Evil Intent (35 page)

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I was glad to be able to help. As you said, people need to be warned about perverts like him. I’d hate to think about anyone else being put through what you were, just because you were afraid to speak
out. You should be proud of yourself, Oliver. You’ve done a great public service.’ Just as she had.

‘Yeah, the thing is …’ There was a long pause, during which the music was turned down to a more civilised volume. ‘The thing is, now I feel kind of bad.’

‘I’m sure you do. It was a dreadful ordeal you went through. But now it’s over,’ she assured him bracingly.

‘No. I mean…I feel kind of bad. You know? He was…he was nice to me. You know? I think…I think he loved me. You know?’

He really was quite drunk, she now realised. He’d probably been
drinking
all night.

‘
Loved
you?’ she said. ‘Love? I’m sure that love had nothing to do with it, Oliver. He might have said he loved you, just to get you to do what he wanted. That doesn’t mean anything.’

It was as if he hadn’t heard her; he went on, ‘I wonder if I should ring him. You know? Just to tell him…no hard feelings. I mean, he’s a priest. You know? I suppose he’ll forgive me.’

‘It’s him who should be begging
you
for forgiveness. Not that he deserves it, after the disgusting way he’s used you! You’ve done the right thing, Oliver,’ Lilith reminded him. ‘Now it’s time to let it go.’

‘You don’t think I should ring him, then?’ His appeal sounded almost tearful.

‘Certainly not!,’ she snapped back. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘All right, then,’ he said meekly, terminating the call.

It was late morning when Marigold had a call from her bank manager. Mr Firth was a man she’d known for years; his firm had always handled her father’s financial affairs, and he had personally been in charge of hers since before her marriage to Vincent. He must, she thought, be approaching retirement age. She would hate to lose him, with his quiet competence – and the link, however tenuous, to her father.

‘I wondered,’ he said, ‘whether you might be at all free to call in this afternoon.’

She mentally reviewed her diary: she was supposed to be going to the
ballet tonight, and had made an appointment for a manicure and a facial in the afternoon in anticipation.

‘Could we make it Monday morning?’ she suggested.

Mr Firth cleared his throat. ‘Well. It’s rather important, Mrs Underwood.’

She sighed. ‘All right, then. What time shall I come?’

‘Three o’clock, perhaps?’

It would be possible to cancel the facial and still salvage the manicure, if they made it half three. She suggested that minor alteration; he agreed.

‘I’ll see you then,’ he said. ‘Thank you for agreeing on such short notice, but I’m sure you’ll understand why I thought it was necessary, after we’ve spoken.’

‘Can’t you tell me what it’s in reference to, Mr Firth?’

He was firm. ‘Not over the phone, Mrs Underwood.’

It was only after she’d hung up that she realised: in all the excitement and stress of yesterday morning, she had not notified the bank about the theft of her handbag. She’d cancelled her credit cards; she’d told the police. But she had forgotten about the bank, and her cheque book was in the stolen handbag. Someone had probably been writing cheques left, right and centre on her account.

What a nuisance! How careless of her!

Well, she thought philosophically, it sounded as though Mr Firth had the matter in hand. He would give her a little lecture, she would apologise, and then it would be up to him to sort out the consequences. It couldn’t be helped.

Marigold promptly put the matter out of her mind, with only the
lingering
concern that she might find it difficult to pay for the manicure, without either a credit card or a chequebook. Then she remembered that she had a small stash of notes in the drawer of her bureau, kept for
emergencies.
This would certainly qualify as an emergency.

Callie’s duty visit with her mother was just as unrewarding as she had expected. Laura Anson quizzed her relentlessly about the details of Frances’ arrest – her information gleaned, she was careful to say, from her cleaning lady, who read the
Globe.
‘And what about this very unsavoury business with this black bishop?’ she went on, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
‘Honestly, Callie. If I’d known what a sink-hole the Church was, I would never have allowed you to get involved.’

Callie, who had successfully fended off the questions about Frances by feigning ignorance, resisted pointing out that her involvement in the Church had never been a matter which required her mother’s approval; she had been well into her adulthood when the decision had been made. They had had this discussion before; nothing she said would change her
mother’s
mind about it. Or hers.

Why, she thought as she headed back home to take Bella for a quick walk before her appointment to see Frances at the police station, had she not sought a curacy as far away as possible from London and her mother? Yorkshire? Cornwall? Surely they needed curates there as well.

Adam, that was why. Adam was the reason she was in London.

And besides, she told herself, it wouldn’t have made any real difference. Her mother would have expected a weekly visit even if she was living at the other end of the country. Or the other end of the world. Barnes, Barnsley, Bodmin or Boston – it was all the same to Laura Anson.

Frances was waiting for Callie’s visit, looking forward to it as the high point of her day. Callie, she reflected, was so normal. So sensible, so sane. So untouched by any of this unreal situation in which she found herself: she, Frances Cherry, a priest in the Church of England, incarcerated and implicated in murder. It was hard to believe that outside of the walls of this police station, life went on much the same as ever for most people. Callie was a concrete reminder of that other reality – the world of which she
herself
had been a part just a few days ago.

When Callie came in, Frances rose and hugged her, metaphorically embracing all that she stood for. And immediately she began talking about everyday, mundane subjects – anything she could think of that was
unconnected
with this place and this ordeal. ‘How is your dog?’ she asked.

Callie smiled. ‘Oh, she’s lovely. Absolutely gorgeous, in fact. I love her to bits.’

‘No problems with her? She doesn’t chew things up, or mess on the floor?’

‘She’s not a puppy,’ Callie said. ‘She’s two years old. I don’t think I could cope with a puppy. Especially without a back garden. I think that’s the worst thing – having to take her out to the park to do her business, even when the weather is foul.’

Frances remembered all too well what it meant to have a puppy. They’d had one, once; Heather had had her heart set on it, had nagged and begged till they’d given in and got her one.

It had chewed everything in sight, including Graham’s best black shoes. It had ruined the drawing room carpet, and before it was full grown, at which time they might have expected to reap the benefits of pet ownership, it had run away. Heather had been playing with the puppy in the back garden; with her customary intensity she had got involved in something else – some
solitary
game – and while she was absorbed, the puppy had wandered off through the gate Heather had left open. They had never found it, never seen it again.

Heather was heartbroken, of course. Inconsolable. She had wanted another puppy, immediately.

But they had learned their lesson. ‘When you’re grown up you can have one,’ Frances had said. Heather, though, had never stayed in one place long enough to have a pet. Maybe now, now that she was settled down with Zack …

‘Did I tell you,’ Frances said, ‘that Heather is coming home for Christmas?’

‘Oh, that’s great!’

‘Well, that’s the good news.’ Frances gave a bemused grimace. ‘The bad news is that she’s now a vegan, so turkey is off the menu. To welcome our prodigal home, we’ll have to go out and kill the fatted nut-roast.’

They both laughed. 

‘And she’s bringing her new husband with her,’ Frances added. ‘Husband – can you believe it? She’s gone and married some ancient hippie with plaits and a tattoo. And a vasectomy.’ Now even that seemed funny, Frances realised, laughing till the tears ran down her cheeks.

Marigold’s nails looked lovely. She didn’t like anything too extreme; on her instruction they had been done in an opalescent pink, as tender as
the inside of a sea shell. She examined them in the taxi on the way to the bank, thankful that she had enough left over from the manicure to pay for the taxi. Surely Mr Firth would advance her some cash from her account until such time as a new chequebook and credit cards could be arranged.

Mr Firth’s domain was not one of the vulgar high street banks,
advertising
on television with singing bank managers or animated logos. It was an old-fashioned establishment, proud of its reputation for exclusivity and stuffiness. The interior was as it had always been in living memory: wood panelling, leather chairs, dim lights, thick carpets; there was not a bit of plastic or high-tech computer wizardry in sight.

As befitted a client – never a customer in their parlance – of her
long-standing
and importance, Marigold was not kept waiting, but was ushered immediately into Mr Firth’s sanctum.

‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Underwood,’ he said with grave courtesy, then asked his secretary – surely she was the same one he’d had thirty years ago, grown old along with him – to bring in a tray of tea.

Marigold had decided to forestall him by confessing; perhaps that would ameliorate the chastisement. ‘I know what this is about,’ she said as she sat down. ‘And I’m so sorry.’

His surprise was apparent. ‘You do?’

‘The cheque book. I should have rung you, but it slipped my mind.’

Now he looked totally baffled. ‘Cheque book?’

‘The one that was stolen. I suppose he’s written all sorts of cheques on the account. Aren’t I insured for that?’

The secretary must have had the tea tray ready; already she was
bringing
it in, putting it on Mr Firth’s desk. The teapot was Georgian silver, and the china was Crown Derby. She slipped silently out again and he poured, using a chased silver tea strainer. ‘Do you take sugar, Mrs Underwood? I thought not.’ He brought a cup round the desk and
handed
it to her, then offered her a plate of delicate biscuits. She waved them away.

Mr Firth resumed his seat behind his desk. ‘Now, Mrs Underwood. Let’s start over. What is the reason you imagine I wanted to see you?’

‘I had my handbag stolen yesterday morning,’ she said patiently. ‘My chequebook was in it. I reported it to the police, but I forgot to notify you.’

He made a noise, clucking his tongue against his teeth. ‘You should have told us straightaway.’

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’ She sipped her tea.

‘But that isn’t why I wanted to see you.’

‘Oh! It isn’t?’

No.’ He now took a sip, then put his cup down on the desk. Clearing his throat, he folded his hands in front of him. ‘You must understand that this is very difficult for me, Mrs Underwood.’

Now she was beginning to be frightened. Was the bank going under? Had she lost all her money? Had someone been swindling her?

‘We’ve known each other for a good many years,’ he said. ‘There have been no secrets between us.’

‘What’s happened?’ She could hear the panic rising in her voice.

‘My mother celebrated her birthday yesterday,’ said Mr Firth, ‘and I felt it was important that I take her out for the day.’

Mr Firth had a mother? Heavens, thought Marigold – she must be ancient. But what did any of this have to do with his mother?

‘As a result,’ he went on, ‘I was not here. That is most unfortunate. When I came in this morning I checked through the books, the
transactions.
That is when I discovered it.’

‘Discovered what?’ Marigold was almost holding her breath, as much with impatience as with worry. Why all this song-and-dance? Why didn’t he just get on with it?

‘A substantial sum of money was withdrawn from your account
yesterday.
Had I been here, of course I would not have sanctioned it. Not
without
your express permission.’

She exhaled. ‘Well, I told you. My chequebook was stolen. The man who took it – he must have done it.’

‘No, Mrs Underwood.’ He looked at her, his brows drawn together in an expression of sorrow. ‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this. But it was no stranger.’

‘Then who…’

‘The manager on duty confirmed it. It was your husband, Mrs Underwood. Your husband Vincent.’

Seeing Frances had upset Callie far more than she’d expected. While Frances had made every effort to seem relaxed, even good-humoured, it had come across as febrile, false. Callie knew her well enough to see the tension, the tears, just below the surface, and she was not reassured.

Her day off was not turning out to be a relaxing one. The phone was ringing as she came in the door. Shedding umbrella and coat, she ran for it.

‘Oh, you’re there, then. Father Brian seemed to think you might be away.’

She recognised the voice of Dennis Harrington. ‘How are you, Dennis?’ she asked. ‘How’s Elsie? I’ve been a bit concerned. You weren’t at home yesterday when I called round. And you didn’t answer your phone.’

There was a long, shuddering indrawn breath on the other end. ‘You don’t know, then? My Elsie – she’s gone.’

‘Gone?’ For a moment Callie didn’t understand. Gone into a nursing home? Gone on holiday?

Gone. Oh, God…‘Dennis! She’s not —’

‘This morning,’ he confirmed. ‘Gone to be with Our Lord. Called home. She’s better off there, mind. Her suffering is over. She’s at rest now. And she went peaceful.’

Callie felt as though she’d been socked in the stomach. She collapsed onto the nearest chair. ‘Oh, Dennis!’