Blood Atonement (13 page)

Perhaps Sarah Rowley did not want to divide a small sum between her children; maybe she felt they didn’t deserve it.” Whatever her reasons, the act of giving the money should have been recorded by the church, and if she was an active member of the congregation then there might be further records that could offer details about her and her husband.

He put in a call to the London Metropolitan Archives, where most of the records belonging to London churches were held. They had nothing for St Bertram’s in East Ham. They suggested he try the Essex Records Office.

He phoned them but was given a similar answer: they had no records. Anything the church had was still held in its own archive.

St Bertram’s was a ten-minute walk from East Ham tube station, nestled away in a warren of Victorian terraced artisan houses. The church, as Nigel deduced from the lack of records in the LMA, was relatively modern.

Perhaps no more than a century old, redbrick and functional unlike the Gothic splendours that decorated much of the capital. He wandered aimlessly around it a few times looking for an entrance, eventually discovering it in a modern wing of the church, a few years old at most, which appeared to act as a sort of community centre.

Mothers and children milled around, either leaving or attending an afternoon playgroup.

He asked at a small reception area if he could see the vicar. A few minutes later he arrived, smiling broadly, not much older than Nigel, with a jolly, rubicund face. Nigel returned his handshake, made profuse apologies for not calling in advance and explained the reason for his visit, leaving out any mention of the murder and abduction inquiry.

‘We have quite a few genealogical inquiries,’ the vicar explained. ‘Many of them from abroad. We’re usually happy to help. What are you after?’

Nigel explained Sarah Rowley’s will.

When did she die?’ the vicar asked.

^1913.’

‘Really? That was only five years after the parish was formed and the church opened. She’d be among the first parishioners. What was the name again?’

‘Sarah Rowley. Her husband died four years before. He was called Horton.’

The vicar glanced down at the floor. ‘Something about that name rings a bell,’ he said. ‘I’ve only been here for a couple of years, so I haven’t been able to familiarize myself completely with the church’s history. But if you come with me to the vestry we can see if there’s anything that can help you.’

Nigel followed the vicar through the main church, which also appeared to have benefited from a recent facelift. There was none of the mustiness - the smell of history, as he liked to think of it - which characterized the rare occasions he’d been allowed to rummage through the parish chest. He was led to a door to one side of the altar.

The vicar produced a set of keys and unlocked three bolts.

‘Some of our parishioners think the Lord turns a blind eye to breaking and entering,’ he said with a wink. Inside he switched on a light, revealing a large room crammed with all sorts of church items. Old altarpieces, vestments, stacks of hymn books and pew cushions. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit more chaotic than you’re probably used to. The archiving is pretty haphazard.’ He pointed to a shelf at the back of the room, where several huge volumes of books were laid against each other. ‘You can start there. Those are the parish registers. Sorry there’s nowhere comfortable to sit.’

Nigel waved away the apology. He picked up the first ledger. It was the original, the spine battered and frayed, some pages becoming loose. ‘Far be it from me to tell you how to run this place, vicar, but you really should think about getting these registers preserved in a local record office. There’ll be a local family history federation or society that would probably be willing to transcribe the information from these books, so they don’t even have to be touched any more.’ He flipped it over for further examination.

‘I’m not sure how long these will last otherwise.’

‘You’re quite right,’ the vicar explained. ‘It’s on my to-do list.’

Nigel sat on a small wooden chair. Carefully he opened the first volume, beginning in 1908. Almost immediately he came across the burial entry for Horton Rowley in 1909. Simply the bare details, his name, age and date of burial. He continued through the volume and sure enough, in 1913, he found details of Sarah Rowley’s burial. But the information gave him nothing new.

‘You don’t have a graveyard here. Where would these people have been buried?’

It might be worth a trip to see if there was anything interesting inscribed on the grave - but the weather and time might have claimed it, and he was not carrying the necessary materials to render epitaphs decipherable.

‘East Ham cemetery on Marlowe Road. They have a register there, too.’

Nigel made a note of the address. Closed the volume.

‘Do you have any copies of the vestry minutes?’ These were the details of parish meetings; like many of their kind they recorded only the salient points, though they did occasionally yield a genealogical jewel.

The vicar shrugged. “I think they’re kept elsewhere, but I really must be honest and say that I have no idea where,’

he said, face reddening. ‘Our verger Audrey Cantrell might be able to help. Unfortunately, she’s away on holiday with her family at the moment. Sorry about that.’

This appeared to be another cul-de-sac.

‘However, there is one thing,’ the vicar added. ‘He stepped over a few boxes and pulled away a piece of dark blue cloth, of the type that might cover an altar. Beneath it was a large wooden chest. “In here is a number of documents and packets of papers that belonged to my predecessors, going right back to George Burch, the first

vicar of this parish. I haven’t gone through it in any exhaustive detail but there are all sorts in there. Feel free to have a look.’

A rummage through the parish chest was a phrase used to describe merely looking through church records, usually in an archive; never had Nigel literally hunted through one. The vicar unlocked a large bolt and lifted the lid. It was piled high with folders and boxes, barely a loose piece of paper.

‘Most of the stuff in here is old hymn and prayer books, but there’s some other stuff, too. It’s not in date order, but you should find boxes or packets belonging to many of the vicars. Some accrued more than others.’ A thin smile appeared on his face. “It depended on how many press cuttings each of them kept.’

‘I thought worshipping the Lord was reward enough,’

Nigel said.

‘Let’s just say a few of those in my profession are not averse to the oxygen of publicity.’ He glanced at his watch. “I have a few small items of business to attend to.

Feel free to have a look and take as long as you wish. I’ll be back in an hour or so. If you need me in the interim, give Shirley a shout in reception and she’ll call me on my mobile.’

A vicar with a mobile? It didn’t feel right. Nigel thanked him and turned his attention to the open chest, leaning over and inhaling a familiar scent: the smell of old paper.

He picked up the first packet. Clive Hawley 1956—72. He slipped a few of the documents out, just to see what sort of material lay within. There was a host of press cuttings, almost all from the local paper, yellowing, dry and faded.

Very little else, save the odd hymn sheet. Still, he burrowed deeper into the chest searching for anything relating to George Burch, taking out and stacking old books that were falling apart at the seams.

Eventually he found a tatty file, bound with string. He opened it up. The first item he came across was a newspaper report. Dated 2 June 1908, it was a small report from the local paper noting the laying of the final brick of the church and mentioning the appointment of Mr Burch.

The second consisted of several sheets of notes written in a neat copperplate hand, dated 7 September of the same year. It was a letter from a Mrs Winifred Shillingford of the same parish offering what seemed to be a critique of the vicar’s performance during worship. It praised his delivery but complained about his frequent divergence from Bible scripture. “I think you will understand that for many of your congregation such contrivances are not welcome. We come to hear and celebrate the word and love of Our Saviour. Not to be handed lectures on the iniquities of the modern world nor to gain a greater understanding of current affairs,’ Mrs Shillingford fulminated.

The world’s first trendy vicar, Nigel thought.

Going through the collection revealed other personal correspondence; some seeking or offering help, giving praise or criticism, or merely letters of thanks for sermons delivered. Dotted among them were notes written in the vicar’s hand. At first he took this to be a form of private correspondence with God, but then realized that they were actually rough notes for sermons and eulogies; words were crossed out, amended, barely legible scrawls placed in the margin. For many funerals there was a short biography of the deceased, in note form, listing several biographical details and personal achievements. He felt a sense of rising excitement; the premonition that he was nearing the critical point of the chase. He went through each clipping, letter and note. No mention of Horton Rowley, but in 1913 he came across mention of a woman named Sarah Read. Next to it, in brackets, was the name

‘Rowley’.

A coincidence? He doubted it.

There was a page listing details: her children’s names and ages, her age, even details of Horton, the date of his death. Reading the next page made his heart beat even faster, however. It was an outline of the eulogy the vicar must have delivered at her funeral, written in a light, almost delicate hand. The first paragraph or so contained the usual obsequies; loving mother of three, formerly loyal wife to her beloved Horton, with whom she would now be reunited, and dedicated member of the parish.

There was little to distinguish it from most of its kind, either before or since. A passage lower down caught his eye:

Sarah was a loyal servant of God, as many among you will know. A more pious member of the community it would be difficult to imagine. Yet what was remarkable about her faith was that it remained so despite many trials and tribulations.

speak not here of the profound loss of her much-loved husband, hard as she found that obstacle. Many of you here who knew Sarah will know of her struggles to escape the clutches of cultists from across the ocean, an experience itself that would cause many of us to turn away from the Lord’s loving embrace. Not Sarah Read, as we knew her.

Her experiences had the contrary effect; far from rejecting the Lord after such an event, it brought Sarah and Horton closer to him, for they knew in truth the dangers of worshipping false idols, celebrating the occult and the wickedness of those who stray from the true word of God. After Horton’s sad death, seeking sanctuary, shelter and safety, Sarah moved from her previous home and into the bosom of our parish, where she brought the certainty of her faith, despite all her trials. For that she will live on in our hearts as surely as she will in God’s kingdom.

Nigel read it through once more to allow the meaning to seep in. ‘Cultists from across the ocean’? The truth was emerging from behind an obscuring cloud: the couple had fled a foreign country. But what cult and where? One that worshipped false idols and celebrated the occult like some form of voodoo? And why had she changed her name?

Was she still being pursued?

At the back of the packet was a series of sepia-tinted photographs. Two pictures of the vicar outside the new building, looking awkward and aloof, a pose Nigel knew well from the time, people still adapting to the novelty of having their picture taken. Another appeared to be of a parish ladies’ outing — three rows of behatted ladies.

‘Ladies’ Temperance Outing to Margate, August 1911’

was noted on the back in writing similar to the vicar’s.

Beneath it he’d scribbled the names of the featured parishioners.

Nigel flipped the photo back over; but he didn’t need to find Sarah Rowley’s (or Read’s) name. He was sure that was her, sitting tall and proud in the middle of the front row. The family resemblance to pictures he’d seen in the press of Katie Drake was startling; the same full lips and proud pose. She would have been in her late thirties when the photo was taken, and though the years had taken some toll she was still a handsome and charismatic presence.

She seemed to possess a darker skin than the other women present; duskier, more exotic, next to their porcelain pale skin. The more he gazed at her, the more indomitable she seemed. He could sense her strength, picture the way she moved, even assign her a voice.

It never failed to amaze him how an old photograph could summon the dead.

Foster fixed himself his first cup of tea of the morning, waiting for a murky dawn to emerge through the window of his kitchen. As the tea bag steeped in the mug, he wondered where to turn next. Harris and his crew appeared to be leaving him to his own devices. So far all the Gold Group and Senior Management Team meetings had been held without him; they were often held outside his restricted hours, either early morning or late evening, and he sensed Harris was happier calling the shots without him being around.

It was Friday. Naomi had been missing almost four days. Vickers had been dropped as a suspect, and the other source of likely suspects had grown scarce — every pervert and paedophile they dragged in had an alibi.

Frustration had bled into desperation. The main investigative team had resorted to bringing in teenage youths who’d been collared for under-age sex, irrespective of the fact that most of them had been under the impression the lipsticked Lolitas with whom they were consorting were above the age of consent. Yet Susie Danson had been right in one respect. If this was a sex crime then they had three or four days. That was about to pass and the sense of despair was like damp, permeating all levels of the investigation and rising even to Harris at the top, who patrolled the main incident room with a haunted, hunted expression as the media continued to howl for the girl’s safe return, or at least some evidence of a breakthrough.