by Fay Sampson
Before he could do so, the inspector’s grey eyes narrowed. “No Mrs Davison with you? I should have thought she would have been particularly anxious about the church being on fire. Having written a book about it. Where is she?” The final question was fired like an accusation.
Aidan felt a surge of anger. Of course he knew that DS Lincoln had warned Jenny to be careful. That she might be in danger if the murderer suspected she knew something. But Jenny had cared as much about the burning church as he had. She had wanted him to run and help.
“She’s just behind me. We’d gone for a walk. Just a short one across the meadows. We met Caradoc Lewis and Lorna. There was a bit of an argument about Lewis’s theories about St Melangell’s hare and Jenny’s. Then we saw the fire. She and Melangell are on their way as fast as they can.” His eyes went past the inspector, searching along the lane. “I ran ahead.”
“Leaving your wife with Caradoc Lewis?”
Aidan burst back at him, “No! I’m not an idiot! We’d left him behind. But what I meant to tell you was… The fire was in the bookshop, not the saint’s shrine. Jenny’s book was there. Is someone trying to send a message to her?”
But for all his protests he broke away, striding back the way he had come. He was praying for a sight of his wife and daughter.
Chapter Twenty-three
WHEN HE SAW MELANGELL standing in the road and Jenny emerging from the path, Aidan felt a sag of relief. He ran to meet them.
Jenny looked drawn and anxious. She burst out before Aidan had reached them, “The church! Is the fire bad? Can they save it?”
He tried to control his breathing.
“The fire service is here. They’ve got a hose on it. Most of the contents of the tower have gone, I should think. But there are no more flames coming out at the top. The fear is that the fire will have got into the roof beams and could spread up the nave.”
Jenny grasped his arm to steady herself. “I shouldn’t care so much. It’s only a building, after all. And the tower was rebuilt in the nineteenth century. But the thought of that screen going up in flames, of the shrine being damaged again, after all that work of piecing it together… It hurts. Do they know how it started? An electrical fault? Or was it started deliberately?”
“It’s too early to tell. But the general feeling seems to be that someone came in and set fire to the bookshop.”
Some of the tension seemed to go out of Jenny. “That’s bad enough. But at least it’s the less important part. Not the shrine and the grave. Books and cards can be replaced.”
“Not the local history exhibition on the staircase and the upstairs room.”
“No… no, you’re right. It must be terrible for the people here. Who would do such a thing?”
“The most obvious person who springs to mind is Caradoc Lewis, isn’t it? After the fuss he made to Mother Joan about not stocking his book in the shop. I’m afraid yours has gone up in smoke.”
He watched her thinking about this for some moments.
“You think he’d stick at the shop? He wouldn’t get back at the church by striking the part that means most to them? St Melangell’s shrine?”
“Maybe, whatever he says, he recognizes that as a holy place. Even though he’s more interested in ancient Celtic goddesses and hares than seventh-century saints.”
“Hmm. But did you notice? Lorna was just as keen as we were to rush back and see what was happening. But he stopped her.”
“If he’d started it, he’d want the flames to get as good a hold as possible before anyone put them out.”
She turned her tired, grey-blue eyes to his. “But why does he have such a hold over her? Why did she let him stop her?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was Thaddaeus she was frightened of. Now we seem to be saying it’s Caradoc who has a hold over her. How?”
“He seems a very forceful man.”
“But why is Lorna important to him?”
They were walking back now, to the scene of urgent activity around the church. A police patrol car had arrived, to add to the remaining members of the murder enquiry team. The firemen seemed to be busy inside the building. That must be a good sign, thought Aidan. At least it’s still safe enough, for the professionals, anyway.
Chief Inspector Denbigh was still standing, hands in pockets, observing from the edge of the crowd of spectators. He turned his head as they came up. A smile of visible relief warmed his usually lugubrious face. “Ah, Mrs Davison. You’re quite well, I hope? Your little expedition didn’t prove too much?”
“I came back rather more quickly than I’d planned to do. I think I’d like to sit down.”
She eased herself on to the low wall of the car park. She’s in pain, he thought. But she won’t tell us. She’s shut it away into a compartment of her mind, because other things are more important to her.
Aidan, like the rest of the crowd, was watching the church intently. At every moment he was fearing to see the puff of smoke that would indicate that the fire had crept along the roof, under the slates, to burst out far away from the tower, at the most sacred end of the church.
But Inspector Denbigh had his back to the church. His attention was all on Jenny.
“Mr Lewis? How far away did you meet him?”
“Across the river. Near that other waterfall. Pistyll Cablyd. We were trespassing, actually. It’s beyond the public footpath.”
“And he was there?”
“Coming towards it. From Capel-y-Cwm, where he lives.”
“Not from this side?”
“No.”
“And Miss Brown was with him, coming the same way?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm. That’s very interesting. So we’ll need the fire investigators to tell us when the blaze may have started.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. If he was half a mile away, or more…”
Denbigh sighed. “My job would be a great deal easier if there were just one clearly marked suspect with a placard saying ‘GUILTY’ hung round his neck. Meanwhile, I can only repeat what my detective sergeant has told you. Be careful. Keep close to your husband.”
The part of Aidan’s mind that was listening to their conversation winced. Had he really thought that anything he could do at the church was important enough to make him leave Jenny still close to a man who, at the very least, was jealous that she had succeeded where he had failed? But if Caradoc hadn’t set the fire, was there another reason why he might be dangerous?
A whoosh of indrawn breath from all the crowd commanded his attention. He turned back to see a coil of black smoke drifting skyward from the middle of the roof. The fire officers swung their hoist away from the tower. But they still had to train their hose across the churchyard. Aidan, like everyone else, was holding his breath.
Something caught his arm. He looked down into Melangell’s upturned, anxious face.
“Daddy! What’s wrong? The church is on fire and you’re not taking any photographs.”
He stared down at her blankly, while his mind took in the significance of her words.
It was true. He felt the emptiness at his side, where his camera bag usually hung. Ever since his teens, he had picked it up and taken it with him, almost without thinking. But today he had set off across the meadows without it, and not even noticed its absence until now. Only two days ago, he had leaned over the shocking corpse of Thaddaeus Brown, mentally framing photographs, because that was what he had done all his professional life.
But Melangell was right. Another drama was happening in front of him, and it had not occurred to him to record it on his camera. He shook his head, trying to convince himself that he had had more important things to do. Helping with the bucket chain. Clearing the car park for the fire crew. But he had not even missed it.
He felt a sickening fear. Was he to lose everything now? Jenny? His instinct for photography? What would there be left to make life worth living?
Just Melangell.
He tried to shape a grin for
her. “No. I’m not, am I? I’ve got more important things on my mind.”
“He’s taking photographs.”
Aidan swung round. His muscles clenched. The remembered figure of Marcus Coutts, in his tan leather jacket and beige slacks, was busy snapping the burning church. As Aidan watched, stiffening with resentment, the photo-journalist let his camera drop on its neck strap, and turned avidly to question Jenny.
Chapter Twenty-four
JENNY WAS STARTLED by the voice beside her. “I don’t believe in coincidences, do you? Two calls in one week? ‘Get your backside over to Pennant Melangell.’ I mean, who’d ever come out here but a bunch of religious nutters and some knobbly kneed hikers? And now a murder and arson in the same week. Coincidence? Do me a favour.”
The young man must have been in his twenties, but there were still pimples on his face. Still, the leather jacket looked expensive. And she knew enough about cameras from Aidan to know that the Leica hung round his neck had cost a fair bit. She recognized, with renewed distaste, the journalist Marcus Coutts.
“Yes. It’s bad luck, isn’t it?”
“Luck, my granny’s bedsocks.” His blue eyes narrowed greedily. “You’re staying at this new House of the Hare. Where someone topped the boss man. And you were there at the time. Bet that’s put the kybosh on your holiday.”
“I saw that disgusting article you wrote. As if I knew who the murderer was. And it was only partly a holiday. We came to visit the shrine.”
“Oh, dearie me. And here it is, burning before your eyes.”
Before she knew what was happening, he snapped her face, close up. She rose to her feet, frightened and furious.
“I didn’t give you permission to do that! And I think the fire brigade are getting it under control.”
“Do you, darling? I rather think that’s smoke coming out halfway along the roof.”
He swung his camera round and photographed the new drift of smoke.
“This’ll be one for the nationals. Famous church burns down. Grief-stricken author watches.”
She wanted to protest that he was seeing Thaddaeus’s tragic death and the destruction of an ancient and precious church solely in terms of the money he could get for his story. Then she remembered, with a twist of guilt, that Aidan, too, supplemented his income from the photographs he took to illustrate books like her own with better-paying news-shots when he could.
She started to move away. But there was a hand on her arm, detaining her.
“Must have been pretty spooky in that house after it happened. Everybody looking at everyone else, wondering who did it. They arrested the girl, didn’t they? His niece.”
“Yes, and they let her go.”
“She’ll come into a pretty penny, though, won’t she? Is it true she’s his only relative?”
“They’ve only just opened the House of the Hare. I think there are still some debts to pay off.”
Instantly, she regretted it. Marcus Coutts seized on this scrap of information. Out whipped the notebook.
“And just who did he owe it to? Don’t tell me. That creepy pair in the Jag?”
“Excuse me. I have to go.”
“So there’s still money owing on that fancy building? Pity whoever it was didn’t set fire to that instead of the church. I bet they’ve got it insured…”
“Look, we don’t know it’s arson. Couldn’t it be a fault in the wiring?”
“That’s not what the guys are saying.” He nodded at the fire crew. “They seem to reckon it was probably deliberate. Now who would want to do a thing like that?”
“There are plenty of fire-raisers who think it’s fun to start a blaze.”
Coutts’s eyes swung round the car park. They had a more intelligent look now. “They do say that an arsonist loves to come back to the scene and see the havoc he’s created. The flames and the fire engines. All the excitement. And he knows it was all his doing.”
Jenny didn’t answer. Well, she thought, that makes pretty well the whole population of Pennant Melangell suspect. Everyone had turned out to help. Even a guest like Aidan from the House of the Hare. She made her own search of the faces around her.
Not the Ewarts. They must have gone out for the afternoon, after lunch at the Centre.
Another absence struck her for the first time. Where was Mother Joan? She had presumably driven away when her duties at the church were over.
Even as she thought that, there was a squeal of brakes. A small, pale blue Honda shot into the car park in a spray of gravel. It only just missed the fire engine. Mother Joan leapt out. She had changed her clerical garb for a floral shirt and grey trousers. But a nun-like scarf still bound her head. Jenny’s hand strayed to the one covering her own bald scalp. The trousers made the dumpy figure of the priest look broader still. Her face was haggard and distraught.
“Let me through!” she demanded of the policeman guarding the plastic tape that barred the church gate. “I’m the priest in charge. At least, I’m deputizing for her. Where’s the fire chief?”
The young constable looked down at the short, determined woman and quailed. “The crew commander’s over there, ma’am. By the tower. But I’ve orders not to let anyone but fire crew through.”
Mother Joan lifted the tape briskly. “He’ll have to talk to me.”
She strode up the path past the yew trees, like a tug boat butting out to sea in a gale. Jenny saw the senior fire officer spin round and start to order her out of the churchyard.
The stout little priest stood her ground. Jenny was not surprised to see that she was getting the audience she wanted.
She was aware of a rapid clicking at her elbow. Marcus Coutts had his zoom lens out and was busily shooting the encounter.
“Priestess in pants. I like that. Pity she’s not more of a looker.”
“She is not a priestess,” Jenny said, through gritted teeth. “Just a priest. She does the same job as a man. In some parishes they’d even call her Father Joan.”
Again the notebook whipped out. “Joan? That’s her name? Joan what?”
“I don’t remember.” And I wouldn’t tell you if I did, she thought.
“No sweat, darling. I’m sure these good people here can tell me.”
He was losing interest in her now. There were new victims for his curiosity. She watched him heading for Freda Rawlinson.
Left on her own, she suddenly felt enormously tired. Her after-lunch rest had been delayed by her alarming meeting with DS Lincoln, and had then been interrupted by Lorna’s visit to her room. The walk across the meadows should not have been too much for her, but the fire had brought her hurrying back faster than she had wanted. The drama of the pilgrimage church, which had meant so much to her, in flames would have been emotionally exhausting in itself. She wanted nothing more than to go back to the house and let herself sink on to the comfort of the bed.
She found Aidan, who appeared to be under interrogation from Melangell.
“I’m going back,” she said. “I can hardly stay on my feet.”
“I’ll come with you.” Aidan cast an anxious look back at the smouldering roof, where the firemen were still trying to douse the smoke.
“No. Stay if you want. I hope you’ve got some good pictures.”
“He hasn’t brought his camera,” Melangell said.
Jenny looked at her husband in sudden astonishment. It was true. Why had she not noticed until now? Had he put it down somewhere while he helped fetch water? Aidan never set out without his camera bag.
He reddened. “It’s been a strange week. It seems to have thrown me out of gear. Anyway, I’m coming with you.”
She was glad, both of his supporting arm and of his presence. She wanted to tell herself that Sergeant Lincoln and Inspector Denbigh were being overly cautious. Why should the murderer fear she had a vital clue, just because her room overlooked the grounds where the crime had happened? Yet she felt a shudder in her spine. There had been something. It was like trying to grasp the hem of
a dream on the edge of waking. Would it ever come back to her?
The house stood empty. The front door was open. But the foyer and the corridors were silent. There were no sounds from the kitchen, no voices from the lounge.
“I guess everyone ran to help with the fire,” Jenny said.
Aidan went round the reception desk to fetch their room keys from the pigeon holes. He turned to her.
“Did you take our key with you?”
“No, isn’t it there?”
“Only Melangell’s. I thought I’d put them both in the box on the counter for Sian to put away. When she’d finished cleaning windows.” He shrugged. “Old age creeping up on me. Must have left it in the room.”
“Daddy, can I have a coke from the bar?” Melangell put on a winning smile.
“Good idea. I could do with a can of beer myself, after all that running about. I’ll write a chit for Sian. Anything for you, love?” he asked Jenny.
She shook her head wearily. “No, thanks. I’d just like to lie down.” She made for the lift.
“We’ll be right behind you.”
The two of them headed for the bar in the lounge. In the hospitable manner of the House of the Hare, Sian usually left it unlocked for guests to help themselves and sign for their purchases.
Jenny leaned against the wall of the lift and let it carry her upwards. Now she just had to get herself along that short stretch of corridor and sink down upon the bed. For the moment, nothing else seemed to matter. The murder, the fire, that terrible photograph in the newspaper, the intrusion of the police into this peaceful setting… All she wanted to do was sleep.
Aidan was right. The bedroom door was unlocked. She pushed it open.
She had taken two steps across the room when a dark figure broke through the curtains partially screening the balcony. Jenny’s gasp was almost a scream.
Euan Jones confronted her. A lock of black hair had fallen over one eye. The other burned at her, dark brown and belligerent.
“You saw it, didn’t you? From up here?” His earthy hands seized her.
