Carla wondered if the midpoint had a special significance for the daisy wheel. It was the part of the hexafoil where the curved lines intersected and must surely hold some particular significance. She really needed to talk to Jack about it but, for the moment, she wanted to get a feel for the graveyard. Lawrence Hill was one of the few inclines in town and Carla was intrigued by the location. Hills were popular burial sites – they protected graves from flooding, precious farmland was left for cultivation, and, during more religious times, there was the theory that graves were closer to the divine, ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’. Once, she suspected, the cemetery would have been a few graves on the hillside marked by a simple cross. Now, it had been enclosed with iron railings and an ornate gate featuring an image of a skull that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Dickens novel. Carla shivered. The conversation with her students about the reputation of places had heightened her senses. It was unlike her to be fearful of a cemetery, so it must be something else, a sense of things askew and out of the natural order.
‘Is it ever locked?’ she asked Patricia as she swung open the gate.
‘I can see a padlock, so I guess they shut it at night.’
Any killer would have easy access to the ground though over the shoulder-height fence. They stepped through the gate onto the gravelled path leading up the hill. This side was around an acre in size and, from the looks of it, had received no recent burials, although it was hard to tell where the oldest part of it was located. As with English cemeteries, the graves ranged from the simple to the ornate. One she passed had a statue of a small dog resting against its owner’s legs.
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Patricia, looking around her in dismay. ‘I don’t think I ever realised how big this place is.’
‘I don’t know. It has to have some significance as the centre of the wheel, but it might be simply a connection to the early origins of Jericho as a town. Why don’t you let me have a look around? Do you know where your relatives are buried?’
‘Vaguely. I remember visiting this place as a child with my mother. I’ll head up the path and take a look.’
Patricia set off towards a mini mausoleum erected by one of the town’s more respected citizens. If Carla had been here just for pleasure, she’d have roamed around the graves, taking images of the markers and mentally plotting the space’s development. But she needed to empty her brain and try to think. The cold wind bit into her face as she walked along the path, eventually following Patricia up the hill where the graves became small rectangle tablets dated from the mid-nineteenth century before things got a little out of hand gravestone-wise. She was looking for anything that might signify ritual protection or spiritual middens as Jack had called them – daisy wheels, glass bottles, animals, dolls – but the graves gave nothing up to her.
There was a small municipal building at the top of the mound, but when Carla pulled at the door, it was locked and probably derelict judging by the layers of ivy and moss on the stonework. Carla looked around for someone who might be a regular visitor to the cemetery, one of the legions of people who cared for a place in the absence of official interest. There were a few hardy visitors wrapped up in coats and mufflers, but they looked as if they were using the area as a cut-through on the way to the other side of town. Only one figure looked promising, a woman in the distance wearing a brown fur coat which reached to her ankles. She was tending flowers on a grave, making sure each stem was around the same height as the others.
She straightened at Carla’s approach, a pair of scissors in her hand. She was older than Carla had first thought, probably into her nineties. Her face was covered in wrinkles with the exception of her cheeks, which were baby smooth.
‘What do you want?’ she asked in a husky voice. Carla’s presence was unwelcome, she saw, and she took a step back.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to startle you. I’m looking for a grave and I wondered if you could help as I can’t see anyone else to ask.’
The woman peered at her. ‘English?’
‘Yes, I am. I’ve only been in Jericho for a couple of months.’
The woman pointed at the grave inscribed Arthur Ramsbottom, 1921–2003. ‘My husband was from Lancashire. Came out here for university and never left.’
The woman was offering her an opening, but Carla had never set foot in Lancashire. She cast around for a reply.
‘Jericho College seems to have attracted the best talent for decades. Was he ever homesick?’
‘Ever?’ The woman laughed. ‘He never stopped going on about the place. We have a fine house down by the river, but he used to go on about his two-up two-down with its outside toilet like it was Buckingham Palace.’
Amused, Carla looked around her. ‘Do you come here every week?’
The woman looked affronted. ‘Every other day. I have since 2003.’
‘Do you look at the other graves?’
Carla’s spirits sank as the woman shook her head. ‘I don’t have time. I live with my son now and he’s had children late in life. I’m on babysitting duty. Who are you looking for?’
‘Not anyone in particular. I’m looking for a grave with an unusual marking or feature. Could be a bottle or maybe a circle with a flower inside.’
‘You mean the Miller graves?’
Carla’s heart leapt. ‘What are they?’
‘Graves with a pattern just as you describe. Pretty they are, too.’
‘Where would I find them?’
The woman pointed up the hill to her right. ‘There’s an enclosure. Four, maybe five, graves with a little iron fence around them. All of them have got circles with flowers in them.’
‘Thank you.’ Carla hugged the woman in her elation. ‘You know, if I ever get to Lancashire, I’m going to remember you.’
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t think of me – I couldn’t stand the place when I visited. Think of Arthur.’
Now she knew what she was looking for, Carla was on more comfortable ground. She saw the plot in the distance. Unlike the grave of Arthur Ramsbottom, it had a forlorn look. Grass between the gravestones had been allowed to grow a metre or so – perhaps it was too much bother to trim regularly. Up close, she saw there were five graves in total, all with the surname Miller. Three were from the late nineteenth century and two from the 1920s. All five graves had the hexafoil at the top, nestling under the point.
Carla glanced up and saw Patricia walking down the hill. She waved her over. ‘Take a look at this.’
‘This what you’ve been searching for?’
‘I don’t know. Do you know anyone called Miller?’
Patricia gave her an ‘are you joking’ look. ‘It’s a common name here. Probably as common as it is in the UK, although no one specific comes to mind.’
‘But there must be some significance to why this graveyard is the centre of the hexafoil. Perhaps we’re looking for a killer related to the Miller family.’
Patricia shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Carla turned to her. ‘Did you find your ancestors?’
‘I did indeed.’ She hugged Carla. ‘You’ve done me a big favour. Lots of lovely memories raised. I’ll be coming back more regularly. What’s your next plan?’
Carla gave the little set of graves a final look. ‘Find someone prepared to take my theory seriously, which means a visit to another crime scene.’