The Chorister at the Abbey (27 page)

She sipped her milk, and stood up to put the sleeping pill down the sink. And through the window she saw that light again, up the hill on the left, at the convent. Forget it, she told herself. It’s in someone else’s hands now. All that is over. I can put Morris Little and the psalms of lament, the Johnstones and the convent, all out of my mind – and get on with my life.

42

Draw me out of the net that they have laid privily for me, for thou art my strength.
Psalm 31:5

A few days later Edwin met Robert by chance in the canteen at the college. ‘Any developments with the Frosts?’ Robert asked.

‘I don’t know. Marilyn can’t get to the phone all the time and from what I know of the order they’ll want her to get her head down, doing what she’s supposed to do. We are the World, you know, which is what she repudiates.’

‘You don’t look too repudiated!’ Robert said. Edwin had that indefinable look of a happy person.

‘Oh, I’ve been seeing a lot of Alex. We’re going to another concert tonight, actually. And to be honest, I’m glad we’re doing the Stainer on Good Friday. It gives us four extra days and it fits really well; Freddie will be a big hit, not to mention Tom, who’s marvellous.’

‘And what about your work?’

‘Well, I’m still intrigued by the Quaile Woods psalms. It’s infuriating to think some arbitrary thief might have taken the psalter with no idea of its importance to church musicians. And Morris could have put the original of the front page anywhere. You know what his filing system was like. It’s probably under Z for Zany Church Music!’

‘Well, I’m still going to see Norma as I said I would. I promised her I’d try and write something about Morris. So I’ll have one last look.’

He had arranged to go and see Norma Little on Wednesday evening and, even though the impetus had gone, he was as good as his word. She let him into the hallway at the side of the shop, a dark little entrance smelling of crisps and groceries and some indefinable cleaning fluids. It was a big shop, so it had a large stockroom at the back full of all sorts of things from cases of wines and spirits to large packets of washing powder and toilet rolls.

He followed her upstairs to the crowded sitting room above the shop.

‘How far have you got with Morris’s research?’ she asked anxiously. ‘If we don’t get something in the paper at around the time of this concert, everyone will forget him.’

‘No, they won’t,’ Robert said reassuringly. ‘But I’ll try. Look, Norma, we think he might have been on to something really very interesting. But to prove it we need to find the page of a book – a long narrow book.’ He outlined for her with his hands the traditional landscape shape of a psalter.

‘Nah, never seen anything like that,’ Norma said. ‘Mind you, he kept things all over the place. He put his will in with the cigarettes.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, one of Morris’s jokes. You know, Wills – used to be big cigarette manufacturers in Bristol. Morris was always having a bit of fun. We got some horror mags once and he stored them with the lacquer and conditioner. You know, hair-raising.’

Robert sighed. It sounded just like Morris, taking the mickey and being a nuisance, proving how clever he was even after death. He remembered Morris punning the last time they had spoken: ‘
Sax and drugs and rock and roll
.’ If that was how Morris filed things, the original frontispiece of the psalter could be anywhere in the house.

He asked Norma to show him into the office again, and he spent an hour searching but with no luck. On the way out he promised her he would write something about Morris’s theories on church music and send it to the
Cumberland News
as soon as possible.

‘You will keep your eyes open, Norma?’

‘Yes, I will. If I find any old book stuff I’ll let you know.’

‘One more thing. Can you think of any reason why Morris might have shared his research with David Johnstone, the estate agent?

Norma said firmly, ‘None whatsoever. Morris couldn’t stand the man. He said he was a greedy parasite.’

And that seemed conclusive enough, Robert thought as he drove home. They would never know how Johnstone got the photocopy of the frontispiece – unless he recovered and told them, which seemed increasingly unlikely. Robert would try to write something complimentary about Morris for the paper, including Stainer’s connection with Quaile Woods, and also the lost psalter. It would be an adequate article, though essentially a rehash of old stuff. But at least it would be something in Morris’s memory. For all the nasty things he had done, Morris had been a notable local historian. The Chorus owed it to him.

Towards the end of the week Edwin met the Principal of the college at a reception for a new Head of the Engineering Department. After the usual chit-chat, Edwin decided to take a risk.

‘I wondered, do you remember seeing Dr Wisley just before Christmas? In the shopping mall in town? You were with your wife.’

‘Why do you ask?’

Wanda had been off work a lot in the past few weeks. Edwin had been standing in for her and she’d been grateful in a reluctant way. She seemed to be constantly ill but she had been rather more approachable and Edwin had started to like her. He thought that he should try to get her alibi for the evening of Morris’s death corroborated, especially if her planned meeting with Morris was going to be important to Marilyn’s case and she was questioned officially.

‘Oh,’ Edwin tried to think of a plausible reason, ‘Wanda thinks she mislaid some scores we’d been working on. They weren’t important. She said she probably dropped them in the mall. But she can’t remember which day it was, though she does remember seeing you.’

The Principal stroked his chin. ‘Goodness, Edwin, that’s three months ago. But I do remember because it was a very busy day. We saw Wanda near Figaro’s on the Friday before Christmas. My wife had insisted on my coming out to help her choose a present for my mother. I wasn’t too pleased about it because I had to dash back to the college for an important meeting.’

‘So it would have been around six o’clock?’

‘Oh, yes. I know that because I had to get back to see poor David Johnstone. We were meeting to discuss selling the sports fields, and he was the best estate agent in the county. Oh look, there’s the Deputy Head of E-learning. Do excuse me . . .’

Edwin sipped his wine slowly. So David Johnstone, too, had been at the college that evening. That was certainly something new.

He met Robert, Suzy and Alex at The Briars after Chorus practice the Tuesday before Holy Week. When Edwin told them the latest development, Suzy stood up in irritation and grabbed the wine bottle she had opened earlier.

‘Oh, this is getting too complicated. Have a drink, everybody.’ She had worked an extra day shift at Tynedale TV and had come home frazzled. Once Molly was in bed she’d poured herself a generous glass of Merlot and was feeling uninhibited. ‘I mean, what this boils down to is that every man and his dog could have been at the college to meet Morris. Tom Firth, you, Alex . . .’

‘I’m not a dog. Not any more!’

‘No, be serious. Paul Whinfell is supposed to have had a meeting with him, and no one knows where Freddie Fabrikant was. Now there’s David Johnstone. All of them were choristers or musicians and might have been interested in a psalter. Why don’t we go mad and suggest that Mark Wilson was there to do the accounts, and Chloe Clifford was enrolling for Hindustani night classes? Or perhaps Jenny Whinfell was there to give student counselling because she’s so nice, ha ha. Or Neil Clifford was holding a seminar on devil worship? We’re supposed to be refining this down, not expanding our theories to encompass all of Norbridge!’

‘The Frosts’ defence lawyers should check up on everyone in the college that night. Surely the security guards have a list of visitors?’ Robert suggested.

‘Apparently not,’ said Edwin. ‘The swipe card system had failed. It might have been one of the Frosts’ preliminary acts of vandalism. The guard was just letting anyone in. He shouldn’t have, of course, but it frequently happens.’

Suzy said, ‘I still think it’s weird. The Psalms are the clue. It’s someone who’s a singer, a chorister who knows the greatest songs in the Bible. The Psalms seem to have been written for choirs, for goodness’ sake. Look at all those weird instructions. You know what I mean.
O clap
your hands
,
tune up the trumpets
, that sort of rigmarole.’ Suzy was waving her glass about dangerously. ‘I’ve always said it was about religion.’

‘Well, we can do nothing but wait, I suppose,’ Robert said. ‘And you never know, Norma Little might unearth something from under the bottles of bleach in the storeroom.’

‘What, filed under whitewash, or down the pan?’

Robert laughed. ‘I know it’s frustrating, Suzy. But we really can’t do anything.’

‘Until something else happens to prove my point. This might not be over, you know.’

The others looked at her. The idea of another ‘accident’ had never occurred to them.

Pat Johnstone had downed four vodka tonics. The latest call from the hospital staff had said that David was com- fortable but they needed to chat with her. She told them she would go over there the next day. She hadn’t been for the last few nights. Her elder son had come up at the weekend to see his father and had had long, man-to-man conversations with the consultant which had left her feeling excluded. If they wanted her they could wait.

She had got things as organized as possible, for any eventuality. She had left a message on Alex Gibson’s phone suggesting they talk soon about a price for the bungalow. The woman never seemed to be in these days. She’d also called the Prouts. Reg Prout was rattled, she knew that, because he worked for the council. He would know what David had planned. She chortled as it occurred to her that Prouty was probably in David’s clutches, somehow or other. No wonder he was scared.

But not for long. David looked to be on his last legs. She wondered again about his will. She had no guarantee at all that he would have left her anything and she hugged herself in relief that she had found out about the bulging bank account in her name. If David snuffed it, she would get the cash, so there would be no need to press ahead with buying the bungalow.

Then again, David was clever. If he was on to something, she still wanted to be part of it. The bungalow was a step in the right direction. If David aimed to buy it, it had to be worth having for some reason.

She tried to watch telly but her favourite soaps seemed more boring than her own life. She had one more drink but felt cold stone sober. She thought about her new car. She had already taken advantage of David’s illness in one little way. Seeing that he never treated her, she could spoil herself, couldn’t she? A week ago she had traded in her family saloon for a deposit on a nippy little coupé. The trouble was that she had nowhere to go in it.

‘I’m going out for a drive,’ she said to the television. She changed into loose, dark trousers and flat shoes, and found a quilted jacket. She went outside to test the air. It wasn’t too cold. She fetched her torch from the cupboard under the stairs, in case she needed to get out of the car; then she paused. It would do no harm to take the cocktail shaker with a nice mix of vodka tonic. The other drinks had hardly hit the sides. She filled up the shaker, adding a little bit of ice and lemon as a nice touch. Lovely!

She drove towards Fellside without thinking why. She didn’t mind David shagging some old slag from the council estate there. She could even have used the information to get a nice comfy divorce settlement. The idea of his infidelity left her cold. But if he was on to something about property, she wanted to know. And that bungalow was part of it. Not to mention the convent, and that pit . . .

She drove aimlessly around the silent village where no one was venturing out. After ten o’clock the place was dead. For the sake of something to do, she parked by the derelict convent and smoked a couple of fags.

Then she saw a light. It was inside the building. It was dim, and she could only just make it out between the slats of the boarded-up windows. She took a gulp from the hip flask. The door of the new car opened so smoothly there was hardly any noise; she got out and stood up. The door clicked quietly closed. It was even nicer to smoke outside. The air was soft, and warmer than it had been for months. She took another swig and finished another ciggie. Then she saw the light in the convent again.

I’ve got my torch, she thought. I’ll be all right. I know to avoid any holes in the ground! Perhaps I’m as smart as David – smarter even! She switched on the torch and started to walk towards the building when she saw there was a newly defined path round to the back. She followed it, slightly nervous about leaving the road behind but also rather excited. If people were working on the place out of hours, it would mean they’d stolen a march on David and she wanted to know what was going on.

As she moved towards the building, she tripped slightly. There was something catching around her ankle. She moved her other foot forward, but that was also fixed in something soft but catching. Nothing to worry about, she thought. Just a stumble. No pit! But then her feet wouldn’t move. I’m tangled, she thought, as if I’m in a net. She tried to kick it away, but if anything the net tightened. She screamed and kicked, but her feet became even more constricted. Then she stumbled, her hands scrabbling in the earth. The torch had rolled away and she felt something jerk her knees from under her so that her face fell into the dried mud and gravel of the path. She couldn’t scream for the dirt in her mouth. And then the blow from behind on the back of her head cut her cackling for ever.

43

I was glad when they said unto me: We will go into the house of the Lord.
Psalm 122:1

Holy Week is a normal working week for most people in Britain until the bank holiday of Good Friday. But Maundy Thursday is also a religious day as the anniversary of the Last Supper where Jesus commanded that his followers should eat bread and drink wine in remembrance of him. ‘Maundy’ is a corruption of the Latin
mandatum
– a command. Jesus commanded that we should love one another.

Not much of that around, Suzy thought as she pored over the internet to find out more. In a tradition centuries old, the sovereign of England gave money on Maundy Thursday to male and female subjects, members of each sex both equal in number to the monarch’s age. Kings in the past had washed the feet of the poor, and touched people to cure them of King’s Evil or scrofula. It was also the day when the altars were stripped of the Lenten array and churches left bare, with crosses enshrouded in black or purple for Good Friday. Quite creepy, Suzy thought.

‘I’ve never heard of anyone having scrofula these days,’ Robert said when he came back from the last Chorus practice before the concert. Suzy had been at home, working on the computer, and had looked up Holy Week out of interest. ‘Maybe it was just eczema. Anyway, I bet it would take more than the Queen’s touch to cure it. Bring on the antibiotics, I say.’

‘You sound cheerful. How was your practice?’

‘Excellent. Freddie is huge in every way and Tom is absolutely superb. It’s the top line which has problems. Two of the sopranos have gone away on holiday, though the Dixons cancelled their trip to stay and sing. It was good of them, but Millie hardly makes any difference. It’s a good job we’ve got Alex. She’s excellent.’

‘So will I enjoy the concert, heathen that I am?’

‘I think so.’ Robert came over and kissed her. ‘Any messages?’

‘Oh yes, Norma Little phoned. You know what a gruff voice she’s got. Something about a case of wine. She said you could pick it up on Thursday when she closes at eight o’clock. I didn’t know you’d ordered any wine.’

‘No, I didn’t. Maybe it’s a gift.’ Robert’s article, in truncated form, was due to be published in that week’s
Cumberland News
. He had phoned Norma, who was thrilled.

‘I got another funny message, though,’ Suzy said. ‘Look. You’ll never guess who it’s from – Jenny Whinfell!’ She showed him a printed email. It was a short note addressed to
Hi, Suzy!
in a very chatty way, inviting her to
a new and
totally innovative Anglican Women’s Group
which was having its inaugural meeting on Thursday night. The message went on,
We really need people like you who have a different,
exciting approach
.

‘I don’t know what’s come over her,’ Suzy said. ‘Alex says she’s been much pleasanter lately. And I’m rather flattered.’

‘Even if her husband’s a murderer?’

‘Robert, we don’t know that. You’re the one who said we should stop thinking about it. Anyway, if he is, Jenny will need all the support she can get.’

‘Who else has been invited?’

‘Well, Lynn hasn’t, which really surprised me. I phoned her earlier and probed a bit without giving too much away. I didn’t want to be tactless. But then again, she’s happy with being an ordinary Anglican woman, so she wouldn’t need this!’

‘What about Alex?’

‘I can’t get her. She was at the Chorus practice, and now she’s probably gone out somewhere glamorous with Edwin.’

‘Are you going to go?’

‘Might as well. I’m all for women’s things. Can you pour me a drink?’

Robert opened some wine and settled down beside her. ‘I’m looking forward to Easter,’ he said. ‘First the concert on Good Friday, then we could have lunch out somewhere on Saturday. And we could go to the Lakes on Easter Sunday and come back for Jake’s big band session!’

Suzy snuggled up to him full length on the sofa. ‘Sounds good. Sort of normal. You know, maybe I was wrong about the Morris Little thing. Shades of the Tarnfield murders influencing my judgement, I expect.’ She lapped her wine at a dangerous angle. Lying on the sofa, she could see a nasty crack in the ceiling.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘never mind Easter; this is really the time of the great Do-It-Yourself festival. Just watch the TV ads. They’re even more frantic at the moment because the shops fear that DIY is dying out.’

‘It certainly is in this house!’

‘But The Briars is looking really sad. Do you think we should try and do something? Or is there no point if you want to sell?’

‘I don’t know.’ Robert sipped his wine. ‘I can’t face the thought of getting the toolbox out after my abortive attempts on the garage door.’

Suzy laughed. Then the phone rang and, groaning, she staggered upright to answer it. ‘Hi,’ she said.

There was a long and tense pause. Her voice faltered. ‘Oh, no . . .’ She sank against the wall.

‘What is it?’ Robert said.

‘It’s Alex. She says Pat Johnstone has been found dead. In the quarry at Fellside. It looked like she was drunk and wandered over the edge. But Alex’s sister says they found traces of something round her feet. Something like netting.’

* * *

On Wednesday night, Alex, Edwin, Suzy and Robert met more soberly at The Briars. The Bible study course had been cancelled because of Pat Johnstone’s death.

‘The police are treating this one as suspicious,’ Alex told them. ‘My sister Chris is devastated. She says it looked as if Pat had stumbled over the edge. She’d been there for days. But the net round her feet made them wonder.’

‘But it’s the Psalms again!’ Suzy said. ‘Robert looked in the Concordance and there are six references to catching people in nets in the Psalms. It’s not the nice New Testament fishers-of-men nets thing. It’s about snaring people like animals. We must tell someone.’

Edwin said, ‘We have. I’ve given Marilyn all the information. I phoned tonight and insisted on talking to her. I think Pat was snooping around Fellside because David Johnstone was after Alex’s bungalow, so that he could buy it and become a neighbour of the convent. Then he could complain that the old place was a danger to his property. That way he could force the ownership issue and get a quick sale before anyone could slap a preservation order on it. It was the convent he was after. But that deal’s dead in the water now he’s stuck in hospital and Pat’s dead.’

‘We’ve done all we can, Suzy,’ Alex said, and put her hand over her friend’s.

‘But we must be able to do more!’

‘Like what?’ Robert asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Suzy got up to make more coffee. ‘I’m being silly, I expect. But it’s so frustrating! By the way, Robert, have you spoken to Norma Little?’

‘No, but I’ll go and see her tomorrow if you and Alex are going to this new Anglican Women’s thing. Are you?’

‘Yes. I think we’re both astonished at discovering that Jenny Whinfell is our new best friend.’ Alex laughed.

‘Has anyone else been invited?’ Robert asked.

‘I only know of Alex and me so far,’ Suzy said ‘But there must be others. We’ve been asked to go to the vicarage at Fellside, though goodness knows how she’ll fit us all in.’

Alex said, ‘Life goes on. Look, I think we need to lighten up a bit tonight. Whatever happened to Pat may turn out to be an accident. She may have caught her feet in some agricultural garbage and tripped. It’s awful, but it doesn’t have to be so sinister. And there’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s have a glass of wine. And we can look forward to the Stainer concert on Friday and to Jake’s performance at Fellside on Sunday as well!’

‘Yes.’ Suzy smiled for the first time that evening. ‘My son the rock star!’

The following evening, Suzy drove to Fellside and parked at Alex’s bungalow. They’d decided to meet in advance for moral support and walk down to the council estate together.

‘I wonder what Jenny really wants. It will probably be the same old stuff. The church usually wants you to embroider hassocks or butter bridge rolls,’ Suzy said.

‘Or embroider bridge rolls and butter hassocks. That
would
be innovative.’ Alex laughed.

‘Any more news on Pat’s death?’ Suzy asked.

‘No, although I gather David is very ill. Liver failure. My sister talked to his son. He says David must have been in a bad way before the accident. They tested him routinely for spleen rupture and found that his liver was already pretty far gone. A transplant’s the only answer and quite honestly there probably won’t be enough time. They’ve told him about Pat, which hasn’t helped, but he had to know.’

They walked on together in silence. Fellside was deserted. A dog barked somewhere out on the hills. Suzy shivered. ‘This might all be rather stupid. I like to go to church but I don’t really know what I believe. I don’t want to get too involved. Maybe we should turn back.’

‘I’m an agnostic myself. But I like church too. And how often do you get the chance to meet innovative women round here?’

‘True. OK. Let’s keep on walking, then,’ Suzy said halfheartedly.

‘It could be interesting.’

‘Or maybe provide material for a TV show,
Anglicans in
Space
!’

Alex laughed. ‘We only need to stay a few minutes, to be polite. Then we can go back to my place and have a drink.’

Suzy was about to agree, as they turned into the cul-de-sac where the Whinfells’ vicarage was. But a small figure in droopy clothes hailed them before they could open the gate.

‘Great! You’ve come,’ said Chloe Clifford. ‘We’ve got a much better venue now. Follow me!’

Robert and Edwin had decided to go and see Norma Little together. ‘We can pick up the wine, say nice things about Morris, have a pint, and get home to find out what the Innovative Anglican Women’s Group was all about,’ Robert said.

‘Good thinking,’ Edwin answered. He had volunteered to drive them over in case Norma insisted that Robert try the wine there and then. It was a bit of a mystery about why she’d decided to give him a present like that. She would obviously be pleased about the article in the
Cumberland News
, but her attitude previously had been that it was really Morris’s due.

But Norma was delighted to see them both. ‘Come in, come in,’ she growled. ‘Glad you got the message. Come upstairs; it’s up there.’

Robert looked at Edwin and shrugged. But if Norma wanted to lug a case of wine upstairs, for them to lug it down again, that was up to her.

‘Do you want a coffee while you look at it?’ she said.

‘Look at what?’ Robert asked. ‘I thought we were picking up some wine?’

‘Wine? No! It’s what I found . . .’ Norma glanced at him strangely. ‘Well, I thought you’d be more chuffed. Here it is anyway.’ She pushed an old plastic carrier bag at Robert. He looked at her questioningly.

She said crossly, ‘I don’t know what you mean about wine! I phoned you to tell you I’d found what it was what you wanted me to search for! Old paper. There’s loads of stuff in there. Photocopies! You were right thinking Morris had stored it somewhere funny. I found it under the last case of German white. I think it’s because it’s stuff from the old convent.’

‘German white? Do you mean wine? Blue Nun?’ Edwin couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.

‘Yes, well, that was Morris’s joke,’ Norma said defensively. ‘And it’s funny that you should be the one to pick it up, Mr Armstrong. What with your girlfriend and all . . .’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Morris knew all about Marilyn Frost being a nun. He went round to her step-dad to complain about the boys’ thieving. Of course he got no joy on that but he stayed talking, and found out about her. There wasn’t much Morris couldn’t get out of people with the help of a few cases of free beer!’

‘Oh,’ Edwin said quietly. ‘But it doesn’t matter now. I don’t think Marilyn’s vocation is a secret any more. She’s been back to Norbridge recently to see her brothers.’ So that’s how Morris found out where Marilyn was. That’s another link in the chain, he thought. Did Norma know her husband used his knowledge to be a low-grade blackmailer? Probably not, he thought. Poor, spiteful, petty-minded Morris. And anyway, all that was over now. There were bigger things to think about. Robert was pushing the bag of papers at him, saying nothing.

Edwin took one look at them, and then he needed to sit down. In his hand he held a bag full of what he suspected was historical dynamite.

‘Just follow me,’ Chloe said. ‘It’s only a short walk away.’ Her voice had changed. It was charged with excitement.

‘But where are we going, Chloe?’ Suzy said sharply.

‘It’s all right. The others arrived earlier. Mum’s already there. And Jenny. It’s going to be good. Look, we turn down here, round the back of the council offices, and across the road and in through this gate.’

‘I thought Lynn wasn’t involved,’ Suzy said.

‘Oh yes,’ said Chloe. ‘She’s really keen. Jenny contacted her at the last minute.’

Suzy and Alex exchanged glances. Then Suzy shrugged. If Lynn was there, the meeting might be conventional but it would certainly be properly organized.

‘This is the back door to the convent,’ Alex said. ‘It must be.’

‘That’s right!’ Chloe said. ‘You’d think everyone would know about it. Come in!’

She smiled, with a sort of innocent enthusiasm that transformed her face. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘The group’s been working on this for a few weeks. It’s all fine. We’ve got the Bishop’s approval and everything.’

She opened the door, which was cut into the wall. Instead of leading up into the garden as they expected, it went straight underneath the grounds. Ahead of them, a strip of neon lighting illuminated a bright, white, cellar-like room with stairs at the end. Alex looked at Suzy.

‘I’m not sure this is for me,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit claustrophobic.’

‘Oh please!’ Chloe said. ‘Everyone will be so disappointed if you two don’t come.’

She smiled again, and Suzy thought: she’s really only a child. This is likely to be silly, but if it helps, I’ll go in. Maybe official work really had started on repairing the convent. She stepped forward. I’m a mum too, she thought, and I’d do anything to help bring Lynn and her daughter closer. Maybe being an Innovative Anglican Woman would do it for Chloe.