by Kate Charles
The thought filled him with utter horror, but he replied politely, ‘I’m sure I could manage, if you wanted to bring them.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘This time I’d have a proper guest room to offer you, Gabriel.’
‘Oh, have you been before, darling? I hadn’t realised.’
Gabriel shot him a warning look. ‘Yes, once,’ he said lightly. ‘Twelve or thirteen years ago – I’m surprised I’ve never mentioned it to you.’
David addressed himself to Emily, enjoying Gabriel’s discomfiture in spite of himself. ‘He was a great hit with my parents. My mother thought he was quite the nicest young man she’d ever met. She always hoped he’d come back one day; in fact, after my father died, she had his room converted into a guest room, just in case “that lovely young clergyman” came again.’
‘And you never went. Gabriel, that was very naughty of you. And now your poor mother’s dead,’ she went on with feeling. ‘David, I am sorry. How long has it been?’
‘Almost two months.’ David hated facile sympathy, but Emily’s warmth nearly brought tears to his eyes. He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Do you usually have a bigger congregation than that for your weekday Masses? Or is that the norm?’
‘Generally a few more than that, but the weather does discourage some people. We’ve got quite an elderly congregation, by and large, and a lot of them don’t like to come out when it’s wet.’
‘Who was there?’ Emily asked with interest.
‘A most peculiar old woman,’ David stated. ‘She kept swapping seats.’
‘Beryl Ball,’ Emily laughed. ‘She has to make sure she has the best view of Gabriel.’
Gabriel nodded. ‘Lady Constance, of course. She’s invited David and Daphne to supper on Monday.’
‘My, but you’re the honoured one! I shall want to hear all about it. You must remember everything she serves so you can tell me.’
‘I’ll try.’
Gabriel continued, ‘Aside from that, it was only the Dawsons. And Venerable serving, of course.’
They chatted back and forth, amiably, about church affairs; David stopped listening and became involved in his own thoughts. Seeing Gabe in this cosy domestic situation was infinitely more painful than the scenario he had imagined, the ‘marriage of convenience’ he had so desperately wanted to believe in. But confused as his emotions were, and unsure as he was about Gabe’s true feelings, two things were clear to him: she doesn’t know – not about Gabe and me, not about any of it; and, she really loves him. Crazy as it seemed, and with no real basis – he still had no idea why Gabe had sent for him – he suddenly found himself terrified for Emily.
He looked down and discovered that although he’d had no appetite, he had, in his abstraction, eaten every bite of his breakfast. ‘Would you like some more?’ Emily was asking. ‘No?’ She jumped up. ‘Then I’ll leave you two old mates to talk about past times. I’ve got cakes to bake – the fête is a week today, you know!’
CHAPTER 9
I will acknowledge my sin unto thee: and mine unrighteousness have I not hid.
I said, I will confess my sins unto the Lord: and so thou forgavest the wickedness of my sin.
Psalm 32.5–6
Gabriel ushered David into his study and into the most comfortable chair; he himself sat in the swivel chair at his desk. There followed a few seconds of uncomfortable silence as Gabriel, face averted, fingered first the paperweight and then the silver-framed photograph. ‘Here are the twins,’ he said abruptly, handing the photo to David.
‘You have a lovely family, Gabriel,’ David stated gravely and without a hint of irony. He was wary, expecting anything and prepared for nothing.
Gabriel hesitated. ‘What . . . do you think of Emily?’
‘I think she’s lovely,’ was the sincere reply.
Gabriel’s relief was visible. ‘I’d always hoped that you and Emily could be friends,’ he said awkwardly, looking out of the window. ‘Perhaps it’s not too late.’
Yes, David reflected, why not? He and Emily had a lot in common. They both loved the same man. The only difference between them was that Emily had Gabe, and he had . . . his memories. His mouth twisted bitterly at the cliché, so true and so uncomforting.
Gabriel turned back towards him. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your mother, David. Please accept my sincere sympathy on your loss.’
The formal words, so devoid of real feeling, ignited a small spark of anger on his mother’s behalf. It wasn’t just him that Gabriel had deserted. This man had deliberately charmed his mother, won her over completely, and then abandoned her for the rest of her life. For the last thirteen years she’d been comparing him, David, unfavourably with the absent Gabriel, and blaming him somehow for Gabriel’s failure to return. ‘She asked for you on her deathbed,’ he said softly. ‘She could never understand why you didn’t come back as you’d promised.’
Gabriel looked away again. ‘Then she never knew . . . about us?’
‘No, of course not.’ He gave a short, dry laugh. ‘Not that she wouldn’t have believed me capable of any depravity under the sun. But not the blameless Gabriel. Funny, isn’t it? When I didn’t even know . . . what I was . . . until I met you?’
Gabriel made no reply; he clenched his fist around the paperweight and gazed out of the window. David looked at his exquisite profile and the words were wrenched out of him without his volition, words so heavy with pain that Gabriel flinched visibly. ‘There’s never been anyone but you, Gabe. Never.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘What do you want to talk about, then? What am I doing here? Why did you send for me?’
Faced with the uncomfortable reality of David, Gabriel wondered about that himself. Was there any chance that David could actually do anything to help? Sending for him had been little more than grasping at straws: he realised that now. But it was too late to turn back.
Gabriel took a deep breath and turned to face him. ‘It was an impulse, really. I just didn’t know where else to turn.’
‘But what’s the problem? And how can I help?’
‘I’ve had a letter – a threatening letter. I suppose you’d even call it a blackmail letter, though it doesn’t ask for money. And I thought . . . well, I suppose I thought perhaps you could help me find out who wrote it,’ he finished lamely.
‘How? I’m not a detective or a policeman. I’m only a humble country solicitor.’
‘But people talk to you, don’t they? It’s one of your great gifts – the ability to get along with so many different sorts of people, and to make them say things they wouldn’t ordinarily say. That was my idea, I suppose: that you could go around and talk to people in the church, and see if you could work out who sent it. Anyway,’ he added, ‘when you’ve seen the letter, you’ll understand why I couldn’t possibly show it to anyone else.’
‘How do you know that it was written by someone in the church?’
‘It must have been. I don’t see how it could be anyone else.’
‘Can I see the letter? I’m not promising anything, but if it will make you feel better to let me have a look at it . . .’
Gabriel released the catch of the secret drawer, as he’d done so many times in solitude during the past few days, drew out the folded paper and handed it to David, then sat impassively as he read the typed lines in silence. Gabriel knew the ugly words off by heart.
I know about Peter Maitland, and what you did to him. You are responsible for his death, as surely as if you had killed him yourself. You are a disgrace to your sacred calling, and have brought dishonour on yourself, the Church of England, and St Anne’s. If you do not resign your living and leave the priesthood by the Feast of the Assumption, I will see that your wife, the Bishop, and the national newspapers know about Peter Maitland and how he died.
David read it through several times and still the words made no sense to him. Peter Maitland. The name meant nothing at all. Peter Maitland. Dead? What did it all mean? He raised
puzzled eyes to Gabriel’s still face. ‘Peter Maitland? Who is . . . was . . . he?’
Gabriel hardly knew how to explain. Things had always been so simple for David, he thought. His approach to life and love had been very uncomplicated: he had loved Gabriel, and that was all there was to it. He had never been able to – would never be able to – understand Gabriel’s more complex needs, never be able to understand that his love for David had represented only a part of his nature, and that there was another side of him that had needed something else. David wouldn’t understand about Peter, any more than he understood about Emily. He would have to be as factual as possible, remove the emotional content from the story he was about to tell.
And so Gabriel’s voice was entirely matter-of-fact as he related the story; he might have been reading Emily’s grocery list for all the emotion he displayed. ‘He was a boy I knew in Brighton. You never knew him. I met him . . . well, it doesn’t really matter how I met him. He was young, inexperienced – but he pursued me – he thought he was in love with me. Maybe he was. I thought it was a lark. Things were . . . well, things had got a little stale, a little predictable . . . between you and me, and I was ready for a bit of excitement. It was fine at first. I was intrigued by him – he was very beautiful, very eager. But he didn’t know how to handle it. He wanted more and more. He didn’t understand that making love to him was . . . fun, but it just wasn’t that important to me. I was afraid that he might become indiscreet. I told him I wouldn’t see him again. He wrote to me, asked me to meet him on the beach one night. He said if I didn’t come he’d kill himself. I didn’t go. I thought he was just being dramatic to get my attention. Two days later his body was washed up. I read about it in the newspaper. There were no signs of foul play, as they say, and the inquest recorded a verdict of accidental death. My name was never mentioned. I knew it wasn’t my responsibility – it was his own choice. I was guilty of bad judgement and foolish behaviour, nothing more. But it hit me pretty hard, I don’t mind telling you, and I wanted to get away, to have a fresh start. I pulled every string I could to get out of Brighton. My spiritual director . . . well, I was lucky enough to get the living of St Anne’s very quickly. So I came here, I met Emily. I started again. There’s no point in living in the past, David.’
David remembered reading somewhere that men who have limbs blown off in battle don’t feel a thing at the time; the only way for the body to cope with such intense, immediate pain is to postpone it. With great detachment, he thought that the mind must be the same. He heard Gabriel’s terse words, he understood their meaning perfectly well, and yet . . . Later on this is going to hurt, he realised. Later on, when I’ve absorbed it, I will wish I were dead.
He had no consciousness of speaking; he heard his own voice from far off as though it were coming from another room. ‘Emily. What does she say about this?’
Gabriel’s face and voice finally registered emotion. ‘Good Lord, David! How could you even imagine that she could know about it? She just couldn’t cope with it!’
What about me? thought David. ‘Then how do you propose to explain to her what I’m doing? My going about asking questions won’t work if people know that I know you. Emily knows that we’re friends – what’s to stop her telling the whole parish?’
‘I’ll have a word with her – that won’t be a problem. Emily can be very discreet.’
‘I can see you’ve made a good choice for your wife.’ David closed his eyes briefly, then continued, ‘There’s not much time. The Feast of the Assumption is only two and a half weeks away. Do you have any idea who might have written the letter?’
Frowning, Gabriel replied slowly, ‘I haven’t thought about much else all week. And I’m at a total loss. First of all, there’s the question of motive. Who could hate me that much, and why?’
‘And?’
‘I just can’t think. That’s where you come in, really. Maybe you can catch someone in an unguarded moment.’
‘But that’s not the only question, is it?’
‘No, and this is the real problem.’ Gabriel spread his hands, palms up. ‘You see, until a few minutes ago, I have never told a living soul about Peter Maitland. Who could possibly know?’
*
After David had gone, Gabriel sat for a very long time, looking out of the window. Eventually there was a tap on the door.
‘Oh, David’s gone, has he? I was going to offer you some coffee.’ Emily entered the study, encircled her husband with her arms, and laid her cheek on the top of his head. He pulled her on to his lap and kissed her, lightly at first but with increasing urgency; presently he murmured, ‘Forget the coffee, my love. Let’s go upstairs.’
CHAPTER 10
For it was not an open enemy, that hath done me this dishonour: for then I could have borne it.
Neither was it mine adversary, that did magnify himself against me: for then peradventure I would have hid myself from him.
But it was even thou, my companion: my guide, and mine own familiar friend.
We took sweet counsel together: and walked in the house of God as friends.
Psalm 55.12–15
David had left his umbrella at the vicarage, but he was oblivious to the soft rain which fell as he walked blindly through Kensington Gardens. There were many more people about than there had been earlier that morning, in spite of the weather; however, no one gave a second look at the solitary man, hands jammed in his pockets, who walked back and forth, up and down. At one point the thought crossed his mind that Daphne might be wondering where he was, might have breakfast – or lunch – waiting for him. But he knew also that Daphne would never ask questions, and so he walked on.
After a while, he left the park and wandered instead through the streets of Bayswater, up the main roads through bustling crowds of people, past greengrocers and gourmet delicatessens, antique shops and wine merchants, fast-food take-aways and pizzerias, and then around the back streets, past row upon row of terraced houses, bleak in the rain. Ordinarily he would have taken a great interest in the multi-faceted personality of London, but today he was completely unaware of his surroundings.
Without conscious thought, he found himself eventually back in front of St Anne’s for the second time that morning. After a moment’s hesitation he went in, realising suddenly that he was quite wet. The church seemed empty, though someone was playing the organ softly; David thought the piece sounded like Messiaen. A lingering scent of incense mingled with the smell of fresh flowers and the lemony tang of furniture polish. With no sunlight to illuminate them, the stained-glass windows looked muddy, the faces lifeless. But a spotlight on the rood screen emphasised its rich colours while casting distorted shadows high up on the chancel wall of the crucifix, with its limp tortured figure, and the mutely agonised postures of Our Lady and St John. David genuflected to the altar and the flickering Sacrament lamp, then crossed into the Lady Chapel. He automatically went to the votive rack, felt in his pocket for a coin, and lit a candle for his mother. She wouldn’t have approved of such popish nonsense, he knew, but it made him feel better to have done it.
When he turned around at last, he discovered with a start that he wasn’t alone in the chapel. A sharp-featured woman with drab grey hair was looking critically at a half-finished flower arrangement on a large pedestal. She added another spray of greenery with a stabbing motion of ill-concealed hostility. David would have fled, but she caught his retreat out of the corner of her eye and turned to speak to him. ‘It’s no good, is it?’ she demanded.
‘It looks just fine to me. Of course, I’m not much of a judge,’ he replied diplomatically. ‘What seems to be the matter with it?’
‘I just don’t have enough flowers. The Vicar’s wife was supposed to bring in some from the vicarage garden, and help with the arranging, I might add, but she hasn’t shown up!’
David felt absurdly defensive on Emily’s behalf. ‘I’m sure there must be a good reason,’ he offered. ‘Perhaps some emergency . . .’
> The woman snorted dismissively. ‘This younger generation just has no sense of responsibility. As my Arthur says, a man’s word should be his bond. If you say you’re going to do something, you must do it.’
David, seeing that this conversation was leading nowhere, said, ‘Well, I think the flowers look fine,’ and made his escape towards the stairs down to the crypt chapel. But before he’d reached his goal, an absurdly tall, thin man with enormous round gold-rimmed spectacles came hurtling towards him from across the chancel. ‘I say, you don’t have a fag on you, do you?’ the man accosted him fiercely.
‘I beg your pardon?’ David replied, startled.
‘A fag!’ the man repeated, a little more loudly, as though David were deaf.
‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.’
‘Damn. My wife must have pinched mine from my jacket pocket, and I’m absolutely gasping for a smoke!’ The man, towering above him, flung out his arms in a massive gesture of despair. ‘Wives!’ he groaned dramatically. ‘Are you married?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, if you’re smart you’ll keep it that way. They’re more trouble than they’re worth!’ And with that the man turned and sprinted back across the chancel; shortly the tones of the organ were once again heard.
David stared after him for a moment, bemused, then went down the steps to the crypt. The sound of the organ faded gradually as he descended, and when he reached the chapel he felt a welcome solitude surrounding him in the blue and gold silence. The gilded angels on the riddel posts of the altar, and the serene saints in their niches, were his only companions. He knelt.
For a long time his mind remained mercifully blank, empty of thought and empty of emotion. But suddenly, blindingly, it was all there. All the knowledge, all the pain that his mind had been suppressing in the hours – how many? – since this morning. As he replayed in his head all that Gabriel had said, the terse sentences exploded one by one like fireworks in his mind, illuminating corners that had been dark for over ten years. It explained everything. Why had he been so blind at the time? Why had he not sensed Gabe’s boredom with their relationship, understood his need for excitement? How had he failed to read all the signs? It must have been his inexperience, his natural inclination to take people at face value, his belief in the uniqueness and completeness of their love – for both of them. All the pieces fell into place; the inexplicable was explained. Gabe’s absences, his excuses, his gradual withdrawal. Those few terrifying weeks of alienation and silence, and then . . . Gabe was gone. Practically overnight, gone from his life with scarcely a word; the first communication he’d had from him had been the wedding invitation, a few months later. All these years he’d lived with the fear that it was his fault somehow, that he’d failed Gabe, hadn’t loved him enough, and now . . . was he free of blame? If he’d understood Gabe half as well as he’d loved him, would all this have been prevented? ‘There’s no point in living in the past, David.’