//(Read from start)//

The bitterly cold weather, and daily falls of snow, had left the hamlet of Thornton Under Vale an image of Christmas Card perfection, apart from the two ugly grey and brown tracks that brought practical reality to the image.

The image was also marred by the row of shiny black limousines that waited outside the Georgian frontage of Anbull Hall, which was a rather grand title for a 2-storey, mostly medieval, half-timbered farmhouse.

There was a small collection of more practical rural 4×4 vehicles, filled with local children more interested in the adventure of going to a ‘proper funeral’ at the Church of St Genesius, in the nearby larger village of Thornton Du Bois.

Not only did Thornton Du Bois have a church, it also had two public houses (The Bull and The Linnet), a combined post office & shop (the central hub of all local gossip) and the all important Repair Garage… which was originally the Blacksmiths, but expanded trade to repairing any metal object, making copies of antiques, and constructing discrete metalwork for a rather niche BDSM market. “No questions asked”, was first business motto, followed closely by “Cash Only”.

It was this business arrangement that the late Robin Cock had used often. But, when they refused him credit, Robin Cock had threatened to get his revenge by telling all. Mr Cock did not get a chance, having fatally been attached to a longbow arrow embedded in his forehead. The archer had still not been discovered. Nor had the killer of that old witch, Miss Fly. At least they could stop the monthly payments to her personal ‘charity’.

But, the garage lads were still worried about who knew what. They would certainly be present at the funeral. They put on sunglasses to protect their eyes from the incendiary winter glare, before closing their garage doors, and solemnly crossing the crunching white ground, dressed formally in their rarely-worn black suits. Like the Mafia they were.

The bell tolled ominously from the snow-whitened Gothic Revivalist church, like a scene from an Edgar Allen Poe novel. Reverend Castle shivered as he stood by the heavy oak-studded, church door. With silent nods, he acknowledged the much larger congregation into the obscure church than he had seen in many a year. Keeping a low profile was Reverend Castle’s aim, and having a media presence was not welcomed. His KGB controllers in Moscow were initially not pleased, but he was instructed to stay. His disappearance would be even more suspicious. His shivering was not just due to the cold, but the news that the Chief Constable’s Assistant, Inspector Viper, would be present at both the funeral service and the special after-funeral Wake in the Chinese & Russian porcelain-filled Anbull Hall. The Reverend could not escape being questioned about his failure to dispatch Robin Cock in the proper KGB way …. quietly and without fuss. Like all who upset Vladimir’s plans.

As the church filled, and Media Reporters stamped bored feet in the crisp, chill air, the atmosphere and emotional resemblance to a Siberia Gulag was too close for Reverend Castle’s comfort. There was a sudden flurry of reporters and photographers, like ravens flocking to a sick animal. Robin Cock’s mysterious widow had been recently released from the Police investigation, and had yet to sign an Exclusive with one of the news reporters. She was hot property…. in so many ways.

He saw the elegant Ivanna Cock, the new widow, looking resplendent in plain black tweed, suitable black veiled pill-box hat, and sensible shoes. Seeing her on a regular basis was the only reason he agreed to take up the KGB contract to secretly photograph the very private collection of Chinese and Russian porcelain of the late Robin Cock… well, that, and the extra income to cover his niche interest. If only Ivanna would be willing to share his passion for the darker side of pleasure, but just luxuriating in her imperial presence; absorbing her delicate Chanel No5; enraptured by her perfect clipped English accent. His wet-dream Dominatrix. He blushed as she approached.

However, her face was a picture of shattered crystal, bloodless, frozen with deep lines of grief and shock. She, too, wore dark mirrored sunglasses, like that of the Repair Shop Boys. Yet, as she took his hand, and accepted his customary condolences for her loss, he could see past the mirror to shimmering red eyes, blinking fast. Like a gracious black swan, she appeared to be above emotion, yet just below the surface, she was frantically paddling to keep herself afloat in front of everyone.

He wanted to hug her, or even just kiss her fine black leather-covered black hand, to show how much he cared for her. But convention forbade such an action. The frustration caused his eyes to water ever so briefly.

She noticed, cracked a thin smile, and patted his hot hand with her other gloved hand, whispering softly through pale glossed lips, “Thank you. Please ensure you come to the house afterwards. As my personal support.”

His eyes looked round frantically, but no-one was listening. The church organ had started, and drowned out all muted whispers from the gathered mourners. He was over joyed by the interaction with his secret passion. An invitation his fast beating heart could not refuse, but with it came the terror that he could not escape his KGB Controller, the well-positioned Assistant Chief Constable Viper.

Luckily, everyone else saw a shy, reluctant, vicar of an obscure parish church, being understandably overwhelmed by the unusually large gathering for a local funeral. The church had never been so full for years, nor had so many listened to the slightly erratic playing of Victorian organ by Mrs Lark, the Parish Town Council Clerk’s wife.

Reverend Castle flinched as the organ hit yet another wrong note. Mrs Lark’s playing had deteriorated ever since her husband had been, unjustly, accused of pilfering from the Church lead roof restoration fund. The post office shop gossip of  ‘no-smoke-without-fire’ had taken a terrible toll on Mr Lark. He never left home at night, for fear of being lynched. Mrs Lark had taken sanctuary in the church rituals, doing anything the Church needed, rather than face the local back-stabbing whispers. Her distress was bravely hidden, but she kept wiping her tears and nose on the sleeve of her best dark Sunday coat, while trying to master the unexpected request for Mozart’s Requiem. “A memorable rendition” muttered Lady Bryd in a stage whisper, “I wonder if Mozart would recognise the composer?” There was the sound of muffled sniggering around her.

Yet, the main focus of attention (much to Lady Byrd’s annoyance) was the mercifully, quiet, plain, simulated-oak coffin that held the corpse of the Devil that had plagued everyone life. The late Robin Cock lay enclosed on wooden trestles in the centre of the nave. The congregation had seen him dead. They now all wanted to see him buried. Preferably with a wooden stake through his scheming, cold, arrogant, heart, or even his head.

Unfortunately, the ash wood arrow had been removed by the pathologist before the late Robin Cook had been passed to the Undertakers, Beetle & Sons. Putting an arrow back in place in Mr Cook’s forehead was just a whimsical thought of the Beetle brothers, before they completed the embalming. It had been too tempting. Instead they placed a photocopy of the letter from the Police into the fake-silk lined coffin, which stated the speeding offence case against them was being dropped as the Police no longer had a reliable witness. They felt that letter was something Mr Cock would like to read on his way to the Gates of Hell.

As the black shrouded widow entered the full church, she paused. Mrs Ivana Cock knew how to make an entrance. With all eyes on her, she stiffly looked for Dolly Dove. Time to get revenge on her philandering husband; ensure that she had at least one grandchild; and put one in the eye of the hypocrites of the village. She paused at the pew of the clearly pregnant barmaid, who was sobbing loudly, and stretched out her hand, saying in a controlled, but soft, tone, “Please join the family. You have more reason to mourn him than we do.”

As an audible gasp flowed over the pews, the young girl tottered up, and was guided by Mrs Cock to sit in the front pews with the dark suited Adrian and his husband, James.

The young men were not surprised. It was a planned sign to the unknown archer that they were not intimidated by threats, although, they were more worried about the future consequences of their actions. Miss Dove was, after-all, just a barmaid.

Meanwhile, back at the mortuary, Doctor Fish was finishing off the paperwork so that the body of the late Edwina Fly, Spinster of the Parish of St  Genesius, could be sent for cremation. To the Doctor it seamed so apt that she, who had spent her life being hypocritically pious, was destined for the flames, while the arrogant, church-hating, Robin Cock was being buried in St Genesius’s Anbull Family tomb. He smiled and shared his joke with the miserable DS Hawk, “ I think it should renamed the mausoleum the Cock Anbull Tomb.”

DS Hawk did not laugh. His mind was occupied with the mantra, ‘ Revenge is mine…’. He was desperate to find a way to achieve that goal. Absently he muttered, “Who would’ve thought that Web would have found Fly’s Blackmail book …. and then lose it.”

The doctor looked up, annoyed his joke was not appreciated, “The Book was not lost. It was stolen from the Evidence Room. As were the CCTV tapes. Web was with the Chief Constable at the time. Pretty damn good alibi. It looks like an inside job, don’t you think, DS Hawk?”

Hawk snapped back, “No shit, Sherlock! Anything else I should be aware of?”

The pathologist ignored the outburst, as he would any petulant child having a tantrum, and flipped over the pages of a newly arrived file. “Well… the poison that was given to our other mortuary guest was Hypericum. Also known as a Russian herb called ‘Zveroboy’. Used on its own in tea, it’s very poisonous and may provoke a strong allergic reaction. However, I still say it was the arrow to the forehead that killed him, but being poisoned first and then hit over the head with a lead candlestick didn’t help his chances to survive. Although, I still suspect hypothermia was the final straw. I had to let him thaw out before I could get to work on him, you know.”

DS Hawk looked up, bright eyed, hopeful, “Zveroboy? Russian herb? Maybe there is a connection with Vladimir Putin and his henchmen? Give me all you have on this poison, Doctor.”

Once DS Hawk had found a Russian with archery skills and no alibi, he would have his revenge on that young up-start Constable ‘Spider’ Web, and be back in Chief Constable’s good books for solving the sensitive murder case. He could envisage the newspaper headline, ‘Hawk Gets Russian Cock Killer’.

Hell, he may even get promotion at long last, and could afford to marry his secret love, Dolly Dove, the luscious barmaid of the ‘The Linnet’…. assuming she got rid of her bastard kid first. Hawk had no intention of being a Cuckoo.

As for that annoyingly clever, baby-faced, Constable Web….. accidents do happen. Eventually.

(Prompts Given: The bell tolled ominously..; her face was a picture of …. ; But no-one was listening..; Revenge is mine…; No shit, Sherlock…; Who would’ve thought..;)

//Now Read// // Part 7//