by Kate Charles
David looked at him with loathing, but there was a kind of pity there too. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, mate,’ he said in a soft, steely voice. ‘I know exactly what it’s like. I’ve been there, too. Now tell me the truth, or I’ll have the cops here so fast . . .’
Craig jerked into an upright position. ‘Not the cops!’
‘Then tell me.’
Slumping back down, Craig turned his head away under David’s relentless stare. Unwillingly, he began. ‘It was the bloody phone bill. She was at me in the morning about it. Then that afternoon she started in on me all over again.’ He picked up a beer can and absently crushed it in his fist.
‘What about the phone bill?’
‘It was too high, she said. She couldn’t afford to pay it. She wanted to know who I’d been phoning. Girlfriends, she said.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘She thought she knew everything, the old cow. She said I’d been ringing girlfriends. That’s what she wanted to believe.’
David held his breath; he had a premonition of what was coming.
‘I was really pissed off with her then. I thought, what the hell. She thought she knew everything!’ His voice shook; he pulled the tab on another can of beer and took a deep swallow. ‘I told her it wasn’t a girlfriend I’d been calling – it was a boyfriend. I told her all the details. I enjoyed that, enjoyed seeing her cover her ears with her hands, say that it wasn’t true, that I was just making it up to get at her. She cried a lot. In the end she believed it.’ He paused and smirked, the smoke wreathing his head. ‘I knew that she was upset, but I didn’t think the stupid cow would go and kill herself! I was surprised when I went back in and saw her hanging there. But I guess that was the one thing my mother couldn’t live with – the idea that her son was a bloody queer.’
David stared at him; suddenly, improbably, he was filled with empathy for this troubled young man. What would his own mother have done? ‘Craig . . .’ he began, not sure what to say.
Sneering, Craig laughed at him. ‘You believed me! So did she, the gullible old cow! And killed herself over a lie!’ There was no mirth in his laughter. ‘Me, a queer? Give me a break, man! Not in a million years!’
CHAPTER 46
Thou hast turned my heaviness into joy: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.
Therefore shall every good man sing of thy praise without ceasing: O my God, I will give thanks unto thee for ever.
Psalm 30.12–13
Kissing the cross on his stole, and putting it around his neck, Gabriel automatically said the set prayer to himself. But the prayer in his heart was wordless: a prayer of thanksgiving for his deliverance. His vesting for the Mass was nearly done; he turned with a radiant smile to take the cloth-of-gold chasuble from the hovering Venerable Bead.
He’d only had time, after his hurried return from Brighton, for a brief word with David, but that had been enough. He was free. David had done it somehow. Gabriel knew none of the details, not even the name of his blackmailer. But he had David’s assurance that the threats would not be carried out. He wasn’t even going to need to confront anyone. It was all over. David would come and see him tomorrow, and tell him the whole story. But for now, that was enough – it was all over.
The sun was still high in the sky; its light streamed through the west window as the sounds of the Palestrina introit soared to the roof: ‘Assumpta est Maria in caelum’.
In his stall, Gabriel closed his eyes and absorbed the beauty of the music. It would be a long service: the Palestrina Missa Assumpta est Maria was nearly thirty minutes long, apart from anything else. They were very fortunate to have a choir capable of performing a Mass like that, Gabriel reflected. He opened his eyes and observed Miles Taylor, conducting the choir with characteristic enthusiasm, his long arms flailing away. What a very peculiar man, always moaning about something and wittering on about contemporary music. But one could put up with a great deal of personal eccentricity for the sake of music like this.
After the Kyrie, during the Gloria, Gabriel took the thurible from Johnnie – or was it Chris? – and censed the altar reverently. The puffs of fragrant smoke rose to join the music, high above their heads. Then came the first lesson – read by the curate he’d borrowed for the occasion from a neighbouring parish – followed by the psalm.
Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity: wherefore God, even thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows.
All thy garments smell of myrrh, aloes, and cassia: out of the ivory palaces, whereby they have made thee glad.
The servers moved out of the chancel: Johnnie, swinging the thurible, with Sebastian once again beside him with the incense boat, Chris with the processional cross, flanked by two acolytes, and Tony, bearing the large book. Gabriel came forward to intone the Gospel, and for the first time he was able to see the congregation. It was a respectable crowd. Most of the regulars were there, he ascertained with a quick glance. And, inevitably on these festal occasions, the numbers were swelled by a few out-of-town punters, drawn to St Anne’s by the music, or the ceremonial, or something else indefinable.
Gabriel was not aware, even as he was delivering it, that tonight’s sermon was anything out of the ordinary. He’d given it once already that day – how fortunate for St Dunstan’s that he’d had one prepared – so the delivery was practised and the words flowed smoothly. But it was his overwhelming sensation of joy and relief that infused it with special power, and made it a sermon that the parishioners of St Anne’s would later talk about as one of the finest they’d ever heard. Even the Dawsons admitted as much. Roger Dawson flaunted his Mary-blue tie that night, disgruntled that Gabriel had once again not allowed them to take the statue of Our Lady of Walsingham around the church in solemn procession. And cloth-of-gold vestments were all very well and good, but by all rights Our Lady should have blue and silver.
After the Credo, and the Prayers of Intercession, the congregation made their corporate Confession. ‘Forgive us all that is past; and grant that we may serve thee in newness of life . . .’ As Gabriel made the sign of the cross and spoke the words of Absolution, he felt personally cleansed, and ready for a fresh start.
The offertory party came forward then. Usually, for a festival service such as this, it was the privilege of the two churchwardens to bring the elements to the altar. But there was now only one churchwarden. Cyril Fitzjames’s jowly countenance was transformed by a rare smile; he had asked Emily to assist him. Viola went in front of them, proudly and carefully bearing the silver ciborium with the wafers. As they entered the chancel, she couldn’t resist a sideways look of pure triumph at her brother.
The sun dipped lower; the light coming through the west window had a dreamy golden quality, trapped in the clouds of incense that now filled the church.
‘Though we are many, we are one body . . .’ All those unique individuals, somehow united in this place, and at this moment. And then, once again, they were all coming up to the altar to receive communion. Gabriel experienced a sense of déjà vu as he waited for them to kneel: it was so like the Patronal Festival, such a short time ago, yet so unlike. So much had happened in the intervening weeks, and so many things had permanently changed. For one thing, there was no Mavis. Someone else was missing, too – he couldn’t quite think who. Gabriel noted each person as he administered to them. The servers received first: Tony Kent, Johnnie and Chris, Venerable Bead, the acolytes, and little Sebastian, bowing his head for his father’s blessing. Miles Taylor, still for just a moment. Hobbling up ahead of everyone else, Beryl Ball, grinning at him and wiggling her dentures. The Dawsons – Roger, Julia, Teresa and Francis, defiant in their blue ties and bows. A horde of white-haired old ladies, led by Mary Hughes. Cecily Framlingham, staring with pointed satisfaction at the flowers as she came up. Reliable, unflappable Daphne. ‘The body of Christ,’ he said to each one. Cyril Fitzjames came near the end, with Emily behind him. His own beloved Emily, and their daughter. And David. Dear David. He
hadn’t been here that other time.
When he’d reached the end, Gabriel realised who was missing. He hadn’t given communion to Lady Constance.
CHAPTER 47
For he seeth that wise men also die, and perish together: as well as the ignorant and foolish, and leave their riches for other.
And yet they think that their houses shall continue for ever: and that their dwelling-places shall endure from one generation to another: and call the lands after their own names.
Psalm 49.10–11
David was up very early the next morning. He hadn’t slept particularly well, and he was anxious to get to the post before Daphne arose.
The letter was there on the mat, as he had expected. He picked it up and made sure that it had his name on it, then took it to his room to read in privacy. Opening his curtains, and seeing that it was a beautiful clear morning, he decided to postpone the moment for a bit longer. He shaved, dressed, and packed his case, to save time later, and went out into Kensington Gardens, as he had on his first morning in London, nearly three weeks ago.
Although there were few people about, he avoided the publicly visible benches, found a spot in the grass, and leaned against a tree. It was going to be another hot day; already the sun had evaporated the dew and the grass was quite dry. Sitting on the grass in a park was not something he’d been particularly fond of before he met Lucy, he thought, then put the thought away from him quickly. He still wasn’t ready to think about Lucy.
He examined the envelope carefully before opening it. It was square, and made of a heavy bond paper; the writing was much as he would have expected, spidery and fine yet definite, the letters well formed and not in the least wavery, reflecting the writer’s personality.
David slit the top with his pocket-knife and extracted a rather thick sheaf of papers. The writing paper itself was not perfumed, but it exuded a faint scent of lavender. David sighed and unfolded the letter. It was dated the previous day, 15 August.
My dear Mr Middleton-Brown,
I am sure you know why I am writing this letter – perhaps you are even expecting it. At any rate, much of what I have to tell you will come as no surprise to you. But after your kindness to me, I owe it to you to tell you the whole story, so there will be nothing left unexplained.
You are aware, I am sure, that I have been unwell lately. I have suffered from spells of dizziness, and feelings of depression. These leave me quite exhausted and frightened. But more frightening still have been periodic episodes of dementia and paranoia, during which I have, apparently, done things about which I later have no recollection. My servants assure me that this is so, and there is other evidence. It would seem that recently I have written several letters during these spells. I do not remember writing these letters, but, with my customary thoroughness, I have kept carbon copies which I have later discovered. All of the letters seem to have been prompted, in my subconscious, by my concern for the future of St Anne’s Church, but that does not excuse the abominable things that I said in them.
One of them, of course, was to Mrs Conwell. I don’t know how you discovered the truth about her death, but you are a very clever young man to have done so.
Not so long ago I began to suspect, from various discrepancies, that someone was taking money from St Anne’s. There were few people in a position to do this, and from conversations with Mrs Conwell and others I concluded that she was in fact the person. It was a simple matter for me to do a check of the books, and to confirm my suspicions: I of course have a key to the sacristy, where the ledger books are kept. The discrepancies were fairly minor, but her attempts to cover her tracks were crude. I meant to confront her with the evidence, and to ask her in a reasonable fashion to restore the money. But events took a different course.
As you are aware, I profoundly regret Mrs Conwell’s death. I never meant for her to take her own life, but I accept full responsibility for it. Mrs Conwell died because of the letter I wrote – that fact seems inescapable, and nothing will explain it away. The guilt is mine.
The second person to whom I wrote a letter was young Tony Kent. I had been worried, in the light of the Norman Newsome affair, that his living arrangements might lead him into trouble, and thus cast discredit upon St Anne’s, where he holds a position of great responsibility. I find Tony Kent a very pleasant young man, and profoundly regret any embarrassment or pain that I might have caused him.
Then there is the matter of Father Neville. I am not sure whether you know about this or not, though I suspect that you may – as I said, you are a very clever young man. But I shall tell you about it in any case, and perhaps you will tell him as much as you think is right. I rather think that your acquaintance with him is of longer standing than I have been led to believe.
In this instance, my concern for St Anne’s was only part of the underlying cause. Just as important was my love for my brother Edward.
Just over ten years ago, the living at St Anne’s was vacant. Edward was nearing retirement age, and was happily settled in his last parish in Lewes, so I’d given up hope of his accepting the living himself. But he rang me one day and said that he had a candidate for me – a very bright, very promising young priest in the diocese, one of his protégés. The man had been serving a curacy in Brighton, but was ready, even anxious, to move on. I don’t need to tell you that priest’s name – Father Gabriel Neville. Father Neville came to see me, and I was very impressed, but my brother’s recommendation was all I needed. I trusted his judgement. As there was a vacancy, the appointment went through very quickly and Father Neville was installed here inside of two months. Up until about two years ago, I was very happy with him as a parish priest, and felt that he served St Anne’s ably. I also very much like and approve of his wife, whom I have known all her life, and feel that she has been a great asset to him, and to St Anne’s.
Over two years ago, my brother fell gravely ill. Edward and I had always been very close, and I felt that I wanted to care for him myself. I tried very hard to persuade him to come to London, where he could be close to Harley Street and receive the best private treatment available. But he didn’t wish to leave his parish, and I respected that wish. So for several months I nursed him through his final illness.
He had a terrible disease, and he died a very protracted and painful death. Even now I can scarcely bear to dwell on it, but it is important for you to understand. He was in much pain, yes. But the worst part of it was that he was not himself by the time the disease had truly taken hold. After he lost the use of his limbs, he was still aware of what was happening. It was about that time that I contacted an organisation that makes it possible for people to die peacefully – and when they are ready – rather than waiting for disease to do its worst. They provided him with the means to accomplish that. But Edward wasn’t ready to make that choice then, and after that – after that he lost his mind. It was a terrible thing, and as I said, he was not himself. He said things that Edward would never have said. It was appalling to hear him, day after day. At first I thought he was just hallucinating, and that the things he was saying were coming out of some dark corner of his imagination. But as he repeated himself, I realised the truth behind what he was saying.
He talked about a boy named Peter Maitland, who had drowned. And about a young priest who had come to him, his spiritual director, for Confession, with that death on his conscience. He had tried to help that priest, first by hearing his Confession, then by counselling him, and finally by helping him to find a new position and to start a new life. Of course, that priest was Gabriel Neville. My brother believed in him. He believed that he was a good priest, and deserved his help. But at the end of his life, the tragic things he’d heard in that Confessional came back to haunt him and torture him.
In his right mind, my brother would never have broken the seal of the Confessional, I can assure you of that. But his disease robbed him of his reason, and so I learned things I never wanted to know about my own parish priest.
I’ve
lived with this knowledge for two years, and have done nothing. Consciously, I knew that Gabriel Neville was not to blame for my brother’s distress, but subconsciously I suppose I held him responsible. I knew it was the disease, but if Edward hadn’t had that burden to bear . . .
And now I can see my brother’s dementia, in the form of paranoia, exhibiting itself in me. I can assure you, though, that at the moment my mind is very clear, and I know exactly what I am doing.
I nursed my brother, and know very well the symptoms of his disease. Although I have not been to a doctor, I recognise these symptoms in myself, and know that I have contracted the disease that killed my brother.
You will surely realise that when you receive this I will be dead. I am assured that it will be a peaceful and painless death, unlike my brother’s. Edward lost his mind before he could make the choice to end his life, and that was not a decision I could take for him. But I have kept the drugs that the society sent him. I make my choice in full possession of my mind, and knowing that it is proper for me to do so. Mavis Conwell died because of an action I took, and that is not something with which I can live. The remainder of my life would have been short and painful, and I might have done more regrettable things, caused pain to others. It is best that I go in this manner.
There is one other matter I need to mention, though I am almost embarrassed to do so. It is the matter of my will. I have no family left, and have always intended to leave the bulk of my estate to St Anne’s. This is still my intention. But since I realised that I was terminally ill, I have been most grieved by the thought of my beloved home being sold, and probably converted into flats. This is surely what would happen if I were to leave it to St Anne’s. This house has been in the Oliver family for generations, and deserves a better fate than that. Therefore, I am going to ask you to look after my house for me. As I’ve come to know you over the past few weeks, I’ve realised that you have a rare appreciation for beauty, and the taste to match. And so I will trust you with my house. I have just written a codicil to my will, which has been signed and witnessed by my servants. It gives you my house, along with a capital sum in trust, the income from which should be more than sufficient for its upkeep and maintenance, on the condition that the house is not sold in your lifetime. You need not live in it, if that is not convenient for you, but only look after it. I hope this is not too great a burden for you, and that you will care for it and love it as I have.