by Mia James
‘What are you implying?’ snapped April. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with Milo.’
‘April, I’m just trying to get a handle on Layla’s state of mind.’
April shook her head.
‘I told you, we talked about people around us dying. That does seem to be happening a lot, despite all the stuff the police keep saying about how safe we all are.’
Reece didn’t rise to the bait. ‘We are sympathetic to your loss, April. If you need to talk about it, we can arrange for a counsellor if you’d like?’
‘Oh yes, and what would I say?’ said April angrily, ‘Oh, my dad had his throat torn out by some mad psycho and bled to death in my arms? Are they going to have similar stories to share?’
Silvia cleared her throat.
‘I think what April’s saying is that she’d rather talk to me about it.’
‘No I’m not, Mum!’ said April. ‘How could I talk to you about it? You weren’t here, were you?’
‘I can’t help that I wasn’t here, darling,’ said Silvia, looking shocked.
‘But you’re never here, are you? You’ve always got something better to do, you don’t want to hear about my problems …’ she looked over at DI Reece and trailed off. ‘Sorry, Mr Reece, you came here to talk about Layla, didn’t you?’
Reece nodded and stood up.
‘Don’t worry, if anything occurs to you, you’ve got my number. I know you appreciate how concerned we are about Layla.’
April walked out with Reece. In the hallway, she stopped.
‘Do you really think Layla going missing has anything to do with my dad and all the other stuff?’ she asked quietly.
Reece looked at her for a long moment. ‘If I was saying this to anyone else, April,’ he said, ‘I’d give you the usual police line of “don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll turn up”, but I’m really not convinced. We’ve been to her house. It doesn’t look as though she has taken anything. No bag or clothes are missing. She didn’t plan to disappear, that’s for sure. And no one has heard from her. In today’s world, that’s the most worrying thing. A seventeen-year-old girl who hasn’t so much as texted a friend in almost twenty-four hours? That’s a worry.’
April opened the front door for the detective.
‘Much as I hate to admit it, April, I think your mother’s right about the car.’ He nodded towards the police car parked in the square. ‘Whoever or whatever we’re dealing with here is not going to let that stop him.’
April nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll be careful.’
He smiled. ‘You see that you do.’
‘Oh and Mr Reece? Why did you say “If it was anyone else”? Why did you tell me the truth about this?’
The smile faded from Reece’s face.
‘Partly because you lost your dad and that business with Marcus Brent – you understand the stakes, but also …’
‘But what?’
‘Because I think you know more about what’s going on here than you’re telling me.’
‘Honestly, I don’t …’
Reece held up a hand to stifle her protests.
‘That’s fine, April, I know you must have your reasons. But twenty years in this job has taught me one thing: secrets are like wounds. The longer you ignore them, hide them away and pretend they’re not bothering you, the longer they have to fester. Eventually, they make you ill. You can’t keep secrets for ever, April.’
Chapter Nine
St Michael’s was taller than she remembered. It sat overlooking the cemetery like a disapproving aunt. There was always something about churches that made her think of Miss Batty, her old headmistress in Edinburgh, a pinched-faced old harridan who looked down her nose at you, whether you were misbehaving or not. Houses of worship should be just that, thought April, somewhere you come to celebrate and rejoice. But big churches like this always made her feel as if she had done something wrong. Or maybe I’ve got something to confess, she thought to herself. Her conversation with DI Reece had unsettled her. Without saying as much, he seemed to be implying something similar to Miss Holden, earlier that day. That unless April pulled her finger out and did something, more people were going to die. People she cared about. People I love, she thought with a blush as she pushed open the door and saw the aisle ahead of her. God, April, what are you doing thinking about marriage at a time like this? She cast her eyes upwards, nervous that God might be looking down, tutting and shaking his head. What? What have I done? I only want to love him, be with him, she thought. I thought you were all about love.
April sat down on the edge of a pew, not entirely sure what she was doing there and feeling small and insignificant. Everyone seemed to be telling her she was super important, but April certainly didn’t feel that way. She thought about Layla, hoping she was okay. That was the other thing about being in church: it made you want the best for people – at least while you were there.
Looking up, her eyes were drawn to the stained-glass window. Scenes from the Bible, Jesus feeding the five thousand, Jesus healing the sick. But there was one detail that didn’t quite fit. A fox resting at Jesus’ feet. It had red eyes and one foot rested on a sword. What the hell was that all about? Admittedly April hadn’t spent a huge amount of time studying the Bible – in fact she and Fiona had pretty much used their RE lessons as a free period in which to pass notes back and forth, giggling – but she didn’t remember there being any foxes in the New Testament. Wasn’t it all set in, like, Israel and Egypt? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think they had foxes out there.
She walked down towards the altar, remembering how she had felt seeing her dad’s coffin right there, covered with flowers. It was still raw and she had to force herself not to start crying.
Under her feet she saw a carved slab reading, ‘Beneath this stone lies the body of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’, followed by a strange verse:
Stop, Christian Passer-by! – Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem’d he.
O, lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C.;
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise – to be forgiven for fame
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!
Coleridge? Hadn’t he been mentioned in English? What’s he doing buried in the middle of the floor? The squeak of a rubber sole on the stone floor made April look up. The vicar, Mr Gordon, was approaching. He had red cheeks and young, kind eyes. He’d done a good job at her dad’s funeral and she’d felt safe with him. She only hoped he could help her now.
‘Our most distinguished resident,’ said the vicar, nodding towards the plaque.
‘Is Coleridge actually buried under here?’ asked April.
‘Yes, he is. But only for the last fifty years or so.’
April looked at him curiously.
‘But wasn’t he ancient? I mean, didn’t he live in seventeen something?’
The vicar laughed.
‘Yes, born 1772, died 1834. He was originally buried in the graveyard of the Old Chapel next to the boys’ school, but there was some falling out with the trustees in the sixties and he was moved here.’
April pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t like that. I mean, aren’t you supposed to be allowed to rest in peace?’
The vicar nodded. ‘I rather agree with you. When I’m gone, I want to stay wherever I’m put. It didn’t do anything to help all the rumours about vampires in the area at the time, either.’
She looked at him, her eyes wide. Maybe Mr Gill had been right to point her in this direction after all,
‘Vampires?’
He shook his head.
‘A lot of silliness of course. Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote the first vampire tale, a poem called Cristabel about a young woman who encounters, or perhaps is a vampire. So obviously when the author rose from the grave, so to speak, some people
’s imaginations ran away with them.’
‘So that must have been the same time there were all those rumours about the cemetery?’
The vicar’s smile dimmed slightly.
‘Ah, well that was something different. St Michael’s may back onto the cemetery, but it isn’t ours. As you are aware, we do hold services for the departed souls who are to be interred there, but only rarely.’
‘Why’s that?’
The vicar chuckled, but there was an edge to his laugh, as if it was a question he didn’t want to answer.
‘Well, the cemetery has its own chapel of course, and more to the point, very few people are buried there nowadays.’
‘But surely …’
‘My, you are inquisitive, aren’t you?’ he said, walking to the entrance and closing the door. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing your father.’
‘How did you know my dad?’
He gestured back towards the altar. ‘Do you have time for a cup of tea? One of the ladies from the choir will insist on making me these enormous cakes and’ – he patted his belly – ‘I really could do with a little help.’
He led her to the left, down the line of pews and through a small door to one side of the aisle, then along a corridor into what April assumed was the rectory.
‘Have a seat,’ said the vicar, showing her into a comfortable sitting room with chintzy sofas and polished oak furniture as he went off to prepare the tea. The walls were lined with glass-fronted cupboards, most of which were stuffed with books, and April wasted no time in looking at them. They all seemed quite old, but they were mostly maps and novels, nothing like what she was looking for. She turned her attention to the other most striking aspect of the décor: a number of glass cases containing stuffed animals. There was a weasel, two pigeons and a coiled snake. And in pride of place on the sideboard was a fox with a slightly wonky eye. April went over to examine it.
‘Are these yours?’ she asked as the vicar came back in carrying a tray.
‘Well, they’re not to my taste, but the rooms came furnished and I didn’t have the heart to throw them out. So they stayed and I’ve come to rather like having them around.’
‘What’s the deal with the foxes anyway?’ April asked. ‘They seem to be a theme in the church, what with the weathervane on the spire and the fox in the window.’
‘Oh, it’s one of those visual jokes the artist put in. You know how the people who built cathedrals used to base the gargoyles on real people? People often ask me about it. The fox represents the hunter, which is why his foot is on the sword.’
‘Someone once told me foxes represent witches.’
‘Oh no, not at all,’ said the vicar, waving a hand to dismiss the idea. ‘I think people like to read too much into these things. There are all sorts of local superstitions based on the idea that there is some ancient evil buried under the hill here and, because they live underground, that foxes must somehow be touched by it.’
April held her breath. That was one of her father’s ideas: that there was some sort of disease which had come from underground and was being spread the same way.
‘There’s evil underground?’ she said.
‘Merely local legend, my dear. Given that Highgate is dominated by a huge cemetery, it’s only natural people would dream up such fantasies from time to time.’
‘Seems a little hard on the poor foxes.’
‘Indeed. Anyway, it’s likely much more straightforward: the artist probably just saw a lot of foxes in the area at the time – this was almost two hundred years ago, remember, when this part of London was out in the country.’
He turned to the tray of tea things and began cutting into a huge sponge cake, jam and cream oozing from the sides.
‘Anyway, why don’t you tell me how I can help?’
How could he help? Mr Gill had suggested a visit, but now she suspected he was trying to get her to seek religious advice, which wasn’t exactly what she’d been hoping for. Not that she didn’t believe in God, well not exactly. She was certainly starting to believe in the devil – how could she not, after all she had seen? But what could the vicar tell her that might help her find the White Book? The books in his cupboards weren’t that old.
‘I wondered how you knew my father?’ she finally asked. ‘You said you were old friends, but we’d only been in Highgate a few weeks.’
The vicar smiled indulgently and poured the tea.
‘Hard for you to imagine, I know, but I wasn’t always the vicar here. I met your dad at university.’
‘Really? Wow,’ said April, wondering if her dad had really looked as old as the vicar did. As if reading her thoughts, the vicar laughed.
‘No need to be so coy – yes, I am older than him. I was working there on my doctorate and spending some time as the chaplain of his college. That’s like a university in-house vicar, if you like. But as you can imagine, excitable young teenagers don’t have much interest in going to church.’
‘But my dad wasn’t a church-goer, was he?’
He paused.
‘Not really. But young people often have a crisis when they’re away from home for the first time. Nowadays, I’m sure they have counsellors to turn to, but back then it was the chaplain or nothing if you got yourself into a pickle.’
‘What sort of pickle?’
‘Ah. There is a certain confidentiality to these conversations. But let’s just say he had a crisis of faith.’
‘Faith? I didn’t think he was religious.’
‘Not in such a straightforward way, no. But you’ve seen the books he wrote – your father was a man who wanted to believe in things, who was looking for answers. Who was always hoping to prove the myths true. When we first met, he was … well, he wasn’t sure which side to choose.’
April was feeling more confused than she had when she came in.
‘You mean my mum? I know my granddad didn’t approve of him. I always got the feeling they only got married to annoy Gramps.’
The vicar shook his head, frowning. ‘Oh no, I can assure you there was much more to it than that. Your parents were, and remained, very much in love.’
April shrugged.
‘It didn’t feel that way at the end. They were always arguing.’
‘Well I can’t comment on that. Adults always seem to find a way of buggering things up for themselves, don’t they?’
April laughed. She liked Mr Gordon. Most adults wouldn’t speak to a teenager so frankly.
‘So when did you last see my dad? Before he died.’
Mr Gordon glanced at the stuffed fox, seeming to gather his thoughts before he spoke.
‘It was about a week before he died. He came to see me just after that poor girl was found in the cemetery. It was partly a social call as you’d just arrived in the village, but he also had his journalist’s hat on too. Wanted to know what I knew, especially as Isabelle …’
April leant forward. ‘You knew her?’
‘Oh yes, she was in the choir as a younger girl, and then in the girl guides in the village and so on. Always used to say hello. Until that funny business with the book.’
‘The book?’
‘All very curious. She had stopped coming to church, she’d fallen in with quite a bad crowd, I think. Some sort of nastiness involving drugs of some kind, and a few people died. After that, she moved away. University in Central London, I think. Anyway, out of the blue, she came to see me, asking about some book or other she was looking for. We have quite a collection of books here, as you can see. I’m no expert though, they were all here when I arrived. I’m rather afraid I prefer John Grisham myself.’
‘What was it? What was the book, I mean?’
He shook his head. ‘Some sort of mythology or magical thing, as I recall. I felt a bit uncomfortable talking to her about it, to be honest.’
‘Why? Do you think she was a witch?’
The vicar laughed.
‘No, my dear. I was concerned for her. As I said, she ha
d fallen in with the wrong crowd and I was worried she was turning down a rather dark road. It seems I was right. It broke my heart to hear that she had been murdered, and so close by, too.’
April nodded. She wasn’t about to tell him she had been there and had almost stumbled over Isabelle’s body.
‘Well, thanks for the tea and cake,’ she said, getting up. ‘It was nice to talk too.’
The vicar put a hand on her knee.
‘I think I’ve disappointed you, April,’ he said. ‘Perhaps if you told me what you wanted to find out?’
April hesitated for a second. Could she trust him? He was a friend of her father’s and a vicar to boot. But she could hardly lay the whole vampires, Fury, Dragon’s Breath thing on him, could she?
‘I was just hoping I might find out what he was investigating before his death,’ she said, feeling bad for lying inside a church, ‘If I can work that out, maybe I can find out why he was killed.’
‘But surely the police …’
‘I know, I should leave it to them, but the police don’t seem to be getting anywhere and I feel I’ll go mad if I can’t make some sense out of it.’
The vicar looked thoughtful for a moment, then crossed to the sideboard, rummaging in a drawer underneath the fox.
‘I can see you’re going to pursue this, so perhaps this might be some help.’
He handed her a small business card.
‘Isabelle gave this to me in case I needed to contact her. I think she was working here. She may even have found what she was looking for. But please April, be careful?’
‘I will,’ said April, holding the card tightly, as if her – and Gabriel’s – life depended on it. ‘I will, you can count on that.’
Chapter Ten
Gabriel was waiting for her outside the church. He was leaning against the wall, his hands thrust into his pockets and his collar turned up against the cold. As April walked over, she could see his skin was pale and waxy and he seemed to be shivering. She longed to run to him, throw her arms around him and kiss the warmth back into him. To check, after his collapse last night, that he was okay. But she reminded herself of his instructions. People might be watching.