‘They will demand an offering.’
‘Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,’ Tremayne said. ‘Reverend Harrison, I put it to you that whereas you are not guilty of any crime, you know more about this than anyone else in this room. Before you leave here today, you will tell us what you know. Is that clear?’
‘If I tell you, then you will be damned.’
‘Are you?’
‘I cannot place you in danger. The knowledge I possess will kill you.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’ Tremayne said with a raised voice. Harrison was crucial to the investigation, and he was holding back. ‘What is it?’
‘I felt something in your church the other day,’ Clare said.
‘It was there.’
‘What was it?’
‘They watch.’
‘And?’ Tremayne asked.
‘Your faith in the modern world will not protect you.’
‘What will?’
‘Ignorance will save you. Knowledge will condemn you.’
‘But you know.’
‘I am a servant of the Lord, a peaceful man. You are lawgivers, you will act against them.’
‘Then they are mortal beings, the same as you and I?’
‘Those who speak on their behalf are.’
‘Clare, this is going nowhere,’ Tremayne said. ‘We’re wasting our time.’
‘Reverend Harrison,’ Clare said, ‘Mavis Godwin said exactly the same as you. Do you expect us to walk away from the murder of Mavis Godwin, your parishioner, my friend?’
‘Yes, that’s what I expect you to do.’
‘Thank you, Reverend Harrison. We’ll talk further tomorrow,’ Tremayne said.
Chapter 8
The first night after Mavis Godwin’s death, Tremayne and Clare had stayed at the police station until the early hours of the morning. Harry had phoned Clare on a couple of occasions, but she had been too busy, and eventually, at three in the morning, she collapsed into her bed, and for the first time in the last ten days there was no one at her side, except for her two cats.
Harry had an aversion to cats, and when he was there, they were in the other room behind a closed door.
At 6 a.m. Clare had awoken to a rattling of the window in her bedroom. Tales of evil, the vicar and his church, and the events at Mavis Godwin’s cottage had left her on edge. She crept over to the window and peered out. It was dark outside, yet the noise persisted.
Get a grip of yourself. You’re a police officer, not a silly schoolgirl, Clare said to herself.
She opened the window with gusto to show that she was brave when she did not feel it. A thin branch from a tree close to the window lashed her in the face, causing her to move back. ‘Damn you,’ she said. She realised that the wind, stronger than usual, had caused the branch to sway and that the supernatural did not exist, only her foolishness. She went to the bathroom and washed her face, noticing that the action of the branch had left a scratch. She applied a plaster to where there was a small amount of blood. It was still early: too early to report to work, too late to go back to sleep. She lay on her bed looking up at the ceiling. One of the cats snuggled at the bottom of the bed, the other came and shared her pillow. She phoned Harry. He answered straightaway.
‘I can’t sleep,’ she said.
‘Neither can I,’ he replied, although she could tell that she had woken him up.
‘I keep seeing that woman in the water.’
‘Do you know who did it?’
‘We’re still waiting for the crime scene report.’
‘No more of that evil nonsense?’
‘Not with Mavis Godwin. We’re certain she was killed by another woman.’
‘Do women do that?’ Harry asked. ‘I mean, murder people.’
‘In this case, it appears to be that way.’
‘I could come over.’
‘It’s too late now. I’m expected in the office by 7.30 a.m. I just missed you, that’s all.’
‘I missed you as well. Tonight, then?’ Harry asked.
‘As long as no one else dies,’ Clare replied, although further deaths seemed all too possible.
***
If Clare had phoned Reverend Harrison instead of Harry, she would have found that he was not asleep either; in fact, he had not slept for more than twenty minutes that night. Most of the night, he had knelt by the side of his bed in silent prayer.
He remembered his youth as a choir boy at his local church in the north of England. He remembered in his late teens walking through the front gate of the theological college, his proud parents accompanying him; he remembered his first parish, the first wedding he conducted. In all that time, he knew that his faith had not been challenged. His belief in the word of the Lord, his faith that his God was infinite in his wisdom and benevolence. He had studied other religions, learnt about paganism and witchcraft and how they paled in comparison to his Christian beliefs.
And yet, he had seen things, heard things. He remembered the look on the face of the police sergeant. He had seen the fear in her; she had seen it in him.
Harrison knew he was foolish, and he was wrong to worry. He knew that night, that sleepless night, that they were watching, whispering in the dark. The vicar had looked out of the window of the small rectory next to the church. There were shapes, ghostly forms, voices speaking in a language he could not understand. He prayed as he had never prayed; wished he had married, thought he was going mad.
He remembered the first time Mavis Godwin had entered his church. ‘I need guidance,’ she had said. It had been eight years previously when she had stood before him, a small woman approaching middle age. He saw a good Christian soul in need of his help. He had seen her before as she had walked along the path in front of his church many times; they had exchanged pleasantries, spoken about the weather and life in general, but never once had she crossed the threshold into the Lord’s house, and now, here she was and she was troubled. He remembered the worry etched in her furrowed brow that first time, and now he had seen her body by the side of the water trough. He knew why she was dead, yet he did not dare to tell those who wanted to know.
The Reverend Harrison looked out of the bedroom window. The first light of a new day was dawning, and although there were a few clouds, they were benign and posed no threat.
He knew that before Mavis Godwin had told him her story he had been comfortable in his piety. But she had told him of other gods that had been summoned from the depths of hell. Gods who were not as his God; gods that demanded tributes.
He remembered his horror as she sat on one of the church pews and told him all that she knew. Both so absorbed they had not taken note of what was outside the church. It was after dark; the woman had been speaking for over two hours. The electricity had failed, and the church was plunged into darkness.
‘They are here,’ she had said.
‘Who?’ he had asked.
‘The gods who fear no others.’
‘Our Lord will protect us,’ Harrison had replied.
As he knelt in front of his bed, his hands raised in prayer, he could feel the same indeterminable cold creeping into his bones. He drew himself up from the bed and looked out of the window again – nothing. He resumed his position, although he was not at ease. He had seen a dead woman in a field, a woman who had looked to him for protection, a woman who had died at the hand of another. He saw the devil’s handiwork. He knew he was cursed. Had not Jesus been tempted in the desert for forty days and forty nights? Was this his time to be tempted, but it had been longer than forty days? It had been eight years, and he had never felt as much fear as he did now by the side of his small bed. He picked up a copy of the Bible that he always kept close at hand. He opened it at Psalm 23:4.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
An owl hooted outside. An omen, he thought, but of what? Was his God with him, or were there others? He did not know
, and he was troubled. He had wanted to tell the two police officers all that he knew, but they would not understand fully the implications. Although maybe the young woman would, about what had happened in the past when he and Mavis Godwin held hands and silently prayed for protection.
Then they had rattled the windows and sent the wind gusting through the small church, throwing the books of prayer this way and that. It had not lasted long, but it was enough to frighten them.
‘I can say no more,’ the woman had said as she ran out of the church. He remembered following her to find that the night was calm with barely a breeze.
‘I need to know,’ he had said.
‘Another time,’ she had replied as she walked briskly down the road to the sanctuary of her cottage. Now she had died in a water trough close to where she had felt safest. Harrison knew he did not have long. He could choose to tell the police what he knew, or he could wait, but she had told him over a period of months what she had talked about that first night. There were gods, ancient gods, who were not recorded in a book of prayer or in a Bible, but were real nonetheless. And what of him, Harrison thought.
Each time he had spoken to the woman, they had both looked for the signs, moved apart when it looked ominous. He had written in one of his Bibles what she had told him. Would he give it to the young police officer? Or should he give it to the nonbeliever, the senior police inspector? Who would be safe? Would either of them? And what of him? Mavis Godwin had made it clear that the one thing they did not like was to be known, and he knew their names. He had checked on the internet, and whereas they were shrouded in mystery and disbelief, they were very real.
The Roman poet Lucan, writing in the first century AD, had mentioned their names. Julius Caesar was rumoured to have encountered human sacrifices dedicated to them: Taranis, the thunder-god, was appeased by fire, the victims of Esus were stabbed and hanged from a tree until they bled to death, and with Teutates, they were drowned.
The reverend knew that Mavis Godwin had been dedicated to Teutates, but what of him? Langley, who had dared to question the elder’s authority, had burnt. Harrison knew that his fate was hanging, but there had been other deaths over the years. And what of Trevor Godwin, what had been his fate? Had he burnt, or been drowned, the same as his wife, or had he met his end in the branches of a tree?
The reverend only knew of one certainty; he would not tell the two innocents what he knew.
Chapter 9
Jim Hughes was in Tremayne’s office early that morning. Clare had arrived late which was unusual for her, but she had had a troubled night. Tremayne was looking good and ready to crack on.
‘Okay, what have you got?’ Tremayne asked. He leant back in his chair. Clare was sure one of the legs would break one day, and he’d be sprawled across the floor.
‘The two women spent time in the dead woman’s cottage. There’s a clear sign that they had a cup of tea each. We’ve got fingerprints,’ Hughes said.
‘Any chance of a match on our database?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Does that mean the woman who killed her was a friend?’ Clare asked.
‘It’s a fair assumption. Anyway, we can tell that the two women left the cottage by the back door and walked out into the field.’
‘Any sign of force?’ Tremayne asked.
‘None that we can see. We know that the woman’s murderer was a larger person.’
‘How?’
‘Shoe size, at least two sizes larger. Also, she was wearing boots.’
‘What does that suggest?’ Clare asked.
‘The woman was not dressed for a night out on the town. I’d say she is a country woman. We found some wheat in the mud where she had stood to hold the woman under.’
‘Wheat? Surely that would have dropped off as she walked.’
‘Depends on where it was. We’re assuming it wasn’t on the footwear. More likely on the clothes she was wearing,’ Hughes said.
‘What else can you tell us?’ Tremayne asked.
‘The woman fought back, and there are bruises on the back of her neck where the other woman applied pressure.’
‘And this woman was apparently a friend?’
‘If she made her a cup of tea,’ Hughes replied.
‘Anything else?’
‘The usual. Mavis Godwin was fifty-six, in good health, although she was troubled by arthritis.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Prescription medicine in the house.’
‘What else?’
‘There was water in her lungs which indicates she drowned in the trough.’
‘Unpleasant,’ Clare, who had returned, said.
‘’Not as bad as Langley’s,’ Tremayne replied.
‘Maybe, but I knew the dead woman.’
‘Sorry if you’re upset by all this, but we’ve got to find her killer and that of Langley.’
‘Are you still holding on to that theory that he was murdered?’ Hughes asked.
‘You may not be able to prove it, but it’s obvious.’
‘Because his nurse has been murdered?’
‘In part. But we’ve also the dead woman’s statement, as well as the Reverend Harrison. That man could blow this case wide open.’
‘And he’s not talking?’ Hughes asked.
‘You’ve got it. Either the man’s frightened or he’s mad, and I’m not ruling out the latter,’ Tremayne said.
‘Mad! That’s a damning condemnation of a man of the cloth.’
‘Look, Hughes, you may be a hot-shot crime scene examiner, but I’ve got a dead woman who spouted on about evil forces, a man of the cloth, to use your terminology, who’s out for the count in that church the one time I’m there with Yarwood, and there’s my sergeant believing this garbage.’
‘We know Langley’s nurse was murdered,’ Hughes said. ‘Why couldn’t Langley have just died of natural causes?’
‘Then why don’t you record that instead of a wishy-washy conclusion such as the man was obese, not in good health, a possible alcoholic, and it’s not feasible for you to give a reason as to why he was only a pile of grease and ash with an offensive odour. Why? Tell me that, or are you unsure?’
Hughes, who had always respected Tremayne for his depth of experience and his age, responded. ‘Langley, until someone can come up with a scientific explanation, I cannot give you an answer, but rest assured, it wasn’t murder.’
‘Thank you, Hughes,’ Tremayne said.
‘You like winding up people, don’t you?’ Hughes said, although he was not pleased with what had just occurred.
‘I appreciate the truth. Mavis Godwin’s death is very real. Langley’s requires confirmation.’
‘I’ve set up the door-to-door,’ Clare said. ‘I’ll meet the team down there later this morning.’
‘Check on Harrison while you’re there.’
‘You want me to go into the church?’ Clare asked.
Tremayne could hear the hesitancy in her voice. ‘Yarwood, get a grip of yourself. You’re a serving police officer, and a good one if you stick with me, so forget this nonsense. The reverend and Mavis Godwin and whoever else can believe what they want, but we’re police officers. We deal in facts, not something you read in a book or watch at the movies. You’ve got to get rid of this phobia.’
‘I’ll visit Reverend Harrison on the way,’ Clare said. ‘He still needs to formally identify Mavis Godwin.’
‘No relatives?’ Tremayne asked.
‘None that we’ve been able to find.’
***
A meeting in what had once been a church. A congregation led by a man who wore a mask. ‘Our secret is safe,’ the man said. ‘We give thanks to the one who has protected us.’
The assembled group turned to look at the woman who had killed Mavis Godwin, and applauded her by stamping their feet.
‘Enough,’ said the leader. The man, a doctor, believed as they all did. He had seen the proof: the abundant harvests, the healthy livest
ock, the wealth that they had all achieved. It was not important whether his belief was absolute, or whether he was a mortal representation of a god; it was only important that those assembled feared what he represented.
The doctor knew full well the history of the village from all those years ago. How in a time of strife and plague, the villagers had resorted to desperate measures, how they had embraced paganism. The story had been passed down from generation to generation, adult to child. The year had been 1351, and bubonic plague had been ravaging the country, decimating the population town by town, village by village. The people, illiterate in the main, believed that was ailed them was due to their wickedness, their lack of devotion to the church, their inability to pray enough or to pay enough to those who could save them.
It had only taken one of the villagers, at a time when the snows were at their most severe and the village had been isolated for weeks, to find the ancient texts. Texts hidden in a dark place, known to only a few. The words engraved inside that burial mound could not be pronounced, and besides, no peasant could read even their own language, let alone words that had been written in an alien tongue.
If it had not been for the son of the squire, inquisitive as all boys are, those words would never have been spoken. The doctor knew who this boy was; he was one of his ancestors. It was all recorded in the book that he kept hidden, even from his wife. She was not of the village; she would not understand. The book had detailed all that had happened. How in that village lost in misery, isolated from the outside world by the snow and by the plague, a meeting had been held in the church. The priest who led it asked the congregation to pray to God in their hour of need; to pray as they had never prayed before.
The peasants, illiterate and starving, stood at the back of the church; the squire sat with his family and son in a specially constructed pew, isolated from those that they cared little about.
The priest, an educated man, in so far as he could read and write, conducted the ceremony in his usual fashion. The peasants, understanding little, could see the Bible, yet none had ever opened it. The squire read from the good book, as did the priest. The son, just coming of age, was to be the third speaker.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 6