The Widow's Confession (6 page)

He smiled. ‘I have no doubt of it,’ he said. ‘I am sure you have a stronger stomach than some of the men we have just left behind. But I, leave a lady alone to make her way? It
is not possible for me, I am afraid. Besides, you live opposite the parsonage, do you not, where I am staying? I am glad Mr Hallam said some words of blessing over that poor child. I know not why,
but sometimes one cannot explain the benefit of such things.’

‘You seem to have some expertise in medical matters,’ said Delphine, remembering the careful way in which he had lifted the corpse and examined the body.

‘A little,’ he said. ‘I have friends who are doctors in London; I am interested in medical matters, and have been for many years. But my main subject of study recently,’
she noticed a hesitation as he took a breath, ‘has been the mind.’ He gave her a fleeting smile. ‘You could say, the anatomy of melancholy.’

‘How fascinating,’ she said.

‘It does not help us with this case, however,’ he said. ‘The writing in the sand is peculiar, though the doctor says it could have been written by anyone, perhaps even a child
the day before.’

‘But the tide would have dissolved it,’ said Delphine.

‘I know that,’ said Edmund, ‘and so do you. But Dr Crisp will not listen. I hope that he is right; that the girl died naturally. It is possible that she went to the beach, and
a sudden illness took her. You know, as I do, that death often comes swiftly and mysteriously. Perhaps she even wrote it herself.’ He glanced at Delphine and saw the doubt in her eyes.
‘When I asked Crisp if he had considered foul play, he shut me down immediately. It is the beginning of the season,’ he sighed, ‘and they do not wish for even a hint of scandal.
Did you see Benedict’s servant? The man who found her?’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘But he did not seem guilty, only shocked.’

‘Let us hope that is the case.’ Edmund paused. ‘Mrs Beck, I am sorry, I should not speak to you so openly on the basis of an hour’s acquaintance. It is early
morning.’ He rubbed one hand across his eyes as they stopped at the gateway to the cottage. ‘I am not thinking clearly. Forgive me. It is the fresh air, perhaps – it acts like a
drug on my system.’

‘Do not be concerned for me,’ said Delphine. ‘None of us are thinking clearly, and I value plain speaking.’ They bade each other goodbye, and Edmund turned to walk up the
driveway to the parsonage.

‘Mr Steele?’ said Delphine. He turned back. She wanted to ask about Mr Hallam, and why he had seemed angry with her. Then she realized that their sudden fellowship was illusory, and
that such a question would seem ill-mannered. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I wish you good day.’

That Sunday morning, Edmund waited in the drawing room for Theo to appear from his study. The clergyman was preparing for the service of Holy Communion with meditation and
prayer. They had spoken of the dead girl, and Theo said he would touch upon her in his sermon.

Edmund was troubled. He found that when he had come to speak to Theo of the girl’s death, he could not talk openly. Though he thought Theo was good, he could not feel it; whatever
saintliness was in this boy – for although he knew Theo was in his early thirties, he still had the innocence of youth in his face and expression, and Edmund could not help but think of him
as a boy – his particular type of goodness pushed Edmund away. His intensity was a barrier, not an opening; every time Edmund thought he knew him a little more, the next morning the same Theo
would appear who had opened the front door on that first day: polite, measured, with an acreage of calm. The surface, Edmund thought; the surface went so far. It reminded him of Mrs
Quillian’s words about her nephew’s loneliness, but he had no idea how to be a true friend to the clergyman.

He dared not begin a discussion of religion, and of the questioning he had seen amongst his circles in London. Theo cleaved to the Catholic past of the Church of England; it was clear from his
choice of music, the ritual he used in worship and the air of monasticism which Edmund sensed in his words and manner. He had studied at Oriel, the heart of the Oxford Movement, and Edmund wondered
whether he might convert to Catholicism. Although he was not anti-Catholic like so many Englishmen, he did not wish to pursue the subject, and he wondered if it was this tendency which so disturbed
Mrs Quillian.

Edmund had long observed that the quiet faith of his parents’ generation – practical, convenient and unobtrusive – had been dissolved, harsh fault lines developing between men
of faith and men of science. He was grieved at such division, yet he identified more with the latter than the former, so he supposed his friendship with Theo would have to remain only so deep
– at the first strata, the scrubby grass on top of the chalk cliffs.

The church this Sunday did not seem shrouded in the holy mystery that the priest cherished. It was decked with the yellow and purple of spring flowers, and the sound in the air was that of the
polite, genial chatter of those who were preparing to meet socially. Edmund even sensed the thrill of sensation in the air, for the news of the body on the beach had spread. The church was full
– all free and paid pews taken. Here and there, he saw heads bow in acknowledgement, gentlemen greet each other, and ladies’ hands play over silk and satin as they smoothed their best
Sunday dresses. He took his seat at the front, alongside Mrs Quillian, and looked around, trying to pick out who was local and who was not, and hopeful that he would see Mrs Beck again.

The crashing chords of the organ called the congregation to attention. There was the rustle of fabric, the soft bump of the occasional prayer book dropped as the congregation rose to its feet
and the priest, acolytes and choir processed in. Theo’s face was solemn, contemplative, as though he was hardly aware of the people around him. He was dressed in a green cope, embroidered
finely in gold thread. When he moved into a pool of light, the sun’s rays danced and glittered over the gold on his back, like sunlight on green water. There was a chill to the glitter,
however, and Edmund had a sudden sense of the deep and leaden sea that had carried the girl’s body round the bay. He tried to suppress the thought.

It was the moment when Theo sang Psalm 130 that awoke Edmund to the man’s gifts. His voice had an astonishing beauty; there was something of the cloister in its focused purity.

Edmund looked around and saw rapt faces; as the incense began to billow, clouding the clear air of the church, one woman fainted and had to be carried out.

Mrs Quillian shook her head. ‘Incense,’ she whispered to Edmund. ‘Is it really necessary?’

Before the service, Delphine had stood outside for some time, feeling the prickly veil of cold sweat on her back, the threat of rain in the air. At the sight of the young
girl’s body, she felt everything had changed; the shadow of fear, and threat, had made the ordinary seem alien.

As the service commenced, the church was suddenly illuminated by a burst of sunlight through the windows that lined the length of the building near the ceiling. The slanting columns of light
pierced the mist of incense as though through treetops in a wood, breaking the darkness of the canopy’s shade. It was an effect the artist in her longed to capture; she wished she had a
pencil and paper in her hand, for she knew that memory would not be enough to capture its beauty. Had he not been sitting behind her, she would have glanced at Mr Benedict, to see if the artist was
watching it, the contrast of light and smoke, the sudden piercing of shadow. If so, she knew he must be tempted to take out his sketchpad, to make some recording of the event – unless, she
thought with envy, he held it all in his mind.

Delphine and Julia had paid for places in pew 18, sharing with an amenable family down from London, only just recently arrived. It was the mother of the family – a fine,
strong-looking woman – who had fainted the moment the incense had reached her, so that she descended with a clatter and a thump onto the floor and had to be scooped up by her husband, who
muttered something about popery as he raised her up. They were gently ushered out into the fresh air, their children, white-faced but silent, tiptoeing behind. Delphine honoured Mr Hallam’s
composure; he had not ceased, only continued to sing the psalm, his voice soaring. There was nothing showy about the voice, though it was beautiful; it was pure, without any affectation,
note-perfect, so that it seemed to meld with, and belong completely to, the beams of light falling through the incense.

Delphine closed her eyes. She thought that, surely, if she was to feel any revelation, it would be at a moment like this. As a child she had stared at the colours in stained-glass windows; had
repeated the words of a single prayer, to find something like peace. Much as she knew that revelation could not be forced, still she tried to force it. She had not felt it in years, not since
before she had left New York. She could go for months without even seeking it, imagining that she was reconciled to the fact that her heart had hardened. Now she opened her eyes, and found Julia
looking at her sadly.

She did not, in truth, listen to the sermon. She concentrated on looking at the details of the church, with its sense of cautious, provincial lavishness. It was a strange thing, this church; it
seemed to have a mixed sense of its identity. For all the incense and the stained glass, there were vast stretches of plain, light wall, as though it was trying to play two parts at once.
Protestant and Catholic; plain and ornamented; uncomplicated and mysterious. Delphine looked around at the other worshippers, some local, some clearly visitors.

Then, someone turned and looked at her.

It was a young woman; Delphine thought she could not have been more than eighteen years old. The girl caught Delphine’s gaze and held it, with no discernible emotion, neither curiosity,
hostility nor warmth. Her beauty contracted Delphine’s heart as the sunlight had done. Her skin was luminous and dewy, like that of a baby; even from this distance, her eyes were a deep,
piercing violet, and her face was surrounded by a silky mass of coppery-gold hair. But there was something else in her; something beyond her features. In that open gaze, there was innocence –
and the protectiveness that had sprung up in Delphine as she had looked at the girl on the beach transferred itself to the beautiful face, as easily as releasing a breath. As the girl turned back
to listen to the sermon, Delphine found that her gloved hands were clutching the prayer book tightly.

It was then that she glanced over her shoulder, and immediately caught the eye of Mr Benedict, sitting two pews behind her. His eyes were bright, and she was sure that he, too, had seen the
girl. He raised his eyebrows, as though he thought himself in silent communion with her thoughts, and with a slight smile curling on his lips, inclined his head to Delphine.

As usual, she chose not to take communion. She was removed from God. She did not wish to do it for the sake of convention, and let Julia pass her and join the lines snaking up the nave to the
brass communion rail.

‘A life has been lost on our beach and our hearts are full of sorrow, but we must rejoice for her sake, for she is with the Lord, and she will nevermore know
suffering.’

These were the sole words spoken by Theo about the dead girl. There was a palpable ripple of excitement through the church. Then he continued, with no further mention of her. Edmund could not
help but feel disappointment, as though the child had not been honoured sufficiently.

The moment the procession, led by a silver cross on a wooden staff, had left the church, the atmosphere returned to its pre-service state, the chattering voices rising as the organ continued to
play. The instrument increased in volume, as though the organist was valiantly trying to outdo the collective voice of the congregation. At the final crashing of chords, Delphine rose, but when she
looked for the young woman who had met her gaze, she could not see her.

Delphine slipped away from Julia. From one of the arches leading into a side chapel she watched her cousin speaking to the clergyman, who was waiting at the door to greet the congregation. From
observation of her cousin’s back, Delphine knew Julia would be complimenting him warmly on the service, but in Mr Hallam’s face she saw only the studied politeness of duty. When Julia
moved away he greeted the next person – a person he evidently knew – with deliberate enthusiasm and, knowing that Julia would notice and feel this, Delphine felt a pang of sorrow for
her cousin, a kind of tenderness which Julia had recently drawn from her. Still, she did not move; she watched Julia looking at her prayer book, then turning to greet their maid Martha, who had
been sitting at the back of the church with her own family.

Delphine was looking at the details of a crucifix in the side chapel nearby, when she heard movement behind her. She anticipated seeing Mr Benedict and braced herself, but the voice she heard
made her turn and smile.

‘It’s a fine piece of work, isn’t it?’ said Edmund Steele. ‘Mrs Beck, may I introduce you to Mrs Quillian? Like you, Mrs Quillian is here for the summer. I am
afraid that I made the assumption you would not object to an informal introduction.’

‘Forgive him; I begged to be introduced,’ said Mrs Quillian, shaking Delphine’s hand. Her bright eyes searched Delphine’s expression, glittering in her strongly wrinkled
face. ‘I said to Mr Steele: “Do you know that fine-looking woman?” I am most glad to make your acquaintance.’

‘And I yours,’ said Delphine. In the past, she would have withdrawn at that moment, but she found herself signalling to Julia to come over. ‘May I introduce my cousin, Miss
Julia Mardell?’

Introductions were made and acknowledged; it was only later that a detail occurred to Delphine – that on meeting Julia, Edmund Steele had bitten his lip, and let his eyes rest on her face
for a moment too long. She wondered if he had noticed the red stain on her pale skin, even beneath her veil.