The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) (17 page)

‘I think we ought to go to the club,’ said Mitch, puncturing Anselm’s meditation. ‘I’d like to talk to you. On my patch.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

Anselm looked aside. Mitch wasn’t simply proposing a night of merriment. Far from it, he was showing more purpose and determination, still very much a man who knew where he was going and what he was going to do when he got there.

Michael ran and ran. The wind brought the sound of the sea over the Denes. Heavy tufts of grass struggled against the grip of the sand. Seagulls swooped low, skimming the track ahead, their wings outstretched and long and still…

‘She’ll never walk again,’ Emma said once more.

She’d murmured the phrase repeatedly ever since she and Michael had left the ward. Down the hospital corridors and stairs, she’d been speaking to herself, and then to Michael and then, it seemed, to God. She’d moved from recognition to shock and then complaint; from disbelief to anger and despair.

‘She’ll never walk again.’

All the consultants had agreed. They’d all come in with that quiet, careful tread, guiltily moving one foot in front of the other. They’d all spoken in that soft reassuring voice when they might as well have shouted out the shattering implications of their message. They’d all taken occasional refuge in technical language, trying to distance themselves from the meaning of their own words, to soften their impact on Jenny … wide-eyed Jenny, lying absolutely still, visibly crushed by the weight of their knowledge and certainty. Then, one by one, they’d walked out again.

‘Why on earth did she go back to dancing?’ pleaded Emma.

Michael gripped the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the rear lights ahead. It was raining hard. A misty spray obscured the camber of the road. Headlights appeared like dull moons. Emma knew very well that a return to the stage had been Michael’s idea. He’d told her. And now she wanted to be angry with him, only she knew that wouldn’t be fair. But that left her rage and unhappiness internalised and without direction. It could only harm her. Without for one second minimising Jenny’s situation, Michael realised that everybody was gravely injured now. That everyone was paralysed in some way, unable to move into the future.

‘She’ll never walk again.’

Emma spoke as if she hadn’t said it before. They were silent for a while, appalled by the words. The tyres hissed upon the bitumen. The wipers flapped back and forth. The red lights flickered in the haze.

‘Michael … did you hear what Jenny said?’

Emma didn’t need to say any more. Michael knew what she was talking about. Jenny had grabbed her father by the arms and almost hauled herself upright, straining forward, bringing blood to swell her face and lips. The hospital bed had creaked and clanked.

‘My life is over … I’ve nothing left … I can’t move … I’ll never take Timothy to school again. I’ll never collect him … or put his meals upon the table. I’ll never put him to bed, or get him up. I’ll never go to him if he gets scared in the night. What can I show him about
life
? What can I teach him? What special message have I got for him … something to recite and remember me by … after I’m gone?’

Michael had said, ‘No, no, no, no, no …’ gently lowering her onto the bed. Choking and inadequate, he hadn’t been able to reach her desolation. He’d had nothing
honest
to say. Jenny’s head had turned to one side upon the pillow. Life and warmth had ebbed away from her fingers. In an awful parody of her legs, they’d seemed incapable of further movement. Her long black lashes had slowly closed and opened again, closed once more and opened again. She’d been staring at the rest of her life.

‘The thing is … Jenny’s right,’ said Emma, her face averted to the misted window. ‘Her life is over. What has she got to live for now? If she was an animal, I’d gently put her down. It would be the right thing to do.’

‘But she’s not,’ whispered Michael. ‘She’s our girl.’

Emma just looked at the spray from the oncoming traffic. But her comment – brutal and sincere – worked like leaven between them. Everything that neither of them would ever dare to think or say foamed quietly in the darkness of their minds. It was true: no animal would ever be left to suffer
like that
. Emma always told a crying child that putting a whimpering pet to sleep was part of loving; that ending a life was sometimes the only way to be compassionate. But, paradoxically, those words of comfort just made Jenny’s situation all the worse, for she was worth so much more than any wounded spaniel. And, being worth so much more, she would have to accept the suffering that comes with being human. She was entitled to a very different kind of compassion … only for the moment, in the aftermath, Michael didn’t know what it was; and neither did Emma. They were driving home in the pouring rain, desperately asking themselves what could be done and what they might do. Neither of them dared to say what they were thinking … that the answer might be ‘Nothing’.

‘We’ll find a way,’ said Michael, through his teeth, refusing to give up. ‘We’ll help Jenny get to the other side of what’s happened … somehow. We’ll do whatever’s necessary.’

Michael had found something honest to say, even though it didn’t quite mean anything. But he’d expressed all his fervour and protest and love. This accident would not defeat his hope.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Emma, reaching out and taking one of Michael’s hands. She was crying now, hating herself for being angry with the man who’d only ever wanted the best for his daughter. ‘We’ll find a way and do what’s necessary, regardless.’

Michael ran and ran while the gulls screamed high overhead, gliding across a cloudless sky. Emma had spoken about killing as a duty. She’d spoken of animals, but Michael, privately, had known all along that in certain circumstances, it could apply to a human being. He’d learned that lesson from Eugene, long before Jenny had fallen off the stage. Every so often the configuration of events called out for radical action – the type of action one would never dream of taking; but it was necessary, to resolve a crisis. Sometimes you had to think beyond the troubled voice of your conscience.

The wind brought the sound of the sea over the Denes and the thick grass struggled against the grip of the sand.

Mitch’s club was situated in a long narrow cellar beneath a hairdresser’s and, appropriately, an office belonging to an insurance company. The walls were red and the ceiling, supported by narrow iron pillars, was black. Small tables huddled side by side, cramped between the low stage at one end and the glittering bar at the other. Anselm had not walked down those basement stairs for years. The last time he’d paid at the door as a barrister; now he was a monk, who got in for free. Inside, nothing had changed. Not even the decor. It had, in fact, become suitably tatty. All that shone were the bottles and glasses and the instruments under the bright lights. It was going to be a good night. The place was crowded. A couple of sax players were knocking out Anselm’s kind of tune.

‘Never thought I’d see you here again,’ said Mitch, smiling.

‘Me neither.’

The Prior had approved of the outing because Anselm felt sure that Mitch had something to say about the missing £287,458.16; that his foray into truth-finding had already prompted a desire to confess. Anselm wasn’t entirely surprised. After a couple of weeks all novices tend to break down and spill out the life story they’ve never told anyone before. It’s part of the reconstruction process. And Anselm was ready to listen. They were sitting at Mitch’s private table in a corner by the wall. He was leaning forward, confidentially.

‘I know who wrote that letter to your Prior.’

‘Do you?’ replied Anselm, surprised. He’d expected a different kind of opener.

‘Yes. Helen Goodwin.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘She claimed not to have remembered the article in the
Sunday Times
. Nigel had told her about it. It’s memorable. You’re memorable.’

Anselm shook his head. ‘The letter blames Peter.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Mitch nodded. ‘She set you on the path. She knew you’d go to the police. She knew Manning would tell you about Nigel’s allegations. She knew you’d come to Long Melford. She was expecting you. Gambled you’d come when Nigel was out. Told you what she’d never write down … only Nigel came home and cut her short.’

‘Blaming Peter was just a lure so she could hint it was Michael?’

‘Yes.’

Anselm was impressed again. Mitch’s improvisations were getting better.

‘But that means the letter wasn’t written by Peter Henderson’s accomplice.’

‘True.’

‘Which would also mean that no one is setting out to kill him.’

Mitch thought for a long moment … and then smiled. Anselm had been right all along: it wasn’t that type of case. But he didn’t say so. He was thinking some more, watched expectantly by Anselm. The sax duo was playing ‘Quiet Please’, a Sidney Bechet curtain-raiser.

‘So…’ began Mitch, ‘Helen says Jenny was killed by Michael and Cooper says Jenny was killed by Peter. Either way, it’s a mercy killing and not a murder.’

Anselm understood now.

This was Mitch’s concern. Not the theft.

This was why Mitch had tailed Vincent Cooper and questioned him with ruthless persistence, lying about the private letters he hadn’t in fact known about. On reading Jenny’s desperate note to Nigel the day before, Mitch had come to a few stark conclusions and he’d decided that Anselm should know them, because they had certain implications.

‘If you proceed with this investigation,’ he warned, ‘you’ll bring the house down on a family that’s managed to build a fragile peace. No one needs to know what Jenny decided. It was her life … and we have to respect her choice.’

Anselm nudged his glasses. He was, of course, aware that assisted suicide was a substitute explanation for the allegation of murder. He’d been surprised that Mitch hadn’t mentioned the matter upon leaving Nigel Goodwin. It had been an obvious inference to make. Rather than speak his mind, though, Mitch had charged after Vincent Cooper, evidently intending to bring the investigation to a sort of crisis point … between himself and Anselm.

An ambience of contentment had taken over the club. The sax players had stopped for a quick break and everyone was chatting and drinking, the hubbub creating an envelope of privacy around Anselm and Mitch. No one was listening to them. No one spotted their seriousness.

‘We don’t know what Jenny was going to say to Nigel,’ said Anselm, quietly.

‘We can guess. She’d lost hope. She was scared of dying. She’d given up on surprises. She wanted out.’

‘Wrong, she wanted to speak to Nigel,’ insisted Anselm. ‘And she didn’t … because someone killed her first.’

‘With her consent.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Vincent Cooper said so.’

Anselm came closer to the table. They were eye to eye now.

‘What if Peter made Jenny want to die? What if suicide was
his
solution to
her
problem? What if Jenny didn’t have the wherewithal, intellectually and spiritually, to defend herself? What if Jenny was bullied into dying?’

‘We’ll never know.’

‘What if Peter made it
look
as though Jenny had chosen death, when in fact she’d longed to live?’

‘We’ll never know.’

‘What if this fragile peace rests upon the most serious of crimes?’

‘Maybe it doesn’t matter any more.’

‘Well, I think it does.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if Jenny wanted to live then she was entitled to live. It was
her
life … a messy, broken, failing life, but it was
hers
and no one else’s. If someone took it away, then Jenny was simply executed. No family can live with that kind of secret, not in the long run. Windows get broken in Manchester and children end up in hospital.’

The two sax players had threaded their way back to the stage, drinks in hand. They were smiling, enjoyed the friendly acclaim. Someone called out for ‘After You’ve Gone’. The melody struck up and feet began to tap out the beat. It was a great song, one of Anselm’s favourites; it turned him suddenly wistful and Mitch couldn’t help but soften.

‘It’s the letter to your Prior, isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely. It’s the stumbling block. The author spoke for Jenny. That’s why we have to listen. It’s why we have to keep going and find out what really happened.’

‘Maybe they got it wrong … maybe they didn’t know what she was really thinking and feeling, deep down inside.’

‘And maybe they did.’ Unable to stop himself, Anselm turned away from Mitch towards the stage, drawn by the delicious hint of melancholy in the refrain. ‘Maybe they’re the one person who knew the secrets of Jenny’s heart … why else would they write to a monk rather than the police? It’s their patch, isn’t it?’

To loud clapping, Mitch raised his trumpet. The three musicians looked at each other, wondering what they might play. In the end, they took turns to choose, and Anselm had to smile because Mitch kept sending him messages through the song titles, warning him about the investigation. ‘There’s Going to Be the Devil to Pay’ … ‘You Won’t Be Satisfied’ … ‘Don’t Blame Me’. They were at ease again, speaking for the first time about the meaning of life and death; keeping well away from the deeper questions on bop, bebop and the avant-garde. At intervals a young woman with a pierced nose and tattooed fingers brought over bottled beer until, towards midnight, the club closed. The guests left. The musicians got paid. The bar staff went home. But Mitch remained, and so did Anselm. They sat at the corner table, sipping soda water, talking of their very different lives: Anselm of the monastery, Mitch of the club. They found common ground on the subject of oddballs, be they monks or musicians. There were only two truly sensible people left in the world, and they were both seated here in a deserted jazz club.

‘It’s not just the letter, is it?’ asked Mitch. ‘There’s something else. Why are you so determined to look beyond the evidence of Vincent Cooper?’

Anselm was too tired to resist. ‘Because I met her once.’

Mitch gave a slight start and Anselm nodded, ready to explain.