Echoes of Family

by Barbara Claypole White

  “Mrs. Peel,” Hugh said loudly and deliberately. “Yes . . . I’m sorry the police woke you in the middle of the night. Yes . . . Yes, I can confirm that they are investigating this as a missing-person case. Hopefully she’ll come back today and this will get cleared up quickly . . .” Hugh nodded. “As a psychiatrist who’s been involved with your daughter’s treatment, I’m not at liberty to discuss . . .” He looked at Gabriel. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Peel, but what a shame you never felt the need to express any of this concern before your daughter left residential care. In my experience, the full support of loved ones at such a time is crucial.”

  More screaming and then Hugh put the phone back on the coffee table. “EmJ’s mother appears to have hung up on me.”

  “Bloody well handled, Hugh. I would not have been half as tactful. What did she say?”

  “Mrs. Peel plans to ‘sue your arse off’ for not taking better care of her only child. One assumes she’s been watching too much American television.”

  “Sue me on what grounds?” Gabriel started walking toward the hall. He needed to get out of his wet pajamas, and a hot shower might be an idea. Stave off the chill.

  “That, my friend, is a mystery. The only thing I can tell you with certainty is that EmJ’s mother has a rather shrill voice. Now. What’s up first?”

  “You don’t want to report your car as stolen?”

  “Most definitely not.”

  “Good. One less problem. I’m going to make coffee, put on dry clothes, and then have a conversation with Darius to establish what he knows about his wife’s latest escapade. After that I was thinking bacon and eggs.”

  “I know you enjoy pottering around in the kitchen, but you really don’t have to keep feeding us all.”

  “It calms me,” Gabriel said, “and cooking for a horde is a perverse treat when you normally cook for one.”

  “Should I accompany you upstairs as a bodyguard?” Hugh said. “Darius does seem to harbor strong opinions about you.”

  “Thank you, but no. It’s time Darius accepted the fact that I have never been, and never will be, an adulterer.”

  Gabriel climbed the stairs with a cup of coffee. Strong and black, the way Darius had asked for it on the day he and Jade had arrived. Clearing his throat somewhat theatrically, Gabriel rapped on the door. No answer. The second time, he knocked and turned the knob.

  Darius stirred. A grown man in a dwarf’s bed, he seemed to spill over the edge of the single mattress. It might be time to replace the hand-me-down twin beds with a double. They weren’t exactly welcoming, especially for men. Darius wasn’t even that tall, although he was certainly—Gabriel swallowed—solid.

  “Morning.” Gabriel tried to sound jovial. “I brought you coffee.”

  “Thanks.” With a groan, Darius heaved himself up to sitting. Since he was bare-chested, it was possible to see the full extent of the man’s tattoos. Gabriel had a strange desire to ask which one had hurt the most. Hopefully it had been the satanic pentagram.

  “How’s the arm?”

  The mobile phone on the bedside table started playing the Clash, “Should I Stay or Should I Go.” Highly ironic under the circumstances. Darius picked it up and made awkward one-handed movements. “It’s a text from Jade. She’s lying awake worrying that I’m going to do something crazy. Guess it’s a bit late for that.” He mumbled a few colorful obscenities as he tried to text.

  “Here, let me.” Gabriel put the coffee down on the bedside table. “You dictate, I’ll type. Does she know about yesterday?”

  Darius shook his head.

  “What would you like to say?”

  “‘Hey, doll. I’m fine. Spoken with Marianne. She’s fine. Will call tonight.’”

  “That’s it? You’re all fine?”

  “It’s what she needs to hear right now.”

  Gabriel typed as directed. When Jade sent back a row of stickers that included the Union Jack, he smiled. He typed, Nighty night, you, and then deleted it. Jade would know it was him. He’d send her a text tomorrow, on his own phone, one that said, Long time no speak. Friends again?

  “Would you like to wish her good night?” Gabriel said. “Since it’s two a.m. over there?”

  Darius squinted. “Sure. Type this—‘Sweet dreams. Love, love.’”

  Gabriel hesitated.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” Gabriel swallowed again. When he was done, he put the phone down and retreated to the old nursing chair. “Would you mind if we talked?”

  “Sure. I won’t give Marianne up without a fight. The end. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Glad to hear it. There’s nothing I respect more than the institution of marriage. And I would like to assure you that I was not an active participant in events leading up to her return.”

  Darius remained silent. Right, then. In the immortal words of Sir Winston Churchill, Keep buggering on. “No one was more surprised than I when she appeared in Newton Rushford. I’m still not entirely sure how all this happened.” Gabriel waved his arm around his spare room, which appeared to have become a woman’s dressing room with more pairs of shoes than he’d seen in his entire life. “My brother was in love with her at the time of his death, and when she arrived in my church, clearly in need, I felt I owed it to him to help.”

  “You’re acting out of brotherly duty? Not buying it, man. I have three older sisters and as much as I love”—wincing, Darius grabbed his elbow and stretched the fingers on his wounded arm—“and admire them, I certainly wouldn’t upend my life on their account. Unless you’re gay, which I’m one hundred percent sure you’re not, I’m betting you’re in love with my wife and always have been.”

  “Innocent on all counts.”

  “And when you were younger?”

  “How is that relevant? Who were you in love with at seventeen?”

  Darius rubbed his Robinson Crusoe beard. Was he in need of a razor? “I’ll give you that one. I was in the school marching band and working my way through the baton twirlers. It’s the costumes.” Darius shook his head. “But I imagine Marianne would be hard to forget at any age. She can get under your skin.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Darius shifted. “Can we cut to the chase? I’m in pain and holding on to my marriage by my teeth.”

  “Do you need some paracetamol?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Same thing as Tylenol.”

  “Appreciate it, but no. I’m not much of a pill popper. Can’t be, with my family history of addiction. The odd Xanax is about it for me. Killer good for lowering anxiety.” Darius reached over awkwardly for his coffee mug. “And I should tell you—my first wife was a violent drunk. She’s the reason I don’t drink. I’m not an alcoholic, but dammit, I’m a fan of the AA philosophy.”

  Oversharing was typical in his line of work, but Gabriel sensed strategy in play: I told you mine; now you tell me yours. He crossed his legs and glanced up at the exceedingly ugly lampshade that had always reminded him of a suet pudding. He’d inherited it along with the house. “You’re correct, I was in love with Marianne. At least I thought I was. But we were barely out of childhood, and she was also my best friend. Our lives were bound together in such a way that I mistakenly believed we had no secrets, that nothing could ever come between us. But the night my brother died, he informed me that they were lovers. I was badly injured in the crash and had plenty of time in hospital to relearn everything I knew about Marianne. Cutting her from my life became intrinsic to my recovery. It’s not a decision I regret, especially when she then tried to kill herself on my brother’s grave.”

  Darius’s eyes grew wide. Did he not know that detail?

  “And that’s more than I’ve ever shared with anyone about our history.” Gabriel stood.

  “Thank you—for the truth and the coffee. Let’s start over.” Darius held out his hand. “Hi, my name is Darius. A pleasure to meet you. Make a move on my wif
e and I’ll kill you.”

  “Message received and understood.” Gabriel shook Darius’s hand. “Talking about your wife, it appears she’s taken Hugh’s car to search for EmJ. Should we be concerned?”

  “I spend my life being concerned. This is nothing new.”

  “So we shouldn’t worry?”

  “The only person who can anticipate Marianne’s moods is Jade, but when Marianne’s on a fully fledged aid mission, a packed stadium of headbangers couldn’t derail her. I did, however, remove her wallet from her purse.” He reached under the bedclothes and pulled it out. “So if Hugh doesn’t have a full tank of gas, she’s not going very far. Although there’s no cash in it, so I might be wrong.” Darius paused. “I’d like your permission to stay here, in your house, until I can persuade Marianne to come home with me. And I guess I’ll have to call my buddy in London, get him to overnight my stuff. Yesterday’s clothes are trashed.”

  “You’re welcome to borrow anything in the meantime. And yes, please stay as long as you need.” Without thinking, Gabriel bent down to pick up a towel from the floor. It was still damp. He draped it over the back of the nursing chair. “How long before the stitches come out?”

  “A week, I think. The details are a bit hazy. I was barfing like a spigot when they told me. I hate hospitals, did I mention that?”

  “Yes, I believe you did.” Gabriel tugged on the back of his neck.

  “And thanks, for letting me stay. You don’t play tons of U2, do you, because I really—”

  “Dislike U2, I know. Is there a point at which we should call the police and report Marianne as missing?”

  “Hell, no. Bringing in the cops is the last thing I want. Marianne would never forgive me.” Darius pulled back his hair, revealing a squarish, piratical face. Truthfully, a tad menacing. “My official response is no, I’m not worried. And I assume you know that’s a lie. However, she promised she’d be back by dinnertime. And my wife’s a woman of her word. Which you probably know.”

  Rain shot down the guttering. Gabriel nodded. “Can I make you breakfast?”

  “Seriously? That would be fantastic, man.”

  Darius swung his legs to the floor but shook his head as if he was dizzy.

  “What are you doing?” Gabriel said.

  “Coming down to the kitchen.”

  “Most ill-advised. Stay here and I’ll bring you up a tray. Bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, a grilled tomato?” Six months ago, if anyone had told him he’d be taking breakfast in bed to Marianne’s husband, he would have assumed he was having a nightmare.

  “Music to my ears. So you can cook, I mean really cook? I know some of the best chefs in the world are men but not in the Montgomery family. Mom never let me near the kitchen. Mind you, she hid the cooking sherry in there. My dad, who ran the family business like a mafia boss, was a drunk. A mean one. Not much of a role model and probably the other reason I don’t drink.”

  Who knew Darius could be so chatty? “Mine was a lieutenant general. He had high hopes that at least one of his sons would carve out a career in the British army.”

  “I guess we were both disappointments, then.”

  Gabriel frowned. Had that been intended as an insult or an olive branch of male bonding?

  THIRTY-FIVE

  GABRIEL

  Gabriel examined the fresh produce in the navy-blue plastic crates outside the butcher’s shop: potatoes, carrots, and runner beans. All from the Abbey’s garden and normally sold out at this time of the day. Luckily for him the nuns must have recently replenished the stock.

  The rain had stopped and the afternoon sun tickled the back of his neck. He should have been worrying about Marianne, about EmJ, about dealing with his mother’s latest crisis—something to do with the neighbor’s hedge not being trimmed—but the lull of drama post–tea time had left him strangely peaceful and almost drowsy. The rectory phone had even remained silent for several hours. Although silence wasn’t necessarily reassuring when a teenager was missing. And he had yet to inform Marianne that EmJ’s attack on Darius would be noted under the National Crime Recording Standards, whatever the outcome of any criminal proceedings. And there was the lingering question of the missing forensic evidence . . .

  After Hugh had taken a taxi home, Darius made it down to the living room, where he’d parked himself on the sofa to enjoy his get-well Cadbury Roses from Mrs. Tandy and—in Darius’s words—binge-watch British TV while stuffing his face with English chocolate.

  Gabriel grabbed a small brown bag hanging from a piece of string and, picking up a fistful of runner beans, planned his menu: beans, mashed potato, and lamb chops. He might splurge and buy an orange-and-rhubarb pie from Puddings Galore.

  A tractor pulling a trailer of grain lumbered down the A428, leading a long line of cars. On the other side of the beaded curtain that hung across the open doorway of Len’s shop, a fan whirred and women chatted.

  “It’s shocking, isn’t it?” Gladys Crowley said in her high, squeaky voice. A lapsed churchgoer, she managed to attend Matins whenever she needed a favor for the gardening club. “He left Ian and Ken to deal with the police, you know.”

  Gabriel leaned forward to listen.

  “Just the chipolatas, m’ducks?” This from Len. “That’ll be seven pounds and fifty pence, please.”

  “The wife of the injured man is that Marion girl, the one who went psycho in the churchyard when the reverend’s brother died. Stripped naked, she did. Mad, quite mad. I was in the choir in those days. Saw the whole thing.”

  “I’d forgotten that about you, Audrey,” Gladys said. “You had a lovely voice. Lovely.”

  “I still do.” Audrey Pike sounded more than a little peeved. “But who has time for choir? Not me with the coffee mornings to organize and the demands of being on the village school board. I barely have time to listen to the omnibus edition of The Archers.”

  “They always said”—Gladys lowered her voice—“that she was messing around with both the Bonham brothers. I remember Simon. Bit of a looker, that one. All of us had a crush on him. He could have done so much better than Mary.”

  Gabriel clenched and unclenched his right hand, and repeated the Lord’s Prayer silently.

  “Marion, her name was Marion. We were in playgroup together. Had a wicked temper. She once threw a proper fit during the nativity play and ripped down a curtain. Her mother—sweet woman, blanking on her name—had to carry her out kicking and screaming.”

  Gladys tutted. “But who’s the girl, that’s what I want to know?”

  “Bill Collins thinks it might be her love child.”

  “With the reverend?”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it?”

  “Well I never. I think it’s high time someone called the bishop.”

  Enough. Gabriel pushed the beaded curtain aside.

  “You alright, then, Reverend?” Len said, wiping his hands.

  “Yes, thank you.” Gabriel inhaled the familiar smell of blood and bleach. “Ladies, I’m delighted to hear you have constructed such a colorful love life for me, but I’m afraid I must disappoint. With great regret I can inform you that I have fathered no children in my time on earth, and I have, in fact, been celibate for many years. I believe I still have the name of my last sexual partner in my old Filofax, should you need to check references.”

  Gladys fiddled with the clasp on her purse and then dropped it. Gabriel’s smile contradicted his inner thoughts, which were quickly followed by a brief prayer of repentance. A motorbike roared on the A428.

  “Her name is EmJ, by the way, and she’s a remarkable young lady who has no family support and has fallen on hard times. Marianne has been trying to help her, as any Christian should.” He emphasized the word Christian. “Facts are important, are they not?”

  “Quite so.” Gladys retrieved her purse from the floor and stood up. “Better be getting along.” Audrey followed her out, head bowed.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Len said.


  “Let me guess, I just missed Bill?”

  Impressive color rose up Len’s neck. No one blushed quite like a redhead.

  “I didn’t mean to pry. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Any news of EmJ?” Len said. “I heard she nicked your car. Did the coppers find it yet?”

  “Both still missing.” Gabriel looked into the glass case with all the gleaming metal trays of bloody meat edged with flat plastic grass. “How does Bill know these things?”

  “He’s a sad git with nothing better to do. Sorry, that was uncalled for.”

  “We each have our cross to bear,” Gabriel said. “Bill appears to be mine.”

  “How’s that bloke with all the hair?”

  “Darius? Recovering admirably. I’m trying to feed him up, though. I was thinking three lamb chops? And can I get half a pound of corned beef and the same of ham? Oh, and I need more eggs.” Gabriel walked over to the shelf and grabbed two egg cartons and a jar of Mrs. Darlington’s mint sauce—made with love, according to the label.

  Behind the counter, Len picked up a shiny cleaver and thwacked off three chops. “On the house.”

  “Absolutely not.” Gabriel reached for his wallet.

  “Your money’s no good in here today, Reverend. Think of it as an apology for the bad smell in the shop. Next time call and I’ll deliver on my way home. Save you a trip.”

  “And how would I know what’s happening in the village if I didn’t stick my head inside the shops several times a week?” Gabriel put away his wallet. One single act of kindness could restore a man’s faith in humanity. “Thank you. I graciously accept your most excellent customer service.”

  “I should warn you,” Len said, as he sliced the corned beef, “Gladys was right about one thing. There was talk earlier—I’m not naming anyone—about calling the archdeacon.”

  “Are you hiring if I lose my job?”