A Crown of Lights

by Phil Rickman

  ‘... and if all future requests for information could be passed directly to our Deliverance Consultant. As the official spokesperson for the diocese on... matters of this kind.’

  Merrily felt a tremor of trepidation. And recalled the whizz and flicker, the crackle and tap-tap on the window of a room full of shadows.

  ‘But, Bernie, this job... deliverance—’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s supposed to be low-profile.’ He paused, to weight the punchline. ‘But you have, after all, been on television now, haven’t you?’

  Ah.

  ‘I won’t dress it up,’ Bernie said. ‘You’ll probably have problems as a result. Extremists on both sides. The pagans’ll have you down as a jackboot fascist, while Ellis is calling you a pinko hippy doing the tango with Satan. Still, it’ll be an experience for you.’

  She stripped off the plasters Sophie had bought from the pharmacy at Tesco on the way to Worcester last night – a fraught journey, from the moment she’d stumbled into the Saab’s headlight beams somewhere on the outskirts of the village.

  She then changed out of her clerical clothes and went up to the attic to check that Jane was OK.

  The kid was asleep in her double bed under the famous Mondrian walls of vermilion, Prussian blue and chrome yellow. Merrily found herself bending over her, like she hadn’t done for years, making sure she was breathing. Jane’s eyes fluttered open briefly and she murmured something unintelligible.

  Merrily quietly left the room. They’d assured her at the hospital that her daughter was absolutely fine but might sleep a lot.

  Downstairs, the phone was ringing. She grabbed the cordless.

  It was Gomer. He’d just been to the shop for tobacco for his roll-ups and learned about the motorway accident.

  ‘Her’s all right?’

  ‘Fine. Sleeping a lot, but that’s good.’

  ‘Bloody hell, vicar.’

  ‘One of those things.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Anythin’ I can do, see?’

  ‘I know. Thanks, Gomer.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t’ve gone to Menna’s funeral then? I never went to look for you. One funeral’s enough... enough for a long time.’

  ‘You were in Old Hindwell yesterday?’

  ‘Reckoned it might be a good time. Found out a few things you might wanner know, see. No rush, mind. You look after the kiddie.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Sure t’be,’ Gomer said.

  Good old Gomer.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Flower!’

  Jane was standing in the kitchen doorway in her towelling dressing gown. She looked surprisingly OK. You wouldn’t notice the bruise over her left eye unless you were looking for it.

  ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Not really. I just went to the loo and looked out the window, and I think you’ve got the filth.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s outside in his car, talking on his radio or his mobile. Overweight guy in a dark suit. I’ve seen him before. I think it’s that miserable-looking copper used to tag around after Annie Howe, the Belsen dentist. I’ll go for another lie-down now, but just thought I’d warn you.’

  Merrily let him in. ‘DC Mumford.’

  ‘DS Mumford, vicar. Amazingly enough.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘They have accelerated promotion for young graduates like DI Howe,’ Mumford said heavily. ‘For plods like me, it can still take twenty-odd years. How’s your little girl?’

  ‘You’re just a late starter,’ Merrily assured him. ‘You’ll whizz through the ranks now. Jane’s doing OK, thanks. But that’s not why you’re here?’

  Andy Mumford’s smile was strained as he stepped into the kitchen. Another two or three years and he’d be up for retirement. Merrily had coffee freshly made and poured him one. She’d left the door open for Jane, for once hoping she was listening – a strong indication of recovery.

  ‘You’ve been in contact with Mrs Barbara Buckingham,’ Mumford said. ‘We traced her movement back through the hospital. Sister Cullen says she referred her to you.’

  Merrily stiffened. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She’s been reported missing, Mrs Watkins.’

  ‘Barbara? By whom?’

  ‘Arranged to phone her daughter in Hampshire every night while she was here. But hasn’t rung for two nights. Does not appear to have attended her sister’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Checked with Hampshire before I came in. No word there. It’s an odd one, Mrs Watkins. Teenagers, nine times out of ten they’ll surface after a while. A woman Mrs Buckingham’s age, middle class, we start to worry.’ Mumford sipped his coffee. ‘You saw her last when?’

  ‘Tuesday evening, here. It was the only time. How much did Eileen Cullen tell you?’

  ‘She said Mrs Buckingham was very upset, not only over her sister’s premature death but the fact that she wouldn’t be getting buried in the churchyard like normal people. She said she thought you’d be the minister most likely to give the woman a sympathetic hearing.’

  ‘I’m just the only one Eileen knows.’

  Mumford smiled almost shyly. ‘To be honest, Mrs Watkins, I got the feeling there might have been another reason she put the lady on to you, apart from this objection to the burial. But that might just be promotion making me feel I ought to behave like a detective. Of course, if you don’t think that would throw any light on our inquiry...’

  ‘Well... there was another reason, relating to my other job. You can put this down to stress if you like but don’t go thinking she was nuts because I don’t think she was – is.’

  ‘Not my place, Reverend.’

  ‘She was having troublesome dreams – anxiety dreams probably – about her sister. Barbara left home in Radnorshire when Menna was just a baby, and they’d hardly seen each other since. Anybody would feel... regrets in that situation. She’s a Christian, she was headmistress at a Church school. Eileen thought she might appreciate some spiritual, er, counselling.’

  ‘She explain why she was alone? Why her husband wasn’t with her?’

  ‘She said he was away – in France, I think. He deals in antiques.’

  ‘Didn’t say anything about him leaving her, then?’

  ‘Oh God, really?’

  ‘For France, read Winchester.’ Mumford pulled out his pocketbook. ‘Richard Buckingham moved out two months ago.’

  ‘Another woman?’

  ‘That’s the information we have from the daughter. So, were you able to ease Mrs Buckingham’s mind? I mean, if I was to ask you if you thought there was any possibility of her taking her own life...?’

  ‘Oh no. She was too angry.’

  ‘Angry.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d say so.’

  ‘At anybody in particular?’

  ‘At J.W. Weal, I suppose. Know him?’

  ‘Paths have crossed in court once or twice. He used to do quite a bit of legal aid work, maybe still does. I don’t get out that way much these days.’

  ‘Really?’ She’d made a joke out of it to Sophie, but she couldn’t imagine Weal defending small-time shoplifters and car thieves and dope smokers; that would mean he’d have to talk to them. ‘I had him down as a wills and conveyancing man.’

  ‘Place like that, a lawyer has to grab what he can get,’ said Mumford. ‘Mrs Buckingham didn’t care for her brother-in-law, I take it.’

  ‘Not a lot. You have a situation where Menna spends her young life looking after her widowed father and then gets married to a much older bloke, in the same area. No life at all, in Barbara’s view. And then can’t even get away when she dies.’

  ‘You don’t like him either then, Mrs Watkins?’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  Mumford considered. ‘You’d wonder, does anybody? So, when you spoke to her, did Mrs Buckingham give you any idea what she was going to do next?’

  ‘She wanted me to go to the funeral with her. I went along, but
she apparently didn’t.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘We were supposed to meet.’

  ‘Seems an unusual arrangement, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I thought she needed somebody.’

  ‘You didn’t know Mrs Weal, then?’

  ‘Well, I was actually at the county hospital, with a friend, just after she died. But, no, I didn’t actually know her. I don’t really know why I said I’d go along. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. Maybe...’ Why did coppers always make you feel unaccountably guilty? ‘Maybe I thought Barbara might do something stupid if I wasn’t there, which I might have been able to prevent. It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Stupid how?’

  ‘Maybe cause some kind of scene. Start hurling accusations at J.W. Weal, or something, at the funeral.’

  ‘But you didn’t find her there?’

  ‘To be honest, it was a difficult day. I had Jane to pick up from hospital in Worcester. If I’d known Barbara had been reported missing, I’d have... tried harder.’

  She returned from seeing Mumford out to find Jane at the kitchen table. The kid was dressed in jeans and her white fluffy sweater. She looked about ten. Until, of course, she spoke.

  ‘He thinks she’s dead.’

  ‘Police always think that, flower.’

  ‘I think you think she’s dead, too.’

  ‘I don’t think that, but I do feel guilty.’

  ‘You always feel guilty,’ Jane said.

  24

  Against the World

  OLD HINDWELL POST office was a brick-built nineteenth-century building a little way down from the pub, on the opposite side of the street. Betty was there by eight-fifteen on this dry but bitter Monday morning. The newsagent side of the business opened at eight. There were no other customers inside.

  ‘Daily Mail, please.’

  The postmistress, Mrs Eleri Cobbold, glanced quickly at Betty and went stiff.

  ‘None left, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve only been open fifteen minutes.’ Betty eyed her steadily. It was the first time she’d been in here. She saw a thin-faced woman of about sixty. She saw a woman who had already read today’s Daily Mail.

  ‘Only got ordered copies, isn’t it?’ Mrs Cobbold swallowed. ‘Besides two extras. Which we’ve sold.’

  Betty was not giving up. She glanced at the public photocopier at the other end of the shop. ‘In that case, could I perhaps borrow one of the ordered papers and make a copy of one particular page?’

  Mrs Cobbold blinked nervously. ‘Well, I don’t...’

  Betty sought her eyes, but Mrs Cobbold kept looking away as though her narrow, God-fearing soul was in danger. She glanced towards the door and seemed very relieved when it was opened by a slim, tweed-suited man with a neat beard.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Doctor.’

  ‘A sharp day, Eleri.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’ Mrs Cobbold bent quickly below the counter and produced a Daily Mail. She didn’t look at Betty. ‘You had better take mine. Thirty-five pence, please.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Cobbold whispered.

  This was ridiculous.

  ‘Thank you.’ Betty also bought a bottle of milk and a pot of local honey. She took her purse from her shoulder bag. She didn’t smile. ‘And if I could have a carton of bat’s blood as well, please.’

  This, and the presence in the shop of the doctor, seemed to release something.

  ‘Take your paper and don’t come in here again, please,’ Mrs Cobbold said shrilly.

  The doctor raised a ginger eyebrow.

  Betty started to shake her head. ‘I really can’t believe this.’

  ‘And’ – Mrs Cobbold looked at her at last – ‘you can tell that husband of yours that if he wants to conduct affairs with married women, we don’t want to have to watch it on the street at night. You tell him that.’

  Betty’s mouth fell open as Mrs Cobbold stared defiantly at her. The doctor smiled and held open the door for her.

  Robin paced the freaking kitchen.

  She wouldn’t let him fetch the paper. She didn’t trust him not to overreact if there were any comments... to behave, in fact, like a man who’d been cold-shouldered by his wife, told his artwork was a piece of shit and then stitched up by the media.

  She’d been awesomely and unapproachably silent most of yesterday, like she was half out of the world, sealing herself off from the awful implications of the whole nation – worse still, the whole village – knowing where they were coming from. Implications? Like what implications? A lynch mob? The stake? Their house torched? Was this the twenty-first century or, like, 1650?

  Later in the day he’d actually found her sunk into a book on the seventeenth-century witch-hunts. The chapter was headed ‘Suckling Demons’; it was about women accused of having sex with the Devil. But she wouldn’t talk about it. He just wanted to snatch away the book and feed it to the stove.

  She’d hardly moved from the kitchen for the rest of the morning, drinking strong herbal tea and smoking – Robin counted – eleven cigarettes. And still he hadn’t told her the truly awful news, about Blackmore, because things were bad enough. He’d just spent the entire day trying to persuade her just to talk to him, which was like trying to lure a wounded vixen from her lair.

  Was she blaming him for the truth leaking out – like he’d been down the pub handing out invitations to their next sabbat. And the journalists... well, how was he supposed to have handled them? Invite the bastards in to watch them perform the Great Rite on the hearthrug?

  Some chance.

  If he’d had the brains he was born with, she’d told him, her voice now inflected with hard Yorkshire – this was while they were still speaking – he’d’ve kept very quiet, not answered the door. There was no car there, so they could quite easily have been away from home.

  What? This had made him actually start pulling at his hair. Like, how the fuck was he supposed to know it was the god-damned media at the door? Might have been insurance salesmen, the Jehovah’s freaking Witnesses. How could he have known?

  No reply. No reply either when he’d twice called George Webster and Vivvie, up in Manchester, to see if they knew anything about this damn TV show. He’d left two messages on their answering machine.

  And then yesterday, after a lunch of tomato soup and stale rolls, Betty had said she needed time to think and went outside to walk alone, leaving Robin eking out the very last of the sodden pine wood. Maybe she went to the church to try and communicate with the Reverend freaking Penney. Robin wasn’t interested any more. When she came back, she started moving furniture around and drinking yet more herbal tea.

  Maybe there was something on her mind he didn’t know about. Dare he ask? What was the damn use?

  It was like she was waiting for something even worse to happen.

  This was all down to Ellis. No question there. It was Ellis sicked the press on them.

  Goddamn Christian bastard.

  She came in from the post office and laid a newspaper on the kitchen table. She didn’t even look at Robin. ‘I’m going to change,’ she said and went out. He heard her going upstairs.

  The room felt cold. The colours had faded.

  This was bad, wasn’t it? It was going to be worse than he could have imagined, although he accepted that he maybe hadn’t endeared himself to the Mail hacks by going for their camera like that.

  He looked at the paper. At least it wasn’t on the front. Nervously, he turned over the first page.

  Holy shit...

  Just the whole of page three, was all.

  Down the right-hand side was a long picture of St Michael’s Church, in silhouette against a sunset sky, the tower starkly framed by winter trees. It was a good picture, black and white. The headline above it, however, was just crazy: ‘Witches possess parish church. “Nightmare evil in our midst,” warns rector’.

  ‘Evil?’ Robin shouted. ‘They really
listened to that crazy motherfucker?’

  But it was the big picture, in colour, that made him cringe the most.

  It was a grainy close-up of a snarling man, eyes burning under long, shaggy black hair. On his sweat-shiny cheeks were streaks of paint, diluted – if you wanted the truth – by bitter tears, but who was ever gonna think that? This was blue paint. It had obviously come off the cloth he’d used to wipe his eyes. In the picture, it looked like freaking woad. The guy looked like he would cut out your heart before raping your wife and slaughtering your children. Aligned with the picture, the story read:

  This is the face of the new ‘priest’ at an ancient village church.

  Robin Thorogood is a professional artist. He and his wife, Betty, are also practising witches. Now the couple have become the owners of a medieval parish church – while the local rector has to hold his services in the village hall.

  ‘This is my worst nightmare come true,’ says the Rev. Nicholas Ellis. ‘It is the manifestation of a truly insidious evil in our midst.’

  Now the acting Bishop of Hereford, the Rt Rev. Bernard Dunmore, is to look into the bizarre situation. ‘It concerns me very deeply,’ he said last night.

  It is more than thirty years since the church, at Old Hindwell, Powys, was decommissioned by the Church of England. For most of that time, it stood undisturbed on the land of farming brothers John and Ifan Prosser. When the last brother, John, died two years ago it passed out of the family and was bought by the Thorogoods just before Christmas.

  Robin Thorogood, who is American-born, says he and his wife represent ‘the fastest-growing religion in the country’.

  He claims that many of Britain’s old churches were built on former pagan ritual sites – one of which, he says, he and his wife have now repossessed.

  However, when invited to explain their plans for the church, Mr Thorogood became abusive and attacked Daily Mail photographer Stuart Joyce, screaming, ‘I’ll turn you into a f—ing toad.’

  Now villagers say they are terrified that the couple will desecrate the ruined church by conducting pagan rites there. They say they have already seen strange lights in the ruins late at night.

  The Thorogoods’ nearest neighbour, local councillor Gareth Prosser, a farmer and nephew of the former owners, said, ‘This has always been a God-fearing community and we will not tolerate this kind of sacrilege.