Samantha placed her hands firmly down on Chloe’s small shoulders.
‘Chloe’s been very much looking forward to meeting you,’ she said, a forced smile plastered across her heavily made-up face.
Chloe looked back into the bright green eyes, saw them narrow a fraction before they changed. They seemed to soften.
A smile played on the girl’s lips. She took Chloe’s hand in hers.
‘My name’s Amelia.’ She gave Chloe’s hand a gently squeeze. ‘I know we’re going to be best friends.’
CHAPTER 28
It’d been two days since Michael had walked out on her at Wainwright’s funeral and Claire was like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Everyone had been giving her a wide berth and hadn’t bothered her unless absolutely necessary.
She’d found out very little by attending Wainwright’s wake and had decided to visit Father Manuela instead.
Shrovesbury Manor sat in the leafy outskirts of Haverbridge. The redbrick Victorian building, designed in the typical Gothic style of its time, cut an impressive shape on the landscape. With its oriel windows, creeping ivy clinging to brick, and chimneys rising into the cloudless sky, Shrovesbury was without a doubt a beautiful building.
This fact was lost on Claire as she pulled up outside the large iron gates and read the sign ahead.
Welcome to Shrovesbury Manor
A place of religious enlightenment
Established in 1864
She pulled a face but drove on through the gates, along a private road, flanked with beech trees on either side, until the view opened up to reveal the Manor in all its glory.
The heat from the sun felt intense as she climbed from the car. The Manor cast dark foreboding shadows down upon her as she approached the main doors giving her some respite.
Father Manuela emerged from the entrance like a serpent preparing to strike its prey. ‘Good morning,’ he said as she approached him. He offered his hand and Claire took it, forcing a smile.
His hand felt limp and clammy.
‘Father Manuela. So glad you agreed to see me.’
‘Please, call me Jeremy.’
Manuela showed her into the drawing room and waited until she settled on a large dark-brown leather sofa, before wheeling over a tea trolley from the corner.
Claire noticed the musty odour from the sofa immediately, or maybe it was just the room in general.
The wallpaper was a dark-maroon colour with a faint pattern embossed across it, slightly worn over the years. The darkness of it all made Claire feel caged and oppressed.
She took in her surroundings in a split second; she noticed how the tall slim bookcases were filled with dusty tatty books, many religious in nature, but with a few well-known classics thrown in for good measure.
Everything seemed to be dusty, old and eccentric, much like their owner.
‘It’s a shame we didn’t get a chance to talk at the wake. It was a glorious service you missed at the church as well,’ he said, pouring her a cup of tea.
He handed her a dainty little cup, and smiled. His eyes were heavily hooded by his droopy eyelids, and his expression seemed troubled. Claire waited until he’d settled in his chair and was giving her his full attention.
‘I’m sorry if my colleague and I appeared to have intruded at the burial. Believe me, it was not our intention.’ She tried to gauge his reaction.
Manuela just looked at her, nodding and showing the faintest of smiles. His teeth were yellow and jutted out in odd angles at the bottom. His lips were dry and had started to crack and Claire looked away when he wetted them with his tongue.
There remained a brief silence between them.
Claire sipped her tea, flinching at the lukewarm milky liquid. She only just stopped herself from spitting it back into the cup.
‘The Manor looks quite something,’ she said. ‘I knew it existed but I’ve never known what it was used for. I noticed the sign said it dates from 1864.’
Manuela looked at her over his teacup, his smile genuine this time, happy she was showing an interest in his home.
‘The Manor has been in my family for most of those years. I took over after my father, as his father did before him, and so on.’ He reached forward and placed his half-empty cup on a small table to the side of him. ‘It wasn’t always used for religious purposes though. Originally my family’s home, they then allowed it to be requisitioned for a training school and officers’ mess during the war in 1939.’
Claire smiled, gesturing for him to continue. Keep him talking and opening up. ‘Please go on.’
Manuela looked at her sceptically at first, then nodded. Passion for his family’s work and history flowed through his body and he relished the chance to boast about the greatness of Shrovesbury.
‘Well, by 1960 the Manor was used as a girls’ residential school, mainly for problem students, I might add,’ he said, frowning.
‘What happened between the war and then?’
‘It became my family’s home again after the war. The idea for the school came about around 1947 but it then took a further ten years to push it through and it didn’t open until 1960. After another ten years my father changed it into a place of religious enlightenment.’
Manuela leaned forward as if to keep the next part a secret between them both.
‘He didn’t like the fact that the girls who studied here were all delinquents and possessed less than Godly thoughts. They lacked a purpose in life.’
His eyes seemed to look through her as he continued. ‘Christ gave his life so that they could fulfil theirs. My father had a Chapel built within the grounds to aid in the salvation of their souls. I took over from him in 1979 and have tried to carry on his vision and beliefs ever since. We have had and indeed still have a great success rate here.’
Manuela sat back in his chair and folded his arms, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride.
Claire processed all the information Manuela had given her. She thought Manuela appeared to be a nice man, pious and a pillar of the community, but then she remembered the scene she’d caught a glimpse of between him and the former Father David Hawthorne.
Manuela seemed less than likeable then. His face appeared to be a mask for something he kept repressed, something just hovering at the surface ready to take hold at any point.
‘Father, I—’
‘Jeremy, please,’ he cut in.
She ignored him. ‘I’m guessing you know I’m here for another reason; as fascinating as the Manor’s history is, I have another agenda.’ She saw the change in his face. His eyes frightened her as he tried to appear unaltered by her words.
‘Chief Inspector, I’m not sure I understand your meaning. Father Wainwright was here on a regular basis offering salvation and wisdom along with the rest of us and he will be sorely missed. I don’t know what more I can tell you.’
Claire raised her eyes, a little taken back. Manuela pushed himself from his seat and walked towards the window, his arms now clasped behind his back, facing away from her.
His fingers fidgeted uncontrollably.
‘He was a good man. I won’t have anything said to the contrary.’
‘What makes you think I’m here to refute what you’re saying about Wainwright? Everyone we’ve questioned so far speaks as highly of him as you do.’
Except Chloe Jenkins.
She could tell Chloe’s disdain for the man was strong. She could almost smell it that night.
Manuela kept his back to her, staring out the window.
‘Why else are you here, if not for furthering your investigation?’ His voice sounded agitated. ‘That’s the real reason you were at his funeral as well, I assume. Although who knows what you hoped to see there among his well-wishers.’
His head turned towards her but she remained silent. He smiled to himself and returned his gaze towards the window looking out on the gardens.
Claire took her time before she spoke. It was part of her game plan and she wanted to gau
ge Manuela’s reaction without missing a single detail.
‘Actually, Father…it was Father Hawthorne I was interested in talking about.’
Manuela’s body stiffened but then he turned towards her and smiled. ‘I’m only too happy to oblige, although I can’t see why he should be of interest to you.’
Claire waited for him to sit but he didn’t move.
‘I think I’ll get us some more tea,’ he said and left the room.
Claire remained on the sofa.
She’d touched a raw nerve.
***
It was ten minutes later before Manuela entered the room again. Claire watched as he topped up her cup with a large quantity of milk, and her face turned sour. She looked away and waited for him to sit down.
‘So,’ she said, sitting back and crossing her legs. ‘Father David Hawthorne. That was who I saw you …’ She tried to search for the right word, making Manuela feel uneasy. ‘…converse with at the funeral?’
‘I spoke with many people.’
‘Let me be more specific. You spoke with a man similar in age, dressed somewhat dowdily, even for a funeral, and who appeared very agitated.’ She watched Manuela carefully. His mouth was set firm, expressing no obvious emotion.
‘Again, I spoke with many people.’ He sipped his tea.
‘You were arguing with him.’
‘Arguing?’
‘Yes, Father. Why was that?’
Manuela’s eyes narrowed at her, as he tried to work out her agenda. ‘I wouldn’t call it arguing. Merely conversing, as you put it.’
‘About what?’
‘I fail to see what this has to do with anything, and I’d appreciate you not wasting my time. I’m a very busy man.’
Claire stared at him until he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Father Hawthorne used to work here as well as being stationed in another local church, but he left very suddenly, both Shrovesbury and the priesthood,’ she said, watching his eyes with care.
Manuela nodded. ‘You’re correct. But again, what has this to do with Malcolm’s death? His murder.’
Claire noticed his stress on the last word.
‘I thought it odd that after the death of a beloved friend, you should be arguing at his funeral. Father Hawthorne appeared very upset over something other than Malcolm’s death. He also left the priesthood a little over three years ago, and I gather there’s some controversy surrounding this?’
Manuela turned to stare at the door, his complexion draining of colour.
‘You think our cross words have something to do with Malcolm’s death? You couldn’t be further from the truth, Chief Inspector. However, you’re right in saying David’s departure from us was upsetting and, as you put it, controversial. It’s certainly not the norm for anyone to suddenly leave the priesthood.’
‘Why did he leave? What could’ve happened for him to just walk away from everything he knew?’
Manuela rose from his chair, walked to the largest bookcase, and scanned the titles on the spines with his index finger. He navigated a few rows before finding what he was looking for, pulling it from the shelf with considerable care.
Claire noticed it was a large burgundy-coloured faux leather book, its pages bulging. Manuela laid it upon a small table and thumbed through it carefully.
Now Claire could see folded pieces of old newspaper stuck crudely onto the yellowing pages. It was some sort of scrapbook.
After turning towards the middle of the book, he brought it over to her and placed it in her lap, before returning to his seat. Claire studied the pages, at first not really understanding.
She saw a picture cut from a newspaper of a teenage girl, around fifteen or sixteen years old, with large pretty features. Her eyes were a very dark shade of brown, almost black in appearance, with shoulder-length brown curly hair.
Claire could tell the girl would’ve been of average build from the size of her face and shoulders, but she was drawing conclusions from a head shot only.
Above the girl’s picture was a heading of “Local Girl Missing” in bold lettering. On the other page there were a few newspaper articles pasted into the book; all had large creases where they’d been read many times before they’d been secured in the scrapbook.
Claire noticed the largest one had been folded in half again to accommodate it within one page. She pulled open the fold.
‘Gently please,’ said Manuela, watching her closely. Claire ignored him as she began to read.
Heart of Haverbridge Thursday 11th Dec 2009
LOCAL GIRL MISSING
Fears are mounting for the safe return of missing local schoolgirl Rebecca Turner, who disappeared on Sunday. Rebecca (16) was last seen leaving her home for Shrovesbury Manor to study at her usual Bible class. Concerns were not raised until Rebecca failed to return home that evening.
Rebecca’s mother, Abigail Turner, first contacted police after repeated attempts to contact Rebecca on her mobile.
‘I tried for hours but her mobile kept diverting to voicemail,’ Abigail (47) told us. ‘I tried her friends but they hadn’t seen her. I contacted Father Manuela at the Manor, but he said my Rebecca hadn’t shown up for her Bible study class. It just isn’t like her. I fear the worst.’
Father Jeremy Manuela, resident and proprietor of Shrovesbury Manor, was unavailable for comment when Heart of Haverbridge went to press, but an official statement was released, reporting that those who work and attend Shrovesbury are in a state of shock for their ‘dear Rebecca’, and hope that the press and public appreciate that this is a difficult time for her family. They ask that they are given the privacy they need until Rebecca is brought safely home.
Eye-witness accounts, reporting to have seen Rebecca not far from Shrovesbury Park, have proved unreliable.
Haverbridge Police are continuing the search and ask anyone with any information to contact the incident room on non-emergency number 101, quoting reference H/12/3891. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.
Claire finished reading and looked at Manuela, who was staring at the door again. She skimmed through the other smaller articles on Rebecca and shook her head.
‘I don’t understand. There’s no mention of Father Hawthorne in these articles.’
Manuela sighed and looked at her, his face solemn.
‘Rebecca and David were very close. I’d even go as far as to say they were friends. He took her disappearance rather badly, blamed himself, although he had no way of knowing what could’ve happened to her. None of us did. All we know is that she didn’t turn up that day.’
‘Was that normal for her not to turn up?’
‘Other students, yes, but not Rebecca. She was a very bright and well-loved student. She took her Bible studies very seriously.’
Claire studied the face of the missing girl hard, trying to see if she could even remember the case. After much thought, she realised she didn’t. She tried to remember what case she was working at the end of 2009.
All Claire could recall was a major search for men involved in an armed robbery. Her time had been taken up working that case. A missing girl story would’ve meant nothing to her then and didn’t mean much to her now. She felt a slight twinge of guilt at her attitude.
‘Is Rebecca the reason Father Hawthorne left the priesthood?’
‘Yes. As I said, he took it badly.’
‘Was this alone enough for him to give up his life, his identity? Forgive me if I don’t seem to grasp this, but why leave?’
Manuela stared at her. His eyes seemed to be trying to read her mind, a look that even she found nerve-racking.
‘He felt he could’ve done more for her.’
‘But her disappearance wasn’t treated as suspicious. At least, it’s not mentioned here in these articles as being a possibility.’
‘Rebecca could be…easily led sometimes. It’s probable she ran away of her own accord. There were occasions when she’d go missing for a few hours. This was kept
from the press. Her mother thought it might make the police not take the disappearance seriously and stop looking for her. If you check your records, Chief Inspector, I think you’ll find that was the case.
‘Anyway, David felt he should’ve done more to save her from her own misguided nature.’ He reached for his teacup, the liquid now cold, but he finished it regardless.
Claire read the main article again.
‘The official statement given to the press at the time reads as if she were dead.’
Manuela shot her a nasty look. It took every ounce of strength to suppress the urge to smack her across the face. ‘She may as well be, all the pain she’s caused her family by disappearing. Sometimes it’s worse not knowing.’
‘No matter how bad the reality is?’
Manuela immediately stood up and glared down at her.
‘Forgive me, Chief Inspector, but I’m not comfortable talking about this. It’s too upsetting.’
He left the room and his footsteps could be heard thundering across the hallway towards the back of the Manor.
Claire gave it a few seconds before following him. She headed across the hall and past a huge staircase. She craned her neck to try to see past the landing above but realised she’d have to climb the stairs in order to see anything properly.
She found the kitchen with an extension built to the side of it, with large French windows leading out into part of the vast garden.
She let herself out onto an immaculately kept lawn, the grass a deep shade of green, with pretty flowers and bushes lining the borders and a very old sundial in the middle of the green.
Claire walked further from the Manor and saw Manuela’s head just disappear beyond her to the right.
She hurried along the lawn and followed him through to a small area hidden at the side of the Manor, complete with an elegant-looking bench, a small bird bath and beautiful rose bushes, flanked on one side by a lone tree. The tree offered some shade against the raging sun.
Claire fanned herself as a line of sweat trickled down her hairline. She raised her hand above her eyes and moved to stand beside Manuela under the shade of the tree.
For All Our Sins: A gripping thriller with a killer twist (DCI Claire Winters, Book 1) Page 13
