She got out the letter again. It would be ungrateful, she thought, not to see him. Although as for him returning all this stuff of my father’s, it’s not as if I can own any of it anyway. I’d have to hand it all over to Sister Philomena. Let’s hope there are no furry animals in the paintings.
Agnes laughed, out loud. She looked at the phone number, picked up her phone. Then she put the phone down, folded up the letter and put it back in its envelope. There was nothing to be done. Not yet, anyway.
She glanced outside. A group of girls was wandering towards the hockey pitch. Leonora Talbot was trailing at the back, dragging her hockey stick, staring at the ground, her long blonde hair tied back. Agnes remembered wearing her own hair that way at that age. Perhaps if she looked through James’s photographs, she’d find that version of herself preserved for posterity.
She glanced at her watch. It was time to discuss French local government with the fifth years. She yawned.
*
At tea she went to the sixth-form common room. Charlotte Linnell looked up from her corner and smiled wanly as Agnes sat next to her.
‘Well?’ Agnes asked. Charlotte was pale, her eyes ringed with sleeplessness.
‘Well what?’
‘It must be awful.’
‘It is.’
‘Does praying help?’
Charlotte shrugged. ‘No. He’s dead, isn’t he.’
‘Do you want some time at home? I can arrange it. I’ve talked to Sister Teresa, we’ve got to tell your parents in any case, they’re bound to blame us — ’
The girl shook her head. ‘I’d rather be around the places we knew together.’ Tears filled her eyes.
‘Charlotte, you can’t take exams in this state — ’
‘I’ll be OK. Really.’
‘Have you got friends you can talk to about it?’
‘A bit. But no one really understands.’ She swallowed. ‘I just hope they catch whoever did it.’
‘We’ll talk to the police again if you like.’
‘Sister Philomena said she didn’t want word of this getting out.’
‘She has no right to interfere in your grieving. If it helps you, we’ll talk to the police. Tomorrow.’
Charlotte nodded.
‘And if there’s anything else I can do — ’
‘Really, there’s nothing. I’ve just got to get on ... Father Elias has been really great ... ’
‘Elias?’
‘He came to see me today. He listened. And we talked about death. It kind of helped. He said if I wanted we could go to the place on the moors where — where it happened. When I’m ready ... ’
‘How does he know where it happened?’
‘Everyone knows Morton’s Crag. It’s up above the track across to the estate. That’s where the nest was, the peregrine falcons, he called them his birds ... Elias said he’d take me up there.’ Her eyes filled with tears again.
*
It was twilight when Agnes returned to her room with a stack of marking. She put it on her desk, and took off her coat. She glanced out of the window, at the outlines of the moor, hollowed by the fading light. She put her coat back on, picked up a torch and left, locking her door behind her.
She climbed the path away from the school, thinking that Joanna must have done this every day. The track was still visible. A half moon appeared from time to time behind scudding clouds, and the wind caught at her scarf.
For some reason she remembered Elias’s words. God is the space between atoms, between universes. She thought of God in the gusts of wind, in the blades of grass. She thought of her childhood image of God, bearded and paternal and human. She thought of Leonora’s hair, and James Lombard.
James Lombard. A memory, of being about seven, of being in Provence and taking her pony out to the paddock, and her parents and James coming to watch. The feeling of delight as her pony sailed perfectly over a series of jumps — then turning to see her audience share her triumph. Her father had gone. Her mother had wandered over to the greenhouses. Only James was there, clapping, smiling, praising her as he helped her from her pony, both of them pretending to ignore the tears that rolled down her cheeks.
Agnes joined the track that led down to the estate, dashing at her eyes with the back of her hand. She felt suddenly angry. How dare Philomena put the publicity needs of the school before those of Charlotte? It was quite clear that Charlotte cared deeply about Mark, and was more involved in his life than she was letting on. They’d go to see that nice policewoman tomorrow, whatever Philomena thought. And Joanna — had she resigned? Was Philomena appointing another art teacher?
And Mark. Agnes stopped and glanced around her. The moon had vanished. She felt suddenly alone in the gathering darkness. What was Mark doing up here that night? Just walking, like I am now? Like Elias?
Below her the lights of the estate spread a yellow haze across the valley. She quickened her pace towards it, descending the hill until she reached the road. She took a scrap of paper from her pocket and read it in the lamplight. Number 18, Merton Way. Joanna’s address, copied from the file. She turned into the main avenue of the estate, aware of shouts, a car engine, loud music. A dog appeared from nowhere and sniffed at her heels. She heard growling, then there were shouts.
‘Fison — leave it.’ She heard laughter, and turned to see three boys of about eleven.
‘He won’t hurt yer, Miss.’
‘Unless he feels like it,’ one of them said. They laughed. The dog left Agnes and jumped up at the boys.
‘Do you know where Merton Way is?’ Agnes asked. ‘Aye, just down there.’ They pointed, vaguely. ‘Why d’yer want to know?’
‘I’m just looking for someone.’
‘It in’t Dodds, is it? Only t’coppers came, not five minutes since. Took him away, they did.’
‘Smackhead, him.’
‘You’ve missed him now.’
Agnes smiled. ‘No, it’s not him.’
‘D’you smell burnin’?’ one asked.
They twitched their noses. ‘It’ll be the Warren. Again.’ ‘There might be a fire engine.’ They ran, the dog at their heels.
Agnes followed the road in the direction they’d pointed. The houses were all semi-detached, laid out in neat rows. Some were boarded up, some had windows smashed. The name ‘Chub’ was painted several times along the street. On number 18 someone had sprayed ‘Kris’. The house was in darkness, the curtains drawn.
Agnes turned to go. Under a streetlight at the end of the street, a man was standing, quite still, his face partly hidden in the shadows. He was thin and slightly stooped, wrapped in a thick coat. Against the light she could see the angle of his nose, the little squares of red and yellow on his tartan scarf. Agnes walked quickly away from the estate, towards the town. When she glanced back the man was still there, standing, motionless, staring at Joanna’s house. Agnes hoped she’d be able to find a bus to take her back to the school.
Chapter Three
The girls clustered at one end of a huge bank of spinning machines, shouting to each other across the noise. Clemmie Macintosh put her hands over her ears and giggled. Two women in earplugs and overalls watched her, then exchanged a weary glance and turned back to their work.
‘We produce on average between ten and twenty tonnes of yarn here a week, depending on what our customers want.’ Their guide was a smart young man whose badge said Malcolm Hollins, Sales Assistant. He spoke in tones of pride, as if he was somehow personally responsible for the inexorable process that transformed the huge mass of raw fleece into boxes of neatly wound thread.
‘Look,’ he said, moving closer to the girls. He tucked his finger behind one of the tubes that circled in rows and Agnes saw the thread across his fingertip become visible. He took his finger away and the thread vanished again, twisting at top speed on to the tube, like the hundreds along the same line, like the thousands on the neighbouring banks of machines.
Agnes felt slightly sick. ‘Where does it all go
to, all the yarn?’ she said.
‘It depends. Abroad, a lot of it. Cheap suiting. The stuff that’s knitted up ends up as jumpers, leggings, you know, market stalls, that kind of thing. Eastern Europe, that’s a big market now.’
He led the group away from the noise of the machines. Agnes saw a woman in overalls and earplugs move down the banks of spinning tubes where they’d been standing, checking for broken threads.
‘My great-uncle was killed here,’ Cathy Phelps said cheerfully.
‘Your what?’ The smart young man blinked at her.
‘My great-uncle. He was only a boy, it was his job to crawl under the machines taking out the fluff. He got caught in one. Horrible death.’ She smiled, charmingly, at their guide.
‘Are you sure?’ Colin Furse asked her.
‘My mum told me. He was my grandfather’s older brother.’
‘But hang on,’ Colin said, ‘that’s only a couple of generations ago. He wouldn’t have been old enough — ’
‘1938, it happened.’ Cathy looked at Malcolm Hollins. ‘He was only fourteen.’
‘Ah, well,’ Malcolm said, smiling slightly nervously, ‘that would have been in the old mill. We’ll have a look at that on our way out.’
‘It made my mother’s father leave the mills altogether. After the war he was determined not to go back. The family got no compensation or anything. Grandpa became an engineer in the motor industry.’
‘What was his name, the boy who died?’ Agnes asked.
‘Charlie. Charles Rudge.’
‘Rudge?’ Malcolm Hollins asked. ‘Now that’s a local name. Maureen,’ he called across to one of the women working by the machine. She came over, pulling her ear protectors from around her head, glancing uncertainly at the group. ‘The name Rudge — from round here, isn’t it?’
She looked from face to face, then said, ‘Aye, the Rudges. Aye, I know of them.’
‘Did you ever hear of a Charles Rudge?’ Malcolm went on. ‘Worked here. He died in the thirties — ’
The woman peered at the badge on Cathy’s blazer, then looked up. ‘Aye. Before my time, but weren’t there a girl, called Matilda?’
‘Yes,’ Cathy said, ‘my mother’s aunt. Grandfather’s little sister.’
‘My mother talked of her,’ Maureen said. ‘Didn’t she marry late — one of the Wilsons?’
‘Yes, she married a George Wilson. I have cousins who are Wilsons.’ Cathy was pink-faced with delight.
‘My mum’s sister married a Wilson,’ Maureen said, again addressing the badge on Cathy’s blazer. ‘They go back a long way, here.’
‘So — ’ Cathy hopped from one foot to another. ‘So — that means you and I must be related — by marriage, anyway.’
Maureen slowly raised her eyes from Cathy’s blazer to her face. The hum of the machines seemed to grow louder. ‘Aye, well, yes, s’pose we are,’ she said at last. She put her ear protectors back on and went back to her machines.
‘Well, who’d have thought,’ Malcolm said, smiling fixedly around the group. ‘Some real history, there, eh?’
Colin Furse nodded. ‘Um, yes, um — history, yes.’
‘Let’s go and look at the dye process,’ Malcolm said.
The group set off. Cathy glanced back at Maureen, who was moving slowly along the lines of bobbins, then ran to catch up with the group.
Agnes hesitated by Maureen’s machine. Maureen looked up at the clock, exchanged a few words with someone who came to replace her, then walked across the floor towards the staff rest room. She noticed Agnes. ‘Clever girls,’ she said, nodding towards the departing group.
‘Yes. St Catherine’s Convent.’
‘Ah. You a nun then?’
‘Yes. I am.’
Maureen nodded. ‘Idea I had once, when I were a girl. Read a book about one once. But we’re chapel, though, we are. Round here, you’ll find everyone’s chapel. The Baineses were always chapel, always took on chapel.’
‘And the Turnbulls?’ Agnes said quickly.
Maureen looked at the spotless lino floor. She glanced up again at Agnes. ‘That remains to be seen. If there’s anybody left to see it.’
‘They’re laying people off, I hear.’
Maureen shrugged. ‘We’ve been lucky under old Mr Baines, he’s kept this place going as best he can. And in profit. In my view, Mr Baines could stay on for a good few years yet, barely sixty, him, and at least he knows the trade ... ’ She stopped, and fiddled with the ear protectors around her neck.
‘You mean, the Turnbulls don’t?’
‘It’s not for me to say,’ she said. ‘Only, wi’ Mr Turnbull there, I don’t see how you can make your money in the building trade and then come in and run a mill in times like these.’ She shook her head. ‘Our Robert says I should be lookin’ out for another job — though, as I said to ’im, where’s anyone going to find another job these days?’ She looked at her watch.
‘I’m sorry, I’m keeping you,’ Agnes said. ‘I must go and find my group. They’ll be in the old mill by now.’
Maureen smiled at her. ‘If you’re going in there, watch out for the ghosts.’
*
‘You missed the dyeworks,’ Colin Furse whispered to her.
‘Was it good?’
‘All state-of-the-art Italian computers. Apparently we’ve all got to wear navy blue and beige next year.’
‘ ... and this was all powered by water in the eighteenth century, and then later, steam,’ Malcolm was saying.
Agnes looked around her at the empty expanse, at the puddles of oil and rainwater, the broken window panes set in rotting frames of classical proportion. From the floor above them came the sound of footsteps, a hollow echo on the bare wooden boards.
‘Ghosts,’ giggled Clemmie Macintosh. ‘Maybe it’s your great-uncle, Cathy.’
Agnes thought of William Baines in his office above, pacing the floor, pausing from time to time to stare out of the window at the view, the same view surveyed by his ancestors. She imagined Baines’s grandfather looking out at his estate stretching out before him, seeing landscaped gardens symbolising wealth and progress, terraces of workmen’s cottages built by him in the philanthropic spirit of the age. And what did William see? Council offices, housing estates, a patch of derelict land; a hotel and leisure centre, part of the ring road; all on land that had once been his birthright. It wasn’t so much ghosts of the departed that suffused this dank air, Agnes thought, but ghosts of the still living.
The girls piled back into the coach, laughing, unwrapping biscuits, scuffling over who was to sit with whom. Clemmie started up an animated discussion about whether Malcolm Hollins had a nice bum. As the coach pulled out of the driveway and on to the road, Agnes, sitting right at the back, noticed two police cars drive up to the mill and into the courtyard.
*
Back at the school the girls dispersed to their afternoon activities. Agnes went to her room. She took James’s letter from her desk and read it again, then picked up her phone and dialled his number. It was answered by a pleasant, elderly voice.
‘Hello, is that James Lombard?’
‘Who is speaking?’
‘It’s Agnes.’
‘Agnes. How good of you to call.’ His voice was as she remembered it, but perhaps slightly more East Coast.
‘I got your letter.’
‘Thank you so much for telephoning me.’
‘You suggested that we — ’
‘I suggested lunch, didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saturday?’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘You’re not to expect anything fancy. I live rather simply now. Nothing like your banquets in Provence.’
Agnes laughed. ‘They were hardly banquets, James.’
‘About twelve thirty for one? You have my address. Turn off the Addingham Road, go down into the village and mine’s the second house on the right. There’s a phone box opposite, you can’t miss it.’
&
nbsp; Agnes scribbled down his directions.
‘It’ll be lovely to see you,’ she heard him say.
‘I look forward to it.’
Agnes rang off. She stared at her phone. Lunch with James Lombard. In Yorkshire. How odd. Just from picking up the phone and saying yes.
There was a knock at her door. Charlotte stood there. She came into the room wordlessly and sat down. At last she said, ‘I can’t work.’ She stood up and went over to the window. ‘I can’t think. I can’t sleep.’
‘Janet Cole said — ’ Agnes began, but Charlotte went on.
‘I just keep seeing his last hours, his last minutes, his last breath ... ’ She broke into sobs, standing by the window, her hands across her mouth.
‘When we went to the police — ’ Agnes tried again.
‘What do they know? What are they doing?’ Charlotte turned round sharply. ‘Nothing. That Janet Cole — she said nothing.’
‘They were up at the mill this lunchtime, two cars, I saw them.’
‘So? Does that bring the murderer any closer to being caught? Does that bring Mark back?’ She collapsed on Agnes’s bed in a fit of sobbing. Agnes went to her and rested her hand on her shoulder.
‘No,’ Agnes said softly. ‘Nothing will bring him back.’
‘What did they do to him?’ Charlotte sat up, raising her eyes to Agnes, waiting for the truth.
Agnes sat down next to her. ‘For some reason — his eyes — they felt he shouldn’t — they had to — ’
Charlotte sat quite still. The colour had drained from her face. Her voice was barely audible. ‘How can they — how could they — how can God forgive ... ’ She turned to Agnes. ‘I’ll never sleep again, how can I, knowing that someone’s out there who — ’ She stood up and walked unsteadily to the door.
‘Charlotte ... ’ Agnes went to her. ‘You must get away, surely, go home, give yourself time — ’
‘Why? Where is there to go? I’d rather be here. You see, don’t you — ’ Charlotte opened the door — ‘they’ve just got to catch whoever did it. Then maybe I’ll sleep.’ She went out into the corridor and back to her own room.
Agnes went and sat at her desk. Outside the sun was setting, searing the sky with red. And what if they don’t, Agnes thought. What if they never catch the murderer? And even if they do, that young boy is still dead.
A Dark and Sinful Death Page 4