The Angel in the Glass

by Alys Clare

  He’d arranged them along the base of the wall, side by side. The damaged one, I noticed, had a new piece of glass to replace the broken one. ‘When you say first,’ I said, ‘are we speaking right to left or left to right?’

  I was sure I heard him sigh. ‘It doesn’t really matter, since we cannot know the original placement. Right to left.’

  Very carefully I picked up the panel and held it up to him. It was the one with the image of the doctor – St Luke – bending over the bedridden patient. Jonathan reached down and took firm hold of it, then placed it in the empty space.

  It fitted perfectly.

  Jonathan was busy with the hammer and what looked like a handful of wooden pegs, but it wasn’t clear what he was doing. ‘If it wouldn’t distract you, do you want to describe how you’re attaching it?’ I asked quietly. The last thing I wanted to do was speak loudly and make him jump. He wasn’t exactly wobbling, but his perch up there certainly looked precarious.

  ‘There’s a narrow strip of dowelling at the bottom of the gap,’ he said, ‘and it seems to me that its purpose is to hold the glass firm, since the space between it and the stone is just the right size.’ He paused and there was the sound of tapping. He gave an ah! of satisfaction. ‘Then, to prevent the panel toppling forward, there’s a series of small wooden pegs that have to be hammered into the corresponding holes in the surrounding wall.’

  ‘Where did you get the pegs?’

  ‘They’d been left tucked safely away behind the strip of dowelling.’

  As if, I thought, whoever had removed the panels knew full well that, one day, someone would replace them.

  There was more tapping, quite a lot of it, and then he was coming back down the ladder.

  He was smiling broadly. ‘What do you think?’

  I stared up. Although I could see the difference – that the gap was no longer a gap – that was about all. ‘There’s not really enough light,’ I said apologetically.

  He too was staring upwards. ‘No, you’re right.’

  He hurried off into the main body of the church. After a moment, the light of the one candle on the altar began to increase. And then, for the first time in more than half a century, the beautiful image in bright glass of St Luke ministering to the sick man, in its gorgeous border of flowers and foliage, shone out once more like a handful of jewels in the noon sunshine.

  ‘It’s a wonder,’ I said softly. ‘Well done.’

  Jonathan was silent, but, observing his lips moving, I guessed he was praying. Then he picked up the ladder, moved it a few feet to the right and, hurrying up it, said, ‘Next one.’

  I’m not sure how long we worked. Not all the panels went in as easily as the first one, and we spent quite some time trying them in different spaces until we achieved the best fit. In the penultimate space there weren’t enough pegs, and after quite a lot of discussion – not all of it very amicable – Jonathan decided to go back and remove a peg from each of the previous panels to make up the deficit.

  He was nothing if not a perfectionist.

  I’d been on the point of suggesting we wait until the morning, when a call on one of the village carpenters would swiftly supply what we needed, but I held back. Jonathan was driven; I could sense the fierce determination coming off him. The job had to be finished now.

  Finally it was done. He came down the ladder for the last time, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief. I’d noticed a crack beginning to snake its way along the second to top rung, and it was creaking ominously every time Jonathan put his weight on it. I’d mentioned it to him, but he’d ignored the warning.

  He set the ladder down along the base of the wall and we stepped back, looking up at the five panels. For quite some time we were content just to gaze and admire, but presently he said, ‘I’ve been trying to decide which one I like best, and I think I know. But you first.’

  I didn’t hesitate, for I’d made up my mind when I’d first seen them. ‘I admit I have a great fondness for the three jolly nuns picking flowers, especially the one who looks as if she’s just sneezed, but my favourite is the doctor with his patient.’

  Jonathan grinned. ‘I thought it might be. He reminds you of yourself.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like me,’ I protested.

  ‘He does. He’s a tall man, broad like you, and he looks as if he’d having to fold himself to fit in that tiny bedroom.’

  ‘Oh, all right, he does a bit. But that’s not why I chose it. It’s because I’ve felt just like he’s feeling.’

  I didn’t think I’d explained what I meant, but Jonathan knew. ‘It’s all in his expression,’ he said. ‘He’s hoping that what he’s doing is going to help, but he really isn’t sure.’

  I nodded. ‘It’s so often the way of it,’ I agreed. ‘To convey that, in a small piece of stained and painted glass …’ I was lost for the words to describe how it was affecting me.

  I felt Jonathan’s brief touch on my shoulder. ‘All that skill,’ he murmured, ‘and these panels had to be wrenched from the place where they belonged and hidden away in order that they shouldn’t be destroyed.’

  He had spoken softly, but nevertheless I couldn’t prevent the swift look around. ‘Careful,’ I breathed.

  He turned to me in surprise. ‘I don’t believe we are overheard. And it is the truth. Would it matter if we were?’

  I shrugged. ‘Who can say?’ Then, for the atmosphere was suddenly less easy, I added, ‘But you haven’t yet declared your favourite.’

  He looked up again. Without hesitation he pointed to the central panel. With the candle flames from the altar in the main church now illuminating it, the image was even more impressive than when that calm, perceptive gaze had first looked out at us in Jonathan’s house three nights ago. There was St Luke, still in his coif, this time no longer in the central position but a little to the rear. Before him, capturing his entire attention – and his love, just as the image would surely capture that of everyone else who looked at it – was Christ. His golden robe glowed, his light auburn hair shone like a halo, his eyes, hooded and bearing a depth of sadness and a wealth of compassion, stared down. The lilies that lay across his outstretched arms and the long, graceful hands as yet innocent of their terrible wounds were perfect in their beauty.

  I might have guessed that this would be Jonathan’s choice.

  As we extinguished the rush lights and the candles and prepared to leave the church, Jonathan told me of the unveiling ceremony he was planning. Interrupting him, I said, as I’d said before, ‘You’re sure about this?’

  He paused in the act of opening the door. It was raining even harder now, and he’d already invited me to go back to his house to wait until it eased before I rode home.

  He smiled faintly. ‘I’ve told you how I plan to reveal the panels, Gabriel,’ he said. ‘I haven’t said when.’

  ‘But you’ve just replaced them! Do you really think nobody’s going to notice?’

  ‘I left the ladder there, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘I’m having five simple wooden shutters made. They’ll be ready tomorrow, and I’ll put them in place as soon as I have them.’

  ‘Why didn’t you hold back till then to replace the glass?’ I demanded.

  He looked sheepish. ‘I couldn’t bear to wait any longer.’

  In the cosy comfort of his little room, we towelled off the worst of the wet and then he fetched pewter cups and a bottle. ‘Not as fine as your brandy, but it’s not bad.’ He poured out two good measures and passed one to me. I sipped it. It was rum.

  The other night he’d given me brandy. Had he finished that, then, in the loneliness of his sleepless nights?

  I waited until Jonathan was settled in his chair. Then I said, ‘Have you heard the news from Wrenbeare?’

  ‘I have.’ His face was grave. ‘Although I did not know her well I have met Lady Clemence Fairlight several times, for she used to attend service at St Luke’s and she would frequently stop to have a word about the sermon. It’s always re
freshing, and a sop to the vanity, when a member of the congregation shows that he or she has paid sufficient attention to take issue with a point or two.’ He paused. ‘I am distressed to hear of her death; even more at the manner of it.’

  ‘It was brutal,’ I said.

  ‘So I was told. And the younger daughter, they say, is thought to have done it?’

  ‘That rumour was not spread by me,’ I said quickly. ‘The only evidence against her is that it was she who found the body, and that there was blood on her nightgown.’

  ‘Which surely could have got there when she crouched over her mother,’ Jonathan observed.

  ‘Quite so.’ I paused, then decided that, bearing in mind who I was talking to and the wide range of human experience he’d have come across because of his profession, it was all right to continue. ‘Had she been responsible for her mother’s fatal injuries, I’d have expected her to have blood on her hands. A lot of blood. Even given that undoubtedly weapons were used – a knife and something akin to a mallet – the killer must have been covered in blood. And she’d have to have hidden them before doing anything to attract attention.’

  ‘I see,’ Jonathan said. ‘A knife and a mallet,’ he murmured. ‘A frightful way to die.’ He shook his head as if in denial of such brutality. ‘In addition to our compassion for the victim, however, I believe we should also spare a thought – many thoughts – for the daughter.’ He hesitated, then said delicately, ‘She is not right in her mind, I believe.’

  ‘She’s not,’ I confirmed. ‘Just at present, I imagine she’s as wrong in her mind as it’s possible to be.’

  ‘Is there any clue as to the identity of the killer?’

  I liked the way he had utterly taken my word for the fact that it wasn’t Denyse. ‘Not that I know of. Theophilus Davey and his men have been at the house today, however, and may have discovered fresh knowledge.’ If not Theo himself, I reflected, then Jarman Hodge might well have winkled out something helpful.

  ‘And what about motive?’

  I told him about the vagrant and the theory that he had stumbled across some desperate secret. Jonathan was a very good listener, and I found myself going on to describe my visit to Josiah Thorn and the information about Sir Thomas Fairlight’s dubious habits.

  And, echoing my own thought, Jonathan said, ‘Is that enough to kill for, given that Sir Thomas has been dead for well over a decade?’

  ‘He died in 1580,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m wondering the same thing.’ I studied him. ‘You weren’t here then.’

  ‘No.’

  Then I remembered something that Josiah Thorn had said, on the first of my recent visits. He’d revealed a little about Sir Thomas’s nature, and there was something he’d said that was nudging at the edge of my mind … He’d said that Sir Thomas’s equals seemed to quite like him, or perhaps he’d said tolerate, but that it was a very different matter with his subordinates, and I’d had the clear impression that the man had been a bully.

  I remember how that tubby little priest remonstrated with him.

  I heard Josiah’s voice quite clearly.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about your predecessor here at St Luke’s?’ I asked Jonathan.

  He reacted as if I’d stabbed him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The words were breathed rather than spoken, and barely audible.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know exactly when you came to the parish,’ I said, trying to pretend I hadn’t noticed his peculiar reaction and keep my voice pleasant and conversational, ‘although I believe it was during the years I was studying in London.’

  ‘I came here in 1598,’ Jonathan said tonelessly.

  ‘Ah yes, I was indeed away from the county then.’ I smiled at him but his face remained frozen. ‘So who was here immediately before you? Who precisely did you replace?’

  I thought he relaxed infinitesimally as I elaborated the question.

  ‘My predecessor was a man named Philip Snell,’ he said. Still he looked wary.

  ‘And he was a tubby little man?’ I repeated Josiah Thorn’s description.

  Jonathan smiled faintly. ‘No, quite the opposite. He was very tall and thin, aesthetic looking, stooped with arthritis. This was his last incumbency and he died here, which was when I came to replace him.’

  ‘He’d been here a long time?’

  ‘No, less than a decade, and …’ But suddenly he stopped speaking. Whatever strong emotion had had him in its grip just now had returned, stronger than before, and Jonathan had gone so white that I feared he was on the point of collapse.

  I swiftly got up and poured another measure of rum, silently handing him the mug. He took it without looking at me, swallowing it in one draught. I returned to my seat, watching him closely. Some colour returned to his face, but the strange inward look remained.

  After some time he seemed to recover.

  He raised his eyes to look at me and attempted a smile, although it was a mere phantom of his usual expression. ‘Thank you,’ he said, indicating the mug. ‘I felt strange briefly.’ The smile slowly became slightly more genuine. ‘The excitement of replacing the panels, not to mention clambering up and down a very crude ladder with a creaking rung about to give way any moment, must have overcome me.’

  I went on looking at him, although I didn’t speak.

  I didn’t believe his explanation for his odd turn; not for an instant. He was fit and strong, not more than a year or two older than I was, and climbing any number of ladders was highly unlikely to have affected him so profoundly. As for the excitement of putting back the panels, he was a man in his prime, not a nervous spinster given to palpitations and fainting fits.

  Something profoundly distressing was troubling Jonathan Carew.

  But if he didn’t want to tell me what it was, if he preferred to make silly excuses that he must have known I wouldn’t swallow, that was up to him.

  I drained my mug and put it down on the small table beside me, rather too forcefully. I stood up. ‘The rain seems to have eased a little, or, at least, not got any heavier,’ I said. ‘I’ll make for home now, I think.’

  He too rose, and saw me to the door. As I stood on the threshold, he said, ‘Gabriel, I—’

  I turned. ‘What?’

  But he shook his head. ‘Nothing. I just wanted to thank you for your help.’

  ‘Thank you for the rum. Good evening, Jonathan.’

  I strode off up the path and went to find my horse.

  Alone in the safety of his room, Jonathan closed the door, checked that the window was fastened and sank back into his chair. For some time he simply sat there, waiting for his pounding heart to slow down.

  When Gabriel had asked that question, when he’d been blind to Jonathan’s extreme reluctance and pressed and pressed with his questions – tell me about your predecessor, when did you come here? had he been here a long time? – Jonathan had required all his strength and more to overcome the all but irresistible temptation to flee or to cut off Gabriel’s innocent enquiries with a fist in his mouth. He had succeeded, but only just. And then Gabriel had asked if the predecessor had been a tubby little man.

  Jonathan groaned aloud. Blindly stretching out his hand, he reached for the rum and, not pausing to find his cup, put the bottle straight to his lips.

  Then he leaned back in his chair and, at last letting the tide of memories overwhelm the mental barrier he had erected so long ago to keep them at bay, he waited for them to hit him; to bring back to the forefront of his mind Martin Oude, his youth, his long life, and what had happened to him.

  He knew that it would be painful; much more than painful.

  But it seemed that he had no alternative.

  Martin Oude was born in East Anglia in 1520. As a very small boy he understood the love of God as if God were a warm, caring, immanent presence who was permanently aware of every living member of his creation, present in their daily lives and concerned with all that affected them. When the three-year-old Martin fell over and s
kinned his knees, he believed he felt God’s kindly arms helping him up, God’s lips putting a gentle kiss on his forehead to comfort and reassure him. As he grew out of childhood, those around him who had believed his faith would mature as his body and mind did were disappointed, for with a few more years to his name Martin began to perceive Jesus Christ as his saviour, as the exemplar for anyone wanting to live a good life, and as the perfect, shining, glorious embodiment of love. And as a steady, ever-present companion walking right beside him.

  Entering a monastery as a young novice was the obvious, the only choice for the twelve-year-old Martin. Despite the hardships, the privations, the discipline, Martin was as happy as a human being could be, for he had been told that every discomfort and pain was an offering to God and his beloved son. Kneeling on the hard stone floor, Martin would hold up his arms as if his hands supported an imaginary golden platter on which he had laid his hunger, his aching limbs, his frostbitten toes, his back that stung from the lash and the occasional piercing stabs of homesickness. In his mind, the age-worn hands of God and the wounded hands of Christ – the two images seemed to flow and mingle in his mind – would stretch out and receive his gifts, and he would sense a loving smile bestowed upon him from the heavenly realms. Then all the sacrifices of his hard life would be worthwhile – oh, so much more than that, for he would have given himself ten times over if he could – and he would sense perfect peace, perfect love, descend on his sore shoulders like a warm, soft shawl.

  But it was not long before the idyll came to an abrupt and violent end.

  For Henry VIII, King of England, had fallen in love – in lust, anyway – and in order to marry the woman he didn’t seem to be able to live without, he had amputated his realm and everybody in it from the Church of Rome. Henry was now the head of the Church of England and those who refused to accept this, who refused to take the solemn oath of fealty to their ruthless, selfish, violent egotist of a monarch, were put to death. Some died by the axe, some died in the flames. But all died.

  In a few short years, Henry tired of the woman for whom he had changed the entire religious life of England. She too was killed, and the only small mercy shown to her by the man who once would have walked through fire to bed her was to summon an expert swordsman from France to cut off her head. This Frenchman was reputed to be so swift in his decapitations that it did not hurt, but who could possibly say?