The Mills of God

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Do come in.’

  ‘You’re sure we’re not bothering you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  They stepped inside and Nick, thinking he might as well open a coffee shop, offered them a cup which they accepted with alacrity. He led the way into the kitchen.

  Tennant sniffed the air. ‘Mitsouku,’ he said.

  ‘Not mine,’ said Nick with a wry smile. ‘Mrs Culpepper just called.’

  ‘An enigmatic woman that,’ answered Tennant.

  ‘Did you know that she was once a famous film star?’

  ‘Was she?’ exclaimed Potter, clearly astonished.

  ‘Apparently so. She acted under the name Rose Indigo and was very big in the fifties and sixties.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ said Tennant thoughtfully. ‘Potter go and google her will you.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  And excusing himself to Nick, the sergeant put down his cup and made his way to the mobile headquarters. Tennant regarded his host with those magnetic green eyes of his.

  ‘Are you quite recovered from your attack last night?’

  Nick fingered his head gently. ‘Kasper says I ought to take things easy for a day or two.’

  ‘And I suppose you will ignore that completely.’

  ‘Not completely.’ Nick gave a feeble grin.

  ‘And you’re pretty certain your attacker was a man?’

  ‘Well, they wore trousers. But as your police officer remarked last night that could apply to anyone these days.’

  ‘Yes. But the leaping suggests somebody reasonably young and it also suggests a bloke to me.’

  ‘I think you’re quite right,’ answered the vicar.

  FOURTEEN

  Potter was having a ball on the one and only computer in the mobile headquarters, the rest being in the incident room in Lewes. The Internet had yielded up a mass of material on the former Rose Indigo, with even an entry in Wikipedia. He read:

  ‘Roseanna Jane Austin (Rose Indigo) was born August 15, 1937, at Chelmsford, Essex, first daughter of Michael Austin, architect, and his wife Francesca. On the outbreak of war her father was called up and later killed at Tobruk. She moved with her mother and elder brother, Liam, to the West Country in 1941, where she attended Torquay High School until the age of eighteen. She had meanwhile joined the Torquay Players where she shone in younger roles such as Juliet and Titania. On leaving school she auditioned for the Sidmouth Repertory Company and was immediately accepted. She spent two years at Sidmouth playing leading parts in The Constant Nymph, The Importance of Being Earnest and Hedda Gabler, but her career in films began when Scott Levinson, a talent scout for David Selznick Studios, came to Devon and saw her act.

  Her first role for Selznick was in 1958 as Chloe in Pull Down the Stars. Though only a minor part her luminous beauty raised her performance to the highest level and hailed as ‘The New Garbo’ she took the lead in twenty more films made for Selznick. Perhaps her greatest achievement was the part of Ondine in The Water Nymph for which she was nominated for an Academy Award. Finally, though, Rose Indigo gave up the stage and retired from films in the late 1970s. Since then she has slipped out of the public view and is now living quietly in Sussex.

  Rose Indigo married three times:

  1) James Crichton, a young actor she met in rep (divorced)

  2) Mauritz Nagel, an American actor (divorced)

  3) Richard Culpepper, a British actor.

  She has one child, a son, Luis Nagel, who lives in America.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Potter and had just printed off a copy when there was a roar of activity outside the mobile unit. Tennant was trying to get in through a barrage of reporters.

  ‘I have no statement for you at this time,’ he was heard bellowing as he dived into the pantechnicon.

  ‘I say, sir, look at this,’ said Potter, thrusting the sheet of paper under his boss’s nose.

  Tennant took it and read it through twice, the first time speedily, the second time slowly and with concentration.

  ‘So she had a child, did she,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Apparently. Do you want me to check him out?’

  ‘Please do. It may be clutching at straws but it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Did you get any more out of the vicar?’

  ‘No except that he’s convinced his attacker was a man.’

  ‘As am I. Now listen everyone,’ said Tennant, to the handful of constables who had come in for refreshment. ‘The superintendent wants a house-to-house DNA sample taken. Can you tell everyone that I will be briefing them in Lewes as we don’t have room here. I’m going back there now as I’ve a mass of paperwork that needs attending to. Four o’clock. Alright?’

  ‘Fine. At least we got through one night without a murder.’

  ‘As far as we know,’ Tennant replied grimly.

  The milkman deliberately drove back up Arrow Street and stopped outside Ceinwen Carruthers’s cottage where he peered over the gate to see if the third pint, delivered earlier that morning, still stood untouched by the front door. It did. With a mounting feeling of anxiety he pushed the milk float to its full capacity as to speed and eventually parked in the High Street, close to the mobile headquarters.

  The pantechnicon was particularly empty, he thought, and there were very few policemen on the beat. They had obviously been called away somewhere. He looked round then went up to the sergeant who was on duty at the desk.

  ‘Hello. Sorry to bother you but I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘It’s the milk. It hasn’t been taken in, see.’

  ‘Which house would you be referring to?’

  ‘Ceinwen Carruthers’s place. She’s the leader of the Pixie Poets. We call ’em the Potty Poets round here.’

  ‘Would you like to start at the beginning, sir.’

  And the milkman, who gave his name as Derek Wickens, launched into a description of how he had noticed the milk bottles growing in number outside Ceinwen’s house over a three-day period. The desk sergeant took it all very seriously and when a young WPC walked in, looking tired and rather flushed, he turned to her with a somewhat malicious smile.

  ‘No time for a rest, Constable Castle. Off to Arrow Street with you. The milkman has reported a growing number of bottles outside one of the cottages.’

  She had visibly turned pale. ‘Which one?’

  ‘I’d best come and show you,’ Wickens had said eagerly, determined to be in at the kill, as it were.

  Feeling very important he left the float in the High Street and proceeded down to Arrow Street in the wake of the fatigued constable. Arriving outside Ceinwen Carruthers’s dwelling she halted him at the gate.

  ‘I think you’d better wait here, Mr Wickens. I’d prefer it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She nodded. ‘Oh, alright then.’

  But he hovered by the gate, peering eagerly, as the young woman proceeded to the front door and gave a loud knock with a knocker shaped like a pixie. There was no reply. She slowly made her way round to the back and disappeared from his view. There was silence, so intense that you could almost hear it. But to WPC Sally Castle there was something eerie and forbidding about it.

  ‘Miss Carruthers,’ she called softly. Then again, ‘Miss Carruthers.’

  There was no reply and she tapped softly on the back door which swung open beneath her hand. Moving quietly, in fact almost creeping, Sally entered the kitchen of the cottage and looked round. There was a pair of cups by the sink with the remains of what looked like coffee inside one of them. The other was empty and seemed clean. Everything else appeared to be in its place, though the washing machine had not been emptied and a plant on the window sill was starting to wilt. With a horrible lurching of her heart, Sally opened the kitchen door and stepped into the living room.

  It was dark because the curtains were drawn, something she hadn’t noticed when she’d tried the front door. She took two st
eps into the room and then gave an involuntary cry as she tripped over something and fell. She pushed herself up to her knees and looked down and straight into the glazed and fishy eye of Ceinwen Carruthers.

  The poet was lying flat on her back staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her mouth was open and full of white things. There were several late summer flies buzzing about the wound on her head, which was gashed and red with dried blood. Automatically Sally put her hand to the pulse on Ceinwen’s neck but it was still and quiet. She had been dead for a couple of days at least, and there was a slight whiff of the morgue in the room.

  Sally stood up, nauseated, and made her way out to the kitchen where she turned on her radio.

  ‘WPC Castle reporting. There’s a dead woman in the cottage who I believe to be the owner. Can you send back-up please.’

  ‘Immediately. Don’t leave the place, Castle. And don’t let anyone inside. Forensics will be with you soon.’

  Sally switched off and stumbled out of the back door where she inhaled deep breaths of fresh air to fight off the sickness rising in her throat. Then she remembered something. If this were the work of the serial killer there should be some sort of message left near the corpse. Steeling herself, she went back inside.

  Entering the death room, her gaze went straight away to the body. And staring at it like that she could have sworn that Ceinwen moved, a common trick of the eye when in the presence of the dead. Forcing herself to look round, Sally saw a piece of paper stuck neatly to the wall with Sellotape. On it was written. ‘Number Four. Six to go. Never on a Sunday. The Acting Light of the World.’

  It didn’t make much sense but it told her that the serial killer had struck once more.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Tennant out loud. He had briefed everyone on the house-to-house DNA tests that they were to start on Monday and had been looking forward to an evening out with Rosamund Jenkins – and perhaps a night in – when Potter had come to him with a message from Lakehurst.

  ‘There’s been another one, sir.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. Not again.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. Ceinwen Carruthers this time.’

  Tennant was about to say something childish about it being Saturday and him having a date but stopped himself in time. His thoughts flew to Ceinwen, potty indeed but totally harmless, and he considered who could be cruel enough to end that silly blameless life.

  He rang Rosamund on his mobile.

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’ve got called back to Lakehurst.’

  ‘Oh my God, another murder?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Who now?’

  ‘A local poet named Ceinwen Carruthers. Rosamund . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I really do regret this. Can we make it another time?’

  ‘Certainly can. You ring me when you’ve got some spare hours.’

  ‘You can be sure of it.’

  In the car heading to Lakehurst he turned to Potter.

  ‘Did our friend leave his usual cryptic message?’

  ‘Yes, sir. According to Constable Castle, who was shaken to the core by the whole experience incidentally, it contained a sentence which said “Never on Sunday”.’

  ‘But it was signed by the Acting Light of the World, I take it?’

  ‘As usual. What does that mean, Never on Sunday?’

  ‘If memory serves that was an old film with Melina Mercouri – who was a Greek actress, I believe. Do you know, Potter, there might be some sort of showbiz connection with these murders.’

  ‘It’s a thread certainly.’

  ‘Have you checked that boy yet?’

  ‘Which boy?’

  ‘The one on Rose Indigo’s biography. Her son, Luis Nagel. What’s he up to – and where?’

  ‘He had a small entry in Wikipedia. It says he’s a bit part player in Hollywood. That’s where his home is. He doesn’t appear to see his mother.’

  ‘Um. I’m not sure about that. Check him out with the California police, will you. By the way, did it say whether he was married or not?’

  ‘It didn’t state either way. What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m in the realms of fantasy. I wonder if he is here, in disguise, seeking revenge for his mother’s . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Early retirement from acting? Jealousy of the new husband? The fact that Olivia Beauchamp is his bastard half-sister and he’s riddled with spite. I don’t know, Potter, your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘We’ve got to try and keep level, sir,’ Potter answered sensibly.

  ‘I know. I know. But you must confess that these murders are so peculiar that one can be indulged for going off into the bizarre. Anyway,’ Tennant added grimly, ‘let’s go and take a look at poor old Ceinwen.’

  Duly suited in protective clothing they were driven down to Arrow Street and pushing up the police tape, went inside. The deputy police doctor was bent over the body as they walked into the living room, a pair of tweezers poised.

  She looked round. ‘Oh, I’m glad you two are here. I just wanted to remove the contents of her mouth and I didn’t want to start without the official OK.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Tennant, kneeling beside her, ‘I just want to have a quick look.’

  He stared down into Ceinwen’s dead face, peering at the wounds on her head, in the depths of which a maggot infestation had started.

  ‘Time of death?’ he asked.

  ‘Two or three days ago,’ answered the doctor. ‘Rigor mortis has been and gone. But the blow flies eggs have hatched.’

  She pointed to the squirming mass of maggots and Tennant gave them another glance then quickly looked away.

  ‘Want to have a look, Potter?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you, sir. I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Wise chap,’ said Tennant, rising to his feet. He turned to the doctor. ‘Go on with what you were doing.’

  She nodded and inserting the tweezers pulled out piece after piece of paper from Ceinwen’s mouth.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ she asked.

  ‘Looks as if it once had writing on it,’ Tennant answered, leaning over the tweezers to have a closer view.

  ‘I think it’s probably one of her poems, sir,’ said Potter. ‘Yes, I’m right. There’s the word Aidan, you can just make it out.’

  ‘Do you mean to say she was choked to death on her own gift to literature?’

  The doctor gave him a humorous glance. ‘No, she was clubbed first. Then the murderer, with some sick sense of fun, rammed her poems down her throat.’

  Tennant shot her a look from his vivid eyes. ‘Well if you could now ram them into an evidence bag I’d be extremely grateful.’

  Dr Hilary Priestly, who was recently divorced and feeling right off men as a consequence, gave him a smile nonetheless.

  ‘Anything for you, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll make a note of that in my little black book,’ he answered.

  And poor Potter was left to consider small flirtations in the presence of the newly dead.

  FIFTEEN

  The church was fairly full on Sunday, everyone going in to pray for their deliverance, Nick supposed. News of the murder of Ceinwen Carruthers had whizzed along the village grapevine and though she had not been a churchgoer, preferring, apparently, to worship the Great Goddess and protest pagan views, Nick had been shocked to hear of it. Even Mrs Ely, the woman with the booming voice that had been past its best forty years before, stood silently putting on her choir robes. But the greatest effect was on Broderick Crawford, the gay young fellow with the bright red hair. He stood shivering, quite literally, and gazing at the floor as he donned his robes. The vicar went up to him.

  ‘Come along, old chap, I know this is a terrible place to live at the moment but we must try to act normally. I believe that that is the only way forward.’

  He realized that he was speaking in platitudes but found nothing else rising to his lips. Broderick glanced at him and
Nick saw that he was white as a sheet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vicar,’ he blurted out. ‘I can’t help myself, you see.’

  Wondering to what particular aspect of his life he was referring, Nick gave him a feeble smile.

  ‘No, of course you can’t. All you can do is try your best.’

  Further clichés, he thought.

  Broderick blenched. ‘I knew you’d understand, I truly did.’

  ‘Yes, of course I understand. Now go out there and sing your best. Let’s cheer the congregation up.’

  ‘Yes, I will, Vicar. Thank you, thank you. You’ll never know what this means to me.’

  Wondering what on earth he was talking about Nick entered the procession forming up to make its way into church.

  The subject of his sermon had to be Ceinwen Carruthers and how true Christians should mourn the loss of everyone, regardless of faith. As he ran his eyes over the congregation, staring up at him as he went on about this, he wondered if his words were getting home. He noticed the absence of Olivia, but knew that she was in Manchester. Jack Boggis and Kasper were also not present, along with Ms Hamilton-Harty, though the doctor was no doubt down the road with the Catholic brigade. Boggis, however, would be downing pints as if they were going out of fashion, and shaking with laughter over something written in the Sunday Telegraph. One person who was present, which cheered Nick up enormously, was Giles Fielding, singing the hymns robustly.

  Afterwards he stood outside the church and shook hands with the parishioners. Last to leave and looking terribly flustered was Ivy Bagshot.

  ‘Oh Vicar, can I speak to you?’ she said, and he saw that her eyes behind their enormous, enlarging spectacles were red and puffy.

  He drew her to one side. ‘Of course, Mrs Bagshot.’

  ‘It’s the police. They arrived at nine o’clock just as I was eating my porridge. They asked me endless questions about poor Ceinwen. You see, I was the last person to see her alive.’ Ivy made a muffled sound which vaguely resembled a sob. ‘They asked me to tell them everything. Had I gone into the house with her, had I noticed anybody hanging round. That kind of thing. They just went on and on. It really brought it all back so vividly.’