Unholy Rites (8 page)

“It's nothing like that,” Danutia said, half embarrassed and half pleased. “A friend of Arthur's was acting in a play. We took the late train back on Saturday, if you must know.” Too late for Arthur to catch a bus to Mill-on-Wye, though she wasn't about to tell Kevin. She'd smuggled him into her room at the Temple and made up a bed for him on the floor, then smuggled him out before Mr. Blackstone was up.

She didn't mention their climb up Grin Low to Solomon's Temple on Sunday morning either. Standing beside her on the stone parapet, Arthur had gestured towards Buxton, spread out below them, and the distant moors. “All these things I will give thee,” he said, “if thou wilt give me but a kiss.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” she had retorted, and so he had, putting his arms around her and holding her close until she pulled away.

They had reached Mill-on-Wye. As Kevin turned into Mill Lane, Danutia's attention shifted to Well Cottage. It looked rather dismal, despite the crocuses and early daffodils. A milk bottle on the steps, curtains closed, no smoke from the chimney.

“That's Ethel Fairweather's cottage, isn't it,” Kevin said. “I didn't know her myself, but the wife did, through the well dressing. Want to invite your friend Arthur to lunch with us?”

Danutia felt her cheeks turn warm. “No, of course not, we're working. Besides, he's probably not even up yet. He's one of those night owls, stays up half the night and sleeps till noon. A waste of the best part of the day, if you ask me.”

At the Reward they ordered from the bar, jacket potato and coffee for Danutia, shepherd's pie and a pint for Kevin, and carried their drinks to a table outside the front door. The wind was still blowing, the sky overcast, but the day was warming up. Warmth radiated from the stone walls behind them and brought out the smells of damp earth and new vegetation.

Kevin took a long swig of beer and licked his lips appreciatively. “Good stuff. Brewed not far from here, in Sheffield.” His gaze turned thoughtful. “What do you make of these sheep killings, then?”

Danutia dug in her purse for her notebook and pencil. “In my class last week the statistician was talking about finding patterns. Let's start with what we know about the three cases since January and see if there are similarities. We'll need a map and a calendar.”

The pub door opened behind them and the barman edged through with a large tray. “More coffee? Another beer?” he asked as he set down plates, cutlery, and condiments.

“What we need is a calendar,” Kevin said. “Would you have one we could borrow for a few minutes?” The barman retreated to hunt. Kevin pushed his chair back. “I'll fetch a map from the car.”

While she waited, Danutia dug into her huge baked potato, the size of a six-inch sub and filled with curried chicken salad. Her Canadian dollars didn't go far here. Luckily jacket potatoes were cheap, substantial, and came in many varieties.

When both map and calendar had arrived, Danutia pushed aside her plate and wrote while Kevin recalled the details.

SHEEP MUTILATIONS

Incident #1

Date: found by farmer
c.
mid-Jan. (check incident report for date); dead 3–4 days

Location: Top End Farm, near 248 between Tideswell and Hargatewall

Incident #2

Date: found by Derbyshire Wildlife Trust Feb. 10; dead 2–3 days; killed
c
. Feb. 7–8

Location:
c
. half-mile west of Mill-on-Wye along south riverbank

Incident #3

Date: found morning Mar. 10; dead 12–24 hrs.; likely killed during the night

Location: Rock Cliff Farm, near Priestcliffe

“It's clear the mutilations happened around the same time of the month,” Danutia said. “Let's start with the one we know most about. That happened on a Sunday. What about the others?”

“Not the second one,” Kevin said around a mouthful of shepherd's pie. “February 7 and 8 are a Friday and Saturday. It could still mean all the incidents fall on the weekend. That would make sense.”

Danutia drew a series of question marks beside Incident #1. “That still leaves a broad timeframe. Ideally, we want to be able to predict when the next mutilation will occur. A more exact date for the first incident might help. Can you call in?”

While Kevin went to radio Buxton Constabulary, Danutia studied the calendar, hunting for possible patterns. By the time he returned, she was pretty sure she'd found the answer. “Let me guess. The mutilation occurred on January 9, a Thursday.”

“Round about then, anyway,” Kevin admitted. “I could have saved meself the trouble. Now me pie's cold. How did you work it out?”

Danutia pointed to March 9 on the calendar. “See that symbol? Last night was the dark of the moon. So was February 7. So was January 9.” She flipped to the next page. “If I'm right, we can expect another sheep mutilation on April 7.”

“But where? The incidents are widely scattered.”

“Let's plot the locations on the map and see if that tells us anything,” Danutia suggested. It took only a few minutes for a pattern to become clear. The three sites formed a semicircle around Mill-on-Wye, in the order north, west, south.

“Widdershins!” exclaimed Kevin. “Counterclockwise, that's the devil's direction.”

“Maybe we
are
dealing with Satanists.” Danutia plotted where the fourth point would fall. “East of Mill-on-Wye, near Monsal Mill. That's where the sheep killer should strike next. How would he get to these places without being seen?”

“No problem there,” Kevin said, running a thick finger between the January site and Mill-on-Wye alongside a map symbol Danutia didn't recognize. “This line marks the Pennine Bridleway. It's a broad trail, heavily used by walkers as well as riders. The trails to the Priestcliffe Ditch area are a little less direct, but they're there. Going east–west, there are paths on both sides of the Wye from Buxton to Cressbrook and on to Bakewell.”

Danutia, a keen hiker, noted the trails for future reference and began refolding the map. “That suggests the culprit is a local.”

“Most likely, though as you see that could cover a fairly large area.” Kevin swallowed the last of his ale. As he set down the glass, he said, “We're forgetting one thing.”

The map crinkled as she made another fold. “What's that?”

“The missing hind legs. Our culprit may be hungry.”

“That blonde I saw
you with at the play last week,” said Arthur's friend Brad. “Who is she? I'd guess she's a Scandinavian actress except for the boobs, know what I mean?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Arthur said. “She's a friend from Canada, that's all. Ukrainian father, Swedish mother.” He wasn't about to say that Danutia was a police officer.

Brad snickered. “Friend, is it? I know you better than that, old chap. Say, whatever happened to that other Canadian cutie? Didn't you two get married?”

Arthur sipped his wine, thinking about his ex-wife. “Married and divorced. Turned out she liked her theater more than she liked me.”

“'Twas ever thus with you, wasn't it. You go for the earnest, no-nonsense types, and then they dump you because you're too frivolous.” Brad drained his pint. “My round.”

Uncoiling his long legs, Brad stood up, and in two strides was leaning over the main bar at the Reward, trying to make out the drinks and prices. He'd always been a bit shortsighted, but too vain to wear glasses and too much in a hurry to use contacts. Dark and gaunt as ever, he still looked the undernourished child from the wrong side of London. He and Arthur had acted together in many university productions and Brad had gradually established himself in the Manchester theater scene. He'd made a side trip to Mill-on-Wye on his way to audition for the upcoming Buxton Fringe, and Arthur had suggested drinks at the pub. Brad returned with their drinks and sat with his long legs splayed to the side. “Sorry to hear about your mum, by the way. I remember her struggling to say something nice about that dreadful play we were in at the uni. Yet she obviously hadn't understood a word of it.”

“Thanks, Brad. It's been six weeks. You'd think I'd have a grip by now. I thought the funeral would be the worst part, but sorting through things in the cottage hasn't been a picnic.”

“You need a purpose in life, that's what.” Brad's face took on an earnest expression Arthur knew well. You'd be shooting the breeze with him about soccer or the weather, and suddenly he'd fix you with an intense gaze as a prelude to revealing his latest passion. “There's something I want to talk to you about.”

“What is it now? You want help collecting pre-Raphaelite garden gnomes? Or arrow feathers from Sherwood Forest?”

“Mock all you want, Arthur, but this is serious. Last year I took over as president of the Manchester Humanist Society. The foundation of humanism is the recognition of human reason and responsibility as the true agents of progress in human affairs. Our mission is to combat religious obscurantism wherever it is to be found. The society was dying until the bombing woke everyone up. I mean, here's Catholic sectarians battling with Protestant sectarians right here in our front yard. Of course the bombing was condemned from all the pulpits, but a good many people were smart enough to see that the pulpits themselves were the problem. Nearly two hundred people turned out for a talk I gave on ‘The Dangers of Religious Fundamentalism.' It was amazing.”

“What do you want from me?”

Brad leaned forward. “Join us, Arthur. I know you're not much of a joiner, but I also know you're skeptical about religion. This is no time to stay on the sidelines. Fundamentalism is only going to get worse if it isn't challenged. It could do all of us in.”

Arthur was searching for a response when he became aware of a black raincoat pearled with water drops next to his elbow.

“What's this? Some new peril about to do us all in?” The South African accent was unmistakable.

Glad to have Brad's diatribe interrupted, Arthur pushed back the chair beside him. “Ah, Geoff! Join us. Dr. Geoffrey Nuttall, Brad Thompson, my old university friend.”

The doctor set down his drink, removed his wet raincoat, and settled into the chair. “Miserable weather, isn't it?” He was dressed with his usual elegance, in a brown leather jacket that looked soft as butter and light brown linen trousers.

Brad looked at his watch and grabbed the large black umbrella he'd propped against the table. “Nice meeting you, Geoff, but I'm afraid I have to go.” To Arthur he said, “I want to catch Lou before the audition. You should get in touch with her. She might have a part for you, if you're interested.”

“Maybe I'll do that. I'm going to be in Buxton Saturday night,” Arthur said, careful not to mention that he'd be seeing Danutia.

Arthur watched Brad worm his way through the crowded pub to the door, where he paused to snap open his umbrella, raised an arm in salute and was gone.

“Days like this I regret coming back from South Africa,” Nuttall said. “I've ordered dinner, I hope you don't mind. Surgery's just over and I need to grab a bite before my Art Club meeting tonight.”

“Why did you leave?” Arthur asked, curiosity and his time in Canada having loosened the tight English embargo on personal questions.

Nuttall smoothed his mustache. “Oh, this and that, you know.”

Not to be put off, Arthur hazarded, “Woman trouble?” What would be more likely, with a handsome, eligible bachelor?

“Not at all.” Nuttall waved away the suggestion with a smile, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. “Nothing to do with trouble. My father retired and passed on his practice to me, along with their cottage in Ashford. I'd intended to leave Cape Town after I finished my medical training and hadn't, so the timing seemed right.”

The waitress arrived with Geoff's meal. He unrolled his napkin, grasped the knife and fork, and then turned back to Arthur. “Now, what was your friend going on about so earnestly?”

While Geoff attacked his roast beef, Arthur explained about Brad's enthusiasm for the Humanist Society.

Nuttall held a forkful of beef and mashed potato suspended over his plate. “Your friend may be a bit potty, but he's on the right side. Medicine is supposedly a science, and yet I see craziness everywhere. Faith healing, chakra healing, distance healing, Christian Science, homeopathy. All completely irrational.” The forkful of food disappeared into his mouth and he chewed reflectively, as if deciding how to continue. “Behind them all is a resurgence of the old religions,” he said finally.

Arthur remembered his conversation with Liz Hazelhurst, a good month ago now. “You mean like Liz and Wicca?”

Nuttall snorted. “Liz is one of those ordinary middle class folk who start out thinking that paganism is dancing round maypoles, and that Druids were nice old men who spent their days making mead. Far from the truth. The ancient Druids imprisoned their religious enemies in wicker baskets and built a bonfire under them. Sooner or later, practitioners of these dark religions become so entangled in the irrationality of it all that they can't free themselves.”

Irrationality. The word prompted the question Arthur had shoved to the back of his mind. “Do you think my mother had become irrational?”

Geoff's milky blue eyes turned hard as ice. Who could blame him? Arthur thought. He must hate being pestered by patients and their families outside of surgery hours.

Nuttall laid down his knife and fork, his plate empty. “Your mother never said anything irrational to me, ever. Still, she was a very sick woman. Her heart could have failed at any time. As you know, she'd been to see me the day she died. If I could have done any more for her, I would have.”

“You're talking about her body,” Arthur said. “I'm talking about her mind. I've been dipping into her books on the Celts and the scrapbooks she kept. She seemed obsessed with ritual sacrifice, and I can't help wondering why.”