by Anne Coates
So many questions. There seemed to be no motive behind Liz’s murder. But there must be one. Increasingly Hannah felt the reason predated her time at the church clinic. She decided she’d take another look at the files on Liz’s computer and a box of papers Lady Rayman had had sent over to her. Somewhere there were clues to this. Hannah was determined to find them.
But not tonight – she was far too tired. She missed Tom more than she would have thought and wondered yet again, why he hadn’t phoned her. Feeling more alone than she would have thought possible she crept into Elizabeth’s room and stared down at the sleeping toddler, mouth slightly open, one arm flung above her head, her breathing slow and steady. Hannah felt a rush of love and only just stopped herself picking up her daughter. Life went on. Elizabeth should always be her main concern.
SEVENTEEN
Hannah stood at the entrance to St John’s waiting for the hearse and funeral cars to arrive. Fortunately the police investigation in the building was over very soon after it had started. No further information had been released to the press. The forensic search of the building was, apparently, part of ongoing investigations. Hannah had wondered if they had uncovered anything to do with Liz’s murder and if they had, would they tell her? Probably not.
The day should have been overcast, grey, but in defiance the sun’s rays danced, shafted between buildings, refracted from every window. An explosion of light and optimism on such a day seemed a travesty.
She’d felt honoured when Liz’s mother insisted she should be party to the cortége which would follow Liz’s coffin into the church and sit with the chief mourners in the front pews. Now she wasn’t so sure. Her legs felt weak. Her stomach churned. She scratched at her left hand and looked at her watch again. It was time. As she looked up the funeral cars swung into view.
The funeral director opened the car door and Lady Rayman emerged looking thinner, her expression held together by a lifetime of doing the right thing. Her pale olive suit echoed her grief. Mary, wearing a bright pink, followed her; the two women clutched at each other’s arms. For a moment they paused each seeming or trying to draw strength from the other. Lady Rayman had asked everyone not to wear black. She wanted this to be a celebration of Liz’s life. There were to be no flowers but donations to a children’s charity. The only floral tribute was from Lady Rayman and Mary – red roses in the design of what was presumably the Rayman family crest.
The hearse drew up and the bearers assembled at the foot of the steps. The simple coffin was hoist on to their shoulders; each face bore an expression of extreme concentration as their burden tipped backwards when they climbed the steps.
Lady Rayman gripped Mary’s hand as the coffin passed them and they formed the cortége in its wake. As they entered the church the priest pronounced the opening words:
“I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies, says the Lord.”
As they made their way down the aisle, to the strains of Schubert, the whole congregation faced them. It was only later that Hannah realised Celia had hired a string quartet to play, and that piece was called “Death and the Maiden”. The music hardly impinged on her consciousness as she concentrated on getting one foot in front of the other without tripping, willing her eyes to stay dry. The walk seemed interminable but in reality it must have been over within a few of minutes, their group was seated in the two front rows.
The service bore all the hallmarks of Lady Rayman’s determination to highlight Liz’s qualities and talents. Various friends some known to Hannah others not, participated with readings and memories. Then it was the moment for Hannah to deliver her eulogy. She felt Lady Rayman touch her arm gently then stood and walked the few steps to the rostrum. She took a deep breath as she took in the ocean of faces before her, unable to distinguish a single one as her sight blurred. Only afterwards did she realise that Liz’s “missionaries” were sitting shoulder to shoulder with the Kensington set, the WelcAf representatives, and work colleagues.
“I feel so privileged to be able to make a tribute to Liz, my friend and confidante for only ten years, a moment in time compared to her relationships with some of you here… One of the interests we shared was a passion for poetry. We both loved Andrew Marvell so, in her honour, I’d like to read ‘Mourning’.”
She swallowed hard and concentrated on the words before her. Fearing that tears would cloud her vision, she’d learned the poem by heart. But she still wasn’t sure she’d get through it.
“You that decipher out the Fate
Of humane Off-springs from the skies …”
As she recited the lines she saw as though on a film reel visions of them together. Laughing, talking … hugging …
“Only to soften near her heart
A place to fix another wound.”
That’s how she felt. Wounded. Bereft.
“Nor that she payes, while she survives,
To her dead Love this Tribute due…”
All she could think of as she spoke these words were the lost opportunities, what they would never share. The silly misunderstandings that had developed in what neither could have known would be the last months of the friendship. Her voice broke as the last image of her dear friend threatened to overpower her. Then she looked at the photo she had attached to the poem. Of them together. Laughing as though there would never be an end to their mirth. Thank you James. She continued, “Would find her tears yet deeper ways…”
Hannah hesitated then found her voice: “I yet my silent Judgment keep.” She ended the poem there. Three lines short. Knowing most people in the chuch would be none the wiser. She paused. Silent. She took a calming breath and looked across at Liz’s coffin.
“Above all Liz loved life and she died doing something she so strongly believed in. Her compassion for others less favoured than herself … Her sense of right and justice was not prompted by any religion but by the special heart that beats no more … so many of us have reason to be grateful that we knew her and we will miss the light she brought into our world.”
As she was leaving the rostrum, Hannah caught sight of a face she hadn’t expected to see and almost stumbled before reaching her seat. Paul Montague was sitting towards the back, a few rows in front of Claudia Turner.
Hannah felt Lady Rayman’s hand lightly touch her shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The rest of the service passed in a blur for Hannah. All she could think about was Paul being there. Paul but not Tom. Hannah was furious with herself and with Tom. Why wasn’t he with her now when her need was greatest. Some relationship this was if she was always on her own.
“We now commit Elizabeth’s body to the ground;
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust:
in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…”
It was over. Hannah stood and followed Lady Rayman as she and Mary led the way. Liz was leaving St John’s for the last time.
Liz’s final journey – to the crematorium – seemed interminable and lonely to Lady Rayman accompanied only by Mary, and they sat in mute grief. Mary had given up searching for words to communicate her loss and so, it seemed, had Lady Rayman. As the hearse and their car pulled in through the gates, Lady Rayman gripped Mary’s hand so tightly her fingers felt they were melded together.
“I am so sorry, Celia. Maybe if…”
“No maybes, my dear. We did what we did. What we had to do. For the best. And it was for the best.”
There was no ceremony. Celia and Mary read a poem from Wordsworth’s Imitations of Immortality:
“What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind”
and pushed the button together, staring wide-eyed but tearless at ea
ch other. Each pair of eyes reflected the other’s sorrow. The curtain closed and they could hear the rumbling of the machinery moving the coffin to its final destination.
They left and the return journey to Waterloo seemed much quicker.
EIGHTEEN
The wake was to be at the back of the church which had a sort of kitchen and lots of space for tables of food. Hannah had been amazed that Lady Rayman had decided to hold the funeral as St John’s – the scene of Liz’s untimely and violent death – but she was adamant. The church, she had said, was not responsible for what had happened and she was convinced that Liz’s mission there had nothing to do with her daughter’s murder.
Lady Rayman had also arranged for caterers to deliver the buffet there so that the “down and outs” who had formed Liz’s patient group at St John’s would be able to stay and eat. Hannah knew that she had deliberately overcatered so that they could pack up the leftovers to be taken to Cardboard City. Liz’s last gift to them.
Hannah stood in the church porch and watched Celia and Mary leave. As she turned back into the church, she walked straight into the bishop who had taken the ceremony. Hannah wondered why she was surprised that Lady Rayman had managed to get a bishop to preside at the funeral. With her connections it was only natural, she supposed. Would she have asked Patrick, if he hadn’t been indisposed?
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
The bishop took her hands. “I am very sorry for your loss Hannah and for the terrible ordeal you have had. It must have been difficult for you so soon after…”
He left the sentence unfinished. Hannah felt a wave of fear wash over her as she looked up into his face. Behind his glasses, those eyes were stern, at variance with the sympathetic smile he affected. That hardness took her straight back to her confrontation with Gerald Lacon. The evil he perpetrated and what he had planned to do. She felt the bile rise. How did this bishop know? What did he know? Hannah had to speak to Tom even more urgently now.
“Thank you. Excuse me but Lady Rayman asked me to check on the caterers.”
“Of course.” But he wasn’t going to let her off his hook so easily. “I understand you went to see Fr Patrick.”
Hannah just stared at him, saying nothing.
“Don’t meddle, Hannah, with matters which are no concern of yours.”
The skin at the back of her neck was crawling with icy apprehension. She felt a tremour run through her as he followed her in, as though stalking her soul. She made a show of finding the caterer and having a few words. There was no need. Everything has been meticulously planned, the food laid out as if by a wave of a wand and glasses filled with wine were being circulated on trays by silent waiters. Hannah noticed Liz’s “missionaries” – those who were probably the hungriest – hang back from the food. As though it were “family last”. A few were lighting candles at a side table.
Hannah mingled, and was stopped and hugged by friends some of whom she hadn’t seen for a long while. Suddenly there was James and she was engulfed in his arms. For a few moments she gave way to the joy and comfort of his presence. Then he pulled back. “Sorry Hannah, have to get back to the Hammersmith. I’ll see you later.” As he kissed her on the forehead, she closed her eyes. Then he was gone and she saw Paul staring at James’s retreating back. He glanced over at Hannah, raised his glass, and carried on talking to someone she didn’t know.
For a moment she felt totally adrift. What the hell was Paul doing here? Was he really going out of his way to try and intimidate her. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, she could almost hear Liz say those words to her. She turned away and saw that Claudia Turner was observing her from a few feet away.
Hannah made her way towards her. As she approached Claudia gave her what seemed like a sincere smile. “Well done, Hannah. That must have been difficult.” She gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “And now I must get back to work.” As if on cue her mobile rang. “Sorry I have to take this. When? Okay I’m just a few minutes away.” Then she was gone.
“Excuse me, Hannah – hope you don’t mind. Could we have a brief word?”
A tall, slim man, with a bronzed face and sun-streaked hair stood before her. He was probably a similar age to her – mid-thirties – and had the WelcAf logo as a badge in his lapel. “I’m sorry, I…”
“No I’m sorry. I was one of Liz’s colleagues in Somalia – Sam Lockwood.” He held out his hand. Hannah found hers gripped firmly. “I wonder if we could have a talk some time. Not here or now, of course. But it would be good to share some memories. And I understand from Lady Rayman you are going through all Liz’s effects.” Hannah nodded distractedly, looking over at the a group of the missionaries. “Liz was a great friend to WelcAf and I enjoyed working with her.”
Hannah brought her focus back to him and smiled. He looked nice, enthusiastic. Charming. Hannah remembered her lapel camera and clicked. “Yes that would be good, Sam. Give me a ring – sorry there’s someone I must have a word with.” She handed him her card and moved way.
Celia Rayman and Mary were back and mixing with the funeral guests. Hannah watched how she treated everyone with the same equanimity. Mary was making sure the less fortunate among the throng were eating. She stopped and had a word with each one. Both women were circulating as though to the manor born and Hannah wondered how they managed to be so “together” for want of a better word.
Just then she felt someone tug at her sleeve. “Hello luv, my name’s Lucy.”
Hannah smiled. “Nice to meet you Lucy. I’m Hannah.”
“I know that. Loved that poem you read. One of me sister’s favourites.” She smiled as if at some distant memory then switched back to the present. “And I know that you’re a journalist, ain’t you.” Lucy coughed dramatically and took a glass of wine from a passing waiter. She took a large gulp.
“I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to come and speak to some of us down the Bull Ring.” Lucy looked at her as if trying to judge her reaction. “Liz was very highly thought of, wasn’t she. No one can understand what’s happening.”
Hannah’s face must have reflected her skepticism. “Do you think anyone will talk to me, though?” she asked. “I did pass through the other day and was recognised by someone. That young man over there –” Hannah pointed him out – “he…
“Look,” Lucy interrupted. “I’ll meet you somewhere first. Then we’ll go together. No one will think anything of it if you’re with me.”
Hannah smiled at the woman who was offering her protection – all five foot of her. Her grey hair stuck out in tendrils from her red, green and blue woollen bobble hat. Her jacket would have done Joseph proud with its multi-coloured stripes while her skirt seemed to pick up any colours that had been left out in other garments, daubed in various patterns on a black background. Her boots, however bucked the trend, and were a dull brown with scuffs and scratches, worn down at the heel.
“Okay when and where shall we meet?”
“What about the day after tomorrow so’s I can ask around a bit myself? I’ll see you outside Greggs bakers in Lower Marsh say four o’clock?”
“All right.” Hannah wondered at the meeting place but said nothing.
“And just one thing…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t wear anything posh like, you know. Find some old clothes so you won’t stick out like a sore thumb.”
Hannah smiled. “I’ll do my best. And thank you, Lucy.”
While she was considering what was really behind Lucy’s invitation, Paul materialised beside her. “How are you bearing up?”
“As if you care.”
“You’d be surprised.” He gave her a long look and smiled but she was immune to his charms.
“Why are you here, Paul?”
“Like most people. To pay my respects, of course. I did know Liz.”
Something in the way he said this jarred. “Yes, well I’m just going to say goodbye to Celia and Mary.”
“Give my love to
Elizabeth for me.”
Hannah turned back to face him. “Do you know the meaning of the word? Or has Judy Burton been giving you lessons? Small world isn’t it?” And she walked away before Paul could reply.
Drained by the experience of Liz’s funeral, Hannah was grateful that Elizabeth had fallen asleep almost as soon as she put her in her cot. She ran a bath but as soon as she put one foot into it the phone rang. Tempted to ignore it she let the answerphone pick up then dashed into her study when she heard Tom’s voice begin to leave a message.
“Tom, hi. Sorry I was in the bathroom.”
There was that tell tale pause then, “How are you, Hannah? Today must have been very difficult for you.”
“It was – for so many reasons.”
“I wish I could have been with you.”
“So do I.” She was about to tell him about Paul being there, then decided against it. “A bishop conducted the service and… Tom he warned me not to meddle in things that don’t concern me.”
“Well that may have been good advice rather than a warning.” Tom had already aired his disapproval of her involvement as such with Liz’s murder.
“No it wasn’t. He was referring to the priest who is in St Thomas’s. But that wasn’t the only thing. Before that he made an allusion to what happened last year he said Liz’s death must have been hard for me so soon after… but he didn’t finish his sentence. He just looked at me and it was… it was horrible. What does he know, Tom? And what’s more how does he know?”
Hannah thought she heard a sigh then Tom’s voice had the tone of a long-suffering teacher or parent. Not that of a lover who was concerned for her.
“Look Hannah, I think you’re overreacting. Caroline’s death was reported in the press. He was probably just thinking about her. There’s no reason to believe he knows any more. A coincidence, that’s all.”