by Kate Charles
‘It said . . . that I was a disgrace to the Church.’
‘But there was a threat?’
‘Yes.’ Tony hesitated fractionally, looking down at his clasped hands. ‘About Ian.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Tony turned and met his eyes. ‘Ian is only nineteen,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I could go to prison.’
Walking back to Daphne’s in the rain, David went through the Portobello Road market to look for a florist. The flower-sellers on the market, discouraged by the weather, had long since packed up and gone home, but he found a florist shop around the corner. Roses for Lucy, he thought. Long-stemmed roses, the colour of her hair. He chose them with a feeling of anticipation. Tonight he’d give her the roses, and they’d listen to Mozart, and he’d forget about murder for a few hours.
In the meantime, though . . . He picked out a sturdy bunch of mixed summer flowers for Daphne, and went back for tea.
‘So how is the manly Craig taking his mother’s death?’ David asked while the tea steeped. ‘Prostrate with grief, is he?’
‘He doesn’t seem to be particularly bothered,’ Daphne said in her detached way. ‘He didn’t have much to say for himself, but he’s not especially verbose at the best of times.’
‘When will the funeral be?’
‘Next week – probably Tuesday. I think the inquest will be Monday, and they’ll release the body for the funeral then.’
‘Are there any other relatives?’
‘I believe that Mavis had brothers and sisters, but there’s no one close enough to be involved in the planning. Craig wants it as simple as possible, he says. Actually, he wants it as cheap as possible,’ she added cynically. ‘It will be a plain Prayer Book funeral, no frills at all.’
‘No servers?’
‘No.’ Daphne laughed. ‘This is the other interesting bit. He says he doesn’t want any servers – not even a crucifer. He said that his mother hated “those poofs” and wouldn’t have wanted them “prancing around” at her funeral!’
‘And what did Gabriel say about that?’ David smiled in spite of himself.
‘He didn’t say a word, but he looked extremely pained.’
‘I should think he did.’
CHAPTER 28
Upon an instrument of ten strings, and upon the lute: upon a loud instrument, and upon the harp.
Psalm 92.3
Daphne had already finished her breakfast and was nearly done with the newspaper by the time David emerged, yawning and rubbing his eyes. ‘Would you like a cooked breakfast?’ she offered.
‘No, thanks, Daphne. I really can’t have you waiting on me all the time. Just toast and tea will be fine.’
‘You must have been out quite late last night. How was the Mozart?’
‘Oh, splendid,’ he replied with a reminiscent smile. ‘The worst part was queuing in the rain. I swore it was the last time I’d ever do that – and I’m too old to stand through a concert, anyway.’
‘I thought you said you were going to go again tomorrow night.’
‘Yes, but I’ve splurged, and bought seats in the stalls. It will be worth it.’
‘Are you going to the organ recital today?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Do you want to come?’
‘No, thank you. I heard a bit of the one on Saturday, and a little of Miles goes a long way with me.’
He frowned pensively. ‘I really wish I could pin the murder on him.’
‘Well, you can’t. We’ve established that. Have you had any further thoughts on what Tony told you?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it. I think that the fact that he was so open about the letter he received puts him in the clear. If he’d murdered her, he wouldn’t have told me about the letter.’
‘Not necessarily. He might have been trying to throw you off the scent. After all, you didn’t actually see the letter. You don’t know what it really said.’
‘Oh, Daphne, your mind is too devious for me. Is there anybody I can cross off the list of possible suspects?’
‘Yes, Miles Taylor,’ she chuckled.
*
The sun had returned, at least intermittently; Lucy was waiting for him outside of the church, shading her eyes against the bright light. ‘You’re early,’ he greeted her.
‘Yes, it was such a pleasant day that I couldn’t really get started working, so I came out and walked over through the park. Anyway,’ she confessed, ‘I didn’t get up very early this morning, so there wasn’t time to do much painting, even if I’d been inclined.’
‘I didn’t either,’ David admitted. ‘Poor Daphne, I don’t know how late she waited up last night.’
‘You couldn’t talk her into coming with you today?’
‘No, she wasn’t all that keen.’
Lucy hesitated. ‘Emily won’t be coming today, either.’
‘Oh?’ David said, as non-committally as possible.
‘No. I had a letter from her in this morning’s post. You know I said last night that I hadn’t talked with her since Saturday? Well, apparently she’s gone away for a few days.’
‘By herself?’ he asked, hating himself for his dishonesty.
‘Yes.’ Lucy didn’t say any more, and he could only guess at how much Emily had revealed to her. Not very much, he surmised. Lucy would be loyal and discreet, but surely Emily wouldn’t have . . .
People had been steadily streaming past them into the north porch of the church. Now Beryl Ball approached, shuffling up in her moon-boots. But instead of going past, she stopped and looked at David, then at Lucy, with her magnified eyes. ‘You just can’t stay away from the women, can you?’ she asked maliciously. ‘When I wouldn’t have you, you went after that whore the Vicar’s wife. She’s not particular – she’ll take any man! But she’s gone now, isn’t she?’ she announced with triumph.
‘Is she?’ David said faintly.
‘You know she is – that’s why you’ve got this one now! You’re a sex maniac, that’s what you are!’
‘How do you know she’s gone?’ Lucy asked.
‘The Vicar told me himself! Yesterday, at lunch. I asked him where she was, and he said she’d gone off to take care of a sick relative. But I knew he was lying. She’s gone for good, is that one. Run off with another man. No better than she should be, I always said.’ She nodded her head vigorously. ‘Sick with worry, the Vicar looked. Not that I didn’t warn him, before he married the slut. I told him it would end in tears.’ Beryl looked back and forth between them, daring them to challenge her, then grinned suddenly as a new thought occurred to her. ‘To tell the truth, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it was Mavis’s boy that she’s run off with! He wasn’t half upset when I turned him down on Saturday! It was my new hat, you see – he just couldn’t resist me in it. But I told him no, and he must have run off with her instead!’
‘Miss Ball,’ said David finally, ‘I don’t really think –’
‘You can count on it. That’s just what happened,’ she interrupted, with a self-righteous thrust of her dentures, and shuffled off into the church.
David had a guilty pang at the thought of Gabriel, sick with worry. Should he say something to him, just to ease his mind? No, he decided. Emily’s needs were more important at the moment. She’d never forgive him if he betrayed her trust.
To David’s disappointment, the penultimate piece on the programme was the same piece – the Great G Minor Fantasia and Fugue – that Miles had performed on Saturday. Apparently he had not practised it in the meantime, David noted; he was making exactly the same mistakes. The mistakes were not glaring ones, but they were evident to anyone who knew the piece well, and they grated. After several minutes, he whispered to Lucy, ‘Why don’t we make our escape now? I’ve heard enough of this.’ She nodded agreement, and they slipped out of the north porch.
‘Why don’t you come to my place for some tea,’ Lucy suggested. But David made no reply; stopped in his tracks, he was staring with disbelief at Miles Taylor
, who leaned nonchalantly against the church, smoking a cigarette.
‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Miles is just cheating again,’ she added in a whisper. ‘He must have the Great G Minor on the computer. You know, the machine that plays the organ for him.’
David turned to stare at her. He deliberately marched her around the corner of the building, out of Miles’s hearing, and said slowly, ‘Would you please repeat what you just said?’
‘I said he must have the Great G Minor on the computer. Surely you know about his fancy machine – he brags about it enough. He loves all that high-tech gadgetry, you know. And this is the latest thing.’
‘And what exactly does this machine do?’
‘It plays the organ for him. I’m not sure about the technical details. But apparently it remembers all the registrations, and the key-strokes, and plays it back exactly – actually plays the pipes, just as if he were sitting at the console. Miles is a chain-smoker, surely you’ve noticed that. He can’t get through an hour without a cigarette, so he’s got some of his favourite pieces stored on the machine, and he usually puts at least one of them on every recital programme, so he can sneak out and have a fag. When he’s having a real nicotine fit, he doesn’t have to play a note himself. Most people never know the difference.’
David closed his eyes and leaned against the warm stone. ‘Lucy, you’re wonderful.’
‘Why, thank you. I think you’re rather nice yourself. But to what do I owe that compliment?’
‘I can’t really explain now. But I need to have a word with Miles. Would you mind going on ahead and putting the kettle on? I’ll be along in just a few minutes.’
‘Whatever you say. See you shortly, then.’ With a quizzical look over her shoulder, she departed, and he watched her graceful walk as he had watched her the week before, the day they’d met. Only a week? he thought. Impossible.
The rest of the recital seemed to take hours, though in reality it was less than ten minutes. David waited at the back of the church in a fever of impatience while the applause went on; the organist took repeated bows, and finally descended to feed his ego on the adoration of the Fan Club.
But David reached him first, with a smooth smile. Flattery would get him everywhere with this man, he had decided; the direct approach would never work.
‘Mr Taylor – may I call you Miles? – that was a splendid programme!’ he enthused.
Miles turned to him, beaming. ‘I’m glad you liked it. It was rather good, wasn’t it?’
‘Splendid! Splendid!’ he repeated, steering Miles past the waiting women and leading him outside. ‘It’s a very fine instrument, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it has its strengths. Of course, there are little problems that only an organist would understand. You’re not an organist, are you?’
‘No, just an appreciative listener,’ David gushed.
Condescendingly, Miles explained, ‘It’s a fine organ. But some of the registrations just don’t – well, I mustn’t get too technical.’
‘I suppose no organ is perfect, but it’s the mark of a professional to be able to work with the imperfections to achieve such a magnificent sound!’
Miles’s thin chest swelled. ‘You’re right, of course. Though I must say that the organ at Selby Cathedral is as close to perfect as I’ve ever found. Sheer heaven, that organ. Mechanical action, beautiful voicing, incredible stops. Absolutely perfect for contemporary music.’
‘Of course, you were at Selby. That must have been a wonderful experience for you.’
Miles flung out his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘Yes, those were the best years of my life! That magnificent organ! The wonderful music! And the choir – brilliant!’ He beamed seraphically in nostalgic remembrance.
Having led him so satisfactorily up the garden path, David was ready for the kill. ‘St Anne’s is so lucky to have a man of your . . . experience,’ he said ingenuously. ‘Tell me, how did you come to leave Selby for St Anne’s?’
The smile froze on Miles’s face, his eyes glittered behind his spectacles, and his arms dropped to his sides. ‘I’m afraid that as a non-musician, you couldn’t possibly understand. Now I really must be going. The ladies will be so disappointed if they don’t have a chance to see me. Do come again next week, won’t you?’
David watched his retreating back with satisfaction. Daphne had been right: he was definitely hiding something. But Daphne had been wrong about the other thing. Miles Taylor was not off the list of suspects, not by a long shot. At the moment, he was well ahead of the pack. With a thoughtful shake of his head, David resumed his journey towards Lucy and tea.
CHAPTER 29
Lo, children and the fruit of the womb: are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord.
Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant: even so are the young children.
Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them: they shall not be ashamed when they speak with their enemies in the gate.
Psalm 127.4–6
Tea had stretched out over the afternoon, and the Dawsons had invited him for the unbelievably early hour of six, so David barely had time to stop at a wine merchant’s to pick up a bottle and to call in on Daphne before hurrying to his dinner date. She told him how to find the Dawsons’ house – a semi-detached, a few streets away from Mavis Conwell’s terrace – and promised to wait up for his return, intrigued by his hints of revelations to come. ‘I can’t imagine that you’ll be very late,’ she called after him.
He was not really looking forward to this evening, David reflected, wondering again why he’d been invited. The Devout Dawsons were not his cup of tea. According to Tony Kent, the Dawsons were totally without any sense of humour, and paradoxically it was that quality alone that made them amusing, in an entirely unintentional way. But with people who took themselves so seriously, any temptation to share the joke, as it were, would have to be firmly suppressed. He practised looking solemn, and pious. He hoped it would be a short evening. Five minutes late already – damn. With the Dawsons, he didn’t imagine that six meant anything but six sharp.
Julia Dawson opened the door to him with her customary anxious expression.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he began as he handed her the bottle of wine.
‘We were beginning to worry,’ she said, ushering him in. ‘I was afraid you’d got lost, and Roger thought perhaps you’d had an accident.’ She announced his arrival in the lounge. ‘It’s all right, he’s here.’
A small dog of indeterminate breed appeared as if from nowhere and hurled itself at David’s legs, yapping frantically. David liked dogs, but he didn’t much like the look of this one. Shaggy and unkempt, it resembled the business end of a well-used mop. ‘Ignatius!’ Julia shrieked. ‘Leave the man alone! I thought I’d shut you outside!’ She grabbed the dog by its collar and dragged it away. ‘I’m so sorry, David. Ignatius doesn’t like strangers,’ she apologised over her shoulder. He stood a moment, bemused, then entered the lounge.
Roger Dawson rose, and extended his hand. Teresa, sitting in the corner, turned her head away in embarrassment at David’s acknowledgement. And then there were the introductions to Francis, the man enshrined in serving lore for ever.
Francis Dawson was pretty much exactly what David would have expected. Unprepossessing, in the honoured family tradition. He wasn’t tall, but neither was he short. His hair was the colour and texture of wet straw – David had to bite his lip to suppress a chuckle at the thought of that hair blazing away, ignited by a candle; he could just imagine the look on Gabriel’s face. Francis had mild blue eyes, not as protuberant as Teresa’s, and his mother’s thin, pointed nose. A tuft of scraggly beard gave him the illusion of having the vestige of a chin. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and diffident.
Julia returned, breathing heavily. ‘Do sit down, David,’ she urged, then struck by her own presumption, added anxiously, ‘May I call you David?’
‘Yes, of course . . . Julia.’
‘Now, what woul
d you like for your tea?’ she addressed her children. ‘Remember that we have a guest. Would you like fish fingers and chips? Or beans on toast?’
‘Spaghetti on toast?’ suggested Teresa hopefully.
Julia shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of tinned spaghetti.’
‘Fish fingers, then,’ Francis said, and Teresa agreed. ‘After all, we have a guest.’
Julia looked to David for his approval; he could only nod mutely. Tea, he thought. Not dinner – tea. No wonder they’d said six o’clock. With all those children stretched over so many years, they’d apparently never got into the habit of eating dinner like civilised adults. And they clearly didn’t realise that the children had grown up. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of frozen fish fingers, but had to admit that they were preferable to the alternative of beans on toast. At least he wasn’t too hungry – he mentally blessed Lucy, and the lovely sandwiches and cakes she’d fed him that afternoon. He gave up any hopes he’d cherished of being offered a sherry, and sat back to await his fate.
Filling the time until the food was produced proved to be a little difficult. Roger Dawson had the disconcerting habit of refusing to make eye contact: all his remarks were addressed to David’s left shoulder. Teresa huddled in her chair, trying to make herself disappear. That left Francis as the most likely source of conversation.
‘So, Francis,’ David began heartily. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m at university,’ he replied. ‘I’ve just finished my first year.’
‘He’s followed his big brother Nick to the University of Sussex,’ Roger added in his dry, slightly raspy voice, overlaid with a faint sibilance. ‘We’re proud of our boys.’
‘And what are you reading?’
‘Philosophy and Artificial Intelligence.’
David hardly knew what to say to that. ‘That sounds an interesting combination,’ he managed.
‘Yes.’
There was an awkward silence, then Roger asked his son a question about his course-work, and they carried on a two-sided conversation for several minutes. That gave David the opportunity to observe the room surreptitiously. He concluded that it resembled nothing so much as a corner of the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, a place he loathed, finding it tacky and tasteless. There was actually a statue of Our Lady of Walsingham, smirking child on her lap, surrounded by red and blue votive candles, on the mantelpiece; the walls were covered with cheap reproductions of bad religious paintings, adorned with old palm crosses. And the furniture was covered with dog hair – long, dingy-grey hairs. David inconspicuously, he hoped, picked a few off his trouser-legs.
