The Confession - Charles Todd [9]
The sign between the porch and the road was almost Pre-Raphaelite in its design and would have done justice to an Arthurian legend. It read, in elegant letters set out in gold leaf, THE CHURCH OF ST. EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.
Rutledge regarded that with wry amusement. Very fitting, he thought.
Beneath were the times of services and the name of the pastor: Morrison. Below that was a quotation from the Psalms:
I will lift mine eyes unto the hills . . .
“What is it doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?” Frances asked as they drew even with the signboard. “And there’s no Rectory. No churchyard. How very odd.”
It was not strictly speaking ugly, but there was something about the church that stirred the voice in Rutledge’s head. Hamish had been quiet all morning, and now he was a restive presence in the back of Rutledge’s mind.
Rutledge tried to ignore him. He said to his sister, “Perhaps the village was moved.”
“Yes, that could be, of course. But surely not the churchyard as well?”
He braked, the engine idling. A gust of wind hit the motorcar, shaking it. “It may serve a scattered population.”
“It looks as if it’s been exiled,” she remarked. Then, turning to her brother, she asked, “Ian, what brought you here? And don’t tell me again that it’s curiosity.”
“Actually it was. That much is true. I wanted to have a look at this part of Essex.”
“Then it has to do with an inquiry?”
“More a bit of intuition heaped on suspicion and doubt.”
Above their heads, wind swirled around the tower, and the clapper touched the mouth of the bell with a sound almost like that of a distant buoy.
The church was in good repair. It appeared that there was a priest who conducted services here. But who were his parishioners? The house they’d passed was too far away, and there was no sign of a village in any direction.
“It makes me sad to look at that church. Is there anything beyond here?”
“Let’s find out.”
Driving on once more, they traveled at least another three miles before they reached the first outposts of a village. Which, he realized, surely meant that the deserted house they’d seen must indeed be River’s Edge.
There were no stragglers. One minute nothing but tall grass sweeping in waves before the wind, and then the first dwelling appeared, square, brick, and squat beneath its roof. Seven more bungalows, and they were in the High Street, where on the left, others were interspersed among the shops. Beyond stood a small two-storey inn, and where the road curved to the north, a large plane tree towered over the cottages nearest to it.
To the right-hand side of the road, other buildings stood with their backs to the river, among them what appeared to be a schoolhouse, and just after the pub he glimpsed the water stairs. On the strand beyond, there were fishing boats drawn up, waiting for the tide to turn. One or two were flatter-bottomed craft used to hunt waterfowl.
Although it was a Saturday afternoon, the village street was deserted, and as they reached the bend in the road, Rutledge recognized the hook of land he’d seen on the map at the Yard.
The wind had continued to pick up, and as they followed the bend that took the road inland, the motorcar swayed with the force of it. Here the village ended with a house or two like afterthoughts, and to the right beyond the last of the houses the road rose a little, telling him that this hook of land was higher than the village and therefore possessed better drainage. In proof of it, he saw farms ahead and counted three of them before the road turned inland again and the marshy ground reappeared in the distance. Which of the farms had been the site of the airfield? There were no derelict buildings to tell him which had been commandeered. And all three offered broad stretches of pasturage and a few fields of corn for livestock that were flat enough for aircraft to take off and land. Ideal, then, for a small squadron of night fighters and Zeppelin patrols. What’s more, it was right on the North Sea, with excellent visibility