Divine Death
A Reverend Jessamy Ward Mystery
Penelope Cress
Copyright © 2021 Penelope Cress
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Mariah Sinclair
To my fellow writers. My tribe.
My other family - the Coronitas.
Write everyday. Do the words!
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Free short story
It started well...
Scared? Who? Me?
Venus de Wesberrey
The experts have landed
Travellers Bay
Tizzy
Through fresh eyes
Quote, unquote
Dinner for two
Blood, blood and more blood
May Day, May Day!
The Queen of the May
A Girls’ night in
The White House
Cats and curried lentils
Arise, Sir Luke!
Family council
Secret dossiers
Stay calm and carry on
Houseguests
Before the dawn
You cannot be serious!
The lychgate
Sleuthing 101
Young love
The usual suspects
What’s love gotta do with it?
Open and shut suitcase
Checkmate
Dinner for four?
Author notes
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Books By This Author
Keep in touch
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Book Four in the Isle of Wesberrey Series
It started well...
“Careful now, we don’t want you falling down the hole, Reverend!”
A voice called to me from the subterranean depths beneath my feet. I edged my way carefully around the timber hoist and red metal safety cordon where only a few days earlier our twelfth-century marble baptismal font had stood.
“Being careful, I promise. How’s it going? Any more discoveries?” I called below.
I was curious to know more. The Stourchester Historic and Archaeological Society (S.H.A.S. for short) had been excavating a medieval brick-walled well under the left aisle of St Bridget’s for nearly two weeks.
“Better able to explain once I’m above ground,” the voice replied.
A tug on the rope signalled that the owner of the voice wished to ascend. On sentry duty above ground stood my churchwarden, Tom Jennings, who jumped into action, cranking the winch handle to bring the ‘voice’ aloft. The well must have been deep because it took several minutes before a yellow hard hat appeared below the rim. And several minutes more before the wearer of the said yellow hat was safely back on terra firma.
The voice now had a face, and the face, as expected, belonged to Mrs Isadora Threadgill, widow of this parish, chair of S.H.A.S. and a veteran amateur archaeologist. Though Isadora was about my age, she had the air of a dowager duchess. It was an easy stretch to imagine her holding a torch for Howard Carter in the Valley of the Kings.
Once she had steadied herself and wiped the dust from her horn-rimmed glasses on the bottom of her lilac fleece jacket, Isadora grabbed my hand with all the excitement of a four-year-old visiting Santa’s grotto. She led me to a makeshift table in front of the church altar.
“There, Reverend, what do you make of them?”
Presented in a series of white cardboard boxes was a collection of tiny clay figurines.
“Did you bring these out today?” I asked, counting seven boxes on the table.
“Jolly good haul, isn’t it? Looks like tributes to some kind of fertility goddess to me. No wonder the Church covered it up all those years, eh? Can’t be having all that pagan nonsense in a good old Christian place of worship.” Isadora leaned in and breathed the next few words in such a conspiratorial tone, I suspected she was afraid the church walls might be listening. “I think what we have here, Reverend, is arguably one of the most important pre-Christian finds in this area, since well… ever!”
My heart sank a little at her earnest words. A great archaeological find would be wonderful for the island’s tourist trade and is certainly of important historical value, but what would that mean in practical terms? It was Pentecost in a few weeks, and I had hoped there wouldn’t be an enormous hole in the middle of the church to navigate my way around. Now I had a distinct feeling that the ‘we’ll be out of there in a few days’ dig was going to go on for some time yet. And more importantly, here was yet another connection to my family’s pagan past! A tangible link to the legend of the Wells of the Triple Goddess and all the hocus pocus that entailed.
I took a step closer and picked up one box.
They may have been underground for over two millennia, but these fecund figures clearly had three heads and what I could only describe as outrageously exaggerated child-bearing hips. One didn’t need a degree in archaeology to work out that these clay figurines were tributes to a pagan goddess, probably offered with prayers for a successful pregnancy.
“May I?”
Isadora stood legs astride, hands on hips with the proud bearing of a mother whose child had just won a Nobel peace prize and nodded. I put the box back down on the table, took a deep breath and carefully picked up the offering.
It had a pulse!
I wanted to let go, but the rhythmic current pulsated through my hand and up my right arm. My chest tightened. Everything turned blood red.
“Reverend? Are you okay? I think she’s coming round. Quick, Tom. Fetch some water.”
My head throbbed. I must have knocked it somehow as I fainted. I reached up to check for blood and realised I still had the figurine in my hand. I fixed my bleary eyes on Isadora and gestured for her to take it back.
“So sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” My stomach lurched to my throat. “Probably because I haven’t had breakfast yet. So embarrassing.”
“Nothing of the sort. Happens to the best of us. Let’s get you in the choir stall.” Isadora fussed.
The welcome sight of Tom’s bald head bobbed into view as he returned from the church hall with a glass of iced water. “Barbara’s put the kettle on. Some sweet tea and the last of the scouts’ Jammie Dodgers should set you right.”
I took a sip of water and thanked them both for their attentions, assuring them I was feeling absolutely fine and they should get on with the excavation. I didn’t want to hold them up any longer. “I will take that tea next door. Get out of your way.”
Despite their protestations, I was keen to get moving. Apart from a sore head, I felt fine. The nausea had passed as quickly as it came. Barbara Graham, my over-efficient parish secretary, would bring tea enough for an army, and if I didn’t make a bolt for it immediately, this would slip into a cosy mid-morning tea break that could last an hour or more. I had things to do, places to be - not least on that list I wanted to speak to
my aunt Pamela, or my mother about this little episode before I forgot the details of what I had seen.
Since returning to Wesberrey, I had experienced a couple of similar incidents. It was hard to maintain my belief that they were coincidental when they had helped me piece together clues that had led to uncovering some pretty evil activities. This one, though, was different. No one, to my knowledge, was dead… yet.
But I had seen blood. Lots of blood. And pain. I had felt so much pain. Maybe I should pop into the Cottage Hospital, see my best friend forever, Dr Sam Hawthorne, and unofficially get my bump checked out. Just to be on the safe side. That would be a good reason to leave. Except, I couldn’t find a bump. I gently massaged my scalp, but there was nothing. No lump, nothing felt tender to the touch.
The sound of tea things clinking on a tray snapped me out of my cranial examination. I accepted the familiar green cup and nibbled at the jam-filled biscuit. Barbara, sporting new earrings that matched the colourful biscuits on the tray, had loaded the tea with enough sugar to stop my heart in its tracks. I sipped it graciously. Tom had pulled over three chairs to create a circle around me in the stall, and there was no way I could escape. Fortunately, no one felt the need to bombard me with questions, they were just there to offer company, and asking how I was feeling every five minutes was as probing as it got.
The conversation oscillated between concerns about me to curiosity about the figures, via talk about how best to present the finds to the rest of the society, and the world.
“We need to ensure that you get the credit, Isadora,” Tom proclaimed adamantly, waving a chocolate digestive in her direction. “I accept you have a lot of respect for DeVere, but I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Remember when you invited him in to give the society a talk on Roman Britain? All he did all night was sell us his YouTube channel. That man is no better than a snake-oil salesman. He would kill his own mother for a find like this.”
Scared? Who? Me?
“Well, there are no signs of concussion. In fact, I can’t see any evidence at all that you ever bumped your head. I can send you for an X-ray to make sure.”
On arriving at the Cottage Hospital, I had recalled the events of the morning to Sam and despite my protestations that the headache had gone and I was feeling totally fine, she insisted on checking me over. From a thorough head examination, asking me if it hurt a thousand times, to the magic penlight in my eyes to check pupil dilation, my best friend left nothing to chance.
“Sam, there’s no need, honestly. I told you, the pain had gone before I finished my first biscuit!”
“Still, with head injuries, you can never be too careful. I would feel better if you allowed me to send you to X-ray.” Sam popped the small black penlight into the top breast pocket of her white coat and strode back around to her chair on the other side of her desk. “So, which one of the coven are you going to ask then?”
By ‘coven’, she meant my mother and her two sisters, Pamela and Cindy.
“I thought I could pop over to Pamela’s after I had done my midweek rounds. Which I am already late for.” I replied.
“Question, if I may?” Sam was now sitting opposite me. Her hands were busying themselves with a small camel-coloured cloth and the left lens of her glasses. “Why have you been avoiding Cindy?”
“I haven’t!”
She was right; I had.
“Jess, you can’t lie to me.” She was right again. “I have a theory.”
“Go on then, Miss ‘Ask Me, I’m A Doctor’,” I answered in a ridiculously childish sing-song voice that confirmed her suspicions I was on the defensive.
Sam adjusted her freshly cleaned spectacles on the bridge of her nose and leaned in, resting her forearms on the desk to assert that this was a serious conversation.
“You are afraid.”
Silence.
She waited.
More silence.
This was intolerable. I finally broke.
“Is that it? Is that your theory? That I am afraid? Well, I don’t think Dr Phil has anything to worry about.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“No.” I squirmed. “Well, not really. I just feel more comfortable talking to my other aunt.”
That was true. Pamela was less esoteric, more grounded. Cindy was wonderfully ethereal. Though she had been the first member of my family to tell me the truth about the goddess legacy and the various skeletons in the Bailey/Ward cupboard, I had been avoiding her more of late. In my defence, Mum had opened up more of the past few weeks, filling in the blanks in our family history over the many meat-free dinners we had tested since my youngest sister had decided to open up a vegan cafe in the old bookshop. “And,” I added, “Pamela lives closer.” This was also true, Cindy lived on the other side of the harbour, past Stone Quay. I hadn’t taken my orange scooter, Cilla, back out there since I bought her.
“I think this latest episode needs more personal insight.” Sam sat back in her leather chair and folded her arms. “Cindy is the current ‘godmother’, right? The keeper of the Wells. I am sure the latest finds would fascinate her, and she might shed more light on what you just experienced.” She scrutinised my face to confirm her theory, “You are afraid, aren’t you?”
“No, I am not.” But Sam was right. It terrified me. Ever since I returned to Wesberrey at the beginning of the year, I had experienced so many strange things. There was no way I could continue to deny that there wasn’t some truth to the family legend. My aunts, my mother, even my sisters all had some mystical gift, some extraordinary ability that I shared, except this power seemed to focus on me. Cindy had predicted that I was the next godmother. The next keeper of the Well of the Triple Goddess. Not that I was sure which well that was. I had assumed it was the one we had gathered around in the bottom of Pamela’s garden back in February, but now they had found a second one under the font in the church. And what exactly did I see when I passed out? I’ve had visions like this before. There was blood. Lots of blood. And lots of blood is never a good thing.
“Look.” Sam smiled. “Why don’t we go together? I have the afternoon off tomorrow and look at what I bought online. It came yesterday.” Sam reached into the bottom drawer on her left and produced a turquoise scooter helmet with navy and white stripes. “It’s got a real retro look to it, hasn’t it? I thought I would see if Sal has a scooter to match. Then we could go for rides around the island together, now that the weather is better.”
“Well, Sal’s is on the way to Cindy’s and I could do with getting him to check over Cilla. I will call my aunt and check she is free.”
“Great, pick me up at one. Now, Reverend, if you are sure you are up to it, we have a few patients who, for some reason, I can’t quite understand, would like you to visit them, say some prayers and stuff.”
“That’s my job. Bringing comfort to the sick and dying.” I sprung to my feet. This was my calling, not as some mythical goddess guardian. I couldn’t explain these visions, but one thing I knew, there was only one God, and I was already doing his bidding.
Venus de Wesberrey
Later in the evening at the Parochial Parish Committee meeting, Tom and Barbara were all talk about the morning’s finds. They now forgot any concern they had about my little fainting spell amidst the excitement of Sebastian DeVere’s scholarly assessment. He believed the figurines were very ‘rare examples of stone age fertility offerings’ and would greatly interest the British Museum, though he would argue to keep some examples for examination at Stourchester University.
“Mr DeVere was not at all how I expected him to be from your description, Tom. I found him to be the perfect gentleman.” Barbara was once again passing around the biscuits, this time a plate of Garibaldis.
Tom threw his hands in the air. “That’s how they worm their way in though, isn’t it? Charm. Not that I am that easily swayed by a mustard cravat and a well-manicured handshake!” Tom reassured us all. “I can see how his gallant mannerisms and elegant phrases
can turn one’s thoughts against themselves. He spoke in such glowing terms about our ‘Venus de Wesberrey’.”
“Venus de Wesberrey? What utter nonsense!” Tom’s partner and fellow churchwarden, Ernest scoffed. “Best to wait until Norman has done a thorough assessment before we start naming the finds in such grandiose terms. Venus de Wesberrey, indeed.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put much stock in anything Norman Cheadle says either.” Tom’s tone changed; Ernest had obviously hit a nerve somehow. “DeVere may be rapacious, but Norman Cheadle is a vile, ignorant creature. And you know better than to mention that man’s name in good company.”
Tom flounced away towards the toilet and Ernest bowed apologetically before scuffling after him.
“I’m sorry.” I scanned the rest of our group for some explanation. “Who is Norman Cheadle and why does his name upset poor Tom so much? I have never seen them argue before.”
Barbara raised her eyebrows at Phil, who sat next to me trying to mind his own business, and with a dart of her eyes sent her fiancée off to check on the warring couple. Phil dutifully made his excuses and followed Tom and Ernest to the lavatory.
“Norman and Ernest. They were colleagues. Years ago. I don’t know all the details, but Norman gave up the law to become a historian after he did his PhD at Stourchester. Rumour has it that before he left, he defrauded the firm of several thousands of pounds. Enough to scupper Ernest’s pension and retirement plans. He had to use his savings to save the firm. I don’t think they could ever prove it was Norman Cheadle. There were no criminal charges brought. But that’s why Ernest still worked for Lord Somerstone from time to time. To keep the wolf from the door, so to speak.”
Well, that would explain Tom’s reaction. Ernest has an incredibly forgiving nature. I admit I would struggle to turn the other cheek in such a situation.
Divine Death: A Rev Jessamy Ward Mystery (Isle Of Wesberrey Book 4) Page 1