The Office of the Dead (14 page)

There was a devious side to David. The business about the phone call showed that.

Janet was on a committee, chaired by Mrs Forbury, the dean’s wife, which met at teatime on Thursday afternoons at the Deanery. The Cathedral, Janet said, needed what Mrs Forbury called a Woman’s Touch. So we used to refer to the committee members as the Touchies. They dealt with the flower rota, oversaw the cleaning and the maintenance of various fabrics, from altar cloths to choir boys’ ruffs. There was even a sub-committee to deal with the complicated question of the manufacture, maintenance and disposition off kneelers. According to Janet, this was where an inner circle of Touchies decided all matters of importance.

That was why I left work early on Thursday afternoons. While Janet went to the Touchies, I gave Rosie and Mr Treevor their tea. Between four and five thirty, I was usually the only responsible adult at the Dark Hostelry.

David knew this.

The phone rang while I was washing up. Rosie was playing with Angel at the kitchen table and Mr Treevor was dozing in his room. His adventure yesterday had left him tired out. David had eventually found him in the High Street. Mr Treevor said he wanted to find some ducks so he could feed them. There weren’t any ducks in the High Street, and in any case he had nothing to feed them with.

I went up to the study, where the phone was. It was David’s room, dark, austere and full of books, and it always made me feel like a trespasser. I picked up the handset and recited the number.

‘Wendy,’ Henry said. ‘It’s me.’

I felt sweat breaking out on my forehead and on the palm of my hand holding the telephone.

‘Wendy, don’t hang up, please. Are you there?’

I stared at a crucifix on the wall over the fireplace. Christ’s brass face was contorted. The poor man really looked in pain.

‘Wendy?’

‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said. ‘I was a fool. I miss you. I love you.’

‘Oh, bugger off.’

I put the phone down. I stood beside the desk and glared at the telephone. I was trembling and the tears blurred my vision. After a while the phone rang again. I let it ring. It went on for thirty-six rings. I felt like a piece of elastic, and each ring stretched me a little further. David must have arranged this. David and Henry were friends, and no doubt David felt it no more than his pastoral duty to do his best to help repair a failing marriage. When at last the ringing stopped, it was as if someone had turned off a pneumatic drill. I turned to go. Rosie was in the doorway, with Angel in her arms. I scowled at her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘The phone kept ringing.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘So why didn’t you answer it?’

‘I – I was busy.’

Rosie pressed the doll’s chest. ‘Mama,’ it said.

The little black monster started to ring again.

‘Are you going to answer it now?’

I turned round and picked up the handset.

‘Wendy?’ Henry said. ‘Can’t we talk? Please.’

What was there to talk about, I wanted to say – divorce? Henry’s wobbling buttocks bouncing on top of the Hairy Widow? The way my money had disappeared? But I couldn’t say any of this because Rosie was still in the doorway.

‘I need to see you,’ he went on. ‘Whenever you want. Couldn’t we meet for lunch? I’ve got some of your things. A bit of jewellery.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t sold it,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps you haven’t needed to.’

‘If you’re thinking about that woman,’ he said, ‘I haven’t seen her since the day on the beach. I promise you.’

I turned away from the door because I didn’t want Rosie to see me crying.

‘We could meet in Cambridge,’ he suggested. ‘Would that be easier for you? Please, Wendy.’

‘London,’ I said.

‘All right. Can you manage Monday? We could meet at the Café Royal. What time would suit you?’

‘Twelve thirty,’ I said. ‘And if you aren’t there when I arrive I won’t wait. I’ve done enough waiting.’

I put the phone down. Rosie and I went back to the kitchen and I finished the washing up. Afterwards I went up to my bedroom and had an early nightcap. It seemed to me that I no longer had anything left to lose. It didn’t matter if I made a fool of myself. I’d already done that in such a comprehensive way that any other follies barely registered.

So after I’d rinsed out the glass and done my teeth, I went back to the study and rang directory enquiries. It was very easy – they found the number almost immediately. I perched on the edge of the desk and listened to a phone ringing in a strange house in a strange town.

‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice, high and breathless. ‘Who’s speaking?’

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Could I talk to Mr Simon Martlesham?’

‘Not here, you can’t. We rent the house off him, you see.’

‘Do you have a phone number or a forwarding address?’

‘So you don’t know him?’

‘Not exactly. But we’ve a sort of mutual friend, and I’ve got something to return to him.’

‘Hang on.’ A moment’s silence, then the rustle of paper. ‘Are you ready?’

‘As much as I’ll ever be.’

She didn’t laugh, but she gave me a phone number.

On Saturday morning there was a postcard from the library. The book I had reserved the previous Monday was now waiting for me. Immediately after lunch I went to fetch it.

It was another warm day and the same librarian was on duty. He was wheezing more than before and his wiry hair needed brushing. He was sitting at the table near the door, his hands fluttering over tray after tray of tickets. The library was almost empty because people were still at lunch. He looked up and the folds and wrinkles of his bloodhound face rearranged themselves into a smile.

‘I’ve come to collect the book,’ I said, and put down the postcard on his desk. ‘That was quick.’

‘We aim to please, Mrs Appleyard,’ he said sadly. ‘There’s not much else one can do in this vale of tears, is there?’

‘I can think of one or two other things,’ I said.

He took a small green hardback from the shelf behind him and stamped it. I read the last due date, upside down, and worked out that the last borrower had taken out the book in the middle of last week.

‘So who had it?’ I asked. ‘The man you mentioned before? The one who was asking about Francis Youlgreave?’

‘What is it about Francis Youlgreave? Why’s everyone so interested?’

‘I can tell you why I am. I’m working in the Cathedral Library, and there are books that used to be his. So I’m just curious.’

‘Just curious?’ He had a way of speaking that made it sound as though he were testing everything, like a scientist with a laboratory full of instruments. ‘I told you before, I didn’t know who the borrower was.’

‘But wasn’t the name on the ticket?’

‘Of course. But I didn’t see the ticket. Someone else stamped the book. It was a busy time, and she couldn’t remember the name. It was returned at a busy time, too. She thought it might have been Brown. Or Smith. Not a name that stood out.’

So he’d bothered to ask. He was getting curious too.

‘So you don’t know if it was the same person?’

‘It seems likely. The man I talked to was middle-aged. Small, dark. I think he wore glasses and had a bald patch. Dressed quite formally. Looked very respectable.’

‘A black jacket and pinstriped trousers? A bit like a solicitor’s clerk?’

‘Something like that, I suppose. Not that I know any solicitor’s clerks.’

I thanked him and put the book in my bag.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘are you by any chance related to
Henry
Appleyard?’

It was as if the bloodhound had slapped me.

‘Yes. How do you know him?’

The librarian waved orange-stained fingers. ‘We used to bump into each other occasionally.’

In the betting shop? In the pub?

He was waiting for me to explain. He was curious about that as well.

‘I haven’t seen him for a while,’ I said. ‘Anyway, thanks for the book. ‘Bye.’

I walked back through the sunshine, stopping to buy a pair of stockings, very sheer and very expensive, and also some new lipstick. On my way to the Close I went through the market. There were stalls around the cross and the cobbles were strewn with rotting vegetables and cardboard. A rubbish bin attached to a lamppost reminded me of my dream, but this one didn’t contain a doll, only a woman’s shoe without a heel and crumpled newspaper greasy from wrapping fish and chips. I wondered whether Isabella of Roth had really died here over five hundred years ago and, if she had, whether any trace of her agony remained apart from Francis’s letter in the
Transactions of the Rosington Antiquarian Society.
Pain mattered, I thought, it should be noticed and remembered. Did Henry and his Hairy Widow add up to a pain that mattered?

From the market, it was only a few yards to the back door of the Dark Hostelry in the High Street. I let myself in. The house was cool and quiet. Nobody was around. I went upstairs to take off my hat and gloves. I saw David, Janet and Rosie from my window sitting in the dappled shade of the apple tree. They looked like an ideal family, self-contained in their beauty. You didn’t often see them sitting together.

I lay on my bed and resisted the temptation to have a nip of gin as a reward for not minding the fact that I wasn’t part of an ideal family. Instead I looked at
The Tongues of Angels
. The pages smelled of tobacco, strong and foreign, like French or Turkish cigarettes. When I tried to read a poem called The Children of Heracles’ I couldn’t concentrate. So I put the book in the cupboard by the bed and went down to join the others.

David was in a deckchair with a book on his lap, his shirt open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up. He looked like Laurence Olivier in a very good mood. Janet was sitting on a rug brushing Rosie’s hair. Rosie was in her new dress because she was going to a party later in the afternoon and was brushing Angel’s hair, the strokes of her brush exactly in time with Janet’s. I felt like a trespasser, just as I had in David’s study the other day.

‘Oh good,’ Janet said. ‘Do you think these ribbons match?’

David sat up. ‘Come and sit here. I’ll go on the grass.’

‘Don’t move, please. And the ribbons look fine to me.’ I knelt on the rug beside Janet and lit a cigarette.

‘David’s just had a phone call from Gervase Haselbury-Finch,’ Janet said. ‘Do sit still, poppet. You know, the bishop’s chaplain.’

‘In a sense it concerns you,’ David said, ‘and anyway there’s no reason why you shouldn’t know about it. It seems that the bishop’s definitely in favour of diverting the Cathedral Library’s endowment to the Theological College. He’s written to the dean and chapter about it.’

‘How nice.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Do sit still, poppet,’ Rosie said to Angel.

‘Gervase went to the same school as David,’ Janet said, and went back to the brushing.

I flicked ash on a fallen leaf. ‘It’s a small world.’

‘He’s got no direct influence over what the dean and chapter decide,’ David went on, leaning towards me, ‘but they are bound to take notice of what he thinks. The point is, the bishop wouldn’t suggest diverting the endowment unless he intended the Theological College to stay open.’

‘But I thought you already knew he was in favour of that.’

‘Yes – he’s said as much to me. But this shows he’s actually prepared to do something about it. It’s a step forward, believe me.’

The Cathedral’s clock boomed the half-hour. Janet stood up suddenly and brushed her skirt with her hand.

‘We must go. Time to do your teeth, poppet.’

‘Time to do your teeth, poppet,’ Rosie echoed to Angel.

‘Mama!’ Angel replied.

They went into the house. David told me how it would be perfectly possible not just to keep the Theological College open but to expand the number of students. It was a question of attracting the right type of ordinand and he had a number of ideas how they could do that. Accommodation wouldn’t be a problem – they could convert the attics into study bedrooms.

‘We’ll be back at about five,’ Janet called from the house. She grimaced at me. ‘I’ve been roped in to help with the games.’

David told me about a programme of visiting lecturers he planned, about changes in the course structure to reflect new trends in theology, and about improvements to the social and sporting activities of the college. He gesticulated with long, graceful hands.

‘After all, it’s not a nunnery,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason why they shouldn’t have a bit of fun.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘We all need that.’

While David talked I nodded and occasionally commented or asked appropriate questions in the pauses. I was really engaged in admiring the line of his jaw, the colour of his eyes and his well-kept and beautifully shaped fingernails. I also wondered if he talked to Janet like this while they were alone. They didn’t talk very much when I was there.

‘By the way,’ he said, leaning closer to offer me a cigarette, ‘I know Henry was planning to ring.’

‘Yes.’ I sat up and shook my head to the cigarette. ‘He phoned on Thursday.’

‘Janet told me. Look, I hope you didn’t mind my telling him when you might be in?’

‘It’s too late if I did,’ I said. ‘I’m going to see him on Monday.’

He nodded. ‘I’m glad.’

‘I don’t know what I feel,’ I said, suddenly reckless. ‘It’s all such a bloody mess.’

‘Wendy,’ he said, ‘you know that –’

At this interesting moment the door to the house opened. We both turned, as if caught red-handed.

‘He’s out there,’ Mr Treevor said in a thin, wavering voice.

‘Who is?’ David asked, standing up.

‘The burglar. He was standing outside Chase and Cromwell’s and looking up at my bedroom window.’

‘The man you saw?’ I said. ‘The man like a shadow?’

‘Yes. I told you. He’s there. He’s watching us. He’s biding his time before he strikes again.’

‘I don’t think that’s very likely, actually,’ David said.

Mr Treevor pouted. ‘He is. I saw him.’

‘Why don’t we go and see?’ I suggested.

The old man’s face crumpled. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘You can come as well.’

David sighed. ‘This is absurd,’ he murmured to me.

‘Perhaps. But it won’t do any harm, will it?’

‘What are you whispering about?’ Mr Treevor’s voice rose to a squeal. ‘Everyone’s always whispering.’

‘We’re just talking about going out,’ I said. ‘Let’s go this way.’

We went into the Close and walked down to the Sacristan’s Gate and into the High Street. It was Saturday afternoon so the pavements were crowded with shoppers. But I couldn’t see a little man in black outside Chase and Cromwell’s, or indeed anywhere else. Mr Treevor’s head made jerky little stabbing movements as if he was pecking the air with his nose.

‘He’s not there now, is he?’ David said.

‘He was,’ Mr Treevor cried. ‘I saw him. I did, I did.’

‘All right.’ I patted his arm which was hooked round mine. ‘Let’s go home.’

It was quieter in the Close and he calmed down almost immediately. We walked arm in arm, three abreast, with Mr Treevor in the middle, our prisoner. Canon Hudson was coming in the other direction. He waved to us and we stopped to talk near the gate to the Dark Hostelry.

‘I was going to phone you this evening,’ I said to him after we had agreed how unseasonably warm the weather was and how well Mr Treevor was looking. ‘Do you mind if I take Monday off? I have to go to London.’

‘Of course. Business or pleasure?’

‘Business,’ I said, avoiding David’s eyes.

There was a clatter behind us. I turned to see Gotobed coming from the north door, carrying a bucket and a small shovel. Usually he walked in a stately fashion in the Close, as though leading an invisible procession. But now he was hurrying.

‘Are you all right?’ Hudson called to him.

Gotobed veered towards him. ‘I’m all right, sir. But there’s them that aren’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’d better look at this.’

He motioned Hudson to one side, turned his back on the rest of us and held up the bucket.

Hudson wrinkled his nose. ‘Not a nice sight, I agree. But we get plenty of pigeons in the Close, and sometimes they die.’

‘He was under the bench in the north porch, sir.’

‘Looks as if he’d been there for some time.’

‘He was tucked under one of the legs. I wouldn’t have seen him if I hadn’t dropped my keys. He couldn’t have got there by accident.’

‘Perhaps a visitor pushed him under there to –’

‘They did more than push him under the bench, sir,’ Gotobed interrupted. His hands were trembling but there was no trace of his usual shyness. ‘Have a proper look. Go on.’

Hudson peered into the bucket. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I see your point.’

‘Let me see,’ Mr Treevor said, pulling his arms free of David’s and mine.

He skipped across the path to Hudson’s side. David and L taken by surprise, followed. I glanced into the bucket.

‘Don’t, Mrs Appleyard,’ Gotobed said to me, his nose twitching. ‘It’s not nice.’

It was a very skinny, decaying pigeon with mangy feathers. One of its legs had been reduced to a stump. For an instant I thought it had died of natural causes.

Mr Treevor’s head bobbed, and he turned away. ‘Ugh!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it time to go home? We mustn’t be late for tea.’

The bucket swung in Gotobed’s hand and the pigeon rolled slowly over. It was beginning to smell. Then I realized why it looked so skinny. There were wounds along its sides, ragged slits exposing flesh and bone and gristle. Someone had hacked the wings off the pigeon’s body.