The Philosophy of Disgrace

by Ann Troup

  Diana had managed to get her inside the house and into a chair, and had wanted to call an ambulance, or at least a doctor. However, Rachel had insisted that she didn’t, told her she had been discharged from hospital the night before, that she had medication but just needed someone to help her out for a few days. Would Diana let her stay? Diana had instantly agreed. There was no way the girl could cope on her own, and Diana of all people knew that there was no one else to look after her.

  After she had tucked her up under a quilt on the sofa, made sure she had taken her medication and waited with her until she fell asleep, Diana contemplated the nature of their friendship.

  She had first met Rachel on Blackfriars Bridge, on a particularly cold and foggy February morning, five years before. Diana had always loved the London of early morning when the city was always magnificent, and quiet. Its beauty unhampered by the bustle of the day, and unsullied by the hordes that swarmed it’s streets like voracious termites. Just after dawn was the only time Diana could almost guarantee she would not hear a police siren, a scream, or a cacophony of arguing voices. So that was when she walked. The few people she did see on her dawn constitutionals she ignored, and they ignored her. Either too busy getting where they wanted to go, or still too drunk from the night before to be bothered with the niceties of being polite to strangers. At first, she had walked past the girl on the bridge. Though Rachel was forty now, she always seemed like a girl to Diana. But something had drawn her back, as if an invisible thread had caught on her clothes and hampered her progress. She had paused a few feet away, following the girls gaze to the water below. ‘Tempting sometimes, isn’t it?’ She’d said.

  ‘Never quite tempting enough,’ Rachel had said, taking a step backwards, away from the balustrade that edged the bridge

  ‘Did you know that years ago there were people specifically employed to dredge this river for bodies? I have always thought that it must have been a particularly oppressive occupation.’ Diana had mused. There was something peculiarly compelling about this particular lost soul. ‘I was just about to treat myself to a full fat Latte Macchiato, a pre breakfast tipple. Would you care to join me?’

  Rachel had glanced behind her briefly, as if Diana had been issuing the invitation to someone else.

  ‘There’s a rather pleasant little cafe just over the bridge in Southwark. It opens early, just me and a few of the more discerning cabbies usually.’ She added as if the extra information would act as some kind of inducement.

  Rachel had looked at her dubiously.

  Diana had smiled and flapped her hand, ‘Oh, ignore the dog collar. I’m not trying to save you. Just offering to buy you a cup of coffee. In fact, to be honest with you, I’m having rather a crisis of faith at the moment. God and I aren’t seeing eye to eye.’

  ‘Then I’m the last person you should be talking to.’ Rachel had said.

  But she had accompanied her anyway. And over the years, they had become friends of sorts. Diana had developed a great deal of affection for Rachel, mainly because Rachel demanded so little from her, had no questions that demanded answers beyond Diana’s knowledge, wanted nothing in exchange for her company. In fact, the request for help and shelter was the first thing Rachel had ever asked for, though she had given Diana so much. Though she would never acknowledge it.

  That first morning, as they had sipped their coffee Rachel had asked. ‘Are you a vicar? Diana had shaken her head. ‘No, merely a curate. A part timer I’m afraid. Though I am sometimes trusted to collect the hymn books.’ She quipped.

  Rachel had given her a half smile.

  ‘What about you?’ Diana had asked, hoping that it sounded casual.

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m nothing much, a bit of a curates egg if you like’ Rachel had replied, with the other half of the smile. ‘I’m all bad, but you’ll be too polite to say so’.

  Diana had never found out which bit of Rachel was bad, had had to assume that she must mean the epilepsy which dogged her. But knew that it was not. Rachel held a belief that she was inherently bad, but always refused to explain her conviction. Rachel was not a talker, and that was part of her appeal. What pieces of her history Diana had managed to glean had been accidentally released by Rachel. Some of Diana’s impressions of her were the profits of guesswork, that and an innate talent for jigsaw puzzles. Though Rachel was the type of puzzle where there were so many pieces missing that only a vague impression of the finished article could be formed. Diana had assembled enough of the picture to establish that there had been a difficult childhood, an early trauma and a bad relationship. She had the shapes, but no detail. It both frustrated and intrigued her.

  In her experience, Rachel had always been unstintingly generous, almost singlehandedly funding the women’s centre that Diana ran. In fact she had been there supporting the centre from its original inception. The idea had been needling away at Diana’s conscience way before she met Rachel. In her role as curate of a small, impoverished parish, in the east end she had hoped to be able to provide something more than a poorly attended service on a Sunday. She had wanted to be active in the community, give something to the people, particularly the women. The church, or more specifically the bishop, whose incumbents were somewhat of a burden to him, had not supported her ideas and her efforts. After Diana had left the church, she had realised that her crisis of faith had been with the church, not god. At her lowest ebb, God had provided, God had sent Rachel to her. Not only did Rachel financially support the centre, but also through her property portfolio, she had provided good quality housing for many women who had suffered domestic violence, were single parents or who were just down on their luck with no way out. As far as Diana was concerned Rachel was a saint, and she didn’t see her nearly often enough.

  So, to see her now, so pale and ill, was heart breaking in the extreme. It was impossible to imagine what it must be like to suffer from an illness, which could cause so much direct harm. It was impossible to know what to do to help. But Diana’s home was Rachel’s home, for as long as she needed it. In fact, as Rachel owned the house, it needed no consideration at all.

  Though Diana knew where Rachel lived, she had never visited. Rachel’s privacy was sacrosanct, as was Diana’s faith. It was an unspoken, rule and mutually unquestioned, that neither would ever cross the line. However, it didn’t stop Diana from being curious, from wanting to complete the picture.

  As she prepared vegetable soup for Rachel, Diana pondered on the circumstances of her injuries. Something must have triggered the fit. Rachel’s epilepsy was erratic, but rarely that bad. It was one of the rare subjects that Rachel was prepared to talk about, so Diana was fairly well versed in the path of the illness. For instance, she knew that stress was a major trigger for Rachel, so what had happened that could have caused it. To an extent, it was pointless to speculate, Rachel wouldn’t tell her. In fact, it would be hard enough to get her to have the soup, let alone disclose her secrets. Diana had never known someone so indifferent to food. In her world, there were two great comforts in life, faith in God and a good dinner.

  ‘Rachel, I’ve brought you some food.’ She said gently, placing the tray on the coffee table before gently shaking Rachel’s shoulder.

  ‘Uh?’ Rachel uttered blearily, ‘I’m not really hungry. But thank you.’

  ‘I don’t care whether you’re hungry or not, you’re going to have the damned soup. Now, sit up and eat!’ Diana demanded in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Rachel knew when she was beaten, and took the soup. While she ate, she wished that she could talk to Diana, tell her all the things that had happened in the last few days, but Diana was her only friend and she dreaded alienating her. So she swallowed it down with her soup.

  Amy was distraught, adamant that they had to find Rachel.

  ‘I have no idea where to start, Amy, what do you want me to do?’ he pleaded, completely at a loss. He was worried too, but Rachel had always been a law unto herself. She could be anywhere. There were seven million peopl
e in London, Amy seemed to expect him to just wander round the morass of the city and pluck her out of the crowd.

  ‘Someone must know where she’s gone; she must have friends, contacts, something? We can’t just go and not know where she is. You didn’t see her dad, she was a mess. It’s all my fault. If something happens to her, it will be my fault.’ She cried, tears filling her eyes.

  That did it for Charlie; he had never been able to stand seeing her upset. ‘OK, we’ll try, alright. We’ll try.’

  Amy wiped her face, and sniffed loudly. ‘We could ask in the local shops and stuff, someone’s bound to know her.’

  Charlie nodded, if he knew Rachel as well as he thought he did, it would be a dead end. But if it kept Amy happy, they could try.

  Amy attacked the task with unbridled enthusiasm, waltzing in and out of the shops in Queensway hoping to find someone who knew her mother. No one did, she soon concluded that no one knew anyone in a place like this, especially when the person in question didn’t want to be known.

  Charlie had trailed round after her, an apologetic look on his face when she bombarded people with questions.

  ‘You’re not exactly trying very hard’. Amy told him outside yet another shop where she’d had no luck.

  Charlie shrugged, ‘Look, why don’t we take a break from it, get a coffee or something and rethink tactics?’

  Amy looked as if she was going to argue, just for a second or two. Then she agreed. Charlie led her into the nearest cafe, a rather seedy place that smelled of old grease and burnt spices. At the counter he ordered their coffee and paid, then loitered impatiently as it was noisily and steamily made. As it was, he wasn’t that fussed about the coffee, but his feet ached from trudging the streets and he just wanted to sit down. It seemed that it wasn’t possible simply to get a coffee these days, not even in a greasy spoon joint like this. Waiters were now baristas who had to turn the simple act of producing a hot drink into a virtuoso performance.

  He tapped his fingers on the edge of the sticky counter and looked around. Next to him on the wall was a cork notice board with a variety of yellowed business cards and curling notices attached. Minicabs, locksmith’s, masseurs, French lessons, all the usual. A letter of thanks for a fundraising effort was pinned there. It didn’t seem like the kind of place where charitable efforts were rife so the letter caught his attention. Apparently, the cafe had raised four hundred and fifty two pounds for a women’s centre in Southwark. It struck Charlie as odd that a Bayswater cafe would be raising money for a charity in Southwark. As he absently scanned the page, he noticed a familiar name, in the small print, right at the bottom of the page. The Chairman of the charity was none other than R.L.Porter. ‘Gotcha’. He said to the surprise of the man who was trying to present him with two cups of milky froth.

  When the man had disappeared behind a grubby bead curtain, Charlie looked around, saw that no one was paying him any attention, and ripped the letter off the board, he shoved it into his jacket pocket, grabbed the coffee and made his way over to Amy.

  Ratcliffe and Angela arrived at the hospital, closely followed by two uniformed officers. Just as her husband was helping Frances Haines into her coat, the ward sister told Ratcliffe that Mrs Haines had just been discharged. That made his task even easier. He made his way down the ward with an air of gusto, a sardonic smile on his face as he spied his prey.

  ‘Good afternoon Mrs Haines.’ He said, watching the look of consternation that flickered briefly across her sharp features.

  ‘Was there something else you needed? Only I’ve been discharged, we were about to go home’. She said, her face now suffused with an expression of helpful concern.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact there is. We have a few more questions that we would like to ask you. Would you mind coming down to the station with us?’

  Frances glanced at her husband. ‘As I told your colleagues this morning, I really have nothing else to add to my statement. I really don’t see how I can be of any help.’

  ‘I think you can help us a great deal Mrs Haines.’ Ratcliffe said, extending his arm as if to usher her out.

  ‘Now look here’ Peter Haines interjected angrily. ‘My wife is going nowhere, except home. She has just been discharged from hospital and she is in no fit state to be interrogated about something she has no knowledge of.’

  Ratcliffe glanced at Angela and raised his eyebrows. ‘I have spoken to the doctor, and he assures me that there is no reason why your wife can’t accompany us. I would prefer it if you agreed to come voluntarily.’

  Frances was suddenly as imperious as her husband was. ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Then I will have no alternative but to arrest you’.

  The gasp of shock came from Peter, not Frances. She just stood there, swaying slightly.

  ‘On what grounds?’ Peter demanded, suddenly aware that every pair of eyes on the ward was on him.

  ‘I think we should discuss that outside, don’t you, sir?’ Ratcliffe said, banking on the fact that Peter Haines was a man who liked to keep up appearances.

  Peter looked around him, people were staring, whispering. He swallowed and turned to his wife. ‘Do as they say, we don’t want a scene.’ He hissed.

  Frances looked at him with a mixture of dismay and disgust. ‘What?’

  ‘Just go, before this turns into a debacle! I’ll get Nigel Latimer to come. Just don’t say anything stupid before he gets there. In fact don’t say anything at all.’

  ‘But I have done anything Peter.’ She said

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Just don’t say anything until I get there.’ With that, he left, leaving his wife to face the music alone.

  ‘This way Mrs Haines.’ Ratcliffe said, indicating the direction in which her husband had just fled.

  Frances set her jaw, raised her head and walked out of the hospital with an air of what was, under the circumstances, admirable hauteur.

  As Ratcliffe observed her demeanour, he was surprised to see certain similarities between Frances and his wife, Marie. The aura of indignation and specious innocence was tangibly familiar, so much so that it sent an unpleasant thrill through his gut. Not that he would have considered Marie capable of murder, but it occurred to him in that radical moment of truth that his wife was an exceedingly unpleasant woman.

  Outside, when Frances had been safely confined to the back of the patrol car, Angela turned to her boss. ‘What’s up?’

  Ratcliffe rubbed his face wearily. ‘Nothing. Any chance I can hijack your sofa for a few nights?’

  Angela frowned. ‘Why, is something wrong?’

  ‘Far from it, in fact everything is great. Just having a little epiphany, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay… If you say so. Should we discuss this later perhaps, after we’ve dealt with Frances Haines?’

  At that moment, Ratcliffe’s mobile phone began to ring. He walked away from her in order to answer it, and she watched his shoulders sag a little as whoever was calling gave him news he didn’t want. She didn’t know exactly what was going on with him, didn’t particularly want to if she were honest, but equally didn’t know how to say no to his request for help. And by the look on his face, things weren’t getting any better. He ended the call and walked back towards her, ‘Detour,’ was all he said.

  Thick smoke billowed down the drive in curling, toxic plumes, making the fire fighters into masters of the disappearing act. Both Ratcliffe and Angela had to squint and cover their mouths as soon as they got out of the car.

  Angela managed to locate a spare fireman, she showed him her warrant card, and asked him what the deal was.

  ‘Difficult to say what caused it, the chief is thinking it was deliberate, it started inside anyway, and given the pattern of combustion I’d say he’s right, but no way of knowing till we get in there, and we’re a way off that. We’ve broken the back of it but it’ll be a while before it’s completely under control.’

  Angela’s eyes were streaming, the acrid air burning her throat. ‘A
nyone in there?’

  ‘No one that we managed to get out anyway’. He said, more casually than perhaps he should have. ‘Put it this way, if there is anyone in there, they won’t have survived. We’ll let you know.’

  Ratcliffe emerged from nowhere, as if he were walking out of a fog. ‘Call came in from the dental surgery next door.’ He said before coughing heartily into a handkerchief. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Angela wasn’t going to argue with him, all they were doing was cluttering up the place.

  ‘Do you think Stella was in there?’ She asked when they were back in the car.

  ‘More than likely, she gave this place as her home address when she was released. I think she probably caused it.’

  They didn’t talk again after that, not until they got back to the station, Angela couldn’t speak for him of course, but she wondered if he was feeling the same sense of creeping guilt that was crawling through her conscience. They should have sectioned Stella Baxter, she had clearly been unstable. They should have used the law and taken her to a hospital, perhaps then, The Limes would still be standing, and they wouldn’t be waiting for a call to tell them that Stella had been inside.

  Peter Haines was waiting for them, antsy in the company of his solicitor. ‘I’d like to take my wife home now. You have no right to keep her here, and since taking legal advice we have decided that she will not be giving you an informal interview.’ He said, his weak chin jutting forward.

  Ratcliffe sighed, ‘OK Mr Haines, take a seat while I talk to Mr Latimer for a moment.’

  Peter looked nonplussed, undecided whether to sit down as instructed or stand his ground. He sat down.

  Ratcliffe took the solicitor to one side. ‘I’m going to arrest her.’

  ‘On what grounds?’ Nigel Latimer asked.