by Deryn Lake
William paced a little upstairs and Nick almost welcomed the sound. At least the ghost was harmless. At that moment the telephone rang, making him jump out of his skin. He picked up the receiver and Kasper’s voice said, ‘Nick, are you alright?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I thought I saw somebody hanging round the back of the vicarage when I drove past just now on my way to see a patient.’
‘Oh good heavens. I’d better go and have a look.’
‘Yes, do so. But be very careful.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I shall ring back in fifteen minutes,’ Kasper said solemnly, and replaced the receiver.
Nick looked round for a weapon but the only thing that sprang to mind was the poker. Grabbing it, he went quietly to the garden door.
The place was full of pools of moonlight beyond which there were deep dark patches of shadow in which anyone could have been hiding.
‘Hello,’ called Nick uncertainly. ‘Is there anybody there?’
There was no answer and no movement, then Radetsky appeared, winding his way round the vicar’s legs as he came to find out what was going on.
‘Go inside, cat,’ Nick ordered sternly, of which command Radetsky took absolutely no notice whatsoever. Ears flat against his head he let out a low growl and proceeded into the undergrowth, deep into the darkness. A second or two later he let out a howl as if he had been kicked and Nick leapt into action, sprinting towards the sound. And then he heard the noise of running feet and actually glimpsed a cloaked figure leaping over the gate that led from the bottom of his garden to the lane outside.
Nick sped after it, throwing the gate open and caution to the winds. He hesitated momentarily on arriving in the alley, not knowing whether to turn to right or left. All seemed terribly quiet, in fact unnaturally so. He stood listening for the sound of those speeding feet and the direction they were going in, then he heard a sudden noise behind him – and darkness fell.
The vicar regained consciousness to see Kasper bending over him administering cold compresses to his head. As he tried to sit up he felt as if he had been struck by Thor’s hammer, so immense was the pain. He fell back again and realized he was lying on his own sofa in the vicarage living room.
‘What happened?’ he asked, his voice a squeak.
‘I phoned you as I said I would and got your answerphone,’ Kasper said solemnly. ‘So I drove here and found you lying unconscious in the lane.’
‘Do you feel up to answering questions, sir?’ asked another voice, and moving his eyes painfully round, Nick saw that a uniformed policeman was in the room, presumably called from the mobile headquarters.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘We think you might have some DNA on you,’ said yet another voice, and Nick extended his gaze and saw a figure in white, complete with box of tricks, bearing down on him.
‘But I didn’t see anyone,’ he protested.
‘But they saw you,’ she answered, and set to examining the wound on his head.
It was painful as she dug about with her tweezers but eventually she let out a little exclamation and Kasper asked, ‘Got anything?’
‘Just a fibre or two stuck to a small fragment of wood.’
‘What was I hit with?’ Nick asked.
‘It appears to have been a fallen branch or something of that sort. All I can say at this stage is that it was a lump of wood.’
‘And you say there are fibres?’
‘Yes, but whether they come from what he or she was wearing or whether from something else it is impossible to say without further examination.’
The uniformed policeman spoke. ‘Can you tell me what you saw, Vicar?’
‘Not much,’ Nick answered, and proceeded to describe exactly what had happened up to the moment when he had been struck.
‘And that’s all I can tell you,’ he added.
Kasper spoke up. ‘I would like to attend to my patient now, if you have no objection.’
He examined Nick’s head and said, ‘You’re going to need a couple of stitches.’
‘Can you put them in?’
‘Yes, but you really ought to go to hospital.’
‘Kasper, please.’
‘Why don’t you want to go? Are you frightened of such places?’
‘Good Lord, no. It’s just that I don’t want the killer to have the satisfaction of knowing that he put me in A and E.’
‘You just said he, sir. Why was that?’ asked the policeman.
‘I don’t know really. Except that my assailant leapt over the gate and I swear that I saw a pair of trousers as they jumped.’
‘I’m afraid that doesn’t count for much these days. Many women wear trousers.’
‘That’s true enough,’ answered the vicar. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I only caught a glimpse of the person and it wasn’t enough to identify which sex it was.’
The forensic expert said, ‘I would normally ask you for your clothes, Vicar, but unfortunately the doctor will have corrupted them when he dragged you indoors.’
Nick smiled feebly and asked, ‘Has anyone seen my cat?’
‘Yes, it’s in the kitchen looking a bit sorry for itself. I think it’s been kicked.’
‘As long as it’s alright.’
‘I’ll have a look at it,’ volunteered Kasper.
‘I didn’t know you were a vet as well.’
The doctor started to make a rude gesture then realized that this was probably not the most appropriate house to do it in and turned it into a wave instead.
An hour later and Nick, feeling rather drowsy thanks to an injection which Kasper had given him, was tucked up comfortably in bed. Radetsky purred beside him – a special treat – and all was serene except for the fact that a police constable stood outside the vicarage keeping a special watch in case the attacker should steal back and try to achieve his or her objective. Meanwhile throughout the streets of Lakehurst police personnel walked in pairs, looking in every dark place imaginable, hoping that they were drawing nearer to catching their victim but realizing only too well that they were dealing with a formidable enemy.
THIRTEEN
Tennant had an almighty hangover and wished that he were anywhere but in the office of the superintendent receiving a dressing down over what his boss referred to as the ‘Lakehurst affair’.
‘What the hell’s going on, Tennant? We’ve got every reporter in Christendom camped out in Lakehurst, let alone sixty more uniform, to say nothing of the vicar being attacked last night, and we still haven’t got a result. What’s going wrong?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I truly don’t. The trouble is that the killer is wearing protective clothing of some kind or another, to say nothing of gloves. In short he doesn’t leave any DNA.’
Superintendent Miller looked thoughtful. ‘But how is he or she managing that?’
Tennant felt absolutely lost. ‘Unless they’ve got some connection with forensics.’
It was a pretty lame remark and he knew it. Miller gave him a long, cool glance. ‘But the vicar reported seeing a cloaked figure. Are you suggesting that they shed the cloak and have a protective suit underneath?’
‘Well, possibly.’
If the superintendent had been the snorting type then he would have done so but fortunately his mind had raced on to other things. He had the notes left at the various crime scenes spread out before him on his desk. He pointed at them.
‘Have you got any further with these?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. The handwriting expert confirms that they were written by the same person but that’s about it.’
‘Do they mean that our killer plans on doing ten murders altogether?’
‘I presume so.’
‘Then it’s clearly a religious maniac – or is that what we’re meant to think?’
Tennant sighed involuntarily and Miller shot him a penetrating glance. ‘I think maybe it’s time we took DNA samples from the entire population of the village – male a
nd female alike. I mean the bugger is bound to leave a trace of himself somewhere. For example the threads on the piece of wood used to beat the vicar senseless – they’re going to reveal something or other.’
‘Probably corrupted by the doctor when he dragged him inside.’
‘Never mind that. We must think positively.’
At that moment there was a knock on the door and Potter put his head round.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s an important phone call for Inspector Tennant. I think it’s rather urgent.’
The superintendent waved his hand. ‘Best go and deal with it. But Tennant . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Get the DNA sample going as quickly as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Outside, Potter gave him a mischievous look. ‘Trouble, sir?’
‘Almost.’
He picked up the receiver in his office and said, ‘Tennant.’
A voice answered, ‘Forensics here, sir. We’ve got something rather interesting to show you.’
‘He’s left a trace,’ Tennant exclaimed loudly.
‘Indeed he has.’
‘I’ll be right over.’
He entered the laboratory building and almost ran to the department where he knew the sample was being tested. The girl looked up as he approached.
‘Hello, Dominic,’ she greeted him. They had been in a production of Me and My Gal together.
‘Rosamund, my dear. What have you got for me?’ he asked, bending to kiss her on the cheek.
She looked slightly scandalized. ‘I’ve managed to run some tests on the fibres obtained from the vicar’s wound.’
‘And?’
‘They’re a wool mixture. Probably from a coat.’
‘At long last. I didn’t think our killer was human.’
‘Well, he is.’
‘The vicar said he caught a glimpse of a figure wearing a cloak.’
Rosamund nodded. ‘Cloak or coat. Bring me the garment and you’ve got your man – or woman.’
Tennant looked thoughtful. ‘The only snag is that half the population of that madhouse village probably go round wearing the damn things. Ceinwen Carruthers for one.’
‘Can’t you ask all those who own such an item to come forward voluntarily for the process of elimination?’
‘I can ask,’ the inspector answered, then he added, ‘How did those fibres get on the wood anyway?’
‘The assailant probably swung their arm back to get a better thrust and the wood would have picked up fibres from the shoulder.’
‘I see.’
Rosamund said, ‘I hear you’ve had to drop out of The Corn is Green.’
‘Yes, pressure of work as usual. I don’t know why I bother to audition actually.’
‘Well, I’m glad you do.’ She paused then added, ‘Are you busy on Saturday? Because if you’re not I wondered whether we could meet for a drink.’
‘Normally you know I would say yes but this damnable case is proving such a nightmare that I’m afraid I might have to pull out at the last minute.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Will you come if you’re around?’
‘I’ll be more than happy to,’ Tennant answered with a smile.
Nick woke the next morning with a splitting headache but no other injuries that he could feel.
His doorbell was ringing loudly and non-stop. Pulling on a dressing gown Nick went downstairs and opened the front door to be greeted by a swarm of reporters. Lights flashed and his instant reaction was what would the Bishop think when he saw him standing thus, ill-shaven and with a sticking plaster on his head. He went to shut the door again fast but somebody or other had managed to wedge their foot in it.
‘How are you feeling, Vicar?’
‘Can you say a few words for television news, please?’
‘How much did you see of your attacker?’
‘I represent the Daily Mail. We’re offering you ten K for an exclusive.’
Nick gaped at them and a bevy of lights flashed once more. Fortunately at this moment Kasper appeared in his car, jumped out and strode towards the vicarage, looking furious. All attention was turned to him and similar remarks were addressed. He whirled round.
‘Gentlemen, if you please. I am going to see my patient. Would you kindly move on.’ He sounded like an actor playing a character part.
‘Dr Rudniski,’ said the man from the Daily Mail, ‘we’ll offer you five K for an exclusive.’
‘Not enough,’ Kasper snorted, and rushed inside, shutting the door so hard that there was a yelp of pain from the owner of the foot.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ said Nick. ‘I couldn’t think of a word to say to them.’
‘The village is swarming with journalists,’ Kasper answered, pronouncing the word carefully and sounding terribly foreign as a result. ‘There’s not a bed to be had in The Great House, the February Tea Rooms have let their only room and the villagers are making a great deal of money by taking in paying guests.’
‘Perhaps I should let out the vicarage,’ said Nick.
Kasper took him seriously and shook his head. ‘I do not think that would be very wise.’
‘I was only joking. How’s the wound?’
Kasper delicately removed the plaster, dabbed some antiseptic on it and put on a new dressing.
‘Very good. As you know I had to shave some hair off. You look more like a monk than a vicar.’
He laughed heartily at his own joke. Nick smiled weakly.
‘Well, tomorrow is Sunday so I’ve got twenty-four hours to make a recovery.’
‘I think you should rest for longer.’
‘Sorry, Doctor. I feel my place is with my parishioners.’
‘You must do what you think best. Now how am I going to get out of here?’
‘Through the garden and the lower gate.’
‘Can’t do that. Forensic experts are working on it.’
‘Then you’ll have to brave the press.’
There was a babble of voices as the front door opened but Kasper refused to say a word and this time nobody put their foot in the entrance. Nick went upstairs and decided to have a bath and dress.
Half an hour later he came downstairs and cautiously took a peek out of the living room window. The mob had disappeared and this time it was Roseanna Culpepper who was walking towards the vicarage. Nick opened the door with a smile.
‘Mrs Culpepper, how nice. Are you coming to see me?’
‘Do you have a spare moment, Father Nick?’
‘Indeed I do. Come in.’
As she walked past him he smelled that familiar scent she always wore and as she turned to look at him he was once again reminded of somebody.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I would. Can I go into your kitchen? I always feel at home in that room.’
He did not ask whether it was his kitchen in particular or whether this was just a general remark. Following her in, Nick put the kettle on.
‘You don’t mind instant?’
‘No, not at all.’
He sat down opposite her and studied her features, rather obviously, for she said, ‘I clearly interest you.’
‘Yes, you do. Very much. The fact is, Mrs Culpepper, I feel I know your face from somewhere.’
She laughed. ‘Do you have Sky television?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you watch TCM films?’
‘Occasionally, yes.’
And then he made the connection. That was where he had seen her before. On black and white Hollywood epics – some made in early colour, he believed. Once upon a time she had been a well-known actress of enormous beauty. Yet he still could not quite place her name.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Of course I have seen you in many films and I simply adored you. But weren’t you called something else?’
‘I used to be Rose Indigo. The Americans thought that was a catchy title. I started my career in rep �
� in Sidmouth of all places – and one of David Selznick’s people was there on holiday, tracing his Devonian ancestors. To cut a long story short he signed me up and I was a big star for a while with the Selznick Studios.’
‘Good lord,’ Nick answered, and stared at her open-mouthed.
‘They billed me as the new Greta Garbo.’
The vicar could see the likeness. The great moody eyes, the long straight nose, the drooping lips that could suddenly lift into a glorious expression. They lifted now as Roseanna smiled at him.
‘Does anybody else know this?’ Nick asked.
‘I never talk about it but occasionally if somebody asks I put them out of their misery. And in case you’re wondering, I am seventy-two.’
‘You look nothing like that. I had thought you were sixty at the most.’
Roseanna appeared a little rueful. ‘I suppose we must all accept the fact that we are getting older.’
‘But you do it with such charm,’ Nick answered, and he wasn’t flattering her, he meant it quite sincerely.
‘I must go,’ she said, and put down her coffee cup.
‘One thing before you leave.’
‘Yes?’
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking but did you actually have an affair with James Pitman? You acted with him in so many films and you always looked genuinely close.’
Roseanna giggled. ‘Actually we couldn’t stand one another. He used to mutter obscenities at me. He married Jane Glynde, poor little innocent.’
‘I remember her – I think.’
That spectacular smile appeared once more. ‘Poor Jane, she never got any further than those kind of roles. I recall that she was madly jealous and really thought sshe’d backed a winner when she married James.’
‘What happened?’
‘They divorced, of course. Then she faded out. I don’t really know what became of her. I expect she’s quite an old lady by now, like me.’
‘You will never be old, Mrs Culpepper.
‘Please call me Roseanna.’
‘Thank you,’ Nick answered solemnly, and kissed her hand.
He had had scarcely time to go through the Guardian, which contained a small item on what it called inexplicable killings in a small Sussex village, when there was another ring at his door. Peering cautiously through the window Nick saw that standing outside were Inspector Tennant and his faithful Potter. He hurried to answer it.
