THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOW - EPISODE ONE

I

THE VANISHING PHILATELISTS

The gloom of the wintry day crept into me like the damp into bare timber. It seeped into my pores, travelling to my heart. From under the constant blanket of grey cloud came a steady rain which moved like a mist in random directions but thick enough to soak an older man's cloth cap and the newspaper under his arm.

Loud chatter filled the small café, at each table a cosseted huddle of people raising their voices above the din. The food is secondary to the gen exchanged there. Over the over-salted fries, alliances formed, and gossip traded like poker chips. Casting my eyes about in a wandering daydream and yet taking note of who associates with whom.

Once I had read the meagre article, I noted Jack Durrant's name added to Oxmarket's by this time lengthy list of missing persons. No further details, and with such incidents becoming so common it attracted minimal interest from the Suffolk Constabulary, but if anyone could give information on his whereabouts, contact Detective Inspector Paul Silver at Oxmarket police station.

I laid the newspaper down, interested. 

Detective Inspector Paul Silver showed more interest, in the unexplained disappearance of Geoffrey Billings. The reason for this, the connection between the three missing men. Geoffrey Billings, like Durrant, along with John Coleman, all members of the Oxmarket Stamp Society, which met every Wednesday in the Waggoner's Rest, which also overlooked Oxmarket Harbour, a few yards down from where I sat. This unusual coincidence drew the attention of the press and set tongues wagging around the Suffolk coastal town.

Paul Silver took me under his wing, after my wife Zoë, died and encouraged my relationship with Kimberley, which continued to blossom.

Days passed, and neither Durrant nor Billings reappeared. Their wives distraught with worry and denied the local gossip that the two men fell in love with each other and had run off. Their wives vehemently rejected this. John Coleman, the remaining surviving member, said on a local radio interview, those who knew them would know better. 

A week later, on November 5th, a request to help came almost straight after John Coleman himself had disappeared. DI Silver already had saved time by questioning the landlord and regulars of the Waggoner's Rest without drawing any firm conclusions.

We met in the town centre and paced the routes the three men would take from the

Waggoner's Rest to their respective homes. For the first 400 yards (0.37 km) or so, the three paths coincided, passing through a dark, foul-smelling court, before dividing into a small square in front of an oriental-style building in a fine plaster proclaiming itself to be the Church of Redemption Hall. A poster on a board beside the doorway informed us the Preacher and Professional Minister Ahmad Abboud with giving one of his sermons.

Reading the poster, we continued our return route to the Waggoner's Rest. Ten yards before the entrance of the pub, a small crowd blocked our way. In the centre, he was standing on a wooden box, Ahmad Abboud.

A young Asian, and as handsome as hell, clad in a tight black t-shirt and jeans, all as perfect as the day they were purchased. Too perfect. A smile held a hint of femininity, but his strong bone structure tagged him as all-male, and his words poisoned the air.

A woman in the crowd in front of me shouted abuse at the preacher. Abboud pointed an index finger at her and bellowed, "Babylon has fallen, a great city because she made all nations drink of the wine of the wrath of her fornication." Suddenly, his voice rose to an almost hysterical scream. His face turned red with hatred and anger. "Heed the book of Revelation, you wicked woman. The torment of the ungodly is therein writ. Vetus summat done proiceret peccata obumbratio."

Some crowd took exception to this, telling Abboud he had no right to insult the woman. Finding himself losing the sympathy of the group, Abboud opened his arms and said all honest locals followed the straight path of the Lord, a way that led directly to heaven from the Church of Redemption.

Shaking my head, I turned on my heel and made my way home.

Seventy-two hours later, DI Silver rang me,

"Meet me in Bridge Street. The bodies of the missing

Philatelists have turned up."

II

THE CHURCH OF REDEMPTION

The bodies positions were similar. Their backs to three separate lampposts. Jack Durrant and Geoffrey Billings seemed in an advanced state in date of decomposition, with all three mutilated at the time of death.

A visibly shaken DI Silver came and joined me as the forensics team prearranged the corpses for transportation to the morgue.

"Collections can be valuable," his voice wavered with emotion, "but I have never seen anyone prepared to murder to get hold of one."

"No, nor have I. Can I come with you?"

"Of course."

We pulled into the underground car park of the refurbished Oxmarket mortuary, modernized in the last six months. The detective inspector was careful not to scrape the sloping nose of his car on the concrete ramp and parked his vehicle abruptly in shadows and where the air through the vents was colder. 

He settled in a reserved spot several spaces away from Kira's dark blue Ford and pushed through the double doors like a football fan looking for a fight. 

Kira sat at a table in a vast space of stainless-steel wall sinks and workstations. Natural light-filled one-way glass windows and high-intensity lamps blazed above us. She wore a shapeless gown and purple gloves with matching shoe covers, and I still found her attractive.

Her workstation is the closest one to the refrigerator and on a counter next to the sink, a computer display, keyboard, and mouse covered with a waterproof membrane. As we stood behind her, the screen divided into quadrants, and before our eyes, images of the three victims became visible.

"The ribs and sternum of Jack Durrant are broken in several places, suggesting the body experienced crushing beneath a heavyweight," Kira launched into her prognosis. "In contrast, the desiccated remains of Geoffrey Billings had no unusual marks at all. Peering closely at the wrists I identified a series of minute punctures. A single glance at John Coleman is enough to reveal the cause of death. His feet and the lower part of his legs burned away, and the expression of unspeakable anguish frozen on his face tells me he died in agony."

From the morgue, DI Silver took me home, and after dropping me off, I dug out Zoë’s old King James Bible. I consulted the section at the back. I copied out a few verses, their numbers, on to a piece of paper.

I went back to the town centre of Oxmarket to question the wives of the deceased. My first port of call Lizzie Durrant. The girl that women loved to hate. An adult I suppose, but so young that the exuberance of youth and a movie heroine shone through. Not overly tall and willowy, but more like an action star. Her muscle definition perfect, and she walked with the confidence of someone a decade older. Flawless in her bone structure, her skin silk over a glass, and she radiated an intelligent beauty.

I arrived on time, and in the beginning, our conversation involved much weeping and commiseration, and as much as she endeavoured to hold it in, the grief came out like an uproar from her throat in the form of a silent shriek. The beads of water started falling one after another, without a sign of stopping. She hit the wall and tried to scream; her voice melted by the sound of the place. The muffled sobs wracked against her chest. 

More than crying, it was desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope. The pain that flowed from her as palpable as the frigid autumn wind.

Mrs Billings gave similar responses. Her husband left home on Sunday to attend a meeting in the usual place. A gathering from which he never returned. His selection, which her husband always carried in a canvas holdall, also missing.

Mrs Coleman, whose husband vanished a few days previously and only learned of his horrible death from the police earlier that morning, emerged too distressed to discuss her husband John's movements with anyone. Fortunately for me, her eldest sister, Mrs Amelia Pollard, who lived three houses down the street, felt more than willing to talk. Yes, she knew all about her brother-in-law's membership and his attendance at its conventions in the top room of the Waggoner's Rest. As far as she knew, her sister showed no interest in his collection, but her husband always took it to their gatherings in a leather briefcase.

I thanked Mrs Pollard for her co-operation and walked briskly to the pub. The landlady, Vanessa Decker, was a God-fearing woman with a fair complexion. Long wisps of amber streaked with highlights of ginger gleamed when they captured the light right. She glanced at me with the kindest pair of coffee brown eyes trimmed by long gorgeous lashes. Lovely eyes, yet somehow gentle that always held a little warmth within them. Florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted lips, like angels had crafted them; sitting this close to her, they glistened attractively with a cherry lip balm that added further rosy colour. All these features set together on a delicate, angelic face. 

More than happy to repeat to me her statement already given, she let the three men hire her upper room for a monthly fee. The society's three men kept themselves to themselves and never caused her any trouble.

         "Did you ever see their horde?" I asked.

"No, I never did. Always went at length to keep things hidden. I interrupted one of their meetings once with a tray of drinks. Coleman went as far as to throw his jacket over the table to hide what lay there.

"Didn't this strike you as strange?"

"Yes, I did," Vanessa confessed, "but I didn't mind because they were kind enough to come to mine

aid on a couple of occasions."

"How do you mean?" I pressed.

"That bloody Minister Ahmad Abboud," she began, "preaching outside my pub. I asked him to move on, but he became abusive."

"What did he say?"

"Presiding over a den of iniquity, financed by drunks and whores. A shameless servant of the

spawn of Rome."

"You're a Catholic?"

"Yes, I am."

"What happened next?" Making sure she did not get distracted mid-conversation.

"The three members of the Oxmarket Stamp

Society heard the abuse and rushed to my defence."

"What did they do?"

"Heckled him until he stopped," she said. "Stepped off his soapbox and stalked away. Then something odd happened?"

"Go on."

"Billings handed a leaflet to the preacher. He glanced at it, and threw it away in disgust, before disappearing in the direction of the Church of Redemption. As I went back inside, messrs Durrant, Billings and Coleman, started handing out more leaflets to the dispersing crowd. 

"Did you know what they said?" I asked.

"Not really," she shrugged. "I assumed invitations to join the association because I noticed OSS in bold letters on them."

I left the Waggoner's Rest and went on an internet search engine on my mobile phone to check the names of local organizations with the acronym OSS. None for the Oxmarket Stamp Society. 

                 III

THE OXMARKET SECULAR SOCIETY

"Well if they weren't philatelists, what the hell was they?" Paul bellowed.

"They've turned out to be the founding members of the Oxmarket Secular Society. A group of free thinkers dedicated to bringing down all organized religion. Pretended to be associates of the non-existent Oxmarket Stamp Society to avoid upsetting their church-going wives and so as not to argue with the Catholic landlady of the Waggoner's Rest who rented them their meeting place."

"Is that why their spouses never saw their collections?" 

"Yes," I nodded. "What the men took to their meetings disguised as stamp albums were in face piles of free-thinking literature."

The detective inspector shook his head in absolute dismay.

"This explains why the three men eagerly questioned Ahmad Abboud when he preached outside the Waggoner's Rest," I continued. "The leaflets Vanessa Decker noticed them handing out belong to the Oxmarket Secular Society, not the Oxmarket Stamp Society. Publicly challenged Abboud's beliefs and authority, and that drove him to arrange for their murder, and they had to die hastily."

"So, how did you work out their deaths?" 

"The temple is called the Church of Redemption, and I realized the significance when he chastised that woman who opposed his teachings," I said. "After checking the King James Bible, I located what I was

looking for in the 'Book of Revelation'."

"Go on?"

"Couldn't understand the connection at first until I got the men's birthdays from their spouses. Durrant -- June 16th. Billings on 5th September and Coleman on the 5th of November. Their bodies

discovered on the 8th of November."

"Don't get it."

"Revelation 6.16: Said to the mountains and rocks, fall on us . . . Jack Durrant crushed to death. 9.5: . . . Their torment as the distress of a scorpion when he striketh a man. Geoffrey Billings died from multiple scorpion stings. 11.5 . . . Fire proceedeth out of their mouth, and devoureth their enemies: if any man hurts them, he must in this manner killed. John Coleman -- burned to death. Then finally, Chapter 11, Verse 8: Their dead bodies shall lie in the street. The corpses of the three men arranged."

My friend went very pale, "Jesus."

"How did the raid go this morning?" I asked, wondering why he had not mentioned it yet.

He diverted his eyes for a moment and finally back to me with guilt and embarrassment. "We uncovered a secret underground room containing Durrant. Billings and Coleman. The iron weights necessary for the first murder, still there, the same as the ashes of the fire in which Coleman died. The cage to bring in the scorpions that stung Billings lay in the corner, where all the scorpions lay in the bottom dead."

"Ahmad Abboud still there?"

The detective inspector shook his head in shame. "No sign of him. Police covering the railway station, the Harbour, and the local airfield, but so far nothing. Sorry, but I'm sure he'll turn up."

"I'm sure he will," not believing a single word I just said.

 FIVE YEARS LATER

IV

THE RIGHT TIME

A bone-chilling mist clung to every surface in the late autumn afternoon.

The accustomed sight of the town was made hazy by the fogginess. For a moment Nicholas raised a hand to his face to check for his spectacles. They were where they should be. This unfocused world here for everyone and not reserved for just him. Icy vaporized drops blew down his neck. Then up the legs of his trousers flapped an inch above his shoes. It did not slowly drain his body warmth; it stole the second he made contact. He hated being poor. The money his ageing relative gave him or new clothes, he blasted the lot at the local bookmakers, putting all on a horse that could not lose. What a laugh!!! Now frozen to the marrow, he felt like he had borrowed his coat from the younger brother he did not have.

"I am her favourite nephew," he told himself, "and I can always get around her."

The house had no resemblance to some abandoned Hammer Horror-Film, manor. Small, terraced and sandwiched between two far more extensive and more impressive abodes. The window's not right, not centred, and they stayed firmly shut even in the hottest summer. At night, the house became unwelcoming, and not a soul noticed a person enter or leave. Yet, every Sunday a newspaper was thrown to the doormat, and by Monday it had gone. Rumours the locals suspected of it being a drug den, but the lack of foot traffic rules that out. Some said the silhouette of a knife showed from behind the frosted bathroom window. Some swore they could hear the rattle of chains through the keyhole at night. An industrious neighbour decided to hire equipment to monitor the ground for concealed tunnels. For all their bluster this was the closest anyone went. The delivery girl also threw the daily newspaper from a distance. Too scary, but at least it gave some drama to their otherwise pedestrian lives.

Even the doorbell sounded weary with its understated beginning before vanishing as soon as the finger lifted.

His aunts' live-in housekeeper answered the door. As always, a contradiction to what awaited him inside. Five-foot seven, willowy and a face cut right from the pages of a man's magazine. Any copy of GQ would show them what she looked like in lingerie. Men desired her and women courted her friendship.  "Master Nicholas," she said, too officially, considering they had had s*x together when his kinswoman was sleeping on many occasions. She stood one side and let him in. Once inside, he turned at last to face her. Jan's eyes narrowed, rigid, cold, and hard. At that moment, he knew he was once more the enemy. These swings from the best-loved to the most-hated would be the end of him. Her moods had no greyscale; only the polar extremes existed. He drew in a deep breath, and the burning emphatic glare would last only as long for him to think of a brutally cutting, remark he could tear her down. "Rather official, Jan?"

She held up a hand in protest. "' Ex-boyfriend,' which you planned to be all along? Entertainment, something pretty for your arm, a way to improve your status among your friends. You were never my boyfriend, more of an amateur manipulator, a child in a man's body. What happens to children who play with fire? They get burnt. You scorched my insides, charred what whole was. Now, you have brought an inferno on yourself. It is not that I am not over you, that part was natural, I did that on day one. Mother told me to 'to forgive' and 'be the bigger person'. The problem with that I am not yet mature enough to obey my mother. I will be when my revenge lies cold at your feet, a million glass fragments flashing in wintry light, ready to cut you no matter the direction you take."

"Nice to see you have taken it all so well," he mocked. "Is my aunt in?"

Her eyes capsulized, and she slapped him. The slap was as ear-piercing and stung his face leaving the remains of a red welt behind. Below his eye was a small blemish where the ring caught him. He staggered backwards, clutching his face, eyes watering, lips contorted into an awkward, smile. His cheeks, however, were not so comprising. Eventually, the left side of his mouth tugged upwards creating a sinister smirk on his face.

"Let you have that one," he said, with

malice. "Next time, it will be your last."

Jan held his stare and did not flinch. "Your aunt is waiting for you in her room." 

"Thank you," he said, as she took off his dishevelled overcoat, with a look of disgust and hung it on the stand behind her. 

"What happened to your other eye?"

"Walked into a door."

"Will you be stopping here for long?" "That depends," he smiled.

He went upstairs and left Jan to continue cleaning and cooking.

The old staircase complained and groaned as he climbed up the battered but beautiful ageing stairs. Tired and worn down, there were still signs of past parties and better days; scuffed bronze handrails, iron swirled balusters and the patches of polished wood that shone beneath the soft light of the small overhead chandelier.

Jan beavered away vigorously, but still tried to listen to any snippets of information. As she cleaned the corridor mirror, she heard the first familiar rumbles of thunder. Nicholas's booming voice shook the walls, echoed by the shrill tones of her Ladyship electrifying the air. 

After about twenty minutes, it went quiet, and the conversation became less heated and more mellow. Lady Casterton's voice was being swamped by her nephew's and talking to his brethren more calmly and soothingly than he had done a few moments ago.

Satisfied that everything was all right, she disappeared into the kitchen and persisted in preparing the meal, deciding to cook enough for three, in case Nicholas did stay.

With the main components delivered with the online grocery shop, she started to prepare a stroganoff. 

Jan cut the meat into strips before seasoning and then searing it in a hot frying pan. Then she fried a sliced onion and some mushrooms until they tenderized and put them in with the meat with some plain flour. She then poured and a generous measure of cognac over the mixture and flamed off the alcohol.

Next, she carefully added in some sour cream and a small amount of lemon juice and sprinkled some paprika. With a kitchen mandolin, she took a large potato to produce thin strips which she now browned in a deep fat fryer to bring forth crisp straws, while the beef and other ingredients warmed on low heat.

The slam of the door came like punctuation. Jan had hoped, before that sound and now after it, she had none. It had cracked through the house as loud as any whip. Jan walked briefly back into the hallway, looked up at the clock on the wall. A quarter-to-six. Nicholas was not staying. Jan shrugged her shoulders before returning to the kitchen. 

"Lady Casterton?" Jan called, about a half an hour later, at the door, before knocking quietly on the door again.

Jan shook her head with despair, at her ladyship falling asleep again before dinner. The door creaked in protestation, and she put her head around the door to see if there was any movement. 

The huge bed was empty, but the woman on the floor was lifeless. Her brown hair scattered in multiple places. Her emerald green eyes were wide open, but her jade irises held a sudden sadness. The clothes she wore, strangely immaculate looking despite the body slumped over, half-sitting, half laying on the cold linoleum. The smell was the most disturbing thing Jan had ever sniffed. It was blatantly obvious, Lady Casterton bowels had been released, and all too soon. Jan's heart pounded with one question continued to race through her mind: Did Nicholas Casterton do this?

                V

       JAN BURTON

The woman at the table next to me cried. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes cast down in a mournful gaze and her mouth set in a semi-pout. 

I sat at the table next to her in the Kernel Café. Open a year and building up an excellent reputation in the local community of Oxupland. The place, full to the brim. An old couple eating with one glass of wine each studiously bent over their meals. A group of young women in their thirties collapsing with helpless giggles as a stern woman dining alone nearby frowned. Businesspeople in their grey suits, American tourists, trying to decipher the menu. A family and their teenage children. The noise level high. It did not bother me.

Just closed a case involving the local bank in Oxmarket, where I discovered a cunning method of robbing the bank. The manager has been diligent in his security arrangements. A traditional family bank and prided itself on its traditional values. The bank's safe a massive structure, complex enough even a skilled thief would take an hour or more, and with cutting tools would leave noticeable scarring. In turn, they were locked in the manager's office. The office door had a small viewing port set into it. The guards' rounds at the bank brought them past every six minutes, and they always paused for a moment to peer through the port and inspect the safe.

The reason for the lapse of security became apparent as soon as Assistant Chief Constable Angela White and I entered the office. The villains prepared an accurate depiction of the safe, and when the guards came past, everything appeared to be in order. The deception would be more evident if the office lights were on, but more than enough to buy the thieves the time they needed. They impressed me with their ingenuity.

The woman at the table next to me continued to grieve. Sobs racked her body.

"Can I help?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

Her face softened. "Kindness is a language the deaf can only hear, and the blind can see. “I’m sorry?" 

"I've been here, for two hours, and you are the first person to show any consideration towards me," she wiped her eyes with an already damp paper tissue.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She          laughed nervously              and         cried simultaneously. "You don't want to concern yourself with my tales of woe?"

I smiled. "A problem shared is a problem solved."

She laughed again. "Can I join you?" she gestured towards the vacant chair at my table.

"Of course."

She came over and sat down opposite me, carrying her empty Latté cup with her.

"Would you like another?" I motioned to her cup.

"If you don't mind?" 

I took her cup and my own and went back up to the counter and ordered two more coffees. I returned to the table, and she would a five-pound note out ready.

"This is on me," I said. 

The grateful look on her face said required no words. I sat down and looked at her straight in the eyes. Five-foot seven, willowy and her face cut right from the pages of a man's magazine. Something radiated from within, rendered her irresistible to both genders. Men desired her and women courted her friendship.

"Now, what's got you so upset, Miss-?"

"Burton, Jan Burton," she said, between sobs. "I worked for Lady Casterton. Found strangled last

night in her bedroom."

"Any idea who strangled her?"

         "I    initially    thought    the    nephew,    Nicholas

Casterton."

"He didn't?"

"No, he left the house at a quarter-to-six."

"Where were you?" 

"In the kitchen preparing dinner when he left. He never left before dinner, when he called around, so I saw the time, and that is how I know he didn't

kill Lady Casterton."

"Go on," I said. 

"I didn't go to Lady Casterton's room until seven," she went on. "To inform her about dinner. I discovered the body."

"What did you do?"

"I called the police, and they came immediately. I also called Lady Casterton's GP, Dr Norton, but it was too late. Lady Casterton's dead -- he estimated, for nearly an hour."

"How long?" I murmured surprised.

Jan Burton shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think Dr Norton gave much attention. I presume he didn't think it especially important."

"The pathologist is better equipped to give a more accurate time of death." 

"Probably."

"Can you say, when you knew she was still alive?"

"Lady Casterton retired to her room at about four o'clock for her afternoon nap, and then she called down to me to tell her nephew would be calling."

"What time?"

"After five."

"What time did Nicholas Casterton arrive?"

"About quarter-past-five."

"Did he often call in to see his aunt?"

"Only when he needed money. Quite often."

"Did she always give him the money?"

"Not on this occasion, she ran out of patience with him, I think."

"You heard him leave at a quarter-to-six?" "Yes," she reiterated.

"Between the time that her nephew left and the time you found her dead. No other visitors?"

"No."

"Someone did it?" I persisted.

"I would know if we’d had an intruder.” "From the kitchen, preparing dinner?" "Yes," she replied. 

I sat there in silence for a few moments, thinking about what she told me. "Fascinating," I said, to no one in particular. 

"What is?"

"You want to find out, who killed Lady

Casterton?"

"Yes?"

"Exactly how and when she died -- and what happened to her?"

"Yes."

"The police suspect only one person, the nephew, who didn't do it as you gave him a cast-iron alibi with the time he left."

"Nicholas Casterton left half-an-hour before she died," she said, shaking me out of my reverie. "He left at a quarter-to-six, and she died at about a

quarter-past-six."

THREE WEEKS LATER