Murder at the Mill

12. The Church Militant

"So you really don't believe in turning the other cheek, Victor?" A sudden twinge of conscience had stopped Seymour in his tracks. Was it right to lead a priest into moral as well as physical danger?

"Sadly not," replied Gallot with a rueful smile and a very Gallic shrug. "That concept never sat well with me, even after I left my school days behind me and entered the seminary. Have you ever read La Chanson de Roland?"

Startled by the sudden change of subject, Seymour replied, "My French can just about cope with the title, but no. Who was Roland and what did he sing about?"

"It's an 11th-century epic poem about the battle of Roncevaux Pass during the reign of Charlemagne." Seymour scratched his head. This was surely no time to stop for a chat about French literature.

"And?" he asked impatiently.

"Well, Roland and his friends were Christian knights, of course, their enemy being the Saracens. But my favourite character has always been Turpin, the ferocious Archbishop of Rheims. He was what you could call a warrior priest, determined to fight and die alongside them. Yet, as a man of the cloth, he was only supposed to carry a mace."

"Why?"

"Because he wasn't allowed to shed blood, of course."

"Although knocking someone senseless was all right? Rather like our Friar Tuck with his quarterstaff?"

"Friar Tuck? The fat friend of Robin des Bois? Well yes, according to the conventions of the time. But Turpin would have none of it. He fought with sword and lance."

He sounds more like Dick Turpin than a prince of the church, thought Seymour, but he kept that notion to himself. This was no time for flippancy.

"And would you do the same, Father?" Using the priest's first name suddenly felt less appropriate than when they were sharing a meal. It was all a question of hats, rather like partnering your bank manager in a darts match down at your local and then standing in front of his desk the following morning to discuss your overdraft.

"In this situation, yes," replied Gallot. "Especially if it does turn out that we're fighting Satanists. Killing can be justified under church law, you know, although in very limited circumstances. Turpin absolved the soldiers of any sins committed before the battle and, as a penance, told them to strike the enemy as hard as they could."

"None of this 'gentle Jesus, meek and mild' stuff, then?"

"No. And, like my Lord Archbishop, if violence is the only way, I'd prefer something sharp and pointy in my hand." The priest was looking around as he spoke, a militant gleam in his dark eyes.

We're starting to edge into vampire territory here, thought Seymour, who had seen far too many Hammer horror films than was good for his peace of mind. The priest was bound to have a crucifix about his person, but he doubted whether the sight of it would have much effect on Vivian and the Professor, not to mention the rest of their sinister little group.

"Et voilà! Help me, Seymour!"

One section of the tape used by the police to cordon off the area had been attached to the rusty iron railings that ran partway along the side of Percy Beck. A Health and Safety panic, sparked off by a parish council fearful of legal action, had led a few years before to their installation and to the removal of some perfectly safe stepping stones. There had been no money for maintenance, though, and some of the rails had worn loose. It was these at which the priest was tugging. With Seymour's assistance, he was soon armed with a makeshift trident likely to give his enemies blood poisoning if it didn't kill them outright.

"Follow me," he hissed. Pausing only to wrench out another rail for himself, Seymour did.

..................................................

Stacey Knowles, nursing her throbbing shoulder, was glaring at the bowman – or woman left to guard her. It was impossible to tell who was swathed in that hooded cloak, she thought to herself, but it really didn't matter. If superstition and a very outdated belief in magic had indeed taken hold of Wharram Percy, Stacey was the one to disabuse its adherents of any such notions. No one was going to take her for a fool, much less use her as some kind of a ritual sacrifice. Once back on her feet, she'd grab them and... That would have to wait, though. During her previous captivity, she'd learned enough to know who was in charge and not to provoke her. Those heavy rings made a good knuckle duster. What she couldn't figure out was quite where the Professor, whose long drooping face put her in mind of a basset hound, fitted in. After all, Seymour had been the one to contact him. Unless by some almighty coincidence the plot was already being hatched, Greenhaugh couldn't possibly have insinuated himself into the cult - if that was what it was – so quickly.

Stacey didn't have to bide her time for long. She was still deciding which part of her guard's anatomy she'd like to target with a well-aimed kick when a pair of howling banshees shot past them both.

"Police! You're all nicked!" shouted Seymour, laying about the cloaked figures with a will. Father Gallot headed straight for the focus of their attention and thrust his trident into the works.

As the wheel ground to a screeching halt amid cries of dismay, Stacey took immediate advantage of the situation to leap to her feet and seize the crossbow.

"Don't try anything foolish, sweetheart," she hissed, reaching for her handcuffs, "unless you want to be at the business end of this thing."

She had one skinny wrist secured when a burst of light bright enough to dazzle everyone in the vicinity put paid to her hopes of an arrest. By the time she could see straight again, both prisoner and handcuffs had disappeared into the night.

Seymour and Victor had fared no better in their attempt to detain the ringleaders. As their minions made themselves scarce, shedding torches and cloaks as they ran, Vivian and the Professor stepped hand in hand into the water.