The Lazarus Tree

by Robert Richardson

  ‘What does he mean?’ she asked. ‘About being imaginative?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s crafty as a fox and he knows something — or has worked something out — but wants me to get there on my own. I should be flattered that he thinks I can do it.’

  ‘Do you think he’s trying to push you towards Stephen? That’s why he won’t say it.’ She sighed. ‘But he was the one who asked you here.’

  ‘But Stephen’s worked out that Veronica could have been the killer and wants to protect her. Is that it? Hell, we wanted Alex to talk us out of that. Think, dummy.’

  He leant against the window sill, staring at the view without seeing it, mentally ransacking everything he knew. The drama had a small cast. Stephen and Veronica, Bernard Quex, Mildred Thomson, Gilbert Flyte ... and the three men Sally had mentioned. But Medmelton was close-knit, jealous of its privacy, fiercely protective of its own. Even the police had been sent away empty-handed. And what about Michelle herself? Used by a man who had then laughed off promises of taking her away? She would have been very angry — and children could kill. She had certainly known Gabriel would be alone and unsuspecting in the churchyard. And when she’d been trapped last night, had she reached for a standard lie? I only found the body. Was that the direction in which Kerr was pushing him? Not the mother, not the father. The child. No, that’s terrible. Find something else, not just because you want to, but because it makes sense. Look at the little details, things that didn’t seem important. There might be something ... As Kerr followed Sally back into the room, Maltravers straighted up.

  ‘Of course.’

  He barely breathed the words, but Kerr still caught them. ‘Of course what?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  Sally kept looking at him as she put the tray of coffee down, then they all waited as Maltravers silently continued to stare out of the window.

  ‘Gus?’ Tess prompted finally.

  He turned towards Kerr. ‘If you’d said “wild imagination”, I might have got there sooner. But is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘You know what full well and fine because you were way ahead of me, weren’t you?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Kerr agreed quietly. ‘But I was hoping you’d see it for yourself. You have to admit that it makes sense.’

  ‘Do Tess and I get to play this game?’ Sally demanded.

  ‘It’s not a game,’ Maltravers told her. ‘It’s why somebody murdered another human being.’ He looked at Kerr again. ‘But can it be proved?’

  ‘Only if it’s forced into the open, and then it should prove itself of course. There’s not enough to take to the police yet and it’s certainly not the sort of thing in which I wish to be involved. But perhaps you could do it. I have some suggestions on that ...’ He looked hesitant again. ‘That is if they’re of any use.’

  ‘I’m sure they will be,’ Maltravers told him.

  SIXTEEN

  Doreen Flyte’s safe, secure, monotonous world had gone mad; not through some spectacular upheaval, but by tiny fragments suddenly no longer in place. First Gilbert had returned home, unannounced, from the bank in the middle of the day, trembling and agitated, refusing to let her call the doctor, even though he said he had felt unwell, then retreating to his study and remaining there for hours. His presence in the house had disturbed her own pedestrian, ordered life; she had felt unable to go for her customary walk in case he suffered some sort of attack. Her mother-in-law kept demanding what was the matter, subtly hinting that Doreen was not looking after her husband properly. Then Gilbert had gone back to work, only to return with the news that he was taking a few days’ leave for no apparent reason. It was stupefying; his holidays were as fixed as religious festivals. Two weeks in June when they all went to the same hotel in Weston-super-Mare, a week in April and early November for gardening, three days in spring when he attended the annual conference of the Naval History Society. It was a pattern set in stone, like everything else in their lives. Now it had not just been cracked; Doreen felt that it had instantly crumbled and she was left with nothing but debris. Hesitant, timid questions had only made things worse; Gilbert, normally so reliable and certain, had become distracted, angrily demanding not to be pestered, impatient with her concern. His mother had started to sulk, muttering complaints, blaming her bewildered daughter-in-law, imagining horrifying explanations with almost gleeful gloomy satisfaction.

  ‘His father went odd at the end and they found it was because of the tumour ... they’re going to make him redundant ... he’s been working too hard and I’ve warned him that he’d wear his brain out one day ... they’ve got those computers in the bank now and I was reading only the other day that they give off some sort of rays that change people’s personalities ... he’s always been sensitive, so I hope you haven’t done anything to upset him ...’

  And as his wife silently screamed inside herself, Gilbert Flyte sat alone in his study, fear and anger breeding obsessive hatred. How dare this man interfere in matters that were none of his business? He had admitted that he had no official position; there should be a law against poking into people’s private lives, whatever they might have done. He’d a good mind to ... to what? Complain? Report him? Who to? And how could he do that without everything coming out? In Flyte’s mind, Maltravers became like a bomb planted in the very foundations of his life, a bomb that had to be defused if he was not to live in perpetual terror of its detonation. And his tormented mind could think of only one way to remove it, desperate and frightening, but at least an escape from the danger closing in on him.

  *

  Swollen cumulus clouds were buffeted across Wedgwood sky and sweet chestnuts landed on the grass with tiny thuds as wind whipped the branches of the Lazarus Tree. Maltravers zipped up his bomber jacket as the first chill of autumn touched the afternoon.

  ‘Is there anything I haven’t thought of?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Tess pushed back long flames of hair blown across her face. ‘But you’ll have to lie convincingly to Stephen.’

  Maltravers smiled. ‘What did Alex Kerr say? “A reputation for honesty is a liar’s best weapon.” Anyway, part of what I’m going to tell him is the truth.’

  ‘But only part,’ Tess added.

  ‘Then let’s hope it’s enough.’ He glanced up at St Leonard’s church clock. ‘He and Michelle will be home soon. We’ll make ourselves scarce and get back around six. The Raven will be open then and we can take him there.’

  They drove south out of the village and stopped on the crest of the rise of hills. As they walked along the edge of a field, the wind grew wilder and they took shelter in the lee side of an oak from where they could see Medmelton more than a mile away down the valley: touches of thatch and white walls, the church tower, protecting trees, the glittering ribbon of its little river. The sort of place where nothing ever happened.

  *

  Veronica watched grey smoke instantly disperse out of a pyre of dead leaves. It was one of those sometime jobs she had suddenly wanted to do; it took her out of the house and away from Stephen. He was deceiving her about Gus and that was totally unlike him. Why this reawakened interest in Patrick Gabriel’s murder? Whatever the reason, she accepted that he would not have talked to her about it. She had always insisted that she was not interested and he knew her well enough to recognise an established no-go area. Normally, she would not have been concerned, but Veronica knew there was something happening behind Michelle’s barriers and unless she could be sure that ... a cloud of smoke was blown across her face and she blinked as it stung her eyes.

  Through her kitchen window next door, Ursula stared at her sister-in-law. There was contentment. Self-assured and controlled, a mother now married to a caring man. A job she enjoyed. No inadequacies, no sense of failure, no agony of indecision. No guilt. As she looked down again at the half-peeled potato she was holding, she began to weep.

  *

  ‘So that’s it.’ Maltravers kept his voice lowe
red as he finished. There were not many people in the Raven, but Medmelton kept keen ears for strangers. Their arrival had been marked by suggestive nudges, nods and body movements and Tess had received especially interested looks, but there was no sense that she was recognised. ‘I was right about Mildred Thomson.’

  ‘The bloody ...’ Stephen shook himself. ‘She’s depraved! Wait till I get hold of her.’

  ‘No,’ Maltravers said sharply. ‘Mildred knows she’s been exposed so she’ll almost certainly behave herself in future. And Michelle won’t have anything more to do with her. She realises now how stupid she’s been. I’m sorry to have had to break it to you about her and Gabriel, but that’s a fait accompli.’

  ‘I can live with that,’ Stephen told him. ‘I don’t like it, but she’s been putting it about for a long time. At least she didn’t get pregnant or ...’ Alarm filled his face. ‘The bastard didn’t have Aids, did he?’

  ‘He’d never have said anything if he had.’ The possibility had not occurred to Maltravers. ‘But that would surely have come out in the medical evidence at the inquest, and the press would have leapt on it. If it helps put your mind at rest, you could ask your doctor or the school medical officer to do a test. But I wouldn’t worry about something that may not be true.’

  Stephen swirled around the remains of his beer. ‘And the murder?’

  ‘What about it?’ Tess watched carefully as Maltravers paused to light a cigarette. ‘Michelle got mixed up with Mildred because Gabriel was dead, nothing to do with why he died. The best thing you can do is to forget the murder and concentrate on the fact that Michelle’s been through a very bad time. She might not admit it, but she needs help.’

  ‘She won’t admit it ... but what about your suggestion that it could have been her father who did it?’ Stephen pressed.

  Maltravers shrugged. ‘It was never more than a suggestion. Perhaps I had too much time to think and began coming up with ludicrous ideas. Medmelton has that effect — at least it does on outsiders. But we don’t know who he is, so it can never be proved and what the hell anyway?’

  ‘You mean you’re not bothered about who killed Gabriel?’

  ‘Frankly, no. I wasn’t exactly grief-stricken when I heard he was dead and I only took an interest because there could have been a connection with this churchyard business. Now I’m positive there never was. Murder’s a police matter. Nothing to do with me.’

  Stephen frowned at him. ‘So you’re forgetting it?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ Maltravers sounded surprised. ‘You asked me here because you were worried about Michelle. I’ve managed to sort that out and the murder’s irrelevant. If you want to find out any more, hire yourself a private detective ... another drink?’

  ‘My round.’ Stephen started to stand up, then stopped. ‘How much of this do I tell Veronica?’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ Maltravers said. ‘But Veronica can’t have it all ways. You say she turned off before when something was worrying you about Michelle. She might do the same thing again. In your position I’d just be aware and see what happens. If Michelle starts to readjust herself, you can forget it. If it has long term effects, you’ll have to make Veronica listen to you. Those are your family problems, friend.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth?’ Unexpectedly, Stephen smiled. ‘I’ve got to thank you two and I ought to apologise. This wasn’t the sort of visit you were expecting.’

  Tess laughed. ‘The last time I stayed in Devon I was bored out of my mind for a week. At least this time it’s been interesting.’

  ‘That’s one word for it,’ Stephen agreed drily. ‘Back in a minute.’

  Tess waited until he had reached the bar before speaking, her lips hardly moving. ‘Your eyes change colour when you lie.’

  ‘Do they? I can’t see it from my side. How noticeable is it?’

  ‘To me, a lot,’ she replied. ‘But I know you better than most.’

  Maltravers looked towards the bar. ‘But did I lie convincingly?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Tess assured him. ‘Couldn’t you see the relief on his face?’

  ‘Yes, he ... ah, ten past seven.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s ten past seven. The precise Mr Flyte has just walked in. Don’t stare, it makes him nervous.’

  Tess resisted the impulse to look round, but kept her eyes fixed on the bar until Flyte entered her field of vision.

  ‘With the dog? He looks innocuous.’

  ‘They always do, but there are all sorts of nasty frustrations behind that boring exterior. Given just one kink of courage, that little man could be absolutely intolerable.’

  *

  In the rectory dining room, Bernard Quex finished the remainder of the previous night’s cottage pie — he had never varied the recipe that his mother had taught him — and carried the plate through to the kitchen. There was a widower’s adequate orderliness to his domestic life, basic diet supplemented by dishes prepared by concerned parishioners. That was how it had begun with Ursula; adultery out of a lamb casserole. If she had not done that, would he ...? As he shook water off the plate before putting it in the rack, he told himself he was seeking excuses again, trying to move the blame on to her, and despised his lack of honesty; sin could not be reconciled. She had not been the first and if it had not been her it would have been someone else.

  He dried his hands and went into the hall, picking up the minutes of the Restoration Fund committee meeting from the table. For the next couple of hours he would be the respected rector and committee chairman, secret guilt and anguish masked by a charade that was a dream turned sour. As he walked through the darkened churchyard, seething wind shook the night and branches above his head creaked as though about to break.

  *

  Gilbert Flyte’s fingers tightened round his glass as Maltravers’s laugh rose above the chatter filling the Raven. Flyte had deliberately not looked round while he had been standing at his customary place, but there was a mirror behind the bar and he had seen Tess glance in his direction a couple of times, so apparently casual yet so obviously deliberate. Was Maltravers telling them the story of his confession, mocking him behind his back? He was despicable, confident and cruel, savouring his power. When he went back to London, he would tell everyone he knew about the man he had met in Medmelton who had fallen into his trap. And they would laugh at Gilbert Flyte and all he had achieved, his importance, his position, the regularity of his life, his weakness and his helplessness. The woman was laughing now, painted fingers pushing back shining red-bronze hair, subconsciously flaunting her beauty, arrogant as the man she was with.

  But Flyte was not helpless, they underestimated him; they thought they knew him, but they were wrong. He was not going to let them destroy everything he had. He had passed through panic and begun to see what he had to do ... and he would do it. They thought they could scare him, but all he needed was one opportunity. Just one moment when he would ...

  ‘On its way, Gilbert.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Flyte twitched out of his reverie as the barmaid picked up his empty tankard and began to refill it.

  ‘Your second pint. Don’t tell me you don’t want it. You always have the two.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Thank you.’

  Flyte took a leather purse from his jacket pocket and handed her the money. The casual incident, which had happened hundreds of times before, was suddenly a reminder of the security of his existence among people who knew him, who he was convinced respected him. If Maltravers went to the police, there would be no more evenings in the Raven, no more meticulous scoring at cricket matches, no more taking the collection at St Leonard’s, no more ... no more anything. Reduced to such little matters, his way of life appeared very important and its preservation worth any risk.

  Gilbert Flyte knew what he had to do. He finished his drink, said goodnight and left, carefully ignoring the table where Maltravers was sitting. Outside, he hurried alongside the green to his cottage, grateful t
hat the rising violence of the night was keeping people indoors, and put Bobby in his car; the dog looked confused, but settled obediently on the back seat. Leaving one of the windows open, Flyte walked rapidly towards St Leonard’s, a plan emerging in fragments. He rapidly searched among the graves until he found a heavy lead vase; the dead flowers it contained were hurled away by the wind as he tossed them aside. Then he crouched behind a tombstone from where he could see the Raven; it was nearly fifteen minutes before Maltravers, Tess and Stephen appeared, walking back towards the church, by which time Flyte had convinced himself there would be no problem with an alibi. He had left the pub at his usual time and Doreen was an obedient wife; he could persuade her to swear he had returned home a few minutes later and had not gone out again. All he had to do was to get Maltravers in the churchyard and wait for his opportunity in the darkness and confusion of the wild night ... The hand gripping the vase began to tremble. As the three figures reached the lane by the ford, he crept deeper into the darkness behind the grave and licked cold dry lips before calling out.

  ‘Hello!’ Terror choked the cry in his throat and he swallowed hastily before shouting again. ‘Hello! You there!’

  Maltravers stopped. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What?’ said Tess.

  ‘Somebody shouted.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything. It was the wind.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. It sounded like “Hello”. I think it came from over there.’

  Tess clutched her coat as a sudden blast slapped the collar against her face. ‘Who’d be in the churchyard on a night like this?’

  ‘God knows, but I’m sure that ... there it is again.’

  ‘I heard it that time,’ Stephen confirmed. ‘It’s not bloody Mildred, is it?’

  ‘I don’t imagine so,’ Maltravers told him. ‘It’s probably just kids messing about.’

  ‘Then we’d better look,’ Stephen said grimly. ‘One of them could be Michelle.’

  ‘All right,’ Maltravers agreed and turned to Tess. ‘But you go on and check if she’s at home.’