Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  A real ghoul, more like, Justine thought. But before she could respond, the girl was pushing the bag with pills into a grimy macramé bag swinging from her shoulder. She gave Justine a final, unsmiling stare. ‘Well, cheers then. See you around.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Justine watched as the girl walked out the door. She moved awkwardly, as though she was not at ease with herself. There was something quite vulnerable about her, about the heavy breasts, chunky calves, the hair inexpertly streaked with highlights. As she got onto the back of the bike she smiled at the boy—a smile of incredible sweetness—and placed her arms tightly around his waist. As he kicked the machine to life, she leaned her head against his back.

  ‘I hope this will do.’ The pharmacist had finally finished his search and had appeared from behind a narrow door. ‘Yes? Well, let me wrap it for you in tissue paper.’

  Thanking him for his trouble, Justine picked up the package and left the tiny shop with its close-packed shelves. She did not return to her car, but walked two blocks down to a charmless brick-clad building with an orange tiled roof. The local library. She had spotted it on her way in this morning.

  As she climbed the shallow steps, she noticed several bicycles chained to the link fence setting the building back from the road. But inside it was quiet. Behind a long Formica-topped counter sat a man, his back toward the door. It must be the librarian. He hadn’t noticed her.

  For a moment she hesitated, feeling slightly ashamed of herself. What was she doing here? What was she looking for?

  But actually, she knew exactly what she was looking for. The need to know what Adam Buchanan looked like had been growing inside her ever since she had discovered the jacket in the upstairs room. She was looking for his picture. A photograph.

  Adam Buchanan. She was so strongly aware of his presence at Paradine Park. Once or twice she had sensed a chill in the air and had whirled around, expecting to find a man behind her, a man with dark eyes. There were times she thought she might have heard the sound of his footsteps, catch a glimpse of him as he walked down the passage ahead of her. But at the moment he was keeping to the shadows. She could see the dark figure, the pale gleam of his hands. She needed to see his face. His eyes.

  Still she hesitated. Something inside her was warning her. Step back now. Behind her was the open door and the busy high street. Ahead of her the information counter and the man who was still sitting with his back toward her, oblivious of her presence.

  The compulsion was too strong.

  ‘Excuse me. Are you the librarian?’

  The man sitting behind the counter turned his head to look at her but made no move to get up from his chair. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

  ‘Could you tell me the name of the local newspaper?’

  ‘The Dutton and Ainstey Post.’ He spoke with the hint of a lisp.

  ‘I would like to look at some back issues.’

  ‘What year and month?’

  ‘I’m not sure of the month, but any copies going back nine years will do.’

  He finally decided to get to his feet. ‘Nine years. It will be on microfiche then. But I’ll need you to fill in a visitor’s card.’ He placed a square-shaped card in front of her. ‘Name, address and occupation, please.’

  When she handed the card back to him, his eyes flicked over what she’d written.

  ‘Paradine Park?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t offer any additional information and for a moment she had the feeling he was about to say something. But he took the card without comment and placed it face-down in a tray.

  Moving quietly from behind the counter, he brushed past her and walked down an aisle flanked by filing drawers. He lifted his arm to pull open one of the drawers. There was a yellow ring in the armpit of his shirt.

  He removed three rolls and handed them to her. ‘The microfiche machines are over there.’

  She sat down on one of the hard-backed chairs and started to thread the tape through the machine. The first roll held the January to April issues. With her hand on the knob, she began scrolling her way through obscure local election battles, car accidents and wedding announcements. No murders, although there was a piece on the theft of milk bottles.

  She was substituting the second roll for the first—May to August—when she became aware of the librarian standing behind her, to her left. She twisted around in her seat. He was watching her without expression.

  ‘Are you looking for anything specific?’ His voice was flat and uninflected except for that faintly incongruous boxer’s lisp.

  ‘I’m interested in a man called Adam Buchanan. He killed his brother nine years ago.’

  ‘The Paradine Park murder.’

  ‘You know about it.’

  ‘Of course. It created a great deal of excitement around here.’ The colourless voice was at odds with the words.

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember what time of year it happened?’

  For a moment he was silent, looking past her. His eyelids drooped and she had the feeling he was carrying on some kind of internal communication with himself. Then he looked up and fixed his expressionless eyes on her face. ‘Winter. The Christmas decorations were up. So I should say, November or December.’

  Way to go. She looked at him with more respect. He caught her glance and said, with the ghost of a smile, ‘Librarians have good memories.’

  ‘I suppose they must have.’ She laid the second roll to one side and looked at the third roll. ‘So it should be this one.’

  ‘Allow me.’ His movements were neat as he threaded the tape through. The film sped by in a blur. Every few seconds he’d stop and check before turning the knob again. His fingers were long and veined.

  ‘Here.’ He lifted his hand off the knob and straightened.

  Her eyes took in the headline, but she did not read the words that followed. Her entire attention was focused elsewhere. The photograph.

  It was clearly a posed head-and-shoulders shot. The eyes were staring straight at the camera. It looked like the kind of picture used for a passport or a driver’s licence. The caption read: The Face of a Killer.

  His hair was quite long, curling around his ears. The face was broad and the cheekbones prominent. The lips were pressed firmly together, as though he were keeping his emotions tightly reined in, but the lower lip was full. The eyes were slightly hooded and deep-set underneath strong black brows. He was an attractive man, certainly, and this was not a villainous face. The intelligence staring out of his eyes was evident. But still, the set expression made one feel uncomfortable; pushed you away. The burning intensity of his stare came through even on a cheap photograph like this one.

  The librarian was still at her elbow, hovering. ‘Thank you,’ she said quickly. ‘I can take it from here.’ She watched him out of the corner of her eye until he disappeared behind his desk before turning her attention back to the article.

  Unfortunately, the piece was short on facts and written in a wildly irritating, breathless style. The reporter showed great fondness for the word ‘dastardly’ and—difficult to believe—even used the words ‘murder most foul’ without any hint of irony. As she scrolled through subsequent editions, it became clear that the tragedy had provided the paper with a rich vein to mine. The murder and suicide at Paradine Park had kept the paper’s readers enthralled for months.

  She pulled copies of some of the articles off the microfiche and used the library’s photocopier to enlarge the photograph of Adam Buchanan by several sizes. It was not a good-quality photograph to start with and the enlargement increased the graininess of the print. But the expression in the eyes did not alter.

  She gathered up her handbag and walked over to the counter to pay for the copies.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ The librarian took the money from her.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, I did.’

  ‘I’m always surprised by how many people are still interested in this murder.’ His tongue slipped on the ‘s�
�� of ‘surprised’. ‘Every now and then some reporter will write about it again. But then violent death often has sex appeal, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sex appeal?’

  He smiled. ‘I noticed you’re a photojournalist.’ He nodded at the card she had filled in earlier. ‘So you know what I’m talking about. You must have photographed incidents of violence. Of death.’

  She didn’t answer. The guy was starting to creep her out.

  ‘Dying is a wild night and a new road.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Emily Dickinson.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Creepy and erudite.

  ‘I spent an entire week at Paradine Park once, you know. Mrs Buchanan asked me to catalogue the library.’

  For a moment she felt like asking him if he had ever met Adam Buchanan in person but something about his expressionless eyes stopped her.

  He continued. ‘I was wondering what would happen to the books now that the place has been sold.’

  ‘The books are about to be crated and shipped off to Japan.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  He reached down underneath the desk and produced a yellow-and-blue leaflet. ‘The services we provide are listed in here. As well as our opening and closing hours.’

  She took the leaflet from him. ‘Thanks.’

  He smiled palely. ‘You should go to church.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Church,’ he repeated patiently. ‘Reverend Wyatt, our vicar, will be able to tell you more about Paradine Park. He knew the Buchanans well.’

  ‘Oh. I see… Well, thank you.’

  ‘Come again.’

  Not likely, she thought but nodded.

  She stepped outside and looked around her. At the end of the street was the church with its imposing spire. Inside the churchyard, two small boys were throwing a beach ball at each other. As Justine started walking toward them, a gust of wind lifted the blue, white and red ball away from the outstretched hands of one of the boys. It bumped lightly off a slanted stone marking the spot of an old grave and floated silently into the shadows of a hedge. A woman, the mother presumably, shouted something at one of the boys and stooped to pick up a blanket and a picnic basket.

  Picnicking in a graveyard. It was something she remembered from her own childhood as well. She and Jonathan playing among the stone slabs. Cobwebs in the grass, sun against the back of her neck, Jonathan patiently teaching her how to do handstands. Memories of summer holidays when she and Jonathan were together. For the rest of the year they lived apart, Jonathan in the house in London with their mother and she on the road with Sam. It was part of an agreement reached by their parents at the time of their divorce. She had always wondered how the decision had been made as to which parent got which child.

  She opened the tiny black gate leading to the churchyard and walked up to the doorway. Against one wall was a stone angel with hands folded piously, leaning forward as if in warning. She entered and the smell of old varnish and old dust was immediately familiar.

  Great spreading windows flanked both aisles and reached into the high vaulted roof. She walked slowly down the long aisle, the chill of the stone floor creeping through the soles of her shoes. Halfway down, next to a finely veined marble monument, she stopped. Two life-size alabaster figures—a man and a woman—stood side by side under a canopy. The figures stood hand in hand but their faces were without passion, the round eyeballs blind.

  ‘Sir William and Lady Dorothea Davenant.’

  She turned around swiftly. Behind her was a short, portly man with a scant fringe of hair. He was smiling at her cheerfully. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve startled you.’

  ‘No… not really. Am I trespassing?’

  ‘Of course not. I always welcome visitors. As I’m sure they do.’ He nodded at the alabaster figures. He smiled again and she noticed that his eye-teeth were small but rather pointed. It gave his smile a rather disconcerting quality, like a cuddly little bear who suddenly reminds you he has fangs.

  ‘I’m Reverend Wyatt.’ He held out a pudgy hand.

  ‘Justine Callaway. How do you do.’

  ‘Anything in particular I can help you with?’ He put his head to one side and looked at her with bright eyes.

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to give the appearance of a sensation-hunter. But before she could respond he said, ‘We often have out-of-towners drifting in. The church is much admired, of course. Part of it was built not long after the Norman Conquest. That narrow window in the chancel—over there—that’s the oldest part of the church. And those stone coffins in the Lady Chapel and the pillars of the nave belong to the thirteenth century.’

  He had placed his hand on her arm as they walked in the direction of the pulpit, an ornately carved wooden structure with tiny steps. ‘The pulpit is a fairly recent addition,’ he continued. ‘A gift from a parishioner just after the Great War.’

  She glanced around her. ‘The upkeep must be expensive.’

  ‘Staggeringly so.’ He sighed. ‘The church has always relied on the generosity of parish members as well as visitors. These brass plaques list the names of some of our most prominent benefactors.’

  They had stopped in front of a large wooden panel. The highly polished brass plaques held names and dates going back to the nineteenth century. Her eyes skimmed over some of the more recent additions: Mr and Mrs Stephen James; Mrs C. Benton; Mr and Mrs Michael Pickering; Mr and Mrs Robert Buchanan…

  Buchanan.

  She stared at the engraved lettering.

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  She turned her head. Reverend Wyatt was watching her.

  She pointed to the plaque. ‘The Buchanans… are they—were they—the owners of Paradine Park?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Among other things, the family contributed very handsomely toward the cost of the stained-glass window here.’ He half-turned and pointed upward to a window where an emaciated Christ drooped from the arms of a stern-faced Madonna.

  ‘I live at Paradine Park at the moment. I’m a freelance photographer and I’m very interested in photographing the house. But I’d like to know more about its early history.’

  ‘You may want to talk to Harriet Buchanan, the previous owner. She was passionate about Paradine Park. At one point she even considered writing a book about the place. Nothing came of it, though. After her mother’s… death… she moved out of the house—understandably so—but she could never bring herself to sell. Anyway, she lives in London. I don’t have her contact details but she should be easy to find.’

  ‘Thank you. Maybe I’ll do just that.’

  ‘Paradine Park is a wonderful place.’ That little sharp-toothed smile again. ‘I can certainly understand why you would want it photographed. I always looked forward to my visits there.’

  ‘Did you visit often?’

  ‘I used to visit quite frequently; Mrs Buchanan was very involved in parish affairs. She was one of our most gifted embroiderers. You can see her handiwork in some of the church’s embroidered kneelers. Of course, this was many years ago. Long before—’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘Long before the murder.’

  He grimaced. ‘You’ve heard about it.’

  ‘Did you know them well? The two brothers?’

  He bit his lower lip. She could sense his reluctance. She kept her face relaxed, looking at, but not quite into his eyes. It was a technique she had acquired during her years as a photojournalist. For some reason it helped gain people’s trust so that they opened up to her. It had stood her in good stead more than once when she had to defuse suspicion of the camera and coax a subject into relaxing a clenched jaw, a hostile glare.

  Reverend Wyatt was frowning. ‘Yes. I knew them well. You know what it’s like in these small villages. Everyone knows everyone else. My mother and Mrs Buchanan were members of the same bridge club. Of course, after finishing school, Adam moved to Scotland. And even when he returned to Paradine Park after his father’s death, we didn’t see that much
of each other. Richard I saw often. He always accompanied his mother to church.’

  Reverend Wyatt paused. ‘Adam wasn’t a churchgoer.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Adam? A fascinating man.’ He spoke slowly. ‘An unconventional thinker. I was as shocked as anyone when I heard what had happened. And that he had escaped justice. Although, genus est mortis male vivere.’

  ‘To live an evil life is a kind of death.’

  ‘Exactly so. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t be. Strictly schoolgirl Latin, I assure you.’

  He smiled absentmindedly. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but the eyes behind the glasses seemed suddenly as flat as pebbles. No trace of the jolly little bear left. ‘Adam Buchanan brought wickedness to that house. To this town.’

  ‘Wickedness. It’s a word you don’t often hear any more.’

  ‘It is not a word. It is a force.’ He spoke quite deliberately. His eyes still held that unnerving, expressionless look.

  ‘When you say Adam Buchanan brought wickedness to this town, what do you mean?’

  ‘A crime like that doesn’t happen in isolation, Ms Callaway. It affects everything around it. The killing threw the town into a feeding frenzy. It was not pretty to see. I always think of the murder at Paradine Park as an oozing boil, contaminating the whole of the surrounding community.’

  It had darkened inside the church and, with no sun behind it, the jewel colours of the stained-glass window were muted. She looked down the long aisle and out of the open doorway. Against the oblong of silver light the stone angel looked as though it were about to take wing.

  ‘I should go.’

  ‘Yes.’ He walked with her to the door and they shook hands. As she turned to walk away from him, he suddenly said, ‘Miss Callaway…’

  She stopped and waited. His face looked all of a sudden small and pinched.

  ‘I remember a conversation Adam and I once had—actually, I remember it very well. In view of what happened out there at Paradine Park, it had acquired special resonance for me, you understand.’