger swept away Arthur's fear. He wanted to grab a big piece of wood and swing it right into that satisfied face. He lunged forward. The rope dug into his chest.

No choice but to calm down and play along, though he no longer had much hope of being found. When the mill closed, the people who lived around it moved away. There was little chance that anyone would see Geoff's van and wonder about it. Geoff had picked his spot well. But Arthur sensed he'd chosen it for more than its isolation.

“Why did you bring us here, to Monsal Mill?” he asked.

Geoff stopped and turned towards Arthur. “Have you forgotten so soon? Your brain must still be clouded. We're here for the Beltane ritual. Stephen is going to show us how he can jump the fire. Isn't that right, Stephen?”

Stephen, his blue eyes huge in his thin face, stared silently at the doctor.

Geoff set down the lantern and bent over the boy. “Scared, are you? Don't be. You can forget about the oatcakes. That was just a little game. Here's how the ritual works. If you can jump three times over the Beltane fire, then you and Fairweather can go free.” He took the carving knife from his pocket and flicked the blade. “But if you disobey me in any way . . .”

“I'll do what you say.” The words tumbled out of the boy's mouth.

Geoff put the knife back in his pocket and lit the newspaper with a match. As the paper flared into flame, he took the Wicker Man from another pocket and carefully positioned it just beyond the longest piece of kindling. Arthur didn't want to think about what that might mean.