‘How long have you known?’
He sighs heavily. ‘Reverend Marsh told me when I started my tenure. He explained that they had uncovered the vault the previous year, when they were relaying some damaged flagstones. But they wouldn’t be making it public, because it would hurt the reputation of the Harper family.’
‘Because their ancestors weren’t martyrs?’
He nods. ‘It might seem odd to you, but it means a lot in Chapel Croft. Even now, those with lineage to the martyrs are respected. Those without are seen as poor relations.’
‘Surely the truth is more important than one family’s ego?’
‘I may have said much the same. Reverend Marsh asked me who I thought had paid for the repairs to the chapel’s roof. Who sponsored the church fete? Who paid for the supplies and equipment for the children’s club?’
‘The Harpers.’
He nods. ‘Every year they make a sizeable donation to the church. To preserve its history.’
‘So, you agreed to cover it up?’
Another deep sigh. ‘I agreed to not uncover it.’
But a lie by omission is still a lie. And then I wonder, who am I to judge?
‘Who else knows?’ I ask.
‘Until recently, only me, Aaron and Simon Harper.’ He pauses. ‘But then Reverend Fletcher started looking into the history of the chapel.’
‘He found a copy of the architectural plans?’
‘Yes. He was very excited about the possibility of a hidden vault. Aaron came into the chapel one morning to find he had taken up half the floor, uncovered the old entrance.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Well, I tried to persuade him not to tell anyone. But he felt the vault and coffins were an important historical discovery. So, I asked Simon Harper to speak to him. Whatever he said, it seemed to make a difference. Fletcher agreed to keep quiet and, not long afterwards, he handed in his resignation.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes. I arranged for a tiler I know to come and cover up the entrance. I thought that was the end of it.’
‘And then Fletcher killed himself?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘Do you still think it was suicide?’
‘Yes. I do.’ His tone is firm, verging on annoyed. ‘You can’t seriously think that someone killed him because of the vault?’
‘If they knew what was hidden inside, maybe. Maybe they were worried he was getting too close.’
Rushton shakes his head. ‘I know this village. The people. No one here is capable of murder.’
‘The body in the vault would suggest otherwise.’ Before he can retort, I ask: ‘Do you think Marsh knew the body was down there?’
‘The police asked the same thing, and I will tell you what I told them. Marsh was an honourable man. Deeply religious. Why would he cover up a murder?’
Why indeed? I think about the timeline. Marsh must have discovered the vault around the same time Merry and Joy disappeared, and Grady (supposedly) left the village. At some point before it was paved over, Grady’s body was hidden inside. A narrow window. And if no one else knew about the vault outside of the church, a small number of suspects.
‘Joan told me about the disappearance of Merry and Joy,’ I say. ‘Benjamin Grady allegedly left the village around the same time. Except now we know he didn’t. Could the two things be connected?’
‘I don’t see how. The girls ran away.’
‘But did they?’
‘Jack, please, stop.’ His voice rises. His face is growing red. ‘This is exactly what happened with Matthew. Joan spinning her yarns. He became obsessed. And we both know how that ended up.’
I stare at him, wondering if that is an oblique threat.
He takes a breath, tries to offer a smile, but the jolly-reverend act isn’t cutting it any more. ‘I understand your interest. Naturally, you have questions. But we must leave the investigating to the police. At times like this, we must all stick together. For the good of the church and the village.’
‘And the good of the Harpers?’
‘Whether you like it or not, in a village like Chapel Croft we need families like the Harpers. Their business sustains a lot of jobs. They give to charities –’
‘I understand that. But in trying to appease one family, you covered up a crime.’
Possibly more than one.
Rushton levels a hard stare at me. ‘And have you never sought to bury some small truths, Jack, to make things easier on yourself or someone else?’
‘This isn’t about me.’ I stand. ‘I should get going.’
He moves to rise.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I can see myself out.’
I walk out of the cottage, back into the hot, bright sunshine. I parked my car under a shady tree just down the lane from the Rushtons. Even so, when I climb into the driver’s seat it’s like climbing into a microwave oven. I roll the windows down, feeling hot, angry and, worse, let down. I liked Rushton. I wanted to trust him. I was wrong.
I’m just about to pull off when I see Clara walking down the road. She’s dressed in shorts and hiking boots. A large canvas tote bag is hooked over one shoulder. She stops just before the gate to the cottage. Her chest is hitching. Her eyes are red. She’s crying. Instinct tells me to go and comfort her. Something else tells me not to. She has stopped outside the cottage deliberately. She doesn’t want her husband to see her.
Of course, there could be lots of reasons why she is so upset. But bearing in mind the recent discovery at the chapel, I can think of only one. Grady. And you don’t shed tears like that over someone who was just a friend.
I watch as she wipes at her eyes, adjusts her snowy hair and pushes the gate open. As she does, the canvas bag slips off her shoulder, gaping open.
Inside are bundles of twigs.
FORTY-THREE
Flo tacks cardboard up at the bathroom window. Her mum has gone out, so she’s decided she might as well develop the second canister of film while she has the cottage to herself.
She thought it might take her mind off things, but it hasn’t really helped. Perhaps it isn’t surprising. She’s been terrorized by burning apparitions, almost killed herself falling through the chapel floor and then discovered a bunch of ancient skeletons and a murdered vicar in the vault. Just your average week in Salem, right?
She climbs down carefully from the bath – her left leg is still a bit stiff – and arranges her developing trays on the loo seat and the floor. Part of her wishes they could just move the hell away from this place, back to Nottingham, and some sanity. Another part is kind of relishing the weirdness. Stumbling over skeletons in a vault is certainly a step up from finding used needles on the church doorstep. And maybe, just maybe, there’s another reason she’d like to stay. A dark-haired, green-eyed reason. Wrigley.
She likes him. And, although she’s certainly not some damsel in distress, he did rescue her last night. But can she really trust a boy who has confessed to trying to burn down his last school? That’s pretty hardcore. And what about the knife? She told Mum he definitely didn’t take it, but she can’t quite crush that tiny kernel of doubt. She finds herself worrying at it, like a hangnail. Maybe that’s why she got so mad at her mum. She didn’t want to admit that she could, possibly, be right.