One of Us Is Dead

16 Tuesday 27 September 2022

The office, tucked away behind the vestry of the Church of the Good Shepherd, had none of the grandeur or beauty of the church’s Perpendicular exterior. It was chilly, with a window that was little more than a slit in the thick wall, and spartan furnishing. There was a basic desk, a row of filing cabinets, clutter everywhere, a rather severe-looking crucifix hung on the wall, and an elderly wall-mounted monitor, on which Taylor was watching the CCTV replay, camera by camera — three in total — of Barnie Wallace’s funeral.

The cameras had been installed a few years back, the vicar informed him, after a spate of vandalism, with graves desecrated, graffiti daubed on the church walls, and, separately, an incident when lead had been stolen from the church roof.

There were two cameras outside the church. The third was sited in the ceiling of the entrance portico, facing directly down, capturing a bird’s-eye view of the faces of everyone entering or leaving the vestibule. Due to the near torrential rain as the mourners were both arriving and later departing, the images from the exterior cameras were so blurred they were useless.

But the one in the vestibule roof was pin sharp. The service had kicked off at 11.45 a.m. and the vicar had obligingly started the footage thirty minutes earlier, shortly before the first people came in. Just as the digital time on the screen showed 11.50, he watched himself enter.

Strange, he thought, he didn’t often see an overhead shot of himself. The bald patch on the crown of his head seemed much bigger than the last time he’d looked. And his physique, which he prided on being muscular, looked distinctly stocky from this angle. He watched himself collapse his umbrella, dump it in a receptacle and hurry through into the nave.

The one person he had not seen enter was Rufus Rorke. Had he missed him?

He asked the vicar if he could jump to the point on the CCTV around forty minutes on, when the mourners were leaving. From the irritated glare he received, he had a feeling he was about to be stung for an increased donation to the church roof fund. But then the clergyman appeared to relent and hit the fast-forward icon.

The vicar came into view and positioned himself beside the collection plate, ready to shake hands with all the exiting mourners, with the plate sitting beside him like a wagging finger. Then, moments before the long procession of people began, Taylor saw the vicar slip a handful of banknotes onto the plate.

You wily bugger! he thought.

He was waiting impatiently for that man in the baseball cap and scarf. To see if he could get a good view of him and confirm, at least to himself, that it was Rufus. As well as having photographic evidence — not that he was sure what he might use that for, if anything.

The line was interminable. Handshake after handshake, but little engagement now. People retrieved their brollies and ducked out into the elements. But so far no sign of Rufus Rorke. He would have to appear soon.

But he didn’t.

Taylor suddenly saw himself, tucking the service sheet under his arm and fleetingly shaking the vicar’s hand, then looking anxious, grabbing his umbrella and hurrying out.

No Rufus.

How was that possible? Rufus was definitely well ahead of him.

He asked the vicar to pause the recording. ‘Would it be possible for someone to come into the vestibule or leave without being picked up on the camera?’

‘Yes, it would,’ the vicar replied. ‘There is one blind spot.’

Taylor thought about this for a moment. ‘Is it likely that someone coming into the church, and leaving later, could do so through that blind spot?’

Parry-Jones shook his head. ‘Most unlikely. They would have to press up hard against the wall where the parish magazine and the events flyers are kept in their little pigeon holes, and almost go sideways. It would need to be someone who really did not want to be seen.’

Someone who really did not want to be seen — or a ghost?

But Taylor didn’t think the latter for one simple reason: he didn’t believe in ghosts.