by Lis Howell
‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ Edwin said, looking very serious.
Tom wasn’t sure what he meant, but thought the word sounded a bit like punishment.
‘A what?’
‘A proposition. A suggestion. You may feel it’s a bit over the top. I mean, you don’t have to say yes, and you can think about it if you want. It’s quite a serious matter.’
Tom was now both wary and confused. ‘Yeah? What is it?’
‘Sit down, Tom.’
Tom huddled into the chair under the window, looking round as if for a quick escape route.
Edwin stayed standing. ‘You’ve been really regular attending the Stainer rehearsals. I assume you’ve listened to a CD of the piece?’
Tom wondered what to say and decided on the truth. ‘Nah. I haven’t downloaded it and I’m a bit skint at the moment.’
‘So do you know how the piece goes?’
‘Oh, yeah, course. I’ve got the score, haven’t I? I’ve had a good look at that. I can read music, you know. It’s all a bit dated but not bad.’
Edwin breathed a sigh of relief. ‘We need two soloists, a bass and a tenor. The committee has asked Freddie Fabrikant to sing bass.’
So? What’s this got to do with me? The question was written all over Tom’s face.
He looks totally uninterested, Edwin thought. This might be a mistake. ‘And we’d like you to sing the tenor.’
Tom went on looking at the bookcase. Then his face shifted, and he brought his eyes round to Edwin’s. ‘What?’ he said.
Edwin sighed, and repeated: ‘The committee would like to ask you to sing the tenor solos. It’s hard work of course and if you feel you can’t cope . . .’
‘Me? Me? Do you mean me?’
‘Yes, of course I do. Why else d’you think I’m talking about it?’
‘But what about the others? The adults?’
‘You’ve got the best tenor voice in the choir, Tom, and you’re a quick learner. And Robin the musical director will help you. So will I. We’ve still got five weeks. You can do it. I suggest you and I and Robin meet an hour before the others each week and practise. I’m sure you’ll be good.’
Tom was gobsmacked, truly gobsmacked. That was the best way to describe his feelings, although chuffed-to-bits came a close second. He examined his feelings from the outside – a technique he’d learnt from his counsellor after Morris’s death – and was surprised to find that the one thing he didn’t feel was nervous. This wasn’t an exam or horrible homework or a presentation to the class. This was music and he could do it. It needed work, of course, but he liked doing that. It was his meat and drink.
‘When’s the concert, again?’ he asked.
‘Palm Sunday. The week before Easter.’ Oh dear, Edwin thought, was that the only comment Tom could make?
‘Oh.’ Tom looked crestfallen. Poppy wasn’t coming back until Maundy Thursday, the Thursday before the Easter weekend. ‘My girlfriend . . .’ The words sounded so strange, he had to stop and listen to them bounce around the room. He swallowed. ‘My girlfriend won’t be home from uni for it.’
‘So are you saying no?’ Edwin asked, on the verge of irritation.
‘No! I’m saying yes!’ Tom stared at him. Plonker! What idiots adults were. Would he turn this down? As if!
‘Good!’ Edwin breathed out, astonished at how relieved he was. ‘Look, the committee will also offer you a very small fee for this. It’s an unusual move but we recognize that there’d be expenses for you – buying a suit perhaps and maybe getting a CD player of some sort of your own. It’s not much but we’re offering you some money out of the funds. Is that all right?’
Tom gazed at him while he took it all in. ‘All right.’
‘That’s that then, Tom. I’ll see you at five-ish next Tuesday. And I’ll lend you my CD in the meantime. Here it is.’
‘Thanks.’ It was all starting to sink in and Tom felt rather wonderful. It was truly great that Mr Armstrong had asked him. And one good turn deserved another.
‘Mr Armstrong?’
‘Edwin.’
‘OK, Edwin. You know Chloe, your niece?’
‘Yes. What about her?’
‘She’s gone really weird. I’ve seen her twice up at Fellside, once a week ago on Saturday and then again today, and I don’t know what she’s doing there. Someone should tell her parents. I don’t know what’s going on – but something is. Poppy says she’s seeing some man.’
‘Chloe? But she looks terrible these days. Those clothes she’s wearing!’
‘Exactly. And when I saw her today she had a dirty great mark on her forehead. She’s really going downhill. Anyway, I just thought you should know.’
‘Yes. Well, thank you, Tom. I’ll mention it to her mother.’ But he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see Lynn’s pain. But he would try to speak to Chloe himself.
‘So, Tom, see you next week.’
‘And Mr Armstrong, something else. When that fat woman, Miss Gibson, found me and the body, you know, with the book, the psalter, I told you there was a front page missing, didn’t I? I could tell, because it’d been torn out, but in a neat way.’
‘Yes. Alex said so too.’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking. At first I thought someone had taken the page out of the book once Morris was dead. But there wasn’t time. And anyway, why not take the whole book rather than just one page? Someone did that in the end, didn’t they, so why would they rip out one page first!’
It was a good point. ‘So what are you suggesting, Tom?’
‘Well, just say Mr Little brought the book into college with the front page missing in the first place? I mean, say Morris was the one who took the page out? Maybe the page is at his house. And if someone found it there, that would prove there was definitely a psalter, wouldn’t it? So then the police wouldn’t think me and Miss Gibson were plonkers, would they?’
Paul Whinfell had dressed in casual clothes and gone back to his computer. He had a lot to think about. So far the only progress he had made with his idea was to prevent anyone else from getting in the way of it. He wanted to talk to Jenny without the fear of Mark’s involvement. He put his head down and worked for about two hours until the room felt cold. Then he remembered Jenny hadn’t come back.
He got up to make a cup of coffee, wondering what he should do, when he heard the back door open and the unmistakable sound of the buggy being dragged into the kitchen. ‘Jenny,’ he said, ‘where’ve you been?’
‘Oh, just out for a walk. I needed the space and Joseph went straight off so I walked around just to keep him sleeping. He’s awake now, but calm.’
So she was talking to him. This was a good sign. She even smiled. Her walk had done her good.
‘That’s great. And it’s the Bible study group tonight so we need to eat early. What’s for tea?’ he asked, but tentatively. That was the sort of question which might make Jenny explode.
But she said gently, ‘I’m making a shepherd’s pie. I’ve got some mince in the freezer.’
Shepherd’s pie! That was good. His wife hadn’t peeled a potato for weeks and their menus had been increasingly erratic.
‘Who’s coming to the Bible study group?’ she asked.
‘Oh, the usual suspects,’ Paul said.
Jenny actually laughed. Then she said, ‘I’ve got something to say.’
‘What’s that?’ Paul felt a moment of terror.
‘I’m sorry. Really sorry, Paul. I’ve been walking and thinking for hours. I’ve been full of my own resentment lately. I’ve been selfish. You’re the priest and you’ve got a lot of responsibility; I should respect that.’
‘Oh, Jenny.’ He was weak with relief. He moved towards her and hugged her awkwardly as she unstrapped the now smelly baby from the buggy. This time she didn’t wince or squirm away from her husband.
‘He needs changing,’ she laughed. ‘I guess having Joseph has taught me that some of my ideas about equality are a bit impractical.
This is the role I’ve chosen, after all. I’m going to try harder at being your wife, Paul. You deserve it.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to say,’ her husband breathed back at her. He felt almost tearful.
‘Go and get on with your work. I’ll look after Joseph and then make us a cup of tea,’ Jenny said softly.
A few minutes later, as he bent over his keyboard, she came into his office with a mug of hot tea and a biscuit. ‘There you are,’ she said, smiling.
Paul had a moment of uncertainty. This wasn’t the feisty, argumentative Jenny he had fallen in love with. But it made for a more peaceful life. Whatever had made the change in her, it was wonderful. She actually looked really pretty again, he thought.
And he even liked the little headscarf she was wearing!
37
For a man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them. Psalm 39:7
Two days later, Alex Gibson was on the phone to Suzy Spencer. ‘Pat Johnstone’s back from her trip down to Croydon to see her son. She’s phoned my sister and asked us round for drinks and nibbles this evening. It’s not just social, believe me. Pat may well be a friend of Chris’s but she’s not a friend of mine. I wonder what she’s after?’
‘Well, you must go. The Johnstones are deeply into this business, don’t you think?’
‘It depends what you mean by “this business”.’
‘Good point. I don’t really know myself. But it’ll be interesting. Are you and Edwin coming over after the Chorus practice again next week?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Alex’s voice drifted away a little. She had no idea what would happen with Edwin. He had dropped her off at home on Shrove Tuesday night without mentioning meeting again, and this time there had been no kiss. They had chatted animatedly about the evening, and about what they hoped to discover about the murder, but Alex felt as if Marilyn Frost was somehow sitting in the back of the car. She wasn’t going to mention her again, but Edwin seemed to be self-consciously avoiding saying Marilyn’s name.
On Ash Wednesday Alex had gone to the Fellside Fellowship Bible study course. Suzy hadn’t been there. But as if in compensation, Mark Wilson had come over to chat to Alex, saying how much better she looked.
‘I’m getting over it now. I had flu really badly over New Year.’
‘No wonder, after everything that happened! You must have been run down. I didn’t realize it was you who found poor Morris Little,’ Mark had said sympathetically. ‘If I’d known, I’d have come to see you. It must have been awful. Paul never told me. I can’t understand why he didn’t visit you.’
‘Perhaps it’s because he thought Neil Clifford was my vicar?’ Alex suggested.
‘Seems a bit odd to me. But there again, Paul has been a bit touchy on the subject of Morris’s death. He’s had a lot of worries since Christmas.’
‘Well, he seems happier now.’
‘Yes, thank goodness.’ Mark smiled.
Alex had looked across at where Paul and Jenny were talking to each other, in the centre of an admiring group which included Lynn and Chloe Clifford and Pat Johnstone. Jenny was listening to her husband with an air of near reverence and Paul was basking in it. Jenny had had her hair cropped, making her look elfin and pretty.
Chloe’s putting on weight, Alex had thought. She looked lumpy now, in a heavy skirt and the inevitable headscarf, tied back so her ears stuck out. There seemed something wrong with her, but Alex thought it would be cruel to say so to Lynn who seemed so pathetically grateful that her daughter was there at all.
The next evening, after her telephone conversation with Suzy, Alex was picked up by Christine Prout to go for the drinks and nibbles at Pat Johnstone’s imposing house.
‘I’m not sure what this is about,’ Christine said nervously, her plump chins wobbling. ‘I do like Pat, but she’s a bit of a cold fish. Look at the way she left David after he fell into that hole up at the convent.’
‘Well, there’s no harm in discovering what she wants,’ Alex said.
Pat Johnstone opened the door to them wearing an expensive-looking silky top and tight black trousers, with a lot of very bright jewellery. Christine was wearing a dark tweedy skirt and a lambswool sweater, while Alex had managed to get into jeans for the first time in years. She was glad she’d put her latest designer shirt on top because Pat looked as if she was about to give a party.
‘Come in! It’s lovely to see you.’ Pat had the air of the hostess-with-the-mostest, and Alex wondered if she’d already been at the vodka tonics. ‘Do sit down. Drinkies?’
‘Oh yes,’ Chris breathed gratefully, ‘but I’m driving, so just a little one.’
‘And I’m on the wagon,’ Alex said.
‘Are you? That’s probably why you’ve lost so much weight. D’you smoke? Oh, well, I hope you don’t mind if I do. It is my house after all.’ She cackled as if the thought was a novelty. ‘I’m taking advantage of David being in hospital to spoil myself a bit. Have one of these . . .’
She pushed a lavish pile of superior supermarket party food at them and then sashayed in and out of the kitchen with ice, bottles, different types of fruit juice and a cut glass dish of lemon. She’s certainly pushing the boat out, Alex thought, enjoying her freedom.
‘How is David?’ she asked.
‘In a bad way, really. He’s a bit of a funny colour and he vomited blood yesterday. Yuk.They say his liver isn’t in very good nick. Well, I could have told them that, the way he used to drink.’
Then all of a sudden, with a new intensity, Pat turned to Alex and said, ‘Look, there’s no point beating about the bush. I bet Christine told you that David’s accident really happened up at the convent . . .’ Christine started to protest, but Pat waved at her imperiously. ‘I knew you would talk to your sister, Chris, when I thought about it. You leak like a bucket, but your heart’s in the right place. It doesn’t matter. It helps, actually.’ She patted Chris’s hand to reassure her that she wasn’t too angry. ‘And that made me decide,’ Pat went on emphatically. ‘All this cloak and dagger stuff that Dave went in for, it’s bollocks.’ She cackled again. ‘We’re all girls together, aren’t we? Follow me into his den.’
Pat walked across the parquet hallway and flung open the door to David’s office. ‘He’d go ballistic if he could see us!’ She picked up a pile of papers from David’s desk and walked back to the living room where she dumped them on the coffee table.
‘Get a load of this,’ she said. ‘Here’s masses of stuff including –’ she looked triumphantly at Alex – ‘an estimate for buying your bungalow!’
‘I can see that,’ Alex said. She was momentarily staggered by the size of the offer.
‘Yes!’ Pat cackled. ‘So listen. Now David is in hospital and can’t get on with this, I want to do it myself. So that when he gets better I’m in on the act. Or if he doesn’t get better – well, I can follow on with whatever he was planning. Once I’ve worked out what it was!’ She beamed at them.
‘That’s a bit, well, calculating isn’t it?’ Christine said nervously.
‘Exactly!’ said Pat proudly. ‘And how about it, Alex? Can we do a deal on that dump of yours? I’ll give you a really high price. I’ve just discovered from the bank that David put loads of money in my name in case he went bankrupt. It changes everything. For a start, I don’t have to give a toss about his other woman. My lawyer says that even if David left the house to his slapper, they couldn’t throw me out of my own home. And there’s all this cash now. I’m going to forget about tracing her through her tatty scarf,’ she said to Chris.
‘So you’re not interested?’ Alex asked.
‘That tart? Nah, I’m going to pretend she doesn’t exist. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’ She cackled. ‘You see, if David dies, I don’t know what’s in his will. But this money in the bank account is mine. David can’t take the money back while he’s ill –’ then her face clouded – ‘but if he gets better he’ll
get it back off me somehow.’
She was still scared of David while he was alive; Alex could see that. But dead, he was an asset. What a couple! She and her husband were as bad as each other, Alex thought. Pat was still explaining . . .
‘If I buy the bungalow I’m covered, even if he gets better. I’ll tell him you suddenly decided to sell and I had to act fast. But I’ll make sure the property is in my name. It would be the only thing I’ve got of my own. It’ll be much harder to get a house off me than a bank account. Crafty, eh? I’ve got the bugger!’
Alex swallowed the urge to say: I’m not sure about that. And anyway this sick man is your husband, the father of your kids – but she reckoned Pat was well beyond that sort of appeal. She was unsure what to answer.
‘Well, I’ll certainly think about selling up,’ she said. She looked down at David’s papers. A photocopy of something which seemed rather familiar peeped out at her from under the lists, property details and plans. ‘What’s this, Pat?’ Alex thought back to that drunken conversation with Pat at the Workhaven Motel. ‘Is this the photocopy from the old book you talked about?’
‘Oh, that? With the big Q on it? God knows. David collected all sorts of stuff.’
‘Could I borrow it?’ Pat’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s just because I’m interested in calligraphy,’ Alex lied. ‘You know, old writing. It’s only a photocopy, after all. I’ll let you have it back at the Chorus on Tuesday.’
Pat was clearly working out whether a refusal would discourage Alex from selling the bungalow to her. And she was finding it hard to work out where an old page of a book might come into it. David did sometimes just pick up a load of junk – and she needed Alex on side.
‘Oh, all right then,’ she said. ‘Take it. I’m having another drink.’ She tottered towards the kitchen to get more ice from the fridge. She said over her shoulder, ‘I can’t see what it’s got to do with anything anyway!’
But I can, Alex thought, feeling cold in Pat’s overheated lounge. Suddenly she was absolutely sure it was at the very core of things, because she was convinced it was a photocopy of the front page of Morris Little’s psalter.