Resurrectionists (37 page)

How did Sybill die?

She opened the back door and strode across the back garden with more confidence than she felt.

Still daylight – nothing was going to jump out and say boo to her. And while she was in this heightened state of sensitivity, perhaps there was something the wood could tell her.

Her strides became slower, less confident as she moved through the gap in the rosebushes. She braced herself for that awful feeling again, took a careful step, another. Past the first small trees, leaves spongy underfoot, grey clouds of tiny branches around her. Slowly, the sense of dread began to return. Every patch of moss looked like a portentous pattern, every branch tensed in waiting for some horror. She tried to keep her breathing deep and regular, to remain centred as Sacha had shown her. Rain started to spit from the sky and a half-second later the wind picked up, making the tree branches sway crazily. She moved further into the woods, reached out her hand towards a tree trunk. Like an electric shock, a dark, cold energy shot up her fingers and into her brain. She pulled her hand back instantly.

“This is impossible,” she said aloud, her breath making fog. She reached out her fingertips again, let them rest on the tree trunk, and closed her eyes bravely. The dream images came back to her – she was an old lady running for her life from some

unspeakable terror – here among these trees, which had somehow remembered her fear. She tried to keep her eyes closed for as long as possible, to experience as much of the scene as she could, but she felt she would explode from the terror. She opened her eyes and withdrew her hand, shoved it in her pocket. The rain grew heavy and she pulled up her collar; the wind crushed her breath in her throat. Enough. Her scepticism was misplaced. She knew what the dreams, what the trees here in the wood, were telling her. Her grandmother had died in fear, been pursued to her death in this very wood. But by whom, and for what purpose? She turned and walked back to the cottage. There was only one way to find out for certain the circumstances of Sybill’s death.

She would have to ask the old woman herself.

With the fire at her back, with Tabby curled up on her favourite armchair, and with a circle of thirteen candles around her, Maisie went through the preparations for psychic ritual which Sacha had taught her. Opening energy centres, focusing, breathing. She was flying without a safety net now; nobody was around to encourage her or save her. It was both frightening and exhilarating. Rain beat on the eaves and wind shook the panes. Though only early evening, it may as well have been midnight on doomsday outside. She really had no idea what she was doing as she closed her eyes and tried to sketch in her mind Sybill’s face. As she had only ever seen photos of her grandmother, she found this difficult. For fifteen minutes or more she tried, but nothing happened. The problem was she had no memories of Sybill to draw upon. She climbed to her feet and carefully stepped outside her circle of candles. In her bedroom she found the few pieces of Sybill’s jewellery that she had kept, and selected an amber brooch. Perhaps this could provide the connection with her grandmother she needed. Unless Sacha was right. Unless Sybill had already gone across.

But she had to try.

She switched off the bedroom light and went back to the circle. With the brooch closed tightly in her fist, she sat down and began the whole process again. Breathing, centring, focusing, lining up the coloured lights along her spine.

“Okay, Sybill,” Maisie said, a little embarrassed about speaking to herself in the dark. Then she remembered what Sacha had said, that her negative attitude might be holding her back. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. “Sybill,” she said, more confidently. “This is your granddaughter, Maisie. I’m trying to contact you . . .” She trailed off, not quite sure what else to say. A cold breeze tickled at the base of her spine and she thought of getting up to close a window when she realised that she had no windows open. The cold must be coming from elsewhere. Her first instinct was to open her eyes, but instead she kept them closed.

“Sybill? Are you there? Can you speak to me?”

Suddenly, the cold engulfed her and a vision flashed into her mind: fists beating against a window, a mad flapping as though of wings, a muffled cry for help. Maisie’s eyes flew open. Safely back in the quiet, firelit lounge room.

More deep breaths.

She closed her eyes again. “Sybill?” Her voice sounded thin, fearful. “Do you have a message for me?”

Again the frantic beating as though from behind a thick glass barrier. A muffled scream of terror. It went on and on, and once more Maisie had to break the trance. The sound was too horrible, too desperate and frenzied. She shook herself, stood and turned on the light. Had she made contact with Sybill? Was hers the voice of that awful smothered scream?

She blew out all the candles and placed them carefully on the hearth. If it was Sybill, why was she trapped? She cast her mind back to Sacha telling her how Sybill had died. He had said that Reverend Fowler brought him the news. Perhaps she should pay a visit to the Reverend tomorrow morning. He may know more than he let on.

“Sorry, Reverend. You know I’m no good with figures.”

Tony Blake passed the church ledger back to him and raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of defeat. Every month they went through the figures together, and every month Tony’s dodgy adding-up made the Reverend think he either had more in the bank than he had anticipated, or that he was going to run out of money in a fortnight. The Reverend suspected the blame lay with Tony’s big, bear hands: his fat, round fingers couldn’t manage the small keys on the calculator.

Tony sat in silence while the Reverend added columns of figures again, checking totals off and making neat ticks in the appropriate columns. “All right,” he said at last, “what kind of expenses will we have to cover this month?”

The big policeman was about to open his mouth to answer when there was a knock at the office door. The two men exchanged glances.

The Reverend stood and crossed the room, mindful of his sore knee joints which seemed to get worse in wet weather. He opened the door to Sybill’s granddaughter.

“Good morning,” she said. She had a long, black raincoat on and clutched an umbrella. Behind her, rain drove diagonally across the cemetery and cliff-top.

“Good morning,” he replied, jolted by seeing her.

“Can I come in? It’s wet out here and I need to talk to you about something.”

The Reverend stood aside and let her in, closed the rain out. He walked back to his desk while she slipped out of her raincoat. She was dressed all in dark grey.

“Good morning, Constable Blake,” she said. Tony stared up at her suspiciously. She pulled off her gloves and hat and stood expectantly in front of the Reverend’s desk.

“How may I help you, Miss Hartley?” the

Reverend asked.

“Fielding. Hartley was my grandmother’s surname.”

“Of course.”

“And anyway, call me Maisie.”

“How may I help you?” he asked again.

She cast a significant glance in Tony’s direction.

“Could I speak with you alone?”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. The Reverend hesitated. What did she want with him?

“Tony, would you mind waiting in the church?” the Reverend asked.

Tony responded with a gruff affirmative, stood and then disappeared through the side door which led to the nave. When the door was shut behind him, the Reverend gestured to the vacated chair.

“Sit down.” He studied her as she sat. She seemed anxious about something. Her nails were bitten to the quick, her fingers laced and unlaced in front of her until she was properly settled.

“It’s about my grandmother,” she said at last. A cold shock to the heart. What did she know? “I might not be able to help you. I didn’t know Sybill very well at all.”

“Who found her?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Who found her body?”

“Oh.”
Tread carefully now. This could be bad.
How had the story gone? He cursed his poor memory. “Now, I don’t know if I remember right. It was nearly a year ago.”

“It was September.”

“Oh. Let me see.” He tapped a finger thoughtfully on his desk blotter, trying to buy time.

“Sacha said that you told him she was found face down in the street.”

That triggered his memory. “Ah yes. It seemed she grew ill at home and was coming down to the village to get help.”

“Was it daytime or night-time?”

“I don’t rightly remember. But it was Elsa Smith who spotted her first as she collapsed right outside Elsa’s house. Elsa phoned Tony and he recovered her body.”

She leaned forward, fixed him with a keen gaze.

“Where does Elsa Smith live?”

This was a nightmare. Questions like these could get him – get all of them – in a great deal of trouble.

“On the main street. Number forty, I think.”

“And was she injured? My grandmother? Was she injured or just . . .”

“I’m sorry, Miss Fielding. I wasn’t there. Why don’t I call Tony in? He might be able to help you.”

She nodded once then leaned back in her seat. Again, the lacing and unlacing of fingers. She was nervous, which was a good sign. At least it meant she wasn’t sure about what she was asking. Not like Sybill with her trick questions and conceited confidence. He rose once more and went to the side door. Tony was sitting in one of the pews and the Reverend beckoned him back to the office. In a few moments, Tony was seated on the edge of the desk and the Reverend stood uneasily by the window.

“Miss Fielding wants to ask about the night her grandmother died,” the Reverend said. He could see Tony’s shoulders tense, but when he answered, it was easily and confidently.

“She collapsed out on the street around two a.m. Elsa Smith noticed her and called me. When I got there she was already dead. I called the doctor and we took her back to his surgery. He pronounced her dead and wrote up the death certificate. We knew she didn’t have family so the church paid for her interment.”

“Why didn’t this Elsa Smith go out to help her?”

Tony cleared his throat. The Reverend jumped in.

“I’m sure you’ve learned by now that your

grandmother was held in some fear by the locals.”

“Okay. But why was she up at two a.m.?”

“Nobody knows why Sybill left her house that night,”

Tony began, “but she had locked all her doors and –”

“No. Not Sybill. Why was Elsa Smith up at

two a.m.?”

Silence. The Reverend cast a glance over his shoulder at the cemetery and the sea beyond. It was Tony who finally answered.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe she heard a noise. Maybe your grandmother cried out. I never asked her.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Now, don’t you go disturbing the –”

“It’s all right, Tony,” the Reverend interjected. “I’m sure Elsa would be happy to answer Miss Fielding’s questions.”

“And who is the doctor who signed her death certificate?”

“Dr Honour on Cross Street,” the Reverend

answered.

“I might go see him too.”

Tony’s knuckles had tightened on the edge of the desk. The Reverend felt just as tense but was trying not to show it.

“Again, I’m sure he’d be glad to answer your questions,” the Reverend said. “But, may I ask, why are you interested in Sybill’s death?”

It was clear she wasn’t expecting this question and she stumbled over the answer. “I . . . ah . . . I just wanted to know. You know, if it was cancer or liver disease or . . . you know, in case it’s something hereditary.”

Comforting to see someone else in anxious turmoil rather than himself. “Your grandmother was an old woman, Miss Fielding,” he said, trying to sound kind.

“And I’m afraid that dying of old age is undeniably hereditary.”

She stood and reached a hand out to shake Tony’s. The Reverend stepped forward and shook her hand too. She dipped her head nervously and left, closing the door gently behind her.

“This is very bad,” the Reverend breathed at last.

“Why is she asking these questions?”

“I don’t know. But it’s very bad. You call on Elsa, I’ll phone Doctor Honour. If our stories are straight, if it’s all watertight, she can’t suspect anything.”

“I hope you’re right, Reverend,” Tony said, pulling his car keys out of his pocket with a jingle. “Because if you’re wrong, we’re all undone.”

Maisie found the doctor’s surgery a few minutes later. The rain was gushing in gutters and along the cobbled streets, and the wind had blown her umbrella inside out twice. Her boots were starting to fill up with water, and each step made a squelching noise. She thankfully pulled open the door and entered a warm, dry waiting room which smelled of old paper and wood panelling. The receptionist was on the phone, and looked up as she came in. Maisie had the distinct feeling that she was expected. She walked up to the counter and waited.

“Yes … yes … I see. No, it isn’t a problem at all. Thank you for calling … yes, goodbye.” The

receptionist, a middle-aged woman with pink cheeks and salt and pepper hair, replaced the phone carefully then looked up at Maisie with a half-smile. “Yes?

Can I help you?”

“I need to see Dr Honour,” Maisie replied.

“He doesn’t see patients without an appointment. Unless it’s an emergency.”

“Then I’ll make an appointment. I can sit here and wait.”

“I’m afraid the doctor is completely booked out today.”

Maisie opened her mouth to ask how the

receptionist knew that without checking her appointment book, but she stopped herself. Perhaps she was being paranoid and the doctor really was busy.

“Okay, I’ll make an appointment for tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid that tomorrow –”

“Can you just check your appointment book?”

“I . . . ah . . . just a moment.” The receptionist flipped open a small, leather diary in front of her. Maisie leaned forward on the counter and saw her find tomorrow’s date – plenty of blank space.

“Ah, it seems we have some time free in the morning. About eleven?”

“I’ll be here at eleven.”

“Your name?”

“Maisie Fielding.”