It was misshapen as if it had been worn and removed with haste. Upon closer examination it was apparent the buttons at the front had been done up and ripped when the coat was torn off.
Julie was in bed when Noble got back to the house but he knocked loudly at her bedroom door and waited impatiently for her to answer.
She was wearing a silk dressing gown when she opened her door and she didn’t seem to be surprised to see him.
“Do you want to come in and sit or shall I come downstairs?”
“What kinds of things were stolen during the construction of the chapel?”
She sighed and leaned against the door. Behind her, on the bedside table, Noble could see a whisky bottle and empty glass. Grief was often a thirsty bedfellow. “Tools at first, some bricks and stones, though naturally they were heavy. Oh, and coats, yes of course the coats.”
“What about them?”
“Please, Anthony, just let me sit down.” She moved away from the doorway and Noble followed her into a sweetly scented bedroom. She sat on the bed while he seated himself on a sofa near the window.
“Did Adam think the coats were significant?”
“Not at first, why would he? But then he began to find evidence that they were related to the deaths.”
“Deaths?”
“The interference with the building work certainly wasn’t having any effect, and the chapel was all but half completed. Then one of the builders died. It takes some weeks for the records to catch up with what Adam suspected because why would anyone now, or at the time, connect the theft of a coat with the subsequent death from pneumonia of the owner.”
“And there were more?”
Julie laid down backwards on the bed as if the weight of what she was saying was physically pressing down on her. “At least three more, and each had been the victim of…the coats…this sounds so ridiculous but if it wasn’t for Adam.”
“Adam?”
“The chapel was never used. Superstition reigned strongly in those days and the builder never appeared one day. Communication with him ceased and he was never heard of again. Alistair was already tiring of the project, and the bad publicity associated with unexplained deaths on his land. He instructed the building to be sealed and the half completed chapel remained open to the elements and as the years marched on the countryside reclaimed the building.”
Noble stood and walked to the door. “Adam lost a coat didn’t he?”
Julie nodded sadly. “He was determined to tear down the chapel and see it removed completely from our land.”
Clearly, from what he had seen from the outside, the chapel had not been removed, although changes may have occurred inside, and so Noble took himself off to his uncle’s files and began at the beginning, looking for further explanations.
He needed a clear head for what would undoubtedly be a task that took him through the night so he abstained from alcohol and consoled himself with regular pots of hot black coffee.
The early parts of the notes, where Alistair had the fateful idea of building the chapel were familiar to Noble and he was able to read through them quite quickly. It was once the apparently unexplained deaths began that needed closer attention.
Noble read carefully and made his own notes as he went along. It was not until dawn’s birdsong heralded awakening that he finished, and by then he was ready for a long sleep.
He had decided upon a course of action that was required before the funeral the next day. It was with clear certainty that he knew who had been responsible for the fatalities.
He slept until noon when his aunt brought him an omelette for lunch, or as she put it, “The breakfast you missed out on.”
“I woke once in the night,” Julie said. “I heard you in Adam’s office. Did you find out anything further?”
Noble looked away as he did not want to lie to the woman but at the same time he had to take steps to resolve matters that he preferred to conduct alone. “I hope by the day of the funeral I can share more with you. There are still some things to be done yet.”
He could see by her face that she was not wholly satisfied with this reply but she smiled and left him to his lunch and he saw nothing of her all afternoon.
What action he needed to take, and what steps he needed to perform, involved another visit to the chapel, and it was there that he spent the afternoon. Although he made sure to be gone well before dusk began picking at the threads of daylight.
The day of the funeral was uncommonly warm and sunny. The hearse and one car arrived on time and Noble accompanied Julie. No other family members were coming to the house, although most if not all had been invited there after the service, for an informal wake.
At the church, St Andrews, they were met by the funeral director, Dean, and by the current incumbent vicar, a man named Yeates. Everyone filed in and took their places in the rows of pews. The coffin was carried in and Julie followed, comforted and supported by Noble.
As the first hymn was sung Noble looked behind him, and people nodded and gave empathetic smiles. When the congregation sat, for the first reading, Noble continued to glance about but nothing was to be seen. The vicar spoke warmly about the deceased and then called upon Noble to perform his reading.
He took his place at the lectern, found his paragraph in the Bible and looked up. It was at that moment that the church door opened and a shadowy figure stalked across the Vestibule. Noble began to read his passage, so that most people kept their attention on him.
The figure at the entrance to the church carried something. When it was as far into the church as it dared, without leaving the safe shadows, it flung what it held, a large piece of cloth, onto the back of an unoccupied pew and left.
Noble finished his reading, maintaining his composure remarkably well under the circumstances. As he walked back to his place on the pew beside Julie he looked up at the board proclaiming the names and dates of tenure of previous vicars. The name was there as he knew it would be. Melton, Paul.
Pulford contrived to shiver as Priestley finished talking.
Priestley ground out the stub of his cigar in his ashtray and drained his glass of port.
“Noble stayed a few more days, primarily to oversee the completion of the chapel’s complete removal, but also of course to ensure his aunt was set into a routine that suited her.”
Pulford filled their glasses again before he spoke. “So that was the action Noble had decided upon after reading his uncle’s notes?”
“The complete removal of the chapel that had caused all the mischief in the first place.”
“Hardly what I would call ‘mischief’ but let it be. Why had he convinced himself that was required?”
Priestley gave a dry snort of a laugh. “That builder, the one who said he was sourcing the stone for the construction from over the county border? He lied. The stone, the great majority of it, was taken from within the very tombs of the dead within St Andrews churchyard. Towards the end he even took gravestones. The vicar, Melton, discovered this sacrilege, and made Alistair Noble aware of it. Apparently the man laughed in his face, said he knew where the stone originated and felt his chapel would ‘be all the more holy’ because of it.”
“So why was Noble’s uncle, Adam…his coat?”
“An error. When Adam Noble started to work within the chapel, preparing it for demolition and the repatriation of the stones to the churchyard, it was obviously mistaken for another attempt to finish the building of the chapel.”
“Ah, hence the return of the coat at the funeral. I take it the coat was…”
“The one stolen from Adam, yes. Noble said when he looked at the retreating figure, after the coat had been returned, he felt certain that for a moment he locked eyes with…whatever it was, and an understanding passed between them.”
“Typically fanciful Noble nonsense. And what of the Alvis car? Surely that wasn’t…”
Priestley smiled indulgently. “Noble was slightly embarrassed to tell me but it seems his fir
st instincts had been correct. His aunt had, indeed, taken a gentleman friend, and had been seeing him perhaps even before the sad demise of her husband.”
Pulford chuckled. “As I believe it is said ‘Alvis had now left the building’.”
WHAT LAY HIDDEN BEHIND
THE WHISPERING WALL
Priestley responded to the knock on his front door with no lack of puzzlement as he was not expecting visitors, and most who knew him realized his dislike for surprises or uninvited guests.
Putting down the book he was reading, placing his cigar in the onyx ashtray and taking a final, almost furtive, swallow of whisky, he left his sitting room, walked through the library and entered the hallway. The insistent sound of the door knocker was repeated and he had a sudden insight into who might be disturbing him. He glanced at the grandfather clock and noted the time; yes it was about right for the person he suspected was outside.
Pulford stood on the stone steps, impatient and apologetic in equal measures.
“I’m sorry…” he began but Priestley cut him off kindly.
“No matter, come in out of this awful weather.”
Pulford did come in, and proceeded to shake himself as if he was a terrier after a dip in a pond. Hat removed, raincoat divested, he looked an unusually sorry sight.
“Was it as bad as you thought it might be?” Priestley said.
“Why does it always rain at funerals?”
Priestley stuck his head outside and saw that not only was it fiercely raining but a strong wind was blowing up a storm and looked as if it was settling in for the evening. He firmly shut the front door, took his friend’s hat and coat and gestured for him to go through to the sitting room, a route that Pulford was intensely familiar with.
Pulford had lived alone, with the regular exception of his housekeeper, since the early death from pernicious cancer of his wife of many years. Priestley was also alone, save for his butler, since the suicide of his own wife some time ago. The two men had found they had more in common than they wished to admit.
The two P’s in the pod as their wives called them in happier times had settled into a rhythmic pattern of behaviour that was more comfortable than exciting, but it was sufficient to leave them satisfied enough and able, just, to confine their personal sadness to a constant nagging instead of the debilitating grief that threatened to overwhelm them.
While Pulford made himself comfortable in an armchair by the roaring fire Priestley made arrangements with Mahoney, his butler, to provide them with a fresh bottle of Saint Magdalene, nineteen years old, and his humidor.
“This is better,” Pulford said as the warmth of the fire put some colour back into his cheeks.
“I think we had better speak about it, now that you’re here.”
Pulford looked at him resignedly and at length he nodded. “But let us get civilized first?”
“Of course. What better way to spend a grey and wet afternoon than in good company and with some of life’s pleasures to wish us God speed on our way.”
“Wish it that we had more agreeable matters to discuss.”
Mahoney politely produced the bottle and crystal glasses and opened, rather reverentially, the whisky, showing both men the label before pouring out generous measures.
Single malt whisky is a whisky made at one particular distillery from a mash that uses one particular malted grain, which is ordinarily barley. Single malts are typically associated with Scotland, though they are also produced in various other countries. Under the Scotch Whisky Regulations, a "Single Malt Scotch Whisky" must be made exclusively from malted barley (although the addition of E150A caramel colouring is allowed), must be distilled using a pot still, and must be aged for at least three years in oak casks of a capacity not exceeding 700 litres. So, single malt Scotch whisky has not been mixed with whisky from any other distilleries. The greatest concentration of malt whisky distilleries can be found in the Speyside region of north-east Scotland, with Highland, Lowland and Islay being the other main malt whisky producing zones. Each of these regions has its own particular distinctive style of malt whisky and although it is not possible for two malts to be identical, even if the distilleries that produce them happen to stand side by side, it is usually possible to distinguish in which region of Scotland a particular whisky was made.
Once the malt had been sipped, and Mahoney had departed, Priestley lifted his humidor which had been placed for him on a side table. He selected for them two Arturo Fuente Fuente Opus X Robusto Colorado cigars and slowly went through the ritual of preparation. He used a guillotine cutter, cutting the closed end almost to its full width but was careful to leave part of the cap intact, and of course left the band on. He passed one to Pulford and both men spent some time lighting their cigars with long stemmed matches kept for the purpose. They took time to char the open end for even ignition before placing it between their lips and drawing the flame onto the cigar whilst rotating it in their fingers.
Words were unspoken for several minutes as they held the first smoke in their mouths, sipping it in a way similar to their enjoyment of the malt whisky. In time they would allow a long ash to form that would fall off naturally when it was ready.
When the cigars were drawing well, the malt had been replenished and the fire was licking at fresh logs placed upon it, Pulford looked at Priestley. “I suppose I had better sing for my supper as it were.”
“I have already instructed Mahoney to prepare us a dinner of Dover sole, but not for some two or more hours from now.”
“Time enough, then, to tell you about King’s funeral and the sad fate that drove him there.”
The parish of Lower Snettingdon can be found, by someone of a persistent nature, nestling good humouredly in the Wiltshire countryside. Persistence would be required as the villages and hamlets that comprise the parish are near no large towns or cities, boast pleasant but unremarkable features and have as a history only minor skirmishes and few achievements of which to boast.
Christopher King had begun his calling into the Church promisingly enough with a stint at the Saxon market town of Chippenham, a town which was founded over one thousand years ago when Alfred the Great built his hunting lodge there. By all accounts King started well there and the Bishop was minded to commend him on more than one occasion. His habit of requesting that he be called Chris, ‘do, please, call me Chris’, began to suggest perhaps a certain laxity of character that was not to be encouraged, and it was this trait, together with the sad demise of the vicar at Snettingdon, that persuaded the Bishop and his office to move King to what might be considered by a young and ambitious man to be somewhat of an outpost.
It was with this consideration of having failed some test he was not even aware he was partaking that King arrived by taxi cab one fine bright and sunny summer’s morning in July. He was astute enough to realize that he was seen to be taking a backwards step but nonetheless he was a true advocate of the Faith and held above all else the belief that his role, his purpose, was to help others. If his God had chosen to send him to this country parish upon the death of his predecessor then he was not about to argue and would embrace the task with all the passion he could muster.
The taxi cab dropped him by the War Memorial in the High Street and he took up his two bags and strode to the nearest shop, there were but a few. His main possessions were to follow within a day or two and the rectory was fully furnished he had been told, sufficient that a man of the cloth should be comfortable without basking in any adornments of luxury.
The bell on the door of the shop rang brightly to announce his arrival and he looked about him at the goods on display. It was a general convenience store with all manner of foodstuffs and hardware items arranged haphazardly on the shelves, and in some instances, on the floor.
“Well, you’ll be the new vicar.”
King turned to see who had spoken and set eyes on a large, and none too handsome woman of indeterminate age who was adjusting a pinafore as she leaned on the counter behind whi
ch she stood.
“Indeed,” King said. “My first day and the sun welcomes me warmly.”
‘More than you’ll find in most folk around here.”
“Not a church goer then…Mrs?”
“Mrs Cranbrook, store keeper with my husband, Norman. He tends to go but I see no reason. The world is my church and the people in it the congregation. I see no need for sainted buildings and appointed keepers of the faith. No offence meant I’m sure.’
“And none taken,” King said, although inwardly found her rude in the extreme. “I shall do my best to encourage as many souls to our services.”
“Your predecessor was an amiable enough chap I have to say. Bought his requirements here.”
“As shall I. Can I make arrangements for a delivery if we agree a list of some ‘requirements’?”
They agreed a list, a date and a time for delivery, and King left the store. He proceeded along the High Street, nodding hello to many who looked at him. Very few, in fact he could not recall a single person, greeted him in anything other than a politely cordial manner but there was not the friendly village spirit that he might have anticipated.
At the end of the paved Street the route to the church took him along a narrow nettle edged lane where Elm and Oak formed a barrier between the village and what lay beyond. As he passed along the lane and into the woods he became aware of the reduction in the heat. Partially attributed to the canopy of trees shielding him from the rays of the sun but he sensed there was something else.
As he paused to admire some foxgloves all but buried under natural ferns and bramble, he heard a sound of a footstep on a twig. He stood upright and listened. The sound was repeated as if there was someone walking, slowly and steadily to judge from the way the twigs and fallen leaves were trodden upon.
King was not by nature a superstitious man, and his calling gave him a barrier of sorts against fears drawn from the unknown, but he felt a prickle of unease as he heard the footsteps apparently coming closer. He had no alternative thoughts other than that there was a man, possibly a woman, but more likely male, walking in the densest part of the woods. Why anyone would not choose to follow the path was a mystery to him, and why anyone would wish to follow him was also something he was not immediately able to comprehend.
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