by Kate Charles
He continued to scan the newspaper pages, one after another. A fortnight after the initial account, the results of the inquest rated a brief mention.
An inquest has been held into the death of Peter Maitland, aged eighteen. Maitland’s drowned body was found washed up on Brighton beach in the early hours of the morning on 7 April. The post-mortem examination revealed no evidence of foul play, and Maitland’s room-mate testified that no suicide note was found. Verdict: accidental death.
Accidental death. David rewound the microfilm, replaced it carefully in its drawer, and went out for a cup of tea. The afternoon was getting on; his labours over the microfilm machine had taken longer than he’d realised.
Death notice, he thought suddenly. He hadn’t even looked on the obit pages. If Peter Maitland was anybody at all, there should be a death notice. He quickly paid for his tea and returned to the library. It was nearly closing time, but he might just about manage. He relocated the reel of microfilm and turned the handle rapidly. April. Nothing on the 7th, of course, and nothing on the 8th. The 10th – there it was.
Maitland, Peter. Suddenly on 5 April, in his nineteenth year. Beloved son of Susan and George Maitland of Croydon. Funeral will be held at 10 a.m. on Monday, 14 April, at St Mary’s Church, Croydon. No flowers please. Memorial gifts to the Selby Cathedral School’s chorister fund. ‘His voice will be heard in heaven.’
For a long moment, David stared at the words. Selby Cathedral. Chorister. My God.
The librarian came by with a pleasant smile. ‘We’ll be closing in five minutes, sir. If you don’t mind finishing up . . .’
He shook himself out of his trance. ‘Is it possible to get copies from the microfilms?’
‘Certainly, sir. I’ll just pop it on this machine for you. If you’ll show me what you want copied . . .’
Ten minutes later he returned to the car, photocopies of the three pieces in his pocket. As he went by a phone box he fleetingly considered ringing Gabriel, but his aversion to the telephone overcame his desire to share his incredible find. If all went well, he could be back in London in a couple of hours, with plenty of time to see Gabriel tonight.
All did not go well. The thousands of cars which had rushed, lemming-like, to the seaside that morning were wending their way back to London that night. Near Crawley, there were major roadworks in progress, bringing the northbound traffic nearly to a complete halt. David drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel in frustration, but to no avail. It was well past midnight before he pulled up at Daphne’s; good thing she’d given him a key, he thought. Tomorrow morning would have to do. He’d set his alarm and get up for early Mass. Then he could tell Gabriel that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
CHAPTER 19
It is but lost labour that ye haste to rise up early, and so late take rest, and eat the bread of carefulness: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.
Psalm 127.3
The alarm went off at half past six. Its harsh buzz came as a shock to David, who hadn’t needed to set it since he’d been in London. Friday’s good weather was forecast to continue through the weekend, he heard as he switched on the radio.
He lay in bed for a few minutes, savouring the thought of telling Gabriel of his discovery. He’d be relieved, grateful . . . Of course there were a few loose ends to be tied up. They’d have to contact Selby Cathedral School, confirm that Peter Maitland had been a pupil there, and a chorister, find out if he’d been there when Miles Taylor was organist and choirmaster. And after that – he didn’t know how Gabriel would want to handle it. It was still a very delicate matter. But he’d done his part, and he was pleased.
Early Mass was once again quite poorly attended. The regulars were all there – Lady Constance, the Dawsons, Beryl Ball. Mary Hughes was there, too, and Cecily Framlingham, with a man he assumed must be Arthur. David barely noticed them. After the service, he hung back until they’d all filed past Gabriel at the door, with a handshake and a murmured word.
He approached, and Gabriel grasped his hand automatically. It was like an electric shock; Gabriel’s hand was cool and smooth, and David realised that it was the first time they’d touched since he’d been there. Those hands – those well-known, well-loved hands . . .
He took a deep breath to collect himself and looked Gabriel in the eye. ‘I have something very important to tell you,’ he said. ‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’
Gabriel looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. ‘Talk? Now? David, don’t you realise that the fête will be starting in under an hour?’
The fête! How could he have forgotten so completely that today was the day? ‘It’s important,’ he repeated lamely.
‘Tonight, then. After the fête. Come round to the vicarage tonight.’
‘I suppose it can wait till tonight . . .’
‘Right, then. If you’ll excuse me, David . . .’ and Gabriel was gone.
The church courtyard was transformed. Colourful stalls had appeared, and people dashed about with armloads of assorted goods in a flurry of last-minute preparation. David stood dumbly watching, trying to get his mind in tune with what was happening. ‘There you are,’ Daphne greeted him. ‘It seems like I haven’t seen you for about two days. You crept out this morning before I was up, but I guessed I’d find you here.’
‘The fête,’ he said stupidly.
‘Yes, once a year, whether we like it or not,’ she chuckled. ‘You’ve been to Mass? Have you had breakfast?’
‘No. It doesn’t matter.’
‘I suppose you can fill up on cakes, in due course.’
He looked at the large table which the Dawsons, assisted by a very plain teenaged girl, were rapidly covering with vast numbers of cakes. ‘Yes. Everyone’s been busy, haven’t they?’
‘Frantically.’
‘What stall are you doing, Daphne?’
She grimaced. ‘The jumble stall. Bric-à-brac, they call it. Everyone’s cast-off rubbish, in other words. I’ve been through everything – you can be sure there’s nothing you’d want.’
‘No unrecognised treasures? Bits of tarnished silver that someone thought were plate?’
‘I’m afraid not. But perhaps you’d be interested in a “Souvenir of Scunthorpe” egg cup, only slightly chipped? Or maybe a complete set – near enough anyway, give or take the odd piece – of genuine plastic picnic cutlery?’
‘How tempting. I’ll have a look later. But now I’d better report for duty to Emily and see if she has anything for me to do.’
He moved towards the stall where the two women were lining up jars of jewel-toned jams in neat rows. They were both looking extremely attractive today, he observed. Emily had given up her jeans for the day and was wearing a very flattering simple white cotton summer frock, while Lucy’s dress was covered in tendrils of delicate pink and blue sweet peas. David felt a bit self-conscious, in a pleasant way, at the warmth of both their greetings. He realised, with an odd shock, that it was just a week since his first anxious meeting with Emily. Now, astonishingly, she seemed an old friend. And Lucy . . .
‘Well, the weather is certainly cooperating,’ he said.
‘I can’t believe how lucky we are,’ Emily replied. ‘It’s not supposed to rain all weekend.’
‘Do you have anything for me to do? I’m at your service.’
‘You can help us get the jams set out.’ There were boxes of them: orange marmalade, lemon marmalade, apple jelly, strawberry, raspberry, greengage and ginger, gooseberry, damson, apricot. Then there were jars of lemon curd and chutney to fit on the stall. David wondered if the lemon curd was as good as his mother’s.
‘I’ll have to buy a good selection to take back home with me,’ he said, when they had finished.
‘Why don’t you pick out what you want now, and we’ll put it away for you?’ Lucy urged, handing him an empty box. ‘You’d be surprised how fast they sell out.’
He filled his box and secreted it under the stall. ‘Now what?’
&nb
sp; ‘You could go over and give Tony a hand with that sign,’ Emily suggested. ‘It keeps falling down.’
Tony was struggling with the large square of cardboard which announced: ‘Tombola – 25p a ticket or 5 for £1’. David held it for him while he secured it with strips of sellotape.
‘Thanks. I needed three hands for that job,’ Tony said.
‘How are you, Tony? I haven’t really seen you this week.’
‘Very well, thanks. Enjoying my summer hols. And are you having a pleasant stay? How much longer will you be with us?’
‘Yes, I’m enjoying it very much. I should be here another week, at least – until I’m satisfied that the crypt chapel restoration is well under way and in good hands.’
‘That’s good. Maybe we could get together sometime next week for a drink or something,’ Tony suggested.
‘I’d like that,’ David responded, looking around at the increasing levels of activity. ‘Who is the girl with the Dawsons?’ he asked idly.
‘That’s Teresa, their youngest daughter.’
David looked surprised. ‘I didn’t realise that the Dawsons had any children.’
‘Heaps, actually. Nick, the oldest, is around my age. Then there’s Benedict, and a few more, and finally Teresa. She’s the only one still at home.’
David laughed, delighted. Nicholas, Benedict, Teresa. ‘Are all of them named after saints?’
‘Of course. What else would you expect from the Devout Dawsons?’
‘I would think the Dawson boys would have been servers. Have you had to deal with them?’
Tony rolled his eyes. ‘That’s a story in itself. The two oldest boys, Nick and Ben, were apparently pretty good servers. But the youngest, Francis – well, it’s quite a tale. I must tell you about it sometime.’
‘I can’t wait.’
Tony paused. ‘I’ll tell you what – why don’t you come to me for lunch next week? Then we can have a good gossip. Could you bear to pass up lunch here on Tuesday, and come to me instead?’
‘I’d love to.’ He looked over at the Dawsons. ‘Teresa’s no great beauty, is she?’
‘The Dawson offspring are a singularly unprepossessing lot,’ Tony replied. ‘Not really surprising, considering their genetic make-up.’
Emily was gesturing to him. ‘I suppose that’s my cue,’ David apologised. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Thanks for your help with the sign.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Before he could reach the jam stall, David was waylaid by Mavis Conwell. ‘Mr Middleton-Brown! We missed you yesterday!’
‘Yesterday?’ He was baffled.
‘The final preparations for the fête – all day yesterday. Everyone was here. Everyone but you, that is.’ She looked accusingly at him. ‘No one seemed to know where you were. Have you got a girlfriend somewhere in London that nobody knows about?’ she added, with a ghastly attempt at a coy smile.
He didn’t bother to answer. ‘Emily needs me. Goodbye, Mrs Conwell.’ Mavis is certainly back on form today, he reflected as he strode away.
Emily was looking at her watch. ‘It’s just about time to begin. Lady Constance should be here any minute.’ As she spoke, Gabriel and Lady Constance came out of the church together and walked formally to where the ribbon stretched across the courtyard gate. An expectant hush had descended; in clear tones she made a little speech, welcoming everyone and thanking them in advance for their generous purchases in aid of St Anne’s Church. Gabriel handed her a pair of scissors and she cut the ribbon smartly, to polite general applause. Then, as the general rush to the cake stall began, she and Gabriel strolled over to the jam stall where David stood with the two women.
‘Young man, I require your assistance,’ Lady Constance addressed David.
‘How can I be of help, Lady Constance?’
‘I need to visit each of the stalls and make my purchases. Will you please accompany me, and carry the things for me?’
He looked to Emily for confirmation; she nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes, Lady Constance, I’d be delighted to walk with you,’ he replied. Gabriel produced a large wicker basket and handed it to him.
‘Excellent. We can begin here.’ She considered the array of jams while David attempted to compose himself into a suitable posture. But Lucy caught his eye, and he could have sworn that she winked at him. ‘Now, what do you recommend, Mrs Neville?’ Lady Constance inquired gravely.
‘The apricot looks quite good,’ Emily replied seriously. ‘And Lucy’s greengage and ginger is always delicious.’
Lady Constance looked dubiously at Lucy, but nodded, and David put the two proffered jams in the basket. ‘And how about some marmalade?’ Lady Constance added.
‘Do you prefer thick-cut or thin-cut?’ Emily asked. ‘The thick-cut is Mary Hughes’s speciality, and I’ve made the thin-cut myself. Or there’s some very chunky marmalade made by Mr Bead.’
‘The thin-cut would be very nice, thank you, Mrs Neville,’ she concluded, handing her a five-pound note. ‘Do keep the change.’
‘Thank you very much, Lady Constance, and I hope you enjoy them.’
‘Oh, I’m certain I will.’
As they approached the cake stall, the crowds fell back like the parting of the Red Sea. Lady Constance carefully considered the large array of cakes. ‘I shall have one of these fruit cakes, and a lemon sponge. Perhaps a dozen rock cakes, a plate of shortbread, and . . . yes, I’ll take this chocolate gâteau.’
‘Yes, of course, Lady Constance. Is that all? Let me just show you this . . .’ Julia Dawson was volubly obsequious, while her husband wrung his hands in an agitated manner.
While these transactions were taking place, David smiled encouragingly at Teresa Dawson. She hung back and looked at him with bulbous eyes, made even less attractive by her almost invisible eyelashes. She looked like nothing so much as a frightened rabbit, David decided, with those eyes, her mother’s receding chin, and her father’s sharp, protruding teeth; her stringy hair was even a rabbity-brown colour. Decidedly unprepossessing.
Lady Constance paid Roger Dawson, and Julia turned to David, anxious to be seen to be on good terms with one who was so obviously in favour with Lady Constance. ‘Mr Middleton-Brown, how very nice to see you today. We did all wonder where you were yesterday!’
He smiled non-committally, unwilling to enter into any explanations. ‘Good morning, Mrs Dawson.’
‘Roger and I . . . that is, we were wondering . . . we’d very much like to invite you to join us for a meal next week. When are you free?’
There’s no escaping from this one, he told himself with resignation. ‘Most evenings, I should think.’
‘Oh, good! Would Wednesday be possible? Our son Francis will be home that night, and it would be so nice for you to meet him.’ This was delivered with great emotion.
‘Yes. I’ll look forward to it very much,’ he fibbed.
Lady Constance had turned to him. ‘Mind you put the cakes in here very carefully, young man. I don’t want anything crushed.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He put the shortbread on the bottom and the chocolate gâteau on the top.
The servers were manning the side-shows, and Johnnie and Chris greeted David with cheerful waves as he and Lady Constance passed by. The side-shows were beneath her dignity, but she stopped at Tony’s tombola stall. The most coveted prize was a bottle of very good whisky, David noted approvingly.
‘I shall have ten tickets, please, Mr Kent,’ she announced, handing him two pounds. He offered her the bowl of tickets, and she pulled them out one by one. Two of the numbers were winners, and she collected her prizes – a pair of bright orange tights and a packet of custard powder – with gracious thanks. David and Tony exchanged smiles as the prizes went into the basket.
The next stop on their progress was Cecily’s flower and produce stall. ‘Those are uncommonly fine marrows, Mrs Framlingham,’ Lady Constance pronounced.
‘Arthur grew them himself,’ Cecily volunteere
d eagerly.
‘What a pity I don’t care for marrow. Perhaps a bunch of those sweet peas, and a pound of tomatoes. Did Arthur grow the tomatoes?’
‘No,’ replied Cecily, crestfallen. ‘They’re from Mavis’s greenhouse.’
‘Oh, Mrs Conwell. I see.’
Mary Hughes was at the next stall, selling handicrafts. ‘Good morning, Lady Constance,’ she said, a bit over-enthusiastically. ‘I have some lovely things this year.’ Lady Constance inspected the array of hand-knitted baby sweaters, embroidered needle-cases, and multicoloured knitted tea-cosies; they all looked indistinguishable from last year’s and the year before’s. She tried to remember what she’d bought the previous year. A tea-cosy, probably. Or perhaps that had been the year before.
‘Bedsocks,’ she intoned judiciously. ‘Have you any bedsocks?’
‘Oh, yes, Lady Constance. What colour do you fancy? These blue ones are nice. Or these pretty lilac ones – they match your dress!’ Mary Hughes stammered, blushing at her boldness.
Lady Constance turned to David. ‘What do you think, Mr Middleton-Brown? Blue or lilac?’
‘I’d choose the blue, I think.’
‘Yes, I believe you’re right. Thank you, Miss Hughes, for your help. They’re two pounds fifty, I believe? Keep the three pounds.’
‘Oh, thank you, Lady Constance. I do hope you’ll be happy with the bedsocks.’
The Mothers’ Union were traditionally in charge of the ‘nearly new’ clothing stall, which was their next stop. Mavis Conwell, who, in her role as churchwarden, would shortly retire to the sacristy to begin counting the takings, was doing an early stint at the stall. She’d done some very good business already, selling a number of items to Beryl Ball. Beryl had bought several hats, an evening gown, a Harris tweed coat, and a silk dressing-gown. Now Mavis greeted Lady Constance. ‘You’ll have a hard time making your mind up, Lady Constance. Wait till you see what we’ve got!’