The home of the now-deceased Canon Timothy Wainwright. A man who had “fallen” from the tower gallery eighteen months ago. A ruled accident. A dizzy spell.
He twisted. He pushed. The drain gave a great, heaving sigh—and vomited. blocked external drain salisbury
Small. Pale. Not human, but too large for a cat. He stared. The empty eye sockets of a badger, its fur matted into a greasy shroud, stared back. Around its neck, a thin leather strap with a silver tag. The home of the now-deceased Canon Timothy Wainwright
Hands trembling, Arthur fished it out with a trowel. He wiped the muck from the tag. It wasn't a name. It was an address: 7B, Cathedral Close. A dizzy spell
The second sign was the sound. A low, glugging gurgle from the external drain beneath the kitchen window, like a beast drinking the last of a puddle. After a week of unseasonal rain, the water didn't drain. It sat there, a murky, malevolent mirror reflecting the grey spire of the cathedral.
It came up in a brown, reeking wave: a tangled mess of fat, wet wipes, and what looked like a child’s lost football. But as the water subsided, Arthur saw it. Not a ball. A skull.
