The Haunting of Briarwych Church Read online

  “How can you say that?” she asks. “A woman is dead!”

  “She is with the Lord now.”

  “And is that enough for you?” she continues. “Do you not want to know why she was abandoned? Do you not wonder how she came to die up there, and how nobody thought to go and look for her?”

  “The police will -”

  “The police will close the case as quickly as they can,” she says, interrupting me. “Do you think they have time to investigate an old death, especially one where there is no sign of foul play?” She pauses. “Especially one where the victim was so hated by everyone in the village.”

  “I understand your concern,” I say calmly, “but Lizzy, you must listen to me. No good will come of histrionics. We have a duty to perform. I have a sermon to write, and you have a church to clean. People are coming tomorrow for the first service here in more than two years. The circumstances might be a little strained, but in this time of war we must all do out duty. Do you not see that?”

  She pauses, before sniffing back tears and getting to her feet. She wipes her nose on a handkerchief, and then she straightens the front of her dress before heading to the door. Her steps are shuffling, as if she might at any moment collapse, and when she gets to the door she immediately reaches out as if to steady herself. Yet after a moment she turns to me, and I see to my relief that her tears have begun to dry.

  “I shall get back to work,” she tells me, her voice trembling just slightly now. “You are right. This is not the time to fall apart, is it? Not when there is so much to do.”

  Once she is gone, I sit at my desk and resume my work on the sermon. I must confess, I look out the window at one point and watch the cemetery, and I see several locals walking past the church. They glance this way; perhaps they see me, perhaps they do not, but I imagine they have all heard by now that Judith Prendergast's body has been found. It is to be hoped that some degree of relief will now spread throughout the village, and indeed I quickly resolve to add such a message into my first sermon.

  I am sure that Judith Prendergast would want her death, however tragic it might have been, to be used for good.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From up here in the bell-tower, one can see the entire village, and the view is rather spectacular. There are four arched openings, affording one a view to the north, south, east or west depending upon where one stands, but in all directions one sees rows of cottages stretching away toward either fields or a forest. This is the epitome of English country life, and I confess that – as I stand here now – I can think of no finer view in all the world.

  Of course, I did not come back up here to admire the view.

  Turning, I look back over at the spot where poor Judith Prendergast's body was found. As Doctor Sommersby warned me, and as I spotted myself earlier, there is indeed a dark patch where the body lay, specifically around the head area. As I walk over to take a closer look I see the sharp corner of the step onto which the woman seems to have fallen, and on which she must have hit her head. The corner is sharp and, I suppose, capable of causing death if struck at a certain angle.

  But why was she left here?

  Why did nobody in Briarwych care enough to come and check that she had left? Did the people of Briarwych really just assume that she was no longer here?

  ***

  “I am done,” Lizzy says as she reaches the doorway. “The church is clean for tomorrow's service. I have done my part in the preparation. I trust that your sermon is also ready?”

  Having heard her approach, I take a moment to finish one more sentence in the journal, and then I set my pen down as I turn to her. Perhaps I am reading too much into things, but I believe I caught a slightly cold edge to her tone just now.

  “I look forward to leading the service tomorrow,” I tell her, “and I must thank you for your hard work. I put some money on the side for you, on the dresser. I hope that it will be sufficient.”

  She takes the money and quickly counts it.

  “Are you alright?” I ask, even though I know I shouldn't.

  She glances at me.

  “You must have had quite a shock up there earlier,” I continue. “Seeing that poor woman, I mean. I'm sorry if perhaps I seemed unduly harsh.”

  “I am fine,” she replies. “You, too, must have had a shock. Are you alright?”

  “Me?” Surprised, I furrow my brow. “Why, I am saddened, but I am perfectly fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “I wish I did not have to be paid at all for this,” she says, as she slips the money into her pocket. “If I could afford to give the time for free, I would happily do so.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I reply. “I would suggest that if you come every Monday and Thursday from now on, in the mornings, that would be sufficient.”

  She nods.

  “And the hourly rate will remain the same,” I add.

  “You are very generous.”

  I smile, but still she does not leave. She seems to be hesitating, lingering for some reason, and after a moment I realize that perhaps she is not quite ready to go. In turn, I must admit that I like having her around.

  “Is everything alright?” I ask. “Do you have anything to do for the rest of the day?”

  “It's not that,” she says. “To be honest, I live alone, and sometimes...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “Plenty of quiet time for reading,” I reply with an approving smile.

  “Indeed.” Still, she hesitates, and then she looks down at her hands. “I think it shall feel rather odd to be alone there tonight,” she continues, “in the dark. I worry that my thoughts might turn to... Well, to matters I would rather not think about.”

  “The Lord will watch over you.”

  “I would rather not be alone.”

  “You are never alone with the Lord.”

  “I still see that face whenever I close my eyes,” she says, as if her emotions of earlier are once again coming to the surface. “I cannot comprehend a night haunted by such images. How can I keep from having nightmares?”

  “You must be strong,” I tell her, not for the first time today.

  “I don't suppose...” She takes a deep breath. “I don't suppose I could stay in one of the rooms here, could I? Just for one night?”

  “I am afraid that would be out of the question,” I tell her.

  “I wouldn't make any noise, Father. I wouldn't cause you any trouble at all, I'd simply sleep in there very quietly.”

  “It's out of the question.”

  She opens her mouth to say something, but then some inner resolve seems to make her realize that this would be inappropriate.

  “I'm sorry,” she mumbles, as she takes a step back and then retreats from view.

  A moment later, I hear her hurrying out of the church. Turning, I look out the window and spot her making her way toward the gate, and then finally she disappears along the path that leads toward the village's edge. I do wish that I had been able to do more to console the poor girl, but I did all that was possible. And now, as I return my attention to tomorrow's sermon, I remind myself that I must help the whole village come to terms with this tragedy in their midst. I am quite sure that I can find some soothing words. I just need to work a little longer on what I am going to say.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunday morning is cold and crisp. As I open the church's door, a full hour before the service is due to begin, I take a deep breath. I can feel the responsibility of my new position weighing on my shoulders, and after a few days' preparation I am ready to begin my role in this fine village. Today, a new chapter opens for Briarwych.

  ***

  “And that is why we go forward with hope in our hearts,” I continue, as I get to the final lines of my sermon, “and it is why, when this war is over, our fathers and brothers and sons will find that the same England they left, is still waiting right here for their return.”

  I pause for a moment, to allow those words to sink in. Afte
r a due period, I look up and out across the church, and from my position high in the pulpit I see the entire congregation. And I must confess that I feel a flicker of disappointment as I regard all those rows and rows of empty seats, with only five people having shown up this morning for my first service.

  At the back, a man in a cap gets to his feet and hurries out, leaving just four people.

  Even Lizzy did not think to attend this morning.

  “Well,” I say, forcing a smile in the hope of lifting the mood somewhat, “I hope that some comfort has been found in these words. Sometimes it's the small steps we must focus on, rather than the large. And perhaps one or two of you might share what you have heard today with others in the community, so that they too might benefit from some...”

  My voice trails off.

  The faces that stare back at me seem so bored, perhaps even mildly annoyed. They are so clearly waiting for me to release them, like children in a class at school, and I can only assume that they came today due to some sense of obligation. That, of course, is not particularly unusual, but it would appear that my sermon has done little to lift their spirits. Or their heads, in the case of one man near the back who seems to be struggling to stay awake.

  “I hope you will all have a pleasant Sunday,” I remark, “and I do hope to see all of you, and perhaps some fresh faces too, at next week's service.”

  With that, I take a step back, and the members of the congregation all understand the signal. They rise and, without speaking a word to one another, they all head toward the door. Once they are gone, I am left standing all alone in the pulpit, in complete and utter silence. I was not anticipating a huge gathering, nor am I the kind of man who demands adulation and endless praise for his words. Still, I had hoped that at least a few more people might come to meet me on my first Sunday in Briarwych. The weather is fine enough, so what kept them away from church?

  Could it, perhaps, be a sense of guilt?

  ***

  I hear the voices as soon as I round the corner, and then I spot the warmth of a fire burning in the windows of the Hog and Bucket public house. Evidently on this cold Sunday afternoon, the locals have gathered to talk and to laugh together, in defiance of the local licensing laws. As I make my way along the narrow street, I am minded to turn back, but the people in this place are members of the parish and I believe I must make contact as best I can.

  Despite my reluctance, then, I reach the door to the public house and step inside, and I am immediately met by warmth from the fire that burns in the hearth.

  In the same instant, however, the voices all stop and all the faces turn to me, and it is as if – by my mere presence – I have ended all the good times.

  At the back of the group, somewhere near the bar area, a man clears his throat.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I say, smiling in an attempt to put them at ease. “I must confess, I did not intend to come in here, but I heard such raucous laughter that I felt I must investigate.”

  I wait, but nobody says a word.

  “And as the service today was so sparsely attended,” I add, “I thought, well, if the mountain won't come to Mohammad, then Mohammad...”

  My voices trails off.

  Perhaps that was not the finest example I could have used.

  “Please,” I continue, “don't mind me. Carry on as you were.”

  Again I wait, and again I am met merely by a sea of stares.

  Heading to the bar, I find that several men step quickly out of my way. This is very polite and accommodating of them, although I cannot help but wonder whether they are in fact fearful of my very presence. Or, as I surmised earlier, they might be feeling a sense of collective guilt after hearing about the discovery of poor Miss Prendergast's body.

  “A glass of water, please,” I say to the barman, since I can think of nothing else that would be suitable.

  “I'm sorry my wife and I didn't make it to your service this morning,” a man next to me says, as a few of the others finally start talking nearby. “With the church having been shut for some time, I'm afraid we've taken to working on Sunday mornings, and we completely forgot. We'll be there next week, I promise. Well, we'll try, anyway.”

  “That's quite understandable,” I reply. “I don't know if anybody has told you, but you missed a sermon on the value of community spirit, and on the importance of keeping hope alive.”

  “Sounds useful,” he says, nodding not entirely convincingly. “I'll have to keep that in mind, Father.”

  He pauses for a moment.

  “Did you talk about her?” he asks suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know who I'm talking about. It'd seem odd if she didn't come up in your sermon, not after how she was found up in the bell-tower.”

  Turning to him, I think I do indeed sense a flicker of guilt in his expression.

  “Do you mean Miss Prendergast?” I ask.

  He seems to almost flinch at the mere mention of that name.

  “I didn't mention the deceased lady by name,” I add.

  “But that's not how you lot do it, is it?” he continues, and now he seems a little agitated. Behind him, several men are not talking but are most certainly eavesdropping on our conversation. “You're not direct about these things. You beat around the bush, but you always always draw judgment on people. You tell stories that are about how people should've behaved.”

  “Do you mean allegories?” I ask.

  “I don't know what you call 'em, but I know you do it.”

  “I merely -”

  “You're new here, Father Loveford,” he adds, and now he seems positively anxious. “With all due respect, you don't know the whole story about that woman or about what she did to this village. I don't suppose you got the chance to talk to Father Perkins about her, did you?”

  “Sadly, I never met Father Perkins.”

  “And have you heard from him? Do you know how he's doing?”

  “I have no news to share,” I reply, still feeling that it's too soon to mention the poor man's death. “I am sure that, no matter the circumstances, Father Perkins would have acquitted himself well, and that he dealt more than adequately with any difficulties in Briarwych.”

  “I'm sure you're sure of that,” the man says. “You don't know what she was like, though. You don't know how she judged everyone, how she looked down on us all, how she told us we were all sinners just for the slightest little things. She told some of us we should whip ourselves, to beg forgiveness from the Lord!”

  “That seems a little extreme,” I admit.

  “And she said forgiveness could only come through the flesh,” he adds. “From blood. It was all about blood with her, and pain. I don't think she was all there, Father. Not in the head. I think there was something wrong with her.”

  “Might I remind you,” I reply, “that you are talking about a woman who has died?”

  “I know, but...”

  His voice trails off, and then he looks past me, as if he's hoping for support from some of the other men.

  “You'll have more people in your church next Sunday if you forget the whole matter,” he continues finally, turning back to me. “If people aren't worried about having things mentioned, they'll be more inclined to show up. I can help spread the word, if it helps.” He eyes me with a hint of suspicion. “You're not going to preach about her, are you? You wouldn't preach when you don't know the full story, I'm sure.”

  “And what is the full story?” I ask.

  “There is no story. That's the full extent of it, to be sure. But the point is, nobody did anything wrong, and we don't want to be talked to as if we did. I'm sorry if I'm speaking out of turn, but I just thought you might like to know why there were so few people at your sermon today. Only two or three, I understand.”

  “A few more than that,” I reply, taking a sip of water before setting the glass back down. “I want to thank you for your advice, and I shall certainly take all that you've said into
consideration while I work on the sermon for next week. And of course, my work is about more than just a couple of hours on a Sunday. The church is open every day, and I would be happy for anyone to come and speak to me, about any matter that might be weighing on their minds.”

  “I doubt many people round here have anything weighing on their minds,” he replies firmly. “Not much happens in Briarwych, you see. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that nothing at all has happened here for a very long time. And that's how we'd like to keep it.”

  “I -”

  “That's how we'd like to keep it, Father,” he says again. “I hope you'll realize that.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but then I realize that several other men are watching us and listening to our conversation. And although I am loathe to jump to conclusions, I cannot escape the suspicion that I am being warned off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stepping back into the church, I feel a sense of relief that I am no longer in that loud public house. The church might be cold and quiet, but sometimes one prefers to be alone. Indeed, as I make my way to my office, I feel rather glad that I have no further appointments for the rest of the day.

  That encounter in the public house was distinctly unwelcoming, and has left me with the impression that nobody wants to talk about Judith Prendergast's death. Yet can the entire community really believe that they can ignore what happened?

  Lost in thought, I reach the doorway that leads into my office, and then suddenly I stop. A woman is standing at my desk, silhouetted against the bright window. She's holding my sermon papers in her hands, looking through them, and then a moment later she turns and looks directly at me.

  With a sigh of relief, I realize that it's just Lizzy.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” she says, clearly a little surprised. She sets the papers down. “I know I shouldn't be in here.”