An Unholy Shame

by Joyce Cato

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  PROLOGUE

  February

  The intruder perched on the edge of a chair in front of an unfamiliar computer and stared at the screen intently. Anyone watching the hunched figure would have noticed instantly the harshness of the figure’s breathing and the tense, strained curve of their back – eyes glittered with repressed fury as fingers, unused to this particular keyboard, painstakingly picked out the individual letters.

  No, no, that sentence just didn’t ring true. It didn’t sound like the little whore at all. Do it again. You must get it right… .

  The typist hissed and searched impatiently for the delete button. Hesitantly, the fingers moved over the keyboard once more. Slowly the sinister figure leaned forward, eyes narrowing in concentration as they read the words that now appeared on the screen.

  ‘I feel that I just have to leave all the sin and the deceit behind me. I’m so sorry… .’

  Yes, that was better, the interloper thought, sighing with a small sound of satisfaction and relief. That was just how the prissy little bitch would have put it. Now, just a few lines more …

  The green-coated figure quickly picked up the computer manual and set about the unnerving task of printing off the forgery, flinching a little as the printer quietly buzzed into life. But with the study door firmly shut there was little chance that it would be heard by the enemy, and, in fact, the whore upstairs didn’t even stir.

  With a cold, gleaming, but satisfied eye, the stealthy figure watched as the missive was faithfully reproduced on paper, then turned off the printer and computer, careful to make sure everything on the desk looked just the same.

  Now for the pen, and a few practised forgeries of the rather childish signature onto a blank piece of paper. It was easy really, once you’d tried it a few times – all you needed was a little bit of confidence and elan. With a deep breath, the intruder pulled the newly printed letter forward and, careful not to hesitate, boldly forged the name at the bottom. There, it was done. It looked real. It sounded real. And it would convince everyone.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Now for the more dangerous and irrevocable part of the plan – this had to be done just right; the consequences would be dire if any mistake were made now.

  But a traitorous little voice wouldn’t quite be quelled.

  I could always stop now. Just go home and pretend that none of this had happened. I can always go back to how it was.

  Except that how it was, was obviously unbearable. To leave things as they stood was too much for flesh and blood to tolerate.

  No. No, a thousand times no.

  There could be no backing out now.

  It was exactly two minutes past midnight as the stealthy figure walked noiselessly from the small study through to the kitchen, and stared at the stove.

  The gas stove.

  How fervently the intruder had prayed that the enemy would have gas. There was no surprise that those prayers had been answered, though. It was as the intruder had always thought.

  Anyone would agree: the enemy deserved to die.

  To one side of the door there was a rack of what looked like towels. Another sign, surely? Taking one and very carefully walking back to the hallway, the figure in green pushed a towel under the crack of the front door, excluding the draught of life-giving fresh air.

  As the interloper passed by the stairs, the hooded head tilted to follow the line of steps upwards. Was she up there dreaming sweet dreams?

  Soon, the sleep would become darker. And eternal.

  The intruder returned to the kitchen and turned on all four of the gas rings, then opened the oven door, and put that on as well, before stumbling to the back door, retching helplessly. Outside, in the dank, cold night, the figure took long, gulping breaths of soothing air. This was no time to panic!

  But then, a sudden, awful thought rose shrieking to the figure’s brain.

  The window! You fool, the window! What if the enemy slept with her windows open?

  Frantically, the green-clad figure stepped back, neck craning upwards. But no windows were open. Nobody liked to let in the dank, cold, February air, did they?

  The figure gave a small sigh of relief and satisfaction.

  Now it was just a question of waiting.

  And so the figure waited, in the cold dark night – as patient and cold-blooded as a snake.

  CHAPTER 1

  May

  The Oxfordshire village of Heyford Bassett glowed smugly under the rays of a gentle spring sun. Its creamy Cotswold stone buildings reflected palely against the soft green fields of barley and the darker oak woods stretching away to one side. It would have made a good addition for a calendar on scenic Britain, or a photograph to go into a tourist brochure.

  A two-carriage train on the up-line was just pulling out of the station with a muffled groan of diesel power, upsetting two jackdaws, which were resting on top of a nearby telephone pole. A bit further down the road, an old woman walking along briskly, carrying an old-fashioned wicker basket over one arm, turned into the village shop. The scene could have been almost too sweet and comfortably nostalgic, had she not had to pass renovated cottages bristling with satellite TV dishes, and row upon row of parked cars that threatened to clog the narrow lanes and spill over onto the village square.

  In the pub, the ‘Bridge and Wagon’, the redheaded barmaid-cum-owner June Cowdey was doing a brisk early-evening trade. The real ales, that the establishment was famous for, were going well and so was the well-cooked traditional fare that went with them.

  The river that bisected the village glittered in the reddening light of the setting sun, and a pair of yellow and grey wagtails, busy feeding hungry mouths, chinked and flitted along its banks, catching dancing mayflies.

  In the vicarage, Graham Noble opened his front door and picked up the post that had been waiting there for him all day. Noble, the vicar of many years, had one of the twelve flats that had been created from the original elegant three-storied building.

  Monica, his wife of just two-and-half years, always left the mail for him on the small Victorian side table that stood in the narrow hall, next to a loudly ticking grandfather clock. Despite the perfect domestic scene, Graham Noble looked about as unlike many people’s idea of a rural vicar as it was possible to imagine.

  Although in his very early fifties, he could easily have passed for a man in his late thirties. His hair was still naturally dark and without a hint of silver. He was tall and lean – one of nature’s effortlessly elegant men – with the face of a Romantic poet. Needless to say, his church was very popular with the female congregation in the five villages to which he ministered.

  That he’d finally married, after so many years of being a bachelor, was something that many of his female parishioners were still secretly mourning. And, not surprisingly perhaps, something many of the men in the vicinity were delighted about.

  Despite these minor complications he remained in everybody’s good books simply because he was a very good vicar. People came to him with real problems and were never turned away. He was useful and practical, as well as kind, which were two more factors that kept his church rate attendance higher than any other in the county. He also tried to give interesting and relevant sermons – uplifting, without being sentimental and pithy, but not judgm
ental. Or so he hoped.

  As he shuffled through the envelopes, the door further down the corridor suddenly opened, and a pretty, dark-haired woman looked out – big blue eyes regarded him sympathetically. In her late thirties, Monica’s figure was still pleasingly trim, and dressed as it was in a not-quite see-through gauzy skirt of sky blue, topped with a simple white blouse, she brought an instant smile to his tired eyes.

  ‘Long day, sweetheart?’ Monica asked, holding out a glass tinkling with ice, and giving it a tempting rattle. ‘Fancy a G and T with me?’

  ‘I’d love one,’ Graham said, smiling gratefully and walking towards her, glancing down at the mail in his hand as he did so. The ominous brown envelopes had to be bills, of course. And several hand-written letters with cramped, slanting writing were probably from old parishioners who’d long since moved away, but were determined to keep in touch. There was also a large, white, official-looking envelope with an Oxford postmark.

  He followed his wife into the lounge, which had been attractively decorated in shades of apple green and rich cream with just a few splashes of turquoise . Monica had been in charge of decorating their flat, when the huge house had been converted into its up-market apartments, and Graham had been more than happy to leave her to it. He was well aware of her artistic talents and trusted them without a qualm, but he was also ruefully aware that even if her taste had run to cherry pink with lime and yellow spots, he’d have gritted his teeth and put up with it. He’d have put up with anything, just to keep her happy.

  Before he’d met the widowed advertising executive with a feisty teenage daughter, Graham had been convinced that there was nothing more to look forward to in his life than the inevitable gentle decline into old age. His life would go on just the same as it always had, with nothing to note the passing of the years.

  But then, at a party in Oxford, he’d met Monica and everything had changed. Like the proverbial bolt from the blue – or, as he preferred to think of it – divine intervention. In a stroke, his life had altered in so many ways – some of them bewildering, the odd one or two a shade frightening, but all of them delightful. And he still almost couldn’t believe it, even now.

  ‘How was the hospital visit?’ Monica asked, interrupting his reverie as she made her way to the drinks cabinet and poured her husband a modest gin and tonic. She added plenty of ice and lemon, just as he liked.

  ‘Gruelling,’ Graham said briefly. He’d held the hand of a man dying from liver cancer for over four hours, but was reluctant to discuss it.

  Monica, glancing into his pale, tired face, wisely said nothing. Instead she handed him the squat glass. ‘Here, drink this,’ she said softly.

  ‘How was your day?’ Graham changed the subject firmly, sinking down onto the sofa, and absently opening the mail resting on his lap. ‘Has inspiration finally struck?’

  Although Monica had given up her job as an advertizing executive in London, as well as her home, to move to her new husband’s parish in the Cotswolds, her old boss and best friend had recently persuaded her to take on some easy, part-time work. And Monica had to admit that it was very nice indeed to be working from home with no daily commute. And even better to be able to get back into the swing of things without having the enormous pressure of coming up with a whole campaign before a – usually impossible – deadline.

  Luckily Monica was very competent with a computer, a thing that Graham still approached as tentatively as he’d approach a sleeping tiger, and her graphic art work, as well as her quick brain, often came up with some stunning concepts and jingles. Her latest assignment was for an advertising campaign for cat food, aimed at women’s magazines.

  Monica laughed. ‘I’ve been trying to come up with an appealing character which is both feline and mysteriously mischievous, but he keeps coming out as something of a cross between a grumpy Garfield and a more manic-than-usual Tom, from Tom and Jerry instead. Apart from that, I’ve been trying to think up something that even vaguely rhymes with “Harcourt’s Cat Munchies”.’

  Graham grinned. ‘Rather you than me,’ he said with feeling and began to open the mail – bills first, which he promptly handed over to Monica with a grimace of apology. Monica, it had to be said, definitely had the better business brain of the two of them, and dealt with all their finances and matters to do with banking.

  ‘From Mrs Dellington,’ he said after a few moments reading and waving one of the hand-written letters in the air. ‘Her daughter’s just had another baby.’

  ‘What? Another one!’ exclaimed Monica, crossing her bare legs and swinging one bare foot idly. ‘How many does that make now?’ she asked, draining her drink and contemplating pouring another one.

  Then she gave a mental shake of her head. Best not. Although she rarely drank, today had been a particularly hot and frustrating one, and a rare second glass would have been welcome. She was still so new to being a vicar’s wife and still, she was forced to admit to herself, rather uneasy about falling short of the required mark. While a second very mild G and T would hardly make her even tipsy, just the idea that a parishioner might call in on her husband, and then report smelling alcohol on her breath to the rest of the W.I. made her blanche.

  ‘Five,’ said Graham with a grin, interrupting her fretful thoughts, and making her laugh.

  ‘Imagine having five children!’ She had just the one child, and had never considered having more. What if Graham wanted a child of his own? The thought shot through her like an electrical surge, making her go suddenly still.

  She shot her husband a quick, assessing look. He’d never mentioned wanting to start a family of their own. Why hadn’t they ever discussed that? Had each of them just been assuming that the other wasn’t interested, without pausing to think that that might not be case?

  Unaware of the sudden minefield his wife was mentally treading, Graham opened the big white envelope and pulled out a whole wad of information. As he did so, a tall, blonde-haired vision of loveliness walked into the room and draped languidly over the couch. She then proceeded to peer over Graham’s shoulder with a look of exquisite boredom on her face.

  Carole Anne Clancy, Monica’s daughter by her first marriage, was nearly sixteen now, and had a yen to become a supermodel. Fortunately for the peace of mind of her mother however, Carole-Anne was also doing very well at school, and her second choice of career was that of a computer-games designer. Needless to say, Monica and Graham were still crossing their fingers that the lure of endless days spent in front of the computer and having a great time would beat the reality that would be the slog of trailing around the modelling agencies. For they’d done their homework and knew, thankfully, that the odds against any young woman making a successful career in that competitive field were astronomical.

  ‘Ahh, the information pack for the conference,’ Graham said, leafing through the pile of professional-looking papers that had been in the envelope, and handing a brochure over to Monica to peruse.

  Heyford Bassett, like so many traditional English villages, had had to adapt to survive the fast-changing pace set by the outside world. Which was why the local shop now stayed open till eleven at night, and several farms had diversified by converting barns and outbuildings into holiday lets; one of its inhabitants had adapted far faster and more successfully than most, though.

  Sir Andrew Courtenay had refurbished and refitted his large, sprawling manor house, turning it into an increasingly popular Hotel and Conference Centre. As Sir Andrew had pointed out to his bank manager, the village had its own railway station, and London was only an hour or so away. There was a motorway within half an hour’s driving, and having Oxford and Birmingham so close made for a particular selling point – attracting both American and Japanese clientele.

  Within five years, Sir Andrew had recouped his original investment, paid off the bank, and now ran a very successful business indeed. So well known was the Conference Centre becoming that it had been Graham’s own bishop, Dr David Carew, who had recommended the pl
ace for the upcoming Ecclesiastical conference that was to be held in ten days’ time.

  As well as doing himself a lot of good, it had to be acknowledged that Sir Andrew had done the village proud, too. Many housewives and out-of-work teenager found part-time jobs ‘up at the big House’, doing everything from the laundry to assorted cleaning jobs and building maintenance. The large gardens – so necessary to sell the place as a luxury package – also provided full-time employment for several village men and one woman. Even the chef had taken on apprentices from within the surrounding area although, so far, rumour had it that he’d only let them prepare vegetables.

  There were also many peripheral benefits. Phyllis Cox, owner of the shop-cum-post office was well aware that she would have been forced to closed down by now, like so many of her less fortunate colleauges, had it not been for the conference trade. Many of the conference-goers liked to go for a walk down to the village shop in the morning and buy newspapers, cigarettes or stamps, and have a leisurely browse – usually whilst congratulating themselves on finding this example of rural life. Phyllis, as shrewd a businesswoman as ever owned a shop, had quickly catered to their sense of nostalgia even more by very cunningly buying huge glass jars and packing them with all the old-fashioned sweets that she could find. These she then solemnly weighed out on an ancient set of brass scales, before sliding them into small, white, paper bags and selling them at exorbitant prices by the bucket load.

  ‘Hmmm, looks like we’ve got a full contingent,’ Graham said, glancing briefly at the enclosed list of guests. ‘That’ll please Sir Andrew. He hates it when the house is left half-empty.’

  ‘And not only because of the loss of revenue either, I imagine,’ Monica said, distracted from her thoughts of having babies. ‘I suppose he’s glad when it’s busy just because it helps to keep him occupied,’ she added, with a sad and rather troubled sigh. ‘How is he now? Is he getting over, it do you think?’ she asked softly.

  Graham sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He keeps it all bottled up inside, though I wish he wouldn’t. Tragedies like his need to be talked about, but it’s no good pushing it. I’ll just have to keep on giving him the opportunity to talk to me and hope that he’ll eventually take it.’