by Robert Innes
“You mean order them –“
“Yes, yes,” Blake replied, a little sharper than he had intended. “I will order them to keep the noise down. Alright?”
Imelda’s lips somehow thinned even further. “Hmm. Well, just see to it that you do.” She picked up her handbag from the reception desk and thrust it up her shoulder. “I’m off to evensong at the church now. I trust when I get home, it will be to peace and quiet?”
“Yes, Mrs Atkins.” Blake grimaced. “I promise you that by tonight you won’t be hearing a thing.”
“Good.” Imelda sniffed. She sauntered out of the station, putting her umbrella back into her handbag. Blake briefly wondered whether she had got it out purely as an intimidation technique.
“Is she gone?”
Darnwood was stood in the doorway to the office, the scent of cigarette smoke clinging to her. The smell triggered Blake’s nicotine cravings again.
“Yes. Give me a cigarette.”
Darnwood narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to have packed them in?”
“Yes. Give me a cigarette.”
Darnwood shook her head. “You want to try chewing gum. My fella swears by them. It gives your mouth something to do. You’ll thank me when the craving goes away.”
Blake grimaced and rolled his eyes, walking out of the reception office and back into the meeting room.
Mattison looked up from his computer screen as he stormed through the door.
“What did she want?”
Blake picked his jacket up off his chair and flung it over his shoulder grumpily. “She wanted me to lock up a group of college students for playing music too loudly. Now, I’m going home, unless there’s any more pensioners you lot are too scared to face?”
Mattison and Patil glanced at each other, amused. “No, Sir,” said Mattison. “See you in the morning.”
“She had her umbrella with her then?” Gardiner asked wryly, not looking up from his computer screen.
Blake’s nicotine cravings scratched at him again as he grunted in reply and left them to it. It amazed him how quickly the hankering for a cigarette could diminish his mood. If he didn’t get one soon, then the college kids he now had to visit on his way home probably would find themselves being locked up before the night was over.
Admittedly, the music was quite loud. Blake was leaning against a wall opposite the house, listening to the heavy drum and bass exuding from it. He had picked up a ten pack of cigarettes from a shop on the outskirts of the village and was now smoking one, regretting every inhalation. He finished it and flicked it into the nearest drain, conceding he had been a trifle optimistic when he had reduced the nicotine in his ecig to zero milligrams, and walked purposefully towards the house, knocking sharply on the door.
After a moment or two, the door opened and Daryl Stuarts, a tall, lanky teenage boy was stood in front of him, clutching a can of beer in each hand.
“Hello, Daryl,” Blake said, eying the beer and discreetly sniffing the air to check that there wasn’t anything more interesting than beer being enjoyed at the party.
Daryl’s face dropped as he realised who Blake was. “Alright?”
“I didn’t realise you were old enough to be drinking. My invite to your eighteenth must have got lost in the post. Unless it hasn’t happened yet?”
Daryl futilely tried to hide the beer behind his back. “I’m, erm– I’m just holding them for someone.”
“Oh, right.” Blake nodded, mildly amused. “Someone that is eighteen, yeah?”
Daryl nodded.
“Where are you parents?” Blake asked.
Daryl seemed temporarily struck dumb.
“They’re on holiday,” he said at last. “I’ve only got a couple of people over. We’re not doing anything that bad, promise.”
The loud sound of jeering and chatter emanated from inside the house. Blake raised an eyebrow.
“A couple of people, or a couple of football teams?”
Daryl didn’t reply. He just stood, looking awkward.
“Look, do me a favour and just turn down the music. I’ve had a complaint.”
“Was it that miserable cow from across the road?” Daryl asked moodily.
“It doesn’t matter who it was from,” Blake said, though he could hardly disagree with Daryl’s sentiments about Imelda. “Just turn it down because if I have to come back here, it’ll be with my official head on, and trust me, neither of us want that.”
Daryl merely nodded and disappeared sheepishly behind the door.
Blake turned and walked away from the house as the music was drastically lowed in volume. But then, no sooner had his ears registered the silence, another loud blaring noise rang out from across the village. A few moments later, an ambulance came tearing by, its blue lights flashing wildly and siren wailing. It sped round the corner and came to a stop next to the church, which was situated a few yards away from Daryl’s house.
Blake frowned and jogged across the road to see what was going on. As he approached the churchyard, he saw the paramedics jumping out of the ambulance, and run into the church. A few moments later, a small throng of distressed people spilled out of the doors.
“What’s going on?” Blake asked as he walked towards them.
“Oh, Detective Harte,” cried one of the older women, grabbing his arm. “It’s Imelda. She’s -”
The church door flung open and the two ambulance men bounded out, pulling a stretcher, on top of which was Imelda Atkins, eyes closed and a blanket wrapped around her.
Blake stared in surprise at Imelda’s lifeless body as she was hurried towards the ambulance. “What’s happened?”
Before anyone could answer, a small, elderly man in cleric’s clothing appeared in the church doorway. It was the Reverend Timothy Croydon. Blake, not being a regular visitor in a church had only seen him at the odd village fete that he had frequented, but he had certainly never seen Timothy with such a grave expression on his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know this has all come as a great shock to us all. Perhaps a small prayer from you all tonight would be the correct approach?”
A ripple of murmured agreement passed through the small collective.
Timothy looked sadly down at the ground for a few moments, then spotted Blake. For a moment, he looked like he was unsure as to say anything at all, but then said so quietly that the others couldn’t hear, “Detective Harte, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Is there anything I can do?”
Timothy hesitated and glanced around. “Not here, would you come inside for a few minutes?”
Blake nodded and passed respectively though the upset congregation to follow Timothy back into the church.
The organ at the other end of the building began to play. The sombre tune, which Blake vaguely recognised from some of the funerals he’d attended over years, reverberated around the church as he wordlessly followed the vicar.
“Just through here,” Timothy murmured, leading Blake underneath a set of stone arches, above which were some brilliant pained glass windows depicting a series of saints and angels in blues, reds, and yellows.
Eventually, Blake followed Timothy into the vestry. It was rather cramped with large wooden cupboards around it. Blake could see various coloured robes and cassocks hanging up, and in the far corner was a smaller cupboard that Timothy opened briefly to put away the bible he was carrying. Inside was a silver goblet and a large bottle filled with red liquid, presumably communion wine.
“How can I help?” Blake asked when Timothy again appeared hesitant to say anything.
“Well, I must confess that I don’t know exactly that you can,” the old vicar said finally. “But, the Lord works in mysterious ways.And when I saw you standing there, I wondered whether I was supposed to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Imelda. It would appear that she’s had a heart attack. They rushed her away fairly quickly, so I pray that she can be revived, but I fear it may be too l
ate.”
He paused again, apparently unsure of what he was trying to say.
“Go on?” Blake coaxed.
“Imelda was eighty-one,” Timothy continued. “A heart attack is hardly a cause for suspicion or concern at her age, though as far as I was aware, she never had any problems with her heart or blood pressure before.”
“Well, heart attacks can be sudden, especially at eighty-one,” Blake said, suddenly quite aware that Timothy was of a similar age to Imelda, and not wishing to imply anything morbid.
“Well, quite,” Timothy murmured. “But, I’m not entirely sure she had a heart attack.”
Blake frowned. “What do you mean?”
Timothy fiddled with his cassock, looking uncomfortable. “Something very strange is going on inside this church, Detective. I’m sure of it. Imelda’s heart seemed to give out when she was in the confessions booth. And in the past few months, that’s the third time it’s happened.” Timothy looked at Blake with the most serious of expressions on his face. “I can’t help thinking, Detective, that something altogether more sinister is happening in this church.”
Blake stared in surprise at the vicar. “Sinister?”
Timothy nodded, apparently regretting his words immediately. “I don’t wish to waste any of your time, I know you’re a busy man.”
“Imelda’s in good hands,” Blake said. “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to help her.”
Timothy shook his head sadly. “I’ve seen this before, Detective. I am quite certain it’s exactly the same thing happening again.”
“What do you mean?”
Timothy scratched the back of his head and sighed. “You heard about Nigel Proctor, I suppose?”
Blake had – he was a middle-aged man who had died a few months ago, coincidentally, he realised, of a heart attack.
“Yes. “
“And Mrs Jenkins from Tabernam Road? She died last month.”
“Of a heart attack?”
“Quite,” Timothy said quietly.
“Well, Nigel Proctor and Mrs Jenkins were both of an age where heart attacks can happen, weren’t they?” Blake said, trying to be as tactful as possible. “It does happen.”
“But I wonder if you were aware of where they both died?”
Blake thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”
“It was here. In this very church. And not only that, both times it happened, it was in the confessions booth, which is exactly where Imelda was when she keeled over.”
Blake stared at the vicar in surprise. “You mean during their confessions?”
“Indeed,” Timothy replied seriously. “All three were in the middle of their confessions, and then clutched their chest, came over, quite suddenly very ill, and then collapsed. I recognised it in Imelda so was able to call for an ambulance quite quickly. I fear that even then I was far too late.”
Blake stared at the old vicar in bewilderment. “So – just so we’re clear – you’re claiming that Mrs Jenkins, Nigel Proctor, and Imelda Atkins were all sat in the confessions booth of this church, confessed to their sins, and then all immediately had a heart attack?”
“Well, it’s not a claim Detective,” replied Timothy. “That is exactly what happened.”
Blake scratched the back of his head. He wasn’t sure if he believed what he was hearing or not. Timothy Croydon wasn’t known for bizarre assertions, in fact, the little Blake knew of the man, he had always seemed incredibly on the ball and insightful – skills that no doubt had helped him many times throughout his career in the church. And yet, here he was telling Blake something that made absolutely no sense.
The door to the vestry opened and a man in a long black cassock entered. He smiled inquisitively at Blake as he closed the door behind him.
“Ah, Callum,” Timothy said. “This is Detective Sergeant Harte. Detective, this is my grandson and our verger, Callum Dalton.”
Blake shook Callum’s hand. He had been so distracted from what Timothy had been telling him, he hadn’t even noticed that the organ music had stopped.
Callum, who looked to be in his early twenties, with jet-black hair, and a pair of rectangular silver, designer glasses smiled vaguely at Blake, then turned to Timothy. “Everything alright, Granddad?”
Timothy shook his head gravely. “I’m afraid not, Callum. It’s happened again.”
“Well,” Blake put in. “Nothing has really happened –“
“You’re kidding.” Callum gasped. “Who?”
“Imelda Atkins,” Timothy replied, ignoring Blake’s attempts to calm the situation. “Same as before. She was giving confession and then seemed to just keel over.”
Callum put his hand slowly to his mouth and shook his head in disbelief. “How? I don’t know what to say, Granddad, I really don’t.”
“We’ve had no word that Imelda has died, Callum,” Blake said. “Like I was saying to Timothy, I’m sure she’s in the best possible hands.”
“Detective,” Timothy said, a little sharply. “Over the past four months, three people have sat in that confessions booth and then seemed to just have the life pulled out of them. Imelda was no different. I pray that you’re right, and that she manages to make a full recovery, but she acted in exactly the same way as Nigel and Mrs Jenkins. She was in full flow, describing in explicit detail, the way Imelda does, about the things she wished to confess to me, and then the next moment seemed to just collapse. I wish I was mistaken about this, I really do.”
“Hey, don’t get upset, Granddad,” Callum said soothingly, walking towards Timothy and putting his arm around his shoulder. He then looked across at Blake and smiled. “Sorry, but Granddad is right. I can’t believe this has happened again. I didn’t believe it at first, but there’s no other way of saying it. There is definitely something weird going on in this church.”
“Detective Harte is the man who was in charge of the case with that young man who got shot in the shed at Halfmile Farm,” Timothy said, giving Blake a hopeful look. “I thought if anybody could shine any light on what’s going on here, then you could.”
Blake held his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Can I take a look at this confessions booth?”
Callum opened the vestry door. “Sure. Come through this way.”
Blake turned to follow him out. “Timothy, I promise you, if I find anything remotely suspicious, then I’ll make it my top priority to find out what happened.”
“Well,” Timothy said. “As I say, it does seem quite similar in circumstance to the case you worked on with poor Harrison Baxter.” He led Blake, who had ignored the slight feeling of butterflies in his stomach at the mention of Harrison’s name, out of the vestry and across the church, Callum leading the way.
“I’ve been debating coming to see you for a while, but I kept putting it off,” the vicar continued. “I do understand what you’re saying, I really do. They could just have had heart attacks, but every single one of them whilst sat in our confessions booth? You must admit, it does stretch plausibility a little.”
Blake had to concede that it did seem bizarre, when it was put to him like that.
The confessions booth was sat against one of the far walls of the church near the font. It was a wooden, rectangular structure with two compartments either side of the entrance door.
Blake opened the door and peered inside. It was dark and gloomy with a metal grill situated between the two compartments and a red velvet curtain draped over the left hand side. “So, how does it work? What happens when someone is giving confession?”
Timothy leant in and pointed to the curtain.
“I, or another priest, sit behind this curtain. The confessor sits in here. Obviously as long as this curtain is drawn, we can’t see each other.”
Blake looked all around the inside of the priest’s side, then went across to the opposite side and sat down, closing the door behind him. “It’s not exactly a comforting situation to sit and confess to your deepest and darkest sins, is it?”<
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Callum leaned in and grinned at Blake through the metal grill. “Well, it certainly seems to work for our parishioners.”
Blake glanced at the dashing smile he was being given. Was Callum flirting with him?
“Maybe you should give it a try some time?” Timothy suggested. “We have so many people saying that they feel like a weight has been lifted, whether it’s to just get their sins off their chest, or to feel like they’ve appeased God by confessing.”
“I’m atheist,” Blake replied apologetically.
He looked around him again, his hands running slowly down the wood around him. There didn’t seem to be any kind of openings or ways for anybody else to even get in. The only way it was possible to get to anyone that was sat where Blake was now, was either through opening the door or through the grill.
“I didn’t think churches still had these sort of confession booths,” Blake replied. “Aren’t confessions done more face to face these days?”
“Well, St Abra’s has been around for hundreds of years,” Timothy said. “The traditional three box set up has always been in place here.”
Blake nodded. “Well, I can’t find anything out of the ordinary here. And you say they were sat here, talking to you, and then just died?”
“Exactly,” Callum replied. “And, not a mark on them. From what Granddad’s said, it was as if they just sat there staring, unable to move.”
“Almost as if God himself was talking to them,” Timothy added darkly.
Blake raised a disdainful eyebrow. “Well, whatever has been happening, I think we can be quite sure that it wasn’t that.”
“And how can you be so sure, Detective?”
Blake climbed out of the confessions box and closed the door behind him and began examining the outer sides. “Because God has a lot of people to keep an eye on, all the Christians, Catholics, and then there’s Muslims, Jews, Hindus – doesn’t matter if they pay much attention to Him, does it? The whole point is that He is watching over us, am I right?”
