Dying to Know (A Detective Inspector Berenice Killick Mystery) (3 page)

A
pebble caught his eye. A fine, smooth, pink quartz. He stooped to pick it up, held it in his hand.

I
hardly know the woman. She’s probably set foot in church a handful of times. She did arrive with those flowers once, arranged them in a dingy vase by the porch, said it was a memorial. I should have pried, I suppose, I should have made it my business to find out more…’

Privacy,
though. My flock should have their privacy from me, just as I should from them.

They’d
not got on well, the policeman had said. But it’s still a shock for the widow, don’t you think, Sir…

He’d
agreed, yes, of course, yes he’d visit her…

And
now it felt like prying. Just as it felt like prying when he faced his congregation. All those questions in their eyes, why doesn’t his wife come to church, I’ve heard she’s a dancer, you know what they’re like, never was a respectable profession, and as for them not having children, it’s not as if they’re young enough to put it off…

Perhaps
I’m imagining it. Perhaps they respect me. As the sheep respect their shepherd… no, that didn’t seem quite right.

He
dropped the pebble, watched it bounce against the others. “To any action,” – the words came to his mind - “there is always an opposite and equal reaction. If anyone presses a stone with a finger, the finger is also pressed by the stone…”

He
headed up the beach, away from the sea, wondering what had made him think of Newton, wondering how to include Newton in a sermon, imagining the faces of his congregation as he tried to explain the role of the Creator in Newton’s universe. There would be blank stares, shuffling feet, glances exchanged, the almost audible thoughts, what a shame dear old Robinson died, you knew where you were with Robinson…

He
took the path away from the beach, towards the sandy track that led to the village. He noticed, once again, how the sound of the sea made an upward, rushing note, like a song.

The cottage was a low, two-storey building. Two old stone flowerpots stood either side of the door. From their damp earth projected some barren twigs and a few weeds. He knocked on the heavy wooden door, checked the directions on the scrap of paper that PC Andrews had given him, knocked again.

The
woman who opened the door seemed very small, as if she’d been designed to fit the scale of the cottage. She had hair that he thought was a kind of silver colour, but it might have been blonde. Her grey eyes considered him with a blank look.

‘Mrs.
Maguire?’

Her
gaze scanned him, up and down. Her expression didn’t change. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘They sent you.’

‘They
– they said you’d asked for me. Parish priest, you know…’

‘Their
idea, not mine. Well, you’d better come in.’ She turned, abruptly, and led him into the house. Inside he was aware of warmth, the afternoon light filtering through the windows. There was a sofa, draped with a knitted patchwork blanket, a shabby leather armchair next to it, on which was curled a tabby cat.

He
sat on the sofa. ‘He – he was your husband,’ he began.

She
filled the kettle with water from the tap, placed it on the kitchen range. She turned to him, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘They’ve told you nothing, it’s clear,’ she said.

‘I
can go if you like.’ He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but he felt like an intruder. He’d expected to be comforting a grief-stricken widow, and this calm, expressionless response was disconcerting.

She
considered him. He felt suddenly self-conscious, as if his jacket was hanging badly, or his dog collar was dirty, or his brown brogues were muddy. He smoothed down his hair (dark brown, greying at the temples), checked his trousers, which still looked clean in spite of the walk along the sand. Something seemed to pass muster, because she softened.

‘It’s
a relief, actually,’ she said, as if it had just occurred to her. ‘To have someone who doesn’t know the whole story.’

And
what is the story, he was about to ask, but the whistling of the kettle drew her away from him. ‘Tea?’ she said. ‘Otherwise I’ve only got instant.’

‘Tea,
then. Please.’ The cat stirred, stretched and looked at him. He reached out a hand towards it.

‘I’d
be wary of her if I were you.’ She was setting out cups, a jug of milk. ‘As soon bite you as look at you, that one. Her sister was nicer-natured, but she’s long gone.’

He
withdrew his hand, noticed on the table next to him a leather-bound volume. He picked it up. It showed signs of antiquity; the calf-skin cover, the thick creamy paper, the neat brown ink of the writing inside.

“
We
have
the
authority
of
those
the
oldest
and
most
celebrated
philosophers
of
Greece
and
Phoenicia
,
who
made
a
vacuum
,
and
atoms
,
and
the
gravity
of
atoms
,
the
first
principles
– ”

‘That’s
enough of that,’ she said. Her voice was loud. She turned back to the kitchen range.

Her
tone had surprised him. ‘Newton,’ he said.

She
didn’t reply, spooning sugar from a bag into a bowl.

‘It
must be,’ he went on. ‘Greece and Phoenicia, the gravity of atoms…’

‘Nothing
but trouble, that book,’ she said.

She
brought the tray to the table, arranged cups and saucers.

‘Someone’s
copied it out, by hand,’ he pursued, ‘some years ago, by the look of it.’

‘How
do you know it’s Newton?’

He
met her eyes. ‘Or someone imitating him, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But the language is familiar.’ He shrugged. ‘I studied all that. A long time ago. I’m no expert.’ He turned to the first page. Two names were written there. The first, in curled archaic ink, said, ‘Johann van Mielen’; underneath, in neat pencil,‘Murdo Maguire’.

‘Milk?’

‘Just a splash.’

‘The
sugar’s there.’

She
settled opposite him, and the cat jumped down from the sofa and took up a position on the arm of her chair. She murmured at it, petted its neck.

He
waited for a moment, then said, ‘They said – that your husband was based at the lab for some years.’

She
nodded at him. ‘What else did they tell you?’

‘Nothing
else. Only that I should visit you. Which was it seems, unnecessary.’

‘I
wouldn’t say that.’ She reached forward to her teacup. ‘I call myself a Christian, at least.’

‘I’m
glad to hear it,’ he said. It sounded forced, and he wished he hadn’t said it.

‘Well,
it’s your job, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘Although, your God, claims to be a God of love, can’t say there’s any place for that in my life now.’

The
cat yawned, then jumped down from the chair, sauntered out to the kitchen, and sat by the back door, peering out through the cat-flap.

‘He
worked in physics,’ she said. ‘My husband. Worked at the East Kent Centre. Research, particle physics, neutrinos… might not mean anything to you - ’

‘Mass-less
particles,’ he said. ‘Sub-atomic.’

She
almost smiled. ‘Sort of, yes.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘I have called myself his wife for seventeen years, and for twelve of those we were happy.’ She looked up at him. ‘Are you married?’

‘Yes,’
he said.

She
looked surprised. ‘Children?’ she said.

He
shook his head.

‘But
you’d like them?’

He
breathed in, then out. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I would.’

‘Your
wife – ’

‘My
wife used to be a dancer. Well, she still is…’

‘Don’t
leave it too late,’ she said. ‘For children, I mean.’

He
opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. He had a sudden urge to confide in her, this odd, blank, tightly-sealed person. To tell her all about it, the miscarriage, two years ago, the silences, the sense of loss, of being culpable, of being the one to blame for their continued infertility. There – that word. To say it out loud –

But
she was speaking. ‘Drowned,’ he heard.

‘Who?’

‘Such an odd balance,’ she said. ‘First our boy, and now here he is. Choosing water.’ She looked up at him. ‘A watery grave.’ She almost smiled, but he could see, for the first time, the hint of tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, heavens, see, I’m so used to people knowing, and there you are, uncomprehending…’ She slapped her hands on her aproned lap. ‘Though I’m surprised no one’s gossiped to you about it. How many months have you been living up there now?’

‘Five,’
he said. ‘Nearly six.’

‘Hmmm,’
she said. ‘Well, it was like this. Five years ago, our son, who was eight, they went fishing, you see, out on a boat, not here, not the sea, no, a lake, further up the coast, inland, Daneswater, it’s called. And…’ Her voice cracked. ‘And he didn’t come back. Our boy. An accident, of course, capsizing, the water very cold, not a strong swimmer, you see…’ She put one hand across her eyes. She sat silent, unmoving.

‘I’m
sorry,’ he said.

‘Never
forgave himself.’ She straightened up, met his gaze. ‘Or perhaps it was me.’

‘What
do you mean?’

She
shrugged. ‘He’d say to me, you will never forgive me, never. What could I say to him? How could I help him? I’d say to him, it’s not a matter of forgiveness. It’s about how we live our lives now, how we carry on at all, given that what I wanted to do was join my son where he was, wherever that was, and I think perhaps Murdo wanted to too, and perhaps now…’ Her words faltered. ‘Perhaps now he has,’ she said.

She
looked different. No longer that closed-in, empty look, her eyes now bright with tears, her face open, younger, even. He reached across and laid his hand on hers. The gesture took him by surprise, and perhaps her too, but she didn’t move, sitting still with his hand on hers, while the sea sang louder outside the window.

‘Blame,’
he said. ‘Culpability.’

She
nodded, not looking at him. ‘He talked of leaving, going to Geneva. But there’s no escape. Not until you do what he’s done. I envy him, perhaps. Or perhaps not.’

The
sea was a roar in the silence now, but there was another sound too, the phut-phut of an engine, a motorbike, growing louder and louder, then stuttering to a stop.

She
took her hand away, as if waking from a dream, smoothed her apron, rubbed her eyes. ‘That’ll be Tom,’ she said, getting to her feet.

The
door of the cottage swung open. A tall young man stood framed by the dark wood, the sunlight a glare behind him. He blinked in the dim interior. ‘Auntie.’ He nodded towards her, then turned to Chad, screwing up his eyes. ‘Who’s he?’ He pointed, his arm outstretched.

‘Tobias,
dear, this is Reverend Meyrick.’

‘Ah.’
He nodded, as if with great wisdom. ‘The vicar. I’ve heard all about you,’ he said to him. He fixed Chad with a clear blue gaze.

‘Tobias,’
she said, ‘but we call him Tom. Don’t we dear? Back from work already?’ She cleared the cups onto the tray, carried them out to the sink.

He
flopped onto the sofa, his eyes still fixed on Chad, combing his fingers through his thick blond hair. ‘Why is he here? Is it about Uncle Murdo?’

‘Sort
of.’ She came and stood next to him, smoothed his hair with thin pale fingers. He brushed her touch away. ‘God, is it?’ He still stared at him. ‘What good can that do?’

‘Well,
that’s a good question,’ Chad began, but she interrupted him. ‘He’s always like this,’ she said, as if in apology.

Tobias
stood up, and paced out to the kitchen with an awkward gait, then paced back. He stood, towering over them. ‘Auntie Ginny, if you drown, is it like breathing water in the end? Roger at work said it was like breathing water.’

‘That’s
what people say,’ she said.

‘He
said it wasn’t horrible at all in the end. But how can he know? He hasn’t drowned, has he? And what if it wasn’t like that for Uncle Murdo?’ He began to pace again, circling the room. ‘Can I have chips?’ He stopped again. ‘Can I have money to buy chips out on the corner? I wanted chips with Lisa but she had no money.’