A rummage through the parish chest was a phrase used to describe merely looking through church records, usually in an archive; never had Nigel literally hunted through one. The vicar unlocked a large bolt and lifted the lid. It was piled high with folders and boxes, barely a loose piece of paper.
'Most of the stuff in here is old hymn and prayer books, but there's some other stuff, too. It's not in date order, but you should find boxes or packets belonging to many of the vicars. Some accrued more than others.' A thin smile appeared on his face. "It depended on how many press cuttings each of them kept.'
'I thought worshipping the Lord was reward enough,'
Nigel said.
'Let's just say a few of those in my profession are not averse to the oxygen of publicity.' He glanced at his watch. "I have a few small items of business to attend to.
Feel free to have a look and take as long as you wish. I'll be back in an hour or so. If you need me in the interim, give Shirley a shout in reception and she'll call me on my mobile.'
A vicar with a mobile? It didn't feel right. Nigel thanked him and turned his attention to the open chest, leaning over and inhaling a familiar scent: the smell of old paper.
He picked up the first packet. Clive Hawley 1956--72. He slipped a few of the documents out, just to see what sort of material lay within. There was a host of press cuttings, almost all from the local paper, yellowing, dry and faded.
Very little else, save the odd hymn sheet. Still, he burrowed deeper into the chest searching for anything relating to George Burch, taking out and stacking old books that were falling apart at the seams.
Eventually he found a tatty file, bound with string. He opened it up. The first item he came across was a newspaper report. Dated 2 June 1908, it was a small report from the local paper noting the laying of the final brick of the church and mentioning the appointment of Mr Burch.
The second consisted of several sheets of notes written in a neat copperplate hand, dated 7 September of the same year. It was a letter from a Mrs Winifred Shillingford of the same parish offering what seemed to be a critique of the vicar's performance during worship. It praised his delivery but complained about his frequent divergence from Bible scripture. "I think you will understand that for many of your congregation such contrivances are not welcome. We come to hear and celebrate the word and love of Our Saviour. Not to be handed lectures on the iniquities of the modern world nor to gain a greater understanding of current affairs,' Mrs Shillingford fulminated.
The world's first trendy vicar, Nigel thought.
Going through the collection revealed other personal correspondence; some seeking or offering help, giving praise or criticism, or merely letters of thanks for sermons delivered. Dotted among them were notes written in the vicar's hand. At first he took this to be a form of private correspondence with God, but then realized that they were actually rough notes for sermons and eulogies; words were crossed out, amended, barely legible scrawls placed in the margin. For many funerals there was a short biography of the deceased, in note form, listing several biographical details and personal achievements. He felt a sense of rising excitement; the premonition that he was nearing the critical point of the chase. He went through each clipping, letter and note. No mention of Horton Rowley, but in 1913 he came across mention of a woman named Sarah Read. Next to it, in brackets, was the name 'Rowley'.
A coincidence? He doubted it.
There was a page listing details: her children's names and ages, her age, even details of Horton, the date of his death. Reading the next page made his heart beat even faster, however. It was an outline of the eulogy the vicar must have delivered at her funeral, written in a light, almost delicate hand. The first paragraph or so contained the usual obsequies; loving mother of three, formerly loyal wife to her beloved Horton, with whom she would now be reunited, and dedicated member of the parish.
There was little to distinguish it from most of its kind, either before or since. A passage lower down caught his eye:
Sarah was a loyal servant of God, as many among you will know. A more pious member of the community it would be difficult to imagine. Yet what was remarkable about her faith was that it remained so despite many trials and tribulations.
speak not here of the profound loss of her much-loved husband, hard as she found that obstacle. Many of you here who knew Sarah will know of her struggles to escape the clutches of cultists from across the ocean, an experience itself that would cause many of us to turn away from the Lord's loving embrace. Not Sarah Read, as we knew her.
Her experiences had the contrary effect; far from rejecting the Lord after such an event, it brought Sarah and Horton closer to him, for they knew in truth the dangers of worshipping false idols, celebrating the occult and the wickedness of those who stray from the true word of God. After Horton's sad death, seeking sanctuary, shelter and safety, Sarah moved from her previous home and into the bosom of our parish, where she brought the certainty of her faith, despite all her trials. For that she will live on in our hearts as surely as she will in God's kingdom.
Nigel read it through once more to allow the meaning to seep in. 'Cultists from across the ocean'? The truth was emerging from behind an obscuring cloud: the couple had fled a foreign country. But what cult and where? One that worshipped false idols and celebrated the occult like some form of voodoo? And why had she changed her name?
Was she still being pursued?
At the back of the packet was a series of sepia-tinted photographs. Two pictures of the vicar outside the new building, looking awkward and aloof, a pose Nigel knew well from the time, people still adapting to the novelty of having their picture taken. Another appeared to be of a parish ladies' outing -- three rows of behatted ladies.
'Ladies' Temperance Outing to Margate, August 1911'
was noted on the back in writing similar to the vicar's.
Beneath it he'd scribbled the names of the featured parishioners.
Nigel flipped the photo back over; but he didn't need to find Sarah Rowley's (or Read's) name. He was sure that was her, sitting tall and proud in the middle of the front row. The family resemblance to pictures he'd seen in the press of Katie Drake was startling; the same full lips and proud pose. She would have been in her late thirties when the photo was taken, and though the years had taken some toll she was still a handsome and charismatic presence.
She seemed to possess a darker skin than the other women present; duskier, more exotic, next to their porcelain pale skin. The more he gazed at her, the more indomitable she seemed. He could sense her strength, picture the way she moved, even assign her a voice.
It never failed to amaze him how an old photograph could summon the dead.
3
Foster fixed himself his first cup of tea of the morning, waiting for a murky dawn to emerge through the window of his kitchen. As the tea bag steeped in the mug, he wondered where to turn next. Harris and his crew appeared to be leaving him to his own devices. So far all the Gold Group and Senior Management Team meetings had been held without him; they were often held outside his restricted hours, either early morning or late evening, and he sensed Harris was happier calling the shots without him being around.
It was Friday. Naomi had been missing almost four days. Vickers had been dropped as a suspect, and the other source of likely suspects had grown scarce -- every pervert and paedophile they dragged in had an alibi.
Frustration had bled into desperation. The main investigative team had resorted to bringing in teenage youths who'd been collared for under-age sex, irrespective of the fact that most of them had been under the impression the lipsticked Lolitas with whom they were consorting were above the age of consent. Yet Susie Danson had been right in one respect. If this was a sex crime then they had three or four days. That was about to pass and the sense of despair was like damp, permeating all levels of the investigation and rising even to Harris at the top, who patrolled the main incident room with a haunted, hunted expression as the media continued to howl for the girl's safe return, or at least some evidence of a breakthrough.