Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(71)

But, as Ryan had always maintained, death was an incredibly good leveller.

Nowadays, Hatfield was no longer seated upon his mighty throne but was little more than dust inside a tomb which sat at its base.

“Bit of a come down,” Lowerson remarked.

He and Yates were accompanied by Derek Pettigrew, whose surprise at seeing them so soon after the previous day’s interview was swiftly overtaken by his outraged rejection of their appeal to set up a ladder and climb to the top of the Bishop’s Throne, to see what might be on top of it. It had taken a swift call from their Chief Constable to the Dean of the Cathedral, who allowed it on condition that he be present at all times.

Though he could have done without an audience, Lowerson found himself climbing a long ladder, which the head caretaker of the Cathedral had procured for them.

“Be careful,” Yates called up to him.

“Now she tells me,” he muttered, and made the mistake of looking back down to where four heads looked up at him, each displaying varying degrees of concern.

Don’t swear in the House of God, he told himself, and pressed on until he drew level with the top of the throne.

Unfortunately, the top was not within sight, unless he happened to carry a long-handled periscope.

He made a quick cost-benefit analysis, and determined that the benefits outweighed the potential risks. Ryan needed his help, and there was no way he was leaving empty-handed.

To the Dean’s horror, Lowerson made a grab for the top of the throne and found a toehold against one of its carved columns which allowed him to keep one foot on the ladder whilst leaning across to inspect the top. Yates checked again that the caretaker was still holding the ladder steady, and moved across to hold one side of it, not because he needed the help, but because it made her feel better knowing there were two people supporting him, rather than one.

“Can you see anything?” she called out.

Lowerson tried to push away thoughts of falling and concentrated on inspecting the wooden top of the throne. It was layered with hundreds of years of accumulated dust and grime, and he wrinkled his nose before brushing it off with his sleeve.

With one foot still on the ladder and another holding firm on the throne, he reached carefully for his mobile phone, which was in the back pocket of his trousers. With a slow, steady hand, he held it up high above the top of the throne and took a few pictures. A quick check told him he had captured the shot, and he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Yates’ breath caught somewhere in her chest when Jack’s shoe seemed to get caught on the wooden carving of the throne, and he found himself straddled between that and the ladder. Thankfully, it came loose after some nifty footwork, and soon he had both feet back on the ladder.

There was a hushed silence as Lowerson made his way back to terra firma, and only then did he allow his knees to shake.

“What did you find?” Yates asked, while the Dean and Pettigrew waited expectantly, their faces revealing nothing of what they might have felt in that moment.

Lowerson brought up the images and scrolled through the few he’d taken to find the clearest shot. There, carved onto the top of the throne, was a message which read:



“Seek out the sanctuary of sandstone, held aloft by a single pillar, and find within a tribute to God’s most faithful and true servant.”



When they looked up, they found the others had disappeared, and all that remained was the hollow echo of their receding footsteps through the cloisters of the cathedral.

*

Back in Elsdon, Ryan’s phone buzzed and he opened an email from Lowerson with an attached image of the message he’d discovered on top of the Bishop’s Throne. He read the message twice, and was overcome with a sense of helplessness and anger.

“Highest thrones and sandstone sanctuaries…why are we wasting time, chasing after these riddles? It won’t bring my wife back,” he snarled, and thrust his phone away to pace around the kitchen like a caged tiger. “What about other leads, Frank? Have we heard anything—”

They were interrupted by the jingle of an incoming call on Ryan’s phone, and he snatched it up again.

“Ryan.”

There came the sound of soft laughter at the other end of the line. “I believe you’ve been looking for me, chief inspector.”

Ryan put the call on speakerphone and gestured for Phillips to try to run a trace on the call, which he did using software downloaded to Ryan’s laptop.

“Where’s my wife?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to worry. Mrs Ryan is perfectly well.”

“Please, let me speak to her.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the caller said. “Now, I imagine you’d like to know why I have her with me?”

“What do you want?”

“Such an important question,” the caller agreed. “I’m glad you come straight to the point. I will be equally straightforward in setting out my terms, which are as follows.”

Ryan made a grab for a pen and some paper. “Go on.”

“I would like you to deliver Cuthbert’s remains to me by nine o’clock this evening, at a meeting place of my choosing, which I will inform you of closer to the time.”

Ryan was confused. “Cuthbert’s remains? I don’t have them to give you. They’re buried beneath his shrine, at the cathedral—”