• TEN •
ODDLY ENOUGH, THE FIRST to react was Miss Tanty, who, with astonishing flexibility for someone her age, climbed down onto her knees and dipped a finger into the shimmering liquid.
With this she crossed herself, first on her forehead and then again on her breast. That smeared red stain on her white starched collar is going to be a bugger to get out, I thought.
“Forgive me, O Lord,” she said, clasping her hands under her chin and staring up rapturously for some reason at the kaleidoscope of colors that was the head of John the Baptist.
Adam produced a white linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dipped a corner of it into the ruby-colored ooze. After examining it closely, he touched it to his tongue.
Well, why not? I thought. Since everyone else is sampling the stuff …
Reaching round for my pigtail and untying the remaining white ribbon, I dipped it into the edge of the spreading pool just as another drop fell from the face of the saint in the rafters.
Adam caught my eye and gave me a look which said nothing and yet said everything—an invisible wink.
I don’t think the vicar actually saw any of this. He was still making his way toward us, shuffling awkwardly sideways through the long row of pews which separated us from the center aisle. It seemed to take him forever but when he reached us at last and was finally standing between Adam and me, he stared without a word at the bloody mess on the floor.
Now here’s a fine pickle! he must have been thinking. When the wooden head of a saint begins suddenly weeping blood in a remote village church, who do you call? The police? The Archbishop of Canterbury? Or the News of the World?
“Flavia, dear,” he said, laying a quivering hand on my shoulder, “run outside and fetch Sergeant Graves, there’s a good girl.”
Instantly I felt my face becoming hot, the pressure building up inside my head like Mount Vesuvius.
Why were people always doing this to me? Ordering me about as if I were some kind of specialized chambermaid kept on hand for emergencies?
I counted to eleven. No, twelve.
“Certainly, Vicar,” I said, biting my spiritual tongue. Not until I was almost at the door did I add, under my breath, “Would you like a nice cup of tea and a biscuit while I’m at it?”
Sergeant Graves was nowhere in sight. The blue Vauxhall was gone, which meant, I supposed, that the police had done what they had come to do, and then had vanished.
Which explained why the sergeant had allowed me into the church. My cleverly conceived “flowers-for-the-altar” scheme had been a waste of time. Then, too, Meg had come in and slammed the door explosively without so much as a village constable raising an eyebrow.
I should have known it. The police had already been leaving, and now they were gone.
Which was a shame, in a way. If I were completely honest, I would admit that I had been looking forward to renewing old acquaintances with Inspector Hewitt. The Inspector and I had what might presently be described as a lukewarm relationship—mental note: Look up origin of “lukewarm.” Possibly biblical? One of the finest passages in the Bible, at least to my way of thinking, was from Revelation: Because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth—a relationship which seemed, somehow, to blow hot and cold depending upon the Inspector’s glorious wife, Antigone. I had not yet sorted out the cogs and levers of our somewhat shaky triangular relationship, but it was certainly not for want of trying.
I had more than once thrown myself upon this warm cool goddess, hoping that she would—
Would what? Pledge herself to be my true sworn friend and secret sharer, forever and ever, world without end, Amen?
Something like that, I suppose. But it had not quite worked out that way.
I had blundered badly by asking her if, on an Inspector’s salary, they could not afford to have children. Gracious as she had been in her response, I knew that I had hurt her.
Although I was not accustomed to apologizing, I had done my best, but her lost babies had haunted my sleep for weeks.
What had they looked like? I wondered. Had their hair been dark like hers, or fair and wavy, like his? Were they boys or girls? Did they smile when she cooed at them, and kick up their little feet? What pet names had she whispered to them, and, when it came to that, what final names were given to them before they were placed into the earth?
Motherhood could be a grim old business, I decided, and one that could never, really, be shared. In spite of her gentle exterior, there was a part of the Inspector’s wife that was forever beyond knowing.
Perhaps it was like that with all mothers.
I was thinking that when a black Hillman turned in from the main road and came rushing toward me up the church walk, which was not meant to be used by motorcars. I recognized the driver at once: It was Marmaduke Parr, the bishop’s secretary.
His car was so well washed that, as he climbed out of it, I could see the back of his white mane reflected in its polished paint.
“Good morning, Mr. Parr,” I said, instinctively anxious to keep him from going into the church. The vicar had troubles enough without having a petty bureaucrat from the Diocesan Office barging in on what might yet prove to be a miracle.
An oaken saint whose eyes wept blood would put an end forever to St. Tancred’s chronic financial problems. The Roof Fund, after half a century, would be liquidated, and with any luck, those never-ending concerts, fêtes in the churchyard, and games of Tombola in the parish hall would be laid to rest.
“Reverend Parr,” he corrected, in response to my greeting. “Or Father Parr, if you prefer.”
The man was biting off more than he could chew. Although he meant it as a snub, he was obviously not aware that for we de Luces, who had been Roman Catholics since the Resurrection, there could never be too many bells, books, and candles.
Because the vicar was one of Father’s few friends, we attended St. Tancred’s by choice, rather than force. Father looked favorably upon the many innovations that Denwyn Richardson had brought to the parish and had, in fact, once told the vicar to his face, perhaps joking, that he’d always thought of the Oxford Movement as the fold returning to the sheep. All of this, though, was far too complicated to be discussed while standing about in the churchyard.
Marmaduke Parr was staring at me petulantly, impatient to be on about his bullying.
“Then good morning to you,” he said, and strode off toward the door.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” I called out cheerily. “There’s been a murder. The place is closed. Off-limits. It’s the scene of a crime.”
I used Sergeant Woolmer’s exact words, although I didn’t bother mentioning that the ban had already been lifted.
He stopped in mid-stride and came slowly back toward me. His face and his eyes seemed paler than ever.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“A murder,” I explained patiently, one word at a time. “Someone’s been killed in the crypt.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Collicutt,” I whispered importantly. “The organist.”
“Collicutt? The organist? That’s impossible. Why, he was just—”
“Yes?” I said, waiting.
“Collicutt?” he asked again. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” I told him. “Everybody in Bishop’s Lacey is talking about it.”
This was not quite true, but I had come to believe that there’s no harm in spreading a little fear where fear is due.
“Good lord,” he said. “I hope not. I surely hope not.”
Now we were getting somewhere.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. “I was hoping to volunteer to assist with digging out Saint Tancred—sorting the bones, and so forth, but it looks as if that’s off.”