The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (4 page)

No, thinks Nelson. He’s pretty sure that’s not one of the therapies on offer. Then he thinks back to yesterday and Cathbad pointing out the spot where Chloe had appeared to him. ‘Here. By this white tombstone.’ The other stones had been grey, covered with lichen and the accumulated grime of the years, but the grave which Chloe had been standing next to was white. As if it had been newly cleaned.

Chapter 6

If Chesterton is pleased to see Justin, he doesn’t show it. When his owner arrives the cat stares at him coldly for a moment and then stalks out of the room with his tail in the air.

‘Still the same old Chesterton,’ says Justin.

‘Yes,’ says Cathbad. ‘I think we came to some sort of understanding, though I wouldn’t say we bonded exactly.’

Justin has bought Cathbad a bottle of Irish whisky and a small statue of the Virgin Mary. Cathbad is delighted with both presents and balances the glass figurine on his hand.

‘She glows in the dark,’ says Justin. ‘Very useful if you’re lost on a lonely road with only a religious icon to keep you company.’

Cathbad is never quite sure about Justin’s religious convictions. He’s a layman, but Cathbad knows that he once studied for the priesthood. Now he seems happy being a waspish, slightly cynical presence on many local committees and charities. He’s also a guide at the priory and a volunteer at the museum. He’s a respected historian too and often gives lectures in London. Cathbad first met Justin when they were both concerned with saving the remains of an anchorite’s cell in the grounds of a Norwich church. Justin hadn’t minded Cathbad turning up to meetings in his druid’s robes and referring to the spiritual energies of the site. Cathbad, for his part, had overlooked Justin’s weakness for waistcoats and foppish cravats. The campaign had been successful and, by the end of it, Justin and Cathbad were firm – if respectfully distant – friends.

‘I had a religious visitation of my own when you were away,’ Cathbad says now.

He tells Justin about seeing Chloe Jenkins in the graveyard and the subsequent discovery of her body.

‘So that’s why there were all those policemen on the Fakenham Road,’ says Justin. ‘I had to go the long way round.’

‘My friend Janet tried to persuade me that I’d seen a vision of the Virgin Mary.’

‘Like good old Richeldis de Faverches? It’s possible, I suppose.’

Cathbad looks at his friend. ‘Have you ever seen anything in the graveyard? Or in the house?’

Justin smiles and bends to stroke Chesterton, who has come back into the room. ‘This is a holy house, did you know that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was once owned by a holy woman called Dame Judith de Hare. She was an anchoress, like Julian of Norwich. Dame Judith used to see regular visions of the Virgin Mary. She described her as being dressed in blue with a heavenly countenance. It’s documented in the parish records.’

‘Have you ever seen her?’

‘No.’ From his tone, Cathbad thinks Justin sounds disappointed.

‘I think Chesterton’s seen Dame Judith, though. Sometimes he’s sitting here with me in the evening and suddenly he stiffens and stands up, his hair standing on end, eyes staring.’

Cathbad wouldn’t put it past Chesterton to be putting this on, but he doesn’t voice this thought. Instead he says, ‘So you haven’t seen any ghosts here?’

‘No I haven’t,’ says Justin. ‘And I don’t suppose even the ghosts will get any rest now with all these policemen flat-footing around.’

‘I’m sure they won’t bother you.’

At that moment there’s a knock on the door. It’s Nelson, asking if he can look in the graveyard.

*

Nelson had intended to go straight into the churchyard via the lych-gate. But then he had seen Cathbad silhouetted in the window of the cottage and thought that he’d call in and ask a bit more about the events of Wednesday night. He hadn’t reckoned on the door being opened by a man in a tweed suit and a yellow waistcoat. He has a neat moustache and reminds Nelson of one of the animals in
The Wind in the Willows,
memories of a far-off school adaptation with Rebecca as Ratty.

Nelson introduces himself. The man grins delightedly and says that his name is Justin something double-barrelled.

‘My friend and I were just discussing the case.’

‘Hi, Nelson.’ Cathbad appears at Ratty’s shoulder.

‘Hallo, Cathbad. Might have guessed that you’d be gossiping.’

Justin Double-Barrelled looks from one to the other. ‘Do you two
know
each other?’

‘We’re old friends,’ says Cathbad. ‘We’ve even solved a few crimes together.’

‘Starsky and Hutch,’ says Nelson. ‘That’s us.’

Justin stands aside to let Nelson into the house. ‘Can I offer you anything to drink, Detective Chief Inspector? I’ve just returned from a work trip so things are in a bit of a state.’ He gestures at the perfectly tidy room, which has a wheelie suitcase in the centre of it.

‘No, thank you very much. I’d just like to see the churchyard again.’ Nelson despises wheelie suitcases.

The three of them walk through the graves. Although it’s only three in the afternoon, it’s already getting dark. A fine mist hovers in the air, making the tombstones and the trees merge into a hazy grey backdrop. The grave where Chloe Jenkins was seen stands out like a beacon. Nelson crosses over to examine the stone.

‘Doreen Westmondham,’ he reads, ‘1940 to 2002. Beloved wife, mother and grandmother.’

He turns to Cathbad and Justin, who are watching him intently. ‘Do you know anything about this woman?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Justin. ‘I only moved here in 2006. It’s one of the newest graves. Look how white it is.’

‘It’s white,’ says Nelson, ‘because it’s recently been cleaned.’

And by the wall, hidden under a holly bush, he finds what he’s looking for. A cloth and a bottle of something called ‘Deluxe Stone Cleaner’.

Chapter 7

Ruth is late for her meeting with Hilary. She took Kate to school, then had planned to spend a couple of hours at work before heading off to Walsingham for eleven o’clock. But at the university she got caught up first with one of her PhD students anxious about his thesis, then with a colleague who wanted to complain about Phil. Normally this is one of her favourite pastimes but, when she catches sight of the clock, it’s ten thirty.

‘Sorry, Bob, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting.’

Bob’s voice follows her plaintively down the stairs: ‘And he’s even changed the loo paper in the staff bogs.’

She hurries to the car park, book bag bumping on her hip. Her car is parked under a lime tree that drops sticky resin onto the bonnet but this has always been Ruth’s spot, and at the university you don’t change things unless you really have to. The marks on the paint didn’t matter when Ruth had a battered old car, but this one is new, bought last year. It’s smart and comfortable, but instead of a key it comes with a whizzy card device that you click to open the doors. Ruth always had problems finding her car keys, but the card is something else. Now she has to upturn her bag to find it, nestling at the bottom amongst the Polo crumbs and loose tampons. By the time she has inserted the card to start the ignition, the time on the dashboard clock says ten forty-five.

Ruth races through the back roads to Walsingham. This car is faster than her old one, but that doesn’t help when she ends up behind a horse trailer for the first mile and then a man in a hat driving a Nissan Micra for the second. When she finally gets to Walsingham she follows signs to the car park and ends up at the top of the hill behind the farm shop. What was the name of the cafe Hilary mentioned? The blue something. Well, it can’t be far away. Walsingham seems very small, just a village, really. She passes an odd-looking pump-house with a brazier on top, a pub and a couple of shops selling shrine souvenirs. ‘Everything £1’, says one, Ruth’s first experience of a religious pound shop. She walks down the road, past flint and timbered houses, others painted in delicate pastel shades. Halfway down there’s a gateway that’s signposted as leading to the abbey grounds. The heavy wooden gates are shut now, apart from a grille showing a tantalising glimpse of green. The gate with its worn stone gargoyles looks odd amongst the picturesque houses, like a grey growth forcing its way through the wattle and daub. Ruth hurries on, looking in the shop windows for signs that one of them might be a cafe in disguise. As she does so she realises that these are very particular retail outlets. One sells priest’s vestments, gorgeous shades of green, purple and gold. Another has life-size models of the Holy Family, Mary in blue and white with upturned eyes, Joseph solid in russet red and brown, a disturbingly adult-looking baby Jesus. Aid to the Church in Need, The Pilgrim Shop. This must be where priests and vicars go for a spending spree. But, although the car park had been fairly full, there’s not a soul to be seen.

At the bottom of the street she finds the Blue Lady. It’s part-cafe, part-bookshop and, at first, this too looks empty. Then she sees a woman browsing the shelves. Could that be Hilary? She’s about the right height and shape, but this woman has grey hair, cut in a glossy bob. Ruth has a few white hairs, but they always disappear if she changes her parting. Hilary is about her age, forty-five. Could she have gone completely grey?

The woman turns and all thoughts of hair colour vanish. Because the woman is definitely Hilary and she is equally definitely a priest.

‘Hallo, Ruth.’

‘Hallo.’ For one lunatic moment Ruth wonders if she should address her as ‘Reverend’.

Hilary gestures at the dog collar. ‘Sorry to spring this on you, but I couldn’t think of a way to tell you via email.’

‘That’s OK,’ says Ruth. She wonders if it would be socially acceptable to slip out of the cafe and run back up the high street screaming.

‘Shall we sit down?’ Hilary indicates a table in the window. ‘They do nice cakes in here. Do you fancy a cake? I do. It’s not Lent yet.’

Ruth has no idea when Lent is, but she’s surprised to hear a vicar sounding so enthusiastic about cakes. Aren’t they meant to live on bread and water? She only knows one other member of the clergy and he seems to eat and drink fairly normally. But he’s Irish and a Catholic. Her parents’ church has elders, ordinary people who are just holier (and smugger) than the rest of them. She doesn’t really have any experience of C of E vicars, aside from
Rev
or reruns of
The Vicar of Dibley
.

Hilary orders tea and a slice of carrot cake. Ruth goes for coffee and a chocolate brownie.

‘Have you lived in Norfolk long?’ Hilary asks her.

‘About seventeen years.’ Christ, is it really that long?

‘And you work at the university? I’ve looked you up. Very impressive.’

Why? thinks Ruth. Why have you looked me up? Instead she says, ‘Are you still working in archaeology? I mean . . . not now obviously . . .’ Her voice trails away.

‘I worked as an archaeologist for a while,’ says Hilary. ‘Did some fantastic digs in Sussex. At Boxgrove and Whitehawk. But then . . .’ She shrugs. ‘I found God.’

Why do people keep doing this? Ruth’s parents discovered God when she was ten and her life was never the same again. Why couldn’t He just stay hidden?

Feeling she should show an interest, she asks Hilary how long it takes to become a vicar.

‘Ages,’ says Hilary with a brilliant, ageless smile. ‘First there’s the discernment period – where you ask yourself if this is really what God wants for you – then there’s the training. That took three years in my case. Then I was a curate for four years. Now I’m a parish priest in south London.’

‘Where?’ asks Ruth. ‘I’m from south London originally.’

‘I know,’ says Hilary, rather worryingly. ‘My church is in Streatham. Quite a challenging area, very mixed.’

What does ‘mixed’ mean in this context, wonders Ruth. Black and white? Rich and poor? Sheep and goats?

‘I’m very happy,’ says Hilary. ‘I love my work and I’m married with a four-year-old son.’

‘I’ve got a five-year-old,’ says Ruth. ‘A daughter. Kate.’

This is something Hilary doesn’t know about her. She beams. ‘That’s wonderful! I wish we could get them together. What does your partner do?’

‘I’m single,’ says Ruth. ‘I’m not with Kate’s father.’

Hilary gives her a compassionate smile. ‘Must be hard work.’

‘It is, sometimes. But I have a lovely childminder and friends help out a lot.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yes, it is.’

Their drinks and cakes arrive and Ruth divides her attention between the chocolate brownie and wondering how she can get round to asking why it was so important that they meet and have this fascinating chat about lifestyles. Then Hilary, cutting her cake into tiny cubes, says, ‘Are you wondering why I wanted to see you?’

‘Well, I . . .’

‘The thing is, Ruth . . .’ For the first time Hilary’s sunny glow falters. She looks older, and afraid. ‘The thing is, I’ve been getting these letters.’

‘What sort of letters?’

‘The thing is,’ says Hilary again, cubing the cubes, ‘there are some people who just don’t like the idea of women priests.’

Ruth knows. She’s read about it in the
Guardian
. Though, to be honest, she usually skips those articles on the way to the TV listings.

‘Most women priests get abuse of some kind, people saying things, refusing to come to their services. When I first started getting the letters I didn’t think anything of it. A rite of passage, that’s what Brian, my husband, says.’

‘What does Brian do?’ Well, Hilary had asked her.

‘He’s a priest too.’ Hilary smiles. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? But we met at theological college. He’s a school chaplain.’

‘So what do these letters say?’

‘Well at first it was the usual stuff about all the disciples being men, women not being worthy, women’s vocation being motherhood and domesticity. I could ignore all that. You get it all the time. Then, at the end of last year, the tone seemed to change, to become nastier, more sinister. But what worried me most were the references to archaeology.’

‘To archaeology?’

‘Yes. And that worried me because it was specific to me. The letter-writer must know that I used to be an archaeologist. And recently there are references to Norfolk. He must have found out that I was coming to this conference.’

Ruth notes that Hilary assumes that the writer is male. In her experience misogyny is not always confined to men.

‘So I thought,’ Hilary goes on. ‘I thought, why don’t I talk to Ruth? She’s in Norfolk and she knows all about archaeology. And, when I looked you up, I saw you were a special advisor to the police.’

Damn that LinkedIn profile. Ruth says, ‘If the letters are threatening, you must go to the police. I’m not a member of the police. I’m just an archaeologist who advises them on buried bones. I can’t investigate this for you. I’m not Miss Marple.’

‘But if you would just look at the letters . . .’

‘Look,’ says Ruth. ‘I know a policeman. Someone fairly senior. He’s a good man. He’ll take this seriously. Believe me, I know. Will you talk to him?’

Hilary looks at her squarely. ‘If you’ll read the letters.’

‘Am I being blackmailed by a priest?’

Hilary reaches out to touch her hand. ‘No, of course not. It would just be a comfort to me if you would read them. You can pass them on to this policeman if you think it’s worth it.’

Ruth sighs. ‘All right.’

Hilary reaches into her voluminous backpack and Ruth realises that she had the letters with her all the time. Did she always count on being able to persuade Ruth?

‘Thank you, Ruth. And maybe we could meet up again? The conference lasts for a week.’

‘What’s it about?’

Hilary grins and Ruth sees the first trace of the old Erik-baiting Hilary. ‘Preparing for Episcopacy. That should really upset the letter-writer.’

Ruth looks it up later; it’s something to do with becoming a bishop.

*

Tim, too, is out of his comfort zone. He is in a room that could almost be the setting for some early evening costume drama: low sofas, a herd of spindly-legged tables, an upright piano, doors leading onto a perfect, landscaped garden. Only the giant TV screen embedded in the Regency wallpaper spoils the illusion. That and the hundreds of condolence cards displayed on the marble fireplace, the bookshelves and many of the little tables. Tim, looking for somewhere to put his coffee cup, can’t escape the words: sympathy, sorrow, love, consolation, angel. But, then again, what do you say when someone has died? When he was at school one of his friends lost a brother in a shooting incident (it was that kind of school) and, whilst Tim’s mother had had all the words, or at least knew where to find them in the Bible, Tim had found himself avoiding that friend because he didn’t know what to say. He had hated himself for it.

Julie Jenkins sees him looking and slides a silver coaster under the cup.

‘Thank you.’ Tim smiles at her and is encouraged to get a wobbly smile back. ‘Be charming,’ Nelson had said to him, as if suggesting that he employ the dark arts. ‘Some people find you charming, I hear.’ Maybe that was a reference to Superintendent Whitcliffe. Even so, the remark had made Tim uneasy.

‘Thank you so much for seeing me,’ he says now to Julie and Alan, sitting close together on one of the sofas. ‘I know how hard this must be for you, but it’s very important for us to get a complete picture of Chloe.’

He wishes he hadn’t used these words because, over the fireplace, there is an actual picture of Chloe, an oil painting, presumably of her with her sister. The two faces, both impossibly beautiful, stare sadly down at him.

Julie sees him looking. ‘That’s Chloe and Lauren. It was painted when Chloe was seventeen and Lauren twenty.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ Tim’s no expert but he doesn’t think the artist will be winning any prizes – the style is painting-by-numbers crossed with Athena poster – but there is no doubt that the girls themselves are lovely.

‘Yes. They were very close.’ Julie catches herself using the past tense and her mouth wobbles as the tears begin to flow again.

‘Where’s Lauren now?’ asks Tim, as Alan silently passes his wife a tissue.

‘She’s a flight attendant,’ says Alan. ‘Working long-haul. She came home as soon as she heard, but she’s with her boyfriend today. I don’t think she likes being here.’ He gestures at the luxurious room with the flowers and the angels and the messages of condolence.

‘Are you in the aviation business too, Mr Jenkins?’ Tim knows the answer already but, even if he hadn’t, the room would have given him a clue. Apart from the one of the girls over the fireplace, most of the pictures are of planes: biplanes coasting over grey seas, modern jumbos on the runway, uniformed men with wings and gold braid on their caps. But he meant to give the bereaved father something else to think about, and it works. Alan straightens up immediately.

‘Yes. I used to be in the RAF, but now I’m a commercial pilot.’

‘The whole family are mad about planes,’ says Julie. ‘Both girls have amateur pilots’ licences.’

‘Really?’ It’s hard to imagine Chloe, the glamorous model, flying a plane, but, of course, that’s what this interview is for. To see the whole person, not just the murder victim.

‘It started when they were young,’ says Julie. ‘When we were still living on the base. At RAF Skulthorpe.’

This name rings a faint bell with Tim. A bell that seems to speak in the voice of his sat nav.

‘Skulthorpe. Is that in Norfolk?’

‘Yes.’ Julie holds the tissue to her eyes. ‘It’s very near where she was . . . It’s near the Sanctuary.’

This is interesting. As far as he knows, the investigating team have no idea that Chloe was originally from Norfolk.

‘When did you leave Norfolk?’ he asks.

‘When Chloe was eight. She was sad to go. She loved it there. But Alan left the RAF and we needed to be near the big airports.’

‘Tell me something about Chloe,’ says Tim. ‘What sort of a child was she?’