The Judgement of Strangers (21 page)

I nodded, and waited.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Charlene told the cereal packets. ‘She’s been good to me, really. Her bark’s worse than her bite.’

Like Beauty and Beast?

‘The thing is, I’m worried about her. I told Mum about it last night, and she said the best thing to do was have a word with you.’ Charlene shot off on a tangent. ‘Poor Mum. She’s really knocked sideways.’

Doris was someone else I should see. In a sense she was the one most affected by Lady Youlgreave’s death: the principal mourner. Those who care for dependent persons become themselves dependent. And Doris and Lady Youlgreave had been friends, though perhaps neither would have used the word in relation to the other.

‘Miss Oliphant’s always had her little ways. You know, going on about how things have changed since she was a little girl. And – and things like that.’ Charlene glanced up at me to see how I was taking this. ‘But these last few months she’s been different. Now she’s always up and down. Right up and right down. And since her cat went, it’s got even worse. She talks to herself, you know – she never used to do that. And once or twice she’s shouted at me, really screamed. I don’t think she’s eating much, either. And she gets these ideas in her head – like she thinks the kids are after her.’

‘And are they?’

Charlene looked startled. ‘They’ve got better things to do. Mind you, she’s not their favourite person. But that’s neither here nor there. What worries me is, she really seems to think she’s some sort of detective. Like in them books she reads.’ Charlene’s voice slid into high-pitched, genteel mimicry. ‘It was the butler did it in the library. With the lead piping. And – Mr Byfield – don’t think I’m talking out of turn, but I don’t think Rosemary’s helping. She’s sort of encouraging her.’

‘What do you mean?’ I knew I must have spoken sharply by the expression on Charlene’s face. ‘How?’

‘You know,’ she mumbled. ‘Looking for clues. Stuff like that.’

‘Clues about what happened to Lord Peter?’

Charlene nodded.

‘Yes, I know something about that,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with Rosemary, and we’ll all keep an eye on Miss Oliphant.’

A moment later, I said goodbye and walked home. I was aware that I had not handled the interview well. I liked Charlene, but I thought it likely she was exaggerating. In every parish there tends to be at least one unmarried, churchgoing middle-aged lady who occasionally acts oddly; there are men, too, for that matter; and the older they get, the more oddly they tend to behave. But in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, it was nothing more than harmless eccentricity. Why should Audrey be any different?

Vanessa’s car was in the Vicarage drive. I let myself into the house. Michael was watching television in the sitting room.

‘Hello. Where is everyone?’

‘Rosemary’s out still,’ he said. ‘Aunt Vanessa’s upstairs.’

I was about to leave when a thought delayed me. ‘Michael?’

He dragged his eyes away from the grey figures flickering on the screen. I had intended to ask him if he had been listening to my conversation with Clough and Franklyn earlier this afternoon. Suddenly I no longer wanted to. It would be tantamount to making an accusation. The boy had probably just been playing a game. Nor was it likely that he would have heard much, even if he had been eavesdropping. Clough and I were both relatively soft-spoken.

The phone rang, giving me the excuse I needed.

‘Nothing.’ I smiled at him and went into the study. It was James Vintner, sounding harassed.

‘Have you heard?’ he said.

‘Heard what?’

‘There’s going to be an inquest.’

‘When?’

‘Wednesday, probably. Waste of an entire afternoon.’

‘Do you know if I’m likely to be called as a witness?’

‘I doubt it. If they wanted you, I think they would have been in touch by now. But I thought I’d better warn you.’

‘You don’t think –?’

‘I don’t think anything. In normal circumstances I’d have certified the death without another thought. Old lady, I’d seen her in the morning of the day she died. Terminally ill. Has a fall, and off she goes: all very sad, but just like dozens of other old ladies. Nothing suspicious about it.’

‘So why aren’t these normal circumstances?’

‘Ask your Mrs Potter. It’s all her fault. Her and those damned dogs.’ He hesitated. ‘Sorry to sound off like this. It’s been a long day. And I don’t like it when my patients die.’ He cleared his throat, perhaps aware that for once he had openly admitted that he cared about his job. He added hurriedly, ‘Especially the private ones. Like gold dust, these days.’

A moment later we said goodbye. I went upstairs. Vanessa was in our room, sitting on the bed and staring grimly into space.

‘That was James,’ I said. ‘There’s going to be an inquest on Lady Youlgreave.’

She nodded but did not reply.

‘What is it?’

She turned her head to look at me. ‘Nothing, really. I suppose it’s her dying. It seems strange that I won’t be able to go and sit in her dining room any more.’

‘I suppose it may cause problems with the book.’

‘It’s not just that.’

‘Then what is it?’

Vanessa glared at me. She said, ‘Oh God,’ and began to cry quietly. I sat down beside her on the bed and put my arms around her. She leant against me. I hugged her, feeling her warmth. Desire stirred inside me and began to uncoil. Gradually she relaxed, and the tears stopped.

I stroked her back, running my fingertips down the knobs of her spine. How many weeks was it since we last made love?

‘Vanessa?’

She pulled herself gently away from me. ‘I need to blow my nose,’ she said. ‘And then I really must do something about supper.’

On Tuesday morning, I waited until I had the house to myself.

Vanessa went to work. Half an hour later, Rosemary left to catch a bus – she was going into London to spend the day with a schoolfriend. Michael had already gone to spend the day with the Vintners. He and Brian had an ambitious project to build a tree house in the back garden. I had two hours before my first engagement of the day, a routine meeting with the diocesan surveyor.

When I was alone, I went into the study, shut the door and telephoned Roth Park. I wondered if I had a temperature. I felt unlike myself – excited, and almost furtive. I let the phone ring on. I was on the verge of hanging up when Joanna answered.

I apologized for disturbing her and asked if we could use the drive as an overflow car park at the fete.

‘Of course you can. You can park anywhere you like.’ It was almost ten o’clock yet she sounded half asleep. ‘It’s not exactly going to harm the lawn or damage the flowers.’

‘Should I check with Toby that it’s all right for us to park in the drive?’

‘Toby’s not here. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with him.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s my house,’ Joanna said, her voice suddenly distorted as though she were yawning. ‘My land. Nothing to do with Toby.’

‘I see. I wonder – would it be convenient for me to walk up the drive and estimate how many cars there’d be room for. Audrey Oliphant feels it’s important to have a good idea.’

‘Now?’

‘If it’s not inconvenient.’

‘You know the oak trees near the paddock?’ she asked. ‘I’ll be there in about ten minutes.’

I hesitated too long. ‘There’s no need for you to come.’

‘I’d like some air. Besides, I – I need to see where the parking will be. Just in case there’s a problem.’

We said goodbye and I put down the phone. I observed my own symptoms with a proper scholarly detachment: with perfect propriety, I was making arrangements for the church fete; yet I felt guilty: almost as though I had arranged a furtive assignation.

It was a sunny morning, a relatively rare occurrence in that dreary August. I strolled through the churchyard and into Roth Park. A moment later I reached the oaks. I leant against a tree trunk and smoked a cigarette. From where I was standing I could see the rutted drive; I followed it with my eye as it curved round the hillock which concealed the house. It was very peaceful. Such moments of leisure were a rarity in my life. The only things moving were the smoke from my cigarette and a few wispy, almost transparent shreds of cloud high in the blue sky. In the real country, there would have been birds, and there would not have been the omnipresent rumble of traffic. But for the time being this would do very well.

Then I saw Joanna on the drive. She raised her hand in greeting and I waved back. I threw away my cigarette and watched her approaching. She wore a thin cotton dress which came down almost to her ankles. Her hair was loose. As she drew closer, I saw that her feet were bare. Closer still, I saw that she wore no make-up and her eyes were smudged with tiredness. She looked up at me with those green eyes with their dark rims and their fragmented depths, shifting like a kaleidoscope. For a moment I did not know what to say. All I knew was that I should not have come. I was in danger. Joanna was in danger, too.

‘Can I scrounge a fag?’

I gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. She touched my hand, quite unself-consciously, to steady the flame. That was good, I told myself: if she had been aware of what I was feeling, she would have avoided touching me.

‘I must get some more from Malik’s,’ she said. ‘Typical Toby. Drove off this morning with the last packet of cigarettes in the house.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

She shrugged, then yawned. ‘Sorry. Can’t stop yawning this morning.’

‘Didn’t you sleep well?’

She smiled, slyly. ‘I tried not to sleep at all.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to find out if the ghost would come back. You remember? The footsteps? So I took something to help me stay awake and I waited. But nothing happened. Except I grew more and more scared.’ She turned aside to stub out the half-smoked cigarette on the bark of a tree. ‘I didn’t see anything, or hear anything. But I felt something.’ She swung back to face me. ‘Something waiting. Silly, isn’t it?’

‘Fear isn’t silly. It’s frightening.’

She nodded.

‘What about Toby?’

‘What about him? As far as I know he slept all night. I heard the car start up a little after nine. Off he went. No note, no cigarettes.’

‘Did he know you were staying awake?’

‘He’d have laughed at me. Especially after the fuss I made the other night.’

I wasn’t sure whether she liked or disliked her brother. ‘Perhaps the other night was a bad dream. Sometimes one can have these dreams between sleeping and waking.’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘David – could you do something about it? Say some special prayers. What do you call it? Exorcism?’

‘I could come and say some prayers, if you wanted.’

‘Would you? It can’t do any harm.’

I felt my hackles rising. ‘It can only do good.’

‘Oh God – I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to say that, either.’ She looked so contrite standing there in the dappled shade of the trees. ‘Double sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Do you want to do it now?’

‘Don’t you need equipment?’

‘The candle, book and bell?’ I smiled at her. ‘We save those for special occasions. To be honest, I don’t know much about exorcisms. I think the diocese might have an official exorcist, who goes where the bishop tells him. But full-dress exorcisms are very rare these days. Something less formal will often do the trick just as well.’

She giggled. ‘You make it sound so normal.’

‘In a sense it is.’

We walked up the drive to the house. Joanna speculated about the number of cars they could fit in. ‘At least another fifty if we use the bit outside the front door.’ While she was talking, I told myself that I was only doing my duty: my duty as a priest. We reached the dry fountain commemorating the visit of Queen Adelaide. Joanna stopped and leaned against the worn stone of the basin. She stared up at the facade of the house.

‘Ugly place, isn’t it?’

‘Why did you buy it, then?’

‘Toby wanted to.’ She glanced up at me through long lashes, as if assessing the effect of her words. ‘He can be very persuasive. He said it would be a good investment. He said I needed to get away from London.’ Suddenly her voice rose, and she turned to face me. ‘He’s told you, hasn’t he?’

‘He told me that your mother committed suicide,’ I said. ‘And that you found the body.’

For a long moment we stared at each other. Then she dropped her eyes.

‘Did he tell you that after that I was ill?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not true. I wasn’t ill. He likes to tell people I’ve had a nervous breakdown. He likes to hint I’m mad. I bet he’s done it with you.’ She paused, but I said nothing. She went on, speaking slowly and carefully: ‘He gives the impression that he’s looking after me out of the kindness of his heart. That without him I’d just fall apart. That I’m something fragile that he has to treat very carefully.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘Do I look fragile?’ she demanded.

I shook my head.
Yet you hear ghosts
. ‘Then why does he do it?’

‘I told you. He likes to. It makes him feel good.’ She shivered. ‘Let’s go inside and get this over with.’

We walked towards the front door, our footsteps loud on the gravel. The door closed behind us with a dull boom like distant thunder. The house was cool and silent.

Joanna said, ‘Should I offer you coffee or something?’

‘No. This isn’t a social call.’

She looked at me again – why did she keep on looking at me? – and I hoped that she could not see too far. There’s no fool like a middle-aged fool: old enough to know better, and young enough to do something about it.

I followed her upstairs, watching her dress frothing and whispering above her ankles. At the mezzanine level there was a window, and as Joanna walked past it, with the light beyond her, her body was outlined through the dress, just as Vanessa’s had been all those months ago at the Trasks’ party. History has a habit of almost repeating itself, like the pattern in a hand-woven carpet.

‘It’s quite a long walk,’ Joanna said over her shoulder. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t a maid in those days. It must have been sheer hell.’

‘I’ve never been upstairs before.’ I wanted to bite the words back. They seemed loaded with hidden meanings.

We reached the main landing. A long corridor stretched into the heart of the house, its boards uncarpeted, the plaster bulging and cracking on walls like a relief map of the desert.

‘It’s less posh than downstairs,’ Joanna said. ‘I reckon the Youlgreaves ran out of money.’ We walked together down the corridor, our footsteps setting up a drumming in the silence. ‘I don’t know why they needed a house this big. It’s stupid. I’d much rather live somewhere smaller.’

‘Why don’t you?’

She shrugged.

I wanted to ask:
Has Toby some way of keeping you here? Why did you buy this house for him?
But of course I did not.

‘Mind the hole,’ Joanna said, steering me round it. ‘Toby put his foot through there the other morning. Woodworm.’

‘Are you going to start renovating soon?’

‘We need more money. Toby wants to find an investor.’ She glanced at me. ‘When Dad died, the money was left in trust to Toby and me. Mum had the use of it while she was alive. But Toby borrowed against it; he had this company which was importing stuff from India. But it didn’t work out. When Mum died, he had to use his share to pay off his debts.’

I felt rather embarrassed. Englishmen do not like talking about money. Joanna stopped at a door near the end of the corridor. ‘We’re in the tower bit now.’ She opened the door and we went into a large square room with windows on three sides. ‘I always wanted to live in a tower.’ She led the way to another door in the corner. Beyond it was a spiral staircase with uncarpeted wooden treads. The stairs were lit by narrow windows like anachronistic arrow slits designed with dwarfs in mind. ‘I’m on the floor above. And the floor above that is the top room. Francis Youlgreave’s room.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Toby.’ She was already climbing the stairs and her voice floated down to me. ‘He mentioned it again last night.’

To scare her?

We came to an open door. My first impression was that emptiness and light lay beyond it. The room was square, with a round-headed sash window in each wall. The wallpaper – stylized golden tulips on a faded blue background, perhaps as old as the house – was beginning to part company from the walls. In the opposite corner from the door was a plain, cast-iron fireplace, the grate littered with cigarette ends and ash. A carpet designed for a suburban sitting room filled about a third of the floor; the rest was bare boards. On the carpet, as if on a castaway’s raft, were Joanna’s belongings – a mattress, the radio I had seen her with on the terrace, a green trunk, a pair of suitcases, an archipelago of discarded clothes, an ornate walnut-veneered dressing table with a tall mirror attached to it. The top of the dressing table was littered with cosmetics, paperbacks and an overflowing ashtray. The room smelled of a powerful, crude perfume, which overlaid another smell, sweet and spicy, reminding me of Indian food.

‘It’s a bit of a tip, I’m afraid.’ Joanna gave me a crooked smile – one corner of her mouth turned up and the other turned down. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have done something about it.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

The bedroom was like a glimpse behind a drawn curtain. Rosemary and Vanessa were both tidy people. Their bedrooms showed only that they disliked clutter and knew how to control it. Joanna’s made a present of her personality to a visitor, and I was touched. For a moment I felt young and full of daring. For a moment it amused me to imagine what Audrey Oliphant or Cynthia Trask would make of my situation.

I walked to the window and looked down on the drive, on the roof of the canopy over the front door with its slipped slates and its outcrops of moss like green pimples. The knowledge of my indiscretion sank in: a middle-aged clergyman alone with an attractive young woman in her bedroom. I turned back, eager to finish what had been started. Joanna was still standing just inside the doorway, watching me.