A Drink of Deadly Wine

by Kate Charles

  ‘Only he can answer that question, my dear. You must ask him. You must go to him and ask him.’

  ‘I just can’t. Not yet. Please let me stay here a little longer.’

  ‘You can stay here as long as you like. But it mustn’t be for much longer, my dear. Have you given any thought at all to how your husband must be suffering without you, not knowing where you are? I’m sure he loves you very much.’

  ‘Oh, poor Gabriel!’ Emily wailed. ‘I’ve been so selfish! Thinking only about myself!’

  The sister took both Emily’s hands in hers, and gazed at her with compassion. ‘Perhaps not yet,’ she agreed. ‘Before you’re ready to hear the answer from him, there’s something you must ask yourself.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘You must ask yourself who you really are angry with. The things you’ve told me – you’re in a lot of pain right now, but there’s also a lot of anger there. And what I’m hearing is that you’re angry with your husband, for not being honest with you. But mostly you’re angry with yourself, for not understanding him better, for having unrealistic expectations of your relationship, for not asking the right questions, for failing him somehow, for being hurt even. And the anger brings guilt. My dear, you are full of guilt.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily admitted.

  ‘You must come to terms with that. Before you talk to your husband, you must come to terms with yourself. You must forgive yourself before you can forgive him.’

  Emily covered her face with her hands.

  CHAPTER 33

  Thou art fairer than the children of men: full of grace are thy lips, because God hath blessed thee for ever.

  Psalm 45.3

  ‘I think that the Three Swans looks your best bet,’ Daphne concluded, poring over her AA hotel guide. ‘It’s right in the market-place, very near the cathedral. And they’ve got a car park.’

  ‘That sounds fine,’ agreed David.

  ‘Would you like me to ring and book a room for you?’ she offered.

  ‘Don’t bother, I can take my chances.’ He reconsidered. ‘Well, actually it might be a good idea. That way you’d know for sure where you could reach me, in case there are any developments here.’

  ‘You never know. Miles might make a dramatic confession, and jump from the church tower.’

  ‘Ha. Well, anyway, I will answer the phone if you ring. But don’t expect me to ring you, no matter what happens,’ he warned.

  ‘I know better than that. Using the telephone is against your religion. But I’ve never known why.’

  ‘I’m not even sure of that myself,’ admitted David. ‘I must have been bitten by one when I was a child.’

  ‘How long do you think you might be away?’

  ‘Probably not more than over the weekend. I’ll be back when I’m back, is all I can say. Don’t rent out my room while I’m gone!’

  Daphne shook her head. ‘Never think it! All shall be kept in readiness for your return.’

  ‘Will you light a little candle in the window each night?’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a few days, then, Daphne.’ She lifted her cheek for his affectionate kiss, and watched him from the window until the brown Morris was out of sight.

  Negotiating Friday morning London traffic, and then finding his way to the A1, required all David’s concentration; once he was in Hertfordshire he began to think about where he might eat lunch. He couldn’t abide the multitudinous roadside restaurants that proliferated along the A1, with their identical synthetic food. Stamford would be nice, he thought – the George ought to serve a decent lunch. That was nearly halfway, and would be a good break. It was a pretty town, too, with its church spires, its twisting streets and its warm beige stone buildings. If he wasn’t in a hurry to get to Selby, he might easily spend some time there exploring the churches.

  Lunch plans thus disposed of, his mind turned to the subject he’d been avoiding since last night’s brainstorm. It was time to think about it. He asked himself, finally, the big question: should he marry Lucy Kingsley?

  She was a beautiful woman. It would not be true to say that her beauty, which was so much more than skin deep, left him unmoved. On the contrary, his response to it was deeply emotional, as it would have been to a stirring performance of Bach’s B Minor Mass, the Sistine Chapel ceiling, or an exquisitely fashioned piece of silver.

  He wished that he wanted to make love to her. But physical lovemaking had never been that important to him. Even with Gabe – especially with Gabe – the emotional closeness, the tenderness, were more important than their physical expression. No, sex wasn’t all that central to his life. If it had been, he realised, he would never have lived for twenty-eight years before discovering his orientation, would never have been able to live the last ten years celibate as a monk, would not now be able to contemplate the step he was so seriously considering. And he was considering it very seriously indeed.

  He thought about the implications for his lifestyle, the changes that would take place in his life on a practical level. The house – it certainly wouldn’t suit Lucy as it was now. But she could redecorate it. It wasn’t a bad house – it had potential, anyway. Once they’d eradicated all traces of Mother, Lucy could make it a showplace, with her exquisite taste. The money was available, and she could do whatever she liked. He’d be quite happy to leave it to her, or they could work on it together. Make it reflect both of them. That might be nice. She’d need somewhere to work. The attic room could easily be converted into a studio for her, with a skylight added. Or if she didn’t like the house, he could sell it and they’d find something else, get a fresh start. Maybe something in Norwich, with its easy access by train to London. They’d keep Lucy’s house in Kensington, he imagined. She’d probably want to keep it. They could go to London for the weekends, so she could keep up her weekly visits to the V & A. It would be nice to spend weekends in London: they could go to concerts, art galleries and the theatre, eat at good restaurants.

  Maybe Lucy wouldn’t want to live in Norfolk at all – perhaps she wouldn’t want to leave London. Well, he could always find a job in London. That wouldn’t be difficult. And to be quite honest, having a beautiful, accomplished wife wouldn’t do him any harm in furthering his career. He’d loved living in London when he was younger. Moving to London would be fine. He’d see more of Daphne, of Emily.

  And they could travel. He’d seen a fair bit of England, especially during his years of travelling with Daphne, but his dislike of travelling alone had kept him from spending time abroad. With Lucy he could go to Italy, as he’d always wanted to do. Perhaps she’d been there before and could show him all the art treasures. They could go to France, to Switzerland, even to Greece or Egypt.

  But whether they lived in Wymondham, in Norwich, or in London, he would no longer have to be alone – that was the main thing. He hated living alone. He loathed preparing meals just for himself and eating by himself, almost as much as he hated dining in restaurants alone. If he married Lucy, he would never have to be alone again.

  He tried, then, to imagine what life would be like with Lucy as his wife. It was one thing spending time with someone when you were on holiday, as he was now. But to live with them, every day . . .

  He wasn’t at his best in the mornings, David realised that. He hoped that Lucy would be able to make allowances for that. He’d be more than willing to make an effort: he’d get up and make the tea, and bring her a cup in bed, as he had for years with Mother. He didn’t require much breakfast, or much in the way of conversation in the morning, so she could lie in as long as she liked.

  The evenings would be lovely. When he came home, they’d have a glass of sherry together and a chat. She’d talk about her day, and show him the painting she’d done. He could tell her about all the annoying people he’d had to deal with, and she’d soothe him with sweet, reasonable words. Now there was no one to calm him down – he could only brood, and feel even worse. The
n when they’d relaxed, they’d have a delicious dinner, and a good bottle of wine. They’d prepare the meal together: he enjoyed cooking when he didn’t have to do it by himself and for himself only, and it would be great fun working with someone as accomplished in the kitchen as Lucy was. After dinner they’d retire to the sitting room, where they’d spend a companionable evening talking or listening to music. Perhaps they might read to each other – Jane Austen, or Barbara Pym, something deliciously entertaining and not too demanding. They might have a drink, a brandy or a whisky.

  And later, after the long companionable evening, when he went to bed with . . . his wife: he supposed it wouldn’t be so bad, though he couldn’t really imagine the act. At least he didn’t find the idea repugnant, only uninteresting. So that would be all right. If he were lucky, he might even get to like it. Gabe apparently had, at least enough to convince and to satisfy Emily.

  It all sounded wonderful, too good to be true. What could he be leaving out of his calculations? It suddenly occurred to him that he had never asked himself what his feelings for Lucy really were. Did he . . . love her?

  Lucy made him happy. It wasn’t the wild, blood-pounding joy he’d found with Gabe, but that kind of happiness belonged to youth, and could never be recaptured. It was a quiet, contented sort of happiness. Her serenity, her tranquillity enveloped him with a feeling of well-being. He felt that he could be with her for ever, and never tire of looking at her, listening to her, laughing with her. Wasn’t this love, or at least a kind of love? He was so used to defining love in terms of his feelings for Gabe that he wasn’t sure.

  But did it really matter, after all? They could be happy together, he was sure of that. Lucy had a salutary effect on him; he thought that he was a nicer person when he was with her. As far as he could tell, there was every indication that she was fond of him, she even seemed to find him attractive, for some unknown reason. And he knew that whatever name you attached to it, he was very fond of her. Wasn’t that enough? He and Lucy weren’t a couple of kids. They were both too mature to be hung up on romantic terminology. He had been offered a chance of happiness that was as unexpected as it was enticing. Wouldn’t he be very foolish indeed to turn his back on it?

  CHAPTER 34

  One deep calleth another, because of the noise of the water-pipes: all thy waves and storms are gone over me.

  Psalm 42.9

  David counted the cathedral bells as they tolled; one, two, three, four. In a few more hours he could get up. He had not stopped to consider the consequences of the guidebook term ‘very near the cathedral’ in choosing his hotel. The cathedral bells were very pleasant to hear in the evening, sitting in one’s room, but in the wee hours of the night they were less than welcome.

  Not that it really mattered, he reflected. He’d complained about the room he’d been given – he would have preferred a view of the cathedral to a view of the car park – but had been told it was the only single room available at such short notice. And now the lack of a view had paled into insignificance beside the room’s more noticeable drawback. It was located adjacent to the boiler room, and the clanging of the water-pipes had provided an unmusical counterpoint to the striking of the bells throughout the night. To top it off, the rumble of thunder had recently been added to the cacophony, and a few moments ago a terrific storm had let loose its fury on the cathedral city of Selby, in West Yorkshire.

  Why couldn’t Miles Taylor have been organist in a more civilised place? David asked himself savagely. He hadn’t been to Selby for years, and belatedly he remembered why. It was really nothing more than a small Yorkshire market town, elevated to city status by virtue of its magnificent abbey cathedral. There were no decent restaurants – it didn’t even rate a mention in the Good Food Guide – and David had been reduced to dining on fish and chips. Tomorrow night – tonight, he amended, remembering the four bells – he didn’t know what he’d do. Drive into York, maybe. He certainly wasn’t going to be staying in Selby any longer than absolutely necessary. If he couldn’t find out something tomorrow – today – he’d be inclined to give it up as a bad job.

  He’d only had one tenuous lead in his search for Miles Taylor’s hidden past. After Evensong, he’d lingered near the organ during the final voluntary. Close to the entrance to the console was a board with a list of the cathedral’s past organists, their names painted in red, and he’d studied it with ostensible interest as a fresh-faced young man emerged from the console.

  ‘The voluntary was excellent,’ he remarked as the young man passed him.

  The young man stopped. ‘Oh, did you really think so?’ His round face went pink with pleasure.

  ‘I’ve rarely heard it performed so well,’ David replied gravely.

  ‘Oh, well. I wasn’t sure about the registration in the final bit. But if you say it was good . . .’

  ‘It was superb. Are you the organist here? Mr . . . Moffat?’ he added, looking at the board.

  The young man smiled in a flustered fashion. ‘Oh, good heavens, no. Just the assistant.’

  ‘You’re certainly very accomplished for an assistant. How long have you been at Selby, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Thompson. William Thompson. I’ve been here for nearly three years now.’

  Damn, thought David, ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be going on to bigger and better things very soon, Mr Thompson.’ He looked again at the board, and said casually, ‘I see that Miles Taylor was organist here before Mr Moffat. But that was before your time.’

  ‘Yes. Though of course I’ve heard plenty of stories about Miles Taylor. He was a real legend round here.’

  ‘Then I suppose there are still people in the choir who remember him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Why? Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ David hedged. ‘His name . . . in musical circles, you know . . . the friend of a friend . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘I see. Well, you won’t find anyone here at the moment who knew him – the choir is on holiday. That was a visiting choir at Evensong, you realise.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ David hadn’t really thought about it.

  ‘Of course, the person to talk to about Miles Taylor is Miss Somers. I don’t believe she was here at Evensong tonight – she’s getting on in years now, and doesn’t always make it.’ The young man turned his head guiltily as a man in a cassock beckoned frantically from the transept. ‘Oh, excuse me, Mr . . . um. I really must go. Frightfully nice to meet you.’

  And the young man had scurried off, leaving David little more enlightened than he’d been previously.

  Now, as the wind-driven rain lashed the window, its wooden frame rattling in the onslaught, David recalled again the young man’s words. Miss Somers. He’d had enough hints from Daphne, and from Lady Constance, about Miles’s predilection for wealthy old ladies. Was Miss Somers one of his conquests? Or one with whom he’d failed? Someone like Lady Constance, who saw through his manoeuvres and his facile charm? If he could, he would like to meet this Miss Somers.

  To David’s dismay, his alarm clock had been left on the bedside table of Daphne’s spare room, so he marked time by the striking of the bells until they tolled seven; having nothing particular to get up for, but no compelling reason to remain in bed any longer, he rose, showered, shaved and dressed. The room’s shower, as he would have expected, was less than efficient, and he endured alternating trickles of hot water and jets of icy spray. But the kettle provided in the room seemed functional, and he decided to fix himself a cup of tea. Too late he realised that it would have to be made in the cup, with a tea-bag, and that the only milk available was of the powdered variety. Giving up in disgust, he went down to a breakfast of runny scrambled eggs on soggy toast.

  The day could only improve, he decided, leaving the hotel immediately after breakfast. The night’s storm had been short-lived in its intensity, leaving the sky a bright, cloudless blue. David walked along by the river for a long while before heading back to the cathedral.

  S
elby Abbey was a splendid building, he reflected as he approached. Unfortunately, its monastic past meant that it was stranded in the middle of the town with no cathedral close to insulate it from traffic. The monastic buildings had all been knocked down, leaving only the church, which had survived as a parish church for several centuries before its elevation to cathedral status in the late nineteenth century. In the meanwhile, building had gone on all around it.

  But inside the cathedral, one of the best-preserved monastic churches in the country, it was easy to forget its surroundings. There were several small clusters of tourists looking about, and near the south transept entrance a party was forming up around a guide. David decided to join them.

  The guide was a small, elderly woman with untidy hair, bright eyes, and a strong Yorkshire accent. She was giving an account of the founder of the abbey.

  ‘I suppose you can say that this is an institution founded on a theft,’ she said. ‘When Benedict fled from his abbey in France, he pinched the finger of St Germanus, and that became the chief relic of the new abbey he founded here, in 1069. But Benedict didn’t take kindly to others following his example – at least not that example. When two monks were caught stealing some silver, he had them castrated! He was so unpopular that he was finally forced to resign.’