Tom leaned forwards and glanced down through an embrasure in the tower’s crenellations at the crown of the yew tree below, looking for all the world like a great green unfurled umbrella. He was reminded not of Julia, with whom he had circled the very tree only the other day, but of Lisbeth, of kissing her under the yew tree in St. Oswald’s churchyard, in Grasmere, in the Lakes, on their honeymoon. He felt a stab of intense yearning for her, if not for her shrewd counsel alone, for she could take a priestly Gordian knot and slice it with a bold stroke. While he could no more share the secrets of the confessional with her than she could share patients’ medical confidences with him, he would have been able to sidle up to her with a discreet question or two. She would smile—she would know there was a subtext to his query—but she would not pry. If she were here today, he would ask her, “Why did you break it off with Alastair Hennis?” And she would answer lightheartedly, as it was a question he had asked, long ago, at that Cambridge noodle bar: “Because he was so very predictable, darling.” Even when Alastair had continued to court Julia, Lisbeth had mocked it as only another example of his lack of imagination, as if the Rose sisters came as a sort of job lot, one as suitable as the other, though Tom believed, without Lisbeth confirming, that a modicum of spite had provoked Alastair’s attention to the younger sister, a getting back, made more triumphant by a lavish wedding, which Lisbeth suffered through as maid of honour. “Why did you break it off with Alastair?” She had never said. But Tom thought he now understood why. Lisbeth had intuited a profound absence at the very heart of Alastair’s being.
He shifted down the parapet to better view the churchyard to the south and west—Mitsuko’s view, he presumed, the one in the missing quilt, which she had said looked out to the quay and the river beyond. It was the view he had taken in earlier, only this time he let his eyes travel down to the graves, the slightly irregular rows of grey, brown, and black lozenges bursting from the grass, most plain, some adorned with crosses, others fronting marble platforms so they looked like headboards on vacant beds. He watched the Peterborough couple, two tiny dolls, toddling between the rows, pausing now and again. He considered that they might have been exploring the wrong end of the graveyard, perhaps having read the map upside down, but eventually the woman settled on a marker and called her husband over, though Tom could hear no sound in the wind other than the cry of gulls hovering over the millpond. Both hunched to read the inscription. Tom realised this was not only very much the view Mitsuko had captured in her photograph, but the situation, too: bottoms up. Bottoms, nice, pear-shaped female ones, were quite fanciable—an intrusive thought on this grimmest of afternoons—but from a hundred feet in the air he could barely distinguish the male Peterborian’s from the female’s. Little wonder Mitsuko had spared no time to attach a name to an arse. Even faces, he recognised when the pair unbent and walked around the gravestone (as if there were something written on the other side), were only vaguely hominoid from a height.
But the mechanical eye of a digital camera was like the Eye of Providence. It saw all. And what it saw could be downloaded into a computer and all the fine details made magnificent on a radiant screen—the back of a shoe, a trouser cuff, a belt, a shirt pattern, a hand, a fingernail, a wedding ring, a Gladstone bag. Mitsuko had shot high-resolution pictures and she had shot many. Who knows what else she had captured of the graveyard that April twilight more than a year ago?
Tom cast his eyes towards the far reach of the graveyard, between the stone wall and the beech tree, where Sybella’s grave lay still mounded with fresh red Devon soil. He had not known the Reverend Peter Kinsey; the colonel he did know—or, rather, had known—and respected, but the colonel’s great age, his having lived, as they said at funeral teas, “a full life,” tempered his sense of loss. It was Sybella’s death that tore at Tom’s heart. She was a young woman of nineteen—only ten years older than his beautiful Miranda—who by fits and starts had been emerging from the mucky chrysalis of adolescence into a promisingly sane adult. He tried to suppress his loathing for Alastair, remembering that he had been prepared to say the words of absolution:
Almighty God, our heavenly Father,
who in His great mercy
has promised forgiveness of sins
to all those who with heartfelt repentance and true faith
turn to Him:
Have mercy on you;
pardon and deliver you from all your sins;
confirm and strengthen you in all goodness;
and bring you to everlasting life;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
But now he would prefer that justice, not mercy, rain down. He looked again at Sybella’s grave, headstone and marble slab still to arrive, noting the Peterborians zigzagging in its direction, as aware as anyone, likely, if they took a newspaper or watched television, of the week’s events in Thornford. He watched the couple stare at the mound, then the man draw the woman to him, as if the sight had triggered some private grief. They stood intertwined for a moment at the foot of Sybella’s grave, then separated, the man moving up the slope, the woman pausing at Ned Skynner’s grave, bending to read the inscription. Her elbow crooked. She appeared to be calling out to her husband, as if the Skynners bore some familial relationship, but he’d disappeared below the branches of a spreading chestnut, and soon she moved to catch him up. They would shortly reappear on the path along the terrace back towards the church, Tom was certain, but his attraction to their excursion had evaporated. It was Ned’s grave, and Sybella’s, that lingered in his imagination—and then, as imagination will, sent him tripping down neural pathways, synapses firing like Roman candles: the untidy state of Red Ned’s grave despite Fred’s reputation for sterling earthworks, the absence of a prominent Thornfordian at Mitsuko’s exhibition opening, Lisbeth’s remarks in that Cambridge noodle bar, the astonishing nature of hubris. All these thoughts scattered randomly as stars in a galaxy until, suddenly, by some nameless force, they began to turn and swirl and coalesce into one burning white-hot sun and he felt the searing heat of certainty. He didn’t know how long he stood there on the parapet, his hands gripping a merlon, but when he reawakened to the wind and the sky, his palms had become pressed with the pattern of the rough stone. He would, he knew, have to move Heaven—at least its corporeal representatives—and earth—literally—to atone for his folly.
And there was almost no time left.
The Vicarage
Thornford Regis TC9 6QX
14 JUNE
Dear Mum,
I’m sorry I had to leave you on tentacles tenderhooks tenterhooks with yesterday’s letter. As I wrote to you yesterday, I’d awoken about four in the morning, which I don’t usually do because, as you know, I sleep like a stone, but there had been a light shining in the west outside my window, which was quite the wrong place for a light to be shining. I think I wrote yesterday that I thought perhaps creatures from outer space had landed in the churchyard, which was out of the ordinary since creatures from outer space always seem to gravitate to New York, at least in films, and wouldn’t it be a fine thing if they landed in Thornford R, and I was half wondering what I might serve them for a meal, feeling as I do that creatures from outer space are most likely not to be vegans, when I fell back asleep. Of course, I thought I was dreaming at the time, as I think I said, which makes me wonder perhaps if having my own computer would be useful after all as I could keep copies of what I write to you so I wouldn’t repeat myself, but never mind. I know I wrote yesterday that I thought something strange was in the offing. For the first time in nearly a fortnight Mr. Christmas looked like he wasn’t bearing the weight of the world. Thursday supper, before bell-ringing practice he tucked into my lampb chops with lemon and mint con gusto as they say in Tenerife and little Miranda brightened up, too. Poor child—I know she still thinks it’s her fault that Dr. Hennis has moved out of Westways into a flat in Torquay, but “Aunt Julia” had a long chat with her niece in the back garden on Tuesday, which I don’t think
I mentioned, did I? She came down to the vicarage after supper while Mr. Christmas had bolted himself in his study as he has been doing much of this last while, since that day Lord and Lady Kirkbride dropped in on us, and I managed to catch a whiff of the conversation as I nudged the kitchen window open a bit while I was making some lemon squash for them and it was all about “sometimes adults fall out of love” and that sort of thing, which is true of course (think about Jago and his wife), but you and I know a little more about Dr. Hennis now, don’t we? Poor Mrs. Hennis. I feel quite awful for her. She’s looked very sad, and frightened, I think. Of course, there’s been much talk in the village, especially since Dr. Hennis moved from Westways, about why they’ve split, and did it have to do with Sebastian vanishing as each happened on the other’s heels, and I’ve had to hold my tongue, although I’ve told Karla my suspicions about Dr. Hennis in utter confidence and she’s been very good, as she always is. She’s sort of a repository, while I’m more of a fountain, I suppose—at least that’s what Mr. Christmas said when he told me I was not to speculate publicly about anything that happened the Sunday afternoon when L & L Kirkbride were here. Mr. Christmas can be quite addamint adimin firm when he’s of a mind, which is preferred to Mr. Kinsey who was flippant with me much of the time. I suppose this is all to the good. I remember Karla saying she thought he might be a bit soft when they were first reviewing candidates. Yesterday she told me in complete confidence, of course, that she had happened to be speaking with the archdeacon in Morrisons in Totnes earlier in the week and he had asked her if she thought Mr. Christmas was sound. Well, I’ll tell you why, and this gets to the shocking bit—it seems Mr. Christmas had been wanting Sybella Parry’s grave opened but the very odd thing is that he wouldn’t give anyone a reason! I think this has explained all the frowning comings and goings lately that I’ve written about here in the vicarage of those two CID types and Colm Parry and the rural dean and even the bishop’s chaplain and an environmental health officer, and why Mr. Christmas has been so distracted and down at the mouth and all the phone calls to the diocesan office which I happened to catch bits of if I dusted near Mr. Christmas’s study. And it probably explains why on Wednesday, Mrs. Hennis had come out of a long conversation with him in his study looking absolutely like her world had caved in. When I went downstairs yesterday morning on my way to post your letter, I noticed the kitchen in an untidy state from Mr. Christmas and a few others having what looked like some breakfast, and when I got to the post office, Karla took me aside and told me that Sybella’s grave had been opened. The decision had been made to do it in the small hours of the morning when everyone was asleep so as not to cause more upset in the village, so I wasn’t dreaming about space creatures invading our churchyard! They had used big bright lights so they could see in the dark. That’s why I thought the sun was rising in the west. But when I went round to the churchyard on my way back to the vicarage, everything looked very much the same, which seemed odd. The grave hardly looked disturbed, though I could see that the soil on top was fresh, and of course the headstone and slab still aren’t in place. I dashed back to the vicarage, as Miranda would be rising and needing to get off to school, but Mr. Christmas was nowhere to be seen for the longest time, though I did find a note in the kitchen addressed to Miranda and me saying he was sorry he couldn’t be at breakfast and would be gone much of the morning. Finally, in the early afternoon, as I was setting my baking ingredients out, he returned home. He really did have the most peculiar look on his face. I suppose he was sort of relieved and sad all at once. Poor man, he comes to Thornford for a bit of peace after his wife’s awful death, and then there’s these frightful events in the village that end up going right to the heart of his family’s life. Anyway, he told me to make tea for us both and come into the sitting room where he had something important to tell me. Well, Mum, I had an inkling, to be sure, but no details, particularly as to why Sybella’s grave was opened. When I brought the tea things in I couldn’t help look over at the games table where Miranda and I had played Snakes and Ladders, she with her “clue” that I told you about. Mr. Christmas caught my eye and frowned and paused in thought for a moment, and then he told me that as what he was about to tell me would soon be public knowledge and would likely end up in court and in the press and how we needed to be prepared for Miranda’s sake and others’, he would tell everything now. It happens opening Sybella’s grave was not to exhume her body, which I thought was a great relief, but to get at something he was sure had been buried under the coffin. And he had been right. Hidden in the earth below was Mitsuko Drewe’s computer and camera and some other computer thing, which I told you had been stolen a few weeks ago from Mrs. Drewe’s studio back of their place in The Square. At first I thought to myself it was a bit much disturbing a grave just to get at some silly machine, and Mr. Christmas must have seen the look on my face, for he said it wasn’t about recovering stolen property—it was about the information on the computer and the camera and the other thing, which he said were not awfully damaged by being in damp soil. He was very careful how he put it, but he said there were pictures stored in the computer—or maybe it was in the camera—that now focused police enquiries sharply on to Dr. Hennis as the killer of Mr. Kinsey. Well, as I say, I had had an inkling this might be so, but it was such a terrible shock to hear it said out loud. I couldn’t help thinking what a terrible thing this was for the village. Is Sybella’s death connected? I asked Mr. C., but he wouldn’t say. They are, of course. I told you about the tea tee. Mum, I can only imagine how the next weeks or months will unfold. There’ll likely be more questions, an arrest, a trial, goodness knows what else. Funny to say, but I feel the worst for Miranda. I can’t say I was fond of Dr. Hennis—there was always something a bit stuck-up about him—but Miranda was quite fond of him, I think—in that sort of nonjugeme easy way children sometimes have. She only has her father. I expect Mrs. Hennis won’t be able to hold her head up much longer in the village, and there are no other aunts and uncles or cousins about that I know of. Still, Miranda’s a smart little girl and she has a loving father who dotes on her. Well, there you have it. I hope this dreadful news doesn’t worry you too much, Mum. It’ll all come out in the papers eventually, but at least life has returned to something like normal here in dear old Thornford after some terrible days. Even Mr. Christmas’s spirits seem to have picked up. He was saying to me only yesterday that life in Thornford R really is like a curate’s egg. It is a mixture of good and bad, but that the good bits always outweigh the bad so you mustn’t grumble, and I thought, HOW TRUE! even though I didn’t know what a curate ate for breakfast had to do with it. The cats are well, though they are still not happy to have Bumble in their midst, but Mr. Christmas is quite pleased to have a dog. He said having Bumble relieved him from feeling like a country vicar in a novel, what with 2 cats, a bicycle, and a housekeeper (me!), but I wasn’t sure I got his point. I should be able to get down to Cornwall next month for a visit. Love to Aunt Gwen. Glorious day!
Much love,
Madrun
P.S. Both Karla and I have an appointment with a solicitor in Totnes next week! Perhaps Phillip left us something! Still no sign of his daughter, though. Imagine not attending your own father’s funeral! Commitments in Hollywood indeed!
P.P.S. I’m so glad to know the tests show your heart is strong. You’ll live to be as old as the Queen Mum!
P.P.P.S. Venice Daintrey told me yesterday she was sure she saw Sebastian—our vanished verger—up on Dartmoor. There’s a mystery there, for sure!
For Gaylene Chestnut and Henrietta Wilde
Acknowledgements
It may take an individual to write a novel, but it takes a village to publish one. I’m very grateful to the residents of my village—to my astute agent, Dean Cooke, along with his colleague at the Cooke Agency, Sally Harding, for their early enthusiasm for this project, and to my wise editor at Random House, Kate Miciak, who makes the good better and the better best. I’m also grateful to Randal
l Klein, Loyale Coles, Margaret Benton, Maggie Hart, and Karin Batten at Random House for their finishing touches, and to Kristin Cochrane of Doubleday Canada for her attentions north of the forty-ninth parallel.
I am grateful to the people who read and criticised the early drafts of the manuscript of this book in its entirety—Rosie Chard, Annalee Greenberg, and Clark Saunders—and to those who read portions with a similarly critical eye—Sandra Vincent, Frances-Mary Brown, Perry Holmes, and Spencer Holmes. I am also grateful to those along the way who lent their expert advice: in Canada—Michael Phillips, Phoebe Man, Carrie Walker-Jones, Pierre Bédard, Neire Mercer, Bradley Curran, Ryan Schultz, Ross Taylor, and Amethya Weaver; and in England—Norman Betts, Paula Frain, Trish Lilly, and Jill Treby.
I am grateful, too, to the Manitoba Arts Council for its generous support during the writing of this book, and to the Winnipeg Public Library—notably to Tannis Gretzinger and Danielle Pilon—for helping to make my writer’s residency at the library pleasurable and productive.
I am most grateful to the Reverend David Treby, vicar of St. Mary and St. Gabriel’s Church in Stoke Gabriel, Devon, England, for his willingness, patience, and good humour in helping me navigate my way through the complexities of the Church of England and for lending a keen eye to the finished manuscript. Needless to say, all errors and peculiar interpretations are mine.
And to the author of the carol “The Twelve Days of Christmas”—thank you, whoever you are, wherever you are.
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