BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1)

by Jane Adams

  “Men have died of dreams,” Kendryk confirmed thoughtfully. He fell silent for so long that Treven wondered if he slept, with his eyes still open.

  “So, Priest,” he said, feeling uncomfortable with the silence. “How do you interpret my dreams and what should I do to set this straight?”

  “I interpret your visions as you do yourself. Images of ill omen. Treven, build a chapel on your land, build it close beside that wooden cross, sanctify it to the Christ and I will send a monk to reside there.”

  “A spy on my land, Priest?”

  Kendryk smiled. “We could negotiate an exchange of hostages if you so wished. My man to live on your land and . . . say . . . Osric to be spy in my Abbey.”

  “I’d sooner send you Hugh!”

  “Osric or nothing.”

  “Then nothing.”

  Kendryk laughed softly. “You are wise not to part with him,” he said softly, “But, heed my advice, Treven. This is an ancient land and it does not forget. The forests and groves saw sacrifice to other gods long before the Christ was brought here, perhaps even before the All Father was worshipped in the ash grove close beside the place the wooden cross was carved.” He noted Treven’s surprise. “Go and look for yourself. Left to my wishes, the trees would be felled and the ground burned, but it does not lie on my land.”

  Treven shuddered. “I would not feel easy with your committing such an act,” he confessed. He reached down to where his pack lay beside his chair and drew from it an object wrapped in bright red cloth. Kendryk leaned forward to see as he unwrapped it and laid between them on the table a spear head, the length of a man’s hand, but slender and graceful. Beautifully wrought, the intricate serpents of its pattern welded surface writhing in the light from the fire.

  “Wondrous,” Kendryk murmured, “You carry this and yet you do not use it?”

  Treven shook his head. “I brought it with me from my home and it has remained with me since. It is an heirloom of my house for many generations. When my grandsire of my father’s kin, two, three sires ago, I do not know, when he converted to the Christian way, his priest took the spear and threw it into the sanctuary. The old gods fled, they say, but their power remained in this piece. While it hung in my hall, it kept the land safe and my kin protected.”

  “That is close to blasphemy, Treven,” Kendryk said gently.

  “Many things have been said this night that are close to blasphemy,” Treven returned. “I speak as I find, Kendryk. Would you have me spout falsehoods just to satisfy you?”

  “If it were expedient, then I would wish it.” Kendryk told him. “And you believe that in taking this heirloom for your own protection, you deprived those left behind?”

  Treven nodded. “I do believe that.”

  “What a weight of guilt you carry. And now there is Hugh. How simple life must have been when you needed only to survive each day. Kill or die. A simple enough choice.”

  “You mock me again, Priest?”

  “Of course. What else would I do?” He pushed himself to his feet and Treven was relieved to see he swayed slightly and rested one hand on the back of the chair.

  “You’ve drunk too much.”

  “As have you. The more have you. I’ll see you try to stand before you insult my capacity to do so. Treven, it grows late and this is not the time for decisions to be carried through. Let Hugh sweat for the remainder of the night and think upon his sins. Tomorrow noon we will pronounce our judgement. Now we will sleep. May you fail to dream.”

  Treven watched him as he walked slowly and with care towards the rear of the hall and the curtained alcove that contained the brothers’ beds, Kendryk having laid claim to one, leaving the other to Treven. He refilled his cup with more of Osric’s medicine, grown cold now and bitter, reflecting that he should have told him to add valerian root to the mix, the herb that assured deep sleep and fended off the terrors of the night.

  CHAPTER 24

  Rozlyn had very little sleep. Interviews of those found in the house had gone on throughout the afternoon and into the night. The interviewees might be entitled to proper meal breaks and be subject to regulations defining the length and intensity of their questioning, but the interviewers were not; at least under Brook’s regulations. Though, to give the man his due, he’d worked harder than all the rest of them put together, Rozlyn reckoned. Everywhere she’d looked, Brook seemed to be until Rozlyn began to wonder about the efficacy of human cloning. Rozlyn sat in on several interviews and in between acted as liaison between her section and others still searching the house and with immigration, preparing for the handover. She gathered mental snapshots of these eight people; their distress and exhaustion. The conditions under which they had travelled, crammed, with others into the back of a lorry with little food and almost no water, barely seeing light or breathing fresh air until finally, somewhere in a lay-by in the south of England, they had been transferred to two MPVs. No one seemed to know where the others had gone, only that they had been promised work.

  At two o’clock that morning, after ten hours in the police station, they had been moved on again. Preliminary interviews over, Brook and his people had done with them and the folk from immigration taken over. Rozlyn had helped to load the cardboard boxes filled with their belongings into the boot of a car. She’d been touched by the ordinariness of them. The family photos, combs and lipsticks, matches and foreign cigarettes. A key ring in the shape of a teddy bear with one key, small and old fashioned of the sort that might open a jewellery box or even wind a clock. She couldn’t help but wonder where the box was and what might have been inside. Gently, she ran her fingers over the pathetic little objects. She glanced over her shoulder, checking that she was alone and then picked up the key, held it self-consciously in the palm of her hand. The impressions seemed to rise up, flutter and flicker before her. A woman, holding the key, an old man, threading it onto a velvet ribbon. A little box, carved wood, something precious inside. Rozlyn smiled. The ‘precious’ objects contained within were a broken watch, a cheap ring and a bundle of pressed flowers and a photograph . . . a picture of a small child.

  Reluctantly, she put the key back into the box and allowed the noise and bustle of her surroundings to break through into her thoughts.

  What had she just felt now? Was that real? Or was it just a wishful projection? Induced by lack of sleep and a healthy dose of pity.

  Rozlyn sighed. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, just for a second. As kids, they, she and her friends, had played a game. Just imagine, just try and imagine who had owned something before, what they had been like. Try to guess, try to see. Rozlyn had been good at it. Too good. Good enough to scare herself stupid. For the most part, she had pushed the skill away. Rozlyn had learned to filter out the more intense experiences or pass them off as mere imagination, though sometimes the impressions she first received on arriving at the scene of some violent crime or other were overwhelming.

  * * *

  Rozlyn drove home and grabbed a couple of hours sleep, then early on the Friday morning, a week after Charlie Higgins had been found dead, Rozlyn returned to see Ethan Merrill.

  A dank, drizzly night had given way to a bright, if still misty morning. This, Rozlyn thought, had been a magnificent autumn; the red earth of the newly ploughed fields almost matched the hawthorn for brilliance. The gold of the field maples caught the early sun as it broke through the mist and set light to the hips and haws of the hedgerows. There seemed more than usual this year. More berries and seeds and she wondered if her grandfather was right and this presaged a hard winter. The old man reckoned that the land always knew these things, anticipated the cold harshness of the coming season. Though, in her grandfather’s case, Rozlyn thought, this feeling, this knowing, was probably merely a reaction to having moved from the mild south to the cold of New York winters and his observations of nature limited, in reality, to his regular walks in Central Park and the note he took of changes in his tiny, heavily planted yard.
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br />   Stamford was still closed when Rozlyn arrived and parked close to the George Hotel as she’d done that last time. She paid for a couple of hours and then set off on a slow walk to Ethan’s shop, realising that she’d misjudged the time and it was only just gone nine in the morning. She noted, glancing at closed doors as she passed, that many of the more tourist-oriented stores didn’t open until ten and wondered if Ethan’s poky little place went by that timing. After all, it was hard to see what anyone would buy there anyway, never mind what anyone would want at nine in the morning.

  The shop bell jangled as she pushed the door. Jasper, sprawled out on the table, taking advantage of the only patch of sun, roused and arched. But it was a half-hearted spat, the feline not bothering even to get to his feet. Rozlyn felt herself recognised and, it seemed, accepted by the guard cat. The thought pleased her and, almost, she reached out to fondle the animal’s pricked ears. Then thought better of it. Maybe not wise to play on such a short acquaintance.

  “Next time, he’ll let you stroke him.”

  Ethan Merrill seemed to specialise in this appearing from nowhere thing.

  “Don’t you ever make a noise?”

  “I don’t know. I prefer soft shoes. Less jarring on old bones, I find.”

  Rozlyn glanced down at the other’s feet. Ethan Merrill, epitome of sartorial elegance, wore crepe-soled shoes. “Brothel creepers! Oh my God. I didn’t think you could even get those anymore.”

  Ethan Merrill smiled. He seemed pleased to be different. “You’ve brought the spear head this time? Good. Then come on back. I’m having breakfast.”

  Rozlyn followed him, struggling through the crowded little shop — how did he get this past fire regs? — and to a door she’d not seen on her first visit. Ethan held it open and gestured for her to pass. Rozlyn found herself in the small but fascinating space beyond. The layout of the premises was, Rozlyn now realised, similar to the rows of terraced houses like that inhabited by Mouse Man, albeit on a larger scale. The shop, then this room behind and a door probably leading to the stairs, another to the kitchen, this extending, as Rozlyn could see through the large sash window, into the enclosed yard.

  One wall was lined, floor to ceiling, with books. Most were leather bound, though a shelf of modern hardbacks, their dust wrappers adding an oddly garish note, told her that Ethan kept up to date with his subject. Antiques guides and reference works sat beside learned-looking treatises on the worlds of art and archaeology. Beneath the window were further shelves, covered with bits of broken pot and fossils while the remaining walls were almost invisible behind a gallery of paintings and yellowed maps and postcards and play bills. Rozlyn supposed it must save on the decorating.

  The room was warm; a fire had been lit in a cast-iron grate. The hearth and surround were decorated with Minton tiles in shades of green and sea blue. The fire crackled happily and Rozlyn couldn’t blame it. This, for all its clutter — or maybe even because of it — was a friendly room. A calm and pleasant place to be. Ethan waved her into one of three old leather wing chairs. Two matched, their deep red brown, soft, well fed and warm, denoting them a pair. The smaller of the three was darker in colour and newer, though not by much. She sat in one of the pair, her hands moving to caress the smooth, well-worn leather of the arms. These were chairs made for reading or dozing or chatting by the fire. Firm enough to support the back, but with just enough give that they moulded to the individual. Rozlyn realised suddenly how tired she was.

  “Would you like tea?” Without waiting for a reply Ethan opened the kitchen door and took a mug from the dresser. A pot of tea and the remains of toast stood on a small table beside the fire. Ethan refreshed his own mug and poured Rozlyn’s drink before sitting down. “You look weary,” he observed.

  Weary, not tired or worn out. Weary. It was, Rozlyn realised, a perfect word, describing as it did that state which has gone beyond tired but instead, developed into a bone ache, heart ache, mind-numbing exhaustion.

  “Late night,” she said. It sounded so prosaic she wanted to add more. Instead, she delved into the pocket of her coat and withdrew the spearhead. “I tried to get this to you yesterday, but, well, things came up.” She held it out but Ethan shook his head and pointed to a small desk standing in the alcove between the fireplace and the shop door. “Open the flap, the struts come out automatically, that’s it. There’s a blotter tucked inside, see it? Good, lay it down on that for me, will you. You know, you shouldn’t keep it in a plastic bag, especially not if it’s been allowed to get wet.”

  You probably shouldn’t scrub it with a nailbrush and anti-bacterial soap, either, Rozlyn added silently, glad, when she took the object from the evidence bag, that none of the antiseptic smell lingered.

  She stood back, but Ethan didn’t move. Instead, he sat sipping his tea and gazing at the spear across the width of the room as though trying to see it in some kind of context that Rozlyn could not fathom.

  “Sit down,” Ethan said. “Drink your tea; give yourself a few minutes to take stock of the day while you have the chance. Then we’ll both take a proper look.” His eyes, bright blue and oddly youthful, fixed Rozlyn with their gentle amusement. For a mere instant she felt irritated and then, the spell cast by Ethan Merrill and his cosy room took hold and she thought, yes, what’s the rush, five minutes either way won’t do any harm and if Brook wants me, he can sing. She sat back down in the easy chair — never had the name seemed more appropriate — and rescued her mug from where she’d placed it on the floor and waited.

  “How long have you had the shop?”

  “Oh, eight, nearly nine years.”

  “Do you actually do any business? I mean, I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”

  Ethan laughed. “I run a mail order company and most of my work comes via the internet. Oh yes, I’m actually quite twentieth century.”

  “Twentieth? Don’t you mean twenty-first?”

  “No. I don’t believe in rushing into things.”

  “Ok.” Rozlyn laughed. “What kind of things do you sell?”

  “Oh, antiques, antiquities, I find rare books. Whatever is required.”

  “And that pays? Sorry. I’m being rude.”

  Ethan smiled. “I made some wise investments a few years ago when the stock market was worthy of the name. My work here keeps things topped up nicely.” He got up and went over to where Rozlyn had laid the spear but still made no move to touch it. Instead, he remained standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down as though almost afraid to make contact.

  Rozlyn watched for a moment, impatience rising and then ebbing. Distracted, she glanced about the room, noting that, unlike the heavily clad walls of the rest, the chimney breast was remarkably bare. One single picture hung there, black ink on foxed paper. She got up to take a closer look. It looked like an etching, the lines finely wrought, spoiled somewhat by the brown spots of the foxing. The image portrayed, though, was crude. A cross, standing on a hillock with a man beside it. The man held a spear and, as Rozlyn examined it more closely, she realised that the spear carrier was actually part of the structure, enclosed within the outer boundaries of the carved cross and encompassed within a pattern of curving, interlacing lines which continued over the rounded head of the cross and down to the other side. A second figure balanced the spearman. A large bird, angled so that the wings fitted the shape, the spike of its beak pointing upward to echo the line of the spear on the other side.

  The man on the cross had been nailed at the wrists and ankles, not at the palms and that struck Rozlyn as odd, so too were the ropes at his neck and knees and elbows. His naked feet touched the back of a wild boar, tusked and arch backed, which trampled leaves and berries beneath its feet. Rozlyn looked again at the face of the crucified man and was aware that Ethan watched her, his attention drawn from the spear back to Rozlyn.

  “How come he only has one eye?” One eye was open, the other gouged and empty.

  “The picture is a seventeenth-century copy of a
stone cross said to stand out at Theadingford.”

  “Theadingford? The dig site?”

  Ethan nodded. “I did some work out there years ago. The stone cross was long gone by then, but the tradition of it being there remained even into this century.”

  “Are we talking twentieth or twenty-first here?”

  “Ah. I suppose I should catch up, shouldn’t I? The drawing, from which the etching was taken, was made by a student of Stukeleys, but he was copying what was left of the cross, and, apparently, an earlier drawing. It’s likely that the original was of wood and very old. If you look at the etching, it seems as though the cross has roots. See?”

  Rozlyn peered at the writhing patterns. They did seem to go down into the earth, but roots? “Why would it have roots? And who was Stukeley?”

  “He was an antiquarian who travelled the country recording ancient sites. Created a fad for Druidomania. Look him up. Interesting man. I have a theory that the original was carved directly onto a living tree. The tree eventually died, the cross remained until eventually it was replaced by stone and the design simply copied.” He shrugged. “Only speculation, of course. And the one eye? Sometimes Pagan and Christian traditions mirrored one another closely. The figure could be Jesus of Nazareth; it could equally well have been the god Odin.”

  A movement out in the yard caught Rozlyn’s eye. A girl stood looking in at them, slender and small, mid-teens, Rozlyn guessed, with short dark hair and the most wonderful violet eyes. Rozlyn caught her breath. The girl returned her interested gaze and then smiled and turned away. Rozlyn saw her go through a door into the kitchen and wondered if that meant she would be coming in.

  “Her name is Cassandra,” Ethan said. “Like the seer-ess.”

  “The one no one believed?”

  Ethan laughed. “I hope I have more sense than the poor benighted inhabitants of Troy,” he said.