Charley appeared to be considering Annie’s words, and the feasibility of the breaking the lock on the door which was blocking their entrance. ‘Doors have never got in the way of police enquires before, and this one, no matter how old, will not stop us now.’ Charley raised the knocker again.
‘Have you tried the handle?’ suggested Annie.
‘Why didn’t I think of that? Golden rule of policing; nothing more embarrassing on a police raid than using the door ram to force entry, only to find the door is already unlocked.’
‘Mmm… Never assume springs to mind,’ mocked Annie.
‘Okay, smart arse.’ Charley turned the metal-ringed door handle and the door opened with a long moaning creak. The SIO pushed it open wide. A shiver ran down Charley’s spine as she turned and closed the door behind them. In the semi-dark interior, two pillar candles could be seen burning at either side of the altar table. They offered a welcoming glow amidst the dark wood and stone statues. The only natural light was through some of the most beautiful stained-glass windows, which depicted glorious Biblical scenes, that Charley had ever seen. For a moment she was mesmerised by their beauty.
‘I feel like I’m walking into some forgotten place, where time has stood still for donkey’s years,’ murmured Annie.
‘Heaven on Earth.’ The words were spoken by a female, but neither Charley nor Annie could see who was speaking. Then suddenly a hunchbacked, grey-haired lady appeared from behind a curtain. ‘Come on in,’ she said.
Charley produced her warrant card and introduced themselves.
The old lady eyed them with curiosity, ‘N’er mind. God welcomes everyone into His House.’ She held out her hand. ‘Lily Pritchard,’ she said. ‘Parish Sexton. How can I help you?’
Chapter 10
Over the years, St Anne’s Church had gradually become the solace in Lily Pritchard’s tragic existence, which made the haggard-faced old lady a soothsayer and prophetess to some, somewhat of a curiosity to others, and the butt of jokes amongst many of the locals.
The sexton’s age and career in the church were somewhat of a mystery to the parishioners, of which there were now but few. No one it seemed dare question the formidable woman, not even the diocese who paid her wages. ‘Best just wait now till something ’appens to her,’ they said. ‘Then we’ll decide what to do with it.’
However, her store of anecdotes and folklore tales, both mysterious and terrifying, were renowned locally as ‘gripping yarns’.
Lily’s profession, interest and beliefs had familiarised her with the graves and local stories of goblins, and what was evident was that the ‘crazy’ old woman was held in awe by the locals. On the bright side, Lily’s reputation of being a witch who reportedly flew round on a broomstick cackling at the moon and turning people into toads, kept the morbidly curious away, and the truants, who would otherwise play leapfrog over gravestones and climb the ivy in search of bats’ or birds’ nests, as in other graveyards, gave St Anne’s a wide berth.
‘Do you get any help to maintain this place?’ said Charley, following Lily into a smaller, brighter room at the back of the altar.
Daylight streamed through the small round window on the outer wall; its bright light bestowing a new atmosphere around the place.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Lily said, her eyes sweeping over the massive stack of dust-laden boxes at her side. She lifted a lid and wafted the dust from it directly into the air in front of the detectives’ faces. The dust swirled back and forth, and Charley sneezed several times in quick succession. Unperturbed, Lily wiped her dusty fingers on the heavy wool blanket that doubled as a cape around her rounded shoulders, then looking down at it, she sneered at the ashy smears she’d made. Sitting down in the comfy-looking but old chair, a loud groan escaped from her lips, and a wince appeared briefly on her frosty face. The chair’s cushions were saggy, flat, faded and riddled with holes that showed filthy straw stuffing poking through like the organs of a bloated corpse. The room had a smell that was hard to define, a mixture between sulphur and a stagnant pond, which was odd because the church was miles from anything larger than a puddle, although who knew what horrors lurked beneath the flagstones.
Once settled, Lily’s suspicious grey eyes looked up at Charley, in her smart navy suit and brilliant white shirt. All indications pointed to the old woman’s general frailty, but the detective’s intuition told her something different.
‘The money pot,’ Lily said, as if the weight of responsibility had all become too much for her, ‘it’s gone, and truth is, I thought I’d be dead long before that ’appened.’
‘The church’s money pot?’ said Charley, looking about her for the ‘pot’, but all she could see were bottles, bottles of all types, containing liquids and items only known to Lily Pritchard. ‘Is that a metaphor?’
Lily Pritchard frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Charley shook her head. ‘Never mind, tell me, Lily, where did the money in the pot actually come from?’
The old lady sighed heavily, tossing her head in the direction of a church pew that stood against the wall. ‘It’s a long story, so you’d better sit down. Who’s died or can’t you tell me?’
Charley looked taken aback. ‘Well we could tell you, if we knew who ‘they’ were, but we don’t.’
Lily Pritchard looked puzzled.
Charley pushed aside a stack of hymn books and indicated to Annie that she should sit down too. Charley made herself at home amongst the rest of the rubbish, sitting down where the music sheets used to be stacked. An old electric heater spewed hot air up into her face.
‘And you think I might know who they are?’
‘We thought you might be able to shed
