Condemned R.C. Bridgestock (good fiction books to read TXT) 📖

advised caution, was placed around Seth Alderman’s grave. It announced the would-be burial site to Charley from the slatted wooden gate. It was bitterly cold. She paused to catch her breath, and suddenly she felt the faint rays of the winter sun on her face and it brought her a moment of peace.

Charley stood for a moment or two at the grave, rolling her shoulders to get the blood flowing into her chilled bones. Surrounding her, lining the graveyard, were row upon row of grey-mottled, moss-covered fallen headstones. Some of the graves were so tiny that they could only be the burial site of an infant, some large enough to house a whole family. Others told stories of a life lived, in brief messages, including quotes from religious texts, lines from poems, or verses composed especially for the deceased. Some depicted images of little creatures, such as Brownies, Elves, and Hobgoblins, and this made Charley smile. It reminded her of the Yorkshire folklore that her grandparents had shared with her about the Hob and his companions, it seemed the tales were destined to always be part of her life. Blue Birches, the shapeshifting hobgoblin who played harmless pranks in the home of a shoemaker and his wife, was her childhood favourite, and when she was asked to read A Midsummer Night’s Dream for her English Literature exam, she was eager to meet Puck, one of the fairies who inhabited the forest and servant to the Fairy King, Oberon. Recalling the story now, Charley felt compelled to bend and pluck a wild flower. On lifting her eyes to the horizon, there was nothing as far as the eye could see but barren moorland and she thought that before cemeteries and churchyards existed, grave markers would be nothing more than piles of rock or wood, placed not far from the family home.

The sound of a rat scurrying across the stone plinth in front of her brought her back from her reverie. Charley dropped the flower in her hand as if she’d been stung. She shivered, and attempted to calm her racing heart. She berated herself. It wasn’t the first rat she’d seen for goodness’ sake! However, rodents had always had the ability to shock and frighten her. Another rat, and another, disappeared down the hole that the CID had made an initial attempt to investigate. It had proved difficult to see what was underneath without removing the stone, which proved to be too heavy to lift without industrial equipment.

Charley took the torch from her pocket, knelt down and pointed it at the hole that the rats had disappeared down. There was a lot of scratching, scrambling and squeaking, and to her surprise she saw a circle of gleaming red sparks staring up at her. She jumped back and nearly lost her balance. Shocked, and feeling slightly foolish, she spun around to see if anyone had been watching, and as she did so two, tall, marble effigies at the far end of the graveyard, glistening in the sun, caught her eye. Slowly, and carefully, she walked as if transfixed, towards Michael O’Doherty’s grave that was clearly connected to the one next to it, that of his nephew, Connor.

A flattened grass path led from the graves to the church. Sparkling clean marble, the grass around them was short and neat, a hand-tied posy at their base. Both full of fresh wild flowers, suggesting to the SIO that someone visited and tended the graves regularly.

These gigantic memorials were indeed a statement of the deceased’s relationship with the established church.

Charley knelt to examine the flowers. There were no cards, or anything else that would suggest who had left them, yet they could not be more than a few days old.

An obvious starting point of call was Lily Pritchard, and if it wasn’t her who’d left the gift of flowers, then maybe she’d know of a regular visitor to the graves who might have.

Having taken pictures of the graves and the flowers on her mobile phone, Charley was just about to leave when a rotund robin made an entrance behind her, singing a bittersweet song. The plump bird with a bright orange-red breast, face, throat and cheeks, walked boldly towards her along the overhanging branch of an overgrown tree. Charley took a step towards the little bird. ‘I wish I knew what you’re telling me,’ she said, sadly.

Back at the Incident Room, Charley contemplated who to bring into the station first: Lily Pritchard or Mr Raglan.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said to Mike. ‘The indications suggest that Lily Pritchard is tending to the priests’ graves. Instead of inviting her down to the station, perhaps we should make her an unannounced visit to ask her? We may find confirmation in her rooms; maybe she has flowers on display, like the ones on the graves? More importantly, I’d like to check to see whose pictures she has on display.’

Wilkie raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like proper detective work to me, boss. But looking after graves is part of her job, surely?’

Charley shook her head slowly as though she was unsure about her answer. ‘It is, but she’s singled two out. Why would she do that? The rest of the graveyard is, let’s face it, a wilderness.’

‘There is a difference between devotion and infatuation, isn’t there?’ said Mike. ‘A blindness to infatuation that makes people see what they want to see.’

‘Perhaps because of that, they would know they could trust her with anything,’ said Charley. ‘Tell you what, unless we get diverted by information coming in from Annie and Ricky-Lee, we’ll go and see her tomorrow, shall we?’

Chapter 31

Unobserved, Annie smoothly parked her old orange Beetle under a large oak tree, less than fifty metres from what would become known as the Dixons’ mobile home, which was perched on the cliff top, away from the static caravans. The detectives heard strange noises coming from beyond the thick privet hedge that separated them from the parked car. There was a sweet