The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (20 page)

‘Hi, Ruth.’ Hilary came forward to fold her into a warm embrace. ‘The cafe was closed so I was just looking for somewhere else to go, and I ran into Cathbad. He says he’s a good friend of yours.’

‘I’ve never seen him before in my life,’ said Ruth.

Cathbad laughed, but Hilary looked troubled. ‘Sorry, I . . .’

‘It’s a joke,’ said Ruth. ‘Cathbad and I go back a long way.’

‘Have you met Justin Fitzroy-Jones?’ said Cathbad. ‘It was his cottage I was looking after when I saw Chloe Jenkins in the graveyard.’

‘If it was Chloe,’ said Justin with a slightly foxy smile, ‘and not the Blue Lady herself.’

‘You know Freya, of course –’ Hilary carried on with the introductions as if she was at a cocktail party – ‘Freya and I are taking part in the Good Friday Passion Play tomorrow. We’ve just come from a rehearsal.’

Ruth felt out of her depth. She had only the vaguest idea what a Passion Play entailed. ‘What are you doing in the play?’ she asked.

‘We’re apostles,’ said Hilary. ‘And Robin is an apostle too. Have you met Robin Rainsford? He was running the . . . well, the course that I was on.’

Ruth thought that Robin looked rather embarrassed at the mention of the fateful course. He blushed pink, matching his jumper.

‘We were talking about the case,’ said Cathbad. ‘I’m really worried about the police arresting this Stanley Greenway fellow. He looked very vulnerable to me. Do you know anything about it, Ruth?’

Ruth was quick to deny any inside knowledge, but they had got into an enjoyable discussion about wrongful arrests and general police brutality when Nelson spoilt it all by strolling up looking like a thundercloud. He hadn’t addressed a word to Ruth, but sparred briefly with Cathbad and expressed surprise at seeing Hilary in Walsingham. Hilary replied that she was there for the Passion Play, but she coloured when she said it, confirming Ruth’s suspicions.

Now Hilary, Cathbad and Ruth are in The Bull, which is filled to the brim with Easter pilgrims. Hilary seemed anxious to shake off Freya and Robin (‘I know you’ll want to rest’) and now Ruth sees why. As soon as they sit down, Hilary rummages in her voluminous handbag and pulls out a handwritten letter.

‘I wanted to show you this.’

Ruth’s first thought is that, if Hilary has had a new letter, this proves that Stanley Greenway can’t be the killer. Then she remembers that the letter-writer and the killer aren’t necessarily the same person. She and Nelson have been fooled that way once before.

Cathbad takes the letter. Ruth isn’t quite sure how Cathbad has inveigled his way into Hilary’s confidence, but it seems that he has; maybe because he appeared to be so sure of himself with Nelson earlier. Or maybe it’s just the cloak.

Ruth reads over Cathbad’s shoulder.

Dear Jezebel [nice to see that the letter-writer’s salutation has not changed, she thinks],

You would not heed my warnings. If you want to know why those two fallen women had to die, meet me at the holy house on Good Friday at 3 p.m., the hour Our Saviour died for our sins. Do not tell the police, especially Harry Nelson, for he is a sinful man, guilty of the sin of adultery. Come on your own, and I promise that all will be made plain to you. For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.

Yours in God –

Ruth stares at the letter. The phrase ‘for he is a sinful man, guilty of the sin of adultery’ seems to be growing bigger and bigger, almost pulsating on the page. How can the letter-writer know about her and Nelson? Only a few people know, and they are the people closest to them: Michelle, Judy, Cathbad, Clough, Shona. Even her parents don’t know who Kate’s father is. How can this person know? Or maybe it’s just a shot in the dark. She mustn’t give herself away. She is grateful to hear Cathbad’s voice, sounding uncharacteristically serious. ‘Hilary, you aren’t planning to meet this character, are you?’

Hilary takes a sip of her tomato juice. ‘I certainly am.’

‘But it’s madness. If you really suspect that this man is the murderer, you must tell the police at once. Let me ring Nelson.’

‘No,’ says Hilary, pointing at the letter, ‘he says not Nelson.’

‘When did you get this letter?’ asks Ruth.

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘A few weeks . . . And you didn’t tell anyone?’

‘No.’ Hilary has her martyr’s face on again. ‘He wrote to me. It’s up to me to see this thing through.’

‘You can still meet this person,’ says Cathbad, ‘but the police can be nearby, watching, ready to pounce if he attacks you.’

‘Where would they hide? The site of the holy house is out in the open. By three o’clock tomorrow the grounds will be full of people watching the Passion Play.’

‘They can mingle with the crowds,’ says Cathbad, ‘or you can wear a mike. Seriously, they have ways of doing these things.’

It’s quite amusing to hear Cathbad, the man who once hated the police, sounding like an expert on their procedure. Ruth weighs in too.

‘You have to tell the police, Hilary. If this man is the killer, you’ll be in terrible danger.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ says Hilary, sounding stubborn. ‘I’m a black belt in taekwondo.’

*

Nelson is back at the station when he gets the call from Cathbad. He listens impatiently, then with mounting incredulity.

‘Do you mean to say that Hilary Smithson was planning to meet this person and not inform the police?’

‘That’s right. But Ruth and I talked afterwards and thought that you should know. Even if Hilary asked us not to tell you.’

‘Very kind of you both. Why on earth didn’t Hilary want to tell the police?’

‘The letter says not to. In fact it mentions you by name.’

‘Does it? What does it say?’

There’s a slight pause then Cathbad says, ‘Something about you being a sinful man.’

‘Go on.’ Something tells Nelson that there’s more.

‘Oh, more Old Testament stuff. Something about you being an adulterer.’

‘I see.’ Nelson is beginning to understand why Ruth didn’t make this call.

‘It’s very over the top,’ says Cathbad. ‘About looking through a glass darkly – though that’s a beautiful phrase – and all being revealed. But it’s worth taking seriously, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ll make sure I have people at the site of the holy house tomorrow. Three o’clock, was it?’

‘Yes. The hour that Jesus was crucified.’

How the hell do they know that? thinks Nelson. He has trouble getting his team to fill in their timesheets correctly, let alone keep count from two thousand years ago.

‘We’ll be there,’ he says. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘That’s OK,’ says Cathbad. ‘Perhaps now you’ll let that poor priest go.’

‘Goodbye, Cathbad.’

Nevertheless, thinks Nelson as he puts down his phone, Cathbad might have a point. Greenway is in custody, but someone claiming knowledge of the killings is still out there. And there’s nothing to link Stanley Greenway to the letters, although the biblical knowledge could point to someone with theological training. A handwriting expert has concluded (as far as these people ever conclude anything) that the writing in the letters does not match Stanley’s. Is it possible that there are two killers out there, that a different person murdered Paula Moncrieff? Never assume, that’s what Nelson tells his team, but is he guilty of assuming that the two murders were committed by the same person? There were some differences, as he pointed out at the time. Chloe’s body had been laid out carefully, the rosary on her chest; Paula’s left where it had fallen. These details have never been released to the press. Could Paula’s even be a copycat crime, based on what had actually made it to the papers? Are there two murderers in Walsingham?

He thinks of Justin saying that there is nothing to link Stanley Greenway to the murder of Paula Moncrieff. Not that he wants to take policing lessons from some waistcoat-wearing . . . Nelson stops. Something is chiming in his brain, a tiny alarm bell somewhere. What is it? Stanley Greenway, Chloe Jenkins, Paula Moncrieff, Cathbad, Justin . . .

Nelson goes into the incident room. Tim and Tanya are both there, glued to screens.

‘Fuller,’ says Nelson. ‘Can you find the CCTV footage of Stanley Greenway at the Slipper Chapel?’

‘Sure,’ says Tanya. She clearly wants to ask why, but doesn’t dare to. Tim looks up from his work.

Tanya clicks on various icons and a grainy window appears on the screen.

‘There he is,’ says Tanya, ‘on the left.’

But it isn’t Stanley Greenway that Nelson is looking at. He has remembered Tanya’s words when she first spotted Greenway in the footage. ‘Look there,’ she’d said.
‘Next to the man in the waistcoat.’
And the man next to Greenway is none other than waistcoat-wearing Justin Fitzroy-Jones.

Chapter 25

Maundy Thursday, afternoon

Ruth drives home, feeling that her hard-won serenity is, once again, under threat. Over the last few weeks she has concentrated on work and looking after Kate and has almost succeeded in not thinking about Nelson. Well, not much anyway. When he arrives to pick up Kate she manages to chat to him pleasantly enough, not rising when he reminds her about new child car-seat regulations or reminding him how to pronounce his daughter’s name. She hopes that he quakes before the new ice-queen Ruth and feels shrivelled inside but she has a nasty feeling that he hasn’t noticed any difference.

Still this last month hasn’t been without its pleasures. She and Kate went to Ely with Shona and Louis. They visited St Etheldreda’s Church and were shown the relic by the charming parish priest, Father Tony. The hand itself, enclosed in a small curtained niche, was surprisingly ungrisly. It was just a grey object, made innocuous by its surroundings. Shona, of course, had crossed herself and genuflected madly, partly for Father Tony’s benefit (he was a man, after all, and all men are susceptible to Shona). But it had been a lovely day. Louis didn’t attack Kate once. They visited the soaring cathedral and had tea by the river. Perhaps there is life after Nelson.

But now Hilary’s visit has brought everything back: the murder, the sinister letters, the row with Nelson. Ruth and Cathbad agreed to tell Nelson about the latest missive, despite Hilary asking them not to. ‘You ring him,’ Ruth said to Cathbad. ‘It’ll sound better coming from you.’ Cathbad had looked quizzical, but hadn’t asked any questions. They have arranged to meet at the Passion Play tomorrow. ‘That way we can keep an eye on things,’ said Cathbad, clearly desperate not to miss any of the action. Ruth had agreed, but now she has a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t feel that an afternoon spent watching the re-enactment of a violent death will help matters very much. Besides, she’s dreading seeing Nelson again.

She collects Kate from Sandra, the childminder, at two. At least it’s the holidays, which means she can spend some quality time with her daughter. Unfortunately Kate has had a great morning doing potato prints with Sandra and doesn’t want to come home. It’s at times like this, when Kate actively prefers the company of her childminder to that of her mother, that Ruth feels her whole life – all the juggling of work and childcare and school parents’ evenings – is a complete failure.

‘Come on, Kate,’ she says, trying to keep a happy ‘fun mother’ smile on her face. ‘We can go to the beach and dig in the sand.’

‘I hate sand,’ says Kate. ‘And digging,’ she adds, perhaps knowing that this is what would hurt Ruth most.

‘Well let’s go and see Flint then,’ says Ruth, keeping the smile plastered on.

Kate eventually allows herself to be shepherded to the car and Ruth drives off, waving cheerfully.

Ruth keeps up a merry flow of chat as far as the turn-off for New Road. Then she lapses into silence. The tide is out and the sand stretches forever, interspersed with cool blue lakes and patches of wind-blown grass. Even Kate cheers up a bit at the sight. ‘We
could
go and dig in the sand,’ she says, as if making a huge concession.

‘Not if you don’t want to,’ says Ruth. Honestly, she thinks, what kind of person scores points off a five-year-old?

But, as they get nearer the house, they see a car parked outside.

‘Is it a visitor?’ asks Kate. Such apparitions are rare in her life, but usually mean that fun is cancelled in favour of Mum sitting on the sofa chatting and drinking glasses of wine. Her lower lip starts to protrude.

Ruth is no less apprehensive. She doesn’t recognise the car, so it can’t be Cathbad or Nelson, her only two regular callers. Maybe it’s just someone going for a walk over the Saltmarsh. But there’s a perfectly good car park about half a mile away and bird-watchers are never scared of walking. As Ruth comes to a halt behind the car she sees that the driver is still in their seat. Again, she doesn’t recognise the person’s back view. She takes her phone out of her bag and clicks on Nelson’s number. One false move from her caller and she’ll summon the cavalry.

But, as Ruth gets out, so does the other driver and Ruth recognises her. It’s Freya. Why is she here when Ruth only saw her a few hours ago? Besides, they hardly know each other. At the Briarfields dinner Freya had seemed rather humourless and intense. She was the one who said Norfolk had an ‘unwholesome feel’. Ruth had felt insulted on behalf of her adopted county. And, if Freya hates the place so much, what’s she doing here now? Ruth seems to remember that she lives in Wiltshire.

Still, the woman doesn’t seem to be actually dangerous, so Ruth gets Kate out of the car.

‘Hallo,’ she calls. ‘Have you come to see me?’

‘Yes,’ says Freya, walking towards her. ‘I hope it’s not an intrusion.’

‘Not at all,’ says Ruth. ‘Come in and I’ll make a cup of tea.’

Kate sighs heavily.

When Ruth last saw Freya she was very smart and controlled. Whippet-thin, with short dark hair and a penchant for neutral clothing, she had seemed like the sort of woman who made Ruth feel more than usually untidy and inadequate. But, today, something is different. Freya is still neatly dressed in jeans and a black windcheater, but there’s something about her face that looks slightly hysterical. She sits bolt upright on Ruth’s sofa and places her hands carefully on her lap, as if this is the only thing that will stop her wringing them together. Flint wanders over nosily, but something in Freya’s rigid stance seems to repel him and he meanders off again. Kate gets out her Sylvanians and starts a rather bad-tempered game with them.

‘I’m sorry if I’m intruding,’ says Freya again.

‘You’re not,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s fine. Tea or coffee?’

‘Just water, please.’ Ruth remembers Freya drinking water at the Briarfields evening. Well, she had been too, but only because she was driving. Freya’s choice, then and now, seems more of a moral standpoint. Only bread and water for me, please. The rest of you carry on with your gluttonous eating and drinking. Just don’t expect me to bring you a glass of water while you’re burning in the everlasting fires of hell. Ruth goes to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea, whilst running the water so it’s cold enough for Freya. She’s certainly not going to offer biscuits.

When she gets back, Freya is watching Kate lining up her Sylvanian babies in front of the schoolhouse.

‘I used to have some toys like that when I was young,’ says Freya. ‘Whimsies, I think they were called.’

‘Do you have children?’ asks Ruth.

‘No,’ says Freya. ‘I don’t have a husband either. I suppose I’m married to the job.’ She gestures at her neck as if she’s wearing her dog collar. And, even though she isn’t, her plain black sweatshirt still looks like some sort of uniform.

‘I haven’t got a husband either,’ says Ruth. ‘They’re rather hard to come by, aren’t they?’ She remembers the conversation about Christian dating sites. Hadn’t one of the priests met her husband that way? Ruth dreads the day that her mother learns how to work a computer; she’ll be sending Ruth the hyperlinks in a nanosecond.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I came,’ says Freya.

‘I know you’re here for the Passion Play,’ says Ruth. Although this doesn’t explain why Freya is here, in her house, drinking water and watching Kate play with her miniature woodland animals.

‘Yes,’ says Freya. ‘Hilary suggested it. She thought it might be a way to come to terms with Paula’s death. Visiting the place where it happened and praying for her.’

It occurs to Ruth that her old friend is very fond of managing people. Meet me here, do this, read that. Hilary might say that it’s all for altruistic reasons, but it’s rather bossy all the same.

‘I’ve never been to the Passion Play,’ she says, ‘but Cathbad and I are going to watch it tomorrow. We’ll look out for you.’

‘The thing is,’ says Freya as if Ruth hadn’t spoken, ‘do you remember Hilary talking about those anonymous letters?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth.

‘Well, I’ve had one,’ says Freya, twisting her hands together.

‘Have you?’ Ruth’s heart sinks.

‘Can I show you?’

Please don’t, screams Ruth silently. But Freya is already getting a piece of paper out of her backpack.

Dear Jezebel [the old ones are the best],

Good Friday is the day of Our Lord’s Passion and Death. We kneel before the True Cross and know that we are not worthy. Beware, for the Lord sees into your soul. He will strike you down in your wickedness. You strut and fret your hour upon the stage, but then you will be heard no more.

There’s no signature. Even so, Ruth is pretty sure that this is the same person who wrote to Hilary. There are too many similarities: Jezebel, the True Cross, the threatening suggestion that the Lord (and, by association, the letter-writer) is watching at all times. Only the last line sounds different somehow. That’s not the Bible, is it? It sounds like Shakespeare.

‘
Macbeth
,’ confirms Freya, ‘I read English at university. It’s the “Tomorrow and tomorrow” speech: “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale, Told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.”’

As Freya quotes the lines, she suddenly reminds Ruth of Shona, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of Shakespeare. It’s not a comparison that would have occurred to her before, what with Shona being a Titian-haired beauty and Freya being a priest who wears windcheaters and sweatshirts. It’s more the rapt look that came over Freya’s face when she said the words. She might not love Shakespeare more than God, thinks Ruth, but it’s a close thing.

‘When did you get this?’

‘After I saw you in Walsingham I went back to my B&B. This was waiting for me. Hand-delivered.’

So the letter-writer is someone who lives in or around Walsingham, thinks Ruth. Aloud, she says, ‘Have you shown this to Hilary?’

‘No,’ says Freya. ‘I thought I’d come to you first.’

Of course, thinks Ruth, that makes perfect sense. Accost a woman you’ve hardly met, but don’t consult your friend and colleague who has actually received similar letters herself. But she doesn’t think this is the most important issue here.

‘You need to show this to the police,’ she says.

‘They won’t be interested.’

‘I think they will. Please tell DCI Nelson about it.’

‘DCI Nelson interviewed us after Paula died,’ says Freya. ‘I can’t say I took to him much. He was rather brusque.’

‘He can be like that,’ says Ruth, thinking,
Tell me about it
. ‘But he’s a good policeman. He’ll take it seriously.’

‘The reason I’m showing it to you,’ says Freya, ‘is because of the True Cross reference. Hilary said that a relic of the True Cross had been found near Walsingham. I thought you might know something about it, being an archaeologist.’

‘A holder, supposedly meant to contain a relic of the True Cross, was found at Walsingham,’ says Ruth. ‘I’ve been doing some research, though, and apparently there were loads of such relics about at the time.’

Freya doesn’t ask why she was doing the research. Instead she says, ‘I’ve got no patience with that sort of thing. Icons and relics and angels and incense. It saddens me that some of my fellow women priests seem to have a weakness for ritual.’

‘I’m not a believer,’ says Ruth, ‘but there’s evidence that even the earliest human societies practised some forms of ritual. There are Stone Age bodies buried with animal bones and special stones, for example.’

‘What do you mean, special stones?’

‘There are fossils called shepherd’s crowns,’ says Ruth, ‘you can find them on the beach here. Well, they’ve also been found in Palaeolithic graves.’

Freya looks less than interested in Palaeolithic burial practices. Ruth remembers that Freya has no time for so-called ‘New Age’ thinking.

‘You’re an old friend of Hilary’s, aren’t you?’ she says.

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, wondering if this is really true. ‘We were at university together.’

‘Both studying archaeology?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must have been surprised when she decided to become a priest.’

‘Yes, I was,’ says Ruth. ‘But we hadn’t been in contact for quite a few years. People do change. I know I have.’

‘I haven’t changed,’ says Freya. ‘I’ve wanted to be a priest for as long as I can remember. Of course, at first it seemed impossible, as if the Church of England would never change its position. But I prayed. I prayed fervently. And it came to pass.’

Freya says this with a certain smugness, as though her prayers alone have changed the mind of the General Synod. Ruth thinks it’s time to get the conversation back on track.

‘Are you going to take this letter to the police?’ she asks. ‘I really think you should. It’s quite threatening. All that stuff about striking people down in their wickedness.’

‘It’s not worth it,’ says Freya, gathering up her backpack. ‘It’s like the
Macbeth
quotation. “Full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.”’

But
Macbeth
, thinks Ruth after Freya has left, is not the best omen. Not only is the play notoriously unlucky, but she seems to remember that quite a few people get murdered in it. Why did Freya want to show her the letter? After all, they had only spoken a few words at that fatal dinner. Was it really because of the vague archaeological reference or was it something altogether more sinister? Should she, Ruth, tell Nelson, even if Freya refuses to? The fact that the letter was hand-delivered must be significant, after all.

She sits on the sofa and Kate, miraculously sunny again, comes and sits on her lap. ‘I do like you, Mum,’ she says. ‘I love you,’ says Ruth, giving her a fierce hug. She is certain of one thing. Kate will not be coming to the Passion Play with her tomorrow. Kate will stay safely with Sandra making potato prints or playing in the sandpit. Places like Walsingham can be dangerous.