Chapter Four
In chapel that Sunday Elias seemed more preoccupied than usual. His sermon was half-hearted, and he never raised his eyes once from his text. Agnes found herself scanning the pews in boredom. Charlotte was standing with the sixth form, her head bowed, her face sallow. Afterwards Agnes caught up with her in the corridor. ‘Charlotte, you can’t go on like this.’
‘What else can I do?’
Agnes took her arm and led her to their house, ushered her into her room and put on the kettle.
‘Charlotte — whatever you want to do, you must do. If you want to carry on with your exams, then we’ll support you in that. If you want to go home and come back next year to take them, no one will blame you.’
Charlotte was shaking her head, muttering. Agnes made out the words, ‘I just want to see him.’
Agnes went to her and took her hands. ‘It won’t bring him back.’
Charlotte raised her tearful eyes to her. ‘Whatever state he’s in, it can’t be any worse than the way I see him, I keep seeing him, whenever I close my eyes, it can’t be worse than that. Whatever he suffered, I have to know ... ’ She buried her head on Agnes’s shoulder.
‘I’ll phone Janet Cole,’ Agnes said. ‘I’ll arrange it.’
‘And Elias said it would help.’
What does Elias know, Agnes thought, standing up, going to the kettle and making tea.
‘Also — ’ Charlotte was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief- ‘also, I prayed last night, because — because I didn’t know what to do — he told me not to tell, but last night it seemed I better — I don’t know ... ’
Agnes took milk from her fridge. Charlotte was silent again.
‘What is it?’ Agnes said.
‘Just that he was — he said he was meeting someone — ’
‘Billy Keenan?’
Charlotte nodded. ‘How did you know?’
‘When Janet mentioned his name — there was something about your reaction, that’s all.’
‘He said he was going to meet him.’ Charlotte took the mug of tea Agnes handed her.
‘Mark was going to meet Billy?’
‘On the night he died. I phoned him the day before, he couldn’t see me that night, he said he was meeting Billy, they were going up to the moors.’
‘Were they friends?’
‘Not really. That’s why I remembered. David said — ’
‘Who’s David?’
‘Mark’s brother. He’s an artist. He said there were bad feelings between the families that went back years.’
‘Why should Mark meet him?’
‘I don’t know. They were doing this sports club thing at the community centre, they were both trying to get that off the ground, so maybe they were getting on better.’ ‘Charlotte, shouldn’t you tell the police?’
‘They know. David told me. I spoke to him yesterday. He said they were questioning Billy because Mark was seen getting into his car that night.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Agnes sipped her tea.
‘And you see, Mark needed a lift up to the moors because someone said they’d seen someone behaving suspiciously around the ledge, up on Morton’s Crag.’
‘Suspiciously?’
‘The peregrines. People try and take the eggs, apparently. They lay rope over the ledge before spring, so then they can move in quickly when the eggs are laid. Mark told me. He’d been tipped off and he was in a hurry to get up there before dark, and according to David it was Billy who offered him a lift.’
‘Charlotte, you shouldn’t feel burdened by all this. If the police already know — ’
Charlotte put down her mug and turned to Agnes. ‘I want to see him.’
*
At eight o’clock that evening, Agnes walked into a high-ceilinged, white-walled, marble-floored space and scanned the tables for Athena. Her eye was caught by a scarlet-sleeved arm, waving madly.
‘Sweetie! Over here.’
Agnes bent to kiss her friend. ‘You smell different. What happened to the Miss Dior?’ she said, as the waiter took her coat.
‘Oh, no no no, far too old-fashioned. I’m wearing Calvin Klein now, it’s what all the young people are wearing, poppet. I decided that after all these years, it was time to get younger again. And Nic gave it to me, so who am I to argue?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Oh, darling, it’s such a shame, he had to stay in London after all, his son, you know, Ben, needed to stay over at the flat, and we thought it was best if they caught up, you know, bonded over beer and Chelsea — or is it that other one, Dagenham or something, it’s all lost on me, Pm afraid.’
‘So, let loose in Leeds, Athena, what are you going to do?’
Athena sighed theatrically and looked at the menu. ‘I mean, Leeds, sweetie, of all places. Hardly the place for a romantic adventure. Gosh, look at this menu, proper food. Mmm, I fancy the red mullet terrine myself. What was I saying?’
‘You were musing on the possibility of a romantic adventure.’
‘The funny thing is, darling, it’s just not what I want. Not any more. Nic’s so sweet and lovely and — and real, somehow. So surprising.’
‘So your morals have got older and your perfume’s got younger.’
Athena giggled. ‘Something like that. Heavens, guinea fowl too - I had no idea civilisation extended this far north.’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘Oh, just till tomorrow, we’re meeting Gavin, he owns the gallery. But we’ll be back.’
The waitress appeared, and they gave her their order.
‘This really isn’t too bad.’ Athena surveyed the restaurant. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t feel too exiled after all.’
‘Exile isn’t just about restaurants,’ Agnes sighed.
‘No. You’re right.’ Athena sipped her wine, then frowned. ‘What is it about, then?’
‘I’m not sure. We’re both exiles, you and me.’
‘Yes, but it’s OK.’
‘It’s OK in London. But here — you see, there’s a difference between being an exile and being someone who doesn’t belong. Yesterday I saw someone I hadn’t seen for years, and it made me realise — ’
‘Who?’
‘He’s called James. He was a friend of my father, a business associate. He lives near Ilkley. And it was terribly strange to be with someone who’s known me since I was little. I kept wanting to cry. It was such a relief. And then I went back to the school and it seemed like a pretence again.’
‘Are you seeing him again?’
‘He phoned this morning. He’s invited me to supper on Wednesday.’
‘The father you never had.’
‘Athena, really.’
‘Funny I’ve never noticed this before in you, this need to be looked after.’
‘In London there’s you. And Julius. And the community’s different there, they leave me alone.’
Athena poured herself more wine. ‘So it’s a need to escape, then? They’ll let you out soon, won’t they? Don’t you get time off for good behaviour?’
‘But it’s not as if I could go, not now. You see, one of my girls was seeing this young man, secretly, and he was found dead on the moors, and as you can imagine, she’s in a terrible state. And at the same time, there’s an art teacher, and I think it’s her father who employed this young man, and she’s vanished. And if she is an Allbright Baines then I seem to be the only one who’s saying so, apart from our chaplain, Father Elias, who definitely knows more than he’s letting on — what’s so funny, Athena?’
‘Same old Agnes, then.’
‘No really, it’s serious — you must see, Athena, that I have to find out what’s going on.’
‘Oh, absolutely, sweetie. Yes, the terrine for me, and — snails? You never said you were having snails.’
The waitress placed an exquisite arrangement of shells and butter in front of Agnes.
‘I so rarely see civilisation, you see, Athena. I expect they had them flown
in from Bourgogne, especially. Which is odd as they’re two a penny up on the moors. You can crunch them underfoot up there.’
*
Agnes dropped Athena at her hotel, then joined the Leeds ring road towards Bradford. She watched her windscreen wipers splash against the rain, and thought about Athena returning to London the next day, back to real life. She envied her.
At St Catherine’s she found Leonora, sitting on the wall by the school gates. Agnes got out of her car and sighed. ‘Leonora, what did I say about suitcases?’ Leonora shrugged. ‘It’s only a few things.’
‘It’s hardly the weather for it.’
‘I like the rain.’
They looked at the night sky, at the muted edges of the clouds. ‘If you leave it a few days,’ Agnes said, ‘I might just come with you.’
Leonora looked down at Agnes and smiled. She jumped down from the wall, and Agnes took her suitcase, and they walked back along the drive towards the school.
*
‘But the girl is tormented by not knowing,’ Agnes protested on the phone next morning. ‘No, of course they weren’t married, but for Heaven’s sake, she loved him, he was her boyfriend, and now he’s been killed and she can’t begin to grieve until she’s seen him ... what do you mean, only next of kin? No, I can see it’s not — no, of course I don’t think it’s a circus ... right. Goodbye.’
Agnes hung up. She stared out of her window. She sighed, got up and went out of the school, across the courtyard, to Elias’s flat, and knocked on the door.
‘You’ve got to help,’ she said as he opened the door. ‘Charlotte wants to see the body, she’s in a terrible state, I’ve been on the phone all morning, they all say no. Anyone would think I was suggesting bringing a coach party. It can’t be any worse than what she’s imagining, can it?’
Elias stood in the doorway. ‘No, it can’t. Have you got the number?’
Agnes handed him a piece of paper.
‘Leave it with me,’ he said.
*
They sat in the back of the car, Charlotte and Elias, as Agnes drove them to the mortuary. No one spoke.
They trooped silently into the building, and were greeted by a young woman who led them along gleaming corridors. She took them through a swing door and asked them to wait.
Charlotte turned her fingers round and round in her hair. Elias ambled to the window as if he knew the room. Then the young woman came back and held the door for them to go through. Elias glanced at Agnes, then accompanied Charlotte through the door. Agnes was left, waiting.
She sat on a beige plastic chair and looked around her. It seemed to be a workroom. There were tables in one corner, and shelves above them, cluttered with glass jars, plastic bags, cardboard boxes. Agnes wandered over to them, wondering whether it was unusual for people to see the bodies of their loved ones, surprised that no special place was provided for grieving relatives.
She saw a label on one of the boxes. ‘Mark Snaith’, it said. She took it down and opened it. It contained a pair of muddy binoculars, a rather filthy handkerchief, a Biro, a bus ticket. A dry-cleaning ticket for a garment that Mark would never see again. A dentist’s card with an appointment time written on it. A life cut short, Agnes thought. A young man fully expecting to collect his dry cleaning, go to his dentist — and now there is no Mark Snaith. Agnes stared at the objects, these Things Left Behind. It was difficult to grasp, this sudden nonexistence. There was a piece of white card at the bottom, and she picked it out.
‘Mr and Mrs A. Turnbull’, she saw printed on it in curly script, ‘request the pleasure of your company on Tuesday, 5th March, at 7.30 p.m., for a private viewing of artworks by David Snaith.’ There was an address.
Tuesday, Agnes thought. She scribbled down the address and phone number, replaced the card in the box and put it back on the shelf. She went and stared out of the window, as the door opened and Elias was there, supporting Charlotte who was near to collapse. Agnes ran to help him. Charlotte struggled against them both, making a low moaning noise in her throat, grabbing the doorhandle as if trying to go back, trying to return to Mark, fighting Elias and Agnes as they propelled her back to the corridor.
‘No, no,’ Charlotte was crying, as they left the building. Elias was murmuring to her.
Agnes unlocked the car. ‘He’s dead,’ she heard him say.
*
They led her to Agnes’s room. In the car she’d quietened, and now sat, passively, on Agnes’s bed.
‘She shouldn’t be alone,’ Elias said.
‘She can sleep here.’ Agnes tidied some books from her floor. ‘I can get a spare mattress, if you’ll help me carry it.’
They went out into the corridor. ‘Do you think we did the right thing?’ Agnes asked him.
‘I’m sure we did.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Dead.’
Agnes glanced at him. ‘Did he look awful?’
‘No, just dead.’
‘His eyes — ’
‘They’d closed the lids. It was OK.’
‘She seems horror-stricken.’
‘It’s the finality of it, that’s all. She’s had to say goodbye. It’s tough.’
I hope you’re right, Agnes thought, you with your certainties, your knowledge of death. They carried the mattress back. Charlotte was sitting exactly where they’d left her.
*
That night Charlotte stirred and murmured in her sleep. Once she cried out Mark’s name. Agnes watched her settle back into sleep, wondering what demons were haunting her dreams. She thought about Elias, and wondered what it was that drew him to Charlotte’s anguish, that made him speak with such authority about death; that gave him such a bleak view of life.
She found she was wide awake. She got up and put on a jumper. Charlotte stirred and muttered again. Agnes padded silently to the window and sat in her chair, watching the shifting darkness of the sky. She wondered what was Elias’s connection with Joanna, with Allbright’s. Her eye fell on her two photographs, lit by a streak of light from the courtyard, and she thought about James, his kindness to her, his concern for her all those years ago. In her sleep Charlotte turned over, and Agnes thought about the letter she ought to write to Charlotte’s parents. She imagined Charlotte’s mother awake too, sitting quietly by a window in another country, seeing the same dawn, missing her daughter. She imagined her own mother, insomniac as ever, watching the sky turn grey. She wondered what her mother thought about during her sleepless nights.
She felt weary, stood up, yawning, covered Charlotte up gently with an extra blanket and went back to bed.
Chapter Five
Setting off from the school on Tuesday evening, Agnes wished Athena was with her.
‘What a hoot, poppet,’ Athena had said on the phone. ‘Yes of course you can pretend to be from our gallery. You can even borrow my name, if you like. What a shame I’m not there, I could come too and pretend to be you. I’d be utterly convincing as a nun, what do you think, sweetie?’
Athena was always so much better at these things, Agnes thought, turning on to the Otley Road. She drove past tall hedges, beautiful old houses tucked away behind stone walls. She checked the directions that she’d been given on the phone, turned up a drive and saw a bright white building, the front of which was mostly glass. Several cars stood in the drive. She pulled up behind a BMW 318, and parked behind it with a wave of envy which she knew was sinful.
She got out of her car, pulling her black pencil skirt down, hoping there wouldn’t be hours of standing up as she’d chosen her highest-heeled shoes, still only a modest couple of inches but unfamiliar. As she passed the BMW, she noticed a baby seat strapped into the back of it.
She rang the bell, and the door was opened by a man dressed as a waiter. A hubbub surged behind him. She smiled warmly and said, ‘Agnes Bourdillon.’ It seemed to be enough, and he stepped aside to let her pass, indicating someone collecting coats at the foot of the stairs.
The hall was broad and
light, hung with framed pictures. Agnes glanced at them as she handed her coat to the petite, dark-haired waitress, who slung it clumsily over one arm and then smiled. ‘The reception’s through there, the ladies if you want it is that door there.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Unless you want the one with the Jacuzzi,’ the girl went on. ‘Which is upstairs. Though I don’t s’pose they’d thank me for telling you.’
‘I think I’ll save that for later,’ Agnes smiled.
The bathroom was cool, blue and marbled. Agnes checked her face in the mirror above the basin, then carefully applied an expensive red lipstick. Agnes Bourdillon, she thought. It’s ages since I’ve called myself that. It was odd how her husband’s surname tended to follow her around. Agnes Bourdillon, she thought, looking at the image of herself that the mirror held up to her. Tailored skirt, red lips, smart white shirt. It’s a disguise, she thought. An illusion. I’m allowed that.
She went back out into the hall, noticing that the pictures on the wall were cheap prints; a Victorian street scene, warm lamplight, crinolined ladies, hurrying carriages. A past that never was, thought Agnes. She went towards the noise.
Almost immediately she found herself face to face with the first work in the exhibition. It showed a standing group of men facing out of the picture. The outlines were scratchy and muted, in shades of charcoal. Behind them a few desolate lines suggested a mill. The next picture was similar. The third showed a group of women; the same dark colours, the same faces ingrained with dirt and pain.
At a distance from the pictures, glasses clinked, people chatted. The room was huge and light, and gave on to a conservatory. The doors were open to the chilly darkness of the garden beyond, but the room was warm.
‘Wine, Madam?’
Agnes turned. It was the girl who’d taken her coat, now holding a tray. Agnes took a glass of white wine.
A Dark and Sinful Death Page 6