Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Why do you want to do any of those?’ Since he was kissing the messed-up nails in question, it didn’t feel like an interrogation.

  ‘Because I’ve never been a wife before. I’ve never even lived with anyone before, or at least not for twenty-five years when I was young and adaptable. But now I am a wife, I want to be a good one. And being a rich one with no talents doesn’t seem to endear me to your parishioners.’

  ‘No talents? You’re the most amazing— Oh, bloody, bloody phone! I’m not here and you don’t know where I am,’ he hissed as I reached reluctantly for the handset. ‘Unless it’s the children’s hospice – poor Carol and Wayne’s kid. Not expected to live through the night.’

  It was. He dressed without a word and left.

  Finding the bed miserably cold, I did what I should have done earlier: using the council website I reported the extensive presence of wire on the hillside, and the injuries it had caused. I asked for immediate action, adding the rectory address by way of a spuriously authoritative bonus.

  Still no sign of Theo or of sleep. So I switched on our trusty fan heater and spent the next hour giving myself the best pedicure I could – which was not great given that the distance between my eyes and my toes was just wrong for my contact lenses. Eventually I fished out the lenses and drowsed off. At one point I registered the sound of a car door slamming: he must be back. Should I go down? If the child had died, would he prefer to be left on his own to pray? Would he like to have me beside him, or would he consider it an intrusion? We’d never faced anything as serious as this in our short time as a couple.

  Theo had always said that in a tricky situation he asked what Jesus would do. I found myself asking what Merry would do. Sometime, while I was agonizing, I must have fallen deeply asleep.

  Then I awoke suddenly. What was that? There was still no Theo beside me – but from somewhere in the house came unmistakable bedroom noises.

  By now thoroughly awake, I found slippers and dressing-gown once more and headed to the kitchen – making far more noise than I needed, I admit – in search of hot chocolate and those good biscuits. The kitchen door was closed, but light showed underneath, so I went in. Theo, head in hands, sat at the table staring blindly into space. He switched his gaze to me, staring in what looked horribly like disbelief. And then relief.

  ‘Don’t dare say you thought that involved me,’ I hissed, jerking a thumb up the stairs.

  ‘I wondered whose the car was.’ Which didn’t seem to be an answer to anything.

  ‘My secret lover’s, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Whose, then?’

  Arms akimbo, I said, ‘I should imagine it’s some friend of Dave’s, shouldn’t you? His forensic science mate, perhaps. I just hope whoever it is has come to sweep him back into his or her arms on a permanent basis. It’s bloody freezing in here. I’ll make some chocolate. You go upstairs. Put the fan heater on – oh, and Classic FM. Loudly.’

  He was deep in prayer when I got upstairs, but it didn’t seem to bring him any joy. I knew better than to ask him how he felt. Here in the rectory he’d simply clam up. I’d have to wait till he was safe in my apartment before he’d talk. But at last I felt him relax in my arms, and then we slept the sleep of the just.

  FOURTEEN

  There was no sign of Dave the following morning when we finally surfaced, much later than usual, probably because I’d forgotten to set the alarm. Presumably whoever had been here the previous night had taken him away: I couldn’t imagine he’d have found much to excite him in the rectory over the weekend. So the conversation I’d planned to have with him would either have to be put on ice – in other words would probably never happen – or would take place over the phone. Naturally I was put straight through to voicemail.

  Bother that for a game of soldiers. Cleaning the house from top to bottom was better than standing in the kitchen emulating Burble’s rich vocabulary, and at least when Theo came back from his morning’s rounds to spend the afternoon in his study working on the following day’s sermon, even he could tell the difference. And he had a choice of home-made curries when he knocked off for the day – except he didn’t, as there was a problem with some travellers on the edge of the village and the police thought a gentle answer might be better than wrath at turning them away.

  On Sunday I broke with my habit of worshipping at St Dunstan’s, whoever preached. I just wanted to be with Theo, and sat beside him as he tracked between early Communion in one tiny church, with two communicants, morning service in St Alphege’s, some twelve miles away, with sixty bottoms on the pews, a farewell barbecue (with the temperature struggling to reach ten Celsius) for a choirmaster in a third parish, and evensong in a fourth. Each time he asked for Burble to be added to the prayers of intercession – that is, the prayers offered in addition to the ones set down for the day, sometimes by the person taking the service, and sometimes by a member of the congregation. Our own daily prayers hadn’t been answered yet and I confess that I doubted whether a mass effort would impress the Almighty any more. Even so it was illogically comforting to hear the poor kid’s name spoken with loving kindness by so many decent people. I just hoped whoever was responsible for the prayers at St Dunstan’s had remembered him too. But I had an idea that it was Ted Vesey’s turn, and didn’t hold out much hope in that quarter.

  ‘What in hades do you think you’ve been up to? Missing the whole weekend without so much as a word. Though, of course, perhaps on Friday you didn’t need words!’ I addressed a bleary Monday-morning Dave as he ensconced himself in the kitchen, propping his leg on a spare chair.

  He pushed his badger’s crop back, looking insufferably smug. ‘A friend of mine dropped by some spare clothes – I needed trackie bottoms, not jeans – and we took advantage of the moment. And the house key I’d happened to leave at her place,’ he added less confidently, as he picked up the chill emanating from me. ‘And then – well, we thought discretion was the better part of valour.’

  ‘You left the key I’d entrusted to you at someone else’s place?’ Any moment now I’d resort to the kind of language favoured by Burble and Mazza, not least because our free day had just been hijacked. Someone had phoned to ask Theo to take a funeral first thing on Tuesday, because the priest who was supposed to be officiating had gone down with shingles. I should have overflowed with Christian charity. I didn’t, and would have loved to take out my bad mood on Dave. But I shouldn’t, should I? Especially as Theo was busily cancelling meetings on Wednesday so we could still have some private time. ‘Perhaps,’ I continued more coolly, more my old management self, ‘you’d be happier staying full-time at this person’s place.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he mused, quite ignoring the subtext. ‘After all, she’s out all hours and her house is all twists and stairs. Not suitable for a peg-leg at all.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ I said with mock sincerity.

  ‘In any case, I’m expecting my visitor here again today.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ It was my icy, reduce-them-to-tears voice, but Dave smiled blandly.

  ‘Rosemary’s getting hold of some waterproof covers for my leg so I can have a decent shower.’

  Still fearing I was about to lose my temper irretrievably, I dug in the back of one of Merry’s drawers, an Ali Baba’s hoard of all things useful, or that might conceivably be useful one day. Plonking on the table in front of him a roll of heavy-duty polythene bags large enough to accommodate even a size twelve foot, I headed for the garage and returned with my next prey. ‘There. Gaffer tape. Make sure you pull it off in one swift movement – any hesitation and take it from me it’s absolute murder. OK?’ I looked him straight in the eye.

  It didn’t take him long to get the message.

  He was still in the shower when Elaine paid another unannounced visit, her wonderful hair set off by a green top with tiny coppery flecks: it must have cost her a bomb. As for me, I was horribly underdressed, wearing jeans that were scruffy without the prefix
fashionably. Shoes not slippers, at least. I’d washed up but not got round to drying the breakfast things; apart from that the kitchen was neat and clean enough to welcome her, and the thought of a special coffee attracted me too.

  ‘Cow sheds,’ she said as she settled herself at the table. ‘I’ve been doing some asking around for you, all very discreet of course, and discovered that’s what they’re building out at Double Gate Farm.’

  ‘But the site’s huge. I thought cow sheds were just big enough to hold the cows while they were being milked. Mocha again?’ I patted the coffee-machine.

  She nodded. ‘Please. I think you mean milking parlours. These aren’t milking parlours. They’re sheds large enough to accommodate the whole herd pretty well year round. And they’ve got a lot of cows. I think the idea is that if they keep them in optimum conditions – in other words, warm and indoors, with lights on pretty much all the time – they can milk the animals three times a day instead of twice. Fifty per cent more yield.’

  ‘And I always thought cows lived in fields and ate grass and buttercups and daisies. Silly me.’ I put her cup in front of her and waited for the machine to give me mine. ‘Gives a whole new meaning to the term poor cow.’

  ‘The world’s a hungry place, Jodie,’ she declared. ‘And supermarkets want a cheap product. So it’s up to the farmers to maximize production. I checked: they do have planning permission.’

  ‘Just for the building?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s not as straightforward as that. There’d be some sort of assessment of the effect the development would have on the environment. I looked it all up on the Internet. There’s slurry storage to worry about, you see—’

  ‘Slurry being the – er – end product?’

  ‘Right.’

  Would I end up like this? Passing my time checking on slurry? On the other hand, there’d have to be a lot of slurry to fill a building the size of the one I’d seen. I gestured with arms stretching backwards and forwards: how big?

  ‘Oh, it’d be about the same depth as the shallow end of a swimming bath. Not that you’d be thinking about diving in, of course.’ She gave a comic shudder. Recalling news items about people dying in slurry fumes, I found it hard to join in. ‘You’ve got an access ramp for vehicles when you have to clear it out.’

  While I tried to work out why I hadn’t found all this myself when I searched the Net, I had to say something. ‘Talk about cleaning the Augean Stables.’

  ‘Quite. And poor old – was it Hercules? – who would also have to clear out any extra storage for the stuff. Maybe a lagoon.’

  I couldn’t resist humming the music that introduces Desert Island Discs: ‘Sleepy Lagoon’.

  ‘Or maybe,’ she continued, ignoring my townie’s snigger, ‘according to the Internet, a great big metal tank above ground level. They’ve got to make sure nitrates don’t seep into rivers or the water table. Farmers have to be really environmentally aware these days.’

  ‘Good,’ I said almost absently. None of what she’d said made sense of those foundations, though, deep enough for a double or triple decker shed, like a multistorey car park. Were cattle really kept underground? The thought was enough to make me sign up to the RSPCA. ‘So, these here prize milkers – do they get to see the light of day or are they kept like battery chickens? You know, do they live in flats?’

  She looked genuinely shocked. ‘That’d be inhuman!’

  I thought of some of the mammoth social housing estates I knew in London. Inhuman indeed. ‘So it’s just one vast flat concrete field, as it were, with comfortable bedding and stuff underfoot and plenty of nice nutritious food.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She hadn’t picked up my irony.

  Clearly, if we were to remain friends, a change of topic was called for. ‘I’ve contacted the trust about our trainee staff, by the way,’ I said, reaching for plates and the biscuit tin. The plates were where they were supposed to be; the tin wasn’t. Nor was it anywhere else, as far as I could see. Bloody Dave. But in fact its absence was a godsend. Before I could say apron, Elaine had rolled up her sleeves, raided my fridge and larder for the stuff I’d bought and never used, and embarked on a baking lesson.

  The trouble was that when Dave limped in, attracted by the wonderful smells coming from the oven, the gleam in her eyes, the blatant body language, told me she was more than willing to embark on something else. A deeper acquaintance with my scapegrace cousin.

  Any moves she might have wanted to make in that direction were stymied, however, by the arrival of Mazza, armed with enough computer games to keep them both off the street for a week. Where he’d got the money from I chose not to enquire – it wasn’t my business so much as Dave’s, was it? And having a chaperone for Dave seemed an entirely good thing while I worked out the most tactful way to warn Elaine that he already enjoyed a warm relationship with someone else. What she chose to do with the information was up to her, of course. Actually tact was more Theo’s line than mine, but I felt a bit of sisterly loyalty was in order. Especially with those biscuits of ours on the cooling rack.

  I wish I could have given her the chance to see what appeared to me a much more desirable piece of eye candy, but I could hardly drag the man to whom I answered the front door into the kitchen for her delectation. Six foot two, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and the most gorgeous blue eyes, he was a good ten years younger than her.

  ‘Daniel Baker, Doctor Harcourt.’ He flashed his council ID. ‘You made a serious complaint about dangerous obstructions on open land.’

  ‘I did,’ I said, my fingers crossed behind my back; although the ridge was certainly a right of way, I wasn’t at all sure about those sheep tracks. ‘I’m delighted by such a swift response, I must say. Come in, please.’ The best place to speak to him, with Dave in the living room and the kitchen clearly out of bounds, was Theo’s study.

  As we passed the living room door, it burst open. ‘Dan! What are you doing here? Come along in! Oh, leave this to me, Jodie, I’ll fill him in. After all, I’ve more to complain about than most.’

  And, alerted by the male voices, Elaine was already halfway out of the kitchen looking interested. So I didn’t argue with Dave this time, and returned to my baking lesson.

  Within minutes, Mazza slunk into the kitchen, sniffing optimistically. ‘Seems Daniel’s an old mucker of Dave’s – something to do with motorbikes,’ he said. ‘So they’re sort of wondering about coffee and some of those biscuits …’

  I grinned. ‘Elaine, this is Mazza, whom I was talking about earlier. Mazza, Elaine, who’s putting together a team to serve tea and coffee at the pub.’

  It was hard to tell which of them was more nonplussed.

  Mazza recovered first. His mother had taught him well. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, sticking out his hand.

  She had to take it, of course, and return his polite smile. ‘Jodie thought you might be able to recommend some young people who’d make good waiters and waitresses,’ she said, disbelief creeping into her voice, which had become ultra-clipped for the occasion.

  There was no doubt Mazza would have picked up on it.

  ‘I said you were a good judge of character,’ I explained. ‘You’d know who was flaky and who could be trusted to put in a full shift on a regular basis.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Bloody dole might be a problem.’

  ‘Jodie’s got some ideas for dealing with that,’ Elaine said.

  I repeated all I’d told her about protecting the youngsters’ benefit and waxed lyrical about their future employment prospects. ‘I guarantee that everyone will benefit and no one will take any financial hit. The scheme will be backed by a trust fund,’ I concluded. I’d said too much, hadn’t I? Mazza gave me a knowing look and the tiniest flicker of a smile. He’d sussed out who was behind it all. Drat, and I’d really wanted to keep my part quiet. But I could surely trust him to keep mum. Surely.

  Elaine was too busy overcoming her reservations about her new HR consultant to have noticed,
I thought. With a visible straightening of her shoulders, she cast about for something to write on. As if he was a son of the house, Mazza passed her the jotter and biro from beside the phone.

  There was a loud yell from the living room. It was Dave demanding to know what had happened to his coffee. For that he’d get standard cafetière issue. And, since he’d stolen the tin of biscuits, he could whistle for anything else.

  Mazza looked from the tray I was loading to Elaine and then to the kitchen door. How about that for an exercise in working out priorities?

  ‘So how many girls would you say would be interested?’ Elaine demanded, establishing herself as the more important. ‘Or do you think boys would be more reliable?’

  ‘It’s hard … Look, I can put it around to mates I can trust that there’s a chance of a job, but I can’t – you know – appoint people or check references and that.’

  ‘But surely you could—’

  His phone rang. Although he put down the tray, I think he was going to switch to voicemail, but then he double checked who was calling. ‘Sorry. Got to take this.’ He turned politely towards the back door. ‘Ma? You what? Bloody hell no! ’Course I bloody didn’t. You just go to bed. I’ll be straight down.’ He cut the call and turned to me, white-faced. ‘My mum’s just found a load of bikes dumped in our garden. Well, not so much dumped as hidden, like.’

  ‘Hidden?’

  ‘We keep all our garden chairs and stuff under an old tarpaulin. Mum was just hanging out the washing when she thought it was bulging, so she took a look. And there were half a dozen bikes.’

  Out of courtesy to Elaine and me he’d rationed his expletives, but there were still enough to make Elaine wince.

  ‘You’re being fitted up?’ I asked, hoping the lingo was reasonably up to date.