‘I see,’ said Jemma.
‘So what did you want to discuss with me about the play?’
‘It was the scene where Judas is describing Jesus’ visit to Simon’s house . . .’ She pretended to fumble in her bag for her copy of the script. ‘So, what questions did the police ask you?’
‘Oh, just where I was, and had I seen anyone. Go on, Simon’s house.’
‘That’s right.’ She flicked her script open. ‘I was wondering if, in this part, as Judas is describing the woman pouring perfume on Jesus’ feet, Josh and I should be acting it out. To one side. Making the scene a little more . . . authentic.’
‘Possibly. What does Ruth think?’
‘I haven’t discussed it with her yet.’
‘Harlan?’
‘Or Harlan. I wanted to know what you thought.’
‘Doesn’t matter much to me one way or another. I would have thought that the directors would be the ones to ask.’
‘Yes, of course . . . and I was going to do that. It’s just that . . .’ She started to simper just a little. ‘I thought that as it’s basically your scene, I wanted to check that it was okay with you first. I didn’t want to make things difficult.’
‘It’s fine with me. Do what you like.’ He opened the front door. ‘If that’s all, I’m afraid I have some housekeeping to do.’
‘There was one more thing . . .’ Jemma hesitated. Fry looked apprehensive.
‘Yes, what is it?’
Jemma struggled to find a way of asking that wouldn’t antagonise him further.
‘Cat got your tongue, girl? Don’t be scared. Ask away. Or are you worried that curiosity killed the cat?’
‘My editor wouldn’t let me get away with clichés like that.’ She gave a little light laugh. He was standing in front of the door. She glanced behind her, looking for an alternative route in case things turned nasty.
‘So, that’s what all this is about.’ Fry stood with his hands on his hips. He was a solidly built man and was at least six feet tall. ‘Your editor told you to use your connections and persuade me to give your grimy little rag an exclusive interview?’
Jemma wished she had thought of that one. It would have been far more convincing than ‘It’s about the play.’
‘Well, tell your editor – no comment.’ He stood aside from the door.
Jemma stumbled into the front garden, then paused and turned around. ‘Alistair, what do you know about the money in the river?’ She watched an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, a glint of fear in his eyes, and she fancied his face paled just a little.
‘What money in the river? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘My mistake,’ she said. ‘Sorry to have bothered you. See you at the play.’ Jemma walked calmly back to her car and started the engine. She pulled smoothly away and drove round the corner, where she pulled over and sat until she had stopped shaking. The flicker of emotion on Fry’s face had been tiny, but unmistakable. Now she knew, beyond doubt, that he was involved. But what was his connection, and how could she prove it?
JEMMA RETURNED TO THE OFFICE, ONLY FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE FOR THE WEEKLY team briefing.
‘Glad you could grace us with your presence,’ Mohan said.
He caught her gazing out of the window, her pen in her hand and an empty notebook on her lap.
‘Jemma, will you stop clicking that blasted ball-pen. You’re driving me crazy!’ He put his hand to his forehead in frustration. ‘Just go home now, will you? You can turn in your column tonight via email. Your mind is obviously miles away. I’ll ring you if anything important comes up.’
‘If . . . if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’ Then he added kindly. ‘Take care.’
Jemma nodded, taken slightly aback by the gentleness of his words. ‘Thanks, Mohan.’
She rang Josh and arranged to meet for coffee back at the Hog.
‘I need your help. There’s something going on, and . . . well, just come round.’
‘ARE YOU MAD?’ JOSH SAID. ‘HAVE YOU GOT SOME KIND OF DEATH WISH? WHAT were you thinking, going round to Alistair’s house – on your own – to confront him.’
‘It’s called investigative journalism. I know what I’m doing, Josh.’
‘Do you? We have no idea what that man is capable of. He’s had the police round asking questions. You think he’s got something to do with the money in the river, and Richard is convinced he tried to kill him. Jemma, this is not some school fête, you know.’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘So where do we go from here? Do you want to set up camp in Alistair’s garden? Or would you rather just wait until one night when you’re alone in bed when it will be whack, splash, goodbye Jemma?’
She looked around the berth. The Hog’s walls suddenly seemed insubstantial, and she felt vulnerable. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘Am I? You’re the one with all the bright ideas.’
‘We go back to the police.’
‘And tell them what? We don’t know any more than we did before. They are not going to want to know. But meanwhile, you’ve tipped Alistair off. Now he knows we’re on to him. Sorry, Jemma, I’ve got to get back to work.’
‘No, wait.’ Jemma chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been watching to see if anyone has been hanging around the river or looking as if they’ve lost something.’
‘And have you seen anything?’
She shook her head.
‘You haven’t exactly had the area under twenty-four-hour surveillance?’
‘Of course not. I can’t be here all day, and I can’t watch all night. I have to sleep.’
‘So you’ve hardly been watching at all. Basically when you’re at work or asleep, Hannibal and all his elephants could have marched down the riverbank, and you would have been none the wiser.’
It was true, all true. She had not been able to keep the area under observation, she had failed to collect any more information to help the police, she had annoyed Alistair, and even worse, let him know she suspected him, and put herself and Josh in danger in the process. She clutched her head and groaned. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Of course, there’s one thing we haven’t considered,’ Josh said, ‘and that is the reasons behind it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, a respected solicitor, who is also a Town Councillor and a church member, would have to have a pretty good reason for bopping someone on the head and running away. And if the money we found in the river is connected to Alistair in some way, we need to know how.’
‘Isn’t that a job for the police?’
‘Exactly,’ said Josh. ‘So why don’t we leave them to it.’
‘Because we have left it to them for the last seven months and nothing’s happened.’
‘But they talked to Alistair yesterday.’
‘That was only because of what Richard told them. And if it hadn’t been for us, going to the police and insisting, they’d have dismissed it all as the delusions of an amnesiac.’
‘But we know Alistair isn’t connected with the money,’ said Josh, ‘because the car was wrong. You said it was a green Land Rover that tried to hit you. I can’t imagine Alistair being seen dead in a dirty old thing like that.’
‘You’re right.’
‘So who would drive that kind of car?’ He grinned. ‘I’ve driven past schools in the mornings and all the mums dropping off their children seem to be driving enormous four-wheel-drive monstrosities. But they are always showroom shiny.’
‘It looks more like the kind of thing a farmer might drive, especially with mud spattered all over it.’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down much. There have to be four or five farms just within a ten-mile radius of Monksford. The Land Rover could have come from anywhere in Kent – or farther afield. It’s a pity you didn’t get the number.’
‘Well, I do apologise. He was trying to mow me down. Sorry, I didn’t think to stop
to get my notebook out. How remiss of me.’
‘I suppose we could ask Bram. He probably knows all the other farmers around here.’
She mimed holding a telephone. ‘Oh, yes, “Hello, Bram. Do you happen to know a farmer who drives a green Land Rover?” ’
‘Well, have you got any better ideas?’
‘No. Ideas are the one commodity I’m really short of this week. It’s just so frustrating. I know there’s something going on. Something involving Richard and Alistair and the plays and the money and the driver of the green car. I just wish I knew what.’
‘And when you do find out, won’t it make a great story?’
Jemma shifted on her chair and pulled her phone out of her jeans’ pocket. ‘Excuse me.’ She flipped open the cover.
The voice on the phone was Mohan’s. ‘Jemma, you might want to come in. There’s something breaking. It’s big – and it will affect you.’
Josh mouthed, ‘I’m going,’ and pointed to the hatch.
‘What?’ She waved to Josh.
Mohan sounded irritated. ‘Just get here.’
She scrambled to her feet and followed Josh off the boat. ‘Wait! Something’s happening. Can you come with me?’
‘No, I’ve got to get back.’
‘But this sounds important.’
‘They’ll sack me!’
‘Let them. You’re leaving anyway.’
He paused, searching her face. ‘Get in the van.’
The van rocked like a ship at sea along the Monksford lanes into town. Josh drove through the industrial estate and left the van in a side street while they cut through an ally to reach the Gazette’s offices.
Mohan thrust a photograph into Jemma’s hands. It showed three men, all in green wax jackets. One was wearing a white hat.
‘What’s this?’
‘Don’t you recognise him?’
Jemma squinted. ‘That’s Bram Griffin.’
‘Who are the other two guys with him?’ asked Josh.
‘Fred Bartlett, the vet, and an inspector from DEFRA,’ said Mohan.
‘What’s DEFRA?’ Josh pulled a face. ‘Sounds like something James Bond would tangle with.’
‘Only if James Bond had foot-and-mouth disease,’ Jemma said. ‘DEFRA is the Department for the Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs.’
‘Foot-and-mouth,’ said Josh. ‘Isn’t that serious?’
‘Very, but we haven’t had it confirmed. A veterinary nurse in Bartlett’s practice tipped us off, so I sent Saffy down there with a camera, and these are what she came back with.’
Jemma took the photographs from Mohan and flipped through them – the one of Bartlett and the inspector, rinsing their boots in disinfectant, the one of them tying a notice to the gate.
‘But the play,’ said Jemma. ‘Does Ruth know?’
‘I’ll ring her. Outside.’ Josh hurried out to the corridor.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Jemma said.
‘It’s true, you’ve seen the evidence,’ said Mohan.
‘What are we going to do?’ Jemma felt dazed. These plays united a community. Six-hundred-year-old plays had brought two-thousand-year-old stories to life. They had done more than that. They had allowed her to catch a glimpse of God. And now it was all over.
‘We’ll go with the front page,’ Mohan said. ‘Can you give it a theatrical twist? Something like, “Curtain Down” or “The Show Can’t Go On”?’
‘Can’t it? Why?’
‘Jemma, have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, if they’ve got an outbreak of foot-and-mouth at Hope Farm, they can’t have hundreds of people trouping around. DEFRA will slap a ban on people entering or leaving the farm, and they’ll have to slaughter the infected livestock.’
‘But you said the outbreak hadn’t been confirmed.’
‘Not yet. But they aren’t taking any chances. So, will you write the article?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.’ She gathered up Josh on her way out. ‘What did Ruth say?’
‘No answer.’
Jemma climbed into the van. ‘We’ll have to find her before she finds Bram.’
JEMMA BATTERED THE VICARAGE DOOR WITH HER FISTS. THERE WAS NO REPLY.
‘The church?’ Josh suggested, but Ruth wasn’t there either.
‘What shall we do? We can’t just chase around the countryside all day.’
‘I’ll drop you back at the Hog, and we’ll keep trying to ring.’
St Sebastian’s clock struck twelve. Jemma stood on the deck and gazed at the river. ‘I bet you could tell some stories.’ But the river kept its secret hidden in its silent depths. She needed to walk. She could think more clearly on the move. The late-spring sunshine warmed her back, and a lark’s disembodied song accompanied the droning bees.
The abbey ruins cast cool shadows, and Jemma, too idle to walk to the gate, slipped through the wire fence surrounding the abbey. She stopped. She could hear a woman sobbing.
Scene Nine
RUTH WAS SITTING ON A PATCH OF GRASS. HER WORLD WAS ENDING. SHE hugged the notice to her chest, rocking gently back and forth. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned instinctively. Jemma sat next to her on the soft green turf.
Ruth lifted her head and met Jemma’s eyes. ‘It’s all over, finished,’ she said, and the tears splashed down on the ancient stones.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jemma said. ‘How did you find out?’
Ruth held up the notice. ‘It was on the gate.’
Jemma embraced her in an awkward hug.
‘I feel as if I’ve let you all down. All that hard work, and for nothing.’
‘You’re not giving up?’ Jemma’s eyes were wide and incredulous. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue. ‘I can’t believe that after all this, you’re just throwing in the towel!’
‘I’m not even sure it’s . . . right.’
‘What do you mean, right?’
‘That it might not be God’s will that we revive the mystery plays. After all, so much has gone wrong lately . . .’
She thought Jemma might explode. ‘Not God’s will!’ She stood up. ‘I don’t believe you, Ruth. After all we’ve done. Did you think to send up an application to the heavenly planning committee or whatever it is you do?’
Ruth was taken aback. ‘Of course. We prayed for a whole year before we decided to go ahead, not to mention all the practical work and the time spent in modernising the plays.’
‘So any time in the past twenty months, God could have told one of us – any of us – if he didn’t want the plays to go ahead.’
‘Well, yes. I suppose so. But God doesn’t always work like that.’
‘Then I’m finished!’ Jemma threw up her hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘If that’s what God is like . . . the kind of God who lets you do all that work then stops you in your tracks, then I don’t want to know.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ruth felt the panic rising.
‘I was starting to think there was something in it. When I heard Josh saying those words, it made it all real somehow. I knew Jesus was a person – a man who laughed with his friends, ate and drank, got tired and frustrated . . . and . . . and I could relate to that. Then, when I saw the flogging scene, all I could think was that he did all that for me.’
‘He did.’ Ruth spoke softly. ‘The plays have changed me too.’ They had made her rely on God in ways she never had before.
‘Well, come on, then! Are you going to deny everyone in Monksford the opportunity of seeing it for themselves, the opportunity to be a part of it?’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Of course it’s not easy.’ Jemma gave a harsh laugh. ‘But the test of something of value is not whether it is simple. Nothing worthwhile is easy, and anything easy is seldom worthwhile.’
Ruth waved the notice in Jemma’s face. ‘No one is going on or off the farm until the restrictions are lifted. That could take days . . . or weeks. It won’t wor
k. It’s too late.’
‘Then we find somewhere else to do it! I thought you Christians were supposed to persevere. All I’ve heard so far is moaning and whining and defeatism. These plays really can change people. They bring people face-to-face with Jesus. Isn’t that worth fighting for? Come on, Ruth.’
It was as if a hand of hope had reached down into her misery. This was the girl who took the part under sufferance. She was everything Ruth wasn’t; confident, attractive, self-assured. But she could see in Jemma the beginnings of faith, and this, surely, was the point. This was the point – of the mystery plays and of her life. And if God could do it in one person’s life, he could do it for the whole town. She wiped her eyes and attempted a smile. ‘You’re right. Absolutely right! Whatever we have to do, these plays will be performed on Saturday to celebrate Corpus Christi.’
‘Okay,’ Jemma said. ‘Here’s the plan. You go visit Alistair and see if the council can find us somewhere else to perform. I’ll call Josh and ask him to take down the posters, then he can join me at the farm. I’ll go and see Bram Griffin. Even if we have to use megaphones, we need to talk. Tell everyone to “watch this space”.’
Jemma took off towards the car park. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Just give me a moment.’ Ruth took a deep breath. The words of an old hymn, one of her favourites, came to her as she prayed.
O let me hear thee speaking in accents clear and still,
Above the storms of passion, the murmurs of self-will.
O speak to reassure me, to hasten or control;
O speak, and make me listen, thou guardian of my soul.
She was glad to be in this place, the abbey where everything felt so sure and so simple. ‘Father, give me courage and resolution, but most of all, Father, let me hear your “still, small voice”.’
AS SHE PULLED UP OUTSIDE ALISTAIR’S HOUSE SHE PRAYED AGAIN. THE curtains were still drawn, and three days milk festered on the doorstep. She pressed the bell. And waited. No one came. She pressed again and listened to the distant ringing inside. Still no one came. She lifted the black metal lion’s head and knocked. She pushed past the clematis and jasmine and walked up the path at the side of the house to the back door. The dustbins had disgorged their contents over the patio. She stepped delicately over the strewn rubbish and tried the door handle. It turned. She edged her way into the dark kitchen. Takeaway bags lay scattered on the floor, and the kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and cups.
The Art of Standing Still Page 24