The Hanging Valley (20 page)

But she knew she should go. It was, after all, God’s Mansion on Earth, and she would never escape this Vale of Tears if she didn’t
give herself to Him completely. Instead, she watched the rest of the village go off in their finery and listened to the hymns on the radio as she dusted, tidied and swept, humming along very quietly under her breath. Surely, surely, He would approve? She was working, doing her duty. It was the Sabbath, of course, but there were still guests to take care of, and she suspected deep in her heart that the Sabbath was only meant for men anyway. Surely He would approve. Her work would count in her favour. But it was a sin, she remembered vaguely, to court His favour, to say, “Look what I’ve done, Lord.” It was the sin of Pride. At least some said it was. She couldn’t remember who, or whether she had been told to believe or disbelieve them—there were so many heresies, traps awaiting those impure in body and mind—but words such as Faith, Works and Elect circled one another in her thoughts.

Well, Katie concluded dismally, working on Sundays could only add to the weight of sin she carried already. She picked up the black plastic bag. There were still three more rooms to do, then there was dinner to see to. When, she wondered, was it all going to end?

She went downstairs to put the roast in and immediately recognized the new guest standing over the registration book in the hallway. He signed himself in as Philip Richmond, from Bolton, Lancashire, and he told Sam, who was dealing with the details, that he was simply after a few relaxing days in the country. But Katie remembered the moustache and the athletic spring in his step; it was the man she had seen with Chief Inspector Banks and Sergeant Hatchley the day she had run away to Eastvale.

Seeing him there brought back the whole day. Nothing had come of it, really, except that she had caught a minor cold. The housework got done. Not on time, but it got done. Sam never even found out, so there was no retribution at his hands. Nor were there any outbreaks of boils, thunderbolts from heaven, plagues of locusts or other such horrors her grandmother had assured her would happen if she strayed from the path.

She felt as if she had lost sight of the path completely now. That was all she really knew about what was happening to her. The conflicting voices in her mind seemed to have merged into
one incomprehensible rumble, and much of the time she felt as if she had no control over her thoughts or deeds.

There were clear moments, though. Like now. Outside, the landscape was fresh after the previous few days’ rain, which was now rising in sun-charmed wraiths of mist from the lower fell-sides and the valley bottom. And here, in their hall, stood a man she recognized as having a close association with the police.

She hadn’t seen what all the fuss was about the previous evening, when Sam had stumbled home from the White Rose in a very bad mood.

“He’s gone to find her,” he had said, scowling. “All the way to bloody Canada. Just to find her.”

“Who?” Katie had asked quietly, confused and frightened of him. In moods like this he was likely to lash out, and she could still feel the pain in her breast from the last time.

“Anne Ralston, you silly bitch. That copper’s taken off to Toronto after her.”

“Well, what does it matter?” Katie had argued cautiously. “If she killed that man all those years ago, they’ll put her in jail, won’t they?”

“You don’t know nothing, woman, do you? Nothing at all.” Sam hit out at her and knocked the wooden cross off the mantelpiece.

“Leave it,” he snarled, grabbing Katie by the arm as she bent to pick it up. “Can’t you think of anything but bloody cleaning up?”

“But I thought you wanted me—”

“Oh, shut up. You don’t know nothing.”

“Well, tell me. What is it? Why does it matter so much that he’s gone chasing after Anne Ralston in Canada? You hardly knew her. Why does it matter to us?”

“It doesn’t,” Sam said. “But it might to Stephen. She might make things difficult for him.”

“But Stephen hasn’t done anything, has he? How could she harm him?”

“She was his fancy woman, wasn’t she? Then she ran off and left him. She could tell lies about his business, about—hell, I don’t know! All I know is that it’s all your bloody fault.”

Katie said nothing. Sam’s initial rage was spent, she could tell, and she knew she would remain fairly safe if she kept quiet. It was
tricky, though, because he might get mad again if she didn’t give the proper response to his ranting.

Sam sat heavily on the sofa and turned on the television. There was an old black-and-white film about gangsters on. James Cagney shot Humphrey Bogart and ran for it.

“Get me a beer,” Sam said.

Katie got him a can of Long Life from the fridge. She knew it was no good telling him he’d had enough already. Besides, on nights like this, when he’d had a bit more than usual, he tended to fall asleep as soon as he got to bed.

“And don’t forget the Colliers’ party next week,” he added, ripping open the can. “I want you looking your best.”

Katie had forgotten about the garden party. The Colliers had two or three every summer. She hated them.

In the morning, Sam had a thick head and remembered very little about the night before. He sulked until after breakfast, then managed a welcome for the new guest before disappearing somewhere in the Landrover. Katie showed Richmond his room, then went to get on with her work.

So there was a policeman in the house. She wondered why he was there. Perhaps he was on holiday. Policemen must have holidays too. But if he was from Eastvale, he was hardly likely to travel only twenty-five miles to Swainshead for his yearly vacation. Not these days. He’d be off to Torquay, or even the Costa del Sol. Katie didn’t know how much policemen got paid, so she couldn’t really say. But he wouldn’t come to Swainshead, that was for sure. He was a spy, then. He thought nobody would recognize him, so he could keep an eye on their comings and goings while the little one with the scar was in Toronto and the big one was God knows where.

And Katie knew who he was. The problem now was what to do with her knowledge. Should she tell Sam, put him on his guard? He’d spread the word then, like he always did, and maybe he’d be grateful to her. But she couldn’t remember anything about Sam’s gratitude. It just didn’t stand out in her memory like the other things. Did she need it? On the other hand, if Sam had done something wrong—and she didn’t know whether he had or not—then the policeman, Richmond, if that was his real name, might find out
and take him away. She’d be free then. It was an evil thought, and it made her heart race, but . . .

Katie paused and looked out of the back window at the gauze of mist rising like breath from the bright green slopes of Swainshead Fell. It would take a bit of thinking about, this dilemma of hers. She knew she mustn’t make a hasty decision.

II

“I’m afraid there’s hardly anybody here to talk to, Mr . . . er . . . ?”

“Banks. Alan Banks. I was a friend of Bernard Allen’s.”

“Yes, well the only person I can think of who might be able to help you is Marilyn Rosenberg.” Tom Jordan, head of the Communications Department at Toronto Community College, looked at his watch. “She’s got a class right now, but she should be free in about twenty minutes, if you’d like to wait?”

“Certainly.”

Jordan led him out of the office into a staff lounge just big enough to hold a few chairs and a low coffee-table littered with papers and teaching journals. At one end stood a fridge and, on a desk beside it, a microwave oven. The coffee-machine stood on a table below a connecting window to the secretary’s office, beside a rack of pigeon-holes for staff messages. Banks poured himself a coffee and Jordan edged away slowly, mumbling about work to do.

The coffee was strong and bitter, hardly the thing to drink in the thirty-three-degree heat. What he really needed was a cold beer or a gin and tonic. And he’d gone and bought Scotch at the duty-free shop. Still, he could leave it as a gift for Gerry Webb. It would surely come in handy in winter.

It was Monday morning. On Sunday, Banks had slept in and then gone for a walk along the Danforth. He had noticed the signs of yuppification that Gerry had mentioned, but he had found a pleasant little Greek restaurant, which had served him a hearty moussaka for lunch. Unlike Gerry, Banks enjoyed Greek food.

After that, he had wandered as far as Quinn’s. Over a pint, he had asked around about Bernie Allen and shown Anne Ralston’s
photograph to the bar staff and waitresses. No luck. One down, two dozen to go. He had wandered back along the residential streets south of Danforth Avenue and noticed that the small brick house with the green-and-white porch fence and columns was a sort of Toronto trademark.

Too tired to go out again, he had stayed in and watched television that evening. Oddly enough, the non-commercial channel was showing an old BBC historical serial he’d found boring enough the first time around, and—much better—one of the Jeremy Brett “Sherlock Holmes” episodes. The only alternatives were the same American cop shows that plagued British TV.

He had woken at about nine o’clock that Monday morning. Still groggy from travel and culture-shock, he had taken a shower and had had orange juice and toast for breakfast. Then it was time to set off. He slipped a sixties anthology tape of Cream, Traffic and Rolling Stones hits in the Walkman and put it in the right-hand pocket of his light cotton jacket. In the left, he placed cigarettes and Hardy’s
Tess of the D’Urbervilles,
the only book he’d brought with him.

Jacket slung over shoulder, he set off, following Gerry’s directions. A rolling, rattling streetcar ride took him by the valley-side, rife with joggers. The downtown towers were hazy in the morning heat. Finding the westbound platform at Broadview subway station was every bit as straightforward as Gerry had said, but changing trains at Yonge and getting out to the street at St Clair proved confusing. All exits seemed to lead to a warren of underground shopping malls—air-conditioned, of course—and finding the right way out wasn’t always easy.

Still, he’d found St Clair Avenue after only a momentary diversion into a supermarket called Ziggy’s, and the college was only a short walk from the station.

Now, from the sixth floor, he looked out for a while on the office buildings opposite and the cream tops of the streetcars passing to and fro below him, then turned to the pile of journals on the table.

Half-way through an article on the teaching of “critical thinking,” he heard muffled voices in the corridor, and a young woman
with a puzzled expression on her face popped around the door. Masses of curly brown hair framed her round head. She had a small mouth and her teeth, when she smiled, were tiny, straight and pearly white. The greyish gum she was chewing oozed between them like a new gum disease. She carried a worn, overstuffed leather briefcase under her arm, and wore grey cords and a checked shirt.

She stretched out her hand. “Marilyn Rosenberg. Tom tells me you wanted to talk to me.”

Banks introduced himself and offered to pour her a cup of coffee.

“No thanks,” she said, grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Far too hot for that stuff. You’d think they’d do something about the air-conditioning in this place, wouldn’t you?” She pulled the tab and the Diet Coke fizzed. “What do you want with me?”

“I want to talk about Bernard Allen.”

“I’ve been through all that with the police. There wasn’t really much to say.”

“What did they ask you?”

“Just if I thought anyone had a reason to kill him, where my colleagues were over the last few weeks, that kind of thing.”

“Did they ask you anything about his life here?”

“Only what kind of person he was.”

“And?”

“And I told them he was a bit of a loner, that’s all. I wasn’t the only one they talked to.”

“You’re the only one here now.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She grinned again, flashing her beautiful teeth. “If Bernard didn’t have much to do with his colleagues here, did he have a group of friends somewhere else, away from college?”

“I wouldn’t really know. Look, I didn’t know Bernie that well. . . .”

She hesitated. “Maybe it’s none of your business, but I wanted to. We were getting closer. Slowly. He was a hard person to get to know. All that stiff-upper-lip Brit stuff. Me, I’m a simple Irish-Jewish girl from Montreal.” She shrugged. “I liked him. We did lunch up here a couple of times. I was hoping maybe he’d ask me out sometime but . . .”

“It never happened?”

“No. He was too damn slow. I didn’t know how much clearer I could make it without ripping off my clothes and jumping on him. But now it’s too late, even for that.”

“How did he seem emotionally before he went to England?” Marilyn frowned and bit her bottom lip as she thought. “He hadn’t quite got over his divorce,” she said finally. “So I guess he might have been off women for a while.”

“Did you know his ex-wife?”

“No, not really.”

“What about her lover?”

“Yeah, I knew him. He used to work here. He’s a louse.”

“In what way?”

“Every way. Strutting macho peacock. And she fell for it. I don’t blame Bernie for feeling bad, but he’d have been well rid of her anyway. He’d have got over it.”

“But he was still upset?”

“Yeah. Withdrawn, sort of.”

“How did he get on with his students?”

“Well enough, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“He cared about literature, but most of the students don’t give a damn about James Joyce or George Orwell. They’re here to learn about business or computers or electrical engineering—you know, useful stuff—and then they think they’ll walk into top, high-paying jobs. They don’t like it when they find they all have to do English, so it makes our job a bit tough. Some teachers find it harder than others to adjust and lower their expectations.”

“And Bernie was one?”

“Yeah. He complained a lot about how ignorant they were, how half of them didn’t even know when the Second World War was fought or who Hitler was. And, even worse, they didn’t care anyway. Bernie couldn’t understand that. He had one guy who thought Shakespeare was a small town in Saskatchewan. That really got to him.”