The Lazarus Tree

by Robert Richardson

  Flyte licked his lips. ‘They hadn’t been there for a couple of nights and I nearly didn’t watch. But about a quarter past midnight — did I say it was always around that time? ... anyway, I saw Gabriel arrive. He sat on one of the barrel tombs near the Lazarus Tree and began to smoke a cigarette. I saw his face when he lit it — it was overcast that night and the light was very poor. After a few minutes, I saw ... obviously I thought it was Michelle, but it wasn’t ... approaching from behind him. Gabriel must have heard them, because he stood up. I realised it couldn’t have been her when they didn’t immediately kiss each other.’

  He glanced at Maltravers apologetically before continuing. ‘They seemed to talk for a few moments, then this ... this figure ... it was hard to say exactly what happened, but they seemed to lunge at Gabriel and he fell down.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Maltravers interrupted. ‘You keep saying “figure” and “they”. A man or a woman?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell. They were wearing trousers, but that didn’t prove anything. I think they were about the same height as Gabriel.’ Flyte answered hurriedly, as if anxious to finish what he had to say. ‘Anyway, he or she bent down ... as though they were ... well, afterwards I realised they must have been making sure he was dead. Then they walked away.’

  ‘In which direction?’

  ‘I’m not sure ...’ Flyte swallowed and it seemed to hurt him. ‘I knew something terrible had happened and I was shaking. I think it could have been towards the side of the church, but I might be wrong ... I didn’t sleep that night.’

  Maltravers took a long draw on his cigarette as Flyte stopped abruptly. ‘Were you questioned by the police after the murder?’

  ‘Of course I was ... and I didn’t refuse to give my fingerprints.’ Flyte offered the information as hesitant evidence that at least part of his behaviour had been correct. ‘It was bad enough not telling them what I’d seen, without making them more suspicious.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone? Your wife?’

  ‘Doreen! God, no! Please, Mr ... Mr ... Maltravers, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I don’t know your official rank. I’ve told you now. I’ve told you everything I know. If I could say who did it, I would. Believe me. But if Doreen or my mother learns about this ...’ He began to weep again.

  Maltravers turned to flick his cigarette end on to the roadside. Pressing Flyte to remember anything else at that moment would be both unkind and useless; everything had come bursting out like a festering abscess inside him and he was exhausted. And there was no point in continuing the charade.

  ‘Mr Flyte, I have to admit something as well,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you think I am, but the fact is that I’m an ordinary private citizen like you. I am not from the police or anyone else.’

  ‘What?’ It was impossible to say if Flyte’s reaction was simple amazement or dismay at what misunderstanding and terror had driven him to do. ‘But in the Raven the other night, they said you were from London!’

  Maltravers shrugged. ‘So are a lot of people.’

  ‘Not just from London! From Scotland Yard or ... well, somewhere important. Official.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ Maltravers said. ‘And it’s not my fault if people’s imaginations start running riot.’

  ‘You should have told me. Right at the start.’ Scrambling for some retreat, the haughty deputy bank manager began to surface. ‘You’ve deceived me. It’s intolerable. I’ve a good mind to ...’

  ‘A good mind to what?’ Maltravers snapped impatiently. ‘You deceived yourself — like a few other people seem to have done.’

  ‘Then I’m going to tell them!’ Flyte was switching into look-here-this-sort-of-thing-won’t-do-at-all-you-know mode until Maltravers punctured his bombast.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! If you say anything to anybody, I’ll go straight to the police and tell them everything you’ve just admitted to me. And they’re not going to be bothered about your precious reputation, your wife or your mother!’

  ‘I’ll deny it.’

  ‘How did anybody so stupid ever make it to assistant bank manager?’ Maltravers said reflectively. ‘Just use what we’ll charitably refer to as your brain for a moment.’ He stared impassively as Flyte began almost visibly to deflate, then he looked away.

  ‘So what are you going to do? You have been taking an interest in the murder, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes — and I’ll keep the reasons to myself. What I’m going to do isn’t your business, but we’ll lay down a few ground rules. First of all, have you told me everything?’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t, but yes,’ Flyte admitted bitterly.

  ‘Then for the time being, I’ll keep quiet about it ... oh, yes, I mean it, although I’m not promising the situation won’t change. You’ve withheld evidence from the police and been a dirty old man. Your best hope is that this can be sorted out without your becoming involved.’

  ‘I can’t see how that can be done.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ Maltravers admitted. ‘But it’s the only chance you’ve got. You’ve no choice but to trust me.’

  ‘But what are you ...?’

  ‘No questions,’ Maltravers interrupted. ‘Just accept that I’m dealing with it in my own way. And I might be able to do that without revealing your sordid nocturnal hobbies. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut — and sell that bloody telescope.’

  He pulled the car door handle and began to step out, then stopped as something occurred to him. ‘How long have you lived in Medmelton?’

  Flyte appeared both surprised and suspicious. ‘Pardon? It’ll be twenty-three years next month. Why?’

  Maltravers settled on the seat again, his feet on the grass verge. ‘Do you have a copy of Ralph the Talespinner’s stories?’

  ‘Ralph the Talespinner?’ Flyte certainly seemed bewildered. ‘Yes, I have, but I don’t see ...?’

  ‘The first edition?’

  ‘Yes. I bought it at a church jumble sale. What’s all this about?’

  ‘And you’ve read it?’ Maltravers pressed.

  ‘Not for years.’ He managed to summon up an air of offence. ‘I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. You’ve no right to ...’

  ‘I could be at Exeter Police Station in less than half an hour,’ Maltravers warned tersely. ‘You can answer their questions instead if you like. It makes no difference to me.’ Flyte blinked, rapidly and nervously. ‘I’ve got my reasons for asking this, and that’s all you need to know. Is there ... any story you particularly remember?’ It was better not to come straight out with it. If Flyte was the one playing grotesque games with Michelle, he would probably blab it out the moment he realised that Maltravers was suspicious.

  ‘Which particular story?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No ... no, I don’t think I can remember any of them. I can’t see the point of all this.’

  ‘Well, there is one.’ Maltravers stepped out of the car, then leant down to look back. ‘Anyway, keep quiet about all this. One word out of line, and the proverbial hits the fan. Goodbye, Mr Flyte.’

  Flyte started the engine almost simultaneously with the slamming of the door, and Maltravers watched him drive away. Genuine confession or desperate lie to conceal something worse? Better to be disgraced for distasteful habits and withholding evidence from the police than jailed for murder? But what reason could Flyte have had? Had Gabriel publicly insulted him in his cups one night in the Raven, fatally offending that pompous conceit? It seemed incredibly unlikely — but Flyte had shown he was capable of irrational behaviour, so to what degree might it extend? On reflection, the incident conjured up as many unanswered questions as questionable answers.

  TWELVE

  Settled on the wooden sill of the staffroom window, the fly raised its front legs and rubbed them together like human hands anticipating excitement. It balanced forwards and stroked its back legs over the sheen of each wing in turn before buzzing frantically against the glass for a moment the
n landing again and repeating the whole process. Sipping his coffee from a chipped Exeter Cathedral souvenir mug, Stephen Hart watched it blankly. Flies scavenged in filth, but kept themselves clean. Corruption attracted them, but only for survival. If you put one in a sealed chamber with fresh food at one end and something rotting at the other, which would it choose? Did that mean ...? Suddenly irritated by meaningless thoughts, he flicked his hand and the creature flew off.

  Beyond the window, school yard and playing fields were filled with children on mid-morning break. Younger ones were hyperactive, playing football, fighting, chasing each other, simply running about to burn off boisterous energy; older ones walked, lounged, leant against walls, lethargic, almost sullen in some cases, talking. Michelle was with a group of her classmates on the edge of the field. She was lying on her back, head on her schoolbag with its worn image of Billy Joel, right ankle balanced on the opposite raised knee, indifferent to or unaware of how her grey pleated skirt fell away from her legs, arm shielding her eyes from the sun. Abruptly, she sat up, turning to one of the boys and starting to talk animatedly. Perhaps he had said something that had annoyed or interested her. In the few minutes Hart watched, she said more than she would in an entire evening at home. Why wouldn’t she talk to him? He’d always been conscious of her resentment at his arrival in her — and Veronica’s — life, and had done all he could to open up communication and forge some kind of relationship. Did he love her? He wanted to, but it had not been possible. But he wanted to like her. He had first introduced himself to her as Stephen and she had never shown any wish to call him Dad. Did that matter? Rationally, no; emotionally, for all his rejection of the feeling, yes.

  He suddenly realised that the boy she was talking to — Michael Scala, whose parents were Italian — looked like that waiter at the hotel in Greece. Michelle had been angry when by chance he and Veronica had found them together in her room, both almost naked but apparently not having completed what had begun. She had been indifferent to warnings about the risk of pregnancy or worse and had sulked over the strict limitations they placed on her for the remainder of the holiday. One evening — for some reason Veronica had not been with them — she had suddenly flared at him: ‘He wouldn’t have been the first, you know. I’m not your little virgin stepdaughter.’ She had waited defiantly for a reaction and had looked shocked when he said, ‘I know that. But you’re still under age. So I’m going to have to play the wicked stepfather, aren’t I?’

  Afterwards, his reaction to what he had said had been confused; he had sounded like his own father. Respectability — that despised, middle-class, middle-aged totem of convention — had invaded him so insidiously that he had not been aware of it. Mortgage, life assurance, pension plan, career structure, building society account, even shares in British Gas, hung about him like badges of compromise. He had joined the class whose overthrow he had once demanded.

  ‘Steve! There you are.’ Anne Collins, the deputy head, sounded relieved. ‘Jim Creasey’s ill. Can you take 2H in your free period after lunch? Just give them something to read.’ Without waiting for a reply, she added a tick to her clipboard then tapped it with her pen. ‘That just leaves ... Maggie! Could you possibly ...?’

  Bustling and organising, she was gone. The bell rang for the end of break and Steve finished his coffee. Fiery ambitions to revolutionise education had been replaced by timetable problems and the tedium of teaching punctuation to bored third-formers.

  *

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ Veronica asked as she hung her anorak on one of the hooks by the front door.

  Maltravers abandoned an infuriatingly tricky Guardian crossword. ‘Being idle. Looked round the church, had lunch in the pub, then wandered out the other side of the village to commune with nature.’

  ‘Did you get the chops all right?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Oh, Gus! You promised you’d remember. Anyway, there’s still time for me to ...’

  ‘I didn’t say I forgot,’ he corrected. ‘I decided you ought to have a night off from cooking. I’m taking you and Stephen out to dinner. I’ve booked a table at the Royal Clarence in Exeter.’

  ‘The Royal Clarence?’ Veronica sounded impressed. ‘That’s in the cathedral close. Super place. How did you know about it?’

  ‘I ran into Sally Baker and asked her to recommend somewhere. I also checked your kitchen calendar and neither of you appears to have anything on tonight. If it’s really impossible, I can always cancel and get a takeaway instead.’

  ‘No, it’s fine ... but why not wait until Tess arrives? When’s she coming, incidentally?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ he replied. ‘I rang her this morning. But she’s got friends near Plymouth she wants to visit tomorrow night and you or Stephen both seem to be tied up on the other evenings we’ll be here. If I don’t take you out tonight, I can’t do it at all. I thought of booking for four, but it would probably bore Michelle spitless. Will she be all right on her own? We should be back about ten.’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’ Veronica examined herself critically in a long Victorian mirror. ‘I must shower and wash my hair. What time did you book for?’

  ‘Table at seven thirty and I told them we’d arrive about seven for drinks ... how long does your hair take to dry?’

  ‘Not that long, but I’d better get on with it. I’ll just organise supper for Michelle and make sure Stephen’s got a clean shirt.’

  Stephen and Michelle came home twenty minutes later. Pausing only to help herself to a bag of crisps and a glass of Coke from the kitchen, Michelle disappeared to her room with slightly tetchy promises to do her homework. When Maltravers asked if she minded them going out, she seemed surprised that he should think it would bother her.

  ‘Anything happened?’ Stephen asked when they were alone.

  ‘Nothing dramatic,’ Maltravers told him. ‘After all, my activities are somewhat restricted. I met Sally Baker again and she introduced me to another of your neighbours, Alexander Kerr.’

  ‘Alex? What did you think of him?’

  ‘He’s very ... subtle. And I’m not altogether sure that I’d trust him — in the nicest possible way.’ Maltravers decided not to tell Stephen about the inscription in the Le Carré book. He could be completely wrong about what it had suggested to him — and if he was right, Kerr would have very good reasons for passing himself off as an anonymous retired Post Office official. ‘Anyway, he came up with an interesting idea about who might be behind this churchyard farce. Mildred Thomson.’

  ‘Mildred? What makes him say that?’

  ‘His reasoning doesn’t matter — and it’s only a suggestion in any event. What do you think?’

  Stephen thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. Mildred’s been here for ever, she’s just part of the scenery. She’s always seemed harmless enough.’

  Maltravers made an ambivalent sniff. ‘Perhaps she is. But I’m bearing her in mind.’

  ‘But what’s the connection with Patrick Gabriel?’ Stephen demanded.

  ‘You told me that Gabriel bought his groceries from the stores while he was staying here,’ Maltravers pointed out. ‘So that’s how they met — and if Alex Kerr’s right, there could be a rather sinister side to your local village shopkeeper, in fact she might turn out to be very nasty. Which means that Gabriel could have recognised a kindred spirit and what happened after that is anybody’s guess.’

  ‘And how did Michelle become mixed up in it?’ Stephen’s voice had gone very quiet.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Maltravers stopped as Veronica came back into the room, long wet hair clinging to her white towelling robe. ‘Will that really be dry in time?’

  ‘Of course it will.’ She held up the shirt she was carrying. ‘This needs ironing. Has Gus told you he’s taking us out to dinner?’

  ‘Yes. Michelle doesn’t want to come.’

  ‘I never imagined she would.’

  As Veronica walked into the kitchen, Maltravers tapp
ed the pockets of his jacket. ‘I’m out of cigarettes again. Fancy a stroll to the stores?’ As he spoke, he nodded silently at Stephen.

  ‘Oh ... yes, fine.’ He raised his voice. ‘Do we need anything from Mildred’s?’

  ‘Not now we’re going out,’ Veronica replied. ‘See you soon.’

  The two men did not speak again until they had reached the end of the lane and were crossing the ford.

  ‘And what mustn’t Veronica hear now?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Tricky country, this one,’ Maltravers told him. ‘I spoke to Tess earlier and she came up with something that’s ... well, let’s just say it’s plausible. The problem is that I don’t think you can come up with the answer to the key question here ... you still have no idea who Michelle’s father could be, have you?’

  ‘I’ve told you that. Veronica’s never revealed it. What’s the point of bringing it up again?’

  Maltravers sighed as if reluctant to continue. ‘Look, this is no more than a theory and it could be completely out of line, but it’s ... well I can’t just throw it out because I don’t like it. It presupposes all sorts of things that might not be ...’

  Stephen stopped. ‘Spit it out, Gus. I don’t care what it is, I want to hear it. Right?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Maltravers apologised. ‘Just accept the caveat that I’m not saying any of this is true.’

  ‘Accepted. Now get on with it.’

  He made no protests or interruptions, and when Maltravers finished he removed his glasses, closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. For several moments he did not speak.

  ‘I’ve thought of worse possibilities,’ he said finally.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘They don’t matter.’ He blinked as he replaced his glasses. ‘I’m not going to give you any arguments. I can quite believe Michelle had it away with Patrick Gabriel — and bloody Gilbert Flyte seeing them has almost a touch of farce about it.’ He shook his head. ‘As for your suggestion that Bernard could be her father ... Jesus. But I can’t tell you it’s wrong. I don’t know who her father is, where he is, even if he is. He could be dead for all I know.’