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As she worked, she became aware of the loud scrape of wood against the stone floor and knew that Alan had started to push the door open. She climbed onto a chair and tried to clamber out of the window. Her scream was silenced by hard hands around her ankles, which relentlessly drew her back into the icy church. She twisted and fought, gasped and tried to scream but to no avail. Her strength was no match for the ruthless determination of a maniacal killer. Desperate fingers clawed against the cruel edges of the window frame as she fought for freedom. Hands grabbed her waist and, for one precious moment, she thought she had won the fight when those hands disappeared. She placed both feet on the floor and tried to look behind her to see where he had gone when pain suddenly exploded in her head and the world went black.
Mark scowled at the closed door of 29 Daventry Street. Nobody was at home. It was decidedly odd given that he had told Harriett to stay at the tea shop until someone arrived to escort her to the church to do the flowers.
“Where do you think she has gone?” Isaac came out of the alleyway at the side of the house and shook his head. “There is nobody home.”
“I don’t know. I can understand the tea shop being closed given that there is a funeral in the village. Charles is undoubtedly in the pub, but I wonder if Babette, and Harriett, are in the church. They were going to prepare the flowers for the funeral this afternoon, or at least Harriett was.”
Mark felt his temper begin to bubble at the realisation that Harriett had gone against his instructions and left the tea shop without him.
“Let’s go and check the church.” His deep scowl remained in place as he stomped down the street toward the main road that ran through the village. The church was located on the opposite side of the road that led to Great Tipton and the short distance was covered in record time. Tension hovered in the air as the men scoured the rather too quiet village. “Where do you think everyone has gone?”
“Most of the village will be at the funeral. Hugo Montague was born and raised here, so was a village stalwart. The children will be at school, but most of the businesses will be closed as a mark of respect. The business owners will attend the funeral and the wake, so I think everyone has gone home for now.”
The village was almost deathly quiet. Their boots rang hollowly on the uneven pavement as they headed toward the old Norman church.
“Now what do you think he is doing?” Isaac whispered. He placed a hand on Mark’s arm and nodded toward the far end of the churchyard toward Alan Bentwhistle, who disappeared around the back of the huge stone building. Mark felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Had he been dragging something? In the quietness of the afternoon, a loud scraping noise echoed hollowly around the trees. The men crept silently into the graveyard. Isaac took the pathway that led around one side of the church while Mark took the other. At the back of the church Mark stopped, and stared in horror at the trees at the far end of the graveyard. Fresh mounds of soil sat next to two recently dug graves located just beneath the tree line. He watched Alan drag a heavy casket in that direction. Did he intend to bury it? He glanced at Isaac who sidled toward him.
“Go and check inside the church and see if you can see Harriett. Keep quiet though, I don’t want to forewarn him. If you see anyone on the main street, get them to fetch Fred and some men.”
Deep in his gut, Mark knew that the casket Alan was dragging contained a body. Whether that person was still alive or dead had yet to be seen. Had there already been a third murder? Where was Harriett? He quickly closed his mind to the possibility that she might be the one encased in that wooden box. His fists clenched into tight balls of fury at the thought that he might already be too late to save her. He knew that he had to force all thoughts of his personal devastation to one side and blank out the awful realisation that Harriett might already be dead. It was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do in his life, but owed it to her to keep as calm and in control as possible. Mark straightened his shoulders and dug deep for all of his years of professional experience. He watched Bentwhistle slide the coffin ever closer to one of the recently dug holes in the ground.
Did he intend to hide the coffin with plans to return later to bury it somewhere else? Mark had no intention of waiting to find out. If there was someone in that box, and they were still alive, it was imperative that they were released urgently.
The grave look on Isaac’s face when he rejoined him told Mark everything he needed to know. His heart felt like a leaden weight in his chest and he, temporarily, couldn’t breathe. The churchyard swam alarmingly and he struggled to focus his thoughts on anything other than Harriett’s beloved face.
“The door to the ante room beside the altar has been kicked in. Someone inside tried to block the door with a dresser, but it was shoved out of the way. By the looks of it, there has been some kind of struggle. Someone has thrown something out of the window, and there is glass everywhere.” He studied Mark’s profile. He couldn’t tell the man that there was also a liberal splatter of blood over practically all of the surfaces.
Both men watched Bentwhistle for a little while longer. The trees would provide adequate cover for the funeral director, if he chose to run. Mark knew he had to be careful. His eyes remained glued on the coffin Alan had at his feet. Isaac had been his friend, and colleague, for many years now and Mark knew when he wasn’t telling him the full story.
“She is in the coffin, isn’t she?” Mark’s voice was deadly.
“I think she is, yes.”
Mark nodded. “You go left and I will take the right. Don’t let that bastard get away.”
“Someone has gone to fetch Fred and some men from the pub.”
Mark nodded. He couldn’t speak past the white hot rage that was building with such ferocity that Mark wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea if he got his hands on Alan Bentwhistle or not. The man had already murdered two people in cold blood. He had clearly targeted Harriett for some reason only known to himself. If Harriett was his third victim, Mark was going to make his life’s mission to make damned sure that the man never saw daylight again.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
He continued to watch Alan for several moments while he tried to control the need to exact retribution. He motioned to Fred, and the men he had rounded up, to keep quiet and waited only until they had fanned out behind him. As soon as everyone was in place, he stepped forward.
“Well, well, Alan. I think before you have a funeral you need to have a service and allow the family to be involved, don’t you?”
He watched Alan turn to stare at him with wild panic in his eyes. As soon as he saw Mark and the men in the churchyard, he dropped the end of the coffin he held. It hit the ground with a resounding thud but neither man paid any attention to it. Their eyes locked over the wooden lid.
“Why Harriett? What has she ever done to you?” Mark struggled to even say her name. He wanted to pound Bentwhistle out of the way, wrench the lid off and see for himself if she was alright.
“I had to shut her up. She is a gossip you see.” Bentwhistle’s voice was lost and confused, as though even he couldn’t understand what had happened, but Mark wasn’t going to fall for it. The ‘little boy lost’ tone of the man’s voice was contradictory to the ruthlessness in the man’s eyes.
“Harriett isn’t a gossip.”
“She works in the tea shop. That is the biggest gossip house this side of Christendom. Everyone goes there for tea and the latest scandal. I don’t know why they bother with the bloody cakes.” He threw a contemptuous glare at Charles, who had joined the men from the pub there to lend a hand.
“So what do you have to hide, Bentwhistle? The fact that you have killed two people in cold blood or that you are nearly bankrupt and have been stealing from your dead customers to help pay your way?”
Bentwhistle remained quiet. Mark watched a flicker of defeat enter the man’s eyes and his shoulders slump, but it didn’t last. Whatever the man had briefly felt was ruthlessly brushed aside and replaced with arrogant determination. Mark knew that he wasn’t going to surrender easily.
