A Dash Of Pepper

by Sam Short

  Agnes spoke in a low whisper. “Let’s get to the bottom of her electricity problem before we go introducing new problems,” she suggested.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Mary, turning to face the table again. “Does the teapot need refilling?”

  “Everything is lovely, Mary,” said Geoffrey. “It’s a beautiful spread for a Saturday morning. Naughty, but nice. I’ll need to start copying Dominic’s example and buy myself a bike if I eat a breakfast like this too often.”

  “Everything in moderation,” giggled Mary. “You’d go mad if you didn’t indulge yourself every now and again. That’s what I tell myself.”

  “I fully agree with you,” said Winston, taking the fattest muffin from one of the plates. “If you can’t have a muffin for breakfast once in a while, what can you do? Now, let me gobble this up quickly, and then I’ll get to the bottom of your electricity mystery.”

  As Mary explained about the problems with the church roof, and how expensive it was to find a specialist to do the work, Pepper listened politely, commenting when she thought it necessary.

  Not for the first time in the last two days, she wondered how much more social interaction she could take before she needed to recharge her batteries fully.

  Even though the people around her were pleasant, it was still hard work to interact in the same confident way they seemed to be able to, and Pepper found herself judging every word she said as her cheeks burned and her mouth dried.

  Relief replaced fear as Winston pushed his plate away from him, slurped the last of the tea from his cup, and pushing his chair back. “Okay!” he said. “I’m fully fuelled and ready for action! I’ll soon find out why your electricity meter is spinning like a Whirling Dervish on steroids.” He unhooked his canvas bag from the back of his chair and put it over his shoulder. “Are there any outbuildings?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” said Mary. “There’s the ruined vicarage at the bottom end of the old cemetery. But it hasn’t been used for decades. The windows are boarded up, and it has metal security doors fitted to keep children out.”

  “We should check that first,” said Winston. “It’s not unheard of for homeless people to live in old buildings like that. It’s quite easy to tap into an electricity supply, especially one as old as this church uses. It would be simple to trace the underground cable and dig down to it under the cover of darkness. From there it would take somebody with only a little electrical knowledge to tap into the main supply and run a cable to one of the disused buildings. It would be straightforward to hide that cable, too.”

  “Somebody living here without us knowing?” said Mary, her hand gripping the part of her blouse below her neck. “I don’t think that’s possible. We’d know!”

  “Oh, it happens all the time,” explained Winston. “You’d be surprised, Mary. Who knows what setup somebody might have in that old vicarage — refrigerator, television, computer — lots of things which could account for the increase in your bill.”

  Mary hurried to the other side of the room and opened one of the kitchen drawers. She searched through the contents, moving things aside before looking up and shaking her head. “I can’t find them. There are padlocks on the doors. We had keys for them, in this draw.” She frowned. “It’s been so long since anybody’s been in the old vicarage. Perhaps Dominic keeps the keys elsewhere these days.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need the keys if somebody is living in the old vicarage,” said Winston. “The padlocks might have been cut through with an angle grinder unless they gained entry through one of the windows. Either way, it shouldn’t be too hard to get in if somebody else has already broken in.”

  “This all sounds a little scary,” said Agnes. “The thought of somebody living secretively in an old vicarage at the bottom of the cemetery! It’s like something out of a horror film! Don’t you think we should phone the police instead of having a look ourselves?”

  Geoffrey stood up and pushed out his chest. “Don’t worry, Agnes,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I was on the force for a long time. I know how to look after myself. You’ll be perfectly safe with me, and if we do discover somebody living in the vicarage — then we’ll call in the police.”

  “In that case, you and Winston can go first,” said Agnes, pushing Geoffrey towards the door containing a glass panel through which Pepper could see stones marking graves. “We three ladies will bring up the rear.”

  “Naturally,” said Winston, striding towards the door and opening it before Geoffrey could. “Come on. There’s nothing to fear.”

  Leading the way, Geoffrey strode through the newer portion of the churchyard, before taking a narrow path, pointed out by Mary, which led to the older part of the cemetery where graves were overgrown and shaded by old yew trees.

  Mary pointed through a gap in the trees, indicating the red brickwork of a building. “There it is,” she said. “It would have been a happy family home once, but it fell into disrepair a long time ago, and eventually became uninhabitable.”

  “Just the sort of place that an unfortunate soul will be happy to call home,” said Winston. “One man’s ruin is another man’s palace.”

  “Not much of a palace,” commented Agnes, as they rounded a bend and came to a stop in front of the old house. “It’s in an awful state.”

  Pepper had to agree with her. Wooden boards covered all the windows, and grass grew from broken drainpipes and cracks in the roof. Ivy had colonised one half of the building, and the other half seemed to tilt a little too far to the left. She followed Winston as he approached the metal security door on which a padlock hung.

  Before Winston reached the door, Pepper could see that the lock was open. She pointed it out, her voice low. “It’s not locked,” she hissed.

  Winston softened his steps as he approached the door, and everybody else followed his lead as if scared to disturb whoever might be inside the old vicarage. “She’s right,” he whispered. “The lock’s open, and it’s not hooked through both brackets. Somebody must be inside.”

  Geoffrey bent over and picked up a length of rusty metal in his right hand. “Allow me, Winston,” he said, gently pushing his friend aside. “The electrician has done his job, now it’s time for the burly copper to do his.”

  “Then somebody needs to call one,” said Agnes. “All I can see is an old man with a stiff back and a rusty length of metal in his arthritic hand.”

  “I’ve still got more pep left in me than you’ve ever had, Agnes,” retorted Geoffrey. He stepped closer to the door. “Follow me, and be very careful.”

  “And not just of intruders,” Winston reminded the group. “Although my jurisdiction as Health And Safety Officer of the gardening club doesn’t stretch to abandoned vicarages at the bottom of creepy cemeteries, I still feel my expertise crosses all boundaries. When you’re inside, beware of —“

  “Just get in there!” snapped Agnes. “You’re insufferable sometimes, Winston.”

  The thick steel security door squeaked on rusty hinges as Geoffrey pulled it open, and he cocked his head as he stood in the open doorway, listening intently. He looked over his shoulder. “Have you got a torch in that bag of yours, Winston?”

  Winston reached into his bag and withdrew a small red flashlight. He handed it to Geoffrey. “Of course. With fresh batteries,” he announced.

  As the torch came to life, Geoffrey pointed it inside the dark building, illuminating a wall, the wooden rib cage of which peeked through crumbling plaster. “This way,” he whispered, taking a tentative step through the door. “Stay close to one another.”

  With the metal rod in his hand held high above one shoulder, and the torch thrust before him, Geoffrey made his way along a narrow corridor with doors leading off on both sides. Pepper noted the rotting staircase ahead of them and tapped Geoffrey on the shoulder. “I doubt there’s anybody upstairs,” she whispered. “It doesn’t look safe.”

  Geoffrey nodded, his glasses reflecting torchlight. “My thoughts exactly,”
he replied, pointing at the ceiling above him which was scarred by cracks, and filled with holes, the debris from which lay in the corridor they walked along.

  Pushing it slowly, Geoffrey opened one of the doors leading off the corridor and peered inside, using the torch to illuminate every dark corner. He shook his head, and continued along the corridor, checking each door as they reached it.

  Through the door at the end of the corridor was an old kitchen complete with table, chairs, and a stove which was long forgotten, its hobs supporting debris which had fallen from the ceiling, instead of pans of bubbling stews.

  Geoffrey turned in a circle, painting every inch of the room with light. “There’s nobody here,” he noted. “Are there any more rooms?”

  “Only the cellar,” said Mary. “It’s enormous, it runs under the whole of the house, and there’s another door down there which leads outside onto the lower portion of the churchyard.”

  “The ideal place for a squatter to live,” said Winston. “Where’s the cellar door, Mary?”

  “Under the stairs,” said Mary. “It looks like a cupboard door.”

  Creeping slowly from the kitchen, now aware that somebody might be beneath them, the gardening club members made their way out of the kitchen and back into the corridor. When Geoffrey reached the stairs, he shone the torch on the door built into the wood panelling beneath them. “Be careful,” he said. “If the staircase leading upstairs is that rotten, the one leading into the cellar might be the same.”

  “No,” whispered Mary. “The steps which lead downstairs are made from concrete.”

  A single nod being the only acknowledgement that he’d heard her, Geoffrey pulled the little door open and stepped through it.

  Winston followed close behind, and then Pepper stepped through after him. No sooner had she placed her foot on the first step, than a familiar smell flooded her nostrils. “That smell,” she hissed.

  “Cannabis,” said Geoffrey. He turned the torch off as if nervous that somebody might be nearby, but rather than falling into darkness, the stairway remained illuminated by a bright light which streamed up the stairs from below them.

  “What’s the smell and the light?” asked Agnes. “What’s down there?”

  Geoffrey shushed her with a finger on his lips. “Quiet. We might have uncovered a cannabis farm.”

  “Should we turn back?” hissed Mary. “It might be dangerous.”

  “I think we should have a look first,” said Geoffrey.

  Winston nodded his agreement, nudging Geoffrey in the small of his back. “Go on,” he said. “Get down there, let’s catch this blighter.”

  “Or blighters, plural,” whispered Agnes, her nails digging into Pepper’s shoulder as she held onto her for support. “There could be more than one.”

  “I don’t hear voices,” said Geoffrey. “Either there’s only one of them, or nobody’s here.”

  “Get down there, Geoffrey,” said Winston. “We could make the newspapers with this discovery! Maybe even the television!”

  Appearing to grow an inch in height, Geoffrey’s hand tightened on the metal rod he was holding as he crept down the next few steps.

  As he neared the bottom, where the mystery light was brighter, he ducked his head so he could see into the cellar below the slope of the staircase ceiling. He gave a low gasp of surprise and looked up at the people behind him. “We’re not in any danger,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to steel yourself for a shock, Mary.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mary, crouching as she attempted to get a view of what was in the cellar.

  No longer creeping, Geoffrey took the last three steps and stepped onto the concrete floor of the basement. “You’ll have to see for yourself, Mary,” he said. “I don’t know how to tell you, and I don’t think you’d believe me unless you saw it with your own eyes.”

  Chapter 25

  Her white face bathed in the light which poured up the stairs from the cellar, Mary brushed past Pepper as she approached Geoffrey. "What is it?" she asked. "A dead drug lord?"

  Geoffrey shook his head. "No, but he is a man of The Lord."

  As Mary stepped into the cellar, she put both hands to her face and gave a choking sob.

  Following Winston into the cellar, Pepper stared in astonishment at the scene in front of her.

  Lines of tall cannabis plants grew in neat rows, their roots in grow bags meant for tomatoes, and the light they needed to flourish provided by what appeared to be the sort of lights that would be found on a film set. Pepper shook her head in disbelief. Oswald Clementine's lights.

  Despite the obvious illegalities of what was occurring in the cellar, she couldn’t help herself from briefly enjoying the calm vibes which each plant communicated. Healthy, happy, and chilled out, was the overall consensus coming from the mini-forest of plants.

  An open door at the far end of the cellar allowed fresh air into the room, but the breeze did nothing to dispel the heady stench of the aroma rolling off the plants.

  The smell of the plants alone was strong enough to make Pepper’s stomach turn, but when it mingled with the sickly smell of smoke which billowed from the joint in the hand of the man lying on an old sofa placed against a wall, next to a road-racing bicycle, it made her eyes water too.

  "Dominic!" shouted Mary, approaching the Lycra-clad man who lay on his back with his eyes closed and the hand which held the joint dangling close to the floor, the glowing tip dropping ash.

  Father Dominic didn't respond to Mary's shouts, so she rushed to the sofa and snatched the joint from his hand, throwing it to the floor and extinguishing it with her foot, before delivering a slap to her husband’s face which echoed around the cellar.

  Father Dominic gave a startled gasp, and sat up straight, his stripy headband covering his eyes. He pushed it further up his head and blinked as he stared around him. "Hey," he drawled. "You don't get it from me. I just grow it. Stan sells it. But Stan is dead, man. I don't know where you'll buy it now.” He closed his eyes, and lowered himself into a lying position, making himself comfortable and giving a long sigh of contentment.

  Grabbing his wrist, Mary attempted to drag him back into a seating position, but his weight proved too much for her. "Dominic! What have you done?” she sobbed.

  Agnes hurried to Mary’s side and put a hand around her shoulder. She guided her away from where her husband lay under the influence of cannabis. "Calm down, dear," she said. "I'm sure there's a rational explanation."

  Tears streamed down Mary's face as she shook her head. "My husband is growing cannabis in the cellar of the old vicarage while he's pretending to go cycling! He’s a religious drug baron. What other rational explanation could there be?"

  “Mary's right," said Geoffrey. "There's no point in sugarcoating what's going on here." He grasped Dominic's arm and pulled the man upright. "Father Dominic!" he shouted into his face. "Wake up! You've got some explaining to do!"

  "I can take a shot at explaining what’s happened," said Winston, clearing his throat. "Father Dominic stole that long-haired film director’s lights so that he could use them in the cultivation of illegal cannabis plants. He’s been supplying Stan with the produce, and Stan was selling it. Maybe from his shed, maybe on the streets. That would explain why he had three-hundred-pounds in his pocket when they found his body. For reasons we’re yet to establish, Father Dominic and Stan must have argued. The argument turned violent, and Father Dominic pushed Stan, causing him to trip on his untied shoelace and impale himself on an upturned rake which was thrown carelessly on the floor of his shed."

  Mary's legs went from beneath her, and Pepper rushed to her side as Agnes struggled to hold her weight. “What do you mean? Dominic pushed Stan? I don't understand!"

  "Winston!" snapped Agnes. "Why did you have to do that?"

  "I — I forgot she didn't know what we’d found out,” stammered Winston. "And I feel a bit lightheaded! The smell in here is getting to me! No wonder Father Dominic isn
't responding. He’s out of his head on the drugs!”

  Placing both hands on Father Dominic shoulders, Geoffrey shook the man. "Wake up, Father Dominic — we've got some very serious questions we need answers to!"

  "What did you mean, Winston?" sobbed Mary. "What did you mean when you said that Dominic might have pushed Stan? Tell me! Tell me now!"

  Pepper decided it was time for her to speak. Guiding Mary to the little wooden chair next to a tall cannabis plant, she lowered the sobbing woman into it and knelt in front of her. She looked Mary in the eyes. "Do you remember that man we saw sneaking around the allotments on the day Stan died? The man wearing dark clothing?"

  Understanding sparked in Mary's eyes, and her lip trembled as she spoke. "You think that was my husband?"

  "I'm afraid so, Mary," said Pepper. "But there's more."

  Mary closed her eyes. "Tell me. I'm stronger than I look."

  "Agnes saw your husband breaking into Stan's shed yesterday," she said, deciding not to mention the fact that she knew Father Dominic had not broken in but had used a key. That information didn't seem relevant for the time being, and Pepper had no way of proving it at the moment even if it were.

  "You think Dominic killed Stan?" Mary asked. She gave another loud gasp. "Because I spoke to him? Because I spoke to Stan and Dominic was jealous?”

  “What do you mean?" asked Agnes, from behind Pepper. "Because you spoke to Stan?"

  Pepper turned to face Agnes. "That doesn't matter right now," she said. She turned back to Mary, and took one of her hands, squeezing it gently. "At first, I thought the same, but after seeing what's going on in this cellar, I'm not sure about what happened between Stan and Dominic. And even if Dominic is responsible for Stan's death, I don't think he did it on purpose, Mary. I believe it was an accident, but an accident with tragic consequences."

  "I don't understand," said Mary. "None of this makes sense!"

  Still concentrating on bringing Dominic out of his drug-induced stupor, Geoffrey shook the vicar's shoulders a little more vigorously. "Wake up, Dominic!" he demanded.