A Christmas Resolution

by Anne Perry

  She watched him to see his reaction, and he was aware of it.

  He waited a few moments, marshaling his thoughts, before he asked, “What did the authorities make of it?”

  “The kindest thing that could be said was that it was an accident, where the balance of her mind was turned,” she replied. “The most unkind was that someone deliberately killed her. Possibly, they threatened her until she had nowhere to go but into the water, eventually far enough out for the tide to take her, and…”

  “Was it an outgoing tide, do you know?” he interrupted.

  “So it was said,” she replied quite simply, her face showing the depth of her sadness.

  “Do you believe that?” he pressed.

  “I have no reason to doubt it. You can find out easily enough what the police say. I believe they concluded it was suicide, or at least that was what they called it. Of course, the coroner had to rule it so. So…” She stopped.

  Hooper wanted to make her say the words, so he would not wonder afterward if he had put them in her mouth.

  “So, she did not have a Christian burial,” she concluded. “Suicide is a sin for which you cannot repent…because there is no time left.” Her voice had not only pity, but also deep anger.

  He wondered if somewhere in her own life such a tragedy had happened, and the pain of it was still with her. He could not go along with the Church’s judgment in this case. Apart from anything else, it was made by men who had no idea of the agony and despair of some people’s lives. Even in the best of circumstances, how could anyone judge another’s pain? And who had the pitiless arrogance to wish to?

  “If there is an eternity, then all of it is left,” he answered her. “I don’t know whether there is a God or not. I’d like to believe there is, and a more compassionate one than some people paint. We don’t even know if she took her own life. If you want to judge someone, look into why.” There, with an effort, he stopped himself. He did not even know Rose Marlowe, but he was picturing desperate unhappiness such as he had seen in the very poor, hungry, sick, and homeless. He had been stunned by people living ten, twelve, all in one room, desperate to help them and unable to. Sometimes, he longed to get away from the worst of it.

  That was one of the things Celia had given him, a place of peace where he could have gentleness and hope, both emanating from inside her. He did not understand it and did not try to; it was enough that it existed.

  And Clementine? Could something like that happen to her, too? Had Rose Marlowe once been young and full of hope?

  “What about Flavia, the daughter?” he asked. “What happened to her?”

  Mrs. Soames looked downward, her face creased with unhappiness. “I don’t know. I’ve heard little things, but I can’t say if any of them is true. Are you going to look for her? If you find her, will you let me know, please?”

  Hooper thought for a moment. This was uglier than he had foreseen. Different thoughts filled his mind about Marlowe and his past, and about what had happened to Rose and to her daughter. Had Rose got herself into deeper trouble than Marlowe had known? Than he chose to believe? Certainly, he had told no one, except maybe Roberson, who could never repeat it. Was that the source of the vicar’s seemingly endless compassion for Marlowe: His knowledge of things Marlowe could not even speak of?

  So, was Clementine’s compassion well placed? Could it heal the frail future of a man who had already suffered profoundly, in a way he could not share?

  Hooper felt the weight of decision dark and heavy over him. What if he was wrong, hasty, following his anger because Marlowe had threatened Celia?

  “I will let you know,” Hooper promised Mrs. Soames. “And thank you for your trust and your help.”

  She smiled back at him, but there was considerable gravity in it.

  Mrs. Soames walked Hooper as far as the front door. She held out her hand. “Be careful, Mr. Hooper,” she said quietly. “It’s an ugly affair. There is more cruelty than either of us knows, but it is all too easy to guess.” Her face reflected helpless sorrow. “Rose Marlowe was driven beyond what she could bear. I know only bits and pieces, but the rest lies darkly behind it. That I know for sure.”

  “I am beginning to see that,” Hooper replied. “Thank you.” He shook her hand firmly and walked away.

  * * *

  That evening, after his duties were finished for the day, Hooper went to the Wapping police station on the river. He hoped that William Monk, the commander of the Thames River Police, was in his office. Hooper knew him well. He was Monk’s right-hand man and they had trusted each other through many cases, both victories and disasters, and neither had ever found the other wanting.

  Hooper walked across the dark wharf and into the building. The sun set early at this time of the year and now, at five o’clock, it was like the middle of the night. He could hear the tide lapping on the steps and slurping around the wooden pilings underneath him. The settling fog smothered all but the lights of the nearest ships riding at anchor. It was an evening to be home, but Monk was unlikely to have left yet. The air was breathtakingly cold.

  Hooper pushed the door open and the warmth from the potbellied iron stove at the far end of the room wrapped around him immediately. There were a couple of men at their desks writing notes. He looked at Monk’s office door. One of the men nodded, and Hooper walked over to it and knocked. He heard an answer and went inside.

  Monk was sitting at his desk, almost clear of papers. His face was as keen as always, his gray eyes steady, but he looked tired.

  “What is it?” he asked. He knew that Hooper did not interrupt him at this time of the evening without a purpose.

  Hooper glanced at the chair opposite the desk.

  Monk nodded.

  Hooper sat down and told Monk, briefly, about Clementine. Monk already knew Celia and admired her immensely. That fact gave Hooper a deep, abiding pleasure. Monk’s respect was not easily earned. He was a man with a long and dark history, and he was more than acquainted with fear: he had walked side by side with it for years. The fear he knew was not of battle, nor even of failure—they were bad enough—but the fear of his unknown past and all that it might contain, erased from his mind by an accident.

  Monk’s wife, Hester, had gone out to the Crimea before they knew each other to nurse with Florence Nightingale in that catastrophic and pointless war. She was direct to a fault, brave, vulnerable in her hopes and beliefs. When Hooper had got to know her, they had formed a generous friendship. Keeping her and her often astringent and practical observations in mind, he told Monk about his fears for Celia and her involvement with Clementine.

  “Nothing I found out laid any of these fears to rest,” he said. “I fear Clementine is also idealistic. She is so bent on giving Marlowe the happiness that has eluded him so far that she is overlooking the possibility that his past is much darker than he has told her.”

  “That he murdered Rose?” Monk was as direct as always. It was his nature to name the worst rather than creep up to it.

  Hooper had had the same thought. “I need to know,” he said bluntly. “He threatened Celia over the anonymous letter. Of course she didn’t write it, but he believes that she did.”

  “Or is using it as a weapon to keep her out of his affairs?” Monk suggested. “One mention of a poisonous letter, with a few hints added, plus someone who dislikes Celia, or is jealous of her, and the fire would be set.”

  “Jealous?”

  Monk smiled bleakly. “She’s a brave and honest woman, Hooper. She doesn’t believe comfortable lies, and she is very perceptive. She holds the mirror straight. People see in her face what she really thinks. Not all are going to like it.”

  Hooper realized with some surprise that Monk was right. Sometimes the most disturbing thing of all was the truth. It could be like a little crack in a glass, which eventually would fracture the whole
thing. That was what had first drawn him to Celia, that and her courage. And although she was not traditionally beautiful, there was a grace to her he had seen in no one else.

  “I’ll need time to do this,” Hooper said. “I can’t afford to wait.”

  “Don’t talk to me as if I’m an idiot, Hooper,” Monk said with a very slight edge of impatience. “I can see that. When Marlowe learns you are looking into him—and he will—he’ll start to fight back. And he won’t care who gets hurt, as long as it isn’t him. Any ideas of who sent the anonymous letter? What does Celia say?”

  “Several people might have, out of spite for something or other, but she has no idea,” Hooper replied, watching Monk’s face, seeing the gravity in it. “It could be anyone,” he admitted. “Seth Marlowe has been generous with his criticism. I don’t know everyone who he has criticized, whose pride he has hurt. Or whose reputation he has damaged.”

  “Will the vicar help?” Monk asked dubiously.

  “I doubt it. His late wife was Marlowe’s sister. He seems to feel some obligation toward Marlowe. No idea what his wife might have made him promise. He is a lonely man. I think he’s very fond of Clementine.”

  Monk looked at him narrowly. “I think you’d better sort this out quickly, before you have a tragedy on your hands. You need to find this daughter…what’s her name? Take the time. And a couple of men—say, Laker and Walcott—if you want them.”

  “Thank you. Flavia, she’s called,” Hooper replied. “Although she may not be using it anymore.” He was startled and felt a shiver of apprehension run through him. He had not expected Monk to take the matter so seriously. He was grateful…and now genuinely afraid.

  * * *

  Celia was not aware of Hooper’s intentions that day, but she was profoundly concerned over Clementine’s future. And she was very angry indeed that Marlowe had accused her of writing the anonymous letter. But far more important than that, she was afraid. Who had really written it, and how many other letters might there be? Who else might have received one, and were they always about Marlowe? Or were they about others as well? How many people were afraid of what the postman might bring? What was true, or partly true, and what were complete lies? That was the trouble with such letters: they caused fear of actions that had not yet happened, and possibly never would.

  She was doing unnecessary housework, and she knew it was because the busyness gave her the illusion that she was achieving something. In the past, she had kept a beautiful house. Wood was polished until it gleamed like silk, the kitchen floor was clean enough to eat from. She had been very restricted financially then, before Katherine’s death and a bequest left to her, and the idea of having enough money to replace anything she wanted was still foreign to her. She had mended all sorts of things rather than spend money on new ones. She had cut worn or torn dresses into skirts or even remade them as dresses for children she knew. Now that she had no need to do that, she still kept the habit, especially cutting down dresses for someone else to use. The sight of a little girl’s face when she had a dress especially sewn for her was a reward she would not willingly give up.

  Now she was working at polishing things that did not need it, because it gave her a sense of purpose and required very little concentration. She had already peeled potatoes and chopped carrots for dinner. It was too early to slice the cabbage, and far too early to take the meat out of the cold pantry and into the warm kitchen.

  Celia was pleased when the doorbell rang. She put down the duster and hurried to open it. It was nearly eleven, the perfect time to offer someone a cup of tea.

  She felt differently when she saw Arthur Roberson on the step.

  “Vicar! How nice to see you.” She forced herself to smile. “Come in, please.” She stepped back and he followed after her, his smile looking as automatic as hers. “Do you mind coming into the kitchen?” she asked. “The fire in the sitting room isn’t lit yet.”

  “Of course not,” he replied. They were already at the kitchen door. “It sounds much the better choice. No one lights a sitting-room fire this early in the day.” This was true, except for the very wealthy or the totally idle.

  She pulled out a chair for him at the kitchen table, filled the kettle and put it on the oven top, then opened the door into the fire and added a couple more pieces of coal. She poked it until the new pieces were burning well, then sat down and waited for him to speak.

  He looked at her gravely, drew in breath, then seemed to change his mind. Finally, he began, without the usual pleasantries. “You were kind enough to tell me last Sunday how deeply you appreciated the message of my sermon. In fact, you said that it was the true meaning of Christmas. That Christ brought the possibility of forgiveness—of any and every sin—to all who would accept it. No one was shut out from that. No one at all. And no sin was excluded.” He sat perfectly still, looking straight into her eyes.

  She stared back at him. He had a good face, clear and very gentle eyes, but they were also very direct, even challenging. She knew he would not be the first to look away.

  She could not argue with his comment. If it was true at all, then it had to apply to everyone. “Yes,” she said, already knowing what he was going to say next: forgive Seth Marlowe. But she was not going to say it for him.

  “It’s usually easy to forgive those we like,” he went on. “Really forgiving and forgetting those offenses committed by those we don’t like, that’s hard.” He shook his head very fractionally. “I do not ask you to like Seth Marlowe, my dear, or to stop caring for Clementine.” He hesitated. “But if you can forgive him for her sake, this marriage is a chance of happiness for both of them.” He smiled. “And happiness is very healing. I think you know that for yourself?”

  That was a comment that went straight to its mark. She was happy, totally happy, with John Hooper. It was as if the sun had risen and a bright light shone on her whole world. Certainly, there was still pain in it, there were battles to be fought, work to do, selfishness and thoughtlessness to be overcome, but there was a joy through all of it that gave meaning and life to it. She found herself smiling even at the thought.

  “I read the answer to that in your face, my dear,” Roberson said gently. “Would you deny that to Clementine? She is not at fault, whatever you think of Seth.”

  He left the question hanging as to whether she thought Seth would bring Clementine happiness or imprisoning grief. But could she say that to him? Wasn’t that the very sort of judgment she deplored in others?

  As if he had read her thoughts, he spoke, and his response was not quite the one she had been imagining. “If John Hooper’s friends had said to him that he should not marry a woman who would lie on the witness stand, for any reason at all, would you have expected him to listen and withdraw his offer to you?”

  She had done it to save Hooper’s life! Did Roberson not understand that? “It was to…” she began.

  “To save Hooper’s life,” he finished for her. “I know, but other people don’t. They might judge differently.”

  “They have no right—” she started to say.

  “Of course they haven’t,” he agreed. “That was rather my point.”

  She felt the heat rise up her face. She had not expected such a powerful argument from Arthur Roberson, intellectually or morally. A part of her was pleased, and a part of her was angry that Clementine had chosen Marlowe to marry, and not Arthur Roberson. No, that was not fair! Marlowe had asked her, Roberson had not. And he was desperately lonely. That she knew as profoundly as she knew anything.

  “What about the letter?” she asked. “Who wrote it? And why? He thinks it was me! And he has promised to hurt John if it happens again. I have no control over that because I didn’t write it, and I have no idea who did. I can’t prevent that person from writing such a letter again…and again…to anyone.”

  “I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees about t
hat,” he said gravely.

  “I suppose God can stop people doing such things, but He can’t take the wickedness out of their hearts, can He?” she asked, hearing the bitterness and confusion in her voice. “Wouldn’t that, in effect, rob us of ever being either good or bad?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Perhaps. But I wasn’t asking Him to. I only asked for guidance as to what I should do.”

  She swallowed hard. “And what do you think that is going to be?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m afraid of it. I think it won’t be anything I wish to do, or else I would have thought of it for myself.” That was devastating honesty.

  “You think that He would answer you?” It was a serious question. Did Arthur Roberson really believe that God literally answered such questions?

  “Oh, yes.” He sounded rueful. “I will know…if I want to.”

  She hesitated only a moment “Don’t you want to?”

  “No, because I think it will be something decisive, and I’d dread it.” The shadow of a smile crossed his face. “The only thing worse is living with the guilt afterward. Uncertainty is corrosive, you know. Whatever happens, you always wonder if the alternative would have been better somehow.”

  “And what should I do? Will God tell me that?” she asked.

  “I think He already has. Be gentle with Clementine. Don’t add to her loneliness by blaming her for choosing to marry Marlowe. I know that what he says is unreasonable, and worse than that, it is selfish, born out of his fear that he would lose her if she listens to you.”

  That was good sense, and Celia knew it. She did not argue.

  “And the letter?” he asked.

  She considered that for a moment. “I find it very difficult to put up with her believing that I wrote it.”

  “She doesn’t,” he answered quickly. “And I know it is vile. I don’t know who did write it, and I have made as many inquiries as I dare without explaining what it is, which is precisely what the writer wishes, I think.”