nineties and almost bed-ridden. Afterwards, her daughter and husband had insisted he eat with them. By the time he left it was nearly nine o’clock and he still had to collect the church accounts from St Barnabas’s.
His feet had just made contact with the smooth stones of the church path when he knew something was wrong. He’d never considered himself a particularly sensitive man, but this feeling wasn’t one he could ignore. He knew he had to turn round and face the ruined church. And he really wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do it.
He had turned. He was looking. He just didn’t believe what he was seeing.
The ancient ruins of the abbey church were still there. The great arches still soared upwards, towards the purple sky. The tower, tall and forbidding, cast its shadow across the ground. Everything was just as it had been since the day he’d arrived. Pretty much as it had been for several hundred years. Only the figures were new. Sitting in window frames, leaning against pillars, sprawled along the top of arches, squeezed into every conceivable gap in the stonework were people. They sat, stood, leaned, sprawled, still as statues, mouths leering, eyes staring, surrounding him. Watching.
40
29 October
THE INTERMENT OF TWO-YEAR-OLD LUCY ELOISE PICKUP, only child of Michael Pickup and Jennifer Pickup née Renshaw, was the last entry in the burial register. Harry flicked back to the beginning. The first entry recorded the burial of Joshua Aspin in 1897. A church register had to be closed and taken to the diocesan record office when the oldest entry was 150 years ago. This one hadn’t got there yet. He was about to close the book when he spotted the Renshaw name again. Sophie Renshaw had died in 1908, aged eighteen. The words ‘An innocent Christian soul’ had been entered after the basic details. Harry glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock.
He turned the page and spotted names he recognized: Renshaw several times, Knowles and Grimes more than once. There it was again, halfway down the third page. Charles Perkins, aged fifteen, buried on 7 September 1932. An innocent Christian soul. He looked at his watch again. Three minutes past eleven. Harry leaned back in his chair and glanced round the room. No damp running socks drying on the radiator; the draining board was clear of used tea-bags.
A sudden noise from the nave made him jump and almost overbalance. He lowered his chair until all four legs were firmly on the ground. No one could be in the main body of the church. The building had been locked when he’d arrived, he’d opened just one door, to the vestry, and that was less than three yards away. No one could have entered without him seeing them. And yet what he’d just heard had been too loud to be the random creaking of old wood. It has sounded like … like scraping metal. He stood up, crossed the room and opened the door into the nave.
The church was empty, of course, he hadn’t expected anything else. It just didn’t feel empty. He stepped backwards towards the vestry, his eyes roaming the chancel, looking for movement. He was listening hard. It was almost a relief to close the door. He might as well admit it, he just didn’t like this church. There was something about it that made him feel uneasy.
Scared, you mean. This church scares you.
He looked at his watch again. It was ten minutes past eleven and his visitor was indisputably late. Could he wait outside? Not without looking a complete prat, he couldn’t. He picked up his mobile. No messages.
He jumped again as a knock sounded on the vestry door.
Evi pulled up behind Harry’s car. Using her stick as a lever she pushed herself out of her own. It was a long walk to the vestry door and using her chair was the only really sensible option. Her stick would fold up and slot along the back, the briefcase would sit on her lap, she’d be able to push herself across those smooth old flagstones in a matter of seconds. Faster than many people could run. And Harry would see her in a wheelchair.
She locked the car and began the slow walk up the path. She walked for two minutes, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground, wary of uneven stones. When she stopped for a breather a shadow caught her eye. The sun was throwing the outline of the ruined abbey on