In vain, Markby had pointed out that someone generally did know. They just didn't tell. He also drew the vicar's attention to the description they'd had of the attacker's voice: gruff, funny, peculiar, âlike an animal's, if an animal could talk', said one village woman, the third victim. It was Markby's opinion this indicated the attacker had disguised his voice and why would he do that unless he feared it would be recognised, either then or at a later date?
The vicar was adamant. Whoever the attacker was, he wasn't a Lower Stovey man. Many people walked the old drovers' way. Besides the hikers, there were tramps, New Age hippies, gypsies, wanderers of all kinds. The police should be looking among these.
There had been two more reported rapes after that, one another village woman, the other a young woman cyclist on the old way who had stopped at the woods to answer a call of nature. In the first case, the Potato Man had taken a single pearl clip earring and in the second, a copper bracelet.
And then he'd gone to ground. There had been no more rapes. The Potato Man passed into local legend, become unreal except in the memory of his victims and in the minds of the police who knew they'd lost him. Perhaps the Reverend Pattinson had been right and the man had been a wanderer who had set up some temporary home in the woods and then, when police investigations grew intrusive, had moved on. As abruptly as he'd appeared, the Potato Man had vanished.
Markby stirred in the cramped confines of the car seat and dragged his mind back to the present. He could see the police car parked on the grass, but there wasn't a soul about. Had the officers gone into the woods like the kids in the fairy-tale and were unable to find their way out? No friendly woodcutter around here to rescue anyone. Who was he, anyway, in those stories, that woodcutter? asked Markby of himself as his mind made a lateral leap. What did he represent? A woodland spirit almost certainly. And the Potato Man, what had he been?
He got out of the car and found his feet sinking into soft ground. The trees still dripped the recent rain. He squelched forward, his shoes collecting a thick clagging of mud.
As he reached the gate he heard voices and three figures emerged from the dark regiment of pines. Two were in uniform, the third mishapen by a large hump bulging on his back and clad in startling yellow.
They met up by the gate. He let them through and then held up his ID. âBlimey, Superintendent,' said one of the patrolmen in awe. âThey sent you out here for this?'
âNo,' he told them. âI was in the village and saw you go past. It's just curiosity on my part. What have you got there?'
The uniformed man was carrying a badly-wrapped package suggesting a fish and chip supper which it manifestly wasn't. He looked down at it. âBones, sir.' He began to open it up carefully.
Markby recognised the paper as a crumpled ordnance survey map. The man held it out to him. A jumble of brownish objects nestled in the cup formed by the officer's hands and he could see one of them was a jawbone. Markby fought to keep his face free of expression. Could these be the bones of the lost rapist â or of one of his victims? Had one of them raised her head and seen him and met death?
âPretty old,' he said. Yes, lying bare for twenty years or more at least. He looked at the young man in the yellow waterproof and made a guess. âDid you find them, sir?'
âYes,' returned the young man. âI fell down a slope and there they were.'
âThis gentleman is Dr Morgan,' explained the other officer. âBeing a medical man he knew what they were. We had a look round, just in the area where they were found. We couldn't find any more, not just in a quick search.'
âI'll see someone gets out here and has a better look.' Markby glanced at the woodland. âBut it will be difficult to search the whole wood.'
âPity you didn't leave them where you found them, sir,' said the other officer to the young man in the yellow cape. âYou are sure you took us back to the right spot?'
âYes, I'm sure,' said Dr Morgan testily. âYou saw for yourself the marks where I rolled down the slope. I didn't leave them there because something might have moved them before you got here. I couldn't stay with them. I told you, the mobile didn't work in there and anyway, you'd never have found me. I had to come out here and wait for you.'
âWell, you'd better come with us and make a statement,' said the first officer. He cast a slightly apprehensive glance at Markby.
âThank you for reporting your find, Doctor,' Markby said to him politely. âSpoiled your hike, I expect.'
âNo sweat,' said the other with gloomy resignation. âThis walking break has been pretty well jinxed from the start.'
âStovey Wood is an unlucky place,' Markby replied and the other three looked at him, startled.
They parted company. Dr Morgan divested himself of his yellow cape, revealing the hump to be a rucksack which he unslung before climbing into the back of the police car. Alan returned to his car, opened it up and leaned in to take out a newspaper. He spread a layer of sheets on the car floor. He wasn't a finicky person but there was no point in making work. He scraped some of the mud off by rubbing his sole on a tussock, sighed and clambered in behind the wheel.
Their small convoy set off, lurching back down the potholed track to the village. As they reached the church, Markby tapped his horn to let the men ahead know he was leaving them there. He pulled up by a lych-gate and watched the police car until it was out of sight.
Ruth Aston perched unhappily on a rickety stepladder, cleaning Sir Rufus Fitzroy's memorial with a bright green feather duster.
The Fitzroy monument, as the leaflet giving the church's history called it, gave the impression of having been an expensive piece of sculpture in its day. The leaflet, however, repeated the tale that the sculptor had been down on his luck and done the work for a song. He'd been an Italian who'd arrived in Britain hoping for commissions from wealthy patrons. He had been reduced to making nymphs and satyrs for landscaped gardens when asked, almost in passing, if he couldn't produce a suitable memorial for a gentleman. Nevertheless, the result was one of the tourist attractions of Lower Stovey's parish church, in as much as it had any. Architecturally, it was no different to a host of other late medieval churches. It had lost its original stained glass when Cromwell's soldiers knocked it out with Puritan zeal. They'd pulled down its carved statues of the saints on the façade and smashed them. The only one left was one they couldn't reach,
an unknown bishop high on the west front where nothing could get at him but the jackdaws.
The Victorians, with their own brand of pious hooliganism, had remodelled the chancel, taken out the fourteenth-century font and replaced it with a Gothic-style version by a follower of Pugin. They had also taken out the eighteenth-century boxpews and put in oak benches nowadays occupied by, at best, a congregation of fifteen souls on a good Sunday. The villagers, both indigenous and late-comers, weren't religious and the weekend visitors, second-home owners, spent their Sunday mornings soaking up rural atmosphere in the village pub and their afternoons getting ready for the drive back to London.
In these circumstances, Lower Stovey no longer warranted its own priest or even a weekly service. It got whoever could be spared from duties at other churches in the area on a monthly rota, though technically it was in the care of Father Holland at Bamford.
But its church did have a few interesting features and Ruth, who had made it her task to dust them off from time to time, knew them intimately.
The Fitzroy memorial displayed the deceased's periwigged marble profile held aloft by a pair of cherubs. The sculptor had chosen a side view, presumably, to make the most of the dead man's distinctive features. He had probably been thought handsome in his day with his thin face, hooded eyes and aquiline nose. Beneath the sculpture was an inscription listing his virtues, which had been many; his achievements, which had been noteworthy; his learning, which had been extensive; and the dutiful sorrow of the nephew who had inherited his
fortune. To the left of the inscription was the figure of the Grim Reaper, partly veiled. He leaned on his scythe, left skeletal leg straight, right one crooked nonchalantly across it resting on its bony toes. He had the air of someone contemplating another job well done. To the right of the inscription, completely veiled, was a mourning female figure in classical robes, one finger pointing up at the portrait above lest any onlooker fail to get the message, even after all the rest.
Ruth didn't care for the Fitzroy monument. It seemed to her both ghoulish and smug. She doubted Sir Rufus had been the paragon it made him out to be and she had her doubts about the nephew's motives in having the thing put up.
Ruth herself was a small-boned woman with a tip-tilted nose and widely-spaced green eyes. Her fair hair was streaked with grey but because it had always been an ashen blonde, it looked little different now to when she'd been younger. She'd been a pretty child, a pretty young woman and now, at fifty-seven, was still attractive. At the moment she was wearing denim jeans, sensible flat shoes and a much washed-out man's rugby jersey which had belonged to her late husband. Because the jersey was way too big, the cuffs were folded back and the rest of it flapped round her sparse frame, giving her, as she put it, plenty of room for movement. It was her church-cleaning outfit.
She'd been alone in the church and liked it that way. But now behind her back came the creak of the North door opening, a burst of birdsong from the churchyard trees and the tap-tap of a stick. She knew who it was. She had no need to turn round. He'd seen her car parked outside from his cottage just a little further down the street on the opposite side. He never failed to come across for a chat. The conversation pretty well always
went the same way. She'd no reason to think today would be any different. Ruth suppressed a sigh and waited for the inevitable opening question.
âAre you all right up there on that ladder, Mrs Aston?'
âYes, thank you, Mr Twelvetrees.' Her reply was automatic. Her eye had been caught by a small greyish area on the plastered wall high above Rufus Fitzroy's head. It couldn't be accounted for by the shadow thrown by a wooden beam or carved corbel head. Surely not a damp patch? That was a problem they'd been spared so far. If it was, it would have to be reported to Father Holland.
âThat don't look too good a ladder to me. You wants to get on to the church to buy a new one.' The newcomer tapped the ladder with his stick.
Fat chance, thought Ruth. She really couldn't ignore that grey patch. Someone would have to inspect it but she couldn't reach up so far from her stepladder nor did she fancy teetering up there at that height. She'd ask Kevin Jones if he'd bring a long ladder from the farm and climb up and have a look. Kevin was very obliging about that sort of thing.
âThe rain's stopped. Fair old downpour, wasn't it?' Her visitor persisted in his side of the conversation despite the lack of response.
âI was in here,' mumbled Ruth.
He changed tactic. âThat's a fine bit of marble.'
Ruth surrendered. She paused in her labours and climbed half way down her stepladder to where she could turn her head without unbalancing herself.
There he was, William Twelvetrees, Old Billy Twelvetrees, so-called because there was a Young Billy, his son, even
though Young Billy no longer lived in the village. Old Billy was broad as he was tall and as sturdy as this old church. He had a thick shock of white hair despite his fourscore years. He was red-faced from a lifetime in which every working day had been spent in the fields and every evening in the snug of the Fitzroy Arms. Old Billy's only infirmities were a dodgy hip, hence the stick, and an occasional spasm of angina which gave him the excuse not to attempt anything strenuous, however minimal. He raised the stick now and pointed it at the monument.
âI don't like it much,' she said. âIt's too fancy
and
morbid.'
âThey knew how to do a proper monument in those days,' said Billy reproachfully.
âHow are you today, Mr Twelvetrees?' asked Ruth, refusing to be drawn into a discussion on Georgian funerary art.
âI still get them twinges.' Billy tapped his chest. She was spared more detailed medical information because, as it turned out, Billy's mind was on something else. âYou seen the police car?'
Ruth stared at him. âWhich police car?'
Though he was pleased that she'd not yet heard the news and he'd be the first to tell her, yet there was a petulance in the way he spoke, as if his daily routine had been upset by the unexpected event with its unknown origins. âHe come out of the blue, roaring past, near on an hour ago and he hasn't come back. There's a speed limit in this village, police or no police. What do they want here, anyway? I looked over and saw you hadn't left your little house yet. I see your car wasn't parked out front here, so I reckoned you might not know.' He put one gnarled finger alongside his nose.
Ruth, who was a retired teacher of English, thought crossly that of course you couldn't see something which wasn't there.
Old Billy was still grumbling.
âHe ought to be reported. He drove through the village like a bat outa hell. Why ain't he come back?'
Ruth glanced apprehensively towards the chancel and murmured, âPerhaps you oughtn't to use that expression in here, Mr Twelvetrees.'
He brushed this aside. âThey've gone up to the woods, that's my reckoning. Don't know what they want up there.'
âAre you sure?' Ruth asked sharply. She tried to drive away the unwelcome feeling of something bad about to happen.
âThere's only one road, ain't there?' he sulked. âIt leads to the woods and stops there. I waited by my door to see if they'd come back driving the same speed and if they had, I'd have reported them. What do you think is keeping them there, Mrs Aston?' He peered up at her. There was something grotesque about his round red face with its stubble of white whiskers and snub nose, as if one of the corbel heads above had returned to life from the hands of the medieval mason.
Ruth put out a hand and grasped a cherub's head to steady herself.
âHere, you sure you're all right, Mrs Aston? You've gone quite pale.' He moved closer, fixing her with his shrewd little eyes beneath the thatch of shaggy white brows.
âI'm all right!' Her voice was shrill in her own ears. âI'm sure it's nothing serious.' She sought an explanation. âPerhaps someone's lit a fire in the woods. People do silly things like that.'
âThen it'd be the fire engine, wouldn't it? Not the police.'
âIf you go back outside,' said Ruth with quiet determination, âyou'll see the police come back eventually. They have to come this way. They might stop and tell you or ask you something.'
For a moment she hoped the ploy had worked. He turned as if to go and she thought she was rid of him. But the North door creaked open again and a splash of watery sunlight fell across the flagged floor. A dark silhouette framed by the Gothic arch moved and descended the two worn steps into the church. Behind the newcomer, the door closed.
Ruth's heart had given a little hop, anticipating the new arrival would be one of the policemen seen by Billy. But she could now see it was a woman and not in uniform. A stranger, which wasn't that unusual. They did get people to see the church. The woman was tall, mid-to-late-thirties, with thick brown untidy hair. Not a pretty woman, thought Ruth, but a striking one. Her features were regular, her eyebrows arched over fine eyes, possibly hazel. She wore jeans and a pale yellow cotton shirt.
âAm I disturbing you?' she asked.
âNo,' Ruth replied gratefully, clambering the rest of the way down from her stepladder. âHave you come to see the monuments?'
The visitor looked surprised. âI didn't know there were any. Are they famous?'
âI wouldn't say famous, but they do get the odd mention. I'm Ruth Aston. I'm a churchwarden here.'
Old Billy cleared his throat loudly and tapped his stick on the flagstone.
âAnd this,' said Ruth resignedly, âis Mr Twelvetrees who's lived in the village longer than anyone else.'
âS' right, I have,' said Billy.
âMy name's Mitchell, Meredith Mitchell,' said the young woman. âMy partner and I are house-hunting. We've just been to see the old vicarage.'
âMrs Aston can tell you all about the vicarage!' said Billy.
Ruth glared at him. âWhy don't you go and watch for the car coming back?' she urged again. âI'll just show Miss Mitchell round our church.'
Billy was torn between two subjects of absorbing interest but plumped for the police car over a tourist. He muttered, âAll right,' and stomped out.
Ruth heaved a sigh of relief. âHe waits till he sees me come in here and always comes over for a chat. I suppose he's lonely, but after you've had the same conversation with him for a few times, it gets a bit much.'
She gestured at the interior of the church around them. âThe reason he said I could tell you about the vicarage is because I used to live there. My father was the last incumbent. We don't have our own vicar now, the congregation is too small. But the older locals, like Old Billy Twelvetrees, still think of me as “the vicar's daughter”. Hester, the friend who shares my home, and I act as churchwardens and keep an eye on things. I feel my father would've expected it of me.' She grinned wryly.
âWe haven't made any decision about the house,' said Meredith quickly. âWe just came to look at it.'
âIt's in a bit of a state, isn't it?' Ruth asked sympathetically. âIt used to be very nice. The garden did, anyway. Muriel Scott isn't a gardener and that wretched dog of hers has dug holes everywhere. Did you meet Roger?'
âNo, he was shut in a closet.'
âAvoid him, if you can. He slobbers. Sorry if I seem nosy, but have you got a family? I mean, the vicarage is on the big side.'
âWe don't have any children. I agree, it's probably far too large. My partner came with me to see it today but he's driven up to the woods.'
Ruth eyed her with sudden suspicion. âWhy?' she asked tersely.
Meredith looked a little embarrassed. âWe saw a police car go up there earlier. Alan's a policeman himself. He had to go and find out.'