The Shadow of the Cross

By Leon Bari

The peace of a small riverside village is shattered by a series of murders. The killer or killer's modus operandi indicate to the investigating detectives that they are not dealing with random killings. The victims have been chosen for a reason, but the motive is elusive. The detectives need to know WHY in order to identify the killers. The chur

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leon Bari
• Release date: Aug 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802277845

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Copyright © 2022 by Leon Bari

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced or used in any manner without

written permission of the copyright owner

except for the use of quotations

in a book review.

FIRST EDITION

ISBNs:

978-1-80227-783-8 (paperback)

978-1-80227-784-5(eBook)

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PROLOGUE

The River Blyne meandered lazily through the English countryside. Along its banks were a small town and two small villages. The three were linked by the river and by the parish church of St. Luke’s.

Nothing ever happened in the parish to disturb the peace; crime was minimal, gossip was the local pastime and life drifted on at its own pace. That was until a series of horrific murders traumatised the local population.

The Homicide Division of the West Mercia Police were called in to investigate; but solving the crimes proved to be problematic.

CHAPTER ONE

It was late Sunday morning in mid-April and the proverbial April shower was cascading from a bleak dark-grey sky.

The rain bounced off the bonnet of the dark red mini. The resulting fine spray created poor visibility and even with the wipers at full pace driving was difficult.

The road sign ahead was just about discernible and though headlights helped a little, the driver had to lean forward and peer through the rivulets of water caused by the wipers. The intersection could not be far distant.

As the mini approached the point at which it would leave the main highway, it slowed, ready to veer left on to the narrow B road that led to Little Tampton village. This was a rural community of nine hundred folks at the last census, a village that Emily Warburton knew well. She was heading for her mother’s cottage in Church Lane a short distance from St. Luke’s Church.

In recent years her mother had moved the seven miles from the town of Blynforde; it was not only an escape from the hustle and bustle to a quiet location, but it was also a move close to the church that she had attended for many years. Alice Warburton had a passion, a duty and a spiritual door to the eternal hereafter; the church was her life, her path to heaven.

Now she could walk the few paces from her home to the three steps that led into the arched doors of the sixteenth century religious building. That proximity gave her a feeling of comfort and protection.

Upper Tampton was three miles further on, a village of only six hundred and thirty. The church drew its congregation and the church committee from both villages.

All English villages are centred around a place of worship, usually an inn or public house. The tiny church in Upper Tampton had closed some years ago because it had no congregation, the building was in disrepair and the church authorities were seeking permission to change its usage from religious to residential. It was a change that was not popular with the locals: the church had been small but the grounds were large, and the thought of the inclusion of a multitude of people from God knows where did not sit well with them.

There had been angry exchanges at church committee meetings and feelings ran high. The inhabitants of Upper Tampton blamed the church authorities for ignoring the wishes of the villagers on which the decision would impinge. It appeared that the church was only interested in the financial gain it would bring.

Although it was Sunday, the day that her mother set aside for church, Emily knew that because the church was so close Alice would be attending the evening service too, and that suited Emily well because, being a working girl, the only convenient times that she could visit were at the weekend, and Sunday was the easier of the two days. The knowledge that her mother would wish to end the visit before she left for the church service gave Emily the perfect excuse to leave.

Blynforde was Emily’s hometown, the town in which she had been raised, the town where she had attended school. Although she had mixed memories, some good and some not so good, returning to this neck of the woods always produced a pang of nostalgia.

She remembered as a child how she played with her father in the garden. They played catch, and her father had tied a skipping rope to a tree so that he could hold the other end to turn the rope. She recalled looking out of the window on to the garden on rainy days, with her father at her side singing together:

Rain, rain go away

Come again another day

Little Emily wants to play

Come again another day.

Sun, sun out you play

Warm us up for all the day

Little Emily wants to play

Warm us up for all the day.

Her mother was happy then, and she would sometimes join in.

Emily never knew three of her grandparents. The fourth, nanny Prudence, was in a nursing home and she used to visit with her mother from time to time, but she had been too frail to play.

Blynforde straddled the River Blyne, and River Road, the highway that ran alongside the river, was on the east side and was the road on which Emily travelled to reach Little Tampton.

The town of Blynforde housed restaurants, a shopping centre, a number of public houses and schools, together with several independent retail outlets that included a couple of pharmacies. It contained almost everything that the local inhabitants required except perhaps any real entertainment venues. There was a small cinema and the town hall was the space for dances and concerts, but it was not the place where more famous artists would perform.

The place used to have a police station but, as the case with most small towns, the station had been closed some years previously. It had been part of the drive to release assets and raise funds.

On the other hand Little Tampton was just a small village, a typical English small community that centred around the church and the scout hall in the church grounds that doubled as the village hall. There was of course a public house, the Rose and Crown. The pub did not serve food, it was really just a bar where some of the local men gathered to play dominoes and darts.

Rectory Crescent was a semi-circle of seventeen small terraced houses set back from the road. Many of the houses were occupied by senior citizens. The Crescent had once been on church property but the land and buildings had been sold off in the early part of the twentieth century to raise money to restore the church building. Now, over a hundred years later, the church roof was deteriorating and a church restoration fund had been set up.

Between Little Tampton and Upper Tampton was Grange Farm, a sprawling sheep farm on which were the main farmhouse, a pair of cottages that were homes for farm workers, and large sheds for the animals, food storage and equipment storage.

One of farm cottages was occupied by the farm manager and his family while the other was the home of a senior farm worker and his wife who had been employed on the farm for many years. Unfortunately, in the recent past, the ageing farm worker had died leaving a grieving widow who would eventually have to vacate the property, as there was no security of tenure for her.

Bordering River Road, between the village and the farm were several isolated cottages built in the early Victorian era. Finally, on the boundary of the church graveyard, some distance from Rectory Crescent and partly hidden by trees was the old ‘Warden’s Cottage’ which was the home of Alice Warburton, Emily’s mother.

It always seemed to be raining whenever Emily visited her mother. They didn’t get on very well and Emily’s visits were borne out of duty more than enthusiasm to see her parent. It had been different when her father was alive, Alice was a different person at that time, but during these past four years her mother had become a great deal more cynical and difficult to engage with. Alice had turned to the church for solace, but although it had partially filled the gap after her husband had passed away there was still a void. Alice felt robbed of happiness in the autumn of her years, she now viewed most young women as ‘tarts’ and voiced her disapproval if Emily wore too much make-up.

Today, her daughter, knowing full well the critical comments that could come her way, wore a touch of lipstick, just sufficient to bring out the bloom of her full lips, and a light line of eyebrow pencil. She hoped that there would be no complaints.

Emily was generally a happy individual and although still single she was popular and not short of male companions; it was just that ‘the one’ had not yet appeared on the scene.

However she was at present involved in a fling with her boss, a man who was separated but who had a ten-year-old daughter living with his estranged wife. Of course there were promises that as soon as he was divorced he and Emily could begin a new life, but Emily knew that it was unlikely to happen while his daughter was still at school. Nevertheless, as she drove down the hill to the valley below her mind turned toward that evening; she always needed a lift after a visit to Little Tampton and tonight they were going to dine at their favourite restaurant and afterwards they would go to her apartment and sip wine on the settee. Even now she could feel the hand that would be resting on her thigh and she automatically placed her own hand on the imagined one to draw it a little higher, then realising where she was she hurriedly replaced it onto the steering wheel.

As Emily drew closer to Little Tampton her mood began to change. She only hoped that this time the atmosphere would be more relaxed and cordial; a forlorn hope perhaps but as the April skies were becoming brighter and as the shower began to fade, it was a hope worth encouraging.

Emily had left the main highway and turned onto River Hill, a long winding road down into the valley where it joined River Road. Her manicured fingers clutched the wheel, the sky was dark and the winding, narrow, tree-lined B road required concentration as there was barely room for any oncoming cars to pass. She began humming the song as she drove down the hill, Rain, rain ...

Emily’s visits to her mother had become less frequent over the past two years, mainly due to her mother’s demeanour, but the truth was that mother and daughter had never been really close. Emily had always felt that she was ‘in the way’, her mother and father were very much in love and she was made to feel that she had been a mistake, a birth that was never meant to be. Her parents, she believed, had not planned to have children and her arrival was more of a disappointment than a celebration.

From Alice’s point of view Emily’s suspicion was correct; her daughter had been unplanned and a child had thwarted their travelling ambitions. In addition, as her husband had been the love of her life, a daughter had diverted some of his affections and that was not what she wanted.

After Emily had left home at eighteen the pair had drifted apart and the difference between the generations had meant that Alice no longer knew or understood her daughter. When Emily visited she sometimes found it difficult to hide her lack of interest in her daughter’s news or activities, they were both foreign to her and were not relevant.

Although Emily had no great affinity toward the village of Little Tampton she had to admit that it was in fact a typically picturesque English village. It snuggled peacefully in the valley through which ran the River Blyne. At the northern end of the village was Beech Wood, a two-hundred-acre wood of mainly beech trees, originally planted in the sixteenth century. It was a get-away for youngsters who lived in the town of Blynforde, an escape into nature, a place to walk the dog, a place where teenagers had some privacy and indulged in a romantic dalliance. It was the place where Emily received her first kiss; yes, the wood held some happy memories.

To the north-west of the village was Sunter Point, a chalk hill, part of which had subsided in time gone by. The subsidence had left a sheer two-hundred-foot drop to the valley below. The summit of Sunter Point was the local beauty spot as it commanded outstanding views of the river and the valley. The District Council had placed metal posts around the summit, close to the edge, to prevent tourists from parking too near to the drop.

Years before, Simon Smith, the elderly father of Joel Smith, had leapt to his death from the top of Sunter Point. The official explanation for this dramatic act of self-destruction was the financial problems that had plagued Simon. However, there had been circulating rumours that he had been ‘helped’ over the edge by persons unknown. There was no substantive evidence for either explanation and the coroner finally announced an open verdict. Joel had his own suspicions. He and his father had been close and since the death anger had been simmering in Joel, and he was unable to forget the manner of his father’s demise. It remained an open wound in his mind, he was convinced that his father had been involved with some cult or sect and that they had been responsible for the death. He had resolved to get to the bottom of the conundrum and to make those responsible pay.

As Emily passed Beech Wood she recalled that first kiss, she remembered Philip Fellows, her first real boyfriend. It had been a long time ago but still her nostalgic thoughts brought a funny feeling. She recalled how they used to fondle on a bench in the wood; it was naughty, clumsy but exciting. Unfortunately, as with most teenage romances, the pair had drifted apart after Philip had gone to university. Emily wondered what he was doing now, whether he still remembered her. She had promised that the parting would not impact on their romantic aspirations, but of course it did, nevertheless the happy memories remained.

Emily drove past Beech Wood, past the large house called ‘Tampton End’ and on to the village itself. As she approached, the tower of St. Luke’s Church came into view, to her left were the crumbling gravestones of the graveyard and directly after them the narrow no-through lane that led to Warden’s Cottage. She had almost reached her destination.

CHAPTER TWO

Warden’s Cottage lay at the end of Church Lane. The building was on the right and the lane had been widened at that point to allow vehicles to turn. The Lane ended just beyond the cottage and was followed by a public footpath, a popular walk for enthusiastic naturists who sometimes left their vehicles or bicycles partly obstructing Alice’s garden gate. But today it was clear, which was not surprising as the weather was not conducive to country walks, not even for ardent naturists.

As Emily reached the gate she noted that the heavy shower had passed and blue sky was clearly visible between the clouds. The cottage with its thatched roof was set back from Church Lane. It was separated from the walking public by a long narrow garden in which mature trees gave protection against any prying curious eyes.

It was a small dwelling, built for the church warden, the person who would have been responsible for the upkeep of the graveyard. The cottage had been built in the seventeen fifties and at the time it would have been a safe refuge for the warden and his family. In those days work had been scarce, wages were pitifully low and begging was rife, but the role of church warden would have carried some prestige with the local community.

Those days however were long past; the graveyard was now over­grown, the gravestones were moss stained and mostly hidden behind long grasses and tall weeds. The graves were so old that there were no longer any visitors or living family members, in consequence the once proud memories of those passed were unkempt and crumbling.

Although funeral services were still carried out at St. Luke’s, a community cemetery now existed for modern burials.

The roof repair fund was used by those on the church committee to appeal to the local community for donations, through fund raising events. Those events which included church fetes, raffles and the annual flower and vegetable show were organised and run by the hard-working members of the committee. Alice Warburton was on that committee and when Warden’s Cottage had become available on a peppercorn rent of only seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, it had been offered to Alice as it gave preference to committee members for occupation, and she had been first in line.

Emily pulled the car to the left-hand side of the lane to give herself room to turn later; the garden gate was on the other side. The lane was a little muddy from the recent downpour, and she would need to navigate through those puddles with care. As her eyes noted the lying water she recalled the last visit and the rather acrimonious way it had ended. She decided that this time she would make a determined effort to be a dutiful and loving daughter. She would bring the conversation around to the church, its activities and her mother’s own contribution, and she would steer clear of her own movements which she knew did not interest Alice. Mother and daughter had always called each other by their first names that was more indicative of the distance between them than any parental child love. On this occasion she would use the term ‘mother’ and she hoped that it would produce the desired reaction.

Emily cut the engine and opened the car door. She swung her trousered legs out onto the lane and using her rear pushed the door of the mini shut behind her. The garden gate was at the end of the long front garden path which, although paved, was always slippery after a downpour. Alice was not an enthusiastic gardener; she did have occasional help but in general the garden always looked untidy with the overgrown flower beds and grass that always looked as though it needed to be cut. Alice always maintained that the garden was natural and Emily never laboured the point in case she was asked to help.

Emily lifted the latch and pushed the gate open. As she did so, she noticed a man’s bicycle leaning against the garden fence. It certainly did not belong to Alice; her mother must have a visitor. Emily had never known her mother to have a male visitor and she was both intrigued and concerned that she may be interrupting something. On the other hand her mother was expecting her so the caller was probably not expected. She imagined that the visit was most likely connected to the church.

Emily had her own front door key but as the door was never locked she rarely used it. On this occasion when she turned the handle and pushed there was no movement, the door was locked. Emily produced her keyring from her pocket and fumbled in the lock.

As was the case with many of these old cottages, the front door led into a narrow corridor at the end of which was the kitchen; on the left a staircase led to the two bedrooms and bathroom on the upper floor, on the right was the door into the front ‘parlour’. The cottage was small but it suited Alice.

Pushing the front door open Emily called out her mother’s name. There was no reply. The parlour on her right was the room most used by Alice. She often sat on her favourite sofa in the afternoons, either dozing or watching the television, resting before it was time for the evening church service.

Emily assumed that her mother was entertaining her visitor, the owner of the bicycle, so she knocked, pushed the door open and looked inside.

The indescribable scene that met her eyes stopped her in her tracks, her heart skipped a beat and her stomach churned. It took a few seconds for her eyes to fully comprehend or accept the macabre scene in front of her.

Emily saw her mother sprawled on the dark brown settee, her head was thrown back, her mouth was wide open and her lifeless eyes were staring at the ceiling. Her right hand appeared to be clutching her stomach and there was dried vomit on the arm of the settee. On the matching brown leather chair sat an elderly man, his head was slumped forward onto his lap as though he was doubled up in pain; on the carpet in front of his feet were dried vomit stains. Even to a disbelieving Emily it was obvious that both were dead.

With her head spinning and her knees weak she was momentarily transfixed. Unable to move, her eyes were glued to the horror before her. Moments passed before she was able to gather her thoughts; then panic set in. She had no idea what to do. She could not approach the bodies. She wanted to escape, run away as fast as she could, escape the horror that was now burned into her mind.

Instead she backed out of the parlour, closed the door and went to the front door. Her mind was telling her to ‘ring the police’, so she took her mobile from her handbag and dialled 999. She was feeling faint and she leant on the door frame as she waited for the response.

CHAPTER THREE

A voice responded to her call:

Emergency, which service do you require caller?

Emily replied, Police, please.

There was a brief pause then she heard a polite assured voice say,

West Mercia police, how may I help you?

Emily was flustered momentarily before she replied,

There are two bodies here.

May I have your name and address please?

Emily gave her name and her mother’s address.

"Are the two