‘I believe that’s Mrs Hartman’s coat. She’s always forgetting it. I’ll drop it off to her later.’
He walks over, picks the coat up and slings it over his arm. I feel my cheeks start to colour.
‘Right. Thanks. Sorry. It looked just like …’ I trail off. I’m sounding stupid. I need to regain some authority. ‘Why don’t I drop the coat off to Mrs Hartman?’
He frowns. ‘Well, she lives all the way down Peabody Lane, out near Harper’s Farm.’
My ears prick up. I hold out my hand. ‘That’s no problem at all.’
EIGHT
Joan Hartman lives in a quaint whitewashed cottage down a narrow country track just wide enough to fit a car. Luckily, the only traffic I meet coming the other way is a family of pheasants who glare at the car with bright orange eyes before waddling off into the undergrowth.
‘Wings. God gave you wings!’ I mutter.
I pull up outside the cottage and climb out of my car, clutching Joan’s coat. The door is around the side. I push open the gate and walk along a path fringed by lupins and hollyhocks. Usually, with elderly parishioners, it takes at least three hefty knocks to summon them to the door. To my surprise, I’ve only just raised my hand when the door swings open.
Joan Hartman squints up at me through eyes cloudy with cataracts; five foot nothing, with a dusting of floury-white hair, wearing a purple dress and leaning heavily on a cane.
‘Hello,’ I say, thinking I’ll probably need to refresh her memory. ‘I’m –’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I hoped you’d come.’
She turns and trots back into the cottage.
That seems to be my invitation to enter. I follow her, pulling the door shut behind me.
It’s dark and welcomingly cool inside. The windows are small and leaded, the walls thick stone. The front door leads straight into a kitchen that’s so low-beamed my head brushes the warped wood. There are quarry tiles on the floor, an old range and a perfunctory cat sleeping in a tattered basket.
Joan shuffles through the kitchen and down a step into the living room. This is also low-beamed, and long, stretching the entire width of the back of the house, with French doors leading out to the garden. A huge bookcase takes up all of one wall, its shelves packed tightly with battered spines. The only other furniture is a sagging sofa and a high-backed chair skirting a large coffee table. A bottle of sherry stands on the coffee table and two glasses. Two.
I hoped you’d come.
Joan eases herself down into the high-backed chair. I stand awkwardly, still clutching the coat.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but you left this at the church.’
‘Thank you, dear. Just pop it down anywhere. Would you mind pouring me a sherry? Help yourself to one too.’
‘That’s very kind, but I’m driving.’
I pour Joan a large sherry and hand it to her.
‘Sit,’ she says, gesturing at the sagging sofa.
I look at the squishy velour. I’m pretty sure, if I sit, I may never get up again. Still, I lower myself down, knees shooting up to my chin.
Joan sips her sherry. ‘So, how are you finding it here?’
‘Oh. Fine. Everyone has been very welcoming.’
‘You came from Nottingham?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Must be quite a change?’
The cataracts can’t dull the inquisitiveness in her eyes. I change my mind about the sherry. I lean forward – with some difficulty – and pour a small measure.
‘I’m sure I’ll get used to it.’
‘Did they tell you about Reverend Fletcher?’
‘Yes. It’s very sad.’
‘He was a friend of mine.’
‘Then I’m sorry for your loss.’
She nods. ‘How do you like the chapel?’
I hesitate. ‘It’s very different from my previous church.’
‘It has a lot of history.’
‘Most old churches do.’
‘You’ve heard of the Sussex Martyrs?’
‘I’ve read about them.’
Undeterred, she continues: ‘Six Protestant martyrs, men and women, were rounded up and burnt at the stake. Two young girls – Abigail and Maggie – took refuge in the chapel. But someone betrayed them. They were caught and tortured, before being killed, right outside.’
‘That is some history.’
‘Have you seen the twig dolls by the memorial?’
‘Yes. People make them to commemorate the martyrs.’
Her eyes gleam. ‘Not quite. The story goes that the ghosts of Abigail and Maggie haunt the chapel, appearing to those in trouble. If you see the burning girls, something bad will befall you. That’s why the villagers originally made the dolls. They believed they could ward off the girls’ vengeful spirits.’
I shift uncomfortably in the squishy seat. It’s making the small of my back sweat.
‘Well, every church needs a good ghost story.’
‘You don’t believe in ghosts?’
I remember the figure I thought I saw. The smell of burning.
Just a coat. Just my imagination.
I shake my head firmly. ‘No. And I’ve spent a lot of time in graveyards.’
Another low chuckle. ‘Reverend Fletcher was fascinated by the story. He started to research the history of the village. That’s how he became interested in the other girls.’
‘Other girls?’
‘The ones who went missing.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I stare at her, a little thrown by the barrage of questions and sudden changes in conversational direction.
‘Merry and Joy,’ she continues. ‘Fifteen years old. Best friends. Disappeared without a trace, thirty years ago. The police decided they ran away. Others weren’t so sure, but they were never found, so nothing could be proved.’
Sweat is trickling down to my backside. ‘I don’t seem to remember the case.’
She cocks her head to one side, like a bird. ‘Well, you would have been young yourself. And there wasn’t twenty-four-hour news like there is now, no social media.’ She smiles sadly. ‘People forget.’
‘But not you?’
‘No. In fact, I’m probably one of the last who does remember. Joy’s mother, Doreen, suffers from dementia. And Merry’s mother and brother left the village. Almost a year to the day after Merry disappeared. Just went. Didn’t take a thing with them.’
‘Well, grief can make people do strange things.’
I put down my sherry glass. It’s empty. Time to make my excuses.
‘Thank you so much for the drink, Joan, but I should really get back for my daughter.’
I start to extract myself from the sofa.
‘Don’t you want to know about Reverend Fletcher?’
‘Maybe another –’
‘He thought he knew what had happened to Merry and Joy.’
I freeze, half bent over. ‘Really? What?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. But whatever it was, it troubled him deeply.’
‘You think that’s why he committed suicide?’
‘No.’ Her milky eyes glint and I understand two things – Joan did not leave her coat in the chapel by mistake. And I am in more trouble than I thought.