Memory and Desire (10 page)

“And what was worse,” said Priscilla, “she was young, unmarried, and very pretty, attracting a few too many glances from the men of the village. So she was accused of witchcraft, specifically of poisoning the well."

“The young vicar,” Trevor went on, “Walter Tradescant, appealed to the villagers’ reason. His efforts might have succeeded except for the Laceys. In Phillip's play Cecil nurtures a guilty passion for Elizabeth, but she spurns him. And Lettice is jealous of Elizabeth's youth and beauty. Such things have happened all too often in the course of history."

“Cecil condemned Elizabeth to death,” concluded Alec sadly. “On grounds that would be laughed out of a court of law today."

Trevor nodded. “For his support of her Walter Tradescant narrowly escaped charges of witchcraft himself. After Elizabeth's death he took her brother—who but for his youth would have suffered as well—and left the village, never to return."

Through the window came a damp gust of wind and a spattering of rain, perfectly timed for the climax of the story. Stagehands were probably stationed outside with hoses and wind machines, Claire thought.

Priscilla got up and shut the window. “More coffee?"

Everyone accepted except the cat, who was blissfully snagging his claws on Trevor's pants leg.

“Was there really a romantic relationship between Walter and Elizabeth?” Claire asked.

“That was probably poetic license on Phillip's part,” replied Trevor. “It does add another dimension to the story. Richard? You're the expert."

“My parents were the experts, Trevor,” Richard replied, his tones so academically dehydrated he might just as well have been discussing the marginal productivity theory of income distribution. “I'm more familiar with The Play and with Phillip's life than with Elizabeth's death. The historical record is sketchy at best."

“Melinda asked that same question about Walter and Elizabeth,” said Alec. “She was a very curious person, in both senses of the word."

It seemed to Claire as though the name fell into the midst of the group like a grenade and lay on the hearthrug ticking. But neither of the Digbys leaped up to throw their bodies over it. Priscilla sighed, said “How terribly puzzling about Melinda,” and passed around the cookies.

Trevor shook his head, said “I often pray for her. I hope she's well and happy somewhere,” and petted the cat. Richard's lips went thin and tight. He said nothing.

Had Alec introduced the topic deliberately? Claire asked herself. His expression was as composed as ever, as though his mind and body were filled with the same evocative silence as the village church. “Melinda was after starting her novel with Phillip Lacey playing at the occult and writing his play,” he said, “then going back to Elizabeth and how she was charged—wrongly—with devil worship."

“She probably told y'all more about the book than she did me. Usually she did her research, then worked it into a pattern by bouncing it off me. She'd have done a great job, maybe even had a bestseller.” Claire intercepted a quick darting glance from Richard.

“Fictionalized history,” Trevor said, “is quite popular these days."

“That's what The Play is, actually,” added Priscilla.

Richard set his cup and saucer on the table. He stood up. “Thank you very much for the coffee, Trevor, Priscilla."

“Must you be going?” Priscilla asked, rising as well.

“Needs must,” answered Richard. “Rehearsal tonight, and I've not swotted up my lines yet. Cheers, Alec. Claire. No, please, Priscilla—I'll show myself out.” And he was gone. The front door opened and shut, admitting a brief sound of running water.

Maybe getting rained on would soften him up a little, Claire thought. Although the prospect of Richard soft was a little discouraging, like seeing one of the old stone memorials cracked and chipped by acid rain. Had he bailed out abruptly there or was she simply sensitized to his behavior? No one else seemed to notice. Even the cat dozed peacefully on.

It could be that while Americans were often kind of tickled to find horse thieves dangling from the family tree, Richard was embarrassed about Phillip and Cecil.... No. If it was embarrassment that was making him downplay his family connections to Somerstowe, why act in The Play?

What was more likely, Claire thought, was that he felt a proprietary interest in The Play. Melinda's novel might have been a burr under his saddle. Maybe he'd offered his help and she brushed him aside. Maybe he thought she was going to sensationalize the story, even though it was pretty sensational as it was. Whatever, she was intending to cash in on his family's history and his family's scholarly work as well. And he had no way of stopping her—The Play's historical basis was in the public domain.... Richard had no legal way to stop her, rather. But murdering someone for writing a novel seemed a little drastic.

“Claire?” Alec asked, and she jumped.

“Oh, sorry, just...”
Wondering about motives.
“The Nairs were telling me that the National Trust gets the income from The Play to maintain the Hall.” Maybe she was making a social blunder by asking about money, like suddenly exposing her underwear. The three faces before her smiled indulgently—she was American, after all.

“That's the provision in Maud Cranborne's will,” answered Trevor. “Her relatives weren't best pleased—they'd intended selling the Hall to a corporation which builds new housing. Which would probably have meant the destruction of the Hall and most certainly quite a change for us here in Somerstowe."

“I see,” Claire said, and she did, wincing at the vision.

“Because of the Hall,” Priscilla went on, “and because of Elliot's good work representing The Play, I should add, we've been able to get grants for other work that needed doing here—a children's playground, for example. And two years ago we installed central heating in the church."

“That was fascinating,” said Trevor. “The workmen had the floor up and opened the crypt. Gave us an opportunity to study the church's history."

Alec leaned forward, hands cupping something invisible, eyes focussed on something distant. “Beneath the altar lie the bones of a young woman. The archaeologist couldn't say for certain whether it was Elizabeth. In the last scene of The Play Walter cuts down her body and lays her to rest in consecrated ground. I'd like to think Phillip's vision was true, even to Elizabeth and Walter being lovers."

“Nothing like a little romance,” Claire agreed, adding silently,
when it works.

“The Play has certainly brought business here,” Trevor went on. “And it's returned some community spirit that was leaching away, I'm afraid, in these busy modern times. The Play helped Maud Cranbourne to leave the Hall to the National Trust and the Trust to take up the challenge of preserving it—although the Hall would be of great interest even without The Play."

“Of course.” Claire was beginning to wonder just what she'd had in mind by asking the question. Money was a time-honored motive for murder, but she couldn't for the life of her see how Richard or anyone else—such as Elliot, in his role as literary agent—would've profited monetarily by Melinda's death. In fact, her novel would have encouraged even more interest in Somerstowe and The Play.

Claire's brain felt as though it was doing wind sprints. Either she'd gathered a body of evidence today or she'd gathered a few nail parings of insignificance. Maybe if she sat down by herself she could figure out which. She stood up. “Thank you very much for your hospitality."

“Our pleasure, my dear. I hope we've not bored you with the history and genealogy.” Priscilla started gathering up the dishes.

“No way, it's very interesting.” Whether it had anything to do with Melinda or not, Claire told herself.

Alec brushed a few crumbs from his pants and helped. His large, steady hands didn't so much as bang a cup and a saucer together. Claire visualized an entire city police department—that of New York or Los Angeles, for example—filled with officers of Alec's disposition. Whether that would allow more crime or prevent it, she couldn't say.

Trevor put the cat on the floor, where he settled back down on the hearth, and he and his wife escorted their guests to the door.

A bell rang in the church steeple, marking the ending of the day. The gray curtain of the rain blurred the houses and trees across the now deserted green. The solitary cement post seemed like an obscene gesture.

“Have an umbrella,” Trevor said to Claire. “No, no, please—people are always leaving them in the church.” He gave her a long black umbrella with a hooked handle and a pointed tip.

Alec and Claire stepped from the porch into the rain. He offered his arm and she took it. His body was firm and reassuring, like a tree. He held the umbrella low, resting on his own head so it'd shelter hers.

Across the damp grass they went, and through another alley. They passed the police station, its blue light shining bravely through the murk. “I live there.” Alec motioned toward a stone cottage next to the stucco box of the station. A gorgeous garden, flowers and drifts of green leafy plants, filled the front yard and added a subtle herbal/floral undertone to the wet cement smell of the rain.

Once back in the high street Claire glanced into the lighted windows of the pub and the tearoom. But she was too full of ale and gravy, coffee and cookies, jet lag, doubt, and confusion, to suggest another culinary expedition. “Here,” Alec said, when they reached the stairs leading to her apartment. “Have the brolly."

“You have to go to rehearsal, don't you? Where is it, at the Hall?"

“Yes, in the entrance hall. You're welcome to sit in, Elliot loves an audience."

“Maybe tomorrow. Sure you don't want the umbrella?"

“I shan't melt. I'm a native. Waterproofed.” Saluting her with a smile, Alec waited at the bottom of the stairs while she unlocked the door.

Safely inside, Claire collapsed the umbrella and hung it over the doorknob to drip dry. Her flat was silent except for the almost inaudible swish of the rain outside, like long skirts in the next room. Had Melinda died still wearing her long-skirted costume? God, Claire thought, please let her have died fast and clean, not like poor Elizabeth.

She hung up her windbreaker, then went around the room pulling the curtains. At the front window she froze. Alec was still standing in the yard below, gazing up at her door, one hand in his pocket. In the dim light she couldn't make out his expression. But he must've seen her, because he turned abruptly and hurried away.

Great.
Claire didn't so much sit down on the desk chair as fall into it. Let that be a lesson, she told herself, not to get fixated on Richard. If you wanted to murder someone and hide her body, being the local cop would certainly help. And yet opportunity sure as heck didn't mean motive.

Neither did acting suspicious. Maybe Alec simply was attracted to her. Fine. He was a personable person. But right now she had neither the time nor the energy for romance.

She had to use both getting methodical. Across the top of a clean piece of paper she wrote “Motive” and “Opportunity.” Down the left side she wrote, “Richard. Alec. Fred and/or Janet. Other volunteers. Elliot. The Jackmans. The Digbys. The Nairs. Other townspeople.” So far only Richard had jumped when Claire mentioned her connection with Melinda. Word gets around fast in a small town, doesn't it?

She threw the pen down. It rolled to a stop against the stack of letters. “Why, Melinda, why?"

Melinda would come breezing in, scented with suntan lotion, and toss a salad—arugula and sprouts, never iceberg lettuce—while Claire stirred a pot of her raise-the-dead chili. Melinda would listen gravely to Claire's stories of dropped stitches, overdue books, and troubled students. She'd say, “Those kids need something to do. How about a photography program? I'll round up some cameras.” Melinda would pile stacks of photos and notes on the coffee table and say, “Should I open with that story about the old hippie running the hostel in Darjeeling?"

Surely Trevor's prayers were far more effective than Claire's own nebulous intentions. Surely Melinda had entered into heaven with all the ruffles and flourishes she'd have loved and was finally, at last, at peace. It was Claire who'd forgotten what “peace” meant.

She took a shower, checked the lock on the door, and turned off the light. With a determined if somewhat wobbly smile she went to bed and pulled the covers over her head.

A soft cottony mist lay over the village. The top half of the church steeple had disappeared and the imposing lines of the Hall were smudged, as though a crazed architect was trying to erase it.

The only architect Claire knew at the moment didn't appear, at least, to be crazy. Preoccupied, yes. Nursing some sort of grievance. Conflicted, even. But not crazy.

Frowning, Claire walked down the staircase and across the muddy and puddle-strewn yard. Even though the mist would probably thicken into rain at any moment—she could feel droplets gathering in her hair—she didn't bother with the umbrella. It'd been good to have in last night's downpour, though. And Alec had been very attentive. Maybe too attentive.

Claire had waked up at five a.m. and sat over coffee and toast making notes. She'd concluded she didn't have any real evidence, just a soufflé of assumptions and impressions garnished with one or two parsley sprigs of fact. Her mission today, then, was to collect more facts. First on her list was the village post office, tucked away in a corner of the Nairs’ shop.

Claire dodged around the corner of the building and went in the front door. The shop was scented with floor wax and curry. Somewhere in the back of the house a heavy metal band screamed at a blessedly low volume. Sarita was sorting the mail. “Good morning, Claire!"

Claire produced the postcards she'd scribbled a few minutes earlier. “Good morning. I need to send these home. Do you have any pretty commemorative stamps?"

“No, not for post cards. I am having commemoratives for letters only."

“Could I see some, please? My nephew collects stamps."

“Certainly.” Sarita reached under the counter and produced a battered notebook. Inside were waxed-paper envelopes containing stamps of all sizes and descriptions. “Here are stamps with little bits of ordnance maps on them. Here are those picturing the poet Tennyson. Here are a few only of the Scottish Parliament stamps issued last year."