The Indecent Death of a Madam

by Simon Parke

  Martin winced. ‘A terrible thought.’

  ‘But you still haven’t answered the question.’

  Channing paused by the window, a newspaper man in silhouette, black against the bright winter sun. He returned to his desk.

  ‘I was like a hound with a distant scent in my nostrils.’ He had to tell. ‘One of my interns, clever fellow, dug up the link between Rosemary and Geoff with regard to the closure. I sensed an untold story there and intended to tell it. And then while trying to persuade Terence that he needed me as his book agent, he let slip his own connection to the place, which I thought rather interesting . . . well, more than rather. I’ll deny it all, of course, and we won’t pretend you’ve recorded this, because you wouldn’t know how.’

  Which was true. ‘So you gathered them together in the Etiquette Society and played with their souls.’

  Channing laughed. ‘You make me sound like some deus ex machina, but it wasn’t like that at all. The scientist can assemble the chemicals, but how they react is quite out of his hands. The death of dear Rosemary had nothing to do with me. Remember, the world is a madhouse without any help from my good self.’

  What did the abbot think of Martin Channing? He was erudite, funny, a charmer; and determinedly playful in his insistence on taking nothing seriously. But was he also a monster? Perhaps he simply inhabited the fields of audacious assault, of untethered scheming, of cynical risk and dare, that lay in the mist beyond right and wrong. This is what the abbot was thinking on the bus back from Lewes to Stormhaven.

  He would see Tamsin that evening. He’d bought tickets for an Elton John tribute act in the Barn Theatre. He’d seen him in the desert, twenty years ago now . . . though not in person. There hadn’t been an ‘Elton John Monastery Tour’. But a screen and video machine had been hired by the monastery so they could watch the funeral of Princess Diana, and he’d sung rather well, rather winningly about a candle . . . and a rose.

  Though now, as the bus passed Tide Mills, the soldier was on his mind, the missing major-general.

  ‘You don’t know where Terence is?’ had been Channing’s closing question. ‘Not hiding him, are you?’

  ‘Hello, Blessings,’

  said the visitor, cold on the doorstep.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ She stayed in the doorway. ‘You shouldn’t be here, of course.’

  ‘I’ll be gone shortly. And I expect nothing.’

  ‘You expect me to let you in.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I can’t help you, you do know that?’

  ‘I don’t want help,’ said the soldier.

  ‘No, you never did, Terence. Not the helpable sort.’

  He shrugged. ‘Though maybe I can help you,’ he said.

  ‘I doubt that.’

  Blessings was looking around. Had anyone seen him arrive? She doubted it. She trusted his discretion and her own high walls.

  ‘Before I leave, I mean. I could help you before I leave.’

  It was the look in his eyes. They both knew.

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Blessings . . . what you asked for.’

  ‘And what you turned down.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘What could possibly have changed?’ said Blessings with a smile. ‘You’d better come inside.’

  And the front door of Black Cap closed behind Terence – a fox free from the pack . . . for a while.

  ‘What will you do?’

  asked Peter.

  ‘Sell up and move on,’ said Tara, sipping a glass of red wine.

  They sat in the reception area of No. 9, Church Street, the business formerly known as Model Service, a joint venture between Rosemary Weller and Tara Hopesmith, though now closed down by the police amid a public outcry led by the Silt.

  ‘It’s that easy?’

  ‘No, it’s a nightmare. I have to ask what I want to do with my life and I’m not sure I know. Should you know what you want to do with your life?’

  ‘The zero hour breeds new algebras,’ said Peter.

  ‘I have no idea what that means.’

  ‘Well, not one for the scrapbook then.’

  He’d chosen a whisky from the well-provisioned drinks cabinet – whisky and ginger ale.

  ‘You don’t want to marry me, do you?’ said Tara, looking him in the eye.

  ‘Marry you?’

  ‘I could do worse.’ She smiled.

  ‘I’m not sure you could.’

  They sat in silence, slightly shocked at where they’d reached.

  ‘Rosemary loved you; I mean, as far as she knew how to love. She did things for people rather than love them.’

  ‘She did do things for people. She saved me, in a way.’

  ‘It’s a sort of love, a practical love . . . but not a romantic love.’

  Peter drank again from his whisky. He was enjoying this moment, there was something about it. Alcohol softened him.

  ‘There was a desert between us,’ he said, confessionally. ‘Between Rosemary and me . . . a desert, both real and metaphorical. We couldn’t quite cross over into each other’s territory.’

  ‘Whereas I’m a complete romantic, of course.’

  ‘That sounds threatening, like a prelude to invasion.’

  ‘Not all invasions are bad.’

  ‘Now there’s a thought for the day.’ More silence. ‘You’ll note that I don’t actually know what to say at the moment. I don’t even know what I’m feeling.’

  Tara simply sat, which drew Peter out once again: ‘They say separate houses are the best form of cohabitation.’

  ‘Cohabitation in separate houses. How does that work?’

  ‘I have no idea. I know only my cell . . . and my lust.’ Had he said that? ‘So what I could give you, I have no idea.’

  His phone rang. ‘I’m sorry, that’s my niece.’

  ‘The detective?’

  ‘Yes. We’re seeing an Elton John tribute act this evening at the Barn Theatre. My treat.’

  ‘Hah! Well, good luck with that!’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ said Peter as he picked up the phone. Tara nodded and then mimed the cutting of her throat. ‘Oh. So not good then?’

  God knows,

  it was never meant to be like this.

  War was a good deal simpler and happier – this was Terence’s sense as he lay on the bed. You left right and wrong at home, where they should be, with no voice in the field of conflict. You simply did the job that was asked of you, with no other considerations. It wasn’t your job, it was their job. Others could take the blame – the politicians, whoever.

  But the events at the asylum had been his job with the rights and wrongs close at hand. And his head ached, because his mother hadn’t shut up all day, the evil old witch. You give her what she wants, but there’s no sense of thanks or applause, and when had that ever been different? There was only failure with her. And it makes no difference when they’re dead – this is the thing, they carry on talking, carry on gnawing at your existence, voice lingering like the plague in the pathways of the brain. Did he have more blame in his body than blood?

  And perhaps that’s hell. The eternal judgement of another, though he knew she was gone, snuffed out; he knew there was nothing left of the dead. He hoped there was nothing of his mother right now, nothing left of the harridan, no flesh left on the bones in the cemetery off Vale Road.

  But for Blessings, he wished for birth, for new life. He had done what he could.

  It was their final meeting.

  ‘And then there were three,’ said Blessings, devoid of emotion.

  Empires come and go, rise up and fall away . . . and the Stormhaven Etiquette Society was no different. It was not advertised as the final meeting – no speeches were prepared or bottles of fizz made ready – but that’s what it became for this awkward trinity in the judge’s large front room: Geoff, Martin and their host.

  ‘No Terence?’ said Martin with mock surprise. ‘And he’s always
been so regular.’

  ‘I can’t abide the man,’ said Geoff, who was frightened and wouldn’t relax until he was found. Handcuffed to the bench in that god-forsaken cellar – that wasn’t funny. And who knows what would have happened if – well, it didn’t bear thinking about. The man was insane, evil. And to think they’d sat here with him, as if he was normal.

  ‘And I like to think we’ve done our bit for the area,’ said Martin, breaking the silence. Conversation had not arisen easily on arrival, when polite banter must flourish or all feel awkward. But the empty chairs – once occupied by Rosemary and Terence – could not be ignored and an unsettled tone prevailed. Nor had any tea been offered to the guests.

  ‘I’m sure we have,’ said Geoff, aware of nothing achieved at all. What had the Etiquette Society ever achieved apart from notoriety and bad feeling? Perhaps that was enough for Martin, but it wasn’t enough for Geoff, who preferred applause, otherwise what was the point of anything? ‘And I’m also sure we’ve enjoyed every second in Blessings’ lovely home. Quite a property – and I’ve seen a few!’

  Always worth reminding people that he knew about property.

  ‘We have perhaps kept people on their toes,’ said Blessings, and the other two smiled. No one had liked getting their stickers; there was little doubt about that. They were the secret society from whom no one liked a visit. ‘Though not Rosemary,’ added Blessings and the smiles faded. ‘Not Rosemary. She won’t be needing her toes six feet under. No dancing there.’

  ‘I’m not sure she was a keen dancer,’ said Martin, by way of reassurance.

  ‘So did we kill her?’ asked Blessings, to the surprise of her guests. ‘I do wonder that. I do wonder whether we killed her?’

  Her words hung in the air for a moment.

  ‘A rather odd question, Blessings,’ said Martin.

  ‘Well, it seems that at least three of our number had a history, Martin – a shared history. And two of them are now dead, just leaving . . .’

  Geoff felt the sweat pricking at his neck.

  ‘Well, so it transpired,’ said Martin casually. ‘So it transpired.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ asked Blessings.

  Martin managed some mock laughter. ‘We’ll ignore that!’

  ‘Well, was it? Was it all just one very big and unfortunate coincidence?’

  ‘These things happen, Blessings.’

  ‘But why did these things happen?’

  ‘I’ve never believed in conspiracy theories myself. I mean, good copy obviously – but normally quite unbelievable . . . rumour and intrigue invented by the sad and lonely.’ And then, as an afterthought: ‘You’re not sad and lonely, are you, Blessings? I’d hate to think of you as sad and lonely.’

  Blessings looked at him, without movement of head or face.

  ‘What are you actually suggesting, Blessings?’ asked Geoff, leaning forward and disturbed. He’d already decided he wanted out of the society; he’d come here tonight to hand in his resignation. Martin had been rather mocking of his experiences in the asylum that night – but Martin hadn’t been there, so how could he possibly know what it was like?

  ‘“A clown in the asylum” – not a good epitaph, Geoff!’ Those had been his words.

  But ever since then, Geoff had woken each night in that awful cellar, tied to the bench in the silence of dripping water and fear. He could swear he’d seen figures down there, the cracked and the crazed, moving in the shadows.

  ‘It’s PTCS, Geoff – post-traumatic clown syndrome!’ joked Martin.

  Geoff hated Channing, he realized that now. But what was Blessings suggesting? That Martin had known of the connection? That he’d . . .

  ‘Coincidence doesn’t play well as a defence in court,’ said Blessings.

  ‘Though probably not enough in itself to convict,’ said Martin with a smile. ‘And of course, this isn’t a court. It’s a meeting of the Stormhaven Etiquette Society, which is why I sit in a comfortable chair, why there is no court recorder present and why I, as its creator, now declare the society to be defunct, finished – deceased.’ He said it with a bit of a flourish, like a showman. ‘So, if there’s no other business—’

  ‘Just a game was it?’ said the judge, with the levity of a head teacher on the prowl.

  ‘You did once tell me you were bored in Stormhaven, Blessings. Don’t tell me you didn’t. And I’m an incorrigible people-pleaser, after all. It hasn’t been dull, has it?’

  He had been powerfully attracted to Blessings at the outset. He’d wanted her as much as he wanted anyone and the chance to sit in her front room once in a while . . . well, who knows what might have become of that?

  ‘You bastard,’ said Geoff.

  ‘I’ll give you that one for free,’ said Martin. ‘Gratis. But I wouldn’t repeat it.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Geoff was feeling feisty. He didn’t add ‘You and whose army?’ but that’s what he was feeling. You could only push Geoff so far and Channing had better believe it, however many readers the Sussex Silt might have. Geoff had his pride.

  ‘Yes,’ said Channing coldly. ‘Or you might find all sorts of unfortunate stories creeping into the Stormhaven consciousness. Local celebrities can quickly look rather jaundiced . . . the gutter press and all that. I’ll show myself out.’

  ‘I’d convict you,’ said Blessings as he walked towards the hallway. ‘I’d send you down.’

  He turned – and for a moment a haunted gaze passed across Channing’s face, like a boy caught out, like a child told to sit on the stairs. He recovered himself to act out mock-fear and then the familiar smile. But his smile did not reach his eyes and Geoff realized for the first time that Channing’s smile never had.

  The front door closed quietly behind him and he was gone into the night.

  ‘So!’ said Geoff, relieved at Martin’s departure. He was glad he’d made a stand; he didn’t regret it. Channing had that coming to him. Had Geoff gone too far, though? You wouldn’t want Martin as an enemy. But, well, here he was anyway and looking to the positives, glad to be alone with Blessings, even if he wouldn’t mind a nightcap in his hand, something to calm him a little. She was a very attractive woman, no question of that, and an evening here was not the worst option available, far from it.

  ‘Wonderful property, Blessings,’ he said warmly. People loved talking about their houses, especially with an expert like himself. ‘How much did you pay for it, out of interest? Because whatever it was, it would be a great deal more valuable now.’ He loved his own expertise sometimes. ‘Property prices in Firle Road have risen between twelve and fifteen per cent per annum over the last five years. Brighton overspill . . . very telling.’

  ‘I’d convict you as well,’ she replied. ‘Now let’s find your coat.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Geoff, hastily rising. He hadn’t expected this. ‘But I mean, Blessings, if you ever—’

  ‘I won’t be selling through you, Mr Berry, not if you were the last estate agent on earth. And from here on, it’s Judge N’Dayo as far as you’re concerned.’

  ‘Quite. Well . . .’

  ‘Good night, Mr Berry. And if you’ve avoided a prison sentence, it’s only because injustice reigns.’

  She opened the door and closed it behind him. With Geoff gone, expelled, Blessings returned to her chair and sat down.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ she said, voice raised slightly.

  ‘I know,’ said Terence, who was standing on the stairs. ‘Sorry to have missed the final meeting; as harmonious as ever.’

  ‘And you must be gone as well,’ she said.

  ‘I will be.’ Blessings had allowed him to stay for three nights while the police hung around known haunts, watched harbours and airports and offered his picture to the press. She’d said yes because he was a proper man, strong, and decent. But now their contract was fulfilled and the welcome over.

  ‘Goodbye, Blessings.’ They were together in the hallway. ‘You have my will. I can’t think of a better wit
ness than you. Make sure they give everything away.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And I trust you’ll be able to look after my child . . . should my child appear.’

  His hand reached towards the door.

  ‘Don’t you need anything?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve taken one or two small tools.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No food?’

  ‘No food. As Socrates said, “There’s so much I have no need of.”’

  They looked at each other, there in the hallway of Black Cap. He leant towards her and kissed her briefly on the lips. It was a sweet taste, one he’d like again.

  ‘Goodbye, Terence.’

  And after he disappeared into the night, Blessings cried.

  ‘I’m still in shock,’

  said the abbot, though the Barn Theatre was now half a mile behind them, allowing some recovery time.

  ‘You’re not still moaning about the show?’ Tamsin was thinking ahead, to a glass of wine.

  ‘I am still moaning about the show.’

  ‘Well, stop moaning. Enjoy the view.’

  The night sea was magnificent, a calm majesty.

  ‘I still need to moan.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect?’

  ‘That wasn’t a tribute act – it was an insult.’

  Tara’s mimed throat-slitting made deep sense now, and while they had left at half-time it still rankled.

  ‘You do have a harsh tongue, Abbot.’ Tamsin enjoyed saying that. ‘Though I agree, Joey Long was appalling and there’s no defence for that . . . there’s no defence for appalling at all.’

  ‘I mean, I suppose he was young . . .’

  No, excuses weren’t helping.

  ‘Were the tickets expensive?’ asked Tamsin. ‘Is it the money that’s getting to you?’

  The abbot’s wallet was neither deep nor much opened.

  ‘Well, they didn’t seem so when I bought them. They appeared quite reasonable. But ten minutes into the show . . . I mean, was Joey actually playing the piano?’

  ‘I think it was mostly backing track.’

  ‘You mean it was mostly Elton John.’