Dark Ritual

by Patricia Scott

  Viviane caught the anguish in her fine blue grey eyes. She had aged ten years it seemed in a few days. She had been pretty brave in making the effort to be seen here. And in the village. They could just as easily remain hidden away again. She must be dreading the media and their cameras, they would recognize her immediately.

  A fortnight had passed and she had not as yet been asked to make an appearance on TV by the police. Would she do it though?

  Mrs. Doughty looked Rosemary over carefully. “Are you eating? Won’t help if you don’t. You must take real good care of yourself now, Mrs. Peterson. And that nice husband of yours. I’m sure your daughter would wish it. You owe it to her, you know.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Doughty.”

  “Accepted, I’m sure.”

  Everyone down in the book shelves and amongst the waiting library queue fell quiet, feeling her loss and her pain. Even Daisy Doughty was keeping a tight guard on her tongue as she moved away down to her romance section.

  “Good morning, Rosemary, everyone.” Jo Stevenson bounced up the stairs and joined the queue with a smiling face. “So nice to see you, Rosemary, amongst us again.”

  “Good morning, Jo. I must thank you and your husband again for the church service. It was as special as we wished it to be. Everyone has been so kind. I don’t feel I can do anything much for the moment. I just wanted to get these books sorted out.” She put three down on the counter. “In case I forget them again. I didn’t feel like going into the Central you know. I’ve renewed them several times and I think that I might owe something. Let me know how much it is later, will you Viv? So sorry. I can’t stop. Must go...” She put the books down onto the counter and ran down the steps without another word.

  “There she goes then. Shan’t see her again in a while. Those coppers have got to stop messing about with them stupid road protesters and find the killer.”

  “I thought that was what they have been doing, Mrs. Doughty,” Viviane protested despite herself.

  “And you ought to know better than anyone, I’d say,” Mrs. Doughty declared loudly as she opened up and looked at the front blurb in a romantic paperback. “That Chief Inspector’s a friendly bloke,” she added with a sniff. “Not married. Divorced, ain’t he, Mrs. Trent?” Her voice carried round the shelves like a foghorn. “I’d say that he could do with a good woman to encourage him.”

  “Oh, God, she knows,” Viviane whispered over the counter to Jo. “I shall begin to think she’s bugged my cottage.”

  Jo winked at Viviane. “Won’t be long before she’s having her say in the incident room. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when she walks in there with her strawberry tartlets.”

  Viviane whispered back. “She’s been there already with Miss Pope. And she’s been bribing them with her pies and cakes. I bet she knew all what’s going on from day one. Don’t forget her nephew Constable Boyle is in there too as a new recruit. She has her spies everywhere, Jo.”

  Jo laughed. “Yes, of course. I forgot that. Got anything decent for me today, Viv? Anything to cheer me up, please. I’m desperate. Even chick lit would do.”

  Viviane departed to sort out some books for her friend, glad of the temporary respite. Daisy Doughty would no doubt find something else to needle her with in a minute or so. She was no doubt hoping that Viviane would give away just how close her friendship with the Chief Inspector was.

  “How y’doing, Babs.” Mrs. Doughty turned round to address Mrs. Shipley. “You’re looking good considering you’re pretty near your time, dear. What’s all this about wanting to give birth in a birthing pool? You’re not a mermaid. Why can’t you have your baby in a bed like other mums?”

  Babs Shipley laughed. “Because I fancied it, Daisy, for a change. It’s supposed to be good for mother and baby. Daisy, I wish you could have it for me. This is the last one. It has to be a girl this time. Afterwards Tom can have the snip.”

  “Oh yes — you might live to regret it, my girl, if he does. Like someone else we know not far from here. He had it and now he wishes he hadn’t. And his poor wife thinks it’s all her fault. Naming no names — mind.”

  Babs Shipley and Stella Pope shook their heads and exchanged knowing looks.

  Thank goodness, Viviane thought. She had a good idea who Mrs. Doughty was talking about now. It was no secret that Liz Brown lingered over the babies in their prams in the shop.

  The van cleared of readers. Mrs. Shipley was the last to leave carefully taking the steps down, with Nick’s help. Viviane saw her go with a sigh of relief. Babs was quite a size now. She hoped for her sake Babs managed to have her baby in the birthing pool. And that it would be a girl.

  Viviane turned her attention to the books that Rosemary had brought back. She cleared them on the computer. Two pounds twenty pence Rosemary owed. She’d had several renewals. One book had been especially ordered for her The Golden Bough. They would be glad to get that back. It had come from the reserve stack.

  She opened it up to glance through it because it dealt with ancient pagan religions such as those used by the Druids and an envelope fell out on the counter. She picked it up and examined it curiously. It had been opened. There was a letter enclosed inside. A letter addressed to Sandra Peterson, which had been used as a bookmark by Rosemary. It had last month’s date on it and a local Gloucestershire postmark. But it had Sandra’s London address on it so Sandra had brought it down with her.

  What should she do with it? She bit her lip, should she? Shouldn’t she? She opened it and took a look at the letter inside. Martin had written to her. The first sentence told her it seemed like he was in some kind of trouble and he needed Sandra’s help. There was no mention of the problem but it sounded desperate. And so Sandra had answered him by coming down to see him immediately. So this verified what Martin had said in his statement to Bob Fowler. She put it into her purse.

  Thirty-four

  “They were very nice today to me on the library van, Alan.” Rosemary walked into the studio where Alan was looking with a puzzled face through the painted canvases he had stacked up against the wall. “Seemed like everyone we knew and their family was there. But I coped okay, I think, darling. What’s the matter?”

  He was looking puzzled. “Did Sandra come here, do you know? While I was out or on the weekend while I was away?

  “Why? There’s something wrong? What is it?”

  “It’s funny. You know I kept some rough sketches and canvasses I did of Sandra in my cupboard? They’re not here anymore. I thought she might have taken a fancy to them. Taken them back to London perhaps.

  “What about Miss Davies? Perhaps she knows where they are. Sandra could have taken them away last time she was here. Maybe they’re stashed away in the London flat. Sandra did have a case with her and the car when she came here before.”

  “She was meeting that tutor of hers, Rafe Conway. Why did she get mixed up with him? I told her to finish with him. Not that she ever took much notice of me.”

  She stared at him closely. “I think your feelings for her were much too possessive, Alan. Anyone would think she was your wife and not me.”

  Thirty-five

  Fowler looked up to see Alan Peterson walking down the main aisle towards them.

  “I have come in to tell you the truth, to make a statement.”

  Peale’s sharp ears had picked this up. He left Gerry Coombe’s side and came over to listen.

  “A statement, sir?”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector Fowler.” Peterson clasped his hands together on his knees. “But it is a confession that I wish to make. I killed my daughter Sandra Peterson,” he said quietly. “I am wholly responsible for her death. I cannot allow this investigation to go on further. It is wasting your time and mine and that of your officers and distressing everyone in the village.”

  “Can I get your legal advisor? A solicitor, Mr. Peterson?”

  Peterson ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. “There is really no need. It is quite simple. I killed my da
ughter.”

  Fowler studied Alan Peterson’s tormented face. He was obviously under great strain. “You’d better come into the interview room, sir.”

  They switched on the tape recorder. “DCI Fowler and DS Peale present. To take the statement of Alan Peterson regarding the death of Sandra Peterson, his daughter on the Third of July...”

  “Why did you kill your daughter, Mr. Peterson?”

  Peterson’s face twisted with pain. “It was committed in an act of rage. I regretted it instantly. She wanted to hurt us, Rosemary and myself, by the way she was behaving. She set out deliberately to exhibit and prostitute herself with the local men.”

  “Was it an accidental death or was it planned, sir?” Peale leaned forward.

  “I killed Sandra because I loved her too much and that was my folly.”

  “You loved her too much?”

  “What do you mean by that, Mr. Peterson?”

  “I became jealous. I didn’t like her loving other men.”

  “You loved her too much, sir. How can you love your child too much?” Peale asked.

  Peterson sighed heavily. “You know that Sandra was adopted. We loved her from the moment we saw her. And took into our home when she was a small child. She was adorable, self willed, bright and intelligent.” He ran his hands through his thick strands of silver streaked hair and groaned.

  “She played Rosemary and I against each other to get what she wanted as she grew old enough to realize this. She wanted for little as she grew up into a young woman.

  “She was a happy child, determined to do well for us. She had an inquiring mind.” He paused for a second or so then continued, “She wanted to know everything. Wanted to succeed. I think she would have liked to be artistic, like her mother, but what she lacked in the arts she made up with the written word.

  “She made an impression in the university. Made us so proud. But we also realized that she had left home afterwards for good.

  “Rosemary was not happy about this. Sandra was her only child and she felt she had left the nest much too quickly and she didn’t seem to form good relationships with men except Martin. She flirted with them and attracted them to her like the cliché moths to the flame.

  “Rosemary longed for grandchildren to spoil. Hearing that Sandra’d had a termination the other day was most distressing for us. I knew she’d had a relationship with her tutor Rafe Conway.”

  “You did, Mr. Peterson?”

  He moved restlessly on the chair. “I did. But lately when I met up with her again and saw how she played with men so adroitly I felt I couldn’t stand it any longer. This is why we quarrelled. She played on it too. Left me feeling terrible inside. So much so I couldn’t get her out of my mind while I was away. I wanted to see her... So much.”

  “So you came back here earlier than you said,” Peale said.

  “That’s right I did. Without telling Rosemary, I texted Sandra to meet me. I knew Rosemary would be asleep in bed.”

  “You planned for this.”

  “She had been taking sleeping tablets lately. You can ask Dr. Lambdon about that. I wanted to know what Sandra thought she was playing at. Getting mixed up with the road protest and then...” He shook his head. “With these men, which was simply inviting gossip. Upsetting her mother. With me now I have to admit that it ran much deeper.

  “I knew I was feeling much more for her than I should as her father.” He paused and rubbed his hand across his face, giving the two officers time to glance at one another.

  “Sandra accused me of this. She was right. And I’m afraid I retaliated. I admitted that what I felt for her went beyond a father’s love. She laughed at me. And she tormented me needlessly. She said she felt she could no longer tolerate my jealousy and spite.” There was a tormented look in his eyes now.

  “Where were you when argument was going on, sir? It was the second you’d had with her that week, was it not?”

  “We were in my studio Sunday night.”

  “And what was the time? Can you recall it, sir?”

  “I came home late. Didn’t stay overnight in London as I intended. And Rosemary didn’t expect me back. I think it was one a.m. I discovered Sandra in my studio. She’d let herself in with her key. She had a knife in her hand and she was destroying two portraits that I had been commissioned to do. She had already damaged a statue, a piece that Rosemary was working on, chipped the stone, it was irreparable damage. She wanted to hurt us. I tried to stop her, told her that her mother was asleep. She’d had a bad migraine that day.

  “She laughed and taunted me, said there was good reason for that while I was making such an obvious fuss over her love life. And she said that she was going to make sure that her mother knew what a bloody old fool I was. How I really felt about her... And I couldn’t allow her to do that...”

  “So what did you do next, sir?” Fowler asked quietly.

  “I-I’m afraid I acted quickly. Her words were loud enough for Rosemary to hear. I knew this would wreck our marriage irrevocably.

  “She’d finished with the canvases. She turned her back on me to walk out of the room. And I was no longer able to control my fury.” He sighed heavily, his face working as he admitted, “I hit her with the nearest thing close to hand on the table. Rosemary’s wooden mallet.” He shook his head. “Oh, God! She fell down heavily on the floor.”

  “She was unconscious?”

  He nodded. “I stood there for what seemed ages but it was only seconds ticking by on the clock. What had I done? I wept over my daughter. Wondered whether I should call for help. I was devastated. How had I allowed my anger to take over my self-control so easily?”

  “You checked on her pulse?”

  He nodded. “I did. There was a faint pulse still. I could see the head wound that had done the damage and if I didn’t get help soon, she could die. I weighed up whether to call an ambulance and decided against it. And you know the rest...” He eyed the officers and shook his head. “I realized I couldn’t leave her there for Rosemary to find. I had to get Sandra out of the place.”

  “What did you do next, Mr. Peterson?”

  “I put her in the Range Rover. Got rid of her bike she came over on and her purse in a ditch on the way. Wanted to make it difficult for you to decide the motive straight away. I knew there could be plenty of suspects.”

  “We’d like to hear why you made her death into a fertility ritual, Mr. Peterson?”

  “Rosemary had been reading up about it, prior to working on something. She attends a local history class in Gloucester. She mentioned about the earlier deaths here. I hoped that Lower Milton’s past history would be revealed afterwards.”

  He smiled. “I left it up to Mrs. Doughty, our local soothsayer in the village. I thought it might lead the investigations into the possibility of someone carrying out the pagan ritual as it had been years before, which I hoped would take away suspicion from myself. I-I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I have never killed anyone before.”

  “How did the feathers come to be in her hair? Did Sandra say where she had been previously, Mr. Peterson? Did she seem troubled by her previous encounter with the Bells?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me about this. She seemed all fired up and it didn’t take much to put her on the attack immediately. I had no idea that she had trespassed on the Bells’ chicken farm.”

  “What did you do with the mallet, Mr. Peterson?”

  “I threw it into the water as soon as I left the house. It would be carried away by the mill stream,” he muttered. “I’d like to get my statement written out now. Let me get it over and done with, please.”

  “You are allowed to make one phone call, sir.”

  “Would you wish us to let your wife know officially about this as soon as possible?”

  “Yes — yes, of course.”

  “Have you told your wife about this?”

  “No!”

  “Don’t you think you should phone her now?”


  “This will make her ill again.”

  “I think we may have to get the doctor in to see you, Mr. Peterson.”

  He resisted this suggestion angrily. “I don’t need any doctor. I don’t want my wife troubled over this. Not yet.”

  Thirty-six

  “So that’s that,” Bob said. “Can’t quite believe it. It’ll be all round the village by now.”

  “Is it, really? Good for you then and the rest of your team,” Viviane said as he pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. “You don’t sound that delighted. Aren’t you?”

  “Mmn. I suppose so. It’s not what I would have wanted.”

  “Where is Alan Peterson now?”

  “In jail. Waiting to come to court. Seemed that it’s possible he could be suicidal.”

  “Poor Rosemary. How will she ever recover from this? She has lost both of her loved ones now.”

  “She has asked to see him. He didn’t want it.”

  “When’s his court appearance?”

  “He’s in court tomorrow morning.” He spooned the sugar into his mug and stirred it thoughtfully. “It sounded like he was telling the truth... But I don’t know.” He shook his head and tasted his coffee.

  “Sounds as if you’ve been lucky. In just under three weeks and the case finished with... I suppose Alan couldn’t live with it on his conscience. I’ve never thought him to be anything other than a gentleman, you know. His own daughter.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it. He must have gone crazy or something.”

  “I’m going to miss calling here, Viv. It’s been great seeing you again. You won’t mind, will you, if I keep in touch? Can I persuade you to dine out with me? Next week sometime?”