The Smile of a Ghost mw-7

by Phil Rickman

  ‘You went back to Ludlow?’

  ‘En’t far.’

  ‘Oh God, what are we doing, Andy?’

  ‘Think I’ve found a woman,’ Mumford said. ‘Mabbe two.’

  8

  Imbalance

  ‘Hard to credit,’ the Bishop said. ‘My God, how it’s changed.’

  The street had narrowed, closing around the crawling Volvo. Merrily couldn’t see how the town centre could have changed much at all in about five centuries.

  She had her window wound down. The dusk was dropping over Ludlow like muslin on antique trinkets, the cooling air singed with woodsmoke. The medieval timbered buildings on either side seemed to be reaching for each other, gables bent towards a creaking kiss under the dusty copper sky.

  ‘Not the buildings,’ the Bishop said. ‘Most of this town’s in aspic. Lay a finger on a brick and English Heritage will crucify you.’

  ‘With antique nails?’

  ‘Goes without saying. No, I meant the people. Even when I was living here, on a Saturday night you’d have the pub trade and not much else. Now look at them — listen to their accents. TV actors live here now, you know — and news-readers, politicians. And what are they all doing? Where are they all going? They’re going to dinner. Now call me a puritan…’

  ‘Inappropriate. You haven’t got the waistline for it.’

  ‘You’re very frivolous tonight, Merrily.’

  ‘Actually, I’m nervous,’ she said, ‘and I’m not sure why.’

  The plan had changed. Andy Mumford wanted them to meet up at the spot where the man had seen Robbie Walsh fall. There were some things that Mumford thought Merrily should know before she took the Bishop to see his mother.

  The Volvo was stuck in an unexpected queue of vehicles on the bottleneck corner near the Buttercross. She tapped the accelerator as the engine began to falter, recalling reading somewhere that Ludlow now had more Michelin stars than any other town its size in the country.

  ‘What exactly started this invasion of restaurants, Bernie?’

  ‘I think they had a food festival, which was a huge success. Perhaps someone realized there was something irresistible about expensive meals served in crooked oak-framed rooms with sloping floors. I don’t really know why it took off. All I know is that it’s virtually destroyed my chances of ever moving back one day. Nowadays, if you’re going to even look in an estate agent’s window in Ludlow, it’s advisable to swallow a Valium first.’

  Bernie Dunmore was probably the first Suffragan Bishop of Ludlow ever to be given Hereford — safe pair of podgy hands after a difficult period. All the same, he was often heard to say he wished they’d left him alone; seemed to have personal history invested here.

  ‘Which is how we arrive at a possibly dangerous imbalance,’ he said. ‘It’s always been a friendly town, but there’ll be resentment, inevitably, from people who were born here and have been thoroughly priced out. Even the likes of me — I wasn’t born here, but there’s nowhere quite like it. Once you’ve been here, you never want to leave.’

  ‘You do the Lottery, Bernie?’

  ‘Is that a sin, do you think, in my position?’

  ‘Only if you pray for a result.’

  The traffic broke and they emerged into the market square, turned sandy by the last of the sunset. There were shops either side of the square, and a wider street sloped down to the left: warped and tangled medieval timbers giving way to graceful Georgian terraces with their soft lights, and the wooded hills behind.

  Serene, timeless, secure in itself. All of that.

  The Bishop shaded his eyes against a sudden sunset flare before they drove back into shadows.

  ‘Straight on, Merrily. And then, just as you think you can’t go any further, follow the wall to the left.’

  The wall. Directly ahead, across the square, flat as a film-set in the muddy dusk, was the reason, maybe, this town had survived to become so cool and comfortable in the twenty-first century.

  By day, as Merrily remembered, the castle was more obviously ruined: sunny sandstone, like a big play area. Now, in fading light, it was seizing power again, dragging its history around it like a heavy military cloak. It was a royal history.

  ‘Didn’t Catherine of Aragon live here for a while?’

  ‘With the short-lived Prince Arthur,’ Bernie said. ‘And then she married his brother, who became Henry VIII, and the rest is… Oh, and the two ill-fated sons of Edward IV, they were here. The Princes in the Tower. Here in happier times — presumably. People tend to be happier here.’

  She headed left, where he’d told her, along the walls. Ludlow Castle: lost and won, besieged and battered, but still hugging this craggy site, as if to stop the town crumbling into the river below.

  ‘I suppose hundreds of people must have died here.’

  ‘It’s just that most of us thought the deaths were over,’ the Bishop said.

  Steeply down through Dinham, another ancient piece of town with a small medieval chapel dedicated to the martyred St Thomas of Canterbury, and across the bridge over the River Teme, with the castle behind them — from this side, as much of a fortress as it had ever been. She supposed that the highest tower was the keep, from which Robbie Walsh had fallen.

  ‘I suppose I ought to have come to the funeral,’ the Bishop said. ‘But it was David’s show and, with the TV cameras and everything, I knew there’d be scores of people there. Anyway, I didn’t think the Mumfords would remember me. I just bought my papers there.’ He sighed. ‘Suppose that’s why I felt obliged to come with you tonight, even though I’m not entirely sure what this is about or why she’d want to talk to me, especially.’

  ‘She liked you because you didn’t have much to say about God.’

  Bernie grunted. ‘Limited opportunity to bring the Almighty into a transaction involving a packet of Polos and the Shropshire Star.’

  She smiled, guessing he’d used the Mumfords’ shop as an information bureau, picking up on local gossip. He could look jovial and vague, but Bernie didn’t miss much. When he’d asked her how she was getting on with the Deliverance panel, she’d been glad it had been too dark for him to see her eyes while she was murmuring that this was something they perhaps ought to discuss. When there was more time. Like several hours.

  ‘Phyllis and Reg must have been well into their seventies when I knew them,’ the Bishop said. ‘I remember when they sold the shop we sent them a good-luck card.’

  ‘You ever see the boy?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to remember. I don’t think so. But he didn’t live here all his life, did he?’

  ‘Only the best bits, apparently.’

  Across the river, the land gave in to ranks of dark conifers and the lane took them uphill. Cottages and a hotel had been flung into the hillside, lights coming on in them now. The road kept on climbing, and they did almost a U-turn and emerged, unexpectedly, onto a natural parapet.

  Merrily slowed. ‘Gosh.’

  ‘Never been to Whitcliffe before, Merrily?’

  ‘It’s… incredible.’ She stopped the car at the side of the lane.

  It was like arriving in the circle at a theatre, and the whole of Ludlow was the set… the best, most focused, most enclosed view of a whole town she’d ever seen — this fairyland of castle and ancient streets, like a richly painted wheel around the spindle of the church tower, haloed by the molten glow of evening.

  Another car was parked a few yards away, two men getting out of it, one of them Mumford. The other man was taller and wore a big hat. Merrily eased the Volvo up behind them.

  ‘This chap happy to talk to us, Merrily?’

  ‘I think Andy kind of used you to square it with him — if the Bishop’s involved, it must be kosher. As it were.’

  Merrily zipped up her fleece over the dog collar. It was cold now, for the end of April. Cold enough for frost. Mumford and the big-hat guy came over. Mumford wore a dark, heavy jacket.

  ‘Mrs Watkins, Bishop — this is Mr Os
man.’

  ‘Gerald.’ The guy shook the Bishop’s hand and then Merrily’s. He was wearing a Barbour, and his wide-brimmed hat was waxed, too. An incomer, then. Pinched face, prominent teeth.

  ‘Mr Osman’s a writer,’ Mumford said.

  ‘Well… illustrator, mainly, and book designer. I produce local watercolours, with accompanying verse. A new career, in retirement, and a chance to immerse oneself in the place. And calendars. I also produce calendars. Gerald Osman.’

  ‘I think someone sent us one at Christmas, actually,’ the Bishop said. ‘Watercolours, yes. Keep it in my office.’

  ‘Do you really? You must come up to the house for a glass of wine afterwards. We’re at the bottom of the hill, this side of the river. My wife used to think it was so lovely having a house with such a wonderful view of the castle, but not so sure any more. Rather wishes it would all go away.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mumford said. ‘Perhaps you could show us, sir, where you were when you saw the… my nephew fall.’

  ‘Well, as I told you, it’s just… just here, actually. Quite a remarkable view of the castle, as you see. And it was earlier in the evening, therefore so much clearer.’

  The sky was darkening fast now, a sharp shaft of burnt orange over the keep, getting duller, like a spearhead cooling after the forge.

  ‘I’ve painted it many times, at different times of day and night,’ Mr Osman said. ‘Often from this actual spot — so I do know this angle pretty well. As you see, it can look rather sinister in the last of the light, and in the rain it often has a faintly dolorous air. But in the early evening, on a fine day, it’s mellow — like the crust of a mature Cheddar. Everything very clear: every ridge, every fissure.’

  ‘If there’d been two people up there, do you think you’d have known?’ Mumford said.

  ‘Well, it’s rather further away than it looks from here, so human figures are very small, and I didn’t manage to focus my binoculars until I saw him fall — couldn’t believe it, obviously. Terrible shock.’

  ‘But you’ve spent a lot of time in the castle,’ Mumford said. ‘You’ve been up that tower.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been everywhere, making sketches — which is why I recognized your nephew. I mean from the photographs on the TV, not when he was… falling… The moment the face came up on the screen I said to my wife, Good Lord, I’ve seen that boy several times. I’ve even talked to him.’

  ‘In the castle?’

  ‘When it was quiet, I’d sit in the castle grounds, make some watercolour sketches. I’m sure they come out just as well when I do them at home, from photographs, but I always felt I was honouring a tradition — all the distinguished artists who painted Ludlow Castle. Turner, for heaven’s sake! Not one of his best, I grant you.’

  ‘And the boy…’

  ‘Would come and watch me. From a distance at first. Normally, I’m quite wary of children, especially teenagers, with some of the malevolent little tykes around nowadays. But this boy was genuinely interested. Eventually telling me he did some drawings himself. And his extensive knowledge of the castle was apparent from the start — knew the names of all the towers, their history, the various stages of development. I was impressed.’

  ‘Knew his way around,’ Merrily said.

  ‘Absolutely. Rather a pleasant boy. Shy at first — I find shyness something of a virtue these days.’

  ‘And the woman,’ Mumford said heavily. ‘You were telling me about the woman.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Mrs… Pepper? Lives in that rather splendid old farmhouse down from the bottom of The Linney.’ Mr Osman pointed somewhere to the left of the castle ruins. ‘Well, it’s a bit of a fraud, actually, was built up from very little by some professional restorer — who, incidentally, cut down a wonderful old oak tree, allegedly by mistake.’

  ‘And the woman herself…’

  ‘She bought the place earlier this year. She’s supposed to have been quite well known at one time — afraid I don’t know very much about that kind of music myself. She’s… like a number of people living here now, I suppose, somewhat eccentric.’

  ‘And you saw Robbie with her,’ Mumford said.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Well, twice, certainly. She’s quite distinctive, with the varying colours of her hair and the way she dresses.’

  ‘Dresses how?’

  ‘Oh… like out of a Victorian melodrama. Long coats. Swirly cloaks.’

  ‘I see. You ever talk to the boy when he was with her?’

  ‘Never. Some people one instinctively…’ Mr Osman cleared his throat. ‘But the boy would follow her around, and they’d be pointing things out to one another. If I hadn’t known she lived here, I would probably have thought they were tourists, a mother and son.’ He looked at Bernie. ‘I gather you’re a friend of the family, my lord.’

  ‘Just, ah, Bishop… please.’ Bernie had dressed down tonight — golfing jacket, corduroy trousers. ‘Yes, we’re all trying to help them come to terms with what happened.’

  ‘Dreadful thing. I did telephone the police station the next day to tell the sergeant I now realized this was a boy I’d seen in the castle. And about the woman. He didn’t seem to think that was very important.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mumford’s tone didn’t alter. ‘What did he say, exactly?’

  ‘He just said something to the effect that Robson Walsh was a familiar figure to a great number of people. Boy was clearly obsessively interested in the history of Ludlow and would talk to anybody who seemed to know something about it. Though why that particular woman would be considered a fount of local knowledge—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘Did you say she was a musician?’

  ‘Some sort of singer, I gather, at one time. Mrs Pepper. Hasn’t lived here two minutes — well, say six months. Admittedly, we’ve only lived here permanently for about three years ourselves, but it was our holiday home for seventeen years before that, so I think we’re permitted to feel a touch proprietorial.’

  ‘And you said she was eccentric…’

  ‘I try not to listen to gossip.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know her first name, do you?’ Merrily said.

  ‘I don’t think I do, no.’

  ‘Couldn’t be Marion?’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Well, not in that context.’ Mr Osman turned to Mumford. ‘You asked me that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Marion who… frequents the castle?’ Merrily asked.

  ‘Well, not…’ He laughed. ‘As I told Mr Mumford here, not someone I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Mr Osman didn’t reply. Over the town, the sky was turning a luminous acid green with early moonlight.

  ‘Ah,’ the Bishop said. ‘I think I understand. You mean Marion de la Bruyère. But that wasn’t the keep, was it, Mr Osman?’

  ‘It was the Hanging Tower, Bishop. I wrote some verse about her, for my calendar the year before last. Marion, whose endless death… is poised upon a midnight breath. Not… not awfully good, really.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘Three of you seem to know what this is about, but one of us doesn’t. Who are we talking about here? What does she do?’

  ‘She haunts,’ Bernie Dunmore said. ‘Allegedly.’

  9

  The Bishop’s Tale

  The Bishop said he was confused: too much, too fast.

  ‘Why did you want to know if Osman had seen anyone else on the tower? I mean, surely you don’t imagine that someone actually killed the boy?’

  The ornate lamps in the square were white, like magnesium flares.

  ‘We have’ — Merrily slotted the Volvo into a corner, down by a darkened delicatessen and well away from the castle — ‘a kind of reason to try and eliminate the possibility.’

  God, she was thinking, do we? She had her window half-down, collecting music and laughter draining from a pub in a nearby street no wider than an alley, the sound
s disconnected, somehow, as though on the tape-loop of a separate but parallel time-frame.

  Eras overlapping: a disconcerting town.

  All she’d told him earlier was about the supposed bereavement visions — that Phyllis Mumford had been in a distressed and confused state, that he was the only priest she seemed likely to open up to. There hadn’t seemed much point, at that stage, in going into what Phyllis had said about a woman.

  But it was unavoidable now.

  ‘I see.’ The Bishop breathed in slowly. ‘That’s rather a difficult one, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only for a Deliverance consultant,’ Merrily said. ‘The rest of you are free to roll your eyes.’

  ‘If I could just say…’ Andy Mumford was a bulky shadow on the back seat. ‘The fact that Osman didn’t see another person don’t mean there wasn’t someone up there with the boy. Just they didn’t hang around afterwards.’

  The Bishop shuffled. ‘You do know what you’re saying here, Andrew?’

  ‘After many years as a detective, Bishop, I think I got a basic idea.’

  ‘Yes, but what are you actually suggesting — kids fooling about and one falls off the tower? Or what?’

  ‘I was ready to believe,’ Mumford said, ‘that it was an accident. At first. Mabbe it’s what we all wanted at the time — no stigma with an accident. But now’ — he leaned forward between the front seats — ‘now it’s like something’s telling me, real strongly, that something en’t what it seems. You understand?’

  ‘Story of my life,’ Merrily said.

  ‘The night Robbie was found, after my sister ID’d the body, I go back to my mother’s house. There’s a woman outside. Long cape. Just standing there, looking across at the house. When I tried to talk to her, she walked off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What I could see of her face, she’d been weeping.’

  ‘Andy, you never even mentioned this before.’

  ‘Didn’t think too much of it afterwards. Spooked me a bit at the time, OK, but I was tired. Lot of neighbours been in and out the house. Lot of people dress funny in Ludlow these days — people going out to dinner.’