by Kate Charles
‘How do you . . . well, don’t you hate living alone?’ David blurted.
‘Well, I’m used to it,’ she replied candidly, pausing at the foot of the stairs and looking up at him. ‘And, after all, what choice do I have? It’s just one of those things.’ She laughed and added without a trace of self-pity, ‘You know what they say, and I’m afraid it’s true: by the time you get to my age, all the good blokes are either married or gay.’ Pushing back her hair, she went on, ‘But I’ll tell you what I do hate, and that’s eating alone. If you don’t have any plans for this evening, David, how about doing a lonely spinster a favour and staying for a meal?’
‘I’d love to,’ he replied instantly.
‘It won’t be anything special,’ she warned. ‘Just whatever I’ve got on hand.’
‘You can’t talk me out of it that easily.’
‘Good.’ She led him into the kitchen at the back of the house. It had been extended and fitted to her specifications. He looked around, impressed once again.
‘It will be a privilege to watch you at work in this place. You will let me watch, won’t you?’
‘You do talk rubbish sometimes, David.’ She laughed affectionately. ‘You won’t be watching, you’ll be helping.’
CHAPTER 17
The ungodly borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous is merciful, and liberal.
Psalm 37.21
Mavis Conwell fitted the large key into the sacristy door and turned it with great care. No one was in the church at that time on a Thursday evening, she knew, but you couldn’t be too careful. There was enough illumination coming in the window so that she could avoid turning on a light. She shut the door behind her and locked it with the key, then located the key to the safe on its concealed hook in the vestment cupboard. From the safe she drew out the large, heavy ledger book, bound in blue cloth, and carried it over to the desk in the corner.
She turned rapidly through its pages until she reached the entries she was looking for. Very deliberately, she took a small penknife from her pocket and neatly slid it down the full length of the page. There! You could scarcely tell that a page was missing. She folded the page up and put it in her pocket along with the knife, before repeating her steps in reverse. The whole operation had taken less than five minutes.
The wine was unashamed plonk, but it tasted good, and the food was delicious. Lucy, with a little help from David, had concocted a pasta dish with browned butter and feta cheese, and a big leafy salad. Served with fresh French bread and plenty of sweet butter, and followed by fruit and cheese, it was a filling and satisfying meal. They talked and laughed without a pause through the preparation and consumption of it, then returned to the sitting room with their coffee.
David was amazed to realise that the subject of St Anne’s had scarcely come up. ‘Emily tells me that you manage to keep your distance from St Anne’s,’ he began.
‘Yes, well, the Angel Gabriel manages to run it pretty well without my help,’ she replied.
There was something in her tone of voice that piqued his interest. He looked at her guarded expression with curiosity. ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’
She shrugged, not bothering to deny it. ‘No, not especially.’
‘Why not?’
‘Emily is my best friend. She worships the ground he walks on. I think he’s a . . . well, I won’t say it.’
David was intrigued. Was it possible that Lucy was one of those women who cherished an unrequited passion for the Vicar? Somehow he couldn’t imagine it. ‘But why?’
She shrugged again. ‘For one thing, there’s something . . . unsettling . . . about a man of forty who only looks half his age, don’t you think?’
‘That’s hardly a reason to dislike him, Lucy. I wish I looked half as good as he does.’
She looked at him in the darkening room. ‘I don’t know why you always put yourself down,’ she said shortly. She liked his air of maturity, the nice lines at the sides of his eyes when he smiled, the hint of grey in his hair. ‘I like the way you look.’
He leaned over and switched on a light to cover his embarrassment. ‘Father Gabriel,’ he pursued. ‘He . . . treats Emily well, doesn’t he?’
‘As well as a clergyman ever treats his wife, I suppose. I know that I’d never want to be married to one. I saw what it did to my mother, and I know how hard it is on Emily to share her husband with every lunatic in the parish.’
‘But she doesn’t seem to mind.’
‘She minds, all right. Do you have any idea what she gave up to become Mrs Gabriel Neville?’
He was puzzled. ‘No. She was quite young when they married, wasn’t she?’
‘She was twenty-one, and had just taken a first-class degree at Cambridge. She’d been offered a research fellowship to go on and take her doctorate. But the Angel Gabriel put an end to that.’
‘Surely it was her decision?’
‘But she was madly in love with him, and he didn’t want to wait. They were married within six months.’
He was silent, remembering.
‘And then, after she lost the first baby . . .’ An involuntary noise from David stopped her and she looked sharply at him. ‘Oh, you didn’t know about that? I shouldn’t talk about it, then.’
‘Please,’ he urged. ‘I want to know.’
‘The year after they were married. She carried it nearly to full term, then something happened. Well, she’s so small, you see. Narrow-hipped – she’s built almost like a boy.’
He wished that she hadn’t put it quite like that.
Lucy’s voice was full of pain for her friend. ‘The doctors said that she’d never be able to carry a baby to term. They said it could kill her to try. But she was determined to give Gabriel a child. We talked about it often. She wanted children too, of course. But I think that she felt she had failed him, and that somehow she owed it to him.’
‘And?’ He was almost afraid to speak.
‘A couple of years later she became pregnant again. They found out very early that it was twins. The doctors wanted to terminate the pregnancy. They said her chances of surviving and giving birth to two healthy children were . . . well. She was determined, as I said. She spent almost the entire nine months flat on her back. She was absolutely huge – you can just imagine. I’ll give Gabriel credit – he brought in the best specialists that money could buy, and she came through it all right in the end. She nearly died, but she gave Gabriel his children, his precious Neville heirs.’ The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable.
‘I see.’ He paused. ‘I had no idea.’
‘No, most people don’t. She doesn’t talk about it.’ She refilled his coffee cup from the cafetière and forced a smile. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about something more cheerful. Any suggestions?’
‘Well, I’m curious to know what you do with yourself on a Sunday, if you don’t go to church? It’s very difficult for me to imagine Sunday without it.’
She laughed more naturally. ‘That’s what I used to think, till I discovered a big wide world out there, outside the four walls of a church.’ She looked at him as an idea occurred to her. ‘I’ll tell you what. If you want to know what I do on Sunday, why don’t you join me this week?’
‘Give me a hint what it is before I commit myself,’ he said with a smile.
‘Well, first of all, I go out for breakfast.’ At his shocked look she went on, ‘Yes, I know that’s terribly decadent, but there’s nothing quite like eating eggs that you haven’t cooked yourself! Later, I go and spend most of the afternoon at the V & A, mainly sketching. I usually take along a sandwich or something, and when I get hungry I take a break. If the weather’s nice I eat it in Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park and have a little walkabout then go back to the V & A. When it closes I come home, and fix myself a nice supper.’
‘You’ve talked me into it,’ he affirmed. ‘It never hurts to see how the other half lives . . .’
Walking back to Daphne’s late that evening, David�
�s route took him past the vicarage. He saw a light on in Gabriel’s study, and on impulse he went up and looked in; Gabriel was writing at his desk. David tapped on the window. Gabriel looked up in surprise, then gestured towards the front door.
He opened the door quickly and quietly. ‘Emily’s gone to bed early – a bit of a headache, I think. Come in, if you like.’
David was suddenly awkward. ‘No, that’s all right. I didn’t mean to bother you. I was just passing by, and thought . . .’
‘No bother at all. Come in and have a drink. We haven’t really talked all week. I’m afraid I’ve been very busy this week . . .’
David followed him into the drawing room, bemused. Gabriel was behaving more naturally towards him than he had since his arrival; he didn’t quite know how to react.
‘Have a seat, David. Whisky? Or something else?’
‘Whisky is fine.’
Gabriel took two glasses and a decanter out of a cupboard and poured generous measures. ‘Here, David. Well, here’s to . . . whatever.’
He almost said ‘old times’, David thought. Not a good idea. He acknowledged the toast with a nod.
‘Well, what have you been up to this week? Meeting lots of people?’
‘Yes, I’ve met quite a few.’ In a half-conscious gesture of something, he wasn’t sure what, he added, ‘I’ve spent this afternoon and evening with Lucy Kingsley.’
Gabriel nodded approvingly. ‘How nice. She’s a very charming woman.’
‘Yes, I like her very much. She’s very fond of Emily,’ he added.
‘I believe so.’
There was a short silence. ‘Do you know anything about . . . well, have there been a lot of men in her life?’ David asked, hesitating, not sure himself why he was asking.
Gabriel considered the question. ‘I’m not really sure. You’d have to ask Emily. Wait, I remember there was one, quite a few years ago. I think he was actually living with her. And then, a couple of years ago, there was another one. That one was serious too, I think. She brought him round to dinner here one evening. Nice chap, I thought.’
‘But what happened to him?’
Gabriel looked at him blankly. ‘I have no idea. I don’t think I ever saw him again after that. Emily would know.’
A fine pastor to his flock he is, was David’s quickly stifled disloyal thought.
‘Why do you want to know?’ Gabriel asked.
‘Oh, I just . . . wondered. She seems . . . oh, I don’t know. Vulnerable, but wary.’
‘Well, Lucy Kingsley surely wouldn’t be any help when it comes to finding out about . . . the blackmail letter,’ Gabriel stated.
Of course. The letter. Peter Maitland. No wonder Gabriel wanted to talk – no wonder he was interested in what he’d been doing.
‘Have you found out anything at all?’ Gabriel pursued.
‘Very little that sheds any light, I’m afraid. I’ve talked to a lot of people. And the only person I’ve found who has any reason to dislike you at all seems to be Cyril Fitzjames, for pinching the woman he wanted.’ And Lucy Kingsley, for the way you’ve treated that woman, he refrained from adding.
‘Cyril,’ Gabriel sneered dismissively. ‘He hardly seems a likely blackmailer, does he?’
‘Not at all. But . . . well, I’ve been thinking. So far I’ve got nowhere in trying to find a motive. So I need to concentrate on the other angle. Who could have found out about Peter Maitland?’ He deliberately kept his voice neutral, treating it as an abstract problem.
‘No one. I told you –’
‘Don’t be silly, Gabriel,’ he cut him short. ‘It’s obvious that someone has. If you didn’t tell anyone, then Peter must have.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But who . . .’
David came to an instant decision. ‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out, one way or another. There’s less than a fortnight left. Tomorrow I shall go to Brighton.’
CHAPTER 18
Yet do I remember the time past; I muse upon all thy works: yea, I exercise myself in the works of thy hands.
Psalm 143.5
Friday morning dawned clear and bright, with the promise of very warm temperatures. Forgoing early Mass yet again, David climbed in the brown Morris and set off for Brighton. Very soon he began to regret his lack of planning; the first truly summer-like day of the school holidays had brought sun-seeking families out in their thousands, and the roads were jammed with cars. Even before he cleared the London traffic, he realised that he should have taken the train. From Victoria he could have been in Brighton in under an hour and a half. At this rate he would be lucky to be there in three hours.
Telling himself that it did him no good to fret and raise his blood pressure, David tried to remain calm in the crawling queue of cars that stretched the entire length of the A23.
For the first hour or so out of London, he thought about the previous day’s visit with Lucy Kingsley, replaying in his mind the conversations they’d had and trying to recapture the sense of peace he’d felt in her presence. But the nearer he got to Brighton, the more inevitably his thoughts turned to Gabe; unwillingly, he found himself remembering their time there together. This was getting him nowhere, he decided. He forced himself to consider the problem which was the reason for his journey. He must think about it objectively, as having nothing to do with himself, nothing to do with Gabe. It was about a boy who’d died, that was all. An unfortunate incident. A tragic accident. A mystery to be solved.
If he were a young boy in that situation . . . whom would he tell? In whom would he confide about the man he’d fallen in love with? He’d never found out how old the boy was. Still in school, perhaps. Would he possibly tell a trusted teacher? That wouldn’t be impossible, especially if he were a bit disturbed. What teachers did David know at St Anne’s? Daphne. Well, that was pretty ridiculous. Tony Kent. He wasn’t old enough – he was probably, in fact, about the same age as Peter Maitland would have been. He wasn’t sure about anyone else.
Friends? He wouldn’t know where to begin to look. Gabriel had been very vague about the circumstances of meeting Peter. He claimed that he couldn’t really remember where they’d met or how they’d become acquainted. David didn’t deceive himself that Gabriel was trying to spare his feelings – he was probably just blocking a memory that had painful associations.
This trip to Brighton had been an impulse, and not a very well-thought-out one. What could he possibly hope to discover, with only a few hours, and nothing to go on? His mood was approaching despair by the time he arrived, faced with the prospect of searching for a place to park. But luck was finally with him: as he drove along the sea-front, a family with several children, sticky with Brighton rock and candyfloss, piled into their car and pulled out of their parking space.
He hadn’t been back to Brighton since . . . then. Not since his father died. There had been no reason to come back. There was his friend Graham, a colleague from work, who still lived in a Brighton suburb with his wife and family. But he and Graham had never been that close. They’d often had lunch together, and had shared an occasional drink after work; he’d enjoyed Graham’s company, but they didn’t have that much in common. Now they kept in touch only with annual Christmas cards. On an impulse, he thought that he might look Graham up later on, when he’d got something to go on. If he needed any sleuthing done on a local level, Graham would be very keen to help. And Graham had never met Gabe, so no awkward explanations would be necessary.
He got out of the car and walked aimlessly for a while along the beach. He scarcely noticed the thousands of people who jealously guarded their small rocky patches of ground, their pale white flesh exposed to the relentless sun. He wished it were raining. In his memories of Brighton, his memories of Gabe, it was always a day like this, a day bright with sunshine, and alive with joy. The summertime scent of Brighton – the tang of the salt air, the sickly sweet smell of candyfloss, all the mingled odours of hot bodies and sun-tan lotion – evoked such powerful memories. And the sme
ll of fish and chips, redolent with vinegar. He realised that it was past lunch-time and he was hungry, and he turned his steps automatically towards his favourite fish and chip shop. Yes, it was still there, still serving steaming paper cones of succulent freshly caught fish with thick greasy chips. He ordered a large portion and ate it greedily, sitting on the beach.
The library, he decided. When in doubt, go to the library. It was a good place to start.
It took him a moment to orient himself. The library had entered the modern age, with computer terminals where ranks of card files had once stood. But eventually he located the periodicals department, still where it used to be, and found the newspaper archives, where back issues of the Brighton Beacon were stored on microfilm; Gabe had said that he’d read about the death in the newspaper. David thought for a moment. He didn’t actually know the date when Peter Maitland had died, but he would be able to get pretty close by reconstructing his own painful memories of that time. Damn Gabe, he thought. He could have at least told me the date. And, of course, he hadn’t thought to ask.
Spring, ten years ago. He’d start with April and see what he could find. He located the spool and wound it on to the cumbersome machine. It was like entering a time-warp. The events recorded on these newspaper pages were things that he remembered, practically his last memories of Brighton. He was fascinated, and, absorbed in the past, nearly forgot what he was looking for. He found it almost by accident – a small paragraph, tucked on a back page. ‘Body Found on Beach’. His heart jumped; he read and re-read the brief account.
A body, identified as Peter Maitland, aged eighteen, was discovered early Monday morning on the beach to the east of the town. Maitland had been reported missing on Saturday. The body had been in the water for some time, and drowning appears the probable cause of death. There were no signs of foul play. An inquest will be held after a post-mortem examination has been completed.
Until he saw the words, even on this distorted screen, David had believed somehow that it was all a terrible mistake, a bad joke. There was not, had never been, a Peter Maitland, and those unthinkable things that Gabe had said were not true. Now his mind had to accept it. Peter Maitland had lived, had died. Gabe had been involved. No matter how strongly he tried to deny responsibility, he had been involved. And someone had found out.