‘Baines’, she saw on the edge of a file, under the drawer divider marked in neat Biro, ‘STAFF admin’. She pulled it out, amazed that it was so easy, then remembering that these were the non-confidential files. Baines, Joanna, it said. Date of birth, 15 September, 1967. There was an address on the other side of town. Under next of kin, it said ‘None’, in big handwritten letters. Then Joanna had added, ‘In case of emergency, contact Mrs Patricia Turnbull.’
Agnes blinked. She stared at the page for a while. Then she wrote down Joanna’s address from the file, and Patricia Turnbull’s too. She looked up Father Elias, found he wasn’t there, closed the drawer and left the office.
*
At six thirty that evening, Agnes licked the gum on an envelope and sealed the letter to Pamela Nash’s parents. She put it down on her desk and took a sip of cold coffee from the mug beside her. She got out her notebook and looked at the names she’d written there. Joanna Baines, PatriciaTurnbull. She picked up the local paper that she’d removed from the staff room and carefully cut out the piece about Allbright’s Mill, and William Baines handing control of the mill to his daughter Patricia and her husband, his son-in-law, Anthony Turnbull. She stuck the cutting into her notebook.
And Elias, too, she thought, still bewildered by the conversation she’d had with him earlier that day. How did he know what Joanna had done? And how did he know about Mark Snaith on the moors? And in everything he’d said, his words had betrayed a familiarity with Joanna, with Snaith, with Baines — ‘Baines’s gardener,’ he’d said, as if she’d know who he meant. And the urgency of his tone, as if he had to know, absolutely had to know, what Joanna had done, even to the extent of recreating it.
Agnes turned from the desk to the window. It was drizzling. The thin rain made tiny beads of light against the glass. It was time to find Charlotte.
She was in her room, and looked up reluctantly as Agnes opened the door. ‘Charlotte? May I have a word?’ Agnes sat on her bed. ‘It’s about Mark.’
Charlotte coloured. ‘What about him? Has he phoned again? I’ve tried but he wasn’t there. He’s never there ... ’
‘Charlotte — was he a gardener for William Baines?’ ‘Y-yes. How do you — ’
‘How old was he?’
‘Twenty-two. On January the 14th. Why?’
‘Charlotte, I think there might be bad news. The police want to see you.’
‘The police? Why?’
‘I’ve arranged for us to meet them at the police station, I don’t want everyone here gossiping.’
Charlotte had paled. ‘Wh-what do you mean?’
‘They found a man on the moors. Dead. He was called Mark Snaith. It may not be the same one ... ’
Charlotte was sitting bolt upright on her bed, staring blankly at Agnes. ‘It’s not the same one,’ she said, her voice flat.
Agnes stood up. ‘It may not be,’ she said, taking Charlotte’s arm. ‘Let’s go and find out.’
‘Oh God,’ Charlotte murmured, as they went out to the car. ‘I knew this would happen.’
*
Agnes scanned the blank walls of the interview room. A plastic cup of coffee sat untouched in front of Charlotte, as she listened to what the policewoman had to say. Her face was expressionless. She looked up as she was asked a question.
‘I said, how long had you known him?’
Charlotte looked at Agnes.
‘I’ll go outside if you like,’ Agnes said.
‘No. No, it’s OK. I’d known him since last summer term, when a group of us from school went to help with the community centre on the estate. You know, the Millhouse estate. And then he asked me to a club ... ’ She glanced at Agnes again.
‘Were you going out together?’
Charlotte picked up a paperclip from the desk. ‘Sort of. After that it was the end of term, but last term he got in touch, and we went out together. One Sunday. And it was really lovely ... ’
‘And you continued to see each other?’
She twisted the paperclip between her fingers. ‘Yes. It was a bit difficult to organise ... Yes, we did see each other.’
‘Did he indicate that he might be in danger?’ the policewoman asked.
Charlotte shook her head.
‘Was he happy in his work?’
‘He used to grumble about Mr Baines, but that’s normal, isn’t it, when you have to work for someone.’
‘Is there anything else you can think of? Any fights he got into, anyone he fell out with? He lived on Millhouse, it’s quite a rough estate.’
‘No. Although — ’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t know him very well. Although we — although we were close — there was something a bit — he was a bit secretive. Sometimes.’ She put the mangled paperclip back on the desk.
The policewoman scribbled in her notebook, then looked up. ‘Do you think it was drugs? That can make people secretive.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘No. Definitely not. He was really anti all that, he knew someone who’d really messed up their life with heroin, he was dead against it.’ She glanced at Agnes, then added, ‘Apart from the odd joint, you know ... ’
‘Do you know a lad called Billy Keenan?’
Charlotte chewed her lip, then nodded. ‘He was involved with the sports centre.’
‘Do you know if there was any trouble between him and Mark? Might Mark have been afraid of him?’
Charlotte hesitated, then said, ‘No. Nothing like that. Mark was a gentle person. Like those birds he was watching up on the moors, he really cared about them — ’ Her eyes welled with tears.
‘Birds?’
‘There was a pair of peregrine falcons, he was devoted to them, knew everything about them, he was like that, a gentle person — ’
‘On the moors? Is that why he was there, watching the birds?’
‘Yes. No, maybe, I don’t know, I hadn’t seen him for days.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I can’t believe he’s ... will there be a funeral? Can I see him?’
The policewoman exchanged a glance with Agnes. ‘There’ll be a funeral eventually.’
‘Can I see him before that?’
‘In the circumstances ... sometimes it’s better to remember someone how they were in life,’ the policewoman said.
‘Why? What’s happened? What did they do to him?’
The policewoman hesitated, then said, ‘They — whoever killed him — they damaged his face rather badly.’
‘I don’t care, I still want to see him — ’
‘Charlotte,’ Agnes interrupted. ‘There’ll be time.’ She stood up.
‘We can arrange for you to see someone, a counsellor,’ the officer said.
Charlotte shrugged.
‘My name’s Janet Cole.’ She scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper. ‘You’re very welcome to phone us any time.’
Agnes led Charlotte to the car. As they set off back to the school, Charlotte said, ‘It was the moors.’
‘What about them?’
‘He was always going up there on his own, watching for those birds. I knew something like this would happen, I had a feeling ... ’
Agnes braked as a fox froze on the road in front of them. Its eyes flashed startled green, then it darted away. Agnes accelerated again as the gates of the school came into view.
*
It was Saturday morning. The bus dropped Agnes on the edge of the industrial estate. She pulled her cashmere scarf around her face, and buttoned up the neck of her coat against the frosty air. A single tall chimney rose up against the hillside, and next to it the blackened yellow stone of the old mill. Agnes saw, in the neglected facade, a huge archway, carved with the letters ALLBRIGHT’S MILL. She stared at the letters, wondering what had brought her here. She went through into a courtyard. On three sides the mill buildings towered over the old cobblestones. The fourth side looked out across the town, across the old terraces which made a grid across the valley, the newer estates sprawled in the distan
ce. The chimney towered above the mill, above the town, like a huge flag planted in virgin territory, as if to say, this is ours.
Agnes thought about the millions of tons of fleece that had passed through the archway, to be made into yarn and sold on; about the thousands of workers who had passed through this courtyard, and upon whose labour the town was built. And now Baines was handing over to his daughter; and his gardener, Mark, had been found murdered on the moors.
All last night Agnes had tried to comfort Charlotte in her terrible grief. Something had been worrying her, some thought at the edges of her mind. She’d settled Charlotte into sleep, at last, and gone to bed herself. Sheep’s skulls, she’d thought, as she’d drifted into sleep. Sheep’s skulls and withered roses. The day before Mark was found dead, Joanna had disappeared from the school. Joanna Baines, who seemed to have disowned all family; but who had named Patricia Turnbull on her personnel file.
Agnes opened a door into the old mill building. Inside it was dark. The broken windows shed a thin light, picking out the puddles of rainwater on the expanse of empty floor, the brooding structures of rusting machinery, the wisps of fleece, the discarded bobbins that were scattered here and there. Above her she could see the mainshaft that ran the length of the ceiling, that would have driven the spinning machines in their hundreds. The silence seemed to be filled with the echoes of the past. For a moment, Agnes thought she heard footsteps on the floor above.
Agnes went back out into the courtyard. The door creaked shut behind her. She walked through the yard towards the new industrial site, leaving the old buildings behind her, and came upon a wide, sleek, single-storey building. She could hear a low hum. Above the glass door, the name ALLBRIGHT’S was engraved on a silver metal sign. The machine noise was louder here. Agnes tried a door marked ‘Reception’. It was locked. Behind it she knew there must be people, manning the machines that never stopped. She tried the door again, pointlessly, then wandered back to the old building. It was only then that she noticed a lone light coming from one of the old windows on the first floor. She quickened her pace, went back through the creaking door and up the staircase, which was broad and solid, built to contain the comings and goings of a workforce of hundreds. Now it echoed with her solitary footsteps. A carved mahogany sign on a door said ‘Wm. Baines’. She knocked at the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, then opened the door.
A man was standing in the room by the fireplace, his back to the door. He was tall and thick-set, and had a shock of untidy grey hair. A coal fire burned in the huge blackened chimney. The office had bare floorboards, stacked up with piles of paper. A large oak desk stood by the window. Beyond, Agnes could see the same view across the town she’d seen from the courtyard. She knocked loudly on the open door and the man turned. He had a broad, square face and dark eyes half hidden under thick grey brows, which frowned now on seeing her.
‘Yes?’ he barked.
‘Hello. My name’s Sister Agnes.’
‘And?’
Agnes took a step towards him and held out her hand. He ignored the gesture. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
Agnes hesitated. ‘I’m from St Catherine’s Convent,’ she said. At the name she saw his expression flicker with recognition. She took a deep breath and went on, ‘One of our staff, a young woman called Joanna Baines, seems to have vanished, and I thought you might know where she’s gone.’
She was unprepared for his reaction. In two strides he crossed the room, grabbed hold of her arm and propelled her towards the door. ‘Joanna Baines?’ he cried. ‘I know no such person.’ He led her back down the staircase, dragging her down each step. ‘The impertinence of it,’ he said, pushing her out into the courtyard, then shouted again from the doorway, ‘I know no such person.’ She heard the door slam, heard his footsteps recede up the stairs behind it. Her hand went to her arm where he’d gripped it with such force. You know it when you’ve met an Allbright Baines, she thought, rubbing her arm, turning across the courtyard, going back through the archway to the bus stop.
*
‘Father — ’ Agnes called to Elias across the crowd of girls. He didn’t hear above the noise. ‘Elias,’ she called again, pushing through the bustle until she caught up with him.
He turned. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m — I’m sorry about my third years.’
He frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘In chapel this morning. They were restless. I thought you might have heard them giggling. Monday morning, I’m afraid.’ She smiled.
He looked at her, distracted. ‘Oh, it’s OK. Can hardly blame them.’ He turned again, and began to walk along the corridor and Agnes walked with him.
‘Are you joining us for coffee?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
They reached the main doorway. Agnes watched him put on a pair of woollen gloves.
‘Elias — ’ He looked at her, waiting. ‘How’s Joanna?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ He turned to go.
‘Also — ’
‘What?’
‘Mark Snaith,’ Agnes said.
‘What about him?’
‘He was seeing one of my sixth formers. Charlotte Linnell. They had a relationship of some kind.’
Elias stared at Agnes. ‘Baines’s gardener and one of your — ’ He shook his head. ‘How did that happen?’ He looked away. A frown shadowed his face. He turned back to her again, made as if to speak, then shook his head and went out of the heavy front door.
Agnes gazed after him. Her hand went to her pocket and she pulled out a letter she’d received that morning. It was addressed in a clear, even hand, and stamped ‘James Lombard’ on the back. It had a local postmark. She put it back in her pocket and went into the staff room.
*
‘You think what?’ Colin Furse put down his mug of coffee and looked at Agnes.
‘I think it would be a good idea to do some local history with the girls.’
‘This is all I need on a Monday morning. The curriculum is already over-stretched — ’
‘You could make room for it somewhere, couldn’t you?’
‘I thought you sisters knew to leave the teaching to us.’
‘The mills, for example.’
‘Which mills?’
‘I mean, when you think that this area owes everything to the wool industry — ’
‘I see, not only local history but a Marxist analysis too. And I thought I knew all about nuns.’
‘Allbright’s, for example. They do visits for school parties.’
‘I bet they do. And do you think the girls want to be dragged around some dusty noisy old mill?’
‘I think they’d learn a lot.’
Colin laughed. ‘I suppose I am doing the Industrial Revolution with the fourth years.’
‘There you are, then. Look, here’s the address to write to, and the phone number’s at the bottom there.’
Colin looked at Agnes. ‘And what’s in it for you?’
‘Me?’
‘Why are you so keen to visit Allbright’s Mill?’
‘Oh, you know, us soft Londoners, we need to see a bit of real life from time to time.’
Colin took the piece of paper she held out to him and glanced at it. ‘Well, it’s not a bad idea, I suppose.’ He looked up at her again. ‘You really are a most unlikely person to be an assistant housemistress, you know.’ ‘That’s what I tried telling them,’ Agnes laughed, getting up. ‘They never listen.’
*
At lunchtime Agnes went to her room and made herself a sandwich. She sat at her desk, took a paperknife and slit open the letter from James Lombard.
Dear Agnes,
It seems presumptuous to write to you after all this time, so I apologise in advance if this letter disturbs your peaceful life. You will remember I knew your parents well, particularly your father. Our friendship deepened after his move to the States, because by then I was living in Manhattan, and we saw a lot of each other.
The reason for this letter is that I am now packing up my house to move abroad again, for various reasons, and I do not wish to burden myself with luggage. I have been looking at Aylmer’s things and wondering what to do with them, and in the end I decided it was not my right to dispose of them, particularly as I fear your mother did not have a say in their bequest. You will understand what I mean by this. I then contacted your family lawyer who gave me your London address, and I spoke to a charming colleague of yours who let me know where you are now — practically on my doorstep, it turns out.
As I said, I hope this is not an unwelcome intrusion into your life. If it is, then please forgive me, and simply let me know you are not interested in renewing my acquaintance. I will understand. If, however, you could spare the time, I would be delighted to entertain you here for lunch, and if you want to look over your father’s things and reclaim them as your rightful inheritance, no one would be more pleased than I.
I look forward very much to hearing from you.
Yours, James.
Agnes read the letter through twice, then folded it away. She leant her head on her hands and stared out of the window.
Aylmer, she thought. Everyone else called her father Emile. Perhaps Aylmer was his real name, she thought. Another thing I didn’t know about him.
There was never a time when she didn’t know James Lombard. A frequent visitor to their house, someone who’d make her father brighten by his very presence. Her mother resented him for this. When they went into business together, Emile and James, her mother would call him ‘that Lombard man’. The business was very successful.
James Lombard. He’s known me all my life.
Or rather, he’s known me for the worst part of my life. Perhaps it’s best never to see him again.
A Dark and Sinful Death Page 3