The Chorister at the Abbey (19 page)

31

And yet they think that their houses shall continue for ever, and that their dwelling-places shall endure from one generation to another, and call the lands after their own names.
Psalm 49:11

Paul Whinfell met the postman coming down Fellside High Street.

‘How do, Vicar?’

‘Very well, thanks. Got anything for me?’ He wanted to get to the post before Jenny did. If she found out how much he’d been spending on replica birth and marriage certificates she would go mad. He felt some guilt about it but underneath he knew it was justified. His religious faith must have come from somewhere. His parents were agnostics of the most annoying ‘you-don’t-have-to-go-to-church-to-be-Christian’ types; he was sure there was something in his God-given genes that made him different.

‘Here’s another of these for you, Rev.’ The postman handed him a large envelope with the TNT logo on the front and the initials of the Office of National Statistics on the back. Paul’s hand trembled with excitement as he took it, trying not to grab.

He hurried home and into his office. Jenny was doing the washing and would assume he was hard at work on his talks for Sunday. In the past he had asked her advice about his sermons, but at the moment he pretended he was working alone so she wouldn’t guess how much time he spent at the computer. Genealogy had become to feel like some secret vice, like porn or violence. But he couldn’t help it.

The door was shut. Then, everything ready, he opened the big white envelope.

He had seen the details on the web but it was wonderful to hold the facsimile in his hand. There it was. The birth certificate of Henry Quaile Whinfell. Author of the only definitive biography on Cecil Quaile Woods. Paul had first been given the book on Cecil Quaile Woods by an elderly parishioner who was intrigued that his new vicar shared a name with a long-dead local biographer.

‘I reckon this copy must be the only one left,’ the old man had said. ‘It was written in the twenties and belonged to my grandmother. Funny that the author’s got the same name as you. There aren’t any Whinfells left up here now but they used to be a well-known local family.’

So Paul had started his search to try and find a link between his family in Bristol and this nineteenth-century Cumbrian branch the old man referred to. And he’d got back to what must be the very same Henry Whinfell. But why had Henry Whinfell written a biography of Cecil Quaile Woods? Paul thought he was on to the answer.

Just as he’d seen on the screen, no father was named on Henry Quaile Whinfell’s birth certificate. Whinfell was Henry’s mother’s name – Harriet Whinfell, housemaid. The date was 1880 and the place of registration was Workhaven.

It was the Quaile which gave it away. That and Harriet’s address. She had put it down as The Vicarage, Fellside. Paul looked through his great-grandfather’s book again.
A
Memoir of The Reverend Cecil Quaile Woods, Vicar of St Luke’s,
Fellside, by Henry Whinfell
. Quaile Woods had been a saintly priest in the High Church tradition, celibate, dedicated to his flock of wretched miners who had called him Father Cecil and who had depended on him to get them through the dark days of accidents, illness and deprivation. He had been a padre to the miners, and also priest in charge of the convent, which did so much work with the underclass of the whole county. But in 1882 he had left Fellside for the parish of Uplands as curate. A downwards move. And he had withdrawn from pastoral work, dedicating himself to writing church music.

Why? Could it have been shame? Was that because he had sired a son? A son who forty years later wrote his father’s biography as a secret acknowledgement? Did the boy’s birth explain why Father Cecil had given up being a parish priest and had retreated from Fellside to Uplands as curate – only taking over the full parish role on the death of his rector ten years later? It seemed that he had needed to retract, to withdraw and come to terms with something. And could that something be his own illegitimate son?

Quaile Woods. Jenny’s new inspiration. And now it seemed he might be Paul’s own great-grandfather on the wrong side of the blanket. Someone local surely had to be the father of Harriet’s baby. And why else was that mysterious name Quaile on the birth certificate? Quaile was a common enough Manx surname, but there were no other Quailes in Cumbria in 1881, according to the census results on ancestry.co.uk. So was this name an acknowledgement of sorts without going public on the illegitimate child? Paul had read that such ploys weren’t uncommon. Lots of working-class Victorians had two surnames. This use of Quaile
had
to refer to the vicar of Fellside, and maybe the inclusion of the name meant that he had taken some responsibility for his child? Henry’s later writing indicated a superior education to any the Whinfells could provide. Although there was no Harriet Whinfell in the census of 1891, Henry was there as a ten-year-old boy, the grandson of a retired dockworker called Matthew Whinfell and his wife. There was only one Henry Whinfell in the whole of England.

And then thirty-one years later, in 1922, someone called Henry Whinfell had written the biography of Cecil Quaile Woods which Paul now had in his hands. It had been published in Bristol. Was it possible that Henry Quaile Woods had moved south? And settled in Bristol, siring a whole line of Whinfells of which he, Paul was the next to last, culminating in Joseph – Paul and Jenny’s baby son?

Starting from the other end, Paul had retrieved his own father’s birth certificate three months earlier. His father’s death had set him off on the trail. Paul’s father had been called straight Paul Whinfell too. But his father, Paul’s grandfather, had been listed on the birth certificate as Leslie Quaile Whinfell. And that had spurred Paul on. He had guessed that Leslie had been between twenty-five and thirty when his son was born and it hadn’t taken too much delving to find and then obtain a copy of Leslie Quaile Woods’ birth certificate. And to his delight he found that Leslie’s father had been called Henry Quaile Whinfell. He could find no other Whinfell sons. The marriage certificate that he had applied for and received just a few weeks earlier showed that Henry had married late in life, in Bristol. Henry’s age was on his marriage lines. It just remained to get Henry Quaile Whinfell’s birth certificate, which Paul was now looking at. And there it was. Not conclusive proof by any means. That would be very hard to get. But surely anyone with any common sense could assume that Cecil Quaile Woods was the father of the illegitimate child born to his servant in his vicarage and called by his name.

So now he really did have something to say to Jenny. He opened the door and called her, but there was no answer. He realized that the washing machine was silent for once and that there were no baby Joseph noises in the house. It was dark and silent.

‘Jenny?’ Her coat was gone from the pegs in the hall and the buggy wasn’t in the porch. She had gone out without telling him where.

Paul knew that he should be disturbed when his wife didn’t even acknowledge his presence. But he was beyond worrying about all that, because he had something even bigger to think about. He, Paul Whinfell, had inherited Quaile Woods’ musical ability and deep-rooted spirituality. He was back in Fellside, brought here by the will of God. He too could be a key person in a religious revival, like Quaile Woods, as Jenny had suggested.

There was something Paul could do straight away in his great-grandfather’s memory, but with a modern touch. He’d already made a start. It would mean some more planning, plotting even, but he thought Jenny would approve if only he could confide in her. And what better way to win her back than by doing something which would go straight to her heart.

‘So how was
The Dream of Gerontius
?’

Robert smiled at Edwin and Alex over the generous glasses of cold fizzy white wine he had poured them. The atmosphere could have been as cold as the drink, but Suzy had made sure it wasn’t. She had been just as keen as Robert to invite Alex and Edwin round for supper and get everything on a normal footing.

So, she told herself, what if Robert had slept with Alex? Well, in the world of media these things happened all the time. She remembered wryly how she had had to meet Nigel’s lovers even when their marriage was supposedly working! She left them all to talk while she banged about in the kitchen. She decided to serve some tomato bruschetta as an appetizer, but one tray had already been knocked off the coffee table on to the floor by Molly; all the fuss of picking up broken baguette and slippery tomato, wiping the table, sponging the carpet and relegating the food to the bin had bizarrely broken the ice. Suzy had gone through the rigmarole with her usual good humour.

‘Welcome to The Briars, also known as Fawlty Towers. Except you’re not paying! Or you’d want your money back.’

When she disappeared to get some more bruschetta, it was the first time since the guests had arrived that there’d been a hiatus in the chatter. Hence the small talk about Elgar.

‘It was really good,’ Alex said. ‘I enjoyed it.’

And it
had
been really good. Edwin had called at the bungalow to pick her up as arranged. They had set off straight away. Edwin had said nothing about her second identity until he was clear of the village and on the A69.

‘So you’re also Sandy McFay. That’s incredible! Robert told me.’

‘Yes. I asked him to. I was rather embarrassed about it myself, and he owed me a favour.’ She had glanced at Edwin, who’d looked straight ahead at the road. ‘Did he tell you everything?’

‘I assume so.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve changed a lot since then. Mentally for the better, at last. But looks-wise for the worse.’

‘Really? Don’t fish!’

Alex laughed. ‘Were you very surprised?’

‘Gobsmacked, as they say, at first. But it made sense. You were a bit of a woman of mystery, you know!’

‘Not any more!’ Alex had laughed. She pushed aside the thought that, where women of mystery were concerned, he still hadn’t come clean about the Marilyn Frost story. Things he’d said about her kept popping back into Alex’s mind. But this isn’t the moment to ask, she’d thought.

Once Edwin and Alex had arrived in Newcastle, the atmosphere between them had changed. Alex found it easier to be her new ‘old self’, talking knowledgeably and fitting in with the metropolitan crowd. She had lost enough weight to wear a new smart size sixteen suit, and she felt stately rather than elephantine. The
Dream of Gerontius
was excellent. They both knew it and they both enjoyed Cardinal Newman’s high-flown Victorian poetry about the soul’s journey through death.

‘He started the Oxford Movement, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, with Pusey, Keble and others. But Pusey stayed an Anglican when Newman defected to Rome. It’s partly thanks to Pusey that we have anything like a real parish church music tradition outside cathedrals.’

‘But what about the old West End gallery choirs in villages? The lovable locals playing in the church band in Thomas Hardy’s
Under the Greenwood Tree
and all that?’

Edwin was impressed. ‘That was rurally based. In the huge new city churches they had to create a tradition. And that’s what people like Pusey did. And Quaile Woods when he went to Uplands.’

In the interval, Edwin had spoken more freely than he could remember about the frustrations of his work – how he felt at a creative standstill, but was working on the Psalms. He feels more at ease with me, Alex had thought, because he knows I’ve hit the creative buffers too. It’s as if we’re kindred spirits. They’d had supper afterwards in an Italian restaurant. It was after midnight when he’d dropped her off. He’d got out of his car and kissed her lightly and competently on the lips. It had been a seal of camaraderie rather than passion but it made Alex tremble.

‘I’ll come and pick you up to go to The Briars tomorrow,’ he’d said. They had not discussed the invitation to supper with Robert and Suzy. Suzy had phoned each of them individually but had made it clear she was inviting them both.

‘Thanks. A lift would be good. Changing buses in this weather tends to ruin your hairdo!’ Alex had answered, but said nothing more. She knew the ball had to be in his court. He was the one who had been wrong-footed by her, the frump who had turned out to be a famous author and lover of his close colleague. He was just as friendly as before and even more talkative, but the conversation was on a more general level. He was treading carefully now.

The next evening, on the drive over to Tarnfield, they were both of them tense and unusually quiet. Edwin was worried about seeing Alex and Robert together; Alex was both curious and repelled by the thought of visiting Robert’s marital home. But when they arrived at The Briars, the moment took over. Molly was in her pyjamas stretched out in front of the telly, eating forbidden sweets and determined not to go upstairs until the visitors arrived. By the time the bruschetta debacle was over and she had been banished to bed, and then the cat had been extricated from under the sofa where it had hurtled in mock terror, a knockabout atmosphere had taken over and there wasn’t time for embarrassment.

At the table Suzy calmed down and took a big gulp of red wine. ‘Mmm, that’s better. Sorry about all the commotion. We’ve got Parmesan salad for starters and then two sorts of lasagne. It’s a bit basic but I’m still not a virtuoso on the Aga!’

‘Great!’

‘Thanks!’

She waited for the murmurs of routine appreciation to die down and for the meal to be served. Then she said, ‘Listen, there’s something that’s been on my mind a lot recently. And I don’t mean the revelations about Alex alias Sandy, though that’s been pretty exciting! It’s something else.’ They looked at her expectantly.

‘I want to talk to you guys about it, because it’s bothering me. Do you think the Frosts are really guilty of Morris Little’s murder? Because I don’t.’

32

Oh Lord, thou hast searched me out and known me; thou knowest my down-sitting and mine up-rising; thou understandest my thoughts long before.
Psalm 139:1

At the same time, Lynn and Neil Clifford were having Saturday supper at the rectory with their daughter. It was a rare occurrence. Neil was frequently at weekend meetings which went on into Saturday evening, and when he wasn’t on scheduled business there were often unexpected visits from parishioners who were either distraught or disorganized.

Lynn had always had a full social circle of her own with lots of friends, but she felt that other people, especially women of her own age, were always aware she was the priest’s wife. But that wasn’t true of Suzy Spencer. Lynn had grabbed a coffee with Suzy earlier in the week and had seen at once that Suzy was much happier and more relaxed. Suzy had said that Edwin and Alex would be coming to The Briars for supper on Saturday to renew old acquaintances. Lynn had talked to her brother and he had told her, very tentatively, of his new friendship with Alex. Like all good sisters, Lynn had said nothing and had made the right noises. But she was glad to get more information from Suzy.

‘Alex Gibson is actually an author and an old friend of Robert’s, but she had a breakdown and they lost touch years ago. She’s Sandy McFay, writer of kids’ books. I bet Chloe used to read them.’

‘Oh yes! We had them all!’ Lynn had looked momentarily sad at the thought of her daughter’s rumbustious adolescence. She forced herself to cheer up and concentrate on what Suzy was saying. It was rather exciting! But she was shrewd enough to realize there was a subtext in all this, and that perhaps in time either Suzy or Edwin would tell her more. And she was pleased when Suzy added that when the ice was broken she would have a bigger party.

‘With Edwin and Alex, and you and Neil, and maybe Ollie’s parents and Wanda Wisley and Freddie, and even that couple up at Fellside Fellowship, though she always glares at me. She’s very stand-offish! Oh, and Mark Wilson of course!’

‘Paul and Jenny are perhaps a little troubled,’ Lynn supplied quietly. ‘I know Jenny can be very off-putting, but she’s a bright woman. She’s a couple of years older than Paul and I think she was rather in the lead, until the baby came. I think she might be finding it hard playing second fiddle now.’

Lynn paused for a moment to think about Paul Whinfell. He was one of the people who had come to see Neil unexpectedly, right in the middle of a mealtime, earlier in the week. He had seemed both disturbed and excited, keyed up in some way. Neil had not mentioned the visit to her after Paul had left. Lynn didn’t mind. You expected to be excluded occasionally, as a priest’s partner, she thought. Sometimes things cropped up which needed to be sorted out there and then, and domestic life must work around that and ask no questions.

But on Saturday night the Cliffords were just
en famille
. Chloe emerged from her room to help Lynn set the table. Lynn had noticed that Chloe suddenly seemed keen on helping with the housework. It was uncharacteristic and, though at first Lynn welcomed it as a bonding thing, she soon realized that it didn’t lead to more conversation. Chloe would take on big messy tasks like mopping the floor or cleaning the windows or washing the dishes with a sort of passive thoroughness, head down, wearing her annoying little headscarf and an apron over shapeless clothes. Lynn found herself thinking cynically once or twice that Chloe was making rather a meal of it, especially as they had a dishwasher. But she told herself she should be grateful Chloe was at home, safe, being helpful. A lot of mothers would give their eye teeth for that.

She brought the casserole to the table and Neil said grace. It was a tradition they only maintained when they were all together; it reminded her of when Chloe was a little girl, and it made her eyes water. As her daughter reached out to take a baked potato, Lynn noticed a ring on her wedding finger.

‘Good heavens, Chloe, what’s that?’

‘That – oh nothing. Just a ring.’

‘But it’s got lettering on, hasn’t it?’

‘S’pose so. It’s a virginity ring. A lot of people are wearing them now. It means that you don’t believe in sex before marriage.’

‘Really? Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ Neil said, biting into his potato.

Lynn wasn’t sure what to say. She had always assumed that her daughter was still a virgin, principally because her boyfriends had all been immature local boys whom Lynn knew. She was pretty sure they’d had few opportunities. In any case, none of Chloe’s relationships had shown evidence of heaving hormonal passion; they’d been more about power. And in Leeds, of course, Chloe had been unsuccessful with boys altogether.

But her mother had thought that, like other girls, Chloe would eventually latch on to some youth and they would have sex, taking the right precautions of course. It had never occurred to her that Chloe might embrace the values of an earlier generation, and she felt vaguely suspicious about the ring. Then Lynn told herself not to be silly: no Christian should feel twitchy because her daughter wanted to be a virgin on her wedding night, should she?

‘It’s an interesting idea,’ said Neil in his slightly academic way. He loved his daughter, but he was cross with her for leaving university and didn’t know how to approach her. Before, he had indulged in a sort of lighthearted joshing with her which was totally inappropriate now.

‘Where did you get it?’ Lynn asked anxiously. She knew why she felt uncomfortable. The ring was too much of a declaration.

‘Aha, never you mind, big nose!’ For a second, Chloe’s face assumed that cheeky, half-humorous, half-rebellious expression that had been her trademark until recently. Then the moment passed and she was back to being impassive again. Lynn was astonished how much she missed her daughter’s insolence.

‘OK,’ she said, as always scared to provoke her only child. ‘Are you going to come with us to church tomorrow?’

‘Well, not if you don’t mind, Mum.’ Chloe said. Then she added as an afterthought: ‘I’d rather go up to Fellside Fellowship. I like it there, and I can talk to Jenny.’

It was a cruel thing to have said and Lynn felt as if she had been slapped. But she merely asked, ‘More stew, sweetheart?’ and again the moment passed.

At The Briars, Edwin and Alex had exchanged an unmistakable look of complicity when Suzy mentioned Morris Little’s death.

‘So you think so too? That there’s something odd about it?’

‘Yes.’ Edwin tucked into his pasta.

‘But what? Why is everyone so coy? I don’t know much about it, but I do know that Norma Little told Robert she didn’t think it was the Frosts. I didn’t like Morris and it’s my guess he enraged a lot of people. And the Frosts are blamed for everything round here.’

‘That’s certainly true,’ said Robert cautiously. ‘There have been a lot of other incidents, too. Freddie and David Johnstone have both had odd accidents. The Chorus is getting depleted.’

‘Actually . . .’ Alex paused. ‘David Johnstone was injured at the convent too, like Freddie.’

‘What?’ Suzy and Robert both leant forward.

‘He fell into a hole that had been dug there. Pat Johnstone saw it all and told my sister. She wanted to know if I’d noticed anyone digging up the garden at the convent, but I hadn’t.’

‘So how come he had a road accident?’

‘Pat thinks someone dug a pit, trapped him in it, and then decanted his body into the car and sent it rolling down the hill to that tree.’

‘What?’ Suzy raised her eyebrows.

‘But if Pat was there why didn’t she rescue him?’ Robert asked.

Alex said, ‘She’d followed him to try and smoke out his fancy woman. One of the many. She was more interested in who dug the pit than in David’s accident.’

‘Sounds like a nice woman,’ Suzy said drily.

‘She comes over as the dutiful wife, a bit silly and thick, but she’s sharp underneath. All this is in total confidence, by the way. Pat told my sister, who’s a bit of an innocent, and it was easy for me to worm it all out of Christine.’

‘But it seems ludicrous!’ Suzy said.

‘And there’s another element in this, equally ludicrous,’ said Edwin. He told Robert and Suzy about the psalter with the torn-out first page.

‘So I was right!’ Suzy said triumphantly when he’d finished. ‘There is something very odd going on. Funny how those Psalms keep cropping up. The missing psalter, and the Fellowship’s winter course on the Psalms . . .’

‘And your research, Edwin,’ said Alex. ‘Edwin’s been looking into the work of a Victorian clergyman, Cecil Quaile Woods. He was rector at Uplands and wrote settings for the Psalms.’

‘Yes.’ Edwin nodded. ‘His music for the psalms of praise was published. But no one knows what happened to his settings for the psalms of lament. I’ve been trying to recreate his chants in a minor key but it hasn’t been too successful.’

‘So the Psalms are all over this case!’

‘Yes. How weird!’ Edwin spoke quietly. ‘How did Morris die? His teeth were battered in. I think that’s in Psalm 58. And Freddie? We laughed about it, but the great bulls of Basan are in Psalm 22. And the word you used was a give-away, Alex. The pit David Johnstone fell into. The pit comes in more than once. Psalms 28 and 30, for instance. And 55. Is this a coincidence?’

Then Alex interrupted. ‘Hey, don’t let’s get carried away. There are other elements to all this. Morris was blackmailing people, after all.’

‘Including me.’ Edwin spoke quietly. ‘Morris emailed me saying that if I applied for the head of department’s job he’d tell people I slept with my pupils.’

‘And did you?’ Suzy asked, her TV researcher persona to the fore.

Edwin took it in good part. ‘No! Certainly not. I went out with Marilyn Frost. We were virtually engaged. She was over eighteen.’

‘Which all goes to show that Morris Little was an evil bastard,’ Suzy said. ‘If he was blackmailing you, Edwin, with so little to go on, what else was he up to? Half of Norbridge probably wanted to smack him in the mouth. Those poor old Frost kids are just scapegoats. You agree, don’t you Robert? After all, you’ve been writing about it . . .’

Robert was almost apologetic. ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it writing. I’ve been trying to cobble together some sort of idea for a novel for my creative writing course. I chose Morris Little’s murder and was trying to write one of those “factional” things but it hasn’t been going too well. Shall I get my notes?’

‘Yes!’ Suzy grabbed his plate. ‘I’ll put this back in the oven.’ She disappeared towards the kitchen while Robert went upstairs to the spare room they still called his office, though now the floor was piled high with Suzy’s detritus.

Alex and Edwin were left alone. ‘Is this just a dinner party game?’ Alex leant forward. ‘Or do they really think something bad happened?’

‘I don’t think they’d play around with something like this. A few years ago they were on the fringe of a couple of nasty murders in Tarnfield. They know how serious it can get.’

In the small dark cottage on the outskirts of Uplands, Freddie Fabrikant was sitting by the fire, his legs in plaster propped on a stool, and a CD blaring out. In frustration he clicked at the control, and silence dulled the room.

‘Wanda?’

‘Just a minute, for God’s sake.’ There was a groaning noise. Freddie grimaced.

‘Have you got your head in the toilet again?’

‘Yes. Must be something I’ve eaten.’

Freddie was irritable. He was supposed to be the sick one, but Wanda had some sort of tummy bug and he was terrified of touching her in case he got infected. It was bad enough, he thought, when your legs were working, having to lumber up and down the narrow stairs which went from the tiny landing to the corner of the living room, cottage style. The skin was itching in the plaster casing and he felt fat and even more bulky than usual. What was more, he just couldn’t sing sitting down. There was no reverberation.

The concert was traditionally held on Palm Sunday. But that morning he had received a letter from the hospital telling him his casts would not be removed until the Monday, the day after. He knew he wasn’t going to be ready. But
The Crucifixion
had to be sung before Easter! If they could postpone the concert, to Good Friday, say, just those extra few days would make all the difference. And now David Johnstone was in hospital there’d be no fuss from the sponsor.

‘Get me the telephone, Wanda!’ he shouted. He would call Edwin Armstrong and leave a message, asking if the concert could be put off. There was no doubt some of the parts were a bit thin. Freddie liked
Sturm und Drang
not prissy churchy singing. He tried to work out how many rehearsals he’d been to since the beginning of January. The answer was, not enough. The best one had been the week when he’d forgotten his wallet and gone back to the Abbey – and heard that funny remark about virgins.

The thought gave Freddie an idea. Or to be fair, the extension of an idea he’d already had. ‘And Wanda,’ he roared, ‘get me the laptop too.’ It wouldn’t hurt to put out a few feelers, he thought. And it would be much more interesting than sitting here vegetating.

When a whey-faced Wanda appeared from upstairs she was surprised to find that Freddie was laughing to himself. For a minute he looked as if he was going to pull her towards him, but at the smell of vomit on her breath he remembered the bug.

‘
Mensch
, Wanda!’ he said and pushed her away. ‘Disgusting!’