Evil Angels Among Them (38 page)

Lou went off to her office to work while Gill saw Karen Stimpson to the door. ‘I just don't know how to thank you,' Gill said quietly. ‘You've been brilliant.'

‘Just doing my job, Mrs English.'

‘That may be, but you've done your job wonderfully well. And I'm so grateful.'

‘You'll probably be seeing me again,' the WPC grinned. ‘We'll have to take a statement from Bryony, I'm afraid. I couldn't get much out of her – all she would say was that she'd been playing in the garden and her daddy came along in his car so she went with him. She's probably afraid of being punished,' she analysed. ‘We'll give her a bit of time to settle down, then I'll come back and have a word with her.'

Gill went upstairs to see to her daughter, finding Bryony in bed, still dressed, with the covers pulled up to her chin. All her efforts to coax her out of bed were in vain; the girl provided only monotone responses to Gill's questions and refused to leave her bed. ‘Just leave me alone, Mummy,' she requested tearfully. ‘I want to stay here.'

Reluctantly, Gill complied, going downstairs to make herself a cup of coffee. She sipped the coffee thoughtfully, then went to the phone and rang Fergus McNair. ‘I hate to bother you,' she told the doctor, after explaining what had happened. ‘But I'm a bit concerned about Bryony. She's been through an unpleasant ordeal, but this extreme reaction really isn't like her.'

‘Bring her along, then,' Dr McNair instructed. ‘I'll tell the receptionist to squeeze her in.'

‘But that's just the problem, Doctor – she won't leave her bed.'

‘I'll stop by after morning surgery, then,' he promised, and he, too, was as good as his word.

Fergus McNair had had a fair amount of experience in his years of family practice with children who were stroppy or difficult or frightened, not to mention those who were suffering or in pain; in addition he was blessed with a naturally effective bedside manner. But Bryony English failed to respond to any of his usual tricks. He pulled funny faces, he made the tongue depressor vanish up his sleeve, he put the stethoscope to his own chest and listened in mock horror. All of his efforts were met with a blank stare from the child in the bed. She responded obediently enough to his request for her to put her tongue out, and she held the thermometer in her mouth until he removed it, and she answered his questions politely, but she seemed incapable of laughing or even smiling.

Gill hovered around the edge of the room and followed him back downstairs. ‘Well, Doctor?' she demanded anxiously.

His reply was succinct. ‘There's nothing wrong with the child,' he stated, raising his grizzled eyebrows. ‘Nothing that I can measure, at any rate. Temperature normal, heart normal, reflexes normal. Everything as it should be.' Dr McNair gave Gill an appraising look. ‘But she's not right in herself, Mrs English. You can see that as well as I can. Something is eating away at that child on the inside.' He tapped his own chest. ‘And I can't do anything about that.'

Gill chewed on her lip. ‘Then what do you suggest?'

‘Let's give her another day or so,' he suggested. ‘Then if
you
can't reach her, and she doesn't seem any better, we'll have to give it some further thought. I know a good man in Norwich, and I'll expedite the referral if need be.'

‘A psychiatrist?' she whispered, appalled.

He gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. ‘Let's not worry about it, my dear. It's likely just the shock, and by tomorrow she'll be right as rain. Try to get her to eat something, and I'll be in touch tomorrow.'

‘I'd like to have just one more look round the church before we go,' Lucy said to David in a last-ditch effort to put off for even a few minutes what now seemed inevitable. After all, as he'd told her, all the loose ends had now been tied up, and there was nothing to keep them in Walston any longer: Becca's phone caller had been caught, Flora's murderer had confessed and taken her own life, and Bryony was safely back at Foxglove Cottage.

‘Yes, all right,' David agreed. ‘I'll put the cases back in the car and we can have a little wander round the church before we say goodbye to Becca and Stephen. Again,' he added wryly.

‘I haven't signed the visitors' book,' she realised as they went in through the west door. ‘We really ought to leave a record of our visit.' She picked up the biro provided for that purpose and flipped through the last few pages of the visitors' book, reading the entries. ‘People really do come here from all over,' she remarked. ‘London, Scotland, Norwich, Cornwall. New Zealand, Florida USA, Germany.'

‘Well, it
is
a very famous church,' David pointed out. ‘And rightly so. The architecture is spectacular.'

‘But look at the comments.' Lucy pointed to the right-hand column on the most recent page. ‘No one says “spectacular architecture” or “Perpendicular at its best”. Not even “love the angel roof”. They all say “peaceful”. Look, darling – seventy-five per cent of the people who visit this church can't think of anything more original to say about it than “peaceful”. I mean, what do they expect? Loud rock music or a motorcycle rally?'

David grinned. ‘It shows how little they know about Walston if they think it's peaceful. We could tell them a thing or two, couldn't we, Lucy love?'

‘True.' Lucy bent over the book to inscribe their names, then moved slowly down the centre aisle of the nave, her eyes fixed on the chancel arch. Suddenly she stopped, covering her face with her hands.

‘Love, what's the matter?' David, frowning in concern, came up behind her.

‘Oh, David.' She sat down and raised her face to the Doom painting. ‘I feel so awful – so guilty.'

‘But whatever for?' David sat beside her and took her hand between both of his. ‘You haven't done anything.'

‘Enid,' she said in a low voice. ‘I feel . . . responsible for her death.'

‘Good Lord!' He stared at her. ‘What on earth do you mean?'

Lucy told him then about her conversation in the chapel with Roger Staines, looking not at David, but keeping her eyes fixed on the Doom painting, on those unfortunate souls writhing in the relentless grip of red-eyed devils. She concluded with her imprudent remarks about Enid which Doris had so unfortunately overheard. ‘I practically accused Enid of murder,' she said, on the brink of tears. ‘And Doris rushed off to tell her. You said the suicide note mentioned that people were beginning to suspect. That was
me
, David! I drove her to suicide!'

‘Oh, love!' He held her awkwardly as she wept on his shoulder. ‘You couldn't have known,' he murmured. ‘You couldn't have known that Doris would hear you, or that Enid would react so drastically. You can't blame yourself, love.'

‘But I
do
blame myself! I shouldn't have said the things I did! It was wrong of me, and I can't forgive myself!'

David turned at the sound of the west door opening, fearing that it was Harry. The last thing he needed now, he said to himself, was Harry Gaze, licking his lips in feigned horror over the news about Enid, all the while eagerly anticipating the next funeral at St Michael's. But the figure who entered moved with much less proprietorial assurance than Harry. It was John Spring, looking utterly alien and ill at ease in this setting. ‘There you are, Dave,' he said with relief, moving up the aisle towards them. ‘The Rector's wife said that I might find you here.'

Lucy lifted a tear-streaked face from David's shoulder, startled at the intrusion, and groped in her skirt pocket for a tissue. David kept a protective arm round her, looking enquiringly at the sergeant. ‘John, you're the last person I expected to see here.'

‘Never been in here before, mate,' Spring admitted, gazing round the stone walls and up at the angel roof. ‘Big, isn't it? And quiet.'

‘Peaceful,' David agreed, squeezing Lucy's shoulder. She giggled into the tissue in spite of herself.

Spring gave her a curious look, then followed her eyes up to the Doom painting. ‘What's that, then?'

‘A medieval wall painting,' explained David. ‘The Last Judgment. God the Father at the top, with the Son and the Spirit. The righteous souls going to heaven on the right, and the damned going the other way on the left.'

‘But some of those people don't have any clothes on!' Spring realised with relish. ‘I had no idea that those medieval people painted racy things like that, Dave! And in church, too!'

‘You'd be surprised.' David raised his eyebrows. ‘But I don't suppose you've come here for a lecture about medieval church art.'

John Spring grinned. ‘Right you are, Dave. Like I said, the Rector's wife told me to look for you here. She's a lovely little thing, isn't she? Looks familiar to me, as well.'

David rolled his eyes, prompting Spring to continue. ‘But I digress. I found out something this morning that I thought you'd be interested in, and as you've been so . . . cooperative with my investigations, I wanted to let you know right away.'

‘You just caught us,' David said. ‘We're on our way back home to London in a few minutes. What is it, then?'

Spring stroked his moustache uncomfortably. ‘That Mrs Bletsoe. You know I told you last night that she topped herself?'

David nodded. ‘And you told me what was in the suicide note.'

‘I was wrong, mate.' Spring pulled a doleful face. ‘I thought it was in the bag. All nice and tidy. Mark the Newall case closed, and maybe a promotion for me out of it. But I was wrong.'

‘What!' David half rose from his chair, and even Lucy turned to stare at Spring.

‘I was wrong,' he repeated, seeming to take some perverse comfort from the phrase. ‘Enid Bletsoe didn't top herself – she was murdered, just like Flora Newall. And whoever did it went to a lot of trouble to make it look like suicide – faked the note and everything.'

‘But how do you know it was faked?' David demanded. ‘How do you know that it was murder?'

Spring crossed his arms across his chest. ‘The murderer made one little mistake. He would have got away with it, mate, and us none the wiser, except for one little thing. He wiped the glass clean. Didn't want to leave his own prints, and can't blame him for that, but there were no prints at all. And Mrs Bletsoe wasn't wearing gloves. So that adds up to murder. She sure as hell didn't drink that poisoned bitter lemon through a straw!' he added with a glimmer of a smile.

‘Good Lord.' David sat down again, his hand absent-mindedly stroking Lucy's hair. ‘Well, I'll be blowed,' he said, almost to himself.

Lucy sighed, her mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The cause for her own feelings of guilt had been removed, but it opened up a whole new set of problems, or rather reopened old ones. For if Enid hadn't killed herself, it meant that the murderer was still on the loose in Walston. And he now had not one but two deaths to his credit.

When they got back to the Rectory, Becca met them at the door. ‘Did that policeman find you?'

‘Yes,' David nodded. ‘Thanks.'

‘And you've had a phone call, Lucy.' Becca frowned. ‘From Gill. It sounded important – she asked if you could ring her back as soon as possible.'

Lucy complied, and a moment later joined David and Becca in the kitchen, looking troubled. ‘Gill wondered if I might come over,' she told them. ‘She's worried about Bryony – she won't eat anything and she doesn't want to get out of bed. She thought I might be able to do something with her since she's seemed to take to me. Gill said maybe if I were to read her a story, or bring her something tempting to eat . . .'

‘How about chocolate biscuits?' Becca suggested. ‘She's got a weakness for chocolate biscuits, and Gill never keeps any in the house.' Glad that she could do something practical, Becca went to her pantry and came back with an unopened packet. ‘Here. See if these will tempt her.'

Lucy wasted no time, going straight to Foxglove Cottage; Gill met her at the door and ushered her upstairs to Bryony's room, then crept away to leave them alone together.

‘Hello, Bryony,' Lucy said softly. ‘I'm so glad that you're home safe and sound, and I thought I'd like to read you a story.'

Bryony assented in a listless voice. ‘All right.'

‘One of your favourite fairy tales, then?' Lucy selected a book from the girl's well-stocked bookcase and settled down by the bed. ‘You liked this one, I remember. It's the one about the beautiful miller's daughter and the wicked little man, Rumpelstiltskin.'

‘No, not that one,' Bryony muttered, tears trickling out of the corners of her eyes. ‘I don't want the one about the wicked man.'

‘All right, then. How about
The Three Little Pigs
?'

Lucy read the story well, with appropriate voices and sound effects, but Bryony listened indifferently, her eyes closed. ‘Do you want another story, then?' Lucy offered when she'd finished.

‘It doesn't matter.'

Well, how about showing me your dolls, then? You promised you'd let me play with your Barbie,' Lucy tempted her.

‘No.' Bryony's mouth was set in a stubborn line. ‘I'm not getting up. Not now, and not ever.'

‘But you're missing school,' Lucy pointed out. ‘One day doesn't matter too much, but tomorrow . . .'

‘No!' The little girl turned her face into her pillow. ‘I'm not going outside! The horrible man will get me!'

Lucy wasn't surprised that she felt such strong negative feelings about her father, under the circumstances; she judged that it was time to distract her with chocolate biscuits. ‘Look, Bryony,' she said sweetly, producing the packet of biscuits and putting them on the bed. ‘Look what Becca sent to you. Some lovely chocolate biscuits – your favourite sort!'