Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(61)

“I ask myself, why can’t people just kill their spouses and bury them in the back garden, like the good old days?”

“I’m so glad you didn’t say that when the Adoption Panel interviewed us.”

“So am I, love. I think the humour might have been lost on them.”





CHAPTER 31


After two late nights in a row, Ryan was determined to make it home in time for his baby girl’s bath time at six-thirty. Despite there being a hundred more calls to make, reports to write and staff to manage as Operation Bertie restarted, he left the office on the dot of five and stepped through his front door as the clock chimed six.

“Hi there!”

Anna’s face lit up as she came down the hall, baby in arms.

“I thought I heard your car,” she said, and tipped her face up for a kiss before turning the baby towards him, so he could lift Emma high above his head and make her giggle.

Watching them together, Anna experienced a strange emotion, deep in her belly. It felt peaceful to know that, should anything ever happen to her, Emma would be safe with this lovely man.

Nothing was going to happen to her, Anna thought. Why think like that?

“Are you hungry?” she asked him, brightly.

“I can make something,” he said, and nuzzled Emma’s tummy to make her laugh again.

Ryan had always been one of those rare creatures who didn’t expect others to do things for him, especially not things he could do perfectly well himself—unless, of course, they really wanted to.

“I think your dad is planning to grill some steaks,” she said. “Your mum thinks I’m getting too thin, so she’s been trying to feed me up.”

Ryan tucked Emma against his chest and looked at his wife—properly looked, removing the ‘love goggles’ he wore every day.

“Perhaps you’ve lost a bit of weight, but that’s bound to happen when you’re running around after this little one and probably forgetting to eat.”

Anna nodded. “I’m sure that’s it,” she agreed. “But, as I told your mum, if I have to stuff my face with steak and chips, followed by a slab of coffee cake, then I guess I’ll have to force myself—for the good of my health.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ryan agreed, and flashed a devastating smile that, even after all these years, could still make her stomach flip over.

Then, she caught an odd look in his eye, and knew there was something he needed to tell her. But, not now.

If they needed to speak of dark things, they would do it far away from their daughter’s ears.

“Let’s give her a bath,” she said, huskily. “Then, we’ll have some dinner. There’ll be time to talk, once Emma’s asleep.”

“All right,” he said, and leaned across to press a kiss to her temple. “I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

*

Ryan’s parents seemed to have sensed something about his manner, too, for they seemed as eager as she was to enjoy every moment of their dinner together, where there was no shop talk whatsoever. However, once the plates were cleaned away and small talk dried up, Ryan knew it was past time to address the thought that was uppermost in his mind.

But, still, he delayed.

“Did you have any time to look out those notes about the gospel book?” he asked his wife.

Anna grasped the topic like a lifeline. “Yes, I did,” she said, and rose from her chair to reach for a slim folder she’d printed off, earlier that day. “A copy of all this is saved on my laptop, too.”

Ryan flipped open the first page and felt a shudder of recognition.

The image was a colour print of a painting entitled, ‘The Death of the Venerable Bede’ by an artist called William Bell Scott, painted in 1857. It showed the dead man, Bede, lying on the floor of a study or workroom within the walls of a grand monastery, one full of books and interesting treasures. In the painting, Bede is surrounded by five other monks, one of whom is kissing the crown of his head. On the window ledge in the background, there were four multi-coloured bottles, and to the left of the body was a rustic worktable slanted inward, on top of which rested a long white feather.

In Bede’s lap there was a small red book containing the gospel of St. John.

“I saw this,” he said quietly. “Or parts of this—at the scene at Crayke College.”

“What do you mean?” his mother asked, leaning forward to look over his shoulder.

“The killer had tried to recreate this painting, or parts of it,” Ryan said. “They left four bottles on the window ledge of the cider mill, where Father Jacob was found, and a long white feather perched exactly like this on the edge of a worktable, not far from the body.”

He paused, feeling vaguely ill. “I can’t say the body was left in the same condition.”

“I’m sorry,” Anna said. “I had no idea—I included that picture because it’s quite famous, and shows the gospel book in Bede’s lap. It was made at the same monastery where he spent most of his life, down in Jarrow.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Ryan said, flipping through more pages. “The more information we have, the better.”

“Knowledge is power,” his father murmured.