by Roberta Kray
Perhaps she should go back to the shop and buy a guidebook. It might give her some clues. She considered the idea and then rejected it. If all else failed, she’d pick one up on her way out, take it home and study it there. For now, she’d just follow her nose, and her instincts, and see what she came up with.
Ahead of her, in the centre of the nave, lay regular rows of pale brown wooden chairs. A vague idea that the letter P might be connected to pews dissolved before it had even begun to develop. She didn’t remember the chairs from the last time she was here but anyway they looked too impermanent and were too clearly visible to provide safe shelter for her father’s hidden treasure. In fact, now she thought of it, all this part of the cathedral was too open for any easy exploration. He would have chosen somewhere quieter, out of the way.
Accordingly, after strolling a few yards further, she veered to her right, passing under an arch and entering an adjacent old stone corridor. Not a corridor, she knew, it had another name. An aisle or an ambulatory perhaps? She smiled. There, she wasn’t such a hopeless cause after all. A few facts must have lodged in her brain as she’d trudged reluctantly at her father’s heels.
She looked around, immediately feeling the difference. Gloomy was the word she would have used to describe it (he would have said atmospheric), full of shadows, slightly sinister and indisputably mysterious. That things had happened here – and not all of them good – she had no doubt at all. It was enough to put her on edge again. Loitering by a pillar, she tried to access that sixth sense, to work out if she had unwanted company. She felt odd, shivery, but that could just be down to her surroundings.
Eve walked on, the sound of her heels clipping unnaturally loud on the stone-flagged floor, an easy echo for anyone to follow. As she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes were drawn towards a small panel set in a recess in the wall. Now that was something she remembered. They had stopped here to examine it, to praise its almost luminous colours, its deep and penetrating shades of blue. She went over to look at it again.
The Limoges panel, a set of eighteen enamel-on-copper plaques, was a nineteenth-century copy but no less beautiful for that. It was as vibrant as a stained-glass window. This was the only occasion, when she’d last been here, that she had showed any interest in the tour and she could almost feel her father beside her again, his lips widening into a smile, glad to have discovered at least one object that pleased her.
Had he remembered that too?
Could he have hidden it here?
Her gaze swiftly roamed the recess but there was nothing apart from rough pale stone. She didn’t dare touch the gold-framed panel in case it was alarmed – although would it be alarmed? Well, she didn’t fancy finding out. The prospect of an army of demonic priestly figures, their black cassocks flapping like wings, was enough to keep her hands firmly by her sides.
Turning away, she found herself standing opposite St Luke’s Chapel. She peered inside. It was a small room with a carved font and a dramatic painting on wood divided into five sections – all showing images of Christ. BC she thought again, her heart making a tiny leap, and she would have gone in if it hadn’t already been occupied by a middleaged American couple making the kind of intense scrutiny that suggested they’d be there for at least another fifteen minutes.
‘Fourteenth-century,’ the woman said, reciting from her guidebook. She was tall and rangy, athletic-looking, and her face wore the determined expression of someone who expected value for money. She extended a finger and pointed at each of the sections in turn: ‘The Flagellation, the Way of the Cross, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection and the Ascension.’
Her partner, a shorter thickset man with wiry grey hair, tipped his head to one side and stared obediently at the images. ‘Right,’ he said.
Eve couldn’t decide whether he was utterly bored or completely fascinated. Neither his face nor his tone of voice gave much away.
She could go inside too – that might be enough to discreetly move them on – but was concerned about the opposite happening, about getting pulled instead into a conversation she would not be able to escape from. And the last thing she needed was to get involved in some profound transatlantic discussion about the wonders of Norwich Cathedral.
She lowered her head and walked on. She’d come back later when they were gone, when she had the freedom to view the place in peace. In the meantime she’d just stroll around, acting like any other visitor, feigning interest, pretending to be absorbed. She took a few more steps and found herself in front of another chapel. This one was protected by an ornate ironwork grille. For a while she stared between the metal scrolls, playing the part, barely seeing, doing nothing more than killing time. She was vaguely aware of a religious painting on the wall, of a bearded man with a baby in his arms. Half her mind was still on the chapel she’d left behind – all those images of Christ, all those possibilities …
Impatiently she shifted from foot to foot. Peering through the gloom, she waited for the Americans to emerge, for the coast to be clear. It was only as her drifting gaze focused on the nameplate that she suddenly stopped short. She was standing right in front of the Bauchin Chapel. It took a moment for the initials to sink into her consciousness but when they did she gave a tiny jump. BC. God! Yes! For a second her heart seemed to stop. This was it. It had to be, didn’t it?
She reached out a hand to fumble with the gate. Was it locked? No, it was just her fingers that were shaking, too tremulous to slip the latch. She tried again and this time it complied, the gate swinging open to allow her access. Stumbling inside, she took a moment to look around, her gaze briefly lifting to trace the vaulted curve of the ceiling before scanning everything at eye level.
All she had to find now was 8PR.
P was for painting? She stared at it and frowned. Well, not unless he’d managed to slide something behind it and she didn’t intend to mess with that solid frame. It would be just her luck if the whole darn thing fell off the wall. And then she’d have some explaining to do … No, it couldn’t be that. She swivelled round and focused on a statue. Our Lady of Pity. P for pity? She experienced a tiny jolt of anticipation but it was short-lived: a fast examination proved that there was no hiding place there either. What about the window – a pane of glass? A pulpit? She groaned with frustration. A priest? This was like one of those childhood games of I-spy where no matter how hard she tried, even when it was staring her straight in the face, she couldn’t get the answer right.
‘Come on, Dad,’ she murmured. ‘Give me a clue.’
But the surrounding silence only seemed to grow larger.
Eve tried to concentrate. P was for passion, for penance, for pain, for … she thought about the man in the alley and felt a chill creep over her … for psycho. She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. P was for paranoia. She mustn’t let her mind stray. What about the 8, the R? What did they mean?
There was a single bench running the length of the chapel. She thought of pews again. Was this a pew? Another memory came to her, of the two of them moving forward through the nave and into the area where the choir did their stuff. She had stared at the seats there, at the decoration on their backs, at all the representations of human frailty and weakness, of greed and lust and violence, and said: ‘Hey, check out those pews.’
‘Stalls,’ he had corrected her.
‘Oh, pardon me.’ And she had raised her eyebrows and laughed.
Had he remembered that, how she had mistakenly called them pews, suspected that she’d refer to any cathedral seating with the same word?
This particular bench was set back against the wall. Directly in front was a pale wooden unit split into three, a central block flanked by a pair of smaller ones, leaving enough space for two clear paths of entry. Each of the units was carved into sections. She counted them off. There were eleven in all. If she was standing at the door the bench would be on her right. 8PR – the eighth section in the pew to her right.
Was it possible?
She
could feel her legs beginning to shake. Like the clichéd introduction to some momentous event, her heart was accelerating into a drum roll. She wasn’t sure of the etiquette of actually sitting down in a place like this. Maybe it was only to be looked at, to be admired from an upright position. But she didn’t have a choice. Anyway, if push came to shove she could always claim a fainting fit. It wasn’t so far off the truth. She looked behind her – there was no one in sight – and slid quickly on to the slim wooden bench.
The back of the unit provided a shelf – for bibles and prayer books, she presumed, although it was currently empty. Leaning forward she placed her palm on the worn golden surface. This had to be it. She took a deep breath. Please God. Then, with her pulse racing, she half-closed her eyes and ran her fingers along the underside.
The smooth stretch of wood yielded precisely … nothing.
She made another more frantic series of sweeps from left to right, from right to left. What? Her breath escaped in a thin hiss of dismay. Perhaps she wasn’t looking in the right spot. She tried again, feeling more carefully this time, but the result remained the same: nothing, a big fat zero. Her disappointment was profound, almost unbearable. Damn! As soon as the profanity touched on her lips she offered up a mental apology. Sorry. She didn’t need to bring down the wrath of the Lord on top of everything else.
At her feet lay a couple of firm-looking hassocks, protection against the cold stone floor should she feel the urge to fall to her knees and pray. She was getting close to it. Another idea came to her. Maybe PR had stood for prayer, the number eight for the eighth position on the bench? Either way, it didn’t matter now.
With a sigh she sat back, her hopes draining away. She’d been certain she was on the right track. But she’d been wrong. Either that or her father had changed his mind. Or she’d been so pathetically slow on the uptake that someone had beaten her to it.
At that final infuriating thought she lunged forward once more, exploring with both her hands. Her movements were reckless now, her groping rough and perfunctory. It wasn’t as if she expected to find anything and she might still have missed it if one of her nails hadn’t snagged on the slightest of obstructions, something small and sticky, a tiny piece of tape that suddenly came adrift and …
She paused, her heart beginning to pound again. There was something here.
But whatever it was, she couldn’t afford to damage it. Reining in her impatience, she picked at the corner gently, trying to peel it away from the wood. It would be easier if she could get down on her hands and knees, if she could actually see what she was doing, but the space was confined and scrabbling about on the floor, arse in the air, was guaranteed – should anyone be passing – to draw unnecessary attention to herself.
Whatever his final message was, it was flat and smooth, laid flush against the shelf and fastened so neatly, so securely, that any cursory sweep of a duster – should a cleaner be so dedicated – would pass easily over its surface. A letter perhaps? Yes, it must be. A letter explaining everything. That was what she wanted, what she needed.
‘Yes,’ she urged softly. ‘Come on.’ She had released one edge and was tugging at the next – he hadn’t just secured the four sides but meticulously taped across the middle too – when she heard approaching footsteps. And not only footsteps but voices: the American couple, having finished their scrutiny of St Luke’s, were about to descend on her.
‘There’s a painting,’ the woman was saying, her guidebook rustling ominously. ‘Behind the altar: The Presentation of Christ in the Temple by John Opie. He’s an eighteenth-century Norwich artist. And there’s a modern statue.’ She paused. ‘That could be interesting.’
‘We could eat at the Italian place tonight,’ the man said. ‘Or we could go to that pub by the river.’
‘Ah, and a window, the Benedictine Window.’
‘Jerry says they do a darn good steak.’
Eve kept on picking at the tape, the clickclack of their shoes against the flagstones growing ever closer. She was almost done, just a little longer and she could be out of here. She was tempted to try and release it with one fast rip but was too scared of the damage she might cause. What if she tore it? She might have to leave with only half of what she had searched for. Time was ticking by. If they spent as long in this chapel as the last she might not get the chance to come back again today.
She had to stop them. But how? There was only one thing for it. Shifting forward, placing her elbows on her knees, she huddled down and assumed a stance of devout contemplation. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face. And no one could claim that she wasn’t praying, although her pleas were perhaps of the kind the church would not entirely approve of. Please make them go away. Please let them leave me alone. Please give me just a few more minutes.
They stopped in front of the open ironwork gate. She could feel their gaze on her, their surprise and indecision. No one, at least no one decent, likes to interrupt a person bent in prayer. She could hear the soles of their shoes shuffling uncertainly. The woman, for once, was entirely speechless. Would they come in? She hoped not. If they did, she was jiggered.
She waited. She could feel them waiting too, their continuing presence like some devil on her shoulder. She pressed her knuckles hard against her mouth. Please go away. There was a shuffling, a whispering, before they eventually decided to move on.
‘Should we take a look at the tombs?’
‘If you like.’
Eve expelled her breath in a long and thankful exhalation of relief.
But there was no time to hang about. The tombs they were talking about were just across the aisle. She quickly reached down, tearing at the tape, finally managing to release the letter. Shaking off the sticky remnants, she triumphantly lifted it to the surface. Except it wasn’t a letter at all – no final words, no explanations. It was just a photograph, a dull and slightly out of focus picture of a group of people sitting round a table. She stared down at it in baffled disappointment.
What did it mean?
She didn’t have time to study it more closely. The Americans, clearly bored with the inscriptions of the dead, were already heading back. Shoving the picture into her pocket, she stood up, lowered her face and swept out of the chapel. As she brushed past them she was aware of their curiosity, of their inquisitive eyes boring into her.
Were they going to speak? She hoped not.
No.
Good. She walked on a few yards, gulped and caught her breath again. So she’d found it. But found what? She didn’t dare take it out of her pocket again. Not here. As she was heading towards the exit, eager to get home, she thought again about how she might be being followed. Not by the American couple surely – unless they were deep undercover and had been trained by RADA – but there were other people around.
She had to act casual, act normal. Which was easier said than done. She felt unsteady on her feet. Veering back into the nave, she found a seat and slumped down. She should have rung Henry. She should have told him she was coming here. At least then she’d have had some insurance, someone to pick up the pieces if …
But she couldn’t afford to think that way. And she could only have left a message. His phone would have been turned off; he would still have been talking to his client. The best thing she could do was to get home, to lock herself in, to examine the evidence and to take it from there.
She wished she’d brought the car. It wasn’t a long walk back but it was an unprotected one. What if someone was waiting for her? What if she was attacked, searched, the photograph taken? She shook her head. How likely was that? It was busy outside, the end of a long working day. So long as she kept to the main streets, so long as she mingled with the crowds, she should be okay. And if anyone approached her, all she had to do was scream …
By the time Eve turned the corner on to Herbert Street her body was on red alert, her legs ready to sprint, her fists to lash out. Every nerve end was standing to attention. She felt like one of those vulnerabl
e antelopes on the plains of Africa, nervously looking from left to right, aware that an invisible predator might be lurking, waiting to pounce, eager to tear her limb from limb.
She jogged the last few yards, pushed open the main door and ran up the stairs. As she hit the top landing, she already had her keys out. Excitement was starting to replace her anxiety. A few seconds later she was safely inside with the bolts pulled across.
It was done!
Next stop the kitchen. She reached into the cupboard and grabbed the bottle of cheap whisky she had bought to replace the brandy Sonia had finished off. Pouring a generous shot she drank it down in one and then replenished the glass.
Feeling marginally calmer, she returned to the living room, took the photograph from her pocket – there were still some strips of sticky tape attached to it – and placed it on the coffee table. She sat down on the sofa, lit a cigarette and stared at it. So this was the cause of all her troubles.
The picture showed five people sitting round a large table, two men and a woman facing the camera (although almost certainly unaware of it), a fourth man in profile, the fifth with his back turned. She examined the visible faces. The two men were in their late fifties or sixties, both grey-haired, one large, the other much leaner, their features a little blurry but probably still recognizable to anyone who knew them. The woman was younger, not more than twenty, with long fairish hair and a wide laughing mouth.
It had been taken in a whitewashed courtyard, somewhere abroad. How did she know that it was abroad? She picked up the photo and drew it closer. It was something to do with the feel of the place, the quality of the light, the luxuriance of the flowering plants that crept up the wall behind them.
So was her father the person who had secretly snapped it? And if so, why? There was only one other clue, a printed date in the left-hand corner: July 18, two years ago. It wasn’t even recent. But important enough for him to hold on to, to hide in a place only she could find.
