The Discourtesy of Death Page 14

  The wind brought the sound of the sea over the Denes and the thick grass struggled against the grip of the sand.

  22

  Mitch’s club was situated in a long narrow cellar beneath a hairdresser’s and, appropriately, an office belonging to an insurance company. The walls were red and the ceiling, supported by narrow iron pillars, was black. Small tables huddled side by side, cramped between the low stage at one end and the glittering bar at the other. Anselm had not walked down those basement stairs for years. The last time he’d paid at the door as a barrister; now he was a monk, who got in for free. Inside, nothing had changed. Not even the decor. It had, in fact, become suitably tatty. All that shone were the bottles and glasses and the instruments under the bright lights. It was going to be a good night. The place was crowded. A couple of sax players were knocking out Anselm’s kind of tune.

  ‘Never thought I’d see you here again,’ said Mitch, smiling.

  ‘Me neither.’

  The Prior had approved of the outing because Anselm felt sure that Mitch had something to say about the missing £287,458.16; that his foray into truth-finding had already prompted a desire to confess. Anselm wasn’t entirely surprised. After a couple of weeks all novices tend to break down and spill out the life story they’ve never told anyone before. It’s part of the reconstruction process. And Anselm was ready to listen. They were sitting at Mitch’s private table in a corner by the wall. He was leaning forward, confidentially.

  ‘I know who wrote that letter to your Prior.’

  ‘Do you?’ replied Anselm, surprised. He’d expected a different kind of opener.

  ‘Yes. Helen Goodwin.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘She claimed not to have remembered the article in the Sunday Times. Nigel had told her about it. It’s memorable. You’re memorable.’

  Anselm shook his head. ‘The letter blames Peter.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Mitch nodded. ‘She set you on the path. She knew you’d go to the police. She knew Manning would tell you about Nigel’s allegations. She knew you’d come to Long Melford. She was expecting you. Gambled you’d come when Nigel was out. Told you what she’d never write down … only Nigel came home and cut her short.’

  ‘Blaming Peter was just a lure so she could hint it was Michael?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Anselm was impressed again. Mitch’s improvisations were getting better.

  ‘But that means the letter wasn’t written by Peter Henderson’s accomplice.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Which would also mean that no one is setting out to kill him.’ Mitch thought for a long moment … and then smiled. Anselm had been right all along: it wasn’t that type of case. But he didn’t say so. He was thinking some more, watched expectantly by Anselm. The sax duo was playing ‘Quiet Please’, a Sidney Bechet curtain-raiser.

  ‘So …’ began Mitch, ‘Helen says Jenny was killed by Michael and Cooper says Jenny was killed by Peter. Either way, it’s a mercy killing and not a murder.’

  Anselm understood now.

  This was Mitch’s concern. Not the theft.

  This was why Mitch had tailed Vincent Cooper and questioned him with ruthless persistence, lying about the private letters he hadn’t in fact known about. On reading Jenny’s desperate note to Nigel the day before, Mitch had come to a few stark conclusions and he’d decided that Anselm should know them, because they had certain implications.

  ‘If you proceed with this investigation,’ he warned, ‘you’ll bring the house down on a family that’s managed to build a fragile peace. No one needs to know what Jenny decided. It was her life … and we have to respect her choice.’

  Anselm nudged his glasses. He was, of course, aware that assisted suicide was a substitute explanation for the allegation of murder. He’d been surprised that Mitch hadn’t mentioned the matter upon leaving Nigel Goodwin. It had been an obvious inference to make. Rather than speak his mind, though, Mitch had charged after Vincent Cooper, evidently intending to bring the investigation to a sort of crisis point … between himself and Anselm.

  An ambience of contentment had taken over the club. The sax players had stopped for a quick break and everyone was chatting and drinking, the hubbub creating an envelope of privacy around Anselm and Mitch. No one was listening to them. No one spotted their seriousness.

  ‘We don’t know what Jenny was going to say to Nigel,’ said Anselm, quietly.

  ‘We can guess. She’d lost hope. She was scared of dying. She’d given up on surprises. She wanted out.’

  ‘Wrong, she wanted to speak to Nigel,’ insisted Anselm. ‘And she didn’t … because someone killed her first.’

  ‘With her consent.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Vincent Cooper said so.’

  Anselm came closer to the table. They were eye to eye now.

  ‘What if Peter made Jenny want to die? What if suicide was his solution to her problem? What if Jenny didn’t have the wherewithal, intellectually and spiritually, to defend herself? What if Jenny was bullied into dying?’

  ‘We’ll never know.’

  ‘What if Peter made it look as though Jenny had chosen death, when in fact she’d longed to live?’

  ‘We’ll never know.’

  ‘What if this fragile peace rests upon the most serious of crimes?’

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Well, I think it does.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if Jenny wanted to live then she was entitled to live. It was her life … a messy, broken, failing life, but it was hers and no one else’s. If someone took it away, then Jenny was simply executed. No family can live with that kind of secret, not in the long run. Windows get broken in Manchester and children end up in hospital.’

  The two sax players had threaded their way back to the stage, drinks in hand. They were smiling, enjoyed the friendly acclaim. Someone called out for ‘After You’ve Gone’. The melody struck up and feet began to tap out the beat. It was a great song, one of Anselm’s favourites; it turned him suddenly wistful and Mitch couldn’t help but soften.

  ‘It’s the letter to your Prior, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s the stumbling block. The author spoke for Jenny. That’s why we have to listen. It’s why we have to keep going and find out what really happened.’

  ‘Maybe they got it wrong … maybe they didn’t know what she was really thinking and feeling, deep down inside.’

  ‘And maybe they did.’ Unable to stop himself, Anselm turned away from Mitch towards the stage, drawn by the delicious hint of melancholy in the refrain. ‘Maybe they’re the one person who knew the secrets of Jenny’s heart … why else would they write to a monk rather than the police? It’s their patch, isn’t it?’

  To loud clapping, Mitch raised his trumpet. The three musicians looked at each other, wondering what they might play. In the end, they took turns to choose, and Anselm had to smile because Mitch kept sending him messages through the song titles, warning him about the investigation. ‘There’s Going to Be the Devil to Pay’ … ‘You Won’t Be Satisfied’ … ‘Don’t Blame Me’. They were at ease again, speaking for the first time about the meaning of life and death; keeping well away from the deeper questions on bop, bebop and the avant-garde. At intervals a young woman with a pierced nose and tattooed fingers brought over bottled beer until, towards midnight, the club closed. The guests left. The musicians got paid. The bar staff went home. But Mitch remained, and so did Anselm. They sat at the corner table, sipping soda water, talking of their very different lives: Anselm of the monastery, Mitch of the club. They found common ground on the subject of oddballs, be they monks or musicians. There were only two truly sensible people left in the world, and they were both seated here in a deserted jazz club.

  ‘It’s not just the letter, is it?’ asked Mitch. ‘There’s something else. Why are you so determined to look beyond the evidence of Vincent Cooper?’

  Ansel
m was too tired to resist. ‘Because I met her once.’

  Mitch gave a slight start and Anselm nodded, ready to explain.

  ‘I was filling in for a hospital chaplain. She was in for some routine tests. A nurse suggested I drop by. I did.’

  ‘You met Peter?’

  ‘No.’

  Anselm hadn’t stayed long because it was late. ‘She told me she had cancer. What can you say?’

  And Anselm, sipping his soda water, told Mitch how cancer had eaten into his mother’s life and those of her husband and children. No one had been equipped to deal with the strain. The illness had shown up everybody’s failings; placed them under pressure and helped them fail one another. There’d been a lot of confusion because no one had been prepared to accept the future. Anselm, however, had tried and been surprised.

  ‘I was nine, very young, like Timothy. I didn’t resist. Helped her go, if you like. We talked about life, how good it was, how each morning was mysterious and wonderful … but that now it was evening and the succession of days would come to an end. Because we were honest with each other, we survived. I was shattered and she was shattered. But she didn’t try to hold onto life and I didn’t ask her to stay. Each remaining moment became charged with meaning … there were even times of ecstasy, impossible to anticipate … they just came like a hot flush … which is why I feel for Timothy. We’ve both stood by a bed wondering what to make of death, wondering what to make of the confusion downstairs …’

  Mitch was turning his glass in circles on a beer mat. He smiled sadness and gratitude for having been trusted. But there was a focus to his stare, something objective and dispassionate.

  ‘You can’t make this investigation into Jenny Henderson’s death an attempt to reproduce your own history.’ Mitch waited, letting his words sink in. ‘You can’t save this other family by … imposing your understanding of what it is to face a crisis. Maybe Jenny saw things differently to your mother. Maybe she wanted to help Timothy differently.’

  Anselm sipped some water. He knew there was more to come; and he knew already what Mitch was going to say. The musician had come full circle, arriving at the point he’d wanted to make when suggesting they meet ‘on his patch’.

  ‘Anselm, I have to be honest. I think the investigation should stop right now. I’ll stay on board for as long as I can. However … if Vincent Cooper’s story is broadly confirmed, then I’m off. You’re on your own. You see, I, too, feel for Timothy. I, too, have stood by a hospital bed. I, too, know about accidents. And I’m not going to destroy the peace that was achieved just because it rests upon a crime, committed because the law didn’t recognise the scale of the predicament. I’m not going to help you make a criminal out of someone who did what you’d never dream of doing … just because you once discovered ecstasy when they’d only found despair.’

  Mitch pulled into Larkwood just as the bell for Lauds was ringing. They’d been up all night. Curiously – perhaps because each had spoken their mind – they were very much at ease with one another, even though their working relationship was now tenuous. So when Anselm said he proposed to meet Doctor Ingleby alone, Mitch knew there was no cloaked rebuff. Handling Peter Henderson’s alleged accomplice would be a delicate matter and two onto one could only be confrontational.

  As Anselm got out of the Land Rover, Mitch said: ‘There’s just one thing that puzzles me about you.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘You’re reluctant to accept Cooper’s evidence that Jenny wanted to die, even though we’ve got the Exit Mask … and yet you believe what he says about Peter … that he was involved in killing her. Why? Why not reject Cooper’s story altogether? Why not drop Peter from the frame and forget the letter to your Prior? What about Michael?’

  Anselm wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, considering the matter. It was a good point. There was, indeed, a glaring inconsistency in his position.

  ‘Instinct, I suppose,’ he replied, aware that his explanation was on the thin side. ‘I just can’t imagine a father killing his daughter. It’s … unnatural. And anyway, he adored her. It’s inconceivable.’

  The thought remained with Anselm as he shuffled into his stall. The bells fell silent, leaving a deep echo to swim through the nave and over the fields, linking the Priory to the world with a fading call to rise from sleep. Into the emerging silence, Father Jerome’s hesitant voice intoned the ancient words that greeted every dawn at Larkwood:

  ‘Deus in adjutorium meum intende.’

  O God, come to my aid. After the communal response, the rest was in English, but Anselm didn’t get that far. He was no longer that which in days of old moved earth and heaven (to quote Tennyson). He’d lost his stamina. Before the short refrain was even complete, Anselm had dropped oars and fallen fast asleep.

  23

  Michael could feel the capped trader watch him with interest. The old man sidled from behind the counter, coming closer to see if he could believe his eyes. The customer was checking the sprouts; pressing them with a thumb to see if they were soft inside, like a ripe melon.

  ‘They’re all nice and firm,’ he said, confidently.

  ‘I can feel that,’ replied Michael, sinking a nail into the skin.

  How much can someone take before he tells you what you want to hear? Michael was thinking of Eugene. How much pressure is necessary before a man begs you to kill him? Before he chooses death?

  ‘Did I tell you about my supplier in Bramfield?’ asked the trader. ‘He talks to ’em. Swears it makes a difference. Can’t see the point.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘They’ll never answer back.’

  ‘No, they won’t.’

  ‘And if they did, what would they say? “Please don’t eat me.” That would make life very complicated … for him, for me, for you. Best thing would be not to listen, but then you wouldn’t feel right when you threw ’em in a pan of cold water. Turned the heat on.’

  ‘You sure wouldn’t.’

  ‘Best thing is not to think about it. What you don’t know can’t harm you. Of course, if you do think about it, a sprout looks like a brain, a very small one, but that’s as far as it goes. You can talk till the cows come home and it won’t understand a thing. Mind you, it just shows you how important appearances can be. My Christine, she can’t eat ’em. Can you guess why?’

  ‘They look like brains.’

  ‘Exactly. Can’t shove her fork in without saying “Ouch”.’

  Michael picked two sprouts and dropped them in a brown paper bag.

  ‘The IRA didn’t like them either,’ he said, in a far-away voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brussels sprouts.’

  The old man took off his tweedy cap and wiped his brow, thinking hard.

  ‘The Irish Republican Army hated sprouts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What … the whole lot of ’em? All those bombers and gunmen?’

  ‘Without exception.’

  The old trader slapped his thigh with his cap, knitting his brows in consternation. Christine had nothing in common with Irish terrorists. She was from Cardiff. So a sprout having the appearance of a brain had nothing to do with it. Then he had a flash of English imperial insight: the Irish … they weren’t that clever.

  ‘Because they thought sprouts might talk back?’ he suggested, not too sure of himself.

  Michael moved along the trestle to a crate of large green cabbages. He glanced back at the old man, pitying his confusion, charmed and wounded by his simplicity.

  ‘I think we’re beginning to understand one another, you and I,’ said Michael, envying his innocence. ‘“Brussels sprouts” was rhyming slang for “touts”. Informers. People who fed intelligence to the British Security Services. When the IRA caught them they weren’t very nice about it. Tied them up and told them to talk. If they confessed, they were shot; if they kept quiet, they were tortured to death. Not much of a choice.’

  ‘That’s what I call hot water.’

/>   ‘No, cold, actually.’

  Michael handed the cabbage to the trader, along with the two sprouts in the paper bag.

  ‘In fairness, sometimes they made an exception. They’d let someone go … a kid for example. But you’d need a pretty convincing story. How much for the veg?’

  The old man’s face showed his fresh bewilderment at his customer’s latest bout of mysterious words and strange choices; the growing enigma of a man he’d thought to be one of the remaining Few: a simple Englishman.

  ‘Anything for the back?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Michael paused. ‘You won’t be seeing me again.’

  ‘You’re off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The continent.’

  The old man nodded as if he should have known all along.

  ‘The cabbage is forty-five pence,’ he said. ‘As for the sprouts, you can ’ave ’em.’

  Michael put the vegetables in the boot of his Citroën and then took the A12 towards Ipswich, crossing the River Orwell south of the city. He then made for Pin Mill, the riverside hamlet where Arthur Ransome had situated We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea and where Jenny had calmly asked Michael to kill her. Having parked the car by a pub, he went to the exact spot where the conversation had taken place: an isolated grassy bank overlooking the salty, winding river. Then, as now, the tide was out. The Orwell had withdrawn. A group of barges with brick-red sails, all huddled together, had been lowered onto the soft bed of ochre sand. Ragged sheets of green algae lay around them like skins, sloughed off by some strange sea creature. Michael listened to the breeze: Jenny was speaking again.

  ‘Seeing them there, tied together, ropes hanging in the sand … makes you wonder if the tide will ever come back.’ She was pointing at the barges, sitting in her wheelchair. ‘Or will they stay like that, waiting, waiting, waiting, sinking slowly into the sand, slowly falling apart.’