by Deryn Lake
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DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID
THE MILLS OF GOD
Deryn Lake
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First world edition published 2010
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2010 by Deryn Lake.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Lake, Deryn.
The Mills of God.
1. Police – England – Sussex – Fiction. 2. Vicars, Parochial – England – Sussex – Fiction. 3. Serial murder investigation – Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-099-9 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6834-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-243-7 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
For N.C.C. who was there when I desperately needed him
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My grateful thanks are due to Inspector Paul Cave for all his help over police procedure. The mistakes are entirely mine!
And to Dr Wojciech Kasztura who somehow transformed into Dr Kasper Rudniski.
ONE
It was, thought Nick, peering through the windscreen of his somewhat battered red Peugeot, a very oddly shaped village. A High Street ran down the middle from which sprawled off, rather like the tributaries of a river, streets and alleyways going in all directions. To the north stood massively built Victorian houses, the former country homes of merchants and shop owners, now mostly divided into flats, though one or two still remained in the hands of the wealthy. There were a dozen or so of those and then the High Street proper began. Truly ancient houses lined it, all, Nick supposed, with a fascinating history. One in particular caught his eye, a massive Tudor building, heavily beamed on the exterior, now turned into a pub and called The Great House according to the sign which swung to and fro outside. Visions of a brimming pint flashed through Nick’s mind which he firmly put away until later.
Opposite The Great House stood the beautiful church, lying back from the High Street, a few steps leading up to the path which went to its massive oak door. Much as he would have loved to have ventured inside, seeing it for the first time as his church, the place of which he had become the incumbent, Nick shelved the idea along with the pint. Ahead of him rumbled the removal van, driven all the way from Manchester this very day with himself following gamely behind. He had risen at five that morning and had been on the motorway more or less non-stop ever since. To Nick it felt as if his whole life had changed dramatically when he had finally pulled away from the run-down working-class parish where he had been acting as curate. Born in the south of England, he was now – at the age of twenty-eight – returning; returning to take up a new parish in Sussex, in the quaint and historic village of Lakehurst. With a smile which threatened to break into a broad grin, the Reverend Nicholas Lawrence headed for the vicarage.
The removal van had pulled up outside already and the team of four men had got out and were surreptitiously having a fag before the work of unloading began.
‘All right, Reverend?’ said the foreman, hiding his cigarette behind his back.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Nick answered. ‘We made good time, didn’t we.’
‘Early start, Guv. It always pays. Now, have you got the keys?’
Nick looked stricken. ‘No, but the churchwardens should be here any minute. I phoned Mrs Cox on my mobile when we stopped at Clacketts Lane.’
But even as he said the words the stick-thin figure of the lady in question, complete with an unbecoming felt hat, appeared and hurried up to Nick.
‘Oh, Reverend Lawrence, I’m ever so sorry to be late. I just had to pop in on old Mrs Meadows and she does keep one talking so.’ She smiled gaily at the removal men, who had hastily put out their fags and were now standing somewhat ill at ease. ‘I’m sure you’re all looking forward to a nice cup of tea. I’ve even brought the kettle.’
She rootled in the shopping basket she had over one arm and produced a bunch of keys, selected one, and opened the vicarage door.
‘Welcome to your new home, Vicar,’ she said, as Nick stepped forward into a house redolent with age, with charm, and with a sweet warm smell about it.
But he hardly had time to take it in because Mrs Cox was heading purposefully for the kitchen, pulling an electric kettle from her basket and saying, ‘Who’s for tea then?’
Nick, who only had tea without milk and preferred Lapsang Souchong, muttered a half-hearted sound of agreement and went through the house and out into the garden. It was beautiful. Roses tumbled everywhere, climbing the ancient brick wall and growing, richly and profusely, in the borders. There were other flowers too, fuchsias and dahlias adding their colour to the loveliness of late summer. Nick, with a sigh, realized that he was going to have to take up the spade to help keep the place looking as appealing as it did at the moment.
‘Tea’s ready,’ called Mrs Cox from the kitchen and the vicar reluctantly went indoors.
Members of the gang who had been hauling furniture from the van and taking it into the rooms for which it had been labelled appeared and helped themselves to copious amounts of sugar. Nick was handed a milky cup of brown liquid with a pallid biscuit languishing in the saucer beside it. He thanked Mavis Cox politely and bit into the biscuit which had a sweet almondy taste that did not appeal to him.
‘Are you a keen gardener, Vicar?’ said Mavis gushingly.
‘Well, I haven’t been but I can see that I’m going to have to make a start.’
‘Mrs Simpkins did a lot herself but I think Bert came in once a week to help her.’
‘Oh, that would be useful. Would you mention me to him?’
‘Of course I will. So you’re not thinking of getting married, then? No young lady tucked away in the background?’
‘So far, no.’
‘Well, you might wed a nice village girl and please everybody.’
Nick went a little pale at the thought but continued to smile politely. He had lived with a cellist from the Manchester Philha
rmonic but she had left him after four years and gone off with a trumpeter. After that he had been ordained, had another girlfriend who had proposed to him before they had split up, and then, still single, he had been noticed by Bishop Claude and been granted his first parish. It was a great honour at the age of twenty-eight. And it had been a somewhat unusual choice. And for Nick himself it was the turning point of his life.
He took a mouthful of the cold tea, forced himself to swallow, then while Mavis’s back was turned emptied the contents out of the window.
She turned on him a gleaming smile. ‘Another cuppa? My old mum always used to say it was a life-saver. In fact she had just finished a cup when she passed away, bless her.’
Nick thought this remark rather contradictory but giving another of his extremely appealing smiles he shook his head.
‘Thank you, but no. I really have had enough.’
‘You’re sure?’ She looked round the room but the four removal men were already getting back to work. Nick was just going to give them a hand with the chests when a modulated voice called clearly from the hallway.
‘Anyone at home?’
The vicar made his way to the front door to see a vision of yesteryear. A matinee idol, circa 1950, stood there. Dark hair swept back immaculately, very bright and twinkling blue eyes, a thin and small moustache, a dazzling smile, all combined to leave a lasting impression on whoever he was meeting.
‘How very nice to see you again, sir,’ Nick said, holding out his hand. The other shook it firmly and warmly.
‘So glad you made the journey without disaster,’ Richard Culpepper said. ‘Let us hope that this is the start of a long and satisfactory relationship. Both for myself and Lakehurst.’
‘Well yes, indeed,’ Nick answered, somewhat surprised.
‘I would have called earlier,’ Culpepper continued, ‘but I have just returned from the studios.’
‘Ah,’ replied the vicar, thinking it sounded very Hollywood.
‘Yes, I was filming a commercial.’ Culpepper pulled a face. ‘Frightful stuff really but it does help to keep the money rolling in.’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure it does.’
‘I started my career in the West End of London, you know, but things are so hard these days that I try to get work where and when I can.’ He gave a vivacious laugh.
Nick smiled sympathetically.
Culpepper went on. ‘What I basically need is a part in a soap. Something to brighten the old bank balance. That would suit me down to the ground.’
The actor opened his mouth to continue but at that moment Mavis Cox reappeared.
‘Now is there anything else I can help you with, Vicar?’
‘No, thank you, really. I’ll be perfectly all right.’
‘Well, I’ll be on my way.’ She gave Culpepper a smile that was merely a twitch of the lower part of her face.
‘As I was explaining to the Reverend . . .’
Nick interrupted. ‘Please call me Nick.’
‘I don’t think that would be quite suitable,’ said Mavis, putting on a pious face. ‘I must address you in some correct way.’
‘How about Father Nick?’ This from Culpepper.
‘Sounds good to me,’ said the vicar.
Culpepper cleared his throat. ‘Very well. I shall put the word about amongst the parishioners.’
‘Give my regards to Mrs Culpepper,’ said Mavis waspishly.
‘Of course I will. She’ll be delighted.’
‘Goodbye Father Nick. Just ring if you need me.’
Mavis turned and spied a neighbour across the road who glanced very curiously at the new vicar. Nick hastily bade farewell to Richard Culpepper and going into the vicarage, firmly shut the door.
The atmosphere of the beautiful old house overwhelmed him. It had about it a feeling of centuries of care, of generations of children born and brought up in it, of many people professing their simple faith, that God was good and kind and all was well with the world. On top of all this it had a superb smell; of ancient furniture polish, of flowers, of lovely and well-loved wood.
Reluctantly Nick ended his reverie and proceeded to help the men with the boxes.
Three hours later it was all done. The vicar’s simple furniture – other than for those precious antiques that his mother had left him – had been unloaded and placed in the right rooms. The bed had been made, a piece of maternal advice which Nick had always obeyed, the boxes – though still packed – stood in the right rooms. It was time, Nick thought, to have that pint.
He left the vicarage, locking the door behind him, and felt a strange sense of pride that the place was his. Directly across the road stood the church and even though he had seen it before on his several visits to Lakehurst, he now longed to have a brief look round. Shelving the idea of the pint for another thirty minutes, he climbed the steps and made his way up the path to the great oak door.
Inside it was shadowy. The time was now seven p.m. and the month late September. A rather unpleasant statue of St Catherine looking extremely pious stood on a shelf staring sightlessly at the crowds arriving in church. Hopefully! Nick pushed the door to behind him and stood gazing at the east window in awe. A magnificent portrayal of Christ seated in heaven surrounded by various angels and mortals dominated the scene. Slowly Nick made his way up the aisle towards it. And then he stopped. Somebody not far away was whispering prayers rather loudly. Slightly embarrassed, the vicar stood still, waiting for them to stop. Which they did, quite suddenly and shockingly.
The person praying, realizing they were not alone, suddenly scrambled to their feet and made off down one of the side aisles, threw open the oak door and crashed out into the night. Somewhat startled Nick knelt before the great altar wondering who on earth it could have been. Eventually, having looked round, his visit somewhat spoiled by the strange behaviour he had just witnessed, he went out the same way, this time carefully locking the church door behind him, and crossed the road.
The Great House entirely lived up to its name, being as heavily beamed within as it was out. A huge oak bar stood in the heart of it and Nick, aware of several pairs of eyes following his every move, made his way towards it.
‘What can I get you?’ asked a dark young man, without smiling.
Nick, very aware that he was still wearing jeans and a tee-shirt and had still not put on his dog collar, said, ‘A pint of Harvey’s please.’
‘That will be . . .’
But a voice with a strong Sussex burr said, ‘No, I’ll get that if you’ve no objection.’
Nick looked round into a craggy face with a pair of sky blue eyes crowned by an aureole of brilliant red hair.
‘Well thank you very much,’ he said.
‘It will be my pleasure, Vicar.’
Wondering how on earth the man knew, dressed as he was in jeans and casual shirt, Nick raised his glass.
‘Well, thank you very much, Mr . . .?’
‘Fielding. Giles Fielding. Nice to meet you, Vicar.’
‘How did you know? That I’m a vicar, I mean.’
Giles laughed, an amusing sound. ‘Truth to tell, Mr Lawrence . . .’
‘Call me Nick.’
‘Right you are. Well, you see, in this village of Lakehurst everyone knows what you’re doing before you’ve even done it.’
‘A hotbed of gossip, is it?’
‘I’d say. Old Mrs Weaver in the post office is queen bee. People used to write messages for her on postcards because they knew she’d read ’em.’
Nick laughed. ‘I get the picture. I see I shall have to watch my step.’
‘You’ll be meat and drink to them. Unmarried, young. They’ll have you courting every spinster in the parish – including the old ones.’
The vicar lowered his voice. ‘Tell me about the people in here. Are they regulars?’
‘Most of ’em.’
‘Who’s that chap sitting in the corner with his back to us, avidly studying the Daily Telegraph?’
‘
That be Jack Boggis. He’s parish clerk. Bit of an old misery but his heart’s in the right place – at least I think it is.’
‘Does he go to church?’
‘Never sets foot in the place.’
Nick sighed. ‘Oh dear.’
Giles looked sad. ‘No more do I. I’m sorry, Father Nick. I’ve too much to do looking after the animals.’
‘I take it you farm.’
‘Yes, I do. Up at Speckled Wood. Sheep mostly. You must come up and have a look.’
‘Thank you. Yes, I’d like to. And who’s that younger man holding forth rather noisily.’
‘That’s Phil Webster. He’s the local solicitor. Bit of a card but they say he be mighty powerful in court.’
‘And the chap with the hook nose and the thin face?’
‘Oh that’s old Gerrard Riddell. I think he’s bent.’
‘Do you mean he’s a crook?’
‘No, bent, a pouffe. He’s very artistic, so he keeps telling us all. Lives alone in one of the little cottages down West Street. Has friends for the weekend.’
Giles said this last with such an amazing amount of expression that Nick found himself grinning broadly.
‘Now, he will go to church,’ the farmer continued. ‘Every Sunday, regular as clockwork. Stands near the front and sings the hymns very loudly. He’s under the impression that he’s got a good voice and nobody has the heart to tell him that it’s buggered to bits.’
Nick chortled aloud. He liked Giles Fielding, thought him down to earth and straight-talking. ‘Let me get you a pint,’ he said.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ the farmer answered cheerfully.
It was a pleasant evening. The pub was outstanding because of its historic past and the vicar had enjoyed sitting at the bar and chatting with somebody friendly. During the time he was there he had been spoken to by Jack Boggis who had said, ‘Good evening. I’m the parish clerk,’ in a broad Yorkshire accent.
‘Good evening to you. As you probably know I am the new vicar.’
Jack had supped his ale even while he was paying for it.