‘Or Miss Right,’ says Natalka.
‘Are you gay then?’ asks Edwin. He can’t believe that he says it straight out, just like that. It must be the brandy. It’s been years since he drank spirits.
‘Not always,’ says Natalka. ‘Another brandy?’
‘Not always,’ says Benedict. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I’ve slept with men and women,’ says Natalka calmly. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘No,’ says Benedict. Edwin wonders if he’s a virgin. Do you have to be a virgin to be a monk?
‘I’ve only slept with men,’ says Edwin. ‘I knew I was gay from about the age of ten.’ Prep school again, and seeing Crossland Major in the showers.
‘I wish I could go back to when I was ten,’ says Natalka. ‘Before the war, before my father left, when my brother was still alive. I loved school so much. I was the best at maths in the whole district. My hair came down to my waist and every boy wanted to go out with me.’
‘I didn’t like school,’ says Benedict, though Edwin can tell that he’s thinking about the image that Natalka has conjured. ‘I never felt I was as good as my older brother and sister. They were both much better at things than me.’
‘You’re really clever,’ says Natalka.
Benedict blushes. Or it could just be the reflection from the fire. ‘I like books and reading but I wasn’t much good at exams and . . . you know . . . all the other things that are important at school. Hugo played rugby and Emily played hockey. We did Gilbert and Sullivan operas every year and they always had the main parts.’
Edwin can’t let this pass. ‘They’re operettas, not operas.’
‘You’ve got a good voice,’ says Natalka. ‘I’ve heard you singing in the Shack.’
Now Benedict is definitely blushing. ‘I wonder if that’s why I became a monk,’ he says, ‘just so that I could sing.’
‘That seems a bit extreme to me, dear boy,’ says Edwin.
Chapter 18
Benedict: Education, salvation and damnation
Benedict wakes early, wondering why there’s a train running through the room. Then he realises it’s Edwin lying two metres away from him and snoring loudly. Benedict closes his eyes and tries to get back to sleep. He thinks of Natalka in her pink jumper, of Jess telling them about the miners’ cottages. You can still see their gardens, honeysuckle and apple trees, although everything else has gone. The snoring increases in volume then, maddeningly, stops and restarts again. Benedict decides to get up.
He has a quick shower, hoping that the hiss of the water doesn’t disturb his roommate. Then he dresses quickly and goes downstairs. It’s seven a.m. He can see Jess in the dining room, laying the table for breakfast. Benedict waves but walks past her and lets himself out the front door.
It’s a beautiful morning, the grass glittering after the night’s rain. The moor rises up behind the house, the passing clouds making shadows chase across the heather. A bird sings somewhere high above and even the air here smells different, sharper and zestier somehow. Benedict walks along the road, trying to find the ruined cottages. At the bend he sees a dry-stone wall enclosing a space of apple trees and wild roses. Natalka is sitting on the wall.
‘You’re up early,’ he says.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she says. She’s holding an apple in one hand and the image she presents, with her blonde hair, framed by the fruit-laden trees, is like something from a classical painting. The Judgement of Paris, perhaps. Benedict is a bit hazy about the legend but he seems to recall that it involves the most beautiful woman in the world.
Benedict sits beside her. ‘Are you OK? Edwin thought you were a bit preoccupied yesterday.’
‘I’m fine.’ Natalka takes a bite of the apple and makes a face. ‘Sour.’ She throws it into the air and it lands somewhere amongst the brambles.
‘There’ll be another apple tree there one day,’ says Benedict.
‘In hundreds of years,’ says Natalka.
‘That’s something the monastery taught me,’ says Benedict. ‘Time isn’t important. “A thousand ages in thy sight are as an evening gone.”’
‘You do like quoting, don’t you?’
‘I suppose it stops me saying what I’m really thinking.’
‘What are you thinking?’
Benedict looks at her, a vision with the sunlight in her hair. ‘I was thinking that it’s still at least five hours’ drive to Aberdeen,’ he says. ‘We should leave by nine at the latest. I can share the driving, if you like.’ He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Natalka declines his offer.
‘It’s OK,’ says Natalka. ‘I like driving.’ She stands up and stretches. ‘I’d better have a shower before breakfast,’ she says. ‘How’s Edwin?’
‘Dead to the world when I left.’ Benedict wishes that he hadn’t uttered the d word. He has a sudden urge to cross himself.
‘You’d better go and wake him up,’ says Natalka. ‘I think he was a bit tipsy last night.’
But, when they get back to the Miners’ Arms, Edwin is just sitting down to a full English breakfast. He looks his usual perky self in a tweed jacket with his pink bow tie. Natalka goes upstairs to shower so Benedict joins Edwin at the table by the window. The backpackers, according to Jess, have already left.
‘Did you sleep well?’ says Edwin.
‘Yes,’ lies Benedict.
‘So did I,’ says Edwin. Benedict knows that this is true. Jess comes over and he orders toast and coffee.
‘You should have a proper breakfast,’ says Edwin, cutting his black pudding into quarters. ‘We might not get lunch. When’s this panel again?’
‘Four o’clock. At the library,’ says Benedict.
Natalka appears, her hair wet. Benedict tries not to stare as she, too, demolishes eggs, bacon and black pudding.
‘So what’s the plan for today?’ he says.
‘We go to the event,’ says Natalka, ‘and afterwards we talk to J. D. Monroe, ask her about Peggy and about the postcard. You’d better do that, Edwin. You’re the least threatening.’
Benedict isn’t sure but he thinks this might be a compliment.
It’s another beautiful drive. Moors, mountains, lakes (lochs?). As promised, they pass through Gretna Green, ‘Home of Love since 1754’ according to the sign. It’s pleasingly picturesque, with low white houses nestling under green hills.
‘Ready, Benny?’ says Natalka. ‘With this ring and all that.’
‘I will if you will,’ says Benedict, trying for a casual note.
‘My dear boy,’ says Edwin, ‘you sound positively terrified.’
Clearly, the devil-may-care voice needs work.
After Gretna Green is Lockerbie, another place whose name is larger than the town. It looks peaceful today, grey brick and Gothic towers, but no one speaks as they pass through. This route will also take them through Dunblane, where sixteen children and their teacher were shot dead in 1996. So much tragedy in this beautiful world, thinks Benedict. He says a prayer under his breath when he sees the signpost and Natalka surprises him by crossing herself.
They cheer up when they stop for coffee on the M9. Even the motorway service station seems exotic to Benedict. It’s full of tartan shortbread and woolly Highland cows. They buy sandwiches for the journey and Natalka texts Harbinder.
‘Just keeping her in the loop.’
‘What does she think about us going to Aberdeen?’ says Benedict. ‘Does she think we’re interfering?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Natalka, but she sounds evasive. ‘I went for a drink with her the other night.’
‘Did you?’ says Benedict. He can’t imagine it somehow, the two of them together, serious Harbinder and mercurial Natalka. But then he remembers what Natalka said about being attracted to both men and women. Was the drink actually a date?
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br /> ‘Did you tell her that we were going to Aberdeen?’ says Benedict.
‘I texted her,’ says Natalka. ‘She didn’t say not to go.’
This, Benedict thinks, is far from approval.
They get caught in traffic around Stirling and again in Dundee. By the time they enter Aberdeen it’s three-fifty. J. D. Monroe’s panel starts at four.
‘We’ll have to ask the way,’ says Natalka. She pulls into a bus stop and calls to a grey-haired passer-by.
‘Excuse me, sir. Do you know the way to the library?’
‘Ah, well now,’ says the man, twinkling at her. He is clearly going to take his time. ‘Are you wanting the Central Library?’
Benedict consults the programme. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Right at the crossroads and straight along Skene Street. It’s next to the church and the theatre. Do you know what folk here call them?’
‘No,’ says Natalka, twinkling back. ‘Tell me.’
‘Education, salvation and damnation,’ says the man. ‘Have a good day now.’
Benedict still has these words in his head as Natalka drops him and Edwin at the library saying that she’ll find somewhere to park the car. Education, salvation and damnation. He can almost hear it said in Abbot Michael’s Irish accent rather then the Scots burr of the passer-by. The three buildings look suitably imposing, grey stone with domes and turrets. The Granite City, Aberdeen is sometimes called. A vast statue of William Wallace is pointing at His Majesty’s Theatre, as if he is making his choice, but Edwin and Benedict ascend the steps to the library. The talk is about to start.
It’s a large library and there are still seats at the back next to a tea urn and a plate of cup cakes sweating under cling film. Benedict looks out over the sea of heads and thinks of Chichester, Dex Challoner talking so fluently and humorously about his writing. It’s such a civilised world; books, libraries, tea and cakes. How can it possibly also be a place where you can be murdered for the sake of a few words?
With a jolt, Benedict realises that someone is saying Dex’s name. A young librarian standing at the front is calling for, ‘A minute’s silence in memory of the brilliant Dex Challoner who was to have attended this festival.’ Benedict remembers seeing Dex’s name in the programme. He bows his head and silently recites the prayer for the dead. ‘Eternal rest give unto him, Oh Lord.’ It occurs to him that he’s been saying those words rather a lot in the last few days.
The librarian, who introduces herself as Moira, starts off the discussion with brisk biographies. ‘J. D. Monroe, author of the best-selling You Made Me Do It. And also Why Not Me?, Why Didn’t You Take Me? and, the latest, It Was You.’ Presumably the last three didn’t sell quite so well, thinks Benedict. Moira mentions a couple of awards, which makes JD blush furiously. She’s younger than Benedict expected, probably in her mid-thirties, with fair skin and blonde hair that seems to be escaping from its clips.
‘Susan Blake is the author of twenty-five DI Mike Malone books and has an army of fans.’ But no awards, thinks Benedict. Susan has short pink hair and a truculent expression. Benedict guesses that she’s in her fifties. Presumably she’s been writing about Mike Malone for over twenty years. What must it be like to live with a fictional character that long?
‘Becki Finch’s debut novel, My Boyfriend the Vampire, has sold over a million copies worldwide and is being made into a film starring Timothee Chalamet. She’s currently working on a sequel.’ Becki is the youngest panellist. In fact, she looks about fifteen, with long dark hair and a nose ring. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket and seems singularly out of place in the room. Benedict assumes that she’s the most successful author present. In monetary terms, at least.
The first questions are the basic ‘what’s your book about?’ sort. Benedict finds himself dozing slightly. Natalka appears and slides into the seat next to him.
‘What have I missed?’ she whispers.
‘Nothing much,’ says Benedict.
Susan Blake is explaining that Mike Malone is her ideal man, ‘he’s tough and macho, acts first and asks questions later.’ Benedict starts to feel rather depressed. Moira asks the other authors if they have ever written their ideal man into their books.
‘Oh no,’ says J. D. Monroe, ‘my ideal man doesn’t exist.’
‘Yeah,’ sneers Becki Finch, ‘my ideal man is a long-dead vampire.’
The debate only warms up when Moira asks the panellists if they think that women are particularly attracted to violent books. ‘I don’t know about other women,’ says Susan, ‘but I love a bit of blood and gore. There are lots of people who I’d like to hit in real life but I’m not allowed to. So I do it in my books.’ There’s some laughter and Susan grins at the audience in what Benedict feels is a rather disconcerting way.
‘Women write about violence because women experience violence,’ says Becki. This simple truth has the effect of dissolving any remaining laughter in the room. ‘Men hate us. Books are a way of getting our own back.’
‘What do you think, JD?’ asks Moira. Benedict has already noticed that she tends to answer questions last. ‘Are crime novels a form of revenge?’
‘I don’t know,’ says JD, twirling a stray strand of hair. Stop it, Benedict wants to say. They were taught public-speaking skills at the seminary and he still remembers being criticised for fiddling with his glasses while giving a sermon on the repentant thief. ‘I don’t have much actual violence in my books,’ JD goes on, ‘it’s all implied, but, of course, murder is violence, however it’s described. I struggle a bit with the murders, to be honest. I once knew this wonderful old lady who could think up incredibly bloodthirsty ways of killing people.’
There’s another ripple of laughter in the room. Moira says, ‘Tell us more about this wonderful old lady.’
‘Well . . .’ JD is now twisting her bracelet round and round. ‘It’s very sad actually because she died recently but I think she had been involved with the Cold War in some way. She often talked about Russia and spies and espionage . . .’ Her voice dies away. The atmosphere in the room has grown tense, almost hostile, Benedict thinks. He imagines the grey-haired crime fans thinking ‘Why bring real-life death into the conversation? That’s a bit tasteless, isn’t it?’ Certainly Moira moves them quickly onto the Q and A session. Most of the questions are for Susan. There are obviously lots of Mike Malone fans in the audience. Becki, perhaps sensing her demographic is elsewhere, leans back and stares at the ceiling. J. D. Monroe tries harder to look interested but Benedict catches her looking at her watch once or twice.
But one person has a question for J. D. Monroe. A male voice from the back of the library says, ‘Who do you think killed Peggy Smith?’
JD puts her hand to her throat while a livid flush is rising. Moira says brightly, ‘Is that a character in one of your books?’
‘No,’ says JD. ‘It’s . . . I don’t know . . . I . . .’
Moira waits for a second and then brings the proceedings to a close. Natalka stands up to look for the questioner. ‘He’s leaving,’ she says. ‘I’m going after him. You and Edwin talk to JD. Don’t let her get away.’
And she’s gone, leaving Benedict and Edwin to approach the signing table.
There’s a long queue in front of Susan Blake. Becki seems to have disappeared. One person is talking to JD. Benedict overhears, ‘always wanted to write but haven’t had the time . . .’
When the would-be writer goes away, Edwin put a copy of You Made Me Do It on the table. They agreed that it would be impolite not to buy a book.
‘Would you put “Dear Edwin”?’ says Edwin, with all his old-school BBC charm. ‘I was a friend of Peggy’s.’
JD puts her hand to her throat again. ‘Was it you who asked that question? I didn’t see who it was.’
‘No,’ says Edwin. ‘But we would like to talk to you. This is my friend Benedict Cole.
We’ve come all the way from Sussex. We know Harbinder Kaur.’
‘DS Kaur?’ JD seems to relax slightly. ‘Are you with the police?’ This is said on an incredulous note and Benedict is sure that Edwin, in his pink bow tie, is not everyone’s idea of an undercover detective.
‘No,’ says Edwin, with a reassuring chuckle. ‘We’re just friends of Peggy’s.’
It sounds a bit like ‘Friends of Dorothy’, thinks Benedict, and JD may well be forgiven for confusing the two.
‘Could we have a coffee?’ says Edwin. ‘After you’ve finished signing?’ This is said for politeness’ sake only. There’s no one else in the queue.
‘OK,’ says JD. ‘But let’s go to a pub. I need a drink.’
They go to the Rob Roy, which is on the corner of a nearby street, all dark wood and polished brass. Benedict offers to buy drinks. JD and Edwin both ask for gin and tonic but Benedict has a pint of something called Windswept Wolf. He texts Natalka to tell her where they are and joins the others at a secluded table, separated from the rest of the room by a high-backed wooden settle.
JD takes a gulp of her drink.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I needed that. I hate those things.’
‘Panel discussions?’ says Edwin. ‘Why? I thought you were very good.’ Benedict assumes that he’s being polite because JD honestly hadn’t been very good; she had either spoken too much or too little and had singularly failed to mention her latest book.
‘Publishers expect it,’ says JD. ‘It’s not enough to write a book, you have to go out there and sell it. I’m just not good at it. I rehearse all these witty anecdotes and then can’t find a way to bring them into the conversation. Or I do and I forget the punchline. You’ve got to be like Susan today, always on message. Or interesting, like Becki. I’m honestly not very interesting. All I do is sit at home, writing books and eating biscuits.’
Benedict thinks of the biography on the inside cover of You Made Me Do It. There had been no mention of a husband or partner that he can remember. He does recall something about JD dividing her time between Tuscany and Brighton but, when he asks about this, JD laughs, a surprisingly robust sound.
The Postscript Murders Page 14
