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ANDREW TAYLOR
THE JUDGEMENT OF STRANGERS

DEDICATION

For Val and Bill

EPIGRAPH

‘Cursed is he that perverteth the judgement of the stranger, the fatherless, and widow.’

from the Service of Commination, in the office

for Ash Wednesday in The Book of Common Prayer.

‘The Manor of Roth is not mentioned in the Domesday Book …’

Audrey Oliphant, The History of Roth

(Richmond, privately printed 1969), p. 1.

Then darkness descended; and whispers defiled The judgement of stranger, and widow, and child …

.....

With flames to the flesh, with brands to the burning, As incense to heav’n the soul is returning

from ‘The Judgement of Strangers’ by the Reverend

Francis St. J. Youlgreave in The Four Last Things

(Gasset & Lode, London, 1896)

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

Epilogue

About the Author

Author’s Note

Praise

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

MAP

1

We found the mutilated corpse of Lord Peter in the early evening of Thursday the 13th August, 1970. He was the first victim of a train of events which began towards the end of the previous summer when I met Vanessa Forde – or even before that, with Audrey Oliphant and The History of Roth.

Every parish has its Audrey Oliphant – often several of them; their lives revolve around the parish church, and in one sense the Church of England revolves around them. It was inevitable that she should be a regular visitor at the Vicarage, and it shamed me that I did not always welcome her as warmly as I should have done. It also irritated me that the Tudor Cottage cat treated the Vicarage as his second home, braving the traffic on the main road to get there.

‘Miss Oliphant practically lives here,’ said my daughter Rosemary at the end of one particularly lengthy visit. ‘And if she doesn’t come herself she sends her cat instead.’

‘She does an awful lot for us,’ I pointed out. ‘And for the parish.’

‘Dear Father. You try and find the best in everyone, don’t you?’ Rosemary looked up at me and smiled. ‘I just wish she would leave us alone. It’s much nicer when it’s just the two of us.’

Audrey was in her late forties and unmarried. She had lived in Roth all her life. Her house, Tudor Cottage, was on the green – on the north side between Malik’s Minimarket and the Queen’s Head. Its front garden, the size of a large bedspread, was protected from the pavement by a row of iron railings. Beside the gate there was a notice, freshly painted each year:

YE OLDE TUDOR TEA ROOM

(Est. 1931)

PROPRIETOR: MISS A.M. OLIPHANT

Telephone: Roth 6269

Morning Coffee – Light Meals – Cream Teas

Parties By Appointment

I had known the place for ten years, and in that time trade, though never brisk, had steadily diminished. This gave Audrey ample opportunity to read enormous quantities of detective novels and to throw herself into the affairs of the parish.

One evening in the spring of 1969, she appeared without warning on my doorstep.

‘I’ve just had the most wonderful idea.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ she asked, initiating a ritual exchange of courtesies, a secular versicle and response.

‘Not at all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Nothing that can’t wait.’ I owed her this polite fiction. ‘I was about to have a break.’

I took her into the sitting room and, making a virtue from necessity, offered sherry. Audrey was a small woman, rather plump, with a face whose features seemed squashed; it was as though her skull, while still malleable, had been compressed in a vice – thus the face would have been splendidly in proportion if the eyes and the cheekbones and the corners of the mouth had not been quite so close together.

She took a sip of sherry, allowing the wine to linger in her mouth before she swallowed it. ‘I was in the library this afternoon and some schoolchildren came in to ask Mrs Finch if she had any books on local history. And it turns out that there’s a certain amount on neighbouring towns and villages. But very little on Roth itself.’

She paused for another sip. I lit a cigarette, guessing what was coming.

‘Then it came to me in a flash.’ Her heavy jowls quivered with excitement. ‘Why not write a history of Roth? I’m sure lots of people would like to read one. And nowadays so many people are living here who have no idea what the real Roth is like.’

‘What an interesting idea. You must let me know if there is anything I can do. The parish records, perhaps? I wonder if Lady Youlgreave might have some useful material. She –’

‘I’m so glad,’ Audrey interrupted. ‘I hoped you’d want to help. Actually, a collaboration was what I had in mind. It seemed to me that we would be ideally suited.’

‘I wouldn’t say –’

‘Besides,’ she rushed on, ‘the history of the village can’t be separated from the history of the church and the parish. We could even have a chapter on famous inhabitants of the past. Francis Youlgreave, for example. What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure how much use I’d be. After all, you’re the one with the local knowledge. Then there’s the question of time …’

I watched the excitement draining from Audrey’s face like water from a bath. I felt ashamed of myself and also irritated with her. Why did she insist on calling Roth a village? It was a suburb of London, similar in all essentials to a dozen others. Most of its inhabitants had their real lives elsewhere. In Roth they merely serviced their bodily needs, watched television and on Sundays played golf or cleaned their Ford Cortinas.

‘I quite understand.’ Audrey stared at her empty glass. ‘Just an idea.’

‘I wonder,’ I went on, trying to lessen the guilt that crept over me, ‘would it be a help if I were to glance through your first draft?’

She looked up, her face glowing. ‘Yes, please.’

The decision was made. If Audrey had not decided to write her history of Roth, none of what followed might have happened. It is tempting to blame her – to blame anyone but myself. But fate has a way of finding its agents: if Audrey had not volunteered to be the handmaid of Providence, then someone else would have come forward.

Audrey completed her little book early in August 1969. In a flutter of excitement, she brought me the manuscript, which was written almost illegibly in pencil. It was mercifully short, largely because Roth had relatively little history. Since the Middle Ages, the parish had been overshadowed by its larger neighbours. It was too far from the Thames, and later too far from the railway.

Still, to judge from the old photographs which Audrey had found, Roth had been a pretty place, and remarkably unspoilt, despite the fact that it was only thirteen miles from Charing Cross. All that had changed in the 1930s, when the Jubilee Reservoir was built: seven hundred acres of the parish, including the northern part of the village itself, were drowned beneath seven billion gallons of water, sacrificed to assuage the endless thirst of the inhabitants of London.

I soon discovered that Audrey’s spelling and grammar were shaky. The text consisted of a patchwork of speculations – Who knows? Perhaps Henry VIII stayed at the Old Manor House on his way to Hampton Court – and quotations lifted, often inaccurately, from books she had found in the library. I persuaded her to have the manuscript typed, and managed – diplomatically, I hoped – to arrange for the typist quietly to incorporate some of my corrections. I then went through the typed draft with Audrey and revised it once more. By now it was early September.

‘We must find a publisher,’ Audrey said.

‘Perhaps you could have it privately printed?’

‘But I am sure it would interest readers all over the country,’ she said. ‘In many ways the story of Roth is the story of England.’

‘In a sense, yes, but –’

‘And, David,’ she interrupted. ‘I want all the royalties to go to the restoration fund. Every last penny. So we must find a proper publisher who will pay us lots of money. Why don’t you come to supper tomorrow and we’ll discuss it? I’d like to cook you a meal to say thank you for all the work you’ve done.’ She tapped me playfully on the arm. ‘You look as if you need a good feed.’

‘Unfortunately I can’t manage tomorrow. The Trasks have asked me to dinner. Some other time, perhaps.’

‘Some other time,’ she echoed.

I was relieved that the Trasks had given me such an impregnable excuse. As a consequence of my accepting their invitation, two people died, a third went to prison, and a fourth was admitted to a hospital for the insane.

2

The Trasks lived in a rambling Victorian rectory cheek by jowl with a rambling Victorian church. I knew from past visits that both the church and the house were warm and welcoming. Ronald did a very good job. His congregations were considerably larger than average.

I parked on the gravelled forecourt in front of the house. Two other cars were already there: an Austin Cambridge and a dark-green Daimler. The front door opened before I had reached it. Ronald beamed at me. I was wearing my clerical suit and a dog collar, but he was in mufti – rather a good dark suit, which made him look slimmer than he was, and a striped tie. He was shorter than me but much broader, and he gave the impression of never walking when he could trot. This evening, everything about him sparkled, from his black shoes to his fair hair. Aftershave wafted out to meet me.

‘David!’ He clapped me on the shoulder and drew me into the house. ‘Good to see you. Come and meet the others.’

The hall was full of flowers and smelled strongly of polish. Ronald led me into the drawing room, which was at the back of the house. It was a warm evening. The French windows were open and a knot of people was standing on the terrace beyond.

Cynthia Trask came forward to greet me. She was square and trim, like her brother, and she wore a severe blue dress like a uniform. While Ronald fetched me a glass of sherry, she steered me towards the other guests.

I knew one of the couples – Victor and Mary Thurston. Thurston had made a great deal of money selling cabin cruisers for use on the river, and now he and his wife ‘served the community’ as they liked to put it, which meant sitting on a variety of committees; she preferred philanthropic causes and he concentrated on political ones. Thurston was a councillor and, now he was on the Planning Committee, wielded considerable power.

I had not met the other couple before – they turned out to be the headmaster of one of the local grammar schools and his wife; she was one of Ronald’s churchwardens.

The first thing I noticed about the fifth guest was her hair, which was curly and the colour of glossy chestnuts. As she turned towards me, the evening sun swung behind her, giving her head a nimbus of flame. She was wearing a long dress of thin cotton, with full sleeves and a ruffled neck. For an instant, the setting sun made her dress almost transparent. Her body darkened. I saw the inside of her legs up to her crotch. The dress might as well have been invisible.

‘Here we are, David.’ Ronald was at my elbow with a glass of sherry. ‘Vanessa, I don’t think you know David Byfield. David, this is Vanessa Forde.’

We shook hands. I was momentarily unnerved by the sudden lust I felt. This was a familiar problem. Over the years I had learned to ride the feeling as a surfer rides a wave, until its force diminished. One way to avoid wallowing in sensation was to concentrate on observation. In a few seconds I had noticed that Vanessa had a pleasant face, attractive rather than beautiful, with a high colour and curving nose.

‘Let me get you another drink.’ Ronald snatched the empty glass from Vanessa’s hand. ‘Gin and lemon?’

She nodded, smiling. Ronald darted towards the drinks trolley, which was just inside the drawing room. There was something very boyish about him that evening. At times I glimpsed the adolescent he must once have been; and if I am honest, I should add that I preferred what I glimpsed to the senior churchman he had now become.

I offered Vanessa a cigarette. She accepted, bending forward to receive a light. I saw that she wore a wedding ring. For an instant, I smelt her perfume. It reminded me of one my wife used to wear. We spoke simultaneously, diving into the conversation like swimmers at the start of a race.

‘Do you live locally?’

‘Do you have a parish –?’

We smiled at each other and any awkwardness dissolved.

‘After you, Mrs Forde.’

‘Vanessa, please. To answer your question, I live in Richmond.’

I noticed that she had said I rather than we. ‘And to answer yours, I’m the vicar of Roth.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Do you know Roth, then?’

‘A little.’ She stared up at me and smiled. ‘Does that surprise you?’

I smiled back. ‘Its identity tends to get swamped by its neighbours. A lot of people think the name is familiar but have no idea where it is.’

‘I went there a few years ago to see the church. Rather an interesting one. You’ve got that medieval panel painting over the chancel, haven’t you? The Last Judgement?’

‘That’s right. With scenes from the life of Christ underneath.’

‘One gin and lemon coming up,’ said Ronald, materializing at Vanessa’s elbow and handing her the glass with a flourish. He had a similar glass in his own hand, which he raised. ‘Chin-chin.’ He beamed at me. ‘David, I know Cynthia wanted to have a word with you about Rosemary.’

‘My daughter,’ I explained to Vanessa.

‘Our niece dropped in last week,’ Ronald went on. ‘She left school at the end of last term and she brought over a trunk of stuff for us to dispose of. Clothes, I suppose. I think there’s a lacrosse stick, too. Cynthia wondered if anything might come in useful for Rosemary.’

I smiled and thanked him. There was a time when I would have objected to being on the receiving end of the Trasks’ philanthropy. Now I knew better. Pride is a luxury and children become increasingly expensive as they grow older. At this moment Cynthia reached us, bearing bowls of peanuts and olives.

‘Did I hear Rosemary’s name?’ she asked. ‘Such a delightful girl. How’s she liking school now?’

‘Much better, I think.’ I turned to Vanessa. ‘When Rosemary first went away, she disliked it very much.’ In fact, she had twice tried to run away. ‘But she seems to have settled down in the last year.’

‘She will be taking her A levels next summer,’ said Cynthia, with a hint of interrogation in her voice, indicating that this was an inspired guess rather than a statement of fact.

She detached me from Vanessa and Ronald and talked to me for a moment or two about Rosemary. We decided – or rather Cynthia decided – that she would send Ronald over with the trunk during the next week or so. Anything we did not want for Rosemary could go to our next jumble sale. Having settled the matter, she steered me away from Vanessa and Ronald, who were talking together at the far end of the terrace, and skilfully inserted me into a conversation between Victor Thurston and the headmaster’s wife.

I did not get another opportunity to talk to Vanessa for some time. While we were on the terrace I glanced once or twice in the direction of her and Ronald, still talking, their faces intent. At one point I noticed her shaking her head.

Eventually we went through to the dining room, and Cynthia steered us to our places at the round table. Vanessa was diametrically opposite me. There was a substantial flower arrangement in the middle of the table, so I caught only the occasional glimpse of her. I was sitting between Cynthia and the headmaster’s wife.

Ronald said grace. The meal which followed was uncharacteristically elaborate. Melon with Parma ham gave way to coq au vin. Ronald, usually the most careful of hosts, kept refilling our glasses with an unfortunate Portuguese rosé. The headmaster’s wife tried delicately to interrogate me about Ronald. It soon became clear that she knew the Trasks rather better than I did. At last she gave up and spoke across me to Cynthia.

‘My dear, this is wonderful. How on earth do you manage to prepare a meal like this and go out to work?’

‘I only work in the mornings. I find there’s ample time if one is sufficiently organized.’

‘I didn’t know you had a job,’ I said.

‘I work for Vanessa. I’m her secretary, really. Jolly interesting.’

I wondered whether that explained the special effort the Trasks were making. Was Cynthia hoping for promotion?

‘I suppose you spend most of your time dealing with authors and so on,’ said the headmaster’s wife. ‘It must be marvellous. Do you have lots of bestsellers?’

Cynthia shook her head. ‘We tend to do fairly specialized non-fiction titles. Actually, I think Royston and Forde’s out-and-out bestseller was something called Great Engines of the 1920s.’

Ronald and Thurston talked to Vanessa for much of the meal. When we left the table, Mary Thurston seized her husband’s arm as if to re-establish her claim to him. Ronald went to the kitchen to make coffee.

‘Ronald bought a machine when he was in Italy last year,’ Cynthia explained to the rest of us. ‘He does like to use it when we have guests. Too complicated for me, I’m afraid.’ She added as an afterthought, ‘Super coffee.’

We went back to the drawing room to wait for it. Vanessa came over to me.

‘I don’t suppose you could give me another cigarette, could you? I’ve mislaid mine. So silly.’ She smiled up at me. Even then I think I knew that Vanessa was never silly. She was many things, but not that. She sat down on the sofa and waved to me to join her.

‘Are you in Ronald’s – whatever it is? – area?’

‘He’s my archdeacon, yes. So in a sense he’s my immediate boss.’

I did not want to talk about Ronald. He and I did not get on badly – not then – but we had little in common, and both of us knew it.

‘Cynthia tells me you’re a publisher.’

She squeezed her eyes together for an instant, as though smoke had irritated them. ‘By default.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It was my husband’s firm.’ She stared down at her cigarette. ‘He founded it with a friend from Oxford. It never made much money for either of them, but he loved it.’

‘I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.’

‘I – I assumed Ronald might have mentioned it to you. No reason why you should know. Charles died three years ago. A brain tumour. One of those ghastly things that come out of a clear blue sky. I’ve taken over his part in the business. Needs must, really. I needed a job.’

‘Do you enjoy it?’

She nodded. ‘I’d always helped Charles on the editorial side. Now I’m learning a great deal about production.’ She smiled towards Cynthia, who was embroiled with the headmaster’s wife. ‘Cynthia keeps me in order.’

‘At dinner Cynthia said she thought Great Engines of the 1920s was your bestselling book.’

‘She’s perfectly right. Though I have my hopes of The English Cottage Garden. It’s been selling very steadily since it came out last year.’ She drew on her cigarette. ‘In fact, our real bestseller in terms of copies sold is probably one of our town guides. The Oxford one. We do quite a lot of that sort of thing – that’s where the bread and butter comes from.’

At that moment, Ronald appeared in the doorway bearing a large silver tray. ‘Coffee, everybody,’ he announced in a voice like a fanfare. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ He advanced into the room, his eyes searching for Vanessa.

‘One of my parishioners has written a book,’ I said to her.

Vanessa looked warily at me. ‘What sort of book?’

‘It’s a history of the parish. Not really a book. I’d say it’s about ten thousand words.’

‘How interesting.’

She glanced at me again, and I think a spark of shared amusement passed between us. She knew how to say one thing and mean another.

‘She’s looking for a publisher.’

‘Sugar, Vanessa?’ boomed Ronald. ‘Cream?’

‘In my experience, most authors are.’ She smiled up at Ronald. ‘Just a dash of cream, please, Ronnie.’

Ronnie?

‘She believes it might appeal to readers all over the country,’ I continued. ‘Not just to those who know Roth.’

‘The happy few?’

I smiled. It was a novelty to have someone talk to me as a person rather than as a priest. ‘Could you recommend a publisher she could send it to?’ I stared at the curve of her arm and noticed the almost invisible golden hairs that grew on the skin. ‘Someone who would have a look at the book and give a professional opinion. I imagine you haven’t got the time to look at stray typescripts yourself.’

‘Vanessa’s always looking at stray typescripts,’ Ronald said, and laughed. ‘Or looking for them.’

‘I might be able to spare five minutes,’ she said to me, her voice deadpan.

Once again, she glanced at me, and once again the spark of amusement danced between us.

‘Brandy, anyone?’ Ronald enquired. ‘Or what about a liqueur?’

For the rest of the evening Vanessa talked mainly to Ronald, Cynthia and Victor Thurston. I was the first to leave.

3

The following Monday, I looked up Royston and Forde in the directory and phoned Vanessa at her office. Cynthia Trask answered the phone. Oddly enough this took me by surprise. I had completely forgotten that she worked there.

‘Good morning, Cynthia. This is David Byfield.’

‘Hello, David.’

After a short pause I said, ‘Thank you so much for Friday.’

‘Not at all. Ronald and I enjoyed it.’

I wondered if I should have sent flowers or something. ‘I don’t know if Vanessa mentioned it, but one of my parishioners has written a book. She volunteered to have a look at it.’

‘I’ll see if she’s engaged,’ Cynthia said.

A moment later, Vanessa came on the line. She was brisk with me, her voice sounding much sharper on the telephone. She was busy most of the day, she was afraid, but might I be free for lunch? Ninety minutes later, we were sitting opposite each other in a café near Richmond Bridge.

The long, clinging dress she had worn at the Trasks’ on Friday had given her a voluptuous appearance. Now she was another woman, dressed in a dark suit, and with her hair pulled back: slimmer, sharper and harder.

The typescript of The History of Roth was in a large, brown envelope on the table between us. I had picked it up from Audrey on my way to Richmond. (‘So kind of you, David. I’m so grateful.’)

Vanessa did not touch the envelope. She picked at her sandwich. A silence lay between us, and as it grew longer I felt increasingly desolate. The friendly intimacy that had flourished so briefly between us on Friday evening was gone. I found it all too easy, on the other hand, to think of her as a desirable woman. I had been a fool to come here. I was wasting her time and mine. I should have sent the typescript in the post.

‘Do you visit many churches?’ I asked, to make conversation. ‘You mentioned our panel paintings on Friday.’

Vanessa fiddled with one of the crumbs on her plate. ‘Not really. I wanted to see Roth because of the connection with Francis Youlgreave.’

‘The poet?’ My voice sounded unnaturally loud. ‘He’s buried in the vault under the chancel.’

‘He deserves a few paragraphs in here.’ Vanessa tapped the envelope containing the typescript. ‘Quite a sensational character, by all accounts.’

‘Audrey does mention him, but she’s very circumspect about what she says.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a member of the family still living in Roth. I think her husband was the poet’s great-nephew. Audrey didn’t want to give people the wrong idea about him.’

‘Defile their judgement, as it were.’ Vanessa smiled across the table at me. Then she quoted two lines from the poem that had found its way into several anthologies. It was usually the only poem of his that anyone had read.

‘Then darkness descended; and whispers defiled

The judgement of stranger, and widow, and child.’

‘Just so.’

‘Does anyone remember him in the village?’

‘Roth isn’t that sort of place. There aren’t that many people left who lived there before the last war. And Francis Youlgreave died before the First World War. Have you a particular reason for asking?’

She shrugged. ‘I read quite a lot of his verse when I was up at Oxford. Not a very good poet, to be frank – all those jog-trot rhythms can be rather wearing. But he was interesting more for what he was and for who he knew than for what he wrote.’

‘Not a very nice man, by all accounts. Unbalanced.’

‘Yes, but rather fascinating.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m awfully sorry, David, but I’ve got to rush.’

I concealed my disappointment. I paid the bill and walked with her back to the office where I had left my car.

‘Would you like to telephone me tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘I should have had time to look at the book by then.’

‘Of course. At the office?’

‘I’ll probably read it at home, actually.’

‘What time would suit you?’

‘About seven?’

She gave me her number. We said goodbye and I drove back to Roth, feeling profoundly dissatisfied. I had made a fool of myself in more ways than one. I had expected more, much more, from my lunch with Vanessa – though quite what, I did not know. I was aware, too, that there was something absurd in a middle-aged widower acting in the way that I was doing. It was clear that she saw me as an acquaintance and that by looking at the typescript she was merely doing me – and Audrey – a good turn from the kindness of her heart.

Still, I thought, at least I had a reason to telephone Vanessa tomorrow evening.

In the event, however, I did not telephone Vanessa on Tuesday evening. This was because on Tuesday afternoon I received an unexpected and unpleasant visit from Cynthia Trask.

4

Cynthia arrived without warning in the late afternoon.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said briskly. ‘But I happened to be passing, and I thought this might be a good opportunity to drop in those odds and ends from my niece.’

In the back of her Mini Traveller were two suitcases and a faded army kitbag containing the lacrosse stick and other sporting impedimenta. I carried them into the house and called Rosemary, who was reading in her room. She did not appear to hear.

‘I won’t disturb her, if you don’t mind,’ I said. ‘She’s working quite hard this holiday. Would you like some tea?’ It would have been churlish not to offer Cynthia tea but I was mildly surprised that she so readily accepted. She followed me into the kitchen which, like the rest of the house, was cramped, characterless and modern.

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘Everything’s under control, thank you.’

‘This is the first time I’ve been inside the new vicarage. You must be so relieved.’

‘It’s certainly easier to keep warm and clean than the old one was.’

It was partly due to Ronald’s influence that the old vicarage – a large, gracious and completely impractical Queen Anne house – had been demolished last year. The new vicarage was a four-bedroomed, centrally heated box. Its garden occupied the site of the old tennis court and vegetable garden. The rest of the old garden and the site of the old house itself now contained a curving cul-de-sac and six more boxes, each rather more spacious than the new vicarage.

‘Of course, you didn’t really need all that space. You and Rosemary must have felt you were camping in a barrack.’

‘Rather an elegant barrack,’ I said. ‘Do you take sugar?’

I carried the tea tray into the sitting room. Having a stranger in your home makes you see it with fresh eyes, and the result is rarely reassuring. I imagined that Cynthia was taking in the shabby furniture, the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling and the unswept grate.

‘Much cosier,’ Cynthia said approvingly, as though she herself were responsible for this. ‘Do you have someone who comes in to do for you?’

I nodded, resenting the catechism. ‘One of my parishioners acts as a sort of housekeeper.’ I handed Cynthia a cup of tea. ‘Your house is pretty big,’ I said, trying to change the subject, ‘but it always seems very homely.’

She smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, I’ve enjoyed living there.’

‘Are you moving?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘How wonderful.’ I felt a sudden stab of envy. ‘You must be very proud of Ronald.’

Cynthia frowned. ‘Proud?’

‘I assumed you meant he’s been offered preferment. Well deserved, I’m sure.’

Cynthia flushed. She was sitting, pink and foursquare in my own armchair. ‘No, I didn’t mean preferment. I meant that, when Ronald marries, I shall naturally move out. It will be time to make a home of my own. It wouldn’t be fair to any of us if I stayed.’

‘I didn’t realize that he was getting married.’ I guessed that Cynthia and her brother had shared a house for nearly twenty years, for I remembered hearing that Ronald’s first wife had died soon after their marriage. I wondered how Cynthia felt at the prospect of being uprooted from her home. ‘I hope they will be very happy.’

‘There hasn’t been a formal announcement yet. They haven’t sorted out the timing. I know Ronald nearly said something on Friday evening, but they decided it would be better to wait.’

A suspicion mushroomed in my mind. Suddenly everything began to make sense.

‘They are ideally suited,’ Cynthia was saying, talking rapidly. ‘And Vanessa has been so lost since Charles died. She’s the sort of woman who really needs a husband.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

Cynthia put down her cup and saucer and looked at her watch. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I really must be going.’

I took Cynthia out to her car. I think I said the right things about the charitable donation she had brought. I asked whether she would like me to return the suitcases, though I cannot remember what she replied.

At last she drove away. I trudged back into the house and took the tea tray into the kitchen. I was being childish, I told myself. I had not even realized that I was entertaining foolish hopes about Vanessa Forde until Cynthia had made it so clear that my prospects were hopeless. I had been celibate now for ten years – at first from necessity and later by choice – and there was no reason why I should not remain celibate for the rest of my life.

That afternoon some very unworthy thoughts passed through my mind. Jealousy and frustrated lust are an unsettling combination. I respected Ronald Trask, or rather I respected some of his achievements. One day he would probably be a bishop. I did not find that easy to accept. It was a shock to discover that I found even less palatable the thought that he and Vanessa would soon be married.

Sex apart, I had liked what I had seen of Vanessa. Ronald was a bore. A worthy bore, but still a bore. Vanessa deserved someone better. But of course there was nothing I could do about it. In any case, if Ronald and Vanessa chose to marry, it was nothing to do with me.

It was one thing to frame these rational arguments; it was quite another to accept them emotionally. I went into my study and tried to write a letter to my godson, Michael Appleyard. That proved too difficult. I turned to the parish accounts, which were even worse. Always, in the back of my mind, were the interlocking figures of Ronald and Vanessa. Physically interlocking, I mean. It was as if I were trapped in a cinema with a film I did not want to see on the screen.

Time crept on. Rosemary was still working in her room. At six-thirty I decided to go over to the church and say the Evening Office. Then I would ring Vanessa about Audrey’s book. I went into the hall.

‘Rosemary?’

She did not answer. I went upstairs and tapped on the door of her room. Her room was uncluttered. Even as a young child she had had a formidable ability to organize her surroundings. She was sitting at her table with a pile of books in front of her and a pen in her hand. She glanced at me, her eyes vague.

‘Is it suppertime already?’

‘No – not yet. I’m going over to church for a while. Not for long.’

‘OK.’

‘You’ll be all right, my dear?’

She gave me a condescending smile, which said, Of course I’ll be all right. I’m not a baby. ‘I’ll start supper in about fifteen minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

Rosemary let her eyes drift back to her book. I envied her serenity. I wanted to say something to her but, as so often, I could not find the words. Instead I closed the door softly behind me, went downstairs and let myself out of the house and into the evening sunlight.

The Vicarage was next to the churchyard, separated from it by a high wall of crumbling eighteenth-century brick. I walked through the little garden to our private gate, a relic of the old house, which gave access from the grounds of the Vicarage to the churchyard. As I opened the gate the church was suddenly revealed, framed in the archway.

Most of the exterior of the St Mary Magdalene was of brick, and in this light it looked particularly lovely: the older bricks of the sixteenth-century rebuilding had weathered to a mauve colour, while the eighteenth-century work was a contrasting russet; and together the colours made the church glow and gently vibrate against the blue of the sky. Housemartins darted round the tower.

I closed the gate behind me. Traffic rumbled a few yards to the left on the main road and there was a powerful smell of diesel fumes in the air. I caught sight of a shadow flickering through the grass near the gate to the road. I was just in time to see Audrey’s cat slipping behind a gravestone.

I walked slowly round the east end to the south door on the other side. On my way I passed the steps leading down to the Youlgreave vault beneath the chancel. The iron gate was rusting and the steps were cracked and overgrown with weeds. No one had been interred there for almost fifty years. The last Youlgreave to die, Sir George, had been killed in the Pacific in 1944, and his body had been buried at sea. I noticed there were grey feathers scattered on the bottom step, immediately in front of the iron gate, where no weeds grew. I wondered if Audrey’s cat was in the habit of dismembering his kills there.

I went into the porch. The door was unlocked – I left the church open during the day, though after two robberies I now locked it at night. Inside, the air smelled of polish, flowers and – very faintly – of incense, which I used two or three times a year. The church was small, almost cosy, with a two-bay nave and a low chancel. Above the chancel arch were the panel paintings, their colours murky; the pictures looked as if they were wreathed in smoke. I walked slowly to my stall in the choir. I sat down and began to say the Evening Office.

Usually the building itself had a calming effect on me, but not this evening. At times I found my mind drifting away from the words of the office and had to force myself to concentrate. Afterwards I simply sat there and stared at the memorial tablets on the wall opposite me. It was as though my will had abdicated.

Vanessa and Ronald, I thought over and over again. I wondered if I would be invited to the wedding and, if so, whether I should accept. By that time, perhaps it would no longer matter. I was aware, of course, that I was making too much of this. On the basis of two short meetings, I could hardly claim to have become deeply attached to Vanessa. The real problem was that, quite unintentionally, she had aroused my own long-suppressed needs. At the bottom of my unhappiness was a feeling of profound dissatisfaction with myself.

Time passed. Slowly the light slipped away from the interior of the church. It was by no means dark – merely less bright than it had been before. The memorial tablets were made of pale marble that gleamed among the shadows. Gradually there crept up on me the feeling that I was being watched.

I stared with increasing concentration at the tablet directly in front of me, which belonged to Francis Youlgreave, the poor, mad poet-priest. Everything led back to Vanessa. How odd that she should be interested in him. I remembered the lines that she had quoted to me at lunchtime. I could not recall the words exactly, something about darkness, I thought, and about whispers that defiled the judgement.

Defiled. It suddenly seemed to me that I was irredeemably defiled, not just by the events of the last few days, but by the active choice of someone or something outside me.

At that moment, I heard laughter.

It was a high, faint sound, like the rustle of paper or a whistle without a tune. I thought of wind among the leaves, of beating wings and long beaks, of geese I had seen as a boy flying high above Essex mudflats. Sadness swept over me. I fought it, but it turned to desolation and then to something darker.

‘No. Stop. Please stop.’

I was on my feet. The paralysis had dissolved. I stumbled down the church. The sound followed me. I put my hands over my ears but I could not block it out. The church was no longer a place of peace. I had turned it into a mockery of its former self. Defiled. I had defiled the church even as I had defiled myself.

I struggled with the latch of the south door. I was in such a state that it seemed to me that someone on the other side was holding it down. At last I wrenched it up and pulled at the door. I almost fell into the porch beyond.

Something moved on my right. Audrey’s cat, I thought for a split second, her wretched, bloody cat. Then I realized that I was wrong: that a person was sitting on the bench in the corner by the church notice board. I had a confused impression of pale clothing and a golden blur like a halo at the head. Then the figure stood up.

‘Hello, Father,’ said my daughter Rosemary. Her voice changed, filling with concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

5

At half past nine the following morning there was a ring on the doorbell. I was alone in the house. Rosemary had caught the bus to Staines to go shopping. I had managed to shave, but the only breakfast I had been able to face was a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

I found Audrey hovering on the doorstep, her body poised as if ready to dart into the hall at the slightest encouragement. I kept my hand on the door and tried to twist my mouth into a smile.

‘Sorry to disturb you, David. I just wondered what the verdict was.’

‘What verdict?’

‘You’re teasing me,’ she said in an arch voice. ‘The verdict on the book, of course.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Indeed I was, though not for the reasons Audrey assumed. ‘I’ve not been able to talk to Mrs Forde about it yet.’

She stuck out her lower lip, which was already pinched and protuberant, and increased her resemblance to a disappointed child. ‘I thought you were going to phone her yesterday evening.’

‘Yes, I’d hoped to, but – but there was a difficulty.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘I’ll try to talk to her today.’ I smiled, trying to soften the effect of my words. ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I hear something, shall I?’

‘Yes, please.’ She turned to go. She had taken only a couple of steps towards the road when she stopped and turned back to me. ‘David?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you for all you’re doing.’

My conscience twisted uncomfortably. Audrey smiled and walked away. I went back to my study and stared at the papers on my desk. Concentration demanded too much effort. I had slept badly, with dreams that hovered near the frontier of nightmare but did not actually cross it. One of them had been set in a version of Rosington, where Rosemary and I had lived before we came to Roth – when my wife Janet was still alive. I had not dreamed of Rosington for years. Vanessa had unsettled me, breached the defences I had built up so laboriously. (And I had been all too willing to have them breached.)

Audrey’s visit reminded me that I still had the problem of contacting Vanessa. I should have phoned her, as arranged, the previous evening, but I had spent much longer in the church than I had intended. By the time I had returned to the Vicarage the last thing I had wanted to do was talk to anyone, let alone Vanessa. I had persuaded myself without much trouble that it was too late to phone.

On the other hand, I could not run away from Vanessa for ever, or at least not until I had sorted out the business of Audrey’s wretched book. I did not want to phone her at the office, however, because that would mean having to run the gauntlet of Cynthia. I remembered that Cynthia worked only in the mornings. In that case, I thought, I would phone Vanessa this afternoon.

Now that I had made the decision, I felt slightly happier. I returned to the accounts I had abandoned the previous evening. But I had not got very far when there was another ring at the doorbell. I swore under my breath as I went into the hall. I opened the door. There was Vanessa herself.

I stared at her, fighting a rising tide of disbelief. She was wearing her dark suit and she had the envelope containing Audrey’s typescript clamped to her chest.

‘Hello, David.’

‘Vanessa – do come in.’

‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

‘Only the accounts. And I was about to make some coffee, in any case. But I hope you haven’t come all this way to bring me back the book?’

She shook her head. ‘I had to visit a bookshop in Staines this morning. I’m on my way back.’

She followed me into the hall, and I led her through to the sitting room.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t phone yesterday evening.’

‘That’s all right.’ She looked out of the window, not at me. ‘I didn’t expect you to phone me back so late.’

‘I’m sorry?’

She turned from the window and looked at me. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

‘What message?’

‘I phoned last night. I had another phone call, and I – I thought you might not have been able to get through. I left a message saying I’d phoned.’

‘I didn’t receive it.’ I thought of Rosemary waiting for me in the porch of the church. ‘You must have spoken to my daughter. I expect it slipped her mind.’

She smiled. ‘Young people have more important things to think about than relaying phone messages.’

‘Yes.’ I did not know what to say next. I knew I should make the coffee, but I did not want to leave Vanessa. I cleared my throat. ‘I saw Cynthia yesterday afternoon. She brought those things round for Rosemary.’

‘I know. She told me … I think she may have misled you about something.’

I stared at her. We were still standing in the middle of the room.

Vanessa picked at a piece of fluff on her sleeve. ‘I believe she gave you to understand that Ronnie and I are engaged.’

I nodded.

‘Well, that’s not true. Not exactly.’

I patted the pockets of my jacket, looking for the cigarettes I had left in the study. ‘There’s no need to tell me this. It’s none of my business.’

‘Cynthia and Ronnie were very good to me when Charles died.’

‘I’m sure they were.’

‘You don’t understand. When something like that happens you feel empty. And you can become very dependent on those who help you. Emotionally, I mean.’

‘I do understand,’ I said. ‘Only too well.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She bit her lip. ‘Ronnie told me about your wife.’

‘It’s all right. It was a long time ago.’

‘One gets so wrapped up in oneself.’

‘I know.’

‘Listen, two weeks ago, Ronnie asked me to marry him. I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no, either. I said I needed time. But he thought I was eventually going to say yes. To be perfectly honest, I thought I was going to say yes. In a way I felt that he deserved it. And I’m fond of him … Besides, I don’t like living on my own.’

‘I see. Won’t you sit down?’

I was not sure whether she was talking to me as a man or as a priest – a not uncommon problem in the Anglican Church. When we sat down, somehow we both chose the sofa. This had a low seat – uncomfortably low for me. It caused Vanessa’s skirt to ride up several inches above the knees. The sight was distracting. She snapped open her handbag and produced a packet of cigarettes, which she offered to me. I found some matches in my pocket. Lighting the cigarettes brought us very close together. There was now no doubt about it: as far as I was concerned, the man was well in ascendancy over the priest.

‘Ronnie hoped to announce our engagement on Friday evening,’ she continued. ‘I think that’s why he wanted the dinner party – to show me off. I didn’t want that.’ She blew out a plume of smoke like an angry dragon. ‘I didn’t like it, either. It made me feel like a trophy or something. And then this morning, Cynthia told me she’d been to see you, told me what she’d said. I was furious. I’m not engaged to Ronnie. In any case, it’s nothing to do with her.’

‘No doubt she meant well,’ I said, automatically clinging to the saving grace of good intentions.

‘We all mean well,’ Vanessa snapped back. ‘Sometimes that’s not enough.’

We smoked in silence for a moment. I glanced at her stockinged legs, dark and gleaming, and quickly looked away. She fiddled with her cigarette, rolling it between finger and thumb.

‘The book,’ I said, my voice a little hoarse. ‘What did you think of it?’

‘Yes.’ She seized the envelope as if it were a life belt. ‘There’s a good deal of interesting material in it. Particularly if you know Roth well. But I’m afraid it’s not really suitable for us.’

‘Is it worth our trying elsewhere?’

‘Frankly, no. I don’t think any trade publisher would want it. It’s not a book for the general market.’

‘Too short,’ I said slowly, ‘and too specialized. And not exactly scholarly, either.’

She smiled. ‘Not exactly. If the author wants to see it in print, she’ll probably have to pay for the privilege.’

‘I thought you might say that.’

‘She’ll probably blame my lack of acumen,’ Vanessa went on cheerfully. ‘A lot of authors appear to believe that there are no bad books, only bad publishers.’

‘So what would you advise?’

‘There’s no point in raising her hopes. Just say that I don’t think it’s a commercial proposition, and that I advised investigating the cost of having it privately printed. She could sell it in the church, in local shops. Perhaps there’s a local history society which would contribute towards the costs.’

‘Is there a printer you could recommend?’

‘You could try us, if you like. We have our own printing works. We could certainly give you a quotation.’

‘Really? That would be very kind.’

Simultaneously we turned to look at one another. At that moment there was a sudden movement at the window. Both our heads jerked towards it as if tugged by invisible strings, as if we were both conscious of having done something wrong. I felt a spurt of anger against the intruder who had broken in on our privacy. Audrey’s cat was on the sill, butting his nose against the glass.

Vanessa said, ‘Is that – is that yours?’

‘No – he belongs to Audrey, in fact – the person who wrote the book.’

‘Oh.’ She looked relieved. ‘My mother was afraid of cats. She was always going on about how insanitary they were. How they brought germs into the house, as well as the things they caught.’ She glanced sideways at me. ‘Do you think these things can be hereditary?’

‘Phobias?’

‘Oh, it’s not a phobia. I just don’t particularly like them. In fact, that one’s rather dapper. It looks as though he’s wearing evening dress.’

She was right. The cat was black, except for a triangular patch of white at the throat and more white on the paws. As we watched, he opened his mouth, a pink-and-white cavern, and miaowed, the sound reaching us through the open fanlight of the window.

‘He’s called Lord Peter,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘As in Dorothy L. Sayers. Audrey reads a lot of detective stories. His predecessor was called Poirot. And before him, there were two others – before my time: one was called Brown after Father Brown, and the first of the line was Sherlock.’

‘I can’t say I have much time for detective stories.’

‘Nor do I.’

I repressed the uncharitable memory of the time that Audrey had lent me Sayers’s The Nine Tailors, on the grounds that it was not only great literature but also contained a wonderfully convincing portrait of a vicar. I stood up, went to the window and waved at Lord Peter, trying to shoo him away. I did not dislike cats in general, but I disliked this one. His constant intrusions irritated me, and I blamed him for the strong feline stench in my garage. Ignoring my wave, he miaowed once more. It occurred to me that I felt about Lord Peter as I often felt about Audrey: that she was ceaselessly trying to encroach on our privacy at the Vicarage.

‘David?’

I turned back to Vanessa, ripe and lovely, looking up at me from the sofa. ‘What is it?’

‘To go back to – to Ronnie. It’s just – it’s just that I’m not sure I’m the right person to marry a clergyman.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not a regular churchgoer. I don’t even know if I believe in God.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, knowing that it did, though not perhaps in the way she thought. ‘In any case, belief in God comes in many forms.’

‘But his parish, the bishop –’

‘I am sure Ronald thought of all that. I don’t mean to pry, but surely it came up when he asked you to marry him?’

She nodded. ‘He said that God would find a way.’

There was a silence. Lord Peter rubbed his furry body against the glass and I wanted to throw the ashtray at him. I felt a rush of anger towards Ronald, joining the other emotions which were swirling round the sitting room. If I stayed here, they would suck me down.

I moved to the door. ‘I’ll make the coffee. I won’t be a moment.’

I slipped out of the room without giving her time to answer. In the hall I discovered that my forehead was damp with sweat. The house seemed airless, a redbrick coffin with too few windows. I went into the kitchen and opened the back door. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I stared at my shrunken garden.

It was then that the idea slithered like a snake into my mind, showing itself openly for the first time: if anyone was going to marry Vanessa Forde, why shouldn’t it be me?