The Killer in the Choir

by Simon Brett

  ‘Yeah, all right, don’t go on about it.’

  ‘I mean, Monday evenings, they’re always quiet. Hardly worth you opening up then. But, like I’ve said before, if you had a bit of live music, that’d bring the punters in, always has done. Then they get loyal to the band and you find you’ve built up a fan-base in no time. Bit of social media coverage, lots of bands have got relaunched that way. And, of course, the pub that’s their venue, they benefit from it, and all. Sales of booze go up. I’m sure, Ted, if you tried, you could—’

  ‘I’ve told you a thousand times, KK. It’s not my fault. Government changed the laws, didn’t they? Got to have a licence for music now. Made it too expensive to have the live stuff. Days of a couple of blokes with guitars strumming away in the corner, they’re long gone.’

  ‘You could afford it, Ted,’ said the musician. ‘Now your restaurant’s in all those guides and everything, you must be sitting on a little goldmine here.’

  ‘Whether that’s true or not – and actually it’s not – I’m still not convinced that my restaurant guests want to be serenaded by the music of Rubber Truncheon.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my music!’

  The landlord backed down quickly. ‘I didn’t say there was, KK. And it’s not your music I’m objecting to. Will you get it into your head – it’s nothing personal, it’s the price of a bloody music licence!’

  Carole looked at Jude, trying to indicate with her eyebrows that there was really no need for them to be further involved in this exchange. But, infuriatingly, Jude indicated with a slight head movement that she wanted to stay. Even more infuriatingly, she said, ‘I think perhaps we’d better have another drink, Ted.’

  Three large Sauvignon Blancs so early in the evening did not accord with Carole’s proprieties. But then again, if she said no, or asked for a mineral water, or went home on her own, that would definitely look like a snub to Jude. It was yet another social quandary. To her surprise, her lips formed the words, ‘I’ll get these. It’s my turn.’

  So, a few minutes later, she found herself sitting down in an alcove with Jude and KK. Annoyingly, though the light way the two talked suggested they knew each other well, they gave no indication of how they had met, or how long ago. Nor did they give any indication of the level of intimacy at which their friendship had been conducted. And there was no way Carole was going to ask.

  Despite his uncouth appearance, KK seemed to have been well brought up. His laid-back vowels occasionally slipped into something which might have been the product of private education. And he was conscious that Carole shouldn’t be left out of the conversation. After giving Jude an update on the doings of a drummer called Miff who they apparently both knew, and who KK had been working with in Holland until a few days previously, he turned the considerable charm of his smile on to her neighbour.

  ‘You’re looking very smart, Carole, for a visit down to the old C & A. Have you come straight from work?’

  ‘I’m retired,’ she replied awkwardly. ‘I was actually at a funeral this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’ KK’s face took on a suitably compassionate expression. ‘I hope it wasn’t someone close.’

  ‘No, no. I hardly knew him. Just someone from the village.’

  ‘Anyone I’d know?’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’ Carole doubted that the two men would have had much in common. ‘Man called Leonard Mallett.’

  The effect her words had on KK was a total surprise. He looked as if he’d been hit by a lead-filled sock. He managed to gasp out the question, ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Fell down the stairs.’

  ‘My God.’ The musician shook his head slowly. ‘So, Heather finally did it.’

  FIVE

  Carole tried to get KK to expand on what he’d just said, but before she’d finished the question, he’d downed the remains of his Guinness, said he had to go to rehearse for a gig, and left the pub.

  ‘That’s strange,’ Ted Crisp observed. ‘For a start, KK prides himself on never rehearsing. And, what’s more, he hasn’t got any gigs.’

  ‘Now I know that neither of you are regular church-goers …’

  ‘Not any kind of church-goers,’ said Carole tartly. The vicar had arrived at High Tor when Jude was there for coffee, and since he said he was there simply for a ‘pastoral visit’, there was a logic to his speaking to both women at the same time.

  ‘Well, I saw you at Leonard Mallett’s funeral yesterday,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Attending funerals is hardly “regular church-going”. It’s simply obeying a social convention.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it is always my hope that people attending All Saints, for whatever reason, may begin to understand what the church is there for. I think a lot of the anti-church sentiment around is based on ignorance of what actually happens inside churches.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Jude, always more emollient than her neighbour.

  The new vicar of All Saints was a short, earnest man with thick glasses. He didn’t wear a dog collar, except when he was conducting services, probably feeling that jeans and a polo shirt made him look more approachable. He didn’t look like a man with much sense of humour.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jude went on. ‘I’m certainly not “anti-church”. I think churches have done a lot of good for society over the years – and are still doing it, particularly now government support for local services is so diminished. I’ve often put my clients – I’m a healer, incidentally – in touch with facilities run by local churches. So I’ve nothing against churches, per se. All I lack is that essential ingredient, which might persuade me I need to go to church every week. In other words, faith.’

  ‘Faith may come,’ said the vicar. ‘Never rule it out. It came to me in a most unexpected way.’

  ‘Really?’ said Carole, in a way that she hoped would deter him from telling them all the details.

  Fortunately, he moved on. ‘I said I’d come on a “pastoral visit”, and that is certainly true. Everything that happens in the parish is of concern to me. But there is one specific subject that I wanted to raise with you …’

  Carole produced a slightly less deterrent ‘Oh?’

  ‘Did you go to the church hall after the funeral yesterday?’

  ‘I did. Briefly.’

  ‘Were you there to witness the scene between Alice Mallett and her stepmother?’

  ‘I saw the beginning of it, yes.’

  ‘I was very shocked by what happened.’

  ‘I can see that it’s not the kind of behaviour that’s expected at funerals.’

  ‘Certainly not. Obviously, I’m very new to Fethering, Carole, but I wondered if you knew whether there was a history of bad blood between mother and stepdaughter?’

  ‘Local gossip says they don’t get along.’

  ‘And what is that based on?’

  Carole shrugged. ‘Probably nothing. Like the majority of local gossip.’

  ‘That scene in the church hall really troubled me.’ The vicar did look genuinely distressed. ‘I mean, I see it as my duty to heal rifts in the relationships of my parishioners. Bringing them the message of Christianity. Being, as St Francis put it, “an instrument” of God’s peace. I see that as part of my job. In fact, that’s how I would define “pastoral care”.’

  ‘It’s an admirable ambition,’ said Jude gently, ‘but you’re going to have your work cut out if you want to heal all of the relationship rifts in Fethering.’

  ‘I know, but since this recent confrontation took place on church premises … well, I do feel I have to find out as much as I can about it … you know, see if I can improve things.’

  Carole and Jude exchanged sceptical looks.

  ‘I have to try,’ the vicar asserted. ‘It was an accusation of murder.’ They still didn’t look convinced. ‘And with the police being involved …’

  Now he had their attention. ‘How are the police involved?’ asked Carole. ‘Did someone who’d been in the church hall contact
them?’

  ‘No, I think they’d been tipped the wink before that. They implied allegations had been made some time earlier in the week.’

  ‘What allegations?’

  ‘That Heather Mallett had had a hand in her husband’s death.’

  ‘When did they say this?’ asked Jude. ‘Have they spoken to you?’

  ‘Yes. Two plainclothesmen came round to the vicarage this morning.’

  ‘And what did you find out from them?’ asked Carole. ‘Did they talk in terms of murder?’

  ‘No. I think police probably avoid that word as much as they can. Until they have proof, anyway. They said they had an anonymous tip-off on Wednesday, from a woman in a public phone box.’

  ‘Not so many of those around these days,’ observed Jude. ‘Public phone boxes, that is. Everyone uses mobiles.’

  ‘But there are some. If you can find one, and ensure there are no witnesses around, it remains a fairly efficient way of maintaining your anonymity.’

  ‘So, did the police reckon the accusation came from Alice Mallett?’

  ‘If they did think so, they didn’t share the information with me.’ The vicar sounded a little put out.

  ‘No, police are rotten like that, aren’t they?’ said Jude, with feeling.

  ‘Did they mention whether they had spoken to Alice?’

  ‘No, but I got the impression that was on their list of things to do. They were talking to me as an eyewitness to what actually happened in the church hall; you know, to get some background details. I don’t know that I was that much help to them on that, having arrived in Fethering so relatively recently. I hardly know the Malletts.’

  ‘Nor does anyone else, really,’ said Jude.

  ‘Do you know if the police have spoken to Heather?’ asked Carole.

  ‘They didn’t actually say so, but I got the impression, from something they said, that they were going to see her when they’d finished talking to me.’

  ‘And did you also get the impression they might want to talk to you again?’

  ‘They said it was a possibility but didn’t make it sound very likely. It seemed to me that they didn’t really take the supposed crime seriously, they were just going through the motions.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Carole, her Home Office antennae alerted.

  ‘Well, if they did think there was much substance in the accusation, they’d have stopped the funeral, wouldn’t they? Certainly have stopped the cremation?’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘But all they did when they left was ask me to contact them if I heard anything else that might be relevant. And they advised me to talk as little about the situation as possible.’

  In response to Carole’s quizzical look, the vicar said, ‘All right, that’s exactly what I’m doing, I know. But I’m doing it because of my job. I feel it’s part of my remit here in Fethering to create as much harmony as possible. What I witnessed in the church hall yesterday distressed me very much. If I could effect a rapprochement between Heather Mallett and her stepdaughter … well, I’d feel that was the kind of pastoral role I should be taking on. That’s what I’m here for.’

  He spoke with idealistic earnestness. Jude found herself wondering what kind of a man he had been before his ‘Damascene conversion’. Had finding God actually changed his character, or had he always had the same humourless focus, but directed it towards other goals?

  ‘I think that sounds very admirable,’ she said, hoping the words didn’t sound patronizing.

  But Bob Hinkley was too busy riding his hobby-horse to worry about any such nuance. ‘I really do feel I’ve been chosen with a view to making the church relevant, showing people why it should be at the centre of their lives, rather than on the periphery. And because I had a life in the commercial world before I was ordained, I feel I can perhaps bring more practical skills to the task than, say, someone whose whole career has been in the church. I believe that, in this age of rampant commercialism, cyber-bullying and fake news, the church has never been more relevant. And what I’m talking about is a very broad church, that embraces everyone, regardless of gender, race or sexual orientation.’

  He was looking straight at Jude as he said this, and she knew exactly what he meant. It wasn’t the first time that the closeness of the two neighbours had been interpreted as something rather more meaningful. In fact, she knew that a small constituency of Fethering residents were absolutely convinced they were a lesbian couple. Fortunately, though, Carole, out of his eye-line, hadn’t picked up the vicar’s implication. She hadn’t picked up the lesbian subtext, which was just as well. Carole always got deeply offended by such suggestions, whereas Jude thought they were very funny.

  ‘Anyway,’ Bob Hinkley went on, ‘while I’m here, there is something else I wanted to talk about.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The choir.’

  ‘What about the choir?’ said Carole. Then, feeling that might have sounded a bit graceless, she added, ‘They were in good voice yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, they were. I think the organist, Jonny Virgo …’

  ‘I know him,’ said Jude, with no mention of the context.

  ‘Ah. Well, I think he has his work cut out with them. Some of the voices are not quite as … well … You can always hear when someone’s flat, can’t you? Not of course that I don’t appreciate the time and effort that the people put into it. Hm, anyway, with the choir … and indeed, with the congregation … I am aware that the average age of the participants is high and that, not to put too fine a point on it, numbers are dwindling.’

  ‘It’s a trend that’s happening across the country,’ Jude sympathized.

  ‘I know, but it’s a trend that I feel it is in my remit to reverse.’

  Carole, who was wondering if his second use of the word ‘remit’ was a hangover from his days ‘in industry’, murmured, ‘Good luck.’

  ‘So, I’m very actively trying to recruit new members.’

  Jude spread her hands wide in apology. ‘I’m sorry, but as we’ve said, we both lack the faith that makes church attendance seem necessary to us.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the congregation. I was talking about the choir.’

  ‘What, you’re trying to enlist non-believers into the church choir?’ asked Carole.

  ‘I’m trying to enlist anyone into the church choir.’ The pleading in Bob Hinkley’s voice was a measure of his desperation. Both women realized how much he was investing in his new career, the high goals that he had set himself. If he was on a one-man mission to reverse the rising tide of godlessness in the country, they feared he was lining himself up for disappointment.

  ‘I don’t sing,’ said Carole definitively.

  ‘You mean you can’t sing?’

  ‘Yes.’ But she wasn’t sure if the answer was true. Like many of Carole’s inhibitions, this one went back a long way. When she started, aged thirteen, at her private girl’s school, the music mistress had asked each member of the class to stand up and sing, to assess their suitability for the school choir. Carole had found this exposure so acutely nerve-wracking that, from that moment on, she had never let a musical sound come out of her mouth. At assemblies and church services she had become very expert at lip-synching and sounding final consonants, so that she looked as if she was singing. But she allowed no actual noise to emerge.

  And from that time on, if ever the subject came up, she insisted that she couldn’t sing. There was nothing less appealing to Carole Seddon than standing up in front of people and being asked to entertain them. Though, as she had often proved in her Home Office days, she was more than competent at chairing difficult meetings, the idea of public performance was anathema to her.

  In reflective moods, she did sometimes wonder whether there was innate music in her, which had been frightened away by the music mistress’s demands. There were some songs she liked, some tunes that she found soothing. And she had often found herself singing nursery rhymes to her grandchi
ldren, Lily and Chloe (when she was sure their parents were not within earshot). The little girls had never made any objections.

  But a direct question, like the one that had just been posed by the Rev. Bob Hinkley, would always still receive the steely reply that she couldn’t sing.

  ‘What about you, Jude?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I can sing all right …’ Yes, of course she’d be able to, thought Carole bitterly. Singing involved being relaxed, and Jude was good at that. She’d been an actress at some stage in her life, too. That must’ve involved singing.

  ‘But,’ her friend went on, ‘I don’t really want to commit myself to—’

  She was interrupted by a ringing from the vicar’s phone. ‘Excuse me.’ He looked at the display. ‘I’d better take this. It’s the police.’

  During the call, Carole and Jude exchanged looks of frustration. Most of Bob’s responses were ‘Yes’ or ‘Right’. It was impossible to guess what information he was responding to.

  When he ended the call, they both looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Carole. ‘Is there anything you can tell us?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ he replied slowly. ‘In fact, they want me to tell you. They want everyone in Fethering to get the message. So, as they put it, all of the gossip and accusations will stop.’

  ‘What is the message they want everyone to get?’

  ‘That the police are concluding their investigations. They are convinced there was nothing suspicious about the fall that killed Leonard Mallett. He died a natural death.’

  SIX

  Within a week, the ripples caused by the scene at Leonard Mallett’s wake had spread outwards to nothingness, and the placid, level surface of Fethering life returned. A new report on the possible rerouting of the A27 around Fedborough (an issue which had been reported on every three years for the past thirty without ever prompting any action) provided fresh material for argument among the sages at the bar of the Crown & Anchor. And Fethering gossip continued to create elaborate fabrications, into whose weave were inserted a few narrow threads of truth.