The Burning Girls

by C. J. Tudor

  Underneath, a list of names:

  Jeremiah Shoemann

  Abigail Shoemann

  Jacob Moorland

  Anne Moorland

  Maggie Moorland

  Abigail and Maggie. The burning girls. I touch the letters carved into the stone. It’s cold, yet to absorb the warmth of the day.

  Beneath the girls’ names:

  James Oswald Harper

  Isabel Harper

  Andrew John Harper

  The Harpers. Of course. What did Rushton say—Simon could trace his history all the way back to the Sussex Martyrs. Bully for him. Yet something about the monument has made me feel melancholy. Deaths in the name of religion always do. People fighting over who has a greater claim on God. You might as well fight over who owns the sky or the sun. And I’m sure, without God, people would.

  I turn away from the monument and its congregation of twig dolls and walk across to the chapel. I stare up at the weathered white building. “Redeem the Tim, for the Days are Evil.” Okay. I need to make peace with this place if this is ever going to work. I unlock the door and push it open.

  The sun streams in through the windows, casting splashes of gold and red across the pews. I’ve always loved the effect of sunlight through stained-glass windows.

  And then I remember. The windows here aren’t stained glass.

  I blink and look around. Splashes of red on the glass, a bitter, metallic smell. I walk down the aisle, unease growing, along with a horrible sense of déjà-vu.

  “Drip, drip. You don’t take my Ruby.”

  There’s something on the floor by the altar. Something large, black and red.

  I feel bile rise in my throat.

  A crow. Mangled and battered, wings broken, body twisted.

  It must have become trapped and panicked, bashing itself against the windows in a desperate attempt to escape. I crouch down beside the dead bird. And then I notice something, half hidden under its battered body. I move the crow aside with a small grimace.

  My scalp contracts. Another twig doll. This one dressed in black with a scrap of white around its neck. A clerical collar. A folded piece of paper has been pinned to the doll’s chest. A newspaper clipping. I pull it off and unfold it. My own face glares back at me: “Vicar with Blood on Her Hands.”

  I feel a vein pulse in my head. How? Who? Then I hear a noise behind me. The creak of the chapel door. I jump up and spin around.

  A figure stands in the doorway, haloed by the morning light. I squint as they walk down the aisle toward me. Tall, slender. White hair tied in a bun, clad in running leggings and a bright fluorescent top. Clara Rushton. I stuff the doll and the clipping in my pocket.

  “Morning, Jack! You’re up early.”

  “I could say the same.”

  “Practicing your sermons?”

  “Actually, clearing up a dead crow.”

  She glances toward the altar. “Oh my. Poor thing.”

  “I was wondering how it got in.”

  “Well, there are a fair few holes in the roof. We’ve had pigeons before, the odd sparrow. Never a crow.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Not the best start to the day.”

  “Not really. And it’s not even seven o’clock.” I glance at her running gear. “Are you always out this early?”

  “Yes, Brian thinks I’m mad, but I enjoy the peace of the dawn. Do you run?”

  “Not even for a bus.”

  She chuckles. “I was just cooling down when I saw the door was open so I thought I’d pop my head in.”

  It seems a bit presumptuous. Nosy, even. A bit like Aaron and his “passing by.” Almost like they’re keeping an eye on me.

  “Well, don’t let me keep you,” I say. “I need to clear this mess up in here.”

  “There’s some cleaning equipment in the store cupboard in the office,” Clara says. “And four hands are better than two. Why don’t I help?”

  I can’t think of a reason to refuse. “Thanks.”

  Of course, she’s trying to be helpful. But as I follow her toward the office, I can’t help wondering how long she was standing in the doorway, watching me.

  * * *

  —

  Forty minutes later, we’ve cleaned the blood off the windows and the dead crow has been disposed of in the trash can around the side of the chapel.

  “There!” Clara looks around. “Much better.”

  And it is. In fact, cleaning some of the grime from the windows has made the whole nave seem brighter, less gloomy and fusty.

  “Thanks,” I say again. “I really appreciate it.”

  She waves a Marigold-clad hand. “No problem. We all look out for each other here in Chapel Croft.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  She smiles. She must be in her mid-fifties, but she could pass for younger, even with the white hair. It’s true that some women grow into their looks, gaining beauty as the years pass.

  “You know, maybe you need something to take your mind off all of this?” she says now. “Why don’t you come to the pub with Brian and me tonight? It’s quiz night.”

  She must catch the look on my face.

  “Not a fan of quizzes?”

  “Not so much.”

  “What about red wine?”

  “Well, that I can get on board with.”

  “Good. We could do with a new member of our team.”

  “Who else is on it?”

  “Me, Brian and Mike Sudduth. I’m not sure if—”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Oh, right. He works for the local paper.” Her eyes light up. “You know, maybe he could do a piece on you—”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, a little too quickly.

  “No?”

  “I’m really rather boring. Not a lot to write about.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, Jack.” Her tone is teasing. “I bet you have some stories to tell.”

  I hold her gaze. “I’ll save them for Jackanory.”

  She laughs. “Very good. Anyway, if you change your mind, Mike’s very nice, although he’s had a tough couple of years—” She pauses. “Do you know about his daughter?”

  “Yes. He told me.”

  “Heartbreaking. She was such a lovely little girl. Only eight.”

  I feel a tug in my heart, thinking about Flo at that age. So innocent, just starting to form her personality. To have her snatched away. A lump rises in my throat.

  “What happened?”

  “A tragic accident. She was playing in a friend’s garden. They had a rope swing. Somehow Tara got the rope twisted around her neck. By the time anyone realized, it was too late.”

  “How terrible.”

  “They tried to resuscitate her, but Mike and his wife had to make the decision to turn off the life support.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yes. It drove the families apart. The mothers had been good friends. Afterward, Fiona never spoke to Emma again.”

  “Emma as in Emma Harper?”

  “Yes, it happened at her house. Poppy and Tara were best friends. It devastated all of them. Poppy didn’t utter a word for over a year. She still barely talks now.”

  I think about our encounter outside the church. About Poppy’s strange muteness. Now, it starts to make more sense. To see her best friend die like that. Horrific.

  I shake my head. “I can only imagine the pain. To go to play at a friend’s house and never come back.”

  “And, of course, Fiona blamed Emma.”

  “That’s understandable, but you can’t watch children every minute.”

  “Emma wasn’t there.”

  “What?”

  “She’d popped out to the shops. Only down the road, but—”r />
  “She left them alone?”

  “No. She left Poppy’s sister in charge. Rosie. She was the one watching them when Tara died.”

  I have married hundreds of hopeful couples (and many hungover ones). I have buried the bodies of the young, the old and the barely born. I have anointed the soft, downy heads of countless babies and consoled the victims of terrible traumas. I have visited prisons, served in soup kitchens and judged numerous baking contests.

  But I don’t think that will make any difference to Emily and her fiancé, Dylan.

  The young woman regards me suspiciously: “You are a proper vicar?”

  “I’ve been a practicing vicar for over fifteen years.”

  She frowns. “Have you finished practicing now?”

  Dear God, it really is going to be a long morning.

  I force a smile. “Yes, I have.”

  “Only”—she grips Dylan’s hand. He’s a sturdy young man with a beard and floppy hair—“we want this to be a very traditional wedding.”

  “Of course,” I say. “This is your wedding. It can be anything you want. That’s what we’re here to discuss today.”

  They glance at each other. “We really liked the other vicar,” Dylan says now.

  “He’s a very good priest,” I say neutrally. “But you want to get married on September the 26th and Reverend Rushton isn’t available that day. Besides, I am the presiding vicar at Chapel Croft.”

  “Right.”

  “You do want to be married here in this chapel?”

  “Yes. Our parents were both married here. So, you know, it’s—”

  “Tradition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, well, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourselves?”

  Silence. More nervous glances. I sigh and put down my pen.

  “Or how about you tell me what’s bothering you?”

  “It’s not that we don’t think you’ll do a good job,” Emily says.

  “We’re sure you’re qualified and all that,” Dylan adds.

  “Good.”

  “It’s just the photos,” Emily says.

  “The photos?”

  “Well”—she looks me up and down—“I just don’t think you’re going to look right in the photos.”

  * * *

  —

  I set the kettle to boil and get out some bread for toast. I have sent Emily and Dylan away to reflect upon what is most important about their special day: the wedding in the chapel or the fact that I don’t have a penis (although I may not have worded it quite like that).

  The meeting has not helped my mood. The twig doll and the newspaper clipping are troubling me. I’m not easily scared, or intimidated. But I have Flo to think of. I don’t want a repeat of what we went through in Nottingham.

  I stuffed them both in the bottom of the bin, but I wonder who else knows. Who might have read the story in the paper or online? It’s not hard to look up. My first thought was Simon Harper. He strikes me as vindictive, and a bully. But I’m not sure he’s that imaginative. So, who else? Only Rushton, Aaron and I have a key to the chapel. But is that true? Keys can go missing, be copied, borrowed. I think about Clara, standing at the chapel door, watching me.

  I slam the bread into the toaster. Although, now I keep seeing the dead crow, its blood smeared over the chapel windows, my appetite has somewhat diminished.

  I’m just searching for the marmalade when Flo trots downstairs. I glance at the clock. Ten thirty.

  “Morning. How did you sleep?”

  She yawns. “Okay.”

  “Want some toast?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No.”

  She opens the fridge and takes out some milk.

  “Any plans for the day?”

  “I thought I might go into Henfield.”

  Henfield is the nearest small town to Chapel Croft.

  “Oh, right. What for?”

  “Drugs. Booze. Maybe some porn.”

  I stare at her. She shakes her head. “What’s with all the questions?”

  “Sorry. You’re right. Why should I care what my only daughter does? It’s not like she almost got herself killed yesterday.”

  She glares at me. “Are you ever going to let that drop?”

  “Maybe when you’re thirty, or forty.”

  She pours the milk into a glass. “Actually, I’m going into Henfield because they’ve got a photography shop.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I googled it, and they do repairs.”

  “You got some reception on your phone upstairs?”

  “Just. When are BT coming, by the way?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll chase them.” I relent. “D’you need a lift?”

  “Nope. I downloaded the bus timetable.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Sometimes I am proud that my daughter is so practical, mature and self-sufficient. Other times I wish she needed me, just a little bit more. Fifteen is when you start to lose them. Although, really, I think you start to lose them from the moment they slip from your body and take their first breath.

  “Will you be all right catching the bus on your own?”

  She gives me a withering look. “I have caught buses before. It’s only a fifteen-minute journey.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ve got it. I almost got myself killed. I’ll try not to annoy any homicidal pensioners on the bus.”

  “Well, they have been known to pack.”

  A small smile. “I’ll be fine, Mum. I just want to get my camera fixed. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And, no offense, but I really need to get out of this house for a bit. Somewhere I can actually get some internet access. I haven’t been able to catch up with Leon and Kayleigh properly. I just need some time back in civilization. Well”—she considers—“semi-civilization.”

  Of course she does. Guilt sucker-punches me in the stomach. I’ve uprooted my daughter from a bustling city and dumped her in the middle of nowhere. For what? To make amends. Because Durkin gave me little choice. Because of my own guilt? I might tell myself we are safe here, but I’m more worried about Flo than ever.

  I force a smile. “Okay. But any trouble, call me and I’ll come and pick you up, okay?”

  “Mum, I’m going to a camera shop and then I’m going to find a café that has wifi. There won’t be any trouble.”

  “Fine.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “Have you got enough money for the bus fare and coffee?”

  “Actually, could you lend me a tenner?”

  I sigh. No trouble, she said.

  * * *

  —

  After Flo has gone I make a coffee, resist the temptation of a cigarette and take Fletcher’s box back out from beneath the kitchen sink.

  I look at the broken cassette. Scotch tape. I’m pretty sure that’s what I need to fix it, but I’m also pretty sure we don’t have any. I put the cassette to one side and lift out the file entitled “Sussex Martyrs.”

  Plenty of villages have a dark past. History itself is stained with the blood of the innocent and written by the ruthless. Good does not always triumph over evil. Prayers do not win battles. Sometimes, we need the devil on our side. The problem is, once you have him riding shotgun, he’s hard to get rid of.

  I sit and start to plow through the sheets of paper. Some have been printed from the internet. Others seem to have been scanned from books. The text is scholarly, dry and packed with dates and historical references about the reign of Queen Mary and the purge in general. I’m halfway through the folder before I find any specific references to Chapel Croft. A very old article, by the looks of it, perhaps taken from some kind of journal. The print is bad, and the language
is archaic, but Fletcher has summarized and made his own notes at the side.

  Village stormed, martyrs hauled from beds and rounded up. Those who recanted branded but released. Those who refused convicted of heresy and burned at the stake. Two young girls, Abigail and Maggie, hidden in the chapel. Betrayed. Dragged out. Girls’ punishment even more barbaric. Maggie’s eyes put out. Abigail dismembered and beheaded before both burnt.

  I swallow. Dismembered and beheaded.

  “She had no head or arms.”

  There is no way that Flo could have known that. I reach for my coffee. It’s gone cold, but I swig it anyway. Fletcher’s notes here read: “Betrayed by whom?”

  The next piece of paper is larger, folded several times. I open it and lay it flat on the table. It takes me a moment to work out what I’m looking at. Architectural plans of the chapel, or rather, the church that stood here before the chapel was built. Again, old and much faded.

  I squint at the drawings. The footprint of the building is the same. I can make out the nave, the vestry. But there are other parts that I can’t configure in my mind. Areas that look like they have changed over time. Another store cupboard? A cellar? I didn’t think the chapel had a cellar. Vaults, perhaps? I stare at it thoughtfully then I carefully put all the pieces of paper back in the folder and close it.

  I turn to the second folder. “Merry and Joy.” The urge to smoke is now so strong my hands feel twitchy. I open the folder and begin to flick through the printed newspaper stories. There aren’t as many as you would imagine. The disappearances didn’t garner much national interest. Which is unusual. Merry and Joy were young, white and female. Without wanting to sound cold, those are the girls the newspapers and media normally care about. From the start, the police treated the case as that of two runaways. Appeals were made for the girls to come home, to contact their mothers. There never seemed to be any suspicion that they might not be in a position to do so. And the sad fact is—something I know all too well from my work with the homeless—the police are more likely to spend time looking for dead girls than live ones.

  The local newspaper seems to have run stories about the girls for a lot longer, but eventually even these progress from the front page to smaller articles to filler pieces.