The Art of Standing Still (5 page)

‘Bingo!'

There was certainly no shortage of information about Mary Magdalene on the Internet, and before long Jemma learnt that Mary was one of Jesus' most significant female followers and that he had cast seven demons out of her. She was one of the women who witnessed his crucifixion and saw him laid in the tomb. Mary was the first one to witness his resurrection.

‘So, Mary Magdalene, what were you really like?' she whispered.

Jemma glanced at her watch. The clock at St Sebastian's concurred by striking midnight. Jemma stood up and closed her notepad. At the end of nearly an hour, she knew less about Mary than when she started.

Was she the woman caught in adultery? Some sources claimed so, but there was no proof. Had Mary been a prostitute, and if so, why was she hanging around with this holy man? And why had he bothered to spend time with her? Surely the Son of God would have no time for women of that sort. What about his reputation? And that was assuming their relationship was purely platonic. She also found a lot of other material from various groups that claimed that Jesus had married Mary, fathered her children, and that they had come to live in Europe. But as far as Jemma could work out, that information wasn't corroborated.

As for the seven demons . . .

Jemma shut down the Internet connection and folded the screen on her laptop. She started to undress for bed, her thoughts still whirling, grumbling, as she moved the three black bags from the bed onto the floor. She gave each of them a kick for good measure. How dare he clutter her space with his remains? When she had rather unceremoniously dumped his book, spare contact lens case, toothbrush, and shaver, as well as several jackets and jumpers and a pair of trainers, into black bin-bags, she wondered if there was any permanent reminder of their relationship. True, the hot water tap didn't leak any more, but that was all. Two years of their lives and her single keepsake was a tap washer. The only place he remained was in her mind, and if she had her way, he would soon be evicted from there too. Anger welled up inside her. She couldn't stand this clutter, the evidence of two wasted years, any longer. She had to get him out, now. Out of her life, out of her boat, and out of her head.

She couldn't decide which would be worse: Richard coming to get his things or taking them to his new place herself. The latter was out of the question, as she didn't even have his address. Part of her really wanted to just take them to the side of the boat and gently tip the contents into the river. Instead, she gathered them up and grabbed the keys. She squeezed the bags through the narrow cabin door and hauled them up onto the deck. The temptation to ditch them overboard resurfaced.

With the torch under one arm and both hands full, Jemma struggled down the ramp and across the towpath. House clearance in one's pyjamas in the early hours was an odd sight, she was certain. If someone did step out of the shadows, and she shivered at the thought, it was too dark to witness the deed. She dragged the bags over to where her car was parked and stuffed them into the boot of her hatchback, struggling to get it closed.

‘I hope they get stolen,' she muttered.

With a shiver, Jemma held the torch out in front of her
and followed its unsteady beam back to the river. The dew on the grass soaked into her slippers. She carefully skipped over a muddy patch. A noise behind her in the bushes made her jump.

‘A fox,' she said aloud, just in case it wasn't.

Like a child running down a dark corridor from the bathroom, she sprinted up the ramp onto the
Ebony Hog
. She bolted the door behind her and leapt into her bed, pulling the covers up around her head. For the first time in months, she wished Richard was there. She could snuggle up to him, and he would soothe away her fear.

Her breathing slowed but her skin prickled, and the volume on her senses seemed to have been tuned to ‘high'.

‘A fox,' she said again, more quietly this time. She had left the rubbish bin on the deck and expected to hear it being overturned at any minute.

Nothing.

Then she heard the footsteps. They crunched slightly on the gravely path. Even footsteps, the long stride and flat heels of a man. No particular hurry, but not dawdling either. Perhaps a late dog walker.

The footsteps were getting closer now. Jemma struggled to swallow her fear.

She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest seemed full. She tried to exhale, as if she could breathe out this irrational fear. The tightness gripped her chest, and the breath would hardly come.

The footsteps still approached. Then they halted. Right beside her ear.

She kept motionless. Perhaps he was stopping to light a cigarette or to get his bearings. She heard him walk back a few paces, towards the stern then back again. Was he waiting for someone . . . or searching for something?

Finally the footsteps moved on, upstream towards Monksford. She heard the metallic clang as they crossed the bridge. Jemma could breathe again.

Trembling slightly, she inched her way out of the berth and edged down to the galley. She grabbed the largest and sharpest knife in her collection and, gripping the handle, lay back in bed, listening . . . always listening.

Then she heard it, a single loud splash, a short distance upriver. Too big to be a pebble and too small to be a body. Her nerves jangled like a wind chime as she strained to hear the faintest sound. Had the man come back to search the river? This time, it didn't sound like someone searching, but like something being dropped into the river.

Only silence filled the night. She lay awake for what seemed like hours, listening, grasping the knife.

JEMMA WOKE WITH A START. HER HAND STILL CLUTCHED THE HANDLE OF THE
knife, and the sunlight that streamed through the crack in the curtains glinted on the blade. Her knuckles were stiff and her head ached. She slid the knife back into the drawer, filled the kettle, and put on a jumper. Autumn was definitely on its way. Gingerly she pulled back the bolt on the door and stuck her head outside. The towpath no longer seemed threatening. Raymond Jones, Jemma's nearest neighbour, was standing on the deck of his boat, the
Endeavour
, shaving.

Jemma looked up and down the towpath. She wasn't surprised to find there was no sign of the stranger from last night.

‘Morning!' Jemma called to Ray.

He answered with a wave.

She ducked back inside the
Hog
and quickly dressed. Once outside, she walked to the place where she calculated the splash had originated and studied the greenish water. There were no broken twigs, no places of flattened grass. It was a favourite spot for anglers, and she often found their discarded tackle. Even now, a luminous orange-topped float bobbed just out of her reach. The gravel path displayed no footprints, and the mud by the water's edge had too many prints to identify a single one.

Besides, she didn't know what she was looking for. All she had heard was a splash. It could have been a worker returning from night shift, throwing away the egg sandwiches his wife had lovingly made him and he didn't have the heart to tell her he detested. It could even be, Jemma thought with a touch of cynicism, a jilted lover disposing of their ex's worldly goods in a fit of pique. Yet her instinct, which she liked to think of as journalist's intuition, could not accept these rational explanations. What others interpreted as prying, Jemma thought of as a highly evolved sense of curiosity.

She walked along the bank until she reached the
Endeavour
. ‘Ray, did you hear anything unusual last night?'

‘Pardon?' said Ray. ‘Hang on a minute, I'll just get my hearing aid. I wasn't expecting visitors.'

That answered Jemma's question. She stayed another quarter of an hour, discussing mooring fees and the cost of heating; then she made her excuses and returned to the
Hog
to get ready for work. She would have to put her curiosity on hold, at least for now. This time her assignment was to report on an open day at the Animal Sanctuary. It seemed Mohan was determined to mire her completely in the agricultural life.

This time Jemma wore Wellington boots.

Scene Four

RUTH SNEAKED OUT HER NOVEL, A ROMANCE – A WONDERFUL ANTIDOTE TO THE
intensity of the mystery plays – and found the right page. She opened it, bending it back on its spine so Elsinor Heartman's name was less obvious and the couple in a passionate clinch on the front was not quite so visible. Ruth glanced up to see if anyone had come in to view the Harvest decorations, wondering if, for appearance's sake, she would rather be discovered reading the Bible or kneeling in prayer. Ruth hesitated for a moment then returned to
Love's Passionate
Embrace
. If any of her parishioners had a problem with that, they would have to take it up with Elsinor Heartman!

The church seemed to glow in the late September sun. A shaft of sunlight stabbed through a break in the clouds and shattered the stained glass into fragments of light that gilded the nave. The brass on the altar glinted for all it was worth, as if it had a long cherished ambition to be mistaken for gold. The varnished wheat-sheaf loaf glowed golden too. Then the sunlight was gone. A grainy dullness returned to St Sebastian's, and Ruth heard the rain fall once again on the slate roof and wondered if she should check for any new leaks.

She looked around the church. She would have liked it to stand open all year, but the threat of theft and vandalism restricted it to special occasions – Christmas, Easter, and Harvest – and then someone was required to be on duty, to welcome visitors and maintain security. This time that someone was her. To be honest, she enjoyed the peace and quiet, and it afforded her the opportunity to do something very rare and precious in her busy life, time to sit and read. Bored with her novel, she closed it and walked around the chancel, admiring the adornments. The large pumpkin; the orange, yellow, and white chrysanthemums, their heads as big and round as footballs; the produce, some homegrown, some shop-bought, crowding the altar steps and every ledge and windowsill; the swathes of hop-bines – all boasted of God's abundance to Monksford. Ruth's heart swelled with pride at the generosity of the people of the town. Soon the church would be in a position to give a gift back to the community – the gift of a play.

There was a clatter outside, and Ruth guiltily tucked her book under a parish magazine that lay next to her on the pew. The door swung open, and three women, all with tight grey perms all but hidden under plastic rain hats entered. They shook their umbrellas over the rush matting. Ruth hurried over to them, holding the umbrella stand.

‘Oooh, thank you, dear. It's raining cats . . .'

‘ . . . and dogs . . . out there.'

Ruth nodded her head as the women spoke, almost in unison, two of them finishing off the phrase for the other one.

‘Welcome to St Seb's, ladies.' She swept her arm in an extravagant gesture before launching into her tour-guide speech. ‘Extensively rebuilt in the nineteenth century following a fire, there has been a place of Christian worship on this site since Norman times . . .'

She started near the door at the stone font, then led them up the aisle.

‘These
brasses commemorate those who died in the First World War, and this window, showing the raising of Jairus's daughter, was a bequest from the Freeman family.'

She pointed out the oak lectern, carved as a giant eagle, its wings extended, supporting the Bible, which was open to 2 Corinthians, chapter 9. The shorter of the old women stood on the platform. ‘Oh, look at this! “Each man should give what he has decided in his heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a . . .” '

‘ “ . . . cheerful giver.” ' The other ladies chimed. All three giggled, and Ruth guided them past the box that bore the legend ‘St Sebastian's Church. Please give generously to the parish fund.' Ruth was disappointed to note that the Bible passage had no effect. The ladies listened and nodded appreciatively at Ruth's commentary. They paused near the harvest produce.

‘Ooh, aren't there some lovely . . . ,' said one.

‘. . . gifts,' finished the other two.

‘And the flowers! Don't they look . . .'

‘. . . beautiful.'

Ruth conducted them up the aisle, towards the chancel arch, then back to the font near the door. She stood in full view of the donations box, shook each of them warmly by the hand, and invited them to next week's service. Short of wrenching the box from the wall and rattling it in their faces, Ruth didn't know what else to do to promote the restoration fund. They ignored her intimations and reclaimed their umbrellas.

‘We knew your mother you know. Isn't it a . . .'

‘. . . pity.'

‘And you're a such a lovely girl, isn't she a lovely . . .'

‘. . . girl.'

Ruth sat down again and tried to resume her reading, but her thoughts kept drifting towards Alistair Fry. They had a tendency to do that too often these days. Was she starting to develop some kind of feelings for him? A crush?