The Corpse of St James's

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Alan helped him out of the car, and he made his way to the front door, leaning heavily on his cane.

  ‘Welcome, Jonathan.’ To my horror, my voice shook and a tear threatened to slide down my cheek. This would never do!

  ‘I’m sorry to be a bother,’ he muttered. ‘Frightful nuisance, I know.’

  Well, that dealt with my tears. ‘Jonathan Quinn, I never want to hear you say anything like that again! You are not a nuisance, you are an honoured guest, and you’d better get used to it! Now come in and sit down and tell me if you’d prefer tea or orange juice.’

  ‘There’s no need to bother . . .’ he began.

  I gave him The Look.

  ‘That is . . . tea would be very nice, thank you.’

  I exchanged glances with Alan. He shrugged almost invisibly. Nothing interesting to report.

  I made fresh tea for Jonathan, poured wine for Alan and me, and set out my sketchy supper on the table. ‘Come and have something to eat, gentlemen, before Watson and the cats scarf it all.’

  They sat in near silence, passed food, asked for the mayonnaise and mustard.

  I’d had enough. I cleared my throat. ‘We’re all being very discreet, and ignoring the elephant in the room. It’s time we talked. Jonathan, are you able to tell us about last night?’

  He put down the fork with which he had been pushing food around his plate. ‘Not much to tell. Jemima came to see me. We quarrelled.’

  I waited.

  ‘We . . . I thought we were getting on better. But when I tried to talk to her about her future, she . . .’

  ‘Of course she did,’ I said with exasperation. ‘Too soon, Jonathan.’

  ‘I don’t know much about women. I’ve never had time. And now . . . if the police hadn’t come . . .’

  ‘But they did, and a good thing, too.’

  ‘Why? So I could be accused of murder?’ The bitterness was corrosive.

  ‘Jonathan, it’s a good thing you’re not in possession of all your physical capabilities. Because if you were, I’d have no problem shaking you till your teeth rattled. As it is, my conscience won’t let me.’

  Alan raised his eyes heavenward. ‘My dear, I do think we ought to let this poor man get some sleep.’

  ‘And how well do you think I’d sleep, thinking he was lying there trying to figure out how to kill himself as soon as we let him out of sight?’

  Jonathan winced. ‘I’ve told you . . . and in any case, I would never abuse your hospitality in that way.’

  ‘But only because you’re polite, not because you’ve given up the idea. No, you’d wait until you weren’t under our roof any more, and then . . . wheel yourself in front of a lorry, or under a Tube train, or something. And it’s got to stop, do you hear? I’ve tried to tell you life is worth living. Letty’s tried to tell you. I suppose even Jemima’s had her shot at you. Yes, that’s right, think about Jemima for just a minute. How do you think she’d feel if she lost you on top of everything else? Don’t look at me that way. She may have torn a strip off you last night, but under all the prickles, she feels the same way you do. I’m not blind, you know, even if I am an old bat. Now you eat some supper, and then we’re putting you to bed, and then, in the morning, we’re going to see what we can do about your depression.’

  Jonathan, looking rather as if he’d been hit on the head with a baseball bat, obeyed.

  After we’d seen him safely to his room, Alan and I retired, exhausted, to ours. ‘You were pretty hard on the poor chap, Dorothy.’

  ‘I know. And I hated to hit him when he’s down. But he needs to be shaken up. He’s been wallowing for so long in the slough of despond that he’s forgotten how to climb out of it. I don’t think he even knows there’s a way out. First thing in the morning, I’m heading straight to the Cathedral to ask the Dean who’s the best counsellor or psychiatrist or whatever in town. Jonathan needs professional help, and I intend to see that he gets it.’

  I think Alan muttered something about ‘steamroller’ as we got into bed, but I ignored him.

  ‘Dr Miller, John Miller, is my recommendation. He’s a psychiatrist who specializes in treating depression, and he uses a full range of treatment, including alternative medicine . . . whatever he thinks is best for the patient. He’s always very busy, but if you’d like, I could phone him and say this is an emergency case.’

  ‘Oh, please do! I know there’s no immediate cure, but if we can even get Jonathan started with someone, I’ll feel a lot better about the whole thing.’

  The Dean made a note. ‘I’ve added him to the prayer list, as well. It sounds as if Jonathan needs all the help he can get. What a dreadful situation! Is he a religious man, do you know? I’d be happy to call on him, but I never like to intrude.’

  ‘I suspect not, from some things he’s said, and not said, but I’ll try to sound him out and let you know. And thank you, Dean! I knew I could count on you to know the right person.’

  ‘Any time, Dorothy. Will we see you at the concert Friday night?’

  Alan and I are regulars at the Cathedral Music Series each year, and the programme on Friday comprised music by Ralph Vaughan Williams, one of our favourites. ‘We have tickets, but it all depends . . .’

  ‘We’ll hope things work out so you can be there. I’ve heard them rehearsing, and it’s sure to be a splendid evening.’ He sent me off with a cheerful wave, and I stepped out into the brilliant June morning feeling a good deal better.

  Jonathan was awake and in the kitchen when I got home. He had showered and dressed, though in the same clothes he’d worn the night before. ‘Sorry,’ he said, gesturing at himself. ‘I don’t have any others with me. I couldn’t think what to pack yesterday.’

  ‘I’d offer you some of Alan’s things, but I’m afraid they’d be far too big. Later the two of you will have to go back to your flat and collect enough to do you for a while.’

  Jonathan made a helpless sort of ‘whatever’ gesture, and I didn’t pursue it. ‘Now, have you been able to find any breakfast?’

  He shook his head wearily. ‘Thank you, but I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘That, as you know, is beside the point. Do you prefer your eggs boiled or fried?’

  Again that helpless gesture. It seemed he wasn’t up to making any decisions at all. I made toast and coffee, scrambled eggs, assembled marmalade and the other accoutrements, and sat and watched him while he ate about a quarter of what I’d prepared.

  ‘That’s better than nothing. You can’t operate on any empty tank, you know, and this morning we’re . . . drat.’

  The phone was ringing insistently, and Alan was either still asleep or in the shower. I picked it up and answered with the phone number. ‘Yes? Yes! Good! And the address?’

  I clicked off and turned to Jonathan. ‘As I was just about to say, this morning we’re going to be busy. I’m taking you to a shrink.’

  ‘You . . . I assure you, I don’t need . . .’

  ‘Yes, you do. Jonathan, I don’t mean to boss you around, but at this stage, somebody needs to and I seem to be the one available. You’re in a state of deep depression and you need help, and with the best will in the world, I’m not qualified to give it. Neither is Alan. Neither is Letty, dearly as she loves you. You need a professional, and in –’ I glanced at the kitchen clock – ‘fifty-seven minutes you’re going to see one. Meanwhile, we’re going to buy you a new shirt and pants, which will also make you feel better. So finish that orange juice to top up your blood sugar, and off we go.’

  I left a note for Alan and hustled Jonathan out the door. I can drive Sherebury streets easily enough, though given the difficulty of parking on the High Street we would have done almost as well to walk. We have a small Marks and Spencer in Sherebury, and at this hour of the morning they weren’t yet crowded, so I was able in short order to find both outer-and underwear for Jonathan. It was like taking a child shopping, except he didn’t whine. He obediently tried on the first things I found and pronounced them acce
ptable, though he objected when I paid for them. ‘You can pay me back. I’m guessing you have almost no money with you, right?’

  He admitted helplessly that he didn’t know. I clucked a bit. Good grief, the sooner I got this poor man to the psychiatrist, the better. He was coming apart at the seams.

  He dressed in his new clothes, right down to his socks, and we headed for the discreet office of Dr John Miller, MBBS, MSc, MRCPsych.

  The long string of letters intimidated me completely, but Dr Miller’s receptionist was very pleasant. ‘The doctor can see you right away, Mr Quinn. And Mrs Martin, if you’d like to wait, we have reading material that is actually current. Or you could come back in about two hours. An initial interview does take a little while.’

  Well, that was a very nice way of being told I was extraneous to this process. ‘I’ll come back, thank you.’ I patted Jonathan on the shoulder, and he followed the receptionist through a door that shut firmly behind him.

  I left, feeling a bit empty. I’d felt decisive action was called for. Now I’d taken that action, and Jonathan was out of my hands for the next two hours. Now what?

  My stomach rumbled, and I realized I was literally empty. I’d been so concerned with feeding Jonathan that I’d had only coffee myself. I decided my car was fine where it was and walked to the Cathedral Close, where a pot of tea and an almond croissant at Alderney’s satisfied the inner woman.

  The next obvious stop was the Cathedral itself. It would be a bustling place. Tourists would be strolling about gawking at its incredible beauty, and stopping in at the gift shop to buy souvenirs. Someone would almost certainly be practising music, either the organist, or one of the groups that were performing in the concert Friday night. The clergy and staff would be going about their business purposefully.

  But for me, it was always an oasis of quiet and peace. A building that has been a place of worship for many centuries holds peace like a goblet brimful of warm, golden wine, and trivial externals ripple the surface only slightly.

  I made my way to the small, lovely chapel devoted to private prayer and slipped to my knees.

  It wasn’t until I became aware of discomfort that I wondered how long I’d been there. I can kneel for a while on my nice titanium implants, if the kneeler is well-padded, but pretty soon they begin to complain. Well, not the titanium, presumably, since it has no nerves, but the rest of the reconstruction. I pushed myself to my feet, somewhat stiff in body but much restored in mind and spirit. Overhead, the Cathedral clock chimed the three-quarters. I’d need to hurry to make it back in time to fetch Jonathan.

  He was waiting for me in the outer office, looking pretty much the way he had two hours before. I wanted to ask him how it went, wanted to hear all about it, wanted, really, to be told he felt much better. But I restrained myself until I’d brought the car around for him, and then said only, ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Pleasant,’ said Jonathan, and relapsed into silence.

  I made sure my long sigh was inaudible.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I managed to find a private moment to tell Alan what I’d learned about Jarvis/Welles. He agreed that Carstairs must be told, and promised to do so when he took Jonathan back to his flat for clothes. As soon as they’d left, I got on the phone to Dr Miller.

  ‘I know you can’t tell me anything confidential, Doctor, but I need to know how carefully I need to tread with Jonathan. I presume the Dean gave you the background?’

  ‘He did, and I must say you’ve all got yourself into a right muddle! Small wonder Jonathan isn’t feeling quite the thing.’

  ‘After the suicide attempt, how seriously do you think we need to take that risk? He’s staying with us for the next week or two, and it’s a big worry.’

  ‘I always take suicide talk seriously. But in this case I think he’ll be all right if closely supervised. Try to keep his mind off his troubles, feed him, keep him occupied, and watch him. Make sure he has no drugs in his possession, and don’t let him go out alone. I don’t believe he has the energy right now to make any elaborate plans to kill himself, but if an easy opportunity arises, he just might take it.’

  ‘Yes, we can do all that, but it’s the matter of keeping his mind off his troubles that’s going to be the tricky part. You see, we’re trying, Alan and I, to work out what really happened to the girl he’s suspected of killing, and that means we need to ask him some questions about it.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard about your detective . . . er . . . bent. But I’m afraid it won’t do. I don’t want you to bring up the subject of the murder, or of his depression. Leave that to me. I’m seeing him every day this week, though I’m having to juggle my schedule a bit. At the end of the week, we’ll see where we are.’

  I asked about medications, was told none had been prescribed for the moment, and clicked off, wondering as I put the phone down just what we were to talk about if his troubles were forbidden topics.

  Alan and Jonathan were once again late getting home, but Alan called me to say they were stuck on the motorway and to expect them when I saw them, so I made a sandwich for supper and settled down with a spiral notebook, a pen and the usual attendant animals.

  I’ve made lists all my life. Shopping lists, Christmas card lists, to-do lists. Just making the list gives one a spurious feeling of accomplishment. My list this time was a to-do list: How to Catch a Murderer.

  Not that I put that down, but it was in the back of my mind as I wrote:

  Anthony Jarvis/Andrew Welles. How to find out more about him?

  Find out more about his trial. Newspaper? Internet?

  Talk to head teachers at his former schools.

  Go back to St Cuthbert’s and find out how/why they found him for the palace tour.

  Find out where he was the night Melissa was killed.

  That last was really a matter for the police. If they could be persuaded to look into it. Surely, though, now that they knew about Jarvis/Welles, it could plant some doubt about Jonathan’s guilt.

  I made another note:

  Talk to Carstairs myself about Jarvis/Welles.

  I looked at that one with foreboding. The Chief wasn’t going to welcome any suggestions from me. If I had to talk to him, I’d better be armed with enough solid information that he’d listen. What sources did I have, whom did I know who would talk to me frankly about a child predator?

  Possible child predator, I reminded myself. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.

  There were no school officials available to me at this hour of the evening. I could try the Internet again . . . or! I had a sudden brilliant idea. Jane!

  Jane Langland had been a teacher for many years until her retirement, and she still kept up with school matters. As far as I knew, she’d never taught in the Brighton area, but it wasn’t all that far away. Surely she knew someone who knew someone.

  I went to my kitchen door and peered out. Her back door was ajar to let in the balmy evening air, but there was no sign of any visitors. Keeping my animals back with one foot, I scurried out and knocked on her door.

  ‘It’s open,’ she called in her distinctive growl. The bulldogs set up a welcoming chorus and came to greet me as I walked through her kitchen to her front room.

  ‘Young man getting settled in?’ was her greeting. ‘Thought he was still in London.’

  She would have seen Jonathan’s arrival, of course. ‘He’s terribly depressed, so we’re keeping an eye on him. We’re all afraid he’ll . . . try to do something foolish.’

  ‘Hmph!’ Jane has little use for euphemism. ‘Kill himself, you mean. Not that stupid, is my guess.’

  Since Jane had never met him, she was drawing conclusions from who-knew-what source, but I didn’t stop to question her information. ‘He tried once, Jane,’ I did say. I gave her the story, briefly. ‘I’ve fixed him up with a psychiatrist, who doesn’t think there’s imminent danger, but he needs to be watched. And I’m not to talk to him about his troubles, but what else is there to talk a
bout? His mind is so full of pain and worry he can’t even eat.’

  ‘And what are you doing about it?’

  Bless Jane. She has enormous faith in my ability to ‘do something’ about almost anything. ‘That’s why I’m here, actually. I’ve got my eye on a possible suspect, and I want you to help me find out anything I can about him. He calls himself Anthony Jarvis, but his real name is Andrew Welles, and he—’

  ‘Oh. Him.’

  ‘You know who he is?’

  She looked at me over the top of her glasses. ‘Not a teacher in these three counties doesn’t know about him. Wrong ’un. Changed his name, has he?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s not teaching any more. Tell all, Jane.’

  She got up, went to a side table, and assembled a tray with bottles, glasses and a soda siphon. ‘Need a stiffener for this one. Help yourself.’

  The tale she had to tell wasn’t a pretty one. Before it was over I was very glad of my ‘stiffener’.

  Andrew Welles had a long history of suspected, but never proven, crimes against children, mostly between the ages of ten and thirteen. Mostly girls, but a few boys as well. ‘Never rape, or never accused. Fondling. That sort of thing.’ Jane made a face and took a healthy swig of her Glenfiddich. ‘Take the taste out of my mouth.’

  It was the usual story of conflicting testimony, confused and terrified children, angry parents, defensive school officials. ‘Damn hard to prove these things. No one wants to put the kids through it. End of the day, he’d just be asked to resign. Only ever went to court once; acquitted. Travesty.’

  ‘So he changed his name and set himself up as some sort of art consultant, as nearly as I can make out. He wouldn’t have to have a CV for that.’

  ‘Bastard’s a damn good artist, good teacher. Bloody shame.’

  I wasn’t sure whether she meant it was a shame that a good teacher had ruined his career, or that he had never been made to pay for his crimes, or that so many children had been victimized . . . or all of the above.