darted past her face. Throwing her arms up, Ella whirled in time to see a dove flap its way across the church. Its gentle coo only made her muscles tense, her skin crawl. Every sense urged her to retreat. A ground-breaking discovery in the case, she argued with herself, a hostage tortured to death before the police arrived. Then her mind flashed an image of herself in the grasp of a lunatic killer hacking away at her limbs and flinging the mutilated pieces of her body into the river before police cars skidded to a halt in front of the church, sirens blaring, but too late to prevent her murder.
Wild nonsense, she told herself, blocking the knowledge of four disappearances and two murders from her mind. the Informer was having a greater effect on her imagination than she had believed. Armed with a thin veneer of bravado, she climbed to the top of the bell tower, one hand trailing along the damp stone.
She expected a step where there was none and so stumbled onto the platform. Shrouded in darkness, it could have hidden more than one body. Above, the arches designed to show off the mute bell revealed only leaden sky, still awash with the storm. Feeling the way with her toes, Ella shuffled in the direction of the door. Her shoe connected with an object. It grated across the uneven wood. Dropping onto hands and knees, she felt around, ignoring the splinter which pushed into her thumb, until her hand connected with a solid object. A soft, furred object. Stifling a cry, she frantically wiped her hand on her trousers. A bat, she told herself, though she had no way of knowing. One thing was for sure, it was not human. If she didn’t hurry, whatever mishap had occurred on the roof would be long over, hidden before she got there. She continued to the roof door. It was already unlatched, requiring only a gentle push to creak open.
The fresh air bathed her like a tonic, soothing her nerves. The light that spilled into the tower was enough to dispel her theory a body was stashed on the platform. She shuddered as she saw a dead bat, then caught sight of a small object beside it. She smothered her revulsion long enough to pluck the piece of stained wood from under a leathery wing. It had the shape of a guitar pick but was thicker and larger. She supposed it must come from a carving, though she had not seen any woodwork around. On impulse she dropped it into her tote. A gust chose that moment to bang the door shut. She jumped, lurched toward it, and shoved it open, breathing a sigh of relief that it had not left her in the dark with goodness knew how many bats. She clambered down the steps, jogging to the left against the wind and lashing rain, counting the grotesques she passed to find the one that marked the blooded spot. As abruptly as it had started, the rain ceased. Good old Adelaide , Ella thought with a cursory glance at the third wingless statue. The fourth did not look quite right. The fifth one. She was sure by the position of the wings, elbows down, wrists bending into clawed hands raised to the level of the misshapen holes that passed for ears. Except, its feathered head was angled down and to the left, leaving the impression the creature studied its wing.
Ella looked around in bafflement. The other statues had heads that looked like goblins or lizards or cats. They sat with wings outspread, or tightly furled, or raised in front. No other remotely resembled the figure she had seen from below. But the grotesque she had seen had gazed at the houses. She dismissed her doubts. Quite obviously, no injured girl sat beneath the ledge. She made a quick circuit of the roof, head down as she fought the wind, arms spread for balance when she turned back toward the canal. She was alone.
She was a journalist with the perfect opportunity to investigate further. Determined steps took her back to the fifth grotesque. Some feet from it, she noticed a jagged crack through the left wing. The stone had crumbled, leaving a gouge the width of a
Wild nonsense, she told herself, blocking the knowledge of four disappearances and two murders from her mind. the Informer was having a greater effect on her imagination than she had believed. Armed with a thin veneer of bravado, she climbed to the top of the bell tower, one hand trailing along the damp stone.
She expected a step where there was none and so stumbled onto the platform. Shrouded in darkness, it could have hidden more than one body. Above, the arches designed to show off the mute bell revealed only leaden sky, still awash with the storm. Feeling the way with her toes, Ella shuffled in the direction of the door. Her shoe connected with an object. It grated across the uneven wood. Dropping onto hands and knees, she felt around, ignoring the splinter which pushed into her thumb, until her hand connected with a solid object. A soft, furred object. Stifling a cry, she frantically wiped her hand on her trousers. A bat, she told herself, though she had no way of knowing. One thing was for sure, it was not human. If she didn’t hurry, whatever mishap had occurred on the roof would be long over, hidden before she got there. She continued to the roof door. It was already unlatched, requiring only a gentle push to creak open.
The fresh air bathed her like a tonic, soothing her nerves. The light that spilled into the tower was enough to dispel her theory a body was stashed on the platform. She shuddered as she saw a dead bat, then caught sight of a small object beside it. She smothered her revulsion long enough to pluck the piece of stained wood from under a leathery wing. It had the shape of a guitar pick but was thicker and larger. She supposed it must come from a carving, though she had not seen any woodwork around. On impulse she dropped it into her tote. A gust chose that moment to bang the door shut. She jumped, lurched toward it, and shoved it open, breathing a sigh of relief that it had not left her in the dark with goodness knew how many bats. She clambered down the steps, jogging to the left against the wind and lashing rain, counting the grotesques she passed to find the one that marked the blooded spot. As abruptly as it had started, the rain ceased. Good old Adelaide , Ella thought with a cursory glance at the third wingless statue. The fourth did not look quite right. The fifth one. She was sure by the position of the wings, elbows down, wrists bending into clawed hands raised to the level of the misshapen holes that passed for ears. Except, its feathered head was angled down and to the left, leaving the impression the creature studied its wing.
Ella looked around in bafflement. The other statues had heads that looked like goblins or lizards or cats. They sat with wings outspread, or tightly furled, or raised in front. No other remotely resembled the figure she had seen from below. But the grotesque she had seen had gazed at the houses. She dismissed her doubts. Quite obviously, no injured girl sat beneath the ledge. She made a quick circuit of the roof, head down as she fought the wind, arms spread for balance when she turned back toward the canal. She was alone.
She was a journalist with the perfect opportunity to investigate further. Determined steps took her back to the fifth grotesque. Some feet from it, she noticed a jagged crack through the left wing. The stone had crumbled, leaving a gouge the width of a
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