The Judgement of Strangers

by Taylor, Andrew

  Beside me, Doris sucked in her breath.

  The pathologist’s report confirmed what James had said. He said that Lady Youlgreave had fractured her skull when she fell, probably on the corner of the hearth. There was a laceration with swelling and bruising around it. Her injuries were entirely consistent with her having tripped on the hearthrug. Finally, he briefly described the postmortem damage inflicted by Beauty and Beast – but in technically obscure vocabulary designed, I suspected, to confuse the two journalists in the public gallery.

  The coroner nodded with monotonous regularity while James and the pathologist were speaking. But he stopped nodding when he questioned Doris, the next witness to be called. She was trembling and her voice shook. But she insisted that Lady Youlgreave, however confused about other matters, knew that she could not reach her medicine. She also mentioned her employer’s dislike of using the phone.

  Chilbert screwed up his lips and then said, ‘In general, no doubt you’re right, Mrs Potter. But we have just heard from Dr Vintner how muddled Lady Youlgreave had become.’ He glanced at James as if drawing support from a colleague. ‘It’s a sad truth, but people in her condition do deteriorate. So I find it hard to believe that her behaviour was still predictable by normal standards. In fact –’

  ‘But, sir, I –’

  ‘This is a medical question, Mrs Potter, and we should leave it to those competent to answer it.’ Chilbert raised a heavy eyebrow. ‘You’re not a doctor of medicine, I take it?’

  ‘But why would she want to say her cousins were coming?’

  ‘Who knows? She may have dreamed that they were. But we’re not here to speculate. Now, perhaps you would like to tell us why you moved Lady Youlgreave’s body and tidied the room before the police arrived?’

  She shrugged. ‘I just did it. It seemed right. She would have liked to be decent.’

  ‘You should have left everything as it was.’

  ‘Left the dogs in there with her, do you mean? Left her all uncovered for all those men to see? She wouldn’t have wanted them to see her like that.’

  Chilbert looked at Doris’s flushed face and – showing more wisdom than I had credited him with – told her she could stand down. Next he talked to the teenager who had taken Lady Youlgreave’s call cancelling the nurse. The teenager’s mother ran the Fishguard Agency, but she had been away. The boy, younger than Rosemary, was quite definite about the time of the call.

  ‘What did the caller sound like?’ Chilbert asked.

  ‘I don’t know. An old lady, I suppose. She said she was Lady Youlgreave.’

  ‘What exactly did she say to you?’

  ‘Her cousins had come down for the weekend. Out of the blue, like. And they were going to look after her so she didn’t need the nurse to call until the weekend afterwards.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I phoned the nurse and cancelled her.’ Stolid as a suet pudding, the boy stared up at Chilbert. ‘I knew what to do. I often look after the phone when Mum’s out, and there’s always people ringing up to change things.’

  Sergeant Clough confirmed that there had been a call from the Old Manor House to the agency number at that time on Friday evening. His bald scalp gleaming in the striplight above his head, he emphasized that there had been no sign of a break-in.

  The coroner reminded the jury that the probable time of death was Friday evening: the agency nurse had been due at 7.45 a.m. on Saturday morning so, even if she had come, she could not have prevented Lady Youlgreave’s death. The jury, suitably instructed, returned a verdict of accidental death.

  Afterwards, Doris and I walked back to the car.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘She wouldn’t have phoned the agency.’

  ‘But she must have done. They traced the call.’

  ‘Anyone could have got in. Everyone knew where the key was.’

  ‘I know it’s hard to accept,’ I said, ‘but I have to say that I think the verdict is probably right. People do odd things. Especially when they’re old and confused. And there was nothing to suggest otherwise, was there?’

  She screwed up her mouth like an obstinate child, but said nothing.

  ‘I know it was ghastly,’ I went on, unlocking the door of the car, ‘and the fact you found her like that was even worse.’ I held open the door for her. ‘Wretched animals.’

  Doris scrambled inelegantly into the passenger seat. ‘What’s going to happen to them?’

  ‘The dogs? I imagine they’ll be put down.’

  ‘No.’ Doris’s head snapped up, and she looked at me, her face outraged as though I had hit her. ‘They mustn’t be put down. Can’t I have them?’

  ‘But, Doris – look, they should have been put down years ago.’

  ‘I’d like them. They’d be all right with me.’

  ‘I’m sure they would. But have you considered –?’

  ‘They know me. I remember Beaut when she was a puppy.’

  ‘They need a great deal of care. Then there’s vets’ bills as well. And really, wouldn’t it be kinder to them if they were put down?’

  ‘How do you know? Most people don’t want to die, even when they’re old and ill. Why should animals be any different?’

  I looked down at her and remembered the high moral tone I had taken when Audrey was a little less than charitable about old people. ‘You must do what you think best. And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  ‘How do I set about getting them?’

  ‘Lady Youlgreave’s solicitor is the person to ask about that.’

  ‘Mr Deakin.’

  ‘He’ll know. In theory I suppose the dogs now belong to Lady Youlgreave’s heirs. But I can’t believe they’d object to your having them.’

  Doris nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  We drove back to Roth. I turned into Manor Farm Lane and drew up outside the little house she shared with her husband, and with Charlene and Charlene’s two younger brothers. I tried and failed to imagine what effect the addition of Beauty and Beast to their ménage would have. Doris did not get out. I fumbled for my own door handle, intending to walk round and open the passenger door for her.

  ‘Vicar?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Doris was sitting upright in the seat, her fingers gripping the strap of her handbag. ‘There’s something I maybe should have told them.’

  ‘Told whom?’

  ‘The police. That coroner.’

  I stared at her, alarm creeping over me. ‘What do you mean? Something to do with Lady Youlgreave?’

  ‘On Friday – as I was going – she wanted me to put some stuff in the dustbin. I always move the dustbin just before I go, you see, put it by the gate. It’s not something the nurse would want to do, and sometimes the dustmen come early on Monday, before I get there.’

  ‘So why was this any different?’

  She turned to look at me. ‘It was some stuff from the tin box. You know, the one Mrs Byfield’s been looking at. Not all of it – just a few of them notebooks and letters and things.’

  ‘But they were family papers, Doris. They might have been important.’

  She shook her head. ‘Lady Youlgreave said this was stuff no one wanted.’

  ‘I don’t think she was necessarily the best judge.’

  ‘But she wanted me to throw them away so badly. Said it was nasty.’ Doris’s face was miserable. ‘She was crying, Vicar. Like a child. And when all’s said and done, what did they matter? She was all upset, and they were only papers.’

  ‘You could have taken them away,’ I suggested, trying to speak gently. ‘And then perhaps discussed what to do with –’

  ‘She made me promise I’d do it. It was the only way to stop her crying.’ Doris stared defiantly at me. ‘I don’t break promises.’

  There was a silence in the car. I bowed my head.

  ‘No,’ I said at last. ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘But should I have told the police? Or should I tell them n
ow?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’ It would only complicate matters. The information would not have affected the verdict: it merely confirmed Lady Youlgreave’s confused mental state. ‘Perhaps I should have a word with my wife. She may be able to tell if anything significant is missing. If necessary we can mention what happened to the solicitor.’

  ‘All right.’ Doris opened the car door. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ Before she shut the door she turned back to me and added, ‘She did it for the best, you know. It wouldn’t have been nice for the Youlgreaves, she said, and she didn’t want your wife to see. Not suitable. That’s what she said, Vicar. Not suitable.’

  Doris slammed the door. I watched her walking with a suggestion of a waddle up the concrete path to her front door. I wondered which of Francis’s shabby little scandals Lady Youlgreave had wanted to conceal.

  I drove home. As I had expected, there was no one at the Vicarage. Vanessa was still at work. Michael was out with Brian Vintner. Rosemary had announced at breakfast that she was going up to London again, with the same schoolfriend. I was relieved. I was not used to sharing a house with three people, and the longer the summer went on, the more the attractions of solitude increased.

  I took off my jacket and tie and dropped them on a chair in the study. I put the kettle on and went to the lavatory. In mid-performance, the doorbell rang. I swore. Hastily buttoning myself up, I rinsed my hands and went to answer the door. It was Audrey. Some people have a talent for arriving inconveniently which amounts to genius.

  Pink and quivering, she advanced towards me, forcing me to step back. A moment later, she was in the hall beside me. She was wearing a dress of some synthetic, shiny material – a loud check in turquoise and yellow. The dress clung to her like a second skin. I noticed smears of mud on her stockings. Her jowls trembled.

  ‘I’m sorry, David. I’ve come to complain.’

  I blinked. ‘What about?’

  ‘That boy. Michael. I know he’s your godson. I know his parents are great friends of yours. But I just can’t put up with it.’

  ‘But what’s he been doing?’

  ‘Spying on me. I was walking in the park yesterday afternoon and there he was. I kept seeing his face peering at me round trees or through bushes.’ She hesitated, her jaws moving as though she were chewing over the insult. ‘And this afternoon he’s been doing the same thing.’

  ‘In Roth Park?’

  She flushed. ‘I’d been taking a little exercise after lunch. I’ve not been sleeping well lately.’

  I wondered if the unaccustomed exercise had something to do with her detective work. ‘The footpaths are public rights of way, Audrey. Perhaps Michael was playing there. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t have been there as well as you.’

  ‘He was snooping. Him and that nasty Brian Vintner. I won’t put up with it.’

  I felt a rush of anger. ‘I don’t think Michael’s the sort of boy who would snoop.’

  She glared up at me. ‘Are you saying I’m a liar?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I stared at her, realizing how close I had come to losing my temper and realizing how inappropriate my behaviour was. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.’

  She grunted. To my dismay, I saw her eyes were glistening.

  ‘The fact is,’ I hurried on, ‘I’m just back from Lady Youlgreave’s inquest.’

  ‘The inquest?’ The jowls wobbled once more. ‘I was thinking of going myself, actually. I had hoped you might be able to give me a lift. But nobody answered when I phoned.’

  ‘We’ve all been out for most of the day.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What you’d expect.’ I was puzzled by Audrey’s change of tack. ‘They decided it was an accident.’

  Audrey sniffed. At that moment, the whistle on the kettle began to squeal, higher and louder.

  ‘I was about to make some tea,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Would you like a cup?’

  Audrey allowed herself to be mollified. She followed me into the kitchen and talked while I made the tea. I promised I would have a word with Michael, and she promised she would say no more about it. Audrey stayed for half an hour. While I tried not to think of the work I should be doing, she talked about Lady Youlgreave in a manner which suggested she had been to Roth what the Queen Mother had been to the country. She also talked, at length, about her determination to bring to justice whoever was responsible for Lord Peter’s mutilation. Finally, she talked about the fete. I am afraid I did not listen very carefully.

  At last she went. I returned to the kitchen to wash up the tea things. Afterwards, I was crossing the hall on my way back to the study when I heard a key in the lock of the front door.

  Rosemary burst into the house. She was dressed in denim, jeans and a shirt with studded poppers which I had not seen before. Around her neck was a silk scarf, also new. The colours were dark green and bronze: they would have suited Vanessa. I registered all this automatically. What I really saw was her face: red and tear-stained, framed by dishevelled blonde hair.

  ‘Rosemary – whatever’s happened?’

  Her face working, she stared at me. Then, without a word, she ran up the stairs and into the bathroom. I heard the bolt on the door click home.

  The Vicarage walls and floors were thin. A moment later, I heard the sound of vomiting.

  26

  On Wednesday evening I went reluctantly to St Mary Magdalene. The reluctance had been growing on me over the last year. I had always tended to anthropomorphize churches, to endow the buildings with personalities: as with humans, some personalities were more attractive than others. For most of my time at Roth I had liked St Mary Magdalene. If I had had to find a human equivalent to it, I would have chosen Doris Potter.

  In the past twelve months, however – ever since that odd experience just after Vanessa and I had met – I had no longer felt the same about the place. The feeling was almost impossible to pin down. It was like the faint blush of damp spreading almost imperceptibly on a whitewashed wall. I knew it was there. I could not see it, but I thought I could feel it. I felt as though the church were no longer entirely mine, as though something or someone were trying with gradual success to take it over. On one level, I knew very well that I was imagining things. As a man and as a priest, I was prone to see shadows where there were none.

  I came out to lock the church before supper. After a grey day, it was a fine evening, though there were dark clouds over much of the sky. The churchyard was bathed in strong, metallic light: it looked like a stage set. I left Vanessa cooking supper. Michael was spending the evening at the Vintners. Rosemary was resting in her room; she had told me that she had an upset stomach – something she had eaten at lunch must have disagreed with her. I did not know whether or not to believe her.

  Before I locked up, I went inside the church to make sure everything was all right. The ladies had been in recently, and the place smelled of flowers and polish. The sombre colours of the Last Judgement painting glowed above the chancel arch. I walked slowly up to my stall in the choir, intending to pray. My footsteps sounded louder than usual, as though I were walking on the skin of a drum.

  As I passed under the chancel arch, a movement caught my eye – to the left and above my head. I looked up. I was directly beneath the marble tablet commemorating Francis Youlgreave. Nothing was moving. Sometimes, I told myself, the flutter of your own eyelash can give you the impression of movement beyond yourself.

  In my mind, Francis’s tablet coalesced with the idea that I was walking on a drum. If this was a drum, then inside the drum, the home of its resonance, was the vault beneath the chancel where the Youlgreaves lay. Not that there were very many Youlgreaves in there. I had not been down there for years, but I remembered a small, dusty chamber laid out rather like a wine cellar with deep shelves on either side; there had been only three coffins, one of them presumably belonging to Francis Youlgreave. There was ample room for at least a dozen more.


  The vault must have been built in another time for other families, but there was no sign of them now. The first of the Youlgreaves had wanted to make the place his own, and now only Youlgreaves waited there for the Second Coming. I assumed that the vault would need to be reopened for Lady Youlgreave.

  Suddenly I did not want to pray. I told myself I was in the wrong frame of mind. I shivered as I walked back to the south door. I did not know why but I was frightened. I felt like a weary swimmer, alone, out of his depth and too far from land.

  I left the church, locking the door behind me. As I came out of the porch the full force of the sunlight hit me. On the right, beside the path which led to the private gate from the churchyard to Roth Park, there was a wooden bench, donated by Audrey in memory of her parents. A figure was sprawling on it, arms outstretched along the back of the seat, a silhouette against the blinding light of the sun. For an instant my heart lurched. I thought it was Joanna.

  ‘Hello, David,’ Toby said. ‘Lovely evening.’

  I blinked in the light. He sat up and moved along the bench, as if making room for me to sit. He looked particularly androgynous this evening in red trousers and a deeper red T-shirt whose low neck and long flared sleeves gave him a faintly medieval air. His feet were bare and he was smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Was there something you wanted?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes and no.’ He laughed. ‘I didn’t realize you were in there, actually, but now we’ve met, there is something.’

  With sudden, irrational terror, I wondered if Toby knew: that I had seen his sister without his knowledge: that she had taken me to her room, that she had talked to me about him. I realized how vulnerable I was. Toby was speaking and I had to ask him to repeat what he had said.