“Such as?”
“Normal feelings, for one. Normal relationships for another. She called it being a mirror, just reflecting the behaviour of those round her. It’s a defence. It protected her from feeling anything about what was happening to her.”
“How?”
“She wasn’t a ‘real person,’ so nothing her father did could really touch or hurt her.”
“Everyone in the village describes her in an entirely different way.”
“Yes. That’s the behaviour. Gillian simply mirrored them. Taking it to its furthest extreme, it becomes multiple personalities, but she seems to have prevented that from occurring. In itself, that’s remarkable, considering what she went through.”
“What about Roberta?”
The psychiatrist frowned. “She didn’t cope as well as Gillian,” he admitted.
Lynley gave a last glance out the window and returned to his seat, a worn upholstered chair: resting place, no doubt, for hundreds of tormented psyches. “Is that why she ate?”
“As a way of escaping? No, I don’t think so. I’d say it was more an act of self-destruction.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The abused child feels he or she has done something wrong and is being punished for it. Roberta may well have eaten because the abuse led her to despise herself—her ‘wickedness’—and destroying her body was a scourging. That’s one explanation.” The doctor hesitated.
“And the other?”
“Hard to say. It could be that she tried to stop the abuse the only way she knew how. Short of suicide, what better way than to destroy her body, to make herself as un-Gilly-like as possible. That way, her father wouldn’t want her sexually.”
“But it didn’t work.”
“Unfortunately, no. He merely turned to perversions to arouse himself, making her part of it. That would feed his need for power.”
“I feel as if I’d like to tear Teys apart,” Lynley said.
“I feel that way all the time,” the doctor responded.
“How could anyone…I don’t understand it.”
“It’s a deviant behaviour, a sickness. Teys was aroused by children. His marriage to a sixteen-year-old girl—not a voluptuous, womanly sixteen-year-old, but a late-maturing sixteen-year-old—would have been a glaring sign to anyone looking for aberrant behaviour. But he was able to mask it well with his devotion to religion and his persona of the strong, loving father. That’s so typical, Inspector Lynley. I can’t tell you how typical it is.”
“And no one ever knew? I can’t believe it.”
“If you consider the situation, it’s easy to believe. Teys projected a very successful image in his community. At the same time, his daughters were tricked into self-blame and secrecy. Gillian believed she had been responsible for her mother’s desertion of her father and was making reparation for that by, in Teys’s words, ‘being a mummy’ to him. Roberta believed that Gillian had pleased her father and that she was supposed to do the same. And both of them, of course, were taught from the Bible—Teys’s careful selection of passages and his twisted interpretations of them—that what they were doing was not only right but written by the hand of God as their duty as his daughters.”
“It makes me sick.”
“It is sick. He was sick. Consider his sickness: He chose a child to be his bride. That was safe. He was threatened by the adult world and in the person of this sixteen-year-old girl, he saw someone who could arouse him with her childlike body and, at the same time, gratify his need for the self-respect that a marriage would give him.”
“Then why did he turn to his children?”
“When Tessa—this childlike bride of his—produced a baby, Teys had frightening and irrefutable evidence that the creature who had been arousing him and upon whose body he had taken such gratification was not a child at all, but a woman. And he was threatened by women, I should guess, the feminine representation of the entire adult world that he feared.”
“She said he stopped sleeping with her.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. If he had slept with her and failed to perform, imagine his humiliation. Why risk that kind of failure when there in his house was a helpless infant from whom he could get immense pleasure and satisfaction?”
Lynley felt his throat close. “Infant?” he asked. “Do you mean…”
Dr. Samuels took the measure of Lynley’s reaction and nodded in sad recognition of an outrage he himself had felt for many years. “I should think that the abuse of Gillian began in infancy. She remembers the first incident when she was four or five, but Teys was unlikely to have waited that long unless his religion was providing him with self-control for those years. It’s possible.”
His religion. Each piece was falling into place more tidily than the last, but as each did, Lynley felt an anger that needed free rein. He controlled it with an effort. “She’ll stand trial.”
“Eventually. Roberta’s going to recover. She’ll be found competent to stand trial.” The doctor turned in his chair to watch the group in the garden. “But you know as well as I, Inspector, that no jury in the world is going to convict her of anything when the truth is told. So perhaps we can believe that there will be a form of justice after all.”
The trees that towered above St. Catherine’s Church cast long shadows on the exterior of the building so that, even though it was still light outside, the interior was dim. The deep reds and purples from stained glass windows poured forth bloody pools of light which faded slowly on the cracked tile floor, and votive candles flickered under statues who watched his movement in the aisle. The air within the building was heavy and dead, and as Lynley made his way to the Elizabethan confessional, he shivered.
He opened the door, went inside the booth, knelt, and waited. The darkness was complete, the tranquillity absolute. A suitable ambience for meditating upon one’s sins, Lynley thought.
A grill was moved in the darkness. A gentle voice murmured incantations to a nonexistent god. Then, “Yes, my child?”
At the last moment, he wondered if he would be able to do it. But he found his voice.
“He came to you here,” Lynley said. “This was the place where he confessed his sins. Did you absolve him, Father? Did you make some sort of mystical configuration in the air that told William Teys he was free of the sin of abusing his children? What did you tell him? Did you give him your blessing? Did you release him from the confessional, his soul purged once more, to go home to his farm and begin it again? Is that how it was?”
In response, he only heard breathing, harsh and rapid, that told him a living creature was on the other side of the grill.
“And did Gillian confess? Or was she too frightened? Did you talk to her about what her father did to her? Did you try to help her?”
“I…” The voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance. “Understand and forgive.”
“That’s what you told her? Understand? Forgive? What about Roberta? Was she supposed to understand and forgive as well? Was a sixteen-year-old girl supposed to learn to accept the fact that her father raped her, made her pregnant, that he then murdered her child? Or was that your idea, Father?”
“I didn’t know about the baby. I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” The voice was frantic.
“But you knew once you found it in the abbey. You damn well knew. You chose Pericles, Father Hart. You damn well knew.”
“He…he never confessed to that. Never!”
“And what would you have done if he had? What exactly would his penance have been for the murder of his child? And it was murder. You know it was murder.”
“No. No!”
“William Teys carried that baby from Gembler Farm to the abbey. He couldn’t wrap it in anything because anything he used might have been traced back to him. So he carried it naked. And it died. You knew when you saw it whose baby it was, how it got to the abbey. You chose Pericles for the epitaph. Murder’s as near to lust as flame to smoke. You damn well knew
.”
“He said…after that…he swore he was cured.”
“Cured? A miraculous recovery from sexual deviance, nicely engineered by the death of his infant child? Is that what you thought? Is that what you wanted to think? He was recovered, all right. His idea of recovery was that he’d stopped raping Roberta. But listen to me, Father, because this is on your conscience and by God you shall hear me, he stopped nothing else.”
“No!”
“You know it’s the truth. He was addicted. The only problem was that he needed a fresh young fix for his habit. He needed Bridie. And you were going to let it happen.”
He swore to me—”
“He swore? On what? The Bible that he used to make Gillian believe she had to give her body to her father? Is that what he swore on?”
“He stopped confessing. I didn’t know. I—”
“You knew. From the moment he started on Bridie, you knew. And when you went to the farm and saw what Roberta had done, the real truth came crashing right down, didn’t it?”
There was a stifled sob. And then growing out of it a keening of grief that rose like the wail of Jacob and broke on the utterance of three nearly incoherent words. “Mea…mea culpa!”
“Yes!” Lynley hissed. “Through your fault, Father.”
“I couldn’t…it was the silence of the confessional. It’s a holy oath.”
“There is no oath more important than life. There is no oath more important than the ruin of a child. You saw that, didn’t you, when you went to the farm? You knew that it was finally time to break the silence. So you wiped off the axe, you got rid of the knife, and you came to Scotland Yard. You knew the real truth would come out that way, the truth you lacked the courage to reveal.”
“Oh God, I…understand and forgive.” The whisper was broken.
“Not for this. Not for twenty-seven years of physical abuse. For two ruined lives. For the death of their dreams. There is no understanding. There is no forgiveness. By God, not for this.” He shoved open the door of the confessional and left.
Behind him a querulous voice rose in agonising prayer. “‘Fret not thyself because of evildoers…they shall soon be cut down like the grass…trust in the Lord…he shall give thee the desires of thy heart…evildoers shall be cut off…”
Scarcely able to breathe, Lynley flung open the church door and stepped out into the air.
Lady Helen was leaning against the edge of a lichened sarcophagus, watching Gillian, who stood at the small, distant grave under the cypress trees, her cropped blonde head bent in contemplation or prayer. She heard Lynley’s footsteps but did not stir, not even when he joined her and she felt the sure, steady pressure of his arm against her own.
“I saw Deborah,” he said at last.
“Ah.” Her eyes remained on Gillian’s slight form. “I thought you might see her, Tommy. I hoped you wouldn’t but I did think you might.”
“You knew they were here in Keldale. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Still she looked away from him, but for a moment she lowered her eyes. “What was there to say, really? We’d said it already. So many times.” She hesitated, wanting to let it go, to let the subject die between them once and for all. But the backward abysm of time that constituted the many years of their friendship would not allow her to do so. “Was it dreadful for you?” she made herself ask.
“At first.”
“And then?”
“Then I saw that she loves him. As you did once.”
A regretful smile touched her lips briefly. “Yes. As I did once.”
“Where did you find the strength to let St. James go, Helen? How on earth did you survive it?”
“Oh, I muddled through somehow. Besides, you were always there for me, Tommy. You helped me. You were always my friend.”
“As you’ve been mine. My very best friend.”
She laughed softly at that. “Men say that about their dogs, you know. I’m not sure I ought to be flattered by the appellation.”
“But are you?” he asked.
“Most decidedly,” she replied. She turned to him then and searched his face. The exhaustion was there as it had been before, but the weight of sorrow was lessened. Not gone, that would not happen quickly, but dissolving and leading him out of the past. “You’re beyond the worst of it now, aren’t you?”
“I’m beyond the worst. I think, in fact, I’m ready to go on.” He touched the fall of her hair and smiled.
The lych-gate opened and over Lynley’s shoulder Lady Helen saw Sergeant Havers coming into the graveyard. Her steps slowed momentarily when she saw them talking tranquilly together, but she cleared her throat as if in warning of her intrusion and strode towards them quickly, her shoulders squared.
“Sir, you’ve a message from Webberly,” she said to Lynley. “Stepha had it at the lodge.”
“A message? What sort?”
“His usual cryptogram, I’m afraid.” She handed the paper to him. “‘ID positive. London verifies. York informed last P.M.,’” she recited. “Does it make sense to you?”
He read the message over, folded the paper, and looked bleakly off through the graveyard to the hills beyond. “Yes,” he replied, but the words were not coming easily to him, “it makes perfect sense.”
“Russell Mowrey?” Havers asked perceptively. When he nodded, she went on. “So he did go to London to turn Tessa in to Scotland Yard. How strange. Why not turn her in to the York police? What could Scotland Yard—”
“No. He’d gone to London to see his family, just as Tessa guessed. But he never made it farther than King’s Cross Station.”
“King’s Cross Station?” Havers repeated.
“That’s where the Ripper got him, Havers. His picture was on the wall in Webberly’s office.”
He went to the lodge alone. He walked down Church Street and stood for a moment on the bridge as he had done only the night before. The village was hushed, but, as he took a final look at Keldale, a door slammed nearby. A little red-haired girl hurtled down the back steps of her house and darted to a shed. She disappeared, emerging moments later, dragging a large sack of feed on the ground.
“Where’s Dougal?” he called.
Bridie looked up. Her curly hair trapped the sunlight, burning an autumn contrast against the bright green pullover—several sizes too large—that she wore. “Inside. He has a stomachache today.”
Lynley wondered idly how one diagnosed a stomachache in a mallard and wisely thought better of asking. “Why are you feeding him, then?” he asked.
She pondered the question, scratching her left leg with the top of her right foot. “Mummy says I ought to. She’s been keeping him warm all day and she says she thinks he can eat something now.”
“Sounds like a good nurse.”
“She is.” She waved a grubby hand at him and disappeared into the house, a small package of life with her dreams intact.
He walked across the bridge and into the lodge. Behind the reception desk, Stepha stood up, her lips parted to speak.
“It was Ezra Farmington’s baby that you had, wasn’t it?” he asked her. “He was part of the wild, crazy laughter you wanted after your brother died, wasn’t he?”
“Thomas—”
“Wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Do you watch when he and Nigel torment each other over you? Are you amused when Nigel drinks himself blind at the Dove and Whistle, hoping to catch you spending time with Ezra at his house across the street? Or do you escape the whole conflict with Richard Gibson’s help?”
“That’s really unfair.”
“Is it? Do you know that Ezra doesn’t believe he can paint any longer? Are you interested, Stepha? He’s destroyed his work. The only pieces left are his paintings of you.”
“I can’t help him.”
“You won’t help him.”
“That’s not true.”
“You won’t help him,” Lynley repeated. “For some reason, he still wants you. He w
ants the child as well. He wants to know where it is. He wants to know what you did with it, who has it. Have you even bothered to tell him if it’s a boy or girl?”
She dropped her eyes. “She’s…she was adopted by a family in Durham. That’s the way it had to be.”
“And that’s to be his punishment, I take it?”
Her eyes flew up. “For what? Why would I punish him?”
“For stopping the laughter. For insisting on having something more with you. For being willing to take chances. For being all the things you’re too afraid to be.”
She didn’t reply. There was no need for her to do so when he could read the answer so clearly on her face.
She had not wanted to go to the farm. The scene of so many of her childhood terrors, the farm was a place she wished to bury in the past. All she had wanted to see was the baby’s grave. That done, she was ready to leave. The others, this group of kind strangers who had come into her life, did not question her. Rather, they bundled her into the large, silver car and drove her out of Keldale.
She had no idea where they were taking her, and she didn’t much care. Jonah was gone. Nell was dead. And whoever Gillian was remained to be discovered. She was simply a shell. There was nothing else left.
Lynley glanced at Gillian in the mirror. He wasn’t sure what would happen. He wasn’t sure that it was the right thing to do. He was working on instinct, a blind instinct which insisted that something good had to rise, like a phoenix triumphant, from the ashes of the day.
He knew that he was looking for meaning, that he couldn’t accept the senselessness of Russell Mowrey’s death in King’s Cross Station at the hands of an unknown killer. He raged against it, against its vile brutality, against its diabolical ugliness, against its terrible waste.
He would give meaning to it all. He would not accept that these fragmented lives could not somehow conjoin, could not reach across the chasm of nineteen years and find peace at last.
A Great Deliverance Page 33