“You’re the most indolent cat I’ve ever known,” said Fay.
Shadow opened one eye and looked at his mistress. Even if he could, he was the type of cat that would not have bothered to find out what “indolent” meant.
“You’d lie there all day if I let you.”
Shadow’s purring had reached new heights of contentment as he remained stretched out on his lazing mistress’s crossed legs whilst she sipped a hot mug of tea and lazed on the deep cushioned sofa watching morning TV, giving him an occasional stroke between his ears. Life could not get any better, or so he thought. He was a handsome cat with coal-black fur and golden eyes, and some would say he knew it too. Unlike most cats, Shadow was happy to go for walks with his owner and refused to hunt birds, rats or any other small creature, considering a live-and-let-live attitude was both ethical and convenient for a cat determined to do the minimum he could get away with.
Fay Katt was of a similar mind, especially the hunting bit, although she was a whizz at solving murder mysteries, at least those in books and on TV. Since her husband, Jake, had died two years previous, she had kept to a routine which had almost become a rut. But like Shadow, she was content., She was coming up to her late thirties, and there were worse situations she could be in. As it stood, she had a few good friends, a small and smart cottage in her home village of Summercroft, and enough money in the bank to last if she wasn’t too extravagant, such extravagances being a rare indulgence. Sauvignon, of course, didn’t count, as it was a means of relaxing and unwinding with Shadow, a cat of indeterminate age who seemingly adopted Fay and moved in just after Luke died. Much to Fay’s chagrin, he was still there two years later, acting like he owned the place. After weeks of following her around everywhere, she decided Shadow was the appropriate name for him.
“You’ll have to move soon. I need to go out,” Fay told her companion while making no effort herself to move.
Although she had put her mobile phone on silent, Fay could hear its insistent humming from her large leather bag she had left on the dining table. The bag doubled for both shopping and carrying her indolent cat when they were out walking. She thought about leaving it to continue its annoying ring, as it would disturb his little lordship lying on her lap, but then decided to show who was boss. Lifting him off, she placed him on the floor. He meowed in annoyance, Fay ignored him.
As soon as she tapped the button to accept the call, a voice interrupted her greeting. “Have you heard the news?” asked Miranda.
“No. Do tell,” said Fay, assuming it was just a bit of local gossip, which Miranda often indulged in.
“Emily has been murdered in St Mary’s! The vicar found her this morning.”
“Oh God, no. That’s terrible. Emily was so lovely. Who would want to kill her?”
Shadow had sensed the tension in Fay’s voice and, forgetting his annoyance at being dumped on the floor, jumped on the table, staring into Fay’s eyes. Fay stroked his fur to reassure him, though perhaps it was to reassure herself more.
“She’d been there all night. Dead in the church.”
“That’s awful. Poor Emily.”
“That dishy-looking constable, Tom Blake, is at the church now with Vicky from community support. They’ve cordoned it off. The entire village is gabbing about it now.” Said Miranda, unable to resist being flirty even in this situation.
“Thanks for letting me know. My God, it’s the first murder I’ve ever heard of in the village,” said Fay.
“Everyone has been told to lock their door. Of course, you’re ex-police, you’d know this.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Miranda’s reminder of Fay’s former career brought back memories of Jake. With a murder in the village, they would have both been dispatched from Gloucester to deal with it. Jake’s refusal to go into a hospice and spend his last days at home brought an ache to her heart. He’d never wanted her to resign, it was never an option for Fay. She vowed she would stay with him till the end.
Who would want to kill a deaf and mute woman like Emily? Fay wondered. Beyond that, Emily was well-loved and known for her kindness and gentle spirit, always rising above any restrictions her disability could have caused. She was a stalwart of local fetes, always producing a spread of baked cakes and breads for sale.
Shadow could sense anger, and fear but also excitement in his mistress. He understood all three emotions.
Once a cop, always a cop, thought Fay, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Anger that her village and a close friend had been violated in this odious manner churned her stomach, and she was determined to find out the reason for Emily’s murder.
Grabbing her boho coat and her large leather bag, which she hooped over her shoulder, she opened the door. A blast of cool autumn air wafted onto her face and neck. Jake’s woollen scarf still hung on the coat hook, she took it and wrapped it around her neck, relishing the warm feeling it gave her. She looked behind to see if Shadow was going to live up to his name. He was right behind her. People in the village had become used to seeing the pair of them out together. Of course, they were walking that fine line between eccentricity and quirky.
#
With Shadow slinking alongside, Fay approached the ancient Norman-built St. Mary’s Church. Tom Blake, the village’s new constable, stood outside the thick black iron studded church doors, looking grim and tired. Vicky, the local volunteer community police officer, was standing guard at the door.
“Hello, Tom. I bet you weren’t expecting a murder on your doorstep in your first posting,” said Fay.
Fay had spoken to the constable on several occasions, but only in passing. Up close, she noticed a scar over his left eye, just a small one, but it added to the rugged look he already had. He was almost handsome.
Constable Blake shook his head, he looked shocked.
“I can’t believe it. A murder on my patch and I’ve only been here a few months.”
“Do you think you can handle it?”
“The army teaches you to expect the unexpected. No different in the police. I’ll take it in my stride.”
“Maybe you’ll get another medal to match those on your chest.”
“I doubt it. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your interest in this crime?” asked Blake.
“Emily was a great friend. I used to be a detective inspector with Gloucester CID.”
“I didn’t know that. That’s good to know we have a DI in the village. Gloucester police will be here in about an hour. We should leave it to them,” said Blake, folding his arms. He seemed reluctant to do any investigation. Fay could understand that reluctance. He was only a copper on the beat.
“I was in CID, and I’ve handled murder cases, as the minutes slip away, the murder gets harder to solve. The quicker you start, the more likely you’ll get a result. You could make a name for yourself,” said Fay.
“I suppose you’re right. Minutes matter in a murder case. Let’s get started before the flying squad arrives. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened. The lady didn’t deserve this,” said Blake.
“No, she didn’t. We must do everything we can to find who did this.” Fay was talking like the police officer she had been, she’d handled several murders and knew time was important in the first stages of an investigation.
Blake pushed open the door to the church. It was cool inside; the heating only being used for Sunday services, and there was a slight smell of incense and something else Fay could detect. She had smelt it before at murder sites: blood.
Shadow followed. His senses alert for danger. He could smell the blood too and walked closer to his mistress.
As they walked down the nave, a chilling scene revealed itself. Emily lay at the foot of the altar, her broken body marked by signs of violent struggle.
“I secured the crime scene, I put tape around the altar and pews. Please don’t cross the tape.”
“You’ve done the right thing.”
Fay stopped at the tape and could see Emily’s body sprawled in front of the altar.
“Her head, it’s smashed in,” said Fay, her heart aching but her voice calm. Her professional training had kicked in and she viewed the bloody scene as dispassionately as possible.
“The killer used the large candlestick. Blunt force trauma. If it’s any consolation, it looks like she died quickly.”
Fay peered at the ornate candlestick headpiece, now covered in blood. There was a matching candlestick on the altar.
Shadow prowled around the crime scene, his sharp golden eyes catching every detail. He jumped on the altar, looking down on the body. The woman’s head was split, and blood had seeped onto the floor and spattered the altar. Her eyes were open.
“Who found her?” asked Fay.
“There were three people here when I arrived. Reverend Matthews, the vicar; Doug Blake, the pub landlord and Amelia Hart, that artist from the edge of the village.”
“Did you know Emily?” Said Fay.
“Not really. I’m still getting to know the village.”
“Did you know she was deaf and mute?”
“No, I didn’t. That’s useful to know.”
“She used hand-signing to communicate and was also teaching me to sign. Since she had been deaf and mute since birth, it also affected her speech. Some people found it difficult to understand her, but her lip-reading was exceptional.” Fay shared.
“I should have known that. I’m still getting to know the village,” Blake repeated.
Fay thought there was nothing else she could discern from the crime scene and wanted to know more about the people who had found her.
“We have nothing else to go on, so let’s work on the principle that the criminal may have returned to the scene of the crime. We will interview the people who first found Emily,” said Fay.
“Let’s start with the vicar,” said Blake.
#
They found Reverend Matthews in his study; his calm demeanour was replaced with a haunted look. Pictures of him in rugby shirts in various teams and individual poses adorned the walls. Perhaps that’s where he had gotten his broken nose from, Fay thought, although it wasn’t too horrendous and gave his face some character.
“Reverend, I’m so sorry about what happened. Did you find the body?” said Fay as they entered.
He nodded; his eyes filled with sorrow. “Yes, I opened the main door, switched on the lights, and walked to the altar. She was lying across the floor, her head on the stone plinth, covered in blood. I touched her face to see if she was still alive, but she was stone cold.”
“Did you lock up last night?” asked Blake.
“Yes. I came over at about 9 pm from the vicarage, as I do every night. I just stepped inside. There is never anybody there at that time of night. I did half-heartedly say ‘Is anybody there’, but there was no reply. So, I switched off the lights and locked the door. It’s an uncomfortable feeling to think she was lying there all night on her own. I’ve spoken to the bishop. He’s going to re-consecrate the church tomorrow.”
“So, her murder occurred before 9 pm. Did you see anyone near the church last night?” said Fay.
“Not that I can remember, though to be honest I was rushing to get back to watch that new crime thriller on TV,” said Matthews, a slight blush creeping into his cheeks.
Fay smiled. “Yes, I watched it too. It was good if a trifle cliched.”
He was shaking his head, his face contorted in horror as if he were reliving the discovery of her body.
“Do you often leave the church open till late?” she asked. Fay had had police training, but even before that, she was confident when dealing with people in positions of responsibility. Her father, a trade union shop steward, had always taught her not to fear asking questions, although he was never too pleased when her teachers brought up in school meetings what they took to be her insolence.
“Yes, it’s not exactly the inner-city round here. I’ve never had any issues,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “Emily often came by the church to pray. She seemed troubled recently, but she didn’t confide in me.”
Shadow, sensing uncertainty, leapt onto the desk and padded around, sniffing at a stack of papers. Among them was a handwritten letter addressed to Emily.
Fay sidled over and picked it up. The sadness etching the vicar’s face was replaced by anger as he snatched the letter from her hand.
“That’s confidential. It’s a letter I wrote to Emily. She came to me for counsel. Something was troubling her. As you’re aware, she was deaf, so I wrote a letter. Bad enough to murder Emily, but to kill in the house of God. It’s holy ground.”
“I thought you said she didn’t confide in you?” questioned Fay giving a glance at Blake.
Blake raised an eyebrow.
“She didn’t give me any details, just that she was concerned about something in the village she had witnessed. She wanted advice but gave me nothing specific.”
Blake took out an evidence bag.
“I’ll have to take the letter as evidence, vicar. Someone will be here shortly to take a formal statement,” said Blake.
Fay motioned to Blake for them to leave.
“He seems genuinely stunned,” said Fay when they exited the church.
“He seemed more put out that it happened in a church,” said Blake.
“Maybe that’s just the shock of finding Emily’s body. Let’s talk to Doug Hendry in the pub.”
#
The Hawkside Inn, an old black and white wood framed pub dating to the 1700s, was close to St Mary’s and a popular place for Sunday lunch after church service. It had a beer garden with a children’s play area and was well-used by the villagers. As Fay and Blake walked in, they were greeted by a waft of stale beer.
Their next greeting came from Doug Hendry in the form of a warm smile, but there was a nervous edge to his voice. He had a rough-and-ready crude charm which appealed to some women, although not Fay. He was the type who loved to turn any innocent conversation around to some sort of sexual innuendo. Although in his forties, he dressed young, with clothes just a bit too tight.
“How are you managing without Sophie?” said Fay.
“I’m managing ok, thanks. Hectic sometimes, but I’m managing.”
Fay knew he was struggling to run the pub without her. He had a wandering eye for the village women, and it had been the undoing of his marriage.
“Terrible business about Emily,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine who would want to harm her.”
“Where were you last night, Doug?” Fay asked.
Doug looked between Blake and Fay, not sure who was in charge. Blake just nodded to Doug to answer the question, notepad in hand.
“When was she killed?” said Hendry.
“Last night, we can’t be certain of the time,” said Blake. “We won’t know for certain until the coroner arrives.”
“I was here, of course. The pub was busy as usual. Locals and some visitors. You can ask anyone,” he replied. He looked shiftless, moving from one foot to the other.
Shadow jumped onto the bar and prowled along it, peering at the man leaning against the counter with rows of bottles behind him. The squinting of Shadow’s eyes and quick swishes of his tail told Fay that he was not liking what he saw.
“I’ve heard about you and your cat going for walkies. I like a nice pussy,” said Hendry, trying to stoke Shadow and leering at Fay.
Shadow backed away, refusing to be touched.
Fay wasn’t keen on Hendry either. He had tried flirting with her even when she was with Jake. He fancied himself more than any woman he was with, so she knew how Shadow felt.
“When was the last time you saw Emily?” said Blake, moving the conversation along.
“A while back. She never came in here. She’s not a drinker. Nobody ever said a bad word about her, though. She was a harmless soul. A sixty-year-old virgin, from what I hear. She never bothered the men much,” he said, smiling.
“Maybe she was picky. Slim pickings around here,” said Fay, hoping Hendry caught the jab.
“She didn’t deserve to die the way she did,” said Blake.
“Nobody deserves that. Shocking. First time I’d seen a dead body, at least one like poor Emily’s. It shakes you up.” Said Hendry looking reflective. For the first time, Fay felt sympathy for him, he looked as though it was genuine distress.
Shadow looked at the man folding his arms and hugging himself. He thought he looked like he was retreating into himself and no threat to his mistress.
“Yes, a real shock,” said Fay. “Why were you at the church this morning?”
“I heard the vicar shouting for help. So, I went over. I saw poor Emily’s body. A nasty wound she had to her head,” said Hendry. “She was white as a sheet, except for the blood, of course.”
“She’d been there all night,” said Blake.
“Poor Emily,” said Hendry, shaking his head. “All alone in that church.”
“Did you see anyone out of the ordinary last night?” said Fay.
“Just the usual. We had a darts night last night, so there was a team from the Barley Mow in Stokesmere. But they were quiet, just normal lads having a few pints.”
“Was it just you serving last night?” asked Blake.
“Rebecca was here from 8 pm till just after 11.”
“You could still have slipped out and done the deed.”
“Can I have a private word, Tom?” he said, looking at Fay. “Man to man.”
“Probably best to say it in front of both of us,” said Blake.
“Ok. I was knocking off Rebecca in the back room, while the darts match was on,” he answered with a flush of embarrassment refusing to look either of them in the eye. Fay and Blake looked away. Fay had heard lots of this kind of embarrassing detail from witnesses, although this was different as she knew she would remember his confession every time she used the pub.
“Must have been a quick one,” said Fay muttering.
“It was a bit too busy to linger,” Hendry shot back.
“Ok. Thanks, Doug. We’ll probably have a word with you later,” said Blake.
“Are you doing the investigation, Tom? Seems like a job for the big city boys,” said Hendry.
“They’re on the way. Just striking while the iron is hot, so to speak.”
“Before anyone can get their alibi sorted, you mean,” said Hendry, smiling again. “Mine’s cast iron.”
Having nothing more to say, Fay and Blake left the pub.
Fay snorted, rolling her eyes. “His alibi is not that cast in iron. He’s seconds away from the church. He could easily have disappeared for a few minutes. No one would notice him missing, not even Rebecca.”
“What’s his motivation? Why would he kill Emily?” said Blake.
“Maybe she saw him with someone he shouldn’t have been with. Let’s see what Amelia has to say,” said Fay.
It was a short walk to the edge of the village where Amelia lived in her small cottage, the garden unkempt and her home a cluttered mess of canvases and paints.
“Hello, Amelia,” said Fay. “Been painting?”
A strong smell of paint and white spirit assaulted their senses as they entered a living room strewn with finished and unfinished canvasses.
Amelia stood there in a white t-shirt and jeans with splodges of colour on both her clothes and skin. “Is it that obvious? I should be more careful, but when I get going, it gets everywhere.”
“Have you always been a painter?” asked Blake.
“I used to be a PA at an art auction house. I enjoyed it, but no matter where you are, there is always some over-privileged man with a pair of wandering hands.”
“So, you left,” said Fay.
“With a hefty payout. I made them pay.”
“So you took up painting.”
“What else can a fifty-something woman do at my age? And it keeps me fit, I used to sit down all day when I was working. Now I’m on my feet painting, I’ve never been so slim and trim. And anyway, I thought I could do better than some of the dross I saw.”
“It seems you have,” said Fay.
“What were you doing at the church this morning?” said Blake, getting straight to the point.
“I was there for the flowers. They give them away the next morning after the Sunday services.” She whispered, “Emily was a good friend. She baked wonderful cakes. She was a kindred spirit. I’ll miss her so much.”
“Where were you last night? Before 9 pm,” Fay inquired.
Amelia looked surprised. Blake took out his notebook, signalling to her to answer.
“In my studio, working on a new piece,” Amelia replied, gesturing to an unfinished canvas.
They examined the painting, a dark and brooding landscape in oils with vivid splashes of red that reflected Amelia’s turbulent emotions. Around the village, they blamed her artistic temperament for Amelia’s flamboyant and, some would say, annoying behaviour.
Shadow prowled around the room, his eyes catching every shadow and flicker of light. Jumping on a table containing used paint tubes and drawings, he stopped, his gaze fixed on a small notebook half-hidden under a pile of sketches
Amelia picked up some white spirit, dabbed it on a cloth and started to wipe the paint from her hands. Fay pointed at the picture and mimicked the act of talking with her fingers for Blake to distract Amelia.
“Your new painting looks dramatic,” said Blake. “Of course, I’m no expert on art.” He engaged Amelia in a discussion about the merits of the work.
While they were busy, Fay wandered over to the cluttered table wondering what Shadow was up to and saw what was interesting to him. She pulled the notebook toward her, leafing through its pages. It looked like a journal or diary, filled with details about a secret affair. The last entry alarmed Fay, describing a heated argument with her lover, who she threatened to expose if they split.
“Having relationship issues?” Said Fay.
“That’s private. You nosy sod. What’s it got to do with you?” She said, her face flushed.
“Probably nothing. But who knows?” said Fay.
“I had a friend round last night. He’s an artist as well. Married, and younger than me. Just thought I’d tell you. Anyway, we started talking about art and my work and we had a bit of a row. The problem is that he’s the temperamental sort. I hate temperamental people,” said Amelia, unaware of the irony.
“What time did he leave?” said Blake.
“He left at about ten pm. After sorting out our differences, if you know what I mean,” said Amelia.
Shadow could not determine the woman’s emotions. It was a cross between pride and shame.
Fay understood though, but it was more information that under normal circumstances she would not have been interested in.
“Someone will come and take a statement.” Said Blake.
“Will I have to tell them all the sordid details?”
“Everything.” Said Blake.
Amelia seemed pleased.
Fay and Blake made their goodbyes and left the cottage.
“Thanks for your help. I appreciate it. It was good to get a DI’s perspective. Maybe I could buy you dinner sometime,” said Blake.
“Maybe,” said Fay, smiling. “One day.”
“If you think of anything, call me.”
Blake gave her a card with his name, rank, and phone number.
In the distance they could see, weaving their way down the winding country roads, a slew of fast patrol cars with flashing blue lights and blaring sirens.
“Looks like the professionals are here,” said Blake with an undertone of sarcasm. “See you later.” He walked back towards the church to greet the approaching armada of police cars.
#
Back at her cottage, Fay was curled up in her favourite armchair. It could comfortably seat two people, but only Shadow and she had ever occupied it, and she was determined it would stay that way. Since Jake had died, she had felt no interest in looking for any male company, at least not of a romantic nature. For a moment, Tom flittered into her head, followed almost straight away by the vicar, but she quickly cleared them out. With her feet up and a mug of tea in her hand, she pondered what she’d uncovered this morning about poor Emily. She was absent-mindedly stroking Shadow, who was comfortably ensconced on Fay’s lap again, between his ears. The subtle aroma of a jasmine-scented candle and some deep breathing allowed her to relax and contemplate who could have caused Emily’s death.
A few hours later, after a short nap, Fay’s mind still raced with possibilities. Emily’s missing notepad kept popping into her mind and refusing to leave. Returning to the church, more than likely the last place she had it, may solve the conundrum. An unimpressed Shadow was annoyed to find himself being disturbed from his warm, comfortable chair. Fay thought about leaving him and going on her own, but she knew he would be prowling the window ledge looking irked, waiting for her to return. She put on her coat and scarf and stared at Shadow with a look that said, “Are you coming or not?” Fay crossed her arms and pursed her lips as Shadow, with an air of disdain, spent his time stretching and flexing his paws in a show of peevishness at being disturbed. When satisfied that he had made his point, he followed her out of the door.
There was something about the stillness of an empty church and the quiet and solitude which always helped her clear her mind and cultivate her thoughts. Since losing Jake, she’d spent more time in church. The dim light from the stained-glass windows cast eerie patterns on the stone floor. Shadow followed her, his ears twitching at every sound.
Lost in thought, Fay did not notice the figure emerging from the shadows.
“Hello, Fay.”
She jumped. “Vicar. You surprised me.”
He laughed. “It is a church, and I’m the local bible basher. No surprise there.” His eyes shifted to Shadow. “And I see you have company. And please call me Paul.” Shadow jumped onto the back of a pew, eying the vicar. “Not many people walk their cats,” the vicar mused.
“He’s well trained and enjoys the exercise. And when he gets fed up, he makes his way into my bag. And he helps me think. He seems to have a sort of sixth sense for some things.”
“Does he have nine lives?”
“He’s lost a few, but he still has some left.”
She noticed how piercing his blue eyes were and how muscular he was. Rumour had it he had been a semi-professional rugby player. The pictures on the wall seemed to confirm it, as did his shoulders. Fay had never viewed him as a man before, at least not that kind of man, never getting past his dog collar. And here he was in front of her, hands in pockets, with a glint in his eye. He was not her type, not that she had a type since Jake, but she could see why other women would find him attractive. Fay’s flirty friend, Miranda, seemed to think he was.
“I had to come back. To say a prayer for Emily.”
The vicar gave a heavy, heartfelt sigh.
“Once they had taken away Emily’s body, I cleaned up and then said a prayer for her. It’s so sad. She was such a harmless soul.”
“And yet she had some problems?” said Fay.
“Something was troubling her. It’s a pity we don’t do confession like the Catholic church. Maybe I could have helped.”
The thought of Emily being troubled and anxious and having a secret that would end in her death almost caused her to shed tears. Emily was a private person; she would have been reluctant to discuss any issues she had. Fay some guilt for not being there for her when she needed it.
“You wrote her a letter.”
“Yes. I didn’t know sign language, so it was easier. Sorry I snatched it from you, but it was for Emily’s eyes. I would have given her the letter today.”
“What did it say? It doesn’t matter now. She’s gone.”
“It was fairly bland. I didn’t know what the issue was. Just a few notes on truth, integrity and honesty. That type of thing.”
“How did you know she had problems if you can’t sign?”
“She had a pad she would write on for people who couldn’t use sign language, like me. She’d seen someone in the village do something she thought was bad. Wouldn’t tell me who it was.”
“Yes, I’d forgotten the pad. She used it when we first met. Did she have her pad on her when you found her?”
“I didn’t think to look.”
“I’ll phone Blake and ask.”
She took out her phone and the card Blake had given her.
“Hi Tom, it’s Fay.”
“Nice to hear from you. Is this business or pleasure?”
“Business. Did you find a notepad on Emily when you inspected her body?” She felt a bit squeamish at the thought of Emily having her body searched by a stranger’s hands.
There was a pause for a few seconds.
“No. I don’t remember seeing one. When the Scene of Crime guys turned up, a humble plod like me, people half my age pushed me to one side.”
Fay heard the bitterness in his voice.
“She used to write things on it and used it for people who couldn’t use sign language. There may be something important she’d noticed in the village.”
“I watched everything the SOCO did. There was no notepad bagged by them. I’ll let the CID team know about it.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“No problem. Call anytime.”
She rang off.
“Tom doesn’t think the police found the notepad.” Said Fay. “It’s strange it wasn’t on her. She always had it with her.”
“The killer may have taken it.” Said the vicar.
“Probably.” Said Fay. She hoped this was not true, the thought of Emily’s private thoughts being in the hands of the killer was too awful.
Shadow lay across the top of a wooden pew and meowed his boredom. Taking his cue, the vicar made his exit.
“I must go, I have a couple coming to discuss their upcoming marriage.”
The vicar strode off, leaving Fay alone. She walked over to stroke Shadow.
“You can be very rude sometimes.” Said Fay, as she watched the vicar disappear into the vestry and, for some reason, feeling a little alone.
Shadow was unperturbed.
Fay lit a votive candle and then sat in the front pew. Shadow sat beside her with his paws on her lap. After saying a prayer, and taking in the scene, she imagined Emily being bludgeoned with the candlestick. But why was she at the altar at all? she wondered.
Groups of villagers she knew began to enter, carrying flowers, and sat as Fay had to say silent prayers for Emily. It was good to see the village rallying around after such a hideous murder. After a few minutes of reflection, Fay returned to her cottage, her mind still full of the events of the day. Of course, Shadow was not far behind.
She stood in the kitchen planning what to cook for herself when a thought occurred about the notepad. Fay thought that if she could find it then they would be close to finding out who murdered her. Her police instincts told her it was the key to the case and if it was anywhere, then it would be in the church.
For Shadow, it was that time of day when his mistress took out a sachet of his favourite food and poured it into his bowl. Fay took out Shadow’s much-loved fish dish of salmon flakes in jelly and squeezed the pouch until the last drop had oozed its way into the bowl. After putting it on the floor, she returned to the living room. Shadow could smell the delicious fishy aroma and could barely wait till it was on the floor before he tucked it in. He was focused on the food and was oblivious to his mistress.
While he was eating in the kitchen, Fay decided to return to St Mary’s. If the vicar was there, even better, they could look together, two heads were better than one, she thought. Calling Tom Blake would also be an idea, but first, she would look for herself, as she was the senior officer, she rationalised. Grabbing her coat and scarf she shouted, “Back soon! Just going to the church,” as though Shadow would know what she was saying, she breezed out the door and walked briskly to the church.
After finishing his meal, Shadow walked into the living room expecting to find his mistress sat on their comfortable armchair waiting for him to steal onto her lap whilst she was watching TV as he did every day after eating. He intended to sleep off his excellent salmon meal on her warm, comfortable, and accommodating lap. Instead, he found the room empty. He had paid no attention when she had shouted something earlier, preferring to concentrate on the flakes of salmon. Pricking his ears, he hoped to hear her footsteps upstairs or somewhere around where he could expect her to oblige him soon. A miffed Shadow realised she had gone out without him. As far as he was concerned, they were a team, a pack, a pride.
He looked around the room searching for a way out, an open window or door. Neither the kitchen nor the living room had any means of exit. He padded up the stairs to see if there were any windows open. Nothing in the bedrooms, but in the bathroom, he discovered a small open window just wide enough for him to squeeze through, which he did, managing to force through, what he considered, a muscular rear end. He sat on the narrow window ledge considering his options.
Fay could not stop wondering why Emily was at the altar. Except for communion, worshippers did not need to approach it, worshippers’ prayers being said at the pews. There must have been a reason for Emily to approach.
The crowds of villagers had left the church, so she was on her own. She knocked on the door of the vestry to see if the vicar was around to give her permission to inspect the altar for Emily’s missing notebook, but there was no reply.
With no one to prevent her, she approached the altar and looked to see if there was anything the police and scene of crime people had missed. Unaware of the notepad, they would not have known to look for it. Tom Blake would inform them, but they would not be back anytime soon.
Looking down from the window ledge, Shadow was reluctant to make the leap to the stone-flagged patio. It was just that bit too high, with no guarantee he would not be hurt. He was lithe, but there were jumps where it was not a clever idea, even for him, to take on. Above him, within leaping distance, was a plastic gutter. If he could make the jump and grasp the edge of the gutter, he could use the roof to access the sloping kitchen extension roof and make his way to the ground. He steadied himself and made his calculations: angle, distance, height. He had done it many times before. Tensing then relaxing and then leaping from a standing start, twisting mid-air and extending his front claws to grasp the edge of the gutter and using the momentum of his body until his back legs could gain enough traction so his whole body was on the roof, he landed and looked down from where he had just come. Easy, he thought, still got it. He put a bit of swagger in his walk as he traversed the roof to the kitchen extension.
Despite the vicar’s efforts at cleaning, Fay could still make out the faint outlines of bloodstains near the altar. With as much reverence as she could muster, she stood close to it and tried to imagine Emily standing there the previous night. The altar was solid Victorian oak with a white cloth, which overhung the edges of it. A large candlestick, one of a pair, stood to the left-hand side, the other bagged as evidence. A bible opened at Psalms, lay open in the middle. Fay could not see anywhere someone could have hidden a notepad. She took a step closer, trying not to stand on any stains. On impulse, she lifted the middle of the altar cloth. With a jolt of excitement, she revealed a drawer. There were three, all narrow and with brass handles. She opened the middle one, which looked like the obvious choice from Emily’s perspective, and found it full of old prayer books with frayed book spines with no room to stash anything. The left drawer was full of hymn sheets. It was the righthand drawer where Emily had secreted it, amongst some old children’s religious books.
Shadow could not decide which way to go. Left was the big building where his mistress had sat for a while earlier that day. Right was the rather crazy woman covered in paint. In the middle was the horrible man who had tried to stroke him. For the want of any logical reason, he decided to visit the crazy woman first.
Fay opened the notepad and saw only squiggly lines interspersed with occasional capital letters. She was not an expert, but it looked like an old-fashioned shorthand, the kind used by journalists. It did not surprise Fay to know that Emily would have taught herself such a useful skill. Some people took her disability for being slow-witted, she was anything but. Nevertheless, Fay couldn’t read what Emily had written. She went to the last entry and saw three sets of capital letters, followed by more shorthand. Emily had underlined and emphasised the letters, TB, DS and HS.
Fay heard a noise behind her and pocketed the notepad inside her coat.
Shadow meowed outside the front door, hoping either his mistress or the woman would come and let him in, but nothing happened. To the side, he could see a window ledge. Hopping up, he peered in, hoping to see a familiar face, but all he saw was the woman covered in even more paint in front of a large canvas with what looked like the enormous head of a black cat with golden eyes. The woman was dabbing more black paint on the canvas and swirling it around to look like waves of fur. The cheek of it scoffed Shadow, I look better than that. He skipped off the ledge to visit the horrible man.
“Hello, Fay,” said Blake. “Looking for clues?”
TB, Tom Blake. She could not work out the other two. Blake would be around the village doing his rounds. Emily would have seen him often.
“Hello Tom, you startled me, I was just saying a prayer for Emily,” said Fay.
“I said one for her earlier,” said Blake. For some reason, Fay sensed this was a lie.
Blake was wearing the same uniform as he had had on all day, except his cap was missing. He looked different, menacing; head down, gazing at her, feet apart, hands in pockets, elbows out, filling the space between the front pews.
“That notepad. It’s been worrying me. Nagging at my little grey cells.” Said Blake.
Fay thought he was no Poirot.
“It’s a mystery,” said Fay.
“I thought maybe I could have a look for it myself. Grab a bit of glory for the common plod over the officer class.”
Fay saw the resentment in his eyes. She wanted to get out of the church, but she would have to get past Blake. He looked in no mood to let her.
“We should wait for the scene of crime people to return.”
“We?” said Blake. “There is no ‘we’. You’re an ex-cop. I’m the ranking officer.”
“I’m an ex-detective. I know the procedures. You must wait for SOCO.”
“Yes, you’re an ex-detective. Nothing more. And by the looks of it, you aren’t following your own advice. I will remind you; this is a crime scene and you are a civilian.”
“Civilian? Do you think you’re still in the army?” said Fay.
“Army, police. It’s all the same. I’m in the uniform and you aren’t.”
He held out his hand.
“Give me the notepad.”
Fay had no intention of handing over the notepad to Blake, her instincts, both feminine and detective were telling her not to trust him.
Shadow had followed a man through the door into the pub. He walked around the room, wandering between the tables looking for his mistress but could not see her. The man behind the bar shouted something at Shadow and he realised it was time to leave. He retraced his steps and waited by the door hoping someone would come in and let him out.
Fay wanted to brush past Blake and head for the door, but as she tried to squeeze past, he put out a powerful arm and threw her back towards the altar. Unarmed combat had been a part of her police training. She could handle herself, but he had done the same training and was a lot bigger. But if it came to it, she would give a good account of herself. He would know he had been in a fight.
“The notepad. It’s in your pocket. Give it to me.”
“So, the criminal did return to the scene of the crime.”
“Give me the notepad.” Said Blake. He was starting to become angry. Blake looked like a man who liked to be obeyed.
“Who are DS and HS?”
Blake shook his head. “I don’t know why, but I’m going to tell you what happened. I suppose it doesn’t matter now. You’ll be dead soon. It’s Darren Stringer and his sister Helena Stringer.”
Fay felt sick. She couldn’t think about what Emily could have witnessed.
“They’re just two kids. Darren is sixteen and Helena is fifteen. What do they have to do with all this?”
“This is confession time, appropriate that we’re in a church. I arrived here two and a half months ago. After my twenty-two years in the army, I applied for the police. They took me on, but they were never too keen on an ex-military man. Especially at my age. They much prefer snotty middle-class kids straight out of university. After I finished my training, they shunted me here to this backwater place. Just another foot soldier while the officer class lorded it in Gloucester. Told to keep my nose clean and soon I’d be up for retirement. I checked up on you. You’re still on the staff database. Fast-tracked from Oxford and then Gloucester constabulary. Detective inspector in no time. Not like me. I don’t have a degree.”
“If you’re expecting me to apologise, you can forget it. I worked hard for my degree and even harder when I joined the police. Nobody did me any favours. I earned my rank. You have a chip on your shoulder.”
Blake sneered.
“And then marriage to another fast-track whizz kid. And then he died. Poor you.”
“Leave him out of it.” Fay was angry now. Blake’s attitude showed him as a small-minded resentful little man.
At last, the door opened. A man and a woman stepped through, and Shadow darted out the open door. He put a spurt on getting to the church as soon as possible. The huge wooden door was open, and light was streaming through. Walking in, he heard voices. He recognised his mistress’s voice, which sounded strained and anxious. He quickened his pace. Walking down the nave with his tail high, he saw the man with the polished boots standing in front of his mistress. An emotion he hadn’t felt for a long time swept over him.
Fay noticed Shadow walking down the nave. Seeing him comforted her, and she felt a small hope that she may survive, although she hoped that nothing would happen to Shadow.
“What happened with the David and Helena Stringer?” Asked Fay, trying to drag it out and hoping the vicar would turn up.
“Even in a small village like this, there are criminals. Darren Stringer is a small-time drug dealer. He was selling cannabis at twenty pounds a shot to a select group of people. He was making two hundred pounds a night. His sister, Helena, always followed him around. I watched him for a while. Got to know his route and his clients. I thought I could make a bit of a name for myself.”
“The drug team wouldn’t have bothered themselves for two hundred a night. It’s small fry to them.”
“Exactly. I rang it in, but they told me not to bother. So, I thought I’d do the decent thing and put a stop to it.”
“You took the law into your own hands.”
“I was just roughing him up a bit. Nothing serious. And then his sister started begging me to stop.”
“But you didn’t.”
“And then she said something she shouldn’t have.”
“What was that?”
“She said she’d do anything if I stopped. So, I suggested a few things she’d be willing to do.”
“My god. She’s only a child.” Fay felt sick to her stomach. Some of her work as a police officer involved child abuse. It was something she could never get used to.
Blake shrugged. “I took her round the back of the church while her brother kept a lookout. So, I started taking money off Darren and having my way with Helena. I was living the dream.”
“Emily must have seen you.”
“Yes. Darren called her Dumbo. I thought he meant she was stupid.”
“Kids can be cruel. She was mute. Not stupid. You made an assumption. A good copper would have asked why they called her that name. And because of that, she’s dead and your life is ruined. Do you know what they do to cops in prison? It will be twice as bad for a child molester.”
Blake’s face contorted in an angry sneer.
“I’m not going to prison. Only stupid people go to prison. And I’m not stupid.”
Shadow sat in front of Fay, looking up into the man’s face.
Blake looked down at Shadow.
“You should have got yourself a Rottweiler, not a pussycat.”
“You killed Emily. I suppose you’re used to killing, having been in the Army.”
Blake laughed. “Are you looking at these?” he said, pointing to the ribbon of medals on his chest. “These are campaign medals. You get them when you serve in a conflict. Afghanistan, Iraq, Bosnia. They aren’t bravery medals, although you need some nerve to serve there. Do you know what my job was?”
“Do tell,” Fay said, stalling for time.
“I was a mechanic in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, REME. I fixed land-rovers, trucks, and engines. I never fired a shot in anger in all my twenty-two years of service.”
“And yet you killed Emily with no remorse.”
“She was the first person I had ever killed. Do you know the first thought that came into my head after I whacked with the candlestick? I said to myself, that was easy.”
Shadow was sat calculating angle, distance, height.
Blake took an evidence bag from his side jacket pocket.
“Do you know what that is?”
Fay could see a white handkerchief with dark stains on it.
“It’s Emily’s blood. I may not be a graduate, but I was thinking ahead. I’m going to frame Darren Stringer. I’ll accidentally find it on him next time I see him. And do you know what else I’ll find on him?”
Fay shook her head.
Blake pulled another evidence bag from his pocket. This one held a knife.
“It’s Darren’s own knife. I confiscated it from him when I was roughing him up. It will have his fingerprints and DNA on it. And the next time I find it on him, it will have your blood on it.”
Blake put both evidence bags on the front pew, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. He pulled the knife from the bag.
Shadow noticed the knife being waved around by the man. He watched as it went from side to side and put it into his calculations.
“And now it’s your turn. I’ll take the notebook myself from your dead body.”
He made a step forward towards Fay.
A ripple of adrenaline pulsed through Shadow’s body. He tensed himself and prepared for the leap he would make from a standing start. His whole body moved in unison, and in one fluid motion, he leapt to the exact calculated spot he had estimated where his body and the man’s body would meet. A cat has ten claws on their front paws and eight on the back. These eighteen claws honed to razor sharpness, hit Blake’s face simultaneously. In a flurry of wild slashing, the eighteen razor-sharp claws shredded and lacerated Blake’s face. He screamed and dropped the knife, raising his hands to fend off the ferocious cat that Shadow had transformed into.
Blake was screaming and clutching his lacerated face.
Shadow, his attack having achieved its aim, nimbly jumped down.
To add to Blake’s woes, while he was trying to stop the multiple slashes from bleeding, Fay kicked him between the legs to immobilise him. He fell to the floor, not knowing which part of his anatomy to clutch.
Fay looked up to see a man running down the aisle.
“My God. Fay, are you OK? What’s happened? Why is he on the floor covered in blood?” said the vicar running to Fay and putting his arms around her, making it obvious who his priority was.
Fay gently pushed him away, although she appreciated his intentions.
“It was Blake who murdered Emily. And he was going to do the same to me. I think it would be a good idea to phone the police,” said Fay.
“And an ambulance,” said the vicar, his eyes locked onto Blake’s bleeding face.
“If we have to,” said Fay.
She stooped to pick up Shadow, who was rubbing against her legs. He received a kiss on the top of his head.
“Who needs a Rottweiler when I have you? You big brave pussycat,” she said, tickling him underneath his chin.
Shadow enjoyed the attention and snuggled into Fay’s arms. He would lick his bloodied claws clean later. Now was the time for some deserved pampering.
#
The next day, after having spent a long exhausting night at Gloucester police station explaining why one of their own had committed murder, Fay arrived home with Shadow.
As soon as she walked into her home, there was a knock at the door. She had been hoping for some peace and a mug of tea with her little hero, but she knew she would be the talk of the village, a cause celebre, and that there would be a stream of callers on her mobile phone and at the door. She may as well get it started.
“Hi, I saw the police car drop you off. I had to see if you were OK,” said the vicar.
“Please come in,” said Fay, pleased that he was the first visitor.
The vicar came and, to Shadow’s annoyance, sat on their favourite chair.
“How are you feeling after last night?”
Although Fay was tired, she could not help noticing the concern in the vicar’s eyes. He was not wearing his usual vicar’s suit but dressed in light chinos and a blue sweater, the blue matching his eyes. Maybe she was more tired than she thought, but those blue eyes were rather appealing.
“I’m fine but tired. It was a long night. But they believed my story. The two Stringer kids corroborated everything, and they managed to read Emily’s shorthand which implicated Blake.”
“How is Blake?”
“A mess. He’s lost an eye, and apparently, his face looks like a complete mess of scars and gashes. They lost count of the number of stitches on his face. And he’s also feeling quite tender if you know what I mean.”
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” said the vicar.
“And it’s all thanks to this brave little fellow,” said Fay, stroking Shadow between his ears.
An enigmatic Shadow licked his claws, wiping the blood from each talon. That is what happens when you mess with the wrong mistress and her cat.
