A Dark and Sinful Death

by Alison Joseph

  ‘But he won’t hear her name. And why his house, in his absence? Why can’t we just ask him?’

  ‘Because it won’t work.’

  Agnes remembered what Nina had told her about the current state of William Baines, but said nothing.

  ‘Also,’ Elias went on, ‘I gather he’s quite upset about the mill. Handing it over. I mean, Patricia’s OK, but she’s not the brightest of women.’

  ‘By the way,’ Agnes said deliberately, ‘she asked to be remembered to you.’

  Elias blinked. He glanced around the room, as if newly aware of where he was. ‘Did she?’ He spoke carefully, waiting for the next question.

  ‘More whisky?’ Agnes said.

  He handed her his glass, still searching her face.

  ‘So,’ Agnes said, lightly, pouring him another drink, ‘this plan to visit the Baines family house — what do you hope to gain?’

  ‘You see — ’ Elias put his hand to his brow. ‘That’s where most of her work is. I thought there might be — oh, I don’t know. It all made sense up on the moor.’

  ‘Clues?’

  He took his hand from his face and looked at her. He nodded. ‘Yes. Clues.’

  ‘OK,’ Agnes said. ‘When?’

  ‘Sunday night. Day after tomorrow. He always plays bridge with some old friends. We can go in my car.’

  ‘But what if — I mean, he might not go that day, particularly if he’s not quite himself — and what if we’re caught, and — ’ Agnes picked up her glass, put it down again. ‘What I mean is, it’s all so ridiculous, isn’t it? Doing it by stealth?’

  ‘Agnes, it won’t help if William sees me face to face.’

  She stood up and went to pour herself another drink. Then she turned to him and said, ‘Patricia told me. About the accident ... ’

  ‘She knows nothing about it.’ Elias’s face was pale.

  ‘And Marcus — ’ Agnes went on.

  ‘I said she knows nothing. Whatever she told you, it’s not — it doesn’t — I don’t want to talk about it.’ His eyes were dark and pleading, shadowed with suffering.

  ‘Sunday night, then,’ she heard herself say.

  He put down his glass and stood up. At the door he turned to her. ‘Thanks,’ he said. She heard his footsteps recede along the corridor.

  Alone in the silence of her room, Agnes poured another drink. She read James’s letter again, then picked up her phone and dialled his number.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I don’t sleep that well. You — um — ’

  ‘I got your letter.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for dying? James, we’re all dying.’ Suddenly she wanted to laugh, and she heard him laughing too.

  ‘I don’t know why that should be funny,’ he said at last.

  ‘No. Neither do I. James — two years is quite a long time.’

  ‘Long enough. I’m going to travel.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘While I’m still quite fit.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you come and see me soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Agnes — could you make it Sunday?’

  ‘Sure. After chapel, one-ish.’

  ‘See you then.’

  *

  She drained her whisky glass, then picked up Elias’s empty glass as well. She turned the glass in her fingers, wondering whether it had been a dream, that Elias had appeared in her room and suggested they break into Baines’s house. It was a crazy plan.

  She stood up and ran soapy water to wash the two glasses. She thought about his anger when she’d mentioned the accident. This trip to Baines’s house isn’t about Joanna at all, she thought. It’s about Elias. Whatever whispered to him on the moors today, it wasn’t Joanna’s demon. It was his own.

  She knelt in prayer, and in her mind she saw James, his courage and humour. He’d always been like that; even when she was young, he’d been calm and funny, and outspoken when necessary but not often. She found there were tears in her eyes, and realised she was crying not for him but for herself, that something should have been given to her only to be taken away again. It’s not fair, she wanted to cry, like a child grasping at a toy out of reach.

  *

  ‘Go with him, sweetie,’ Athena said. It was Saturday lunchtime.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s obvious. He wants to travel, you’re upset about losing him, go with him. Shall we have the halibut?’

  ‘Athena — I can’t — ’

  ‘Why not? I would. Mind you, it’s a bit too platonic for me, no romantic adventure ... ’

  ‘He’s like a father, or an older brother at least — or a best friend.’

  ‘Much better for travelling. No lovers’ tiffs, plain sailing, a world cruise, I assume he’s got pots of money?’

  ‘Yes, but ... ’

  ‘There we are then. Maybe salmon, mind you, I only eat wild salmon these days, I saw this documentary about pink colouring — ’

  ‘Athena — I’m a nun.’

  ‘Sweetie, I know that.’

  ‘So it’s obvious — ’

  ‘It’s obvious to me that you’re very unhappy.’

  Agnes was about to speak, then grabbed the menu and scanned it. ‘Skate wings, that’s what I’m having. And Chablis.’

  ‘And I’m paying.’ Athena waved at the waitress. ‘Business is looking up. Simon has an eye for these things. We’ve got an artist in the gallery who makes art out of fruit. Eastern European, Romanian or Armenian or something. She kind of sprays fruit with plastic-y stuff and paints it funny colours, silver and turquoise and things. They are selling really well. Surprising really. And what happened to your art teacher, the one who vanished?’ ‘Well, she’s still missing. But someone else has been found killed, so it’s all rather grim.’

  ‘And that priest ... ’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If you must know, he’s suggesting we break into the family home of the woman who’s vanished, Joanna, because her paintings are there. And her boyfriend, David, who’s also an artist, won’t say where she is, but we think he knows and he’s protecting her. In fact — Simon might like his stuff.’

  ‘Simon is in love with the North, sweetie. As long as your friend can splash a bit on paint or something, Simon’ll show him, I swear.’

  ‘And he’s good. It’s not just paintings, it’s three-dimensional stuff too, objets trouvés kind of things. Still life.’

  ‘I don’t believe it — did you say still life? Simon’s desperate for some work for our second room, to accompany the fruit things in the big space. Quick, give me his number.’ Agnes scribbled David’s phone number down and passed it across to her. ‘It’s absolutely the thing at the moment,’ Athena said, scrutinising the piece of paper. ‘Like the plastic fruit. Ludmilla’s idea was that the fruit dies inside the structure, so it turns from being life to being death, but it looks just the same. I’m afraid it’s all beyond me, it just reminded me of hats.’ Athena refilled their wine glasses. ‘And is he gorgeous?’

  ‘Is who gorgeous?’

  ‘This priest of yours.’

  ‘Oh, Athena, honestly!’

  ‘Celibate, of course. There’s always something, isn’t there?’ Athena sighed and gave their order to the waitress.

  ‘Elias, he’s called. And it’s quite clear he’s in some terrible conflict of his own.’

  ‘Just your type then, sweetie.’

  ‘Athena, shut up.’

  ‘Obviously, this Jo is some kind of childhood sweetheart who he still yearns for, and he’s worried about her, and wants to find her, but at the same time he’s worried about what will happen when he does. And we forgot to order mineral water.’ Athena waved wildly at the waitress. ‘In fact, it was probably something all going wrong with this girl that turned him into a priest.’

  ‘There was a riding accident — ’

  ‘There you are then.’
/>
  ‘I’m not sure he and Jo were — he’s not romantic, you see. He’s more existentialist.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s the end of that, then. You can’t fancy an existentialist, poppet, even a gorgeous one. Even if I did know what it means.’

  The mineral water arrived and Athena took a long drink from her glass. ‘No, it’s quite clear to me, poppet. When James asks you, you must say yes.’

  ‘I’ll say no such thing. I owe it to my order to be committed, I made my vows — ’

  ‘And do you owe it to your order to be miserable, to be unable to throw yourself into your work because it doesn’t feel right? Do they really want someone who’s resentful because she feels she’s living half a life?’

  ‘They want me to grow spiritually through my commitment, through transcending my own desires for the greater good.’

  ‘Seems to me, sweetie, if we can be happy, and live life well, then that is for the greater good.’

  ‘Anyway, Athena, James won’t ask me. So it doesn’t matter what I want.’

  ‘Absolutely, sweetie, you know best.’

  *

  Out in the street, Agnes gave Athena a hug. ‘I must run, Athena, I’m due back at the school in twenty minutes. My house is on duty.’ She glared at her smirking friend. ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘Your house is on duty. And you prefer that to a world cruise. Of course it’s funny. Oh, you poor, poor sweetie, I shouldn’t tease you, you’re right of course, the world does need people who stay put regardless. I’m just glad it’s not me.’ She kissed her extravagantly on both cheeks, and then teetered away into the Saturday shopping crowd.

  *

  At tea-time Agnes went to the staff room. There was a message saying that David had called.

  ‘You phoned.’

  ‘Agnes, hi. Yeah, a friend of yours phoned me earlier, Simon, runs a gallery. Nice of you to think of me.’

  ‘I like your work.’

  ‘Thanks. Listen, if you ever fancy it — I don’t know if you God-botherers drink ... ’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m in the Woolpack most nights, do you know it, in town?’

  ‘I’m sure I can find it.’

  ‘Tonight if you like.’

  ‘I’m afraid my house is on duty. But next week, maybe?’

  ‘I’m always there.’

  She was crossing the courtyard back to her room when Charlotte came up to her.

  ‘What happened, what did she say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lianna, you know, what did she say?’

  ‘Charlotte, come and sit down somewhere.’ They went to the deserted common room and sat on beige armchairs.

  ‘She wasn’t his girlfriend, was she?’ Charlotte sat on the edge of her seat, pulling at her skirt.

  ‘No,’ Agnes said.

  ‘They didn’t — they hadn’t ... ’

  ‘Charlotte — ’

  Charlotte’s fingers worked at her skirt. ‘It didn’t mean anything, it can’t have done, he said I really mattered to him. He said I was beautiful. Once he did. And she’s so — she’s so — I’ve been to her place, it’s a real dive, and she smokes all the time. And other things.’

  ‘Mark was a nice person, wasn’t he?’ Agnes said. Charlotte nodded. ‘Gentle, and kind ... ’ Charlotte was biting her lips. ‘I think Lianna doesn’t know many people like that.’

  Charlotte flashed Agnes a glance. ‘So I’m supposed to be charitable, am I? She can borrow him because she has a horrible life.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Charlotte, that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘And — and I bet she knows more about how to — how to — and she’s really sexy, isn’t she, and really thin, and it’s just because I wasn’t very experienced, I knew he’d go and find someone else, someone who could — who knew — ’ Her sobbing drowned out her words. Agnes went to her and put her arms around her. In five years’ time, she wanted to say, you will have survived this. But Lianna ... Agnes thought about Lianna in five years’ time. She held Charlotte close.

  *

  It was a fine afternoon when she pulled up opposite the phone box and parked in James’s drive. He came to the door, hearing the car, and ushered her inside. She glanced up at him, and wondered whether the fact she knew he was ill made him seem more frail.

  ‘I’ve made some lunch,’ he said.

  ‘You needn’t have.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid.’

  She followed him into the dining room.

  ‘Have you been in chapel all morning, then?’ he asked, setting bread and butter on the table.

  ‘I’ve been very glad of it today,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mean there are some days when you aren’t?’ He went to the kitchen and brought out two plates of soup. They sat opposite each other.

  ‘I just meant, especially today.’

  ‘Because of seeing me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced up and caught his frank, clear gaze. ‘What has He got to say about me, then?’

  Agnes laughed. ‘Do you want an apology?’

  ‘No, not exactly. Though I would like to know how long.’

  ‘I’ll ask Him next time.’

  ‘And He’ll say nothing.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in Him.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘James — ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you don’t believe, then — ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In your darkest moments, I mean — ’

  ‘You mean who do I speak to in the wee small hours when it’s cold and dark and I’m scared?’

  ‘You see, I can’t imagine being without that dialogue, not being able to lay everything at His feet.’

  ‘Even if it makes no difference?’

  ‘But it does. It’s the act of handing everything over that changes everything. It’s the path to — to redemption, to acceptance.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem very accepting.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to take me as an example.’

  James smiled. He met her eyes, and seemed to be about to say something, then noticing their plates were empty, he got up to refill them.

  After lunch he brought the coffee through into the living room. Agnes sat on the sofa and curled her legs under her. He poured the coffee in silence, then sat in the armchair next to the empty grate.

  ‘I’ll be setting out quite soon,’ he said at last.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘France, to start with. And Barcelona, maybe northern Italy too, I’ve an old friend in Verona I’d love to see before ... ’ He sipped his coffee. ‘And then the States, I’ve things to clear up there, and if by then I’m — I’m too -1 can’t — ’ He passed his hand over his eyes. ‘It’s not the dying, you see, the dying seems OK, it’s the bit in between, I don’t know how that’s going to be, and in the darkest moments, that’s when I find I’m cold and shivering, when I think about the pain and the illness and ... ’ He shook his head. ‘Still, that’s yet to come.’

  ‘James — are they sure?’

  ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘That you’re dying. That it’s two years.’

  ‘They reckon I’ve got one good year left, after that it could be a slow decline, or it could be very sudden. The treatment has put a lot of strain on my system, it may turn out that I’m weaker than they thought ... ’

  Agnes got up and poured another cup of coffee. ‘James — might you not come back here, then?’

  ‘No. I might not come back.’

  ‘But ... ’

  ‘I know.’

  The afternoon sun through the trees cast flickering shadows. ‘Agnes,’ James said at last.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think you should visit your mother.’

  ‘You think what?

  ‘I know it sounds odd ...

  ‘Here we are, saying the first of many goodbyes and you tell me I should vi
sit my mother.’

  ‘Please hear me out. Your mother isn’t going to last for ever. And if she dies before you’ve seen her again, you’re going to feel terrible. I know you are. Whereas if you come with me to the South of France, you can begin the process which will allow you to move on from it all, with some kind of resolution.’ He stood up and fetched the brass clock from the mantelpiece and put it down in front of her. ‘You can give this back to her.’

  Agnes blinked back tears, staring at the clock. ‘You’re the only one who has any idea how it was,’ she said at last. ‘There’d be these sudden bursts of kindness, of endless treats and new expensive dolls, and then nothing for weeks, months, maybe, and I’d be treated as a nuisance and she’d be ill again, and then some governess would arrive to look after me and keep me away from her, and then she’d fall out with the governess and say no one was good enough for her daughter and then there’d be another doll ... There was one in particular, I loved that doll, more than the others, I don’t know why, it was porcelain, and very beautiful, in a long white dress ... I don’t know where she got it. I used to imagine her choosing it specially for me, it was a kind of story I told myself, the day my mother went to the shops and chose me a doll. When I got married, I took the doll on my honeymoon. Isn’t that an odd thing to do, I wonder why I did that?’

  Agnes’s voice faltered and she burst into tears. James came and sat down next to her. She took the handkerchief he passed her, and dabbed at her face.

  ‘Did you ... ’ she began, ‘did you say if I come with you to the South of France?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You mean you’d be there too?’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to do it on your own.’

  ‘James — why?’

  ‘Why am I asking you to come with me?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  He stood up and went over to the window. ‘Everything I do, from now on, is the last. The last time I see a Chabrol movie, the last time I hear a live performance of Bartok’s third piano concerto, the last — possibly the last — the last thing I do for your father.’

  ‘For my father?’

  ‘I’m the only living person who can make amends.’

  ‘On his behalf?’

  ‘On behalf of both of them.’ He came and sat down next to her. ‘I just think you should visit her. And if I’m there, it’ll be OK, she’s quite nice to me now.’