Smile and be a Villain (15 page)

‘He is retired.' Robin stood. ‘I won't wish you well in your quest, but I think I'm relieved to have told you. It washes my hands of any responsibility in the matter. Just call me Pilate.'

We had gone back to the room. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the play of light as the evening slowly, slowly faded toward night. Alan sat in the chair pretending to read.

‘I want to go home,' I said after an eternity of silence. ‘Now. Tomorrow. As soon as we can get a flight.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. I don't want to know what happened to Mr William Bloody Abercrombie. I hope someone
did
push him down that hill.'

‘You've said that before. You know you don't really hope that, not in your heart and soul.'

‘He was a monster! A murderer himself, if there's any meaning to the word. Murderers are put to death.'

‘In America, perhaps. Not here, not anymore. Two wrongs don't make a right, if you'll excuse the cliché.' He came over and lay down on the bed beside me. ‘You're tired, love, exhausted with other people's troubles. They're terrible troubles, and you've never learned to pass by on the other side. You try to shoulder everyone's woes. You're not Atlas. It's not your job.'

The tears were beginning to come. ‘Somebody has to care. I can't just ignore somebody's pain.'

‘No. But when it eats you alive, leaves you with no resources, leaves you wanting to give up, your compassion doesn't help you or anyone else.'

‘I … it's too much, Alan! If I hear one more story about what that man did to someone, I'll … fall apart, I think. I want to go home and forget I ever heard of this island.'

‘The trouble is, you would never forget.'

I lay letting the tears flow, holding Alan's hand.

After a while I felt the discomfort of wet hair, dampened by tears flowing unchecked. My pillow was wet, too, and my nose … I sat up. ‘I need a tissue.'

Alan was ready with a handful.

‘I must look awful.'

‘I've seen you looking better, for a fact.'

That pulled me together as no sympathy would have. I muttered something and got up to splash cold water on my face. I didn't look in the mirror. Puffy red eyes and a red nose aren't a pretty sight.

‘You think we ought to stay,' I said, coming back and collapsing onto the bed again.

‘I'm not going to make that decision. If you want to go, I'll call Aurigny tonight and book a flight.'

‘Who's Aurigny?' I blew my nose again.

‘The airline that flies here. Also the old French name of the island.'

‘Oh. I forgot.'

He patted my hand, got up and rummaged in the drawer where we kept our food supplies. He held aloft a bottle of wine. ‘I'm not usually in favour of curing one's troubles with alcohol, but in this case, I think a little wine might be a comfort. Yes?'

‘All right. I don't care.'

‘Dorothy.'

I looked up listlessly.

‘I love you and I think you're a marvellous person, no matter what you decide to do. Now have some wine and snap out of it.'

The room was growing dim. It was really late. I'd had nothing to eat since lunch, having lost my appetite with Robin's horror story. I wasn't hungry, but if I was going to drink wine, I'd better have something to eat. ‘Do we still have any cheese or anything?'

‘Not a crumb. There's a pizza place in the High Street, just at the top of Victoria Street, or we could have Chinese takeaway, or Indian, or Thai. Anything sound appealing?'

‘Not really. You choose. I suppose we have to eat something.'

‘All right.' He took out his phone. ‘How about some nice vindaloo?'

‘No! You know I can't stand that hot stuff. I changed my mind about you choosing. Get Chinese. You know what I like.'

He phoned in an order and then took off to pick up the food. It would probably be ready by the time he walked up the street. I used the time while he was gone to shower and change into night things. I wanted to look a little less forlorn when he came back.

It's amazing what a shower can do for one's spirits. Somehow, along with the grime of the day, some of the day's worries washed away. I came out feeling much better, cleansed in mind as well as body. I dried my hair and brushed it into some sort of order, put on my nightgown and poured wine just as Alan came in.

‘I got a pizza, too, and stopped in at Nellie Gray's, as well.'

‘Heavens! We'll never be able to eat all that.'

‘They're good about letting us keep stuff in the fridge downstairs. I thought comfort food was in order.'

‘I'm sorry I was such a wimp. I don't usually fall apart like that.'

‘I know you don't. No apology needed. Now would you rather start with Mongolian beef, lamb korma or pepperoni pizza?'

‘I'll have a little of each. I'm going to have the most awful heartburn.'

He put a loaded plate in front of me on the bed and handed me a glass of wine, and sat down on the other side with his own meal, dangerously rocking mine. ‘If we manage to eat this without getting cheese and soy sauce all over the bedding, it'll be a miracle,' I said.

‘
Mph
,' he said with his mouth full.

I found I was hungry, after all, and we made respectable inroads on our peculiar supper, and finished the wine. I helped Alan tidy away and opened the window wide to help dispel the strong smell of garlic.

As Alan turned out the light, ready to crawl into bed, I said, ‘Don't make any phone calls. We're staying to see this through.'

He ruffled my hair and kissed my cheek, and we were both asleep in minutes.

S
unday dawned clear and cool, another beautiful day. I woke early. Alan was still snoring away, so I made a cup of tea as quietly as I could, left Alan a note and went down to the garden.

The chairs were wet with dew, but I had put on heavy jeans, so it didn't matter. By the time they soaked through, I'd be ready to come in anyway.

There is a special feeling about Sunday morning. It isn't just the absence of the usual bustle and noise of everyday life. There's a sense of peace, a hush as if the ordinary has been banished for a brief moment. At home, where the Cathedral's bells peal out before every service, the hush is somehow enhanced by their clamour, rather than disturbed.

Here in the garden, with the dew-diamonds sparkling from every leaf, every petal, it might have been the morning of the world, Eden before the serpent.

I had not forgotten the shadow that lay over us. How could I? The stories of the anguish caused by one wicked man would haunt me for the rest of my life. Here in this peace, though, it was possible to believe that there was justice, if not in this world, then in the next, and that in the end all manner of thing would be well.

I closed my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun and the serenity of my thoughts, when Alan spoke.

‘Sleeping in the sun?'

‘No, actually just thinking about Julian of Norwich.'

‘“And all shall be well, and all shall be well …” Not a bad antidote to yesterday's angst.'

‘In this place, on a Sunday morning, I can believe it. Later, of course …'

‘Yes. So let's enjoy it while we can.'

He had brought a fresh pot of tea and his own cup. We sat in amiable silence and drank our tea.

We began to hear activity from the kitchen. Voices, the clatter of pans. Alan looked at his watch. ‘I was going to ask if you wanted to go to church at eight or ten thirty, but the question is now moot.'

‘What time is it?'

‘Eight forty-two.'

‘Well, then, I'd better get out of these sopping wet jeans and into Sunday go-to-meetin' clothes.'

‘You can take the woman out of America, but you can't take the Yank out—'

‘Yank, indeed! That's pure southern lingo, I'll have you know. My mama was from a tiny little town near the Indiana/Kentucky/Illinois border, and she talked southern all her life. She'd've been mighty insulted to be called a Yank.' I had tried to put on my best Hoosier accent, but it didn't come off. I've spent too long in England to remember how folks talk back home. The thought made me sad for a moment, but only for a moment. The Sunday peace was still upon me.

When we went down to breakfast I was sure I couldn't eat anything much after last night's late, wildly assorted supper, but the smells were irresistible. ‘The works, please!' I said to the waitress. ‘Except no beans.'

She laughed. ‘Americans never want beans. I can't think why.'

The English have this very odd habit of eating beans with breakfast, to go along with the bacon and sausages and eggs and mushrooms and all. I guess it's an acquired taste. I don't plan to acquire it.

We had finished eating and I was on my second cup of coffee when the bells began to ring. St Anne's, I had read, had a very fine ring of twelve bells, and twenty ringers to do them justice. I didn't know enough about change ringing to know what ‘method' they were using, hearing only a delightful cacophony, what Dorothy L. Sayers called ‘the one loud noise that is made to the glory of God.'

‘Let's go a bit early,' I said to Alan. ‘I'd like to have some quiet time before the service begins.'

‘Quiet?' replied Alan, cocking his head, the better to catch the strident tones of the bells.

‘In a manner of speaking.'

The bells grew louder the closer we got to the church, but inside the sound was somewhat muted. The congregation, however, was buzzing a bit. At home, worshippers entered in silence and conversed, if at all, in hushed whispers before the service began. Here, people greeted each other and inquired after family and other concerns. It was quite a lot like a family reunion. Here and there signs of sorrow were evident, but I realized that what Phil had said was very true. Most people didn't care much about what had happened to William Abercrombie.

How terribly sad.

We found a place near the back, hoping we weren't taking someone else's usual pew, and knelt a moment to try to pray, though the conversation around us made it a little difficult. The choir lined up, Mr Lewison said a prayer, and the service began.

With slight variations, it was the service we enjoyed every Sunday at Sherebury Cathedral. Some of the responses were slightly different. The choir, which I noticed was led by Rebecca Smith, was a good one for a small church, but of course it wasn't the fine cathedral choir we were used to. But we were comforted by the familiar words, the familiar hymns, the deeply satisfying mystery of the Eucharist.

I thought for a moment about some friends who came to church with me, back in Indiana, years ago. They were Baptists, unfamiliar with a liturgical service. I couldn't remember now what special occasion had led me to invite them to my church, but they came, and were, I think, mystified by the way we did things. ‘All that kneeling and standing and all,' they said afterwards. ‘And such a measly little sermon. Do you really do that same thing every single Sunday?'

‘Well, the Bible readings change every week, and some of the prayers. But yes, it's basically the same thing every Sunday.'

They were too polite to say that they found it boring beyond belief, but I could see it in their eyes. I couldn't find the words to tell them how soothing and reassuring I found the liturgy, how I looked forward to those same beloved words and actions every Sunday. To each his own.

The final hymn was one I particularly loved, ‘I heard the voice of Jesus say,' set to a lovely tune by the great English composer of church music, Thomas Tallis. In its quotation of Jesus' invitation to rest in Him, I found comfort not only for me, but, I hoped, for the soul of William Abercrombie. If even he could find rest, surely I could.

Leaving the church in that exalted frame of mind, I was in no way prepared for what Mr Lewison told us after the service.

We had partaken of the refreshments after the service, had chatted briefly with a few of the parishioners and had stopped to shake hands with the priest on our way out. He asked us to stay behind for a moment, so we tarried in the churchyard, reading some of the interesting names on the stones. ‘A lot of French influence,' I commented.

‘As one would expect,' said Alan. ‘We're a mere eight miles from France, and of course the whole island was Norman property for centuries.'

I'm not good about the intricacies of property traded back and forth between England and France at the whim of various monarchs over the millennia. I kept still.

Mr Lewison hurried out of the church as soon as his duties were completed and he could get away from the last lingering churchgoer. ‘I have something rather disturbing to tell you,' he said. ‘Perhaps we could find a private place to talk. I'm staying at the vicarage, but it's a bit of a walk, and I didn't bring my car.'

‘We're at the Belle Isle, just across the street,' I said. ‘Why don't we go there? No one will be in the lounge at this hour.'

So we settled down in the lounge and looked at the priest inquiringly.

He seemed ill at ease. ‘This is embarrassing. I hardly know how to begin.'

‘I'm sorry we have no sherry or anything to offer you. We can make tea, though. Would you care for some?' I hoped he would say no. I'd had enough caffeine to keep me flying for hours. Three cups of tea, two of coffee … I was also needing the bathroom soon.

‘No, thank you. I must say this and get it over.'

Now I was ill at ease. What on earth?

‘I had a conversation last night with Constable Partridge.' He took a deep breath. ‘He plans to talk to you, also, but he thought I should know first. He has had word from America about Mr Abercrombie.'

My nerves tightened. Alan reached across the couch and touched my hand.

‘Partridge was able to speak with Abercrombie's diocesan bishop in Ohio. He learned that the man had no living family at all, so we could do as we wished with funeral arrangements. He also learned … this is distressing. I'm sorry.'