The Sculptress

by Minette Walters

  ‘How old was she?’

  He frowned. ‘I thought Mr Crew knew all this.’

  She smiled. ‘He does but, as I told you, it’s not my province. I’m just interested, that’s all. It seems so tragic.’

  ‘It is that. Thirteen,’ he said wistfully. ‘She was thirteen. Poor little kid. Didn’t know anything about anything. Some lout at the school was responsible.’ He jerked his head towards the back of his house. ‘Parkway Comprehensive.’

  ‘Is that the school Amber and Olive went to?’

  ‘Hah!’ His old eyes were amused. ‘Gwen wouldn’t have stood for that. She sent them to the posh Convent where they learnt their times tables and didn’t learn the facts of life.’

  ‘Why didn’t Amber have an abortion? Were they Catholics?’ She thought again about Olive and foetuses being washed down the sink.

  ‘They didn’t know she was pregnant, did they? Thought it was puppy fat.’ He cackled suddenly. ‘Rushed her off to hospital with suspected appendicitis and out pops a bouncing baby boy. They got away with it, too. Best kept secret I’ve ever come across. Even the nuns didn’t know.’

  ‘But you knew,’ she prompted.

  ‘The wife guessed,’ he said owlishly. ‘It was obvious something untoward had happened, and not appendicitis neither. Gwen was well-nigh hysterical the night it happened and my Jeannie put two and two together. Still, we know how to keep our mouths shut. No reason to make life harder for the kid. It wasn’t her fault.’

  Roz did some rapid mental arithmetic. Amber was two years younger than Olive which would have made her twenty-six if she were still alive. ‘Her son’s thirteen,’ she said, ‘and due to inherit half a million pounds. I wonder why Mr Crew can’t find him. There must be records of the adoption.’

  ‘I heard they’d found traces.’ The old man clicked his false teeth with disappointment. ‘But, there, it was probably just rumour, Brown Australia,’ he muttered with disgust, as if that explained everything. ‘I ask you.’

  Roz allowed this cryptic remark to pass unchallenged. Time enough to puzzle over it later without claiming ignorance yet again. ‘Tell me about Olive,’ she invited. ‘Were you surprised that she did what she did?

  ‘I hardly knew the girl.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘And you don’t feel surprised when people you know get hacked to death, young lady, you feel bloody sick. It did for my Jeannie. She was never the same afterwards, died a couple of years later.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He nodded, but it was clearly an old wound that had healed. ‘Used to see the child come and go but she wasn’t a great talker. Shy, I suppose.’

  ‘Because she was fat?’

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. Jeannie said she was teased a lot, but I’ve known fat girls who’ve been the life and soul of the party. It was her nature, I think, to look on the black side. Never laughed much. No sense of humour. That sort doesn’t make friends easily.’

  ‘And Amber did?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She was very popular.’ He glanced back down the passages of time. ‘She was a pretty girl.’

  ‘Was Olive jealous of her?’

  ‘Jealous?’ Mr Hayes looked surprised. ‘I’ve never thought about it. What shall I say? They always seemed very fond of each other.’

  Roz shrugged her bewilderment. ‘Then why did Olive kill her? And why mutilate the bodies? It’s very odd.’

  He scowled suspiciously. ‘I thought you were representing her. You should know if anyone does.’

  ‘She won’t say.’

  He stared out of the window. ‘Well, then.’

  Well then what? ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Jeannie reckoned it was hormones.’

  ‘Hormones?’ Roz echoed blankly. ‘What sort of hormones?

  ‘You know.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Monthly ones.’

  ‘Ah.’ PMT? she wondered. But it was hardly a subject she could pursue with him. He was of a generation where menstruation was never mentioned. ‘Did Mr Martin ever say why he thought she did it?’

  He shook his head. ‘The subject didn’t arise. What shall I say? We saw very little of him afterwards. He talked about his will once or twice, and the child – it was all he thought about.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘He became a recluse, you know. Wouldn’t have anyone in the house, not even the Clarkes, and there was a time when Ted and he were close as brothers.’ His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘It was Ted started it, mind. Took against Bob for some reason and wouldn’t go in. And others followed suit, of course, the way they do. Reckon I was his only friend at the end. It was me as realized something was wrong, seeing the milk bottles outside.’

  ‘But why did he stay? He was rich enough to let number twenty-two go for peanuts. You’d have thought he’d go anywhere rather than stay with the ghosts of his family.’

  Mr Hayes muttered to himself. ‘Never understood it myself. Perhaps he wanted his friends about him.’

  ‘You said the Clarkes moved. Where did they go?’

  He shook his head. ‘No idea. They upped and went one morning without a word to anyone. A removal van took out their furniture three days later and the house stood empty for a year till the Blairs bought it. Never heard a word from them since. No forwarding address. Nothing. What shall I say? We were good friends, the six of us, and I’m the only one left now. Strange business.’

  Very strange, thought Roz. ‘Can you remember which estate agent sold the house?’

  ‘Peterson’s, but you won’t learn anything from them. Little Hitlers,’ he said, ‘all bursting with self-importance. Told me to mind my own business when I went in and asked what was what. It’s a free world, I pointed out, no reason why a man shouldn’t ask after his friends, but oh, no, they had instructions of confidentiality or some such rubbish. What shall I say? Made out it was me the Clarkes were cutting their ties with. Hah! More likely Bob, I told them, or ghosts. And they said if I spread those sort of rumours, they’d take action. You know who I blame. The estate agents’ federation, if there is one, which I doubt . . .’ He rambled on, venting his spleen out of loneliness and frustration.

  Roz felt sorry for him. ‘Do you see much of your sons?’ she asked when he drew to a halt.

  ‘Now and then.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Forties,’ he said after a moment’s thought.

  ‘What did they think of Olive and Amber?’

  He pinched his nose again and waggled it from side to side. ‘Never knew them. Left home long before either of the girls reached their teens.’

  ‘They didn’t baby-sit or anything like that?’

  ‘My lads? You wouldn’t catch them baby-sitting.’ His old eyes moistened, and he nodded towards the sideboard where photographs of two young men in uniform crowded the surface. ‘Fine boys. Soldiers.’ He thrust out his chest. ‘Took my advice and joined up. Mind, they’re out of jobs now, what with the bloomin’ regiment being cut from under them. It makes you sick when you think them and me’s served Queen and country for nigh on fifty years between us. Did I tell you I was in the desert during the war?’ He looked vacantly about the room. ‘There’s a photograph somewhere of Churchill and Monty in a jeep. We all got one, us boys who were out there. Worth a bob or two, I should think. Now where is it?’ He became agitated.

  Roz picked up her briefcase. ‘Don’t worry about it now, Mr Hayes. Perhaps I could see it next time I come.’

  ‘You coming back?’

  ‘I’d like to, if it’s no trouble.’ She took a card from her handbag, flicking the switch on the recorder at the same time. ‘That’s my name and telephone number. Rosalind Leigh. It’s a London number but I’ll be down here regularly over the next few weeks, so if you feel like a chat’ – she smiled encouragingly and stood up – ‘give me a ring.’

  He regarded her with astonishment. ‘A chat. Goodness me. A youngster like you has better things to do with her time.’

  Too right, she thought, but I do need information. He
r smile, like Mr Crew’s, was false. ‘I’ll be seeing you then, Mr Hayes.’

  He pushed himself awkwardly out of his chair and held out a marbled hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Leigh. What shall I say? It’s not often an old man sees charming young ladies out of the blue.’

  He spoke with such sincerity that she felt chastened by her own lack of it. Why, oh why, she wondered, was the human condition so damn bloody?

  Four

  ROZ FOUND THE local convent with the help of a policeman. ‘That’ll be St Angela’s,’ he told her. ‘Left at the traffic lights and left again. Large red-brick building set back from the road. You can’t miss it. It’s the only decent piece of architecture still standing round there.’

  It reared in solid Victorian magnificence above its surrounding clutter of cheap concrete obsolescence, a monument to education in a way that none of the modern prefabricated schools could ever be. Roz entered the front door with a sense of familiarity, for this was a schooling she recognized. Glimpses through classroom doors of desks, blackboards, shelves of books, attentive girls in neat uniforms. A place of quiet learning, where parents could dictate the sort of education their daughters received simply by threatening to remove the pupils and withhold the fees. And whenever parents had that power the requirements were always the same: discipline, structure, results. She peeped through a window into what was obviously the library. Well, well, no wonder Gwen had insisted on sending the girls here. Roz would put money on Parkway Comprehensive being an unruly bedlam where English, History, Religion and Geography were all taught as the single subject of General Studies, spelling was an anachronism, French an extracurricular activity, Latin unheard of, and Science a series of chats about the greenhouse effect. . .

  ‘Can I help you?’

  She turned with a smile. ‘I hope so.’

  A smart woman in her late fifties had paused in front of a door marked Secretary. ‘Are you a prospective parent?’

  ‘I wish I were. It’s a lovely school. No children,’ she explained at the woman’s look of puzzled enquiry.

  ‘I see. So how can I help you?’

  Roz took out one of her cards. ‘Rosalind Leigh,’ she introduced herself. ‘Would it be possible for me to talk to the headmistress?’

  ‘Now?’ said the woman in surprise.

  ‘Yes, if she’s free. If not, I can make an appointment and come back later.’

  The woman took the card and read it closely. ‘May I ask what you want to talk about?’

  Roz shrugged. ‘Just some general information about the school and the sort of girls who come here.’

  ‘Would you be the Rosalind Leigh who wrote Through the Looking Glass by any chance?’

  Roz nodded. Through the Looking Glass, her last book and her best, had sold well and won some excellent reviews. A study of the changing perceptions of female beauty down the ages, she wondered now how she had ever managed to summon the energy to write it. A labour of love, she thought, because the subject had fascinated her.

  ‘I’ve read it.’ The other smiled. ‘I agreed with very few of your conclusions but it was extremely thought-provoking none the less. You write lovely prose, but I’m sure you know that.’

  Roz laughed. She felt an immediate liking for the woman. ‘At least you’re honest.’

  The other looked at her watch. ‘Come into my office. I have some parents to see in half an hour, but I’m happy to give you general information until then. This way.’ She opened the secretary’s door and ushered Roz through to an adjoining office. ‘Sit down, do. Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ Roz took the chair indicated and watched her busy herself with a kettle and some cups. ‘Are you the headmistress?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘They were always nuns in my day.’

  ‘So you’re a convent girl. I thought you might be. Milk?’

  ‘Black and no sugar, please.’

  She placed a steaming cup on the desk in front of Roz and sat down opposite her. ‘In fact I am a nun. Sister Bridget. My order gave up wearing the habit quite some time ago. We found it tended to create an artificial barrier between us and the rest of society.’ She chuckled. ‘I don’t know what it is about religious uniforms, but people try to avoid you if they can. I suppose they feel they have to be on their best behaviour. It’s very frustrating. The conversation is often so stilted.’

  Roz crossed her legs and relaxed into the chair. She was unaware of it but her eyes betrayed her. They brimmed with all the warmth and humour that, a year ago, had been the outward expression of her personality. Bitterness, it seemed, could only corrode so far. ‘It’s probably guilt,’ she said. ‘We have to guard our tongues in case we provoke the sermon we know we deserve.’ She sipped the coffee. ‘What made you think I was a convent girl?’

  ‘Your book. You get very hot under the collar about established religions. I guessed you were either a lapsed Jew or a lapsed Catholic. The Protestant yoke is easier to discard, being far less oppressive in the first place.’

  ‘In fact I wasn’t a lapsed anything when I wrote Through the Looking Glass,’ said Roz mildly. ‘I was a good Catholic still.’

  Sister Bridget interpreted the cynicism in her voice. ‘But not now.’

  ‘No. God died on me.’ She smiled slightly at the look of understanding on the other woman’s face. ‘You read about it, I suppose. I can’t applaud your taste in newspapers.’

  ‘I’m an educator, my dear. We take the tabloids here as well as the broadsheets.’ She didn’t drop her gaze or show embarrassment, for which Roz was grateful. ‘Yes, I read about it and I would have punished God, too. It was very cruel of Him.’

  Roz nodded. ‘If I remember right,’ she said, reverting to her book, ‘religion is confined to only one chapter of my book. Why did you find my conclusions so hard to agree with?’

  ‘Because they are all drawn from a single premiss. As I can’t accept the premiss, then I can’t agree with the conclusions.’

  Roz wrinkled her brow. ‘Which premiss?’

  ‘That beauty is only skin deep.’

  Roz was surprised. ‘And you don’t think that’s true?’

  ‘No, not as a general rule.’

  ‘I’m speechless. And you a nun!’

  ‘Being a nun has nothing to do with it. I’m streetwise.’

  It was an unconscious echo of Olive. ‘You really believe that beautiful people are beautiful all the way through? I can’t accept that. By the same token ugly people are ugly all the way through.’

  ‘You’re putting words into my mouth, my dear.’ Sister Bridget was amused. ‘I am simply questioning the idea that beauty is a surface quality.’ She cradled her coffee cup in her hands. ‘It’s a comfortable thought, of course – it means we can all feel good about ourselves – but beauty, like wealth, is a moral asset. The wealthy can afford to be law abiding, generous and kind. The very poor cannot. Even kindness is a struggle when you don’t know where your next penny is coming from.’ She gave a quirky smile. ‘Poverty is only uplifting when you can choose it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t disagree with that, but I don’t see the connection between beauty and wealth.’

  ‘Beauty cushions you against the negative emotions that loneliness and rejection inspire. Beautiful people are prized – they always have been, you made that point yourself – so they have less reason to be spiteful, less reason to be jealous, less reason to covet what they can’t have. They tend to be the focus of all those emotions, rarely the instigators of them.’ She shrugged. ‘You will always have exceptions – most of them you uncovered in your book – but, in my experience, if a person is attractive then that attractiveness runs deep. You can argue which comes first, the inner beauty or the outer, but they do tend to walk together.’

  ‘So if you’re rich and beautiful the pearly gates will swing open for you?’ She smiled cynically. ‘That’s a somewhat radical philosophy for a Christian, isn’t it? I thought Jesus preached the exact opposite. Something like
it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.’

  Sister Bridget laughed good-humouredly. ‘Yours was obviously an excellent convent.’ She stirred her coffee absent-mindedly with a biro. ‘Yes, He did say that but, if you put it in context, it supports my view, I think, rather than detracts from it. If you remember, a wealthy young man asked Him how he could have eternal life. Jesus said: keep the commandments. The youth answered: I have kept them, since childhood, but what more can I do. If you want to be perfect, said Jesus – and I emphasize the perfect – sell all you have and give it to the poor, then follow me. The young man went away sorrowing because he had many possessions and could not bring himself to sell them. It was then Jesus made the reference to the camel and the eye of the needle. He was, you see, talking about perfection, not goodness.’ She sucked the end of her biro. ‘In fairness to the young man, I have always assumed that to sell his possessions would have meant selling houses and businesses with tenants and employees in them, so the moral dilemma would have been a difficult one. But what I think Jesus was saying was this: so far you have been a good man, but to test how good you really are, reduce yourself to abject poverty. Perfection is to follow me and keep the commandments when you are so poor that stealing and lying are a way of life if you want to be sure of waking up the next morning. An impossible goal.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I could be wrong, of course.’ There was a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to argue the toss with you on that,’ said Roz bluntly. ‘I suspect I’d be on a hiding to nothing. But I reckon you’re on very bumpy ground with your beauty is a moral asset argument. What about the pitfalls of vanity and arrogance? And how do you explain that some of the nicest people I know are, by no stretch of the imagination, beautiful?’

  Sister Bridget laughed again, a happy sound. ‘You keep twisting my words. I have never said that to be nice you have to be beautiful. I merely dispute your assertion that beautiful people are not nice. My observation is that very often they are. At the risk of labouring the point, they can afford to be.’