by C. J. Tudor
“Maybe. But to lie and pervert justice?”
“Perhaps he manipulated her?”
“Possibly. As I said, Grady was well aware of his looks. Clara may have had a crush. But back then she was rather overweight, awkward with her height. I think I might have some pictures somewhere.”
She starts to rise, easing her frail body up out of the seat. I had almost forgotten her age as we talked; her mind is still so sharp. She walks out into the hall. I wait, wondering about poised, elegant Clara who was once awkward, overweight Clara. But then, the years change us all. For better, and for worse.
When Joan returns, she’s clutching two old photos. She holds them out. I take them and stare at the pictures. The first shows a much younger Clara. Plump, dark-haired, barely recognizable. Her face is serious, her attire dated. It’s obviously a photo taken for the school where she worked. I can picture it pinned up in the entrance hall. Her name beneath it. Miss Wilson.
I place the photo on the coffee table and look at the second one. I catch my breath.
Grady. He is sitting, facing the camera. Straight-backed, hands clasped on his lap, smiling, almost mockingly. His face looks smooth and feminine. Prominent cheekbones, full lips. Blond hair swept back from a high forehead. A handsome man and yet…even in these static pictures, something makes my skin crawl.
“Did you notice the ring?” Joan asks.
She leans forward and taps the photo with one crooked finger. Feeling obliged, I peer at it more closely. Most priests don’t wear jewelry, except for a cross. But a large silver signet ring encircles one of Grady’s fingers. I can just make out a figure on the front and words in Latin. I swallow, my mouth feeling dry.
“Unusual, isn’t it?” Joan says. “The Latin is part of the prayer of St. Michael. I had to get a magnifying glass to make it out. Do you know it?”
I nod. “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio. St. Michael, protect us in battle. It’s a prayer of protection. Against the forces of darkness.”
I lay the photo on the coffee table, fighting the urge to rub my hands on my jeans.
Joan is staring at me curiously. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Yes. Fine. It’s just, I’m not sure what I can do. I’m a vicar, not a detective. And this all happened a long time ago.”
“True. But finding out what Matthew knew would be a start.”
She lowers herself back down into her chair. I sense it causes her pain. Arthritis, or maybe osteoporosis. I wait.
“Do you really believe someone killed him?”
Eventually, she settles and says: “I saw him a few days before he died. He didn’t seem like a man who was suicidal. If anything, he seemed to have a new sense of purpose.”
“The suicidal are good at hiding it.”
“You say that as if you know from experience.”
I hesitate and then find myself saying: “My husband, Jonathon, tried to commit suicide. More than once.”
“I’m so sorry, my dear.”
“He suffered from depression. He would have good days, which were great, but the dark spells…they were really bad.”
“That must have been difficult.”
I think about the hours he spent slumped in front of the TV. The paranoia which once involved him taking a sledgehammer to his own phone. The day he was found walking barefoot along the side of a dual carriageway. Some afflictions you can see. But depression is a crippling illness of the mind that twists the person you love into someone you don’t even recognize.
“I was about to ask for a divorce when he died,” I confess, feeling the old guilt. Even with God’s support, I couldn’t cope. Not with a small child. Not when I worried every day that his illness might endanger our daughter.
“He finally took his own life?” Joan asks gently.
“No.” I smile bitterly. “He was murdered, by an intruder at the church. Somewhat ironic.”
“Oh my goodness. How awful. Did they catch the person responsible?”
I think about the letter in the glovebox.
“Yes. He was sentenced to eighteen years.”
She places her wrinkled hand on mine. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“I don’t normally tell people about Jonathon. I suppose I’ve tried to put it all behind us. I don’t even use my married name any more.”
“Well, you see, we reporters are good at getting stuff out of people.”
“Very true.”
And confessing one truth can be a good way to deflect from others.
Joan sits back and pulls her cardigan slightly tighter around her shoulders. I remind myself that she’s in her eighties and we’ve been talking for a while. All this must be a strain.
“I should go. You’re tired.”
She waves a hand. “I’m eighty-five. I’m always tired. Has anyone mentioned Saffron Winter to you?”
“The writer? Yes, Aaron mentioned that she and Reverend Fletcher were friends.”
“If you want to know more about Matthew, you should talk to her. They were close.”
“Close as in romantically?”
“He never said as much, but I got the impression that there was someone important in his life.”
Interesting. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I think about ignoring it, then check and see that the caller is Durkin.
“Sorry, would you mind if I just—”
“No, go ahead. You might find the reception is better outside.”
“Thank you.”
I stand and walk through the kitchen and out into the garden.
“Hello.”
“Jack. Did you get my message?”
“Sorry, I haven’t checked my voicemails.”
Durkin sounds tense, not his usual smooth-as-a-polished-sandworm self. It immediately sets me on edge.
“Is there a problem?”
A deep sigh. “Actually, I have some rather upsetting news and I thought you should be first to know.”
“Okay.”
“You know Reverend Bradley?”
“Yes, my replacement. What about him?”
“He was attacked last night, in St. Anne’s Church.”
“How is he?”
A pause. The sort of pause that only ever precedes terrible news.
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
He rests his head against the window of the train. The motion is soothing. The cool glass eases the throbbing in his skull.
It’s almost two hours to London, and then he needs to change to catch another train to Sussex. From there, he’ll have to check buses or maybe walk.
He was lucky that the fat priest had plenty of cash in his wallet. It paid for the train tickets and there was still a little left. He had slept in the church last night. It was clean and not too cold. It even had a small bathroom to wash off the blood.
The fat priest had told him what he wanted to know pretty quickly. He couldn’t really remember now why he felt the need to keep hitting him so much and so hard. Maybe it was the way the priest looked at him; the way he told him softly that he forgave him for his sins. Perhaps it had reminded him a little too much of his mother.
This is how much I love you.
“Tickets, please.”
He starts and glances up. Instinctively, his fists clench. Fight or flight. Attack or escape. No, he reminds himself. He has his ticket in his pocket. It’s fine. He has every right to be on this train. He just has to act normal. Keep a clear head. Remember why he is doing this. Otherwise it will all be for nothing.
The ticket inspector draws closer. He sits up straight, ticket at the ready, trying to control the shake in his hand.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning.”
He hands over his ticket. The inspector clips it, starts
to hand it back, then pauses.
Panic grips him. What is it? Has he said or done something wrong? Can the inspector see the guilt on his face or blood on his hands?
The inspector smiles and hands him the ticket. “Have a good journey, Reverend.”
Ah. Of course.
He relaxes, fingers touching the white collar.
The fat priest had known his fate the moment he told him to strip. He saw the terror in his large brown eyes and the damp stain on his underwear.
The suit is a little large but not so much that anyone will question it. He smiles back.
“God bless you, sir.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to come tonight?”
Flo gives me a disparaging look. “Err, a pub quiz? No, thanks.”
“You’ll be okay here on your own?”
“Well, as long as you put me in my play pen.”
“Funny.”
“I’ll be fine. Okay?”
But she doesn’t look fine. Nose stuck back in a book, my daughter looks pale, preoccupied and unhappy.
I sit on the sofa next to her. “Look, I’ll try to find some money to get the camera fixed. Maybe I could apply for a credit card.”
“I thought you said credit cards were the work of the devil?”
“Well, many things are the work of the devil and I still do them.”
“It’s fine, Mum. It’s not the camera.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing, okay?” She uncurls from the sofa. “I’m going upstairs.”
“What about dinner?”
“I’ll make something later.”
“Flo?”
“Mum, just leave it, will you? I’m not one of your parishioners. If you want to know what’s wrong, just take a look around you.”
She stomps up the stairs and the bedroom door slams, rocking the whole cottage.
Okay. Well, perhaps I had that coming. I slump on to the sofa and rub my head. I can feel a headache coming on. The last thing I want is to go to a pub quiz. On the other hand, I could really do with a drink. I keep thinking about Reverend Bradley. Attacked. Dead.
Durkin told me the police are working on the theory that it was an intruder, perhaps one of the homeless men from the soup kitchen. Bradley’s wallet had been taken, and his clothes.
But I have a bad feeling. St. Anne’s was my old church. Was he looking for me? Did Reverend Bradley get in his way?
No. I am putting two and two together and panicking myself. It was fourteen years ago. He wouldn’t have been given an early release unless he had shown remorse; proved he was a changed man. Why would he look for me now?
But I know the answer. I left him behind. And I never went back.
I stand. Enough. Perhaps the best thing to do is to give Flo some space, go out and take my mind off things for a few hours. I trudge upstairs, shower and get changed. I inspect myself in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. Jeans, black shirt, Docs. I start to pull my hair into a ponytail then change my mind and wedge it behind my ears. I grab my hoodie. It’s still muggy, but it might be cool walking back later.
I knock gently on Flo’s door. “Okay, I’m going.”
No reply. I sigh. “Love you.”
I wait and a muffled voice calls back:
“Don’t get too drunk.”
I smile, feeling a little comforted. Just normal teenage stuff. It will pass. Maybe all of this will pass. On the other hand, a little insurance couldn’t hurt. I walk back into my room, open the wardrobe and take out the battered leather case. I undo it and lift out the bone-handled knife. I stare at the rusty stains. Then I carry it over to my bed and stick it under the mattress.
If he finds us, I’ll be ready.
* * *
—
The Barley Mow is brightly lit. I haven’t been to a pub in a long while. I don’t drink that often. The occasional red wine at home, but that’s about it. As a vicar, you can’t really be seen doing tequila shots at the bar. Plus, I don’t like feeling out of control. Losing myself, being unsure of what I might say.
I reach the door. Seven thirty-seven. I hesitate and touch my dog collar. A nervous tic. A gesture of comfort, reassurance. I can always choose not to wear it. There are occasions when I don’t. But the thing about a dog collar is that it also acts as a shield. People see the dog collar, but they don’t really see you.
I push the door open. Pub smells. Wheat, food, old furniture, stale sweat. The sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses. Someone in the back kitchen yelling something unintelligible. I walk in and quickly survey my surroundings. It’s a habit, like touching my dog collar. Assess the situation. Work out your opponents and friends. Look for exits.
The pub is cozy and low-beamed. To my left is the bar and a small area of seating. To my right, a large open fire, currently unlit, more tables and chairs and a couple of worn leather sofas. The walls are brick and adorned with a number of “humorous” plaques.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy beer.
Alcohol may not solve your problems, but neither will water.
Dogs welcome, children tolerated.
There are copper pans and irons hung around the fire and stacks of logs. Most of the crowd are older; a few have dogs. It’s that sort of pub.
There’s one crowd of younger males to my left, congregating around the bar, talking to one of the staff serving, a stocky young man with two black eyes and a swollen nose. He glances up as I walk in and says something to one of the other lads. They laugh. I try to ignore it, but I feel my jaw clench.
“Jack, over here!”
I turn at the sound of Rushton’s voice. He waves at me from a round table in the corner. Clara is sitting next to him, but no sign of Mike Sudduth yet. I squeeze my way over to them, stepping over a couple of dogs en route. There’s a pint of ale in front of Rushton and a red wine in front of Clara. As soon as I reach the table Rushton gets to his feet and envelops me in a warm hug.
“So glad you made it. What can I get you?”
“Erm.” I think about asking for a Diet Coke and then I think, sod it. “Glass of red wine, please. A Malbec or a Cab Sav, if they have one.”
“No problem.”
He trots off and I pull out one of the spare stools and sit down opposite Clara. This evening her hair is down; a shimmering snowy cloak draped over her shoulders. I think about the old pictures Joan showed me. Frumpy Clara. Handsome Grady.
Could she have lied for him?
“So, how are you?” she asks warmly.
“Oh, fine.”
“How did your wedding consultation go?”
“Nothing a sex change or a false beard can’t sort out.”
She laughs. “They’ll come round. Some people are just a bit narrow-minded.”
“I know. Not my first rodeo.”
“Of course.”
Rushton returns, clutching a large glass of red, and with Mike Sudduth in tow.
“Look who I bumped into at the bar!”
He beams and places my wine in front of me.
“Cab Sav. And I understand you’ve met Mike, so no introduction is necessary.”
“No.” I smile politely. “How’s the car?”
“Four-wheeled again. Thanks for your help.”
“No problem. And about what I said—”
“Don’t worry about it.” He sits down on the stool next to me and places a glass of orange juice on the table. “So, what’s your specialist subject?”
I stare at him blankly for a moment. “Oh, the quiz.”
“Clara is our general knowledge expert,” Rushton says. “I’m sport.”
“What’s yours?” I ask Mike.
“TV and film.”
“Okay.” I sip at my wine. �
��Well, I like to read.”
“Good. Books it is then.”
“I might be a bit rusty.”
Rushton chuckles. “Not to worry. It’s only a bit of fun.”
Mike and Clara exchange glances.
“What?”
“Don’t let him fool you with talk of fun,” Mike says. “Quiz night is a serious business.”
“Now you’re worrying me.”
“It’s okay,” Clara says. “It’s only a matter of life or…”
She pauses, eyes drawn to the door. I turn. There’s a gust of cool night air as two people enter. Simon and Emma Harper. I glance at Mike. His face is set, jaw tense. The pain in his eyes is almost tangible. He looks down, suddenly intent upon the quiz sheet on the table.
“So, team name,” Rushton says quickly. “I think we should have a new one now we have a new team member.”
“Definitely,” Clara agrees. “Fresh start, and all that.”
They look at me expectantly. This is another reason I hate pub quizzes.
“Erm…”
“The Four Musketeers,” Rushton volunteers.
“The Holy Trinity,” Clara says.
“Trinity means three,” I remind her.
“Ah.”
“Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” Mike suggests.
Pestilence, War, Famine and Death.
I smile. “Sounds good.”
* * *
—
We lose. Badly and predictably. A dour-faced group of men in wellies and Barbour jackets calling themselves (rather ironically) The Jolly Farmers win, although I suspect the fact that there were a suspiciously large number of questions about tractors may have helped.
However, unexpectedly, I do have fun. Rushton and Clara are good company and Mike is drily amusing. I start to relax a little.
“My round.” Mike stands.
“Pint of Speckled Hen for me,” Rushton says. Clara gives him a look. “Well, maybe just a half.”
Mike glances at me. “Same again?”
I consider. I’ve had one large glass. I should probably have a soft drink or…
“Okay,” I hear myself say.