Through a Glass Darkly

by Bill Hussey

  She was found, a week later, dead in her bathtub. She had clipped her wrists with a pair of secateurs.

  The note she left was short and to the point. She saw no reason to go on without her work and her children. ‘The little ones occupied my thoughts. Kept me from thinking about that which we never mention. I had hoped to be treated better, bearing in mind the things I know. But rest easy, Crow Haven. Arabella knows her duty. She shall take it all to the grave’. There were no questions raised at the inquest about the meaning of the letter, and a verdict of suicide while the balance of her mind was unsettled was recorded.

  In the last week of the holidays, Geraldine Pryce arrived in the village. Because it had been a last minute appointment, there was a great deal to organise. She did not have an opportunity to meet the villagers until the beginning of the school year. As it turned out, she was surprised to discover that there were only twenty children from Crow Haven who attended the school. The eighty or so other pupils came from neighbouring villages. From the first school day, Geraldine was struck by a marked difference between those pupils native to Crow Haven and the outsiders. The two groups mixed only when instructed to do so, and seemed to be always suspicious of each other. It was not unusual, in her experience, to find that kids new to school preferred the company of children from their own area. Once a child feels secure, however, he or she will usually spread their circle wider. Not so here. The reason may have been that some of the Crow Haven children possessed a strange kind of deformity.

  Geraldine could not put her finger on any specific malformation. Nevertheless, there was an impression of abnormality in some of their faces that she found quite disturbing. Sometimes it seemed that she was looking at those little Crow Havenites as if in an old mirror, its surface mottled and warped. And then the spell would be broken. She would see that they were just children after all. Somewhat pale perhaps, but not monstrous. No, not monstrous.

  At the end of the first week, Geraldine fell into conversation with a mother from New Gransham.

  ‘If there was any other school local, I’d send my Jules there,’ the mother sniffed. ‘The kids are weird in Crow Haven. Everyone knows it.’

  When Geraldine tried to remonstrate, the mother gave her a pitying look:

  ‘You’ll know soon enough, Miss Pryce. Look at ’em over there.’

  The Crow Haven children were gathered together in a solemn huddle in a corner of the playground.

  ‘Things happen here. Even them bairns know, but there ain’t one of ’em that’ll tell.’

  For the next month, due to the organised chaos left by Miss Nugent (more chaos than organisation, actually), she barely had a chance to explore her new home. She had rented a house on the outskirts of the village, her nearest neighbour being the Old Priory, and had only ventured into ‘civilisation’ for little shopping trips. Completing her lesson plans one uncomfortably warm evening, she decided to take a walk in the woods.

  As she crossed the Conduit Road, a car came skidding around the corner and sent her reeling into the undergrowth. There was a screech of tyres and the opening and slamming of car doors.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Don’t move. Anne, get a blanket from the boot.’

  ‘I’m all right. But, dear God. If a child had been …’

  ‘Gerry? Bloody hell, it is you.’

  It didn’t take long to place the voice. She had not seen Peter Malahyde in years. Not since university in fact. They had both studied law at Bristol from ’62 – ’65. She had thought of him a few times since then. More than he had thought of her, she guessed. In their first year they’d ‘had something’, but things had not ended well. She’d had one too many drinks and slept with his best friend. He had not been angry, that wasn’t his style, but afterwards he treated her as unworthy of his attention. After graduation, she had sent him a few postcards, but they went unanswered. He seemed much more cordial now.

  ‘Gerry Pryce, who’d’ve thunk it? Oh, I’m sorry. This is Annie, my wife.’

  A beautiful, pale young girl walked towards them, a tartan blanket folded over her arms. Peter must have caught the slight frown that furrowed Geraldine’s brow.

  ‘I know, young enough to be my daughter. Dirty old man and all that. Look, sorry about this, we’re in a bit of a rush. Meant to be having the local clergy round for a drink. Why don’t you come with us?’

  ‘You live around here?’

  ‘Just moved in last week. Come on, it’ll be good to catch up.’

  As Geraldine followed Peter and his young wife to the car, she noticed the bump straining against the girl’s low-cut shirt. Again, Peter must have followed her gaze.

  ‘My first born,’ he said, cupping his wife’s stomach. ‘You better be a boy.’

  Anne gave a thin smile and, without a word, ducked into the back seat.

  ‘No, Anne, sit up front with Peter, you shouldn’t ride in the back,’ Geraldine said.

  ‘She’s fine, Gerry. Hop in.’

  By the time they reached the gate in the woods, Geraldine had been brought more or less up to date with Peter’s life. After university, he had tried his hand at a few occupations: solicitor, timeshare operator, copywriter. Then his father had died. The hated patriarch had not carried out his repeated promises to cut his son out of his will (‘He used to call me a grey sheep. Said I didn’t have the balls to be black.’). There was just short of a million tied up in numerous portfolios, yielding comfortable annual dividends, shares in a cup-winning race horse, and a beautiful house, which his father had thrown in as an afterthought it seemed.

  ‘You always were a lucky bastard, Peter,’ Geraldine said as they pulled up before the gate. ‘Good Lord, are those to guard your stores of treasure?’

  ‘Annie doesn’t like them, do you Annie?’

  Peter jumped out of the car and swung back the gate. He looked up at the three praying figures sitting on the apex of the frame.

  ‘They’re coming to get you, Annie.’

  He stalked back to the car. Reaching Anne’s window, he grimaced and gurned, pressing his face to the glass. Geraldine laughed, until she saw that Anne was paying no attention. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the lime-green effigies. Now that Geraldine looked at them, they were rather sinister. Their bodies contorted as if in great pain. Their mouths, open a fraction too wide, appeared to scream rather than intone prayers. For a moment, she had the absurd impression that there were tears running down their faces, but surely it was only dew against those metallic cheeks.

  ‘Is that the house?’ Geraldine asked as they cleared the trees. ‘Peter, it’s beautiful.’

  Beautiful, yes, but not happily situated. It did not seem to Geraldine that the sleek art deco structure, so calculated and synthetic, sat well in its surroundings. Those long windows should be reflecting a snow-capped serration of the Alps, or a flat glassy lake in Switzerland. It would be at home with those clean, sure lines of Nature as it was not here, amongst these trees that seemed to bend and twist into shapes that the eye could not follow.

  ‘Do you know much about this area, Gerry?’

  Geraldine helped Anne from the car as Peter strode up to the house.

  ‘No, I really haven’t had time, my predecessor left things rather …’

  ‘It’s my new hobby. Local history. I need a pastime, now I’m a man of leisure.’

  This did not surprise Geraldine. Whenever she thought of Peter, she had the image of a magpie in mind. His interests were always varied and short-lived: Australasian politics, rock bands, vintage cars, the history of the Commedia dell’arte. But he would only light on the shiny surface of these subjects. Once the ‘pop’ veneer was scratched away, he would become bored and move on to a new obsession.

  ‘I’ve researched the surrounding area, but can’t find much on Crow Haven. I know it was once marshland but not much else. The odd thing is,’ he opened the door and ushered them in, ‘I tried to find out about the guy who built this place – yes, through to the lounge – drew a
complete blank. He bought the land in ’75, had the house built, and that charming gate Annie loves so much, and moved in early ’76. Lived here alone until the spring when, hey presto, he up and vanished.’

  Geraldine blinked in the glare of the brilliant-white room. She sat down on one of the three white leather sofas, amid storeys of packing cases.

  ‘Please, Peter,’ Anne murmured. ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

  Geraldine had thought Anne was in her early twenties, but her voice sounded younger. She may be no more than seventeen … Geraldine glanced from that pretty, sullen face to Peter’s. He looked his forty years, and the little sneer that played around his lips did not improve his appearance. Geraldine wondered whether Anne was anything more than another ‘project’, which he would tire of soon enough.

  ‘My father bought the house from a charity,’ Peter continued. ‘The missing guy’s heirs must have given it away, can you believe that? Are you making tea, darling? She’s a peach. I met her at a shitty little fundraiser for leukaemia research. She was a waitress. Didn’t have a penny. Ignorant as a newborn …’

  ‘Peter, don’t say things like that …’

  ‘It’s alright, I’m broadening her mind. Books and plays and things.’

  ‘So, what’s this about the local clergy popping round?’ Geraldine said, irritated.

  ‘Father Brody. Called a few weeks back.’

  ‘What an honour. I haven’t had sight nor sound of him, and he’s my nearest neighbour.’

  ‘Well, you’re a heathen interloper, aren’t you, Gerry. I did mention to him that I was thinking about reaffirming my faith.’

  ‘Project number three,’ Geraldine whispered.

  ‘What? Oh, wait a bit, I didn’t tell you about the room, did I? Well, dear old Dad never bothered coming here. Said it was just an investment. So no-one’s actually occupied the house since our Mystery Man disappeared. I gave it the once over when I got here. There’s this door on the second floor. On the plans it’s one big room. I’ve tried all the keys, the door won’t open. I’m gonna take a sledgehammer to it tomorrow …’

  ‘May I suggest a little caution, Mr Malahyde?’

  A large bear of a man stood in the doorway. He had a tired, grizzled appearance, but his grey eyes were alert and focused on Peter. Beneath his short beard sat a roman collar.

  ‘Father Brody?’ Peter asked, getting up and greeting his guest.

  ‘I apologise for my lateness,’ Father Brody said. ‘Mr Malahyde, I wonder if you would like me to bless the house? It would involve short prayers at the doors to all the rooms. It would take no time at all.’

  ‘Well … That’s to say, yes, I suppose, if … Is this quite usual?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Every house has bad memories. It is a habit of mine to do this service for my new parishioners. Starts a young family off with a clean slate, you understand?’

  The priest was lying; Geraldine was sure of it. Not about wanting to bless the house, his abrupt question had shown a strange anxiety in that regard. It was his reasons that rang hollow, though she could not say why.

  ‘Well … That sounds grand, Father. By the way, do you know Geraldine Pryce?’

  ‘Miss Nugent’s replacement? We’re neighbours, I believe?’

  ‘And this is Annie, my wife.’

  Geraldine wondered how long Anne had been waitressing before she met Peter. The tea things clattered about on the tray as she handed out cups and saucers.

  ‘You’ll have to baptise our kid when the little chap comes along, Father,’ Peter said.

  Geraldine noticed Brody’s lips twitch at their edges as he raised his cup.

  ‘We were discussing the history of Crow Haven,’ she said. ‘How long have you been here, Father?’

  ‘Eight years.’

  ‘That’s about the time this place was built, wasn’t it? Did you know the owner?’

  ‘I knew him, yes.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep us in suspense,’ Peter said. ‘There must be lots of local theories. What happened to him? Aliens, I reckon, or tax fraud. What was it?’

  ‘He is gone, Mr Malahyde. Just gone,’ Brody said, and would not be drawn further.

  It was nearing sunset when Brody offered to walk Geraldine back to her cottage. During the afternoon, he had proved to be a dour, monosyllabic guest, speaking little about himself and his parish. Now, however, as they walked beneath the trees towards the gate, he seemed to want to talk.

  ‘You know Mr Malahyde well?’ he asked.

  ‘Not well, no. We were at university together. I’ve not seen him in years.’

  ‘I’m not sure it was wise for him to have brought his wife here. She’s very young. I’m sure she’ll find it quite tiresome to be cooped up in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘She will do as Peter tells her, I expect.’

  ‘And a baby on the way,’ Brody continued, as if he hadn’t heard her bitterness.

  They moved closer together as they passed through the gate. Geraldine felt the priest shudder and noticed that he kept his eyes on the path. Overhead, the sun glanced through the treetops, gilding the leaves so that it appeared they burned with dying embers.

  ‘So who was the mysterious builder of the house?’ she asked.

  ‘Names,’ Brody said, quickening his pace. ‘I was told once to mistrust them.’

  Jack leaned forward in his chair, his tiredness banished by Geraldine Pryce’s tale.

  ‘So, my new, rather eccentric friend saw me to my door,’ Miss Pryce said, topping up Jack’s coffee, ‘and I didn’t think much more about him. I was very busy with the new school term, and didn’t have a chance to visit Peter and Anne for a few weeks. By the time I saw Peter again, he had opened the door and was already dying.’

  Twenty-eight

  Dawn left Jack’s office. Inside her mind, questions clamoured for answers. Some of them were her own, some echoes from DCI Jarski’s heated inquisition. Where was Jack? Was he on drugs? Did he drink? Why would he sleep rough in a college car park? Was he in some kind of trouble? What was wrong with him? What was the nature of their relationship? And to each, especially the last, she had to answer: I don’t know.

  She decided to drive out to Crow Haven. For the moment, she could make no sense of Jack’s behaviour and, for the sake of her own sanity, she felt the need for a diversion. In any case, it was time she spoke to Father Garret again.

  She pulled up outside the Old Priory, and was halfway along the drive before she saw the figure crumpled against the door. He was conscious when she reached him, but his breathing came in irregular gasps.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ Garret kept repeating. ‘Just help me to the house.’

  Dawn got her arm under him and heaved. Yellow fingers clutched at her shoulder.

  ‘The key. My trousers.’

  With some difficulty, she managed to slip two fingers into his pocket. During her time in uniform, she had been flashed at, vomited over and urinated on countless times. It had been necessary to develop an unemotional response to these incidents. The bulge of Garret’s testicle against her forefinger, however, was the first unwanted physical contact in years that made her feel sick.

  She opened the door and guided him to the study. He fell into a chair and pointed at the scotch decanter.

  ‘Let me get you an ambulance,’ she said, passing him his drink.

  She picked up the phone but he laid a clammy hand over hers.

  ‘There’s nothing they can do. I have brain cancer. A virulent strain, so my doctor tells me. I am … what’s the saying? Ah, yes, up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle. I don’t even think I have a canoe,’ Garret laughed. ‘I’m drowning in it.’

  Dawn could detect no hint of self-pity. A scathing inner voice sneered: How brave he is, to face death alone. Who are you to be repulsed by him?

  ‘Nothing can be done,’ he continued. ‘I’ve had all the tests. I won’t have chemo. Not because I’m a man of God and hate science, or because
I don’t want to lose my hair; I’m too oddly shaped to be vain. I want to be clear-headed at the end. And I have an insurance policy, you see?’

  ‘Your faith.’

  ‘Yes. Faith in the endurance of the soul, as reward for services rendered.’

  ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t take you to hospital?’

  ‘Quite sure. ‘Hell hath no limits’ but science does, I’m afraid. Now, what can I do for you, Sergeant?’

  ‘You heard Inspector Trent’s appeal on the television last night?’

  ‘I don’t watch television. I was reading. Macbeth:

  Light thickens; and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood.

  Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;

  While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.’

  ‘Yes. Well, we believe that there is a connection between the disappearance of Simon Malahyde and the murder of two young boys.’

  ‘How dreadful. Upon what is this connection based?’

  ‘A personal item of Simon’s was found beside the body of a boy named Oliver Godfrey. It appeared to have been dropped there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘As far as we can establish, the boys didn’t know each other. No shared interests, they attended different schools, one lived in the city, the other in the countryside. But there are points of connection. They both had siblings who died in infancy; they must both have arranged to meet their killer, because they took their dead siblings’ baptism dresses with them. And they both had a connection with the Church. What I want to know is, does anything strike you about how the killer might have targeted them?’

  ‘Well, as far as the deaths of the siblings are concerned, there are church records of course.’

  ‘Do the public have access to them?’

  ‘Officially, no, though I have to confess that I leave my own lying about the church.’

  ‘Can you imagine any reason why two Catholic boys would be singled out?’

  ‘That’s surely something in the line of abnormal psychology,’ Garret said, pouring himself another drink. ‘A grudge against the Church? I don’t know.’