A Dark and Sinful Death

by Alison Joseph

  She got out some French essays and stared at them for a while. At ten past four there was a knock at the door. Leonora came in and stood, waiting. Agnes gestured to a chair. Leonora sat down with exquisite poise, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. She looked up at Agnes with her clear blue-grey eyes.

  ‘Tea, I think,’ Agnes said.

  ‘As you please, Sister.’

  ‘Or something stronger? A glass of wine, it’s a little early I know but even so ... ’

  Leonora’s poise faltered slightly, then she shook her head. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

  Agnes put her kettle on to boil, then sat down opposite her. ‘Well, let’s begin.’

  ‘There’s no point,’ Leonora said.

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but I have to get home. I’ll do it one day, you can’t stop me.’

  ‘There’s just one thing I find a little odd,’ Agnes said. ‘You see, speaking from my own experience of running away, it’s not that difficult, is it?’ She glanced at the girl, then continued, ‘What I mean is, if you really wanted to get home, you’d be there by now.’ The beautiful eyes narrowed slightly. Agnes went on, ‘What I wanted to ask you, Leonora, is not, why do you keep running away, but why are you so determined not to succeed?’

  ‘What do you know about running away?’ Leonora asked in a small voice.

  ‘Rather a lot, I’m afraid. Violent husbands, well, only one — then my first order which was disastrous. And various smaller attempts since. Not a good record. I fear it’s in my blood. Started, of course, by having parents who didn’t give a damn. You see,’ Agnes went on, ‘if I’d run away from home, it would have been some weeks before my parents had even noticed.’

  ‘Poor you,’ Leonora said, politely.

  ‘And I wondered, whether, perhaps, in your case — ’ Agnes looked at the girl sitting there, at her calm composure. ‘You see, what I wondered was, whether perhaps you’re happier with the fantasy of running back home than with the reality of what it would be like when you got there.’

  Leonora smoothed her skirt on her knees.

  ‘Which made me think that perhaps you feel, as I did at your age, that if only you could do the right thing, everything at home would be lovely and happy, instead of — ’

  ‘Did you call me here to reminisce about your unhappy childhood?’ Leonora’s expression was one of perfect calm.

  ‘No,’ Agnes said. ‘I called you here because you’re so clearly miserable and I want to help.’

  ‘It’s very touching that you choose to identify with me,’ Leonora said, ‘and it’s been lovely talking to you.’ She stood up. ‘But really. I’ve got an awful lot of prep to do before tomorrow. I’m so sorry not to be able to stay longer.’

  Agnes sighed.

  Leonora hesitated by the door. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘you can’t stop me running away.’

  ‘In that case,’ Agnes said, getting up and opening the door for her, ‘here are some tips. Speaking as one who knows. One, don’t pack a huge suitcase. Two, go in the hours of daylight when the trains are running and you can get a cab. Three, avoid public routes of escape. There’s a gap in the hedge behind the kitchens, leads straight on to the back drive. I noticed it a couple of weeks ago when I was planning my own getaway.’

  A smile spread across the girl’s face, and for a moment her eyes sparkled with life. Then the polite composure returned. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ she said. She walked away along the corridor without looking back.

  Agnes went to her fridge and pulled out a bottle of chilled white wine. She rummaged in a drawer for a corkscrew, just as the phone rang.

  ‘Sweetie, it’s Athena.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Agnes said, ‘I was just opening a bottle of Chardonnay.’

  ‘Telepathy, darling.’

  ‘You mean you can sniff out a decent white wine all the way from London?’

  ‘Heavens, darling, you have no idea of the extent of my talents. And how’s life up North?’

  ‘Dreadful. These girls — I’ve never seen such hard cases.’

  ‘But surely, compared to all those poor delinquent baby junkies you rescued in London — ’

  ‘They were a doddle compared to this lot.’

  ‘At least they must be polite and well behaved.’

  ‘You should see their politeness in action. It’s deadly. I’m beginning to realise the British kept their whole empire in subservience just by being polite.’

  ‘That and a few guns too, perhaps. Anyway, the point is, how do you fancy dinner on Sunday?’

  ‘But I can’t escape from here.’

  ‘No, I mean up North. There. If they have any decent restaurants, that is.’

  ‘Well, they do, but — ’

  ‘Simon’s discovered a little gallery in Leeds by the canal, he’s very excited about it, wants to talk business, don’t ask me, sweetie, but he’s insisting we both go.’

  ‘What does Nic think?’

  ‘Oh, Nic’s coming too.’

  ‘Doesn’t he trust you with Simon?’

  ‘More to the point, do I trust Simon with Nic? Anyway, apparently there’s a decent hotel somewhere around there.’

  ‘There’s a Harvey Nichols too.’

  ‘Harvey — ? No, sweetie, no. You must have made a mistake. What do those Northerners want with a shop like that?’

  ‘Athena, you’re terrible!’

  ‘Do you know, I’m beginning to look forward to this expedition after all. Anyway, Sunday evening, just you and me, dinner — what do you think?’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  Old friends, Agnes thought, switching off her phone. She thought about her friend Athena, living her London life, shopping, working in an art gallery, going to restaurants, more shopping. It made her feel lonely.

  *

  That evening Agnes slipped into the chapel. She sat alone, in the front pew, and contemplated a painting that hung there, of St Catherine praying before her death. She thought about Charlotte in her anguish, locked in the horror of Mark’s last moments. And now I’ve told her the truth, she thought, about his eyes. I’ve only made it worse.

  Nothing will bring him back, she thought, raising her eyes to the stained-glass altar window. And You, she said, addressing the image of Heaven that was depicted there, once again You deal humanity a blow, a random act of violence that shatters several lives by destroying one. Once again You allow our imperfections to take hold, You allow the consequences of our frailty to unfold before You. And You do nothing. You do nothing in the face of Mark’s murder, of Charlotte’s grief. Of Joanna Baines’s flight. Of the thousand incidents of human tragedy that happen every second in this world. You wait, and You ask us to believe in You, the God of Love; You ask that we should have faith and You promise us redemption. And is it likely, Agnes asked the window, that Charlotte will reward You with her continued trust? What is Your promise to her, now?

  In the chapel there was silence.

  Am I wrong to be angry with You? Agnes asked. Elias would say I am. He’d say my anger is like the tantrum of a child, standing on a beach and stamping its foot at the sea because the tide has come in and washed away its sandcastle. The futile wringing of hands, he’d say, in the face of the implacable Oneness of the divine.

  And should I not pray, then? Should I not pray for Charlotte, for Joanna, for William Baines? For Mark and his family? And should I not pray for whoever it was who killed Mark? And pray that they be found?

  That they be found. Someone must have seen Mark set out that evening, someone must have known what he was intending to do, whom he was intending to meet. Somewhere there must be a reason; somewhere in the chaos there must be order.

  Agnes imagined Elias pitying her for trying to see a pattern in the void. She looked up at the window. In daylight, with the sun streaming through it, the altar window showed God as Light, with His Son and Mary and the apostles. Now in the darkness it showed nothing at all, just the lines around the pa
nes of glass, a random leaden web against the night.

  *

  On Saturday morning Agnes chose her clothes carefully, eventually settling for a cream silk shirt and black trousers and jacket. She borrowed the community’s ancient Metro and set off in good time, heading away from Leeds and then taking the Addingham Road as James had instructed. The morning’s drizzle was clearing, and she felt a sense of escape. She wished the car had a radio, so that she could tune to a music station and sing along. Not that she ever knew the words.

  She parked in James’s drive. It was a two-storey cottage, with thick stone walls and wide, elegant windows. She rang the bell. Then the door opened and James was there, and they found themselves smiling at each other; he hugged her, and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘You haven’t changed,’ he laughed, ushering her into his hallway. The house was warm, with polished wood panelling and thick pale carpets.

  ‘Since I was seven? Surely I have,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, maybe since then. Can I get you a drink?’ She followed him into his living room. He seemed less tall than she remembered, and very thin, but graceful and upright. He was wearing blue jeans and an expensive Guernsey sweater, which made him seem somehow frail.

  He poured them both a sherry and they sat down opposite each other. Sunlight fell on the polished floorboards, on the plain cream sofas and the Chinese silk rugs.

  James raised his glass to her. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘I’ve changed beyond recognition.’

  ‘Nonsense ... ’

  ‘Go on, say it,’ he laughed. ‘My hair’s white — ’

  ‘You were always blond — ’

  ‘ — and these wrinkles — ’

  ‘They’re nice. Everyone has wrinkles.’ She remembered now his blue-grey eyes, the lightness of his expression. She tried to remember whether he’d always looked so fragile, his skin so papery.

  ‘I’ve aged,’ he said, and his face grew serious.

  ‘We all age.’

  ‘Yes, but — anyway,’ he said, brightening again, ‘what news? How’s your mother?’

  Agnes sighed. ‘Just the same. As far as I know. Her nursing home sends me the occasional bulletin.’

  ‘Antibes, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so?’

  She raised her eyes to his and saw only sympathy. Suddenly she wanted to cry. ‘You know how it was,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know how it was.’ He stood up. ‘Lunch? It’s only cold ham and salad. I’m more decrepit than you realise.’

  He led her through to the dining room. She sat at the large mahogany table, while he brought warm bread rolls from the kitchen.

  ‘My greatest fear,’ he said, ‘was that when your father left, you’d feel responsible for your mother.’

  ‘Why did that frighten you?’

  ‘Because I knew she’d never let you go. You’d have given up the rest of your life.’

  ‘I have anyway.’

  ‘Yes, but not to her.’

  ‘It’s funny, I never talk about it to anyone. The fact that she’s still alive, that we don’t communicate apart from birthday and Christmas cards — ’ She stopped, blinking back tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I can’t think why I’m so overcome.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ he said gently. ‘After all, who else is going to understand? Who else is going to remember how awful it was for you?’

  ‘Yes, but was it? Sometimes I think perhaps it wasn’t too bad, that someone less selfish than me would have made it work.’

  ‘Agnes — all the time I spent with you — the worst thing was seeing you take it all upon your shoulders. I used to talk to Aylmer about it, later, but by then he was — he didn’t really — he was mentally somewhere else.’ He poured white wine into her glass. ‘She sends me Christmas cards too,’ he added.

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yes. After Aylmer died, I kept in touch with her. I had to, there were various business things I was taking care of — I think she grew to resent me less. This Christmas just gone, she was quite effusive — for her, anyway. Inviting me to visit, even. I might just do that.’

  ‘So why are you going abroad?’ Agnes buttered a bread roll.

  ‘Oh, things to sort out. I’ll end up back in the States, but I’m planning a long trip. A kind of holiday in fact, unusual for me. Would you like salad dressing?’

  ‘But why clear out this house?’

  ‘I’m planning to rent it out. I’ve got two old friends who live nearby, the Campbells, they’re going to keep an eye on it for me. Your father’s things are valuable, I didn’t want them lying around while I was gone.’

  ‘You know I can’t own anything. I’ve taken a vow of poverty.’

  He smiled. ‘How appealing. Shall we just put everything in the trashcan now, or do you want to take a look at it first?’

  Agnes laughed.

  *

  After lunch Agnes sat with her coffee in the sunny living room while James brought her father’s things to show her.

  ‘Your inheritance,’ he said, taking something from a box and unwrapping it. It was a Chinese vase.

  ‘Ming, of course,’ laughed Agnes.

  ‘Imitation, I’m afraid. But very pretty. And these ... ’ he unwrapped two framed photographs. ‘You’ve got to have these,’ he said, ‘they’re no good to anyone else.’

  She saw two black-and-white images of herself. In one she was a toddler, with ringlets and a lacy dress, standing with her parents, one on each side. In the other she was about fifteen, her hair tied back, wearing a tight-waisted dress with a full skirt which fell in perfect folds.

  ‘Who took these?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. But your father wanted me to have them.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly, but — ’ James wrapped them up again and handed them to her — ‘I think he couldn’t face what he’d done. In leaving, I mean. He didn’t want your mother to have them, and — he couldn’t bear to give them to you. It would mean facing up to his own failings. Perhaps. Anyway, they’re yours.’

  She sat with them on her knee.

  ‘There are some other things. Look — this clock.’ Agnes stared at it. It was a brass carriage clock, so familiar it hurt. ‘I remember that. We had it in the Paris apartment, in the window. It has those four spheres that go round and round, I used to watch it ... I used to think it would wind down eventually, I’d sit there and wait for them to slow down, I couldn’t see why they didn’t.’ She looked up and laughed.

  ‘It belongs to your mother. And look, some silver teaspoons. These are valuable. There’s some Meissen as well, it’s upstairs.’

  Agnes was shaking her head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You really can’t own anything?’

  ‘Well — strictly, no. I have a trust fund set up by some lawyers long ago, after my divorce settlement, but that’s different. This stuff here, if I take it, it all goes to the order.’

  ‘But what if ... ’ James hesitated, then said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s presumptuous.’

  ‘You were going to say, what if things don’t work out and I need to leave the order.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I was going to say. But I’m sure you’ll never need to.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  James looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. ‘No. I don’t. Unless you’ve really changed, and I don’t think you have.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s such a relief.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘To be with someone who knows me. Only Julius — ’

  ‘Who’s Julius?’

  ‘The priest you spoke to on the phone. He’s known me since — since I was married.’

  James fell silent, wrapping up the vase and putting it in its box. Then he said, ‘I tried to stop that, you know.’

  ‘My marriage?’

  ‘I tried to
tell your father it was a disaster.’

  ‘But you’d gone by then, you were in the States.’

  ‘I heard about it. I was horrified. I knew your husband’s family. Terrible people.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was my decision.’

  ‘They pushed you into it.’

  ‘I wanted to go. It seemed preferable to staying where I was.’

  ‘I feared for you.’

  ‘With reason, it turned out.’

  ‘Does your mother — ?’

  ‘She knew he was violent. She’s never admitted it.’ Agnes glanced down at the photos in her lap, at her younger selves. ‘It makes me feel like a monster,’ she said. ‘What does?’

  ‘That I can’t — that she doesn’t ... ’

  ‘My mother sent me away to school when I was seven.’ James smoothed the creases in his trousers. ‘We were living in England then. And it’s not that I didn’t forgive her, because I did. I hope I did. But — I always felt after that, that I could never love her as much as I should. It left me with this feeling, that I was somehow unnatural. Kind of monstrous, as you said.’

  Agnes nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what it is.’

  They sat and smiled at each other. Then James stood up. ‘Shall we have a ritual burning of this stuff now?’ Agnes laughed. ‘I’ve got to get back for chapel. But I’ll take the vase and the photos.’

  ‘Do you always break your vows so readily?’

  ‘And I’ll give you my solicitor’s address — you can send the spoons and the porcelain to him, in trust, should I ever feel the need to follow my instincts to bolt over the wall.’

  *

  At James’s door he took her hand. It was growing dark, and the birds were twittering in preparation for the night. ‘I hope I’ll see you again soon,’ he said.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Don’t leave it too late,’ he said. Agnes glanced at him. The twilight seemed to age him.

  She kissed his cheek, then got into the car and drove away.

  On the way home she stopped at a flower stall and bought some scentless hot-housed pale yellow roses. She unpacked the vase and arranged the roses within it on her mantelpiece, then placed the two photos one on each side of it. She glanced out of her window, expecting to see Leonora making her way once again up the drive, to see her standing by the railings dreaming of escape. For some reason she imagined her in a tight-waisted dress with a full skirt that fell in perfect folds.