by Phil Rickman
‘I’m sorry, George — who exactly are we talking about?’
‘Susannah,’ the Mayor said. ‘Susannah Pepper.’
‘Ah,’ Merrily said.
Of course.
Bloody hell.
‘Your… future daughter-in-law… her father would be a record producer called Saul Pepper?’
The Mayor looked at her with keen interest. ‘That’s quite correct, Mrs Watkins. But how could you—?’
‘I have a friend in the music business. I gather Saul Pepper lives and works in America now, since the break-up of his marriage to… Mrs Pepper.’ She turned to Bernie. ‘Who lives in the renovated farmhouse at the bottom of The Linney — and was seen in the castle with…?’
The Mayor’s hands tightened on the chair wings, and then he turned away. Merrily could tell that getting the story out of him was going to be like dredging a pond — a lot of discoloured water and sludge, and the bottom never quite exposed.
But enough had now been clarified — particularly the warning-off of Andy Mumford — to make the exercise well worthwhile, no matter how long it took.
‘They were engaged before you met her mother, then,’ Merrily said.
George spun round. ‘Stepmother!’
‘Of course.’
‘But yes, you put your finger on it there all right, Mrs Watkins, we had not met her before the engagement.’
‘George, do excuse me,’ Bernie said, ‘but my own knowledge of the, ah, the stepmother is somewhat scant.’
‘Aye, and if my knowledge was as scant as yours, Bernard,’ George said, ‘I’d count myself a happy man.’
Of course, when Susannah Pepper had told them her stepmother was coming to stay, George hadn’t known who this woman was, let alone why she was considered notorious. He knew that Sue’s mother had been deserted by her father for the woman, whom he’d proceeded to marry. It hadn’t lasted, however, and he’d moved to America, starting a new family over there.
Well out of it, as George now realized, although the divorce had been amicable.
‘She has… considerable assets, Bernard. Could probably buy my business twice over. Susannah’s her solicitor and financial adviser. And nursemaid, now. And, by God, she needs one. Day and night. Particularly at night.’
Merrily said nothing. Let this come out in its own way.
‘Whenever they needed to discuss her financial affairs, Susannah used to travel to her stepmother’s home,’ the Mayor said, ‘wherever it happened to be at the time. She moved around a lot, London one year, Paris or Rome the next. And then… she came to Ludlow.’
Well, that first visit of the stepmother… George didn’t think much of it. Not an event he was ever going to keep gilt-framed in the formal gallery of his memory. And nothing particularly amiss at first. They weren’t contemporaries, George and Bell, not by ten or more years, yet for that first meeting she’d been dressed decently and conservatively, if a little eccentrically, in an Edwardian-type summer dress, her blonde hair neatly styled, Nancy had noted. Quite girlish, rather attractive.
And clearly besotted with the town, from the start.
George should have spotted the danger signs: the woman tripping and gliding around the Buttercross, this delighted smile on her face, upturned to the sun. And then breaking into almost a dance. He was quite gratified, at first, in his proprietorial way. Not having any idea then that she was already planning to stay…
… For good.
George looked at the Bishop. ‘Do you know that she tried to get one of the flats at Castle House?’
‘Was she eligible?’ Bernie turned to Merrily. ‘We mentioned this earlier — there was a large house built onto the outer walls in, I think, the nineteenth century. Later turned into council flats, would you believe? Not quite sure what the situation is at present.’
‘There was a couple living there, halfway through a forty-five-year lease,’ George said, ‘and she tried to take it over. She was besotted with the idea of living inside the castle. I think she thought if she could get that apartment she’d soon have the whole house — maybe feel like she owned the castle, who can say?’
‘What happened, George?’
‘Oh, the Powis estate managed to stop it. They have other plans for Castle House. But she has money, my God, she has. The people she tried to bribe! Fortunately, the Earl of Powis is a man of strong Christian principles and I reckon he saw the danger. Eventually, she settled on The Weir House — so called. I don’t know what she gave for it, but the people who rebuilt it seemed to have been well satisfied. As for Bell— Hold on a minute, would you?’
George went over to a long mahogany sideboard, opened a drawer, took out a slim box file, brought it back and emptied out the contents in front of Merrily, as if he was putting all his cards on the table.
‘This is one from the South Shropshire Journal.’
He spread out a photocopy of a press cutting.
Ludlow is my heaven,
says rock diva Bell.
* * *
In the colour photo, Belladonna sat on the steps of the Buttercross in a filmy cream dress, arms folded. She looked graceful and calm and strangely demure.
‘She’ll only ever speak to the local papers,’ George said. ‘Reckons this town’s her whole world now, and nothing outside it matters. Oh, they all had a go, when she first moved here — national papers, television. None of them got close.’
‘Don’t suppose they tried too hard,’ Merrily said. ‘She isn’t as famous as she used to be.’
‘If they all knew what I knew, Mrs Watkins,’ George said, ‘she’d be in every paper there is. That’s the top and bottom of it.’
‘And are you ever going to tell us, George?’ The Bishop sat cradling his brandy balloon, with its last quarter-inch of spirit. ‘Merrily’s not exactly one of the Little Sisters of the Assumption. She’s been around, you know.’
‘Thanks very much, Bernie.’
‘George knows what I mean.’
‘What’s ironic,’ George said, ‘is that she’s become a bit of a heroine to many people here — ’specially the new folk, the well-off folk. Ever a bit of timely cash needed to conserve some historic building, she’s in there with her chequebook. Made plans, apparently, for her own trust fund, to protect the old places. And then there was the housing business. You remember the development plan for the Weircroft fields, Bernard?’
The Bishop shook his head. ‘After I left here, I imagine.’
‘Owner of a couple of rough fields not far from The Weir House — bit of a wide boy, you ask me, had the look of a gypsy — he was trying to get planning permission to put houses on them. And there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d get it, too, eventually.’
‘Down by the river?’ the Bishop said. ‘Surely not!’
‘Under the castle walls, near enough. Council opposed it, and so did all the residents nearby, naturally. But the way this government is on housing now — build more and more, ignore the green belts — chances are he’d have won on appeal, especially as he was promising more than the usual quota of low-cost homes which are hard to get in Ludlow now. Then she made him an offer for the land.’
‘Did she indeed?’
‘And a very meaningful offer it was, too, but he had to decide now. Now or never. Well, he couldn’t afford to risk it, and so she bought the ground and declared it preserved. And now none of her neighbours will have a word said against her, because, if she moves, that ground’s gonner be up for grabs again. So all the folk in that vicinity, from Upper Linney to Stanton Lacy, turns a blind eye and a deaf ear.’
‘To what, George?’
‘To a good deal more than rumour, but I’ve never been one for gossip, Bernard, you know that.’
‘Erm…’ Merrily thought that one day she might meet someone who actually admitted to relishing tittle-tattle. ‘She walks the streets, right? At night. With a candle, sometimes.’
George Lackland folded his arms and sucked in his lips.
�
��Like a ghost,’ Merrily said.
George dropped his arms. ‘Like a whore.’
‘Oh, really, George,’ the Bishop said.
‘You were here long enough, Bernard. You know what’s what. The prostitutes in this town… they knows their place. And you will agree that place is not, for instance, St Leonard’s graveyard.’
‘Oh, come now—’
‘We manage to keep it all under wraps one way or another. The police — well, if she’s broken the law, it’s not much compared with what else they have to handle nowadays. Can a woman be done for indecent exposure? Minor theft?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘What—?’
‘She stole a prayer book from St Laurence’s. Maybe other things, too, but someone saw her put the prayer book in her bag and walk out. And there was more, but we couldn’t tell David Cook, with the state of his health.’
‘More of what, in particular?’
‘We didn’t exactly hold on to the evidence.’
Merrily waited. Bernie Dunmore took a precautionary sip of brandy.
‘What she left in the church’ — George spoke tightly, as if his throat was closing up — ‘back of one of the misericords. Well, you don’t keep… articles like that.’
‘Perhaps I’m somewhat naive,’ the Bishop said.
‘Corey House in Broad Street, Bernard? The decorators?’
‘Architectural Interior Designers and Restorers, I believe they call themselves now.’
‘Decorators,’ George said. ‘The son, Callum, he went to finish off a wall for her at The Weir House. Had some very peculiar requests made of him. His father’s on the town council, and he had a word with me. They’re newcomers, but they’re a decent family. Thought I should know.’
‘What were the requests?’ Merrily asked. But George shook his head in a shuddery kind of way.
‘And there’s the parties. The young people. The singing.’
‘What kind of singing?’
‘I only use that word out of politeness,’ George said. ‘Sounds like a tribe of tom-cats.’
‘You’ve heard it?’
‘Just the once. I was advised to walk down The Linney and have a listen. There was something resembling a song, but I couldn’t distinguish the words. I think it was her and some other people.’
‘Possibly the ones who gathered under the Hanging Tower after the girl’s death?’
‘Aye. The neighbours… they look the other way. Some of the local boys are less tolerant, ’specially when they come out the pubs.’
‘Was it… one of these local boys who was stabbed that time?’ Merrily asked.
George took a long breath, said nothing.
‘But nobody was charged, right? Perhaps somebody was persuaded not to make a complaint?’
‘Probably wasn’t serious,’ George said quietly.
‘As a leading member of the Police Authority,’ Merrily said, ‘I suppose it’s a bit difficult for you.’
The Mayor’s eyes flared with anger, like coals far back in an old kitchen range. Merrily came back quickly, before he could clam up again.
‘Did you know that Mrs Pepper had been seen with Robbie Walsh not long before he died?’
‘Well, of course I knew. She was seen all over the town with him — in the church, the path by the yews as leads down to the back entrance of the Bull, the old alleyways…’
‘Do you know what brought them together?’
‘No. But then, I’ve not had what you’d call lengthy conversations with her. Wisest not to.’
‘Do you have any idea at all why she does… the things she does?’
George didn’t reply. He began scratching at the back of his hand as if he’d been stung.
‘You’ve evidently been covering up for her, George,’ Bernie said. ‘For quite some time, it sounds like. For, ah, Susannah’s sake. And Stephen’s, naturally.’
The Mayor went to the French windows and pulled a cord to draw the velvet curtains. Stood with his back to the dusty pink folds, as if he was keeping something out.
‘And the good of the town, of course,’ Bernie said slyly.
‘She’s a sick woman, she’s…’ George Lackland reached up and pulled the curtains together at the top, where one had slipped off its glider, and Merrily thought she heard him say ‘evil’ but couldn’t be sure. He turned around. ‘Pressure of wondering what she’s gonner do next is getting to me a bit, have to say that. Top and bottom of it is, I wish she’d never come, and I wish she was gone.’
‘I might be slightly off course here,’ the Bishop said, ‘but it seems to me that all your problems might conceivably be part of the same one. Do you think?’
George Lackland didn’t reply.
‘And you can’t involve the council, George, and you can’t involve the police. Therefore, I suppose that’s why we’re here.’
‘Maybe I just wanted to talk to somebody who knew the town and could see the picture,’ the Mayor said. ‘Even if they thought there wasn’t anything they could do. At least they’d understand a few things.’
‘Some things are not easily understood.’
‘Likely I used the wrong word. I’m not an educated man, as you know. But there’s areas of… areas of experience where education don’t help that much.’
The curtains were swaying a little in a draught from somewhere. George Lackland watched them with a faint smile.
‘I remember a young chap thought he was up for a bit of easy money — just spend a couple of hours on his own in the Hanging Tower.’
‘Oh now, George, that was a long, long time—’
‘Never seen a man more scared, from that day to this. Comes running across the old inner bailey, stumbling and tripping — didn’t think his pals could see him, and they didn’t like to rub it in at the time.’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t want you trying to escape, Bernard, so we took a few bottles of pale ale into the old Magdalene Chapel and kept very quiet. Sobering, though, in the end. We all thought you were faking it, at first.’
Merrily smiled. The Bishop saw her and scowled.
‘Bastards.’ He finished his brandy. ‘All right, George, suppose someone was to look into it. All of it. Discreetly. Someone sympathetic but, ah… knowledgeable in all the necessary areas. And, of course… utterly reliable.’
‘Then I would be most grateful to that person,’ George Lackland said, ‘and provide what assistance I could.’
Down by the fake logs, Merrily froze.
23
Duality
The road to Hereford was due south, more than twenty moon-washed miles. For the first three or four, neither of them said a word. Merrily’s black eye was pulsing. Her new sunglasses lay on the dash. Somewhere behind its facia, the old Volvo was ticking like a time bomb.
Eventually, the Bishop coughed.
‘Mother-in-law from hell, eh? Well… stepmother-in-law.’
Merrily glanced to her left: moonlight bathing the Bishop’s brow. At the Little Chef at Wooferton, the lights had gone out.
‘What have you done, Bernie?’
‘I think the word “evil” passed old George’s lips at one point, but I’m afraid he had his back to me at the time.’
‘And that justifies it, does it?’
‘We have nothing to justify, Merrily.’
‘Not yet.’
‘It’s all quite legitimate.’
‘So you’ll send an official memo to the Deliverance Panel first thing in the morning, saying you’re personally authorizing me to investigate a cluster of deaths and their possible connection with a woman who’s causing considerable embarrassment to the Mayor of Ludlow.’
‘We can deal with that,’ the Bishop said. ‘And surely… you want to, don’t you?’
‘I think I’d want to know why I’m doing whatever I’m supposed to be doing. I mean, let’s establish, first of all, what your long-time friend the Mayor is after. For instance, when he was close to advocating exorcism,
which woman do you think he was talking about, the dead one or…?’
That duality again. It had been there from the start: Why did God let her take him? Why did God let that woman take our boy?
‘Look, I had no idea,’ the Bishop said. ‘I didn’t know there was any connection between George and this woman. Until that chap who makes calendars brought her up, I’d never even heard of her.’
‘Because bloody George is using his position to hush it all up! He’s already had Andy Mumford warned off. Plus, a guy who was stabbed in the street has probably been given a bung to keep quiet about it.’
‘You don’t know that—’
‘Ha! I mean, sure, I can see the Mayor’s problem — she’s landed like an alien being from a world he can’t even comprehend — but there’s no way I want to appear to be working on behalf of someone who works the system like good old George.’
‘Merrily, he hadn’t even mentioned Mrs Pepper. It was you who introduced the subject.’
‘You think? You know what, Bernie? I think he was talking about her all along. From the beginning. I think she’s what’s causing unrest among the older God-fearing folk of Ludlow, far more than the possible influence of a silly little girl who got taken for a ride in the twelfth century. On which basis, by the way, I’m buggered if I’m going to even consider exorcizing the Hanging—’
‘Merrily!’
‘Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night. Got elbowed in the eye by a psychotic teenager.’
‘How come you know so much about this Mrs Pepper?’
‘Lol. And Jane on the Internet. It doesn’t take very long to find out about anything any more. Also, I saw her, when I was on the river bank with Mumford and you were in the pub with his dad. I recognized her… realized this was who Osman meant.’
‘Well, I don’t know anything about her, as I said, but I do know that George Lackland, while he may work the system, is a decent man who thinks his beloved town is being contaminated, if only by having its moral tone lowered. Is he exaggerating this? I don’t know.’
‘Personally, I just can’t see a wealthy middle-aged woman going in for wholesale alfresco sex in a town she regards as heaven. And I don’t want to get involved—’
