The Dead Lie Down: A Novel

by Sophie Hannah

Simon shook his head. ‘Seed used the name Len Smith for the Quaker meetings, when he was pretending to be Crowther’s friend, but online he used a different alias to pour scorn on her views: Adam Sands.’

  Charlie’s eyes widened. ‘He called himself after the character in Martha Wyers’ novel, the one based on him?’ As if, after all these years, he wanted to endorse her version of him. Was it guilt, Charlie wondered, because she loved him enough to take her own life and he didn’t love her at all?

  ‘George Fox was an arrogant twat who wouldn’t be told anything by anyone,’ said Simon. ‘He was a tyrant—smug, rude, tactless, intolerant, unforgiving—remember that, it’s important. Worst of all, Fox dismissed the inevitability of sin.’

  ‘That sounds complicated,’ said Charlie, wondering what any of it had to do with Aidan Seed.

  ‘The idea that human beings regularly fuck up and need to ask God’s forgiveness when they do,’ Simon explained. ‘I grew up with the idea of sin. It was as much a part of my childhood as illicitly watching Grange Hill. That’s a Catholic upbringing for you—saying your Hail Marys every time you think a bad thought or lie to your mother.’

  ‘So saying Hail Marys is like writing lines, is it? Ten, fifty, a hundred, depending on how bad the sin?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Simon. ‘I hated it—still hate the idea of it—but I can see now that it had one thing in its favour: the emphasis on the difference between right and wrong, the idea that wrongs need to be put right. You have to say sorry, make amends. Basically the set-up is that God’s the boss, the Pope’s next after him, your parish priest’s next, then your parents, and you’re a piece of kindling waiting to be dropped into the flames of Hell.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Charlie. ‘What a carefree childhood you must have had.’

  ‘I’m not talking about me,’ said Simon, blushing, though he manifestly had been, unless Charlie was confused and it was George Fox who’d been watching Grange Hill. ‘Fox claimed he had the light inside him and was therefore incapable of sin—that’s tantamount to claiming he was God. Other people sinned, lesser beings, and when they did he withheld his forgiveness. Adam Sands had a story to prove it. I’ll show you the website, you can read it. There was another prominent Quaker, a man called James Nayler, who got himself in trouble for allowing some of his adoring women disciples to fawn over him in public once too often. He was accused of blasphemy, of parodying Christ’s entry into Jerusalem.’

  Charlie rolled her eyes. ‘Some people really need to get over themselves,’ she said.

  ‘Nayler suffered a range of hideous punishments for what was seen as his blasphemy—he was imprisoned, branded, pilloried, whipped. Fox distanced himself from Nayler when Nayler was at his lowest point, and when Nayler got out of prison, a broken man, when he publicly repented and renounced his follies in several statements, wanting nothing more than to be reconciled with Fox, Fox rebuffed him.’

  ‘You sound like you’re quoting,’ said Charlie. ‘ “Rebuffed”?’

  ‘That was the word Adam Sands used. From his tone, he seemed pretty incensed that the founder of this enlightened, peaceful religion that promotes tolerance and forgiveness was a shithead hypocrite—guilty of the very same self-aggrandising attitudes he couldn’t forgive Nayler for. As Sands, Seed ended his contribution to the website by saying, and I quote, “Without contrition and forgiveness, there’s no hope for any of us. How can you want to be part of anything set up by a shitbird like George Fox?” ’

  ‘Did Crowther reply?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Only in the words of Fox himself—a long quote, something about the New Jerusalem and how it’s only available to those who don’t vex and grieve the spirit of God. Those who do are beasts and whores, and they’re covered over by the spirit of error and dispatched to Babylon.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Charlie muttered. ‘I think I’m starting to get an inkling of what attracted the likes of Crowther and Elton to Quakerism. ’

  ‘Now can you see why I don’t think Seed’s a revenge-motivated killer? If you’re going to murder someone, why not just do it? Why pretend to be their mate and argue with them on internet discussion forums first?’

  ‘Here’s a question for you,’ said Charlie. ‘If Seed didn’t kill Crowther and was never planning to, and if he wasn’t her friend or a Quaker either, what the hell was he doing hanging round with her at all? Why did he give her Abberton?’

  Simon’s expression darkened. ‘Not a clue,’ he said ungraciously, enraged as always by his ignorance.

  Charlie opened her bag, pulled out the exhibition catalogue Jan Garner had given her and put it in front of him, wondering if he was in a fit state to pay attention. She could have boasted that, unlike him, she’d made real progress, but she’d have felt too cruel and, besides, it was about to become obvious.

  ‘The Murder of Mary Trelease,’ Simon read aloud. ‘Oil and watercolour. £2,000.’

  Charlie passed him the sales list. ‘That’s two thousand quid eight years ago, don’t forget. J. E. J. Abberton mustn’t be short of a bob or two. Only one problem: his address, as listed there, doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She tried not to take the question as an insult. ‘I spent what felt like hours on the phone to 118118, checking and double-checking. There were eighteen paintings in Aidan Seed’s exhibition. Three were sold to real people with real addresses: Cecily Wyers, Saul Hansard and Kerry Gatti.’

  ‘You reckon Cecily Wyers is Martha’s mother?’

  ‘Seems likely, based on what Jan Garner said about a mother and daughter fighting over whether to buy a picture.’

  Simon nodded his agreement.

  ‘Cecily, Gatti and Hansard bought one picture each, leaving fifteen. Those were sold to our old friends, the gang of nine.’ She read the names aloud, out of the alphabetical order she was used to. ‘Mrs E. Heathcote, Dr Edward Winduss, Mr P. L. Rodwell, Sylvia and Maurice Blandford, Mrs C. A. Goundry, Ruth Margerison, Mr J. E. J. Abberton, E. & F. Darville, Professor Rodney Elstow. The Darvilles bought four pictures, Rodney Elstow three and Dr Edward Winduss two. The others bought one each.’ Charlie paused to take a quick breath. ‘The addresses Jan’s written down for these nine buyers don’t exist. Or rather, eight of them don’t exist at all, and one—’

  ‘They’re not ex-directory?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s possible none of the nine has a telephone, ’ said Simon.

  ‘How likely is that? Anyway, no. I rang the post office once I’d finished with directory enquiries. They don’t exist, Simon. Apart from Ruth Margerison’s.’

  Simon looked down at the list. ‘Garstead Cottage, The Avenue, Wrecclesham . . .’

  ‘Villiers is in Wrecclesham, the boarding school Wyers and Trelease went to. While I was on to the post office, I asked for the school’s postcode and full address, and guess what also turned up under the “Villiers” listing? Ruth Margerison’s address and postcode.’

  Simon frowned. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Villiers’ grounds are so vast, they cover several postcodes. There are about twenty school buildings in total, all listed individually. One of them’s Garstead Cottage. It’s even on The Avenue, which must be the name of a road within the grounds. I rang Villiers, asked to be put through to Ruth Margerison at Garstead Cottage, and was told nobody by that name lived there.’

  ‘Did you ask who did?’

  ‘Yeah, and I got nowhere. Every time I ring that place, I get tight-lipped politeness and no help whatsoever. No one wants to talk about Martha Wyers.’

  ‘We need to get down there.’ Simon drained the dregs of his pint. ‘We’re the police—they have to talk to us. They don’t know we’re unofficially suspended.’

  ‘I rang Jan Garner in the cab on the way here,’ said Charlie. ‘Asked her if she had records of how all these people paid for their pictures. She didn’t, not that far back, and she couldn’t remember. All that’s on the sales sheet for each painting is
a tick, to indicate the buyer’s paid. She says at least one paid in cash—she remembered that because it was so unusual.’

  ‘If the addresses don’t exist, maybe the people don’t either,’ said Simon.

  ‘One thing Jan did remember: most of them she didn’t meet in person. She said only three of the pictures sold at the private view.’

  ‘Cecily Wyers, Kerry Gatti and Saul Hansard?’

  ‘She couldn’t say for sure, but she said it was possible. Most of the others rang up later. Payment and merchandise were exchanged by post and courier.’

  Simon frowned. ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘Jan says not. She took it as a mark of how far word had spread about Aidan’s work—that people were buying it without having seen it. Two of the nine, Elstow and Winduss, said they wanted first refusal on any paintings Seed did in the future—Jan made a note of it on the file.’

  ‘Bit gullible, isn’t she? All these buyers she’s never laid eyes on . . .’

  ‘She was making money, selling pictures—she’s hardly going to question that, is she?’ said Charlie. ‘The most successful exhibition she’s ever had.’

  ‘Villiers.’ Simon stood up, picked up his book. ‘That’s my next port of call. Coming?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we take this to Milward first?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘You can if you want,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll bow out. If I see her again, I’ll end up decking her.’

  Charlie couldn’t imagine Milward would be interested in a catalogue from a years-old art exhibition. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll head back home. One of us needs to talk to Kerry Gatti and it looks like that one’s going to have to be me.’ She sighed. ‘My lucky day. Yet another one.’

  23

  Wednesday 5 March 2008

  I jolt awake to the sound of a loud voice, a man’s, talking about traffic. The radio. I’m in a car I don’t recognise, with grey leather seats and a small tree hanging down from the rear-view mirror, like in a cab. Slowly, my brain puts the pieces together: this is the taxi Mary ordered to take me to the station.

  ‘Why are we on the motorway?’ I ask the driver. Through the gap between his seat and his headrest, I can see a patch of pink neck, white hair so neat and even it looks like a carpet, ending in a perfect straight line at the base of his skull. All three lanes of traffic are stationary. We’re in the middle one. Ahead, a few people have climbed out of their cars and are stretching, or leaning in through open windows to talk to other drivers. I wonder how long we’ve been here, how long I was asleep. It’s getting dark outside.

  ‘You want Spilling, don’t you?’

  ‘I was going to get the train,’ I tell him. ‘I thought you were taking me to a station.’

  ‘I was told to take you all the way, miss.’

  ‘No.’ I push away the desire to drift back into sleep’s comforting oblivion. ‘I haven’t got enough money for . . .’

  ‘You won’t be needing any,’ he says, twisting the mirror so that we can see one another. His eyes are grey, with pouches of skin above and below them, and heavy white eyebrows that sprout forward instead of lying flat against his skin. ‘It’s on the account. All I’ll need from you’s a signature when we get there. If we get there,’ he adds cheerfully.

  ‘The account?’

  ‘Villiers.’

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ I tell him.

  ‘No misunderstanding, miss. I was told to take you to Spilling. Looks like we might be in for a long haul, though. There’s been an accident two junctions ahead and they’ve closed traffic down to one lane. Are you thirsty? There’s some water in the freezer-bag back there. I’d have told you before, but you were out for the count.’

  To my right, in the footwell, there’s a squat blue case. I undo my seat belt, lean down and unzip it. There are eight unopened bottles of mineral water in its chilled interior.

  ‘Help yourself,’ says the driver. ‘They’re for you, not for me.’

  I’m confused. How can they be for me? Why would I need eight bottles of water? ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, uncomfortable with him watching me. ‘Really, I’d prefer it if you dropped me at a station.’ There’s a leather pocket attached to the back of his seat, with the top of a glossy, red-covered magazine sticking out of it: The Insider.

  ‘New to Villiers, are you? You look too young to have a daughter there. Job interview, was it?’

  ‘I was visiting someone.’

  ‘First time? That explains why you’re not used to the Rolls-Royce treatment. If you were a parent or a teacher, or even one of the girls, you’d expect nothing less. Between me, you and Barney McGrew, it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t take too much for granted once in a while. Not a Villiers girl yourself, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can tell you’re not. Villiers is our main account—we’re the only firm they use, and that’s why: for the service we provide. Would you like the radio on now that you’re awake? Sorry if it disturbed you before. I was keeping it on to hear the traffic bulletins. ’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Talking is using up energy I can’t spare. I need to think about what I’ll say to Saul. Having refused to face him in person for so long, I have no right to turn up without warning and fire questions at him. Knowing he’ll be delighted to see me, that he’ll answer them willingly, only makes it harder.

  I thought Saul had shown me all the art he owned. Why didn’t he show me Aidan’s picture? Before the day Mary attacked me at the gallery, we used to have dinner together from time to time, either at Saul’s house, with his family, or at mine, where it would be only me and him; I felt bad about that, but Blantyre Lodge is too small for a proper dinner party. The main point of those evenings was to show each other new paintings we’d bought. We joked about our ‘collections’. Saul used to say, ‘You and I are the taste-makers of the future, Ruth. Once all the pickled baby skeletons and diamond-studded skulls and unmade beds have been seen for the shams they are, you and I will be there to lead the way. True art will once again reign supreme.’

  Does Saul know where Aidan is? Does he know why Aidan called one of his paintings The Murder of Mary Trelease?

  ‘Radio Two all right for you, miss?’ asks the driver. ‘Or would you prefer a ditty or two? I’ve got some CDs.’

  The word ‘ditty’ makes me think of It’s a long way to Tipperary and Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag—songs I was forced to learn at school and hated. ‘The radio’s okay,’ I tell him.

  ‘There’s a copy of the school magazine in the pocket behind me,’ he says. ‘Latest issue. You’re welcome to have a decco if you get bored. Get a glimpse of how the other half lives.’

  One half dies. The other half lives.

  I pull The Insider out of the leather pouch and start to flick through the pages. There are photographs of schoolgirls in yellow blouses and maroon blazers, standing in lines, smiling. Each picture represents an achievement—money raised for charity, a victory in an independent schools’ public-speaking competition. On the next page there are more pictures of Villiers girls, this time in yellow tracksuits and swimwear, holding up trophies. I see Claire Draisey, the woman I met last night, also in a yellow tracksuit, and find out from reading the caption that as well as being Director of Boarding, she coaches the netball and synchronised swimming teams.

  On the opposite page there’s a picture of a modern-looking building, a white-walled hexagon with large windows on every side. I’m about to pass over it when the name ‘Cecily Wyers’ catches my attention. The building has been named after her. I read the paragraph beneath the photo. It quotes Martha Wyers’ mother, an old Villiers girl, as saying she’s always been passionate about the arts, which is why she and her husband donated most of the money that turned the school’s dream of its own dedicated theatre and drama studio space into a reality. I stare at these five lines of text long after I’ve finished reading them, as if they might tell me something about Martha that I don’t already know.

 
; Odd that Cecily didn’t think to name the building after Martha instead of herself.

  I’m about to close the magazine and put it back in the pocket behind the driver’s seat when my eye is drawn to another name, at the bottom of the last page. No. It can’t be. I look at it, half expecting it to disappear, but it doesn’t. Goundry. The name is there, but the context makes no sense. A prickly sensation starts to creep along my arms, up my back and neck and behind my knees, as if I’ve got pins and needles in my skin.

  I re-read the paragraph. Goundry’s not a common name. If it were Wilson or Smith, I wouldn’t have noticed. I drop the magazine, open my bag and pull out the sales list Mary gave me. There’s the name again: Mrs C. A. Goundry. An address in Wiltshire. My heart judders an irregular, drawn-out beat as something else leaps out at me from the page. I didn’t read the addresses before; I was too stunned by the nine names being there, looking so innocent and not at all mysterious—the people who bought paintings from Aidan’s 2000 exhibition.

  The address given for Ruth Margerison, who bought a painting called Who’s the Fairest?, is Garstead Cottage, The Avenue, Wrecclesham. Mary’s cottage. I stare at the handwritten list. I know that writing, the curly ‘M’ of Margerison . . .

  Disorientated and panicky, I clear my throat. ‘Excuse me?’

  The driver turns off the radio. ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘There’s something here about a talent contest. In the magazine. ’

  ‘That’s right. They have it every year, first Saturday after Valentine’s Day. There’s a lot of pressure on Villiers to go co-ed, but the head and the board are determined not to. All the statistics show that it’s easier to educate girls when there are no boys around, but try telling the girls that. And some of the parents—a lot of them take the attitude, if their daughter wants boys, they expect boys to be provided, like good school lunches and private bedrooms in the dorms.’ He laughs. ‘I reckon I get to hear more of their complaints than the head does. Not a lot I can do to help them—I’m only a cabbie. Most of them assume they can buy anything, and normally they can, but the board have dug their heels in over the single sex issue. They know who’d get an earful the minute the results took a dive.’