by Deryn Lake
The Patels had been discovered lying in a great sea of blood, the victims of a frenzied knife attack. The police doctor had counted fifteen stab wounds on Mrs Patel and about twenty on poor Ali. On the bed head, above where they lay, had been pinned a piece of paper. Tennant looked at it now, wrapped in its evidence bag. It said, ‘The first of the ten. Be on your guard. The Acting Light of the World.’
It was obviously the work of a religious maniac – or someone trying to fool the police into thinking so. The frenzy of the attack would tie in with that but Tennant had come across these sorts of tricks before and deliberately kept a completely open mind. He turned the message over and noticed that it was scrawled in red ink on a standard piece of A4. It seemed to him to be a con but on the other hand it could just be genuine.
There was a knock on the door and his sergeant, Mark Potter, stuck his head round.
‘Can I see you a minute, sir?’
‘Of course. Come in.’
Potter walked in, shut the door softly behind him and took a seat on the other side of the desk. He was a neat young man, quiet of manner and tidy of appearance, and quite, in Tennant’s opinion, unsuited to police work.
‘What is it, Potter?’
‘I have caught up with Roseanna Culpepper, sir.’
‘Oh good. What did you think of her?’
‘Hard to say. The general impression is that she’s come from another era. She was a very well-known actress years ago but not any longer. She didn’t go to the vicar’s party even though she was invited. She told me she had a migraine and went to bed early. I think she’s a bit strange.’
‘I see. I’ll have a word with her myself and see if I get the same reaction. What about the Hamilton-Harty woman?’
‘I went out to Speckled Wood and interviewed her. What can I say? She’s very slight, like all these women who ride – or most of ’em anyway. She’s got jet black hair, dyed. She likes to give the impression that she’s terribly young and frisky but when you look into her face you can see all her lines and wrinkles. She runs a riding stable for yuppies who come down to ride at the weekends and stable their horses with her during the week. She was one of the few who was not invited to the vicar’s party as she does not go to church because it clashes with her riding lessons. I got very little else out of her.’
‘Did you discover where she was on Friday night?’
‘She was terribly arch about the whole thing but eventually admitted that she stayed in with a friend.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Male of course. I reckon it was one of the blokes who keeps his horse stabled with her.’
Tennant grinned. ‘And not only his horse it would seem.’
‘As you say, sir.’
‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow along with the others. By the way, have you made any progress with Olivia Beauchamp?’
‘She’s on tour with the Royal Philharmonic. She’s playing in Birmingham in two days time.’
Tennant groaned. ‘She would be. And I really want to speak to her.’
‘Really, sir? said Potter with a grin.
He had been to Tennant’s flat on more than one occasion and noticed amongst his collection of CDs several depicting a dishy looking girl clutching a violin and wearing extremely alluring evening dresses. The name beneath had been Olivia Beauchamp.
Tennant, glimpsing the smile, said severely, ‘Yes, really.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Potter answered, and made a hasty exit.
Left alone, Tennant pulled the polythene bag containing the apparently lunatic message towards him. ‘The first of the ten’ he read. What the devil did that mean? Surely it wasn’t threatening ten murders? He sighed aloud. At the moment he was rehearsing The Corn is Green by Emlyn Williams, playing the part of the vacuous Squire. If there were going to be any more victims in Lakehurst this would be yet another show that he would have to drop out of.
At very short notice, Nick Lawrence arranged a short service of prayer for the late Patels. He publicized it by telling Mavis Cox and Mabel Weaver, the woman who worked in the post office, and by putting up a notice outside the church and another in The Great House. To his immense surprise the church was two-thirds full and he noticed several tear-filled eyes as he said a few words about the newly dead and how, even though they were of a different faith, they were still two human souls who needed praying for. Even Kasper, the Roman Catholic, was there, and afterwards invited Nick for a drink in the pub. As they crossed the road they saw the huge mobile police headquarters, driven up from Lewes that very afternoon, and containing an interview room, a kitchen and the necessary set of lavatories. It was parked most obviously in the High Street, dominating all.
The usual crowd was in there – Jack Boggis looking taciturn in the seat which he seemed to have adopted as his own, back turned, newspaper well up; Giles Fielding propping up the bar and telling anyone who was listening that he had popped into the supermarket at eleven o’clock last night and had bought a packet of cigarettes off Ali; Gerrard Riddell, waspish and fretting because he had been in London most of the day and had missed all the drama. Nick and the doctor, after one look at them, took their drinks into a quiet corner.
‘It is a terrible business, this,’ Kasper said, staring into the depths of his vodka and looking moody.
‘Who could have done it?’ answered Nick, gulping his pint. ‘I mean it has to be a homicidal maniac.’
‘Not necessarily. It could be a revenge killing. Or some strange vendetta.’
‘Yes, it could I suppose.’
‘The police have released no details so we have no way of judging the case,’ Kasper said solemnly, and downed his drink.
‘Let me get you another.’ Nick rose to his feet and made his way to the bar.
There he was buttonholed by Gerrard.
‘Tell me, Father Nick, do you know anything further about these terrible killings.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. All I can say is that forensics are going through the entire supermarket with a fine toothcomb.’
Gerrard pursed his thin lips. ‘The whole thing is horribly upsetting. Especially for those of us who live alone.’
‘I don’t quite see the logic of that.’
‘Well, we’ll be afraid of our own shadows.’
‘Surely that is up to us as individuals. After all the Patels were two people, a couple.’
‘Oh yes, as you wish,’ Gerrard answered irritably, and flounced off.
Nick rejoined Kasper, who looked after the retreating figure and remarked gloomily, ‘That man is neurotic.’
‘I’m beginning to think I am as well. Do you realize that I was staring at a congregation this evening any one of whom might have been the killer?’
‘Well, I can assure you that I was not he,’ Kasper answered in his quaint English.
‘No, well that’s two of us in the clear. It wasn’t me either.’
They clinked their glasses.
‘What did you think of the policeman?’ Nick asked.
‘I have yet to meet him. What impression did you get?’
‘Not your average copper. A very intelligent man, I would say.’
‘Are you saying that all policemen are thick?’ asked Kasper with a laugh.
‘No, I’m not saying that at all,’ Nick answered thoughtfully.
He had left the church open in case anyone wanted to go in and pray privately for the lost Patels and now, shivering slightly, he did not know why, Nick climbed the few steps that led up to the great oak doors. The church was lit by slightly dimmed lights. There were no burning candles as there had been a fire in the Lady Chapel caused by this very thing some time before Nick’s arrival. For a moment as he went in the vicar could see nothing. And then his heart plummeted. Kneeling in the front pew was a figure – very similar to the one he had seen on his first night in the parish – muttering audibly but yet not quite loud enough for Nick to catch the words. Plucking up his courage the vicar advanced down the aisle.
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His feet rang out on the stone and the figure turned its head. Nick noticed that it had a hood pulled well down utterly concealing its features. And then, moving at the speed of lightning, it stood up and bolted down a side aisle and once again reached the vestry and vanished. Nick shot after it but found the vestry door wide open and a cold wind blowing in. The creature had disappeared into the darkness and, quite honestly, the vicar had no intention of going to look for it.
In bed that night, having made sure the vicarage was locked and bolted, it suddenly occurred to Nick that the vestry door had been locked that evening, as it always was except on Sunday morning. So the intruder must have had a key. The vicar sat bolt upright and it was then that he heard somebody coming up the stairs. Getting out of bed as quietly as possible, Nick seized a chair – the only thing resembling a weapon that he could find – and flung his bedroom door wide. There was nobody there except Radetsky who was sitting crouched, his tail swollen and his fur on end.
‘William, is that you?’ called Nick.
There was no answer but a slight sound from the landing told him that he was right.
‘You’re frightening the cat – let alone me,’ he added. He bent down and stroked Radetsky’s fur back to its usual state. ‘Come on, Rad, you can spend the night with me,’ he said, and closed the door firmly shut.
EIGHT
The alarm went off at six and somewhat begrudgingly Dominic Tennant crawled out of bed and went straight to the kitchen where he made himself a large mug of black coffee. Slumped on a chair he considered his life and whether he was making the best of it. He loved his work, there could be no doubt of that. Enjoyed playing mind games with criminals and slowly tracking them down to the very heart of their ghastly crimes. He also loved acting and would far have preferred going to drama school to becoming an ordinary policeman on the beat. But the financial circumstances of his family had demanded that he get a job, a job with a definite wage, rather than take his chance in the extremely precarious world of the professional actor. So he had done the next best thing and had become an amateur one. An amateur with a great deal of talent but for all that still an amateur.
The other thing that was definitely in a mess was his love life. He had married Fiona – a fellow thespian – ten years earlier. She had stayed around for three, steadfastly refused to have children, and then run off with her leading man, one Terry Belper. What had annoyed Tennant most about this liaison dangereuse was the fact that he would have been cast as Higgins had it not been for a demanding case he had been on at the time. But, he supposed, his job did have certain compensations, the forthcoming interview with Olivia Beauchamp being one of them.
He had been a fan for years, ever since he had seen her as one of the five finalists in the Young Musician of the Year contest. She had not won but he had not agreed with the judges’ decision – had even written a letter to that effect to the BBC – and had followed her career ever since. A couple of times he had heard her play at the Wigmore Hall and been quite knocked out by her charismatic personality and elegant good looks. In fact he had had a slight crush on her for years in a manner quite unsuitable to a man of his age.
Tennant poured himself another cup of coffee and thought to himself that the time had come for him to find a pleasant companion, someone who might actually love him and in whose company he could relax and be happy. Though there was a great deal to be said for the bachelor life it certainly had disadvantages as well.
He got up and put two pieces of bread into the toaster, waited two minutes, then spread them with generous helpings of butter and marmalade. He was just crunching into the second one when the phone rang. It was Potter.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘What time do you call this? I’m still asleep.’
‘Then you’d better wake up sharpish, sir. There’s been another murder.’
‘Where?’
‘In Lakehurst. The cleaning lady went in early to get his breakfast and found him lying at the bottom of the stairs.’
‘Who, Potter? For heaven’s sake who?’
‘Oh, sorry sir. Gerrard Riddell, one of the people you were still going to interview.’
‘Damn and blast,’ said Tennant violently. ‘All right, I’ll meet you outside in fifteen minutes. Have the mobile unit been informed?’
‘They’re already at the scene.’
Five minutes later, showered, shaved and suited, and looking remarkably smart despite the time in which he had had to get ready, Tennant dived into the car which Potter had brought almost to his front door.
‘How can you be sure it wasn’t an accident?’ was his first question.
‘We can’t, that’s the devil of it,’ Potter answered, ‘but it’s a helluva coincidence, wouldn’t you agree, sir?’
‘Odd, to say the least. Step on it, Potter. I’m anxious to get a look at this one.’
Pausing only briefly at the police mobile unit to get kitted up in the familiar protective clothing, Tennant and Potter made for West Street. Turning into it from the High Street, the inspector grimaced, seeing before him a narrow road and a lot of parked cars, presumably belonging to the people who lived in cottages and houses on the raised embankment which bordered it. He promptly sent two uniformed men to either end to turn motorists away. He looked up at the raised dwellings and turned to his sergeant.
‘Which house is it?’
‘That one there. April Cottage. It’s deceiving because it’s larger than it looks.’
Tennant nodded and climbed the flight of stone steps that led to the residences above. The familiar tape was up and even though it was not yet eight o’clock a small crowd had already gathered beyond it. The inspector looked round for the vicar but thought that it must be a bit early for him.
The front door, guarded outside by a constable, led directly into a living room with french doors which opened on to a neatly kept garden, still bright with autumn flowers. Tennant stepped outside and breathed in the sharp morning air. Running his eye over the plot which was quite large, going down to newly mown lawns, he noticed a gate in the fence at the bottom.
‘Where does that go to?’ he asked Potter, who was hovering at his elbow.
‘I’m not quite sure, sir, but I’ll get one of the boys to have a look.’
‘Yes, please do so.’
He turned back into the house and walked from the living room to an extremely chi-chi dining room, with silver candlesticks everywhere and masses of mirrors, many of which looked Georgian to Tennant’s fairly knowledgeable eye.
Across a narrow passageway lay the kitchen and there, lying in a heap at the bottom of a spiral staircase, was the body. Tennant knelt down beside it and peered closely.
There was a huge blow to the back of the head but whether this had been caused by falling or whether by some blunt instrument it was hard to say.
‘What do you think, sir?’
‘Um. I don’t know. Could have been an accident but somehow I don’t think so.’
‘Shall we take a look upstairs?’
‘Is there another way up?’
Tennant, peering upwards, could see two forensic experts painstakingly going over the staircase, step by spiralling step.
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Odd, having the only access to the bedrooms from the kitchen.’
‘That’s old cottages for you,’ Potter answered brightly.
Fifteen minutes later the police surgeon arrived to examine the body. He crouched down beside it and looked at the head, turned to the right partially revealing the expression on the late Gerrard Riddell’s face.
‘Looks a sour old puss, doesn’t he?’
‘So would you if you’d just taken a tumble down a spiral staircase,’ Tennant answered drily.
‘Ah, but did he fall or was he pushed,’ the surgeon replied, fingering the corpse’s skull with incredible delicacy.
‘That’s up to you to say.’
‘Well, I won’t know until after the post
-mortem but my guess is that he received a clobbering before he descended.’
‘So he had an assignation in his bedroom?’
‘Now, now, Dominic. Don’t go jumping to any conclusions.’
‘When I can get upstairs I’ll have a better idea.’
‘You can do that in a minute, sir,’ called a female voice and Tennant saw that one of the forensics specialists was a woman, who had reached the penultimate step.
‘Anything up there?’ he asked her.
‘Plenty,’ she said, ‘but I won’t spoil the surprise.’
‘You found a weapon?’
‘If you can call a great big statue of Buddha a weapon, yes.’
‘Good God,’ said Tennant.
‘Plus a note attached to the wall.’
‘Well, that clinches it. We’re dealing with another murder, Potter.’
‘I thought so all along, sir,’ answered the sergeant somewhat smugly.
‘Come on. Let’s go and see for ourselves.’
They climbed the spiral with care, making sure to miss the blood which bespattered the stairs profusely. Forensics watched them with a smile.
‘Careful where you put your feet, sir.’
Tennant merely growled.
They reached the top to find that it opened on to a small landing which had been turned into a shrine. Yet again there was a profusion of candles, some still lit, obviously having burned all night.
Lying on the floor, fallen to one side in a grotesque parody of the corpse that lay below, was a golden Buddha, drenched in a great splatter of red around its head. Somewhere, right in the back of Tennant’s mind, a memory stirred but – elusive as a dream – it was gone before he could catch it.
The Buddha was about three feet tall – Tennant had never taught himself to think in metres – and probably nearly as wide.
‘Pop downstairs and get me an outsize evidence bag, will you.’
Potter obeyed. Tennant stood quite still, running his eyes over the crime scene and absorbing every detail. On the wall, in the niche where the Buddha had once stood, was pinned a piece of A4 paper. On it, scrawled in red were the words, ‘Second of the ten. Where next? The Acting Light of the World.’ Tennant took it off the wall with his disposable gloves and placed it in an evidence bag. Potter returned, breathing hard.