“Corn Dollies? Pagan sacrifice! You’re not serious? What on earth makes you think of that?”
“If you think it’s barmy, Viv, just listen carefully to what some of the locals talk about around the pub fireside on a winter evening. The village ancients I’m talking about. Like those two old boys, the Chidgeleys for instance,” she whispered, eyeing the old men still choosing their books from the shelves. “If they wanted to — I reckon they can tell you all about the ancient pagan blood sacrifices that were practiced here centuries ago to help the crops. There were a couple of similar unsolved deaths here in this village before, you know.”
“Deaths here? Really! I’d no idea! Do tell me more...” Viviane leant over the counter.
“In the early nineteenth century there was a young man and a young girl. They died. One year apart.” Viviane’s blue-green eyes widened with astonishment as she listened. “They were sacrificed by the knife so their blood flowed into Mother Earth!” Jo finished dramatically. “According to the legend it was done by the pagans to ensure the fertile crops and a good harvest the following year.”
“Good grief!” Viviane planted her elbows firmly on the counter and whispered, “I don’t like the sound of that at all, Jo. The tabloids if they heard about it would have a field day here.” She smothered a laugh. “Oh — do forgive the pun. If they should get wind of this the media will descend on Lower Milton like locusts. The crop circles do that all ready but at least they’re good for the village in general.”
Jo shook her cap of dark cropped curls. “Don’t worry, Viv. Tim will soon nip any rumours like that well in the bud from the pulpit. He says that all these pagan things are utter rubbish when anyone has anything to say about the ancient history of Kilernee Hill.”
“Well... I’m not so certain about that.” Viviane grimaced wryly. “Kilernee Hill, yes, that’s got a dark history there right enough. But Tim wasn’t born and bred here and neither were you.”
“You can never be really sure though, can you?” Jo insisted. “Old customs die hard in these small country places,” she said moving round the counter over to the shelves. “Just forget it. I’m as bad as you-know-who,” she said casting a look in Daisy Doughty’s direction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make a joke of it. I could be wrong.”
But then again, she might not be. Jo left Viviane fretting over her suggestion of pagan fertility ceremonials. However crazy it might sound, could it be the motive for the young girl’s death? Were these pagan rites still happening? It was near to harvest time.
Seven more readers were attended to and twenty minutes later, she saw Mrs. Doughty returning with her selection of paperbacks. She never usually took that long choosing but this morning was an exception. She had had further conversation with the others while choosing books. It was, after all, a social event for the old lady, the fortnightly library visit.
Daisy Doughty wasn’t at all keen on the medical romances. She said she’d got enough aches and pains to keep the chemists and their doctors’ surgery going for donkey’s years yet “without having to read up about operations and such like” which surprised Viviane because Mrs. Doughty generally gave out the full details and symptoms of what ever illness she was suffering from that week to everyone prepared to listen. She chose instead to read the highly coloured, passionate romantic paperbacks and preferred the French or Italian lovers best of all.
“They’ve got hot blood an’ a damn sight more oomph in ‘em,” she said gleefully with a wicked smile when asked. She was pretty easy to please, which was lucky because the library couldn’t afford to buy that many new books. Whereas in the past the romances were bought by the crate load, they were now limited to three or four new paperbacks a month.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier about Sandra, Mrs. Trent. We oughtn’t to speak ill of the dead,” Mrs. Doughty said tying on her plastic rain hood over the straggling grey curls while Viviane registered the books on the computer. It was raining hard again.
“‘S’pose I must say it, whatever she did, poor girl, she didn’t deserve what happened to her. An’ that’s a fact. Now I come to think of it she stopped to give me a lift into town in her car one day when I missed the bus. I’ve got to give her full credit for that.”
“That was kind of her, Mrs. Doughty.”
“Yes it were — let’s hope the police catch her killer before he strikes again. A bloodthirsty creature like that might get to like murdering other folks.”
She nodded sagely and Viviane felt a chill go through her as she nodded her agreement.
The Chidgeley brothers queuing up behind her nodded their balding heads in unison, like those Winston Churchill bulldogs in back car windows.
Jo came up to the counter put down her books and ran down the steps to put the pram cover up over the baby.
“Be careful now, Mrs. Doughty.” Viviane watched the old lady take the steps down slowly, followed by the old men.
“Well, Jo,” Viviane sighed. “I hope that the police do get onto the killer quickly. Mrs. Doughty could be right. Whoever was responsible might not stop at one death.”
Jo grimaced wryly. “Well, I hope she’s wrong. But it makes you wonder who did it, and why.”
“I don’t know. She mixed with some pretty way-out characters lately.”
“It could have been one of the crowd she was knocking about with on the hill that did it, I suppose,” Jo said reflectively. “They’re a pretty mixed bunch, aren’t they? I wouldn’t like to invite them into my home.” She grimaced widely. “Sorry, Viv, I know that’s not charitable talk coming from a vicar’s wife. But I can’t really see any of the locals committing murder.” She bit her lip and said quickly, “Oh — let’s forget the fertility sacrifice bit, Viv. How could anybody be so wicked? It’s too horrible even to think about it. It brings it much too close to home.” She shuddered.
Viviane nodded. “It most certainly does. Now, my girl, before you go, can I possibly interest you in a Danielle Steele?” she said with a smile and saw Jo’s face light up. “The book you ordered is in at last. I forgot all about it with Mrs. Doughty’s lively breakdown of the murder scene. That’ll take your mind off all the horrors we’ve been contemplating.”
“My book! Great! That’s if I’ve got time to read it,” Jo groaned. “By the sound of things, Viv, according to my darling daughter, I’ve got every child in the village coming to her party today, bar none.”
After Jo left, Viviane looked out at the rain coming down again depressingly fast, her thoughts still on the savage death of the young woman. Had her body been put in the field before or after death?
Ten minutes later, she looked up and laughed when she saw Bob Fowler’s friendly hazel eyes smiling back at her from the open doorway, his large chunky frame squeezed for space in the damp, navy blue raincoat he was wearing. Steve had been like a lean bacon rasher compared to Bob.
“Bob! What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Viv. Thought I’d pay you a visit.” He came up to the counter and leant on it heavily. “I didn’t expect to see you here either today. You don’t seem surprised to see me though. Like the rain today I’m the bad penny I suppose. Wherever there’s a crime to be sorted that’s where you’ll find me,” he said with a wide grin.
She chuckled. “I’d heard that you’d been transferred here. I did think though that you’d be kept busy by now with inquiries and interviews.”
“I am. I left my sergeant, Ian Peale to deal with things for the moment. He likes to think he knows more about the locality than I do which is useful. Will you be having a bite to eat later? I’d like us to have a chat if you’re free lunch-time?”
He seemed serious. He obviously wanted to get it resolved as soon as possible. Steve would have been the same given the case. She made up her mind quickly: she would like to find out how Bob Fowler had been doing for the last three years.
She nodded. “Okay. I’d like that. I’ve one more stop to visit this morning. But we shall come back h
ere. You can have something to eat at my place if you like. I’m living in a cottage down Primrose Lane. Is it important?”
He leant his elbows on the counter and smiled. “It is. You have an ear to the village gossip, Viv. And you must hear things that I wouldn’t. I’ve got to go back now to the church hall, we’re using it as an incident room for the investigation. Your cottage, has it a name?”
“Orange Blossom cottage.” His thick brows rose at this. “You can’t miss it. There is a lovely mock orange blossom tree in the front garden. And you’ll see this van parked up outside from about half twelve. By the way I’ve heard that the victim was Sandra Peterson. Is that right?”
He nodded. “Her leather purse was found dumped in a ditch further down the lane. And with it her work cards. Sandra Peterson was a fully paid up journalist. Would anyone else know about that round here?”
She stared back at him and shook her head. “I don’t think so. Was that her real reason for being involved with the protesters? Do you think she was covering the protest as a news story? I saw her in the village quite a bit the past two weeks or so. I don’t think she was living at home though. The Petersons live in the old Water Mill.”
He nodded. “Apparently she was doing some undercover investigation work for her newspaper. Her editor has just got in touch with us. There’s something else going on here in Lower Milton, Viv, which was more important to Sandra I’d say then the road protest.”
Two
“Cheese or ham, Bob?”
“Cheese will do nicely, thanks. Cheddar if you’ve got it? And pickle if you have some?” He glanced around the spacious sunny living room, which stretched across from the front to the back wall of the cottage as they walked through it. He had managed adroitly by ducking his head to avoid the low lintel on the door coming in and the low ceiling beams...
“That must be cozy on a cold night, Viv. This is a nice place. A big change for you though, isn’t it? After town. What made you come here of all places? Rather out of the way, isn’t it?”
“It suits me. And I’m just about settled in now. My Great-Aunt Ida left it to me. So welcome at the time... After Steve.” He nodded. “And luckily I haven’t had to do too much to it. Richard is old enough now to spread his wings whenever. And Gillian is studying medicine. Wants to be a medic like her grandfather. The police force as a career didn’t appeal to either of them,” she said opening up the kitchen door. “And here I’m closer to my dad now. He’s a police doctor still and only twenty minutes away by car. He married again two years ago.”
He followed her into the panelled kitchen as she made the sandwiches.
“What do you want to drink? I have some beer I keep in for Richard or Coke? Or tea or coffee?”
“Coffee’ll do nicely. Thanks, Viv.”
She sliced the cottage loaf and cut up the thick cheese. “This is local cheese, Bob. Pam Maddock makes it and the butter on their farm. They’ve opened a Home produce shop there which is doing quite well since these crop circle addicts put in an appearance. They’re even offering them bed and breakfast. It’s making up for the bad years they had with the foot and mouth.”
“Really.” He looked suitable impressed and the first sandwich soon disappeared off the plate. “This is good. I’ll have to come here more often.”
“Come on, you’re after something.” She spooned the coffee into the mugs and smiled. “So what do you want to know?”
“Can you give me some more personal information about Sandra Peterson? I want to know what made her tick. Who she classed as her friends? Had she any or none round here? I take it that she was local? You said her parents live here.”
Viviane ran a hand through her short chestnut curls, and thought carefully for a moment or so. “Sandra was adopted by the Petersons when she was about eight, I think. They’re in their early fifties. Alan is a good art critic and painter. His wife, Rosemary, is a talented sculptor. They’ve made Lower Milton their home for twenty years and are still, like me, treated pretty much as newcomers by the locals here.
“Sandra came with a group of orphanage children to a Christmas party run by the church here. Rosemary was helping out with them and fell totally in love with Sandra. I gather she was a very pretty child, had almost ethereal looks with her silvery fair hair, and those beautiful blue eyes. They fostered her at first.”
“And they adopted her eventually?”
“Yes... Rosemary said Alan didn’t need much persuasion. They couldn’t have children of their own. It wasn’t that easy for them, though,” she added thoughtfully. “Sandra needed special care for a time. Her German mother, Helga, died shortly after giving birth to her and her soldier father, Terence, died on an Army exercise. Then her German grandmother, Lotte, was taken ill and the child was brought up in the church orphanage in England.”
Bob chewed on his second sandwich thoughtfully.
“Nice cheese this. The chutney’s tasty too. Homemade?”
“It is. Thank you.” She paused for a moment then asked, “How did she die, Bob?”
“Tell me more about Sandra first. She had quite a bit of sad history then to overcome.”
Viviane brought over the coffee and sat down to eat her sandwiches. “I think so — but she was an exceptionally bright girl and made it to Bristol University. Did well too, according to Richard who was there also. My aunt, who was a retired schoolmistress, befriended her when Sandra was at a loss and needed help. She said Sandra was eager to learn. And Sandra made friends with a neighbour’s boy, who has also had his own problems, Martin Robbins. He’s been deaf since a toddler.” She paused thoughtfully. “Sandra even took the trouble to learn sign language. They were very close as children.”
“Really.” Fowler looked impressed. “Did she come back to live here with the Petersons after university?”
Viviane shook her head. “Not permanently. She paid quick visits but that’s all; she shared a flat with a friend in London. Then three weeks ago she arrived here and stayed on site with the rest of the protesters on Kilernee Hill. Caused the Petersons considerable distress, I understand. Especially as she appeared on television with them. I know Alan was angry about it. Rosemary told me last week when we met in the village.”
“You mentioned Martin Robbins, has he always been her special friend?”
“Yes — Sandra kept up their friendship. He was brought up by his Aunt Jessica. His mother’s an invalid and in a nursing home at the moment. So Sandra felt akin to him because they both lost their parents. His father walked out on him... I think.”
“So were there any other men in her life that you know about, Viv? I can’t believe that there weren’t any.”
She laughed. “You’re expecting a great deal from me, aren’t you? I’m not an Agony Aunt. She never confided in me. Let me see now... She flirted with Rollo Bell, he’s fortyish, attractive and an ex-Army captain, and Gary Brown, another ex-Army man, who runs the village store and post-office with his wife Liz.
“You might call Sandra a teaser. I don’t think she had a serious relationship, not down here. Gary though, I suspect has got eyes only for Trish, the Aussie barmaid in the Fox and Goose.”
“So how did Rollo Bell take this? Did she lead him on more than a bit? Is he married? If so did his wife get to hear about it?”
“Bell is married. Erika Bell is German and was a model I believe, before she met Rollo. She’s an attractive redhead. They have one child, a son. Sandra could have been seen as a threat, though, to their marriage. Rollo didn’t like the way Sandra played him off against Gary Brown, and he showed it publicly. As for Gary’s wife, Liz, I think she would have known about any shenanigans going on between Sandra and Gary. She’s been taxed a lot lately according to our local gossip Mrs. Doughty. Her nephew is Reg Godsell the local postman. Trish is more of a problem than Sandra was...
“And the young man that I’ve seen most with Sandra is associated with the bypass and the Kilernee Hill protesters. He’s their leading light by all accounts
and a law student.”
Fowler whistled. “Interesting, and you’ve seen her often in his company. What’s his name, do you know?”
“Jason Macey — he’s had a good share of TV and media limelight lately and thrives on it. He’s good looking. Drop dead gorgeous in fact. A young Oliver Reed look-alike with black hair and dark blue bedroom eyes.” She chuckled as Fowler grimaced. “A real charmer.”
“So tell me all you know about this Jason Macey so far?”
“Well... He’s a bit of a political firebrand. Do you think it’s a man who killed her? Is it a sexual crime?”
He looked serious as he finished his coffee. “To start with we don’t know the actual cause of death yet. And we shan’t know till the post mortem. We haven’t found any weapons yet. The crime team is out looking for them still.”
Viviane flinched visibly remembering Daisy Doughty’s evocative description of the murder scene. “Poor Reg Godsell.” She shook her head. “Poor little man, it’ll take him some time to forget what he’s seen, won’t it? I know I can’t forget what Mrs. Doughty told me...”
Fowler nodded and was silent for a minute. “We still have to speak to Godsell. And Peterson has to formally identify Sandra. What’s made Macey get mixed up with the protests I wonder?”
“Boredom and a thirst for verbal battle with the authorities and powers that be, perhaps. He’s studying law. I’ve heard that he’s comfortably off, got money to burn. His parents are both barristers I think.” Fowler looked impressed. “One of the tabloids picked that up quick enough. I shouldn’t think they’ve enjoyed it seeing him demonstrating on TV. They have refused so far to make any public comment. I feel sorry for them.”
Viviane wondered how she would feel if it was Richard who was taking on the local council and the law in such a dramatic fashion.
“How are you getting on with Colin Powell, our local community PC? He’s been here for about fifteen years, hopes to stay on here till his retirement and afterwards, I think. He commutes between our two villages of Upper and Lower Milton. He’s a good officer; he’s been really pushed lately with these protestors and now all this.”
Dark Ritual Page 2