The Lazarus Tree

by Robert Richardson

  ‘Just “about” him?’ Maltravers interrupted.

  ‘Of course.’ The question annoyed her. ‘I didn’t start ad-libbing, for God’s sake, throwing out some of your wild guesses. Anyway, she looked very apprehensive after that and asked what I wanted. I spelt out your scenario. In the churchyard tonight — well, tomorrow morning strictly speaking. One o’clock. With whoever had put her up to it. I felt absolutely stupid saying that. It’s way over the top.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s the best way I can think of to guarantee results. Whoever’s playing games with Michelle — possibly Mildred, but it could be someone else for all we know — has almost certainly got some dramatic kink to their personality. If you’ve convinced Michelle, and I’m pretty sure you did, she’s going to pass it on. In fact she probably did go out last night after you left to talk to them. They daren’t not turn up.’

  ‘And what’s going to happen?’

  ‘At least I should be able to stamp very hard on this witchcraft crap, but whether it’s going to throw any light on who murdered Patrick Gabriel — and why — God alone knows.’

  *

  The Medmelton telephones were busy again. Still alert for anything that might have even the remotest connection with Maltravers, Peggy Travis had kept faithful watch from her cottage. It was much more interesting than the endless saga of The Archers or anything provided by Mills and Boon paperbacks from the mobile library. The arrival of a taxi had been unusual enough; an unknown woman getting out of it and heading towards Dymlight Cottage was spectacular. Brief observation was duly amplified for the satisfaction of all concerned.

  ‘Very hard face. Tell you who she reminded me of. Greta Garbo. Cold. And she was wearing one of those coats like in those spy films. Red hair ... quite tall ... walked as if she owned the place ... wouldn’t like to be alone in a room with her for very long. Of course, it’s the women who are the worst, isn’t it? Stands to reason. They’ve got to show they’re tougher than the men, haven’t they? Do you think she’s his boss? Come to check on how he’s getting on? He’ll be in for a right tongue-lashing if he can’t come up with anything. What’s he doing? Well, I was out for a while yesterday morning, but Evelyn said she thought she saw him with Sally Baker in her car. Couldn’t be certain, because she only got a glimpse. And her husband was in the Foreign Office, wasn’t he? I know it’s years since, but ... well, it makes you think.’

  Maltravers was providing the Medmelton rumour factory with raw material that would last for years.

  *

  In his study, Bernard Quex stared into space, pen motionless over his notepad. He had written, ‘Idolatry? 2 Kings. 14:23-9? Gifts for God? Spikenard. Solomon, Mark?? Forgiveness? John, 8:7.’ Having totally embraced the Bible as an incorrigible source of wisdom and truth, texts to support sermons spilled out without conscious effort, chapter and verse coming automatically as he considered possible themes. So ‘Forgiveness’ had instinctively produced the woman taken in adultery — and the comfort of Holy Writ had become chill reality which was increasingly difficult to keep at a distance. Forgiveness presumed some previous sin. Possibly derived from the Latin sons, meaning guilty, but in a Biblical sense failing to meet God’s standards. A weakness. An abomination. A blasphemy. Academic interpretations held off the shame for a while, but then he could no longer close his mind to it. And still phrases of his belief came. He had uncovered her nakedness, he was a fornicator, they had known each other.

  No, none of that. He had seduced another man’s wife, taken her to bed and — Quex had to make his mind form the blunt words — he had ... say it, say it! Had fucked her! Agonisingly, he forced himself to recognise what he had done — what he was still doing — by deliberately defining it in coarseness, wallowing in filth that it might make him clean. It became a strangely controlled, almost clinical, process, human passion reduced to basic carnality. When he finished, he was quivering.

  And his hair shirt of guilt brought its perverse comfort again. I am a sinner, Lord, and confess my sin. From You no secrets of the heart may be hid. ‘If Thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord who shall stand?’ But Ursula was coming that afternoon and his cry would be the eternal excuse of Adam. The woman tempted me. Blame her. Forgive me. Forgive me all my trespasses. I have broken Thy commandments. But I confess. To You.

  *

  Ursula Dean played with impossible dreams. He would have to leave the church of course, but they could move away. Far away. To another country where anonymity would protect them. She knew Bernard had money of his own left by his parents and the law could make Ewan pay her at least half the value of their house. It would be dreadful for a while; the disgrace for Bernard, Ewan’s fury, her mother’s shame. But then it would be wonderful. She clung to the pleasures of imagination. Years ago, she’d been to Canada, staying with friends within sight of the clean beauty of the Rockies. It had all been so big, full of the empty spaces of sparkling mornings and night skies framed for giants. She would be able to ride again, turning in her saddle to see the man she loved beside her, then galloping away, laughing as he chased her. And they would ride to the lake in the mountains where it would seem as though they were the only people in the entire world and throw themselves on the grass and ...

  And the room suddenly closed in on her and the image of high prairies became suffocating Devon hills that trapped them. And this afternoon would be furtive, guilty love-making in Bernard’s bedroom made claustrophobic by ancient furniture and the smell of dust. And afterwards, Bernard would pray.

  *

  Gilbert Flyte was angry: Maltravers had tricked him — there was no other word for it — had tricked him into making a fool of himself. And now he had a weapon to hold over him. An incipient bully without even a bully’s sham courage, Flyte exercised authority with small-minded callousness; when threatened by authority, his resentment turned to fear and hatred. What made it more intolerable was that Maltravers had never had authority, he had only pretended, and now he had power without any right to it. Power over Gilbert Flyte. Power that would expose him. Suppose he brought the police in? Flyte knew he would not be able to withstand the agony of lying to them again; he would blurt everything out. And there was no escape. Whatever happened, Maltravers would remain a permanent threat. Everything Flyte valued in life — reputation, security, self-esteem, the success that he was certain his biography of Nelson would bring — could be brought down in ruins at any moment by one despicable man. As long as Maltravers lived, Gilbert Flyte would know no peace. As long as he lived ... that way lay dreams of succulent satisfaction, fantasies of deputy bank manager become not frightened, desperate killer, but cold, deliberate assassin. So terrifyingly impossible — but so terribly comforting and tempting.

  *

  ‘What time do you think you’ll be back?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Don’t wait up,’ Maltravers advised. ‘Tess was at school with the wife of the couple we’re going to see, so it’ll be impossible to prise them apart. You’d better let us have a key.’

  ‘No need. We’ll leave the door unlocked.’

  ‘Will it be safe?’

  ‘People round here often do it when they go out.’ Stephen smiled sourly. ‘Whatever else happens in Medmelton, we don’t suffer from petty crime.’

  ‘Lucky you. We’ll come in quietly.’

  ‘Where did you say this couple live?’

  ‘Somewhere past Plymouth, across the border in Cornwall.’

  ‘Remember there’s a toll on the bridge when you come back over the Tamar. Anyway, see you when I get back from school tomorrow. I imagine you’ll want to lie in in the morning.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Maltravers reached the end of the Medmelton lane and turned left along the A38.

  ‘Where are we meeting Sally Baker?’ Tess asked.

  ‘Pub at Buckfastleigh where I had lunch the other day. We’ll be able to eat there as well.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit close? If someone from Medmelton walks in and s
ees you together, it’ll be round the place like wildfire.’

  ‘It’s not likely. Everyone sticks to their own local and I don’t think my reputation has stretched outside Medmelton.’

  Sally Baker was not there when they arrived, but walked in just as they had finished their meal. Maltravers was intrigued with how she and Tess subtly assessed each other, each slightly defensive. When he went to the bar for more drinks, he deliberately let other customers be served before him so that he could leave them alone for a few minutes. Certain questions and answers would only be possible in his absence.

  ‘We’ve been trying to decide whether you’re quite mad or very clever,’ Sally announced as he returned to the table.

  ‘And what’s the verdict?’

  ‘The jury’s still out,’ Tess said drily.

  ‘If they say guilty, I shall plead insanity. There seems to be a lot of it about.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘However, further evidence should be forthcoming in about four hours. In the meantime, let’s look at what we’ve got.’

  He rested his elbows on the table, put his palms together and tapped his lips for a moment. ‘Whatever else happens, tonight should crack this witchcraft nonsense. I’ll lay money that Michelle will be there, with a confident side bet on her turning up with Mildred Thomson. But will it take us any nearer finding Gabriel’s murderer?’

  ‘It might take us right there,’ Sally told him. ‘It’s got to be a possibility that it was Mildred.’ She nodded towards Tess. ‘I trust you can look after this lady.’

  ‘She can do that herself,’ Maltravers replied. ‘In any case, killing a man who was probably fairly drunk when he wasn’t expecting it is very different from taking on a young sober woman — easy on the Scotch, darling — who’s on her guard. In any case, I can’t see any reason why Mildred should have wanted to murder him.’

  ‘There’s an awful lot we can’t see,’ Sally reminded him. ‘Once Gabriel and Mildred got to know each other, Heaven alone knows what they might have got up to.’

  ‘True,’ Maltravers acknowledged. ‘But he was hardly here long enough for them seriously to fall out.’

  ‘No, but if he got to know she was playing witchcraft with Michelle — or even some other local kids — he could have threatened to tell,’ Sally suggested.

  ‘The hell he would,’ Maltravers said with conviction. ‘He’d have got involved up to his ears. It’s exactly the sort of thing that would have appealed to him. Just remember that he was a marvellous poet and a lousy human being.’

  ‘So we’re left with the suggestion that it was Michelle’s father ...’ Sally began, then stopped when she saw the reaction on their faces. ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, but ...’ Maltravers looked uneasy. ‘I’ve told Tess about this. After we got back from the Raven last night and I’d gone through the pantomime of being mystified by the woman visitor, Stephen said something. He didn’t come right out with it, but his argument was that if it had been her father, he could have found out by seeing them. That meant he could live in a cottage with a view of the churchyard — like Dymlight has. And that frightened him.’

  ‘Frightened him?’ Sally frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t say, but it means that Veronica could have seen.’ Maltravers took a long time over lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s the obvious converse of the father theory. It hadn’t occurred to me, but Stephen saw it. Think about it. Veronica has an ultra-controlled personality. Whatever needs doing, she does it, no matter how difficult. She’s protected Michelle’s father’s identity for all these years, so she’s quite capable of protecting Michelle. If she’d been sneaking out at night to meet Gabriel, Veronica could have heard her — and seen them. According to Flyte’s story, the figure he saw could have been a man or a woman and Gabriel was killed with one slash across the throat. Knock it down if you can.’

  ‘I didn’t like this one little bit when Gus told me,’ Tess put in. ‘But I hardly know Veronica and what she might be capable of.’

  ‘I do.’ Sally sighed then remained silent for a few moments, sliding her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass. ‘My mother once told me a story about Veronica when she was a little girl. She had a kitten and there was something wrong with it. The vet said it would have to be put down. Veronica asked to keep it for one more night. In the morning, her mother found it dead by her bed. Veronica had suffocated it herself because she didn’t want the vet to do it.’

  She looked at the unease in their faces. ‘She was four years old at the time. When she was asked why, she said it was because she loved it.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Tess said quietly.

  ‘Ouch indeed,’ Sally repeated, then turned to Maltravers. ‘Stephen’s right. It could have been her.’

  FOURTEEN

  Frustrated and increasingly fearful, Mildred Thomson stared at the crawling spearhead hands of the clock on the sideboard. More than another hour to wait. Was Michelle lying about this visitor? It did not seem likely. The girl had been terrified when she had dashed into the house the previous evening, face pale, words spluttering out in panic. She had not recognised the woman; she was positive it was no one she knew. But vivid Medmelton eyes had been clearly visible in the light from the living room. Mildred had pressed for more details. How tall? About as tall as Mum. Colour of hair? Couldn’t see, she was wearing a headscarf. Voice? Did she sound local? Yes ... no ... perhaps. Michelle was not sure. She was too scared to think about things like that. What exactly had the woman said? That she knew what was happening in the churchyard ... that it was very serious ... that Michelle had to be there with the person who was making her do it at the time the woman said. If not, there would be a great deal of trouble. Had Michelle asked her name? No. She was so ... so frightened. She said she knew about Patrick Gabriel!

  Michelle had started to weep with terror, begging Mildred to come with her. They daren’t not go. The woman would speak to Mum if they didn’t. If they went, at least they might be able to keep it quiet. They had to keep it quiet. For both their sakes. Mildred had sharply told her to pull herself together and had sat thinking while the girl sobbed and sniffed softly.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ Michelle had finally asked. It was as if she was grasping at a frantic hope that it had been some sort of test devised by Mildred.

  ‘No. But I have to talk to her.’

  As the clock dropped slow seconds through the room, Mildred Thomson wracked her brains. During the day, customers had told her about the strange woman’s appearance at the Raven. Controlling her reaction, she had casually gathered what information she could. Rumour had confused the picture, but the Medmelton eyes and the partly visible birthmark were consistent. The best guess put her in her late twenties. Mildred could remember no girl from the village with such a disfigurement, so she had not been born here, but possibly one of her parents had. That made it impossible to identify her; countless people had moved away over the years. But how did she know about Michelle and the churchyard? If she’d been in the village before last night, surely word would have reached the stores. She had appeared out of nowhere, knowing things impossible for her to know. Where from? Why? What did she want? Who was she? There was a whirring sound, then the clock’s chime marked a quarter to midnight. Only another hour.

  *

  Sally Baker gave a complimentary nod as Tess reappeared from upstairs. Long bright russet hair which had reached far down her back earlier in the evening had been wound into a tight bun covered with a cream silk scarf, a dull red-purple smear creeping on to her right cheek from one edge of it. The wide collar of the grey raincoat was turned up like wings, half folded round her head. Sally crossed the room and looked at her carefully; the right eye was now chestnut brown, in striking contrast to the green of the left.

  ‘Isn’t the lens uncomfortable?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit, but ...’ Tess grinned unexpectedly. ‘Can you keep a secret? I wear them all the time.’

  ‘Blind as a bat if she takes them out,’ Ma
ltravers commented.

  ‘I’m not,’ Tess contradicted. ‘I just don’t like wearing glasses.’

  ‘ “Vanity of vanities, and everything is vanity”. I can do that in Latin as well if you want.’

  ‘Stop showing off,’ Tess told him. ‘And isn’t it interesting that suddenly we’re making jokes?’

  ‘Nervous laughter,’ Sally said. ‘It’s hardly surprising. Do we leave now? There’s still an hour to go and it’s only ten minutes’ walk.’

  ‘I think it’s better to be early,’ Maltravers said. ‘We want to get there without being seen as well.’

  ‘Nobody’s likely to be around at this time of night and it’s starting to rain,’ Sally assured him. ‘Hang on a minute and I’ll get the torch.’

  The rain had settled into a persistent thin drizzle as they left Sally’s cottage. The country silence Maltravers had noticed on his first night was wrapped in an all-embracing cloak of black, unfamiliar and disorienting to those who unconsciously lived within permanent reach of artificial lighting. From the top of the hill, Medmelton was virtually invisible, then cottages on its outskirts appeared uncertainly in the gloom, silent and still as they walked down. By the time they reached the green, their eyes had adjusted to what minimal illumination there was. Sally opened the lychgate very slowly, stopping when it was just wide enough for them to pass through.

  ‘It squeaks,’ she whispered.

  The porch of St Leonard’s seemed to hold an extra darkness of its own and the churchyard suddenly appeared comparatively light. Gravestones stood like random sentinels; drizzle gathered on the leaves of heavy yews, copper beech and the Lazarus Tree, dripping with infinite softness. At twenty to one, Tess went to stand by the tree, tall, black-booted, cloaked in her raincoat. As they waited, Maltravers silently took the torch from Sally Baker’s hand, then they stiffened as the lychgate creaked. Tess turned towards the sound, and two figures, anonymous as silhouettes, appeared. She did not speak as they stopped on the edge of the path, hesitant as inquiring animals smelling danger.