by Kim Fleet
For Kelly
Original cover photograph © Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with real persons, organisations or events is entirely coincidental.
First published in 2017
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2017
All rights reserved
© Kim Fleet, 2017
The right of Kim Fleet to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 8282 5
Original typesetting by The History Press
eBook converted by Geethik Technologies
Praise for
Paternoster: An Eden Grey Mystery
‘A vibrant voice from the dark heart of the past’
Alison Bruce, author of the DC Goodhew novels
‘This is a very cleverly constructed novel, interweaving two different stories from two different timeframes. The attention to detail and background research is clearly evident. Every character has a depth that the author has painstakingly crafted. Can’t wait for the next one’
5-star Amazon review
‘I couldn’t put this book down!’
5-star Amazon review
‘Thoroughly enjoyable read’
5-star Amazon review
‘This is an exciting and very well-written crime thriller, hopefully the first in a long series’
5-star Amazon review
PROLOGUE
LONDON
Monday, 5 January 2015
15:00 hours
It was Vasily’s idea to keep score. Twelve months ago he had crossed the salesroom, hand extended, to commiserate with him for missing out on a twelfth-century reliquary containing the fingernail of Saint Catherine. Lost by a mere fifty thousand pounds.
‘Well played, my friend,’ Vasily said, beaming. His face was smooth and round with the flat planes and high cheekbones of his Mongol ancestors. ‘But not quite as well played as me, ha!’
‘Congratulations,’ Luker said, stiffly.
‘You know, these past two years I have bid against you, and you have bid against me, and I’ve been keeping tally. Five four to me, I think.’
Luker had conceded this was possibly the case. Vasily clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You don’t have the passion to win. That’s your trouble.’
That was exactly what his elder brother had reiterated only a few days ago, when Luker had asked again to be more involved in the family business. ‘You simply don’t have the passion, Jonathan, not where it counts.’
An Also Ran, that was him. The second son, his whole life spent in his brother’s shadow from school days to the family firm. No place for him there: his brother and father had it all sorted between them, both of them smug with their allotted roles in life. All he had was his collection – the finest in the world, if it wasn’t for Vasily. But he wasn’t going to come second today; today he was going to win.
He glanced across the salesroom as everyone took their seats. The air clotted with parfum and the confidence of the wealthy. They were a small clique, he and his fellow collectors, a band that met a few times a year to haggle over the relics of a long-gone past. Vasily wasn’t in his usual place. He normally occupied a discrete yet prominent seat to the side, advertising his modesty, but today it was empty. Luker’s heart beat a little faster. Without Vasily, he had a chance to scoop this one, bring the score to five all. But without Vasily bidding against him, the victory would be hollow indeed.
The auctioneer ascended the podium. Only one item for sale today: a golden tower studded with rubies and sapphires, encased in an elevated glass box. Luker was one of a select few who’d been invited to view it privately before the sale.
‘Beautiful,’ he’d breathed, his eyes roving over the golden cherubs that clung to the tower. At the pinnacle was a tiny window of rock crystal, and behind it was a sliver of fabric that brought tears to his eyes. A fragment of the Virgin’s cloak, the cloth a faint blue tint like a scrap of sky. He had to have it.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.’ The auctioneer called the room to order and an excited hush fell. ‘Today we offer for sale a thirteenth-century reliquary in gold, sapphire and ruby, previously in the collection of Catherine the Great. And I can open the bidding at one hundred thousand pounds.’
Luker didn’t flicker. Let the dabblers play with the opening bids; his moment would come. He kept one ear on the bidding as it crept up through the tens of thousands, anticipating the sweet taste of victory when the auctioneer declared the reliquary was his. He already had a special place for it in his collection – a recess in the far wall shielded by a curtain so the light wouldn’t fade that precious holy cloth. And there it would live, this portal of purity in a sullied world, surrounded by the icons and reliquaries he’d bought and treasured over the years.
‘Two hundred and forty thousand pounds. Do I hear two hundred and fifty?’
A hiatus as everyone recognised the bidding was about to move into new territory. Luker rode the wave of anticipation for a moment, then caught the auctioneer’s eye and gave his signal, a half-smile and a lift of one eyebrow, so insouciant it was like flicking lint from a cuff.
‘New bidder, thank you, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’ The auctioneer let the new bid sink in before calling on someone to raise it. No one stirred. Luker widened his field of vision to study the people around him. Their dropped shoulders and careful examination of the auction house catalogue betrayed them. Outbid. His heart beat a little faster. The reliquary was within his grasp. Hold on, hold on, he told himself, the auctioneer will raise the gavel soon.
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer said, glancing about the room. ‘Are we all done, ladies and gentlemen? No more bids? If so, I give you once …’
The door at the back of the room opened and footsteps came up the centre aisle. The gavel hung in mid-air and the auctioneer paused to smile at the intruder. Luker didn’t dare turn round.
‘We’re at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer said. ‘Do you wish to bid?’
‘Three hundred thousand pounds,’ Vasily announced.
‘Thank you. Three hundred thousand pounds. Do I see three fifty?’ The auctioneer looked directly at him and Luker slumped in his seat. It was too much. With a tiny shake of his head he was out of the game, and could only sit in mute misery as the auctioneer called fair warning, brought down the gavel, and congratulated Vasily.
‘I thought I would be too late,’ Vasily said as he approached Luker, his perpetual smile in place.
‘You should have organised a telephone bid,’ Luker said.
‘Where’s the fun in that? Now, what is the score? Six four to me, I think.’
‘Yes, it’s about that,’ Luker said. A headache was starting to crush his temples and his vision was blurring at the edges. ‘Well bid. Nice touch of drama.’
‘Don’t be a sore loser, ha!’ Vasily said, squeezing his arm in an overly robust grip. ‘Too much for you, eh? Your family needs to make more jelly babies so you have more pocket money, eh?’
‘Liquorice,’ Luker said, aware he sounded ridiculous and pompous at the same time. ‘My family makes liquorice, not jelly babies.’
‘Sweeties, ha? And to me, this is sweet. I take this home to Russia, where it belongs.’
‘I don’t believe the Virgin Mary ever visited Russia,’ Luker said. ‘If it belongs anywhere, it belongs in the Holy Land.’
Vasily shrugged. ‘You fought a good fight, my friend, but I win again!’
As Vasily strolled away to receive the congratulations of everyone in the salesroom, Luker seethed with hatred. Sometimes he wanted to murder Vasily.
CHAPTER
ONE
Sunday, 26 April 2015
12:32 hours
‘This is your idea of a hot date?’ Eden asked, as the car pulled to a standstill with a swish of gravel.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? The light on that Cotswold stone,’ Aidan said. He squeezed her hand. ‘Happy anniversary.’
‘Anniversary?’
‘A year today.’
‘I thought that was a couple of weeks ago.’ She frowned. ‘Yes, it was. A year since we got talking in the pub.’
‘I didn’t mean that anniversary.’
‘Then which …?’ She grinned as the tips of his ears turned pink. ‘Oh, that anniversary.’ She peeked through the windscreen. ‘And what sort of celebration does a girl get these days for putting up with you for a year?’
‘Hailes Abbey.’ Aidan was already out of the car and in full lecture mode. ‘One of the greatest pilgrimage sites in Britain. More popular than Walsingham. It was on the main pilgrimage route to Canterbury, and Santiago …’ He ducked his head back into the car. ‘Are you getting out?’
‘Sure. Just waiting for you to shut up for a moment.’
‘Come on.’
‘Can I have an ice cream?’
‘Only if you’re a good girl and listen to me droning on about history for a while.’
‘Deal.’
She stepped out into a puddle and her new boots were soaked instantly. Mud seeped up the hems of her trousers, a wet tide that clung to the backs of her calves. When Aidan told her he was taking her on a date, she’d immediately thought it would be a Sunday roast at a country pub. The sort of place with old dogs and old men in the bar, and yuppies and kids called Sebastian and Jacinta in the restaurant. And that, after stuffing themselves with roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, they’d claim not to have room for anything else, then wade their way through the dessert menu. She hadn’t anticipated a visit to a ruined monastery a few miles from Cheltenham.
She zipped up her jacket and slung her bag crossways over her chest and glanced up at the ruins. It was beautiful here, though, with bright spring sunshine warming the old stones and an orange-tip butterfly flitting past. Recent rain had freshened the air. She sucked in a deep breath and let the peace settle over her. The shoes would clean and the trousers would wash, and from the look on Aidan’s face, this place was special to him.
Smuggling her hand into the crook of his elbow, she said, ‘Tell me about Hailes Abbey, then.’
‘It housed one of the great relics of the Catholic Church: blood from Christ on the Cross.’
‘I’ve heard about the relics. Weren’t there enough bits of the True Cross to re-forest the Amazon?’
‘It brought in pilgrims, though. Thousands of them.’
They went into the shop and bought tickets then walked down to the Abbey ruins. A group of four had set up a wicket at the crossing point in the church. Further off, a boy trailed behind his family, bouncing an action figure over the ruins and wailing, ‘But it’s boring!’
Eden glanced at Aidan’s face and saw the clench of his jaw. She squeezed his arm. ‘Where did they keep the relic?’
All that was left of the church was stones marking the outline, but as Aidan described it to her, it came alive. The press of pilgrims, weary and excited after days of travelling. The smell of the sick and the dying, hustling to get a glimpse of the Holy Blood, believing it would cure them.
‘They would come up to this point,’ Aidan said, stopping at a pile of stones. ‘Then the priests would drop a curtain and reveal the Holy Blood. It was in a round phial made from some sort of semi-precious stone. They’d display it for a few moments, then hide it again.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘Taken away and destroyed during the Dissolution of the Monasteries.’
‘How do you know so much about Hailes?’ Eden asked.
‘We did a project at work with the Abbey a few years back. Had to come here every day for about a month.’
‘You jammy thing,’ Eden said, as the sun touched the arches lining the cloister and painted them amber. ‘I get a damp one-room office and you get this.’
A shout went up from across the cloister. A boy of about twelve hurtled across the grass, brandishing the action figure, the younger boy in hot pursuit.
‘Liam! Give it back!’ shouted a blonde woman at the end of her tether.
‘Liam! We won’t tell you again!’ bellowed the father.
Liam ignored them, ran up to a metal barrier guarding a drainage ditch, turned to check the younger boy was keeping up, waited until he was a hand-snatch away, then dropped the toy over the edge. The young lad ran up to him and started kicking him on the shins.
‘Oh dear, Action Man’s gone in the ditch,’ Aidan said.
‘You don’t have to look so pleased about it.’
‘Well, this is a holy place.’
‘Yeah, you can tell that by the way Henry VIII smashed it up.’
They were turning away when a scream cut the air. Eden whipped around, her senses taut. Blondie and Harassed Dad ran up to the drainage ditch.
‘He’s fallen in!’ the mum shrieked.
‘I told you to wait!’ the dad shouted. ‘I said I’d get it!’
Eden sprinted to the barrier and peered into a sheer twelve-foot drop. Wet stone lined the gully, pocked with ferns and moss. The boy lay at the bottom, shrieking.
‘It’s OK,’ Eden cried. ‘We’re going to get you out. Are you hurt?’
A scream in reply.
The mother stood up on the barrier and leaned over as far as she could. ‘Oh my God! Dylan, can you hear me?’
‘I think he might be hurt,’ Eden said.
She sized up the parents. The mother was in a maxi dress down to her ankles and a gnat’s fart away from full-blown hysteria; the dad was puffing from just the short sprint across the grass. Neither of them was in a fit state to tackle that drop.
‘I’ll go down there and check him over,’ she said. ‘You said his name’s Dylan?’
She unwound her handbag and handed it to Aidan.
‘You be careful,’ he said.
‘Always,’ she said, levering herself up onto the barrier and swinging over one leg, then the other, sending up a prayer of thanks to the inventor of spandex. She stepped along the ledge and slowly lowered herself into the gully. When her arms were at full stretch, her fingertips clawing into the top of the stone, she let go, landing at the bottom with a skid.
It was tight down there, barely space for her to move. When she turned, her elbows scraped the sides. She inched along to the boy.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, hand outstretched as though pacifying an animal. ‘I’m here to help you.’
He huddled against the side of the gully, trembling. No sign of blood. Not clutching his arm close to his body. No obviously broken bones. She puffed a sigh of relief. Getting him out with a fracture would have been tricky.
‘Where are you hurt?’ she said, hunkering down beside him. Pupils large. Maybe a concussion.
The boy shook his head. ‘There!’ He pointed to the slurry further down the gully.
Eden looked and took a step back, smothering a cry. Her heel hit the stone wall and she stumbled. There was a concerned ‘Ooh’ from above. She glanced up and saw Aidan’s face peering back at her, creased with concern.
She fought to breathe slow
ly, her heart banging with shock.
She tipped back her head to call to Dylan’s parents. Their faces crowding over the barrier seemed a long way away.
‘If I push, can you pull him up?’ she called.
She helped Dylan to his feet and checked him for fractures. He seemed to be in one piece. ‘Let’s get you out of here. Come this way, it’s not so steep on this bit.’
They inched further down the gully, and Eden scoured the stone walls for a toehold. Cupping her hands, she told Dylan, ‘Step into my hands and I’ll boost you up. Grab that bit sticking out there, and put your foot there. I’ll help you. Ready?’
He nodded, put his right foot in her cupped hands and she hoisted him up, guiding his feet to toeholds and ready to catch him if he slipped. He scrambled up, his shoes scrabbling for purchase. Arms reached over the barrier, grabbed his hands, and hauled him to safety. Cries of ‘thank you’ and maternal sobs of relief floated back down to her.
Eden crept back down the gully to where Dylan had fallen. Squatting, she peered again into the sludge. Two eye sockets glared back at her, and a jawbone grinned out of the mud.
She stood and shouted back up to the surface. ‘Aidan, go and fetch someone from the visitor centre and tell them to call the police.’
‘Police?’ he said. ‘Why?’
She stared again into the mire.
‘There’s a skeleton down here,’ she said.
CHAPTER
TWO
Monday, 27 April 2015
08:52 hours
‘You caught many scumbags lately, Eden?’ Tony asked, brandishing a squeezy bottle of tomato sauce over her bacon bap. His black hair hung in a rat’s tail from under his white cap.
‘No, but I found a skeleton yesterday.’
His hand poised mid-air. ‘What? Really?’
‘Really.’
Tony puffed out his cheeks. ‘I dunno, Eden, your life.’ He went back to the bap. ‘A good squidge or just a bit?’
‘I’m surprised you have to ask, Tony,’ she said, arching one eyebrow.