Death Unholy

by Phillip Strang

  She had witnessed Trevor Godwin’s death, even chanted with the others, even stabbed him with a knife. Why, she wondered, was she so committed then, so abhorred now? She did not know, only that she needed to cleanse her spirit.

  Death was what she sought, but first there was unfinished business. Wylshere had a family, and they could carry on in his place, subverting other people, committing murder, pretending it was an offering. She knew she had to stop it. She knew that the police, ineffectual as they would be against the gods, could at least deal with the mortal man.

  She remembered the young police constable at her house, how he had wanted her to help him cut down her husband, how she had dashed out of the house and left. Her husband had been a weak man. She stopped the car, checked in her handbag; the card was there.

  ‘Constable Oldfield, it’s Kathy Saunders here,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Saunders, we’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘You need to send some ambulances to Avon Hill.’

  ‘Why?’ Oldfield asked. He was in the office at the police station in Salisbury, with Tremayne and Clare listening in.

  ‘I’ve killed Edmund Wylshere.’

  Clare was on speed dial to the ambulance service, Tremayne was immediately into action and preparing to leave for the village.

  ‘We need to meet,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘Meet me at the Wheatsheaf Inn in Wilton, thirty minutes. I will tell you why.’

  ‘I believe we know that already, but it’s still murder.’

  ‘You don’t know the whole story, and besides, I’ll never see the inside of a prison.’

  Chapter 25

  ‘Yarwood, now what do you say?’ Tremayne asked. They had both arrived in Avon Hill. The first ambulance was already there, another two were on their way. Some uniforms from the nearest police station were establishing the crime scene.

  ‘No engine problems this time,’ Clare replied.

  It was the second visit to the local pub for Tremayne, the first for Clare. Outside in the car park several wounded men stumbled around or sat hunched over on the ground.

  ‘Don’t go inside,’ the medic said.

  ‘Bad, is it?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘We’ve removed the wounded. There’s two others, but they’re dead.’

  ‘Did you come across a Doctor Edmund Wylshere?’

  ‘Dr Wylshere, he survived. He was shot in the chest, luckily it was off centre and exited on the other side of his body.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the ambulance, but don’t expect too much from him. I’ve administered a pain killer, but he’ll be as sore as hell for a few days.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘Those you see out here.’

  Regardless of the fact that Wylshere had been shot, Tremayne made his way over to the first ambulance. Inside, the man could be seen lying down, a medic hovering close by.

  ‘Detective Inspector Tremayne,’ he said.

  ‘This man is not fit to be questioned.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but this is a murder enquiry. I need two minutes.’

  ‘Very well, but if his condition deteriorates, I’m holding you responsible.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Tremayne said.

  Both police officers climbed into the ambulance. Tremayne took a seat opposite the wounded man, Clare sat further down, closer to the door.

  ‘Dr Wylshere, I’m Detective Inspector Tremayne.’

  ‘Tremayne, yes, of course. How’s the prostate?’

  ‘Fine now, thanks to you.’

  ‘You have some questions?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘It was just a misunderstanding,’ Wylshere said. ‘Nothing to concern yourselves with.’

  ‘I’ll grant that you’ve been shot, but it’s hardly a misunderstanding.’

  Clare could see the medic becoming agitated.

  ‘Kathy was upset,’ Wylshere said.

  ‘It’s not an everyday occurrence when your son is murdered and your husband hangs himself with electrical cable, but that’s not a reason to shoot you, kill two others and injure God knows how many others.’

  ‘I must protest,’ the medic said. ‘This man is under my care, and your badgering is not assisting in his recovery. I must ask you to leave now.’

  ‘Very well,’ Tremayne said. ‘Tell me, Dr Wylshere, why did she want to kill you? Did you kill her son?’

  ‘Please. I must ask you to leave now,’ the medic said.

  Tremayne did not move. Wylshere wasn’t about to die, and Tremayne had questions that needed answers. ‘What is it, Wylshere? Why you? What did you do that forced a woman to come here and to shoot you? She blamed you, didn’t she?’

  ‘What for?’ Wylshere feebly attempted to lift himself from his lying position.

  ‘We’ve enough on you and your bunch of deluded fools to charge you all with murder. One of those followers of yours outside will sing once I’ve got him in the interview room at Bemerton Road. Whatever it is that’s been going on down here, I’ll soon know. Yarwood, get out there and round up those with minor wounds. Arrange to transport them to Bemerton Road. If any medics protest, grab one of them and take him as well.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘And don’t take any nonsense from any of them. They’re all guilty in my book, and this man stretched out here is the leader. I want a police guard placed on him at the hospital, twenty-four hours, day and night. And make sure it’s so tight even a mouse couldn’t get in and out. Do you understand, Yarwood?’

  Clare nodded her head. She could see that Tremayne had his teeth into Wylshere and he wasn’t going to let go until the man was locked up in a prison cell.

  ***

  Vic Oldfield took the opportunity to have a pub lunch in the bar of the Wheatsheaf Inn while he waited for Kathy Saunders. Ten minutes after he had arrived, the woman entered.

  ‘I have the gun in my handbag,’ she said. Oldfield looked at the woman. Her appearance was disturbing: her clothes were creased and her hair was uncombed.

  ‘Would you like a drink and something to eat?’ Oldfield asked.

  The woman sat opposite him, expressionless. ‘I want to tell you why I shot him,’ she said.

  Oldfield decided not to tell her that Wylshere was still alive. The woman was clearly in shock and in need of medical assistance. He could see that some pellets from the shotgun that she had fired were lodged in her right arm, blood trickling down her sleeve. He took out his phone and requested an ambulance.

  ‘Edmund Wylshere killed my son,’ Kathy Saunders said.

  ‘Was it him or someone else?’

  ‘What does it matter? They do what they are told.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Those that believe.’

  ‘Do you believe? Oldfield asked.

  ‘It does not matter.’

  ‘But do you believe?’

  ‘I have seen the proof.’

  ‘Wylshere is the leader?’

  ‘Yes. He was the one who communicated with them.’

  ‘Do you know who killed your son?’

  ‘It could be anyone. They would rather kill a child than disobey Edmund Wylshere.’

  ‘Trevor Godwin. You told me that you know where he is buried.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘They hanged him in a tree and stabbed him to death.’

  ‘Did you take part?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You realise I’ll have to arrest you for murder.’

  ‘It’s unimportant.’

  A medic arrived, administered first aid; the wounds were not severe. She left and waited outside, having been forewarned by Oldfield that the woman’s questioning was to continue and that he would drive her to Bemerton Road Police Station to be charged.

  ‘What else can you tell me?’ Oldfield asked.

  ‘They’re here,’ Kathy Saunders said.

&nb
sp; Oldfield looked around the bar. It was the first time he’d been in the pub, and he had to admit that it was unlikely to become his favourite. His girlfriend came there on the occasional Friday for a girls’ night out, but he’d not been invited, and often she’d arrive at his place late at night, the worse for wear.

  Oldfield realised that the courts would treat Kathy Saunders leniently due to the recent deaths of her son and husband, and they’d probably convict her of the lesser charge of murder while the mind was disturbed. However, it was still a prison sentence.

  ‘I can’t see anyone,’ Oldfield replied.

  ‘Look outside. Can’t you see?’

  Oldfield raised himself slightly, angled his neck to look out the small window behind him. ‘It looks ominous,’ he said.

  ‘The clouds, can’t you see the clouds.’

  ‘It’s your imagination.’

  ‘Haven’t you experienced it before?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Reverend Harrison’s house.’

  ‘When you found the Bible?’

  ‘How did you know about the Bible?’ Oldfield asked. The temperature in the bar became even chillier.

  ‘It’s getting cold in here,’ the publican said. ‘I’ll light up the fire.’

  Oldfield and Kathy Saunders moved closer to the heat. The publican looked out of the window. ‘I’ve not seen it like this for some time,’ he said.

  ‘Have you seen this before?’ Oldfield asked.

  ‘It’s the river outside. Sometimes it seems to become colder than usual, and then we feel it in here, but this has been quick. Mind you, I don’t like the look of those clouds.’

  ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ Kathy Saunders said.

  For a woman who should be grieving, she’s holding up well, Oldfield thought.

  ‘Tell me about the Bible,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘Mavis Godwin told her friend about it once.’

  ‘And this friend, does he or she have a name?’

  ‘Harriet Wylshere.’

  ‘Did she kill Mavis Godwin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew this, and still you did not tell the police.’

  ‘They would have made an example of me if I had.’

  ‘What sort of example?’

  ‘They hanged Trevor Godwin, they drowned his wife, and another died of fire.’

  ‘Who died of fire?’

  ‘Eric Langley.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘I knew of him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I met him once when I was younger. I remember him as rude, at least he was to me.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He left the community. I don’t know why, but they kept an eye on him.’

  Oldfield ordered the woman some sandwiches; she nibbled at them.

  ‘Unseasonal,’ the publican said. ‘It’s below freezing outside. There’s even ice forming on the river.’

  ‘It’s them,’ Kathy Saunders said. ‘They don’t want me to tell you any more.’

  Oldfield prodded the open fire in an attempt to induce it to give more heat. Both the police officer and the murderer, by her own admission, moved closer. Both were starting to shiver. It worried Oldfield; it did not worry the woman.

  ‘Are you saying they killed Eric Langley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? The man had left your community years before, and he had never spoken about what went on.’

  ‘He never spoke because if he had, he would have had to plead guilty to the murder of others.’

  ‘So why kill him?’

  ‘The man was dying. He wanted to make peace with God.’

  ‘Your gods?’

  ‘He wanted to confess to a priest before he died. He had made it clear that on his death bed he would reveal all.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Mavis Godwin.’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘She told Harriet Wylshere in confidence. Mavis Godwin trusted the woman.’

  ‘And Harriet Wylshere told her husband?’

  ‘After that Eric Langley’s fate was sealed.’

  ‘We cannot explain how he died,’ Oldfield said. ‘His death has been classified as cause unknown.’

  ‘Edmund Wylshere arranged it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What do you know of our beliefs?’

  ‘Only that there are three gods.’

  ‘And each one requires a sacrifice.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe that rational, sane people such as yourself can believe in such nonsense.’

  ‘Do you believe in your God? The one that created the heaven and the earth, the one that is responsible for miracles.’

  ‘The metaphors.’

  ‘Many believe without proof.’

  ‘I suppose they do.’

  ‘Reverend Harrison did.’

  The publican came over to where they were sitting. ‘I’ve made you a couple of hot drinks. It looks as though it may snow. So much for global warming,’ he said.

  The man looked as though he wanted to stay and talk. Oldfield flashed his badge. The publican took one look and returned behind the bar. Oldfield yet again prodded the fire.

  The flames from the fire were doing little to heat the two who huddled close to it. Oldfield was feeling uncomfortable, although he had no intention of moving.

  ‘How did Wylshere kill Eric Langley?’ Oldfield asked again, as the first answer he had received had told him nothing.

  ‘Edmund Wylshere arranged it, the same as he arranged the death of my son.’

  ‘Do you know who was responsible for his death?’

  The woman looked down; a tear in her eye. ‘Any one of them would have done it.’

  ‘Any one of this so-called community?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘Not my son, but anyone else. I’ve already confessed to taking part in Trevor Godwin’s death.’

  ‘Have there been others?’

  ‘Two others, but you do not know their names.’

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  ‘They are not important. They’re unworthy of being remembered.’

  ‘Coming back to Eric Langley,’ Oldfield said. ‘The man was burnt, although there was no fuel, no flame, and yet you are telling me that Edmund Wylshere was responsible.’

  ‘He did not kill the man personally.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘Taranis.’

  ‘Do you expect me to believe that a pagan god killed Eric Langley?’ Oldfield was frustrated. He had spent close to an hour in the pub and still the gods that Kathy Saunders believed in were being mentioned.

  ‘Believe what you want. It is the truth. I have seen their vengeance, as you will.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Can’t you feel them?’

  ‘I can feel the cold, nothing more.’

  ‘Then, Constable Oldfield, you’re a fool. What I have told you has damned you.’

  ‘Are you telling me that I am a target?’

  ‘I have given my confession to you. They have not entered here, although I do not know why. Before it was only me they intended to remove, now it is you.’

  ‘That’s pure rubbish,’ Oldfield said. Although a sceptic, he could not deny the sincerity in the woman’s voice. He knew that he needed to get her to Bemerton Road Police Station and charged. Then they needed to find Harriet Wylshere and charge her as well.

  Oldfield saw no reason to stay in the public house any longer. Outside, the weather was worsening, and the snow had started to fall.

  As they left the pub, Kathy Saunders pointed to a large crucifix on the wall behind the bar. ‘That’s why we are still alive,’ she said. Oldfield shuddered at what she said. He began to doubt his sanity, wondered if the woman was right.

  �
�You’ll need to come with me,’ he said as she took the keys to her car out of her handbag.

  ‘My car?’ Kathy Saunders said.

  ‘I’ll get someone to pick it up and bring it to the police station.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll not need it anymore.’

  Chapter 26

  Avon Hill was in total lockdown. Clare was assigned the task of interviewing the wounded who did not require immediate hospitalisation.

  Also, the car that had been seen outside the graveyard in Stratford sub Castle was around the corner, not more than a hundred yards away. Clare dispatched a couple of uniforms to check it out and impound it, and to make sure the inhabitants of the house where it was parked were detained pending an interview. It was also made clear that anyone in the village who offered any resistance or attempted to slam a door in the face of any police officer was to be arrested, slapped in handcuffs if necessary.

  Tremayne knew the flak he’d receive from his senior for his actions in Avon Hill, but he was aware that the woman shooting in the pub was not only because of Edmund Wylshere but also because of the majority of the people there.

  Tremayne had looked around at the wounded, decided that they were a decidedly odd crowd. He remembered when he had last visited the pub, over twenty-five years previously, and the cold welcome he and his fellow junior officers had received. They were all young, out of uniform, anxious to drink a few too many beers, chat up some local girls, but the pub had been devoid of females apart from a couple of old women, and neither of them was friendly. They had drunk one pint of the best the pub had to offer. Tremayne remembered the beer as being flat. It had been after nine in the evening when they had reached there, and any other pub would have been full of half-drunk or fully-drunk individuals making fools of themselves, playing darts, flirting with the opposite sex and generally making a raucous noise, but not the pub in Avon Hill.

  Tremayne remembered everyone sitting at a table, a couple of old men propping themselves up on the bar, but there was no noise. His crowd had made plenty, as he had already downed five pints, heading to six, and the others were no better. They were out for a night of fun, but Avon Hill wasn’t going to provide it. He remembered asking the publican what was going on. It’s normal for around here, had been the reply.