The Corpse's Tale (Trevor Joseph Detective series) by Katherine John Page A
Authors: Katherine John
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
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around her slim figure. She pictured herself on stage – Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream – or even better, Juliet.
She looked up and down one last time. Seeing no one, she opened the gate and ran up the path that led between the tombstones to the church. It was a shortcut the whole village used. The church was situated between the pub and shops on one side and rows of cottages on the other. It was easier to walk across the churchyard than around it.
Lost in thoughts of her glittering future, she passed the small shed behind the vestry at the back of the church. A hand shot out and clamped over her mouth. Helpless, unable even to scream, she was yanked into darkness, beneath a yew tree, too deep for moonlight to reach. The man whispered her name into her ear and lifted a finger to his lips before releasing her.
She locked her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. He swung her off her feet and carried her to a raised tomb built against the church wall. Their figures merged and slipped low into the darkness.
Snatches of conversation continued to drift into the village square from the inn. The clock in the church tower struck ten and a dozen women tumbled out of the pub. They lingered, laughing and joking for a few minutes before heading off in different directions.
A man, thickset, heavily built, left the row of cottages on the opposite side of the church to the inn, opened the gate and shambled into the churchyard. Stooping low, he clicked his fingers and rattled a lead. He called out to every rustle in the shrubs planted among the graves. When he reached the gate that faced the Angel, he turned and retraced his steps.
He sobbed and wiped his eyes as he closed the gate behind him. He headed down the lane, past the cottages, still rattling the lead and calling out to every shadow that moved in the puddles of moonlight.
Tyrone ushered the last customers from the Angel and locked the doors. Men and women shouted “goodnight” before dispersing. Half a dozen women linked arms and danced into the market singing “I Whistle a Happy Tune”.
One by one, the lights in the cottages and pub were extinguished. Cats prowled the street and gardens. A fox trotted across the churchyard, stopped and sniffed, only to run off at speed when a dog barked.
The figures in the shadows at the back of the church rose. They separated and merged again briefly before separating one final time. The man walked away quickly, towards the back of the churchyard. He vaulted the wall. Soon, he was lost to sight in a copse of trees.
Anna sat on the tomb and began to fasten the row of buttons on the bodice of her dress. An owl screeched and swooped low over a scuttling in the hedgerow of a cottage garden. She froze.
The gate at the cottages side of the yard creaked and Anna shrank against the wall. Footsteps crunched over the gravel path. They passed the church but she didn’t move until she heard the gate close opposite the inn. Jumping down from the tomb she moved her feet over the grass, searching for her shoes. She found one, picked it up and slipped it on, lifting her leg to hook the back over her heel.
She sensed movement, glanced up, and saw the glint of reflected moonlight above her head. Before she had time to register what it was, it crashed down. She fell, swallowed by agonizing, unbearable pain. Lights swirled before her eyes. Unable even to crawl, she reached out, grabbed flesh and dug in her nails.
Her fingers weakened. The pools of moonlight merged with the shadows into unrelieved blackness. As the colour bled from the scene, so did her pain.
Badgers prowled, knocking over bins in search of food. The owl returned to its roost in a barn. Foxes rooted in the mess the badgers had left. But all was quiet when the first rays of the sun touched the eastern hills. It rose steadily and when the church clock struck five the valley was bathed in soft, golden light.
Tom the baker was the first to leave
She looked up and down one last time. Seeing no one, she opened the gate and ran up the path that led between the tombstones to the church. It was a shortcut the whole village used. The church was situated between the pub and shops on one side and rows of cottages on the other. It was easier to walk across the churchyard than around it.
Lost in thoughts of her glittering future, she passed the small shed behind the vestry at the back of the church. A hand shot out and clamped over her mouth. Helpless, unable even to scream, she was yanked into darkness, beneath a yew tree, too deep for moonlight to reach. The man whispered her name into her ear and lifted a finger to his lips before releasing her.
She locked her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. He swung her off her feet and carried her to a raised tomb built against the church wall. Their figures merged and slipped low into the darkness.
Snatches of conversation continued to drift into the village square from the inn. The clock in the church tower struck ten and a dozen women tumbled out of the pub. They lingered, laughing and joking for a few minutes before heading off in different directions.
A man, thickset, heavily built, left the row of cottages on the opposite side of the church to the inn, opened the gate and shambled into the churchyard. Stooping low, he clicked his fingers and rattled a lead. He called out to every rustle in the shrubs planted among the graves. When he reached the gate that faced the Angel, he turned and retraced his steps.
He sobbed and wiped his eyes as he closed the gate behind him. He headed down the lane, past the cottages, still rattling the lead and calling out to every shadow that moved in the puddles of moonlight.
Tyrone ushered the last customers from the Angel and locked the doors. Men and women shouted “goodnight” before dispersing. Half a dozen women linked arms and danced into the market singing “I Whistle a Happy Tune”.
One by one, the lights in the cottages and pub were extinguished. Cats prowled the street and gardens. A fox trotted across the churchyard, stopped and sniffed, only to run off at speed when a dog barked.
The figures in the shadows at the back of the church rose. They separated and merged again briefly before separating one final time. The man walked away quickly, towards the back of the churchyard. He vaulted the wall. Soon, he was lost to sight in a copse of trees.
Anna sat on the tomb and began to fasten the row of buttons on the bodice of her dress. An owl screeched and swooped low over a scuttling in the hedgerow of a cottage garden. She froze.
The gate at the cottages side of the yard creaked and Anna shrank against the wall. Footsteps crunched over the gravel path. They passed the church but she didn’t move until she heard the gate close opposite the inn. Jumping down from the tomb she moved her feet over the grass, searching for her shoes. She found one, picked it up and slipped it on, lifting her leg to hook the back over her heel.
She sensed movement, glanced up, and saw the glint of reflected moonlight above her head. Before she had time to register what it was, it crashed down. She fell, swallowed by agonizing, unbearable pain. Lights swirled before her eyes. Unable even to crawl, she reached out, grabbed flesh and dug in her nails.
Her fingers weakened. The pools of moonlight merged with the shadows into unrelieved blackness. As the colour bled from the scene, so did her pain.
Badgers prowled, knocking over bins in search of food. The owl returned to its roost in a barn. Foxes rooted in the mess the badgers had left. But all was quiet when the first rays of the sun touched the eastern hills. It rose steadily and when the church clock struck five the valley was bathed in soft, golden light.
Tom the baker was the first to leave
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