by Sam Short
Mary rose from her seat and nudged Geoffrey out of the way. She stared straight into Dominic's face as he blinked three times. "What in God's name is going on here, Dominic?" she shouted. "You tell us now!"
Dominic swayed from left to right, and his pupils dilated as he focused on his wife. "Chill," he said. "Have a spliff and calm down."
"Calm down?" yelled Mary. "Calm down! I'll give you calm down!”
Blinking again, recognition flashed in Dominic's eyes, and he stared at the four people in the room. "Oh!" he drawled, his headband slipping into his eyes again. He pushed it out of the way and pointed behind Geoffrey. "Watch out!" he shouted. "He's coming!"
Despite herself, Pepper couldn't help looking behind herself and through the forest of cannabis plants. As she'd expected, there was nobody there, and when she turned back to face the vicar, he'd dragged himself to his feet and was pushing his way past Geoffrey, making slow progress towards the open door through which Pepper could see steps leading upwards. Shielding his eyes as he hobbled towards the bright film lights which bathed the plants in a warm glow, Dominic managed to gain a little pace but was still moving no faster than Geoffrey who walked alongside him, urging him to stop.
"Dominic! You’re high!” said Geoffrey. “Sit down, and let's get to the bottom of this!"
"You'll never take me alive!" slurred Dominic, gaining a little more speed, his Lycra shorts and tight cycling jersey revealing far too much detail for Pepper's liking.
"Dominic!" shouted Mary. "Where do you think you're going? You can't get away. You can hardly walk!"
"I'm out of here, man," replied Dominic, wobbling on his legs as he reached the doorway.
Then, just as Geoffrey was reaching for the vicar's shoulder, Dominic stumbled and crashed to the ground, making a loud groan as his head thumped into concrete.
He took a long gurgling breath and then fell still. "Somebody phone an ambulance," ordered Geoffrey, getting to his knees next to the stricken man. "He's unconscious.”
"Dominic!" cried Mary, rushing to her husband's side. "Dominic, my darling!"
With two fingers on the vicar's throat, Geoffrey nodded at Mary as Winston spoke into his phone. "He's got a pulse."
"Oh, Dominic!" sobbed Mary, a hand on her husband's face. "What have you done?"
Being gentle and methodical, Geoffrey ran a hand beneath the back of Dominic's head, and when he removed it, it was clear of blood. "He's not bleeding,” he said. "But he took a heavy hit to the head."
"The ambulance is on its way," said Winston, pocketing his phone. He looked at Mary. "And the police, sorry, Mary."
Tears trickled from Mary's face, splashing onto her husband. "Of course, Winston," she sobbed.
Then, Dominic made a sound. He began moving his head from left to right, and Mary placed a hand on each of his cheeks, holding him still. "Don't move," she ordered. "Try and stay still."
Groaning once more, Dominic opened his eyes slowly, revealing huge pupils surrounded by bloodshot whites. He focused on Mary and lifted a hand to her arm. "What's going on?" he slurred.
"You had an accident," said Mary. "Stay still, darling. The ambulance is on its way."
"My head hurts," said Dominic.
"You banged it when you fell over," said Geoffrey. "When you were trying to escape from us."
Dominic's eyes slid closed for a moment, and then he opened them again. "What's going on?" he slurred.
"We just told you, darling," said Mary, gripping her husband's hand.
"He's probably concussed," explained Geoffrey. "His head hit that floor with some force."
Dominic blinked, and then he stared at his wife. "I remember," he said. "You found me. You found the cannabis. I can explain. I needed the money — the church roof. I got carried away. I watched a film about an old lady who grew cannabis when she ran out of money." He closed his eyes again. "What's happening?"
"Try not to speak, Dominic," said Geoffrey. "You may have a concussion."
"Oh," moaned Dominic, his eyelids lifting again. "You found my cannabis, didn't you, Mary?"
"Yes," said Mary. "I did."
Dominic's eyes slid closed again, and he took a long deep breath. "Sorry," he murmured, as the breath left him.
Mary squeezed his hand. "Everything that happened in the cellar can be resolved. The cannabis — the lights which I presume are the lights which were stolen from a film set — it can all be resolved.”
"I didn't steal the lights," murmured Dominic. "Stan stole the lights. While the film crew were filming at his allotment. When they took a break, he hid them in his shed under a blanket and went home. He came back for them at night. I bought them from him. With the money the police raised for the church roof. I cashed the cheque and gave the money to Stan. The lights would make the crop grow much quicker, Stan told me. I didn’t know they were stolen until after I’d brought them here.” He stared at Geoffrey. "Where am I? What's happening?"
"It's okay, Father," said Geoffrey. "You'll be as right as rain soon enough."
"Dominic," gushed Mary. "You have to tell me if you did something awful. Something worse than buying stolen lights and growing cannabis. Something that can't be forgiven. Did you argue with Stan? Were you there when he died? Did you have something to do with his death? You have to tell me. You have to be honest!"
Dominic's breathing grew louder, and he groaned. "No. Not me. I was in the allotments just before he died, though. I'd been to pay him for the lights. I’d had them for over two weeks and hadn’t paid him. He was demanding the money, and refused to sell any more of my cannabis until I’d paid him. I saw you and your friends watching me, Mary, as I left the allotments."
"That was you?" asked Mary, as the sound of sirens approached. "The person we saw sneaking away."
Dominic remained silent for a few moments, then he opened his eyes and blinked as if confused. "Yes," he murmured. "Me. Sneaking. Saw you all watching me. Had to get away. Had to run away from Stan's shed when I saw the film person coming to speak to Stan. I panicked because I thought the film people had found out it was Stan who had stolen the lights.”
"Film person?" said Mary. "What film person?"
Dominic took a laboured breath, and then grunted. ”My head," he moaned. "What happened?"
"Father Dominic," interrupted Pepper. "Did you see the film person with long hair?"
"Film person?" slurred Dominic.
"The film person you saw when you were at Stan's shed," said Pepper.
"I think that’s enough questions," said Geoffrey. "He's very confused."
Mary's face darkened, and she stared at Geoffrey. "No," she said. "I have to know. I can forgive everything that's gone on in this cellar, but I can't forgive him if he had anything to do with what happened to Stan." She stared into Dominic's face. "Who else did you see in the allotment? The film person, Dominic. Who did you see?"
"Yes! With long hair!" slurred Dominic, a few sentences behind the conversation. "The film person. Long hair. I ran away. I thought Stan was in trouble for stealing the lights. Stan was okay when I ran away. I didn't do anything to hurt —" His eyes suddenly closed, and his head fell to the side.
"He's lost consciousness again," said Geoffrey. "Enough questions."
Mary nodded. "I had to know if he was capable of hurting another person," she said.
The room fell silent, and only Dominic's heavy breathing competed with the sound of concerned voices outside. "Hello!" came a woman's voice. "This is the ambulance service and the police. Can anybody hear me? Where are you?”
Winston hurried through the open door and up the steps. "Down here!" he shouted, as he disappeared into the sunlight. "Father Dominic has had a bad fall. Hurry!"
Chapter 26
Pepper released a series of spells in quick succession — the little green orbs leaving the tip of her wand like peas from a pea-shooter. Separating as they flew low across the meadow, they landed among the grass causing mini-mushroom clouds of pollen to rise into the early m
orning air.
With each spell Pepper cast, the oak tree recharged her magical battery as she sat in her usual spot between two roots with a flask of coffee and a plate of toast. With a generous slathering of marmalade on the crunchy wholemeal slices, her fingers became even stickier as she ripped a piece in two and tossed it into the grass close to her feet.
She looked up at the inquisitive corvid, which gazed down at her from one of the tree’s long limbs. “Come on then,” she said. “You’ve known me for long enough now. You know you can trust me. Come on down and have your breakfast. I know you like marmalade — this will be the third time you’ve had it.”
The crow looked at Pepper and then twisted its head as it searched the area of grass in which the toast had landed. It took three steps to the right, and then two to the left, before pointing its beak towards the ground and swooping from the branch. Finding the toast among blades of dew-wet grass, it kept its eyes on Pepper as it ripped the bread apart and swallowed chunks of orange rind.
Pepper smiled and took a large bite of her own breakfast. “There,” she said. “We’ll have breakfast together, and I’ll update you on important Picklebury news.” She adjusted her position between the two large roots and poured herself a third coffee as she spotted four fallow deer near the stream in the valley at the bottom of the meadow. Continually checking their surroundings for danger, they approached the clean Peak District water and dropped their heads to drink. “Father Dominic is still in a medically induced coma,” she said, looking at the crow. “It’s been three days, but he still has swelling on his brain. The doctors say he will pull through, though. Which is good news.”
The crow swallowed a large chunk of toast and stared intently at Pepper. She continued. “He managed to tell Mary more of his story before they induced his coma. He told her that Stan had given him a key for the shed — so Dominic could leave cannabis there for Stan to sell. He would sneak there at night time, after telling Mary he was going cycling. Dominic couldn’t sell it himself, you see — he’s a vicar. He told Mary that he’d begun growing much more cannabis — thanks to the lights he’d bought from Stan. He told her that he’d have been able to raise the money for the roof within a month if he’d not been found out on Saturday.”
She cast another spell, smiling as the green orb sent up a puff of pollen and tiny seeds as it crashed into the grass. “And the police still believe Stan Wilmot’s death was an accident,” she said. “Sergeant Saxon said that just because the vicar had told us he’d spotted Oswald Clementine in the allotments before Stan died, nothing has changed in the way she’s approaching the death. Father Dominic was concussed when he told us; she was keen to point out. The doctors said he’d probably lost parts of his memory and had invented other memories due to the swelling on his brain. His word isn’t to be trusted until he’s better, they said.”
The crow hopped from foot to foot as it pecked at a crust, and looked up as Pepper slurped her coffee. “Apparently the sergeant requires evidence of wrongdoing if she’s to believe that anybody else was involved in what happened to Stan. She’s even called Geoffrey and I conspiracy theorists for suggesting our gut feelings should be listened to. Geoffrey may have a gut feeling, but I know for sure that somebody else was there when Stan died — a grapevine told me, and plants don’t lie.”
The crow cawed, and Pepper nodded. “More news? Okay — Geoffrey found out through a friend on the police force that Oswald had told Sergeant Saxon he believed Stan had stolen his lights while they’d taken a break from filming at the allotments, but didn’t want to make the accusation public for some reason.
“Geoffrey’s friend said that Oswald Clementine hadn’t wanted to upset Stan. That doesn’t make much sense, but that’s just how it is. I’m forced to accept what I’m told. I’m not a police officer. There’s not much more I can do.”
Swallowing the last of its breakfast, the crow tilted its head as it gazed at Pepper. It gave a cackling caw and hopped closer to her feet.
“Still hungry?” she asked, tossing the bird an uneaten crust.
The crow replied in the affirmative by pouncing on the piece of toast before it had even settled in the grass.
“Anyway,” said Pepper, “I’m beginning to think that the police are never going to believe that Stan’s death was nothing more than an accident. And to be honest, I’m not sure I can prove otherwise. It’s all very frustrating, though. Mary Goodenough has concluded that her husband’s sudden paranoia coincided with his equally sudden interest in cycling — which turned out to be a fake hobby he was using to cover his absences while he cultivated cannabis in the cellar of the old vicarage.
“Mary thinks that his paranoia and the way he’d suddenly begin treating her was down to the fact that he’d begun smoking his crop. It makes sense, I suppose. Cannabis has that effect on some people. Poor Mary.”
The crow hopped even closer to Pepper. Caw!
Pepper smiled. “Who do I think pushed Stan? Well, I know somebody did, the grapevine was sure about that. As to who did it? I wouldn’t like to say. We know for a fact, because he told us himself, that father Dominic was the man we saw sneaking around the allotments — so we know that he was there during the timeframe in which Stan died.
“He says he saw Oswald Clementine approaching Stan’s shed, so he hurried away after paying him the money he owed for the lights. Could that be the truth, or did Dominic push Stan? Maybe he was telling the truth, and Oswald did come to the allotments. Maybe he pushed Stan? The thing is, Mr Crow, I’ve seen neither of those men wearing heavy boots, and the information imparted to me by the grapevine suggests that the person who pushed Stan was wearing boots of some description. It’s still a frustrating mystery.”
Caw! Caw!
“More?” said Pepper, throwing the last tiny scraps of toast towards the bird. She put the lid back on the flask, and got to her feet, happy to see that the crow remained where it was. It trusted her, and Pepper liked that. “As for personal news,” she said, placing her wand back inside her jacket pocket. “I’ve got that silly appointment with Michael the pub landlord tomorrow night. I’m having one drink with him because I promised I would. Oh, and I’ve also promised I’ll be attending the gardening club on Thursday night. It seems I can’t keep myself to myself even when I want to.”
Trudging across the meadow, following the footsteps she’d left on the outward journey, she turned and waved farewell to the crow. “At least I’ve got today to myself. I’m going into town to do some shopping, and then I’m going to spend some quality time with Ziggy.”
Chapter 27
With the basket on the front of her bike half-full of groceries, Pepper pointed her bike east and headed for home. As she passed the Country Bumpkin, her stomach flipped, and she gave a shake of her head. It was Tuesday, and in just over twenty-four hours she’d be honouring the appointment she’d made with Michael, the landlord. One drink, he’d said, and that’s what he’d get.
She cursed under her breath. When she’d moved to Picklebury, she’d expected a life of peace and quiet with minimal social interactions. Within a three week period, though, she’d received a police warning, helped discover that Stan’s death might not have been an accident, joined a gardening club, found a vicarage cannabis farm, and had somehow lined up a drinks appointment — she corrected herself, a drink appointment, with a bearded man. She didn’t even like beards, for heaven’s sake — she thought of them as masks that hid important facial expressions.
She’d get used to Michael’s beard, though. His eyes were the sort of eyes that displayed enough emotion to communicate what he was thinking. As long as he didn’t wear sunglasses to their drink appointment, Pepper thought she’d manage to decipher his intentions just fine.
As she cycled past the police station, she considered going inside and asking Sergeant Saxon if she was going to act on the information that Father Dominic had given when he’d briefly regained consciousness, but then she remembered how angry the sergeant could
get for such a short lady, and decided against it.
She smiled as she remembered the wholemeal pizza base that was in her basket, and pedalled faster as she ran through the list of toppings she’d apply as soon as she got it home. Tomato paste — of course. Basil leaves — naturally. Mozzarella cheese — twice — directly on the tomato paste, and then a final sprinkle on the top before the pizza went into the oven. Pineapple chunks — without a doubt. Bacon — maybe. Onion — of course.
“You there!”
Her pizza daydream abruptly broken, Pepper swerved to avoid the woman running into the street with her hand held in front of her in the style of a traffic cop. She placed herself in front of Pepper’s bike and shouted again. “Stop! Please!”
Pepper squeezed both breaks firmly and came to a skidding halt. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “You could have caused an accident!”
Dressed in a smart overcoat, and with her hair looking as if she’d just stepped out of a posh hairstylist’s salon, the middle-aged woman looked Pepper up and down. “I’m glad you dress so flamboyantly — I might not have recognised you otherwise, and Sergeant Saxon refused to give me your name.”
Pepper narrowed her eyes and fixed the woman in a stern stare. “And why, may I ask, are you asking Sergeant Saxon for my personal details? Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m Mrs Hamilton. I own Highridge house. You were the lady who was trespassing in my garden,” she explained, approaching Pepper. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’ve already received a police warning,” said Pepper. “And I can assure you that I won’t be entering your property again. As far as I’m concerned, you can plant your plants in the manner you prefer, and let them fend for themselves.”
“That is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Mrs Hamilton. “That plant you moved is flourishing in the spot you placed it.” She looked left and right, and lowered her voice, leaning towards Pepper as she spoke. “I’d like to know how you did it.”
