Horace, flashlight in hand, was now peering intently at the wound in Mr. Hagley’s head. He seemed fascinated, but the better lighting wasn’t an improvement from my point of view.
I focused on the other details of the crime scene. Horace’s bright LED flashlight made for much greater visibility. I could see now that the china fragments were blue and white, and had probably once been a Chinese-style ginger jar. Most of the glass fragments were a soft green color, though I could also spot thinner fragments that doubtless had come from the light bulbs. The green glass looked familiar. I had a small vase that color at home, a souvenir of the Jamestown glasshouse. I could see a ginger jar as a container for ashes—in fact, a very similar jar containing a great-aunt of mine graced the mantel of Mother and Dad’s farmhouse. But a glass vase?
“That’s going to be a mess to sort out,” Horace remarked.
Considering where his flashlight was aimed, I assumed he meant the ashes that had spilled out of the two broken containers, creating two wide swathes that merged about a foot and a half from the top of Mr. Hagley’s head.
I didn’t realize what he meant for a second—I had been thinking how lucky it was that all the blood had run downhill, away from the ashes, without contaminating them. Then it hit me. The two sets of ashes were all mixed up now.
“A total mess,” I agreed. “And with our luck, the families of Green Glass and Blue-and-White China will turn out to be Caerphilly’s equivalent of the Montagues and the Capulets. And they will both try to sue the diocese for allowing their loved ones’ ashes to be sullied by contact with the other.”
“Not sure what grounds they’d have for blaming the diocese,” Horace said.
“That won’t stop them from trying. Can we figure out whose niches have been vandalized?”
“Next up on my list.”
“Excellent idea,” came a voice from just behind me.
I started again, and then felt guilty. Horace had asked me to keep watch, and I’d been so busy gawking at the inside that I hadn’t even noticed someone coming up behind me. Fortunately it was Chief Burke, not a grave-robbing murderer returning to up his body count.
“Provided we can do it without contaminating the crime scene before Horace works it,” the chief added. I had a feeling that was intended for me.
“Staying put,” I said.
Horace trained his flashlight on one of the fallen urns.
“P. Jefferson Blair,” he read. “January 14, 1965 to November 13, 2000.”
The chief pulled out his notebook and began scribbling. I just kept my ears open.
The other urn—the dented one—belonged to a J. A. Washington, who’d died in 2007. I wasn’t surprised when the plaque still loosely attached to a cracked polished granite panel revealed that the blue-and-white ginger jar had probably contained Dolores Kelly Hagley.
“The victim’s wife, I assume?” The chief glanced at me.
“Yes.” I hadn’t recognized Blair or Washington—Blair had died before I’d even heard of Caerphilly, and Washington before I’d become as involved as I now was in Trinity—but I remembered Mrs. Hagley. “A very nice lady. And according to Mother, a sorely missed good influence on Mr. Hagley. She only died about a year and a half ago.”
“Hang on.” Horace focused his flashlight on a fallen bronze urn. “According to the engraving, that’s Mrs. Hagley—I guess she rolled away. The broken china must belong to someone else.”
“What a mess,” the chief murmured.
Horace had turned his flashlight toward the wall and was peering at a fallen bronze plaque.
“Lacey Shiffley.” He sounded surprised.
“Here in Trinity?” The chief’s surprise echoed Horace’s. And I understood. We all three knew—the way one does in a small town—that nearly every member of the sprawling Shiffley clan who attended church went to First Presbyterian. The only exceptions I knew of were one or two who’d married staunch Catholics and moved over to St. Byblig’s, and a talented baritone who’d defected to the New Life Baptist Church to become a soloist in its nationally famous gospel choir.
“She died in 2006,” Horace said. “Before my time.”
“I was here then, but I hadn’t yet gotten to know many Shiffleys,” I said.
“I was here then, too,” the chief said. “And I remember Lacey. But I didn’t know she was buried here. We can check with her family to see how that happened.”
The panel, belonging to the niche that still contained its urn revealed another surprise.
“‘Known only to God,’” Horace read. “That’s weird.”
“It’s the customary inscription used for a poor soul who’s unidentified,” the chief said.
“But what’s a John Doe doing buried here in the Trinity crypt?” Horace asked. “Not to sound crass, but I was under the impression that those little niches go for a pretty penny.”
“A very good question,” the chief said. “Let me have his date of death. I’m sure there will be something in our files back at the station.”
“Depends on how far back the files go,” I said. “January 12, 1995.”
“A mere quarter of a century? No problem,” Horace said. “I bet we’ve still got the wanted posters for the Lindbergh kidnapping around somewhere.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find a wanted poster for Benedict Arnold,” the chief said. “Though thank goodness we’ve archived all those really old files in the courthouse basement.”
The owner of the sixth vandalized niche was the third surprise—at least for the chief.
“Beatrice Helen Falkenhausen van der Lynden,” Horace read. “The inscription’s a little smaller than some of the others—had to be to fit her whole name in—but I think the death date is 1993. I think the broken china must be hers.”
“Mrs. Van der Lynden,” the chief exclaimed.
“Someone who died under suspicious circumstances?” I asked.
“No,” the chief said. “But she is connected with one of the more interesting outstanding cases I inherited from my predecessor.”
“What case is that?” I asked.
“Horace, why don’t you get your forensic kit and make a start.” Evidently the chief was not in the mood to discuss cold cases.
“Roger,” Horace said. “And then—”
“What’s that?” the chief said, pointing to the far wall of the crypt.
“What’s what?” Horace asked.
“I saw it too,” I said. “When you turned, something reflected your flashlight beam, just for a second.”
“Could be a piece of red glass,” the chief said.
“Red glass?” I looked over at the two stained glass panels, hoping neither was broken. Horace was running his flashlight along the far wall. I was about to ask him to point it on the stained glass windows when—
“That’s it,” the chief said.
“Holy cow,” Horace said softly.
Lying on the floor near the other wall was a ring with a red stone. A stone so large that common sense said it had to be a fake. Red glass.
No. Red glass might sparkle in the light. It wouldn’t give off such a pure, intense, and ever-so-slightly sinister glow.
“Could that thing possibly be real?” I asked aloud.