by Kate Charles
Most of the silver had been inspected, appreciated and cleaned. ‘I’ve saved the best for last,’ Daphne confessed. ‘The festival thurible, only used for high days and holy days. The other one we use every Sunday, but this one is special.’ She brought it out with pride. It was an extremely handsome piece, hand-fashioned of solid silver and very heavy.
David’s eyes lit up. ‘I say. That is splendid. Where did it come from?’
‘Lady Constance, of course. She gave it a couple of years ago, in her brother’s memory. I think it might have been his: he was a priest, you know, and undoubtedly a man of taste.’
‘Of course.’ He screwed one eye up and examined the hallmark with the other. ‘Definitely a man of taste. Just like his sister.’ He started. ‘What time is it, anyway? I don’t want to be late for lunch with Lady Constance.’
Daphne consulted her watch. ‘You’ve got plenty of time. But go ahead if you want to – this is the last thing I’ve got to do.’
‘Wait a minute.’ He lifted the pierced lid of the thurible. ‘When’s the last time this was used? There seems to be something inside.’
‘It shouldn’t be incense, or charcoal. I certainly cleaned it out after the Patronal Festival, and it hasn’t been used since. What is it?’ Daphne’s bent head joined his over the thurible.
With two fingers he extracted a charred piece of folded paper. ‘It looks like someone was trying to burn something in it.’
Daphne was indignant. ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t me! Of all things!’
He looked at the paper with a furrowed brow. ‘What . . .’ It was charred around the edges, but relatively undamaged; he unfolded it carefully.
It was a letter, typed on ordinary paper. David looked at it with a sinking feeling of recognition.
I have good reason to believe that you have been taking money from St Anne’s. You have abused your office of churchwarden in a most shameful manner, and I will not stand by and allow that to happen. You must resign your office, and repay the money you have taken, before the Feast of the Assumption, or I will inform the Bishop.
Daphne took it from him. ‘David! I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s true, all right,’ he said softly, shaking his head. ‘I was right that her death had something to do with the blackmail. But Mavis wasn’t the blackmailer – she was one of his victims! She must have tried to destroy the letter that day, the day she . . . died.’
‘She must have put it in the thurible and lit it, then shut it in the safe, not realising that it would soon go out without oxygen. And then . . .’
‘And then, Daphne . . . she killed herself.’ He sat immobile for a very long moment, staring at the paper; when he spoke again, his voice was very quiet, very measured. ‘Oh, Daphne, I’ve been so frightfully stupid about this whole business. I’ve been wrong about everything, all along the way. I’ve looked at it all the wrong way up. But now . . . now I understand everything. Or nearly everything . . .’
CHAPTER 44
There be some that put their trust in their goods: and boast themselves in the multitude of their riches.
But no man may deliver his brother: nor make agreement unto God for him;
For it cost more to redeem their souls: so that he must let that alone for ever;
Yea, though he live long: and see not the grave.
Psalm 49.6–9
He had stopped along the way and bought several bunches of freesias. Lady Constance opened the door herself, looking a bit stronger than she had on Tuesday. ‘You remembered that I liked freesias. How very kind of you, Mr Middleton-Brown.’
‘How are you feeling today, Lady Constance? Better than last week, I hope?’
‘Yes, thank you. The lovely weather . . . well, it does make one feel better. And I do find your visits a tonic, young man. I hope you’ll be staying in London for a long time.’
‘I’m afraid not, Lady Constance,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’ll be returning home to Wymondham tomorrow. I’ve been here nearly three weeks already – that’s a long time to impose on Daphne’s hospitality, and I’ve accomplished what I came to do . . . with the chapel.’
She looked genuinely distressed. ‘You must come for regular visits, then,’ she said. ‘You will always be welcome to stay in this house. I’m sure you would be more comfortable here than at Miss Elford’s.’
‘Thank you, that’s most kind.’
They had lunch in the garden. Lady Constance’s garden was surprisingly large, and received the afternoon sun. They sat in the shade of a tree, as it was a very warm afternoon. Lunch was a smoked chicken salad, with a chilled bottle of white wine – a very good wine. ‘In your honour, young man,’ she pointed out. ‘On the very sad occasion of your last day in London.’
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she was flirting with me, David thought as she raised her glass to him. He looked at her, almost as if for the first time. She must have been quite a stunner when she was young, he reflected; he tried to imagine her, with the silver hair dark, and the beautifully modelled features unlined. The beringed hand in which she held the glass was purple-veined now; once it must have been smooth and white. Like Lucy’s, he thought with a quickly suppressed twinge.
‘How is the work progressing on the chapel?’ she asked him. ‘You’re satisfied enough to leave it?’
‘Oh, yes. The workmen are excellent, they don’t need any help from me. I watched them start the gilding yesterday. They’re doing a superb job.’
‘I can’t thank you enough for your part in it,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ve wanted to have it done for several years now, but no one had the expertise to supervise it. It’s a memorial gift for my brother,’ she added. ‘I shall want to have a plaque put up to say that the restoration was done in his memory. I would have liked to have had it finished by now – he died two years ago today.’
‘I saw the silver thurible you gave in his memory. It’s an exquisite piece of work.’
She smiled. ‘Lovely, isn’t it? I’m glad you’ve seen it. Edward bought that himself, quite a few years ago. I thought it right that St Anne’s should have it, and use it.’
Apparently Lady Constance did not find it too painful to talk about her dead brother, so David encouraged her. ‘He was a priest, I understand?’
‘Yes, he was – an excellent priest. One of the old school, brought up when things were done properly, and nothing less was tolerated.’
‘I’m surprised that he didn’t have the living at St Anne’s; I would have thought that you would have wanted him here,’ David probed.
‘Nothing would have pleased me more,’ she admitted. ‘I tried so many times to persuade him to take the living here. How I wish he had . . . Over the years, he sent us a few of his protégés’ – she gave the word its proper French pronunciation – ‘but of course that wasn’t the same as having dear Edward here.’
‘Why didn’t he want to come?’
She smiled in fond remembrance. ‘He was a keen boatsman, and didn’t want to leave the sea. I don’t think he ever lived more than five miles away from the sea in his life.’ Her eyes followed the progress of a bird from tree to tree at the end of the garden, but her mind seemed elsewhere for a time, until she began speaking again. ‘Edward was everything a priest should be: loving, compassionate . . . and holy. My brother was a very holy man. If he had any fault, it was that he was rather too inclined to think the best of people, even in the face of evidence to the contrary.’
‘Surely that’s what priests are supposed to do?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘This is the real world, young man. People aren’t always what you would wish them to be. A priest, of all people, ought to understand that fact.’
It was a perfect afternoon in high summer. They sat for a long time over their lunch, enjoying the warmth of the sun. A few butterflies fluttered desultorily over the multicoloured flowers of the garden, but otherwise it was very still, with barely a breeze to stir the leaves of the trees. The heavy
scent of the roses blended with the smell of freshly cut grass to make a powerful perfume. The maid brought them raspberry mousse in stemmed crystal dishes, but afterwards Lady Constance waved away the coffee. ‘Too hot for coffee today, Molly. Bring us some mineral water instead. With lemon, please. Unless you’d like more wine?’ she addressed David. ‘But I think we’ve had rather too much wine already.’ The sunlight through the tree dappled her pale mauve dress with gently moving shapes, and gave her skin an even whiter cast than usual. She stretched out a hand towards David. ‘I do hope you don’t feel that you have to run off immediately, young man. I’d like you to stay for a while.’
‘Of course I’ll stay,’ he reassured her. ‘I just don’t want to tire you. Perhaps you ought to have a rest before the service this evening.’
‘Ah, yes. The Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady.’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen a proper festival service in St Anne’s. I’m sure they do it very well.’
‘Yes, Father Neville makes sure of that.’ A small smile curved her lips as she looked beyond David at the garden. ‘Proper appearances mean a lot to our Father Neville.’
‘He certainly did the funeral beautifully yesterday,’ David said deliberately.
Lady Constance sat up even straighter, and turned her gaze from the butterflies. She looked penetratingly at David. ‘Last week when you were here, you told me that you thought Mrs Conwell had been murdered. You said that you were doing some investigations on your own. Can you tell me what you’ve found?’
He held her gaze steadily. ‘I was wrong,’ he said, firmly but gently. ‘I realise now that she killed herself. In many ways it was more . . . comfortable to believe that someone else had done it. Suicide is such a terrible act – it’s difficult to think of someone being that desperate. And sometimes it’s even more difficult to comprehend the . . . forces that would lead someone to make that choice. But I’ve come to understand that Mrs Conwell was under more pressure than anyone knew.’
She looked away, finally. ‘I see,’ she said softly. Somewhere a bird burst into full-throated song. Neither one moved for a very long time; at last Lady Constance stirred. ‘Perhaps it would be best for you to go now, young man. I am rather tired, and I have a letter that I must write this afternoon.’
David stood. He bent over her, taking her hand in both of his. ‘I’ll see you at Mass this evening, Lady Constance, but I’ll take my proper leave of you now. Thank you so much for this lovely afternoon, and for the many kindnesses of the last few weeks. It has been a real privilege to know you, and I shall always remember with pleasure the time we’ve spent together.’ His words were formal, but there was real warmth behind them.
She looked up at him; her eyes met his in a searching look. ‘It is I who must thank you, Mr Middleton-Brown. Your kindness to an old woman has been . . . more than I deserve. I’m very grateful for that.’
He raised her hand to his lips in silent tribute, then turned away. She watched his back until she could see him no longer.
CHAPTER 45
As soon as they hear of me, they shall obey me: but the strange children shall dissemble with me.
The strange children shall fail: and be afraid out of their prisons.
Psalm 18.45–46
Craig Conwell didn’t have a job, as far as David knew, so there was a chance of finding him at home in the afternoon. With a little thought, he was able to remember how to find the Conwell house.
He rang the bell. After a rather long delay, just as David was about to give up, Craig opened the door to him. The young man was looking rather unwell; his skin had an unhealthy pallor, and this intensified when he saw David. The hand clutching a can of lager trembled. ‘Go away and leave me alone,’ he muttered, swinging the door shut.
David put a foot in the door. ‘Good afternoon, Craig,’ he said smoothly as he forced the door back open. ‘Mind if I come in? I won’t take up much of your valuable time, but I have something important to say to you. I think it’s something you’ll want to hear.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Craig shrugged, giving up. He turned and slouched into the room on the right of the entrance hall, without looking to see whether David was following. When David entered the room behind him, he was already slumped in a chair, swigging lager from the can.
David looked at the room in amazement. Mavis had been a houseproud woman, just like his own mother. But ten days after her death, she probably wouldn’t have recognised her own sitting room: it bore no resemblance at all to that tidy room he had seen on his visit with Daphne. There was an indefinably musty feeling about the room, as though it hadn’t received any fresh air in ten days. In spite of the warmth of the day, the windows were shut and the curtains were drawn; it felt oppressively hot. And strewn about the room were bits of dirty crockery, some containing half-eaten food; David looked with disgust at the dried, curling remnant of a cheese sandwich and the attendant flies. Everywhere there were empty beer cans, and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette ends. The television was on; already Craig’s eyes were fixed on the antics of cartoon animals.
David crossed the room and switched off the television. Craig scowled, but couldn’t be bothered to argue. Removing what looked like a collection of dirty clothing from one of the chairs, David sat down opposite Craig and leaned forward. ‘Craig, I want you to listen to me. I know now that your mother wasn’t murdered.’
Craig shot him a triumphantly venomous look. ‘I told you so.’
‘Yes, and you were right. She killed herself.’
Craig lit a cigarette and took a long draw. ‘So, tell me something I don’t know.’
‘What I want to know, Craig, is why she killed herself.’
‘How the hell do I know? She was taking money from the church, wasn’t she? I guess she had a guilty conscience.’ He spoke the last two words with a sneer of distaste, as if it were a particularly nasty social disease.
David drew back and looked at him. ‘She took that money for you, didn’t she?’
‘So what? A guy needs money to live. Since Dad died, there just hasn’t been that much dough around. And she was too busy being Mrs Bloody Churchwarden and poking her nose into other people’s business to go out and get herself a job.’
‘And you couldn’t get a job? You’re an able-bodied young man,’ David said with ill-concealed contempt.
Craig shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I tried it for a while, but I just couldn’t stick it. They wanted me there every day at nine o’clock, for God’s sake. I couldn’t be bothered. Anyway, it was up to the old bag to support me – I didn’t ask to be born, did I?’ He puffed on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke at David.
David shook his head in despair at the young man’s callous selfishness. ‘What are you going to do now? Now that she’s dead, and can’t support you any longer?’
‘Maybe there’s some insurance, I don’t know.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘If not, I’ll just sell the house. I can live for a long time on the price it’ll fetch. Get myself a bed-sit somewhere. I’ll manage.’
‘No one’s going to buy the house looking like this,’ David couldn’t help remarking, as he glanced around at the filthy squalor. Craig merely shrugged. ‘Maybe one of your girlfriends would like to come in and clean it up,’ David added maliciously.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Craig nodded thoughtfully, flicking some ash on to the carpet.
Leaning forward again, David said abruptly, ‘But what I want to know, Craig, is why your mother really killed herself.’
‘I told you. It was because of the money.’
‘It couldn’t have been just the money. Not even the money you took that day. I’m surprised that she let you have it, by the way. How did you talk her into it?’
Craig smirked. ‘I didn’t talk her into it, I just took it. When she wasn’t looking. I figured a rich church like that would never miss a couple of hundred quid.’
‘Why did you go there that day?’
‘To get some money. I knew she was counting the dough and figured I could talk her out of a fiver. I never figured there’d be so much cash! She got all self-righteous with me, and said I couldn’t have any of it. So as soon as her back was turned, I just helped myself to a bit of it. She never knew.’
‘Until you were gone, and she missed the ledger sheet.’
‘No, I didn’t take it then.’
David stared at him. ‘When did you take it?’
‘Later. A few minutes later. I got to thinking about it, and figured I’d better take that piece of paper, or somebody would twig. So I went back.’ He paused. ‘I went in. She was . . . dead. Hanging there. So I took the paper and got the hell out of there. I took her handbag, too, just in case there was any money in it.’
‘But you said she’d locked the door behind you when you left!’
Craig looked defiant ‘She did. I . . . had a key cut. I took all her church keys out of her handbag once, and had copies cut; you never know when something like that might come in useful. And it did. I locked the door behind me when I left.’
‘What have you done with the keys?’
‘I threw them in someone’s rubbish bin, along with the handbag – there was no money in it, anyway,’ he added in disgust.
David suddenly remembered the brown vinyl handbag, sitting on the desk in the sacristy during his visit there. And that evening it had been gone. He berated himself for being so unobservant.
He turned his attention back to Craig, who was lighting another cigarette. ‘Craig,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. What in God’s name did you say to your mother when you were there? What did you say that would make her kill herself, in those few minutes before you came back? If she didn’t even know you’d taken that money . . .’
Craig didn’t respond right away, and when he did speak he didn’t answer the question directly, but said in a self-pitying whine, ‘You just don’t know, man. You don’t know what it was like, living with her.’ He tilted the beer can back and poured the last few drops down his throat, then tossed the empty can on the table with its fellows. ‘You don’t know what it’s like having a self-righteous old bitch like that trying to run your life.’
