by Lis Howell
Robert was almost apologetic. ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it writing. I’ve been trying to cobble together some sort of idea for a novel for my creative writing course. I chose Morris Little’s murder and was trying to write one of those “factional” things but it hasn’t been going too well. Shall I get my notes?’
‘Yes!’ Suzy grabbed his plate. ‘I’ll put this back in the oven.’ She disappeared towards the kitchen while Robert went upstairs to the spare room they still called his office, though now the floor was piled high with Suzy’s detritus.
Alex and Edwin were left alone. ‘Is this just a dinner party game?’ Alex leant forward. ‘Or do they really think something bad happened?’
‘I don’t think they’d play around with something like this. A few years ago they were on the fringe of a couple of nasty murders in Tarnfield. They know how serious it can get.’
In the small dark cottage on the outskirts of Uplands, Freddie Fabrikant was sitting by the fire, his legs in plaster propped on a stool, and a CD blaring out. In frustration he clicked at the control, and silence dulled the room.
‘Wanda?’
‘Just a minute, for God’s sake.’ There was a groaning noise. Freddie grimaced.
‘Have you got your head in the toilet again?’
‘Yes. Must be something I’ve eaten.’
Freddie was irritable. He was supposed to be the sick one, but Wanda had some sort of tummy bug and he was terrified of touching her in case he got infected. It was bad enough, he thought, when your legs were working, having to lumber up and down the narrow stairs which went from the tiny landing to the corner of the living room, cottage style. The skin was itching in the plaster casing and he felt fat and even more bulky than usual. What was more, he just couldn’t sing sitting down. There was no reverberation.
The concert was traditionally held on Palm Sunday. But that morning he had received a letter from the hospital telling him his casts would not be removed until the Monday, the day after. He knew he wasn’t going to be ready. But The Crucifixion had to be sung before Easter! If they could postpone the concert, to Good Friday, say, just those extra few days would make all the difference. And now David Johnstone was in hospital there’d be no fuss from the sponsor.
‘Get me the telephone, Wanda!’ he shouted. He would call Edwin Armstrong and leave a message, asking if the concert could be put off. There was no doubt some of the parts were a bit thin. Freddie liked Sturm und Drang not prissy churchy singing. He tried to work out how many rehearsals he’d been to since the beginning of January. The answer was, not enough. The best one had been the week when he’d forgotten his wallet and gone back to the Abbey – and heard that funny remark about virgins.
The thought gave Freddie an idea. Or to be fair, the extension of an idea he’d already had. ‘And Wanda,’ he roared, ‘get me the laptop too.’ It wouldn’t hurt to put out a few feelers, he thought. And it would be much more interesting than sitting here vegetating.
When a whey-faced Wanda appeared from upstairs she was surprised to find that Freddie was laughing to himself. For a minute he looked as if he was going to pull her towards him, but at the smell of vomit on her breath he remembered the bug.
‘Mensch, Wanda!’ he said and pushed her away. ‘Disgusting!’
33
Teach me to do the thing that pleaseth thee, for thou art my God; let thy loving spirit lead me forth into the land of righteousness. Psalm 143:10
Robert came back to the supper table, a sheaf of papers in his hand; Suzy reappeared with apple pie and cream, and his warmed-up dinner on a tray. The middle-class dinner party atmosphere had dissolved and been replaced with an air of almost anxious enquiry.
‘What have you put on paper, Robert?’ Suzy asked.
‘Well, my feelings were that the Frosts were drugged and would confess to anything. I think they were responsible for the power cut because that’s the sort of pointless vandalism they would be up for. But someone else could easily have socked Morris in the face and the Frosts could have found the piece of wood.’
‘Yes!’ Alex was alert with interest now. ‘I found Tom Firth with the body at least five minutes after the power cut. Five minutes in the dark is a hell of a long time, believe me. You almost get used to it. And I know for certain that Morris had an old psalter in his hand. But I also know, and don’t ask me how, that a page was missing. I think it was the front page. Tom Firth said the same thing.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Someone wanted the title page destroyed. We have that as a fact and it doesn’t sound like the Frosts.’
‘And you should know,’ Alex said drily.
‘OK – so I was in a relationship with Marilyn Frost.’ Edwin shrugged. ‘But that’s not why I’m interested in all this. I’m involved because someone very violent was near to you, Alex, literally, and that worries me. You could have been hurt yourself.’
Mollified, Alex leant back in her chair. ‘Why don’t we look at everything, however tangential, which impinges on this business? That was the way I used to write my books, when I had the confidence. I’d note all the things that interested me and look for a thread. Do it in an arbitrary way. I guess you’ve already got a list, Robert. Let’s just add to it. Everyone should say anything they think might be relevant. Rob can write them down and see where we get. I’ll start the ball rolling – the Frost clan.’ She glanced sideways at Edwin.
‘The Psalms,’ Robert offered.
‘And the convent,’ said Suzy.
‘Tom Firth and the body.’ That was Alex’s second contribution.
‘Chloe Clifford and her breakdown,’ Suzy jumped in.
‘Freddie Fabrikant’s accident,’ Robert added.
‘David Johnstone and his whole property empire,’ Edwin said quickly.
‘Local history,’ Alex finished up.
‘Local history?’ Robert turned to her, surprised.
‘Ask yourself, what were Morris’s interests? Choral singing. Local history. And blackmailing people – not for money but for power and pleasure. And in order to blackmail people, you have to know things. What did Morris know most about? Local history! Maybe recent history, in Edwin’s case. But he was a mine of information about Norbridge.’
‘And genealogy,’ Edwin added. ‘He was into that too.’
‘Was he?’ Alex turned to him. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘The favourites on his computer were ancestry.co.uk and findmypast.co.uk. And your books, Alex. They’re all about families, aren’t they? That’s the common thread there. The Wizard of Workhaven – that’s based on St Vedast’s chapel on the coast and a local boy who discovers his father is the big landowner. And The West Coast Pirate – a local man who’s dispossessed and then finds that he’s really the lord of the manor . . .’
‘OK, so my plots are a bit samey.’
‘No! I’m not getting at you! I’m just saying that Morris loved that stuff. They were the only books in his room.’
‘So let’s add genealogy. I think we should each take an area of this mystery and research it. I’ll take genealogy.’ Alex felt more motivated than she had for years.
‘I’ll talk to the Johnstones,’ Edwin contributed. ‘I should visit David in hospital as secretary of the Chorus. I can talk to Wanda as well. You should know that she was going to meet Morris that evening; that’s why he was in the college!’
‘Aha!’ Robert chimed in. ‘I’d wondered about that. So that’s why he was there! That’s a good lead. For my part, I’d like to research the convent.’
‘No,’ Edwin said quickly. ‘I’ll do that. I’ve got a solicitor chum who’ll help. Why don’t you do the Johnstones instead of me? And you should talk to Norma again. That’s plenty. What about you, Suzy?’
‘I’d like to talk to the people at Fellside Fellowship.’ And to Mark Wilson, she thought to herself. Not that her motives were anything other than pure research. ‘What started me on this was that I remembered Morris boring me about trying to save t
he Fellside convent building. He sounded really nasty.’ She thought about the women she had seen from Rachel’s roof garden. ‘Maybe I could do nuns too!’
‘Nuns?’ Edwin looked at her sharply. ‘I think that comes under my remit, Suzy. Someone must own that convent and there must be an order listed somewhere which used the building.’
‘So we’ve all got something to do,’ Robert said. ‘When shall we meet up?’
‘It’s Shrove Tuesday next week,’ Suzy said. ‘I’ll do the kids’ pancakes while you’re at the Abbey Chorus, but I’ll save some batter and why don’t you both come here afterwards and have some? It gives us a few days. If we get nowhere, we can drop it and go into Lent suitably chastened. But if any of us finds anything significant, then we can dedicate the next forty days in the wilderness to finding out what really happened.’
‘I like it!’ Alex said. ‘Let’s go for it.’
On Pancake Day, Suzy was hard at work in the kitchen. She had always liked Shrove Tuesday. She’d altered her shifts to make sure she was at home, and she had bought all the ingredients for the pancakes in advance. As she beat the batter, with Molly’s help, she went over the new facts they had discovered about Morris’s murder. As Rachel had suggested, getting involved in the Little murder case was like trying the murky water of crime a toe at a time. So far, she felt fine about it – it was stimulating, an intellectual exercise which might help the much-maligned Frost boys, interesting but not really scary. Her confidence was coming back.
She liked Alex and Edwin, too. Edwin had opened up in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible. And though she and Alex were very different, they shared a sense of humour. Later on Saturday night Alex had talked about her research for her books. Her dogged attention to detail, her isolated work, locked into her computer or the library, was all totally unlike Suzy’s gregariousness. I need other people, Suzy thought, whereas Alex is self-contained. Alex had gone into the depths of despair alone whereas I was much more likely to scream for help!
And Robert had responded to that scream, literally, nearly two years ago. But that didn’t mean he had any less respect for her. They had talked for hours after she came back from Rachel’s. She loved him more than ever now she knew he had feet of clay.
‘So you were never the perfect husband?’
‘No, obviously, though I did work at it.’
‘Well, don’t ever work at it with me. It’s tough enough having to work when you need to earn a living! We don’t need that sort of strain. Just love me!’
‘I do!’
‘And I love you too! Very much.’
But that did not prevent her from appreciating the gorgeous Mr Wilson. On Sunday afternoon, as agreed, she had taken Jake up to the Fellowship and hung around until Mark came to talk to her.
‘Awful about David Johnstone’s car crash,’ she’d said.
‘Yes, I called in to see Pat earlier today. She’s going away to her son’s in Croydon for a few days, but David’s having another operation next week so she’s coming back for that. He’s not doing very well.’
‘Fellside seems accident prone at the moment. David, Freddie. It must put a lot of strain on you.’
‘Yes.’ Mark had leant forward confidentially, his large clear eyes looking into hers. He is quite scrumptious, Suzy thought. ‘Things haven’t been running so smoothly here, as you’ve probably gathered. I must apologize. The rehearsals have been quite chaotic lately.’
‘Yes, I suppose they have.’ Suzy wasn’t aware that it was any worse than before, but then she would hardly have known.
‘To be honest,’ Mark had said quietly, ‘it’s been more difficult for Paul lately. He’s very fraught. Please don’t be impatient with him. Three crises in two months . . .’
‘Three? David, Freddie, and who else?’ She had been aware of sounding unusually nosy.
‘Morris Little. That was the first and it added hugely to his stress levels. Paul and Morris were in contact, you know. Paul was due to meet Morris that evening. Of course it never happened, but it must have shaken Paul quite a bit.’
‘Absolutely.’ Suzy’s eyes had widened.
Mark was saying, ‘Don’t say anything to anyone about Paul having a rough time. I’m quite worried about him.’
‘And Jenny?’
‘She’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. But the baby’s very demanding.’
‘Tell me about it! Kids can be awfully hard work.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they can. Especially if you’re a single parent!’
Mark had looked at her in a way which would have made her melt if she hadn’t taken a grip on herself.
Perhaps because of that, she hadn’t answered him, and he had moved off to get back to the band causing musical mayhem on the stage. It was only afterwards that she wondered to whom he was referring when he mentioned single parents. And then she realized that he’d meant her, Suzy Spencer. She had felt a tingle of guilt. She ought to make it clear that she and Robert were very much an item.
But then again, there was no harm in a bit of flirting, was there? It was really rather exciting to think Mark Wilson might find her attractive! And he certainly trusted her. She had felt privileged that he had spoken to her in that confidential way. Mark was a caring person, worried about his friend, and he had talked to her. And anyway, she had told Robert all about it when she got home, and they had laughed about it.
It was when she was lost in thought, the batter dripping off the whisk and Molly shouting ‘Mummee!’ that she remembered one of her earlier conversations with Mark. They had been talking about inheriting musical talent and family stuff. And he had said that Paul Whinfell was mad on genealogy. And so was Morris. Could that be the link? Although almost everyone was into family history these days. But even so . . . She made a mental note to mention it to Alex.
Alex had spent all day Sunday at the computer. Edwin had given her all Morris Little’s emails in hard copy, and the print-outs of his articles. There were reams of it. She had tidied it all into folders – work on Norbridge, music, sent emails, draft emails, a list of the last fifty sites Morris had visited. She wanted to find a threatening email which matched with something Morris had dug up through one of his hobbies. If he really did have the information to needle someone seriously, might that person resort to violence?
She followed his genealogy trail, tracing the Little family. He had constructed a half-hearted family tree, using ancestry.co.uk, findmypast.com, genesreunited.co.uk, and a few others. The Little family was transparent. Morris’s father and grandfather had owned the shop, and before that they had been blacksmiths. His mother had worked in the store and his grandmother and great-grandmother had been in service. On the face of it, there was nothing there. Morris seemed to have become bored with it. But if he was uninterested in his own family after a few generations, why had he visited the genealogy sites so assiduously? Who was he looking up?
Edwin had reluctantly let her have the blackmail emails. They were all ugly and trite. Nothing Morris threatened to reveal was very terrible, Alex thought. They were silly, embarrassing misdemeanours like her own. The worst was the threat to expose a councillor for being up yourself having posh dinners with that barrow boy David Johnstone who everyone knows is dealing in the hard stuff, which might have been drugs. She shrugged. She suspected that in every town in the world, someone in the business community was part of the drug-dealing network, hard or soft. It wouldn’t surprise her if Johnstone was on the fringes of that, although he did not strike her as either ruthless or psychotic enough to be a major player. But Johnstone was a crook. She was intuitively sure of that.
She found Morris’s work on old Norbridge fascinating. How sad, she thought, that such a talented man should have gone to waste like this, nursing his resentments and hating anyone who was lucky enough to have an education. She imagined him slowly realizing from boyhood onwards that the shop was to be his life, whatever talents he had. It must have been like a slow, growing prison. No wonder he
was uninterested in his own family history. But she told herself not to get sentimental. There was a nasty streak in Morris which wasn’t just the product of his disappointment. Look what he had done to Edwin!
She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. She had been reading Morris’s material for over four hours. It made a change to think about Edwin.
He had been seriously affected by Morris’s email. But just what had Morris threatened to do? Morris had said he would reveal ‘where Marilyn Frost is now’. But why would that be a scandal? Was Marilyn a prostitute? Or in prison? Would it matter if she was, and it became widely known? In fact, wouldn’t something like that be common knowledge anyway? Her notorious family would surely have no problem with it. And if it was something as straightforward if unpleasant, why didn’t Edwin tell me, Alex thought? Why was Edwin so protective of Marilyn that he threw up the chance of being head of department just because of some sort of chivalrous idea of keeping her secret?
Wherever Marilyn was, surely her dysfunctional family would know? There was the mother, and also her uncles and stepfather. Edwin had mentioned them all. And Jason and Wayne, of course. And hadn’t Edwin said something about sisters? That was strange. No one else ever mentioned any Frost girls. How very odd, Alex thought. Where was she now?
34
Deliver me not over into the will of mine adversaries, for there are false witnesses risen up against me, and such as speak wrong. Psalm 27:14
Robert hadn’t been lucky in his research. Norma Little was working hard in the shop, but she agreed to see him as soon as she could – probably the next week. He said he wanted to talk about a memorial to Morris in the concert programme, which was true. He also said he knew Edwin had looked into Morris’s work and that he’d been impressed, and would be working with Edwin to try and make something of it.
‘Something for the Cumberland News mebbe?’ Norma asked hopefully.