The Office of the Dead (28 page)

Henry said, ‘It will get worse, you know. Much worse.’

‘That business with Mr Treevor?’

He nodded. ‘You don’t have to stay here.’

‘I do.’

We walked a few yards in silence. Our squat shadows slithered along the path in front of us. The sun was in the south-west and another shadow lay beside the nave of the Cathedral like a canal of black water.

Henry glanced at me and smiled. ‘By the way, now David’s mother’s gone, there must be a spare room at the Dark Hostelry. Do you think Janet might let me ask myself to stay?’

I smiled back. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

At that moment Mr Gotobed shepherded a group of tourists out of the north door. They broke away from him and scuttled down the path round the east end, towards the cloisters and the Porta. I raised a hand in greeting.

‘Do you mind if I have a word with him?’

‘With Gotobed? Why?’

‘His mother’s ill. I’d like to know how she is.’

‘It’s hard to believe you’ve actually met the mother.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s rather like someone claiming they’ve met a leprechaun. No one ever sees her, you see, not close up. The boys used to claim she died years ago, and that Gotobed –’

‘She certainly wasn’t dead when I had tea with her.’ I opened my bag. ‘Look – here are the keys. Why not make yourself useful and put the kettle on?’

I veered across the close-cropped grass towards Mr Gotobed, who was still standing at the north door. Henry had irritated me. I liked the Gotobeds. They weren’t there to be laughed at.

As I drew near, Mr Gotobed bobbed his head as though I were the dean and he had come to conduct me from the vestry to my stall.

‘How’s your mother?’

‘As well as can be expected, thank you. She’s had these turns before but this one’s worse.’

‘She’s still at home?’

‘Won’t go to hospital. Put her foot down. Doctor says it’s best to let her be. But people come in to help.’

Mr Gotobed was very pale, his skin dry and flaking. There were more lines than ever before. He blinked often, the sandy eyelashes fluttering like agitated fingers.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘You’ve got enough on your plate.’

‘I’d like to help.’

He looked at me. ‘Thank you. It might cheer her up to see you. But perhaps you wouldn’t want to –’

‘I’ll come. When’s the best time?’

‘Could you manage this evening? About six o’clock?’

I nodded.

‘The nurse comes to settle her down about six-thirty. But by six I will have given her tea, and as a rule she’s quite perky after that. It’s a good time.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Don’t be surprised at the change. Her mind wanders more. You know?’

‘I know,’ I said.

We said goodbye. Mr Gotobed went back into the Cathedral and I walked on to the Dark Hostelry. On the way it occurred to me that Mr Gotobed hadn’t called me ‘Mrs Appleyard’ once. He hadn’t been nervous, either, or embarrassed. Between them, Mr Treevor and Mrs Gotobed had succeeded in dissolving the formality between us.

I don’t know what made me stop at the gate of the Dark Hostelry. Some people claim we have a sixth sense that tells us when we’re being stared at, which strikes me as an old wives’ tale. Nevertheless, something made me look over my shoulder.

At first sight I thought the green between the Cathedral and the Boneyard Gate was empty. Then a movement near one of the buttresses caught my eye. Someone was standing in the great pool of shadow that ran the length of the Cathedral.

Not standing – walking. The sun was in my eyes. It was as if a drop from the pool of shadow had broken away and taken independent life. The smaller shadow became a man in dark clothes. Around him glowed the brilliant green of the lawn. He was coming towards me, but he must have seen me watching because he swung away towards the Boneyard Gate as if trying to avoid me.

Francis
?

Then I blinked. It was Harold Munro, dressed as usual in his drab, old-fashioned clothes. He might be flesh and blood but he had no right to haunt us.

‘Hey! You!’

At my shout he stopped. He stared across the lawn. I began to walk, almost run.

‘Mr Munro I’d like a word with you.’

He said nothing, just waited, cigarette in hand. A moment later I was within a yard of him. Because of my heels I was an inch or two taller than him. In my stockinged feet we would have been about the same size. There were flecks of dandruff on his black jacket and his pinstripe trousers needed pressing. He wore a grubby hard collar and a greasy, tightly knotted tie. A silver chain stretched across the front of his black waistcoat. The bald patch the shape of Africa glistened with sweat. The only cool thing about him were his eyes, which were grey and slanting.

‘Why are you spying on us?’

‘Me, miss?’

Anger bubbled out of me, surprising me as much as it surprised Munro. ‘You can go back to Simon Martlesham and tell him we’re sick and tired of having you turn up like a bad penny round every corner. And what’s more, you can tell him I’ll be notifying the police about a suspicious character hanging round the Close and harassing old ladies.’

I paused, partly because I had run out of things to say and partly because I wanted to hear his reaction. But he said nothing. He sucked on his cigarette and stared up at me with his little grey eyes while the sweat ran like tears down his cheeks.

‘So you’ll tell Martlesham?’ I put my hands behind my back because they had clenched into fists. ‘I’ve had enough. We’ve had enough. Can’t you see?’

Munro nodded.

‘He’s looking for his sister, isn’t he? That’s what this is all about.’

He bobbed his head again and smiled – not at me but at something he saw in his mind. He flicked the cigarette end into the air. We watched it falling to the ground. Then he slipped away, a black shadow gliding silently across the grass towards the Boneyard Gate.

I sniffed the air like a rabbit scenting danger. I smelled Turkish tobacco.

The little sitting room was even more crowded than before because they’d moved a bed into it. A bank of coal glowed in the grate. The windows were dosed. The smells of old age were stronger. The body was decaying in advance of death.

Mrs Gotobed’s tissue-paper skin covered the bones of her face like a sagging tent. ‘Wilfred, go and have your tea,’ she said.

‘I’m all right.’ Mr Gotobed smiled uneasily at me. ‘Mother likes to make sure I’m eating properly.’

‘That’s why you must have your tea. Mrs Appleyard will sit with me.’

‘Of course I will.’

Mr Gotobed left the room.

‘I don’t know what he’ll do when I’m gone,’ Mrs Gotobed said as soon as the door had dosed. ‘No more sense than a new-born baby.’

‘How are you?’

‘Tired. Very tired. Sit by the window where I can see you.’

I sat on a hard chair near the window overlooking the Close. Pursy stared incuriously at me from the window seat. A golden slab of sunshine poured through the opposite window. Dust swam in the air and lay thickly on the horizontal surfaces. I wished I could turn back time for Mrs Gotobed, and for myself, until we reached a golden age when pain had not existed. The lids fluttered over Mrs Gotobed’s eyes.

‘Still looking for Canon Youlgreave?’ she said.

I nodded. ‘In a way.’

‘He was a good ’man, a good man.’ The eyes were open now to their fullest extent. ‘Do you hear what I say? A
good
man.’

What I say three times is true.
But why was it so important to her even now, when the life was almost visibly seeping out of her.

‘What about the Martlesham children’s aunt? What happened to her?’

The old woman’s shoulders twitched.

‘You
must have known her.’ Urgency made me raise my voice. ‘What was she like? What did
she
feel about the children?’

Mrs Gotobed shook her head slowly from side to side. She blew out through loosely dosed lips, making a noise like a dying balloon.

‘I’m a fool, aren’t I?’ I said. ‘It was you all along. You were the aunt.’

She continued to blow out air. Then she stopped and smiled at me. ‘I wondered if you’d ever guess.’

‘You didn’t want the children. You had a good job, and then you were getting married. Would they have been in the way?’

‘I was his queen,’ Mrs Gotobed mumbled. ‘Last chance for me. But I knew Sammy didn’t want the children. Can’t say I blamed him.
Her
children, especially.’

‘Your sister’s?’

‘Everyone knew what she’d been like. Better off dead, that one. Bad blood.’

‘Canon Youlgreave helped.’

‘He was very kind. And there’s no denying the money came in handy.’

‘Simon went first?’

‘Couldn’t wait. He left just after his ma died, before me and Sammy got engaged. Nancy lived with me for a bit after that.’ She screwed up her face. ‘I told you, I had lodgings in Bridge Street. Landlady kept complaining about the children. Couldn’t abide the trouble and the mess they made, and the noise, and she wouldn’t look after them when I was at work
. I’ll thank you to remember I’m not a nursemaid
, that’s what she said. Silly woman, with a front tooth missing … I can see her now. Wilfred never made much noise. He always was a quiet boy, right from the start.’

‘Nancy,’ I reminded her, trying to keep her to the point. ‘What was
Nancy
like?’

There was a pause. Then Mrs Gotobed said slowly, as though the words were being pulled out like teeth, ‘Out for what she could get. Nice as pie with Mr Youlgreave, oh yes, but when she was at home with me it was another matter. Nasty piece of work when all’s said and done.’

‘When did she leave?’

‘Sammy and me were wed in the autumn. October the fourteenth. It was before that.’

‘And before Canon Youlgreave left Rosington?’

‘I think so. But it can’t have been long before. He said he’d give Sammy and me a wedding present, and he did – he sent us some money. But he’d gone by then.’

‘Where did he take Nancy?’

‘To a lady and a gentleman who were friends of his. No children of their own, he said. They were going to bring her up a lady. Always had the luck of the devil, that one. Trust her to fall on her feet.’ The eyelids drooped again. ‘Little bitch.’ The lids flickered. ‘Sorry. It slipped out. Really, I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No one else knew, apart from Sammy. Not about the money. Not about the children. Sammy thought it was for the best. We said I’d had them adopted by relations in Birmingham. It was for their own good.’

‘You never heard from them again?’

‘I did from Simon. He sent me a letter from Canada. And I’m sure Mr Youlgreave wouldn’t have hurt the kiddies, he was a clergyman. Anyhow, why would he do them any harm?’

There were footsteps on the stairs. Suddenly her face became cunning.

‘You won’t tell Wilfred? You promise? A Bible promise?’

‘Of course I won’t tell him,’ I said. And the fact that she needed me to say that made it obvious that she must have at least suspected that Nancy was not going to live in a gentleman’s house and grow into a fine lady.

The door opened and Wilfred Gotobed edged into the room. ‘Are you all right, Mother?’

She was still looking at me. ‘When will this end? I’ve had enough.’

I stood up. ‘I hope I haven’t tired you.’

The old woman shook her head.

‘Does Mother the power of good to see a new face,’ Mr Gotobed said. ‘Doesn’t it, Mother? When you’re feeling better, we could get a wheelchair and –’

‘Goodbye, dear,’ Mrs Gotobed said to me, and turned her head away.

‘Goodbye.’

‘It was a long way from Swan Alley,’ she said as I reached the door. ‘You’ll remember that, won’t you?’

I nodded. Mr Gotobed stumbled towards me but I said I would see myself out.

A moment later I was breathing the sweet, fresh air of the Close. They said there was one law for the rich and one for the poor. Perhaps rich and poor had different moralities as well.

Now I knew or could guess what had happened in 1904. Perhaps Francis had buried what was left of the body in one of the gardens of the Close. Or put it in a weighted sack and dropped it in the river like a litter of unwanted kittens. No one had wanted to know what he had done, not to Nancy Martlesham, because she wasn’t the sort of little girl who belonged in the Close or anywhere else.

I felt no sense of achievement. It wasn’t just that I liked old Mrs Gotobed and I did not like what I’d heard of Nancy Martlesham. There was another problem. Something niggled. Something didn’t make sense. And I didn’t think I would ever see Mrs Gotobed again, and so I would never find out what it was.