Sins of the Fathers (8 page)

She had seen it in the estate agent's window when she was coming home from work. It was a photograph of a house, but not as it was now, dirty and weathered, set in a tangled wilderness. The estate agents deceived you, they meant you to think it was like it had once been long ago ... You? As soon as she found she was addressing herself as "You" she knew it was beginning again, the re-telling of the nightmare. So she had got into the Mini and driven to Flagford, away from associations and memories and the hateful You voice, to drink and drink and try to send it away.

But it would not go away and you were back in the big house, listening to the voices that went on coaxing, cajoling, arguing until you were bored, so bored until you went out into the garden and met the little girl.

You went up to her and you said, "Do you like my dress?"

"It's pretty," she said, and she didn't seem to mind that it was much nicer than her own.

She was playing with a heap of sand, making pies in an old cup without a handle. You stayed and played and after that you came to the sand every day, down there out of sight of the big windows. The sand was warm and nice and you could understand it. You could understand the little girl too, even though she was the only little girl you had ever known. You knew a lot of grown-ups, but you could not understand them, nor the ugly words and the funny wheedling way the talk was always about money, so that you seemed to see coins dropped out of wriggling lips and sliding dirtily through twitching fingers.

The little girl had some magic about her, for she lived in a tree. Of course it was not really a tree but a house inside a kind of bush all shivering with leaves.

The sand was not dry like the desert you lived in now, but warm and moist, like beach sand washed by a tepid sea. It was dirty too and you were afraid of what would happen if you got it on your dress...

You cried and stamped your foot, but you never cried as you were crying now as the good-looking inspector came up to the car, his eyes full of anger.
 

Did he seriously imagine he was going to find anything new after so long? Archery considered Wexford's question. It was, he decided, more a matter of faith than of any real belief in Painter's innocence. But faith in what? Not, surely, in Mrs. Kershaw. Perhaps it was just a childlike certainty that such things could not happen to anyone connected with him, Archery. The child of a murderer could not be as Tess was, Kershaw would not have loved her, Charles would not want to marry her.

"It can't do any harm to see Alice Flower," he said. He felt he was pleading, and pleading weakly. "I'd like to talk to the Primero grandchildren, particularly the grandson."

For a moment Wexford said nothing. He had heard of faith moving mountains, but this was simply absurd. To him it was almost as ridiculous as if some crank had come to him with the suggestion that Dr. Crippen was the innocent victim of circumstances. From bitter experience he knew how difficult it was to hunt a killer when only a week had elapsed between a murder and the beginning of an investigation. Archery was proposing to open an enquiry a decade and a half too late and Archery had no experience at all.

"I ought to put you off," he said at last. "You don't know what you're attempting." It's pathetic, he thought, it's laughable. Aloud he said, "Alice Flower's in the geriatric ward at Stowerton Infirmary. She's paralysed. I don't even know if she could make herself understood."

It occurred to him that Archery must be totally ignorant of the geography of the place. He got up and lumbered over to the wall map.

"Stowerton's there," he said, pointing with the sheathed tip of a ballpoint pen, "and Victor's Piece is about here, between Stowerton and Kingsmarkham."

"Where can I find Mrs. Crilling?"

Wexford made a wry face. "In Glebe Road. I can't recall the number off-hand, but I'll get it looked up or you could find it on the electoral register." He turned round ponderously and fixed Archery with a grey glare. "You're wasting your time, of course. I'm sure I don't have to tell you to be very careful when it comes to throwing out a lot of unfounded accusations."

Under those cold eyes it was difficult for Archery not to drop his own. "Chief Inspector, I don't want to find someone else guilty, just prove that Painter was innocent."

Wexford said briskly, "I'm afraid you may find the former consequent upon the latter. It would be a wrong conclusion, of course—I don't want trouble." At a knock on the door he spun round testily. "Yes, what is it?"

Sergeant Martin's bland face appeared. "That fatal on the zebra in the High Street, sir?"

"What of it? It's hardly my province."

"Gates has just been on, sir. A white Mini, LMB 12M, that we've had our eye on—it was in collision with a pedestrian. It appears they want a clergyman and Gates recalled that Mr. Archery was..."

Wexford's lips twitched. Archery was in for a surprise. In the courtly manner he sometimes assumed, he said to the vicar of Thringford, "It looks as if the secular arm needs some spiritual assistance, sir. Would you be so good...?"

"Of course I will." Archery looked at the sergeant. "Someone has been knocked down and is—is
dying
?"

"Unfortunately, yes, sir," said Martin grimly.

"I think I'll come with you," said Wexford.
 

As a priest of the Anglican Church Archery was obliged to hear confession if a confessor was needed. Until now, however, his only experience of this mystery concerned a Miss Baylis, an elderly female parishioner of his who, having been (according to Mrs. Archery) for many years in love with him, demanded he should listen to a small spate of domestic sins mumbled out each Friday morning. Hers was a masochistic, self-abasing need, very different from the yearning of the boy who lay in the road.

Wexford shepherded him across the black and white lines to the island. Diversion notices had been placed in the road, directing the traffic around Queen Street, and the crowd had been induced to go home. There were several policemen buzzing and pacing. For the first time in his life Archery realised the aptness of the term "bluebottles". He glanced at the Mini and averted his eyes hastily from the bright bumper with its ribbon of blood.

The boy looked at him doubtfully. He had perhaps five minutes to live. Archery dropped to his knees and put his ear to the white lips. At first he felt only fluttering breath, then out of the soft sighing vibration came something that sounded like "Holy orders...", with the second word rising on a high note of enquiry. He bent closer as the confession began to flow out, jerky, toneless, spasmodic, like the gulping of a sluggish stream. It was something about a girl, but it was utterly incoherent. He could make nothing of it. We fly unto Thee for succour, he thought, on behalf of this Thy servant, here lying under Thy hand in great weakness of body...

The Anglican Church provides no order quite comparable to that of Extreme Unction. Archery found himself saying urgently over and over again, "It will be all right, it will be all right." The boy's throat rattled and a stream of blood welled out of his mouth, splashing Archery's folded hands. "We humbly commend the soul of this Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands..." He was tired and his voice broke with compassion and with horror. "Most humbly beseeching Thee that it may be precious in Thy sight..."

It was the doctor's hand that appeared, mopping with a handkerchief at Archery's fingers, then feeling a still heart and an inert pulse. Wexford looked at the doctor, gave an infinitesimal shrug. Nobody spoke. Across the silence came the sound of brakes, a horn braying and an oath as a car, taking the diversion too late, veered into Queen Street. Wexford pulled the coat up over the dead face.

Archery was shattered and cold in the evening heat. He got up stiffly, feeling an utter loneliness, a terrible desire to weep. The only thing to lean on now the bollard was gone was the rear of that lethal white car. He leaned on it, feeling sick.

Presently he opened his eyes and moved slowly along the body of the car to where Wexford stood contemplating a girl's shaggy black head. This was no business of his, Archery's. He wanted no hand in it, only to ask Wexford where he could find an hotel for the night.

Something in the other man's expression made him hesitate. The big Chief Inspector's face was a study in irony. He watched Wexford tap on the glass. The window was slid back and the girl inside lifted to them a face drowned in tears.

"This is a bad business," he heard Wexford say, "a very bad business, Miss Crilling."
 

"God moves in a mysterious way," said Wexford as he and Archery walked over the bridge, "His wonders to perform." He hummed the old hymn tune, apparently liking the sound of his rather rusty baritone.

"That's true," said Archery very seriously. He stopped, rested his hand on the granite parapet and looked down into the brown water. A swan sailed out from under the bridge, dipping its long neck into the drifting weed. "And that is really the girl who found Mrs. Primero's body?"

"That's Elizabethan Crilling, yes. One of the wild young things of Kingsmarkham. A boyfriend—a very
close
friend, I may add—gave her the Mini for her twenty-first and she's been a menace in it ever since."

Archery was silent. Tess Kershaw and Elizabeth Crilling were the same age. Their lives had begun together, almost side by side. Each must have walked with her mother along the grass verges of the Stowerton Road, played in the fields behind Victor's Piece. The Crillings had been comfortably off, middle-class people; the Painters miserably poor. In his mind's eye he saw again that tear-wrecked face down which grease and mascara ran in rivulets, and he heard again the ugly words she had used to Wexford. Another face superimposed itself on Elizabeth Crilling's, a fair aquiline face with steady intelligent eyes under a pageboy's blonde fringe. Wexford interrupted his thoughts.

"She's been spoilt, of course, made too much of. Your Mrs. Primero had her over with her every day, stuffing her with sweets and what-have-you, by all accounts. After the murder Mrs. Crilling was always taking her to psychiatrists, wouldn't let her go to school till they had the kid-catcher down on her. God knows how many schools she
has
been to. She was what you might call the female lead in the juvenile court here."

But it was Tess whose father had been a murderer, Tess who might have been expected to grow up like that. "God knows how many schools she's been to..." Tess had been to one school and to one ancient, distinguished university. Yet the daughter of the innocent friend had become a delinquent; the killer's child a paragon. Certainly God moved in a mysterious way.

"Chief Inspector, I want very much to talk to Mrs. Crilling."

"If you care to attend the special court in the morning, sir, she'll in all likelihood be there. Knowing Mrs. Crilling, I'd say you might again be called upon in your professional capacity and then, who knows?"

Archery frowned as they walked on. "I'd rather it was all aboveboard. I don't want to do anything underhand."

"Look, sir," said Wexford in a burst of impatience, "if you're coming in on this lark you'll have to be underhand. You've no real authority to ask questions of innocent people and if they complain I can't protect you."

"I'll explain everything frankly to her. May I talk to her?"

Wexford cleared his throat. "Are you familiar with
Henry the Fourth
, Part One, sir?"

Slightly puzzled, Archery nodded. Wexford stopped under the arch that led to the coaching yard of The Olive and Dove. "The quotation I had in mind is Hotspur's reply to Mortimer when he says he can call spirits from the vast deep." Startled by Wexford's deep voice, a little cloud of pigeons flew out from the beams, fluttering rusty grey wings. "I've found that reply very useful to me in my work when I've been a bit too optimistic." He cleared his throat and quoted, " 'And so can I and so can any man. But will they come when you do call to them?' Good night, sir. I hope you find the Olive comfortable."
 

*7*

Into how high a dignity ... ye are called, that is to say to be Messengers, Watchmen and Stewards... —
The Ordering of Priests

Two people sat in the public gallery of Kingsmarkham court, Archery and a woman with sharp, wasted features. Her long grey hair, oddly fashionable through carelessness rather than intent, and the cape she wore gave her a medieval look. Presumably she was the mother of this girl who had just been charged with manslaughter, the girl whom the clerk had named as Elizabeth Anthea Crilling, of 24A Glebe Road, Kingsmarkham in the County of Sussex. She had a look of her mother and they kept glancing at each other, Mrs. Crilling's eyes flicking over her daughter's string-thin body or coming to rest with maudlin watery affection on the girl's face. It was a well-made face, though gaunt but for the full mouth. Sometimes it seemed to become all staring dark eyes as a word or a telling phrase awakened emotion, sometimes blank and shuttered like that of a retarded child with an inner life of goblins and things that reach out in the dark. An invisible thread held mother and daughter together but whether it was composed of love or hatred Archery could not tell. Both were ill-dressed, dirty-looking, a prey, he felt, to cheap emotion, but there was some quality each had—passion? Imagination? Seething memory?—that set them apart and dwarfed the other occupants of the court.

He had just enough knowledge of the law to know that this court could do no more than commit the girl to the Assizes for trial. The evidence that was being laboriously taken down on a typewriter was all against her. Elizabeth Crilling, according to the licensee of The Swan at Flagford, had been drinking in his saloon bar since six-thirty. He had served her with seven double whiskies and when he had refused to let her have another, she had abused him until he had threatened to call the police.

"No alternative but to commit you for trial at the Assizes at Lewes," the chairman was saying. "...Nothing to hope for from any promise of favour, and nothing to fear from any threat which may be..."