Haunted (10 page)

‘Kate . . .’

But now the door closed. Her eyes sought his for a single moment, then the Saab pulled away.

Ash watched her go, not angry with himself, but somehow despairing. What the hell did he really want? Why did he always let it fall apart? No, it wasn’t that, nothing so definite. He let relationships drift then cool of their own accord, not wanting to hurt, but not wanting to give too much either.

He walked back along the path to the vicarage and found Rev Clemens waiting at the doorstep.

‘We’re about to start dinner, Mr Ash. Rosemary sent me to fetch you.’

He went into the house with the cleric, almost regretting that he had agreed to stay at the vicarage until the investigation was completed. A room at the local inn might have been preferable, although it made sense to stay near the church itself.

Over dinner the vicar regaled him with stories of Wrexton, of the town’s inhabitants and in particular, his own parishioners. He expressed deep regret that St Mark’s might well have to be closed down because of all this trouble and that he and his wife would be forced to move to another parish if that were the case. Several times throughout the meal, Ash caught Rosemary – whose consumption of the table wine was even greater than his own – watching him, her eyes not always dropping away immediately. She appeared younger than her husband, although probably by no more than a couple of years. She was plumpish, but by no means unattractive.

It came as a relief when the meal was over and he was able to leave the house to check on the equipment he had set up inside the church, for there was little cheer in Clemens’ conversation and Rosemary’s eyes had lingered on his own a little longer each time, much to his discomfort.

After the church, Ash phoned Kate from a public call box in the high street. Nothing much to report, he told her; and nothing much to say, he could almost hear her thinking. Talk again tomorrow. If you like. Kate, look, let’s get this investigation over with. Of course, David, that’s the important thing. I didn’t mean . . . I know you didn’t; just keep me informed, David. About everything.

After her stiff goodbye Ash made his way to the nearest pub. It was some time later that he returned to the vicarage.

He had been given his own key and he took care not to make too much noise as he climbed the stairs, not wishing to disturb Rev Clemens and his wife at that late hour. He was about to enter his room when he sensed – or perhaps he heard a shifting of weight – someone behind him.

Rosemary Clemens was standing in the doorway opposite, her hand holding closed her unbuttoned nightgown.

‘You startled me,’ he said.

Her voice was hushed. ‘I wanted to apologize for the boredom at dinner.’

He regarded her with some surprise.

‘My husband tends to go on about his work and his so-called flock. He can get quite bitter about them, can’t he?’

Ash felt awkward standing there, the woman only a few feet away, her hand no longer clutching the nightgown together. He did his best to ignore the shadowed gap. ‘There really isn’t anything to apologize for.’

She stepped forward. ‘Would you like a nightcap? Just one drink? I find it difficult to sleep so early. Unlike Michael.’ She indicated with her head a closed door further along the corridor. ‘We sleep in separate rooms, David. We have done for years now.’

‘It isn’t so early,’ said Ash. ‘It’s nearly midnight. And I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

‘But you’d like a drink, wouldn’t you?’ She moved even closer to him. ‘I’d like to talk to you for a while. Just talk. You don’t know what it’s like—’

They both became still. And listened to the sonorous toll of the church bell.

Kate huddled in the car, cold and bored. When she had told David two nights before that she felt in need of more ‘work in the field’ she hadn’t imagined herself on stakeout. She blew into her hands to warm them.

Studying St Mark’s at this time of night, with its graveyard stretching to the roadside, headstones and tombs sinister shapes in the shadows, she could well believe the place was haunted. The bell tower alone, rising towards the dark rolling clouds, was eerie enough with its deep apertures suggesting the chilly blackness that lay within. She didn’t envy David the previous night when he’d had to climb those rickety stairs in the dead of night to discover how the bell was ringing. When he’d entered St Mark’s, he had found every item of his detection equipment either smashed or upset. Blood had been smeared over walls and holy pictures. Pews had been overturned. Every candle in the church had been lit.

But he had come upon no intruder.

Not even in the bell tower.

The heavy, single-stroke
clanging
had ceased even before he had entered the church, and when he eventually reached the belfry itself, whoever – or
whatever
– had rung the bell had vanished, leaving behind only more wrecked equipment.

Kate resisted the urge to run the Saab’s engine for a short while and use the heater to warm herself up. She sincerely hoped Ash, who was inside the church, having kept the key provided by Rev Clemens, was freezing his butt off! The vicar and his wife thought that he had returned to London to have the spoiled equipment repaired and to collect more, the investigation to be resumed a day or two later. However, Kate herself had driven him back that evening, after he had told her of some interesting gossip he’d picked up in the local pub (the best place of all to learn what was really going on in any town). Even now she was unsure whether or not this was really a matter for the police hereabouts – after all, it
was
a crime that was being committed. But of course, that decision was not for the Institute to make; only the vicar, himself, or his superiors could decide upon that. If Rev Clemens had not been so obsessed with the idea of ‘demonic possession’, then perhaps the local constabulary would have become involved.

Kate wiped steam from the windscreen, holding her breath so that the glass would remain clear for a few moments. There it was again. There
was
someone out there, someone moving through the graveyard. Using a good deal of stealth, too. And heading for the church.

I hope you haven’t fallen asleep, David, Kate said silently to herself. As quietly as possible, she opened the car door.

Ash sat near the back of the darkened church, screened partly by a stone pillar. The only light came from the high stained-glass windows each time night clouds slid from the face of the moon. His hands were tucked deep inside his overcoat pockets, lapels crossed over his chest. He shivered. Then heard a sound somewhere in the darkness.

A breeze flickered against his face. A door had been opened.

And there it was, a black form, somehow misshapen, moving among the shadows.

Ash kept still, curious to see what the intruder would do.

A match was struck, the sound harsh in the cavern of the church. A candle was lit. Then another. The figure moved – glided it almost seemed – around the nave, lighting more. That area of the church grew brighter and Ash sank down in his seat, even though he was still in shadow, for now the intruder’s true shape was more discernible.

It was bent, as if hunchbacked, and it wore some kind of robe, perhaps a monk’s, the head covered by a large cowl.

Ash understood why the figure had appeared crooked, for now it was lifting something. Something heavy.

As Ash watched, the intruder raised the container and began to pour liquid over the altar.

Kate took the flashlight with her but did not switch it on.

She waited outside the churchyard gate and only when the figure she had been watching had disappeared from view did she enter. Her teeth clenched tight when the gate groaned on its hinges.

She hurried through, not wanting to lose sight of the trespasser for too long, guessing that whoever it was was making for the church’s small side door. When gravel crunched under her feet Kate stepped onto the grass verge, taking care not to trip over the stones or grave borders. She was sorely tempted to use the flashlight.

Kate reached the corner of the church and peered round. There was no sign of the person she had been following.

A noise to her right caught her attention. There it was, a shape dodging around headstones. But it was heading away from the church.

Kate’s eyes narrowed. That couldn’t be right! This person stalking through the cemetery was making for the vicarage itself. Ash shrank down onto the kneeler below the seat as the cowled figure walked up the centre carrying with it a single candle.

It paused once, looking around as if sensing another presence, and the investigator ducked completely out of sight. He waited, breath held, until the footsteps resumed.

Once they had passed the pew in which he crouched, Ash raised his head to watch. From behind, the hooded figure appeared to have a soft halo, the effect caused by the candle held close to its chest. It went to the narrow doorway leading to the bell tower.

The rising passageway beyond glowed with candlelight as the robed figure began to climb the stone steps, that glow soon diminishing, overwhelmed by the shadow cast. Ash quietly shuffled along the pew, then sped towards the altar where candles that had been removed from their holders now stood burning. Reflections shone from the liquid that had been spilt there.

He took the broad altar steps two at a time, suspecting that the candles had been set in a pool of petrol.

But there were no petrol fumes, although there was an odour. A heavy, unpleasant stench. Ash came to a halt before the altar and touched his fingers to the blood.

‘Stop right there.’

Kate switched on the flashlight and shone the beam directly into the man’s eyes. She had watched his surreptitious advance on the house, his sly peering through lighted windows, his creeping approach to the back door, her own cover finally broken when she had stumbled over something on the ground. He had spun round, crouching as though expecting to be attacked. Kate had had no other choice than to take the offensive: she blinded him with the light.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded to know, hoping the fear in her voice was not noticeable.

‘Turn that bloody light off!’ came the sharp reply.

No way, thought Kate. ‘I asked you a question. Just what the hell are you up to?’

‘You mind your own bloody business and get that light out of my face!’

The man took a step towards her and Kate almost turned and ran. We’re making enough noise to rouse David, let alone the people inside the house, she reassured herself. Hold tight, don’t be intimidated.

The back door of the vicarage opened, light pouring out to hold the trespasser in its full glare.

‘What’s going on out here?’

Kate recognized the vicar’s wife, Rosemary.

‘Eric? Is that you?’

The man did not even bother to turn towards her. ‘Say nothing, Rosemary.’

The woman in the doorway searched beyond the man she had called Eric, squinting against the dazzle of the flashlight. ‘Michael, you said you were meeting with the dean tonight, you said you wouldn’t be home ’til very late.’

Kate spoke up, beginning to understand: ‘It’s you two, isn’t it? You’re the ones vandalizing the church. My God, that’s a sick game to play on your husband, Mrs Clemens.’

‘Who is that? Who are you?’

Kate came forward, keeping the flashlight trained on the man as if it were some kind of weapon. ‘It’s Kate McCarrick, Mrs Clemens. From the Psychical Research Institute. I was with David Ash yesterday.’

‘But . . . but what are you doing here?’ One hand gripped the doorframe as though for support.

‘What you get up to outside your marriage is your own business,’ said Kate, coming into the light from the doorway. ‘Although, God knows, your affairs appear to be common knowledge in the town. But to turn your own husband into a nervous wreck by desecrating his church is a bit rich.’ She turned off the flashlight and the man wiped a hand across his eyes with relief. ‘Why torment your husband that way, Mrs Clemens? What did you hope to achieve?’

‘She’s mad,’ said the man called Eric, scowling at Kate. ‘You’re bloody mad, woman,’ he repeated.

‘I think you’ve both got a lot of explaining to do,’ Kate replied calmly. ‘The police don’t take kindly to—’

She stopped speaking. All three of them turned towards the grey looming church from where, once again, there came the steady tolling of a bell.

Ash ascended the stone steps of the tower, the ponderous ringing of the bell seeming to draw him onwards, the spiralling noise almost deafening in the confines of the stairway. Up he went, flashlight held before him to light the way, his breathing becoming laboured, legs already beginning to ache with the effort.

He stumbled, grazing his shin against stone; but he quickly went on, determined to find out (although his suspicions were undeniably strong) just who was ‘haunting’ St Mark’s. There was something very wrong about this place of worship, something unhealthy he could not help but feel, but it had nothing to do with demons. The rottenness – he could think of no better term – had more to do with the weakness of human nature than ghostly sacrilege. The parishioners were turning away from the Rev Clemens’ church for reasons other than its or their own spiritual decline.