Murder at St Anne's (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery), page 1
ALSO BY J. R. ELLIS
The Body in the Dales
The Quartet Murders
The Murder at Redmire Hall
The Royal Baths Murder
The Nidderdale Murders
The Whitby Murders
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by J. R. Ellis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781542030175
ISBN-10: 154203017X
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
To Brian and Alison
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
M. R. James (1862–1936) was a master of the traditional English ghost story. In his subtle, odd and disturbing narratives, horror envelops clerics, antiquarians, fortune hunters, and all who disturb things that are best left alone. His stories take place in libraries, colleges and comfortable residences; in churches, cathedral closes and graveyards.
The Reverend Clare Wilcox sat in her study in the large vicarage adjacent to the parish church of St Anne’s in Knaresborough, Yorkshire. From the window she could see to her right the west tower of the medieval church, and ahead a beautiful view down into the dramatic Nidd Gorge. It was a Wednesday afternoon in mid-January and the black scribbles of the leafless tree branches stood out stark against the sky. It had been a bright, cold day, but now, as the sun went down, dark clouds were looming in the north.
Clare shivered and pulled a cardigan around her. She rubbed her hands together. The vicarage had been built in the nineteenth century and had large rooms with high ceilings; it was far too big and very difficult to keep warm. The antiquated heating system generated huge bills which they could ill afford to pay, so Clare and her husband, Jeremy, tried to keep the thermostat turned down as far as possible. It was a little easier now that their two daughters were away at university, which meant that the radiators could be turned off in two bedrooms.
She looked at her screen and tried to concentrate on what she was reading, which was a very dull report on the problems of recruiting and training readers in the Church of England. Clare was in her late forties. She had had a career as an academic theologian before entering the priesthood ten years earlier. Since then, she had proved that she was also an excellent administrator and motivator. This had led to her being fast-tracked to the position of rector of St Anne’s.
Clare raised her face, with its strong features and blue eyes. Her short blonde hair was beginning to turn a little grey. With a sigh she closed the file, massaged her forehead and sat quietly for a moment reflecting. Running a church like this was quite an onerous task. It was a big and important church in the diocese of Ripon, with a large congregation. There were also rifts between groups and delicate matters to sort out. She was feeling the burden of it on this winter afternoon. Maybe it was tiredness and the anti-climax of January after the hectic Christmas season. Also, a change was coming soon and she would be faced with a new challenge and significant responsibilities. At this moment it seemed very daunting and she was not looking forward to it. She sat back in her chair with her eyes closed and had an idea: call the woman who had been her mentor for many years. It would be nice to have a chat. She picked up her phone.
Alison Oldroyd, vicar of Kirkby Underside, a village between Harrogate and Leeds, was also in her study in a similarly oversized vicarage next to her rather smaller church when she received Clare’s call.
‘Clare!’ she answered enthusiastically. ‘How lovely to hear from you! How’s it going?’
‘Alison, I’m glad you’re in. To tell you the truth, I’m going through a bit of a bad patch.’
‘It’s normal at this time of year.’
‘That’s what I thought. Maybe I’m a bit apprehensive about what I’m going to face soon.’
‘Well you’d hardly be human if you weren’t, especially as a woman, with a challenge like the one you’re facing.’
‘Sometimes I wonder whether someone like you with greater experience would be better in the job.’
‘No, I’m too old and much too controversial a figure.’ Alison laughed. ‘You’ll be fine and we’re all behind you. You’ve got massive support.’
‘I suppose that’s part of the problem. I’m afraid of letting everybody down.’
‘Nonsense! Anyway, what’s going on in the parish?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual stuff: warring cliques, financial difficulties, people obsessed with detail.’
‘I know it well.’
‘I honestly won’t be sad in some ways, not to have to deal with this kind of stuff at parish level for much longer. It sounds awful; I can only say that to you.’
‘Don’t worry. The truth is you’re wasted in that position even if it is a large church. You’re bored because you’re not being stretched. Remember, it’s not for long now.’
Clare laughed. ‘Well, it’s kind of you to say that. There are some more serious issues that I’ll have to tackle before I go which I can’t really talk about, but I’ll manage. I’ll miss a lot of the church members here, but I have to say there are some batty ones. Do you know a number of them really believe in this legend about the ghost of the heretic who’s supposed to haunt the church?’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, they won’t go into the church at night unless there’s a service going on. I sometimes wonder whether some people have moved on from the superstitions of the Middle Ages. I must say I’ve never experienced anything frightening in there.’ She laughed again. ‘So, how are you?’
‘Oh, fine, don’t worry about me. I’ve got this parish well under control. I think most of them are frightened of me, certainly of my radical ideas. I’m going to retire in a few years and do something different. I’m not sure what yet.’
‘I’ll find a job for you. It would be great to work with you again. Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got a meeting with someone soon. I won’t bore you with the details, but thanks, I feel better now.’
‘Good. You and Jeremy should come round one evening before the big day and you move further away.’
‘That would be really nice. I’ll look at my diary and text you some dates when we’re free.’
‘Great. Bye for now then.’
‘Bye.’ The call ended. Clare felt alone again in the cold and increasingly dark study. She switched on a lamp. As usual, Alison had helped her to get things in perspective. She could deal with all the issues facing her, starting with the meeting which was to take place shortly. There was just time for a cup of tea first.
As Clare left the vicarage and walked along the path to the church, flakes of snow were beginning to fall. It was very cold. She pulled up the hood on her coat. She wondered why it was necessary to meet this person in the church at this time on a winter’s afternoon. Why couldn’t they come to the vicarage? They’d said they had something important to show her. What on earth could it be? She shook her head in exasperation; probably some trivial matter, and another waste of her time.
The area around the church was deserted and there did not appear to be any lights on in the building. The door was unlocked, as the church remained open until half past five. She entered the dark silence, sensing the height of the medieval ceiling above her. The nave was on her right, and to the left was the font and the west tower going up into the gloom. She saw that, in fact, there was a light on in a small room at the north end of the base of the west tower. This was entered through an open archway. Presumably the person she was to meet was in there. She walked over carefully to avoid tripping on something in the darkness.
‘Hello?’ she called tentatively. There was no reply. She walked under the tower and, when she reached the archway, she heard a kind of creaking noise and had the sense of something slicing through the air above her. She stopped and glanced up. She was about to scream, but before she was able to produce a sound she was hit by a tremendous blow and fell to the ground.
Shortly afterwards a figure appeared. It was dressed in a monk’s cowl with a rope around the waist. The hood was up, and no face was visible. It stared at Clare Wilcox’s body and then walked soundlessly out of the church, flitting away into the dark. As it went through the churchyard, a head appeared above a gravestone and watched it disappear.
One
‘. . . universal consternation was experienced upon the discovery that he had been the object of a brutal and murderous attack . . . The author or authors of this mysterious outrage are alike buried in mystery.’
From ‘The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral’,
M. R. James, 1910
‘Well, Jim, I’d like to say she was hit by our old friend the blunt instrument, which might make your job easier, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t suffice for these injuries.’
Tim Groves, the forensic pathologist, was on his knees by the body of Clare Wilcox. It lay at the base of the tower, next to an archway. Her head was resting in a pool of blood and her coat was covered in blood spatters. DCI Jim Oldroyd of the West Riding Police, who had worked with Groves for many years, was also looking down at the body.
‘What do you think happened, then?’ he said. Wilcox’s body had been found by a churchwarden who had come to lock the church for the night and had gone to turn off the light in the side room. The building was now animated. The murder scene was illuminated by extra lighting as SOCOs took photographs, and full of the noise of police radios and people coming and going.
‘She was hit with terrific force by something large and heavy. Her left shoulder is nearly ripped out, the left side of her head is badly smashed and her neck is broken. I can’t think it was anything that a person could have lifted, let alone wielded. These types of severe injuries are what you’d normally see in a bad car accident, or when someone is hit by a train or has a fall from a great height on to rocks.’ He spread his arms in a gesture of puzzlement. ‘I’m baffled.’
‘And time of death?’ asked Oldroyd, glancing upwards with his shrewd grey eyes. There was no view up to the top of the tower; a wooden ceiling had been put in about twenty feet up.
‘She’s not been dead long, just a few hours.’
Oldroyd went through the archway into the adjoining room. Piles of chairs stood in one corner and there was a piano covered with a sheet. It seemed to be a storage area. There was nothing in the room that could have inflicted the horrific injuries.
‘Hmm.’ Oldroyd frowned as he returned. ‘It’s a strange one, then.’
‘Definitely, but don’t you specialise in them?’ Groves liked to tease his friend and colleague.
‘A lot of strange cases seem to come my way, Tim, but I like a challenge. Routine cases are boring. Could she have been killed elsewhere and brought in here?’
‘I would say not. The amount of blood is consistent with her being struck here and falling to the floor. There’s also no sign of blood anywhere else in the church, including the entrance. Presumably she would have to have been carried or dragged to this point and that would have left a trail of blood. Also, you’d have to wonder, why would the killer bother to move her? But that’s your area.’
‘Yes, but I agree.’
Groves was packing up his things and a team was getting ready to stretcher the body away. ‘I wish you the best of luck with this one. I’ll send you the full report and give you a call if I find anything new that’s really important.’
‘Thanks.’
Just as Groves was leaving, Andy Carter joined Oldroyd. Andy was a detective sergeant, in his early thirties, and a key member of Oldroyd’s team. He’d joined the West Riding Police from the London Met a few years before. The other DS who regularly worked with Oldroyd, Stephanie Johnson, was also Andy’s romantic partner. Andy had been the first detective on the scene after the police were called, and when he’d seen that it was a serious case, he’d contacted his boss.
‘I’ve talked to the bloke who found the body, sir.’ Andy looked at his notes. ‘Donald Avison, churchwarden. Shaken up, of course; he’s sitting in the police car to keep warm. Said he came to lock up and saw there was a light in this room; came over to see if there was anybody in and found the body. It must have been very unpleasant.’
‘Did he see anyone in here, or lurking around in the vicinity of the church?’
‘No, but he did say something about people believing in a ghost.’
‘A ghost? If it was a ghost it’s out of our jurisdiction; we can’t arrest phantoms.’
Andy smiled. ‘No, sir.’
Oldroyd looked at the body. ‘Tell me again who she is?’
Andy looked at his notes. ‘Clare Wilcox, rector here at St Anne’s. Avison identified her. According to him she’s been here five years.’
‘Hmm.’ Oldroyd frowned. ‘I know that name from somewhere. So in all likelihood she walked over from the rectory.’
‘Yes, sir, it’s just across from here, the other side of that grassy area. We’ve been over there, by the way. The husband, Jeremy Wilcox, is a doctor; he was informed of what’s happened by Avison before we got here. He claims he’d not been home long and was just beginning to worry about where his wife was. He’s in a bit of a state, naturally. I’ve left DC Robinson with him.’
‘Good, I’ll come over now. I think he’s the first person I need to talk to.’
Jeremy Wilcox was a tall middle-aged man with handsome features, but when Oldroyd encountered him he was sitting with his head bowed over in an armchair in the large sitting room of the rectory, diminished by shock and grief.
DC Robinson left the room as Oldroyd and Andy sat down quietly and Oldroyd introduced himself.
‘I’m very sorry about what has happened,’ he began. ‘We want to find who did this as soon as we can, and I’m sure you understand that we need to ask you some questions if you feel up to it. If not, we can come back tomorrow.’
Wilcox made a gesture with his hand. ‘Please, go ahead,’ he replied in a faint voice. His head was now lolling back against the armchair, as if he didn’t have the strength to raise it.
‘When did you last see your wife?’
‘This morning. I left for the surgery at about eight thirty; I’m a GP in Harrogate.’
‘Was she OK when you left? She didn’t seem worried about anything?’
‘No, she was fine.’
‘Did your wife have any enemies? Anyone who would have wished her harm?’
Wilcox laughed sardonically. ‘Obviously she must have had, Chief Inspector, unless there’s a random killer on the loose, but I know what you mean. I don’t know of anyone. It was difficult to dislike Clare, she was so warm and good-hearted, but she was a campaigner on many issues and you come across institutions who oppose you.’
‘What kind of campaigns?’
‘CND, Greenpeace, gay rights, Christian Aid and world poverty. That’s just for starters. She acted out her faith and wasn’t afraid to be political. She received some nasty messages on social media.’
‘Any death threats?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, but she didn’t tell me everything. We’re not the kind of couple who do everything together . . . Were not.’ He paused. Oldroyd had seen it many times: the shock of realising that the relationship you had was now in the past, brought to a sudden and violent end. ‘I supported her of course, but I tend to lead a quieter life. I always did a lot with the girls when Clare was busy organising a march or something.’
‘Was she popular here, do you think?’
‘Up to a point. Clare never disguised her left-wing politics and her progressive causes. Churchgoers tend to be a conservative bunch, large and small “c”, and I don’t think some of it went down well. But as a person and on the pastoral side I’m sure they liked her.’ He paused, shook his head and seemed to be near to tears. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t going to be for much longer. In a few months’ time we were going to be leaving here.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, Clare’s been appointed Bishop of Kendal in the Carlisle diocese. She was excited about it.’ He grimaced in pain. ‘That’s not going to happen now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Oldroyd.
‘I’ve already signed up to move to a practice in the town, but I tend to do my own thing. I don’t get involved much in church matters. I don’t play the vicar’s husband, running groups and being on committees. Other people will know more about Clare’s life here at St Anne’s than I do. It was the same at St Bartholomew’s when she was a curate.’
Oldroyd looked up. ‘Was that St Bartholomew’s in Kirkby Underside?’
‘Yes. Do you know it?’
‘Yes. My sister is the vicar there. I thought I’d heard your wife’s name somewhere before. Alison will have mentioned her.’
‘Oh, Alison! She’s fantastic. She’s helped Clare so much over the years.’ He sighed. ‘She’ll be devastated, too.’
‘I’m sure she will.’ Oldroyd smiled sympathetically at the poor man. ‘Look, I think that will do for now. You need to try to rest. I’ll be sending someone round to collect Clare’s computer and phone. We need to investigate those messages. There’s just one awkward thing that I have to ask you, which is where were you this afternoon between about three thirty and five?’
