Unholy Rites (5 page)

Not the fair-haired boy she'd imagined Alice's son to be.

Ms. Upton made the introductions. “Now then, Eric,” she said. “Sit there by Sergeant Oakes and I'll go over your Community Service Order. Its purpose is to give you the opportunity to make amends for the damage you did.” She glanced at Danutia. “And to give you the skills you need to succeed in life. Here's a copy for you.”

The boy dropped his bag and collapsed onto the chair she indicated. As Ms. Upton read through the conditions of the Community Service Order, Eric gripped the thick document, but his eyes didn't follow along.

“Pay close attention to this last condition, Eric,” Ms. Upton said. “To help you turn your life in a more positive direction, you are forbidden to have any contact with the boys you've been hanging around with. The names are in the order.” She fixed him with her steely blue eyes. “No contact means no contact. No phone calls, no meetings. Is that understood?”

The boy slumped backwards in his chair, muttering.

“What was that?” Ms. Upton said.

“Nothing,” the boy answered, but Danutia had heard. “Better off in jail.”

“You will see me once a week for a year, or until all the terms of your Community Service Order are met. Is that clear?”

The boy pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I guess.”

Ms. Upton passed the boy a ballpoint pen. “You understand that once you sign this agreement, you are bound by these conditions. If you don't fulfill them, or if you don't obey any reasonable rules and requests set by Mr. Clough or anyone else involved in your supervision, the Community Service Order could be revoked and you could be sent to jail.”

As Eric scratched his name, Danutia found herself disagreeing with Kevin's assessment of the probation officer as tough but fair. The individual conditions made sense, in terms of keeping him out of trouble and giving him skills for living. Still, given that most teenagers consider taking out the garbage to be cruel and unusual punishment, the
CSO
as a whole seemed excessive and possibly self-defeating. She couldn't imagine the boy meekly obeying. She hoped the Cloughs knew what they were letting themselves in for.

When the formalities were completed, Kevin patted Eric on the shoulder. “Come along then, lad. Let's get you out to Mr. Clough.”

At the car, to Danutia's relief, Kevin invited Eric to join him in the front seat. Kevin knew teenage boys. She could relax and enjoy the scenery.

Although Mill-on-Wye was less than five miles away, the winding roads made the distance seem twice as long. Snatches of conversation from the front seat competed with the radio as Kevin sounded the boy out on football, school, even computer games, with Eric giving monosyllabic replies or none at all. White drifts of snow against the dry stone walls reminded Danutia of the long winters on the Canadian prairies, though here the snow would be gone in a few days. The fields, already showing a hint of green where the snow had melted, dropped down steep cliffs or folded themselves over rounded hills as they descended into the dales of the River Wye. There, at the bottom of a steep curve and across the bridge, was Corn Mill Crafts, a long two-storey stone building with narrow mullioned windows partially obscured by ivy.

Kevin parked beside the building and jollied Eric along as they made their way to the front. Danutia could hear the gentle purl of the river sliding past until the building blocked the sound. A loud buzzer announced their entry, and seconds later a middle-aged man appeared.

“Good morning, Kevin,” he said, coming around the counter to shake hands, a mop of fur padding after. “And this will be young Eric and Constable Dranchuk with you, I take it. Hugh Clough.”

Danutia, who had grown up on a farm, immediately felt at home with the man. The weathered face, likely younger than it looked, the hair slightly in need of a cut (though not as long as the sheepdog's), the well-worn clothes that sat comfortably on his muscular frame: all this said “farmer” to her.

“Let me show you around,” Clough said, taking no special notice of the boy. The sheepdog kept them bunched together as they stepped through the office door onto the mill floor, with its mingled smells of sawdust, machine oil, and ancient stone.

Danutia gazed in wonder at the open beams and stationary mill wheel. “I feel like I've walked onto the set of one of those
Masterpiece Theatre
shows. Too bad the mill isn't working.”

“The mill had shut down long before I bought the place,” Clough said. “Though there was one here for centuries. It ground corn—that's grain to you North Americans—for human consumption. Mostly oats for oatcakes, a staple of the local diet before store-bought white bread became the rage. Down the road you can see the water wheel of the old meal mill, which produced food for animals instead of people. Before the steam engines took over, there were twenty water mills along the Wye. It's the only river in this area with enough volume to turn a mill wheel the whole year round.”

“I've heard stories about the Monsal Mill,” Danutia said.

“A terrible place, that,” Clough said. “It was a cotton mill, and needed cheap labor and nimble fingers. You've probably heard about the children brought from the cities to work as apprentices, how they were overworked, badly fed, and physically abused. Good riddance when the original mill burned down. The mill you see now was built in the nineteenth century. It closed down about twenty years ago. Rumor is, it's to be redeveloped into condos.”

Eric darted glances about him, shuffling his feet.

“No need to worry, Eric me lad,” Kevin said. “You'll not be mistreated like those poor orphans.”

“No indeed,” Clough said, smiling. “You won't find dormitories full of starving children here, or brutal masters. At this time of year, it's just you and me. And Boots.” He leaned down to pat the dog at his side. “The studios upstairs are rented out to various artisans—a stained glass maker, a potter, and a weaver, at the moment—but they're taking some time off before they start making stock for the tourist season.”

Clough gave them a tour of the machines used for cutting and planing, saying to Eric, “You'll be running these in no time.” Solid and unhurried, he led them to the walled-off area at the far end. “This is the cabinet shop,” he said, sliding back the large wooden door. A space heater hummed in a corner, bringing out the smell of fresh varnish.

In the middle of the room stood a triangular coffee table, a sanding block beside it.

“This is what I was working on when you came,” Clough said. “See the reddish undertone? Cherry. Lovely grain, isn't it?” He picked up the sanding block and held it out to Eric. “Here, you carry on while I show these people out.”

Eric stared at the sander. “I don't know how.”

“You know more than you think you do, lad. Just make smooth, light strokes with the grain, like this.” He demonstrated briefly, then left the block on the table. Signaling Boots to stay, he nodded towards the door. Danutia and Kevin stepped outside, and Clough closed the door behind them.

“He'll do fine,” Clough said as they walked back towards the office. “He's just afraid of making a mistake. The one bright spot in his school record was his technology class, a fancy name for what we called ‘shop' when I taught school. He'll be a good test for what I have to offer.”

Kevin shook Clough's hand. “It'll be hard for the lad to stay away from his old mates, being so close to Tideswell.”

“Justine teaches music half-time in Buxton, and he'll start school there next week, after the mid-term break. That will help him make new friends,” Clough said. “The rest is up to young Eric.”

Would the boy make it? Danutia wondered as they trooped back down the stairs. He was being offered a stable home, a new start at school, and a chance to learn a trade under the tutelage of a kind man. Compared to those kids at Monsal Mill, he had it easy. If he screwed up, it would be his own fault.

The Reverend Mr. James Marple
, soon to be vicar of St. Anne's, handed Arthur his coat. “I'm so sorry your dear mother couldn't be with us tonight. She would have been fascinated by Dr. Nuttall's tales of African witchcraft, I'm sure. I understand she had a taste for pagan superstitions.”

Arthur shoved his arms into his duffel coat, too furious to respond. Patricia Wellcome, changing shoes for boots beside him, said, “Now James, you're forgetting how much the Christian tradition draws on its pagan predecessors.”

“Forgive me if I've spoken out of turn,” Marple said. “And thank you again for coming this evening. My sister doesn't get out into company much and I wanted to give her a little social life while she's visiting. It is Valentine's Day after all.”

The Rev Pat pulled on her gloves. “I'm sure she appreciates your thoughtfulness. She's certainly an excellent cook. Now if you're ready, Arthur, I'll see you home before the roads get icy.”

“I should have
stayed
home, and then you wouldn't have had this drive,” Arthur said, folding his long legs into the tiny Vauxhall.

“James can be a trial, no doubt about that.” She inched to a stop, waited for a break in the stream of headlights, then made the turn from Ashford onto the A6. “However, there is a reason I urged you to come.”

“So that Marple could sic his man-hungry sister on me? Geoff would have been sufficient dog-meat, don't you think? Clever fellow, skyving off before the pudding. I'll bet he set off his pager himself.”

Her rich laughter filled the tiny car. “Though you have to admit, she's an attractive enough woman—”

“Far too moody for me.”

“I had something more serious than matchmaking in mind. Sooner or later, you're bound to hear that your mother was dead set against James's appointment, though she wouldn't explain her reasons. I wanted you to see for yourself that the man is essentially harmless, even if he is a pain in the ass.”

Arthur's ears pricked up. Was this the problem his mother had wanted to discuss with Danutia? “How do you know he's harmless?”

“I was on the Parish Council hiring committee. All the applicants were thoroughly vetted. Marple's record as a young teacher was a bit spotty, but since he was ordained, he's been diligent in carrying out his duties, as far as we could ascertain. Your mother told me privately that she'd heard rumors about Marple, but she wouldn't repeat them unless she was able to substantiate them. She hadn't done so by the time the committee had to submit its shortlist. Frankly, Marple wouldn't have been my first choice, but small rural parishes have to take what they can get.” She pushed her granny glasses back into place. “Maybe it was a poor choice, after all.”

“See, Mum was right.”

“That's not what I mean.” Her words came more slowly. “On the night she died, I'd just learned about Marple's appointment, and unfortunately, I mentioned it at our Candlemas celebration. Ethel was very upset. I'm afraid the news may have brought on the heart attack that killed her.”

“Don't blame yourself,” Arthur said. “I'm sure Mum wouldn't. You were so kind to her after her stroke.” His mum had been visibly comforted by the Rev Pat's almost daily visits. How could the vicar have anticipated the effect her words would have? Yet there it was again, the suggestion that his mother's death was “unexpected and untimely.” Was that what Liz Hazelhurst had meant?

After an evening in Marple's company, Arthur could easily understand why his mother might have taken a personal dislike to the man. Apparently it wasn't the man's Uriah Heepish personality she had objected to, however, it was something in his past. Suddenly Arthur found himself determined to find out what it was.

The Vauxhall had drawn up in front of Well Cottage. Arthur reluctantly clambered out. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

“I'm sorry to leave you like this, but I really must get back. These little cars are no good on ice.”

“Good night then.” Arthur closed the car door and stood watching as the Rev Pat turned around, narrowly missing the well across the road, and headed back towards the A6.

It was still early, just past nine on Valentine's Day, and Arthur didn't know what to do with himself. If only he'd heard from Danutia before he accepted Marple's invitation, he could have suggested taking the train up to Manchester. In this sleepy village, with no friends and no transportation, what was there to do besides go to the pub? It wasn't heaven, but he deserved a little reward, didn't he?

He'd taken only a few steps towards the Reward when he saw a tall figure hurrying towards him. His heart leaped with the thought that it might be Danutia, then fell again as he recognized Liz Hazelhurst, wrapped in a shawl and carrying a parcel.

“Pat said she'd have you home by nine, so I thought I'd pop round with these,” Liz said, patting the parcel. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not,” Arthur said, hoping he'd left the place reasonably tidy. At the cottage door he stepped back to give Liz space to enter. Like him, she had to dip her head to avoid hitting the lintel. She hung her shawl on a peg but didn't remove her long black woollen coat. Her face was drawn and pale against the black collar, with dark circles under her calm, intelligent eyes.

“Would you like something to drink?” Arthur gestured towards the liquor cabinet, which he had amply restocked. “A glass of wine?”

“I'd prefer tea. With some milk. No sugar.” Liz drew a chair near the fireplace. “It's perishing in here. Could we have some heat?”

Arthur hastily turned on the gas fire, and then closed himself into the cluttered kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with tea things and one of his mother's fine china cups. “I'm sorry I haven't called to thank you, after all you've done.” She had been the one who phoned about his mother's death, and taken charge of the funeral arrangements until he could arrive.