Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘You’re very young,’ she said. She guessed he was about thirty. Not much more. A full ten years younger than she was. More than that. Most women would consider him a catch. She could feel herself blushing at the intrusion. She had enjoyed it and there was no point in being coy. It had been a long time. More than a year.

  ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said as he reached out and took her hand. She suddenly realised how lonely she had felt. It felt good to let him hold her. Almost like disappearing.

  ‘You’re very forward. I don’t know you.’

  Doctor Williams smiled. He raised her palm to his lips and kissed it. ‘I was thinking of ways to remedy that. Why don’t we start with a proper introduction? I have the advantage of you. My name is Chris. Christopher Williams.’ He bit the fleshy part of her palm, gently, and she pulled her hand away.

  ‘Superintendent McGregor didn’t send you.’

  ‘No. Do you mind?’

  Mirabelle didn’t answer. She didn’t know.

  ‘Can I take you out? Dinner maybe? Dancing?’

  ‘Dinner?’ she repeated.

  ‘Dinner it is. Tonight?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  He smiled. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ He kissed her again, lightly on the lips, before picking up his case. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  As the door shut behind him, she stood, stunned for at least a minute. Then she moved to the window and tentatively peered outside. The doctor was getting into a car further along the front. It was illegally parked. He looked up and she stepped backwards, feeling foolish. She couldn’t deny he was attractive. She wondered why she felt so confused.

  On his way, his car seemed to glide past the window. Mirabelle sank on to the sofa. She grabbed the chicken pie from the table and opened the bag, breaking off a piece of the crust. It seemed impossible to go into the kitchen to fetch a plate. Instead she ate with her fingers, straight out of the paper. The pie tasted buttery. When she’d finished eating she crumpled the gravy-smeared bag and reached for the bottle of whisky on the drinks tray. She only poured herself a small dram. It was early yet, but it tasted good. Then she stretched out on the sofa. Through the open window, sounds filtered up from the beach – a snatch of laughter, a child squealing and the buzz of a scooter’s engine. She kicked off her shoes, yawned, turned over and fell fast asleep.

  She woke to the sound of banging on the front door. It must have been going on for a while, she realised as she sat up and scrambled to find her shoes. The clock on the mantle had stopped because she had neglected to wind it. ‘I’m coming,’ she called.

  When she opened the door a crack, McGregor stood on the threshold. He was clearly fuming.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Mirabelle?’ he said, pushing past her and into the living room, where he took off his hat. ‘I expressly said to you not to get involved and you went back to the home anyway.’

  Mirabelle took a moment to focus. ‘I did,’ she said. ‘I saw Robinson. It turns out to be a missing person case as well as a murder.’

  ‘If the two are connected,’ McGregor spat. ‘That’s an assumption, woman.’

  Mirabelle suddenly wished she had a cigarette. She wanted to appear nonchalant and she needed a prop. Instead she ran her fingers through her hair. Chris had done the same, she thought, only a little while ago, and a flash of guilt turned in her stomach.

  ‘It’s unlikely that they aren’t connected, wouldn’t you say?’ she managed. ‘Two people who knew each other and incidents on the same day. It would be a big coincidence. I just hope the sister is all right.’

  ‘You don’t think she did it then? Sister Taylor? Killed him? Of course, you don’t.’ McGregor raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You never think it’s the most likely thing.’

  Mirabelle gave the merest shrug. ‘Likely? I don’t know. Robinson reckons that she is on the run. But she doesn’t seem the type. I looked over her bedsit – she seems an exacting and methodical kind of person. A bit harsh sometimes with her neighbours, but that speaks to me of someone who liked order, not violence. And then there is the complete absence of a motive.’

  ‘I don’t want you getting mixed up in this, Mirabelle. I told you not to get involved.’

  ‘I found Father Grogan’s body. I’m involved regardless, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re a suspect.’

  ‘You know I didn’t kill Father Grogan.’

  ‘I repeat, Mirabelle. You’re a suspect. People end up charged. All sorts. You know better than this. You need to leave this one alone. Let me handle it, for pity’s sake.’

  She struggled against the impulse to tell him that what she got up to was none of his business. She wanted to fold her arms, but she held back. McGregor noticed the brown paper bag and the empty glass beside it. ‘Have you been drinking?’ He checked his watch. It was, she knew, no later than three o’clock.

  ‘I had a small one.’

  McGregor snorted. ‘On top of a potential concussion?’

  ‘I am not concussed. Doctor Williams examined me. I’m fine.’

  ‘Concussion takes time. You know that. Whatever the doctor said last night …’

  Mirabelle didn’t reply but a guilty shadow must have flickered across her face. McGregor took a moment.

  ‘I’d keep away from Williams,’ he said.

  She managed to hold her tongue.

  ‘I’m warning you as a friend.’ He tried again.

  ‘Why? Is the doctor a ladies’ man?’ She couldn’t help it. She hated sounding bitter. She hoped her cheeks hadn’t coloured.

  ‘He’s not good enough for you, Belle.’ McGregor’s tone was hardening.

  ‘By which you mean that you are good enough for me?’

  ‘Look, I don’t want you getting caught up in this case. That’s all.’

  ‘Or with Doctor Williams.’

  ‘If you give me a few days I’m sure I can sort it out. I’ll tell you over dinner if you like.’

  ‘Tell me now. What have you found, Superintendent?’

  McGregor sighed. ‘You can’t, Mirabelle.’

  ‘I have a right to know. I was there. What have you turned up? Tell me.’

  McGregor relented. ‘Very little so far,’ he said. ‘Though, for what it’s worth, I agree with your assessment of Sister Taylor. Robinson said she had been to see the priest before Vespers, but it’s impossible to say what she wanted.’

  Mirabelle’s eyes lit up. ‘You see. You do need me. I was the one who followed him, Alan. I saw them.’

  ‘Which is why I went to your office to interview you this morning but you weren’t where you said you’d be.’

  ‘Vesta sent me away.’

  He reached for her hand but she snatched it back.

  ‘You’re all right, aren’t you?’ He sounded tender.

  ‘I’m fine. And of course I’ll give you a statement. Thank you for not making me come to the station to do it.’

  McGregor nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It strikes me there are a few things that might matter,’ she said as she ran through the events of the night before. ‘I can’t say why Sister Taylor came to see the priest at the Sacred Heart yesterday, but she was upset. Afterwards I saw her and she could have told me, but she didn’t – she made up some stupid story. Then Grogan came to the home as quickly as he could and, afterwards, when he got back to the house, after they had fought, he must have felt terrible. He stumbled. I thought he was drunk, but really he was about to die. As soon as he got in, he switched on the study light. It was only for a moment but he must have gone there for a reason. That’s what I was trying to do when I broke in. I was going to check over the study and see if I could figure it out.’

  McGregor gave this some consideration. ‘Do you think he wanted to use the telephone?’

  ‘You’d hope, if that was on his mind, he might have called an ambulance. But he didn’t. I don’t know why he went in there. Anyway, in the end the poison hit him too quickly. He must have f
elt ill but perhaps he didn’t realise how seriously. He was still in a good enough state to make it up the hall to the bathroom. Perhaps he thought he was just going to be sick.’

  ‘OK. Leave it with me.’

  Mirabelle let her gaze fall to her shoes.

  ‘I mean it,’ he insisted. ‘You’ll end up charged, the way you’re going. Just lay off the whisky. And keep away from Williams, all right? You’re a suspect, Mirabelle. You have to be careful.’ McGregor folded his jacket over his arm and put on his hat at an angle. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ he said. ‘You’d best get some rest.’

  Mirabelle waited. She checked through the window as he walked down the path and turned on to the promenade. She touched her lips for only a second before directing herself to the drinks tray and immediately contravening McGregor’s order. He’d made her angry. ‘I’m not one of your damn officers,’ she said under her breath. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’ The taste of the whisky opened on her tongue. It seemed to clear her head. He couldn’t cut her out like this, she thought as she reached for her handbag and knocked back the last of the dram. She had forgotten the conundrum about the study until she’d said it. And she had nothing else to do this afternoon.

  Chapter Nine

  Knowledge is true opinion

  Norton Road was quiet. Shadows from the trees lengthened on the stones in the afternoon light. A girl was visiting a grave beside the church. She knelt on the ground in front of the large, grey stone and rocked gently. Mirabelle was careful not to stare. Instead she turned into the Sacred Heart. The church was becoming familiar although today there had been some changes. Inside, a wide bank of tiny candles burned next to the altar upon which a black-and-white photograph of Father Grogan had been placed, propped up in a silver frame and surrounded by a small forest of crosses – some made of wood, some of silver and one, even, of gold. In front of the candles, the young priest, Father Turnbull, knelt praying with two women. Behind Mirabelle, a schoolboy pushed open the heavy door and walked purposefully to the font, where he dutifully put a coin into the box and lit two candles, finding a place for them on the edge of the sea of flames, before nodding to the father and stalking back up the aisle. The boy’s knees, Mirabelle thought suddenly, seemed too thin to hold his weight. The schoolbag, mounted on his back, was at least twice the width of his body. It seemed extraordinary that he didn’t tip over.

  As the child passed, she slipped into a pew. After a minute or two, Father Turnbull crossed himself and got to his feet. The women sat back on the wooden slats as he rose and turned to inspect the interior of the church, checking, she supposed, for members of the congregation. It had clearly been busy today as the news of the tragedy spread. His eyes narrowed when he spotted Mirabelle. Then he put his hands into his pockets and walked up the aisle. Behind him, one of the women drew out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. The other put an arm around her friend.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Father Turnbull said, examining Mirabelle’s face as he stopped in front of her. ‘I really hurt you.’

  He didn’t go as far, she noted, as saying sorry.

  ‘The doctor says it will heal.’

  He sniffed. ‘But you have been drinking whisky.’

  She smiled. ‘I have.’ She realised she ought to buy peppermints. Father Turnbull slid into the pew. If she smelled of whisky, then he smelled of lavender water. Whoever had laundered his clerical robes had gone overboard with the stuff.

  ‘I keep coming back to you. What on earth were you doing in our bathroom?’ he asked.

  ‘I followed Father Grogan home.’

  Father Turnbull waited. It was a better technique, Mirabelle thought, than the police employed. Robinson, anyway.

  ‘I knew him. I’m not a member of the congregation but I was a friend of Father Sandor’s, you see. And I was concerned something was wrong.’

  ‘Oh. You’re that woman.’

  ‘I probably am. The thing is, Father, I am trying to figure out why Father Grogan went into the study.’

  Father Turnbull cocked his head.

  ‘When he came home,’ Mirabelle elaborated, ‘Father Grogan was already suffering. He was unsteady on his feet. But he went into the study, switched on the light, and then left almost immediately. After that, he went to the bathroom. He felt sick, I suppose.’

  Father Turnbull looked up. Mirabelle wondered for a moment if he was praying, but then she realised he was trying not to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s only, the detail is important.’

  The two women passed them, walking towards the double doors. One cast a sideways glance at Mirabelle, as if she was jealous. ‘Goodbye,’ the other one called and put her hand on her friend’s arm. The priest waved. Once the door had closed, he waited a moment. Just a beat. The church was so silent Mirabelle could have sworn she heard the candles flicker before the priest spoke. ‘Why would anyone want to kill him? I don’t understand. Sometimes we see evil, of course. A glimpse here and there. But this is truly the devil’s work.’

  ‘I’d like to find out.’

  He waited again but she didn’t rise to the provocation with a theory. ‘This is when people need the church most. Times like these,’ he said.

  Mirabelle nodded towards the candles. ‘He was loved, wasn’t he?’

  ‘People need something to do in a crisis.’

  That was Mirabelle’s problem with religion. It had struck her during the war that belief had fed on people’s fear. So much of what had passed across her desk had horrified her that she had lost faith in God. After that the ceremonies seemed foolish – hopeless, almost. If there was a god, why wouldn’t he stand up against such monumental cruelty, she asked herself. The battlefields. The camps. The executions. Jack had been the same. ‘We have ourselves to rely on,’ he had said. ‘Not all that guff.’

  Her affair with Superintendent McGregor had not restored her faith in the church – or in anything, for that matter. Alan McGregor, like her, appeared to have no faith. The matter had never come up, even before Mirabelle had understood the extent of the superintendent’s moral corruption. Not that his morality had to make a difference to his religious belief. Some of the world’s greatest despots were god-fearing men.

  ‘How long had you known Father Grogan?’ she asked.

  ‘Six years. I was Sandor’s replacement. Fresh out of the seminary. Father Grogan was a wonderful teacher. He came across gruff at first but he cared very deeply. He was extraordinary once you got to know him. That sounds dramatic, but he helped a lot of people. He was brave in the face of despair. People need that. Somebody who is steady.’

  ‘Will they send someone to help you?’

  ‘I phoned the bishop’s palace.’

  ‘Well, I hope they arrive soon. It must be lonely. Father Turnbull, I wonder, would you let me see it?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The study. If I could have a look, I might be able to figure out why Father Grogan went in there. There must have been a reason. And that might lead us to the reason he died.’

  She wasn’t sure what he would reply. ‘The police …’ he started and then stopped.

  ‘I’m sure they’ve looked. I’m not sure they have seen.’ She sounded biblical, she realised. ‘I’ve helped with inquiries before. I’ve solved a few cases, in fact. I knew Father Grogan – for a little longer than you did. For Sandor’s sake, I’d like to help if I can.’

  Father Turnbull nodded as he considered this. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you think it will help.’

  They crossed the road as if they weren’t walking together. Father Turnbull drew a key from his pocket and let her in through the front door this time. Mirabelle suppressed the shiver that wavered along her spine. It was, she knew, a visceral reaction to the memory of what had happened. She was glad she didn’t have to live in the priests’ house. Father Turnbull hovered on the threshold of the study. ‘It’s in here,’ he said.

  It felt strange being inside, looking out. The hardware shop on t
he corner, from where she had watched, was clearly visible from Father Grogan’s desk. Today there was a table outside with stacks of pots and pans piled up for sale.

  ‘Do you use this room?’ she asked. ‘I mean, if you’ve work to do.’

  ‘We share. That is, I use the desk if I need it. Father Grogan looked after all the paperwork. It’s more his room than mine.’

  Mirabelle did not correct the priest’s use of tense. The bereaved often talked of the dead in a mixture of the present and the past. ‘It’s very tidy,’ she said.

  The priest nodded. ‘He was good at looking after the old place. People turned away from the church after the war. And there has been so little money. It’s not as rich a parish as people expect. But the father was a whizz at making ends meet. A few weeks ago he managed to find funds for the repair.’

  ‘Repair?’

  ‘At the back of the church. The roof and the stonework. It’s a terrible mess. The building looks fine from the front but at the rear … we joked she was like a duck on the water – fine on top, paddling like crazy underneath. Some debris came off the roof last winter and we were lucky nobody got hurt – do you remember the big storm; the high winds after Christmas? We knew it had to be fixed but we didn’t have the money and the diocese couldn’t offer any help. Anyway, Father Grogan found a local firm to do the work at a reasonable price. We’d been raising funds ever since – donations and jumble sales and the scouts gave us their bob-a-job money. We were getting there, but slowly. Then he managed to get this donation. It was over half what we needed, all at once. The works start next month. I expect now we will put up a plaque to his memory.’ Father Turnbull sank into one of the chairs.

  ‘How much?’ Mirabelle prompted.

  ‘Nine hundred pounds. The total, that is. He found someone willing to donate five hundred. These old buildings are expensive.’