She was a big woman, almost six feet tall and with a large frame. She’d be in her late thirties, he guessed, maybe early forties. Her hair was a thick dark brown and her skin was largely unlined. She would have been a good-looking woman, had there been some spark of intelligence behind those large brown eyes, had her mouth not hung open, as though she’d forgotten the norm was to keep it closed.
Maybe she had. Maybe every ounce of thought in her head was concentrated upon her hands. They were moving at an incredible speed. Binding, twisting, plaiting, over and over again her fingers twitched as the last of the hay, soaked and made supple now, was manipulated into shape. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, not once did she look down at her work, but in the short time she’d been in her chair, a loop of about six inches long had been formed and she was now fastening long straws, twisting and weaving them into place.
‘It’s a Pennine spiral,’ said a voice. Harry and the boys turned at the same moment to see that Tobias Renshaw had joined them. ‘Corn dollies are traditional all over the UK,’ the older man went on, ‘but each region tends to have its own particular design. The spiral is considered one of the most difficult to craft. My granddaughter’s brains all went into her fingers.’
Harry looked quickly at Christiana; her face twisted for a second but her gaze didn’t falter. Neither did her hands.
‘She looks like she’s concentrating hard,’ said Harry. ‘Does she mind being watched?’
‘Christiana lives in her own world,’ said the old man. ‘I doubt she knows we’re here.’
Harry saw Christiana dart a quick look at her grandfather. He put his hands on the Fletcher boys’ shoulders. ‘Come on, you two,’ he said, ‘Let’s leave Miss Renshaw in peace. We can admire her work later.’
He turned, about to guide the boys out into the garden to find their parents. Tobias stopped him with a hand against his chest.
‘I think you must despise our traditions, Vicar,’ he said. The pressure of his hand felt surprisingly strong for so elderly a man and Harry fought a temptation to push it away.
‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘Rituals are very important to people. The church is awash with them.’
‘Quite so,’ said Tobias, in his low, cultured voice, allowing his hand to fall. ‘Events like this one hold communities together. Very few of the men here tonight work on the land any more – they have jobs in the nearby towns, maybe they’re self-employed and work from home, some of them have no jobs. But the Cutting of the Neck is something they all take part in because their fathers and their grandfathers did. Through it, and other traditions like it, they feel a connection to the land. Can you understand that?’
‘I was brought up in the rough end of Newcastle,’ said Harry. ‘We didn’t see much of the land.’
‘Everything you will eat tonight was grown or bred within five miles of this spot,’ said Tobias. ‘All the game I shot myself, although my eyesight isn’t what it was. Ninety per cent of what I’ve eaten my entire life comes from this moor. Quite a number of people in town can say the same. The Renshaws have been self-sufficient for hundreds of years.’
‘You’re not fond of fish, then?’ said Harry.
Tobias’s eyebrows lifted. ‘On the contrary, we own a trout stream at the bottom of the valley.’ He gestured towards the buffet table. ‘I recommend the trout pâté.’
‘I look forward to it. Hi Gillian, did you need me?’
‘I’ll keep you just a moment longer, Vicar. Excuse us, my dear, won’t you?’ said Tobias. ‘Run along, boys, I need a private word with Reverend Laycock.’ Without waiting to be told twice, Tom and Joe scurried across the hall towards the weapons cases. Gillian moved away to the other side of the hall, but Harry could feel that she was still watching them.
‘There is another town tradition you should know about, Vicar,’ said Tobias. ‘Again, you’ll find variations all around England. A few weeks after the harvest, typically in the days leading up to Old Winter’s Day in mid October, we slaughter the livestock that won’t be needed next spring. Mainly surplus sheep and pigs, some chickens, occasionally a cow. In the old days the meat would be preserved to take us through the winter. These days we just fill our freezers.’
‘Sounds sensible enough. Do you want some prayers to send the animals on their way to the abattoir?’
‘You misunderstand, Vicar,’ said Tobias. ‘Your services won’t be required and the animals are sent nowhere. We slaughter them here.’
‘Here in town?’
‘Yes. Dick Grimes and my son hold all the necessary licences between them. Dick has the facilities at the back of his shop. I only mention it because the Fletcher family live just across the road and will hear something of what’s going on. A lot of the men are involved. The street outside gets – how shall I put this? – a little messy. We call it the Blood Harvest.’
‘The what?’
‘You heard me correctly. I’m happy to talk to the Fletchers myself, of course, but I just thought, as you seem to have something of a rapport with them, it might come better from you. If they were to visit relatives for the weekend, that might not be a bad thing.’
A few feet beyond the door to the party room, Millie sat on the floor. Oblivious to the feet and legs around her, she was stroking a cat. Her fat little hand ran down its fur, from head to tail-tip. The tail twitched. Millie caught it and squeezed. The cat jumped to its feet and stepped daintily away.
Millie looked round. One of her brothers, the one she called Doe, was very close by, looking at some weapons in a glass case. He didn’t turn around as Millie pushed herself to her feet and toddled after the cat. First the cat, then Millie, stepped out of the party room and into the alley outside. No one noticed them leave.
‘There you are, Harry. You seem quiet tonight. Is everything OK?’
Alice had found him at the bottom of the walled garden, on a wicker bench surrounded by old roses, nursing an empty glass.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, moving sideways on the bench to give her room to sit down. ‘Just recharging the batteries. People rarely just chat to the vicar, you know. They always expect something more. A bit of spiritual guidance over the sherry. Maybe a discussion on where the Church of England’s going. Get’s a bit tiring after a while.’
Alice settled herself down next to him. He could smell the perfume she always wore. Something very light and sweet, rather old-fashioned. ‘I could barely see you sitting here,’ she said. ‘What happened to the robes?’
Harry had taken off his robes and collar at the first chance he’d had. ‘Too hot,’ he said. ‘And far too distinctive. I needed to blend into the background for a while.’
Alice let her head fall on to one side. It felt like a very familiar gesture, although he didn’t think he’d seen her make it before. ‘Did someone upset you?’ she asked.
He looked at her properly, tempted to tell her about his chat with Tobias, then decided against it. Why ruin her evening too? She was looking happier tonight than he’d seen her since they’d met. He’d have a quiet word with Gareth later in the week.
‘I had a date tonight,’ he said, surprising himself. ‘She blew me out.’
Alice ’s small face lit up. ‘A date? How exciting.’
Harry held up both hands. ‘And yet not, as it turns out.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Alice touched his arm briefly. ‘Did she give you a reason?’
‘She just left a message on my answer machine. She said work was piling up. Hoped we could get together in a couple of weeks or so if things calmed down. Didn’t sound hopeful.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Alice after a second. ‘Want another drink?’
‘If I have another drink I’ll be spending the night in the vestry,’ said Harry. ‘But we should get back to the party. Come on.’