‘Damn it!’ he cursed again, having steppedinto a deep puddle that lapped up over his left shoe. He remembered thenthat his iPhone had a torch function and rummaged around in his pockets forit. He stopped still on the path, fumbling infuriatedly. He’d lefthis phone in the car.
DouglasCatt, wearing a dark wax jacket and matching hat, was cowering behind a tiltedgravestone to the south of the church entrance. He had chosen a grave justbehind one of the huge floodlights to conceal himself better. He hadtailed Morton from his home in Rye, almost rear-ending him at the StrandGate. He had no idea what Morton was doing here, but Douglas was certainthat it somehow involved the church and Morton’s ridiculous quest to find outwhat happened to Mary Mercer—a quest Douglas was determined to end. Douglas quickly pulled out his camera, checked that the flash was not on andtook a grainy, blurred photo of Morton. It wasn’t a great image by anymeans, but it would be enough to spook Morton. Douglas watched as Mortonstopped on his way towards the church. He had evidently forgottensomething. Morton turned around, hurrying back towards his car. Nowwas his chance to get into the church ahead of Morton and find somewhere tohide. Using the powerful shaft of light to shield him, Douglas moved fromgrave to grave, always keeping Morton in view, until he reached the chunkyouter wooden door. He pulled it open, wincing at the amount of noiseemanating from the ancient hinges.
‘Bloody thing,’ Douglas muttered tohimself, hoping that the sound of the wind and rain was enough to mask thesound.
Pushing the door tightly shut, Douglasmoved through the vestibule, opened another creaky door and turned into thegloom of the church. The only light was that which filtered in throughthe stained-glass windows, producing an unnatural, eerie glow around the churchceiling. He quickly cast his eyes around the room for somewhere toconceal himself and decided that a large, gothic pillar might be a good placein which to hide, since it offered him the ability to manoeuvre around it,should the need arise. He crept over to the pillar and ducked down, hiseyes set firmly on the door.
From the other side of the church, Douglasheard the unmistakable sound of a stifled cough.
Someone was already here. Whoever itwas started to approach him.
Mortonreached his car, climbed in and instinctively locked the doors. Groping aroundby his feet, he found his mobile. He picked it up and saw that he had amissed call with an answerphone message. He checked the time. Itwas eight twenty. Even though he was twenty minutes late, Morton decidedit would be wise to listen to the message since it might be Bartholomew Maslow. Hopefully he’s running late, too, Morton thought. Accessinghis voicemails, he listened carefully. It wasn’t from Bartholomew, it wasfrom a descendant of Sarah Herriot who had been phoning to say that she knewnothing at all of her grandmother’s time at Blackfriars; that she worked thereat all had been a fascinating revelation to her. Morton saved themessage, switched on the torch function and stepped out of the car.
The torch provided sufficient light to guideMorton back into the churchyard towards the door. He was half expectingBartholomew to be stood in the vestibule ready to greet him and share whateverinformation he had. Morton very much hoped that whatever it was he wantedto show him was inside the church. He pulled open the inner churchdoor and began to feel slightly unnerved. It hadn’t really occurred tohim just how creepy the church might be when unoccupied after eight at night.
Morton stood in the chancel and allowedhis eyes to adjust to the low light levels. He scanned around the vastedifice, expecting to see Bartholomew sitting in the pews, but there was nobodyin sight.
His heart began to beat a little faster ashe crept along the chancel towards the altar, turning his head nervously as hewent. Something didn’t quite feel right.
Suddenly Morton’s phone beeped loudly withan email alert.
‘Bloody hell!’ he said, annoyed for havingmade himself jump. He pulled his phone out to switch it onto silent whenhe noticed that the email was from Bartholomew Maslow. The first linemade no sense and stopped Morton in his tracks in order to read it fully. Dear Mr Farrier. Many thanks for your email. Yes, you havecorrectly identified me! Although, I’m not sure what help I can be. I have pictures of my grandfather (Jack) during his time at Blackfriars, whichI’m happy to scan and email you. Never heard of Mary Mercer though,unfortunately. Get back to me if the photos are of use. Regards,Bart Maslow. Morton was baffled. This email was a direct replyto Morton’s, with his original message below.
A sudden wash of panic hit Morton when herealised that he had been set up, lured to the church by someone other thanBartholomew Maslow. His heart rate shot through the roof and hisbreathing became restricted. He needed to get out. Right now.
Morton turned, ready to run from thebuilding. As he did so, something caught his eye. Something on thefloor beside the altar. Not something, someone. Someone lyingsplayed out not moving. Dead.
Morton gasped and froze as he stared atthe person on the floor. From the limited light cascading from thestained glass windows, Morton could see a bullet hole in the person’sforehead. It was then that he recognised the body: Douglas Catt. Ashis mind began to try and fathom what on earth Douglas Catt was doing dead inWinchelsea church, he suddenly realised that the killer might still be insidehere. Without another second’s thought, Morton ran for the door, tuggedit open, momentarily praying that the vestibule would be empty. Itwas.
