Over tea and Wilma’s fruit cake, I filled Rupert in on the circumstances under which I’d left Cauldstane. Well, I tried. He listened attentively, comfortable in his worn cords and baggy sweater, his hair over-long and schoolboyish, but an attempt to describe my abortive relationship with Alec, to whom I’d said goodbye only hours earlier, left me feeling tearful. Rupert filled our cups and tactfully changed the subject to bird-watching. He asked if I’d seen any more red kites and told me he’d always wanted to go bird-watching in Scotland. I could think of nothing to say in reply. He helped himself to another piece of cake and said he’d heard May was a good time to spot puffins. After that, the conversation languished.
I knew he was waiting for me to take the lead, so I said, ‘Rupert, can I ask you something? Have you ever felt you were in the presence of… evil?’
He was unfazed by the question and answered without hesitation. ‘Yes, I have. Only once. But once was enough.’
‘What did you do about it?’
‘What I do about anything problematic. I prayed.’
‘And did that help?’
‘Oh, yes. It always does, I find.’
‘No, I mean, did prayer make… the evil go away?’
‘Eventually. There were other factors brought into play. Light. That’s so important. Holy water. Salt.’
‘Salt?’
‘Yes, salt can sometimes be a very useful element. Of course, as a scientist I have to point out that I have no way of knowing if the trouble would have gone away anyway. But people prayed and observed certain rituals, then peace descended. It was quite palpable. The evil – for want of a better word – departed. Naturally, I don’t believe that was a coincidence, but some might claim, quite reasonably, that it was. The question we should ask ourselves, I suppose, is how often can something be regarded as a coincidence before we begin to see it as cause and effect?’ Rupert was clearly into his stride now and I knew I was in for an entertaining and educational digression. I let his soothing words flow over me. ‘You see, for scientists to take something seriously, a result has to be reproduced under lab conditions, many times. We’re not impressed by anecdotal evidence, however impressive the quantity, or impeccable the source.’ Re-filling our teacups, he barely paused for breath. ‘But there’s so much scientists don’t know! Even common or garden stuff. Take birds for instance. Why do they sing? No one knows. We understand their alarm and mating calls, but why does a blackbird perch on a chimneypot on a sunny evening and sing its heart out, apparently for no reason? And why does it vary the tune?’ Rupert grinned, clearly enjoying his inquisition. ‘It’s hard to avoid coming to the conclusion that birds sing for their own entertainment or each other’s. But it’s a hypothesis you could never test under lab conditions.’
I leaned back in my armchair. ‘Oh, Rupert, it’s doing me a power of good to listen to you. I feel as if sanity is returning. Do go on.’
‘Glad to be of service,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘My garden keeps me sane. If I’m feeling murderous towards an awkward parishioner – God forgive me, but it happens – I sit and watch the activity on my bird table for a few minutes, then I feel the milk of human kindness begin to course through my veins again. Will you have some more of this wonderful cake?’
Rupert’s jokey use of the word murderous had put me in mind of my moral dilemma. Meredith’s journal sat upstairs in my suitcase, wrapped in several plastic bags, as if it might contaminate the rest of my luggage. I had to decide what to do with it. Return it to Sholto? Hand it over to the police? Show it to Alec? I’d been told to destroy all the journals, but this one seemed quite outside my remit. If, therefore, I had to return it, I needed to decide how and to whom. This was a problem I felt I needed to lay before Rupert. If there was a right thing to do, I was sure he’d know what it was.
‘I need to ask your advice, Rupert. As a clergyman. And I need you to treat this information as confidential.’
‘Of course. The seal of the confessional, my dear.’
‘The evil spirit I’ve told you about… this ghost… she committed a wicked crime when she was alive. She arranged a fatal accident, then made sure someone else got the blame. A child.’
‘How on earth do you know all this?’
‘I’ve read her confession. It’s in a journal written on the day of the accident.’
‘And you think this account is authentic?’
‘Oh, yes. Authentic and quite insane. She positively gloats about what she’s done. In any case, apart from a couple of details, her account coincides with what the family know happened that day. What they don’t know is the cause of the accident.’
‘You’re saying they’re unaware of the existence of this journal?’
‘Of its contents, yes.’
‘So who else knows about it?’
‘Well, that’s just it. I’m convinced no one knows about it but me. I think I’m the only person who’s ever read this confession, even though the accident happened thirty-two years ago.’
‘And you want to know who you should tell? If you should tell,’ Rupert added.
‘Exactly.’
He sipped his tea thoughtfully, then after a pause said, ‘It seems very wrong that a child should have been blamed for a fatal accident. That’s the sort of thing that would haunt you for the rest of your life. He or she has a right to know the truth, I’d say.’
‘Yes, of course. But it’s much more complicated than that.’
‘I was afraid you were going to say that. Tell me the worst.’
‘The person who was killed was the child’s mother.’
‘Good grief!’ Rupert’s cup rattled in the saucer as he set it down.
‘So if I tell him he didn’t cause the accident in which his mother died, I’m more or less obliged to tell him how she did die. Because I know. Know that it was effectively murder.’
‘I see. And it’s one thing losing a parent in an accident, quite another knowing her death was connived at.’
‘Especially when there’s no possibility of the criminal being brought to justice because she’s dead.’
‘Indeed. The son’s suffering might be even greater for knowing what actually happened. In fact, I think we can be certain of that. To discover that your mother had been murdered… My goodness me. It’s hard to imagine the impact that could have.’
‘It gets worse, Rupert,’ I said in a very small voice.
‘Really?’ He looked at me in disbelief.
‘The child – now a man – is the man I’ve been talking to you about. Alec. We were… involved until he decided he should send me away. For my own safety. But I have reason to believe… I mean, I now have to assume he doesn’t want anything more to do with me.’
‘This is beginning to sound like the plot of one of your books, Imogen.’
‘There’s more.’
Rupert raised both his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Do your worst.’
‘The woman who killed Alec’s mother married his father. If I tell Alec the truth, I’ll have to explain that his stepmother killed his mother. And he already knows this same woman was responsible – in her ghost form – for drowning his wife. And she tried to drown me using the same method, but Alec and his brother rescued me.’ Rupert stared at me, white-faced and speechless. ‘The thing is, I don’t know how much more Alec can take. I don’t know how anyone processes information like this. Obviously what I’d rather do is let sleeping dogs lie – I can’t bear to think of making anything worse for him – but does he have a right to know? Does his brother have a right to know? And what about their father? He married his wife’s killer! Should I tell him?’
‘No. I think there are limits to your responsibilities. The only obligation you might have now is towards Alec. But at this stage, I wouldn’t like to commit myself, not without a great deal more thought. And prayer. Whether Alec tells his brother, his father, anybody else, is his decision. You might of course decide to tell someone other than Alec what you’ve discovere
d. But I’m not sure that relieves you of your moral responsibility with regard to him. Certainly, as he’s been blamed for decades, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that, if anyone should know the truth about this sorry business, it’s Alec.’
‘Yes. That’s as far as I’ve got – should I tell him or not?’
‘Let’s approach it from another angle. If you don’t tell him, what will you do with the journal?’
‘Well, that’s just it. I don’t know. I was given instructions to destroy it.’
‘Well, that seems clear enough.’
‘But the person who gave me the instruction had no idea what the journal contained.’
‘Could you return it?’
‘Well, I don’t expect to go back to Cauldstane, so it would mean posting it. If I post it to Alec, he might read it. If I post it to his father – he’s the one who told me to destroy it – I’d have to explain why I’m returning it. So returning the journal is tantamount to sharing the information. But I think I’d rather destroy the damn thing and have that on my conscience than dump this information on them. In the post! But that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? To destroy evidence that would free Alec from a lifetime’s guilt?’
Rupert was silent for a while, then said, ‘Jen, could you leave this one with me? I need to give this some serious thought. Shall we discuss it again tomorrow? Over breakfast?’
‘Oh, there’s no hurry. I’m not rushing in to anything. I’ve got to get this right. If I don’t, then that witch will have won.’
‘I’m sure the way will become clear. It usually does. Now why don’t you go and unpack your things and make yourself at home upstairs? You’ll find some soothing literature by your bedside, but feel free to take a nap while I potter about in the kitchen. Will dinner at seven suit you? It’s only macaroni cheese, I’m afraid, but I’ve made it with an excellent cheddar.’
‘That will be lovely. Comfort food. Just what I need. You’re an angel, Rupert.’
‘Hardly. But a female parishioner did comment the other day that I was looking positively cherubic. I thought she was having a dig about the weight I’ve put on,’ he added with a sigh.
I got to my feet and stretched, aware of how tense I’d been for the last hour, but as Rupert loaded the tea tray and carried it through to the kitchen, a thought struck me, one so momentous, I had to sit down again.
When he returned, Rupert looked at me and said, ‘What’s the matter? Are you feeling ill?’
‘No. I’ve just thought of something… You know the family has refused to consider the deliverance ministry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it just occurred to me… If I tell them what Meredith did… If I tell them everything, I wonder if they might change their mind? I really don’t know Alec very well, but I know how angry he is. I think he might consider anything that would destroy that woman’s power. But… supposing the knowledge destroyed him?’
Rupert folded his hands neatly in front of his generous belly and immediately looked ecclesiastical. ‘Rarely have I come across a moral dilemma this complex,’ he announced solemnly. ‘Holmes would have called this “a three pipe problem”. We must tread very carefully, Imogen. And I feel I should warn you… the temptation to do good can sometimes prove irresistible. So beware.’
~
I slept well, better than I’d slept in days and Rupert served kippers for breakfast. I was indeed blessed. He’d obviously been turning over my problem in his mind and, as I would be setting off after breakfast, he delivered his advice between mouthfuls in the calm and doggedly rational way that had been, at times, so comforting, at others, so annoying.
‘I’ve tried to be clear about the moral imperatives. Not easy, but I think we must begin with the instruction you were given: to destroy the journal. You must either do that, or you must return the journal to the person who gave that instruction. Would you agree?’
‘Yes. I see that.’
‘Then it gets complicated. How should you return it? And should you give any reason why you’ve returned it?’ He helped himself to a slice of brown bread and buttered it thickly. ‘The easier option is to destroy the journal, as instructed.’
‘I don’t think I can do that. Not unless Alec, or someone other than me, knows what it contains.’
‘Yes, I thought that’s what you’d say. I’d feel the same. So I think your way is becoming clearer… You’re obliged to return this journal and you have to decide to whom you’ll give it and when, and what explanation you’ll give for not destroying it.’
‘I don’t know if I can give my reason. It sounds so ridiculous! And it’s not as if I’m even family.’
‘Try me,’ Rupert said, setting down his cutlery.
‘Well… I think this journal could be used to free the family. I think if they understood the full extent of the evil that surrounds them, they’d fight back. And I think if we all fight back together – it’s just a hunch, maybe just wishful thinking – but I think if the family unite and face up to Meredith – that’s the ghost – and if we’ve got God on our side and holy water and you, Rupert, I feel sure something can be done. I mean, there must have been a reason why I found that appalling journal, surely?’
‘Providence, you mean? I wonder… What made you look for it? The journal, I mean.’
‘I thought Alec might be wrong about his mother’s death. Something just didn’t add up. I suspected he wasn’t to blame and I thought maybe I could prove it.’
‘Which you did. But you haven’t yet proved it to him.’
‘No.’
Rupert was watching me closely. ‘But you think you should.’
I hesitated for a long moment before saying, ‘Yes.’
‘To sum up then… You think Alec should know he’s innocent, so it simply remains for you to decide whether you tell him or his father and whether you inform either man in person or via some other form of communication. You say you have no reason to return to Scotland?’
‘Not really. When I finish a draft of the biography, I could deliver it in person. That was my plan before I was sent packing. But now I think my client would expect me to post a print-out of the draft. After that it’s up to him whether he wants to pursue publication or not. I’m hoping my draft will convince him that he should.’
Rupert was silent, deep in thought, then he said, ‘Much as I’d like to help, Jen, I don’t think I can be of further assistance. The decisions are all yours and you need to give them careful consideration. Go back to London and finish the book, then see if it’s any clearer what you should do. You never know, something might happen in the interim. One of the family might get in touch, provide you with an excuse to return. Or at least open up a channel for communication. Undoubtedly, Alec thinks he’s done the right thing sending you away out of the danger zone, but he might have a hard time living with the consequences.’
I shook my head. ‘I think Alec is very used to having a hard time living.’
‘And that’s why you want to tell him about the journal. Why you want to get rid of his stepmother’s earthbound spirit.’
‘She’s like a disease, Rupert! I don’t know about holy water, she makes me want to go round sprinkling disinfectant!’
He smiled. ‘You know, there’s a lot in what you say. The popular conception of evil is a dark, majestic god, or a beautiful fallen angel. Milton has a lot to answer for, I’m afraid. But I prefer to think of unquiet spirits, poltergeists, demons and so forth as spiritual bacilli. They attack the soul and the personality. They cause sickness. But, I assure you, the sickness can be cured.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be at a meeting in an hour and I must clear up, or the kitchen will reek of kippers for the rest of the week.’
While Rupert cleared away, I got my things together and loaded up the car with my houseplants, conscious that a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It wasn’t gone completely, but sharing the burden had made
a huge difference. I no longer felt I was completely in the dark, groping my way towards a decision. I knew what I had to do, I just didn’t know how to do it.
When I said goodbye to Rupert, I hugged him and we stood for a moment with our arms round each other in a completely platonic embrace. There was no longer any desire on my part, but there was still, I was relieved to note, a great deal of love. I missed Rupert and suspected I always would. He claimed there was a God-shaped hole in everybody’s life and people found different ways to fill it. He said mine was writing.
There’s a Rupert-shaped hole in my life and so far I’ve found nothing to fill it. Which is why, when I bade farewell, I kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Goodbye, Rupert. You’re one in a million. And when I count my blessings, you’re near the top of the list.’
‘It’s a privilege to be able to serve,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘If you need me for anything, Imogen – anything at all – just get in touch. I’ll be standing by. With the spiritual disinfectant.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In the days after I returned home from Cauldstane, I felt empty, drained by grief and longing.
The thing about pain – any kind of pain, physical or emotional – is that you can’t ignore it. You can pretend to ignore it. You can continue to function as if the pain doesn’t exist and possibly no one will guess at the adaptations you make to live with that pain. But that’s my point. You have to adapt. Things aren’t the same, even if you manage to create an impression that they are. All that happens when you adapt to pain is that other people are able to ignore, even forget about it.
That was my mother’s experience of widowhood. Putting on a brave show after my father’s sudden death, she refused to fall apart on the outside, even though she appeared quite hollowed out by grief. The woman who eked out a life for another three years was brittle, fragile like a blown egg, but like an egg, there was no indication on the outside of the emptiness within. She just drifted, oddly weightless, without direction, through what remained of her life, as if waiting for something. I never knew what. I hoped it wasn’t death.
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