The Mills of God

by Deryn Lake

‘Including the murderer?’ he said without thinking.

  She flushed uncomfortably. ‘I keep puzzling as to who it can be. But was Mr Riddell’s death perchance an accident? Are we jumping to conclusions?’

  Thinking of the note left at the scene of the crime, Nick shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I believe there might well be a religious maniac on the loose.’

  Sonia gave him a penetrating glance. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Thinking he had revealed too much, Nick answered vaguely, ‘Oh, just a feeling I have.’

  ‘Then it must be a regular churchgoer. Oh dear, oh dear.’ She closed her eyes and staggered a little where she stood so that the vicar was forced to put out a reluctant arm to support her. Her eyes flew open and she gave him what might once have been a spectacular look. The eyelashes batted again. ‘Now Father Nick, when can you come to dine?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m afraid my diary is on my desk at the vicarage. May I telephone you?’

  ‘Oh please do.’ She wagged a finger with an extremely long red nail on the end. ‘Now don’t forget.’

  ‘I won’t,’ the vicar answered, and hurried away.

  The Great House was packed that evening, everyone feeling in need of a little Dutch courage to cope with the all-pervading sense of fear that had fallen over the village of Lakehurst, to say nothing of the house-to-house enquiries that were now taking place. There was not one person present who was not discussing the murders – for though the vicar had said nothing about the note left above the place where the great Buddha had once stood – rumour was out and blood had run cold.

  The vicar stood in a little group with Dr Rudniski, Giles Fielding and, for once on his feet and not sitting in his corner, Jack Boggis. He was looking taciturn and his ill-fitting false teeth were hissing slightly as he spoke.

  ‘It’s a rum business, this. Well rum.’

  ‘I must say that I’ll be quite glad to get into my car and be off to Speckled Wood at the end of the evening,’ said Giles.

  ‘Is it true,’ asked Kasper of everyone in general, ‘that Mr Riddell was murdered with the statue of a Buddha?’

  They all looked blankly at one another, then Giles answered, ‘I don’t know about that but he certainly had a statue – and a bloody big one it was too – on his landing. And he used to light candles in front of it and all. I know because I delivered a sheep there one Christmas and I got a chance to look round.’

  ‘The sheep was dead I trust?’ said Kasper seriously.

  Giles made a clucking sound. ‘Of course it was dead. He had a lot of his gay friends coming down for Christmas and he wanted it for Christmas Day.’

  ‘I never eat at Christmas,’ put in Boggis. ‘It upsets my digestion.’

  ‘But it’s a time for celebration,’ protested Nick. ‘We’re celebrating the birthday of our Lord.’

  ‘Lord or no Lord, all I eat is a helping of cauliflower cheese.’

  ‘That’ll make you windy,’ said Giles, grinning broadly. ‘They’ll hear you thundering down in East Street.’

  Everybody laughed but underneath the sound Nick was sure he could detect a hollow quality, an urge to escape the horror and bloodshed.

  ‘But tell me, Giles, surely you don’t seriously believe that Gerrard worshipped the Buddha? After all, he came to church.’

  The craggy countenance took on a straight-faced expression. ‘I’m telling you, Vicar, for all his appearances in church and his lusty singing and all, he did worship that statue. One night I called late to his place and the front door was open. I’d come for my money actually – but that’s another story. Anyway I wanders into the house and into the kitchen, calling out his name like, and then I sees ’im. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the thing and he was moaning to it.’

  ‘Moaning?’

  ‘He was making sounds like Um and whispering prayers to it.’

  Nick stared, astonished. ‘Are you trying to tell me he was a Buddhist?’

  ‘Yes. At least that’s what I thought at the time.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Kasper said.

  ‘Was he a patient of yours?’ Jack Boggis asked in a slightly condescending manner.

  ‘No, he went to the older doctor.’

  ‘Wise bloke,’ Boggis answered with a smile which, or so it seemed to Nick, was masking the fact that he meant every word he said.

  But at this moment all further conversation ceased as a loud voice spoke from the doorway. ‘I told ’em to fuck off good and proper, I did. Evening all.’ Dwayne had returned from Lewes.

  He strolled into the bar in what he considered to be a nonchalant manner but which actually resembled a loutish slouch, his clothes creased and mucky looking, his tee shirt with its unlovely slogan stained with an unpleasant yellowish mark. The lads playing the fruit machines tucked away round the corner hastened towards him.

  ‘Hello, me old mucker, ’ow d’you get on then?’

  ‘All right, Dwayne?’

  And so on.

  The hero of the hour said loudly, ‘Bleedin’ cops. I never said nuffink to ’em and they had to let me go. I just played it cool and ’ere I am.’

  His voice died down as he followed his companions towards their stamping ground, kicking a bar stool on his way.

  ‘What a creep,’ said Giles, and there was a general murmur of assent.

  ‘Another round, gentlemen?’ asked the doctor, and for once everyone agreed.

  It was strange, thought Nick, as there was a moment’s silence while they all took a sip, how people left the pub in pairs, almost as if there were an unwritten agreement that no one should walk alone. The tension in the village was everywhere, the population was frightened.

  The doors opened again and much to Nick’s surprise and delight Olivia Beauchamp stood there. She was somewhat out-of-breath and decidedly flushed. She looked round, saw her group of friends and hurried to join them.

  ‘What’s been going on?’ she demanded.

  Jack Boggis gave a flash of his mighty false teeth. ‘There’s been another murder, my dear,’ he said in what he considered to be a manly voice. ‘But there’s nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.’ And he attempted to pat Olivia’s hand.

  She took it away and gave it instead to the doctor, who squeezed it warmly. ‘What will you have to drink, Olivia? It is my round.’

  ‘Thanks Kasper. I think I’ll have a large gin and tonic in view of the news.’ She turned to Nick as Kasper went to the bar. ‘My cleaning lady told me that old Riddell was murdered last night. Is it true?’

  ‘Aye, it’s true, bumble bee,’ Giles answered familiarly, rather annoying the vicar.

  ‘But who is doing it?’ asked Olivia, going from pink-cheeked to white very suddenly.

  ‘That’s the million dollar question,’ Nick said grimly. ‘If we knew the answer to that we’d all be a lot better off.’

  ‘Are the police on the scene?’

  ‘They are everywhere. They’ve got a mobile headquarters parked in the High Street and they’re going from house-to-house making enquiries. And, Inspector Tennant would like to speak to you.’

  Olivia nodded. ‘I’ll give him a call in the morning. I’m playing in Brighton so I’ll be around for a few days.’

  Nick looked anxious. ‘Did you drive here?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then I will escort you back.’

  ‘No need for that, Vicar,’ put in Giles, in his rollicking Sussex accent. ‘I’ll drive behind Olivia and see her into her house.’

  She turned from one to the other of them. ‘Are things that serious?’

  Before anyone else could answer Jack Boggis piped up. ‘Now then, little lady, if you’re looking for someone to walk with, I’m your man. This bloody murderer doesn’t scare me I can assure you.’

  Kasper, who had consumed several vodkas and obviously had a touch of the fighting spirit as a result, said, ‘With respect, Mr Boggis, I would have thought someone younger and fitter would hav
e been a better protector.’

  Jack burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you would, would you? I could down you any time, young man. I was in the army I’ll have you know.’

  The vicar felt that this was the moment to intercede. ‘I think it is beholden on us all to keep very calm at the present time. There is enough evil stalking this village without us adding to it.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Jack loudly.

  Giles spoke up. ‘Well, my offer still stands, Olivia. I’ll see you home and then you must lock all your doors.’

  ‘Thank you, Giles. I accept. I wouldn’t dream of bothering the rest of you.’ She downed her gin. ‘Shall we go?’

  Fielding drained his pint. ‘Are you in the car park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So’m I. Goodnight one and all.’

  Nick could not help but notice that Olivia squeezed Kasper’s hand as she left the building.

  ‘A right tidy package, that,’ commented Jack, watching her departing form.

  Nick agreed in a half-hearted tone, thinking to himself that Olivia deserved far more praise than the Yorkshireman was capable of giving. Trying to be Christian, he murmured, ‘Indeed.’

  The pub was emptying now, the majority of customers leaving in twos or threes. Nick turned to Kasper. ‘I locked the church up as soon as it got dark. I didn’t like the look of that stranger I had in there recently.’

  ‘Do you think he was the murderer?’

  ‘I’ve no way of telling but he – or she – acted in a most peculiar manner and I don’t want a repeat performance.’

  ‘Well, I’m walking home alone,’ announced Jack Boggis, attempting to look defiant, sticking out his chins.

  ‘I’ll drop you at the vicarage and then go on,’ said Kasper.

  Despite his bravado Boggis seemed glad of their company and strode off with a rather sad attempt at courage when they left him at the car park. Even though it was only a few minutes’ walk from the vicarage Nick was equally glad to be dropped at his front door. He walked in, was greeted by that familiar smell of times past, and listened to the silence. Radetsky came to meet him, then his tail swelled up as William creaked overhead.

  The last person to leave the pub, mindless with alcohol and shouting loudly about the sodding cops, was Dwayne. He turned into one of the small alleyways that ran from the High Street, then decided that he needed a pee. He unzipped his jeans and was vaguely fumbling for his cock when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked an unearthly voice, neither male nor female but a weird mixture of both.

  Fearing the police, Dwayne spun round and looked straight into the eyes of his killer. He fell to the ground instantly and lay in an ever-growing pool of his own cascading urine.

  TEN

  It seemed to Tennant that he had been asleep all of five minutes when the phone went off in his ear again.

  ‘Yes?’ he whispered grumpily.

  ‘Sir.’ It was Potter sounding tense.

  ‘Oh no! Not again!’ He was fully awake.

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry.’

  Tennant sat up, pulling on a shirt. ‘Who is it this time?’

  ‘That little squirt we had down here. The one who was so horrible to his grandma. Dwayne Saunters.’

  ‘Oh God, it will kill the old girl. Meet me outside in ten.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Thank heavens for electric razors, thought the inspector, running one perfunctorily over his chin and simultaneously pulling on his trousers. And thank heavens for shoes that slipped on without any bother. He ran downstairs still easing into one just as Potter’s car appeared.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘He was last seen leaving the pub at about eleven p.m. He cut down one of those little alleyways where he relieved himself and was stabbed in the neck as he did so.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘Never a one.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘A dog. Old Mrs Carteret, whose house forms part of the alleyway, heard her pet whining at about midnight and let him out. She didn’t go with him because she was in her nightclothes but when she heard the redoubtable Roger worrying at something in the alley she tiptoed down in her slippers and came across friend Dwayne. She screamed the place down apparently.’

  ‘Any message left?’

  ‘Something chalked on the wall this time. The night-duty boys have already set up a crime scene.’

  ‘What ungodly hour is it?’ asked the inspector, realizing that he had forgotten to put his watch on.

  Potter glanced at his. ‘Just gone four, sir.’

  ‘God almighty. We really do earn our money, don’t we.’

  ‘We most certainly do.’

  Forty-five minutes later they were in Lakehurst which seemed utterly deserted and desolate in the chill wind that had come up. But a visit to the mobile headquarters to get protective clothing proved otherwise. It was a hive of activity and, minutes later, they saw that the alleyway had been cordoned off and that there were shapes in blue standing at either end. What appeared to be a heap of clothes was lying in the pathway.

  The inspector spoke to one of the constables standing at the High Street end. ‘Has anyone touched the body yet?’

  ‘No, sir. Forensics haven’t arrived – and who can blame them.’

  ‘Who indeed?’

  Tennant shone his torch on to the scribbled message on the wall. It read: ‘So the third one is done. Seven to go. Take great care. The Acting Light of the World.’

  He moved the strong beam directly on to the corpse. With all his yobbish bravado drained away, Dwayne Saunters looked pathetic. Huddled as if he were asleep, lying in a puddle of dried-out pee, his flies undone and his penis small and somehow childlike, even the inspector – who had had no time for the youth when he was alive – felt a tiny pang of pity. He turned back to the constable.

  ‘May as well go and have a cup of coffee. There’s nothing we can do until the forensic team get here.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the officer answered, looking slightly jealous.

  Back in the mobile unit, Tennant sat with his feet up and his eyes closed and eventually found that he was barely conscious. Then he woke with a start as the police surgeon arrived. All three of them made their way to the alleyway where Dwayne lay motionless, and bent down over him.

  ‘Pretty clear cut,’ said the doctor. ‘He was stabbed in the neck whilst in the act of urinating. Poor little bugger.’

  Without touching it Tennant examined the implement that had killed the boy. It was like a paper knife, but thinner, and obviously sharp as a razor. It had penetrated the side of the neck, severing a main artery. The inspector bent closer, noticing the jewel at the top and thinking it could well have been an old-fashioned hat pin.

  ‘Potter, look at this. At last we might have a lead to the killer.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir. You can pick these things up in any junk shop.’

  ‘You reckon it’s a hat pin?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘The murderer knew just how to use it though.’

  ‘Yes.’ The sergeant stood up and looked at the chalked message on the wall. ‘So he plans on doing another seven, does he.’

  ‘It can’t happen. I’ve got to catch this lunatic.’

  ‘Well the lads are working their way through the local population.’

  ‘And Speckled Wood?’

  ‘Speckled Wood and every outlying farmhouse. Somebody’s got to know something.’

  Tennant turned to Potter. ‘Can you get me a detailed map of the district? And quickly. I’ll want it by this afternoon at the latest.’ He glanced at his watch then remembered that he had forgotten to put it on. ‘Time Potter?’ he said quickly.

  ‘Coming up five, sir.’

  ‘Where are forensics?’

  But even as he spoke a posse of white-clad forms, some carrying suitcases, appeared walking silently towards them.

  ‘Thank God,’
said Tennant with force. ‘Now we can go away and have some more coffee and let them get on with it. I suggest we return in an hour.’

  Back in the mobile unit Tennant sat silently, turning over in his mind the possibility of a linking thread between the victims. Was it conceivable that Gerrard had run some sort of homosexual ring of which Dwayne had been a member? But what would that have to do with the Patels, honest hard-working folk who ordered Mr Riddell’s china tea especially for him? Or could it be what Potter had believed all along? That there was a religious maniac at work who for reasons best known to himself – or herself – was polishing off the inhabitants of the village of Lakehurst.

  At eight o’clock, having investigated the corpse of Dwayne Saunters, forensics stating that they had got all they could from it, Inspector Tennant removed his protective clothing and went round, booted and suited, to see the vicar, who he caught shovelling shredded wheat into his face at great speed.

  ‘Excuse me if I just finish my breakfast, Inspector.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tennant stared somewhat avidly at the toast.

  ‘Would you like something?’

  ‘Thank you very much. Yes, please.’

  ‘Toast?’ The inspector nodded. ‘One or two slices?’

  ‘Two please.’

  He spread them thickly with marmalade, feeling he needed the sugar. Then turned to the vicar.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to pick your brains once more.’

  Nick looked up questioningly but said nothing.

  ‘There was another message left at the scene of crime.’ And Tennant handed over a piece of paper on which he had copied it down.

  Nick looked at it and shook his head. ‘It only confirms my suspicion that there’s a religious maniac at work. Have you had a handwriting expert look at them?’

  ‘We most certainly have but as they’re all printed he can’t make very much of them.’

  ‘Not even whether it’s a man or a woman?’

  ‘Not even that, I’m sorry to say.’

  Nick shook his head. ‘I wish I could throw more light on it for you. But at the moment I’m stumped.’

  He handed the piece of paper back to the inspector who put up his hand, barring it. ‘No, you keep it, Vicar. We’ve got plenty of these. If you get any bright ideas don’t hesitate to ring me.’ And he handed the vicar a card with his mobile number as well as his land line printed on.