The body had no head. That single, grisly detail was the most prominent
feature of the police photographs that were being passed among the three
CID officers gathered at the circular table in the Scotland Yard
office.
Father Hart looked nervously from one face to the next, and he fingered
the tiny silver rosary in his pocket. It had been blessed by Pius XII in
1952. Not an individual audience, of course. One could never hope for
that. But certainly that trembling, numinous hand making the sign of the
cross over two thou
sand reverential pilgrims counted for a powerful sort of something. Eyes
closed, he'd held the rosary high above his head as if somehow that
would allow the Pope's blessing to strike it more potently.
He was well on his way into the third decade of the sorrowful mysteries when the tall, blond man spoke.
"‘What a blow was there given,'" he murmured, and Father Hart looked his way.
Was he a policeman? Father Hart couldn't understand why the man was
dressed so formally, but now, upon hearing the words, he looked at him
hopefully. "Ah, Shakespeare. Yes. Just the very thing somehow." The big
man with the awful cigar looked at him blankly. Father Hart cleared his
throat and watched them continue to scrutinise the pictures.
He'd been with them for nearly a quarter of an hour and in that time
barely a word had been exchanged. A cigar had been lit by the older man,
the woman had twice bitten off something she'd intended to say, and
nothing more had occurred until that line from Shakespeare.
The woman tapped her fingers restlessly on the top of the table. She at
least was some sort of police person. Father Hart knew that by the
uniform she wore. But she seemed so entirely unpleasant with her tiny,
shifting eyes and her grim little mouth. She would never do. Not what he
needed. Not what Roberta needed. What should he say?
The horrid photographs continued to be passed among them. Father Hart
did not need to see them. He knew far too well what they captured. He'd
been there first, and it was all so unspeakably engraved on his mind.
William Teys sprawled out on his side—all six feet four of him—in a
ghastly, quasi-fetal position, right arm extended as if he'd been
reaching for something, left arm curled into his stomach, knees drawn up
halfway to his chest, and where the head had been…There was simply
nothing. Like Cloten himself. But no Imogen there to awaken in horror by
his side. Just Roberta. And those terrifying words: "I did it. I'm not
sorry."
The head had rolled into a mound of sodden hay in a corner of the stall.
And when he'd seen it…Oh God, the stealthy eyes of a barn rat glittered
in the cavity—quite small, of course—but the quivering grey snout was
brilliant with blood and the tiny paws dug! Our Father, who art in
heaven…Our Father, who art in heaven…Oh, there's more, there's more and I
can't remember it now!
"Father Hart." The blond man in the morning coat had removed his reading
spectacles and had taken from his pocket a gold cigarette case. "Do you
smoke?"
"I…yes, thank you." The priest snatched quickly at the case so that the
others might not see how his hand trembled. The man passed the case to
the woman, who shook her head sharply in refusal. A silver lighter was
produced. It all took a few moments, blessed time to allow him to gather
together his fragmented thoughts.
The blond man relaxed in his chair and studied a long line of
photographs that had been posted on one of the walls of the offi ce.
"Why did you go to the farm that day, Father Hart?" he asked quietly,
his eyes moving from one picture to the next.
Father Hart squinted myopically across the room. Were those pictures of
suspects? he wondered hopefully. Had Scotland Yard seen fit to begin
pursuing this malevolent beast already? He couldn't tell, wasn't even
certain from this distance that the photographs were of people at all.
"It was Sunday," he replied as if that would somehow say everything.
The blond man turned his head at that. Surprisingly, his eyes were an
engaging brown. "Were you in the habit of going to Teys's farm on
Sundays? For dinner or something?"
"Oh…I…excuse me, I thought the report, you see…" This would never do.
Father Hart sucked eagerly at the cigarette. He looked at his fingers.
The nicotine stains climbed past every joint. No wonder he'd been
offered one. He shouldn't have forgotten his own, should have bought a
pack back at King's Cross. But there was so very much then…. He puffed
hungrily at the tobacco.
"Father Hart?" the older man said. He was obviously the blond's
superior. They'd all been introduced but he'd stupidly forgotten their
names. The woman's he knew: Havers. Sergeant, by her garments. But the
other two had slipped his mind. He gazed at their grave faces in
mounting panic.
"I'm sorry. You asked…?"
"Did you go to Teys's farm every Sunday?"
Father Hart made a determined effort to think clearly, chronologically,
systematically for once. His fingers sought the rosary in his pocket.
The cross dug into his thumb. He could feel the tiny corpus stretched
out in agony. Oh Lord, to die that way. "No," he answered in a rush.
"William is…was our precentor. Such a wonderful basso profundo. He could
make the church ring with sound and I…" Father Hart took a ragged
breath to put himself back on the track. "He'd not come to Mass that
morning, nor had Roberta. I was concerned. The Teyses never miss Mass.
So I went to the farm."
The cigar smoker squinted at him through the pungent smoke. "Do you do
that for all your parishioners? Must certainly keep them in line if you
do."
Father Hart had smoked his cigarette down to the filter. There was
nothing for it but to stub it out. The blond man did the same although
his was not half-smoked. He brought out the case and offered another.
Again the silver lighter appeared; the fl ame caught, produced the smoke
that seared his throat, soothed his nerves, numbed his lungs.
"Well, it was mostly because Olivia was concerned."
A glance at the report. "Olivia Odell?"
Father Hart nodded eagerly. "She and William Teys, you see, had just
become engaged. The announcement was to be made at a small tea that
afternoon. She'd rung him several times after Mass but got nothing. So
she came to me."
"Why didn't she go out there herself?"
"She wanted to, of course. But there was Bridie and the duck. He'd got
lost somehow, the usual family crisis, and she couldn't be settled down
until he was recovered."
The three others glanced at one another warily. The priest reddened. How
absurd it all sounded! He plunged on. "You see, Bridie is Olivia's
little girl. She has a pet duck. Well, not really a pet, not in the
actual sense." How could he explain all of it to them, all the twists
and turns of their village life?
The blond man spoke, kindly. "So while Olivia and Bridie were looking for the duck, you went out to the farm."
"That's so exactly right. Thank you." Father Hart smiled gratefully.
"Tell us what happened when you arrived."
"I went to the house first, but no one was there. The door wasn't locked
and I remember thinking that was strange. William always locked
everything tight as a drum if he went out. He was peculiar that way.
Insisted I do the same with the church if I wasn't about.
Even when the choir practised on Wednesdays he never once left until
every person was gone and I'd seen to the doors. That's the way he was."
"I imagine his unlocked house gave you a bit of a turn," the blond man said.
"It did, really. Even at one o'clock in the afternoon. So, when I
couldn't raise anyone with a knock…" He looked at them all
apologetically, "I suppose I walked right in."
"Anything peculiar inside?"
"Nothing at all. It was perfectly clean, as it always was. There was, however…" His eyes shifted to the window. How to explain?
"Yes?"
"The candles had burned down."
