Unholy Rites by Kay Stewart, Chris Bullock Read Free Book Online Page A

Rev Pat’s almost daily visits. How could the vicar have anticipated the effect her words would have? Yet there it was again, the suggestion that his mother’s death was “unexpected and untimely.” Was that what Liz Hazelhurst had meant?
    After an evening in Marple’s company, Arthur could easily understand why his mother might have taken a personal dislike to the man. Apparently it wasn’t the man’s Uriah Heepish personality she had objected to, however, it was something in his past. Suddenly Arthur found himself determined to find out what it was.
    The Vauxhall had drawn up in front of Well Cottage. Arthur reluctantly clambered out. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”
    â€œI’m sorry to leave you like this, but I really must get back. These little cars are no good on ice.”
    â€œGood night then.” Arthur closed the car door and stood watching as the Rev Pat turned around, narrowly missing the well across the road, and headed back towards the A6.
    It was still early, just past nine on Valentine’s Day, and Arthur didn’t know what to do with himself. If only he’d heard from Danutia before he accepted Marple’s invitation, he could have suggested taking the train up to Manchester. In this sleepy village, with no friends and no transportation, what was there to do besides go to the pub? It wasn’t heaven, but he deserved a little reward, didn’t he?
    He’d taken only a few steps towards the Reward when he saw a tall figure hurrying towards him. His heart leaped with the thought that it might be Danutia, then fell again as he recognized Liz Hazelhurst, wrapped in a shawl and carrying a parcel.
    â€œPat said she’d have you home by nine, so I thought I’d pop round with these,” Liz said, patting the parcel. “Mind if I come in?”
    â€œOf course not,” Arthur said, hoping he’d left the place reasonably tidy. At the cottage door he stepped back to give Liz space to enter. Like him, she had to dip her head to avoid hitting the lintel. She hung her shawl on a peg but didn’t remove her long black woollen coat. Her face was drawn and pale against the black collar, with dark circles under her calm, intelligent eyes.
    â€œWould you like something to drink?” Arthur gestured towards the liquor cabinet, which he had amply restocked. “A glass of wine?”
    â€œI’d prefer tea. With some milk. No sugar.” Liz drew a chair near the fireplace. “It’s perishing in here. Could we have some heat?”
    Arthur hastily turned on the gas fire, and then closed himself into the cluttered kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with tea things and one of his mother’s fine china cups. “I’m sorry I haven’t called to thank you, after all you’ve done.” She had been the one who phoned about his mother’s death, and taken charge of the funeral arrangements until he could arrive.
    â€œIt’s been a shock for you, as for all of us. I’m happy to do whatever I can to help. You must be exhausted.”
    Liz moved her parcel to the floor and unbuttoned her coat, as though settling in for a long stay. “I thought you might like to hear more about the night your mother died, the night of the Imbolc ritual.”
    â€œMind if I pour myself a drink first?” Arthur asked. His mother was dead, wasn’t that enough? If Liz insisted on talking about that night, how could he avoid revealing that he thought Celtic ritual was all claptrap?
    A sudden memory brought Arthur to a standstill, wine bottle angled over his glass. Two, no almost three years ago, a Celtic harpist called Deirdre had talked to him about the world of spirits, and for a moment he’d felt close to that world. Then he’d destroyed the moment with a witty, unkind comment he’d immediately regretted. He didn’t want to repeat that mistake.
    He took a deep breath, poured his