Underneath, a list of names:
Jeremiah Shoemann
Abigail Shoemann
Jacob Moorland
Anne Moorland
Maggie Moorland
Abigail and Maggie. The burning girls. I touch the letters carved into the stone. It’s cold, yet to absorb the warmth of the day.
Beneath the girls’ names:
James Oswald Harper
Isabel Harper
Andrew John Harper
The Harpers. Of course. What did Rushton say – Simon could trace his history all the way back to the Sussex Martyrs. Bully for him. Yet something about the monument has made me feel melancholy. Deaths in the name of religion always do. People fighting over who has a greater claim on God. You might as well fight over who owns the sky or the sun. And I’m sure, without God, people would.
I turn away from the monument and its congregation of twig dolls and walk across to the chapel. I stare up at the weathered white building. ‘Redeem the Tim, for the Days are Evil.’ Okay. I need to make peace with this place if this is ever going to work. I unlock the door and push it open.
The sun streams in through the windows, casting splashes of gold and red across the pews. I’ve always loved the effect of sunlight through stained-glass windows.
And then I remember. The windows here aren’t stained glass.
I blink and look around. Splashes of red on the glass, a bitter, metallic smell. I walk down the aisle, unease growing, along with a horrible sense of déjà vu.
‘Drip, drip. You don’t take my Ruby.’
There’s something on the floor by the altar. Something large, black and red.
I feel bile rise in my throat.
A crow. Mangled and battered, wings broken, body twisted.
It must have become trapped and panicked, bashing itself against the windows in a desperate attempt to escape. I crouch down beside the dead bird. And then I notice something, half hidden under its battered body. I move the crow aside with a small grimace.
My scalp contracts. Another twig doll. This one dressed in black with a scrap of white around its neck. A clerical collar. A folded piece of paper has been pinned to the doll’s chest. A newspaper clipping. I pull it off and unfold it. My own face glares back at me: ‘Vicar with Blood on her Hands’.
I feel a vein pulse in my head. How? Who? Then I hear a noise behind me. The creak of the chapel door. I jump up and spin around.
A figure stands in the doorway, haloed by the morning light. I squint as they walk down the aisle towards me. Tall, slender. White hair tied in a bun, clad in running leggings and a bright fluorescent top. Clara Rushton. I stuff the doll and the clipping in my pocket.
‘Morning, Jack! You’re up early.’
‘I could say the same.’
‘Practising your sermons?’
‘Actually, clearing up a dead crow.’
She glances towards the altar. ‘Oh my. Poor thing.’
‘I was wondering how it got in.’
‘Well, there are a fair few holes in the roof. We’ve had pigeons before, the odd sparrow. Never a crow.’ She looks at me sympathetically. ‘Not the best start to the day.’
‘Not really. And it’s not even seven o’ clock.’ I glance at her running gear. ‘Are you always out this early?’
‘Yes, Brian thinks I’m mad, but I enjoy the peace of the dawn. Do you run?’
‘Not even for a bus.’
She chuckles. ‘I was just cooling down when I saw the door was open so I thought I’d pop my head in.’
It seems a bit presumptuous. Nosy, even. A bit like Aaron and his ‘passing by’. Almost like they’re keeping an eye on me.
‘Well, don’t let me keep you,’ I say. ‘I need to clear this mess up in here.’
‘There’s some cleaning equipment in the store cupboard in the office,’ Clara says. ‘And four hands are better than two. Why don’t I help?’
I can’t think of a reason to refuse. ‘Thanks.’
Of course, she’s trying to be helpful. But as I follow her towards the office, I can’t help wondering how long she was standing in the doorway, watching me.
Forty minutes later, we’ve cleaned the blood off the windows and the dead crow has been disposed of in the waste bin around the side of the chapel.
‘There!’ Clara looks around. ‘Much better.’
And it is. In fact, cleaning some of the grime from the windows has made the whole nave seem brighter, less gloomy and fusty.
‘Thanks,’ I say again. ‘I really appreciate it.’
She waves a Marigold-clad hand. ‘No problem. We all look out for each other here in Chapel Croft.’
‘Well, that’s good to know.’
She smiles. She must be in her mid-fifties, but she could pass for younger, even with the white hair. It’s true that some women grow into their looks, gaining beauty as the years pass.
‘You know, maybe you need something to take your mind off all of this?’ she says now. ‘Why don’t you come to the pub with Brian and me tonight? It’s quiz night.’
She must catch the look on my face.
‘Not a fan of quizzes?’
‘Not so much.’
‘What about red wine?’
‘Well, that I can get on board with.’
‘Good. We could do with a new member of our team.’
‘Who else is on it?’
‘Me, Brian and Mike Sudduth. I’m not sure if –’
‘I’ve met him.’
‘Oh, right. He works for the local paper.’ Her eyes light up. ‘You know, maybe he could do a piece on you –’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, a little too quickly.
‘No?’
‘I’m really rather boring. Not a lot to write about.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, Jack.’ Her tone is teasing. ‘I bet you have some stories to tell.’
I hold her gaze. ‘I’ll save them for Jackanory.’
She laughs. ‘Very good. Anyway, if you change your mind, Mike’s very nice, although he’s had a tough couple of years –’ She pauses. ‘Do you know about his daughter?’
‘Yes. He told me.’
‘Heartbreaking. She was such a lovely little girl. Only eight.’
I feel a tug in my heart, thinking about Flo at that age. So innocent, just starting to form her personality. To have her snatched away. A lump rises in my throat.
‘What happened?’
‘A tragic accident. She was playing in a friend’s garden. They had a rope swing. Somehow Tara got the rope twisted around her neck. By the time anyone realized, it was too late.’
‘How terrible.’
‘They tried to resuscitate her, but Mike and his wife had to make the decision to turn off the life support.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes. It drove the families apart. The mothers had been good friends. Afterwards, Fiona never spoke to Emma again.’
‘Emma as in Emma Harper?’
‘Yes, it happened at her house. Poppy and Tara were best friends. It devastated all of them. Poppy didn’t utter a word for over a year. She still barely talks now.’
I think about our encounter outside the church. About Poppy’s strange muteness. Now, it starts to make more sense. To see her best friend die like that. Horrific.