by James Runcie
‘I’m not sure Amanda’s ever loved me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘She thinks I’m still in love with Connie.’
‘And are you?’ Sidney asked.
‘No. I can’t be. But the guilt was so strong.’
‘“Was”. Has her death come as a relief?’
‘I don’t mind admitting that it has. But that doesn’t make me a killer.’
‘You must be careful what you say.’
‘That’s what I’ve been doing and it’s got me into all this trouble. I was trying to protect people from the truth. I didn’t want to hurt Amanda and now everything’s far worse than I could ever have imagined. But I couldn’t just abandon Connie. That would have been a horrible thing to do.’
‘You divorced her.’
‘And I still feel guilty about that.’
‘Do you think you ever recovered?’ Sidney asked.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. I am asking about you, Henry.’
‘Perhaps not. I knew I would always feel bound to her. And I knew Connie loved me. That has been the trouble with Amanda, I feel. I’ve always thought that she preferred you to me.’
‘You’re wrong. She loves you.’
‘How can you be sure? Has she told you?’
This was not a subject Sidney wanted to discuss in detail. ‘Amanda and I are friends, Henry. We have known each other a long time. That is all. And we are both married to other people whom we love.’
‘You’ve been lucky with Hildegard.’
‘And you have found Amanda.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that. It seems I have lost her.’
‘Her fury is a sign of love, you know . . .’ said Sidney.
‘Fury? Is that what she feels?’
‘I’m afraid so. We have a lot of work to do, Henry, and it’s probably more than either of us realise.’
After Sidney had told Geordie about Henry Richmond’s theory, the two men drove out to the crime scene on the fens. It was an intensely still August day with so few people out in the open landscape that the countryside felt as if it had been abandoned. The hay bales were stacked in the edges of the fields and the water on the surface of the reservoir hardly moved. There was that sickly-sweet late-summer fenland smell that combined meadowsweet, nettles, honey and cowpat.
Sidney thought he could hear the crex crex of a corncrake but couldn’t be sure. It might have been warning him of unspecified danger. A buzzard hovered over them, high and in the distance, waiting for prey.
The pathologist had confirmed that Connie Richmond’s death was caused by drowning. ‘There’s a blow to the skull and she’s been bound and gagged,’ Geordie reported, ‘but there are anomalies about both. The first is that the blow on the side of her head would not have been enough to knock her out.’
‘Perhaps it was caused by Henry Richmond earlier in the day. He has admitted to a scuffle.’
‘And that’s about all he’s prepared to confess. Next time, Sidney, perhaps you could advise him not to start his story with a lie.’
‘I assume, Geordie, that you have frightened him sufficiently to make sure that there never is a “next time”.’
‘The other thing is that her wrists were bound in front of her in a position from which she could easily have wriggled free.’
‘Is there any evidence that she was held under water?’ Sidney asked.
‘There’s no pressure on the chest; no markings round the neck; and no movement around the knots. In fact there’s no sign of a struggle at all.’
‘So to prove Henry’s theory she would have had to have sat by the side of the reservoir, tied her feet together, put the handkerchief in her mouth, then knotted her arms in front of her and slipped into the water as she lost consciousness. It seems an incredibly elaborate plan.’
‘All to frame her husband,’ said Geordie. ‘She probably thought it was worth it. There’s no sign of any overdose either so no giveaway sedation for us to discover.’
‘And she deliberately provoked a fight in order to steal his handkerchief.’
‘That may just have been a bit of fortune.’
‘No, I think it gave her the courage to think she could get away with it, as well as the opportunity. Do you believe all this?’
‘I am beginning to think that way, Sidney.’
‘And so do you think there’s a chance Henry will get off?’
‘He will if he’s innocent. The pathologist is pretty sure that the death happened in the late afternoon. In other words, a good few hours after Henry had left. He was back at a concert in London with Amanda at the time.’
‘And she will vouch for him?’
‘Reluctantly. I don’t think she’s in much of a mood to defend him, but she won’t lie.’
‘That’s one thing about Amanda. She’s not one to hide her feelings.’
Connie’s room at the psychiatric hospital was not as spartan as Sidney and Geordie had been expecting. There was a single bed, a lamp and bedside table together with a worn sofa. what took the attention was the desk. It looked like a seamstress’s work table with its Singer sewing machine, baskets of thread and material, scissors, tape measure, needles and pins. It was clear that no one had worried about the patient harming herself.
In the drawers were notebooks and sketchpads, drawings of wedding dresses and newspaper cuttings that included Connie’s wedding announcement (but not Henry Richmond’s subsequent union with Amanda). The wardrobe contained outfits from the 1950s and a bookcase featured a host of pulp fiction and romantic adventure.
Dr Evans assured them that Henry had never been present in his former wife’s room, but he couldn’t remember her carrying a handbag when she had left for her walk. She was, however, wearing a light jacket over her summer dress in case it got chilly, and the pockets could well have contained pre-cut lengths of string. Her ‘murder’ was quite a far-fetched thing to have staged but, he admitted, desperation carried its own logic.
* * *
After a visit from the most expensive lawyer in London, Henry Richmond was bailed for £150, pending further enquiries. It was deemed likely that he would escape without charge. Dealing with his second wife was, however, a more complicated matter.
‘She thinks there will always be more to discover,’ he explained to Sidney over a large whisky at the Lansdowne Club. ‘She says she can’t ever trust me and will never be completely sure I didn’t kill my wife; or at least drive her to her own death.’
‘Amanda is your wife. Did you tell her?’
‘About what?’
‘The lost child.’
‘I am not sure she believed me.’
‘I think she always suspected there was something wrong.’
‘I knew this would happen if I told her anything more about the past. It’s why I didn’t.’
‘Timing matters, Henry.’
‘She’s gone away for a few days to think about what she’s going to do. She won’t tell me where. I have no idea where she is. I am in total limbo.’
‘Perhaps we all need to consider the consequences of our actions.’
‘Amanda’s left you a note. She says you will know where she has gone and will tell her the right thing to do.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘Will you go and see her, Sidney, wherever she is?’
‘It’s not that straightforward. I’ll have to ask Hildegard. I can’t go to see Amanda unless she thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘You’re a kind man.’
‘No, I am very flawed,’ Sidney replied. ‘I can assure you of that. I just try to make people aware of my failings before it’s too late.’
Back home, he read his friend’s note.
You will know where I have gone. Please don’t worry. A.
For a moment Sidney thought Amanda might have done something extreme, such as fly to Biafra in search of a child, but then he remembered her telling him about her happiest memory as a child on holiday on the island of
Skye. It had been a day with strong winds and dark skies, the barking of dogs, the bleating of sheep, the collapse of telephone wires – with no boat daring to go out to sea, and everyone stuck inside.
He could hear her voice saying, ‘No one thought we would ever go out again, but then the dark clouds moved across the Cuillins and the sun came through the clouds and light darted over the mountains. The wind was stilled and we were free and I felt such happiness that the darkness had passed. I often think that if I ever go back there then the same thing will happen, that the clouds will vanish and the wind will be still but fresh, and the dogs will stop barking, and the light on the mountains will be sharp and clear, even if it’s only for a short time. Do you understand, Sidney?’
‘Will you go and see her?’ Hildegard asked.
‘If she is in Skye then it’s a very long way. I don’t know if the old Morris Minor can cope.’
‘I think you should go.’
‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate. She has a husband.’
‘She’ll listen to you. It would be an act of charity.’
‘Amanda’s not one for pity.’
‘Perhaps because she has not truly known it.’
‘Would you mind if I went?’ Sidney asked.
‘I don’t think it would be a good thing if I stopped you.’
‘That’s not the same as approval.’
‘I know you love me.’
‘I do, Hildegard, believe me, more than anything.’
‘Even if you are not always so good at showing it. But I will not become the nervous woman I do not want to be. We trust each other.’
‘We do.’
‘Then you must go if you want to.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘That is different, mein Lieber. The trouble with Amanda is that you are the only person she believes; and now you will prove it all over again.’
‘I don’t have to go.’
‘You do.’
‘I won’t if you tell me not to.’
‘I would never do that. You must do what you think best. Do not worry. Anna and I will still be here when you return. So go. behave well.’
After he had driven for three hours up the A1, stopped for petrol, a cup of tea and a baked potato at Scotch Corner, Sidney began to have reservations about the trip. It was going to take for ever. What on earth was he doing leaving his wife, his child, his friends, his parishioners, his job and his life?
He stayed at a hotel just south of Glencoe that was filled with eager beer-drinking climbers who planned to head on to Ben Nevis, and had an early night with a Michael Frayn novel he was too tired to start. The next morning he drove on to Fort William and the Kyle of Lochalsh and took the ferry across to the island just as the mist was beginning to clear over the Cuillins. He stopped in Broadford to acquire rations – milk, eggs, bread, cheese, ham, mince, potatoes and the all-important Talisker whisky – before heading on to a village which was, in his namesake Sydney Smith’s words, ‘so far out of the way that it was actually twelve miles from a lemon’.
He had ascertained that Amanda was in Elgol on the south-west of the island but did not know the exact cottage where she was staying. On enquiries, first down at the harbour and then at the little post office, he discovered that she had rented a place on the headland from a woman who used to work the telephone switchboard in a solicitor’s office. It was famous for its sunsets, she said, and had a view straight out to Rum, Eigg and Soay that was both the end of Scotland and the beginning of a new world far out in the Atlantic.
Even though he was almost there, after what must have been a thirteen- or fourteen-hour drive, Sidney had to wait behind a herd of Highland cattle before making his way back up the hill. One of the cows in front of him pissed copiously just to ensure that her visitor had no romantic illusions about the scenery. Sidney then stumbled as he stepped out of the car, his legs weakened by the journey and his senses unused to the proximity of ditches so close to the road.
He opened the gate to the cottage and Amanda heard its creak, coming out to ask him not to let the sheep into the garden before she told him anything else. She looked tired and thinner than he had remembered, and was dressed very simply in jeans, boots and the kind of jumper he had given to the jumble sale.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said after giving him a welcoming but half-hearted kiss. Her voice sounded distant, as if Sidney still hadn’t quite arrived.
‘I’ve brought whisky,’ he said.
‘I’ve already got some. I hoped you’d come. I even prayed.’
‘You were that desperate?’
‘You’re the only friend I can rely on.’
‘You look very well,’ Sidney lied.
‘I know I don’t. But I’m here. And I feel better.’
‘It must be the sea air.’
‘I’ve had to shop for outdoor clothing but it’s hopeless these days; you either have to dress like a teenager or a granny. There’s nothing in between. Not that I need expensive clothes any more. I think I’d rather live simply and like this.’
Sidney took his suitcase from the car and Amanda showed him into the cottage. There were three bedrooms, a small kitchen, bathroom and a living room with an open hearth. A peat fire was burning, even though it was August. ‘I get so cold,’ said Amanda. ‘But it’s cosy being alone.’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Do you have news of Henry?’
‘I don’t think he will be prosecuted.’
‘Then I’m glad.’
‘He’s worried. He thinks you’re not coming back.’
‘I’m not,’ said Amanda. ‘Is that so very wrong?’
‘You plan to live here?’
‘No, Sidney, I’ll return to London but not to Henry. I need time to think about my life. I want to live differently; to be alone. Have you been instructed to bring me home?’
‘I have come to see you. That is all. My visit has no other purpose.’
‘I hope you can stay for a while. Does Hildegard mind?’
‘Thank you for asking.’
‘I do love her, you know. I hope you realise how lucky you are in having her?’
‘I am very fortunate.’
‘Even if it’s hard sometimes to know what she really thinks. I suppose we all have that in a marriage. Only I wouldn’t want her to disapprove. You would tell me if she did, wouldn’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if she was unhappy about it.’
‘I must write and thank her; although that seems an odd thing to do, I suppose. I don’t really know how to behave any more. How long can you stay?’
‘I’m not sure. I think a couple of days.’
‘You might as well, now you’ve travelled all this way. Would you like something to drink? There’s food too. I haven’t very much, though. I’ve got a little routine going. Cornflakes in the morning; soup, bread and cheese at lunchtime; an omelette at night. One of the farmers brings me milk and eggs. They’re very kind here. Charitable. I’ve been thinking a lot about that.’
‘Living a simpler life.’
‘I don’t know if I can abandon everything; but I think I have to live differently, Sidney. Perhaps charity only means something if you give away so much that your life is altered.’
‘You need to preserve a sense of yourself, Amanda. Perhaps your wealth is what makes you who you are.’
‘But what if I want to be someone else? Don’t we all have enough? Everyone I know is so greedy and so frightened, so unwilling to make sacrifices. But that’s what your faith is about, isn’t it? Making sacrifices.’
‘I do think we often need to be judged less by what we say and more by what we do. Deeds, not words. The truest test of character is how we behave towards people who can do nothing for us.’
‘I don’t think I can go back to London unless I have changed in some way. And Henry, well, there’s too much to forgive. Do you know that he was spending so much on his first wife that he was starting to hid
e it from me? That’s what I can’t abide. The drip, drip, drip of his lies. Are you sure he didn’t kill her?’
‘I am. And Geordie thinks so too.’
‘Why did she hate him so much? Was it because of the child? Henry said he had told you about that. I hope he did. If he’s lied about that as well . . .’
‘No. He told me. I wondered if you had suspected something like it?’
‘I think I always knew. It was why Henry was so anti-adoption. He didn’t want to be reminded of it all. Not that he was the one who suffered. It was his wife who went through it all. He’s been such a liar.’
‘I think he was trying to protect you.’
‘I am not a child, Sidney.’
‘I know that.’
‘But I can’t see a way out. Sometimes so many things mount up in front of you that you don’t know where you are. It’s like being here on the island when the clouds come over and you can no longer see the view. It happens so fast.’
‘But there are also times when the sun shines through.’
‘You once said they were “God’s promises”.’
‘An old clergy friend told me that. Children like to hear it.’
‘One has to keep one’s promises, I suppose.’
‘That is the idea.’
‘“For better, for worse . . .”’
‘Unless everything becomes untenable, the situation changes so radically . . .’
‘Which, in my case, it has, I think.’
‘No one would ever say that it’s been easy for you.’
‘We’ve made promises to each other as well, Sidney, haven’t we?’
‘I’m not sure they were promises exactly.’
‘Always to be friends.’
‘I know, Amanda . . .’
‘At least we should be able to keep that.’
They went out for a walk on the headland before it was dark. The coastal path took them out towards the Cuillins. The air already had the feel of autumn. The berries in the rowan trees were turning from tangerine to scarlet; the swallows and house martins were searching for late-summer flies; the wind came on across the heather and thistle. It began to rain. Soon it would be night and then, in a few days’ time, they would travel south back to their homes and, for Amanda, a future that was as uncertain as it had ever been. What will she make of her life now, Sidney wondered, and what place will I have in it?