by V M Knox
Aidan opened the bag of provisions and put the items in various cupboards. They sat in the kitchen drinking tea and eating cake. It was warm and he felt the soporific effect of heat for not only was the sitting room fire ablaze, a charcoal brazier burned in the kitchen.
Half an hour later, he could feel his feet tingling from the warmth in the room as it flowed into his numb toes. The cold uninviting day seemed remote from him now.
‘Are you too warm, Clement?’
‘Not at all! It’s wonderful, thank you, Aidan. I am most grateful for it. It was cold out of doors.’
Aidan nodded in the direction of the heater in the corner. ‘I installed it to keep my girls warm.’
Clement’s bewilderment must have shown.
‘The brazier. I ducted it through to the poultry shed. I keep the birds alive and they keep me and the lassies in eggs.’
‘An excellent arrangement in view of egg rationing.’
Clement enjoyed the cake. The old ladies made a good Victoria sponge. He wanted to say that it was not as good as Mary’s, but he didn’t. He looked out the window at the wintry scene. Grey skies had blotted out any blue and the north-westerly wind promised a bitter afternoon. In a treeless place, it is difficult to see the evidence of wind, but he didn’t believe it would be long before they heard it.
‘It’s almost one. What about some lunch, Clement? I wouldn’t mind a nap this afternoon.’ Aidan took a parcel containing six sausages from the meat safe. ‘We can have the sausages now and the eggs for supper or the other way around. Your decision. What do you say?’
‘I would probably go for the eggs, thank you, Aidan.’
‘Then that is what it shall be.’
Aidan took a shallow pan from a cupboard and cracked the eggs into the skillet.
Clement breathed in the aroma. Bacon would have been nice. But bacon had been one of the first foods to be rationed and he hadn’t tasted the wonderful smoked meat since the war came to Britain’s skies.
‘I thought we could eat in front of the fire. There is a drop-side table in the corner of the sitting room. Could I ask you to set it up for us? Two old clerics together.’
Clement smiled and returned to the sitting room, as Aidan brought in the two plates.
‘Would you like to say grace, Clement?’
‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’ He lifted his knife and fork just as the doorbell rang. Experience had taught Clement that doorbells only ring at meal times when something bad has happened.
The clock in the rear hall chimed one. Aidan sighed, stood up and went to the front door.
Within seconds he’d returned with a muscular but pale-faced man. ‘Clement, this is Ian McAllister. Ian this is Reverend Wisdom.’
‘I know. My wife Joyce told me about you.’
Clement held out his hand in greeting to the man who delivered coal to the district twice a week. Physically strong with broad shoulders, Clement assessed McAllister to be in his mid-forties and accustomed to heavy manual work. Ian McAllister’s hands remained deep in his pockets. ‘Sorry, coal dust.’
‘Please don’t apologise for honest work, Mr McAllister,’ Clement added.
‘Aidan, you have to come back with me. Something terrible has happened.’
‘What is it, Ian?’
McAllister’s anxiety was palpable. ‘It’s Donald. He’s dead.’
Chapter 7
Clement felt his pulse quicken. He swallowed hard, his thoughts racing.
‘Where is he?’ Aidan asked.
‘In the barn. Mind if I sit down a minute, Aidan? I’m not feeling the best.’
‘Of course, Ian. I’ll pour you some whisky.’ Aidan walked towards a cabinet in the corner of the room and emptied the remaining contents of a bottle into a glass.
‘Was Mr Crawford ill?’ Clement asked.
McAllister perched on the edge of the velvet chair, his face ashen and his large, coal-blackened hands shaking. Reaching for the glass, McAllister threw back the contents in one gulp.
‘What happened, Ian?’ Aidan asked.
‘Billy found him.’
‘That would be Billy Wallace, Clement,’ Aidan added.
Clement nodded remembering the sullen boy in Sarah’s shop.
McAllister placed the whisky glass on a nearby table, the base of the glass hitting the surface twice. ‘Aye. Skulking around, as usual, in places he shouldn’t be. I always said that boy would come to no good.’
‘You think the boy was involved in some way?’ Clement put in.
‘Who knows!’ McAllister fixed his stare on Clement. ‘Billy hasn’t opened his mouth since. Shock, I suppose.’
Clement pressed the man. ‘Have you seen the deceased, Mr McAllister?’ Ordinarily, Clement would not have interfered and while he knew Donald Crawford’s death was none of his business, McAllister’s reaction worried him.
McAllister squeezed his eyes tight. ‘Aye. It’s a dreadful sight. There’s blood everywhere. Donald must have had too much to drink. He shouldn’t have been in the loft. He must have lost his balance and fallen backwards, into the window. Billy’s as white as a ghost. Vomited at the sight of it. I don’t know how the lad got in because Donald always kept that door locked. Either the old fool, for once, forgot to lock it behind him or the boy climbed up the stonework and got in through the hay loft door.’ McAllister paused. ‘Come to think of it, he probably does it regularly.’ McAllister glanced up at Aidan then at the empty glass on the table. ‘Anyway, whatever happened, he saw a dreadful thing and once he’d recovered himself, he ran home to tell his mother. Kathleen, of course, went to investigate the lad’s story then she went looking for Sarah. But Sarah was out and Joyce was minding the shop. I had only just got back from my rounds but we knew from Kathleen’s expression that something bad had happened. The woman was almost incoherent. So I told her to stay with Joyce and I went to the barn.’
‘When was this?’ Clement asked.
McAllister checked his watch. ‘About forty minutes ago.’
‘When did Billy find him, do you know?’ Clement urged.
‘It’s only a guess but I’d say late morning. By the time I checked the barn and found Donald, Sarah had returned.’
‘Where is Mrs Crawford now?’ Clement asked.
‘She’s at home. Kathleen Wallace is with her and my Joyce. Although I’m not sure if Kathleen is of much use to Sarah. The woman hardly spoke before. She’s as silent as the grave now.’
‘How is Joyce coping?’ Aidan asked.
‘My girl will have them all under control. It’s what she’s good at.’
‘Aidan, I know I am an outsider, but at times like these, people sometimes feel more comfortable with a stranger. With your approval I’d like to come along?’
‘Of course, Clement. Have you had any experience with this sort of thing?’
‘I have seen my fill of horrific injuries. I was in the last war in France.’ Clement wondered how long it would take for that piece of information to be learned by the people of Canisbay.
‘We’ll come now, Ian,’ Aidan said. ‘Are you alright to drive?’
McAllister nodded.
Leaving by the front door, McAllister drove them back to Huna.
Sarah was sitting by the fireplace in her sitting room, staring into the low flames, her fingers idly tugging on a loose button on her coat. Beside her was the woman he had seen in the shop previously, Joyce McAllister. She was pouring tea. She exuded competence and although she didn’t look at all like his Mary, there was the same practical efficiency that others are drawn to in times of trouble.
On Sarah’s other side was Kathleen Wallace, whose face showed the shock of seeing macabre death. He remembered McAllister’s words about Kathleen Wallace’s lack of usefulness. Whilst Clement had thought the judgement unkind at the time, he could see the paralysed reality on the face of a timid woman. The child, Mary, was on the fl
oor playing with a basket of pegs while Billy was sitting beside his sister, his young face vacant in fright.
Sarah looked up as they entered. Clement had expected to see a sorrowful widow and although he saw her agitation, he didn’t see tears.
‘You alright, Billy?’ The boy looked up as Aidan patted the top of his head.
‘Yes,’ Billy whispered, then burst into tears.
Sarah stood suddenly. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Everyone looked at her, but Clement, who knew she had meant more than the people present understood, spoke first. ‘Perhaps, if I may offer a suggestion. Have you called the police?’
All eyes turned to him, but it was Aidan who spoke. ‘Why would we do that, Clement? The man has had a terrible accident, that’s all.’
‘Well, at least a doctor.’
‘It’s too late for that!’ McAllister said, sitting on the chair with the frayed, padded arms.
Clement glanced around the faces. He was the stranger in their midst and he felt their growing indignation, but it was what he saw that troubled him. While there was a rapport of sorts between them, he didn’t see the bonds of real affection he would have expected from such a small community. Had it been any other place, he would have left them with their pastor to grieve together. But with his mission now complicated, he needed to know as much as possible about Crawford’s death and the people directly involved. He glanced at Sarah. At least she understood why he was there and he hoped the others would take their cue from the widow.
‘Mrs Crawford, have you been to the barn?’ Clement asked.
‘No.’
‘We need to remove Donald,’ Aidan said. ‘From what Ian tells us, it wouldn’t be right leaving him there.’
Clement looked at Aidan. ‘It would be best to check the barn first. Just to make sure it was an accident.’
A palpable silence gripped the room. The simmering indignation was rapidly turning to resentment. Perhaps even hostility. Clement knew what he’d said sounded accusatory, but he had to know if Crawford’s death had been accidental, or something else entirely. He needed to see the barn.
Aidan held his gaze. ‘What are you implying, Clement?’
‘Nothing at all. But it should be done as a matter of routine.’
‘You encountered this in France, too?’
Clement heard the jibe. He knew he had offended these people. It was not his intent. In fact, it went against everything he, as a vicar, believed was the correct thing to do. He glanced at Sarah; the burden of secrecy almost intolerable. ‘Not in France, no, but I have, sadly, had to deal with the body of a murdered man.’
‘You cannot be serious! Who would kill Donald? Donald wouldn’t have hurt a fly!’ Joyce exclaimed.
Despite the protestations, from what Clement had been told in the few short hours he had been in Huna, he calculated at least three who would benefit from Donald Crawford’s death. Sean, the bus driver, wouldn’t be unhappy about the man’s demise. Sarah, herself, could also be implicated, individually if not in conjunction with Sean, and McAllister, if Sarah’s comment about a long-established feud was accurate, would finally have the use of the barn.
The room remained uncomfortably quiet.
Sarah stood. ‘He’s right!’
‘I expect you have your barn now, Ian McAllister!’
The voice was that of Kathleen Wallace. Clement glanced around the room. The outburst appeared to surprise everyone. The little woman stood staring at her neighbours before tears fell in rivers down the pale cheeks and she sat down again as though defeated. He watched those around him wondering if it was the first time this woman had ever said anything contentious. He also saw something else in the frail woman. As a minister, he had seen it too many times not to recognise the concealed scars of abuse, the suppressed anger that found release in emotional outbursts of an unpredictable nature. He noted that Kathleen Wallace was here with her neighbours, not her husband. Was it only then she felt brave enough to express an opinion? Small communities. He thought back to East Sussex. In his former village, people lived close by; disputes and sorrows were shared, especially so in times of trouble, like the death of one of their number. Kindness was expressed in practical and compassionate ways. He saw little evidence of that for Sarah Crawford.
‘How dare you imply my Ian would do such a thing,’ Joyce snapped.
‘Now settle it down, the both of you,’ Aidan interjected. ‘You are not helping Sarah with your accusations. Clement, would you mind stepping outside into the yard for a moment?’
Despite feeling like a reprimanded school boy, Clement didn’t believe he had said anything untoward. Calling the police would, surely, be routine, even if only to remove the body, but his presence and his advice appeared to have stirred up long held resentments. Remembering Sarah’s comments about generational feuds, he followed Aidan into the yard.
‘How could you, Clement? You haven’t been in the area for more than a day and now you’re saying that Donald was murdered!’
‘Not quite what I said, Aidan. If Mr Crawford’s death is as horrific as others have indicated, then someone should record the details for the Coroner, if not for the police, before the body is touched and before too much time elapses. As I am the stranger here, I am suggesting it should be me.’
Behind them, Clement heard the kitchen door open.
‘I agree.’ Sarah walked towards them. She was wearing her long coat and knee-high boots. ‘But I want to see him first.’
‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’ Aidan said, his blue-green eyes squarely on Clement. ‘It is not a good idea, Sarah. If even half of what Ian said is true, the sight will be shocking for you.’
‘I know. But I must see him. He was my husband for twenty years. It’s my job.’
She didn’t wait for a reply. Walking towards the gate, she opened it and strode out of the yard.
Clement glanced at Aidan. ‘She seems determined. While we are out of the house, you should call the police.’
‘If you think it is absolutely necessary.’
‘I do.’
Clement waited until he heard the kitchen door close before running through the gate. Sarah was already twenty yards ahead of him, her coat flapping in the wind. Hurrying, he caught up to her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Crawford. Your actions have made it easier for me to see the barn. Are you alright?’
‘I just want to see him.’
‘I understand, but you have seen Mrs Wallace’s reaction. As Aidan said, if what Mr McAllister said is true, it will be something you’ll find impossible to eradicate from your memory for many years, if ever.’
Sarah stopped and turned to face him. ‘I have to know. Besides, I also have to know about the wireless. And so do you.’
Clement stared at Sarah Crawford’s face; at the clenched jaw. He believed she was endeavouring to be stoic by focusing on the practical and he admired her for it. Yet he also knew she would be unprepared for what lay ahead. No one sane can ever be prepared for the sight of macabre death. He saw the pockets in her coat elongate from the force of her clenched fists and he realised it was her way of summoning courage.
They strode westward in silence, towards the barn, the cold quickening their pace. There was no further conversation, but he hoped that she was pleased to have someone with her. Despite their professional relationship, which he knew was tenuous at best, he knew from his time as Chaplain at St Thomas’s Hospital that strangers can, in times of great distress, be less judgemental than a friend or relative and he hoped she would understand that his volunteering to go to the barn with her was not solely professional.
The wind blew into his face making his eyes water and his nose drip. As he reached for his handkerchief, he glanced at the woman beside him; Sarah didn’t appear to notice the biting wind. Despite the determination of her stride, he wondered if her pace had more to do with ameliorating guilt than desire to see her deceased husband, if, in fa
ct, Donald’s death had even the remotest connection to her covert activities.
Ten minutes later, they stood in front of the barn. It was a large, well-maintained, double-storied, stone building with a high-pitched roof and an added single-story annexe on the eastern side. He had passed it last evening while walking to the manse, but then he had paid it scant attention. Above the double-entry doors was a small, closed hayloft door, and while a short beam still extended out over the front of the building, the davit no longer existed. Glancing up, he studied the small opening. It had the appearance of something that hadn’t been used in some time.
Ian McAllister’s words about the boy, Billy, gaining entry to the barn echoed in his memory. Perhaps with the removal of the davit, no one had checked the door recently. It was certainly not large enough for an adult to gain ready access into the building, but a nimble boy could squeeze through easily enough. Clement scrutinised the building. Other than the main entry, there was no other access into the barn from the road.
Clement reached for the barn door handle. ‘Are you ready?’
Sarah took a deep breath, her hands deep in her pockets. Clement pushed the door wide and they stepped inside.
He heard her gasp.
Clement closed his eyes.
A cold wind blew over them from the shattered window opposite.
Donald Crawford’s body hung, framed by the window’s sill and wooden lintels. He had fallen backwards against the glass, smashing the pane, but his body had not gone through it. Gravity had impaled Crawford on a long pointed fragment of glass some two to three feet in length, piercing the man’s torso and protruding grotesquely upwards. His back was arched, his head extended backwards, the mouth wide. Blood had congealed at the corners of his mouth where it had flowed over his chin and onto the window sill below. The deceased’s arms were splayed wide, his blood and entrails smeared over the deadly glass dagger.
‘Dear Lord!’ Clement whispered.
Sarah dropped onto a hay bale by the door, her head forward. She clutched at her stomach, then a second later bent over the side of the bale and vomited into the straw. Several minutes passed before she spoke. ‘What could he have wanted so badly that he couldn’t have waited for me to return?’
