Walking Into the Ocean

by David Whellams

  She leaned closer to the shelf and was surprised to see that dust had settled thickly into the top grooves of the three Holmes volumes. They hadn’t been taken out in six months or more; she knew dust. Her first instinct was to take the books out one by one and clean them off with a rag, but she merely removed Volume One and blew the dust off as best she could. Then she opened the tome and read the table of contents. She flipped back and was surprised that there was no dedication on the flyleaf; she had imagined that the set had been a gift from Peter’s father. She returned to the table of contents and read the list of story titles, some of them familiar. She opened A Study in Scarlet near the middle and sampled the story, as a shopper in a bookstore might. Checking that the phone was nearby, she sat down in the rocking chair, turned to the start of the novel and began to read.

  She finished A Study in Scarlet by noon. She loved it. She had noticed that Peter hadn’t been reading much lately. At some point in the midmorning she glanced up at the shadow boxes and wondered if there was a correlation between the increase in Peter’s interest in the boxes over the last year and the decline in his reading, which usually was voracious. Or did the decline correlate with a growing curiosity about religion? She realized that this was unfair speculation about her husband, yet Sherlock had put her in the mood to hypothesize. Ever since Peter and Tommy had departed, she had felt odd about his current case, even though she knew few of the facts. She intuited, with no salient evidence, that she, or they, were on the brink of something different. It was no more specific than that.

  When she went inside to grab a tuna sandwich for lunch she found that she couldn’t concentrate at the kitchen table, and so she took her sandwich, bag of crisps and glass of milk out to the shed, and cuddled up in Peter’s chair. She read the first three Holmes short stories but then, for reasons she didn’t understand, began to read the very last ones, taking Watson and Holmes back in time and experience, tale by tale.

  About 4:00 p.m., she glanced up from her reading. She hadn’t seen the pheasants all afternoon. The fading sun bathed the workbench in yellow. She remembered one of the original characteristics of a shadow box; it was designed to let light inside from one, calculated angle. The afternoon rays at that moment slanted through the chicken coop window and angled onto the Annunciation tableau that stood on its edge a few feet from her, landing on the face of the Virgin Mary and setting it aglow.

  CHAPTER 6

  Peter woke up early the next morning with too much to do and considerable doubt about the order in which to do it.

  He planned to walk, not drive, up to the cliffs but wasn’t sure how long that would take. He hoped to meet Hamm in the afternoon, although he wouldn’t be surprised to find that Maris had thought up some new assignment to keep the young detective away from him. Along the way he would try to reach Stan Bracher in Lyon; he wondered how the mobile reception would be up on the heights. Finally, he really should call his wife.

  A hot shower cleared his head. He dressed in his tweed jacket, wool trousers and walking shoes, looking every measure the country squire, which wasn’t necessarily the impression he wanted to make. Like every man who has turned sixty-seven, and is thinking about sixty-eight, he looked in the mirror and wondered how the hell he had got to this moment in time. “How the devil did I end up looking like this?” he said to the mirror.

  The pudding-faced concierge idling in the lobby implied that Peter must be crazy to hike all the way to the clifftop in the early morning, when there would still be fog and high winds. So much for tourism promotion, Peter thought. He would have wagered that the man had never visited the cliffs; Peter didn’t expect fog. He was in an energetic, feisty mood. If the winds were strong, they would dispel any fog, and the rising sun would complete the job; and if it rained he would turn back. When Peter stepped into the street, the morning was already emerging clear and dry. The few Whittlesun commuters who were up this early coursed towards him along Daubney Street, but once he turned uphill, the pavement out of the town centre was empty. A traveller’s map from the front desk showed him the logical walking route out of town; the final mile or so was posted with Abbey signs.

  The uphill road, which soon deteriorated to a poorly paved two-lane, took a radical left turn at the edge of the city, curved around the hill, and then continued straight up the hillside again on an even narrower lane. Many a transmission had been tested by the surveyor’s stubbornness, Peter was sure. A stone staircase worthy of a Mexican pyramid ran parallel to the road. Peter, who often walked ten miles a day, climbed at an unintimidated pace. One level short of a grassy plateau, but already fifty yards above the sea, he paused for breath and sat down on a step. Not a car had passed him from either direction. He had a fine view of the Channel on his left. He took out his phone, suspecting that the battery had run down; he had fallen asleep before charging it. Whether through lack of juice or a blackout gap along the cliffs, Joan’s phone rang only intermittently at the other end. She answered; he heard a distinct “Hello?” but then only a choppy word here and there. He shouted into the line. He thought he might have conveyed an “okay” and “later.” Even with this disappointing sequence, he detected no worry from her end. She understood that he would call back an hour or several later, though he’d best not let another full day go by before calling.

  Peter climbed the final section and found himself on a green plain that slanted inexorably up to the top level of the cliffs. Now he was able to catch a sweeping view of the Channel in both directions. Like every arriving tourist, he paused to attempt the impossible task of absorbing that overwhelming seascape and, like every visitor, imagined that he could see to France. This vista was Whittlesun’s greatest asset, a destination to be preserved and promoted. But as he gained the top he immediately grasped the problem. He peered along the wavering rim of the land, several miles down the eastern coast, and understood the devastating impact of erosion. The cliffs were receding as if a monster had taken mouthfuls out of the shore. He was no expert in geology, but some of the landslides looked recent, creating scooped bays in the rock and leaving a crumbled moraine down to sea level. An observer instinctively sought out stability along the perspective of the shoreline and Peter did take comfort in the defiant promontories here and there. Some of the massifs were reinforced with granite and, without being able to see their base, he estimated that the collapsing rock itself created a barrier to further erosion by the pounding waves. Yet the land, often chalk or limestone, was in retreat on a broad front.

  The road curved across the plain and narrowed to a rutted track, ending in a paved parking area, now empty, that pushed close to the edge of the near cliff. Anna had died here. Signs and cement barriers every twelve feet warned against climbing out farther. Could the husband have surmounted them carrying his wife’s body? Lasker’s car had been found about halfway along the asphalt pad, pointing out to sea. He would have found the access to the rim easier at the far end of the cement obstructions, but it would have been a clumsy manoeuvre even there, requiring him to roll the body down the precipice with enough momentum to clear a three-foot ledge. Had she lodged there, he would have had to shinny down and kick her over the shelf and into the void. According to the preliminary autopsy, Anna’s injuries were massive, but it was proving a challenge to distinguish those caused by the fall onto the Channel rocks from earlier wounds inflicted, presumably, by her husband.

  Peter noted that the light must have been subdued that night; there was one high light standard, with a Triffid-like fog bulb, set in the middle of the parking area, and it would have given off a sulphurous glow at best. The cliff face had been barely visible, if at all, under the quarter moon.

  But Peter had no firm basis for any particular scenario. He couldn’t tell precisely where Anna Lasker had tumbled over and it was naive to think that he would find any blood or clothing traces. Yet that was an important detail. How had she fallen? He was certain that no one had yet been over the edge to take a look, and he considered asking for
an in-depth search. Skilled rappellers, probably military, would be required, and he could just envision Bartleben reviewing the voucher transfer from the SAS for the hundreds of pounds it would cost. Maris would make a dozen objections. And, not least of everyone’s concerns, the press would be watching through telephoto lenses, helping to escalate panic in the tabloids.

  At the far end of the car park, he took in the view eastward up the Channel. The problem of erosion appeared worse the farther he tracked the coastline. Nature’s power seemed to be teaching civilized man a lesson, pushing back the race who took pride in calling themselves a seafaring nation. Now he saw that nothing could stop the eventual collapse of several of the promontories. Fortunately, there were few buildings close to the re-established edges of the cliffs, although some of the farmers, their white houses shimmering in the morning sun, must be worried.

  But the obvious concern was the array of stone buildings about three hundred yards down the coast. This was the ruin of Whittlesun Abbey, which some of the brochures in his hotel room had described as a tourist must-see. Peter couldn’t determine the condition of the Abbey from this vantage point. He knew that it had been pillaged in the 16th century when Henry VIII went after the Catholic monasteries, and weather and time must have added to the destruction. He could see red plastic flags and orange ribbon placed protectively around the main church. Even at this distance, the Abbey did not appear to welcome visitors.

  Peter lacked binoculars, but he could make out a figure moving in and out of the church, sometimes going around the back of the structure but then emerging on Peter’s side, and once walking to the edge of the cliff. The figure’s movements were masculine, but otherwise Peter could only tell that he was dressed entirely in black. It was like watching an ant walking upright, and not being able to discern its purpose. If he had been forced to characterize the movements of the man, Peter would have described them as fussy or compulsive, or, more generously, busy-making. The sharp morning sun made Peter dizzy and he closed his eyes against the delirium. When he opened them, the black figure was nowhere in view.

  Exactly at this moment of concentration his mobile chimed. He turned it on and found that he could hear Detective Hamm clearly.

  “Chief Inspector, it’s Ronald Hamm here. Where are you?”

  Peter wasn’t sure why he lied. “I’m about to climb up to the cliffs.”

  “Well, I was hoping to join you at the Lasker house after lunch but I won’t be able to do it. I’ve been assigned to go to a village to interview a lady who says she saw something.”

  “Is it anywhere near the Abbey?”

  “Only if you’re a crow. I’d have to double back to town to get to you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Peter said. “Perhaps we can meet later.”

  But Hamm seemed not to have heard. The detective shouted into the phone, although Peter was having no trouble with reception at his end. “I can’t fathom the need to take these call-ins seriously. There hasn’t been an attack in our jurisdiction. But . . .” The line faded for a moment, and then Hamm’s voice returned, quavering and distorted. “Chief Inspector, could we meet at the same time this afternoon, the Crown?”

  “Yes,” he managed to say, before Hamm cut off the call.

  There was no paved route from the parking pad to the Abbey, although a Land Rover could have made it along the single grooved track. Even though the plastic flags indicated closure of the church to tourists, inevitably a few of them would persevere on foot just to take a closer look. The path dipped down so low that he soon lost the view of the Abbey, but as he began the upslope portion, the damaged tower began to grow out of the hilltop. He hoped that the mysterious man in black maintained a cache of bottled water. He rounded a curve and climbed the last five steps to the heights. There, limned against the bluing sky, was the black figure himself, seeming too tall for a human, thin as a cross. A Gothic wraith waiting on his visitor, Peter thought. The man reached down a wiry arm, half in welcome and half to help Peter to the final plateau of the churchyard.

  “Good morning, friend!”

  “Hello,” Peter huffed, taking the proffered hand. He paused on the fringe next to the church to gain his bearings.

  “I’m Father John Salvez,” the black figure said. “I’m guessing that you are a morning person out for a walk, as opposed to an organized randonée.”

  “Peter Cammon. I guess I came for the sunrise but missed by a good bit.” He wasn’t sure why he had thrown out this tortuous justification. But he did appreciate conviviality at this fresh hour. The brilliant sun backlit the stark form of the priest. Peter still couldn’t make out the man’s face.

  “I propose tea!” Salvez said, sounding a bit like old Mrs. Lasker. While Peter caught his breath and took in his first sight of the church, Salvez turned and went to a small stack of supplies by the west wall. He rummaged for a vacuum flask and two handleless cups and then turned back to Peter. Salvez wore the workaday cassock of a Catholic priest, flat black and buttoned down the middle. He was sickly thin, the monochrome garment making him appear even leaner. His elongated face was cadaverous; his jutting chin and long forehead reminded Peter of illustrations of the Man in the Quarter Moon. Yet all in all, he projected amiability.

  Salvez unscrewed the thermos lid, letting out the smell of tea. He poured it ritually and they silently raised a toast to the rising sun. Peter soon learned that the priest moved compulsively, with the manic confidence of — there was no other way to put it, Peter thought — a man on a mission. In this regard, his centredness was real. Putting down his tea, Father Salvez beckoned for Peter to follow him around to the front of the church, which faced the sea. Peter scrambled to keep up.

  The Abbey was in serious disrepair; only one of the low outbuildings had been fully restored. The stones of the main church were coarsened by sea winds, leaving the corners rounded and scored, adding to the feeling that the remaining walls were about to give in and tumble. From this angle, the west side, he saw that at least three fifty-foot-high walls still stood, but the slate roof shingles and window glass were entirely missing. The attraction of the church was the main tower, which, though crumbling, endured with historic pride over the entrance. Rounding the facade to the sea frontage, Peter saw that an oak door with iron hinges (not the original) had been installed in the entrance below the tower. From that one perspective, the Abbey looked almost intact.

  Behind Peter, face to the sky, Father Salvez stood on the cliff about six hundred feet from the brink. Peter could see how vulnerable to erosion the Abbey and its attendant buildings were. One or two more major rock falls, and the remains of the church would slide into the surf.

  Salvez pointed to the horizon. “On a clear day you can see France, but since I don’t think Napoleon is looking back at us, no worries.”

  Peter had no intention of fooling the priest; he would tell him right off he was a police detective — on his own mission. There was a chance Salvez had seen Lasker reconnoitring the cliffs in recent weeks. The evidence summary hadn’t mentioned an interview with any clergymen connected to the Abbey, and no one resided there, he could be sure, but he was otherwise hopeful.

  “Would you show me your church?” Peter said.

  “Be glad to. Of course, it’s technically not my church, since it was deconsecrated years ago. Can’t have people claiming to be parishioners of a church that no longer has an altar. Similarly, I’m not officially its prelate or its abbot. I hang my shingle at St. Elegias in Whittlesun.”

  They entered not through the big doors but around the farther side, the eastern exposure, where breaches in the outer wall allowed the determined explorer to gain the east wing of the transept safely. They picked their way through ancient stones, but the trail was easy to find. The floor inside had been cleared and was intact; the nave, chapels and sacristy were demarcated by low, ruined walls. One typically Tudor window frame remained, with its pleasing parabolic arch proving the magnificence of the original architecture. Thr
ee oak beams ran the breadth of the church and served to support the remaining walls. If there was a crypt, Peter had missed the stairs, but he supposed the entrance would be nearer the front of the building.

  “Welcome to St. Walthram’s Abbey.” Salvez looked around in a sweeping half-circle, inviting Peter’s approbation. “The name is a variation of St. Walter, originally a Benedictine monk in the 11th century. But this is a Cistercian monastery, built no earlier than 1191. All very confusing.”

  “And suppressed by Henry VIII, I would guess,” Peter said.

  “Very good.” Salvez smiled openly and heartily. “Most tourists think the wind and salt caused its destruction, but it was Henry in 1536 who sent out his agents, called railers, to find cause to take over and destroy the abbeys. Following the King’s bidding, Parliament seized the assets of the Catholic churches and dispersed the monks, and along the way the railers, the King’s men, pillaged the windows and the furniture, and any art that was not nailed to the walls. This was one of the smaller monastic churches, but Sir Thomas Pope, treasurer of the so-called Augmentation Office, wanted to set an example on the south coast, a hotbed of papism at the time, and managed to have the Abbot of St. Walthram’s burnt at the stake. Sir Thomas simply coveted the wealth of the monastery, of course.”

  Peter was enjoying the tourist lecture, but he didn’t understand why Salvez was here so early in the morning. Frankly, there’s nothing to do, he thought. “I noticed that there’s no sign on the path,” he ventured.