Chapter 14
Two thousand pounds was to be placed in a supermarket carrier bag and left in the porch of Belsham church. After the drop had been made, the Waltons were to drive away and park at the other end of the village. Then they would receive instructions about where to find Bella.
After depositing the carrier bag in the dark shadows of the medieval church porch, leaving it on the stone bench as instructed, Mr Walton returned to the car.
‘It’s done,’ he said to his wife, who was close to tears.
‘Maybe we should have told our Trish that the drop was to be made tonight.’
‘We shouldn’t have told her anything,’ Mr Walton said sharply. ‘They said no police, but you couldn’t keep quiet, could you? If anything happens to Bella, it’ll be your fault.’
‘They couldn’t know our daughter’s a detective, could they?’ his wife said in a desperate whine. After so many years of placid marriage, they were sniping at each other, and it upset her.
Mr Walton hesitated. ‘They might have been watching us; doing their research.’
As he prepared to start the engine, he looked up and saw a figure approaching the porch. ‘Is that one of them?’
The man was striding confidently towards the church. The band of white at his throat, visible in the light of the full moon, looked very much like a dog collar.
‘Oh no. I think it’s the vicar.’
As the man entered the church, they saw the lights in the building go on, illuminating the stained-glass windows. A minute later, a dark-coloured van drew up. It paused for a moment, then drove away. Fast.
On Saturday morning, the air was filled with the sound of sackbuts, viols and crumhorns.
The medieval festival in the grounds of Fontescue Hall was in full swing.
Brightly coloured tents, modelled on the ones featured in old depictions of jousts, dotted the manicured lawn.
The society prided itself on historical accuracy.
Jousts themselves had been outlawed on health and safety grounds, but the rest of medieval life was there, re-enacted for the entertainment of the visitors.
Falconry, food, crafts and clothing, and most important of all to some people, the beer tent, presided over by Mistress Potter, the ale wife.
It was pure theatre, and many of the volunteers were also amateur thespians.
Re-enactments provided them with a wonderful opportunity to dress up without the burden of having to learn lines and squabble with fellow players.
But there was one notable absence that morning: Mistress Potter herself.
Someone had tried to ring her when she didn’t turn up, but there’d been no answer, and after a while her colleagues began to worry.
It was suggested that somebody should go to Belsham to check that she was all right once the initial rush died down.
What if she was ill? What if she’d collapsed at home and was lying unconscious?
What if she’d had an accident on the way there?
In the end, it was agreed that Tom Bellow, the butcher from Neston who was providing the meat for the hog roast, should call in on his way home from the festival. Just to make sure Sue Potter was OK.