A Dead Man Out of Mind (27 page)

‘Oh, she . . . couldn't come today,' David said lamely.

West turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘
Quel dommage!
'

Overcoming his distaste, David forced a smile. ‘Yes, well. How about that drink you promised me?'

‘Absolutely, my dear. What will you have?'

For a split second David considered whether he would be better off staying sober and keeping his wits about him, or blotting out the pain of this ordeal with as much alcohol as possible. Prudence prevailed, and he chose the first option. ‘Just mineral water, thanks. With ice and lemon.'

‘How
boring
. Wouldn't you rather have a G and T? Or even champagne? It's on the house, remember?'

It was tempting, but not tempting enough. ‘Sorry, no. I've got to go back to work this afternoon,' David explained, adding, ‘I'll have to come back another time for the champagne.'

‘Promise that you'll leave the girlfriend behind again and it's a deal,' West smirked, going behind the bar for the mineral water. He poured it out with a flourish, added an artistic twist of lemon, then concocted a gin and tonic for himself, before leading the way to a corner table. ‘Are you having some lunch?' he asked.

‘I thought I might.'

West went off for a moment and returned with a menu. ‘The breast of
poussin
in cream and Kirsch sauce is quite nice,' he advised. ‘Or if that's too rich for you, I recommend the warm salad with
goujons
of duck and rocket in balsamic vinaigrette.'

David studied the menu. ‘Actually, I fancy the steak sandwich,' he said firmly. And he wouldn't tell Lucy about it afterwards, either; although he of course ate no meat at home, her attempts to woo him into committed vegetarianism had thus far failed, but he didn't go out of his way to confess to her his occasional and enjoyable lapses into meat eating. ‘And some chips, if you do anything so plebeian,' he added in a defiant tone.

West looked shocked, but refrained from voicing his disillusionment with David's taste. ‘If that's what you want, then that's what you shall have.' He flagged down a waiter and gave the order, choosing the
poussin
for himself, then settled back and grinned at David. ‘I suppose you've heard about all the excitement at St Margaret's,' he said with relish.

‘You mean about your curate's death?'

‘That woman, yes. I never acknowledged her as the curate, as you know. Her orders were invalid.'

‘You're not one of the people who's praising her to the heavens now that she's dead?'

West snorted in derision. ‘Not I. I didn't want her at St Margaret's, and I'm not sorry that she's gone, though I might have settled for a less drastic method of removal. I wasn't alone in either of those sentiments, as I'm sure you're aware, but you'd never know it from the way people are talking now. Even Dolly Topping. That particular brand of hypocrisy doesn't appeal to me, my dear. No, I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm glad she's gone.'

‘Still, it must have come as rather a shock, so soon after Father Julian's death,' David ventured.

‘Father Julian.' Robin West sighed gustily and shook his head. ‘Now that was a great loss to the church. Not just to St Margaret's, but to the Holy Catholic Church. He was a true Catholic. With a brilliant feel for liturgy, as well.'

‘Did you know him well, then?'

‘Oh, quite well. He used to come in here often in the evenings with Alistair. I'd usually have a drink with them if we weren't too busy.'

‘Alistair?'

‘He always called Alistair his “lodger”, of course.' West gave him a knowing wink.

‘You're telling me that this Alistair was Father Julian's . . . lover?'

‘Of course. What else? You know and I know that it goes on all over this diocese. I think that there are more priests with “lodgers” than without, my dear. But our blessed Archdeacon takes a dim view of such things,' West said cuttingly. ‘A good family man, our Archdeacon. So it has to be “lodgers” and “friends”.'

Gabriel? thought David in astonishment. That was rich. To cover his confusion, he asked quickly, ‘This Alistair chap. He lived with Father Julian in . . . what's it called? Magdalen House?'

‘That's right. They'd been together for quite a while – he came to London with Julian.' If Robin West thought David's questions were odd, he gave no indication. Obviously David had not misjudged his voracious appetite for gossip.

‘And where is he now? I mean, surely he had to move out of the house? Does he still come in here?'

Robin West shook his head. ‘He's left London, I'm afraid. Gone to Brighton. Gone off with one of my other regular customers, as a matter of fact. Father Gilbert, who was at St Benedict's, Earl's Court – he's just moved to a church in Brighton. St Dunstan's – do you know it?'

‘Yes,' said David. ‘Yes, I do.'

‘It's supposed to be a real spike shop,' West declared with a certain amount of envy. ‘No nonsense about women in a place like that.'

Suddenly David knew that he had to go to Brighton, to talk to this Alistair. He needed to find out as much as he could about Father Julian, and Alistair was the obvious person to talk to. ‘But St Dunstan's has a clergy house,' he thought aloud. ‘Father Gilbert can't have a lodger there.'

‘Why not, dear?' West waved a careless hand and giggled. ‘He's turfed the curate out, I hear. But the curate didn't mind. Now he can go into digs with his boyfriend.'

The food arrived, and David ate his sandwich with enjoyment. The sacristan chattered on through the meal, mainly about Father Keble Smythe and the ludicrous charade of his fiancée Miss Morag McKenzie, but David was no longer interested in the gossip. He had found out about the existence and the whereabouts of Alistair; that was enough.

Refusing a sweet, he made his escape with as much speed as was possible – with promises to return in the near future for that champagne. There was still time to get to Brighton that afternoon, if he hurried. He stopped at a call box and rang Lucy's house to let her know his plans, but there was no reply; knowing that she'd planned to visit Vera Bright that day, he wasn't unduly worried at her absence. He could ring her again later, he decided, hurrying to the tube station to catch the Circle Line to Blackfriars, where he transferred to the Thameslink train to Brighton.

It was a relatively quick journey; David arrived in Brighton by mid-afternoon. From the station he made another unsuccessful attempt to reach Lucy, then hailed a taxi; ‘St Dunstan's clergy house,' he instructed. In the taxi he reflected upon the possible folly of his precipitate journey: there was no guarantee that this Alistair would be there. In fact, given that it was a Monday afternoon, the chances were good that Alistair would be elsewhere, most likely at his place of employment.

This line of thought, distressing as it was, kept him from brooding on the irony of returning to St Dunstan's clergy house in these circumstances. He hadn't been back there since Gabriel's days as curate of St Dunstan's, years ago. It was inevitable that there should be memories associated with the place, even now. Not that he had ever lived there with Gabe – there had never been any question of that. They had always been painstakingly discreet about their relationship. And in those long-ago days, neither curates nor incumbents seemed to flaunt their ‘lodgers' more or less openly, as they clearly did now.

Arriving at the clergy house, he paid the cab driver, then took a deep breath, went to the door, and rang the bell.

In the old days, it would have been the dragon of a housekeeper who answered the door. Now it was a thin young man in his late twenties, casually dressed, with fine straight sandy hair which hung nearly to his shoulders and grazed his eyebrows in a sideswept fringe. ‘Hello?' he said questioningly, his open face displaying no suspicion.

‘Are you by any chance called Alistair?'

‘That's right. Alistair Duncan.' His voice had a heavy but pleasing Scots burr.

David produced the story he'd decided upon during his train journey – one that was very nearly the truth. ‘My name is David Middleton-Brown. I'm a solicitor, acting for St Margaret's Church in London. I understand that you . . . knew . . . Father Julian, their former curate, and I wondered if you'd mind my asking you a few questions.'

A guarded, tense expression clamped down on his face. ‘Have they caught the bastards that killed him yet?'

‘No,' said David seriously. ‘That's why I'm here, really. There are several people who are interested in finding out the truth about what happened to Father Julian, and they don't think that the police are doing enough. They've asked me to come along and see you – if you're prepared to talk to me, of course. You might be able to tell us something important, something that we don't know, that will help us find the killer.'

The young man relaxed, shrugged, and smiled an attractive lopsided smile. ‘Why not?' He waved his arm. ‘Come on in, why don't you?'

They went into the drawing room. Amazingly, it had altered hardly at all in the years since David had last been there; the ancient and massive furniture was a bit more frayed around the edges, and the oriental carpet was rather more threadbare. But the gloomy wallpaper, of indeterminate pattern and colour, was the same, with its even darker rectangles hinting at long-departed pictures that once must have occupied the walls. Those walls sported the same dreary engravings that David remembered: ugly continental churches, and the odd simpering saint. He couldn't understand why someone hadn't got rid of them years ago.

The drawing room was definitely dustier than it had been in the regime of the dragon-housekeeper (whatever had her name been?), the windows admitted the light through a film of grime, and the vast fireplace showed signs of a recent fire.
She
would never have allowed such a thing, he was sure, not even in the dead of winter – let alone on the cusp of spring.

‘Could I get you a cup of tea?' Alistair offered hospitably.

That sounded wonderful, but David made the polite response. ‘I don't want to put you to any trouble.'

‘No trouble. I was about to have one myself.'

‘Then I'd love a cup.'

Tea was produced in short order, and properly: on a tray with a cloth, poured from a silver teapot into bone china cups, and served with thin triangles of bread and butter. David, having expected somehow to be presented with a mug of tea, was glad to see that standards at the clergy house had not entirely slipped. ‘How nice,' he said.

The young man grinned engagingly. ‘It's the one thing I've been well trained to do. Jules wasn't particularly bothered, but Gil likes his tea done properly.' He waved his hand around at the room. ‘I may not be much of a housekeeper, but at least I can serve up a proper tea.'

‘You're the housekeeper, then?'

‘In a manner of speaking.' He grinned again. ‘As you can see.'

David found himself liking this open and honest young man very much. ‘That doesn't seem like a very exciting career,' he remarked, smiling.

‘It's all I've got at the moment,' Alistair explained. ‘Since I came to Brighton, I haven't been very successful in finding work in my own profession.'

‘Which is . . . ?'

‘I'm a hairdresser. And if you know anything at all about Brighton, you'll realise that hairdressers are quite thick on the ground here.'

David laughed: yes, they would be.

‘So until something comes up, Gil has said I can be his housekeeper. The patience of a saint, that man has, to put up with me and my slovenly ways.'

‘You weren't Father Julian's housekeeper, then?'

‘Oh, Lord, no.' Alistair laughed at the idea. ‘Jules had a woman who came in twice a week. He was a bit fussier than Gil. And I was just the lodger. In a manner of speaking.'

David leaned forward. ‘I hope you don't mind talking about Father Julian. After all, it must be rather painful for you.'

The young man looked out of the window and brushed the fringe from his forehead absently. ‘A wee bit,' he confessed. ‘Jules and I were together for a long time, you know. He was my first real love, and that's always special.'

‘Yes,' said David.

‘And of course I never had any official status in his life, which made it more difficult. His lodger, that's all I was.' His voice had become bitter.

‘You weren't a member of the congregation, then?'

‘Me? You've got to be joking! I have no use for the bloody Church of England.' His face was as congested with pain as his voice. ‘A church that put up so many barriers between me and the man I loved, that forced us to live a lie just so a load of old biddies wouldn't have their delicate sensibilities offended! It's mad – a church that would rather turn a blind eye to its priests cottaging in public loos than encourage them to form stable, loving relationships like the one that Jules and I had.' He shook his head. ‘Most of the people in Jules's churches didn't know that I existed. And it had to be that way. Not because I wanted it to be a secret, but because of their own bloody hypocrisy.'

David was stunned; he framed his next question carefully. ‘If you feel so strongly about the Church, then why have you become involved with another priest?' And so soon, was the unspoken corollary.

Alistair pressed his lips together, then twisted them into a semblance of a smile. ‘It must seem hardhearted to you, and even calculating. After what I've told you about what Jules and I meant to each other. That I could take up with Gil so quickly, I mean. But I didn't really have much choice.' He ran his long fingers through his fringe. ‘I don't know why I'm telling you all this,' he confessed, ‘but somehow it seems like you understand. And I haven't really had anyone to talk to about Jules. Gil doesn't like it when I go on about him all the time.'