“Is that so?” said Frek, in a voice so coolly polite you could have served caviar on it. “And has this strangely acquired wisdom produced any positive interpretation you care to share with us? The date perhaps?”
The Australian frowned slightly as if for the first time detecting antagonism, but replied relatively mildly, “Let’s see. If it’s a simple pentadic system, it would be 1589. Yeah, that would be it.”
Frek laughed out loud.
“Only five or six centuries out,” she said. “Or the mason couldn’t count?”
Sam removed her sunglasses and turned her unblinking slatey gaze on Frek who, rather to Madero’s surprise, let herself be faced down.
“Sorry,” said Sam. “I should have said. I didn’t mean the original maker’s name but the repairer’s. It came to me when I was talking to Thor Winander this morning and he told me his name was the same as some old Viking who got a lake named after him.”
“Thor’s been playing that little game with you, has he? My ancestor who owned Windermere,” said Frek, smiling. “But it’s true that it figures on old maps as Winandermere, meaning the lake of a man called Vinandr.”
“There we go then,” said Sam. “This oval here with the wavy line in it, that’s this Winander lake.”
“And these earlier symbols, you’re saying they’re semagrams too?” said Frek, clearly still doubtful but now, Madero observed, genuinely interested.
“Yeah. Difference is they form a rebus. This one here, the triangle like a roof, I think that’s a barn. And this one with the little cross on top, I reckon that’s an abbey. All the other stuff is just a bit of ornamentation to confuse matters.”
“And this gives you…?”
“Barn abbey Winandermere,” said Sam slowly. “Barnaby Winander who, according to Peter K.’s Guide, restored the cross in 1589. And from what I’ve read about the family and seen of this Thor guy, that’s exactly the kind of daft trick he’d get up to!”
“Well, well,” said Frek softly. “You are a surprisingly clever little thing.”
Madero could see that the Australian didn’t care to be patronized.
“Nice of you to say so,” she said, looking up at Frek as if seeing her for the first time.
Then her eyes widened in what looked to Madero like a parody of recognition and she exclaimed, “Hey, I thought you looked familiar.”
“I saw you briefly this morning outside the Forge,” admitted Frek grudgingly.
“No. Not outside the Forge. Inside. You must have been the model for that carving Mr. Winander did. It’s a real close likeness.”
She let her gaze slide down the other woman’s body and grinned as she added, “So far as I can see, that is.”
A tiny smudge of color touched Frek’s cheeks.
Madero, intrigued, said, “What’s this then?”
Sam said, “Hang around and I daresay you’ll get the chance to check it out for yourself.”
She paused long enough to see the smudge spread into an angry flush before adding, “Yeah, Mr. Winander said he’d be bringing it down here this afternoon. It’s the headstone for Billy Knipp’s grave. Miss Woollass modeled the angel. Right?”
Their gazes locked. The flush subsided. Then surprisingly there was the suspicion of a smile and Frek said, “I may have provided the features, the form was Thor’s idea. It’s been nice to meet you again, Miss Flood. You’ve given me food for thought.”
She offered her hand to Sam who took it, surprised rather than reluctant.
Frek brought her other hand up and held Sam’s enclosed in both her own as she continued, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday. You too, Mr. Madero. I need to be off now. No need for you to rush. You must be dying to see the inside of the church. Perhaps Miss Flood, who knows so much, can give you the tour. Unless you don’t feel up to walking and really need a lift back to the Stranger…?”
Nice twist, thought Sam approvingly. She had spotted that the woman had taken Madero by surprise. Would he play the poor invalid or take it on the chin like a hero?
He said, “I’m fine.”
“Then I’ll say goodbye. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
She gave Sam’s hand one last squeeze, let go, turned and walked swiftly away.
Together they watched her out of sight round the side of the church.
“Lovely mover,” said Sam. “Things didn’t go so well then?”
He didn’t try to deny it.
“No,” he said. “Does your fund of arcane knowledge in fact extend to showing me round the church?”
“I’d rather not,” she said. “Someone in there doesn’t like me. Anyway, I need to get my gear together. I’m moving on today. See you around maybe.”
She moved forward past the cross to the churchyard wall and stooped down to push aside the veiling weeds.
“Well, Sam Flood,” she murmured softly. “What are you? Mr. Perfect, or Mr. Pervert? And have you got anything at all to do with me? God knows, and maybe it’s best I stop trying to get in on the secret.”
She released the vegetation, stood up and turned round to find herself face to face, or rather face to neck, with Madero whose curiosity had made him follow her.
“Talk about creeping Jesus!” she said angrily.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But that name on the wall, isn’t it yours? Sam Flood?”
“That’s right. So what?”
“I’ve no idea. Is this what you and Miss Woollass were referring to just now?”
“Why don’t you ask her? No, sorry, I forgot. It doesn’t sound like you two will be getting much chance of talking again.”
“Doesn’t it?” he said, slightly taken aback by the sharpness of her riposte. “Well, they say fortitude is the virtue of adversity, don’t they?”
“Not where I come from. Kick against the pricks till the pricks stop kicking back, that’s what my pa says.”
He surprised her by laughing out loud, knocking a decade off his age.
“A natural philosopher by the sound of him. But my morning hasn’t been altogether wasted. As for meeting Miss Woollass again, I daresay God will provide an excuse, such as, for instance, my need to retrieve my briefcase from the back of her car.”
He smiled at her, and she found herself smiling back. When he smiled you could almost forget he was a wanked-out priest.
They walked together round the side of the church. She noticed that he was moving much more easily than when last she’d seen him laboring up Stanebank.
As they came in sight of the churchyard gate, they saw it was wedged fully open and Pete Swinebank was helping the driver of a pickup to reverse in. On the back was Billy Knipp’s memorial stone. Supporting it on either side, like a pair of pet apes positioned to emphasize the angel’s brooding beauty, stood the Gowders.
Safely through the gate, the vehicle came to a halt as near as it could get to the young man’s grave. As Sam and Madero approached, Rev. Pete turned and saw them. He looked distinctly uneasy.
Not without cause, thought Sam grimly. Not mentioning my name being carved on his wall and all that crap about stolen records. I could probably get him defrocked!
She had a flash image of ripping off his cassock and seeing him standing there in frilly undies. This, plus the almost comically abject guilt of his expression, softened her heart toward him a little and when he said uncertainly, “Hello again, Miss Flood. How are you today?” all she replied was, “What do you think, Vicar?”
Madero gave her the same look he’d given when she’d chilled out the nun, then said with a compensatory if not quite natural heartiness, “Vicar, I’m pleased to meet you. Michael Madero. I’ve just been looking at your splendid cross.”
They shook hands. Thor Winander got out of the cab. Sam walked toward him. As she passed Swinebank he gave her an appealing glance. She ignored it, fixing her gaze on one of the Gowders at random and saying, “Lovely day, Laal.”
He studied the statement and her face for a menacing
moment before replying ponderously, “Not si bad, eh?”
It works! she thought.
Winander smiled at her as if appreciating her experiment and said, “Nice to see you again. And in clerical company once more. He seems quite taken with my angel.”
Madero was standing by the pickup, staring up at the angel, rapt, while Swinebank was hurrying toward the church, probably to try a quick prayer for my rapid disappearance, thought Sam.
Winander called, “Good day, Madero. Thor Winander. We met briefly last night.”
The Spaniard wrenched his gaze from the memorial.
“Mr. Winander, pleased to meet you again,” he said.
He advanced to shake hands then glanced back at the statue.
“It’s a fine likeness,” he said.
“You recognize my model then? The lovely Frek is an artist’s dream, her essence redolent through all materials. Wood you can smooth and polish till you can hardly get a grip on it, yet gouge a cut with your chisel and there’s always the risk of a splinter.”
He glanced at Sam as he spoke and did his eyebrow thing.
“As for marble, that’s perfect too.” He reached up and laid his hand on the angel’s breast. “Always cool, even in the sunlight. Oh, by the way, talking of Frek…”
He returned to the cab, reached in and pulled out a briefcase.
“…I met her getting into her car just now and she asked me to give you this — ”
What God gives he can take away, even excuses, thought Sam.
Madero accepted the case with grave thanks, took a last rather sad look at the angel, nodded at Sam and said, “If you’ll excuse me…”
As he walked away Sam saw that his limp had returned.
“I gather he’s been banned from the Hall,” said Winander. “I asked Frek why. She said something about sherry trifle, but I never could get much sense out of her. Or indeed anything else. Don’t suppose our divine dropout gave you a confessional hint?”
“Wouldn’t recognize one of them if it peed against my leg,” said Sam, finding herself surprisingly defensive. “Don’t see that it’s anyone’s business but Mr. Madero’s.”
“Good Lord,” said Winander, looking at her closely. “Is this why you spurned me? Muscular athleticism is démodé. Mediterranean injured boy look is in! Well, my dear, in case you’re dejected at the thought of competition, perhaps I can reassure you there — ”
Sam interrupted what sounded like more tedious innuendo by saying sweetly, “Excuse me, but I think your angel could be about to lose one of her wings.”
Winander turned to follow her gaze. The Gowders, impatient of delay, were maneuvering the statue off the truck by main force. One twin was standing at the tailgate with his arms wrapped round the angel, which looked ready for flight. Only the presence of his brother on the flatbed hanging on to one of the wings stopped the whole weight of the marble from crushing him into the ground.
“Jesus wept!” screamed Winander. “How many times do I have to tell you stupid bastards to wait till I set up the block and tackle!”
They had themselves a real problem, she thought with a certain not very becoming satisfaction. But one which could be solved by a bit of simple math involving critical angles, friction resistance, and dead weight.
She wished all her problems were as easily solved.
10
Knock knock, who’s there?
ONCE AGAIN, AS ON STANEBANK that morning, it didn’t take Sam long to catch up with the Spaniard. As she drew alongside he gave her a not very welcoming glance. Up yours too, she thought, thrusting the Illthwaite Guide at him.
“You might as well have this,” she said. “I’m out of here soon as I get paid up and packed.”
She would have accelerated by him, if he hadn’t snapped out of miserable mode, flashing that rejuvenating smile as he said, “No chocolate on offer this time?”
“I’m right out. Thought you didn’t like it anyway.”
“I feel I could do with an injection of energy from any source. But that’s life. We never want what’s on offer till the offer is no longer there.”
“That from the Bible?” she inquired.
“Oh no. The Bible says Ask and it shall be given you.”
“Handy. So why’s it not raining chocolate?”
“I think the offer predates the product.”
“Pity. Your mob could have done themselves a bit of good if you’d been able to break squares off a choc bar instead of handing out those tasteless little wafer things.”
“You have a problem with religion, I think,” he said gravely.
“Why should I? You don’t have a problem with me, do you?”
He thought about this and then smiled again and said, “No, I don’t think I do. You seem to have made a friend of the famous forger back there.”
“Sorry?” said Sam, puzzled by the shift.
“Mr. Winander. From the Forge. Hence, forger.”
A joke. But a hit too. She had the impression that Winander would get as much pleasure from fooling you with a forged masterpiece as from producing a real one. Maybe the Spaniard felt this too. More probable, she thought, he’s taken against Winander because he’s had Miss Icicle as a model. In which case, he should thank his anti-choc god he didn’t get to see the wood carving!
They walked the rest of the way to the pub in a silence which, surprisingly, was more companionable than combative. In fact, with the sun shining bright and Madero by her side, the distance seemed only half of what it had been the day before.
When they reached the Stranger, they found it locked, and several loud bangs at the door failed to rouse Mrs. Appledore.
“Not to worry,” said Sam. “I’ve got a key.”
She unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
On the landing, Madero said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Miss Flood.”
“You too,” she said.
He offered his hand which she took. Rather gingerly, but he didn’t hold on half as long as the Woollass woman.
In her room Sam found an envelope on the pillow. In it were her bill and a note.
Dear Miss Flood
Dead quiet this lunchtime so I thought I’d shut up early and head off to do some shopping. If you’ve decided to move on, please leave money or check on kitchen table. No credit cards. Sorry. Hope you enjoy the rest of your visit to England.
Best wishes
Edie Appledore
Sam felt some regret that she might not see Edie Appledore again before she went. There was something very likeable about the woman. But there was no reason to hang around. While it seemed a large coincidence that there’d been a bloke here called Sam Flood who’d topped himself, her study of probability theory had taught her to be unimpressed with coincidence. Flood was a common enough name, the dates didn’t fit, and the curate’s sad end explained why the locals wanted to draw a decent veil over the event. So best to ship out. The fact that her appointment in Newcastle wasn’t till the following afternoon gave her the chance to drive at her leisure and enjoy the scenery.
She checked her bill which was fine except that Mrs. Appledore clearly had a problem with VAT at 17.5 percent and had settled for something like 12.3 recurring. Sam adjusted it, wrote a check and put it in the envelope. Then she went down to the kitchen. She pushed the door open, stepped inside and did a little jump as she saw a dark figure standing at the end of the huge table.
It was Madero.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed, annoyed at showing her shock. “How the hell do you get down those stairs without them creaking? That something you learned at the seminary?”
She regretted her rudeness instantly but Madero didn’t show any sign of reacting. Indeed he hardly seemed to have noticed her entrance. He was leaning forward with both hands on the table, his head bowed, like a man about to say grace before dinner.
“You OK, Mr. Madero?” she said, moving toward him.
Now he raised his head slowly. The pupils o
f his eyes seemed huge, as though expanded in a desperate search for light.
He said, “I felt something in here last night… It was what I expected to feel up at the Hall… but something more… yes, something stronger…”
He started moving down the side of the table, running his fingers along its edge.
Sam went to prop her bill up against the telephone. She noticed the phone was unplugged. The reason for Madero’s presence was made clear by the sight of a laptop connected to the point. Her gaze drifted to the screen. There was an e-mail displayed plus the Download Complete box. She didn’t mean to read it, but even a brief accidental glance was enough to print words and images on her mind.
Hi! Just to say my tec wiz unearthed the old Molloy website. Nothing on it but a self-promoting CV plus a selection of articles he’d written, presumably the best — if so, God help us! But interestingly one of the pieces (which I attach) demonstrates that he’d actually been to Jolley Castle and dug into the archive there. Tim Lilleywhite’s been back on this morning. He’s 99% sure he’s trawled up all the Tyrwhitt stuff now and definitely nothing more on Simeon. Sorry, but this Simeon thing is really a bit of a red herring, isn’t it? The main thing is your recusancy research. Hope that’s going well. Try not to fall into any priest-holes!
Cheers
Max
As she turned away, she found herself thinking, with slightly malicious amusement, old Max isn’t going to be pleased when he hears how his Holiness has cocked things up!
She set off toward the door. Madero was now sitting at the bottom end of the table, his face still rapt. As she passed him his hand snaked out, seized her wrist and forced her hand between his legs.
“Feel this,” he said. “What do you think this is?”
She bunched her other fist preparatory to punching him in the throat, then realized he was pushing her fingers along the table’s under-edge.
About nine inches from the corner there was a groove about two inches long, ending in a deep hollow. When her no longer resisting hand was moved along, she found another one the same distance from the other corner.
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