Murder Being Once Done (21 page)

‘Perhaps she left your congregation in the past twelve months?’

‘Mary went away to be a teacher, and Sarah went and Rachel. Edna married out. They all went away.’ She didn’t speak wistfully but as of some dire enormity. ‘My father will punish me if I don’t go home now.’

‘Their addresses?’ he pleaded.

‘Oh, no. No, no. Mary was at the court.’ It cost her something to say that, he thought. Mary too, had been one of Morgan’s brides. She struggled with an emotion no one had ever taught her existed or could be controlled. There were tears on her face or perhaps just rain. ‘You must go to the Shepherd,’ she said, and ducked out from under the umbrella.

‘They won’t let me into the house!’

She called back to him something about a prayer meeting that night. Then she ran home through the rain, the caged creature escaping from predators and the human that would set it free. Back to the cage, the safety of a living death.

Wexford had been shaken by the interview. Hannah Peters bore no physical resemblance to Loveday Morgan, and yet he felt that it was to the latter he had been talking. Here, alive and in a different skin, was the dead girl, the shy, frightened, badly-dressed girl who didn’t know how to make friends and was scarcely fit to be employed. At last she had been revealed to him, the cemetery walker, the Bible reader. Teal had known her and had seen her rare, wondering smile; Lamont had sat with her, witnessed her tortured silences; with a shrug, Dearborn had dismissed her ugly gaucheness. And now he too had seen her, or seen perhaps her ghost.

The street was empty again, the ghost gone. But she had left him a message. He must take the only way open to him now of catching her people outside their prisons.

In dim and doubtful light they be gathered together, and more earnestly fixed on religion and devotion.

Darkness came early after that day of torrents. Sitting in a lorry driver’s retreat, his raincoat steaming in the red glow of an electric fire, Wexford watched the fluorescent lamps come on in Artois Road. The wet pavements threw back scarlet and blue and orange reflections of neon overhead. The sky was red and vaporous, any stars which might have been up there quenched by the glare. He wondered when the prayer meeting would begin. Surely not before seven? Hungry in spite of tea and a doughnut, he ordered a labourer’s meal, a forbidden sinful meal of sausages and chips and fried eggs.

According to Crocker and Dora and their gloomy disciples, he ought to have been dead by now, for he had broken all their rules. He had worked when he should have rested, eaten saturated fats when he should have fasted, gone out at night, worried and today forgotten all about his pills. Why not break one more and be hanged for a sheep?

The ultimate forbidden fruit would be to go back into that pub he had visited at lunchtime and drink spirits. He found it and had a double Scotch. Far from laying him out, it filled him with well-being, and he made up his mind then and there to defy them all. No one but a fool follows a regimen that debilitates him while moderate indulgence makes him feel good.

While he had been drinking the rain had stopped. He sniffed the smell of London after rain, smoky, gaseous, with here and there other scents infiltrating, the odour of frying food and stranger oriental platters, the whiff of a French cigarette. They faded as he walked into the residential depths of Artois Road where the blue-white lamps looked too smart for this hinterland. Another light glowed ahead of him, a round red light like a Cyclops eye, and he saw that he was too late. The prayer meeting had begun. He stood outside the temple and heard the voices of the Children, intoning together sometimes, then one single voice raised in spontaneous praise or perhaps commination. How many hours before they came out? And would they talk to him when they did?

The house where the Shepherd lodged, where Morgan had lodged, looked entirely deserted now, no slits of light showing at the edges of the blinds. The concrete garden lay under a sheet of water which was black because it had no light to mirror. There were perhaps fifty houses like this one in Wilman Park, vaults for the living. Rachel and Mary and Sarah had gone away . . . He hoped that now they wore scent and false eyelashes and feathers and flowers and sat on steps with their boy friends eating crisps out of paper bags.

Morgan must have met his brides somewhere and not under this severe roof. Did he walk with them, sneak off for clandestine love in the
temple
? Wexford wrinkled his nose in distaste. If he had, some neighbour would surely have seen him, perhaps even seen him promenading with the chosen one of the moment.

The house next door showed plenty of light and the curtains weren’t even drawn. He rang a bell that chimed, but when she came to admit him his heart sank. She smiled enquiringly. Her eyes were blue and vacant and she supported herself on a white stick.

She was a very old woman, not far off eighty, and she had just enough sight left, he guessed, to make out the shape of him on her doorstep. He didn’t want to alarm her, so he explained who he was and why he was there before beginning to retreat. She was no use to him, although he couldn’t put it so bluntly. Her blindness disqualified her.

‘I was just going to make a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Would you like one? My husband was in the force. You’ll have heard of him. Wally Lyle.’

Wexford shook his head, then remembered she couldn’t see. ‘I’m a stranger in these parts,’ he said. ‘I won’t keep you, Mrs Lyle. Perhaps you could just tell me the name of the people next door?’

‘Vickers,’ she said, and she chuckled. ‘You won’t get inside there. The only person she ever lets in is the electric meter man. They haven’t got no gas.’ Her cheerfulness moved him. Here she was, alone, blind, very old, but she could still joke, still find some zest in living. When she said, ‘You may as well have that tea. I know how it is on the beat all day,’ he agreed on an impulse. She couldn’t see that he wasn’t in uniform. She wanted a chat about her husband and old times. Why not? He had to pass the time somehow until the temple disgorged its throng.

All the lights were on in the hall and the little rooms. Light must help her, he decided, watching her edge her way to the brighter lamp of the kitchen like a moth. But it was he who finally made the tea and carried their two cups into the front room. All the while she kept close beside him, and when he went to sit by the window, waiting for the temple door to open and send a shaft of light out on to the pavement, she came and sat next to him, hooking her stick over the arm of her chair.

The little pokey living room was crammed with furniture, loaded down with ornaments. He wondered that she could move among all this bric-à-brac without hurting herself or knocking things over, and he recalled his own clumsiness in Howard’s house. While she told him anecdotes of her husband’s career, he observed the dexterity with which she handled her teacup, and he marvelled.

‘How long have you lived here, Mrs Lyle?’ he asked gently.

‘Forty years. Them Vickerses were here before we come.’

‘They’re quite an elderly couple, then?’

‘Not this lot. His mum and dad. I call this one
young
Vickers.’ She peered into Wexford’s face. ‘I daresay he’d be old to you – about fifty he is, but a chip off the old block.’

‘And you’ve never been into their house?’

She liked to talk about the dead Wally Lyle and she returned to him. ‘My husband tried to get in there once, years and years ago. Young Vickers and his sister were school kids then, and the school sent round this doctor on account of Rebecca – that was the sister – having scarlet fever. They wouldn’t have no doctor, you see. Revelationers don’t believe in doctors, let their kids die rather than have the doctor.’

‘So your husband was called in on account of being a policeman?’ Wexford was interested in spite of the irrelevance of all this. ‘Did he make them admit the doctor?’

Mrs Lyle laughed shrilly. ‘Not likely. He banged and banged on the door till old Vickers come out, and old Vickers cursed him. It made your blood run cold to hear it. My husband said he’d never have nothing to do with them again and he never did.’

‘And that was the only contact you ever had with them?’

She looked a little sheepish. ‘The only contact
he
did. I never let on to him how I helped Rebecca run away and get married. He’d have given it to me hot and strong, being as he was in the force.’

Rebecca, a girl who had run away . . .

He spoke rather sharply. ‘When was that, Mrs Lyle?’

She dashed his faint hope. ‘Must be thirty years. It’s her brother as lives there now. He got married and had kids and they’ve all gone now too. God knows where.’

She sighed and fell silent. Wexford watched the dark pavement, growing impatient. Mrs Lyle finished her tea and set the cup down correctly in its saucer. Her blue, filmed eyes were turned on his face now and he sensed that she wanted to make some sort of confession to him.

‘What I did,’ she said, and her expression was sly, almost naughty, ‘I often thought maybe it was against the law, but I never dared ask my husband, never breathed a word about it.’

‘What did you do?’ Wexford put laughter and encouragement into his voice, for it was no use showing them on his face.

‘Won’t do no harm telling you after all these years.’ She grinned, enjoying herself. ‘Rebecca wanted to get married to a fellow she’d met, fellow called Foster who wasn’t one of
them
, and her dad he put his foot down and they shut her up in there. Just a prisoner she was, shut up in her bedroom. She used to write notes and throw them to me out of the window. I could see to read in them days. I was all for putting a spoke in the wheel of them Revelationers and I had young Foster in here, jollying him along, and one day when they was all in church we got a ladder and stuck it up at the window and down she come. Like a play it was.’

The orchard walls are high and hard to climb and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here . . . ‘It must have been,’ he said.

‘I often have a good laugh about it to this day. Mind you, it’d have been better if I’d ever found out what they thought about it but I never did. I’d like to have seen old Vickers’ face when he knew the bird had flown. Rebecca got married and she wrote to me, telling me bits of news, but that’s stopped now. No good getting letters when you can’t read them and you’ve no one to read them to you, is it?’ Mrs Lyle laughed merrily at the doleful situation she had described. ‘Vickers – the son, that is – he got married and they had kids but they’ve all gone off one by one. Couldn’t stand it at home. And now there’s just the two of them alone in there. Young Vickers – I call him that but he must be all of fifty – he never speaks to me. I reckon he knows what I did for Rebecca. I often have a good laugh when I think of her and that ladder and young Foster like a blessed Romeo. A bit of luck for her that was, catching him. She was nothing to look at and she had a great big mole on the side of her nose . . .’

The temple door must have opened, for a pale stream of light seeped out across the wet stones and people began to appear on the pavement. Wexford, who had been waiting for this to happen, ignored it and turned to face Mrs Lyle, although he knew she couldn’t see him.

‘A mole on the side of her nose?’

‘Stuck there between her nose and her cheek like.’ Mrs Lyle jabbed a finger at her own apple complexion. ‘My husband used to say she could have had that seen to, only seeing they didn’t believe in doctors . . .’

‘Where did she go?’

‘South-west Ten her address was. I’ve got letters about somewhere. You’ll have to look for them yourself. But I’ll tell you one thing, Rebecca won’t get you in that house next door. It’d take one of them bulldozers to do that.’

Wexford stood in the bay window and watched the congregation disperse. The women wore dull fashionless, rather than old-fashioned, coats and hats in black or grey or fawn, the men, even the young men, black suits topped by dark raincoats. Among them, like a crow, moved the Shepherd in his black robe, shaking hands, murmuring farewells until all but two were gone. This pair, evidently a married couple, stood arm-in arm, waiting for him. Then the three of them filed slowly into the house next door. Briefly Wexford caught a glimpse of them mirrored darkly in the pool of water, three strange people crossing the Styx into their own underworld. The front door shut with a slam.

‘You looking at young Vickers?’ said Mrs Lyle who had the hypersensitivity of the blind. ‘I wish my grandson was here to blow him a raspberry. All the kids round here do that, and good luck to them.’

‘Better look for those letters now, Mrs Lyle.’

They went upstairs, the old woman leading the way. She took him into her bedroom which had the jumble sale look of rooms occupied by old people and in which they have grown old. Apart from the usual furniture there were workboxes, wooden and wicker, stacked one on top of the other, trunks under the bed and trunks covered with dust sheets which were themselves piled with old magazines and old albums. Two of those miniature chests of drawers, dear to the hearts of the Victorians, stood on the massive tallboy, and above them on the wall was a what-not, crammed full of letters and papers and little boxes and old pens and jars of hairpins.

‘It might be in here,’ said Mrs Lyle, ‘or it might be in the other rooms.’

Wexford looked into the other rooms. None of them was exactly untidy. Nor were they rooms for people to live in. They were the repositories for the results of sixty years of hoarding, and it was apparent to his practised eye that some crazy filing system had been employed in the days when Mrs Lyle still had her sight.

She seemed to sense that he was taken aback. A note came into her voice that was not quite malice but faintly revengeful. She said, ‘You’ve got a long job.’ She meant, ‘You can see and I can’t, so you get on with it.’