The Lazarus Tree

by Robert Richardson

  ‘But not the worst one.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Half an hour later, Maltravers turned off the bedside light and they lay in the darkness holding hands.

  ‘There’s one suggestion I can’t shake off,’ Tess said. ‘It’s probably because all I can see at the moment is that goddamned woman’s face. Do you think she could have murdered Gabriel? She looks capable of it.’

  ‘But why? We’ll see what Sally thinks ... and we’ll ask her friend Mr Kerr.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because Mr Kerr is a very clever man.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘It’s late. Sleep.’

  Tess closed her eyes, forcing her mind on to any prosaic thing that would drive out hideous images. Helen’s birthday next week ... organise a present ... ring her agent about that film role, very small but should pay well ... write that damned letter to the States ... remind Gus about getting the car serviced ... what would Helen like? ... fix up a dinner party with Donna and Jeremy ... book tickets for ...

  Lying awake beside her, Maltravers could see only the image of the Lazarus Tree as it would look from Stephen and Veronica’s bedroom at the other end of the landing.

  FIFTEEN

  Michelle’s body trembled and she gave a little cry. Fragments of a dream whirled in her half-conscious mind then fled like smoke suddenly blown away, fading images confused with the reality of what had happened in the churchyard. Patrick alive and kissing her as his features changed into Mildred’s treacherous face; sweet chestnuts from the Lazarus Tree split open and running blood; Tess’s fabricated Medmelton eyes blazing with accusation; Maltravers and Sally Baker rising from behind a gravestone. For a few seconds everything was real and nothing was real, then her alarm clock snapped her into complete wakefulness. She was still wearing her clothes. Uncertain as the vanished dream, she could half remember Tess supporting her as they walked back to the cottage, but after that there was nothing.

  She sat up abruptly, fingers violently scrubbing her short hair as though to agitate her brain into action. She could rationalise it now. The stupidity with Mildred was over and apprehension at its exposure was mixed with relief. Maltravers was a disturbing figure, now knowing too much and in control. She hated that, but had to accept it and be ready to respond to what might happen. Ready to lie if necessary, to deny and adopt new masks.

  During breakfast, Stephen made occasional conversation, Veronica was efficient and calm, Tess acted the polite guest and Maltravers went into detached writer’s mode as he watched everyone else. An outsider would have seen four adults and a sulky teenager, half listening to Radio 4, going through the motions of starting another day. The meal finished, Tess insisted on doing the washing up, Stephen and Michelle left for school and Maltravers went into the front room with the morning paper. At nine, Veronica went to catch the bus into Exeter; a few minutes after she left, the telephone rang and Maltravers answered it.

  ‘Good morning, Sally.’

  ‘How’s Michelle?’

  ‘Coping. Went to sleep like a baby and seems to be in control of herself again this morning.’

  ‘That’s typical, but I’m not sure how complete that control is. She’s toughing it out and it would be better if she cracked.’

  ‘Perhaps she will.’ Maltravers was painfully conscious of further agonies the girl might have to go through. ‘Look, we have to talk ... and I’d like your friend Alex Kerr there as well. Can you coax him out of his warren for coffee at your place?’

  ‘He’ll come if I ask him. But why?’

  ‘First, because we’ve all got emotional hang-ups about this and need someone detached to bounce things off. Second, because I found him ... very shrewd.’ Maltravers paused and felt uncertainty in the hesitation from the other end of the line. ‘Sally, some things are not my business. Both you and Alex have told me he worked for the Post Office and I’ll go along with that ... all right?’

  He waited for her to break the silence. ‘He said you were sharp.’

  ‘And discreet,’ he assured her. ‘We’ll see you in about half an hour.’

  Tess frowned at him as he rang off. ‘What was all that about this Alex Kerr?’

  ‘There’s a lot more to Mr Kerr than he cares to admit, but he has his reasons for keeping it quiet. However, dropping the hint that I realise it might let him be a little more direct in throwing out suggestions.’

  ‘You mean you want him to come up with some explanation as to why it couldn’t have been Veronica.’

  ‘I want that very much. Because I still can’t see why she might not have done it. And I don’t like that.’

  *

  Head bowed and clasped hands resting on the altar rail, Bernard Quex knelt in the silence of St Leonard’s. All the standard preliminaries had been uttered automatically — did he ever think about what he was saying any more? — and he had prayed for the good of his flock, his parish and his church, comfort for Jane Dawson in her illness and Harry Clark in his grief. For the souls of my mother and father and all those departed, for the guidance of those living, for the Queen and those who counsel her that they might have wisdom, for peace in the world. In the name of our Lord and Only Begotten Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen.

  And now he must pray for himself. Stooped supplicant shoulders rose and fell as he breathed very deeply. For strength in my weakness, Lord. For forgiveness of my sin. That You might weigh that which I have done well in Thy name and find I am not wanting. For recognition of my suffering. For help in my confusion, for absolution of my guilt. Of my guilt, that is so ...

  He sobbed violently. The image of Ursula Dean had invaded his mind, instantly bringing him face to face with the fever and irresistible craving of it all. Not once, not twice, but ... too often, when once had been too many. And that afternoon she was coming to the Rectory again and they ... he shuddered.

  ‘Father, forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘For I know what I do and what I have done.’

  *

  ‘Is anything the matter, Mildred?’

  ‘What? No, of course not. Why should there be?’ Mildred Thomson glared defiantly as she slammed the half pound of smoked back bacon down on the counter. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Oh ... yes, I think so. How much altogether.’

  ‘Four pounds seventeen. Thank you.’ She snatched the note and flicked the change from the drawer of the till. ‘Who’s next? Are you going to look at those cabbages all day or are you going to buy one?’

  ‘Somebody got out of bed the wrong side this morning,’ a woman at the back of the shop muttered.

  Mildred Thomson’s behaviour was a confusion of fear and anger. Fear of the threatened destruction of a lifetime’s reputation; anger at having been tricked and being now in danger from outsiders. In Medmelton which she had embraced as her world, sublimating abandoned hopes and desires in the security of her power, knowing that this place was hers, that she knew those who lived here and all the details of their lives. That she could play games with them, casually passing on just enough gossip she had heard from one to affect another. And she had become skilled at it, subtle in manipulation, secretly rejoicing over the petty jealousies and misunderstandings she created, endless revenge for years of real and imagined slights. Because she had remained the unimportant, disregarded woman who ran the village shop, unthinkingly accepted and trusted by them all. It had been compensation for all she could not have but had wanted so desperately. But suddenly she was no longer in control and ...

  ‘Not that one, Mildred. I never have that brand.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at the packet of soap powder she had taken from the shelf. For the first time in forty years she had made a mistake while putting an order together. It was strange how much such a little thing hurt, as though part of her self-esteem had been torn away.

  *

  Ewan Dean did not look up from the newspaper as the shop bell sounded; it was probably just another casual customer browsing around until they decided to buy nothing. It underlined how bad
business was and if things didn’t improve soon ...

  ‘Hello, Ewan.’

  Now he took notice. ‘I thought you were at work.’

  ‘Not for another half hour.’ Veronica stepped behind the counter. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

  ‘The kettle’s just boiled.’ He stepped down off the high wooden stool and she followed him into the back of the shop. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Something happened the other night. We’d been out to dinner with Gus and when we got back Stephen heard some story in the pub about a woman calling at the cottage. Michelle said she didn’t see her because she’d gone out, but she’s lying.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘I always know,’ she said simply. ‘What worries me is why.’

  Her brother handed her a mug. ‘Who was she? This woman.’

  ‘Nobody knows — but she had Medmelton eyes and a birthmark on her face. I certainly can’t place her. Nobody knows what she wanted either. She just went into the pub and asked where Dymlight Cottage was.’

  ‘If she was from Medmelton, she should have known that.’

  ‘Of course she should. I don’t like it, Ewan.’

  ‘It’s not like you to get worried. What else is there?’

  Veronica smiled thinly. ‘We’ve always known each other so well, haven’t we? Of course there’s something else. Stephen didn’t ask Gus down by chance and he’s up to something. Haven’t you heard? Medmelton’s talking about nothing else.’

  Dean shrugged. ‘I’ve not been out for the past few days and Ursula hasn’t mentioned anything. What’s he up to?’

  ‘Asking questions about Patrick Gabriel.’

  ‘What? That all went quiet months ago. I’d forgotten about it.’

  ‘I hadn’t.’

  Dean stepped forward and took her chin in his hands. ‘Why not? It was nothing to do with you.’

  Veronica pushed his hand down and turned her face away from him. ‘Don’t press me, Ewan. I need to talk.’

  *

  Alexander Kerr had taken the chair directly in front of the side window of Sally Baker’s front room. As he listened, holding a white fluted cup and saucer, his head remained motionless as pencil-lead eyes flickered towards each of them in turn, but there was no other reaction until they had finished.

  ‘So after these midnight dramas in the churchyard, you don’t like what you’ve ended up with,’ he remarked. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have started in the first place.’

  ‘We didn’t know what we’d end up with,’ Maltravers said.

  ‘And if you had, would you not have done anything?’

  Maltravers sighed. ‘I don’t know. Possibly.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now.’ Kerr smiled sympathetically. ‘However, let’s see if there are other alternatives to Veronica killing her daughter’s seducer — although that’s probably slandering the dead. Michelle Dean is no innocent.’

  ‘Do you think there are alternatives?’ Maltravers asked.

  ‘I suggest you think about them.’ Kerr’s tone prompted him.

  ‘All right,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘Before we get on to specifics, let’s look at the general. The only possible motive we’ve come up with for anyone killing Patrick Gabriel is that someone discovered what was going on between him and Michelle and cared enough about her to do something about it. That means ...’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Kerr interrupted. ‘You’re using “cared” in the sense of loved. But Gilbert Flyte’s admitted he saw them — and he might have “cared” in a different way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maltravers asked.

  ‘Gilbert Flyte is a little man with delusions that he’s a big one. He bullies his wife, he’s the type who’d be intolerable to work under and he convinces himself that one day he will be recognised as a great biographer. He is also sexually frustrated. Anyone who’s seen his face whenever an attractive and preferably young woman walks into the Raven would know that.’ Kerr sipped his coffee, then used the cup to gesture dismissively. ‘I tend to notice how people behave. Put it down as a bored old man’s hobby.’

  ‘And what do you ... deduce from your hobby in this case?’

  ‘I normally don’t bother with deductions, but ...’ Kerr paused. ‘I think I might manage a plausible scenario. Flyte lusts after young women but they’ll have nothing to do with him. He then sees a very young one giving herself to a much older man. That heightens his frustration to the point where it has to be satisfied by any means. So he kills Patrick Gabriel. He then tells Michelle he knows what she’s been up to and unless she does the same for him ... it’s just a theory.’ He sounded apologetic.

  ‘And when he convinces himself that I’m about to arrest him, he blabs out part of the story and hopes that will be enough to avoid some very awkward questions,’ Maltravers concluded. ‘Yes, it’s plausible.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Sally said. ‘Michelle would have told us last night.’

  ‘Don’t be dense, Sally.’ There was disappointment in Kerr’s reprimand. ‘Michelle Dean is a liar. When you were with her in the churchyard, she admitted no more than she had to. You’d exposed her activities with Mildred Thomson and how they were linked to Gabriel. What she said may have been true — but did she tell you everything?’

  ‘And if it was Flyte, there’s no problem,’ Maltravers added. ‘He’ll crack the moment the police start questioning him.’

  ‘Don’t grab hold of my theory just because it’s more acceptable than what you’ve got,’ Kerr warned. ‘You don’t have any proof.’

  ‘People only blurt out conveniently comprehensive confessions in murder mysteries,’ Maltravers commented. ‘In real life, they defy you to prove it. And that could be a problem. Anyway, what else is there?’

  ‘Michelle’s father of course. That’s plausible — but who is he?’ Kerr turned to Sally Baker. ‘Your connections with Medmelton are longer than any of ours. Suggestions?’

  ‘I’ve thought a lot about that.’ She stared into the remains of her coffee. ‘There are three men still living here who were part of the group that Veronica belonged to in her teens, but I’m not aware that any of them was ever a boyfriend as such. Ewan was the protective older brother looking after his little sister. To be honest, I don’t remember her having boyfriends.’

  ‘Come on, Sally, she must have done,’ Tess protested. ‘I’ve got an older brother and he could be ridiculously jealous of anyone who took an interest in me, but I found plenty of ways round it. Any girl as attractive as Veronica would have had boyfriends.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Sally agreed. ‘But I’ve never heard of anyone special — and Medmelton would have known about that.’

  ‘Perhaps not in this case,’ Maltravers pointed out. ‘Veronica’s very good at keeping secrets — she’s passed that on to Michelle. But if one of them got her pregnant, why did she refuse to identify him? And still does ... Alex?’

  ‘Well ...’ Kerr gazed at the ceiling for a moment. ‘As I understand it, Veronica and Ewan and their friends all belonged to the church youth group, social activities being somewhat restricted in these parts. That’s always been run by Bernard Quex — who you now believe is having an affair with a married woman. So the question we might ask is did he start his philandering earlier?’

  ‘We’ve already thought that,’ Maltravers told him. ‘And it would explain why Veronica never named him. But ...’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Tess interrupted. ‘Didn’t Gilbert Flyte say that he saw the murderer walk off down the side of the church? Towards the back? Where the rectory is.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maltravers confirmed. ‘But the cottage Patrick Gabriel rented is round there as well — and remember that after the murder all his notes were taken. Gabriel certainly told Stephen about the poem he was working on and he’d have told anyone else who took an interest. Love — sacred, profane, legal and illegal ... like sex with a minor? If the killer was protecting Michelle — bringing us neatly back to the father theory �
� he’d have stolen the notes in case there was anything in them that could identify her.’

  ‘Which could include Veronica,’ Sally said sadly.

  ‘I’m afraid it does ... Help us out, Alex.’

  ‘I don’t know that I’m much use ... but part of your reasoning is that Veronica could have seen them in the churchyard from Dymlight Cottage. She doesn’t have an exclusive view. Flyte’s admitted he saw them and anyone taking a late night walk in the summer might have done as well without them being aware of it. From my recollections of the activity, I seem to recall there are at least brief periods when one is ... not concentrating on anything else.’

  He turned to Sally. ‘You say there are three men who grew up with Veronica still living in the village. A number of cottages in Medmelton have a view of the churchyard. Do they live in any of them?’

  ‘One does — and the others could have been walking by.’ She smiled at Maltravers. ‘There are other options.’

  ‘Including, of course, Mildred Thomson.’ There was a silence while he drew on his cigarette. ‘I just wish I could see a motive there.’

  Kerr made a dubious noise in the back of his throat. ‘After what she’s been up to, I can appreciate you’d like that. But can you really make that dog run?’

  ‘Possibly. If I was imaginative enough.’

  ‘Oh, I think you should be imaginative.’ Kerr’s eyes had half closed and he was smiling slightly. ‘But don’t limit it to Mildred ... Sally, is there any more of this excellent coffee?’

  ‘Pardon? Yes, of course. I’ll make some.’

  ‘I’ll come and help you.’

  Maltravers remained in his chair for a moment, then went to the window overlooking the hill dropping into the village. A rising wind had made the day very clear and sunlight glinted off the gilded face of St Leonard’s tower clock. He saw a woman leave Medmelton Stores and walk alongside the green then go through the gate of Gilbert Flyte’s cottage. Looking towards the back of the church, the slate roof of the rectory was just visible above the trees. Tess came to stand next to him.