The Four Last Things

by Taylor, Andrew

  Hudson put his pipe back in his mouth and reached for a box of matches. ‘I don’t know if you’d like to wash? It’s the door at the end of the hall, if you want it. The one on the left.’

  Sally went into an ascetic little bathroom and rinsed her face with cold water. Her face, red-eyed and ugly, stared accusingly at her from the mirror. She returned to the living room to find that nothing had changed in her absence: Michael and David were still talking by the window and Hudson was puffing his pipe in the armchair next to hers.

  ‘Have Michael and David told you what’s happening?’ she asked.

  Hudson nodded. ‘As much as they can.’

  ‘I feel it’s my fault, all of it. What I’ve done, what I am, has attracted someone’s hatred. And Lucy’s paying the price.’

  ‘My wife once told me that I had a terrible tendency to blame myself.’ A match scraped, and Hudson held the flame dancing over the bowl of the pipe. ‘“Don’t be so self-centred,” she used to say. She was quite right.’

  ‘But the longer this goes on, the more it seems that whoever is doing it is trying to get back at me.’

  ‘At you, or his parents, or himself, or God – what does it matter? The point is this: that person is responsible for his actions, not you. You mustn’t blame yourself. I know it’s tempting, but you must resist.’

  ‘Tempting?’

  ‘Because, in general, feeling guilty when it’s patently not your fault is a soft option.’ He beamed at her. ‘Let’s have a biscuit.’

  Sally was so confused that she took one. ‘I hope they’re all right,’ Hudson went on. ‘I keep them for visitors and I think the packet has been open for rather a long time.’

  For an instant, the smaller problem elbowed aside the infinitely greater one. Should she be rude but honest, or dishonest and polite? Should she eat this horrible biscuit or not? How on earth could she avoid either distressing her host or lying to him?

  ‘Have you got that photograph?’ Michael said from the window. ‘David would like to see it.’

  Sally jettisoned the biscuit and delved into her handbag. All four of them looked at the photograph, passing it from hand to hand. It was a black-and-white shot of a small gravestone – a simple slab, originally upright, which over the years had listed a few degrees to the left. Two people, almost certainly male, were standing near it, one on each side. The camera had cut them off at waist level, and only parts of their legs were visible: pinstripe trousers, a little too short, to the right, and something indeterminate on the left. Only the legs, the stone and the grass immediately in front of it were in focus. Everything else was a grey blur.

  ‘It’s a very short depth of field,’ Michael commented. ‘Probably taken from one of the houses overlooking the cemetery with a long-distance lens.’

  What caught the eye was the medallion at the top, raised in bas relief. It showed a cowled death’s head with the blade of a scythe arching above it. The inscription was still clearly legible.

  FREDERICK WILLIAM MESSENGER

  Born April 19th, 1837

  Died March 4th, 1884

  ‘On the laconic side, don’t you think?’ Hudson cocked his head to one side, mirroring the listing of the gravestone. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want the orthodox pieties on his gravestone.’

  ‘Are you sure this is where the hand was found?’ David said suddenly. ‘Absolutely sure?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘We’ve only got Howell’s word for it. I –’

  ‘We’ve got more than that,’ Sally interrupted. ‘I think those trousers on the left are a pepper-and-salt tweed like Maxham’s. And Sergeant Carlow wears a pinstripe suit.’

  ‘Why have the police kept this quiet?’ David asked.

  ‘For the same reason that they didn’t release the news that Lucy’s tights turned up yesterday,’ Michael said. ‘To give them a chance of winnowing out the hoaxes.’ He rubbed his forehead and stared down at the photograph in Hudson’s hand. ‘It’s macabre, isn’t it?’

  Hudson peered at the print. ‘I don’t suppose the chap’s name has any significance?’ As he spoke, he glanced up at David Byfield, who shrugged and turned away to light a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Sally said.

  ‘A messenger usually brings a message, that’s all. So perhaps the hand should be interpreted as a message. Don’t you agree, David?’

  Byfield nodded, his eyes on the glowing tip of his cigarette.

  ‘The Greek for “messenger” is “angelos”, of course,’ Hudson went on. ‘Which is where our word “angel” comes from. The Angel of Death? I wonder if someone might be playing word games?’

  David straightened up and turned round. ‘The important thing is the skull and the scythe.’ His face was no different from usual, but at the end of the sentence his voice trembled; for the first time since Sally had met him, he sounded as old as he was. He stabbed the cigarette in the direction of the photograph. ‘There’s a pattern which links that to St Michael’s yesterday and Paradise Gardens today.’ He sucked in smoke. ‘Whoever is behind this is probably Catholic, or at least has a nodding acquaintance with Catholic theology.’

  ‘But St Michael’s is an Anglican church,’ Michael said.

  David waved the cigarette impatiently, and a coil of ash fell to the carpet. ‘Catholic in the wider sense. Not necessarily Roman.’ The cigarette tip swung between Sally and Michael, and for an instant she glimpsed what David Byfield must have been like as a teacher. ‘Do you know what the Four Last Things are?’

  Michael glanced at Sally and shook his head.

  ‘Death and Judgement,’ Sally said automatically, her mind on Lucy, ‘Heaven and Hell. In the Roman Catholic catechism, they are “ever to be remembered”.’

  ‘Precisely,’ murmured Hudson. ‘The res novissimae. Pre-Tridentine, aren’t they?’

  David nodded. ‘The theological basis is a passage in the Apocrypha – in Ecclesiasticus. But the division into four isn’t a formal one: it’s a matter of popular usage. Long established, though. You find it in the catechisms of St Peter Canisius, for example. But I think it goes back further than the sixteenth century to the Gallican church.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Michael, looking so young and vulnerable that Sally wanted to hug him, ‘but I don’t see what this is about.’

  ‘It’s about a great evil,’ David said slowly. ‘A perversion.’

  ‘We know that,’ Michael snapped. ‘But what’s theology got to do with it?’

  ‘Eschatology, to be exact.’

  Hudson blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘I always found that a very difficult subject to get to grips with.’

  ‘On a superficial level eschatology is quite straightforward,’ David said, as if addressing a recalcitrant seminar. ‘Technically it’s the branch of systematic theology dealing with the ultimate fate of the individual soul and of mankind in general.’

  Hudson leaned forward. ‘David?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would you get to the point, please?’

  For a moment, the two old men stared at each other. Sally held her breath. She knew there was a struggle going on, though not why, and she sensed both the authority flowing from Peter Hudson and David’s obstinate anger. And there was another, less predictable emotion present: David was scared.

  At last David nodded slightly, an unconditional capitulation. ‘As you say, the name Messenger suggests that the hand wasn’t left on that particular gravestone at random,’ he said quietly, no longer the lecturer. ‘It’s a hint to the effect that there’s a message for us, that there is something to be read into the symbol, a transference of meaning. And the bas relief makes it quite clear what that meaning is: the grim reaper, Death.’

  ‘There was the painting.’ Sally needed to pause because it was suddenly hard to breathe. ‘The one over the high altar in St Michael’s. Did you see it?’

  David turned towards her, and to her astonishment she saw that there were tears in his eyes. ‘Yes. Rather an unpleasant vers
ion of the Last Judgement. After Giotto, I suppose.’

  Sally nodded. ‘A long way after.’

  His face almost lightened into a smile, then became grim again. ‘So St Michael’s would give us Judgement.’

  ‘Michael’s name is in the church’s dedication. There might be significance in that.’

  ‘Come off it.’ Michael scowled impartially at the three of them. ‘Isn’t that the logic of paranoia? Selecting the facts to suit the theory?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ David stubbed out his cigarette and immediately shook another from the packet. ‘But I rather doubt it. Too many facts fit. There’s another possible link between St Michael’s and Judgement. While we were there I happened to notice that the first incumbent was a Reverend Francis Youlgreave.’

  ‘Youlgreave?’ interrupted Michael.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But they used to live in Roth, didn’t they?’

  ‘That’s how I know the name.’ David stared at Michael and then turned back to Sally. ‘I was Vicar of Roth for a few years, before I went to America. I don’t know whether Michael has ever mentioned the place. It’s a village in Middlesex, a suburb, really.’

  She stared blankly at him. Miss Oliphant had lived, or at least stayed, in Roth. Small world?

  ‘Francis Youlgreave is actually buried in the church,’ David was saying. ‘In his spare time he was a minor poet, rather in the manner of his namesake, Francis Thompson. One of his poems occasionally turns up in anthologies. It’s called “The Judgement of Strangers”.’

  Michael was frowning. ‘But that’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  He looked at David, and David looked back. The old jealousy twisted inside Sally: they excluded her automatically from their shared past.

  ‘In my opinion, coincidence is a much overrated idea,’ Hudson said. ‘It often seems to be the norm rather than the exception.’

  David’s lighter flared. ‘True enough. And then, of course, there’s Paradise Gardens, which gives us Heaven, the third of the Last Things. What do you think?’ He was looking at Hudson.

  ‘It’s plausible. But will the police agree? Will you tell them?’

  ‘We can try,’ Michael said. ‘I can’t guarantee that Maxham will listen, though.’

  ‘He must,’ David said. ‘He must.’

  At that moment the doorbell rang. None of them moved.

  ‘And what about the fourth Last Thing?’ Sally stood up, scattering biscuit crumbs. ‘Have you thought what your precious theory means for Lucy?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sally said, her throat dry and her stomach fluttering. ‘I’m quite sure.’

  Sergeant Carlow rubbed his long, clean hands as though trying to warm them by friction. ‘It was the crucifix, you see. That’s what made Mr Maxham wonder.’

  ‘I don’t think many churchgoers would encourage a child to wear a crucifix in that way.’

  They were standing in Bishop Hudson’s hall – Carlow and DC Yvonne Saunders, Sally and Michael. The two old men had remained in the living room, and their voices rose and fell in the background. Michael’s face had a green pallor. Carlow was wearing the same pinstriped suit; the trousers were so short that when he moved Sally glimpsed pale, hairless skin above his black socks. A wave of dizziness hit her and for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

  ‘And you can confirm that Lucy’s ears weren’t pierced?’

  ‘Of course I can.’ A thought occurred to her, driving away the dizziness: ‘The ear couldn’t have been pierced recently?’ She held her breath, waiting for the answer.

  ‘We think the piercing was done a long time ago, and not very well. There’s what they call a keloid on the lobe, sort of raised scar tissue. The ear was probably pierced months ago, if not years.’

  Sally let out her breath. Her heart was still pounding uncomfortably; news of the temporary reprieve had not yet reached it. She swallowed convulsively. Michael gave a dry sob.

  Yvonne smiled nervously, exposing the flawless teeth, and patted Sally’s arm. ‘Do you want to sit down, love?’

  Sally allowed herself to be guided towards a chair that stood beside the wall. ‘Not Lucy. Not Lucy.’

  ‘No, love,’ said Yvonne with the bright sincerity of a housewife assessing a washing powder in a TV advertisement. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘I’m sorry this has been a shock,’ Carlow said mechanically. ‘But Mr Maxham thought that we’d better check with you right away.’

  Underneath the mass of black hair – Lucy’s hair? – the police had found another, much smaller package, shrouded in clingfilm, at the very bottom of the padded envelope. It contained a small ear, roughly severed from the head. From the lobe dangled an earring with a silver crucifix attached to it.

  Michael touched Sally’s shoulder. Sally raised her hand and clung to his.

  ‘Could the ear have come from the same body as the legs or the hand?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Definitely not the hand.’ Carlow was patently happier talking to a man. ‘The skin’s white. Don’t know about the legs. But if I had to put money on it, I’d say not.’

  ‘Why?’

  Carlow shrugged. ‘I don’t know – the legs were sort of big and clumsy – whereas the ear’s rather delicate. Just a guess, but I’d say they come from different kids.’

  ‘Had the ear been frozen too?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. Quite possibly.’

  Three victims, Sally thought: one for Death, one for Judgement, one for Heaven. And for Hell –

  ‘There was one other thing,’ Carlow went on. ‘You know the tights we found yesterday?’

  Sally nodded, thinking that this must pass for tact: not mentioning that the tights were Lucy’s or what they had contained.

  ‘Forensic found a hair clinging to the wool. Natural blonde. We should know more by this afternoon.’

  ‘Man or woman?’ Michael asked, his fingers tightening on Sally’s shoulder.

  ‘At a guess, a woman’s: it’s about twelve inches long and it’s fine hair, too.’

  ‘I need to talk to Maxham.’

  Carlow looked blankly at him. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Michael shouted, moving away from Sally and towards Carlow. ‘We’ve just found what might be a pattern. If we’re right, time’s running out.’

  ‘OK, OK. What sort of pattern?’

  ‘The one the killer’s using.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’d rather tell Maxham. It supports what we already thought, that there’s a religious nutter behind this.’

  Carlow clamped his lips together. A muscle twitched above his big jaw. ‘If you insist.’

  ‘Of course I insist. And I’ll need to bring someone with me.’

  Carlow glanced at Sally, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘A priest,’ Michael said. ‘David Byfield – you met him yesterday. He can explain the technical side better than I can.’

  ‘The technical side?’ echoed Carlow. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t –’

  ‘We’ll all be sorry if we don’t get moving.’ Michael turned back to Sally. ‘You could stay here if you want, or take the car back to Inkerman Street. Up to you.’

  ‘I’ll see. You’d better take the mobile. You can phone me here or at Oliver’s.’ Sally was upset that he did not want her to go with him, but was unwilling to insist; she could add nothing but emotional complications. Besides, she had an overwhelming urge to find somewhere private so that she could cry without interruption or well-meant sympathy.

  Carlow tried again. ‘I’m not sure there’s any advantage in this. If you’ve got any information, I can pass it on, of course. But Mr Maxham may be too busy to actually –’

  ‘I know,’ Michael said in a voice that climbed in volume and wobbled towards the edge of hysteria. ‘He’s got a full-time job. It doesn’t leave him much time for socializing. But let’s see if we can persuade him to make an exception.’

  In Inkerman Street, Sally carefully reversed the car into an empty spac
e. Unfortunately, she forgot to brake. The back of the Rover collided with the front of the dark-blue Citroen. The engine stalled.

  Sally rested her forehead against the top of the steering wheel. Your will be done. Could God really and truly want something as stupid as this to happen? The red oil lamp on the dashboard winked at her, red drops on a dark background, blood on a floor. She closed her eyes but the blood would not go away. More than anything, she would have liked to pray for Lucy. When she tried, her mind filled with her daughter – not with her name or her face, but with the essence of her. In Sally’s mind, Lucy expanded to such huge proportions that there was no room for anything else, even God.

  Gradually the image of Lucy contracted. Like a departing aeroplane, the image grew smaller and smaller until it was no longer visible but still there. I am not worthy to be a priest. I have no room for God.

  The sound of tapping forced itself to her attention. Sally opened her eyes, resenting the intrusion. Oliver was standing in the road outside, bending down so that his face was level with hers, just as Frank Howell had done. She rolled down the window.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Dumbly she shook her head.

  ‘Come inside.’ He put his hand into the car and unlocked the door. ‘You’ve had news? Is it –?’

  ‘No. They haven’t found her.’

  ‘Then she may still be alive. She may still be all right.’ Oliver opened the door. ‘Out you come.’

  Moving like an old woman, she struggled out of the car and clung to Oliver’s arm. With his free hand he turned off the ignition, took out the key, rolled up the window, shut the door and locked it.

  Sally stared at the front of the Citroen. It was this year’s model and the paintwork gleamed. Now there was a dent in the front and one of the headlights had lost its glass. It was surprising how much damage a little knock could do. She had not realized that cars were so vulnerable.