And the brakes were definitely full on… and gripping while the car was sliding backwards on the rain-slashed road, and Moira's cars were full of this dark turbulence, turning her vision black.
Black, black, black.
Black, it said.
Bridelow black … across the cab of the massive, dripping truck powering down on the BMW like some roaring prehistoric beast.
Oh…
… Christ…
… Get it into first gear…!
She was starting to scream out loud, plunging the clutch down, grinding the gearstick. But there was nowhere to go, the windscreen full of black, the truck's engine bellowing then scornfully clearing its throat as, with no great effort, it prodded the little car and Moira Cairns through the disintegrating drystone wall and the shimmering curtain of rain and over the road's edge into the endless mist beyond.
CHAPTER VI
The old clergyman across the lounge was deeply asleep in his chair, head back, mouth open,
'Lifetime of begging, you see,' Hans Gruber explained to his daughter. 'He's turned into an offertory box. You go over there, drop a pound coin in his trap and it'll suddenly snap shut. Clack! Another quid for the steeple fund.'
Hans smiled.
Cathy said, 'You're feeling better, then.'
'Until I stand up. And a stroll to the loo is like the London marathon. But it's always better when you get out of hospital. Even coming here.'
The Poplars was a Georgian house with a modern, single-storey extension set amid flat, tidy, rain-daubed fields where Cheshire turned imperceptibly into Shropshire. There were all kinds of trees in the grounds except, Cathy had noted, actual poplars.
'Nearly as exciting as Leighton Buzzard,' Hans said. 'Makes me realise how much I love Bridelow. Its hardness, its drama.'
Cathy said nothing. Right now Bridelow had more drama than Beirut could handle.
Hans leaned forward in the chair, lowered his voice – even though, apart from the Rev. Offertory Box, they were alone in the lounge. 'I'm finished, aren't I, Cathy? I'm out.'
'Bollocks,' Cathy said, with less conviction than the choice of word implied.
Hans shook his head. 'Really wouldn't mind so much if it was going to be anybody but Joel. Thinks he's a New Christian, but he's actually more set in his ways than that poor old sod.'
Cathy squeezed his hand. 'You'll be back in no time.'
'No. I won't. Joel, you see… he's like one of those chaps in the old Westerns. Come to clean up Bridelow. Vocation. And Simon Fleming sees Joel as his vocation, and as long as he's archdeacon…'
'Joel might have bitten off more than he can chew, Pop. He put on his first Sunday service this morning, and nobody came.'
'You're not serious.' Cathy watched her father's mouth briefly wrestling with a most unchristian, spontaneous delight.
'Honest to God, Pop. A totally unorganised boycott. You know what Bridelow's like. Sort of communal consciousness. Apparently a few people started to drift along, got as far as the churchyard, realised the usual merry throng was not gathering as usual – and toddled off home. Does your heart good, doesn't it?'
'Certainly not,' said Hans, recovering his gravitas. 'It's actually quite stupid. Just get his back up, and then he'll do something silly. I don't mean go crying to Simon or the bishop or anyone, he's too arrogant. He'll want to sort it out himself. Damn.' Hans looked gloomy. 'That was really quite stupid of them. I can't believe Ma Wagstaff allowed it.'
'Ah.' Cathy lowered her eyes. Hans was wearing tartan bedroom slippers; somebody must have had a battle to get him into those.
'What's wrong?'
'I'm sorry, Pop,' Cathy swallowed. 'Something I haven't told you.'
Hans went very still. The customers didn't stay long after Lottie had her flare-up. Led by tactful Frank Manifold Snr, they drank up smartish.
'What about you, pal?' Frank said to Inspector Ashton as he deposited his empty glass on the bar top. 'Haven't you got some traffic to direct or summat?'
Lottie said, it's OK, Frank. It's me. I'm overwrought.'
She turned to Ashton. 'Have another. On the house.'
'No, this chap's right,' Ashton said. 'You've enough problems without me.'
'No,' Lottie said, 'I want your advice. I've had… intruders.' Then Joel arrived to take up residence at Bridelow Rectory, and found Alfred Beckett replacing a broken window in the pantry.
He stood over the little man. Perhaps, he ventured sarcastically, some explanation was due.
'Well.' Mr Beckett thumbed a line of putty into the window-frame. 'I would have been theer, like. Never missed a morning service in thirty year. Except in an emergency.'
Like this problem here. Which, as Mr Beard could see, he was at this moment putting right before it started raining again causing everything in the pantry to be soaked through and ruined.
'Mr Beckett,' Joel snarled. 'You are the organist.'
'Aye,' said Mr Beckett uncomfortably. 'That's true, like, but…'
'But nothing! You knew there would be no congregation. You knew no one would come.'
'Nay,' said Mr Beckett. 'Nobody come? Well, bugger me.'
Joel felt a red haze developing behind his eyes. He wondered briefly if the hypocritical little rat hadn't smashed the Rectory window himself as a lame excuse for his non-appearance.
'Bloody vandals,' Mr Beckett said, expertly sliding in the new pane of glass. 'Never used to get no vandalism in this village, and that's a fact, Mr Beard.'
Joel stared at him.
You're nobbut a thick bloody vandal wi' no more brains than pig shit.
Joel snatched the ball of putty from the window-ledge and sent it with a splat to the pantry floor.
'Mrs Wagstaff,' he said icily. 'Mrs Wagstaff is behind all this.'
'Nay,' said Mr Beckett.
'Why can't any of you people tell the truth?' This devious little man was the only villager who derived a small income from the Church and doubtless could not afford to lose it. 'When I came past her cottage not half an hour ago, Mrs Wagstaff had not yet deigned to draw back her curtains. What, pray, is your interpretation of that?'
Mr Beckett scraped up his ball of putty.
'Cause she's bloody dead,' he said. 'Why d'you think?' Feeling his holy rage congealing into a hideous mess, Joel walked numbly through the kitchen, down the hall and into Hans Gruber's study.
Had the old woman spoken to neighbours of her encounter yesterday by the pagan shrine? He remembered, with no pleasure now, the gratification he'd allowed himself to feel as he left her in the churchyard and watched her stumping angrily away. The feeling that he finally had her on the run.
Had she run hard enough to bring on a stroke? To give her a heart attack?
Was there a general feeling that he, Joel, was responsible for her death? And for Hans's collapse at the graveside? Was that what this was all about?
Joel sat bowed across Hans's desk, his fingers splayed over his eyes. Was this to be his reward for following his Christian instincts, reacting fiercely and publicly as God's blunt instrument?
Was it?
Joel lowered his hands and saw a tower of books before him on the desk. Amidst the acceptable, routine theology, he saw inflammatory titles as The Celtic Way… The Virgin and the Goddess… Pagan Celtic Britain… The
