Death at Whitewater Church
Death AT
WHITEWATER
CHURCH
Death AT
WHITEWATER
CHURCH
AN INISHOWEN MYSTERY
ANDREA CARTER
Copyright © 2015 by Andrea Carter
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Constable
Published in the United States in 2018 by Oceanview Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60809-302-1
Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For Olive, my grandmother
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
THE WIND WAS bitter. There was snow in the air. I looked up at the sky. It was gray, that ashen gray that imbues the landscape with an eerie, otherworldly quality. Three o’clock in the afternoon and the light was fading already.
“Why the hell would anyone want to live in a church?” Paul Doherty wrestled with the padlock on the old iron gate.
I shrugged. “Not sure I would.”
“Clients really pushing for this report then?” he asked.
“Liam is, anyway. First sale he’s had in a while. He nearly had a fit when he discovered you didn’t have the map.”
Paul grinned. “He’ll get it tomorrow – if we ever get in, that is.”
He gave the key a last tug and the padlock released. He shoved the key into the pocket of his anorak and dug out a woolly hat, pulling it down over his ears as he lifted the gate just high enough for it to pass a foot or so over the rough grass, allowing us space to squeeze through. I waited while he arranged his camera bag and other equipment across his shoulders, and then we set off in single file up the overgrown driveway. It didn’t take me long to regret not wearing gloves. My hands were scratched repeatedly by the briars that crept out towards us from the moment we left the gate. I regretted, too, the skirt I was wearing; I had come straight from court. Suddenly, I heard a loud expletive ahead of me, uttered with considerable feeling.
“Paul,” I mock-scolded him.
“Ah, Jesus. Who’s going to hear me up here?”
He had a point, unless you counted the cattle in the next field, a cluster huddled together against the cold. As we climbed higher, I could see the cliffs and the Atlantic Ocean crashing against them. Never the most hospitable of waters, today the ocean looked as hostile as I’d ever seen it: dark, inky-blue with white horses riding the waves. It was always rough here, where the River Foyle met the sea at the northeast corner of Donegal.
We kept going up the hill, managing eventually to find a less uncomfortable route through. And then it appeared, looming high ahead of us, silhouetted against the pale sky. We stopped in our tracks, simultaneously.
Paul exhaled loudly. “Whitewater Church.”
I stared up at it, blowing on my hands. “Impressive. Do you still call it a church once it’s been deconsecrated?”
“No idea.”
He rested his bag on the ground and fished out his camera. He screwed on a lens and flipped the switch to turn on the flash.
“It’s been unused for a long time, but I’m still surprised by how much it has deteriorated,” he commented.
“How old is it?”
“Hundred and fifty years, give or take a few. Built of fine local granite.”
“I’m sure it was beautiful once,” I said.
“See the quoins at each corner and the bell tower? Typically Victorian features.”
The church was in bad shape. The gable end we were facing was completely covered in dark ivy, and there were places where the walls were starting to crumble. The stained glass, which must once have resided in the two arched windows, was long gone, but the stone cross on the eaves was still there, defiant.
The building had a heartbroken look about it, as if grieving for the parishioners who had abandoned it, the people who would have come to worship every week. I dismissed the thought as fanciful nonsense. Whitewater Church was to be revived – I supposed that must be a good thing. It was to become someone’s home.
Paul stopped taking photographs. “Do you have those maps?”
“Map singular, I’m afraid.” I opened my bag, produced a flimsy sheet of paper, and handed it to him. “I’m going to have to get my office scanner fixed.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re the one who had to hand-deliver it. And to be honest, I’m happy to have some company.”
He unfolded the map. It was little more than an old drawing with some rough measurements.
“Is this all there is?” he asked.
“Yes, sorry. I doubt this place has ever been properly mapped. That’s what was attached to the old Registry of Deeds conveyance.”
He folded it back up and put it in his pocket.
“Okay. I’ll just need to measure the boundaries on the ground and ensure that they match the boundaries on the map as best I can.” He looked around him at the overgrown site. “It’s not going to be easy. Right, the light’s fading. I’ll do the inside first.”
He picked up his bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, and started to walk towards the main entrance, cursing again as his foot caught in a stray briar. The ground was covered in rubble, bits of metal and weeds – lots of weeds.
“The original door must have been impressive all right,” Paul said, looking up.
“Wood?” I asked.
He nodded. “Carved, probably.”
It was hard to imagine it now. It had been replaced by an ugly corrugated-iron gate about ten feet high by eight feet across, which was starting to rust around the edges. The salty sea air couldn’t be good for it. Another padlock. Paul rooted in his pocket and retrieved the keys.
The door swung open easily when the lock released and we went inside. There was more rubble underfoot and a smell of damp decay, but still there was growth: weeds were sprouting from the walls and in patches here and there on the floor. It was less dark than I had expected; light was coming in through the windows, as was foliage. The ivy that was climbing the external walls had found its way inside, and the remains of a bird’s nest rested on what was left of the windowsill.
“It’s not very big for a church,” I said.
Paul shrugged. “The population here would never have been terribly high – a few families at most. Almost like an island population.”
While Paul took some measurements and photographs, I wandered slowly around the interior, looking at the walls. Here and there were the remains of memorial plaques to individual families. Fishermen who died prematurely, farmers who lived long lives: a community. A community that no longer existed. We eventually gathered our things and left. Outside, the light was fading rapidly.
“It’s going to be dark soon,” I said. “Have you much left to do?”
“I’m nearly done. I have a torch – if we’re really stuck, I can use that. Not that I fancy the idea of being here after nightfall.”
I stood and watched while Paul walked around the perimeter of the building measuring the external walls. A loud fluttering made me jump. I looked up to see a rook fly over my head and land on the cross on the eaves. There were four of them, in a neat row, spectral and silent. As I watched them, I lost my footing and stumbled backwards. The heel of my boot hit something metal. I looked down. I was standing on some kind of iron grid about two feet square and very overgrown. I called out to Paul, and he came over to investigate, pushing the weeds aside to get a better look.
“Damn it,” he said. “Does the church have a basement?”
“No idea. Anything on the map?”
“I doubt it.” He took it out, unfolded it, and checked again. “No, no mention of a basement.”
I followed him as he walked farther along the perimeter of the church.
Suddenly, he stopped dead. “Oh, Jesus.” He pointed to a small iron gate at the base of the rear wall. “It’s a crypt. The church has a bloody crypt.”
I looked at him.
He sighed. “Now that I’ve seen it, I’m going to have to go in.”
There was a bolt across the gate but no padlock this time. It slid across easily, and the gate swung open. He turned towards me with a resigned expression on his face as he took the torch from his bag and switched it on, illuminating a number of narrow stone steps leading down into the gloom.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he said briskly. “I’ll take a quick squint inside, a couple of photographs, I’ll do the site measurement and we can head home.”
“Okay.”
He looked at his watch and then at me. “Sure, why don’t you head off, for God’s sake? There’s no need for you to be here now.”
“You must be joking. It’s just getting interesting.”
The truth was that the prospect of making my way back down the overgrown driveway in the half-light did not appeal in the slightest. He saw through me immediately.
“Actually there’s a second torch in my bag,” he said. “You could grab that, just in case.”
Gratefully, I found it and switched it on. I hovered beside the gate as he slid his legs through the entrance and sat on the top step.
“Can I come with you?”
“Absolutely not. You stay put,” he said. “The steps might not be safe. At least I’m insured to do this.” He disappeared through the gate.
“You okay?” I called.
“Yep. I can stand, sort of.”
Although the ground was damp and cold, I knelt and watched as he went slowly down the stairs, each step reverberating against the walls on either side. They led into a small chamber no more than seven or eight feet high, with what looked like stone drawers on either side. He was right, it was a crypt. I shivered.
“How long are you going to be?” I called.
I heard him chuckle. The echo made it sound like some Bond villain’s evil laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to stay down here a second longer than I have to.”
Halfway down he shoved the torch under his oxter to lift the camera. He took one photograph, then seemed to hesitate.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s something at the bottom of the steps.”
He lifted the torch again and directed the beam. He was right, there was something lying on the floor of the chamber. In the gloom it looked like a pile of rags. Paul slowly went the rest of the way down and then stood for a second at the foot of the steps.
“What is it?”
“It’s a blanket,” he said.
“A blanket?”
“Yes. An old brown woolen blanket, rolled up like a carpet.”
I leaned in further, lying on the flat of my stomach, propped up on my elbows. I was almost entirely in the chamber now, with nothing but my feet outside. I inhaled the dank, earthy scent.
Paul poked the blanket gently with his foot. “I can’t feel anything inside it.” “Have a closer look.”
He looked up at me, an exasperated expression on his face.
“I’ll come down.” I struggled to twist myself around so I could get my feet onto the step.
“No,” he said. He shot me a warning look. “I told you to stay put. You shouldn’t be here at all.”
He went down on his haunches. Even from this distance I could see that his hands were shaking. But he managed to pull the top of the blanket aside, just a little. Immediately, he leaped back, almost losing his balance, dropping the torch. The thud made me jump.
“Paul? What is it? What’s the matter?”
He put his hand against the wall of the chamber for support. His torch rolled a matter of inches and came to a stop close by, its beam hitting the wall next to him. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up.
“Paul?” I said again.
He still didn’t reply. I stood up and went down the steps as fast as I could, trying not to slip on the uneven ones. Then I squatted beside the rolled-up blanket and carefully moved the top of it to one side, just as Paul had done, directing the beam of the torch to illuminate what he had seen seconds before.
It took everything I had to suppress the scream that rose in my throat.
Chapter 2
“HELLO?” SERGEANT TOM Molloy said again, his voice sterner this time. “Who is this?”
I had made the mistake of dialing the garda station before catching my breath. Leaning against the wall of the church for support, I breathed in deeply, relishing the clean, icy air.
Finally, I managed to speak. “Tom, it’s Ben.”
His voice softened. “Jesus, Ben, you sound a bit odd. What’s going on?”
“I’m up at Whitewater Church with Paul Doherty.”
“That deserted place on the cliff? What on earth are you doing up there?”
Paul watched me from a couple of feet away, looking agitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I raised my eyebrows as he withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his bag and lit one, the wind causing the flame of the lighter to flicker.
“Paul was doing a survey …” I started, then caught myself. “Look, never mind about that. We’ve just found a skeleton in the crypt beneath the church.”
“You’ve what?”
“I’m serious. A human skeleton. And crypt or not, I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be here.”
“Okay. Stay put. Wait for me in Doherty’s jeep. Whatever you do, stay together. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I thought that was optimistic. Whitewater is a good fifteen miles from Glendara, along some of the worst roads on the Inishowen peninsula. I shoved the phone back into my coat pocket, grateful to be able to leave my hand in there with it for a while.
I turned to Paul. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t,” he replied, sucking on the cigarette with a kind of grim desperation, his face ghostly in the light of the torch he had placed upright on the ground. “Gave up five years ago, but I always carry a pack with me to prove to myself I don’t need one.”
I smiled. “I can’t really begrudge you one in the circumstances.”
I came to sorely regret those words. In the confined space of the jeep, Paul chain-smoked one cigarette after the other, giving me
a pounding headache. The second the headlights of the Glendara squad car appeared in the rearview mirror, I climbed out, relieved by the blast of Arctic air. Molloy was beside me before I even closed the door.
“You all right?” he asked.
I was surprised by how comforted I was to hear his Cork lilt, to see the concern on his face. Things had been strained between us of late. I remembered the look in his eyes, his hasty retreat. I shook it off. Right now I had more pressing concerns.
“Fine. Just a bit of a shock. I think Paul’s pretty shook.”
Paul acknowledged Molloy’s presence with a barely perceptible tilt of the head but made no move to get out of the jeep. His hands still gripped the steering wheel.
“Right, let’s get up there and have a look. You can tell me your story on the way.”
Molloy waved at the squad car and Garda Andy McFadden emerged from the driver’s seat, phone in hand. He took a luminous yellow garda jacket from the back seat and strode over to Paul’s door.
Choosing brute force over planning, McFadden led the way, beating briars away with a large branch he had broken off one of the ash trees along the road. Every bush and bramble looked twice the size it had in daylight.
“First of all, tell me exactly what you two were doing up here,” Molloy said.
I took a deep breath. “Liam McLaughlin the estate agent asked Paul to do a survey of the old church and the site. The owners are selling.”
“Are solicitors usually present at surveys?” Molloy asked, in a tone that implied he already knew the answer.
“I have the deeds. I had to bring a map up for Paul,” I replied defensively. “Our scanner’s on the blink.”
Molloy gave me a wry look. He’s more familiar with my nosiness than most.
“So you act for the owners of this place?” he said.
“I do.”
Watery moonlight guided us back to the bell tower, and Paul went ahead along the perimeter of the church to the low iron gate. It was bolted, as we had left it. Molloy pulled back the bolt and the gate swung open. He nodded at McFadden.
“Right, you stay here with Ben, Andy. Paul, you come with me.”
I protested.
“The fewer people down here the better,” Molloy stated.