by N. C. Lewis
Fenella watched as he walked behind a lattice screen, heard the click of the kettle, and a few minutes later the hiss of steam. Vicar Briar returned with a small tray, teapot, and a plate of custard creams. She loved the sandwich biscuit, liked to split it in half, lick out the cream filling and dunk it in her tea. That'll do nicely, she thought as he poured.
After the vicar had wolfed down two biscuits and gulped a mouthful of tea, he looked at Fenella and said, "Is there any news on the... deaths?"
"That's what I'm here for." She said it even though she was aware he'd known who she was before she had introduced herself. After all, he'd been watching her, hadn't he? He knew what went on in this village. "Pews full these days?"
"We give the pub and the village store a run for their money. The church is at the heart of St Bees. Most things come my way in the end." He smiled. "How is Dr Joy Hall? Such a shame what happened, and with her being new to our village. I will pop around to say hello when she comes home from the hospital."
Fenella stared. They had tried to keep Dr Joy Hall's attack a secret. But he knew, and she could tell by the gleam in his eyes he'd not told her all his secrets.
She said, "Suppose it helps to be in tune with the big man upstairs, eh?"
"And with the mouths of those who like to talk," he replied.
Fenella thought he'd know a lot about everyone's business, whether or not they came to church. But she hadn't read a statement in the files from the vicar. PC Hoon was tasked with that job. Now she wondered whether she'd missed something, and made a mental note to go back and check. Then she had a better idea and said, "I don't want to go over old ground, but it would be helpful if I could ask a few questions. For clarification."
"Old ground?"
"You spoke with PC Hoon?"
"I thought he might stop by this week for a chat, but no. I hear he spent a lot of time in Don's Café. That's another place worth a visit if you're interested in village gossip, and the pub too."
Fenella took a sip of tea and wondered whether PC Hoon had visited the pub to speak with the landlord. She stared at the plate of custard creams and said, "Any new faces about the village?"
"There is always an ebb and flow." Vicar Briar picked up his cup, took a sip, and held it in his hand. "We knew Dr Joy Hall had bought Mrs Rye's old place when the workmen moved in."
"From out of town, the workmen?"
"Not a one. All local. All good men. Hard workers who do more than they are paid for. No, there have been no recent new faces in the village." Suddenly his face clouded, and he put the cup down. "Only person I can think of is Hazza. He does a spot of gardening about the village, keeps the graveyard tidy. Showed up about two months ago. Does a good job."
Fenella fished in her handbag for a notebook. "Last name?"
Vicar Briar shrugged. "I pay him from the petty cash. Twenty-five pounds a time, keeps the paperwork down." He lowered his voice. "He is disabled, walks with a limp. Don't know his last name. Everyone calls him Hazza."
"Happen you've not got an address, then?"
"Maryport, I think." Vicar Briar looked at the cup as if it might confirm, then shook his head. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure. Hazza said something about living in a hostel, or was it a bed & breakfast in Port St Giles? No. I don't recall where. Why don't you ask him yourself? He'll be in the village tomorrow. Comes every other Tuesday."
Fenella beamed. "Aye, we'll do just that."
There was a silence. Fenella wondered whether she should grab a custard cream or two. They'd go down a real treat with her cup of tea. But before she decided, Vicar Briar said, "You want to know about Pearl Smith and Viv Gill?" He took another gulp of tea, but his eyes never left her face. "They both came to weekday service."
That surprised Fenella. She hadn't pegged Viv Gill as a church lass, not given that she worked for Nellie Cook. Still, she didn’t interrupt. There would be plenty of time for questions. Best to wait. She picked up a biscuit, wanted to split it in two, eat the filling, and dunk it in her tea, but instead she bit half and chewed.
Vicar Briar was speaking. "I've known Pearl the longest, so perhaps my thoughts might add some insight into her background. She was born a stone's throw from the cliffs, on Oak Grove Lane. The house went to her when her mum passed, must be ten years back. She married, but it was troubled and ended in divorce." He spoke slow, as though he weighed each word before letting it out. "I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but she had a… challenge when it came to men. Seemed to fall in with the wrong sort. It always turned bad; that's when I'd see her at church, and I'd know another relationship had broken down."
"So she wasn't a regular?"
He picked up a custard cream, examined its ridges with one eye half closed as though a jeweller looking at a precious stone. "When her waters were troubled, she'd seek out the calm of the sanctuary."
"Been in lately, had she?"
He popped the biscuit into his mouth, munched for a long moment, then shook his head. "She'd not been in for a while. The last time… maybe five months ago. Yes, it was still warm, late summer."
Fenella wondered if that was when Chad Tate had broken up with her. He'd said he wasn’t in a relationship now and that might have been true. But she knew he lied about the sausages. Still, she'd dig, find out more, so she could get a clear picture of Pearl Smith.
She said, "What can you tell me about Viv Gill?"
"New to the village. A good looker, nice sway to the hips." Vicar Briar picked up another custard cream, split it in half, licked out the soft centre, and dunked it in his tea. "Viv Gill was more regular. One of my women, liked to help out."
That baffled Fenella. Viv Gill had been a sex worker who'd moved from Whitehaven to set up shop in St Bees. What was she doing on her knees in church?
"The pews are full of the wounded," Vicar Briar said as if he'd read her mind. "You'll not find a single saint in my congregation, and that includes me."
Chapter fifty-one
Chad Tate watched as the detective left St Bees Priory. She moved as quiet as a cat on the prowl and kept close to the shade of the red brick wall. He guessed she wanted to keep out of sight. He didn’t want her to see him either. Earlier, he couldn’t help but watch, but now he'd had a little think and knew it wasn't a good idea to let her see him stare. He didn’t want her to come back and fire off another round of questions.
But he struggled to control the urge to look, hesitated for a beat, then eased the shop door open a notch to peer along the lane. A sharp chill rushed in despite the glare of the risen sun. Detective Sallow crossed by her car and searched her bag for the key. Her head flicked towards the store. He darted back inside.
Whoa! Did she see him?
Chad leaned his back on the door, took thin breaths. She didn’t believe him about the sausages. The police were all about links. Once they found one, they'd haul in what they caught. He took another breath and waited for a sharp knock on the glass and the detective's soft voice, but heard the car engine splutter into life and the low growl as it drove off.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped into the lane, hands shading his eyes. Two black-backed gulls hovered with slow wing beats, dark shadows against a globe-sized sun. It was peaceful and bright with a crisp bite from the Irish sea. The slap of waves drifted from the cliffs as soft as distant thunder. Idyllic. Except for the police poking their nose where it didn’t belong.
"I wonder if we might have a quiet chat."
Chad spun around.
Vicar Briar said, "Best in your store, eh?"
The two men walked in silence to the store. Chad sat on the stool by the checkout and stacked the white envelopes carefully into a neat pile. They teetered but did not fall.
Vicar Briar's eyes darted between the aisles. He sucked in a breath, which rattled against the back of his throat. "No one else in the shop?"
"Just us." Chad wondered whether he should flip the sign on the door to CLOSED, but he needed the business. "It's early; we h
ave a few minutes."
Vicar Briar said, "Detective Sallow strikes me as a woman who gets her ducks in a row, then fires." He reached into his cassock and pulled out a cigar but did not light up. "The job is an addiction for her. She enjoys lifting stones to see what is underneath."
"Like you."
"A man of the cloth is by his nature a curious fellow. We search for God and point folks to the right path. If I'd not gone into the Church, I might have made a good detective."
Chad stared at the window. "She asked about gifts I'd given Pearl Smith."
"You said it was a brief fling."
"Only a few months."
"Then what is the problem?"
"Pearl was needy, wanted things for free." Chad swallowed hard. It was almost upon him. The rage. It had taken control of him for the first time years ago. He was inside St Bees Priory when a cloak of anger gripped him hard. With his bare fists, he smashed the altar, scattered folks from a pew, shook it from its anchor, and hurled it through a window. It happened at a funeral. He'd not been inside the church since. He knew he wasn’t a violent man, but once the rage came, it would not leave until satisfied. " I… only wanted to… help Pearl out. Do a good deed. You understand that, don't you?"
"I worry about you, my son," Vicar Briar said softly. He twiddled the cigar and, with a slow movement, lit it. "Getting yourself all upset and obsessed won't bring the dead back to life."
"Look, it was only a brief fling with Pearl. That's all it was. Yes… I hoped for more, fell head over heels… and that does things to a man, doesn’t it?" Chad balled his fists. "You talk about obsession. Yes! I was obsessed. I admit it. It is who I am. I don't like it, but can't control what it makes me do. When it takes me, I'm like wildfire, burn everything in sight."
"Saying something like that just makes me even more concerned that you'll…" Vicar Briar sucked on the cigar and puffed out a plume of smoke. "A fool uttereth all his mind: but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards. Please remember that, my son."
"But that detective is asking questions. She'll find out about—"
"We can't stop the police from doing their job, but we can do our good works with wisdom."
"But they'll find the link."
"What are you on about?"
Chad placed his head in his hands. "I… I… when Viv Gill came to the village… we became friends… very close friends."
Vicar Briar shook his head as if to clear it. "What are you saying?"
"I'd close the shop at lunch and go visit her at her home. We—"
Vicar Briar held up a hand. "You're a dark horse, aren’t you, my son?"
"Then I found out that she was a… PC Hoon was a regular," he said through clenched teeth.
"It is not our place to judge," Vicar Briar said in a soft hush.
Chad pounded his fists on the counter. The stack of envelopes toppled. When he lost it, he couldn't think straight, just acted on his violent impulses. Now he wanted to smash his own shop to pieces. He swallowed again and focused on flexing his hands. But anger flared, licking at his heart like wild flames.
Chapter fifty-two
Dr Joy Hall yelled at the top of her voice.
It was early Monday morning, and she knew it wasn't the best way to get her point across. But if she didn't make a fuss, she'd be trapped in this loony bin for God knew how long. That it was a hospital room designed to save her life didn't matter. She was fed up with lying on her back staring at the ceiling. She felt like an Egyptian mummy, wrapped in tight rags and locked in a tomb.
"No, you stay here, get well," the doctor said in a heavy Kenyan accent. She was tall and slim with bushy black hair that seemed to have a life of its own. "We need to monitor you, check that everything good."
"I want out of here."
"You not like the food?" The doctor looked concerned. "I speak with nurse; we have good choices on staff menu."
Joy sighed. "Lying here, I'm spoilt for choice for needles in my arm. Granted, it's just pretty much the only thing I'm spoilt for choice for."
The doctor laughed. "You make good recovery soon. I see that."
"I feel fine, really." If Joy could have got off her bed and gone down on her knees to beg, she would have done so. She couldn't stand another day in this dim room, where it was impossible to tell day from night.
The doctor peered at a clipboard, tapped it with a pen, and said, "A few more days, and we can discuss, eh?" She moved the chair and sat on the edge of the bed. "Listen, everyone knows what happened. We take good care of you."
"But you'll need the bed for someone else in more need, won’t you?"
"You are in need."
This was crazy. Joy was going round in circles. It had been like this for a good ten minutes. All she wanted was to check out and go home. Then she remembered home was a cottage in St Bees, not the flat she just moved out of in Whitehaven. Back to the house with the door lock that jangled as if Uncle Fred was about to come in, and where walls creaked and groaned with the soft whisper of the ghost of Mrs Rye. Did she really want to go back to that place? Wouldn't it bring back memories of all that had happened?
Joy closed her eyes and saw the scrunched-up face of her Uncle Fred, smelled the cigarettes on his sour breath, felt his rough stubble against her breasts. He was never arrested. Never charged. Never convicted.
Her eyes snapped open. A week after the attack, he was gone from her life. No one knew what happened to him. He vanished. Just like her dead baby when the nurse took it away. No! She would not let spooks or the creak of the old house or Uncle Fred or anything else knock her off course. She and Veronica Jeffery were Team Superwomen. They didn't back down in the face of a threat. Yes, she felt sore and still under the influence of drugs. Those things would not block her path. Nothing would get in her way.
"Then I'll discharge myself," Joy said. "I'm in my rights to do so, you know."
The doctor pulled out a notebook and a pen and furiously wrote notes as she inspected the electronics around the bed. Joy couldn’t help but wonder if she might be more ill than they'd let on. But she heard no beeps, and that meant everything was okay, didn’t it?
"You not well." The doctor shook her head and said, "And your friend will not be happy if you leave."
That's when Joy first sensed the hand of Veronica Jeffery behind all of this. She knew her friend worried about her, and there was an armed guard just outside the door. Yes, it was safer to stay in this room where the police could keep an eye on her. That gave Joy pause. She needed to think a little more about her next move.
The doctor was speaking, "And I believe you work for prison service, right?"
"Yes, but how do you—"
"Low Marsh Prison will not be happy if you leave the hospital without our consent. They not let you back at work if think you sick." The doctor held Joy's gaze. "I'll have to write a report, you know."
Oh, very nice, Joy thought. And again she sensed the hand of Jeffery. "Okay, but get me out of this room, please."
If she had any doubts that Veronica Jeffery was behind all of this, they vanished with the doctor's next words.
"This ward is busy. We need bed." She gave a sly grin and once again stared at the clipboard. "I think you well enough to be moved to the convalescence ward. You'll have private room and phone so you can help police with investigation."
Chapter fifty-three
At the briefing later that morning, Fenella felt the air of excitement in the room. The team were refreshed after their weekend break and eager to get started.
No one knew what the day would bring.
If they did, their mood would have been less jovial.
But the room filled with voices as if they were part of an after-party following Nan's Sunday do. Even Dexter's grizzled face carried a broad smile, and he walked with such a skip to his step that at first Fenella thought he'd been at the booze. She gave him a quick hug and sniffed hard to take in his scent. But there was no whiff of wine or beer or rum, just the faint fr
agrance of aftershave. That thrilled and annoyed her at the same time. He was off the booze. Good. Why was he so… happy? He'd been that way since their visit to Nellie Cook, and she still didn't have the answer.
Then the briefing phone rang, and everyone cheered when Dr Joy Hall's voice crackled on the line.
"I'm doing well and will help where I can," Dr Joy Hall said. "They've moved me to another ward, a room with French doors that open onto the grounds, so at least I've got a delightful view."
There was another round of cheers followed by shouts of "Congratulations" and "Well done."
"I may be in hospital, but I'm still part of the team," Dr Hall said. "And I would like each person to complete a psychological assessment, only takes twenty minutes on the computer. It will help boost morale."
Fenella liked the idea and said, "Any objections?" She scanned the room. There were none. "The team have agreed. We will set it up today."
"Thank you," Dr Joy Hall replied. "The results will remain confidential. Only I and Superintendent Jeffery will see the entire teams' score. Of course, you'll get your own score for personal review. It will be a great help."
"Okay, ladies and gentlemen, now that we are all warm and fuzzy inside, let's have a chat about Hamilton Perkins." Fenella's voiced brimmed with energy despite her early start in the village of St Bees. "It's time to uncover all his secrets. Where is he now? Why did he come back when he could be away overseas?"
The room fell quiet. Everyone looked at her with bated breath, as if, she thought, they were waiting for her to answer her own questions. A heavy weight pressed down on her shoulders as she scanned the expectant faces. They had a confidence in her she didn't feel she deserved. If she had the answer, she'd not have bothered to ask the questions. In truth, she felt like a priest at the edge of a grave when a small child asks, "Why did God take my daddy?"
Dexter was on his feet. "Come on, folks, the guv has asked a question. Anyone?"
"Perkins is off the obsessive scale, same for his need to control," Dr Joy Hall said, her voice surprisingly clear. "Viv Gill and Pearl Smith wrote to him in prison, where he felt a sense of power over the relationships. He escapes and finds out they have lives which focus on more than him. A man like Perkins will see that as a threat to be eliminated. When he gets an idea in his head, it is like life or death in his mind."
