The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (5 page)

‘She’s a little frightening,’ Jemima said thoughtfully, as though searching her mind for the right words. ‘Not that she’d hurt you, at least not intentionally. I don’t mean that. But . . . she’s so certain of what she means that she’ll risk everything to say it.’ As Jemima looked out of the window of the moving carriage the streetlights flashed on her face, brilliant one moment, shadowed the next. ‘She’s nothing like the vicar,’ she went on, frowning as she struggled to explain herself. ‘He always sounds as if he doesn’t mean it. I suppose it’s the singsong sort of voice he uses, and the fact that he’s saying what he’s told to.’ She turned towards Charlotte. ‘Do you suppose he would actually love to say what he really thinks; only he doesn’t want to upset everyone or lose his job, of course?’

‘I should think it’s very likely,’ Charlotte agreed, picturing the Reverend Mr Jameson in her mind. He was mild-mannered, a kind man, a guardian of his flock, but not a crusader. He was exactly what they wanted: gentle assurance, unfailing patience and an ability to judge the right amount of hunger within them. But was it what they needed?

‘Is Sofia Delacruz right?’ Jemima asked bluntly. ‘Are we all ignoring who we really are, and sitting comfortably in our pews until we turn into statues?’

‘She didn’t say that!’ Charlotte protested, although in truth it was precisely what she herself had been thinking.

‘Yes, she did.’ Jemima was quite certain. ‘Not in so many words, of course, but that is what it amounted to. We aren’t really looking for anything, except another position now and then, so we don’t get cramp in our . . .’ She hesitated to use an anatomical word.

‘You may say “posterior”, my dear.’ Charlotte was a touch sarcastic because the whole subject was disturbing. ‘You seem to be happy enough to call the vicar and his flock statues.’

‘I’m not happy about it!’ Jemima protested, her voice showing the depth of emotion she felt. ‘But if this woman from Spain can be honest about who we are and what we should be doing, then so can I!’

‘We need to be honest,’ Charlotte said gently. ‘But we also need to be right. And it would be good to be kind as well.’

‘Is it kind to tell people lies because it’s what they are comfortable hearing?’ Jemima stared at Charlotte challengingly. ‘I’ve never heard you do that! In fact when Grandmama tells me I am too candid to people, she says I am just like you.’ There was satisfaction in her voice, even a touch of pride. As they passed under another streetlamp Charlotte could see that she was smiling. With the mixture of strength and softness in her features, she did look startlingly like Charlotte at that age. Charlotte felt a sudden welling up of emotion, and blinked rapidly to hide tears.

‘I am not always right,’ she said, staring straight ahead. ‘There are ways of letting people know what you think is the truth. Some are destructive. Some are ill-phrased, too soft or too hard. We need time if we are to change, and gentleness.’

‘I know,’ Jemima replied. ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. You are always telling me, just as Grandmama does. But is there time for that? Sofia Delacruz didn’t seem to think so.’ She hunched her shoulders a little and her voice was quiet and very serious. ‘When is the right time to tell people something they don’t want to know? If you wait until they want to hear it, it’s probably too late. You’re always telling me what to do, and even more, what not to do.’

‘You’re my daughter!’ Charlotte said quickly. ‘I love you! I don’t want you to be hurt, or make any mistakes that matter, or—’

‘I know,’ Jemima interrupted, reaching across and touching Charlotte lightly on the arm. ‘It upsets me sometimes, because it sounds as if you think I’m really silly. But I know why you do it. And . . . and I think I might be frightened, and a bit lonely if you didn’t.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘And if you ever remind me I said that I’ll never speak to you again!’

Charlotte wanted to put her arms around her daughter and hold her tightly, but she thought at this moment Jemima was too grown up for that, and perhaps too full of her own emotion to deal with Charlotte’s as well. Instead she put her other hand over Jemima’s gently, and they rode on in silence.

Charlotte was seeing Jemima and Daniel off to school when the maid, Minnie Maude, brought in the newspaper and handed it to Pitt. Her face was weary because she could read, and she had already seen the headline of the article. Her usually cheerful expression had darkened and she was now watching him unobtrusively, pretending to be busy putting the same things away over and over, so she could keep him in sight. Uffie, the stray dog she had adopted, was sitting in his basket near the stove, his head swinging around each time she passed him. He had begun his life secretly in the cellar, and was permitted to remain only if he stayed in that corner. The rule had lasted less than a month.

Pitt opened the paper and found the piece immediately. He began to read, forgetting his tea and allowing it to go cold. The article was well-written, which he would have expected from his conversation with Laurence in the street the previous evening. What surprised him was the approach.

Laurence described Sofia vividly. His words brought her presence back to Pitt as if she had only just left the room: the sweep of her hair; the challenge of her eyes, probing, almost intimate; above all, the energy in her.

‘Is this woman a saint as her admirers claim?’ Laurence wrote. And then he answered his own question. ‘I have no idea, because I don’t know what makes a saint. Am I looking for sublime goodness? Which is what? The absence of all sin? Sin in whose judgement? Or is it mercy, gentleness, self-effacement, humility, generosity with worldly goods, and with time? Meekness?’

Pitt could hear Laurence’s mellow voice in his ears as he looked at the printed page. He could hear the amusement in it, the echo of self-mockery. He read on.

Or are saints people who see further than the rest of us, catch a glimpse of some brighter star? Should they make us feel at ease, comfortable with what we have? Or should they disturb us, make us question, strive for more? As Señora Delacruz demands, reach for the infinite and strive to become like God Himself?

Are saints perfect, or do we permit them to have the same flaws as the rest of us? Why do we want them, or need them? To tell us what to think, and make our decisions for us?

Again Pitt could hear the mockery in Laurence’s tone. And yet the questions were seriously meant. People said ‘saint’ easily. It was a catch-all word with different meanings, or none at all.

He turned back to the paper.

Señora Delacruz is going to do none of that. She demands that we ‘grow up’, that we begin now on the infinite journey to become like God, somewhere in the regions of eternity. She even claims that God Himself was once like us! That I find far more troubling. I do not want a God who was even as fallible as any of us. Is that blasphemy?

And I am not at all sure that I want so much responsibility myself, even in the ‘forever’! The punishment for failure would be small. A little while in purgatory, and then an endless peace.

Doing what, for heaven’s sake? I should die of boredom, if I were not, apparently, already dead!

Am I then irreverent, a blasphemer? Should I be punished for such thoughts? Perhaps I should even be silenced? By force if necessary? I think not. I am a questioner, and I am not at all sure that Saint Sofia Delacruz has the answer. But then neither am I sure that she does not. The only thing I am certain of is that she has disturbed my peace of mind, and that of a great many others. And for that, many will wish to punish her.

Pitt could not argue with a single thing Laurence had written, and yet he expected there would be a torrent of letters from all manner of insulted, angry, frightened and confused correspondents the next day.

‘Is it bad?’ Charlotte asked with a frown of concern.

‘As an article? No, it’s very good,’ he said honestly.

‘You look worried.’ She regarded him with a slight furrow between her brows.

‘He’s reported what she said accurately, but he’s asked a lot of questions. What is a saint? Have we the right to remain ignorant, or the responsibility not to?’

‘Did she say that?’ Charlotte asked doubtfully.

‘Didn’t she?’ he asked, turning the question back.

Charlotte thought for a few moments. ‘Yes, I suppose she did, but more subtly than that. I thought the real trouble would be that she said we all had the same chance of becoming divine.’

Pitt considered for a moment. ‘I suppose she did, at least by implication.’

‘Well, most people won’t like that,’ she pointed out. ‘Just about everyone thinks they have a better chance than others, either because they’re cleverer, or believe the right doctrine, or are just more humble and generally virtuous.’ She bit her lip and smiled at him with a steady probing gaze. ‘And I suppose that excludes us pretty well from real virtue, doesn’t it? If we loved others we would be seeking to find a way of including as many as possible, not as few!’

‘Laurence didn’t say that,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he should have.’

‘I expect there’ll be all sorts of letters in the papers tomorrow,’ she observed. ‘Lots of comfortable people claiming to be “Outraged”.’

The letters were there the next day, as Charlotte had expected. Passions were ignited both for and against Sofia Delacruz, but considerably more of the letters were against her than for her.

Pitt read them methodically over the breakfast table. Some simply defended their own faith and felt Sofia had made grave errors of understanding. Those were to be foreseen, and were largely harmless.

Others called her a blasphemer and demanded that she be silenced. A few suggested God would act to destroy her, if man did not. Various biblical punishments were suggested, more colourful than practical.

Pitt was aware of Charlotte watching him, concern in her face.

‘It’s only words,’ he said, smiling at her, trying to defuse the sense of unease in himself. There was an ugliness to the tone of so many of the letters. They expressed not so much a defence of faith as a wish to punish Sofia for the offence of disturbing their certainties and awakening doubts that had been long asleep.

Charlotte had been reading some of them over Pitt’s shoulder.

‘Some of them are pretty vicious,’ she said.

He folded the newspaper and put it face down on the table.

‘You have to be very ugly inside to write the sort of things they say,’ she went on, moving around the table to face him.

‘They’re angry because she’s disturbed them,’ Pitt pointed out reasonably. ‘They’re frightened.’

‘I know that!’ There was an effort at patience in her voice, and it showed through. ‘Frightened people are dangerous. You taught me that, and I haven’t forgotten. Can you stop any of it?’

‘No,’ he said more gently. ‘She has the right to say whatever she believes. And they have the right to deny it, ridicule it, or put forward any alternatives. We can’t pick and choose whose opinions we allow to be heard.’

‘But they could become violent!’ Charlotte protested.

He stood up, ready to leave. ‘As you said, my darling, they’re only words. The threats are implied, no more.’ He got no further when the telephone rang in the hall, and he went to answer it.

Pitt picked up the instrument and spoke.

‘Brundage.’ The person on the other end identified himself immediately. He sounded hoarse and a little shaky. ‘She’s not here, sir. We’ve searched the whole of Angel Court, where they’re staying, and it seems she went sometime during the night. Took two of the other women with her . . .’

Pitt felt a chill ripple through him, leaving him cold. ‘Señora Delacruz? Where on earth would she go in the middle of the night?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Brundage said with a thread of desperation in his voice. Pitt could hear it over the wire.

‘Did anyone come, either in the night, or earlier?’ Pitt asked. ‘Any letters, messages?’

‘No, sir,’ Brundage answered a little more sharply. ‘And nothing seems to be damaged, or missing . . .’

‘Except Señora Delacruz!’ Pitt snapped.

‘Not exactly, sir,’ Brundage swallowed hard. ‘Two of the other women are gone too. Cleo Robles and Elfrida Fonsecca.’

‘What? For God’s sake, Brundage, what happened? They must have gone willingly, at least voluntarily, even if they were coerced. Nobody would forcibly kidnap three adult women! Especially not one like Señora Delacruz . . .’

‘I know that, sir! But there are no signs of a struggle or a fight. Nothing’s broken and no one admits to there being anything missing. Nobody heard anything, not even a cry or a thump.’

‘Or nobody’s admitting to it,’ Pitt corrected.

‘No, sir, I thought of that.’ Suddenly Brundage’s anger was gone and he sounded crushed.

It was not his fault, and Pitt knew it. None of them had taken the threats seriously. They had thought no further than a little unpleasantness at one of the public appearances: perhaps at worst a loss of temper, a few stones or pieces of rotten fruit thrown. Now, suddenly it was a disappearance, voluntary or not.

‘What’s your impression, Brundage?’ he asked.

There was a moment’s silence, and then Brundage answered. ‘She was persuaded to go, sir. Or else she planned to all along. But I think that’s less likely, in the circumstances . . .’

‘What circumstances?’ Pitt asked.

‘She has a meeting tomorrow evening. Melville Smith has cancelled it.’ Brundage’s voice grew harsher. ‘He seems certain she isn’t going to be back for it.’

An ugly thought entered Pitt’s mind. ‘What did he say, as clearly as you can remember?’

‘I know exactly what he said,’ Brundage replied sharply. ‘“Down to unforeseen events which we cannot at the moment explain, Señora Delacruz will not be able to speak at St Mary’s Hall tomorrow evening. We deeply regret the disappointment and inconvenience this will cause, and hope that she will be able to take up her mission again.”’