by Chrys Cymri
James arrived first. He glanced at the remaining congregation, who were sitting quietly in their pews. Almost in a whisper, he said to me, ‘I’ve not been back for Christmas since, well, Alan, you know, since he had his heart attack.’
This was the first time since Miranda’s murder that James had raised the subject of my husband’s death. I wondered if he still blamed himself for not telling me about Alan’s chest pains. ‘It’ll be a good Christmas,’ I promised him. ‘Let’s talk when we get home?’
James stepped back as people finally shuffled their way to the church door. Several simply shook my hand before going out into the cold night. But Mary paused. ‘We should have used the Book of Common Prayer. I don’t like all this updated nonsense.’
I forced the smile. ‘The PCC felt that contemporary language might be more accessible, particularly for newcomers.’
‘Newcomers?’ She sniffed. ‘Did you really expect newcomers? No, Vicar, use BCP. That would bring more people to church.’
‘It’s only a four week experiment.’ I felt the false smile stretching awkwardly at the corners of my mouth. ‘Then we’ll review it.’
‘BCP,’ Mary insisted. And then she was out the door.
I changed from robes to fleece in the vestry. Morey and James waited while I switched off the heating and the lights, and we left the church together. I used my iPhone to cast light onto the doors in order to lock up.
‘What’s BCP?’ James asked as we drove home. Morey had taken the passenger seat, as usual, leaving my brother to take a back seat.
‘Book of Common Prayer,’ Morey answered for me. ‘Compiled in your country in the sixteenth century and unsurpassed for its use of the English language. Though, of course, the Welsh version is superior.’
Morey was invariably loyal to the native language of his own country. I felt a pang of guilt that I’d yet again cancelled a number of lessons with my Welsh tutor. ‘People today don’t want to hear lines about being “miserable offenders” and they certainly won’t understand about “erring and straying from your ways like lost sheep.” No, we’ll continue to use the modern version from Common Worship. No matter what Mary says.’
‘But that’s not what you said to her,’ James replied.
‘It was easier to just to say what she wants to hear.’ I turned into the drive to the vicarage.
‘Like a lie.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘just a way of being tactful.’
The house was a comforting warmth after the cold night outside. I hung up my coat on the stand by the door, and turned to James. ‘Shall we go into the kitchen? Open a bottle of wine?’
There were lines around his eyes, and a frown pulled down the corners of his lips. He ran a hand through his brown hair. ‘Nah. I’m going up to my room.’
I glanced at Morey, who withdrew to the study. ‘I thought you wanted to talk?’
James opened his jaws in a dramatic yawn. ‘Kind of tired, actually.’ And he headed up the stairs, leaving me confused and wondering if I’d somehow failed him.
<><><><><><>
Mornings always come too early, and particularly on Mondays. At least I had made myself stop after just the two glasses of wine, so my head was clear as I refilled the bird feeders in the back garden. Sparrows shared the good news in the nearby bushes as I crunched through frost on my return to the kitchen.
Another week, another sermon. I turned on my computer and brought Clyde back out of his tank. He had grown a bit further, I realised, as he slid up the wall to sit on the windowsill. In the five months since I’d brought the snail pup home, he had grown from the size of a hamster to that of a rat. Peter raised rabbits in his back garden to feed Taryn. I wondered uneasily if I’d have to do something similar for Clyde, particularly as larger snail sharks were known to eat cats and even attack human babies. Pity the attempt to turn him to eating long dead chicken had failed.
I opened the word processor and tried to find the necessary enthusiasm to write about judgement. Other than Clyde muttering to himself as he watched the blackbirds, the house was quiet. Both Morey and James were in their rooms, one no doubt reading something in Latin and the other no doubt still asleep. Morey had recently declared that he might undertake a second PhD. As for James, he seemed to have regressed from a twenty-two year old to a teenager.
There were times when I couldn’t decide which was more difficult to live with.
Clyde suddenly broke into a snatch of song. I leaned over to give his smooth shell an affectionate rub. ‘At least you’re uncomplicated,’ I told him.
I managed to get down a few paragraphs between checking Facebook and an eBay auction for copy of the original script for The Curse of Fenric, my favourite Doctor Who episode. The former had no interesting posts, and I couldn’t afford the latter without selling a kidney.
My iPhone vibrated and then started playing the Doctor Who theme. ‘Hi Peter,’ I said happily. ‘Give me a reason to desert my sermon.’
‘I’ve got a good one,’ he said glumly. ‘Another body’s been found. Same sort of wound, but in the back this time.’
‘Is it in the morgue at Tuddington?’
‘Yes, Penny, but--’
‘I’m on my way.’ I cut off my call.
Clyde, to my surprise, had crawled down from the window and was on my desk, facing the terrarium. There was something about the way his tentacles drooped that made me bite my lip. ‘Tank,’ he said mournfully.
‘You can come with me,’ I told him, ‘if you promise to stay in your case.’
The tentacles rose. ‘Promise.’
I pulled out the camera bag I had modified to carry a small snail shark. Clyde slid inside, and I pressed down the Velcro cover. He still couldn’t look out, but at least he wouldn’t be locked up in a tank.
‘Morey!’ I called up from the bottom of the stairs. ‘There’s been another death. Peter’s at the morgue.’
‘Coming.’ He swooped down to land on a lower step. ‘I could use a break from Aquinas. I need to read some of Averroes’ works, but my Arabic is a bit rusty.’
I tried to put aside the uncomfortable feeling that I was in the presence of an intellect far greater than my own.
Chapter Eight
Peter was waiting outside the warehouse as I walked from the car park. I felt my fingers chill as I exchanged warm car for cold morning. Morey flew to my shoulder and fluffed out his feathers. Clyde was quiet inside his carry case, and I wondered how sensitive snail sharks were to cold temperatures.
‘Good to see you, Elder Morey,’ Taryn said from Peter’s arm.
‘And you, Inspector Taryn,’ Morey replied. ‘Have you been hunting well?’
‘When I'm permitted to do so.’ The fierce peregrine head turned to face Peter. ‘Rabbits are a very monotonous diet.’
Peter shrugged. ‘It’s just safer. One time, I found Taryn attacking a Pomeranian. I managed to get him to a vet who patched him up.’
‘Minus a leg,’ Taryn commented.
Peter winced. ‘Minus a leg. His owner was very upset, of course. I paid the vet bills from the department budget. And I told Taryn she was not to hunt dogs again. That’s when I got the rabbits.’
‘You humans are strange,’ Taryn said. ‘Why are dogs more valuable than rabbits?’
‘Or blue tits than rats?’ Morey asked. I turned my head to look at him, and he lifted his wings in a shrug. ‘You don’t seem to care that Clyde and I killed three rats yesterday.’
Taryn’s yellow eyes focussed on him. ‘Three?’
‘I ate one,’ Morey admitted. ‘The snail shark ate the second. The third he disembowelled for practice.’
I found myself moving my hand away from the side of the camera bag.
‘There wasn’t any need for you to come,’ Peter told me as we walked to the building’s entrance. ‘I just wanted to ask you what happened when you returned the unicorn foal.’
‘Inside?’ I suggested.
There were two cups of coffee waiting for
us on the counter of the reception desk. I smiled at the man typing away at the computer, who looked far too young to be in a full time job. His beard and turban declared that he was a Sikh. ‘Thanks for this,’ I said, welcoming the warmth against my fingers.
He stood and bobbed his head. ‘Atithi devo bhav. Guests are forms of God.’
I led the way to the first security door, and waited for Peter to lift his palm to the ID panel. After a moment, he did so, although there was a frown which I didn’t understand. Taryn’s dark grey feathers were ruffled, indicating annoyance. Morey and I exchanged confused glances.
Russell was in the cold morgue, clucking over a body. This time, it was a woman, and I felt my stomach contract. The long blonde hair fanned across the metal table and the white cloth rose over her ample breasts.
‘We have a distinguishing mark,’ the coroner said cheerfully. ‘A tattoo of a blue butterfly over her right shoulder and the name “Emily” on her left wrist.’
I felt myself pale. ‘She was a mother.’
Russell glanced at me. ‘I haven’t examined her for that.’
‘The tattoo,’ I explained. ‘I’m certain that’s the name of a daughter. A lot of mothers tattoo the names of their children on their wrists.’
‘But no other ID,’ Peter said. ‘We couldn’t find her handbag.’
Morey fluttered down to the table, landing neatly near the woman’s head. ‘Where was she found?’
The silence was unexpected. The frown was back on Peter’s face. ‘You don’t need to know that.’
I crossed my arms. ‘But there’s no reason not to tell us, is there?’
Taryn stared down at me from her perch on Peter’s shoulder. ‘You are both civilians.’
‘Since when?’ Morey demanded. ‘You were both happy enough to bring us in about Endre. Why talk to us about a poisoned dragon, but not about a murdered woman?’
I studied the grim expression on man and gryphon. ‘Okay. What’s changed?’
‘The heddlu let me have your witness statements,’ Peter said.
‘And I translated them for him,’ Taryn added.
‘You could both have been killed in that dragon longhouse,’ Peter continued. ‘You’re lucky Miranda was the only one who died.’
‘Then why did you call me?’
‘Like I said, I just wanted to ask what happened when you returned the unicorn foal. Did her mother speak to you? What did she say?’
‘I met with the Archdruid,’ I said slowly. ‘But you don’t need to know what she told me. You and Taryn are both laypeople.’
‘Enough.’ We all looked at Russell. ‘Either talk or get out. I have work to do. Argue on your own time.’
Peter and I studied each other. I assumed that the gryphons were doing the same. ‘I only rushed into the longhouse because James was in danger,’ I reminded him. ‘I don’t make a habit of challenging dragons.’
‘And I would have fought alongside her,’ Morey added.
‘Me!’ Clyde had decided to make his presence felt. ‘Fight dragon!’
‘Good Lord, what do you have in that bag?’ Russell asked.
‘It’s Clyde and he was getting bored at home.’ I could feel control of the conversation slipping away from me. ‘Where was this woman found, and do you think it was a unicorn?’
‘She was found on the same green,’ Taryn answered. ‘The two attacks appear to be linked.’
Russell pulled back the cloth. There was only a small exit wound below the woman’s left breast. ‘The horn went into her back, and has left the same pattern of damage and healing. Definitely a unicorn.’
Morey and Taryn physically bristled. ‘When I returned the foal,’ I said before they could issue their usual assertions of unicorn innocence, ‘the Archdruid met with me. I won’t repeat all that she said, but she did make it clear that unicorns would defend their own lands. We need to know how and why these two people encountered unicorns.’
‘A robbed body and a missing handbag,’ Peter said. ‘Doesn’t help us work out who these people were.’
‘What about that notebook found near the first body?’ I asked. ‘The waterproof one?’
‘Just one entry, “Please tell everyone, I’m so sorry.”’
I blinked, surprised. ‘A suicide note?’
‘Does sound like it,’ Peter agreed. ‘Otherwise, the notebook was empty.’
‘But the fact that it was a waterproof one is interesting,’ I persisted. ‘Why not a regular notebook? Are there any companies who issue that particular brand to their employees?’
Taryn dipped her head. ‘It may be worthwhile to make enquiries. Did you ever consider a career with the police, Father Penny?’
‘She’s a priest,’ Morey responded gruffly. ‘That’s her calling.’
‘Both policing and priesting require a sense of curiosity,’ I said smoothly. ‘But thank you for the compliment, Inspector Taryn.’
It was a relief, in more ways than one, to leave the cold room and return to the reception area. The young man was dutifully typing away at his computer. I paused before him, dragged a phrase out from my interfaith work, and said, ‘Sat sri akal.’
He grinned up at me. ‘God is indeed the supreme truth. Thank you, my sister, for the reminder.’
And Morey’s startled look carried me out of the door and to my car.
<><><><><><>
I moved the wine glass an inch to the left, lining it up with the knife. Yes, that would show Peter what a tidy, organised person I was. Then I frowned. Or would that make me look as if I were obsessed with order? I slid the knife closer to the plate.
James wandered into the kitchen. ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ he said as I glared at him. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t get in the way of your hot date. Is that what you’re wearing?’
I glanced down at my fleece and trouser combination. ‘It’s only dinner.’
‘At home. The first one.’ James shrugged. ‘Just warn me if Peter’s still here for breakfast, okay?’
‘There’s no spare bed,’ I pointed out.
He snorted. ‘Come one, Penny, you’re a priest, not dead.’
‘Out,’ I ordered as he tried to snatch a bread stick from the glass holder. ‘And maybe warn me if you’re not going to be here for breakfast?’
‘I’ll send you a text if I get lucky.’ And my brother swaggered out the room, full of the confidence particular to young human males.
I busied myself with decanting the Barolo. When I turned back, Morey was standing on the dining table. ‘Did you have a bath?’ I asked, noting the damp patches on his gleaming feathers.
‘Taryn has invited me for some night hunting.’
‘And you need to be clean for that?’ Then I noted the embarrassed droop to his ears. ‘I take it a night hunt means something important.’
‘Gryphons are not natural nocturnal predators,’ Morey said stiffly. ‘This is meant to be a challenge of my skills.’
There was much I could say. I decided to swallow all of it. ‘Have a good evening.’ And I opened the back door rather than let him risk ruffling his feathers on the cat flap.
The doorbell rang promptly at 7.30pm. I gave the spaghetti sauce a quick stir, then strode to the front door. Peter grinned, and handed me a box of chocolates as he stepped over the threshold. ‘I would’ve brought a bottle,’ he said as he took off his coat, ‘but I guessed you’d already have decanted one.’
‘A Barolo,’ I said as I led him to the kitchen. ‘Great wine, simple meal.’
‘Sounds like a perfect combination to me.’
I was pleased that he too was dressed casually. The light-brown tweed jacket, worn in honour of his favourite Doctor, Matt Smith, hung easily from his straight shoulders. His brown hair was beginning to grey around the temples, but that complimented his blue-grey eyes. White shirt was tucked into dark trousers and, so far, there was no sign of a paunch. ‘Have a seat,’ I told him, ‘while I finish.’
‘Can I help with anything?’
‘You can pour the wine.’
He sighed. ‘What a wonderful sentence. I never get tired of hearing it.’
White shirts and spaghetti are not a great combination. But as the wine decanter was emptied we found the stains amusing. Peter was finishing off his third glass, between eating his Tiramisu and debating the similarities between Rose Tyler and Ace McShane as companions to the Doctor, when I had a sudden thought. ‘Don't you need to drive home?’
Peter waved my concern away. ‘I’ve booked a room at that hotel just up the road.’
Relief and disappointment clashed within me, and I buried my face in my own glass. And a small part of me tried not to think of Alan, who had once sat at this table to drink wine with me.
‘But Ace was the BBC’s idea of a teenager,’ I was saying as I loaded plates into the dishwasher. ‘Rose was allowed to be far more authentic.’
Peter handed me the dessert bowls. ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that. I thought the Seventh Doctor and Ace were your favourites.’
‘They are. But that doesn’t mean I can’t recognise the constraints imposed at the time. Now if Moffat had been given that combination--’
‘He would have ruined it.’ Peter smiled at my look. ‘Sorry, but I’m a Russell T Davies fan. Even if Matt’s my Doctor.’
A sound from the back garden drew us around the kitchen counter and to the back door. ‘Morey’s hunting with Taryn,’ I told Peter. ‘But I don’t think that’s them.’
‘She’ll be testing him on something far more challenging than rodents.’
‘Do you think...’ I let my voice trail off.
‘I don’t know. How long ago did Morey’s wife die?’
‘A couple of years ago.’
‘Then he--’ Peter broke off, and pointed at the barrel resting against the wall. ‘What’s that?’
‘Uisge beatha.’
‘Penny, don’t tell me you have the time to make moonshine.’
‘It was given to me,’ I said. ‘A dragon distilled it.’
