by Rachel Green
Rain and sleet made him laugh as it thundered in the gunnels and out through the mouths of the gargoyles mounted at each corner of the tower.
He liked spring better, though, when the soft greens spread across the land in a bountiful explosion of life; an affirmation of the miracle of God’s creation. Most of all he liked the autumn, when the russet hues of the thousands of trees that dotted town and countryside sparkled like jewels in the morning light.
Everyone should have a room with a view and this was the Reverend’s. He always agreed, one was nearer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth. Being at the top of the tower made him nearer still, for here he was above Creation, seeing an almost God’s-eye view of it all.
He could even see his house from here. The church had long ago sold the rectory and he rented a small two-bed terrace from a local landowner. He stepped to the crenelations and gazed along the line of the Acacia Road. There was the roof of his house, his tiny garden, his kitchen window…
Reverend Mackenzie frowned. There was a man climbing through it.
“Hoy!” he shouted. “That’s my house.”
He was too far away from anyone to be heard. Even if someone had been standing directly below the tower, they would have had difficulty in making out the words, but his gesticulations would have spoken volumes.
He patted his pockets, searching for his mobile phone. Of all the days to leave it in the vestry! He took a last look toward his house and hurried for the ladder down to the belfry and the stairs for the apse, reaching the bottom of the steps in record speed and emerging from a thin wooden door next to the votive candles. Hurrying to the vestry, he dithered between his mobile phone and the fixed line one. It wasn’t official church business, but surely the bishop would forgive him the transgression under the circumstances. He plumbed for the fixed line.
“Emergency services. What service do you require?” The voice was well spoken, as if the speaker had passed an oral examination to be considered for the job.
“Police please. Someone’s…”
“You’re calling from Laverstone two-three-nine-eight. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Please hurry. There’s…”
“And your location is the Church of Saint Just on High Street, Laverstone?”
“That’s right. There’s…”
“Putting you through now, sir.” The phone line hissed and crackled for a moment and then began ringing again. It was picked up by another woman with the soft twang of a Hertfordshire lass. “Laverstone police. How can we help?”
“There’s-a-man-breaking-into-my-house,” said the Reverend in a rush. “Seventeen Acacia Road.”
“Calm down sir. Let me take the details. Seventeen Acacia Road, did you say?”
“That’s right. I saw him breaking in through the kitchen window. If you hurry you can catch him in the act.”
“Can I confirm that is your address, sir? How is it you’ve spotted this intruder, if you’re not at the location?”
“I was on the church roof. Look, if you dispatch…”
“Why were you on the roof, sir? Were you breaking into the church?”
“What? No! I’m the vicar. Will you please…”
“And your name, please, sir?”
“Purvis Mackenzie. Reverend Purvis Mackenzie.”
“Very well Reverend. We will dispatch a patrol unit immediately.”
“Thank you.” Purvis put the phone down, exhaling slowly. He felt like he’d run a mile through molasses, he was that exhausted. He had to get back to the house, though, and hurried to lock up the church. When he was a boy there had been no need to lock a church, but the moment he forgot he could guarantee vandalism. Only last year someone had stolen the leaded windows from the back of the vestry and replaced them with modern double glazing units. When he’d complained to the police about it, all he’d got was a bemused sergeant, who couldn’t understand what the fuss was about since he’d ended up better off than he started. He couldn’t understand the concept of history and tradition and ‘in keeping with the character of the building’.
The story had featured in the local paper. That had brought it to the attention of the planning office, who had issued a court order to replace the double glazing with a facsimile of the missing leaded glass.
It had taken fourteen weeks of Bingo on Saturdays, tombolas and jumble sales to raise the seven-hundred pounds for facsimile windows. It was only by the help of a local benefactor, that the windows had been fitted at no cost to the church. Purvis didn’t have the heart after that, to object to the exquisite picture of a bookshop in stained glass which displayed the name of the benefactor’s establishment, Alexandrian Gold, in prominent lettering.
By the time Purvis had turned the great iron key in the oak doors at the front of the church, he was gratified to see a police helicopter overhead. He was less gratified when it began to circle the church and two patrol cars drew into the car park, followed by a red Jeep which pulled up on the street outside the lichgate.
“Reverend Mackenzie?” said the first police officer to emerge from the cars.
“Yes? You’re in the wrong place. You’re supposed to be at my house, not the church.”
“This is where we were sent, sir.” He consulted his notebook. “You’ve a man on the roof trying to break in?”
“That was me,” said Purvis.
“But you’re the vicar.”
“I know.” Purvis closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Look,” he said. “I was on the roof, taking in the view and I saw, from my vantage point, someone breaking into my house on Acacia Road.”
The officer looked up at the tower. “From up there?”
Purvis followed his gaze. “That’s right.”
“Here, Pete.” The officer gestured the driver of the other patrol car. “This bloke says he can see Acacia Road from up there.”
“Can he?” Pete looked up as well. “Can you see Maple Drive an’ all?”
“Probably.” Purvis looked from one to the other. “Look, I’ll give you a tour in a minute, if you like. Now will you please go round to my house at Seventeen Acacia Road and catch the burglar?”
“Soon as we report this situation is cleared, yes.”
“What situation?”
The first officer, whose name was PC Mike Brandsford according to the plastic identity card on his belt, beckoned to the driver of the Jeep. Another officer, this one in plain clothes, got out and came up to the group. He held a clipboard in his hand.
“Do we know the name of the subject?” he said, pulling a pen out of his top pocket.
“Reverend Purvis Mackenzie,” said Mike.
“Oh a vicar?” The newcomer didn’t seem surprised. “We get a lot of them. I blame it on all that ‘Nearer my God to thee’ business myself. How long’s he been up there?”
“Who?” asked Purvis.
The man studied him before replying. “Are you a friend of his?”
“Who?” asked Purvis again.
“This jumping vicar. This Reverend Mackenzie.”
“I’m Reverend Mackenzie.” Purvis vowed never to call the local police again, at least not until they were old enough to grow facial hair.
This information surprised Clipboard Man. “Brothers are you? That’s unusual. To have brothers of the cloth, I mean, not having a brother. That’s pretty common, actually. Come to think of it, aren’t all vicars brothers of the cloth?”
“Look.” Purvis buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath. He held it while he scrubbed his face with his palm then expelled it in one gasp. “I’m Reverend Mackenzie. I don’t have a brother and there is no-one about to jump off the church roof. I called the police because I saw someone breaking into my house at Seventeen Acacia Road, and I’d like you to go and catch him please, though
he’s probably had time to not only steal the television and my collection of brass rubbings but put the house on the market and sell it to a Londoner by now.”
“No jumper?” Clipboard man looked disappointed and took out a police radio. “Hotel India to base.”
The radio crackled. “Base. Go ahead, Hotel India.”
“Call off Skybird. False alarm.”
“Roger, Hotel India. Base out.”
Clipboard put his radio back into his pocket. “Shame that,” he said. “I bet there’s a good view from up there.”
“He’s going to give us a tour,” said PC Pete.
“Really? Can I tag along?”
“Sure.” This was PC Mike. “You can see Pete’s house, an’ all apparently.”
“Not until you’ve investigated the burglary at my house,” Purvis said. The whole conversation was becoming worse than a farce. It was reminiscent of the scene in Waiting for Godot where Vladimir and Estragon argue about where it was they were supposed to be.
“We already have,” said Pete. “We sent the other car over there. Hang on a sec.” He leaned his head to one side and spoke into the radio attached at his shoulder. “Tango Charlie to base.”
“Go ahead Tango Charlie.”
“What’s the situation re code five, Acacia Road?”
There were several moments of static before the voice came back. “Perpetrator arrested and detained. Board-up request issued, over.”
“Roger base. Thanks, love.” Pete turned to Purvis. “It looks like you were right,” he said. “We’ve apprehended the burglar and he’s on his way to a cell as we speak.”
“That’s marvellous.” Purvis looked up as the helicopter veered away and headed back to Salisbury, twenty miles away. “Who was it?”
“We’re not at liberty to disclose that sir.” Pete rubbed his hands. “Now how about this tour?”
“Does it have to be now? I want to go and see what damage there is to my house.”
“We could come back tomorrow,” said Mike.
“I can’t do tomorrow. I’ve got to be at a conference.” Clipboard man didn’t appear to be too happy with this.
“Thursday then.” Mike looked at the other two. “We’ll come back on Thursday, Vicar, and you can show us round then.”
“I’d be delighted, gentlemen. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my house.”
“Certainly sir. Glad to be of assistance.” Pete almost saluted, but contented himself with a smile and a wave at Purvis’ retreating back.
When he reached his house fifteen minutes later, Purvis was stopped by another pair of police officers. “Can I ask you what business you have here, sir?” said the woman.
“I live here,” said Purvis. “I reported the break-in in the first place.”
“Can you give us anything to support that? Passport, driving license, or anything else to prove who you are?”
“In the house,” said Purvis. I can show you it inside.”
“No offence, sir.” The woman smiled. “Have you got any identification on you at all?”
“Apart from my collar?” Purvis took a deep breath. “Not really. There’s not much I need my wallet for at the church. I’ve got my video club card. Will that do? I was going to rent something for tonight.”
“Don’t speak too soon. You might be renting a hotel room yet.” The other copper, the one who looked as if he was due to sit his GCSEs’ laughed.
“Why? Is there much damage?” Purvis pulled out the cardboard identification slip for the Triple S video club and handed it to the PC.
“A bit,” said the male officer. “Not too bad, though, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“That we had to break the door down to get in. Don’t worry,” he said seeing Purvis’ concerned look. “We’ve called the boarding company.”
Purvis sighed. “Who was the burglar? One of the estate lads?”
“Actually no.” He pulled out his notebook. “It was a woman. She said that you knew her. Name of Valerie Quarter.”
Chapter Six
Valerie finished the tea and slid the cup across the table. “Why, then, if your religion predates mine, does it echo the tenets of my faith?”
Meinwen gave a tight lipped smile and shook her head. “Your book is based upon a thousand oral traditions of religions across the world,” she said. “Your crucifixion story is a retelling, in the concepts prevalent at the time, of the death and rebirth of the everlasting king, mixed with the story of Wotan being chained to the trunk of Yggdrasill, the world tree. Saying that my religion imitates yours is like saying that a mother is emulating a child.”
“But God specifically stated that man should have no other gods before Him.”
“Which proves He knew other gods existed and wanted people to worship Him instead.” Meinwen chuckled and gathered the two cups to wash in the sink.
“We’ll agree to disagree, I think.” Valerie stood, pushing the chair under the table and looking toward the shop door. “It’s mid-afternoon, I ought to get going. I haven’t found anywhere to stay yet.”
“You can stay with me until you find your feet,” Meinwen said. “I’ve got a spare room if you don’t mind staying in a house full of false idols.”
“Are you sure?” Valerie frowned, uncertain if God would approve of such a dwelling. “Only for a few days, until I find somewhere. I do have a little money but it’s tied up at present.”
“It’s no trouble.” Meinwen dried the cups as she talked. “I don’t need any housekeeping or anything.”
“You’re a good woman,” said Valerie. “Few Christians would offer their house to a stranger.”
Meinwen put the cups away in the cupboard. “I don’t think you’d abuse my hospitality. You’ll probably feel at home anyway. The house next door is owned by the Catholic Church. Father Roberts and I used to have quite interesting discussions.”
“Oh? Is he still there?” Valerie fingered the rosary in her pocket.
“Not for a year or more,” said Meinwen. “It turned out he’d murdered two people and done a runner. He’s still wanted by the police.”
“A priest committed a mortal sin? That’s inconceivable. He’ll go to Hell.”
“If he believes in it strongly enough, yes.” Meinwen led Valerie back into the shop, crossing to the desk she pulled a business card from the stack. She wrote her address on the back. “It’s near the park,” she said. “About fifteen minutes walk from here. If you get lost ask for The Firs. The priest’s house is next door. Mine’s the cottage set back from the road.”
“Thanks.” Valerie, uncertain of the etiquette of the situation, bobbed a curtsey. “What time should I come?”
“I close the shop at five, so anytime after six. That’ll give me time to pick up any discarded knickers.” Meinwen smiled at the surprise on Valerie’s face. “Just joking.”
“After six.” Valerie turned to leave. “I’ll see you then.”
The chimes over the door rang once as she left but Meinwen spent several minutes looking after her, lost in thought.
* * * *
Valerie followed the details of the address on the card and stared at the mock-Tudor cottage before turning to inspect the Priest’s house next door. Both were dark and silent, but tempted as she was to knock on the door of The Firs, she declined. If she was going to speak to a man of the cloth, it would be better to talk to someone she already knew.
Checking the position of the sun, she headed toward the park, stopping off at The Craft Box to purchase some tools. That took care of most of her thirty pounds. She put the bag in her pocket and walked past the stone lions that guarded the gate and down to the lake.
There were swans on the water, gliding silently over the surface as if they were tiny ship
s with folded sails. There was a pair of them, each checking the other’s position on the lake and that no food source had been located. They glided toward Valerie as she walked on the beaten gravel, enjoying the twin sensations of sun on her face and wind at her back.
“I have nothing for you,” she said, smiling at their petulant expressions. “Go pester someone else.”
The birds did no such thing, continuing to view her expectantly as if she could produce a loaf of bread from her pocket. Valerie turned her back on them and walked to the bench with a view of the distant bridge.
Taking her purchases out, she set out the knife, engraving point and pin file on the bench at her side. Her rosary glittered in the sunshine, and she ran through the whole litany of prayer once before holding the stones up to her eye and checking for flaws. There were none. The jade was exquisite, each bead perfectly smooth and polished under the skilful hand of a long-dead polisher.
Of the fifty beads in the rosary, Valerie counted off thirty-one and began on the next, holding the bead between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, as her right inscribed a sigil into the Jade. There, then, was the memory of James Weston who had died, according to the police report, by slipping on the wet bathroom floor and hitting his head on the sink, causing enough twist to break his neck. Valerie could still feel his taut muscles slacken under her fingers.
The thirty-first bead was marked with a representation of Annabelle Crosby, victim of a drunk driver who nudged her bicycle into oncoming traffic. She was preceded by Peter Hendricks, suicide by cutting. Father Hastock, impaled by a sword, Felicia Turling, a splinter of wood to the jugular…
She altered that one. The woman had survived so wasn’t technically a kill. As the sun sank into the horizon, Valerie worked her way backwards through the list until she reached the first bead of the ring, before the train of five mysteries that led to the silver crucifix at the end.
