The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4

by Laurie R. King

  “Does madam wish anything?” he murmured.

  “Madam wishes only that that man can find a way out of his troubles,” I answered absently.

  He looked startled, but his training held.

  “Indeed, madam,” he said, only a fraction more emphatically than necessary.

  I went back into the library, made the telephone call, and felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Only part of it was Miles.

  8

  THURSDAY, 30 DECEMBER

  Woman compared to other creatures is the image

  of God, for she bears dominion over them; but

  compared to man, she may not be called the

  image of God, for she does not bear rule and

  lordship over man, but obeys him.

  —SAINT AUGUSTINE

  WITH HOLMES OUT of the way and Miles out of my hands, life looked somewhat more manageable. I played Holmes’ game six moves to checkmate, poured myself a glass of predictably excellent sherry from a crystal decanter, and went to browse through the books.

  I was twenty-three pages into a late-seventeenth-century Italian work on the doges of Venice when Veronica came back.

  “Sorry to have been so long, Mary. Where’s Miles?”

  I closed the book over my finger. “Ronnie, your Miles is off taking the cure.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I told her briefly what had taken place.

  “That was all? As simple as that?”

  “A beginning, perhaps, nothing more.”

  She burst into tears and threw her arms around me, then flew out of the door and upstairs. I returned to the doges and was on page ninety-two (I found the archaic Italian slow going) when the door opened again. I rose, placed the book back on the shelf, and joined a happier Veronica Beaconsfield than I had seen since Oxford, with colour in her cheeks. I considered a warning, decided against it, and allowed Marshall to help me with my coat.

  “I shouldn’t be so happy,” she said on the street. “Iris is dead, and I know that this hope for Miles is only a faint one, but I can’t help it, I feel so very grateful to God that I happened to spot you that morning. Do you want to walk for a while, or take a cab to a restaurant?”

  “Let’s walk and see what we find on the way.”

  What we found was a corner stall run by a Sicilian that specialised in curry, flavoured buns and sweet spiced coffee. The food was odd, but eatable, and on the way to the Temple we found as well a deeper level of companionship than we had yet come to. Despite the cold and the knowledge that the Temple service was beginning, we continued to walk slowly, arm in arm, talking about our futures.

  “And what of you, Mary? Will you become an archetypical Oxford don, or will you marry and have fourteen horrid and brilliant little brats?”

  “I cannot envisage the latter, somehow.” I laughed.

  “It is stretching the imagination,” she agreed, “although I can imagine you in almost any other situation.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said primly.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. None of the traditional choices really apply now, do they? Not for people like us, anyway. What about your Mr Holmes?”

  “My Mr Holmes is nearly sixty. Rather late to break up bachelorhood.” I kept my voice natural, humorous, mildly regretful.

  “I suppose you’re right. It’s too bad, really—he’s dreamy, in an impossible sort of a way.”

  I was startled. “You mean you find Holmes attractive?”

  “Oh, yes, heaps of s.a. Why, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose.” Although I shouldn’t have called it ‘sex appeal,’ exactly.

  “But you sound surprised.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you—Why does he appeal to you?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t, not really. I mean, I’m sure he’d turn out to be totally maddening, in reality. It’s because he’s so unavailable.” She thought for a few steps, and I waited, intrigued. “You know, when I was fifteen—this was just before the War—someone at school had the bright idea of sending the top members of our form to Italy for the spring term. One of the girls had an uncle there, with a huge, dusty villa in the countryside not far from Florence, and the idea was that we hire a charabanc to transport us in every day to view the treasures. Of course, the thing broke down continuously, or the driver was on a drunk, or we rebelled, so in the end I think we spent two days in the city and the rest in the small town three miles from the villa.

  “There was a priest in the village—there were several, of course, but one in particular—I don’t know if it was the Mediterranean sun or our glands or just sheer deviltry, but all of us developed a Grand Passion for the priest. Poor man, it must have been so painful to have ten English misses on his heels, mooning about and bringing him fruit and sweets. He was good-looking, in a bony kind of way, very elegant in his black robe, but it was his air of unreachability that was so utterly electrifying. A challenge, I suppose, to break through that ascetic shell and set loose the passion beneath. Because one could feel the passion. My God, you couldn’t miss it, in his eyes and his mouth, but it was under iron control. He kept it directed no doubt to his prayer, but you couldn’t help but want to break his control and see what lay beneath.” She reviewed what she’d said, then laughed in self-deprecation. “At least it seemed that way. He was probably terrifically repressed and scared to death of us, and no doubt he had all sorts of boring habits, as I suppose your Sherlock Holmes would prove to have. Repressed and cerebral, a deadly combination. Still,” she said, blithely unaware of the shattering effect her words were having on me, “there must be plenty of unrepressed and agreeable older men around, the sort who mightn’t normally expect to marry again but would allow themselves to be convinced. Doing their part for England’s ‘surplus women’.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Ronnie, listen to yourself. What would Margery Childe say?”

  “I know, it’s terrible. But honestly, it’s not nice to be alone . . . not forever. Spinster is such an appalling word somehow. You know, some of the women—” Her garrulity abruptly dried up, and I smiled to myself in the dark.

  “Some of the women what?”

  “Oh, you know, they say that the only true and equal love is Sapphism . . . marriage between women.”

  “Is Margery Childe a lesbian?” I wondered.

  “No, I’m sure she isn’t.”

  “How do you know? Is she married?”

  “No. Although she may have been. Someone told me she’d lost her husband in the Somme.”

  “Who?”

  “Who told me, you mean? Let me think. One of the early members, it must have been, who knew her before the War. Ivy? No—I know. It was Delia Laird. She was with Margery from the early days, when they used to hire village halls to preach in. Yes, that’s right, Ivy’s the one who told me she’d seen Margery with a gorgeous man in France a year or two back, all dark and Mediterranean and gangsterlike. No, Margery’s no lesbian.”

  “I didn’t meet Delia Laird, did I? You said she was with Margery. Has she left the Temple?”

  “She died, back in August. Drowned in her bath.”

  I stopped. “Good heavens.”

  “It was suicide. That is, the verdict at the inquest was accidental death, but we all knew she’d killed herself. Tablets and gin, in the bath; what else could it be?”

  “But why?” I allowed her to pull me back into motion.

  “Margery. Delia was one of those women who might have been a lesbian if she’d come from a less repressed background, or if she’d received any encouragement. As it was, she devoted her life to Margery. An unfortunate woman, from a good family but there was something indefinably wrong with her. Not to speak ill of the dead, but frankly, she was rather stupid. When the Temple began to take off a couple of years ago, well, Margery just sort of left her behind. She needed people who could run an organisation, not just hire halls and carry bags. Plus, she just didn’t have the time to baby D
elia any more. So Delia killed herself.”

  “Does Margery know it was suicide?”

  “Oh no. I’m sure she doesn’t. She was devastated.”

  “How sad.”

  “It was. Mostly it’s sad Delia couldn’t have made a match. She would have made someone an utterly devoted wife.”

  “Even if that someone was another woman.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Would Margery have approved?”

  “There are several woman couples in the Temple, she certainly doesn’t seem to mind them. She seems to feel it depends on the people, that the love is the important thing.”

  We walked a few steps before I passed judgement.

  “Strikes me as dead boring,” I said flatly, and she started to giggle.

  “I’d have to agree,” she said finally, and then: “Are you a virgin, Mary? Oh dear, that sounds blasphemous,” and she giggled again.

  “Yes, I am,” I replied. She looked sharply over at me.

  “But only just?” she asked shrewdly.

  “But only just,” I confirmed. “And you?”

  “No. We were engaged, after all.”

  “Don’t apologise, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Oh, I don’t regret it, not at all. To tell you the truth, I’ve missed Miles terribly. Not having him at all is almost worse than having him drugged. I hope to God . . .”

  She didn’t need to say what she hoped. I put my arm across her shoulder and hugged her, thickly through all the garments, and we walked on in friendship to hear the words of Margery Childe.

  AS WE APPROACHED the building, the air came alive with the vibration of voices raised in harmony. Ronnie smiled and quickened her step.

  “Good, they’re still singing. We haven’t missed Margery. Come on.”

  She led me, not in through the ranks of double doors that opened into the back of the hall, but up a side stairway marked TICKET HOLDERS ONLY. The usher/guard nodded at our greetings and we hurried as the noise from inside came to an end. Amidst coughs and shuffles and the dying hum of speech, we entered a door marked PRIVATE. Inside was the Temple’s Inner Circle, most of whom I had met the other night. They made room for us, a couple of them looking me over and dismissing me because of my clothing, and then the hall dimmed and fell quiet as all eyes went to the diminutive figure on the stage.

  She was wearing a robe of darkly luminous silver-grey, and she seemed to glow. It took me some minutes to realise that she was in fact being followed by a spotlight only marginally brighter than the stage lights, and I smiled at the professionalism of the effect. However, I had to admit that not all the glow was an artifice. The magnetic pull I had begun to discount as my imagination was there, stronger than on Monday already and building as the evening—I cannot bring myself to call it a service—wore on. Her movements were languid, her eyes dark as she talked about the nature of love.

  She waited for complete attention, for utter silence, before she dropped her first words into the packed hall, nearly seven hundred pairs of ears, I heard later, a quarter of them men.

  “My friends,” she said, her voice low and vibrant, “tonight’s topic is love.” Inaudible ripples ran through the room. She let them die down, then suddenly smiled. “On the other hand, love is hardly a topic about which we can speak. Love is the force behind speech. Love is the thing that speaks us. To quote my friend John, ‘God is love.’ A person who does not love does not know God. And, when one loves, one loves God.

  “But, what does he mean by love? What do we mean by love?

  “Think for a moment about another word: light. Light. If I were to take a stack of paper and give a sheet of it to each one of you and ask you to use it to describe what the word light means, do you imagine I should find even two pages that matched? I would get drawings: a lightbulb with its twist of filament, a gas fixture, a candle, the sun.” She looked out into the audience, her head tipped attentively, the attitude of a schoolmistress listening for answers. “A bolt of lightning,” she said, as if repeating what she heard for the benefit of the rest. “And—oh, yes, I see, a baby who doesn’t weigh enough. And”—her eyes shifted—“a woman who wishes she weighed less. And a brilliant hot summer’s afternoon when the sun bouncing off the street hurts the eyes. And the first gleam of sunrise, and the difficulties of an artist to capture the essence of a place in its light, and a man—” She did a double take, and her lips twitched. “A gentleman looking forward to igniting his cigar when this is over,” and she smiled with the hall’s laughter. “‘In the beginning,’” she chanted, “‘God created the heavens and the earth; And the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters; And God said, “Let there be—”’”

  She stopped abruptly, holding the silence for several long seconds.

  “If all these images can come from the word light, how many more from the word love, a thing invisible but for the movement it creates, a thing without physical reality or measurement or being, yet a thing which animates the entire universe. God is love. God creates, and when He sees His creation, He loves it and calls it good.

  “The love of God, the joy God takes in Creation, is incomprehensible to us. We can catch a glimpse of it, at rare moments, and be left thirsting and alone, kept from the beauty and the power of divine love by the shackles of responsibility and weakness and doubt. But the soul thirsts, we thirst, and we look for the weak reflections of divine love where we might find them, that if we cannot have our thirst quenched by a gushing, pure stream, at least we might survive on the water from ditches.

  “The forms of love are many, the faces of God infinite. A mother putting her baby to the breast is participating in the love of God. A child who finds a newly hatched bird under a tree and lays it back into its nest is participating in the love of God. A fox out in the moonlight stealing a chicken to take home to its young is a movement in the love of God. Two bodies in the night, moving in the dance we call love are, if the motive is pure, reaching for the reflection of divine love which they see in one another.”

  She waited calmly for another inaudible swell of reaction to die down, then went on.

  “We are born in water, and we spend our lives thirsting. We are like a woman out hoeing her field, a woman who is hot under the sun, who knows where the stream rises up pure in the hills but who drinks from the slow-moving, weed-choked waters nearby because the source is so far away and there is weeding to be done and soon it will be time to go home for supper. Is the farmer wrong to settle for less? No, of course not. The weeds must be chopped or the children will starve.

  “But once, just once, should not that farmer lay down her hoe and walk off into the cool hills to lie down with her face in the water and drink her fill, then go home after dark with her eyes aglow from the memory of that one perfect moment when her thirst was quenched absolutely? Will not that memory sustain her? Will she not taste the echo of its cool sweetness every time she draws from the muddied water and be strengthened? Jesus called it living water and said we would not thirst again.

  “Once we have tasted the love of God, its sweet flavour persists in all the lesser forms of love that we come across as we work our fields. We taste it everywhere, in greater or lesser concentration, and we try to find ways of making it flow into us more fully. And that is when we discover that the flow of love, like the flow of a stream, suffers from being blocked up and kept to one’s self. Water damned up becomes stale, dank. Love not given out becomes dead and slimy. When we express our love, when we act as conduits for divine love, then the love within us is continually renewed, refreshed, restored.”

  Margery Childe spoke of love for a solid hour, holding her audience rapt until her final blessing. There is little point in presenting her homily in its entirety, because in print, without the dramatic pauses and husky thrill of her voice, the words lose their fizz, like warm champagne. Indeed, even as she was saying the words I found them absolutely madden
ing, an often ill-suited amalgam of personal sophistication and scriptural superficiality, mixed metaphors and rambling thoughts held together only by the force of her personality and pierced at a handful of unforeseen points by bolts of blinding perception. Her theology was rustic in its training (if training it could be called), sporadic in its development, and often wildly unsuccessful in its attempts at exegesis or midrash. For someone like me, with my background and my own careful passions, it might have sent me gibbering away into the night, but for one thing: Despite her unread, unsophisticated, raw, rude, and unlettered approach to Scripture, when it came to zeroing in on her target, she was dead-centre accurate.

  It hit me about halfway through her talk (talk?—what an inadequate word for the woman’s passionate display of exultation, despair, pity, joy . . .) what it was that I was hearing, and with that awareness I sat back in my seat with a jolt that startled my neighbours.

  The woman was a mystic.

  What I was hearing was an untutored woman singing to God in the only voice she possessed: a simple voice, unsuited to high opera, but not without beauty. With training . . .

  I was disturbed. I was excited. I had told Holmes that I wanted Margery Childe to be someone who talked with God, someone actually doing what I and countless others had spent lifetimes scrutinising, and at that moment at any rate I was convinced that this was what I was witnessing. It was galvanic. Electrifying. I wanted to take notes. Yet it was also troubling, to see before me living evidence that the limpid stream I studied could become this crashing, unruly, primal force. It had the brutal effect of making me feel a trivialiser, as if I had confidently set out to analyse a minute section of a wall and stepped back from my completed work, only to find myself in the Sistine Chapel. It was depressing, but salutary. And quite fascinating.