An Unholy Shame

by Joyce Cato

  ‘So you found your niche,’ Celia said, somehow managing to make it sound like a crime. ‘I always thought that you were going to be a lone crusader. If I’d known you craved domesticity quite so much … well.’ She smiled teasingly, becoming definitely provocative now. In spite of her good intentions, Monica felt her face flame. Around her she could fairly hear all the speculative wheels turning as people pretended not to eavesdrop.

  Of all the damned cheek! She fumed silently. Why didn’t the woman just come right out and say out loud that she’d have been after him like a shot?

  ‘Ah but Graham hadn’t met me then,’ she pointed out sweetly and slipped her hand further up and around his elbow, tugging his arm to her side. He turned to look down at her, his gaze slightly troubled and a little bit pleading. ‘Had you, sweetheart?’ she asked, looking up at him with a soft, tender expression.

  Graham looked back at her gratefully. ‘No,’ he said simply. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘Good grief, it’s nearly 2.10 already. Celia, I simply must go, I’m giving a lecture. It’s been really nice to see you again,’ he added hurriedly and rather mendaciously.

  ‘Oh yes your lecture. I’m looking forward to it,’ Celia said, shooting Monica a triumphant look. ‘Shall we go in?’ she said to Graham who, of course, had no option, but to allow her to monopolize him. Somewhat reluctantly, he allowed Celia to lead him away towards the lecture hall where many of the others, who had been prodded into sudden action, quickly preceded him. He shot a last, quick glance at Monica over his shoulder as he left, but couldn’t read from her face what she was thinking.

  As he walked into the hall, he reflected that at least all his nervousness about giving his talk had now faded!

  He walked to the podium and only then realized, in some embarrassment, that he was still holding on to the open bag of peanuts. Flustered, he walked to the blackboard behind him, which had been left there mostly for decorative purposes since the room was equipped with a large white screen that could be accessed by a laptop. He put the offending packet on the rim, along with the unused old-fashioned chalk and wooden-backed duster whilst members of his audience politely pretended not to notice his consternation. When he turned back to the room, it was disconcertingly full. And there, sitting right in the middle of the front row, was Celia.

  Graham almost smiled. He simply couldn’t help it. Of all the silly, unwanted things that could possibly have happened.

  His memories of Celia were mostly vague – he’d been a young, newly ordained vicar and Celia had been a very young, ambitious, forceful woman. He’d known, of course, that she’d had something of a crush on him and had tried gently to discourage her, although, if his memory served him right, she had been very persistent. She’d found it very hard to believe that anyone would reject what she was offering. Eventually though, Celia had left to attend graduate college, and they’d parted, if not on the best of terms exactly, in some form of mutual understanding. And from that day to this, he had quite literally never given her another thought.

  Nevertheless, it had been an awful shock to see her bearing down on him just now – especially with Monica right by his side. And who knows what she had made of that little contretemps. He suspected that he and his wife would be having a long, long chat, come teatime.

  Quickly, he pulled himself together. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ he began, his voice, he was relieved to note, coming out clear and even. ‘I hope I won’t bore you too much with the subject of my lecture …’ And he was off. With his notes in front of him, and his excellent memory coming to his aide, he launched into his lecture with renewed confidence.

  And if he noticed a certain amount of unwelcome speculation in some of the faces in front of him, he ignored it. It had been a little embarrassing just now, true, but that wouldn’t kill him – besides, he reminded himself comfortingly, he’d probably never meet any of these people again. And come Tuesday, Celia would be back in Bath, where he heartily hoped she would stay.

  ‘Want to come into Oxford with me?’ Monica called outside her daughter’s bedroom as she passed it, picking up the car keys from the hall table as she did so. As expected, Carole Anne’s bedroom door opened rapidly. ‘You bet,’ Carole Anne rushed out, long blonde hair flying. ‘I didn’t know you were going into town today. Can we go to the pictures? There’s a Brad Pitt film on.’

  ‘No,’ Monica said firmly. ‘You know I’ve got to get back. We’re having dinner at the Manor tonight.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Carole Anne yawned hugely. ‘How fascinating for you.’

  Monica grinned at her wryly and together they headed for the car.

  ‘So what are you after? Lampshades?’ Carole Anne drawled as they headed south towards the famous University City. ‘Some material for new curtains. A collar for the cat?’

  ‘We haven’t got a cat,’ Monica said, playing the game. ‘And I’m looking for a new dress, if you must know.’

  Carole Anne shot her mother a quick look. ‘I thought you were going to wear that long velvet thing tonight,’ she said airily. ‘It’s what you usually wear to all the fancy dos.’

  ‘Well tonight I’m going to wear something different,’ Monica said grimly, an image of Celia Gordon’s fair-haired elegance uppermost in her mind.

  Carole Anne frowned at her, something in her mother’s tone alerting her to trouble. ‘What’s up, Mum?’ she demanded instantly.

  Surprised by her perspicacity – teenagers were more known for their introspection than intuition – Monica glanced across at her. ‘Nothing,’ she denied automatically. And then after a moment, because she and Carole Anne were always honest with each other, and because she was quite proud of their close and hopefully honest relationship, added, ‘there was an old friend of your father’s at the conference.’

  ‘Oh? Old female friend?’ Carole Anne probed ruthlessly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘A lot older than me.’

  ‘But pretty?’ Carole Anne insisted, beginning to enjoy herself hugely.

  ‘Yes,’ Monica admitted very reluctantly.

  Carole Anne chuckled. ‘Who’d have thought the old dog had it in him.’

  ‘Less of the old dog,’ Monica snapped. ‘And I’m sure that they were just friends.’

  ‘Hah!’ Carole Anne snorted. Then, seeing the look on her mother’s face she quickly dropped the teasing. ‘Don’t worry. Everyone knows that Graham’s crazy about you, Mum. You’ve got nothing to worry about,’ she added carelessly.

  Which Monica was sure of too, deep down. But she was only human, and a woman, and she wasn’t about to let herself be out-done at that evening’s dinner.

  Her first stop, much to Carole Anne’s disgust, was Deben­hams. There, to Carole Anne’s immense surprise, she found two dresses that suited her, looked designer-label, wouldn’t break the budget and would be perfect for a dinner at the Manor.

  ‘I still like the blue one better,’ Carole Anne said a half an hour later, crammed into a changing cubicle and eyeing her mother with a knowledgeable, fashion-conscious eye. ‘It showed more skin.’

  ‘That it did,’ Monica agreed wryly. ‘That’s why I’m going for this.’

  The dress she was wearing and admiring in the full-length mirror, was a very deep, rich apricot in shade and provided a sharp and alluring contrast to her blue eyes, whilst remaining a perfect complement for her dark, nut-brown hair. It was of a vaguely satiny material and had a simple boat-shaped neckline and half-length, tight-fitting sleeves. It also had a very clever waist that made her slender figure look even more so, and a very romantic full skirt, with a net underskirt to give it a bit of a flounce. It came to mid-calf length, thus showing off her (even if she did say so herself) nicely shaped calves and ankles, and would be perfect with some high, strappy heels. And buying those, she supposed with a sigh, would be next on the agenda. Thus blowing her budget. Oh well. They’d just have to go without meat next week.

  ‘Besides, I’v
e got just the jewellery to go with this,’ she added, suddenly remembering. ‘Nana’s silver and tiger-eye set.’

  Carole Anne pursed her lips as she contemplated the ensemble. ‘Ye-esss,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘But I still think the blue is better. If you want to show up this rival …’

  Monica glowered at her daughter. ‘She is not a rival and I have no intention of making a fool of either Graham or myself by showing up in something inappropriate. I’ll be jiggered if I’ll let her goad me into doing something foolish.’

  ‘Way to go, Mom!’ Carole Anne yelled, making a woman in the next changing cubicle grin.

  In his private lounge, Sir Andrew Courtenay opened the French windows leading out onto the back lawns and glanced around. As he’d suspected, there was not a soul in sight. He’d noticed before that the hours between two and four were usually very dead at conferences, mainly because nobody had an excuse not to be hard at work taking notes at lectures or in workshops.

  He slipped quickly across the lawns and dodged through a thicket of rhododendrons to the back gate, silently passing out of the manor grounds and into a narrow leafy lane. It was a no through road that ended in a barred gate a hundred yards or so further on, which in turn lead to a local farmer’s field. He glanced at his watch nervously. It was nearly three o’clock already. He hoped his contact hadn’t been and gone, but Sir Andrew didn’t really think so. These types of people always wanted money and would do anything to get it. He should know.

  Hell, he hated doing this. Hated it. He wasn’t going to back out now, though.

  The sound of an engine had him looking away towards the village, but it was only someone heading out of Heyford Bassett, a red car flashing past the entrance to Church Lane. He paced back and forth at the side of the road, looking haggard. And as he paced, he wondered about Archdeacon Pierrepont and his unexpected proposal.

  The man made a certain amount of sense. And his idea of poetic justice appealed to him greatly. Also, he was a powerful ally to have. Between the two of them, surely they could pull this thing off? For his daughter’s sake, Sir Andrew was willing to try. Was willing, in fact, to take any kind of risk necessary. But there was something about the man, something unstable that worried him and …

  He heard another car and glanced towards the entrance to the lane, his heart suddenly pounding as he noticed a sports car with darkened windows coming slowly towards him. Sir Andrew stood stock-still as the car cruised past. For a moment he wondered what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to make a gesture? Follow on after the car? But before he could move, the car quickly reversed into a turning, and came back towards him again. As it drew level, the driver’s side window slid down automatically.

  No doubt the driver had just been checking to make certain that there had been no one else around, Sir Andrew supposed with a bitter smile. A surprisingly young face looked back at him from the driver’s seat.

  ‘You the geezer Davie told me about then?’ the voice was pure cockney.

  Sir Andrew, leaning in a little, nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t look the type,’ the youngster said suspiciously. Sir Andrew noticed he had an angry-looking pimple on his chin. The boy was barely out of puberty.

  ‘Well I am,’ Sir Andrew growled and reached into his rear trouser pocket, withdrawing a leather wallet. The boy’s eyes sharpened as the older man began to extract and count out a wad of ten-pound notes. The young man’s eyes flickered everywhere, but saw only cows in meadows, the tree-lined lane and a big house in the near-distance. His eyes narrowed on it nervously.

  ‘Here, this is the amount Davie mentioned. Right?’ Sir Andrew said, thrusting his hand inside the car. He wanted this over with quickly. Already he was feeling soiled and dirty.

  The youngster snatched the money from his hand and for a bare instant, Sir Andrew thought he was simply going to drive away and rip him off. Then he felt something small and soft being pushed into his hand and leapt back just in time as the sports car shot away.

  He glanced down at the small object lying so innocuously in the palm of his hand and a look of disgust and fury crossed his face. Quickly he thrust it venomously into his back pocket. He then turned and headed back towards the manor. But for all his anger, his strides were long and confident. His back was straight, and for the first time since February, he had a purpose in his life.

  And things to do.

  Not everyone at the manor was attending Graham’s lecture or the other two small workshops that had been scheduled for that afternoon.

  In the main hall, sitting beside the St Bede’s manuscript, Dr Simon Grade stared miserably down at his feet. That damned woman and her comments about the ink coloration and some of the lettering. What could she possibly know about it? And yet, he suspected glumly, she knew an awful lot. She was just the kind that would. Simon had known a lot of women like her in his life. Besides, hadn’t that poor vicar she’d attached herself to like a leech said something about her having a BA? The trouble was he’d been too far away and there’d been too many people crowding around him, to be able to hear properly. What had the BA been in exactly?

  Simon took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his perspiring forehead. He felt quite nauseous. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that things could have been worse.

  A lot worse.

  He’d been quite within his rights to refuse to remove the manuscript from the glass case in order to give her a better look, and he’d done so vehemently. Besides, there’d been no gloves available for her to wear, and you couldn’t handle an artefact like that with bare skin. The gall of the woman! But she obviously didn’t lack that. Even from where he’d been standing, he could see that she’d been all over that poor woman’s husband. And her, in her dog collar! And didn’t it make all the others goggle! Why, Bishop Bryce’s charming wife had been staring at them positively wide-eyed. But then, she was a real lady, Simon thought with a sniff, and not used to such outrageous behaviour.

  No, common sense assured him, he had nothing to fear from the Reverend Celia Gordon. Nobody else liked her either, that much was clear. So surely no one would listen to her or take her seriously? Not that she’d say anything. Would she?

  Dr Simon Grade continued to sit in the deserted hall and sweat. And worry. For him, it was to be a long, long, afternoon.

  Back in his study Sir Andrew sat at his desk staring down at a photograph of a smiling girl holding the reins of a magnificent chestnut hunter. She’d loved that horse. Sir Andrew wished he hadn’t got rid of it. But he couldn’t bear to see it in the paddock, not after … And now she’d never ride him again.

  With a start he realized that he was crying. And that would never do. He couldn’t break down. Not now. He pulled open a desk drawer and with one, last, lingering look, put the photograph away.

  He’d now stopped crying.

  Hours passed.

  It was nearly seven o’clock and a glorious summer evening. In their rooms, best bib and tucker was being donned by all the conference-goers in preparation for the grand dinner. Dr Simon Grade had got his wish, for Dr Carew had indeed invited him to join them in the Dining Hall, and the museum curator was currently in the gent’s, transforming his suit.

  Arthur Bryce stood still as his wife adjusted his dog collar.

  In her bedroom, Jessica Taylor stood in front of the mirror and sighed over the dark red/nearly black, crushed velvet frock that she’d had for over ten years. It was very plain, and it still suited her to perfection. But was it becoming just a shade shabby now?

  Celia Gordon donned a long pencil skirt in jet black, and added a cream jacket with black piping to match, over a black lace blouse. She added just a touch more lipstick to her already dark red lips.

  Sir Andrew went to the kitchens to offer his usual moral support to the staff.

  In his room, Archdeacon Sir Matthew Pierrepont drank his third whisky of the day and cackled in delighted anticipation of things to come as he negligently br
ushed down his old suit, so ancient it was almost greening with mould.

  At the converted vicarage, Graham rose from the edge of the bed and slipped into a pair of dark polished shoes. He was wearing a basic black suit, crisp white shirt and pale blue tie, and looked devastatingly handsome. He turned at the sound of whispering material and his eyes opened wide as his wife walked through from the bathroom.

  ‘Monica, you look … ravishing,’ he said. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘I love you,’ he said again. He’d said it twice that evening already, but he wanted to make sure she understood.

  Monica did. ‘I love you too,’ she said, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him. Even in high heels, she was shorter than he by quite a few inches.

  It was a lovely night as they walked towards the manor. The sun was still a long way from setting, and blackbirds, thrushes, robins, chaffinches, green finches and sparrows serenaded them all the way down the lane towards the big house. The air was perfumed with honeysuckle and roses and wild flowers.

  It didn’t seem like the sort of night for murder at all.

  CHAPTER 6

  In the dining room the tables had once more been set out to make one long length – the whole arrangement sparkled with glass and silverware. In porcelain bowls abundant flowers gave the scene a fairytale prettiness whilst silver napkin rings enclosed fine white linen napkins, and in big silver candelabras, white candles flickered and flamed.

  ‘Wow,’ Monica said softly to Graham as they walked arm in arm into the room.

  ‘Sir Andrew certainly likes to push the boat out,’ Graham agreed. Then, more uncertainly, ‘Do you see any name plates?’

  ‘No. I think we just sit wherever we want to.’

  ‘I notice that Bishop Bryce is seated at the head of the table down at the bottom,’ Graham said, then laughed. ‘If you see what I mean. I wonder who’s supposed to sit at the head of the table at this end?’

  ‘Your boss, I expect,’ Monica said somewhat irreverently, spying Bishop David Carew. ‘Here he is now. Do you suppose anyone here has told him that we’re all in the third millennium yet?’ she whispered teasingly.