An Unholy Shame

by Joyce Cato

  Graham’s lips twitched. ‘I certainly hope not.’

  ‘Let’s not sit too near the middle,’ Monica said nervously. ‘How about somewhere discreet, down at the bottom end?’

  ‘And what if I want to show you off more?’ Graham said promptly. ‘You’re easily the most beautiful woman in the room.’

  Monica smiled and fidgeted with her silver and tiger’s eye pendant, making sure that it was still showing the right way around in the tender hollow above her discreet cleavage. ‘Flatterer,’ she said, but she was pleased and her eyes sparkled.

  They chose their seats as Monica had wanted, and soon the entire table was full. The wine waiters began filling glasses with various tipples of distinguished vintage; perhaps not surprisingly, given their profession, quite a number of guests opted for non-alcoholic beverages.

  ‘Starter, sir?’ a discreet voice asked in their ear, and Monica and Graham quickly perused the menu, giving their choices for the main course at the same time. Monica opted for the lobster, Graham for the rack of lamb.

  Chloe Bryce, looking dramatic in black, drained her glass of exquisite French red wine and absently played with the carved, silver medallion hanging around her neck and nestling delicately just above her modest cleavage. The intaglio scene it depicted had a nubile female form, swimming elegantly through the waves, and was complimented by her slim silver wristwatch and a pair of silver and jet earrings. ‘I see that Sir Matthew has tried to make something of an effort at last,’ she pointed out to her husband wearily. In spite of her make-up, she was looking tired and had distinct dark circles under her eyes.

  Arthur glanced across at the archdeacon and frowned. ‘He’s still wearing that mouldy old black-green thing,’ he said, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, but he’s brushed it,’ Chloe drawled. ‘Which is something of a sartorial statement from him, don’t you think?’

  Arthur, feeling more puzzled than ever, merely smiled and nodded. He’d learned, when his wife was in this sort of odd, vindictive yet fey mood, merely to nod and say as little as possible so as to avoid provoking her.

  Celia Gordon, having waited in the wings until she’d seen where Graham was seated, moved quickly forward and took a chair almost opposite him across the table where she couldn’t fail but to be in his eye–line. She smiled across at both Monica and Graham as, with a deft flick, she opened her folded napkin and draped it across her lap. ‘Monica, Graham, hello again,’ she said pleasantly, her eyes running over Monica’s outfit then quickly away again.

  Seeing that the woman cleric was dressed smartly, but not so smartly that it appeared that she cared overmuch about fashion, Monica had to admit a wry point to her. But a little while later, the flattering attentions of two male canons, one on her right and one diagonally across from her, was surely a point for her side.

  A little while later Dr Carew rose and a slow, but amiable silence spread around the room. His opening speech was very brief, and he hoped that all the guests were pleased with the choice of Conference Centre that year, to which there were genuine murmurs of approval. He then wished them all a good dinner, said a brief Grace, and sat down.

  In the kitchens, the waiters and waitresses began to come and go in a steady stream. Sir Andrew watched over them in a desultory fashion. He badly wanted a stiff drink.

  ‘So tell me,’ Celia, with an untouched melon boat in front of her, looked across the table at Graham. ‘How do you think your lecture went this afternoon?’

  Graham shrugged a shade ruefully. ‘You’d be in a far better position to say than I would, surely,’ he pointed out.

  Celia laughed. ‘Modest as ever, but I’m sure you know how well it was received. You spoke with a real affinity for the young.’

  Monica sighed heavily. Did the woman never quit? Flattering Graham so flagrantly was almost embarrassing! If she kept it up, people would really start to talk.

  Graham mumbled something and attacked his prawn magenta starter with determination. Taking the hint, Celia turned to the man beside her and struck up a lively and interesting (if rather hard-to-follow) discussion about the dissolution of the monasteries.

  In the hall a grandfather clock chimed with mellow, self-important chimes. The noise level began to rise steadily, as did the heat. Waiters began opening windows, allowing in a cooling breeze and the beginnings of an early moonlight. And at last Monica began to relax and to truly enjoy the occasion.

  A low murmur of approval half an hour later greeted the arrival of the dessert trolleys, overflowing with delicious goodies, and Monica eyed the wonderful, towering gateaux, the bowls of exotic fruit cocktails, the sorbets and roulades, the tortes and chocolate and coconut trifles with a small sigh of surrender.

  Graham opted for cheese and biscuits, as she’d known he would, never having had much of a sweet tooth. She herself was seduced by the trifle. She noticed Celia went immediately for the orange gateau, but only after thoroughly checking the cream layer on the top for something. Apparently satisfied, she tucked in with the first signs of genuine pleasure that Monica had been able to detect in the older woman.

  She noticed the after-dinner speaker glance ever-so-casually at his watch and, somewhere to her left, someone was talking about the bad press magpies were being given. Then a slight sound, a sort of choking cough, suddenly impinged on Monica’s consciousness, not because it was loud so much as because it sounded so out of place amid the cheerful, inconsequential chatter. She began to turn her head to try and locate its source when a second, louder and much more choked sound, drifted across the table.

  Monica’s eyes widened as she looked across at Celia Gordon, discovering that that lady’s own blue eyes were beginning to bulge alarmingly. The expression in them was unmistakable – horror. Blank, fierce, hopeless horror.

  Monica went cold as, instantly, she began to notice other things as well. Celia’s colour was not good, and her hand was to her throat, scrabbling at it compulsively. Worse, and most incongruous of all, her mouth was hanging inelegantly open. Monica was so astonished by this, of all things, that for a moment she couldn’t even react. Her heart lurched in her breast, though. Celia was staring straight at her.

  The man to Celia’s right gave her a quick, embarrassed look. Celia began to gasp. And this time there was a rasping, awful quality to it that had their end of the table falling completely silent. At the other end, though, the chatter went on as people failed to realize that something was seriously amiss.

  ‘Reverend Gordon,’ Monica said sharply, half-rising to her feet at last. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Graham’s head swing around. By now Celia’s face was turning reddish-purple and she was holding onto the edge of the table and pulling the tablecloth towards her with white-knuckled fists. A wineglass toppled and fell, its contents staining the tablecloth. Celia’s pale blue eyes protruded quite hideously now, the look of terror in them escalating wildly, and with a heart-dropping sensation of fear, Monica realized that the other woman couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Graham!’ she cried urgently, her cry silencing the entire room now. Those at the top end looked at her in surprise and then at Graham, who was already on his feet. The man beside Celia, suddenly realizing that this wasn’t a time for embarrassment, but for action, also sprang up. ‘Is there a doctor here?’ he called.

  This, of course, caused outright consternation, but although the room held a number of academics with doctorates, it seemed that none of them were in medicine.

  ‘Ring for an ambulance,’ Graham looked straight up the table towards David Carew, who rose quickly to his feet and reached for his mobile phone.

  By now Celia was toppling over onto her side, her hands making distressing and mesmerising grasping movements at the table cloth, at her throat, at anything that she could grab hold of in her frantic state.

  Monica found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the wretched spectacle. She was aware of Graham moving behind her, racing around to the bottom end of the table, where he passed Arthur and Chlo
e Bryce, who were staring, like everyone else, at the stricken woman. On both of their faces a kind of blankness seemed to have wiped out their features, making them look like people in a bad painting.

  Celia fell fully off her chair and onto the floor, even as her immediate neighbours got to their feet and bent over her.

  ‘I know CPR,’ someone eventually spoke up, since there obviously wasn’t a doctor to be had.

  Dr Carew’s voice could be heard as he called calmly but urgently for an ambulance. Standing just outside the kitchen entrance, Sir Andrew Courtenay heard his end of the conversation and quickly came into the dining room. There he found the room in organized chaos.

  ‘I can’t seem to get her airway open,’ a slightly panic-tinged voice came from somewhere in the middle of a small group towards the end of the table.

  Monica alone still stood at her place, staring white-faced across to where someone was kneeling over Celia. But even as she watched, Celia’s black, stocking clad legs began to thrash about. Her mouth went bone dry. There was something so … inhuman, so ghastly, about that sudden, primitive movement.

  ‘Hold her down!’ someone yelped. ‘Is she having a fit? Is she epileptic?’

  Monica hoped so, she even prayed so, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe so. Although she knew little about epilepsy, some atavistic sense was already telling her that the woman she so disliked was fighting for her very life.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sir Andrew whispered to Dr Carew.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the bishop replied. ‘Someone’s been taken ill,’ he added, rather unnecessarily.

  With nobody speaking, the harsh, distorted breathing of the stricken woman was now clearly audible. Monica winced with every blood-curdling, choking effort Celia made to breathe. She felt tears spurt to her eyes as the poor woman’s neat black-shod feet began drumming against the carpet. ‘She’s turning blue!’ one of those around her whispered, his voice appalled.

  ‘Is that a siren?’ one of the diners asked hopefully, but everyone knew that it was far too soon for that. Minutes seemed to pass like hours. The brave man doing CPR huffed and worked with growing desperation. Celia’s breathing became even more laboured, and then, suddenly, the unmistakable sound of a siren was heard, it’s eerie, ululating wail releasing a collective sigh of relief.

  Sir Andrew turned and headed for the front doors and was back in moments, leading in two ambulance men with a stretcher. With relief, the man doing CPR rose and everyone backed away, giving the professionals room. The ambulance men began issuing sharp orders to one another, the stress in their voices indicating, if any indication had been needed, the seriousness of the situation.

  Within moments they had her strapped onto the stretcher where she writhed and choked, and moved her rapidly towards the door. Sir Andrew and another quick-minded guest held the doors open for them, and then ran through the hall to the front door, to open the big, outside doors as well, allowing easy and quick egress.

  And still no one left in the dining hall spoke. It was as if they were all listening for something – some signal maybe, giving them permission to move. Although nobody could have said quite what that might be. And then the ambulance left, the sound of the siren dashing away into the night.

  And in the silent room, Dr Simon Grade suddenly squeaked something incomprehensible, and dramatically toppled over. The small circle around him made gasping, hopeless noises, and scattered like startled sheep, but it was quickly established that he’d merely fainted. The CPR man slapped his wrists and face and called for brandy. Coming to, and staring up at all the faces around him, he felt tears spring to his eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I‘m so sorry. I just never saw or heard anything so … ghastly … in my life. So sorry to be so feeble. Thank you,’ this last to the CPR man, who pressed the brandy glass against his lips.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured the museum-owner kindly. ‘I feel a bit weak about the knees myself. I imagine we all do. Here, drink it all up. It’ll do you good.’

  Several women then began to cry – due in part to the sudden release of unbearable tension, but mostly from shock. Husbands began to lead their wives from the room, as the CPR man helped Simon to his feet.

  Chloe Bryce did not cry, but stared blankly at a painting on the wall. Beside her, Arthur wondered if he too could ask for a brandy. Jessica Taylor, sitting on a chair with her back to the wall, was staring down at her feet. She was as white as a sheet. Sir Andrew came slowly back into the room. He’d been watching the ambulance disappear into the night, a tight, hard, frozen look on his face. Now he returned to the room and looked around at his silent, shocked guests. Belatedly, the astute businessman in him took over.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, his pleasant, cultured voice affecting everyone in the room. Backs slumped and nerves began to settle. ‘The bar is open. I think it would be best if … well, the room were cleared.’ He glanced across at a few of his waiters and waitresses who, like everyone else, had stopped what they’d been doing and were now waiting, unsure of what to do next. ‘I’ll get my staff to er … clear away.’

  ‘Yes,’ it was David Carew who spoke up next, taking up the rallying cry to return to normal. ‘I think we’d all like to leave here. And I for one, need a stiff drink,’ he added, thus cunningly giving everyone else the excuse to have one too.

  Eagerly now, they all began to troop out. About a third of the guests, wanting only to be alone, drifted to the stairs and elevator to make their way to their rooms. Without doubt, many prayers for their stricken colleague would soon be winging their way heavenward. Most, however, went straight into the bar where the bar staff, taken by surprise by the sudden surge of business, began quickly setting up drinks.

  At the back of the now goggling throng, Graham and Monica lingered by the open doorway. ‘Are you all right?’ Graham asked her, his voice shaken. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  Mutely Monica shook her head. ‘No. I think I just want to go home,’ she said in a small voice.

  Graham nodded, squeezing her arm and instantly instilling her with some of his strength. ‘Just let me have a word with my bishop and then we’ll go,’ he promised. Monica nodded and watched him start to weave his way through the crowd in search of David Carew.

  ‘Waiter, champagne for me,’ a cracked old voice spoke up from the corner of the crowded bar room. There was another moment of absolute silence before someone else blasphemed loudly and with feeling. Sir Matthew Pierrepont stared defiantly at a waiter. ‘Make it a bottle of your best. ’

  Around him, a small space cleared as people anxiously put some distance between themselves and the aged cleric.

  Monica shuddered. Surely she was mistaken in thinking that she saw a look of intense satisfaction on the old man’s face? He was probably just having a strange reaction to shock.

  ‘Ready,’ Graham said a few minutes later, his voice carrying easily over the now more subdued conversation going on around them. ‘David is going to drive over to the hospital and see what’s happening.’

  Monica nodded and together, feeling utterly miserable, they left the Manor.

  ‘Poor Sir Andrew,’ Monica said sadly, once they were outside in the cool, silver-and-dark world of the lovely evening.

  Her husband glanced across at her quickly. ‘What made you say that?’ he asked her curiously as they walked, hand in hand down the lane and towards the sanctuary of their home.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Monica said at last, frowning in puzzlement. For some reason, it had simply been the first thing that had popped into her head.

  In his study, Sir Andrew listened to the sounds of the house falling silent around him. It was now late – very late. His guests had finally retired for the night, worn out by the drama of recent events, and the house was silent. Sir Andrew had already given the staff a quiet pep talk. The general consensus of opinion seemed to be that a guest had had a heart attack. It was sad, of course, and it had inevitably ruined the
evening, but the younger generation of workers had quickly shrugged it off. These things happened.

  Tomorrow was Sunday and another day.

  They were young and knew no better.

  Sir Andrew, who did, sat at his desk and simply waited.

  In her room, Jessica Taylor was on her knees, praying. She was praying hard.

  A few doors down the corridor, Arthur Bryce was brushing his teeth, a deep frown pitted between his fair brows. He looked worried. Very worried. In their bed, Chloe lay on her side with her make-up carefully removed, and stared at the small night-light that was burning. Occasionally, she blinked.

  Sir Matthew Pierrepont had taken the bottle of champagne to bed with him, and was quite happily drinking it.

  On a life-support machine in the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, Celia Gordon knew nothing.

  Graham jumped, blinked, and looked around in confusion. It was the bedroom – his bedroom and it was pitch black. The clock showed it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. Beside him the warm, comforting length of his wife was pressed against his back. What…? In the half second since waking he remembered the events of the previous evening, and then his telephone buzzed again. That was what had brought him so sharply awake.

  Beside him, Monica rose silently onto one elbow and sensed, rather than saw, her husband reach out for the lamp. She blinked her eyes in sudden pain as the light dazzled her eyes, then watched his face as he answered his mobile.

  ‘Yes? Oh, bishop … I see. That’s such a shame. I know. Any idea yet what caused it? No, of course not. Yes. I think that would be best. Yes, of course I’ll … rewrite the service. No, I don’t mind going back, if you think it best. Yes. Thank you for calling. Good night, David,’ he finished gruffly.

  As he slowly hung up he felt small, gentle hands on his arm and shoulder. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Monica whispered sadly.