by Lis Howell
‘How did she get into it?’
‘The old Anglican sisters from Fellside had a mission in Chapterhouse. She’d known them all her life. Her mother was drifting into drugs and alcohol, and the nuns were her stability. She was always attracted to that life, but like most people she just wanted to be ordinary in her teens.’
‘Poor Edwin.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The Marilyn he loved was this ethereal, romantic creature he plucked from the depths of Chapterhouse. But the real woman is practical and oozes common sense. I really liked her.’
‘Yes, she was certainly down to earth.’ Suzy sighed. Marilyn had listened to their theories about the murder with a highly sceptical air. Her work in the convent in Derbyshire involved prison visiting and dealing with criminals, particularly those who had committed crimes against women. Though not alarmed by the conclusions that Robert, Suzy, Edwin and Alex had come to, she had asked searching questions.
So had Suzy. ‘Why has it taken you so long to come back?’ she’d asked.
‘My family told me they wanted nothing to do with me. I’m a major embarrassment to them. They despise me for what I’ve done – you should hear my latest stepfather on the subject. He actually practically threatened me with grievous bodily harm if I came back to Norbridge! That’s why Edwin has kept my secret.’ She laughed. ‘And it’s also because if the boys thought there was any money to be got out of the order they’d be down there hanging round. It would be terrible.’
‘But even so, why didn’t you come back as soon as they were charged? Wouldn’t that have been the Christian thing to do?’
‘The order isn’t like that,’ Marilyn had said. ‘We give ourselves up to a life of prayer and good works in the discipline of a Rule. Our Mother has to decide what I can and can’t do, with input from me of course. If every sister buzzed off whenever there was an individual family crisis, there would be no order. Mothering Sunday is a good time to come because it’s the break in our Lent observance. And anyway,’ she added practically, ‘I had no idea that the boys even wanted to see me. It could have been totally counterproductive.’
‘So have we given you anything to go on now?’ Alex had asked.
‘Yes and no. I can’t really buy into this theory about the Psalms. That’s very far-fetched. And I know what the law would say about the missing psalter – that you’re highly emotional people who are interested in music and you imagined it.’
‘But Tom and I both saw it!’ Alex had said.
‘I’m sure you did, but there’s no evidence. It’s easy to have false memories. I’ve had a few today myself, thinking I recognized people in Norbridge. That won’t wash, I’m afraid!’
‘So what makes you think there’s a case for the boys’ innocence?’ Robert had asked.
‘The fact that Morris Little had a meeting arranged with Wanda Wisley, and she told you that he was planning to meet other people too. The prosecution service needs to know all that. Thank you.’
Put like that, it seemed that they had done everything they could. Suzy felt rather flat, although she enjoyed talking to Marilyn later about the order and the social work they did, especially in the prisons. Even before joining the convent Marilyn had done some amazing work, dealing with men who had deep psychological problems with females. But underneath the chat Suzy still wanted to talk about the murder. She was surprised by the strength of her own feeling. Wasn’t she the one who was supposed to be traumatized by that series of deaths in Tarnfield? Unable to move on? Not any more. She was drawn towards this and, despite everything, she was sure that the Psalms were involved. The bullocks and the pit and Morris’s smashed teeth kept coming back to her. I feel it has to do with a chorister, she told herself. Someone who knows about singing and church music. A chorister at the Abbey.
‘I’m still intrigued by the music connection,’ Suzy said in bed to Robert’s armpit. ‘And the genealogy stuff. And Freddie and David having accidents at the convent.’ He laughed and wriggled round towards her.
‘Can’t you sleep, Suzy? I’m shattered. Look, maybe if the police drop the case against the Frosts, they’ll investigate further and it will become clear.’
‘But how did Edwin feel about it all, do you think?’
‘A bit disappointed, I suspect. I think that he’d been hoping the case would unearth something more substantial that would help in his work on Quaile Woods. But we should leave it to the legal system now. Let’s forget it, Suzy.’ He switched off the light and spooned into her. Soon she could hear his even breathing.
But she felt deeply unsatisfied.
At the bungalow, Alex sat at the kitchen table with a cup of hot milk and looked at the sleeping pill she had placed next to it. She had asked the doctor for just a few more tablets, in case. She felt she needed one tonight or she would never sleep. Meeting Marilyn had been an amazing experience. This practical, pleasant woman with her brisk attitude was so far from the romantic creature of her imagination that she mocked herself for her own stupidity. Even when she had half-guessed that Marilyn might be in a religious order, she had imagined her as a sexual rival, a sort of Cumbrian Audrey Hepburn. Alex laughed at herself.
She hadn’t spoken to Edwin since he left The Briars to take Marilyn to the sisters’ house in Keswick, where she was staying. But she knew he would phone her. She felt as if she had been through some huge but understated crisis, a little valley of the shadow of death.
Because jealousy was like death. It killed feeling. You became evil and dead to reason. But in a moment of clarity Alex thought: it was nearly always a two-way thing. Sam and his girlfriend had contributed. She had been goaded by their smug self-righteousness and their flaunting of their luck. In a flash, she understood that her husband had needed the excitement. He had ended up stuck with a small child in a little house, aged fifty, with a drab woman he didn’t love. But there had always been the drama of Sandy and her Bad Behaviour to bind them.
Edwin had been different. He had never used the issue of Marilyn to provoke. And he had persuaded Marilyn to come to Tarnfield so that Alex could see for herself. He could easily have turned her into a romantic mystery to keep Alex at bay, using Marilyn to protect himself. But he had introduced them as soon as possible. And Alex had seen that Marilyn was really a very normal woman, with no interest in preventing Edwin from living life to the full. Marilyn might be a saintly person, Alex thought, but Edwin is a good man too.
And I’m not jealous. She tried the feeling again. She even attempted to work herself up into loathing of Marilyn. But she really couldn’t. It was a wonderful, heady, warm release from the black side of her own personality. She was tempted to say, Thank you, God, but of course she was an agnostic.
She sipped her milk, and stood up to put the sleeping pill down the sink. And through the window she saw that light again, up the hill on the left, at the convent. Forget it, she told herself. It’s in someone else’s hands now. All that is over. I can put Morris Little and the psalms of lament, the Johnstones and the convent, all out of my mind – and get on with my life.
42
Draw me out of the net that they have laid privily for me, for thou art my strength. Psalm 31:5
A few days later Edwin met Robert by chance in the canteen at the college. ‘Any developments with the Frosts?’ Robert asked.
‘I don’t know. Marilyn can’t get to the phone all the time and from what I know of the order they’ll want her to get her head down, doing what she’s supposed to do. We are the World, you know, which is what she repudiates.’
‘You don’t look too repudiated!’ Robert said. Edwin had that indefinable look of a happy person.
‘Oh, I’ve been seeing a lot of Alex. We’re going to another concert tonight, actually. And to be honest, I’m glad we’re doing the Stainer on Good Friday. It gives us four extra days and it fits really well; Freddie will be a big hit, not to mention Tom, who’s marvellous.’
‘And what about your work?’
‘Well, I’
m still intrigued by the Quaile Woods psalms. It’s infuriating to think some arbitrary thief might have taken the psalter with no idea of its importance to church musicians. And Morris could have put the original of the front page anywhere. You know what his filing system was like. It’s probably under Z for Zany Church Music!’
‘Well, I’m still going to see Norma as I said I would. I promised her I’d try and write something about Morris. So I’ll have one last look.’
He had arranged to go and see Norma Little on Wednesday evening and, even though the impetus had gone, he was as good as his word. She let him into the hallway at the side of the shop, a dark little entrance smelling of crisps and groceries and some indefinable cleaning fluids. It was a big shop, so it had a large stockroom at the back full of all sorts of things from cases of wines and spirits to large packets of washing powder and toilet rolls.
He followed her upstairs to the crowded sitting room above the shop.
‘How far have you got with Morris’s research?’ she asked anxiously. ‘If we don’t get something in the paper at around the time of this concert, everyone will forget him.’
‘No, they won’t,’ Robert said reassuringly. ‘But I’ll try. Look, Norma, we think he might have been on to something really very interesting. But to prove it we need to find the page of a book – a long narrow book.’ He outlined for her with his hands the traditional landscape shape of a psalter.
‘Nah, never seen anything like that,’ Norma said. ‘Mind you, he kept things all over the place. He put his will in with the cigarettes.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, one of Morris’s jokes. You know, Wills – used to be big cigarette manufacturers in Bristol. Morris was always having a bit of fun. We got some horror mags once and he stored them with the lacquer and conditioner. You know, hair-raising.’
Robert sighed. It sounded just like Morris, taking the mickey and being a nuisance, proving how clever he was even after death. He remembered Morris punning the last time they had spoken: ‘Sax and drugs and rock and roll.’ If that was how Morris filed things, the original frontispiece of the psalter could be anywhere in the house.
He asked Norma to show him into the office again, and he spent an hour searching but with no luck. On the way out he promised her he would write something about Morris’s theories on church music and send it to the Cumberland News as soon as possible.
‘You will keep your eyes open, Norma?’
‘Yes, I will. If I find any old book stuff I’ll let you know.’
‘One more thing. Can you think of any reason why Morris might have shared his research with David Johnstone, the estate agent?
Norma said firmly, ‘None whatsoever. Morris couldn’t stand the man. He said he was a greedy parasite.’
And that seemed conclusive enough, Robert thought as he drove home. They would never know how Johnstone got the photocopy of the frontispiece – unless he recovered and told them, which seemed increasingly unlikely. Robert would try to write something complimentary about Morris for the paper, including Stainer’s connection with Quaile Woods, and also the lost psalter. It would be an adequate article, though essentially a rehash of old stuff. But at least it would be something in Morris’s memory. For all the nasty things he had done, Morris had been a notable local historian. The Chorus owed it to him.
Towards the end of the week Edwin met the Principal of the college at a reception for a new Head of the Engineering Department. After the usual chit-chat, Edwin decided to take a risk.
‘I wondered, do you remember seeing Dr Wisley just before Christmas? In the shopping mall in town? You were with your wife.’
‘Why do you ask?’
Wanda had been off work a lot in the past few weeks. Edwin had been standing in for her and she’d been grateful in a reluctant way. She seemed to be constantly ill but she had been rather more approachable and Edwin had started to like her. He thought that he should try to get her alibi for the evening of Morris’s death corroborated, especially if her planned meeting with Morris was going to be important to Marilyn’s case and she was questioned officially.
‘Oh,’ Edwin tried to think of a plausible reason, ‘Wanda thinks she mislaid some scores we’d been working on. They weren’t important. She said she probably dropped them in the mall. But she can’t remember which day it was, though she does remember seeing you.’
The Principal stroked his chin. ‘Goodness, Edwin, that’s three months ago. But I do remember because it was a very busy day. We saw Wanda near Figaro’s on the Friday before Christmas. My wife had insisted on my coming out to help her choose a present for my mother. I wasn’t too pleased about it because I had to dash back to the college for an important meeting.’
‘So it would have been around six o’clock?’
‘Oh, yes. I know that because I had to get back to see poor David Johnstone. We were meeting to discuss selling the sports fields, and he was the best estate agent in the county. Oh look, there’s the Deputy Head of E-learning. Do excuse me . . .’
Edwin sipped his wine slowly. So David Johnstone, too, had been at the college that evening. That was certainly something new.
He met Robert, Suzy and Alex at The Briars after Chorus practice the Tuesday before Holy Week. When Edwin told them the latest development, Suzy stood up in irritation and grabbed the wine bottle she had opened earlier.
‘Oh, this is getting too complicated. Have a drink, everybody.’ She had worked an extra day shift at Tynedale TV and had come home frazzled. Once Molly was in bed she’d poured herself a generous glass of Merlot and was feeling uninhibited. ‘I mean, what this boils down to is that every man and his dog could have been at the college to meet Morris. Tom Firth, you, Alex . . .’
‘I’m not a dog. Not any more!’
‘No, be serious. Paul Whinfell is supposed to have had a meeting with him, and no one knows where Freddie Fabrikant was. Now there’s David Johnstone. All of them were choristers or musicians and might have been interested in a psalter. Why don’t we go mad and suggest that Mark Wilson was there to do the accounts, and Chloe Clifford was enrolling for Hindustani night classes? Or perhaps Jenny Whinfell was there to give student counselling because she’s so nice, ha ha. Or Neil Clifford was holding a seminar on devil worship? We’re supposed to be refining this down, not expanding our theories to encompass all of Norbridge!’
‘The Frosts’ defence lawyers should check up on everyone in the college that night. Surely the security guards have a list of visitors?’ Robert suggested.
‘Apparently not,’ said Edwin. ‘The swipe card system had failed. It might have been one of the Frosts’ preliminary acts of vandalism. The guard was just letting anyone in. He shouldn’t have, of course, but it frequently happens.’
Suzy said, ‘I still think it’s weird. The Psalms are the clue. It’s someone who’s a singer, a chorister who knows the greatest songs in the Bible. The Psalms seem to have been written for choirs, for goodness’ sake. Look at all those weird instructions. You know what I mean. O clap your hands, tune up the trumpets, that sort of rigmarole.’ Suzy was waving her glass about dangerously. ‘I’ve always said it was about religion.’
‘Well, we can do nothing but wait, I suppose,’ Robert said. ‘And you never know, Norma Little might unearth something from under the bottles of bleach in the storeroom.’
‘What, filed under whitewash, or down the pan?’
Robert laughed. ‘I know it’s frustrating, Suzy. But we really can’t do anything.’
‘Until something else happens to prove my point. This might not be over, you know.’
The others looked at her. The idea of another ‘accident’ had never occurred to them.
Pat Johnstone had downed four vodka tonics. The latest call from the hospital staff had said that David was com- fortable but they needed to chat with her. She told them she would go over there the next day. She hadn’t been for the last few nights. Her elder son had come up at the weekend to see his father and had h
ad long, man-to-man conversations with the consultant which had left her feeling excluded. If they wanted her they could wait.
She had got things as organized as possible, for any eventuality. She had left a message on Alex Gibson’s phone suggesting they talk soon about a price for the bungalow. The woman never seemed to be in these days. She’d also called the Prouts. Reg Prout was rattled, she knew that, because he worked for the council. He would know what David had planned. She chortled as it occurred to her that Prouty was probably in David’s clutches, somehow or other. No wonder he was scared.
But not for long. David looked to be on his last legs. She wondered again about his will. She had no guarantee at all that he would have left her anything and she hugged herself in relief that she had found out about the bulging bank account in her name. If David snuffed it, she would get the cash, so there would be no need to press ahead with buying the bungalow.
Then again, David was clever. If he was on to something, she still wanted to be part of it. The bungalow was a step in the right direction. If David aimed to buy it, it had to be worth having for some reason.
She tried to watch telly but her favourite soaps seemed more boring than her own life. She had one more drink but felt cold stone sober. She thought about her new car. She had already taken advantage of David’s illness in one little way. Seeing that he never treated her, she could spoil herself, couldn’t she? A week ago she had traded in her family saloon for a deposit on a nippy little coupé. The trouble was that she had nowhere to go in it.
‘I’m going out for a drive,’ she said to the television. She changed into loose, dark trousers and flat shoes, and found a quilted jacket. She went outside to test the air. It wasn’t too cold. She fetched her torch from the cupboard under the stairs, in case she needed to get out of the car; then she paused. It would do no harm to take the cocktail shaker with a nice mix of vodka tonic. The other drinks had hardly hit the sides. She filled up the shaker, adding a little bit of ice and lemon as a nice touch. Lovely!
