Requiem Mass (54 page)

That left murder. He was so close to murder, its smell, like that of formaldehyde, lurked in his hair and in the folds of his clothes. He felt it everywhere. Murder as a possibility existed after the elimination of the other alternatives. Over fifteen years on he couldn’t eliminate them categorically and in the absence of clear motive there was no case in the bloody diary pages.

His coffee was cold and, as if in anticipation, the obliging secretary brought him in a new mug, freshly made from the antiquated coffee-maker she clung onto possessively by the side of her desk. He picked up the large brown envelope; it had been fully screened but he still tensed as he lifted the flap. Inside, there was a brief covering letter from a firm of London solicitors he had never heard of, explaining that they had been asked to forward to him the enclosures, unopened, in the event of their client’s death.

Fenwick opened the inner envelope and removed the thick elastic band from around the bundled contents. On the top there was a sealed envelope addressed to him by title and name in a long sloping hand. The note inside was brief.

Fenwick, if you are reading this, then I am dead but if I am dead and you are still alive, there is a chance that she still has to be brought to justice.

These papers are my legacy to you. Use them as you will. I do not ask for, nor need, your understanding but I demand your judgement so that the dead may rest in peace.

Victor Rowland.

Fenwick pulled out the remaining contents, loosely tied together with old post office string, from an envelope post-marked from Melbourne and addressed to Rowland the previous year. The
stamps had been removed. He sorted the papers into date order, most recent first. It was a letter from Rowland’s uncle, Carol’s father, dated September of the previous year, almost a year to the day of Rowland’s death. He read it slowly, sipping his scalding coffee as he read and reread its tragic contents.

Dear Victor,

I write as I am dying. The priest here is taking down my words and once we have done and he swears on the Bible he has dispatched this to you, I will have only my confession left to say.

You are the last remaining relative and so must assume the burden of truth that I have carried alone for so many years. It is a curse. It killed my wife and has more slowly poisoned me. Had I been a stronger man, I would have ended it sooner but now, thank God, my torment will end soon enough.

It concerns your cousin Carol. My only, lovely daughter, my single child. So perfect and lovely we thought she was a gift from God. Too good for us, too beautiful to have been ours. But I drift. I do not have time to write of her life, merely the manner in which she met her death.

When you have read my words, and the papers I am sending you, you will wonder why I have kept silent for so many years. In truth, I am not sure. At first, when I knew, I was consumed by revenge. I wanted to return to England and fight for justice, but then my wife began to die and all my energy and money went in futile attempts to save her. Futile because she wanted to die and my ravings did her no good.

And then, after she was dead, I waited to die too. I was penniless, I drifted, waiting for the end. I assumed that it was inevitable but it wasn’t. I kept on living. I thought of going back to the police in England so I found a job to pay for my fare. As I worked, though, I thought of what going to the authorities would mean, of what it might do
to Carol’s memory. All that talk about her and Octavia, it was nonsense but what if the police took it seriously?

In the end I did nothing. I put all my energy and guilt into my work. I was reckless; I speculated; took crazy risks. The less it mattered the more money I made. I would do anything to be tired senseless at the end of the day. The Devil was laughing at me. The less I cared the more I prospered but at least my money will give you what you need to finish it. All my assets here are liquidated, everything is to be yours. Even after tax, you need never work again.

Again, I am wandering and I must finish quickly now. Two years ago that woman, Octavia Anderson, came to Sydney. The fuss, the bother, it was sickening. The real hatred started then. There was that woman, prancing around as a budding celebrity, in the limelight, when it should have been Carol. I went to a performance. She was good but not as Carol would have been, she didn’t have the soul. Afterwards, I tried to reach her. I would have killed her then if I had found her and, God forgive me, I still wish I had.

I started to plan how I could kill her but then I became ill and she left the country. I hoped, at first, that I would recover so I could follow her. I haven’t, and here I am trading favours with a priest so that he passes this information to you.

It is my bequest. There is money too, but this is what I am really leaving you – the knowledge that your cousin, whom I know you loved more than life itself, was murdered. And the murderess, thanks to the collusion and silence of Carol’s supposed friends, parades today in her place on this earth.

What you do, I leave to you. Whatever you do, you do with my blessing so long as it brings justice and we may all rest in peace.

Richard Truman.

The priest had added a hasty postscript:

Dear Mr Rowland, I am bound to send this under oath. I have prayed constantly these last few days and I know I must send this, I have given my word. But
please
do not listen to your uncle. He is an old and dying man, in agony as he refuses the morphine that would help him. I do not know what is in this package you will receive with this letter but do not be beguiled and misled by its contents as your poor uncle has been. It is the Devil’s work he bids you do, not our Lord’s. I will pray for you both.

Fenwick sat with his face in his hands, head bowed, trying to resist the tentacles of hate and anger that struggled to reach out from the pages before him. Slowly, reluctantly, he opened the final two letters. The first was from Katherine Johnstone, dated six months after Carol’s death. It was a letter of condolence written carefully, with obvious affection for the dead girl. It stopped short of revealing everything she had poured out in her diaries but the girl’s inherent honesty forced her to say more than she had ever done at the inquest. Enough to reveal that Octavia had been with Carol just before she died and that Octavia had lied.

Her final words were:

I am telling you this because I thought you should know. I am convinced that there is a sensible explanation and that Octavia would convince you, as she has us, of her innocence … Katherine Johnstone.

Thus had she signed her own death warrant for execution twenty years later.

Finally, there was a letter of condolence from Carol’s music teacher. One paragraph stood out.

I am sure you realise how gifted a child Carol was. This cruel accident has robbed not just the school but, I am
convinced, the world of a great musical talent. I hope that she told you we were considering her for the De Weir scholarship. It is a rare honour, and not one awarded every year but it is one I personally believe she would have fully deserved, even in the face of tough competition from another candidate …

Fenwick had his motive.

The ACC gave Fenwick five minutes before rushing to a charity function. They had spent virtually no time together since the murder in the cathedral and the atmosphere was brittle.

‘The answer is no.’ The ACC was implacable. ‘You have no case, just gossip from the letters of dead people. This whole affair has been damaging enough without you raking up twenty-year-old allegations of murder and conspiracy. The case is closed.’

‘But sir, we know that Anderson was desperate for the scholarship. Her whole future depended on it and it’s clear now that it was going to Carol. That’s what they quarrelled about. We have
motive
.’

‘Tenuous at best – and nothing else. Thanks to Rowland all the others are dead, or as good as, that Smith woman isn’t going to recover. And even if she was, you have no evidence but hearsay. No, Fenwick, let it go.’

The ACC smoothed down his hair and checked the lie of his jacket. The interview was over.

He had to ring the doorbell three times before the maid peered through the safety-chained crack into the late afternoon.

‘Is she in? I must see her. It’s important.’ The chain was let fall.

There were three large suitcases and a trunk in the hall, ready labelled for an American tour. Octavia was in the small red drawing room, standing facing a glowing fire with her back to the door. Fenwick watched her for a long moment, confused by the power of her attraction even now. She turned slightly and
muscles rippled on her slender body, stretching the cashmere sweater taut.

Music was playing softly in the background. He recognised
Faust
. It had been one of Monique’s favourites. The glow from the fire and a small Edwardian lamp were the only illumination, throwing flickering ogress shadows on to the ceiling and walls.

‘Why?’ Octavia turned fully and addressed him. She was wearing no make-up, her eyes feral and bright in a pale angled face. An antique, garnet-encrusted crucifix lay on the soft wool above her breast, threaded on a thin black ribbon. ‘Why come now? Why no word? Why no
apology
?’ She spat out the word. ‘I nearly
died
. Had it not been for Nightingale, it would be my funeral tomorrow, not his.’

Her anger was palpable. Fenwick saw again the animal inside her, naked and hungry, a wild cat vicious in defence, pitiless in attack. Up until that point he had kept alive the hope that his growing suspicions were false. Seeing her now like this, her narrow, feline face contorted in fury as she faced him, all doubt left him. This woman could kill, would kill to protect what she had clawed out for herself. Worse, she would enjoy revenge. She had probably understood Rowland better than any of them, enjoying the trap that would be closing in on him as she stood as bait, her ultimate prize to watch him die as she triumphed.

Revulsion must have shown on his face. She took a step back from him and sat down on a chair next to the fire. The light glinted off the garnets on her chest, sprinkling crimson droplets around the room that shifted with each breath. Still Fenwick said nothing. He could think of no suitable words with which to start what he had to say. Instead he tossed a sealed packet towards her. She let it fall at her feet then slowly bent to pick it up. She ripped it open and started to read, crushing each page in one hand as she finished reading before throwing it carelessly into the fire. Chemical green and yellow flames spurted out from between the coals as the fire found and consumed the inks.

As she finished the last page, she crumpled and dropped it in the hearth where it lay like a desiccated dung ball at her feet.
Neither spoke; the
Faust
had finished long before.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Is it true?’

‘What do you think?’

The silence gave her answer.

‘Why come here on your own then? Where are your gallant boys – or are they waiting outside?’ She paused and studied him intently. ‘No, you haven’t got a case, have you? Are you hoping for a confession, is that it? Are you wired, Chief Inspector?’

‘No, no tape recorders and yes, I am on my own.’

Her smile was long and slow. Ice formed down Fenwick’s spine and he added, for no reason, ‘But I have shared this information with others.’

Octavia bent down and in quiet ritual dropped the last paper ball into the fire.

‘It was a copy.’

‘I know.’

The last page flared a sickly blue and was gone. She dusted her hands practically and stood up.

‘You have no case, Andrew. If you had, you would have been here now to arrest me, not to stage a melodramatic confrontation. It’s time you left. I have a difficult journey tomorrow and a lot still to do this evening. I shall be away some time – I doubt we shall meet on my return.’

‘Why? Why did you do it? She was your best friend!’

At first it appeared that she wouldn’t answer then, with a shrug, she replied.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I
had
no friends, I never
have had
, nor do I want them. You should realise that, Andrew; you have come closer than most.’ She stood up and moved to his side.

She drew her finger slowly across the back of his hand. He tried to pull it away sharply in disgust but the nail bit deep, drawing blood in a long welt.

‘Get out, Andrew, you’re pathetic. Just like the rest of them. Take your sticky sentimentality and go.’

As the maid closed the door on him, he thought he could hear laughter from inside.

* * *

Fenwick abandoned his car askew in the church car park and walked to Carol’s grave. He was aware that he was being sentimental. He added his small bunch of yellow roses to the dozen that were already there, arranged in a new funeral ornament. His had not been the only legacy then, just the most difficult.

He bent and casually removed weeds and small stones from the smooth turf of her mound. He felt dirty, betrayed, deeply ashamed of his past with Octavia. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he was still a married man. He needed to pray.

The church was locked; a typed note tacked to the door apologised, blaming vandalism. Anyone seeking access for prayer was welcome to pick up the key from the vicarage; there was a helpful little map. Fenwick needed the anonymity of the church not the challenge of a personal request or unwelcome sympathy. He sat on a bench in the small stone porch. It would do.

No words came. His mind slithered over facts like feet slipping on oily stones. He could find no safe point of purchase from which to regain his balance. The whole case was a parody of justice. He had dedicated his efforts, risked his life,
given
the lives of others to protect the woman from whose original sin the whole tragedy had grown. She had not even bothered to deny her guilt. Worse, she had had no compulsion to confess. In Fenwick’s experience the guilty always had a hidden need to tell the truth and to be praised or blamed accordingly. Not Octavia.