The thin, spidery handwriting blurred for a moment as Reverend Alan MacGregor lifted his glasses in order to massage his eyes. A glance at the clock put the time at a little after one in the morning. He stretched, letting out an involuntary moan as his spine popped and crackled.
A glass of whisky sat, untouched, by his elbow. With a sigh, he picked it up and took a sip, savouring the rich, peaty aroma as the amber liquid hit his stomach and blossomed into pleasant warmth. He closed the thick, leather-bound volume and placed it in his desk drawer before locking it. Dropping the key into a pocket, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.
The book was fascinating. Every night for the past week he’d followed the same routine, pouring himself a whisky and intending to spend an hour with the book before retiring; every night, that hour had turned into several.
Alan yawned. Sunday morning’s service, as yet unwritten, was only a few hours away. He shook his head; he was too tired to even contemplate writing the sermon now. He’d hit the sack, grab a couple of hours sleep and see what he could cobble together in the morning.
Rubbing his chin, feeling his stubble rasp against his palm as he walked slowly out of the vestry office, he reflected that there was only one topic that the villagers of Grey’s End would be interested in at the moment.
The grave.
It had been Jack Cummings’s lad, Jason, who’d found it. Alan smiled wryly, thinking of the discussions he’d had with Jack over the years. Despite his lack of religious beliefs, Jack had discovered that his passion for local history was shared by the Reverend. The irony of it was that it was Jack’s wife, Sarah, who’d first introduced them. Sarah had a quiet, thoughtful approach to religion that Alan found refreshing. She attended his church almost every Sunday, and functioned as a sort of unofficial housekeeper for him. It amused Alan that two people who were obviously still very much in love after almost forty years of marriage could have such differing views. He had to suppress a chuckle every time he saw Sarah push Jack’s wheelchair into the church.
After their first few meetings, Alan had asked Jack why he allowed Sarah to bring him to church, if he was such an unbeliever. Despite a shaky start, both men had quickly become firm friends, their mutual love of local history outweighing their religious differences. Alan had mused that perhaps it was this difference that made their weekly meetings so enjoyable; approaching the same problem from opposite ends of the theological spectrum.
Jack had paused to take a sip from the whisky that the two of them enjoyed. “Well,” he said. “I love her. And she takes bloody good care of me. I mean –” he gestured at his legs, emaciated and useless “ – it’s not as if I could get up and walk away, is it?”
“No,” Alan had demurred. “I suppose not.” He shook his head. “But surely she knows you’re not one of the, ah, faithful?”
Jack had grinned. “Aye, she calls me her little heathen, tells me I’ll be for it when I finally die.” He took another sip and smiled. “She said that Saint Peter would crucify me for being a non-believer.”
Alan had been mid-sip at this point, and almost choked, spraying whisking down his shirt. “That’s terrible!” he spluttered, trying to sound reproachful.
Alan paused at the door, his ear cocked. He was sure he’d just heard something, coming from within the church itself. His hand gripped the handle, depressing it slowly in order to minimize any noise. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and he stood there, listening.
There it was again! A faint scuffling noise, coming from the far end of the church. Alan stepped through the door. “Hello?” He peered into the darkness that blanketed the church. He could see nothing. His right hand explored the wall, reaching for the bank of light switches that controlled the interior lights. He flicked them down. Nothing. Frowning, he flicked them up, then back down. Still nothing.
