by Kate Charles
No one really saw him coming. Certainly David and Lucy did not. But suddenly Venerable Bead was there, in the vicarage garden, clutching his chest and breathing raggedly. His face was white, and large beads of sweat stood out on his clammy forehead. He staggered to Gabriel, nearly collapsing.
‘He’s having a heart attack,’ Lucy said quickly. ‘Someone get a doctor.’ David rose, then paused as the old man spoke with a great effort.
‘Come!’ he said. ‘The sacristy. You must come, Father. She’s in the sacristy. Mavis Conwell. She’s hanging. She’s dead!’
Part 2
CHAPTER 21
They smite down thy people, O Lord: and trouble thine heritage.
They murder the widow, and the stranger: and put the fatherless to death.
Psalm 94.5–6
David didn’t understand why the police wanted to talk to him – he had scarcely known Mavis Conwell – until it was explained to him that he was the last person to admit to having seen her alive.
To admit it. That meant that they thought someone else had seen her later, David reasoned. Someone who wouldn’t admit it. Someone who had . . . killed her. So they think it’s murder, he told himself as they escorted him into the sacristy.
Several hours had passed, during which the efficient police teams had done their work: fingerprints, photographs, and finally the removal of the body. A small crowd had gathered in the street outside St Anne’s, as inevitably happens when the police barriers go up, but they’d dispersed by now, with the departure of the ambulance. David had remained at the vicarage, drinking black coffee supplied by Emily, while Gabriel had joined the police in the church. And now they’d sent for him.
The sacristy looked different in artificial light from how it had in the afternoon. Two policemen sat at the table where so recently Mavis had counted her money, and their notebooks and bits of paper replaced the piles of notes and coins. Both of the policemen had anonymous, kindly faces. They rose as he entered.
‘Mr Middleton-Brown? Thank you for coming. I’m Detective Inspector Pierce, and this is Sergeant Gordon. We’d just like to ask you a few questions about this afternoon.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
A chair had been placed in front of the table. Detective Inspector Pierce motioned for him to sit and he complied.
‘Now, Mr Middleton-Brown. You came into this room this afternoon. At what time was that?’
‘It was just after half past four. Probably twenty-five to five.’
‘How can you be sure about the time?’
‘The organ recital began at half past. He was playing the first piece, the Franck Chorale, when I arrived. I’d checked my watch at about twenty past, and it couldn’t have been much later than that.’
‘And how long did you stay?’
‘Just a few minutes. Three or four at the most.’
‘And what route did you take to get to this room?’
‘I didn’t want to walk through the church during the recital, so I came around the side and in the little door.’
‘You found that door unlocked?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the sacristy door as well?’
‘Yes. I knocked, and Mrs Conwell asked me to come in.’
‘Now, I understand that Father Neville had been bringing the money in to be counted all day. Why, on this particular occasion, were you bringing it?’
‘There was an emergency at the vicarage – a girl had fainted. I offered to bring it over, to help him out.’
The Detective Inspector jotted down a few notes, then looked up again. ‘What did Mrs Conwell say to you?’
‘She asked me why I’d come instead of Gabriel – Father Neville. I told her the same thing. That there’d been an emergency and I was helping out. We chatted for a minute or two about how much money we’d taken in – that sort of thing. Just chit-chat.’
‘And how did she seem? How would you describe her?’
David thought for a moment. ‘Very ordinary. She didn’t appear to be upset or agitated. If anything, she was just a bit more subdued than usual, but she was involved in counting the money, and not really interested in conversation.’
‘How well did you know Mrs Conwell?’
‘Not very well at all. I first met her . . . last Sunday, it must have been. I’ve seen her briefly once or twice since then.’
‘And what seemed to be the general opinion, among people you know, of Mrs Conwell? Was she well liked?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say so. She had her friends – Mrs Framlingham and Mrs Dawson – but most people . . . well, they tended to steer clear of her.’
‘And why was that?’
‘Well, I think she was regarded as a gossip, and she was very judgemental about . . . people’s lifestyles, if they didn’t agree with her . . . moral standards.’
‘Very good, Mr Middleton-Brown. Now, I’d like you to take a look round this room. Look very carefully. Does it look the same as it did this afternoon?’
David stood up and studied the room. Desk, typewriter, prayer books, safe, cupboards, table. ‘The money, of course. The money was on the table.’
‘Yes. We’ve recovered the money. You needn’t worry about that.’
‘Aside from that, it looks the same to me. But I’ve only been in here the once.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Middleton-Brown. I don’t think we have any further questions for you at this time. Father Neville would be able to tell us where you could be reached, if it were necessary?’
‘Yes, he would.’
‘Thank you for your help.’
David left the church through the north porch and walked the short distance to Daphne’s.
It had been a very long day. He wasn’t thinking clearly, he knew. He hadn’t really absorbed the fact that Mavis Conwell was dead, murdered, and that he’d seen her less than an hour before she died.
Why? And who? He had a feeling that it was all tied up with the blackmail somehow. In a day or two he’d be able to think about it, maybe sort it out. And he had faith in the police; in his professional dealings with them he knew them to be competent, thorough and honest. So why hadn’t he mentioned the blackmail to them? They hadn’t asked – but that was a ludicrous excuse. Why on earth would they ask? He hadn’t been thinking clearly. He’d answered the questions they’d asked, straightforwardly, and for tonight that was enough. Tomorrow he’d talk to Gabriel. Tomorrow he’d know more, understand more. But tonight all he wanted was a drink, and his bed.
CHAPTER 22
In the multitude of the sorrows that I had in my heart: thy comforts have refreshed my soul.
Psalm 94.19
David’s sleep had been laced with nightmares of Mavis Conwell, grinning at him with a rictus-like smile, but in the morning he was no closer than he’d been the night before to understanding or even apprehending her death.
Daphne was up before him, and had brewed a pot of black coffee. He accepted a mug gratefully, but neither one was particularly inclined to talk about the events of Saturday. They sat silently for a few minutes, drinking their coffee.
‘Let’s go to eight o’clock Mass,’ he suggested. ‘And then . . . well, I’m not sure. I was going to spend the day with Lucy, you know, but . . . under the circumstances, maybe . . .’
‘I think you should go ahead,’ Daphne said sensibly. ‘Why should you change your plans? You’ve said your piece to the police, and if they need you again, they’ll find you soon enough. Anyway, it will take your mind off things.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. But it just doesn’t seem . . .’
‘Respectful to the dead? I wouldn’t worry about that.’
‘Hm. Well, I’ll try not to be back too late. Will you wait up for me?’
‘If you like.’
Eight o’clock Mass was a hurried affair. Gabriel’s heart just wasn’t in it; he looked harassed and preoccupied, and rushed through the service with a totally uncharacteristic lack of feeling. But everyone
made allowances – it wasn’t every day that a priest had a member of his congregation, and a churchwarden at that, murdered in his sacristy. And the silent, but visible, presence of the police during Mass was a constant reminder to everyone that this was not a normal Sunday.
Gabriel didn’t even remain to shake hands with his departing congregation. ‘I don’t suppose he can face all the questions,’ Daphne whispered as they left the church.
‘I’m sure he doesn’t have any more answers than anyone else at this stage,’ David defended him half-heartedly.
They parted, and David tried to shake himself out of his mood of foreboding as he walked to Lucy’s house. It shouldn’t have been difficult: the weather was even more glorious than the day before, a perfect summer’s day. But in the back of his mind was the uneasy feeling that this death was just the beginning of even more terrible things to come. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he must talk to Gabriel. But today . . .
Realising that it was still quite early, David took the long way through Kensington Gardens, stopping for a few moments to sit on a bench and watch the antics of the birds. The swallows were chasing each other across the wide expanse of grass, skimming over the ground, swooping and diving in perfect unison, their wings scissoring the azure sky. Kensington Gardens represented an anomaly, a bit of the country in the heart of London, a bit of peace in the midst of chaos. He looked at his watch. Nearly time. He thought suddenly how glad he would be to see Lucy. She would banish his morbid thoughts if anyone could.
Her front door was ajar, and he tapped tentatively. ‘Come on in, David,’ she called from within.
He stood in the entrance hall for a moment, looking about for any clues to her whereabouts. ‘I’m just about ready,’ she said as she came from the kitchen, pushing back her hair. ‘David, just look at my nose!’ She stood before him, lifting her face.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ she echoed disbelievingly, moving to the mirror and peering at herself with horror. ‘Why, it’s all red! It was that walk in Kensington Gardens before tea that did it, I think. I look just like a clown.’
‘Not to me you don’t. I think you look beautiful,’ he said with sincerity. She did look beautiful, in a creamy cotton dress strewn with roses just the colour of her hair.
She turned from the mirror and smiled at him. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. But maybe if I wear a hat, you won’t be ashamed to be seen with me.’ She rummaged in the cupboard under the stairs and emerged a moment later with a broad-brimmed straw hat, which she clapped on her head. ‘There! If I keep it on when we’re outdoors, at least it won’t get any worse. What do you think?’ she demanded, facing him.
‘You look beautiful,’ he repeated. ‘But I wish you didn’t have to cover your hair.’
‘It can’t be helped. Not unless you’re particularly anxious to see me looking like a beetroot by the end of the day,’ Lucy said, going into the kitchen. She returned shortly with a large wicker hamper. ‘Do you mind carrying this?’ He took it from her as she collected her sketch pad and a clutch of pencils from the hall table. ‘There now – off we go. I hope you’re ready for breakfast.’
‘Where do you go for breakfast around here?’ he asked as they walked along.
‘The Muffin Man. It’s not far. They do a lovely breakfast.’ She turned off Kensington High Street – congested with sightseeing buses even on a Sunday morning – and led him down a side street. ‘You wouldn’t find this if you didn’t know it was here,’ she commented as they went into the small restaurant. They found a table in the corner. It was covered with a flowered tablecloth and located under a hanging basket trailing with ivy. Lucy wasted no time. ‘We’ll have two breakfasts – the works,’ she instructed a passing waitress, dressed in a pinafore to match the tablecloths.
‘I’ve been to eight o’clock Mass,’ he confessed. ‘And I’m starving. I’ve been up since – well, early.’
She looked concerned. ‘Mavis Conwell. Of course you must be upset about that. The police only had a few questions for me – I wasn’t really involved. But you . . . Did you have to talk to the police last night?’
‘Yes,’ he replied shortly, unwilling to go into details. ‘But it wasn’t too bad. It’s just . . . well, there’s something about the whole thing that bothers me. But I don’t want to talk about it today. I want to forget that St Anne’s exists, for the rest of the day. Will you help me to do that?’
She smiled into his eyes. ‘You’ve come to the right person.’ She reached across the table and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Oh, look. Here’s the orange juice.’ Raising her glass, she toasted him. ‘Here’s to today, David Middleton-Brown.’
After the creamed eggs, and the toast with marmalade, and the pots of tea, they were finally ready to move on. ‘When does the V & A open?’ David asked.
‘Oh, not for hours yet. Shall we go to the park?’
‘How about Hyde Park? I’ll tell you what – I’ve always wanted to go in a boat on the Serpentine.’
‘A rowing boat? Oh, what fun! Can you row?’
‘I suppose I can learn,’ he said doubtfully. ‘At least it will help to work off breakfast.’
There were quite a few other people with the same idea, but they managed to hire one of the turquoise boats for an hour, and David somehow successfully piloted them around the Serpentine without mishap. Rowing was hard work, but he alternated with periods of lazy drifting. Lucy trailed her hand in the water and laughed tolerantly at his efforts from under the brim of her hat.
When their hour was over, they walked about for a while in the brilliant sunshine, until David declared himself unable to continue. ‘You won’t believe it, but I’m hungry again!’
They found a secluded, shady spot of grass under a silver birch tree and Lucy discarded her hat. ‘You’ve worked hard,’ she said. ‘You’re entitled to be hungry.’ She spread out a cloth, and began to unpack the hamper.
‘I thought you said a sandwich,’ David remarked, eyeing all the lovely things that were beginning to appear.
‘That’s when it’s just me. I love having someone to cook for, and a picnic is one of my favourite things.’ Lucy pulled out a bottle of champagne and David popped the cork as she produced two carefully wrapped long-stemmed glasses.
They had chilled watercress soup from a thermos, then little savoury parcels of filo pastry filled with cream cheese, a roulade of chicken and crab meat, and other various delicacies, finishing with a mango soufflé.
‘That was the nicest picnic I’ve ever had,’ David declared, when the last bite had been consumed. He lay back in the grass and closed his eyes. The grass was warm, even in the shade, the quiet murmur of the insects was soporific, and the half-bottle of champagne he’d drunk was making him drowsy.
‘You just rest a while,’ Lucy said soothingly. She got out her sketch pad and spent some time on a drawing of David in repose. The tense expression was completely gone from his face as he rested peacefully, in that half-aware state between sleep and wakefulness. He knew that he was well fed, and that Lucy was there. He knew that he was . . . happy. He knew . . .
He opened his eyes with a start, not at all sure how much time had passed. Lucy was working on a close-up sketch of him, and was sitting very near. She smiled at him as he opened his eyes; he reached out a disembodied hand and gently pulled on a ringlet of her hair. It straightened out, but snapped back as soon as he released it. ‘What wonderful hair,’ he murmured.
‘You should have seen it when it was really red,’ she laughed. ‘When I was . . . young.’
Eventually they made their way to the Victoria & Albert Museum. ‘My turn to do some real work,’ said Lucy with regret. She settled down with her sketch book in the Islamic gallery. David made himself comfortable against a nearby pillar and watched her with fascination. He was now wide awake, but kept very still to avoid breaking her concentration. She drew rapidly, skilfully, and very quickly filled several pages. After a while they broke fo
r a quick cup of tea in the museum café, then Lucy returned to work until closing time at six.
The sun still shone brightly as they walked slowly back to her house, David carrying the empty hamper. ‘It’s really hot,’ he said. ‘I could use a cool drink about now.’
She took off her hat and fanned herself with it. ‘Coming right up,’ she promised. ‘We’re almost there.’
‘How fortunate you are to live practically around the corner from the V & A.’
‘Oh, I know. I love living in London. And this is such a wonderful area. There are all the museums, the shops are good, and then there’s the Royal Albert Hall nearly on my doorstep.’
‘Yes, the Proms. Do you ever go?’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Several nights a week, usually. I always buy a season ticket, then if it’s anything good I go and queue up. You have to get there early to get a decent spot, but if I don’t have anything better to do . . .’
‘Could I come with you some evening?’ he asked impulsively.
‘Certainly, if you like. You can take a look at the book when we get home, and see if there’s anything you fancy.’
Sophie was waiting for them when they came in, mewing querulously. ‘Oh, poor Sophie, she wants her dinner,’ Lucy murmured. ‘David, you can go in the sitting room and make yourself comfortable, if you like. I’ll get you a drink, and feed Sophie. How about a Pimms?’
‘That sounds lovely.’ He sat down in his favourite chair and put his feet up on the footstool. A moment later she’d brought him an icy drink and the Proms book; he turned to the programmes for the coming week.
‘Have you found anything tempting?’ she asked when she returned with her own drink.
‘Yes, definitely. Tuesday sounds very good, and so does Thursday. Were you going to go on Tuesday?’
‘That’s the all-Mozart programme, isn’t it? Yes, I thought I’d go to that one. A little Mozart goes down well on a nice summer evening.’
‘Do you mind if I tag along?’
She smiled. ‘I think I could put up with you.’
