by Lis Howell
So here she was, almost begging Nigel to come over. She could hear the answering tension in her husband’s voice. Didn’t she remember that he was going to a sales conference in Barcelona? He was off at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning and wouldn’t be back till Friday. He would come round first thing Saturday. In fact, he’d take the children to Newcastle. His voice was loaded with patient generosity. In the meantime she should keep calm and not overreact.
Suzy felt hot with irritation. She regretted calling him, but she had no option. He was Jake’s dad. And this was about Jake, not about her pride.
‘OK, Nigel. But I thought you should know. Perhaps you can talk to him about it.’
She put down the phone feeling small, and left the privacy of her bedroom. Robert was still downstairs and she could hear the children talking to him. Jake sounded better. Having to make an effort for someone he liked was pulling him back into shape.
‘I’ve just been telling Jake about the new Apple Mac software at the college,’ Robert said. ‘I wondered if he might like to come over to Norbridge tomorrow evening and have a go on one of the computers?’
‘I’d like to do that, Mum.’ It was a statement, not a request. Suzy felt suddenly angry.
‘Is that all you can think about, Jake? Going out and having more fun after the anxiety you’ve caused?’ Jake reddened and turned away from her, sloppily pouring tea into two mugs which looked less than clean. Robert caught her eye and held her glance for a second.
She took a deep breath and started again. ‘OK, of course you can go, Jake. It’s kind of Robert to offer. But you must realize that you got me really worried. Matt Bell is a nightmare in that boy racer car. I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed someone one day.’
Jake spilt the tea. He looked at his mother and for a nanosecond she saw fear in his face. Then he reached for the kitchen roll and said, in a deeper voice that sounded surprisingly adult, ‘I won’t be going out with him again. Don’t worry.’
Suzy leant her arms on the table and sat down heavily. She felt tearful with relief.
‘Good. Would you like a glass of wine, Rob?’ she said unsteadily. ‘And Jake, you need to tidy your room. It was a mess when I went up there this afternoon. Why don’t you choose one of your DVDs for us all to watch tonight?’ And on the spur of the moment she added, ‘Would you like to stay this evening, Rob?’
‘Well, a glass of wine would be great. But then, I’d better get home. The Briars will be feeling neglected. I’ll call for Jake at about five o’clock tomorrow if that’s OK?’
Suzy felt a twinge of disappointment. But Robert had been at Tarn Acres all day. She poured two glasses of red wine, and they drank them slowly at the kitchen table, hardly speaking as Molly played happily with Flowerbabe. Then they heard the sound of Jake’s music upstairs. It was loud enough to say ‘back to normal’ without being too aggressive.
‘What do you think really happened?’ Robert asked softly.
‘I don’t know. But I do know one thing. If I ask him directly, I’ll never find out.’ Suzy frowned. There had definitely been fear on Jake’s face. What had Matt Bell said or done which had alarmed him? Was it the fast driving, or something else? Why had he got out of the car and gone to get the bus? If she waited, maybe Jake would tell her. Or maybe he might even tell Robert. The thought pleased her. And surely he would talk to Nigel? But something stopped her mentioning that Jake’s father was coming over next week.
After Robert had gone she put a pizza in the oven. Will he have supper with us tomorrow night? she wondered. Then she pulled herself up. Robert Clark was intruding far too much into her thoughts, and he had been right to go. This had been a ghastly weekend, but now must be family time.
She turned to find Jake hovering behind her, looking nervous at what she might say when they were alone. She needed to reassure him now. She tousled his hair and gave him a quick maternal kiss on the forehead. For the first time in a while he didn’t flinch or say ‘Yuk.’ She felt a rush of love, but patted him on the arm and went over to see how Molly was getting on, being careful not to give her feelings away. Teenage boys hated demonstrations of affection — except from teenage girls.
But something had happened to upset her son, and it was something to do with Matthew Bell. I’ll find out, Suzy said to herself, if it kills me. And then she realized what she had thought, and shuddered.
* * *
‘So what exactly was this all about?’ Alan had adopted the voice of a kindly headmaster at a decent public school. Sammi and Wendy had tactfully left.
‘And where’s the car?’ he added less hammily, suddenly remembering. ‘It was a rotten night to go rushing out. There’s been one bad accident we know of . . .’
‘The car’s in Lancaster, totally unscathed. I managed to get there without any difficulties. I may have lost my licence but everyone knows that was really bad luck. I can cope with most cars.’
‘But it was a bloody foolhardy thing to do, going off into the night like that.’
‘And it was bloody awful of you to talk about me the way you did to Robert Clark! What did you call me? Faithless, irrational . . .’
‘You know I was only playing to his prejudices.’
‘Thanks! Look, from what I overheard, Robert Clark thinks the same person who killed Yvonne, killed Phyllis Drysdale. But I have no motive for killing Phyllis, do I?’
‘Exactly!’ Alan chortled, a self-satisfied laugh.
‘But think about it, Alan. Who would have had a motive for killing Phyllis? No one! It’s inconceivable, isn’t it? She was an elderly lady who irritated some people but no one really hated her. She had no enemies. So the motive must be really well hidden. Which means it could have been anyone. Me.’ He paused theatrically. ‘Or even you.’
‘What, me? Have a motive for harming Phyllis Drysdale? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘But somebody did! And you certainly had a motive for killing Yvonne. Maybe Phyllis had something on you too. Maybe your past isn’t any cleaner and brighter than mine. At least I never tried to hide anything. But you did.’
‘Stevie!’
‘So that’s why I came home,’ Stevie continued. ‘You see, Alan, I love you just as much as you love me. And if either of us could be fingered for these crimes, then I want us to be together. Even if you do think I’m flighty and idiotic. So here I am.’ He moved to stand beside his lover.
Alan was silent. Finally, he said gruffly, ‘Thank you, Stevie.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Stevie answered in his best camp voice. ‘Another gin?’
‘Yes, thank you. We should drink to you coming home.’
They raised their glasses, and once again Alan felt total happiness. It was wonderful that Stevie was home. It had been awful without him, worrying about what might have happened to him while he was driving the car down the country lanes, mad with anger in the stormy weather.
‘To our future together,’ said Stevie, sounding more confident than he had since coming to Tarnfield five years earlier. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘you said something about an accident?’
‘Oh, yes. Tom Strickland was knocked over by a hit-and-run driver last night. I was worried in case it was you, in the car.’
‘Me!’ But Stevie stopped in mid-huff and his face creased. ‘It’s funny you should mention that. There was no traffic when I left last night. But I took a wrong turning up towards Tarn Ford, and a car overtook me going at a hell of a speed.’
‘Who was it?’
‘I’m damned if I know. The headlights were at full beam. Why anyone would be racing to the ford, I don’t know.’
‘Should you tell the police?’
‘You must be joking. I’m going to keep clear of them as long as I can. Anyway, it was probably nothing. Here’s your drink, Al. Then what about an early night?’
Stevie ran his hand down his partner’s thigh. He was aware that in the last five minutes their relationship had subtly changed. While he had been driving to Lancaster thr
ough the rain, concentrating on the road, he had suddenly realized that despite his ‘victim mentality’, he was no more likely to be accused than anyone else. Even Alan.
Everyone had hated Yvonne Wait.
They’re all suspects in this lovely little village, he told himself with vengeful amusement. All those heterosexual churchgoers! They’re all possible murderers. Every one of them!
31
Whit Sunday to Monday
God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son.
From the Gospel for the Monday in Whitsun Week, John 3:16
Kevin Jones always dreaded his mother-in-law coming for Sunday tea. She was a dragon. She still ran the farm, though Janice’s brother was nominally in charge, and she’d made it clear she thought Janice would have done better if she’d taken her advice and married someone from a local agricultural dynasty.
Kevin had been annoyed with himself for accepting the money Janice’s mother had offered as a down payment on the house in Tarn Acres. It was the smallest house in the crescent as well. If she’d been going to give them a handout, and if he’d been going to swallow his pride and take it, then why shouldn’t it have been for a bigger house? Something like Suzy Spencer’s. Or the Arthurs’. Why two women should rattle round in a four-bedroom house like that, he had no idea.
His crush on Daisy had all but evaporated. Now, if anything, he felt irritated with her. She hadn’t shown as much commitment to Nick’s Vision as he’d hoped. He was annoyed that she had compromised with Suzy Spencer over the Whitsun Festival. There had been a brief moment when he had been trapped into offering to help to put up the decorations himself, but Yvonne’s death had soon put the kybosh on the whole stupid idea. Good.
Like a lot of men, Kevin easily transferred blame to the former object of his affections. Daisy had clearly been out to ensnare him in order to make Nick Melling jealous and to provoke him into asking her out. That was what he had told Janice and that was what he now believed. It never occurred to him that perhaps his wife guessed the truth and as a Christian she had decided to forgive him.
He squared up to his mother-in-law across the kitchen-diner table.
‘I fully support Melling in all this. The church needs to change with the times, Grandma.’ He hated calling her that, but it was better than ‘Mam’. His mother-in-law was tight-faced with disapproval.
‘That’s all very well, Kevin,’ she said, ‘but it’s no good moving on if you don’t take people with you. Oh yes, this young man will get people into the church. People in Tarnfield will need to go to All Saints in order to get their children into church schools. But young families aren’t the ones with the money or the time. And anyway, it’s wrong to put people’s backs up. A lot of us have done a great deal for All Saints in the past.’
‘With all due respect,’ Kevin said, meaning nothing of the sort, ‘it just wasn’t enough. Attendances have been going down for years and we need new blood. A show of Christianity isn’t enough, all this middle-class stuff with choirs and flowers. It puts most people off. And it wasn’t even a very good choir. Or top class flowers.’
‘But it gave a lot of committed people a lot of pleasure.’
‘Committed? Yes, to their own gratification. Not to the Lord.’
‘Or to Nick Melling,’ the older woman said drily. Janice kept her head down. She thought her mother was probably right and that there was a strong dose of vanity in Nick Melling’s Vision. But she loved her husband, too. He really believed in Nick, and these changes at the church had filled him with confidence. Kevin was unsure of himself deep down, aware of being the poor white boy from the back streets of Bradford. No wonder her mother terrified him. In a way she was glad he was fighting back.
She listened to them bickering, one eye on the baby asleep on the sofa, the other on Zoe who was playing in front of the TV. Half aware of the debate, she was sensitive to the determination in Kevin’s voice. He really wasn’t giving way. Kevin was raising his voice now, asserting that God might have included the deaths of Phyllis and Yvonne in his plan so the church in Tarnfield could make progress.
Like everyone in the village Janice knew that the police were looking into Yvonne’s death and that there wouldn’t be a funeral for some time. There was a chance they were viewing it as a possible crime. If my husband is so convinced that Yvonne had to go, she thought, is it possible that he gave her a helping hand? It wouldn’t take much to twitch a ladder. After all, he’d told Suzy Spencer he was willing to go and help.
The room felt cold. Where had Kevin been on Saturday morning? He’d taken the car to go for some shopping in Norbridge. Then later, he’d walked down to Lo-cost for something he’d forgotten. Tinned custard, was it? Or pasta sauce? Something like that. She couldn’t account for where he’d been for a great deal of the time.
Oh Kevin, she thought. Could you have done it?
She looked at him. He was red-faced now, saying loudly, ‘You really don’t understand, Grandma. It doesn’t matter how much people did for the church. It’s real commitment to the Lord that counts.’
‘And what about the commitment of young couples who just want their children in the best schools? Is that “real” commitment?’
‘Well, at least they’re not stuck-in-the-mud old fogeys like Phyllis Drysdale. Or self-serving cows like Yvonne Wait!’
Oh dear, thought Janice.
* * *
In their bungalow a few miles to the east, Joan Pattinson passed the phone over to her husband. Why had Vera Strickland called now, when George was awake, ready for his Sunday tea watching hymn singing on the telly? In the past, George had been too sophisticated for things like this, but now he seemed to take comfort from it. When the phone rang she had sighed, put down her cup and saucer, and picked it up. She didn’t like George tackling phone calls himself. The last time he had picked up the phone, it had been Mrs Spencer with news of Phyllis Drysdale’s death. That had had a very strange effect on him.
‘George, it’s Vera Strickland,’ she said calmly. ‘Tom’s had a bit of an accident. But he’s OK.’
Another one! The Bishop had telephoned them that morning to inform them of Yvonne’s Wait’s death ‘just as a courtesy’. Joan had intercepted that call, thank goodness. The Bishop had stressed that there would be no need for George to be in any way involved. He just graciously wished to avoid the Pattinsons’ hearing of the accident through gossip, or, heaven forbid, on the local TV or news. George should know that Nick Melling was well on top of the situation. Best to let things be.
But was that best? From the start of George’s breakdown, Joan had been inclined to comply with everything the Bishop had suggested, even when it caused George so much distress. But now she was beginning to wonder. She still met people from Tarnfield occasionally in Tesco’s or in the Lanes shopping centre in Carlisle. And since Phyllis’s death she had heard that there was a growing rift in All Saints. Sometimes she wondered if it might do George more good to have something to occupy him, which gave him a link with the past. She knew that he had been deeply damaged by their sudden departure from All Saints, even though that had seemed the right thing at the time. The Bishop had been obsessed with avoiding gossip.
On the other hand, though, she had never been sure exactly what people in Tarnfield really believed about George’s illness. It was a dilemma. By going back, he risked facing criticism from people who thought they understood what it was all about. But by staying away, he could cause more misguided speculation. She sighed. If only George’s parishioners could be told the truth. It was a lot stranger than anything they’d imagined, she was certain of that. But the Bishop had been appalled at the suggestion.
She turned back to her husband and the phone call. George was listening intently. ‘Good heavens, Vera, this really is terrible!’ he was saying. But to his wife’s surprise there was a growing trace of the old confidence in his voice.
‘And they have no idea who did it? Horrific! There are all sorts of maniacs on the ro
ads these days.’ George was listening again to Vera’s repeated description of Tom’s multiple injuries. Joan strained to hear.
Then to her astonishment her husband replied, ‘But if you want me to visit Tom, of course I will. You realize of course that I haven’t been out for some time. But Joan will drive me during the week.’
He put down the phone and smiled at his wife with a look she thought was slyly triumphant.
‘Someone in Tarnfield needs me,’ he said. He closed his eyes, and put his head back, but just when Joan thought he was dropping off to sleep, he opened them again and said, ‘I never forgave myself for not seeing Phyllis straight away, you know. I put her off and put her off, and she died before she could tell me what was on her mind. I’m not going to let that happen with Strickland.’
To his wife’s amazement he drank his tea straight down, and leaned forward to turn up the TV set. He smiled again when he heard the hymn the ardent congregation was singing. It was ‘Make Me a Channel of Your Peace’.
‘Nick Melling doesn’t have a monopoly on it,’ George said with a hint of his old confidence.
‘A monopoly on what?’
‘The Holy Spirit,’ George said, and chuckled. Joan stood up to go in the kitchen for more cake. She wanted to hide the tears of relief in her eyes.
* * *
Nancy Arthur woke up on Monday to hear Daisy coming down the stairs. Her footsteps sounded light and carefree, and a moment later Nancy was sure she could hear Daisy singing to herself in the kitchen before putting the radio on. Good, Nancy thought. Daisy had spent much of Sunday asleep, after Saturday’s visit from the acting vicar.
Nancy shook her head as she heaved herself out of bed. She didn’t like Nick Melling. He was snobbish and ungracious, she thought. Nancy reminded herself that she had little experience of what she called ‘the Brideshead type’, but if they were all as noblesse oblige as he was, she was grateful that she’d escaped! The worry was that Daisy seemed so besotted with him. But after his stilted attempts to talk to her, Daisy had seemed even more distressed.