The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (22 page)

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Nelson suspects Ruth knows exactly what he means, but she’s not going to admit it in her present mood. ‘Anyway Freya’s in Walsingham for the Passion Play. A letter was hand-delivered to her today. It looks to me like it was sent by the same person who wrote to Hilary.’

‘Does he want to meet her at three o’clock tomorrow too?’

‘No, but he says God will strike her down in her wickedness.’

‘And she didn’t think to call the police? What’s wrong with these people?’

‘What do you mean, “these people”? Women or women priests?’

Nelson thinks it’s best to ignore this. ‘What else did the letter say?’

‘Something about Good Friday and not being worthy. And there’s a quote from
Macbeth
.’

‘But you think it’s from the same person.’

‘Yes, I do. It was addressed to “Dear Jezebel”.’

Nelson is silent for a few minutes and Ruth says, ‘So this must mean that Stanley Greenway can’t have written the letters.’

‘Leave the policing to me, Ruth.’

‘I’m only too happy to.’

Another silence. Nelson tries for a conciliatory tone. ‘Do me a favour, Ruth, stay away from Walsingham tomorrow. It’s probably nothing, but there’s obviously someone rather disturbed wandering around.’

Ruth laughs and, for a moment, Nelson thinks that it’s all right again. Ruth has forgiven him and they can go back to their previous spiky but affectionate relationship. Then Ruth says, in a hard, tight voice, ‘Why would I want to do you a favour?’

Chapter 26

18
^th
April 2014, Good Friday

Walsingham is already buzzing with activity by the time that Ruth arrives at one o’clock. The streets are full of robed people, not just priests, monks and nuns, but also sundry apostles and residents of first-century Jerusalem. Ruth has to park her car some way out of the village and, as she walks, she sees more men with tea-towels on their heads than she would have thought humanly possible. Women too, and children, some with wings and halos, and even a patient-looking donkey or two. But even the thought of how much Kate would enjoy seeing a real-life donkey does not make her wish she had brought her daughter with her. She thinks of the line in the last letter that was sent to Hilary: ‘You would not heed my warnings’, and of the threat wrapped up in the quotation from
Macbeth
: ‘then you will be heard no more’.
No, Kate is much safer with Sandra.

She is meeting Cathbad at The Bull Inn, where they are having lunch. Cathbad has booked a table, knowing that the place will be heaving. ‘We don’t want to end up with no room at the inn,’ he said, ‘although that has a biblical precedent, of course.’

Ruth has to fight her way through a regular army of apostles to get into the pub. Inside she can see more tea-towels, as well as a man apparently dressed as Herod. Does he even come into this bit of the story?

Cathbad is sitting at a corner table under a noticeboard crammed with Technicolor saints and sepia photographs of priests. The whole place is beginning to make Ruth feel rather anxious. She was never, for one moment, going to stay away because Nelson told her to, but, all the same, it is a rather frightening feeling that somewhere amongst the robed hoards there is the person who wrote to Freya ‘Beware, for the Lord sees into your soul. He will strike you down in your wickedness’. Don’t be stupid, she tells herself. The letter-writer is probably not the same person as the murderer and Nelson knows all about it: the place will be swarming with police. But, looking around, she can see disciples, angels, Mary and Joseph – but nobody in police uniform.

Still, Cathbad has already got her a glass of red wine, which does help. He fights his way through the disciples to order them two roast beef sandwiches.

‘I thought there were only twelve apostles,’ says Ruth, when he gets back.

‘There are twelve apostles in the Passion Play,’ says Cathbad. ‘This lot are just the audience. They like to come dressed up.’

‘Are the rest professional actors?’

‘Some of them. I think Jesus and some of the main people are professionals. The rest are just keen amateurs. You heard Justin saying that he was Pontius Pilate.’

‘That’s a good part.’

‘The best. Some great lines. “Truth? What is that?” Fabulous stuff.’

That’s not quite how Ruth would describe it, but she knows that the crucifixion makes terrific drama. Even in the Nissen hut where her parents get to grips with being ‘born again’, they can’t deny the power of the story. She remembers, as a child, watching Zefferelli’s
Jesus of Nazareth
. It probably delayed her coming out as an atheist for a few years. Who played Pontius Pilate in that?

‘Rod Steiger,’ says Cathbad. ‘He was incredible. I remember watching it in Ireland. Of course, Robert Powell was far too western-looking to be Jesus. There’s no way He would have had blue eyes.’

‘Rather lovely blue eyes, as I remember,’ says Ruth. ‘That intense stare. I was still nominally a Christian at the time and it had a great effect on me. Mind you, I was probably going through puberty, which didn’t help.’

‘It’s all connected,’ says Cathbad. ‘Religion and sex. Birth and copulation and death. Speaking of which, I’ve been reading the letters.’

Ruth had been rather surprised when Hilary had given Cathbad the letters yesterday, saying that she would value his opinion. She wasn’t surprised that the two had got on so well – religious people always liked Cathbad – but it seemed odd that Hilary, who refused to involve the police, was so willing to involve a part-time druid whom she had only just met. Ruth wonders what Hilary would say if she knew that Cathbad had told Nelson about her plan to meet the letter-writer today.

‘What did you think?’ she asks.

‘I found them very disturbing,’ says Cathbad. ‘All that hatred, both towards Hilary and towards women in general. All that religious feeling, which should be a force for good, turned inwards.’

‘Is religion ever a force for good?’ asks Ruth.

‘Well God is love,’ says Cathbad, ‘and love is always good.’

Is it? wonders Ruth, thinking of the times when she has witnessed crimes committed in the name of love. Thinking, too, of the times when love has led her to places that she would rather not revisit. She doesn’t say this to Cathbad, though, and they are both momentarily distracted by the arrival of their sandwiches. It might not be as powerful as love, but food is pretty important too.

‘Look who’s here, scoffing away in a dark corner.’

Ruth looks up, embarrassed, as ever, to be caught in the act of eating. (
Scoffing?
) They are being addressed by a tall man in a dark-blue robe and a red headdress. The costume is professional in the extreme – not a tea-towel in sight – and it is a few minutes before Ruth recognises DS Dave Clough.

‘Dave! What are you doing here?’

‘I’m undercover, aren’t I?’ says Clough, pulling a chair over to their table. ‘I’m an apostle.’

‘Which one?’ asks Cathbad.

‘The most important one,’ says Clough. ‘Who’s the most important apostle?’

‘Peter,’ says Cathbad. ‘On this rock I will build my church.’

‘I can’t be Peter,’ says Clough, ‘they’ve got a proper actor for him. John too. I’ll be one of the others.’

‘Andrew?’ suggests Cathbad. ‘Matthias? Philip? Bartholomew?’

‘Bartholomew,’ says Clough. ‘I like that.’

‘So what are you doing, Bartholomew?’ asks Ruth. In the background a woman in purple robes is looking vainly for her chair.

‘Keeping an eye on your friend Hilary,’ says Clough. ‘Apparently she’s meeting some nutter at three o’clock. The boss told me to stick to her like glue. She’s an apostle as well, so it’s easy. Cassie got me the gear, her theatre company’s involved in this malarkey. Cassie’s Mary Magdalene.’

That figures, thinks Ruth. She’s only met Cassandra a few times, but she looks the type who would grab the only glamorous part in the gospels.

‘Is Nelson coming?’ she asks.

‘He said he’d be here,’ says Clough. ‘Of course, we’ve got the killer, but we still want to catch the letter-writer bloke.’

‘What if you’ve got the wrong man?’ asks Cathbad.

‘Oh, you would think he’s innocent,’ says Clough. ‘You always think everyone’s innocent. Greenway’s the killer, mark my words.’

Cathbad is about to answer, but a diversion is caused by Mary Magdalene appearing and enfolding Bartholomew in a passionate embrace.

*

Nelson is planning to set out for Walsingham when he gets a message that Stanley Greenway wants to speak to him. Clough and Tim are already mingling with the crowds at the Passion Play. Clough had assured Nelson that Cassandra would provide costumes for the two policemen.

‘You can be the only black apostle,’ Clough told Tim.

‘Simon of Cyrene was black,’ said Tim.

‘Who was he when he was at home?’

‘The man who helped Jesus carry His cross.’

Nelson remembers what Tim had said about his mother, that her life revolved around the church. Clearly some biblical knowledge has rubbed off.

Despite it being a bank holiday, the team are working full strength. They still haven’t made an official arrest for Paula’s murder and all non-essential leave has been cancelled. Nelson finds Tanya in the incident room.

‘Come on. We’re going to prison.’

Stanley is being held in a remand prison just outside Norwich. It’s a Victorian building, not unlike the Sanctuary in appearance, and not unpleasant on this bright spring day. As they pass through the two checkpoints the guards nod at Nelson, but give Tanya covertly appraising glances. He sees her noticing and wants to apologise for this sexist behaviour, but doesn’t know how to start the conversation. Better leave it. Tanya’s a professional, after all.

Stanley is sitting with Nirupa Khan in the visitors’ room. He’s still wearing his tracksuit – remand prisoners are allowed to wear their own clothes – and actually looks calmer and better fed than he did in the Sanctuary.

‘I’ve remembered something,’ he says in greeting.

‘I’ll be looking for some recognition of my client’s cooperation,’ says Nirupa.

Nelson ignores her. ‘What have you remembered?’ he asks Stanley.

‘I went to the service at the Slipper Chapel,’ he says. ‘There’s a group of us and we have a special relationship with the Madonna.’

‘The Madonna Lactans,’ says Nelson.

Nirupa looks at him in surprise, but Stanley just smiles and nods. ‘Exactly so. Well after the service I went to walk back to the Sanctuary across the fields. I love walking in the open air. Then, I don’t know, it all went black and Chloe was lying there at my feet.’

Nelson shifts impatiently. He’s heard all this before.
Then it all went black.
Does Stanley take him for an idiot?

‘What’s this new information you have for us, Stanley?’ he asks. ‘I haven’t come here for the good of my health.’

Stanley smiles his vague, irritating smile. ‘There was a smell.’

‘A smell?’

‘Yes, like incense. I always use incense in my services. The smoke rising up, like our prayers rise up to God. Some of my parishioners complained. They thought it was too High Church . . .’

His voice drifts away, perhaps thinking of other things that his parishioners complained about. Nelson’s mind is racing. Michelle said that the man who attacked her smelt of body odour, soap and joss sticks. Joss sticks are a kind of incense. But these aromas could have come from Stanley himself. After all, he had just come from a Catholic service where, presumably, incense was being wafted all over the place. What’s the incense thing called? Memories of his altar-serving days come back to him. The thurible. He’d enjoyed swinging the thurible.

‘Anything else?’ he asks. ‘Anything about Paula Moncrieff, for example?’

Stanley blinks at him. ‘Paula who?’

Nelson gives up.

*

Cathbad and Ruth follow the crowds towards the abbey gate. Clough and Cassandra have gone for a last-minute cast briefing in the church.

‘I don’t envy the person who explains the Stations of the Cross to Dave Clough,’ says Cathbad.

‘Or tells him that he can’t be Bartholomew.’

There are so many people at the gate that it takes a few minutes to pass through. Once inside, Ruth thinks how different the grounds look from that day in February when she walked amongst the snowdrops with Hilary. The snowdrops have gone, and the grass is already being churned into mud by the footsteps of the faithful. The vast archway still dominates the scene, but now, in front of it, there’s a platform with a huge wooden cross. The cross casts a shadow over the crowd as they gather by the platform where the first station is due to be enacted.

‘So dramatic,’ breathes Cathbad. But the whole thing seems rather nightmarish to Ruth: the cross, the crowds, the gloomy music that is blaring out from loudspeakers high in the trees. She can’t shake the thought that something awful is about to happen – apart from the crucifixion, that is.

‘The first station is right by the site of the holy house,’ she says. ‘How is the letter-writer going to meet Hilary with all these people about?’

‘They’ll have moved off by then,’ says Cathbad. ‘The stations are dotted all over the grounds.’

‘But they come back here at three,’ says Ruth. ‘For that.’ She gestures at the cross.

‘Maybe everyone will be so caught up in the drama that they won’t notice one of the disciples slipping away,’ says Cathbad. ‘Of course, in the scriptures the whole lot of them up and run.’

‘You know a lot about scripture for a druid.’

‘I was brought up a Catholic, as you know. And I love the stories. It’s an essential human act, telling stories.’

As long as you don’t make the mistake of believing them, thinks Ruth, as she follows Cathbad to the first station.

*

Nelson and Tanya drive straight to Walsingham. Well, straight isn’t quite the word, as the journey across Norfolk is convoluted and frustrating. Every time Nelson takes a side road, it is blocked by a tractor or slow-moving holiday traffic. His temper isn’t helped by Tanya yacking on about the case. ‘Does he think Stanley Greenway is insane? Could Greenway have had an accomplice? What about Justin Fitzroy-Jones? Or that woman, Jean Something, in the Sanctuary?’ Eventually, to shut her up, Nelson switches on the radio. It’s R.E.M, a band he likes, but Tanya starts singing along so he turns it off.

‘Was that the first time you’ve been to the prison?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Tanya. ‘I’ve been there to conduct post-arrest interviews.’

‘The atmosphere can be a bit intimidating,’ says Nelson, thinking of the guards and the way they’d looked at Tanya.

‘I don’t care about men staring at me,’ says Tanya. ‘If they keep on, I just tell them that I’m gay.’

‘Why would you say that?’ asks Nelson.

‘Because I am.’

Nelson knows he should say something, to show that he’s not embarrassed (he is embarrassed), to show that this is all in a day’s work for the modern, twenty-first-century policeman.

‘Have you got a . . . a partner?’ That’s the best he can do.

Tanya beams. ‘Yes. Her name’s Petra. She’s a PE teacher. We’re thinking of getting married next year. Perhaps Hilary Smithson could conduct the service. It would be nice to have a woman priest.’

That’s not a view shared by everyone, thinks Nelson. Someone out there thinks women priests are a very bad idea indeed. And it’s not necessarily Stanley Greenway.

‘If you don’t want this known at work,’ he says, ‘you can count on my discretion.’