Free The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries by Barbara Cleverly Page B

their wits, I said something very silly, just to hear the human sound of my own voice. ‘Byam Somersham? I see you still have your earring . . . Byam, can this possibly be you?’
    At that moment, with a rush and a high- pitched whirring, the whole population of bats poured from holes in every part of the tower. They surged into the air, zipping and diving past me and I flapped at them in panic, groping my way back to the head of the stairs. I was grateful to hear the clang of my boots on the steel treads as I scrambled down. I ran out to my Golf and, still shaking, dialled up a number on my mobile phone.
    â€˜Inspector Jennings? I wonder if you remember me? It’s Ellie Hardwick here. I’m at All Souls’ Church near Crowden and something awful’s happened!’
    Richard Jennings of the Eastern Counties CID groaned. ‘I’m just going off duty and I don’t want to hear this. What
is
it with you and churches? Oh, go on, then . . .’
    He listened silently as I burbled on, ending dramatically with, ‘Inspector . . . it’s every architect’s nightmare—getting themselves caught up in one of those trap doors! In a deserted church . . . no one to hear you scream . . . your phone’s in your pocket and you can’t get to it . . .’ And, with an increasing hysteria I didn’t like to hear: ‘And you know no one’s going to come near the building for another five years! It’s Byam Somersham, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Calm down and I’ll get straight out to you,’ said Jennings. ‘Don’t move from your car! Have you got a flask of coffee in there? Good. Keep some for me. Ten minutes.’
    Cocooned in the lights of my car with an up-beat jazz album playing and the windows fogging over with coffee fumes, I managed to get my teeth to unclench and my hands to stop trembling by the time the police car drew up. The inspector was by himself. He slid into the passenger seat, a large, masculine presence, took my cup from me and drained my coffee. He listened again to my story, nodding quietly.
    Finally, ‘I’ve been on the phone with headquarters on the way here,’ he said. ‘Spoke to someone in Missing Persons. It’s looking most unlikely that this is your bloke. Somersham was indeed reported to them nearly five years ago. By his wife. But then she had to withdraw the notice because he turned up in Spain.’ He paused for a moment, thoughtful. ‘His car was found abandoned at Stansted airport. And he sent her a postcard on her birthday from Barcelona. He’s sent one every year since he went off. CID checked. Date stamped in Spain. Certified husband’s handwriting. A constable was actually on hand at the letter box to intercept one on delivery. At the lady’s request. So that was that. No case. We’ll have to look further. Earring, you say? Useful but plenty of fellers have them. I blame Johnny Depp. Floating cloak on the body? Ecclesiastical gear? What’s the odds that a trendy vicar’s gone missing lately, wearing one of those what do you call-ems?’
    â€˜Surplice? No, it’s much shorter than that. Like . . . an old-fashioned policeman’s cape . . .’
    â€˜Eh? Good Lord!’ said Jennings.
    * * *
    The inspector’s torch was more powerful than mine but I stayed as close to him as I could without inviting comment.
    â€˜You don’t have to do this, you know,’ he said when we reached the ladder. ‘Leave it to me.’
    â€˜I’m coming with you,’ I said and began to climb after him. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t touch anything I haven’t already touched.’
    We stood together gazing in silence at the corpse. The brighter light of the police torch revealed further horrors. Now I saw that the dead face was even more appalling than I’d guessed from my first startled look. It didn’t have the dreamy, at-rest quality of a