Blood From Stone

by Frances Fyfield

  I’ll call you back, she said. I’m in a museum.

  Busy.

  He walked onwards, and oh, hell, why hadn’t he done the obvious, and redirected FedEx to his own storage store, said take it there, whatever it is, and leave it, that’s what it’s for. And why did he take it in? Because it had her name on it? He was in shock. Mother was going to be very, very upset, just when she was getting better. Thank God she hadn’t been indoors.

  William sat in the shelter with his wife, taking her cold hand and letting her enfold his colder wrist, and then the phone went again. Cold though it was, it was less cold than it had been. She had brought her tapestry with her, and fingered it, gently, as if the stitches would work all on their own and the sight of her, just doing that, made him feel angrier. She would not like what she was going to find at home, Hen using the place as a dump; it would disturb the fragile equilibrium. He was furious with Henrietta for not understanding anything, being busy, for God’s sake, and then that damn phone went again. He had to detach his hand to shout into it. He shouted for a long time.

  A quiet male voice, asking him not to shout the way he was shouting already, which made him shout even louder. Can we talk, the voice said, calm as cold custard, whoever it was, but at least it wasn’t Hen, saying she was busy.

  I’m a friend, the voice said. Can I help? Only Hen’s a bit upset, so perhaps you can tell me.

  She’s UPSET? What do you think we are? How do I tell my wife that the house is full of her junk?

  There must be some mistake . . .

  MISTAKE? Hen never makes mistakes, not her. Never. She sent it on purpose.

  Can you leave it where it is for the moment? Just close the door? I could come tomorrow, and perhaps help you sort it out.

  YOU can come, whoever the hell you are. I just don’t want Hen here. What’s your bloody name?

  Peter.

  William did not know why the voice made him feel better. He had always wanted a son, but it had been the daughters who had been available.

  ‘Do you think,’ Peter later said to Hen, ‘that I’ve got the gist of this? Your father thinks that you’ve chosen this moment in time to dump the remnants of Angel’s things on them? Or that you’ve had stuff delivered to them to taunt them out of their misery, or make your presence felt, knowing they would hate it?’

  ‘I don’t know what he thinks. Only that he’s very angry. That he thinks that I’m being spiteful, using them in some way. Getting my own back for being rejected.’

  You’re a user, aren’t you, Henrietta. You used your own sister to bolster up your own importance didn’t you? You have to be indispensable.

  Oh Lord, sitting in Hen’s pretty, if dilapidated, kitchen, the last thing he wanted to think of was Marianne Shearer’s cross-examination of a primary witness of reported fact, and of how, between them, they had made the jury suspicious.

  ‘This isn’t what I imagined,’ he said. ‘This isn’t the way I thought you lived.’

  She shrugged, more than slightly restored on the way home on the bus, with all that talking in the meantime. Saying thank you all the time, for speaking to her father when she couldn’t.

  ‘You’ve only seen the basement,’ she said. ‘I live on this level, work on the other two. I used to share this flat with Jake.’

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘The man who got me into this business. He lives with his son in Watford now. I moved in three years ago when he was finding it difficult to manage the stairs, and became his assistant. Then his eyesight got worse. It’s his house. I pay him rent, which covers everything. He should sell it, really, but he wants to keep it for his son. And he wants his business to go on.’

  Peter was remembering another bit of Marianne Shearer’s cross-examination of Henrietta Joyce, found himself paraphrasing it out loud.

  ‘She said, “Miss Joyce, you live with a seventy-year-old man, don’t you? You wormed your way in to his affections for free accommodation, didn’t you? Basically you’re a squatter, and that’s what you took your sister to.”’

  Hen nodded, still upset, and then amused. ‘Yes, she did say that, didn’t she? She was flinging in anything to undermine my credibility. I don’t even know where she got all that from. Angel stayed here a couple of times before, so I’m guessing it must have been garbled, second-hand information gleaned from something Angel had told Rick Boyd. Angel liked to do me down, it seems. I didn’t live with Jake. I camped in the dressing room downstairs until he went, which was when Angel was away with Rick. I didn’t want him to go. I wanted to look after him and learn as much as I could, but I suppose it meant there was space for Angel. Angel liked it here when she visited before . . . ’ She hesitated, leaving something out. ‘She didn’t like it so much when I brought her back here.’

  MS. If she wanted to go anywhere, Miss Joyce, she wanted to go home, didn’t she?

  HJ. No, she didn’t want to go home. There would be nothing for her to do, and she was too ashamed.

  MS. She was or you were?

  Peter wished he could get the cross-examination echoes out of his head.

  You needed her, rather than her needing you. Otherwise read as Miss H. Joyce is a sponger, a feeder on the frailties of others. He was looking round the room and not quite getting it. He was in an old-fashioned attic under the eaves of a house where he had only seen the cellar. It was one of the warmest rooms he had ever sat in, with yellow-washed walls, an old table, painted blue, a minimum of fittings and equipment, three mismatched chairs with cushions, crockery that looked as if it had come from a boot fair, and good coffee. A boiler hummed in a crooked cupboard. It’s a sort of patchwork kitchen, Hen explained. You can see why Jake couldn’t rent out this house commercially. Something old, nothing new, plenty borrowed and much of it blue. Probably needs rewiring, for starters. The bathroom’s ancient. All Peter could think of was how comfortable it was. She was suddenly a little formal, like a person who was aware of having revealed too much and wanting to retreat, confused by gratitude for having been helped. Are you sure? she kept saying. Are you sure?

  ‘So, your father thinks that you deliberately upset your mother by sending a trunkload of clothes down to their house. He thinks you were sending back Angel’s things, although he doesn’t know what’s in there. Alternatively he just thinks that you’re using the family home as free storage, violating their space. Actually, he doesn’t know who sent the stuff.’

  She nodded. ‘Neither do I. I was just shocked by the anger. It’s not like him. He’s never shouted. He’s a quiet man. I can’t believe I just handed the phone to you. I’m sorry. The least I can do is find you a suit. Are you sure you want to carry on with this? You don’t have to, you know, you really don’t. I don’t know why you volunteered. Why are you so good at calming people? Is that legal training?’

  ‘Am I? Three questions in one. Bad cross-examination technique, unless you want to confuse. I spoke to your father because I hate anyone shouting. I shall go there tomorrow because I’m intrigued and I fancy a day by the sea. And having a calming influence doesn’t come from legal training, which teaches you how to wind people up, it probably comes from being the middle one of five children.’

  She propped her elbows on the table, rapt with attention.

  ‘Really? Fantastic. Lucky you. Brothers? Sisters?’

  ‘Two brothers, two sisters. Lots of hand-me-down clothes. I could have come out as a cross-dresser.’

  Now she laughed. ‘I’m sure it can be arranged,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to find you a suit, haven’t we?’

  ‘It’d save me going home to fetch the one I have,’ he said. ‘You heard my boss, dear Thomas, giving his opinion that this gentleman I have to see this evening would be unlikely to give the time of day to anyone improperly dressed.’

  ‘I bet Thomas is wrong, but he pays your wages, I suppose.’

  ‘He might, if we ever find Marianne’s things. Anyway, I have to respect his opinion. He isn’t a fool.’

  He had d
escribed Thomas and Thomas’s dilemmas on the long way home, when they had both been talking like trains running. Everything. The unfolding of the skirt, the attitude to Rick Boyd, words tumbling out. Not only talking, but also comprehending, Peter thought, still slightly amazed at himself for volunteering to act as family conciliator in a disagreement, the nuances of which were beyond him. Yet. They moved down to the dressing-room floor, which, like the kitchen, enchanted him. It almost made him wish he could sew. Become a tailor, sitting cross-legged, working in isolation in a warm room full of cloth. No confrontations, no problems other than unpaid bills and a shortage of thread.

  ‘Some of my male clients give me things and I can never resist men’s shirts,’ Hen was saying. ‘A good suit’s great for recycling. Better cloth than you usually get in the average female fashion item, the best wool seems to go to the gents. We could send you out like a peacock. Smoking jacket? Maybe not. A suit is advised and a suit it shall be. Try this.’

  She was half hidden behind the row of what looked like black. He took a suit from her hand. ‘Put it on,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here.’

  The suit was charcoal grey, far kinder than black and it did not fit, either perfectly or at all, but it still transformed him. At least the trousers were a trifle long, better than the oddness of being too short. His existing white shirt would do. Hen also found a tie from stock.

  ‘I love ties,’ she said. ‘I take them apart and plait them into belts. Yes, you’ll do. Miss Shearer’s paramour might recognise quality.’

  In you, she wanted to say. Kind, impulsive, calming, curious you. You look delicious. Instead she suggested a further cup of tea. It was late in the afternoon by now, dark outside and the colours of the room in the spotlights made it difficult to leave. Peter hitched up the trousers of the suit with exaggerated care as he sat down at the work table, touching the rough surface of it with enjoyment. A person could get to like good clothes.

  ‘Are you sure about tomorrow? I’ve given you the address? What will you do when you get there?’

  ‘I don’t know. See what gives. See what’s the matter. Bring the stuff back with me, if that’s necessary. I can’t help thinking this all connects.’

  She was spooning sugar into his tea as if she wanted to fatten him up, ignoring the last remark. He was not sure if that was deliberate.

  ‘You could kill two birds with one stone. You know my father has a storage business? Of course not, why should you? Anyway, he does. He’ll also have a list of just about every other storage place in the south east. Things get shifted around, they work together and talk to each other. You could get the information somewhere else, for sure, but he’d know best. He can preach sermons on the subject of storage. Then your Thomas Noble could ring round the lot and see if Shearer deposited stuff.’

  ‘Thomas is convinced she left everything with a friend,’ Peter said. ‘Possibly the Lover.’

  ‘Hmm. It would take a good friend, and secret lovers don’t make good friends. He’d have to hide it, wouldn’t he? Don’t you think she’d rather rely on someone she paid? Look, are you really sure you want to do this tomorrow? You’ve got so much to do.’

  He grinned. ‘As you said, I can make it part of my investigations. Ask your dad.’

  ‘He likes a problem. Don’t have a bad impression of him,’ Hen said, anxiously. ‘He’s the nicest man in the world really. Out of his depth, sometimes, with all these women around.

  ‘He’s an innocent. He can’t believe people can be as bad as they are. He should have talked everything through with a man, but neither of them could talk to anyone else.’

  ‘Could have done with a son, then?’

  She smiled. ‘I wish. Of course, what father wouldn’t? But in their case, if they wanted children, they had to take what was available at the time. Those were the rules. Look at the time. You’d better go. Can’t be late for the Lover.’

  ‘Regroup tomorrow evening?’

  She saluted. ‘Yessir. Watch out for that suit. Are you going straight there? No deviations to parade your finery?’

  ‘Nope. What do you mean, “what was available?”’

  ‘Nothing.’ She was hurrying him out. ‘Tomorrow? Come for supper? I can cook, a bit. Least I can do.’

  Yes to that. He would love to eat a meal in that kitchen. There was a brief hesitation on his part. He had talked too much, perhaps presumed too much. He felt as if she could hear the other questions buzzing in his head.

  How do you get blood out of a fifty-year-old silk skirt?

  And why did you send a copy of Angel’s post-mortem report to Marianne Shearer?

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For telling me things. Trusting me with that damn skirt. Doing this. You don’t know what it means.’

  I might try water first. A little liquid detergent, over a clean towel. But I’ll take a tiny piece out of the hem and test for colour fastness. Lemon juice. I don’t know, but I’ll get it out.

  After the front door closed, she hurried back upstairs to the attic kitchen. Damn, damn, damn. He had been alone in there with the carpet bag she had left behind for the very first time today, a day she had vowed to travel without it. The bag that went everywhere, like an extra coat, because she did not dare let it out of her sight.

  It was stashed in the gap between the old butler sink and the equally old cooker, obviously untouched. Hen took it out. As if Peter Friel would snoop. He had the advantage of her. He had met her on paper long before he had ever seen her; he had other yardsticks to judge her by. It made him act as if he had known her for ever, made his mind up about something. The same was not true in reverse.

  A trusting soul, a natural confider who believed in two-way traffic to truth and maybe talked too much. Told her all about working for Thomas Noble; Rick Boyd coming to call on him in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, all that. Asking for the return of his property, enquiring about a possible bequest. She listened to Thomas’s irritated, precious voice on the mobile as he gave directions and dress code for Peter to visit the Lover, Peter mimicking it all afterwards, cleverly but kindly, so she could picture the man. Getting her involved, as she had involved him more closely than she had ever intended because she had reacted so badly to the shock of her father shouting. Offering to go home, instead of her. Sharing grief, but why? Hen did not see herself as the object of a sudden passion, how could she? She was not used to anyone wanting to help. Spontaneously. Especially a lawyer, all of them cut from the same cloth as Marianne Shearer. Also a grown man with brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces; she remembered the egg on his jacket the first time she met him. He was nice. Maybe normal people were nice.

  She checked her watch and looked for another coat. She would go and see this Thomas Noble she had identified at the inquest as a small, self-important man. Explain that she had everything Rick Boyd wanted, or at least some of it. She spread things out of the bag, on to the kitchen table, deliberately slowly.

  Photos of Angel, au naturel, legs spread, inserting the handle of a carving knife inside her own vagina, face to camera, terrified, still smiling. Photos of Angel, presenting her buttocks, pulling the cheeks aside to ease the passage of the bottle up her anus, her contorted face visible between her own, thin thighs. The broken bottle hurt more, she said, but I let him do it, Hen, I let him. I can’t have anyone see these, Hen, they’re his. I can’t let anyone know what I let him do. I couldn’t bear it, Hen, I won’t be examined, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. I was such a fool. Don’t touch me. Don’t try. If you tell anyone about what I let him do, I swear I’ll kill you.

  Another digital photo. Angel, naked, sitting grinning, eyes vacant, with her elegant hands with their long fingers spread wide on the table top, nails varnished, waiting like a cat so anxious for food it would sidle up to a snake. Waiting for her hands to be admired. At the very least, Hen thought wryly, evidence that someone else was present, if only
to take the picture. Another picture, showing that miniature axe. NO, Angel shouted. No. No one must ever see this. I let him. I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I let him do it. It didn’t even hurt. Not then. I was telling him I could always sew, that I wasn’t worthless, and he said, which finger do you use most? I said that one, I suppose.

  These were the souvenirs that she had scooped up from the hidden places in that damp cellar in Birmingham and put in the carpet bag along with everything else, plucked from corners Angel never examined. All his emails and letters to the other women, their photos, nothing like as bad. Addresses, details of who they were. Those she had given to the police, while the photos of Angel stayed at home. She had set the hunters on R. Boyd, and kept the pictures back, because of what Angel said. ‘If I’ve got to go to court, Mum and Dad’ll see these, won’t they? We can’t, Hen, we can’t . . . ’

  Also inside the bag was a copy of the Pathologist’s report on Angel Joyce.

  Overdose of narcotics, diazepam, tranquillisers, facilitated by alcohol.

  No abnormalities to heart or lungs. Deceased has history of non-fatal, extraordinary, physical damage. Spindle-like object inserted as far as the womb, possibly amateur abortion. Torn sphincter, indicative of gross interference, healed. Significant vaginal scarring, possibly glass.

  Not a newsworthy inquest. Unlike that of Marianne Shearer, no one was interested in Angel Joyce by the time it came to an inquest, except her mother who had cried silently throughout the Pathologist’s respectful, jargon-filled rendition. Then screamed until she was taken away. Hen was thinking, we didn’t protect her after all. She had learned thus much about inquests. All the Coroner wanted or needed to know was Cause of Death. Not Why, How. Cause of death was a self-inflicted cocktail of an overdose. Verdict: Accidental Death while balance of mind disturbed. End of case.