by V M Knox
Clement leaned into the head wind, his mind on Nora’s other revelations. Doctor MacGregor he dismissed from his list of suspects. Then there was the revelation that Stratton was the licensee of The Bell. Clement did not know for certain if it was illegal for a policeman to own a public house. And Jean Buchanan’s identity couldn’t be confirmed. Jean had said she was not on friendly terms with Stratton. Perhaps they quarrelled about the running of The Bell? But one thing was certain; questioning Sean about Jean was not going to be easy.
And lastly there was Aidan, but being born in Denmark did not make the man his enemy. The Danes were their allies and had been cruelly treated by the Nazis. In any case, Nora had told him that Aidan had been educated in Britain and had not returned to Denmark.
Clement saw the graveyard wall beside him. He hadn’t seen or heard anything since leaving Crawford’s. Within minutes, he lifted the latch on the kirk’s door and went straight to the belfry door.
‘Sean?’
‘Here.’ Sean stepped from shadows. ‘What’s happening?’
‘How well do you know Robert Wallace?’
The hard metallic sound came out of the night like a pistol shot. Clement turned at the sound. It was the heavy metal latch on the kirk’s main door. Flicking on his torch under his coat he checked his watch. Just before half past nine.
Withdrawing his pistol, and with Sean behind him grasping the knife, they descended the stairs. Rotating the door knob, he opened the door a crack. Sarah Crawford stood in the body of the church holding a lit kerosene lamp. In its glow he could see her face. She was wearing the red tam o’shanter. He felt the corners of his mouth draw together in disapproval. Beside her was Tom Harris. An icy wind blew across the nave and flickered the lamp’s flame. In an instant Sarah extinguished the lamp, plunging the kirk once more into darkness. Clement heard the scuffling of feet on stone flagging. Then the main door opened. A second later, a single shot blasted in the silent church, the sound reverberating off the stone walls in the cold air. He heard a shriek. The main door banged shut.
Holding his breath, Clement waited, his ears straining. He had reacted to everything so far by instinct and he believed his enemy could be manipulating him again. He wanted to know Sarah and Tom’s location and if they were unhurt.
‘What now?’ Sean’s voice whispered.
Clement held his hand up and mouthed the word, ‘Wait!’ He had made the mistake before of thinking that a closed door meant the gunman had left. His adversary could just as easily be on the other side of the door, or in the kirk. Clement held the Welrod in front of his face as he dropped to his knees and pushed the door wide. A second later, he slithered into the nave on his belly. Out of the darkness another shot rang out, the deafening noise ricocheting around the kirk’s stone walls. He heard the groan. Somebody fell.
Clement lunged forward and lay flat on the floor, his eyes on the base of the front door that was visible from under the pews. The main door opened again. In that instant, Clement saw boots running through the door.
‘Tom?’
It was Sarah’s frightened whisper.
Clement waited. If the gunman was still in the kirk another shot would surely follow.
‘I’m here.’
Tom’s reply.
‘Then who fell?’
‘Sarah, light your lamp, hurry.’
Tom again.
Standing, Clement ran for the belfry door. On the stairs to the bell tower Sean Mead lay on his back in a pool of blood.
Clement turned to see Tom and Sarah standing beside him. Sarah was shaking, her eyes wide in alarm. Tom Harris, ashen-faced was staring at Clement.
‘You killed him?’ Sarah said.
‘No. My pistol has not been discharged. Did you see who left the kirk just now?’
Both Tom and Sarah shook their heads, but both were staring at Sean’s prostrate body.
‘Tom, help Sarah to your boat and wait there.’ Clement ran towards the front door.
‘What about…?’ Sarah paused, staring at Tom. ‘We can’t leave without…?’
‘Are you waiting for Ian McAllister?’ Clement demanded.
Neither spoke.
‘Answer me! All our lives now depend on it.’
Sarah nodded.
‘Could that have been Ian McAllister who just left?’
Clement could see their astonishment. The fact was that none of them knew who had fired the shot and, if it wasn’t McAllister, then Clement had only a few seconds before the killer disappeared into the darkness.
Running into the kirk’s front yard Clement stopped, pressing himself against the cold kirk wall and listened. He stared into the night, his ears straining for any sound. But the gunman had gone, engulfed in the night. On the wind Clement caught the sound of running footsteps on the gravel path leading from the graveyard. Holding his pistol, he hid behind a headstone and waited. A man was running towards the kirk door without any attempt to disguise his footsteps.
Clement was behind him in seconds.
McAllister rushed into the kirk. ‘Sarah?’
‘Here!’
In the glow of the kerosene lamp, Clement saw three people huddled around the body of Sean Mead.
‘I heard the shot from along the road,’ McAllister was saying.
Tom told him what had happened.
‘So how much does this vicar know?’
‘Enough,’ Clement called from the door.
The three turned to face him. ‘While I find your illegal activities reprehensible, it is not why I am here.’
‘You killed him?’ McAllister demanded.
‘No. Sean was working with me, not against me. And for your information, I did not kill either Donald Crawford or Malcolm McCrea. As Sarah knows, I could not have killed young McCrea, or her husband, as I was with her on both occasions. Besides, contrary to public opinion, I am a vicar and do not randomly kill innocent civilians.’
‘Is this true, Sarah?’ McAllister asked.
‘Yes.’
Clement waited to see if anyone mentioned the Frews, but their names were not voiced.
‘Did you see anyone outside just now?’ Clement asked McAllister.
‘No. I heard the shot and came running.’
Lowering his pistol, Clement walked towards Sean and crouched beside the Irishman’s body. Sean had been shot through the chest and would have died instantly. Another death. The burden of it weighed heavily, especially as Clement knew for whom the bullet had been intended. He placed his hand over the Irishman’s eyes closing them, his left hand reaching for the knife that lay on the step beside Sean’s body. Slipping the weapon into its scabbard, Clement stood.
Clement looked into their alarmed faces. ‘We need to talk.’
‘I told you, at The Bell, that it was you the killer wanted, Vicar. But how did the gunman know you were here?’
‘That is a very good question, Tom.’ The truth was that no one knew Clement was hiding in the belfry except Sean. Had the Irishman been seen or followed after secreting the bus?
‘What do we do with him?’ McAllister asked.
Clement needed to think. He remembered the chickens. ‘Why did you take the dead chickens?’
McAllister’s startled expression told Clement that the theft had not been shared with anyone other than the man’s wife.
Sarah and Tom turned to face McAllister, their faces confirming Clement’s suspicions.
The big man hung his head. ‘Temptation. They were already dead and it would have been wasteful not to cook them. Besides, how many chickens can Aidan eat?’
‘Sarah, do you always do the deliveries around ten o’clock?’ Clement asked, ignoring McAllister’s attempts at justification.
‘Yes.’
‘And everyone knows this?’
‘Of course.’
Clement looked at Sarah. The woman’s routine was so predictable. Too predictable and too well-known. ‘On the f
ew occasions you were out on deliveries and Donald was in the barn, who minded the shop?’
‘Joyce.’
With Joyce minding the shop, it left the garage unattended for however long Joyce McAllister was in Crawford’s shop. And as anyone behind the counter was visible from the street, one didn’t even need to enter the shop to know when the garage was unattended.
Clement sat on the pew, Sean’s lifeless body in his peripheral vision. He felt sick with remorse for Sean, but the awful truth persisted. Despite five deaths, he still could not identify his adversary. Clement leaned forward, his face resting in his hands and rubbed at his aching eyes. Mental as well as physical exhaustion was gripping his body. He had to think. It was up to him. It always had been, but a little help wouldn’t go astray, he thought, hoping the Lord was listening.
‘Perhaps you should get some sleep, Vicar. There’s a bunk for you on my boat, but we will have to get moving soon. There are things to load before we can leave Gills Bay.’
Clement looked up at Tom, aghast. How could the man talk of sleep, much less what the trio were doing? Did Sean’s death mean so little to them? But it was a question for another time. A killer waited somewhere in the shadows and there would be no rest for Clement until either the man was caught, or one or both were dead. He took in a long breath. As tempting as the comfort of Tom’s boat was, just being there now made him an accessory to their activities. Clement shook his head. ‘It is best you do not know where I am. But I must say this; as long as this trip is your last, your secret is safe with me. I must have your word on this. In return, I would ask you to keep my secret. Do not tell anyone that you have seen me.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And Sean?’ McAllister asked again.
Clement looked at the lifeless man who had so readily agreed to help him and who had asked nothing in return. He would never have the opportunity now to thank Sean nor to ask his questions about Robert Wallace or Nora Ballantyne’s other revelations. Clement walked over and knelt beside Sean. Gently he placed his forefinger on the man’s forehead and made the sign of the Cross. ‘Can you take him with you, Tom? Bury him at sea. Somehow I feel Sean would approve. He always felt like an outsider here. ‘“In the midst of life we are in death”,’ Clement began. ‘“He that believeth in the Lord, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” May your spirit be with God in Heaven, Sean. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.’
‘Amen.’ Clement heard the others say.
He watched them leave the kirk, Sean’s body lifted over McAllister’s strong shoulders. Clement knelt in prayer. He felt bone-weary but above all, he felt responsible. Looking up at the cross, he prayed aloud. ‘Dear Lord, I need your help now more than I can say, for I fear I will not be able to catch this evil man before it is too late.’
He sat back on the pew, his eyes aimlessly staring at the wall opposite. How had the killer learned of his presence in the kirk? Clement let out a long sigh; there was only one answer. Sean must have left the kirk during the time Clement had gone to speak to Nora. Or, he had been followed.
Clement looked up at the high pulpit that towered above him. He prayed again for help, for clarity of mind. Where had the killer gone? He guessed his enemy had heard, and possibly even seen, McAllister running towards the kirk. Waiting. Watching. If his enemy had remained in the graveyard and not disappeared into the night, then the man would have seen not only McAllister but also himself re-enter the kirk.
Clement sat forward. What if the killer was still outside? He would had seen McAllister leave with a corpse over his shoulder. Clement stared at the white washed wall in front of him. Would the murderer follow the group to learn the identity of the deceased? Clement sat up, a shudder coursing through his body. Clement felt his pulse race. If the killer was watching, he may check the kirk before going to Gills Bay jetty. Clement’s eyes searched for another way out. His ears strained, listening for any sound, especially the sound of the front door latch.
Behind him was the door to the vestry. Running up the short aisle, Clement opened the door. Inside was dark, the smell of recently burned coal lingered in the room. Off to the right was a small door that he guessed led outside. Turning the knob, he found it locked. In the darkness, he fumbled for his lock-picks, his heart pounding. Pulling the glove from his hand, he inserted the instruments and rotated the barrel. The old-fashioned lock was easy and it opened within seconds. Clement paused. If his enemy waited outside, Clement would not survive this time. Keeping his eyes on the door, Clement sank to the floor and reaching up, turned the knob. The wind pushed the door wide but no one entered. He waited. Nothing. Lying on his stomach Clement inched forward over the doorstep, the cold hard stone beneath his belly being replaced by damp grass. The wind groaned around the building, the cliffs and the open sea just yards off his right shoulder. The howling wind and crashing seas made it impossible to hear if anyone crept in the shadows. He stood. Staying close to the kirk wall, he edged his way around the western end of the bell tower. Waiting only a few seconds, and with his pistol in his grip, he ran the short distance around the kirk to the roadway.
Clement ran through the gate onto the road, his feet pounding the hard surface. Darkness would have to be his cover now, but if the killer was waiting, he had moments to live. Breathing hard, Clement ran west along the road as fast as he could, his head down, his feet beating out the frenzied rhythm. For some unknown reason he began to count as though with every second life became more certain. By the time he reached one hundred, the kirk was well behind him and he was heading west towards the junction with the track down to Gills Bay.
Still alive, he thought. At five hundred he stopped beside the road, his chest heaving and his breathing exaggerated. Adrenaline had kept him going and he hadn’t finished yet. He turned around a full circle, his mouth gulping air, his eyes wide and scanning everything. He wasn’t sure how far he had come and in the darkness he had no way of knowing. But no one had fired and only his own desperate breathing filled his ears. Then, between his own gasps for air, he heard it.
It came to him on the wind. Swallowing hard, Clement held his breath and listened. A muffled sound. He searched his memory for any shelter in the immediate area, but he knew there was none. The sound was louder now. Falling to the ground, Clement stared up into the night air, trying to focus on the source and nature of the noise. His pulse pounded in his ears and his chest felt as though it may explode from the freezing air, but the noise of an engine was irrefutable. Logic told Clement that he was about a mile from the kirk. He had to be near the track down to Gills Bay. He paused, and closing his eyes listened again for the sound. It had to be Tom’s boat’s engine. Standing, he started to run, his feet gathering pace, his eyes on his only guide; the roadway beneath his footsteps. Within a minute the bitumen curved to his right and he knew he was at the intersection with the road to the pier. He stopped. Something wasn’t right. Tom’s boat had a diesel engine. This was different. And with every second, it grew louder not fainter.
Lights.
Then the distinctive syncopation.
Two spears of muted light penetrated the darkness for one long second then were extinguished. Falling, Clement rolled into the grass and held his breath. He waited, face down and flat on the edge of the road, but there was no hail of bullets. Lifting his head, he stared into the night. Sean’s bus was stopped at the edge of the road, blocking the descent to Gills Bay. A second later the headlights flickered again and the driver’s door opened. Then the tread of footsteps on hard gravel. Swallowing hard, Clement lay motionless. His hand silently gripped the pistol as the footsteps neared.
Chapter 22
Sunday 2nd March
Clement closed his eyes and waited, unable to even breathe. He wanted to be thinking about Mary when death came for him. He thought of her ankles, slender and fine. Her hair, her fragrance. He thought he may have called to her, but in the fear of the moment, he couldn’t speak.
‘Clement? Where are you, man?’
His eyes opened, jolting him back to the present, or was it the past? Raising himself silently on one elbow, he slowly brought his right hand up, the pistol clenched in his fist. He stared into the gloom. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. Exhaustion and adrenaline were playing tricks on his mind and body. Staying low in the grass, he drew his knees up and rolled onto his haunches.
‘God’s teeth, Clement, don’t you know me?’
The voice was like a thunderbolt.
‘Get in the bus, man, before you get us both killed.’
Clement struggled to stand, his breathing suspended, his eyes wide. Before him, in the darkness stood his former comrade and neighbour, Reg Naylor. Clement ran towards the bus. Within seconds they were both aboard. Reg twisted two wires hanging beneath the dashboard and the engine roared into life.
He sat on the seat behind Reg, his breathing rapid. Overwhelming relief mingled with a thousand questions. But for now they would wait. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been more delighted to see you, Reg. You are a real answer to prayer.’
‘Just keep your head down, Clement, while we get out of here.’
Turning the vehicle around, they headed west, climbing the hill away from Gills Bay. As they drove away, Clement peered through the bus’s rear window, but he knew the kirk and his enemy had been swallowed up by the night.
‘How did you know I was here, Reg?’
‘I didn’t. We were seconded from Wick. No rhyme or reason given. But then I never knew what we were supposed to be doing in Wick anyway. Probably a mistake, you know the Army. Anyway, the next thing I know, I’ve replaced some old codger driving despatches around Caithness. Speaking of age, Clement, I would have thought you too old for what I think you’re involved in.’
