The Hunted Hare

by Fay Sampson

  “I hope so.”

  They walked away, brushing the lavender and sage bushes and releasing their fragrance. Aidan began to relax. The chef no longer seemed a threat.

  “He’s a racist,” he said, when they were out of earshot of Josef. “I bet all black people look the same to him.” He watched her crumble a lavender flower between her fingers. “I’m sorry. About last night. I was a complete idiot.”

  “Yes, you were!” She laughed and took his arm. “I wasn’t exactly a model of sanity myself. On Tuesday’s scenario, there were only two, or at the most three, of us who could have done it. I never did find out how handy Sian is with a bow. But I do know she cares a lot about Lorna. Perhaps too much.”

  “You think she might have…?”

  “She strikes me as a very determined lady. And practical. Physically strong, too. There weren’t many of us left in the house on Tuesday afternoon. But she was one.”

  Aidan pictured the plump, healthy face of the manager, in her bushranger’s outfit. Yes, if Sian had made up her mind that this was the only way to protect Lorna, it was credible. More than Josef’s wild theory about young Debbie French.

  Jenny squeezed his arm. “It’s Thursday. I nearly forgot. They have a healing Eucharist in the church at twelve. I’d like to go. It’s up to you whether you come as well.”

  Suddenly everything else fell away into insignificance. Thaddaeus’s murder. The web of suspicion around the handful of people in Pennant Melangell that day. The police investigation. He was back with that single imperative which had brought them to Pennant Melangell and the House of the Hare. Jenny was dying of cancer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  JENNY APPROACHED THE lychgate of the church with a strange feeling of homecoming. She had a sudden longing to be within the circling arms of its churchyard wall, to be sheltered under the spreading canopy of its massive yews. The sign outside said:

  WELCOME

  CROESO

  She did feel welcomed.

  She led the way into the church. Aidan and Melangell followed quietly. It had only been a short walk down the lane, but Jenny felt that she was stepping into another world. All the shock and violence at the House of the Hare, the police questioning, her suspicion of everyone around her, dropped away. There had been a church here for over a thousand years. Now, in the twenty-first century, there was still a group of faithful people who kept these services going.

  She smiled at the man who handed her an order of service and the hymnbook Mission Praise. Did he live in one of the few cottages in Pennant Melangell, or further afield?

  The three of them slipped into a pew with embroidered hassocks. Jenny’s showed St Melangell’s hare.

  The hare was everywhere. In modern sculptures set against the wall to her left. In the carving of the story above the screen that separated the nave from the chancel. Even in the little Easter garden of slate and flowers at the back of the church, in what seemed to be the children’s corner. In Pennant Melangell, the hare was far more than the Easter Bunny. It was a symbol of the persecuted, the hunted, finding sanctuary under the skirts of the saint. Jenny felt in need of sanctuary now.

  She bent her head in prayer.

  When she lifted it, she looked more carefully at the small congregation in front of her. That middle-aged couple with walking sticks propped against the side of the pew. Hikers, who had made this part of a pilgrimage. There were others she did not recognize. Locals? Holidaymakers? Wounded souls seeking the healing Pennant Melangell offered?

  She gave a tiny shiver. She was approaching delicate ground. This service was designated as a laying on of hands. She was not sure what to expect.

  She turned her head to look across the aisle, and gave a start. Colin and Rachel Ewart sat with their heads bowed. She had not entirely left the House of the Hare behind her, after all. But of course they would be here. Rachel’s chronically painful back was what had brought them to this place. Hadn’t Colin Ewart ranted about the false claims Thaddaeus had seemed to make about its healing powers? And hadn’t Rachel begged him to wait until this Thursday service? Her own ambivalent feelings about such healing services dropped away as she prayed for Rachel to receive the relief from pain she needed.

  She looked down at her order of service for communion and was delighted to find that it was in both English and Welsh.

  Then two things happened simultaneously. Mother Joan appeared in a shining white chasuble over a white cassock. The dumpy woman with the scraped-back hair was transformed into the eucharistic priest. Jenny had felt a faint regret that it was not the regular Priest-Guardian of the shrine this week, but suddenly it did not matter. Mother Joan was one with all the priests who had ministered here for a millennium and more.

  And from the corner of her eye she saw a latecomer enter the church and slip into one of the back pews. Lorna.

  She chided herself for her instinct of surprise. Why had she assumed that the church would hold no consolation for the teenager? If ever anyone needed healing of the heart, it was Lorna.

  They were on their feet now, singing the first hymn.

  The service proceeded. Familiar liturgy in English. Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. Alternating with the music of the Welsh words. Gogoniant yn y goruchaf i Dduw. Glory to God in the highest.

  St Melangell would have spoken a form of Welsh.

  Her nervousness was growing. They were coming to the part of the service which was not familiar to her, which marked this out as different from any other Eucharist.

  Mother Joan stood on the step of the chancel and made her invitation.

  “Today we offer the laying on of hands and anointing with oil. If any of you would like to receive this blessing, I invite you to come forward now.”

  Jenny felt a momentary surprise. She hadn’t used the word “healing”.

  There was a waiting stillness. Then the man who had given her a hymnbook stepped out into the aisle and went forward to kneel before her. Did he do this every week? Was it his role to encourage others? The couple who had come in walking gear were next, determined, as though they had come for this. Two women, from either side of the aisle. And the Ewarts. Jenny found herself on her feet, working her way past Melangell and Aidan. She joined the little procession behind Rachel.

  She was not the last. She sensed the quiet steps of Lorna behind her.

  She knelt at the rail and bent her head. Mother Joan worked her way along the line, one by one. For each, the threefold blessing and the anointing with oil.

  She came to Jenny. Her hands were warm on the scarfed head. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  “Amen,” Jenny answered.

  She felt the priest’s thumb, dipped in oil, trace the cross upon her forehead.

  She was aware of a strange excitement, a sense of standing poised on the brink. Of what? Could the impossible be happening, and the malignant growth of her cancer be stopped? Or was the blessing she had received the serenity and faith to face her death?

  Whatever it was, she felt shaken, changed, as she rose to her feet.

  Had it made a difference to Rachel, to Lorna?

  Her eyes were cast down as she walked back to her seat. It was only as she turned into the pew, where Aidan had risen to make room for her, that she raised her eyes and saw him.

  DS Lincoln, the chief inspector’s sidekick, sitting quiet and observant in the rearmost corner of the church, by the Easter garden.

  Had he slipped out in his lunch break to take the bread and wine of communion which Mother Joan was about to offer, or had he been detailed to follow Lorna wherever she went?

  All the fears she thought she had left behind her at the House of the Hare came flooding back. The horrible death of Thaddaeus. The suspicion of everyone around her. The rash defiance that had brought suspicion on herself. She glanced surreptitiously at Aidan. Had he really eliminated that blackest thought of all?

  She exchanged the kiss of peace wit
h him before the communion, and shook hands with other people, but she did not feel at peace. She moved forward with the rest of the congregation to receive the bread and wine. This time, Aidan came with her.

  She was just rising from her knees at the communion rail when she realized that Sergeant Lincoln was also kneeling two places further along. She was looking down on the bald patch in his black hair.

  It was a jolt to her perceptions. Was he not here on police duty, after all?

  When the service was over, and Mother Joan pronounced the blessing, Jenny looked cautiously over her shoulder.

  DS Lincoln was looking directly at her.

  Her heart was thumping uncomfortably. Was it possible that he had not followed Lorna here, but her?

  Mother Joan called for the congregation’s attention. “I’m actually a visitor here myself this week. A few of us are going back to the St Melangell Centre for a light lunch. If you would like to join us, we should be delighted to see you.”

  Aidan raised his eyebrows at Jenny. “Do you fancy going?”

  “I’d like to see inside the Centre. But I’m not sure if I can take much more of Colin.”

  She could see the Ewarts at the door, responding cordially to the invitation.

  “He looks in a better humour today. Not blaming the rest of the world for his troubles.”

  “Poor Rachel! As if she didn’t have enough to put up with.”

  Jenny was aware of another voice, close to her elbow. “Mrs Davison! We’d like a word with you this afternoon.”

  So the police sergeant had been watching her. Was that why he had followed her to the church? It seemed extreme. She would be back at the House of the Hare this afternoon.

  “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t help blushing guiltily. “Was I supposed to tell you I was going to church?”

  “No, not at all. We know where to find you.” The words were blandly polite, but she could not interpret the seriousness in his eyes.

  “Do you want me to come back now?”

  “I think we can spare you time to have lunch first. Are you going to the St Melangell Centre?”

  On an impulse, she answered, “Yes.” Why did she feel something threatening in his interest?

  She was even more disturbed when he fell into step behind the Davisons on the short walk up the lane. She watched Lorna go on ahead of them, back no doubt to the House of the Hare. But when the others reached the stone and slate cottage, flying a wind vane of the hare, they turned in at the gate. Sergeant Lincoln came, too.

  The airy Centre looked welcoming. A large room had been created at the back of the original cottage, with plenty of chairs ranged around the walls. On low tables in the middle, a simple buffet lunch had been laid out. Melangell seized eagerly a slice of pizza and a chocolate cake. But Jenny was gripped with uneasiness about why the detective sergeant should be here.

  She was relieved when he moved away from her to talk to a small woman bringing more food from the kitchen. She was perhaps in her sixties, grey-haired, with a Shetland jumper and a light tweed skirt in soft heathery shades of mauve and green. She reminded Jenny a little of her own mother.

  Suddenly the truth struck her. Was everyone here a potential murderer? All except, perhaps, the two hikers? These people had been in or near Pennant Melangell on the day of the murder. Thaddaeus’s building plans must have impacted on all of them. How many of them had joined Caradoc Lewis’s opposition? Any one of these gentle, hospitable people might have had a motive. Someone had killed him.

  To her surprise, Colin Ewart was smiling benignly and handing round plates of cheese sandwiches and chicken drumsticks. Jenny helped herself absentmindedly before she realized that she was not hungry.

  She heard the woman in the tweed skirt say, smiling up at the detective, “Freda Rawlinson. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to tell you very much. I only moved into the Tanat Valley a year ago.”

  Mother Joan came and sat beside Jenny. “We met before, my dear. In the church on Monday. And then yesterday I saw your husband in the churchyard and he gave me the terrible news of Mr Brown’s death. Shocking.”

  “Do you know Caradoc Lewis? Did the church back his bid to stop Thaddaeus’s plans? I saw him come into St Melangell’s yesterday. I thought he might be in the congregation today.”

  The man on the other side of Mother Joan broke into a roar of laughter. “Not him! Old Caradoc is a pagan, and proud of it. He’d take over the church and turn it into a goddess-worshipping temple if he could.”

  “Quite so,” Mother Joan agreed. “I don’t know the man, but I had a run-in with him myself. He’s published this book which he wants to put in the shop in the tower room. His alternative version of the St Melangell story. According to him, she wasn’t a Christian saint at all. And far from sheltering the hare when the prince was hunting it, she was the one who was being hunted. When the prince got close enough to seize her, she turned into a hare. He thinks the hare and the girl are one. The girl is a goddess, and the hare is sacred. It’s the goddess in animal form.”

  “Well, yes,” Jenny said, remembering the research for her own book. “There are quite a few old myths which go like that. I’d say there was something in it. That the hare was a sacred animal in pagan Celtic times. And then along came the real-life Christian Melangell, and the hare story got transferred to her.”

  “Hmmph, well. I told him I didn’t think his book was appropriate for a church bookstall. He wasn’t best pleased. He has a bit of a temper, your Mr Lewis.” Mother Joan turned to the man beside her.

  “True enough. It doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of Caradoc. But we were glad to join forces with him when Mr Brown started those plans for the House of the Hare.” He looked across at Jenny apologetically. “Sorry. I believe you’re staying there.”

  “Yes. And it’s lovely. Or it was until…”

  “Bad business, that. You wouldn’t believe that something like that could happen here. This has always been known as a place of peace and healing. But murder?”

  Jenny’s eyes strayed back to the detective. He had finished talking to the woman with the tweed skirt. He was watching Jenny again. He gave a lift of his eyebrows and a jerk of his head towards the door, as if to say that it was time to go.

  Jenny got to her feet, unsure what it was about DS Lincoln that made her feel so troubled. Why bother to follow her to the church and here to the St Melangell Centre, as if he didn’t want to let her out of his sight?

  Chapter Seventeen

  SERGEANT LINCOLN WALKED along the lane to the house with the Davisons. No one talked. Melangell kept looking up at the detective with a considering frown. Jenny waited for her to launch one of her devastating questions, such as, “Do you think Mummy killed Mr Brown?” But she stayed quiet.

  In the foyer, flooded with light from the window on the stairs, Sergeant Lincoln turned to her. “I think we need to have that talk, Mrs Davison.”

  Jenny’s alarm must have shown in her face as she looked at Aidan. A sudden concern leapt into his eyes. Had he really thought this was just routine questioning? Had Aidan not wondered why the detective had followed her to church and on to the Centre? But he could see now that something was wrong.

  “Does it have to be straight away?” he asked the sergeant. “My wife’s unwell. She needs to rest.”

  “I shan’t keep her very long, sir. And I can assure you it’s important that I talk to her.”

  His voice was level. Small dark eyes regarded Aidan steadily. Until now, he had been in the shadow of DCI Denbigh, taking notes. Jenny had hardly noticed him as an individual. She studied the black, receding hair, the lean, somewhat highly coloured face, the limbs that seemed too long for his casual sports jacket and trousers. About forty, she guessed. Without quite knowing why, she sensed the restrained energy of a man who would rather be physically active.

  She excused herself and went to the ladies’ cloakroom, to give herself a few moments to steady herself. When she came back, Aidan and Melangel
l had gone.

  The sergeant smiled at her without warmth in his eyes. “I don’t think we need to turn Miss Jenkins out of her office again. It’s a fine day. Why don’t we find a seat in the garden?”

  As they crossed the lawn, her nervousness grew. A sense that something was not right. She looked around in a sudden realization.

  “Where’s Inspector Denbigh? Shouldn’t he be here?”

  “He’s otherwise engaged.”

  She thought of what Aidan had told her about the larger incident room in Newtown, which must be the hub of activity. Of the house fire in Welshpool, and the woman who had died. A wife-killing, PC Watkins had confidently predicted. Most murders were committed by someone close to the victim.

  Was that true of Thaddaeus?

  Or for money, Constable Roberts had added.

  What had that to do with Jenny?

  At the far end of the lawn, paths wound away among the bushes. Jenny knew from her own explorations that there were seats in quiet corners, out of sight of the house. She looked back over her shoulder with growing unease.

  Sian had found some croquet hoops and Aidan was instructing Melangell where to put them. He lifted his hand in a casual wave. There was no reason why her heart should be hammering so hard at the thought of entering one of those hidden pathways alone with this man. He was a police officer, wasn’t he? Why was her alarm growing?

  Lincoln led the way round a clump of bright orange azaleas. A curved stone bench had been set beside a small lily pond. He motioned her to take a seat.

  The stone was cold against the backs of her legs.

  It was too like the shrubbery from which Thaddaeus had stumbled to his death.

  “I’m sorry for the cloak-and-dagger business. But I didn’t want to say this in front of your daughter. Have you seen this morning’s newspapers?”

  The question startled her. “No. The nearest newsagent is miles away. And we didn’t ask Sian to order one.”