The Lazarus Tree

by Robert Richardson

  FOUR

  Ursula Dean twitched as she heard Ewan arrive home; it was twenty to seven so he must have been held up by traffic out of Exeter. As the car door slammed, she stood up, eyes anxious about the living room. Neatly folded, the Daily Express lay on the table next to his chair ready for him to read; dulled silverware which he had commented on that morning now gleamed; fresh chrysanthemums filled the china vase on the window ledge. Nervously convinced something had been forgotten, she went into the kitchen and took a can of beer from the fridge and began to pour it. Her hand shook and she guiltily rubbed away a few drops that splashed on to the quarry-tiled floor with a soft-soled slipper. As she finished, she had another panic attack. Throw away the can immediately or leave it until she had put his glass by the newspaper? Every day brought a series of moments of similar uncertainty, commonplace domestic actions exaggerated into crises. Something inside her knew it was ridiculous, but she stood in the middle of the room, staring at each hand helplessly, unable to decide. As Ewan walked through the kitchen door, the glass shook as she twitched again. He glanced disapprovingly at a fresh scatter of drops on the tiles, then strode past her without a word and she heard him go upstairs. Ursula went back into the living room and put the glass on the table, ready for him when he had changed.

  In its newly polished frame, a wedding photograph on the pine shelves he had built into the wall mocked her with its lost, now almost impossible to believe, image of happiness. Ewan had been the handsomest boy in Medmelton, sleek black hair, features clean cut as a Galahad; slim and vivacious, Ursula had been pursued by him and all his friends. When they became engaged, her mother had said there would be a lot of broken hearts in the village. But fifteen years had tarnished the gloss; passion had lost its fire and become ashes instead of warm embers, the shared anguish of not being able to have children had changed to a sense of inadequacy and incompleteness on her part and resentment on his. He had turned away from her; at first she had been sure he had sublimated it all into running the model shop, now she was convinced there was another woman in Exeter. Lonely and unhappy — Ewan’s mother had never worked and he would not allow his wife to do so — Ursula drank. She was thirty-seven and felt on bad days like the grandmother she would never be; he was forty, body still hard and lean, and could beat men half his age on the squash court. On the now rare occasions they went out together, other women’s faces flashed interest as they nudged their friends, slyly nodding towards him. Not that he ever showed any response. Like Veronica, he had inner control, brother and sister sharing impenetrable, unnerving self-possession.

  ‘It’s coq au vin for supper.’ The sentence spilled out the moment he came back into the living room, not casual information but an offering seeking longed-for approval. See, I am a good wife; I mind my house and care for my husband. An indifferent nod was her token reward as he sat down and opened the newspaper.

  ‘Busy at the shop?’ Now see, I am interested. You won’t let me work there, but I want to be involved.

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘You’re later than normal. Was the traffic bad?’ Now I am concerned about your welfare. Please recognize that.

  ‘Heavier than usual.’ He folded the paper at an article that had caught his attention and picked up the beer. He did not look at her.

  ‘I ... I did the silver.’ Don’t ignore me. I’m your wife.

  ‘Good.’ The absent response sounded as though he was approving of something he was reading rather than what she had done.

  Depressed by his rejection, Ursula went back into the kitchen and began to lay the table. I do my best. I don’t want to be despised. I try not to drink. I want to be valued. I do not want to hate my husband. I want him to talk to me and to listen. I want to be loved by him because I think that I still love him.

  And I don’t know how long I can live with the guilt of what my desperation has driven me to doing.

  *

  ‘I must ring Tess to let her know I arrived in one piece.’ Maltravers said.

  ‘Phone’s in the front room,’ Stephen told him.

  ‘No need. I’ll get my portable from the car.’

  ‘Portable?’ Stephen mocked. ‘Keep it with the Filofax, do you? Never thought you’d become a yuppie.’

  ‘The yuppie is extinct, although there are reports of fossils being dug up in Sloane Square,’ Maltravers replied. ‘And there is no Filofax. I have no wish to live my life in fifteen-minute segments hoping I’ll be famous in one of them. I only have the phone because I won it in a raffle. Took me three weeks to discover how the damn thing works. Back in a minute.’

  He remained outside to make the call, leaning against his car and looking across at St Leonard’s. ‘Having fun?’ he asked.

  ‘Fun?’ Tess repeated cautiously. ‘Not quite the right word. I am incredibly well informed on the life cycle of Pediculus humanus — the human louse to you — and have become neurotic about keeping clean. Tomorrow it’s sex among the tortoises.’

  ‘Does the earth move for them?’

  ‘Yes, but very slowly. How are Stephen and Veronica?’

  ‘Fine, apart from Stephen worrying about his stepdaughter. Some odd things have been happening.’

  ‘Serious odd?’

  ‘They could be.’ Maltravers noticed the grooves he had been told about in the church wall. ‘The trouble with Medmelton is that it’s got more superstitions than can be consumed locally. Even the woman who owns the village shop looks like a witch.’

  ‘She can’t help her looks.’

  ‘True. Anyway, the point is that whatever’s going on is getting to Stephen.’

  ‘Think you can help?’

  ‘I’d like to, but I’m not sure how.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be there soon and you can tell me how you’re getting on. Don’t get turned into a frog in the meantime. Look, I must dash, I’m going out to dinner with some of the production team. Miss you.’

  ‘Miss you too, lady. Take care.’

  They rang off and Maltravers slowly pushed the telephone’s aerial back into place. Tess had been a contrasting voice of normality after an unexpectedly disturbing couple of hours in Medmelton. There could be explanations for what had happened which might be unexpected, even outrageous, but were nothing to do with either the supernatural or an unsolved murder. The fact was that Stephen was simply not thinking straight. If Michelle was responsible for putting a weird collection of things under the Lazarus Tree — and there was no proof of that — it did not automatically follow that it was anything to do with Patrick Gabriel’s death. So she could have done it because ... well, in Medmelton anything appeared possible. According to Stephen, the place was so thick with malevolent enchantment that ... Maltravers slammed home the last inch of the aerial in annoyance. He was holding modern technology in his hand and beginning to think like a medieval peasant. Medmelton could be pinned down on a map, it was part of a local government authority, some MP sought its votes, its church roof probably needed repairing and it was full of people who had overdrafts, collected soap coupons and took holidays on the Costa del Sol. Now somebody was playing games and ... his eyes sharpened as he caught a movement in the churchyard. Michelle was standing with her back to him by the Lazarus Tree. He dropped the telephone on to the passenger seat through the car window, then stepped across the narrow lane and vaulted over the low wall. The girl made no movement as he silently approached on the grass between the tombs.

  ‘Hello.’

  She whirled round and her look shook him. She was not just startled at being disturbed, her face held the fury of a suddenly trapped animal. The expression instantly vanished as she ran her fingers through cropped hair as if needing to make some sort of movement.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. I didn’t know anyone was here.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Minding my own business.’ She stepped away from the tree and kicked a pebble which pinged against a weather-worn gravestone. ‘Nothing wrong with that is there?’

/>   ‘Of course there isn’t,’ Maltravers replied. ‘Are you interested in the churchyard?’

  ‘No.’ The denial was very sharp, and before he could speak again she glanced at him inquiringly. ‘You live in London, don’t you? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Highbury. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Don’t Arsenal play football there or something?’

  ‘Not far away. Do you support them?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘A boy I know at school does. I’m not interested ... is that anywhere near Blackheath?’

  ‘No. That’s the other side of the river. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. What’s it like, living in London?’

  ‘Fine if you like big cities. What’s it like living in Medmelton?’

  ‘Like being dead.’ She kicked another stone, this time to emphasise the statement. ‘I just want to get out. I want to go to London.’

  ‘Perhaps you will one day. When you’re older and ...’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s what everybody says. I’m old enough now.’

  Maltravers surprised her by agreeing. ‘Yes, I rather think you are. But there are boring laws about being under age. You run off, and they’ll drag you back. Pisser, isn’t it?’

  ‘Worse than that.’ Her voice held an echo of the anger he had seen moments earlier. ‘Is dinner ready?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘I’d better get back then.’

  She turned and ran towards Dymlight Cottage, not waiting for him to accompany her. Maltravers watched her leap over the wall with teenage ungainliness and disappear through the garden hedge. Frustration over living in Medmelton was irrelevant; most of her contemporaries in the village would share it. So her interest in London was natural enough — but she had mentioned Blackheath, which was where Patrick Gabriel’s house had been. Stephen said he had seen them talking together, so Gabriel could have mentioned it and it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Except that more than a year after his death, it remained in her mind. And that brought back the disagreeable thought that had come to him in the Raven.

  *

  ‘Thanks.’ Maltravers accepted a pewter tankard of beer that Stephen had filled for him. ‘Tell me more about Sally Baker. Has she remarried?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? She’s an attractive woman.’

  ‘And comfortably off,’ Stephen added. ‘Foreign Office widow’s pension on top of everything her husband left her. But she’s happy enough on her own. Works part-time in Exeter Library and still travels a bit. There’s a married daughter in Scotland she’s always visiting. We’ll invite her for a drink while you’re here.’

  ‘Look forward to meeting her again.’ Maltravers indicated his plate as he looked across at Veronica. ‘This is very good. Traditional Devon recipe?’

  ‘No. Out of a cookery book.’

  ‘Another disappointment,’ he joked gloomily. ‘Friends of mine in the Lake District once served up Lancashire hotpot from a book with all the instructions in French. At this rate, all the English will have left will be fish and chips. And you can’t get them wrapped in newspaper anymore. Although I remember seeing someone eating chips from a story I’d sweated blood on when I was working in Worcester. I felt quite depressed about it.’

  He steered the conversation away from Sally Baker, but had decided that he wanted to talk to her again. Her connection with St Leonard’s meant she must be aware of what had been happening and her knowledge of the village might shed some light on what were becoming increasingly dark corners.

  Michelle went out again as soon as the meal was over, and chat, half-watched television and a few drinks filled the remainder of the evening for the rest of them. She returned about ten o’clock, vague about where she had been and what she had been doing; Veronica appeared indifferent and cautious inquiries from Stephen were dismissed or ignored before she went to bed. They stayed downstairs talking, and it was nearly midnight before Maltravers turned off his bedside light. Contrasting with the familiar traffic noises subconsciously heard and ignored through the night in London, Medmelton was filled with hollow country quietness. The bed was a maddening two inches shorter than his six-foot frame, and he lay awake in discomfort, during which time he discovered that the silence outside was constantly punctuated by tiny high-pitched squeaks, translated by imagination into a terrified slaughter of small creatures. And the house creaked ... and the beer had reached his bladder.

  His bare feet made no sound on the landing carpet as he went to the bathroom; a strip of light gleamed at the bottom of Michelle’s closed bedroom door and as he passed he could hear her speaking. Did she have a phone in her room and was she having a late-night chat? No, there was something about her voice, not conversation with natural pauses, but controlled and deliberate as if reciting a mantra. He held his ear close to the door, straining to hear. The voice rose and fell, only fragments of what she was saying audible.

  ‘... us suffer eternal judge ... ears merciful ... justly art sins ... for seek we may ...’ Maltravers leant closer as her voice dropped again, then, ‘... born is that man.’

  There was no more, and moments later the light went out. Maltravers quietly returned to his room. Using the lavatory would have to wait until he could be sure she was asleep and unaware that someone might have heard. Switching his own light on, he found his diary and wrote down what he had caught, then underlined ‘eternal’, ‘merciful’ and ‘justly art’. Too antique for Michelle’s everyday vocabulary, so she had been quoting something. The rhythm had been wrong for poetry circa the sixteenth century being committed to memory for homework, but that had been its flavour. Maltravers was hazy on prose from that period except for the King James Bible or Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer, which he read for glowing language rather than theology. If it was from either of those, he did not recognise it — and they were not what he would have expected Michelle to read aloud in bed. Stephen would know what she was studying in English which might provide a clue, but Maltravers remembered the tone of her voice. Deliberate, demanding ... and sinister? Or was that just the after-effect of mysterious little noises in the night?

  *

  Michelle was also still awake, uncurtained windows admitting the light of September’s last moon. She felt as she always did after doing something childish, annoyed that her knowingness could still fall victim to games in which excitement temporarily masked their stupidity. So why did she play them? Not because she shouldn’t. There had been endless things she had done which were like that. She could even remember the occasion when she had first lied as a little girl. It hadn’t been an important lie, but after she had told it she had been aware of the realisation that the instinct always to tell Granny the truth could be ignored. Other children could no more recall that moment in their lives than they could remember taking their first steps, but Michelle did and it had been an important moment in discovering the secretive and special side of herself. She had Medmelton eyes reversed, there were things about her that nobody in the whole world knew; she was different. So perhaps they weren’t childish games after all, perhaps she was the only one with the ability to play them. And that was exciting.

  FIVE

  Monday morning school regulation grey pleated skirt covering her knees, plain blue blouse, white ankle socks and flat black shoes gave Michelle the air of a sullen captive in prison uniform. Her conversation was reduced to monosyllables, her resentment tangible; she followed Stephen out to the car like an animal temporarily tamed to obedience but liable to turn wild again without warning. Her mother and stepfather treated her behaviour as normal, overriding sulky protests, going through a regular litany over the contents of her schoolbag, dinner money and PE kit. Maltravers’s goodbye was not even acknowledged with a grunt.

  ‘How’s she doing at school?’ he asked when he and Veronica were alone.

  ‘Well enough when she tries. It’s just a matter of keeping on at her. I was the same at her age.’

&nbs
p; Maltravers reflected how little he knew about Veronica’s past. She had taken a polytechnic catch-all sociology course before briefly working in a local authority social services department. She had been twenty-two when Michelle was born and after that had lived with, and presumably been supported by, her parents; if there had been any financial help from Michelle’s father, it had never been admitted. When Stephen had met her, she had just begun her part-time job with a community youth project in Exeter. She revealed nothing about her experiences, people she had known, things she had done, presenting an image as basic as the bare essentials on a business card. Maltravers knew other people like that and they were as humdrum as they appeared. But with Veronica there was the sense of a real face behind the mask, scarred by experiences, passions and hurts. Her self-containment could be uncomfortable and was always uncompromising. Gentle probing brought deflection, anything stronger and the barriers came down. It was a quality she had passed on intact to her daughter.

  ‘When do you have to leave for work?’ he asked.