Unholy Rites (33 page)

Geoff undid the ropes binding Stephen. The boy tried to stand, but fell back with a cry of pain.

“Rub your legs, Stephen,” Arthur called across to him. “That will bring some life back into them.” To Geoff he said, “Let me jump with him.”

Ignoring Arthur, Geoff waited while Stephen rubbed his legs, then led him around the fire to a position near the door. On a battered wooden chair sat a small black bag like an old-fashioned medical kit. Geoff removed a slim leather-bound volume from the bag. Standing between Stephen and the doorway, he began to read in a sonorous voice.

The first jump is for the challenges in life that are easy to master. The times when an animal is sick but has not strayed far from the flock. The times when the family is hungry, but a little hard work will feed them. The times when rain starts to destroy the crop, but ceases before too much damage has been done.

Geoff closed the book with a snap. “It is time for the first jump.”

Nearly all the kindling was alight now, but some of it was obviously wet, and black smoke rose into the air. Stephen stood rooted to the ancient stones, coughing. Arthur found that the smoke, drawn to the window behind him, was starting to enter his lungs too, till he couldn't tell whether his feeling of choking came from fear, or the smoke, or from both together. The one thing he knew was that Stephen must jump, must buy them time.

“Jump, Stephen,” he called out. “You're a big boy, it will be easy.”

Arthur's words seemed to galvanize Stephen into action. The boy took two steps back and sprang over the flames, panting a little when he landed.

“Good jump, Stephen. Well done,” Arthur called to him. Stephen smiled shyly.

Geoff looked at Arthur with his sardonic smile. “Acting the encouraging father, are you, Fairweather? Beware the consequences.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur said.

Geoff shouted over to Stephen. “Build up the fire. Wait. I'll show you.” He moved the Wicker Man farther away from the smouldering kindling. “Find pieces that reach almost as far as the Wicker Man and make a tepee with them, like the first one. Do it slowly, piece by piece.”

He brought the chair from the door closer to Arthur's wheelchair. Keeping his eyes on Stephen, he said, “I hear it all the time, parents saying, ‘Oh Dr. Geoff, my Billy is getting excellent marks in science, he's going to be a doctor just like you, aren't you, Billy?' and the young lout is sitting there full of rage because he wants to be a footballer. They don't have any idea what it would do to him if he did become a doctor.”

Arthur choked back the temptation to argue, to say that he would have welcomed any encouragement from the bitter, withdrawn man his father had become in Stockport. Cautiously he asked, “Is that what happened to you?”

Geoff turned to Arthur. “Most parents are ignorant fools, without wealth or connections; their children don't have the intelligence to fulfill their parents' fantasies. My father had the connections, and soon realized that I had the intelligence to follow in his footsteps. He set out to train me. At first it was fun, dissecting frogs or a stray cat that had been hit by a car. My father even encouraged my drawing, as long as I stayed faithful to the original. It would help me to learn anatomy, he said.”

Stephen was rummaging through the woodpile, picking up sticks of wood and discarding them. “That's enough, Stephen,” Geoff called.

Arthur eyed the flames. Stephen would never be able to jump that. Maybe he could keep Geoff talking until the fire burned down. “When did it stop being fun?” he asked.

“You want to hear the sad story, do you? Well, why not. It isn't quite time for the next act of our little drama.” He called across the room, “Sit down and stay quiet, Stephen.” He turned back to Arthur. His face shone with sweat, but he hadn't removed his tie or suit jacket. “During my final year at boarding school,” he said, “I came home at April spring break to find that our old family dog had died. My father had had his body preserved in formaldehyde and was eager to put me to work dissecting it. I refused. My father said I'd never make it through medical school if I was squeamish. The long and short of it, as is obvious, is that I gave in. Ah, but the consequences.” He smoothed his mustache, staring into the dancing flames.

Arthur was about to prompt him when Geoff took up the tale. “I went back to school. It wasn't long before I beat up one of the younger boys. Father's money had been enough to smooth over earlier incidents, but this time the principal said he had no choice but to suspend me. Mother was afraid of how my dad would respond and sent me to stay with her brother, my uncle. I've told you a little about my uncle, but I didn't tell you he was also a doctor and lived in Rowsley. He was called in when Timothy Roberts was found. My uncle . . .” Again Geoff lapsed into silence.

Arthur struggled to keep alert. Concentrate, he told himself, fighting off panic. Keep Geoff talking. He said, “Is that why you killed Timothy, because you were angry at your father?”

“Come, Fairweather. Anger is childish. You can't think it was as simple as that. My uncle was fascinated by primitive religions, and he'd been talking to me about the triple death. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't too squeamish to perform a sacrifice as the ancients had done. I think it frightened my poor family. My uncle convinced the coroner, who was a fool, that it must have been a freak accident. I'm sure he knew better, because some paintings I had of Timothy's went missing. One day they were in my drawer and the next day they were gone. It was stupid of me to keep them, but I loved his paintings. Tim had talent, you see, and I knew I'd never be anything more than a Sunday dauber. At any rate, I was whisked off to medical school in Cape Town, and kept in exile there for fifteen years. Now I'm back, and this time I'm in control.”

Geoff extracted the gold pocket watch from his vest pocket, gave a little nod, and returned it. “Stephen,” he said loudly. “It's time for the second jump. Come around the fire. Walk slowly, and stand where you were before.” He took the book from the black bag and began to read.

The second jump is for life's greater challenges. Several of the flock die from a disease that is hard to identify. Perhaps a child or close relation dies. Perhaps there is great financial hardship. It is possible to jump over difficulties like these, but it is hard, and the jumping usually leaves a mark to be carried through the rest of life. It is time for the second jump.

Stephen looked at the fire apprehensively. Arthur couldn't blame him. Though the flames had died down, they were still at least three feet high.

“Stephen,” he called out. “You can make it. I know you can. Remember Dr. Geoff said he'd let us go if you can do the three jumps.”

Geoff bent down and whispered in Arthur's ear, “You're still playing the good father, Fairweather. Before this is finished, I'll show you how good a father you really are.” He straightened up and said, “Stephen, the Beltane fire is waiting.”

Stephen gazed at Arthur and seemed to take courage. He took four steps back and then ran towards the fire, his arms spread as though he were flying.

The Reverend Mr. Marple
lived not in the imposing vicarage Danutia expected, but in a modest cottage a short walk from the church. The warm stone glowed in the setting sun. Purple aubretia tumbled over the dry stone wall, and wisteria brushed them as they passed under the arbor gate. The tiny front garden was filled with the scent of lilacs from the shrubs beside the door. A watering can sat on the worn front step. A seemingly innocent scene.

Kevin knocked and knocked again.

The man who finally opened the door didn't look like the killer Cameron Roberts claimed him to be. Marple peered out at them with a puzzled look, one hand grasping the doorknob, the other balancing a tray of seedling lettuces. His light wool sweater was rucked up over his paunch, his chinos streaked with mud and grass stains. Only his dog collar announced his vocation. Without his cassock he seemed to have lost the surety and posturing that so annoyed Danutia at Ethel's funeral. Until he opened his mouth.

“Ah, Sergeant Oakes,” Marple said, his large lips pursed in surprise. “The Lord has blessed us with a fine day, hasn't He? Forgive me for taking so long, I was preparing to tuck these seedlings in before we lose the light.”

“Have you heard from Arthur Fairweather?” Kevin asked. “We understand he was planning to stop by, and we were hoping to catch up with him here.” Danutia smiled reassuringly. Because they had insufficient evidence for a warrant, they needed his invitation to get into his house. They'd agreed on a casual approach, concealing their sense of urgency. Danutia tried to put Roberts out of her mind. He hadn't been too happy when Kevin handcuffed him to the car door handle.

Marple raised his shoulders and shook his head, his lips downturned as though sorry to disappoint them. “Not a peep. I didn't get back till noon and I've been out in the garden much of the afternoon. If he came by and didn't look in the back, he might have missed me. My hearing's not too good, as you can tell. Wanted to see me, did he? Still grieving the loss of his mother, I suppose. That's when many people find they need the comforts of the church.”

“Likely he'll turn up shortly.” Kevin gestured towards the open door. “Do you mind if we wait inside?”

“Oh of course,” Marple said. “What am I thinking of, keeping you standing here on the doorstep. As the apostle says, ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.' Not that you're strangers. Though I'm afraid I've forgotten your name, young lady, Constable—” Marple's slack lips revealed large, crooked teeth.

“Corporal now. Corporal Dranchuk.” And I'm no angel, she was tempted to say, but held her tongue. She had agreed to let Kevin take the lead in determining Marple's whereabouts at the time of Stephen's disappearance. She would try to find out more about the vicar's connection with Timothy Roberts, although she hadn't shared her agenda with Kevin.

Marple set down the plant tray and brushed off his hands. The front door opened onto a tiny hall with stairs leading up. The small sitting room to the right was furnished with dark, heavy furniture better suited to more spacious quarters. Somber religious paintings decorated one wall; the other was filled with sentimental water­colors. French doors opened onto the dining room. Beyond lay the kitchen. Not much space to hide hostages.

“Tea?” Marple asked.

“Yes please,” Danutia replied quickly, lest Kevin decline. Marple obviously being a man with a hearty appetite, tea was likely to come with sandwiches or biscuits or cake, and she was starving. Besides, tea making would give her a chance to snoop.

“Mind if I have a look at your garden?” she asked, following Marple into the kitchen. Bodies were regularly unearthed from innocent green patches like the small rectangle she could see through the sliding glass door. Though if Liz Hazelhurst was right about the Beltane ritual, Stephen was still alive, hidden away somewhere until tonight. She stepped out onto the flagstone patio and looked around. No garage. A tiny garden shed with its door wide open. No sign of newly turned earth, except for one small spot, intended no doubt for the lettuces.

She took a quick tour around the cottage, then stepped back inside, where Marple was arranging cheese and crackers on a crystal dish. “Charming place you have here,” she said, “though not much storage space. Do you have a cellar?” She'd seen no door leading to a space under the house, but wanted to double-check.

“No, no cellar,” Marple said. “I try to restrain my desire for possessions. This cottage is what the parish can afford, and I'm grateful to have a place in which I can stay undisturbed.”

“May I use your washroom?” Danutia asked.

“Of course. Go up the stairs and it's immediately on your right,” Marple said.

Confident Marple couldn't hear her movements, Danutia climbed the stairs and threw open the doors on the corridor. No bound figures or dead bodies, just a spartan bedroom and an untidy study crowded with a large, battered desk. There was no place two people could be hidden. If Marple had hostages, they were somewhere else. She flushed the toilet in the bathroom and arrived downstairs as Marple carried in a laden tea tray. Chocolate digestives had joined the Brie and crackers, along with a dish of olives.

Danutia filled her plate. Marple poured tea and then, his duties done, dropped into the leather recliner, which creaked in protest. He shook his head slowly. “I do hope Arthur makes it while the tea is still hot. Such a pity about his mother.”

Beside her, Kevin took a deep breath. “I believe Arthur had something different in mind. He wanted to ask you some questions about Stephen Ellison.”

Marple folded his hands together. His face had settled into an expression of sorrowful concern, an expression Danutia was sure he must have practiced in front of a mirror. “Dreadful, just dreadful. I visited Alice earlier today, on my way home from London. Beside herself, the poor woman.”

“What took you to London?” Kevin asked.

Marple's hands trembled as he picked up his teacup and took a sip. “Family business.”

Leaning forward for a chocolate digestive, Kevin said, “Reverend Marple, you're a sensible bloke, so I won't beat around the bush. When something bad happens, the police have to ask questions of a great many people so that we get a clear picture of who was where, when.”

He bit into the digestive biscuit and chewed for a moment, then continued. “Now here's the thing. You had a big part in the Blessing Day activities, but no one saw you during the evening, which, as you know, is when Stephen disappeared. From what we've been told, you left a message asking the former vicar to take over Sunday services for you, even though the Flower Festival was continuing and your presence was needed. If it was Arthur asking questions, you might well decide your family business was no business of his. But it's me asking, and I'd like a straight answer.”