The Art of Standing Still (40 page)

‘Not now.' Jemma's eyes pleaded.

Ruth was determined. Whatever Jemma had to say couldn't make her feel any worse. ‘Yes now.'

Jemma took a deep breath. ‘Corruption, fraud, blackmail . . . and I think it really was Alistair that attacked Richard.'

Ruth laughed.

‘It's true!'

‘Then why didn't you tell the police?'

‘I wanted to wait until after the plays. I didn't want to spoil things for you.'

‘Spoil things? You stupid girl!' Ruth rose to slap her. Jemma thought she knew best, knew everything – stupid, meddling, arrogant . . .

Josh moved between them and put his arm round Jemma's shoulders.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't know this would happen.' Tears flowed down Jemma's cheeks, but Ruth couldn't cry. She wanted to shout, to hit out. Maybe she had been wrong about God, that he did punish people for their thoughts and actions in this life. At last she had found something – someone – special. And now he had been snatched away.

‘Did he leave a note? Was there a message for me?' Ruth's voice was small and wretched. Didn't he know that he was the only man she ever loved? She thought he had loved her. Perhaps she was just another person he had betrayed.

‘I don't know.' Jemma couldn't look her in the eye. ‘The police will be here soon. They might find something.'

The sound of sirens ripped through the quiet farmland. When Josh and the two women emerged from the marquee, the crowds had all but disbursed, unaware of the new source of drama in the small copse.

‘What's up?' Joan pushed Eliza Feldman's wheelchair across the rough grass. She gathered the yellow folds of her dress into her lap so they didn't drag along the ground.

‘There's been an accident,' Jemma said.

‘For a moment I thought they were coming to take me away!' Eliza laughed. Ruth stood by the gate, hesitating.

‘You don't have to go back over there.'

‘Yes, I do.' Ruth took a deep breath to steady herself.

‘So, who's the stiff,' Eliza asked. Josh put his finger to his lips to try to silence her.

‘I'm afraid it's Alistair,' Jemma said.

‘Never liked him . . . nasty piece of work.'

‘Would you like me to find someone to drive you and Joan home?' Ruth asked.

‘No, my dear, I'll stay. I want to make the most of the day.'

‘You don't understand, something terrible has happened.' Ruth ran her hand over her face.

‘ “See now that I myself am He! There is no God besides me. I put to death and I bring to life, I have wounded and I will heal, and no one can deliver out of my hand,” ' said Eliza. ‘That's from the Torah. What could be more terrible and more wonderful than life and death? And it's all in God's hand.'

Scene Fifteen

MOHAN CAUGHT UP WITH JEMMA BY THE AMBULANCE. HIS EYES WERE SHINING.
‘This is amazing! And right on our doorstep. You've got all the details, naturally.'

‘Mohan! This isn't the play; it's real life. You can't treat people as . . . stories, as front-page fodder, as paycheques!'

Saffy put a hand on Jemma's shoulder. ‘But all the stuff he was involved in – corruption, attempted murder.'

‘That doesn't mean he deserved this.' She waved her hand towards the ambulances and police cars.

‘He was in it up to his neck.' Saffy glanced at the end of the rope dangling limply. ‘Oh sorry, what I meant was . . .'

Jemma turned slowly to look at Saffy. ‘You knew about this?'

Saffy nodded. ‘I've got files.'

‘But how?'

‘Richard gave them to me. For safe keeping.'

‘Richard?' Mohan looked stunned.

‘He'd been investigating some kind of corruption in Monksford Town Hall. He'd stumbled on something, a deal relating to the bypass and the new industrial estate. He was about to run the story, then Alistair Fry found out and started making threats. That's when Richard moved away.'

‘That's why he left so suddenly.' The scribbled note, the late-night calls, not giving his address. It was all making sense. Richard had been a fugitive, hiding from Alistair. There had been no ‘other woman'.

‘Why didn't he go to the police?' asked Mohan.

‘He didn't have enough evidence. And I guess he wanted the
Gazette
to run the story first.'

‘Then why didn't you say anything, if he'd given you all that information?' asked Jemma, feeling hurt that it had been Saffy and not her that Richard had trusted.

‘He told me not to. He gave me the files and told me to hide them. So I did. He said he needed one last fragment of evidence, the last piece of the puzzle. That was the night you found him in the river.'

‘Why didn't you come forward then?'

‘Richard said that I was only to let anyone see the file in the event of his death. He was quite adamant. Made me swear it.'

‘But he nearly died!' Jemma's voice squeaked with incredulity.

‘He survived. And I thought it might make things worse for him. For us all.'

‘We'd better speak to the police now.' Mohan directed Jemma and Saffy to the waiting car, and Jemma asked to be taken to the police station to see Detective Sergeant Morrisey.

Monksford Gazette

Thursday 22 June

BETRAYED

By Jemma Durham

T
he town of Monksford is reeling following the death of local Councillor, Alistair Fry. Fry died last Saturday after his portrayal of Judas Iscariot at a production of the Monksford Mystery Plays. A coroner's inquest is due to open next week to establish the cause of death of Mr Fry, who was found
hanging from a tree by other cast members. They attempted to revive him, but he was found to be dead on arrival at Monksford General Hospital.

Councillor Fry had been at the forefront of the campaign against the Monksford bypass but had more recently been linked with financial irregularities and had been helping the Monksford police with their inquiries regarding the attack on journalist Richard Sutton last year.

‘Mr Fry will be remembered for his tireless work on behalf of the people of Monksford,' said friend and Monksford vicar, Ruth Wells. ‘He will be missed.'

The police are appealing for witnesses to the incident to contact DS Morrisey at Monksford police station.

Scene Sixteen

RUTH GROANED AS THE DOORBELL RANG FOR THE FOURTH TIME THAT AFTERNOON.
The last five days and been a nightmare, an ordeal made worse by well-meaning people who wouldn't leave her alone with their incessant phone calls, visits, letters. If it hadn't been well-wishers, it was press and television crews. First Josh, then Harlan and Ronnie, the
Gazette
, the
Daily Mail
, the BBC.

She opened the door a crack. The wind threatened to tear it out of her hand.

‘Ruth, how are you?' Jemma shuffled uncomfortably on the vicarage doorstep. Her hair blew in her face.

‘I'm all right.'

‘Really?'

‘Why do people do that?' Ruth turned and walked away, leaving Jemma in the hallway. Jemma shut the door and followed her into the lounge, which was full of flowers. ‘Do what?'

‘Ask if you're all right, then question it when you say you're fine?'

‘Because they think you're not.'

‘Then why ask in the first place?' Ruth sat in her favourite armchair and drew up her knees. The wind roared down the chimney.

‘People say they're all right. Sometimes they're just trying to cope.'

‘Well, I think I am fine. But if I'm not, that makes me deluded, which is even worse.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Look, Jemma, I do appreciate your concern, and I didn't mean to snap. What I mean is, I'm not all right but I'm coping.'

If ‘coping' meant crying herself to sleep at night, if it meant imagining she saw his car whenever she looked out the window, if it meant not eating or sleeping or even praying – then Ruth was coping.

‘I understand.'

‘If you say so.' She forced a smile. ‘Anyway, how are you?'

‘Josh left.'

‘I know. He dropped in to say goodbye.'

‘More than he said to me.'

‘I'm sorry. I tried to persuade him to call you before he left. If it's any consolation, he looked pretty distraught.'

Dimitri stretched his paws up to Ruth, jabbing his claws into her leg. She picked him up and rubbed her cheek against his soft fur. Jemma sat down opposite her.

‘Where did Josh go?'

‘He wouldn't tell me.'

‘Great!' Jemma let out a sigh.

‘Were you in love with him?'

Jemma looked stunned. ‘Love? I don't know. He was my friend, my mentor, the person I went to with all my good and bad news. His was the first voice I wanted to hear in the morning and the last one I wanted to hear at night.'

‘It affected him very badly, you know. Not just Alistair, but the whole thing. It shook his faith.'

‘Why?'

‘I suppose it brought it all into such close focus. Reading about it is one thing, but acting it out . . .'

‘Watching it, being part of it, certainly made me realise the sheer . . . magnitude. What Josh went through, what Jesus suffered. All that pain and humiliation.' Jemma looked ready to cry again. ‘ “And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death – even death on a cross!” That's from the Bible.'

‘I know.'

Ruth clung on to her faith by her fingertips. Raging at God had turned into pleading with God, which was slowly becoming acceptance. In her grief, her faith was the still point around which everything spun uncontrollably.

Ruth felt weary. ‘What are your plans? Will you stay in Monksford?'

‘There's plenty of work at the paper at the moment what with . . .'

Ruth's eyes misted over.

‘I mean, now that the plays are over. Mohan seemed pleased with the column, and the Chief Reporter's job is still vacant. I plan to take some time off first, go up to Yorkshire, and visit my grandfather.'

Ruth nodded.
Go
,
just go.

‘And Richard will be home in a few weeks. He'll be staying with his parents. I need to see, you know, where we stand. And then there's Josh.'

‘He promised . . . I made him promise . . . to get in touch with you. When he's settled.'

‘Thanks.' Jemma wrung the strap of her handbag. ‘I don't know if I'll ever see him again. Even if I don't, I'll never forget what we had . . . what we almost had.'

They sat in silence for a moment.

Jemma tugged at the catch on her bag. ‘I don't know if you want to see these.' She pulled out a package. ‘Photographs from the mysteries. Our press photographer took them.'

Ruth forced a smile. ‘I'd love to see them.'
Anything
,
just to see
his face again.

Jemma handed the package to Ruth. As she flicked through the prints, her eyes misted again. The faces, happy and smiling, stared from the rectangles of glossy paper. And there among them, smiling, was Alistair. He looked so . . . untroubled.

‘Was it worth it?'

‘What do you mean?' Jemma asked.

‘The plays – everything.'

Jemma shook her head. ‘It was worth it for me.'

Jealousy shot through Ruth like an electric current. Jemma had a new-fledged faith, not battered and scarred and war-torn like hers, and Jemma still had her man. Any journalist worth her salt could track Josh down no matter where he was.

‘But we've both lost so much,' Ruth said. ‘Josh has gone, and Alistair . . .' The tears started. ‘I loved him, you understand. Although he was wrong and corrupt and he hurt people, I loved him.'

‘I know.' Jemma stood up and fetched a box of tissues from the sideboard.

Ruth felt as if a lorry had struck her. ‘How do you know?'

‘One day, by the river. I saw you. I saw you and Alistair kiss.'

Ruth covered her eyes. So she hadn't got away with it. ‘You knew! All that time and you didn't tell anyone. You didn't put it in the paper?'

‘I didn't tell anyone else, only Josh. It wouldn't have been fair. My granddad was a journalist of the old school. “Be truthful, accurate, and fair,” he says.'

‘That's a good adage.'

‘He also said, “Integrity – that's what matters, and it's even more important when you work in the town where you live.” Too many people would have got hurt if I'd splashed
it all over the front page. I couldn't do it.'

‘Thank you.' Ruth nearly laughed. ‘Not that it really matters now. I would write it across the sky if I thought it would bring him back. Will you say anything?'

‘No. There's no reason.'

Ruth shook her head. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She had misjudged Jemma, but if Jemma had gone to press, perhaps Alistair would have been alive now. ‘You're right, what is the point of raking it up? We were friends. I'm even happy for everyone to think he duped me, but what we had, or what I thought we had . . . oh, Jemma, it was something special. You see . . . this sounds so stupid . . . I'd never been in love before. And even now, knowing all that he did, I love him and I forgive him.'

‘What will you do?'

‘Carry on, I suppose. I'm good at carrying on. That's what I do best. I carried on after my mother died; I'll do the same after Alistair.'

‘Will you take a break, a holiday?'

‘I think I need to get back to parish life as soon as possible. I feel as if I've been standing still for the past few weeks. It's time to move on.'

‘Standing still is good sometimes.'

‘I know. Perhaps we don't do enough of it.'

‘Come with me.'