I prayed there weren’t any creepy-crawlies, especially not hamster-sized spiders. I took a deep breath and stuck my fingers inside the hole. I felt something metal, and I was able to get my two fingers around it and turn it. When I did, I unblocked the hole and water came rushing out, soaking my shoes.
“You got it,” Malcolm cried. “Now bring your hand out so we don’t lose too much water. Quickly now!”
Several gallons of water had already gushed at my feet in the time that I had been trying to remove my fingers, which were still curled around the piece of metal. I could have dropped the metal piece to save more water and let it fall to the bottom of the barrel, but I wanted to see what I had in my hand. I pulled back inch by inch through the gushing water, and my hand came out and the piece of metal with it.
As soon as my hand was cleared, Malcolm jumped into action and replaced the hose so that no more water would escape. I hopped to my feet in the wet grass, which was now a slippery and muddy mess.
I stumbled a few feet away. Slowly, I uncurled my fingers.
In the palm of my hand was a simple gold medallion with a cross and three intersecting rings in the middle. As soon as I saw the medallion, I knew where I had seen it before.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I held the medallion out for Malcolm to see it.
He removed a white handkerchief from the back pocket of his trousers and wiped his brow. “That is the minister’s medallion. He wore it every Sunday when he preached. He said it was important that the cross was big so that the congregation could see it, even those who sat in the back.”
I felt my shoulders fall. Malcolm had come to the same conclusion that I had: it was Minister MacCullen’s medallion. I had hoped that I was wrong.
“How would the medallion end up in the rain barrel?” I asked.
Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know, but I should take it inside for safekeeping.” He held out his hand to me.
My fingers curled around the medallion. It was evidence. I had seen the minister wearing it the day he died. “If it was Minister MacCullen’s, it might be important. I should give it to Chief Inspector Craig.”
“I can give it to him.” He continued to hold his hand out as if he expected me to drop the medallion on his palm.
“I’ll probably see him first.” I pressed my closed fist to my chest.
The church sexton studied me. “You do not trust me with it.” It was a statement, not a question.
I shook my head. “No, that’s not it. It’s just …” I trailed off because I couldn’t think of another believable excuse. I didn’t trust Malcolm, not completely. I didn’t know if I completely trusted anyone related to the minister’s murder other than Chief Inspector Craig.
“Very well. You can give it to the police. It makes no difference to me.” He backed away and turned on the hose again. This time the stream was powerful enough to reach the tomatoes on the opposite end of the garden.
I dropped the medallion in the pocket of my jacket. I should have left right then, but I wanted to find out what else Malcolm might know about the minister’s death. “Malcolm, how did Minister MacCullen seem that day?” I asked.
He stared back at me. “What do you mean?”
“Did he appear nervous or upset? Did he have a lot on his mind?”
“The minister always looked like he had a lot on his mind.” With the tomatoes watered, he turned off the hose. “He was the only minister in this parish, so he had many responsibilities. He did all the calls on the sick and the dying, and never for a moment complained about it. He was here every Sunday and made sure if he ever took any time off, it was another day of the week. I can count on one hand how many Sundays he’d missed in the last twenty years.”
Malcolm painted the minister as a man dedicated to his congregation. Had I misjudged him? “Do you know anyone who was upset with him? Who could have done this horrible act?”
“The minister was a hard man. I think you know that. There were many who weren’t completely happy with the way he led the church. They would have preferred a more progressive pastor.”
“Do you think someone would have killed him if he wasn’t progressive enough?” I asked.
“Why bother if you could stop coming to church altogether? And some have opted to go to more progressive congregations in other parts of Aberdeenshire. It’s much easier to choose a new religion than to kill someone over it.”
“Was the minister upset when members left the congregation?”
“Yes and no, I think. He hated to lose the numbers, but I think on the whole he was happy not to work in a place where people would speak out against him. That has not always been the case. Lately, more members of the church have been voicing concerns with how the minister was running the parish.”
“Concerns about what?”
“Concerns about the chapel behind the church. They didn’t think it was a good way to spend church funds. There are many other needs in the parish, but the minister seemed to be fixated on the chapel restoration project.” He wrinkled his nose. “If you ask me, Emer Boyd was the driving force behind it.”
“It doesn’t sound like you care much for her.”
“Emer just reminds me of a woman I knew once …” He trailed off.
I waited to see if he would tell me more.
He shook his head. “I have been on this earth for many years and have seen all sort of things, good and bad. I don’t know why either happen, but I do know that I cannot understand the ways of God. So, long ago, I made a promise to myself to accept the ways of God as they are. It was too painful for my mind to view them in any other way. I wondered how God would want to accomplish his miracles. It seemed to me that he could use whatever means that he wanted, even the magic from Duncreigan, to do his good.”
I thought of my visions when I touched the menhir in the garden and had to agree with him. “Why did Minister MacCullen always hate the MacCallisters? Is it the rumors of magic?”
He shook his head. “It’s much more than the magic. Much, much more. When the minister was a young man, he was married, and he says Duncreigan stole his wife.”
A shiver ran down my back. “Duncreigan stole his wife? How?”
“The minister and his young bride came to Bellewick twenty-some years ago to take over the parish. They were here only a year before his wife died.”
“How did she die?”
“She got lost in a storm like we had the night the minister died. It was just as violent.”
“Why did she go out in it?” I asked.
He clicked his tongue. “She had just lost a child. Stillbirth. And she was mad with grief, so she wandered out into the storm looking for relief.”
“The poor woman. That’s terrible.” Hearing this, I felt a little compassion for the minister for the very first time. “Why hasn’t anyone else told me this story? No one seemed to know why the minister hated Duncreigan. How do you?”
“Because I had to run and find the doctor to tend the minister’s wife during the stillbirth, but the minister was a proud man and he made me promise not to tell a soul. I never have, until now. It doesn’t seem like there is much use in keeping the secret any longer now that they are all dead. Even the doctor died ten years ago, if not more. He was well into his nineties when he died. I couldn’t tell you if he remembered.”
“This is an awful story, but I still don’t know what this has to do with Duncreigan.” I took a breath and asked the question that I suspected I already knew the answer to. “Where was she headed when she got lost in the storm?”
The sexton looked me straight in the eye. “Duncreigan.”
It was the answer I’d expected but hadn’t wanted to hear. “Why?”
“She had heard about the magic of the garden, and she hoped that something could be found there to give her comfort. She wasn’t finding it in her husband or in his interpretation of God. Ian’s father took care of the garden at that time. He claimed that he didn’t know the minister
’s wife was on her way to Duncreigan to seek his counsel. It’s very possible that he didn’t. Back then, there were no cell phones, and there have never been phone lines going as far out from the village as Duncreigan. The MacCallisters didn’t seem to mind that and liked to keep to themselves.
“But the minister didn’t believe that. He was sick with grief and claimed that Ian’s father lured his wife to Duncreigan with some promise that he could help her. The police were even involved, but it was no matter. There was no way to prove that Ian’s father and the minister’s wife were ever in communication, and Ian’s father vehemently denied it. In truth, most at the time believed the grief-stricken mother got the idea in her own head to walk to Duncreigan and, as I have told you, got lost in the storm. It is not the first or the last time a person has gotten lost in a storm raging off the coast.”
Even though it was a warm summer’s day, a persistent chill ran down my back. I wrapped my arms around my body. I wished I had known the truth about the minister and his history with Duncreigan. I didn’t believe that what had happened to the minister’s wife had been either the garden’s fault or Ian’s father’s fault, but had I known, I might have been more understanding and a little more reasonable when dealing with Minister MacCullen. I might have given him a bit more benefit of the doubt instead of writing him off in my head as some crackpot. It just reminded me that no one really knew the baggage another person was toting around behind him or her. It was impossible to know, but it was important to remember that everyone had a secret, like Malcolm had said. I had my own, but nothing as tragic as what the minister had faced.
Malcolm walked over to the rain barrels. “It seems that this one is empty. We lost of a lot of water when we were trying to get that necklace out of the barrel.” He smiled. “No matter. This is Scotland. It will rain again in another day and refill our coffers.”
He opened the barrel top and leaned over it. I could see how someone wearing a necklace could lose it in the water. But why would the minister have been leaning over the rain barrel?
“Did Minister MacCullen work in the garden?”
Malcolm chuckled. “Nay, he had no interest in it.”
“So, he would have no reason to peer into the rain barrel like you are right now?”
He straightened up. “Nay, no reason at all. Is that how you think his necklace got in there?”
“It’s the only way that makes sense for the necklace to have fallen into the water.”
Malcolm looked at the rain barrels, then at me, and back again.
I couldn’t be sure if I was right. In my mind’s eye, I saw the minister leaning over the rain barrel and someone pressing down on the back of his neck, keeping him in the water. That must have been what had caused the bruises on his neck. The minister must have struggled to fight back, but the killer had been too strong for him. It was all too awful to even think about. I took two large steps back from the rain barrel. Being that close to them was uncomfortable.
“Malcolm, when was the last time you saw the minister wearing the medallion?”
He was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said, “It would have been in the afternoon of the day he passed on, the day of the storm. I was in a rush to complete my work at the church because I wanted to be home before the storm hit. The minister was in his study. I assumed he was working on his Sunday morning sermon. He often worked late into the night on his sermons.”
“I need to call the chief inspector.”
He blinked at me. “Why?”
“Because I think we’re standing in a crime scene.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Craig picked up on the first ring, and I didn’t give him time to say a single word. “Chief Inspector Craig. It’s Fiona. I think I found the place where the minister was murdered.”
“Where are you?” His voice was sharp, all business.
“At St. Thomas’s.”
“Are you alone?” His sharp tone hadn’t changed.
I glanced at Malcolm. “No, Malcolm Wilson, the church sexton, is with me.”
Craig gave an exasperated sigh. “Where is this crime scene exactly?”
I turned away from Malcolm and went on to tell the chief inspector about the rain barrels and the community garden behind the church in a hushed voice.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t touch anything, and don’t move an inch from where you are right now.”
I promised I wouldn’t.
“If anything happens or you feel uncomfortable, call me immediately. Do you understand?” Craig asked.
I lowered my voice so that Malcolm couldn’t overhear me. “Is there something going on with the sexton that you’re not telling me?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Why would I feel uncomfortable?” I asked. As I asked, I turned back around to take another look at the rain barrels, and Malcolm Wilson disappeared around the side of the shed.
“Please, Fiona, just stay put and keep your phone on you. Tell Malcolm to stay there too.” He ended the call before I could tell him Malcolm had disappeared.
I bit my lower lip. Should I go after Malcolm and tell him that Craig wanted him to stay with me in the garden? I decided that I should at least see where he’d gone.
Behind the garden, the ruins stood. If I went to the ruins, I could keep an eye on the community garden. I would have a clean view between the two of them.
I opened the back gate that separated the community garden from the ruins, and a sense of stillness fell over me. Between the gate and the ruins was a field of wild daisies. Their white and yellow heads bobbed in the breeze. I hated to walk through them to reach the ruins out of fear that I might hurt them. To my left, I spotted a narrow trail through the daisies that led to the chapel ruins. I hurried over to it.
The chapel ruins were beautiful in a forlorn sort of way, and I could see why the minister had been so determined to save them. If no effort was made now, there would be nothing left in a few years. As I came closer to the ruins, I could see that the one remaining wall was held in place with a rickety-looking brace made from a four-by-four pounded into the earth. I wanted a closer look and stepped forward. As I did, my foot caught on the edge of the chapel’s crumbling foundation, and I fell face first into the shallow pit.
I groaned as I rolled onto my back. Thankfully, I kept my face from making contact with the earth by throwing out my hands at the last second, but my right wrist was sore from the heel of my hand hitting the ground.
I looked up and could see the bright blue sky and the overhang of an elm tree. The pit was about the size of a grave, and the momentary comparison was eerie this close to the cemetery.
I had started to sit up when a smooth voice asked, “Are you quite all right?” The accent was English, the refined type of English that I imagined Prince William or Prince Harry would have.
I blinked as the face peering at me came into focus. It was the historian, Carver Finley.
“Would you like some help getting out of there?” He flashed his white smile at me again. If the archeology thing didn’t work out, he could always work as a toothpaste commercial actor.
“I’m fine,” I said, and tried to sit up. When I did, my palm slipped on the mud, and I fell on my back again with a splat. I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut. “Please tell me you didn’t see that.”
He laughed. “If I did, I would be lying, and a gentleman never lies.”
I opened my eyes. “In this case, it would really be okay.”
He grinned, nearly blinding me with his teeth. “Very well, I didn’t see a thing. Now, may I offer you assistance so that you may escape from that ditch?”
I grabbed hold of his hand and let him pull me up. Although he was a thin man, he was surprisingly strong, and I popped out of the ground like a jack-in-the-box. He clasped me to him, and my cheek pressed up against his chest. I appreciated that he had helped me out of the hole, but this was a little more up close and personal than I wanted to be. As pol
itely as I could, I tried to disengage myself from his hold.
“My apologies.” He stepped back, allowing me to escape around him. I moved to a safe distance away from the hole. “Are you here visiting the site? I’m happy to see someone in the village is interested in archeology. Perhaps I could show you around. Not too many have come to see what I am doing here. It if weren’t for Emer and the minister, I think there would be no interest at all. I must admit, on face value alone, the site does not have much going for it, but its historical value for the area is priceless.”
“Why is there only one wall still standing?” I asked. I glanced around for the crumbling stone of the other walls that had once made up the chapel, but found none.
“Looters, I’m afraid. Over the centuries, many have come here and stolen the crumbling stones to make their own homes. It is much easier than pulling the granite from the earth.” He shook his head. “It is a terrible shame, because from what I have learned, this was quite a chapel in its time, and it served the entire county. As much as I want to reconstruct the church to its former glory, the stones that were taken can never be returned. They are holding retaining walls and fireplaces together all over Bellewick and beyond.”
“How old is the chapel?”
“Early twelfth century. This chapel was certainly constructed before the Reformation.”
“I’m surprised to see you working here so soon after …” I trailed off.
“So soon after the minister was killed? I know it might appear callous, but this is the best way I can honor Minister MacCullen. He was very excited about this project and recognized how much value it added to his own church.”
“What kind of value?”
He studied me for a moment. “Tourism, for one. Donations for another. If this church can be put on the national registry as a historical marker, the possibilities are endless. The church can apply for all sorts of historical and museum grants to restore and preserve it.”
“Why doesn’t the church just register for the historical marker now?”
Death and Daisies Page 16