Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘You’re right. He is still alive – just. Amazing as it looks like he’s been here for some time.’ They were leaning over Elsdale, with three of the monks hovering behind them. ‘We’ve got to get him indoors before hypothermia sets in – if it hasn’t already.’

  ‘But what about that wood splinter?’ Russell said, pointing to the bloody protrusion.

  ‘We’ll just have to take the chance. It must have missed his heart but God knows what other damage it could have done.’ He turned to the monks. ‘One of you fetch towels. I think there could be a lot of blood.’ Dhamasiddhi turned and ran back to the house. ‘And you two,’ he gestured at Sanghaketu and Vidyatara, ‘you’ll have to help me lift him.’

  As they bent and gently eased the unconscious man away from the fallen branch, Dharmasiddhi returned with a bundle of towels. Crooks pressed one against the front of the man’s side, where fresh blood had started oozing out of the wound and, as the man was lifted, he did the same at his back.

  Crooks held the towels in place, cradling the man in an embrace. ‘Sonny, clear a table in the kitchen, there’s no time to take him upstairs.’

  Russell trotted ahead and into the dining room where the remaining retreatants were standing around, looking baffled. ‘Quick! Move this stuff!’ The tone in his voice galvanised them into action and within seconds there was a clear surface. As the two monks gently laid Elsdale on the table, Crooks slid his arm out from beneath him and leant forward, his ear to the man’s mouth. ‘He’s breathing – but we need to get him to hospital. Can someone ring for an ambulance?’

  Karunavadra strode into the room. ‘I have already done it. They are on their way.’

  Amazingly, considering the weather conditions, the ambulance arrived in less than 20 minutes. The ambulance men worked efficiently and quickly had Elsdale bandaged and laid on a stretcher. The consensus was that he was lucky and the splinter of wood may have missed his organs. However, his breathing was very shallow and they were anxious to get him to the hospital in Uckfield.

  -0-

  Russell and Crooks sat in the Shambhala dining room, cradling mugs of tea. ‘What do think, Sonny?’ Crooks asked.

  Russell leaned back, a puzzled look on his face. After a pause he spoke, ‘I’m not sure. He may have tripped and fallen. But somehow I don’t think so.’

  Crooks cocked his head to one side and stroked his chin. ‘Really?’

  ‘In order to fall heavily enough he would have had to have been running, and in that case, would most likely have fallen forward.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

  ‘I think it’s more likely that he was pushed – hard, and fell backwards, bashing his head at the same time.’

  ‘Hence the contusion on his skull.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So the question is, who pushed him?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Mmm. I think so. I’ll need to talk to the monks.’

  ‘Do you need me anymore?’

  ‘No, that’s fine, John. You get back off to Collinghurst. I’ll join you later.’

  Chapter 5

  The London, Brighton and South Coast Railway (LB&SCR) known as "the Brighton line", was a railway company in the United Kingdom from 1846 to 1922. Its territory formed a rough triangle, with London at its apex, practically the whole coastline of Sussex as its base, and a large part of Surrey.

  ‘I’ve checked those addresses, Sir, and they don’t appear to exist.’ DC Weeks looked baffled, his mop of dark curly hair, flopping over a furrowed brow.

  Russell was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and whistling a snatch of Junior Parker’s Mystery Train. He sat forward. ‘I’m not surprised. I wondered about that Laurie Baker when I first set eyes on him. He seemed such a strange little man with that odd haircut.’

  Russell had returned to the police station at Collinghurst after a slow but uneventful journey along the slippery roads. The monks at Shambala had furnished him with the address for Baker but Week’s search had thrown up a blank – the place didn’t exist. He’d also got Helen’s address and was rather upset to find that it was also false. He had wondered about her since he heard she’d left early with Baker. He was reluctant to admit that he might have misjudged her. He put the notion out of his mind.

  ‘Anyway, tell me about your new career as a getaway driver.’ Russell’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Weeks all but blushed. ‘W-what do you mean?’ he stammered.

  The DI chuckled. ‘Just pulling your leg, son. I think you did well to get into Atkins’s confidence. When do you think you’ll be seeing him again?’

  ‘I don’t know. He left the pub in such a hurry after the phone call; he didn’t say anything about another meeting.’

  ‘Tell me again what you heard.’ Russell knew that the younger man would have perfect recall of what was said.

  ‘Well, although I only heard one side of the conversation - Atkins’s - it sounded pretty heated. It seemed that Laurie…’

  ‘Ah, Laurie Baker…’

  ‘Yes, Laurie Baker. He was concerned because Elsdale had suddenly appeared and he couldn’t understand why he was there.’

  Russell scowled. ‘I can quite understand that. Elsdale turned up unannounced on Saturday morning. We had a chat and he said his train had stopped at Buxted because the line was blocked.’

  ‘But why did he make his way to Shambhala?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘He said he’d seen a notice saying there was a retreat and he assumed that the monks would give him shelter. Anyway, go on.’

  ‘Atkins said he thought Elsdale was on some sort of mission on his own. Then he said,’ - Weeks looked at his notes - ‘“Take him outside and give him a good talking to”. The trouble is, I think the line went dead before Elsdale heard the whole sentence.’

  Russell let out a snort. ‘That explains it. Apparently a branch fell on the telephone line – presumably just at the critical moment.’

  ‘How much of the sentence do you think he did hear?’

  There was a pause, then, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if all he heard was “Take him out”,’ Russell said, in his best James Cagney impersonation.

  Weeks grinned. ‘That was rather good, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Anyway, I reckon Baker got the wrong end of the stick…’

  ‘…And Elsdale ended up on it.’

  Russell raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite. Going back a bit, when I was away, did you say you told DI Parker about your meeting with Atkins?’

  ‘That’s right, Sir. As usual, he dismissed it. Talked about being conned by a con.’

  ‘Typical. Anyway, I think you’re on to something, and you have my full backing.’

  ‘But what about the Super?’

  ‘You leave Superintendent Stout to me. Now, you might have been lucky so far in gaining Atkins’s trust but have you considered what you’ll say if he asks what you do?’

  Weeks looked thoughtful. ‘Only vaguely. Do you have any suggestions, Sir?’

  ‘Actually, yes. I’ve given it some thought and come up with an idea. How about you say you worked for a family firm?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘You had a falling out with, say, your father, and you started filching money from the company. How does that sound?’

  ‘I like the sound of that.’

  ‘Then you got found out.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it have to go to court, then get in the papers?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It’s quite possible they’d want it hushed up – wouldn’t want the publicity.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘Then you could tell Tommy you were between jobs.’

  ‘D’you think he’d buy it, Sir?’ Weeks still looked doubtful.

  ‘I don’t see why not. If he started digging I’m sure we could provide some evidence. But, to be honest, I don’t think he will. He’s taken quite a shine to you. But just in case, you’d better come up with
a name and a place, far enough away that he’s unlikely to have heard of it.’ Russell gave a big smile. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Meanwhile, the sun’s nearly over the yardarm. I think it’s time you took your crossword off to the Queen’s Head. I’ve a feeling that our friend Tommy Atkins is likely to turn up there before too long.’

  -0-

  Sure enough, Weeks had taken only a few sips from his pint and filled in a couple of clues in his crossword when the door of the saloon bar opened and a smiling Atkins breezed in, on his own this time.

  ‘’Ello cocker,’ he said, smiling at Weeks. ‘Ready for another?’ Weeks gave him the thumbs up. Atkins marched up to the bar. ‘Two pints and two chasers please landlord.’ He carried the drinks over to the corner table on a tin tray. The tray was printed with a picture of a toucan balancing a pint of stout on its beak. Atkins sat down and punched Weeks playfully on the arm. ‘Good to see you, mate. What you been up to?’

  Weeks was taken aback. ‘Me? Oh, you know, this and that, ducking and diving.’

  Atkins’s manner changed. He looked directly at Weeks. ‘What is it that you actually do?’ he asked.

  ‘Er, I’m between jobs at the moment.’ He was glad that he’d had that talk with his boss.

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, what was the last one?’

  Weeks lowered his voice. ‘It’s a bit awkward really. I don’t like to talk about it.’

  Atkins leaned towards Weeks until his face was only inches away. ‘Listen chum. I’ve invited you to take part in somethin’ that’s gonna earn you a lot of money for very little effort. I don’t want no nasty surprises so you’d better tell me about it – awkward or not.’

  ‘Yes of course, Tommy.’

  ‘So spill the beans.’ Atkins sat back and took a drink.

  ‘We-ell, it was like this. When I left school my dad wanted me to work for the family firm.’

  Atkins cut in. ‘An’ what was that?’

  ‘Stockbrokers.’

  ‘Blimey! I thought you was bright.’

  ‘It was only a small firm, Holloway and Son.’

  ‘But still…’

  ‘Anyway, I wasn’t keen but he insisted, so I gave in and joined the firm.’ Weeks was starting to enjoy his new fictitious life and was getting into his stride. ‘I stuck it out for a while, but just couldn’t get enthusiastic about it. I was dead relieved when I got called up to do my National Service.’ This part at least was true.

  ‘Yeah, you said you’d been in the Army.’

  ‘I enjoyed my time and was sad to leave.’

  ‘Didn’t you want to join up as a regular?’

  ‘No, I’d had enough. But also, I didn’t want to go back to the firm.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I had to go back.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Oh you know, family pressures…’

  ‘What a bugger.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘’Ow come you ain’t there no more?’

  Weeks took a deep draught from his glass, then put it down carefully on a beermat, bearing the phrase, Guinness is good for you! ‘I just didn’t want to be there. Didn’t know how I was going to stick it out.’

  Atkins leaned forward, totally absorbed by the story. ‘How did you?’

  ‘Embezzlement.’

  ‘You what?’

  Weeks realised he might have gone too far. ‘Oh you know, started filching money.’

  ‘Really?’ Atkins beamed his amusement.

  Weeks relaxed into his chair, his arm thrown casually over the back. ‘It was easy really. Because I was a member of the family I handled quite large sums of money. I found I could siphon some off without it being noticed, small amounts at first, gradually getting bigger.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got found out. Probably because I got too greedy.’

  Atkins whistled. ‘Christ!’ He paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Why ain’t you inside?’

  ‘I should be but the family didn’t want it to go to court. Made me pay back the money, then booted me out.’

  ‘Shit! No wonder you could do with some dosh.’ Weeks gave his best cheeky puppy grin and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He reckoned he’d got away with it. Atkins took a swig from his glass then grinned. ‘You old dog.’ He had obviously accepted the yarn. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘sorry about running out on you last night. I ’eard something that gave me a bit of a shock. Think it’s sorted now.’

  ‘Really?’ Weeks said mildly.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon. Anyway, you still up for the job?’

  Weeks was about to reply when the door swung open and a little man with a distinctive haircut bustled in. He looked round, and spotting Atkins, made straight for their table. Seeing Weeks he scowled. ‘Who’s this?’

  Atkins grinned. ‘Laurie mate. Relax. Meet Johnny.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He’s gonna ’elp us with the job.’

  The other man sat down slowly but looked suspiciously at Weeks: ‘All right?’ Weeks nodded in return. ‘Tommy. Can I ’ave a word – in private?’

  ‘Nah, don’t worry about Johnny.’ He put his arm round Weeks’s shoulders and grinned. ‘It’s oaky, ’e’s one of us. He won’t say nuffink, will yer?’

  ‘Course not.’ Weeks tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Mum’s the word.’ Inside he was quaking but he couldn’t believe his luck. This must be the very man who had been at the retreat with his DI.

  Atkins spoke again: ‘What’s so important then, Laurie? Did you suss out the railway?’

  ‘’Fraid not, the line was blocked by snow when I was there. I’ll ’ave to go back once it’s cleared.’ He paused, and then with some reluctance went on: ‘I think we might have a bit of a problem.’

  Atkins stiffened. ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘You know I told you on the phone that Elsdale had turned up?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you told me to “Take him out”?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You told me to…’

  ‘Yes I heard what you said!’ Atkins said sharply. ‘Except I said, “take him outside and give him a good talking to”.’

  Baker blanched. ‘Oh God! I didn’t ’ear all of that. The line went dead.’

  Atkins leaned forward and grabbed the other man by his shirt front. ‘What ’ave you done?’ he growled.

  ‘I think I killed him.’ Baker had turned white.

  Weeks gazed from one to the other in horrified fascination.

  ‘What?!’ Atkins barked, through gritted teeth. Baker then described the tussle in the woods behind Shambhala and how Elsdale had fallen on the branch. ‘And you left him?’

  ‘What else could I do?’

  ‘And you’re sure he was dead?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Baker said, wretchedly.

  ‘That’s just bleedin’ wonderful. What the ’ell are we gonna do now?

  There was silence for a few moments then Weeks spoke, ‘Er, do you know what hospital they’re likely to have taken him to?’

  Baker turned quickly towards him. ‘Why?’ he spat.

  Weeks thought rapidly. ‘Oh, er, I might know a nurse who works over in mid-Sussex.’

  Baker’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who said it was over in mid-Sussex?’

  ‘Er, you did. You said it happened at Shambhala, near Buxted.’ Weeks was sweating but trying hard not to show it.

  Baker relaxed and sat back in his chair. ‘Mm. Yes, so I did.’ A pause. ‘Do yer think yer might be able to find out if ’e’s, you know, dead, then?’

  ‘I can give it a try.’

  Atkins slapped the policeman on the back. ‘I told you ’e was one of us.’

  -0-

  ‘So they bought your line about knowing a nurse?’ Russell asked.

  ‘They seemed to, Sir.’ The two detectives were back in Russell’s office. ‘Have we heard how Elsdale is doing?’

  ‘He’s still alive – just. He’d lost a lot of blood and lying there
, in the cold and wet, for so long had made him very weak. If he does survive, he won’t be the same.’

  ‘Are we going to bring Baker in?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, not just yet.’

  ‘Is that because we don’t have enough evidence?’

  ‘Partly that, but mainly I don’t want to rattle Atkins and his cohorts. From what we know and, thanks to you, what we’ve found out, they seem to be planning a big job. But, if Elsdale doesn’t make it, I reckon the Super will demand we make an arrest and charge somebody with murder. So let’s hope he does survive.’

  Chapter 6

  An Oast House or hop kiln is a building, often cylindrical, designed for drying hops as part of the process in brewing beer.

  Russell rubbed at the condensation on the small window of his home and peered out. The heavy grey skies of the past few days had been replaced with lighter cloud and glimpses of blue; not enough to “patch a sailor’s trousers” but a sign that the freak winter conditions were gone and spring had returned.

  He lived in a converted railway carriage, called Shinglesea, which was grounded just inland from the beach, behind a shingle ridge. A second carriage sat close behind with a lean-to extension on the back, together providing compact but adequate accommodation. The DI shared it with his wire-haired Jack Russell terrier, Aggie, who accompanied him nearly everywhere. He had missed her while he was at Shambhala and suspected that Weeks had been over-generous with treats while looking after her. ‘Come on Ag, time for a blow on the beach before we head off to work. You need to run off some of that podge.’ The small dog cocked her head to one side and looked at him coyly.

  The two crossed the strip of pasture, close-cropped by rabbits, and climbed up on to the ridge. As they crested the top the fresh breeze caused Russell’s hair to swirl round his head like a dervish and ruffled the dog’s shaggy coat. The tide was out and they made their way down towards the sea, crunching across the shingle and on to the sand left smooth by the receding water. Aggie loved being there and ran in huge circles, ears flat against her head, tail straight out behind and going like the wind. ‘Mad dog!’ Russell chuckled. They set off east for half a mile before Russell whistled to the dog and they turned back, heading into the stiff westerly. The walk had cleared Russell’s head and he felt ready to face another day. As they climbed back over the ridge he could see a car making its way gingerly along the rutted track. He waved as it stopped outside his home. Weeks had come to pick him up.