by James Runcie
‘Did you know we were all at Millingham together?’ the doctor asked.
‘The school? No, I didn’t.’
‘Dreadful place. Mark was bullied. We used to call him Marina Kirby-Grip. His father was a terrible man. Drank, as you might expect. Hopeless after nine in the evening. When Mark wrote to his mother saying he was unhappy at school his father intercepted the message and replied by sending the letter straight back to his son with the spelling and punctuation corrected. It’s hard to know how to love when you’ve been brought up like that. Mark had to learn how to make friends and he did most of that by spending money and being a buffoon. After his father died, his mother ran off with another man within a month. At least Mark was left with the estate. But that’s probably why he married so young. He needed someone to help him . . .’
‘And someone who won’t “run off” like his mother.’
‘Exactly. It’s often the case that the bullied becomes the bully. I’m worried this could get out of hand. It also tends to get worse with age; not to mention drink. Do you think you should alert Inspector Keating? I thought you two met regularly.’
‘Thursday nights.’
‘Tomorrow then?’
‘Yes, Michael. Tomorrow.’
Sidney would rather have discussed his potential move to Ely with Geordie Keating but recognised that he did not really need his friend’s advice. He was going to have to take the job and so the next time they met for their customary two pints in the RAF bar of the Eagle he decided that he would not mention it quite yet. He asked his friend about domestic violence instead.
Keating explained how the odds were stacked against abused women. ‘There often isn’t any concrete evidence that the husband is the one doing the beating. It could be a lover or another family member.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely in this case. At least there are no children.’
‘If the wife won’t tell us there is anything wrong . . .’
‘She won’t.’
‘Because she is so afraid of her husband?’
‘I think so. What can be done?’
‘We have to construct a case on the basis of evidence other than that of the victim. That means you, Sidney, and Amanda, and any witnesses. Her maid, for example.’
‘I think she’s having an affair with the husband.’
‘He’s made her his accomplice. What about the doctor? He’s crucial. We can investigate on medical evidence. Would he testify?’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘Then that’s a start. The best thing, however, would be to sort all this out before it gets to court. The publicity never helps and the husband often nurses even more of a grievance.’
‘Even though he’s the one at fault?’
‘They don’t always see it that way. First they deny it altogether; then they say it is just between them and the wife. Finally they complain that they have been provoked. And, in a case like this, the accused probably knows the judge, however remotely. It’s always harder to convict a toff. They never think they’ve done anything wrong.’
‘Never?’
‘Hardly ever.’
‘They don’t even apologise?’
‘Repentance is your job; and while the legal situation is tricky, my official advice is to persuade both parties to sort it out amongst themselves.’
‘And your unofficial advice?’
‘Is to get Lady Kirby-Grey out of her house and away from her husband as quickly as possible. These things hardly ever die down. In fact, they get worse.’
The next morning Hildegard brought Anna into their bed from her cot. She had discovered a new game; holding on to the bedstead to balance, facing the door with her back towards them, before bouncing up and down, then stopping and looking back at her parents to check that they were watching.
‘I think she might turn out to be very musical,’ said Sidney as he got out of bed to perform his first duty of the day: making the morning tea.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Billie Holiday said that jazz is all in the bounce. Anna’s got plenty of that. How young can she start to learn the piano?’
‘She needs to be able to read first. We don’t want to push her. Do you think she’s progressing all right?’
‘She isn’t yet one. She hasn’t even started to speak.’
‘She has. I am convinced she said “Dada”. ’
‘I think it’s sweet that all fathers assume their daughters’ first words will be about them.’
‘Do they?’
‘So I’m told.’
‘She hasn’t said “Mutti” yet?’
‘I will tell you when she does . . . but in the meantime, she needs a feed. You will let Byron out . . .’
‘It is part of my morning routine, as well you know.’
Sidney put on slippers that had seen better days (perhaps Hildegard would give him a new pair for Christmas?) and padded downstairs. Life was so much simpler when it was like this. All he had to do was make the tea and look after the people he loved. Soon Anna would be walking and speaking and expressing her opinions. Would she be more like her father or her mother? How could he protect her against the disappointments, perils and dangers of the world?
It was half past seven. Sidney thought of Elizabeth Kirby-Grey. Would she still be asleep? He tried to imagine what it must be like to wake up having been hit or burned in the night; to be the subject or both subtle and explicit abuse. Why did her husband torture her in this way, and how much did Nancy Hayworth know?
He had just given Hildegard her tea and was about to shave when Amanda telephoned. As soon as she had ascertained that she was speaking to Sidney she launched into a diatribe about ‘that pathetic fool of a man I’ve been seeing’.
‘You mean Henry?’
‘He didn’t mention it to Mark at all. When I started to speak to him very firmly indeed he apologised and said “the situation never arose”. Well, of course it didn’t. I don’t know much about gentleman’s clubs but I am pretty sure they don’t stand around the billiard table discussing the best way to beat up their wives.’
‘They don’t.’
‘So I am having lunch with Elizabeth.’
‘Good.’
‘And you’re coming too.’
‘Really, Amanda, wouldn’t it be better if you were alone together?’
‘No it would not. You are not wriggling out of this one. It’s in Cambridge next Tuesday.’
‘I’m sure I’ve got something on.’
‘Well, cancel it. Bleu Blanc Rouge, twelve thirty. Mark will be out. I got Henry to check. That’s one thing my wholly inadequate suitor managed to do for me. Now it’s up to us.’
Christmas was not the best time of year to be arranging assignations. Aside from seeing his family and sending out Christmas cards (a task that would, inevitably, fall to Hildegard), Sidney was about to embark on a run of carol services at Corpus, in church, and around local schools. He had also made a vow that he would call in on every parishioner personally to bestow the compliments of the season. Despite Malcolm’s diligence, he wanted to make it clear that this was his primary duty and that he was able to fulfil his obligations as a priest without distraction. As a result, he hoped that no one would see him when he bicycled across the meadows on a cold winter morning to meet Amanda at Cambridge station. The decorations were up and a banner had been hung across the entrance: Peace on Earth, Goodwill to all Men.
‘I see women don’t get much of a look-in,’ Amanda observed.
‘Is Elizabeth meeting us there? I hope she turns up.’
‘I think she’s desperate to tell someone what’s really going on.’
The Bleu Blanc Rouge had been decked with festive cheer and offered a menu that was a French version of the kind of food that might be served at Witchford Hall: a chicken chasseur, brandied roasted goose, turkey with chestnut stuffing and a Bûche de Noël.
‘At least we know it will be properly cooked this time,’ Amanda smiled before order
ing a glass of champagne.
‘Do you think that’s appropriate?’ Sidney asked.
‘It’ll be gone by the time Elizabeth arrives, don’t worry.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait?’
‘She said she might be held up. We’re early. I didn’t want her to have to be stuck here on her own.’
‘I can think of worse places to be stranded.’
Elizabeth arrived fifteen minutes later and was unusually poised, dressed in a camel coat and scarf, dark woollen skirt, stockings and sensible shoes. Every part of her was covered but, Sidney supposed, it was winter. Amanda asked if her husband knew she was with them.
‘He has allowed me an hour and a half.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I think it will give him time to see his mistress.’
‘You know about that?’
‘He’s had one for years. Have you ordered?’
‘Not Nancy Hayworth?’ Sidney asked.
‘Her mother.’ Elizabeth spoke as if this was a natural state of affairs. ‘Why do you think Nancy works for us?’
‘Why would she want to?’
‘Because he pays her well. And she acts as her mother’s spy.’ She put down her menu. ‘I think I’ll have the goose.’
‘Does your husband know that you are aware of the situation?’
‘He thinks I’m not, but I am. And even if he knew that I knew, he can be confident that I wouldn’t make a fuss about it.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘I don’t have much choice.’
‘Because he frightens you . . .’ Amanda began.
‘Do we have to talk about this?’
‘Please . . .’ Amanda touched her friend’s hand.
‘I suppose he thinks it helps him get over Peter. Consolation I can’t give because I am part of the grief.’
The waiter came to take their order and Sidney tried to assess the situation. This was a very different Elizabeth from the woman who had been his hostess. He asked again about Nancy Hayworth. ‘Sir Mark seems very fond of her.’
‘He’s attentive to most women, Canon Chambers.’
‘Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘They are a distraction. And they put him in a good mood. It means he’s kinder to me.’
Amanda came to the point. ‘Not all the time.’
‘Please, Amanda, I didn’t come here to be lectured.’
‘Mark hits you, darling. We know. Please tell us.’
‘What good would it do?’
‘Perhaps we can help stop it.’
‘It’s too late for that.’ Elizabeth looked out of the window, perhaps hoping that by doing so her fellow diners would disappear. ‘Besides, I’m used to it. It’s not something anyone else should be concerned about.’
‘But we worry.’
‘That’s kind. I don’t think Mark knows the pain he causes. He says he hates himself afterwards, and he needs consoling. That’s hard sometimes, comforting a husband who has been violent. But he doesn’t mean it.’
‘Then why does he do it?’ Amanda asked.
‘Because he is lost. Because we don’t know who we are any more. Ever since Peter . . . I don’t know. He buys me presents to apologise.’
‘With your money,’ Amanda interrupted.
‘Our money. What’s mine is his.’ She held out her hand. ‘Look. He bought me an eternity ring. He knows that whatever happens we will always be together.’
‘Are you frightened of him?’ Sidney asked.
‘Not all the time.’
‘Most of the time,’ Amanda suggested.
‘Some of the time. Mainly in the evenings; and when he’s been drinking.’
‘That’s most of the time.’
‘It’s been getting better. He’s very sweet to me in the mornings – if he doesn’t have a hangover. And he says he’s trying to do better. He promises me it will stop.’
‘And do you believe him?’
‘He’s very sincere when he makes his promises.’
The food arrived and there was a temporary respite. Elizabeth asked Sidney about his Christmas preparations, Anna’s birthday (it was the following week) and if Amanda had seen any more of Henry Richmond. She thought he was coming for dinner in the next few days. How were they getting on?
‘Very well. But I am taking it as slowly as I can. I need to be able to look Sidney in the face when I tell him about these things.’
‘You don’t need my approval.’
‘You know perfectly well that I do.’
‘Dear, oh dear,’ said Elizabeth. ‘To think if you’d married each other we would have had hours of banter.’
‘Then it’s just as well we didn’t,’ Amanda replied, refusing to meet Sidney’s eye. ‘But, in any case, we’re not here to talk about my relationship but yours. When did your husband last hit you?’
‘Really, Amanda . . .’
‘Tell us.’
‘It wasn’t much of a blow . . .’
‘What was it?’
Elizabeth picked up a glass of water, looked at it, and then put it down again. ‘Sometimes I think it’s my fault. After Peter . . .’
‘That wasn’t your fault.’
‘Mark thinks it was.’
‘He was with his nanny,’ Amanda reminded.
‘Then we should have chosen a different one. Someone more reliable.’
‘You can’t blame yourself.’
‘I think Mark blames me for everything. He says I provoke him. I ask too many questions. I’m too nervous. I am not a good enough hostess.’
‘You’re a brilliant hostess,’ Sidney chipped in.
‘I’m not. I never know how to put people at their ease.’
Sidney put his hand on hers, and realised that he was covering the eternity ring. ‘Perhaps that’s because you are never at ease yourself.’
Amanda gave him a look that Sidney read as a form of punctuation: his gesture was too intimate, he had gone far enough. He withdrew his hand.
‘I can’t leave him, if that’s what you want me to do.’ Elizabeth pushed her food around her plate. She had hardly eaten.
‘I think you must.’
‘I made a vow on my wedding day. I cannot break it.’
‘Perhaps your husband has already done so . . .’ Sidney observed.
‘I thought you always spoke in favour of reconciliation?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Not if there is the danger of something worse.’
‘There is nothing wrong.’
‘We all know there is,’ Amanda said gently.
And then the mask fell and the tears came. ‘He says he can’t help himself. It’s because he is unhappy. He feels a failure.’
Sidney handed her a handkerchief. ‘He doesn’t look a failure.’
‘It’s an act. Some days he’s happy and excitable; at other times he’s unutterably depressed. That’s when he drinks. Although he drinks when he’s happy too. He says he doesn’t know who he is. He can never be the man he was expected to be, the man he says his father wanted him to become. He misses his mother. He doesn’t even know where she is or if she’s alive or dead. She abandoned him. And he thinks I might do the same. He says he can never hold on to things – not even a son. Everything flies away. He feels utterly alone. I suppose that’s why he has his affairs. He’s desperate. He wants to escape his fate but he can’t. He needs my money. And he says he can’t live without me even though sometimes he hates me for it. I should be more of a wife.’
‘Leave him,’ said Amanda.
‘I can’t. He needs help. There’s even a man in Harley Street but Mark won’t do anything about it. He’s too proud. He told me that he’d kill himself if I ever left him.’
‘That’s cruel,’ said Sidney.
‘I can’t put it to the test, can I?’
Amanda changed tack. ‘Henry’s going to talk to him.’
Elizabeth gave Sidney back his handkerchief and looked at her watch. ‘I don’t think that will do muc
h good.’
‘He promised.’
‘Mark won’t listen to anyone. Serena tried again only recently . . .’
‘When?’
Elizabeth picked up her handbag. ‘Just before you all left. Now Mark says he never wants her in his house again. I don’t know what to do. Would you like me to pay for this?’
‘Not at all. We will help you,’ said Sidney.
‘Come and stay with me in London,’ Amanda offered. ‘Come now. Until things blow over. We can send for your things.’
Elizabeth stood up. ‘I have to go.’
‘He might kill you.’
‘Then I am at God’s mercy.’
‘That’s not enough,’ Amanda observed before Sidney could say anything.
‘All I can do is try to look after him. I want to make things right. If I leave he will follow me. That is what he has threatened. He will follow me to the ends of the earth and he will murder me. Then he’ll shoot himself. That’s what he says.’
Police cautions, Keating told Sidney, were rarely appropriate in cases of domestic violence. If something needed to be done then Sidney and Amanda would have to gather more evidence from potential witnesses. ‘The morality and practice of intervention in domestic affairs is incredibly difficult.’
They were in Keating’s car and had stopped before the final approach to Witchford Hall. Sidney had telephoned to ask whether he had left any of his shooting paraphernalia on his previous visit and the butler had told him that he was fairly sure this was unlikely, but if sir would like to call then he would be welcome at any time apart from Tuesday afternoon, when both Sir Mark and Lady Kirby-Grey would be out at a Rotary Club luncheon. Sidney and Keating had therefore picked this exact time for a visit in order to speak to the staff; and to Nancy Hayworth in particular.
The maid was not in uniform but wore a geometrically patterned black and white mini-dress, with dark tights and patent-leather ankle boots. A friend was coming to pick her up and take her Christmas shopping. ‘I can’t think what you want with me,’ she said. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Keating assured Nancy that he was not accusing her of anything. He only wanted to ask a few questions about her employers.
‘They don’t like me talking.’
‘Have they warned you not to?’
