Appointed to Die (25 page)

‘Why doesn't she just tell him—'

‘That's just it. She's been trying to tell him how unhappy she is, but he won't listen. It doesn't help that she has no self-confidence, and has been robbed of all sense of personal esteem by the circumstances of her life. And the other thing . . .' Lucy hesitated. ‘She finally broke down and told me, after hours of talking, that she's been desperate to have a child, but it just hasn't happened. Not too surprising, either – she confessed that it's been months since they've made love, and that their lovemaking has never been very frequent, even in the beginning. Rupert just doesn't seem that interested, she said.'

‘Perhaps Rupert just has a low sex drive,' David suggested. There were such people, he knew: indeed, he had always considered himself to be one of them. If you'd asked him a year ago, David would have said that sex wasn't at all important to him, that he could live very well without it, and had in fact done so for quite a few years. It was only in the last six months that he'd discovered, with Lucy's help and to his considerable delight and surprise, that this was far from the case.

‘It seems likely. But again, it's something she and Rupert have never discussed. She's afraid, deep down, that he doesn't care, doesn't even want a child – after all, she says, he has “his boys”. It's all added to her sense of personal failure, of inadequacy. Her very worth as a woman is in question. And of course the great unspoken fear is that Rupert doesn't really love her at all, that he just keeps her around as a domestic convenience.'

‘But she loves Rupert?'

‘Oh yes, she loves him very much. That's what makes it so difficult – if she didn't love Rupert so much, she could just leave him and make a life for herself in London.'

‘So her coming here today . . .'

‘I think it was really a cry for help, a signal to Rupert that something is desperately wrong. It was the only way she could reach him, she said. She'd tried talking to him, and he wouldn't listen. So she had to do something to make him notice her, to force him to acknowledge the problem.'

Lucy, who had drunk a great deal of coffee through the long night, was still wide awake, but David was beginning to grow sleepy. After a minute he roused himself. ‘Does Rupert know she's here?' he asked.

‘She didn't tell him where she'd gone, only left a note to tell him she was going. But I rang my father. He said that Rupert was frantic – running all over the Close asking people if they knew where she was. So I told Daddy to let Rupert know that she was here, and safe. I thought it was only right to put his mind at rest.'

‘And now what? How long is she going to stay here?'

‘I think,' said Lucy, ‘that I've talked her into going back, tomorrow or the next day. She realises that she can't run away from the problems for ever. She knows that she has to talk to Rupert – they've got a great deal of talking to do. And I think that now he just might be prepared to listen.'

‘What is it about you,' David asked rhetorically, just before sleep claimed him, ‘that makes people you scarcely know queue up to tell you their innermost secrets? And I speak from experience – it happened to me, too. Remember the first time I came here for tea, and ended up telling you my life story, things I'd never told a living soul before?' He chuckled sleepily. ‘Not that you're not a brilliant artist, but I think that some of your more singular talents are wasted on art. You ought to be a shrink – or a detective, Lucy love.'

CHAPTER 24

    
The Lord hath heard my petition: the Lord will receive my prayer.

Psalm 6.9

In the end, two days later, Lucy drove Judith back to Malbury in David's car. Judith declared that she couldn't face the return train journey, and David was not able to get away, so it seemed the best compromise. David was slightly uneasy about it, particularly about Lucy's return trip on her own, but she reminded him that she was a good driver and that she would be careful.

Much of the intervening day had been spent shopping. Realising that many of Judith's problems stemmed from her poor self-image, Lucy had tried to remedy the situation in one frantic day. She'd helped Judith to choose some new clothes, not necessarily fashionable but flattering to her figure, a figure which was more than acceptable when divested of the baggy, shapeless garments she usually wore. The colours, too, were carefully chosen: rich mauves and blues to emphasise her beautiful violet eyes rather than her customary drab browns and muddy greens. There were even new underclothes, silky and feminine, and an extravagantly provocative nightdress in shimmering amethyst satin. Judith had been dubious about all of this, particularly the last item, but Lucy had remained adamant. ‘You won't regret it,' she'd promised.

At the end of the day they'd visited Lucy's hairdresser, again with half-hearted protests from Judith. But about the results there had been no protest at all. Judith had always worn her hair unbecomingly long and straight, trimming the ends haphazardly herself when necessary; the hairdresser had left it long, but had sparked up the mousy colour with a few subtle plummy highlights, then had layered it and shaped it around her face in such a flattering way that she had stared at herself in the mirror almost without recognition. ‘Rupert won't even know me,' she'd whispered, delighted.

There was ample opportunity during the drive to Malbury to discuss her new image and its implications. But the nearer they got to Malbury, the more apprehensive Judith became. ‘Whatever am I going to say to Rupert?' she fretted. ‘Tell me, Lucy.'

‘I can't tell you what to say to him. But you know the things that you need to talk about, Judith. Be honest with him. Tell him the truth about how you feel about Malbury, and about your situation there. And get him to make love to you,' she added frankly.

Judith coloured. ‘Oh, but I couldn't.'

‘Why ever not? Don't you
want
Rupert to make love to you?'

‘Yes, of course. But what if . . . what if he doesn't want to?'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, Judith! He's your husband! I'm not suggesting that you seduce some man off the street, just that you get your husband to take you to bed.' Lucy glanced at her with some asperity.

Refusing to meet her eyes, Judith twisted her hands in her lap and spoke quietly. ‘But I . . . I wouldn't know how.'

Lucy laughed, not unkindly. ‘Oh, Judith – you
have
got a lot to learn. Put on that nightgown we bought you, for starters – that ought to get him thinking in the right direction. Tell him that you find him irresistible, and that you missed him dreadfully. Unbutton his cassock, and take off his dog collar. And if all else fails, just grab him by the hand and drag him upstairs.'

They arrived in Malbury in the early afternoon. Lucy dropped Judith off at her house, refusing her pleas to come in with her, and went on to have a pleasant lunch with her father, filling him in – in a general way – on what had happened. Later, she decided to pay a visit to Pat Willoughby and enlist her help in keeping an eye on Judith.

While respecting Judith's confidences, she was frank with Pat about the depth of the Greenwoods' problems. Pat, who still felt guilty that she had not made it her business to befriend Judith years ago, promised to do what she could.

‘Marriage,' said Lucy, shaking her head with unguarded bitterness. ‘It really makes you wonder, doesn't it?'

‘What do you mean?' Pat regarded her questioningly.

Realising too late that Pat was not going to let her get away unchallenged, Lucy carried on. ‘Well, it doesn't say very much for the institution of marriage that a talented young woman like Judith Greenwood is in such a state. I mean . . .'

‘Are you talking about Judith, or are you talking about something else?' asked Pat shrewdly. When Lucy didn't answer, she seemed to change the subject, pouring her another cup of tea. ‘It's a shame that your David couldn't come with you this time. I'd like to see him again.'

‘Yes.' Lucy's voice was neutral.

‘I like him very much, Lucy dear. Not least because he so obviously adores you.' Pat paused. ‘He's just what you need. I know it's none of my business, my dear, but I do care about you, and I'd hate to see you throw away something valuable just because of . . . something that happened a long time ago. That's what it is, isn't it?'

Lucy frowned. ‘You've been talking to David, haven't you? What did he say to you?'

‘We did have a little chat that morning you were all here for breakfast,' the Bishop's wife admitted. ‘He told me how much he loves you, and that you were . . . reluctant . . . to marry him. Forgive me if I'm interfering, my dear, but I just want to see you happy.'

Averting her face, Lucy spoke softly. ‘I'm not going to throw anything away, Pat. And I appreciate your advice. But . . . I just can't forget what a disaster my marriage was, and how unhappy it made me.'

‘You're older and wiser now.'

‘Older, certainly. I wish I could be sure about wiser.' She pushed her hair back from her face and deliberately changed the subject, her voice bright. ‘So. Tell me the latest developments with the Dean. What has he been up to this week?'

As she left the Bishop's House, Lucy involuntarily glanced at the next house. Jeremy, putting an empty milk bottle outside his front door, straightened up at the sight of her. ‘Lucy! What are you doing in Malbury?'

‘Have we had this conversation before?' she laughed. ‘It sounds familiar.'

‘Come in and have a cup of tea.'

Lucy demurred, ‘I've just had my fill of tea.'

‘Something else, then? Sherry?'

She hesitated. ‘No, I don't think so.'

‘There's something I want to ask your advice about,' he said with ingenuity born of desperation. ‘I need your advice on hanging a painting.'

‘It's not by any chance,' she asked, ‘the one of mine that you bought from the gallery last week?'

‘How did you know about that?'

Lucy smiled. ‘It's customary for the gallery to let the artist know the name of the buyer when they sell a painting.'

‘I should have realised that I couldn't get away with anything!' Jeremy raised an expressive eyebrow. ‘So are you going to come in and see it?'

‘Oh, all right.' She followed him into the house and into the sitting room with only a slight tremor of apprehension. ‘Have you got any farther with the plans for the new building? I'd like to see what you've done.'

Jeremy debated how to reply; he realised that he'd made a mistake, had betrayed the Dean's confidence, by telling her about the building plans, but was unsure how best to control the damage. At last he decided on honesty. ‘Lucy,' he said, ‘you haven't told anyone about the new building, have you? It's still a secret.'

She thought about the question. ‘No. I didn't know that it was a secret, but I haven't told anyone. There have been more important things on my mind, to tell you the truth.'

‘You haven't told . . . David, then?'

‘No,' she admitted, reluctantly. ‘I didn't even tell David that I'd seen you. I thought that . . . well, I thought that he might be upset about it, and I wanted to spare him that.'

Jeremy hid his jubilation, turning to the sherry decanter. She had lied to David about seeing him – it was the thin end of the wedge, he told himself. ‘Are you sure,' he said, ‘that you won't change your mind and have a sherry?'

‘Well, perhaps just a small one,' she conceded.

The following morning, Stuart Latimer sat in his Deanery office, awaiting the arrival of the Precentor. Canon Greenwood had rung earlier, asking for an appointment to see him, but had volunteered no details. What could it be about? wondered the Dean without any particular interest or feeling of anticipation. Probably something to do with the organ, he decided, or the appointment of a new organist. Something very mundane and time-wasting, no doubt. The Dean had heard that the runaway wife had turned up, so it wouldn't be about that. She'd gone to London, he'd heard. Stuart Latimer's wife went to London all the time – he didn't see that it was anything to get excited about.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that he rose to greet Rupert Greenwood on his arrival. The Precentor's manner was agitated, as agitated as it had been a few days earlier when his wife had gone missing. He looked weary, and uncharacteristically unkempt; if he had looked old enough to shave, thought the Dean with amusement, he might even have appeared unshaven.

‘Sit down, Canon Greenwood.' He gestured to a chair.

The Precentor sank into the chair gratefully, but almost immediately got back up and began pacing in front of the Dean's desk. ‘I just don't know where to begin.'

‘Compose yourself, Canon, and start at the beginning. What is this all about? The organ?'

‘Oh, no, not that.' Rupert Greenwood stopped in front of the desk. ‘My wife. You know she's been . . . away?'

An interesting way to put it, thought the Dean. ‘Yes, I think that everyone in the Close has been aware of that fact,' he said sardonically. ‘But she's back, I understand?'

‘Well, yes. And she . . . well, I just had no idea about how she felt.'

‘Felt about what, Canon? You're not making yourself very clear.' The Dean was beginning to grow impatient with Rupert's unfocused ramblings. ‘And please do sit down. You're making me nervous.'

Abruptly, the Precentor collapsed back into the chair. ‘About Malbury. About living here.' He paused, and the Dean waited. ‘She hates it. She's always hated it. She says that there's nothing for her here, no outlet for her talents – Judith used to be a singer, you know,' he added, almost proudly. ‘A good one. But in Malbury there aren't any opportunities for her.'