straight back, if you please.’
‘Of course.’ Wesley gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You cleaned for the late Reverend Shipborne, I believe?’
The suspicion reappeared on her face. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I’m a policeman, a detective inspector. I heard about the case. It must have been a terrible shock.’
There was no mistaking it. As soon as Wesley announced that he was a policeman her attitude had changed. And he didn’t think
it was anything to do with the case bringing back disturbing memories. For some reason Mrs O’Donovan was wary of the police.
And he wondered why.
‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon,’ Neil said as they strolled up the church path.
‘What did?’
‘You saying you were a policeman.’
So Neil had noticed it too. It hadn’t just been his imagination.
They crossed the busy road again, dashing across when there was a gap in the traffic, and made straight for the church. The
building, set in its graveyard like a ship anchored in open water, was clearly ancient, but there wasa slight air of neglect about the place. The grass that surrounded it had been trimmed but some of the gravestones had toppled
over and the parish notice-board beside the lychgate was in need of a coat of paint. There was one tattered notice pinned
to it, announcing a parish jumble sale a year in the past.
They walked up the path and Neil put the key in the church’s great oak door. It turned stiffly and the door opened with a
creak worthy of any horror movie. They stepped inside the church and stood for a minute or so as their eyes grew accustomed
to the gloom. The place smelled of musty prayer books, and particles of dust swirled and danced in the shafts of light creeping
in through the plain leaded glass windows. Only the large window above the altar at the east end contained stained glass.
Wesley scratched his head. ‘What are we looking for exactly, Neil?’
‘Is there any sort of guidebook?’ Neil looked round the building. Most churches in his experience had some sort of bookstall
selling books or leaflets telling the casual visitor something of the place’s history. But there was nothing like that at
St Alphage’s and he thought this was a strange omission.
They strolled slowly around the church, noting that the rood screen was finely carved and still bore its medieval paint in
parts. The walls had been whitewashed. In some churches this had been done to cover up medieval wall paintings in the days
when that sort of thing was considered undesirable, so who knew what lay beneath the whitewash here? But at first sight, interesting
features were thin on the ground. A motley selection of eighteenth-century memorials lined the walls, all commemorating members
of a family called Munnery … probably the local squires.
As they wandered into the chancel Wesley noticed a fine tomb to their right bearing two recumbent figures in Elizabethan costume.
The text around the tomb announced that they were Sir John and Lady Elizabeth Munnery,which seemed to confirm that the Munnerys had been big noises in Belsham for quite some time. At his feet Wesley saw a fine
medieval brass set into the floor, informing him that a Ralph de Munerie had been a power to be reckoned with back in 1466.
Neil had his notebook out and was scribbling furiously, but Wesley wasn’t sure what he had found that was worth writing about.
They knew that the lords of the manor were called Munnery but that was about all they knew. According to the tomb inscriptions
all the Munnerys appeared to have died in their beds at a ripe old age. Nothing about them being serial killers who buried
their victims in a mass grave in Pest Field. But then Wesley wasn’t really expecting it to be that easy.
They strolled back down the aisle side by side, and they were about to leave by the south door when Neil stopped. ‘What about
the tower?’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s sometimes the oldest part
‘Of course.’ Wesley gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You cleaned for the late Reverend Shipborne, I believe?’
The suspicion reappeared on her face. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I’m a policeman, a detective inspector. I heard about the case. It must have been a terrible shock.’
There was no mistaking it. As soon as Wesley announced that he was a policeman her attitude had changed. And he didn’t think
it was anything to do with the case bringing back disturbing memories. For some reason Mrs O’Donovan was wary of the police.
And he wondered why.
‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon,’ Neil said as they strolled up the church path.
‘What did?’
‘You saying you were a policeman.’
So Neil had noticed it too. It hadn’t just been his imagination.
They crossed the busy road again, dashing across when there was a gap in the traffic, and made straight for the church. The
building, set in its graveyard like a ship anchored in open water, was clearly ancient, but there wasa slight air of neglect about the place. The grass that surrounded it had been trimmed but some of the gravestones had toppled
over and the parish notice-board beside the lychgate was in need of a coat of paint. There was one tattered notice pinned
to it, announcing a parish jumble sale a year in the past.
They walked up the path and Neil put the key in the church’s great oak door. It turned stiffly and the door opened with a
creak worthy of any horror movie. They stepped inside the church and stood for a minute or so as their eyes grew accustomed
to the gloom. The place smelled of musty prayer books, and particles of dust swirled and danced in the shafts of light creeping
in through the plain leaded glass windows. Only the large window above the altar at the east end contained stained glass.
Wesley scratched his head. ‘What are we looking for exactly, Neil?’
‘Is there any sort of guidebook?’ Neil looked round the building. Most churches in his experience had some sort of bookstall
selling books or leaflets telling the casual visitor something of the place’s history. But there was nothing like that at
St Alphage’s and he thought this was a strange omission.
They strolled slowly around the church, noting that the rood screen was finely carved and still bore its medieval paint in
parts. The walls had been whitewashed. In some churches this had been done to cover up medieval wall paintings in the days
when that sort of thing was considered undesirable, so who knew what lay beneath the whitewash here? But at first sight, interesting
features were thin on the ground. A motley selection of eighteenth-century memorials lined the walls, all commemorating members
of a family called Munnery … probably the local squires.
As they wandered into the chancel Wesley noticed a fine tomb to their right bearing two recumbent figures in Elizabethan costume.
The text around the tomb announced that they were Sir John and Lady Elizabeth Munnery,which seemed to confirm that the Munnerys had been big noises in Belsham for quite some time. At his feet Wesley saw a fine
medieval brass set into the floor, informing him that a Ralph de Munerie had been a power to be reckoned with back in 1466.
Neil had his notebook out and was scribbling furiously, but Wesley wasn’t sure what he had found that was worth writing about.
They knew that the lords of the manor were called Munnery but that was about all they knew. According to the tomb inscriptions
all the Munnerys appeared to have died in their beds at a ripe old age. Nothing about them being serial killers who buried
their victims in a mass grave in Pest Field. But then Wesley wasn’t really expecting it to be that easy.
They strolled back down the aisle side by side, and they were about to leave by the south door when Neil stopped. ‘What about
the tower?’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s sometimes the oldest part
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