The Burning Girls

by C. J. Tudor

  She stares at the picture. There’s something else. Something that didn’t really register before. It’s kind of weird but…she feels a shiver ripple over her skin.

  The girl in the picture looks a lot like her.

  Emma Harper doesn’t look happy to see me. I get the feeling she knows she said too much the other night in the pub, but she can’t remember what.

  Of course, I shouldn’t really be here. It’s probably not what Rushton meant when he talked about all sticking together. But something struck me as I drove away from the Rushtons’ cottage. Fletcher spent a lot of time and effort looking into the history of the chapel and the girls who disappeared. And yet, one word from Simon Harper and he quietly agreed to say nothing and resign. I’m wondering exactly what Simon Harper said to him.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I say.

  She holds the door, half open, primed to shut it in my face. “It’s not a good time, I’m afraid. I’m rather busy—”

  “Actually, it was Simon I wanted to talk to.”

  “Simon? Oh, well, he’s out on the farm.”

  “Is it okay if I go and find him?”

  “Is it anything I can help you with?”

  “It’s to do with the chapel. The vault?”

  She looks at me blankly. Obviously, Simon never mentioned the hidden vault to his wife.

  “Oh, well, if it’s church stuff, probably best to talk to Simon. Let me call him, find out where he is or if he’s on his way back.” She looks around. “I think my phone is upstairs. Come on in.”

  She trots up the staircase. I walk into the massive hallway. Through the doors to the left I can see Poppy playing with dolls on the floor of the conservatory. She doesn’t look up as I enter. Once again, I think how solemn she seems and, also, how oddly childish. At ten, dolls are normally replaced by iPads.

  I walk over and crouch down beside her.

  “Hiya.”

  She doesn’t look up.

  “What are you playing?”

  A small shrug.

  “Are these your favorite dolls?”

  A nod.

  “What are they called?”

  “Poppy and Tara.”

  Tara. The little girl who died.

  “Are they friends?”

  “Best friends.”

  “That’s nice. Do they play together a lot?”

  “All the time.”

  “Do you have any other friends?”

  “No. No one wants to play with me.”

  “Why?”

  “In case they die, like Tara did.”

  I stare at her, feeling a chill.

  “Reverend Brooks?”

  I jump, and then straighten as Emma emerges in the hall. “Simon’s just in the sheep barn. You can either pop down or wait here.”

  “I’ll pop down. The barn’s just around the corner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walk toward the door. And pause. An airgun is propped by the umbrella stand.

  “Is that an airgun?”

  “Oh yes. It’s Tom’s.”

  “Tom?”

  “Rosie’s cousin. They’re upstairs now, playing Xbox.”

  “Likes to shoot things, does he?”

  “Shooting is a way of life in the country.”

  I smile thinly. “Apparently so.”

  * * *

  —

  I walk down the muddy track, away from the farmhouse, quietly fuming. The airgun could be a coincidence. But I don’t think so. Not in this small village. Tom is the one who shot Flo. But was it really an accident? I wouldn’t put anything past this family. I think about Poppy again. She’s clearly still traumatized by the death of her best friend. But there’s something else, something wrong in this house. It’s a gut reaction. But, when it comes to dysfunctional families, I have some experience.

  The barn draws into view. A corrugated, weathered structure. The scent of manure and rotting vegetables hangs in the air. I walk inside. Rows of sheep pens line either side of the barn. Simon Harper, clad in a Barbour jacket and wellies, is forking fresh straw into them.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  He chucks the straw into a pen, props the fork on the metal railing and brushes his hands off on his jacket.

  “Reverend Brooks? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about the chapel.”

  “What about it?”

  “We’ve found the hidden burial vault.”

  “How remarkable.” He turns and picks up the fork. “Seal it back up.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me. Seal it back up again. I’ll pay for the new floor, whatever else the chapel needs.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. I own the vault. They’re my ancestors.”

  “And once they are interred, they become the property of the church.”

  He turns back toward me. “I own most of that bloody chapel. Seal the vault up and I’ll write the diocese another check.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able do that.”

  He stabs the fork into the mound of straw. “What is your problem?”

  “My problem is that we found a body hidden in the vault. It appears to be that of Benjamin Grady, a young curate who went missing thirty years ago.”

  He spins around. “What?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Of course I didn’t bloody know. Jesus!” He runs a hand through his hair. “So, what, he was murdered?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Great. So, I suppose this will be all over the news now.”

  “Probably,” I say, realizing that I hadn’t thought of that myself.

  “Is there any way you can keep the Harper name out of it?”

  I stare at him. “A body has been discovered, and that’s all you care about? Good to know where your priorities lie.”

  “My priorities are my family and my business. This could ruin both.”

  “Why is it so important to you that your ancestors are martyrs? It was hundreds of years ago.”

  A bitter smile. “As martyrs, they’re part of history. As cowards who renounced their faith to save their skins, they’re nothing. The Harper name means nothing. Do you know how hard it is to run a business in the country, Reverend?”

  “No.”

  “Bloody hard. We succeed because of our reputation. We’ve been here generations. People trust us.”

  “And I’m sure they still will.”

  “You don’t know what villages like Chapel Croft are like. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know your sort.”

  “My sort?”

  “A busybody. Sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.” He takes a step toward me. “I know all about what happened at your last church, with that little black girl.”

  I note the redundant adjective. “You got sent a clipping?”

  “Yeah.” He sneers. “Interfering didn’t work out so well for you there, did it?”

  I fight to keep my temper in check. “Is this what you did to Reverend Fletcher? Bullied him? Threatened him? Is that why he agreed to keep quiet about the vault?”

  He shakes his head. “I liked Matthew. He was a decent bloke. But he was stubborn. So I simply pointed out to him that he had some secrets of his own he might want to protect.”

  “Such as?”

  “A relationship he didn’t want people knowing about.”

  I remember what Joan had said, about the author.

  “With Saffron Winter?”

  He laughs, unpleasantly. “That might have been what he wanted people to think.”
r />   “I don’t follow?”

  “Saffron Winter wasn’t really Fletcher’s type, if you get what I mean.”

  I’m pretty sure the sheep get what he means. But now, despite myself, I’m curious.

  “So, who was?”

  The old Victorian house is situated a mile or so down the road from the chapel. It might have been a handsome home once. Now, the garden is overgrown and neglected, the window frames are rotten, and it looks like one gust of strong wind might cause the tilting chimney to come tumbling down.

  We sit in the dining room at the back of the house. It’s dark and cluttered. Boxes of medical supplies cover most of the table. Books, magazines and tinned goods take up the space on a cabinet and sideboard. There is also a smell. Institutional. The sort you always get in school dining rooms or hospitals. Stale cooking, urine, feces.

  I’m trying not to pity Aaron. But it’s hard.

  “If you wish me to hand in my resignation,” he says stiffly, “I’ll understand.”

  “I don’t want you to resign, Aaron. Although I wish you had told me about the vault.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing for the church.”

  “Is that why you hid your relationship with Matthew too?”

  He stares at me. I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

  “I don’t care about your sexuality,” I say softly. “I do care that Simon Harper used it to bully Reverend Fletcher into keeping quiet about the vault.”

  “What?”

  “Simon Harper found out about your relationship somehow. The reason Matthew resigned was because Simon Harper threatened to expose it.”

  His face trembles and he looks down. “I…I didn’t know.”

  “I think Matthew wanted to protect you, even though being in a same-sex relationship is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “It’s a sin.”

  “Nowhere in the Bible does Jesus say homosexuality is a sin.”

  “In the Old Testament—”

  “The Old Testament is crap. It’s full of misogyny, torture and inconsistencies. Jesus preached about love. All love.”

  He smiles oddly. “What if I told you it wasn’t love, Reverend. It was just sex. What does Jesus say about that?”

  “I don’t think God or Jesus would care.”

  “But plenty of people in this village would.”

  “People are often more open-minded than you give them credit for.”

  But even as I say it, I realize I’m not sure. Not here in Chapel Croft.

  Aaron shakes his head. “My father brought me up after my mother died. He’s always been a good parent: kind, patient. But he’s traditional. He would never accept me. And I can’t let him down. He’s lost everything. How can I take away the only thing he has left—pride in his child?”

  I sigh. I understand. People are made to feel guilty for “living a lie,” but who hasn’t hidden parts of themselves from those they love? Because we don’t want to hurt them. Because we don’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes. We talk about love being unconditional, but very few of us ever want to put that to the test.

  “Aaron,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this but—do you think your father could have known about the body in the vault?”

  He hesitates. I see him debate with himself. Finally, he says: “If I tell you this, I expect it to go no further.”

  “You have my word.”

  “One night, when I was about four years old, I woke up to hear my father returning to the house.”

  “From where?”

  “I don’t know. My father never went out at night. It was most unusual. I crept downstairs. I could see my father in the kitchen. He had taken off all his clothes—I had never, ever seen him without his priest’s cassock—and he was stuffing them into the washing machine like he didn’t want my mother to see them. And the oddest thing—he was crying.”

  “This was around the time the girls and Grady disappeared?”

  “I can’t be sure of the date.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Because I know my father. He couldn’t hurt a soul. His whole life has been devoted to the church, the community and his family. Why would he risk all of that to help cover up a murder?”

  It’s a good question and I’m not able to give him an answer.

  Instead, I say: “Can I see him?”

  He stares at me for a moment. And then he nods. He leads me down the hall, to a door which is half open. The institutional smell is worse here.

  “A few years ago, I moved him downstairs, converted the front room into a bedroom for him.”

  Aaron pushes open the door and we step inside.

  The room is large. Bookcases line one wall. A large cross hangs on another wall. In the center of the room, Reverend Marsh lies in a hospital bed. I can hear the faint wheeze of the pressure mattress as it undulates to prevent bed sores. I can smell the sour urine from the catheter, the faint odor of the commode. Smells I’m familiar with from visits to nursing homes and hospitals.

  Marsh is a pale, thin shadow of himself. The shock of dark hair has bleached to white and is as fine as candyfloss. Veins protrude starkly beneath his skin. His eyes are closed and the paper-thin lids tremble gently as he sleeps.

  “They keep him dosed up on a lot of drugs,” Aaron says quietly. “He sleeps a lot now. It’s about the only time I feel he’s at peace.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  “Not so much. It’s more frustration, fear. He’s still aware enough to understand that his body is failing around him, becoming a prison of flesh and blood. He’s trapped within himself. Helpless.”

  A phone rings from another room. Aaron makes a small bow. “Excuse me. That will probably be the hospital.”

  I nod, and then I walk toward the bed. I stand, staring down at Marsh. I think again how unprepared we are for illness and old age. How we trundle toward it unthinkingly, like lemmings toward the edge of a cliff. The tiny humans we coo over at the start of their lives, we shudder to look upon at the end.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish things could have turned out differently.”

  He opens his eyes. I jump. They meet mine and widen. One hand lifts from the sheet, crooked fingers pointing.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m—”

  A gurgling groan emits from his throat. He’s trying to speak, but it sounds more like he’s choking.

  “Meh…Meeehhh.”

  I back away, legs shaky. The door bursts open and Aaron rushes back in.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “He woke up and started crying out.”

  “He doesn’t see many new faces. It’s probably just shock.”

  He goes to his father’s side and gently takes his arm. “It’s all right, Dad. It’s all right. This is Reverend Brooks. The new vicar.”

  Marsh tries to pull his arm away. “Meh, meh.”

  “I should probably wait outside,” I say, and hurry out of the door. I stand in the hallway, gathering myself, still feeling a little shaken. That look in his eyes. The choking cry. A few minutes later, Aaron steps out to join me, closing the door behind him.

  “He’s calmer again now.”

  “Good. I’m sorry for upsetting him.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” He clears his throat. “I appreciate your visit, and your support.”

  We smile at each other uneasily.

  “I’d better get going,” I say.

  Aaron walks me down the hall. I’m eager to escape this house now. The smell, the misery, the memories. But at the door, Aaron hesitates.

  “Reverend Brooks?”

  I look at him inquiringly.

  “I can think of only one r
eason why my father would hide a body, and that’s if he was protecting someone else.”

  “Who?”

  His eyes meet mine. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  What tangled webs we weave. Except we don’t, not really. We’re more like unfortunate flies than spiders, never seeing the sticky trap we’ve wandered into until it’s too late.

  I pull up outside the chapel and walk up the uneven path to the cottage. At the door, I pause. My neck prickles. That odd sensation you get when you feel like you’re being watched. I turn and scan the road and surrounding fields. No cars. No people. The distant sound of farm machinery. Nothing else.

  Maybe I’m just twitchy, on edge. My brain is still processing all the new information that’s been thrown at it. Changing presumptions I’ve made about people. Although not Simon Harper. He’s still a dick. I also have a strange feeling that I’m on the verge of answers, but unsure whether I really want to know what they are.

  I frown, look around one final time, and then I push open the door.

  “Hello?”

  No reply. I poke my head into the living room. Flo is sprawled on the sofa, legs hanging over one arm, staring at her phone. She looks up. “Hi.”

  “Miss me?”

  “Not really.”

  “Charming.”

  She swings her legs around and sits up. “Mum, I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Me too.”

  I perch on the edge of the sofa. “Look, I don’t want to be one of those interfering mums who treats you like a child.”

  “You’re not. Most of the time. Well, sometimes you are. A bit.”

  I smile. “I’m a mum. And I’m old. Believe it or not, I was a teenager once and I did a lot of stupid things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not giving you tips.”