A Great Deliverance (36 page)

How did one really define the remains of Keldale Abbey? Was it the plundered ruin of a glorious past or a tumbling promise of what the future could be? Wasn’t it all, Lynley thought, in the definition?

He stirred at the sound of a car stopping at the lodge, of doors opening and the murmur of voices, of uneven footsteps approaching. He realised that darkness was falling in the lounge and switched on one of the lamps just as St. James entered the room. He was alone, as Lynley had known he would be.

They faced each other across a short expanse of inoffensive carpeting, across a virtual chasm created and maintained by one man’s guilt and another man’s pain. They both knew and recognised these components of their history, and, as if to escape them, Lynley went behind the bar and poured each of them a whisky. He crossed the room and handed it to his friend.

“Is she outside?” he asked.

“She’s gone to the church. Knowing Deborah, to have one last look at the graveyard, I expect. We’re off tomorrow.”

Lynley smiled. “You’ve been braver than I. Hank would have driven me off within the first five minutes. Are you fleeing to the lakes?”

“No. To York for a day, then back to London. I’m to be in court to testify on Monday morning. I need a bit of time to complete a fibre analysis before then.”

“Rotten luck to have had so few days.”

“We’ve the rest of our lives. Deborah understands.”

Lynley nodded and looked from St. James to the windows in which they saw themselves reflected, two men so entirely different from each other, who shared an afflicted past and who could, if he chose, share a full, rich future. It was all, he decided, in the definition. He tossed back the rest of his drink.

“Thank you for your help today, St. James,” he said finally, extending his hand. “You and Deborah are wonderful friends.”

Jonah Clarence drove them to Islington in his dilapidated Morris. It wasn’t a very long drive, and he was quiet for every moment of it, his hands on the wheel showing white knuckles that betrayed his distress.

They lived on a peculiar little street called Keystone Crescent, directly off Caledonian Road. Blessed with two take-away food stores at its head—exuding the multicultural odours of frying egg rolls, falafel, and fish and chips—and a butcher shop at its foot on Pentonville Road, it was located in an area of town that was arguing between industrial and residential. Dressmaking factories, car hire firms, and tool companies gave way to streets which were trying very hard to become fashionable.

Keystone Crescent was just that, a crescent lined on one-side with concave and on the other with a convex terrace of houses. All were fenced by identical wrought iron, and where once diminutive gardens had bloomed, concrete paving provided additional parking for cars.

The buildings were sooty brick, two storeys tall, topped by dormer windows and a thin scalloping of ornamentation at the roofline. Each building had its own basement flat, and while some of the houses had recently been refurbished in keeping with the neighbourhood effort towards chic, the one in front of which Jonah Clarence parked his car was definitely shabby, whitewashed and decorated with green woodwork at one time, but grimy now, with two unlidded dustbins standing in front of it.

“It’s this way,” he said tonelessly.

He opened the gate and led her down a set of narrow, steep steps to the door of a flat. Unlike the building itself, which was in sad disrepair, the door was sturdy, freshly painted, with a brass knob gleaming in its centre. He unlocked and opened it, gesturing Barbara inside.

She saw at once that a great deal of care had gone into the decorating of the little home, as if the occupants wanted to drive a very firm wedge between the exterior grubbiness of the building and the crisp, clean loveliness of what existed within it. Walls were freshly painted; floors were covered with colourful rugs; white curtains hung in windows which housed a splendour of plants; books, photograph albums, a humble stereo system, a collection of phonograph records, and three pieces of antique pewter occupied a low shelving unit that ran along one wall. There were few pieces of furniture, but each one had been clearly selected for its workmanship and beauty.

Jonah Clarence set his guitar carefully down on a stand and went to the bedroom door. “Nell?” he called.

“I was just changing, darling. Out in a moment,” a woman’s voice replied cheerfully.

He looked at Barbara. She saw that his face had become grey and ill. “I’d like to go in—”

“No,” Barbara said. “Wait here. Please, Mr. Clarence,” she added when she read his determination to go to his wife.

He sat down on a chair, moving painfully, as if he had aged years in their brief twenty-minute acquaintance. He fixed his eyes on the door. Behind it, brisk movement accompanied light-hearted humming, a lilting rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Drawers opened and closed. A wardrobe door creaked. There was a pause in the humming as footsteps approached. The song finished, the door opened, and Gillian Teys returned from the dead.

She looked exactly like her mother, but her blonde hair was quite short, almost like a boy’s, and gave her the appearance of being ten years old, something that carried over to her manner of dress. She wore a plaid, pleated skirt, a dark blue pullover, and black shoes and knee socks. She might have been on her way home from school.

“Darling, I—” She froze when she saw Barbara. “Jonah? Is something …?” Her breathing seemed to stop. She groped for the doorknob behind her.

Barbara took a step forward. “Scotland Yard, Mrs. Clarence,” she said crisply, “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Questions?” Her hand went to her throat. Her blue eyes darkened. “What about?”

“About Gillian Teys,” her husband replied. He hadn’t moved from his chair.

“Who?” she asked in a low voice.

“Gillian Teys,” he repeated evenly. “Whose father was murdered in Yorkshire three weeks ago, Nell.”

She backed into the door stiffly. “No.”

“Nell—”

“No!” Her voice grew louder. Barbara took another step forward. “Stay away from me! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know any Gillian teys!”

“Give me the picture,” Jonah said to Barbara, rising. She handed it to him. He walked to his wife, put his hand on her arm. “This is Gillian Teys,” he said, but she turned her face from the photograph he held.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Her voice was high with terror.

“Look at it, darling.” Gently, he turned her face towards it.

“No!” She screamed, tore herself from his grasp and fled into the other room. Another door slammed. A bolt was shot home.

Wonderful
, Barbara thought. She pushed past the young man and went to the bathroom door. There was silence within. She rattled the handle.
Be tough, be aggressive
. “Mrs. Clarence, come out of there.” No reply. “Mrs. Clarence, you need to listen to me. Your sister Roberta is charged with this murder. She’s in Barnstingham Mental Asylum. She hasn’t said a word in three weeks other than to claim to having murdered your father. Decapitated your father, Mrs. Clarence.” Barbara rattled the handle again.
“Decapitated
, Mrs. Clarence. Did you hear me?”

There was a choked whimper from behind the door, the sound of a terrified, wounded animal. An anguished cry followed. “I left it for you, Bobby! Oh God, did you lose it?”

Then every tap in the bathroom was turned on full force.

Clean.
Clean!
Have to do it. Have to get it. Fast, fast,
fast!
It will happen
now
if I don’t get clean. Shouting, pounding, shouting, pounding. Ceaseless, endless. Shouting, pounding. But they’ll both go away—God, they
must
go away—once I’m clean, clean, clean.

Water hot. Very hot. Steam gushing forth in clouds. Feel it on my face. Breathe it deeply to be clean.

“Nell!”

No, no, no!

Cupboard handles slippery. Get it open. Pull it open. Get the shaking hands to find them, hidden safely under towels. Stiff, hard brushes. Wooden backs, metal bristles. Good brushes, strong brushes. Brushes make me clean.

“Mrs. Clarence!”

No, no, no!

Ugly breathing, tortured breathing. Fills the room, pounds in ears. Stop it, stop it! Hands at head can’t stop the echo, fists on face can’t kill the sound.

“Nellie, please. Open the door!”

No, no, no! No doors open now. No escape can come that way. Only one way to escape it. And that’s clean, clean, clean. Shoes off first. Kick them off. Shove them quickly out of sight. Socks come next. Hands don’t work. Tear it! Fast, fast, fast!

“Mrs. Clarence, do you hear me? Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

Can’t hear, can’t see. Won’t hear, won’t see. Clouds of steam to fill me up. Clouds of steam to burn and sear. Clouds of steam to make me clean!

“Is that what you want to happen, Mrs. Clarence? Because that’s
exactly
what’s going to happen to your sister if she continues not to speak. For life, Mrs. Clarence. For the rest of her life.”

No! Tell them no! Tell them nothing matters now. Can’t think, can’t act. Just hurry up, water. Hurry up and make me clean. Feel it on my hands. No, it’s still not hot enough! Can’t feel, can’t see. Never, never be clean.

She called his name Moab, father of Moabites unto this day. She called his name Ben-ammi, father of the children of Ammon unto this day. The smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace. They went up out of Zoar and dwelled in the mountain. For they were afraid
.

“How is it locked? Is it a bolt? A key? How?”

“I just…”

“Pull yourself together. We’re going to have to break it.”

“No!”

Pounding, pounding, loud, relentless. Make them,
make
them go away!

“Nell, Nell!”

Water all over. Can’t feel it, can’t see it, won’t be hot enough to make me clean, clean, clean! Soap and brushes, soap and brushes. Rub hard, hard, hard. Slip and slither, slip and slither. Make me clean, clean, clean!

“It’s either that or call for help. Is that what you want? The whole bloody police force breaking down the door?”

“Shut up! Look at what you’ve done to her! Nell!”

Bless me father. I have sinned. Understand and forgive. Brushes digging, brushes digging, brushes
dig
to make me clean.

“You don’t have any choice! This is a police matter, not some marital squabble, Mr. Clarence.”

“What are you doing? Damn you, stay away from that phone!”

Pounding, pounding.

“Nell!”

Reader, I married him a quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present when we got back from church I went into the kitchen of the manor house where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives and I said Mary I have been married to Mr Rochester this morning
.

“Then you have exactly two minutes to get her out of there or you’re going to have more police than you’ve ever laid eyes on crawling through this place. Is that clear?”

You
are
some little cat. Not again! Not so soon! God, Gilly, God!

Gilly’s dead, Gilly’s dead. But Nell is clean, clean, clean, Scrub her hard, dig in deep, make her clean, clean, clean!

“I’ve got to come in, Nell. Do you hear me? I’m going to break the lock. Don’t be frightened.”

Come on, Gilly girl. I want
nothing
serious tonight. Let’s laugh and be wild and be absolutely mad. We’ll have drinks, dance till dawn. We’ll find men and go to Whitby. We’ll take wine. We’ll take food. We’ll dance nude on the abbey walls. They can try to catch us, Gilly. We’ll be absolutely wild.

Pounding louder now. Pounding hard, hard, hard! Bursting ears, bursting heart. Rub her skin all clean.

“That’s not going to work, Mr. Clarence. I’m going to have to—”

“No! Shut up, damn you!”

Late at night. I said goodbye. Did you hear me? Did you see me? Did you find it where I left it? Bobby, did you find it? Did you finditfinditfindit?

Shrieking wood, splintering wood. Never safe anymore. One last chance before Lot finds me. One last chance to make me clean.

“Oh
God!
Oh my God, Nell.”

“I’m going to phone for an ambulance.”

“No! Just leave us alone!”

Hands gripping. Hands sliding. Water pink and rich with blood. Arms holding. Someone crying. Wrapping warm and holding near.

“Nellie. Oh God.
Nell.”

Pressed against him. Hear him sobbing. Is it over? Am I clean?

“Bring her out here, Mr. Clarence.”

“Go away! Leave us alone!”

“I can’t do that. She’s accessory in a murder. You know that as well as I. If nothing else, her reaction to all this should have—”

“She
isn’t]
She couldn’t be! I was with her!”

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“Nell! I won’t let them. I won’t let them!”

Weeping, weeping. Aching tears. Body racked with pain and sorrow. Make it end. Make it end. “Jonah—”

“Yes, darling. What is it?”

“Nell’s dead.”

“So he broke down the door,” Havers said.

Lynley rubbed his throbbing forehead. The last three hours had given him an appalling headache. The conversation with Havers was making it worse. “And?”

There was a pause.

“Havers?” he demanded. He knew that his voice was abrupt, that it would sound like anger instead of the fatigue that it was. He heard her catch her breath. Was she crying?

“It was … She had …” She cleared her throat. “It was a bath.”

“She’d taken a
bath?”
He wondered if Havers was aware of the fact that she was making no sense. Good God, what had happened?

“Yes. Except … she’d used brushes on herself. They were metal brushes. She was bleeding.”

“God in heaven,” he muttered. “Where is she, Havers? Is she all right?”

“I wanted to phone for an ambulance.”

“Why didn’t you, for God’s sake?”

“Her husband … he was … It was my fault, Inspector. I thought that I should be tough with her. I … It was my fault.” Her voice broke.