‘I gave Pastor Warraner a call along the way and asked him to join us,’ said Morland. ‘It’s just good manners. The church is in his care. I have a key, but it’s only in case of an emergency. Otherwise, I leave all such matters to him.’
I looked around, but I could see no sign of the pastor. The church was even smaller and more primitive than I had expected, with walls of rough-hewn gray stone, and a western orientation instead of the more usual eastern. I did one full circuit of the building, and it didn’t take long. A heavy oak door seemed to be the only point of entry or exit, and it had two narrow windows on its northern and southern walls, sealed with glass from within and bars without. The wall behind what I presumed to be the altar was blank and windowless. The roof was relatively new, and appeared incongruous above the ancient stones.
The main decorative features, in the form of the faces for which the church was famous, were in the upper corners of each wall, creating a kind of Janus effect where they met, an impression compounded by the fact that the lengths of carved ivy and branches of which the decorations were composed flowed between the faces and continued along the upper lengths of the walls, so that the visages all appeared to spring from the same source. They had weathered over the centuries, but not as much as might have been expected. Intricate constructions of stone leaves formed a protective screen around them, from which the faces peered out. They reminded me of childhood and fairy tales, and of the way in which the markings on the trunks of very old trees sometimes took on the appearance of contorted, suffering people, depending on the light and the angle at which they were examined.
But what struck me most was the sheer malevolence of the expressions on the carvings. These were not manifestations of gentle emotions nor signifers of hope. Instead, they boded only ill for all who looked on them. To my mind, they had no more place on a church building than a pornographic image.
‘What do you think?’ said Morland, as he joined me.
‘I’ve never seen anything like them before,’ I said, which was the most neutral reply I could offer.
‘There are more inside,’ he said. ‘Those are just the opening acts.’
As if on cue, the door to the chapel opened and a man stepped out.
‘Pastor Warraner,’ said Morland, ‘this is Mr Parker, the detective I told you about.’
Warraner wasn’t what I had expected of a cleric who had charge of a building that was almost a millennium old. He wore jeans and battered work boots, and a brown suede jacket that had the look of a garment long reached for instinctively when warmth and comfort were required. He was in his late forties, with heavily receding hair, and as we shook hands I saw and felt the calluses on his skin, and caught a faint smell of timber and wood shavings on him.
‘Call me Michael,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I was around to say hello.’
‘Do you live nearby?’ I asked. I hadn’t seen any other vehicle when we arrived.
‘Just the other side of the woods,’ he said, gesturing over his right shoulder with his thumb. ‘Five minutes on foot. Same time that it takes me in my truck by the less scenic route, so it makes more sense to walk. May I ask what brings a private detective to our town?’
I stared at the church carvings, and they stared back. One had its mouth wide open, and a tongue poked obscenely from between its carved lips. It seemed to mock any hope I might have of finding Annie Broyer alive.
‘A homeless man named Jude came to Prosperous recently,’ I said. ‘Chief Morland tells me that he may have trespassed on the church grounds in the course of one of those visits.’
‘I remember,’ said Warraner. ‘I was the one who found him here. He was very agitated, so I had no choice but to call Chief Morland for assistance.’
‘Why was he agitated?’
‘He was concerned about his daughter. She was missing, and he was under the impression that she might have come to Prosperous. He felt he wasn’t getting the help he needed from the police. No offense meant, Chief.’
‘None taken,’ said Morland, although it was hard to tell if he was sincere as he had kept his sunglasses on against the glare of winter sun on snow. I barely knew Morland, but I had already figured him for a man who guarded any slights jealously, nurturing them and watching them grow.
‘Anyhow, I tried to calm him down, but I didn’t have much success,’ said Warraner. ‘I told him to leave the grounds, and he did, but I was worried that he might attempt to break into the church, so I called the chief.’
‘Why would you think he’d want to break into the church?’ I asked.
Warraner pointed at the faces looming above his head.
‘Disturbed people fixate,’ he said, ‘and this wonderful old building provides more opportunities for fixation than most. Over the years we’ve had attempts to steal the carvings from the walls, and to deface them. We’ve found people – and not just young ones either but folk old enough to know better – having sex on the ground here because they were under the impression it would help them to conceive a child, and, of course, we’ve been visited by representatives of religious groups who object to the presence of pagan symbols on a Christian church.’
‘As I understand it, this town was founded by the Familists, and it was originally their church,’ I said. ‘Their belief system strikes me as more than a complicated variation on Christianity.’
Warraner looked pleasantly surprised at the question, like a Mormon who had suddenly found himself invited into a house for coffee, cake and a discussion of the wit and wisdom of Joseph Smith.
‘Why don’t you step into my office, Mr Parker?’ he said, welcoming me into the chapel.
‘As long as I’m not keeping you from anything important,’ I said.
‘Just kitchen closets,’ he said. ‘I run a joinery service.’
He fished a card from his pocket and handed it to me.
‘So you’re not a full-time pastor?’
Warraner laughed. ‘I’d be a pauper if I was. No, I’m really just a caretaker and part-time historian. We no longer have services here: the Familists are no more. The closest we have are some Quaker families. The rest are mainly Baptists and Unitarians, even some Catholics.’
‘And what about you?’ I said. ‘You still keep the title of “pastor”.’
‘Well, I majored in religion at Bowdoin, and studied as a Master of Divinity at Bangor Theological Seminary, but I always did prefer woodworking. Still, I guess you could say that the theological gene runs in the family. I hold a weekly prayer group, although often I’m the only one praying, and there are people in town who come to me for advice and guidance. They tend to be folk who aren’t regular churchgoers but still believe. I don’t probe too deeply into what it is that they do believe. It’s enough that they believe in some power greater than themselves.’
We were in the church now. If it was cold outside, it was colder still inside. Five rows of hard wooden benches faced a bare altar. There were no crosses, and no religious symbols of any kind. Instead, the wall behind the altar was dominated by a foliate face larger than any that decorated the exterior. Two slightly smaller faces of a similar kind were visible between the windows.
‘Do you mind if I take a closer look?’ I said.
‘By all means,’ said Warraner. ‘Just watch your step. Some of the stones are uneven.’
I approached the altar along the right aisle of the church. As I passed, I glanced at the first of the faces. It was more detailed than the ones outside, and had a grinning, mischievous expression. As I looked at it more closely, I saw that all of its features were made from stone recreations of produce: squash, pea pods, berries, apples and ears of wheat. I had seen something like it before, but I couldn’t recall where.