The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (17 page)

‘Surely that’s natural,’ says Ruth. ‘You’re only human after all.’

By mutual consent they start walking along one of the brick paths. The birds are singing and the air suddenly seems soft and springlike. They walk past a raised piece of ground with three crosses on it and more brick pillars with brightly coloured scenes of death and suffering.

‘Are you going home tonight?’ asks Ruth.

‘Yes,’ says Hilary. ‘Inspector Nelson said we could go. He took all our names and addresses, though. He can be quite abrupt, can’t he?’

‘Sometimes,’ says Ruth. ‘He’s got a lot on his mind at the moment.’

‘The police don’t seem to have any idea who did it,’ says Hilary, idly crushing a piece of lemon-balm between her fingers. Ruth wonders if that’s why her friend has requested this meeting, to pump her about the police investigation. She’s come to the wrong place, if so.

‘It’s early days,’ Ruth says, thinking what a meaningless phrase this is.

‘Nelson asked me about the letters again. He can’t really think that my letter-writer killed two women.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth. ‘I really don’t know what he thinks.’

‘He says he’s assigned me police protection. I told him that the police in Streatham have better things to do.’

‘Well, be careful all the same,’ says Ruth.

They stop by steps that lead to a courtyard with a fountain. A sign says sternly, ‘Silence in the courtyard. People are praying.’ Ruth feels that this is a message telling her not to go any further.

‘Come and have a look at the church,’ says Hilary. ‘It’s very ornate, very beautiful. They’ve got a replica of the holy house.’

’I’d better be going,’ says Ruth. ‘I need to collect Kate.’

Hilary seems to know not to push it. ‘It’s been good to see you again, Ruth,’ she says. ‘Despite everything. Do keep in touch, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ says Ruth. It’s an easy promise to make, after all.

‘I’ll be praying for you,’ says Hilary. ‘This Lent is going to be a very difficult time for all of us.’

‘Thank you,’ says Ruth, who feels that some response is called for.

Hilary smiles. ‘You think it’s all nonsense, I know. But I’ll pray for you all the same.’

Somehow it sounds like a threat.

*

Later that evening, after Kate is in bed, Ruth makes a determined effort to dredge up the memory that’s bothering her. She once saw a programme about memory that said you ought to see it as a house; everything’s there, it’s just that it’s all folded into drawers, or shut up in cupboards, or (in Ruth’s case) shoved under the sofa. Sitting at the table by the window she looks out over the blackness of the Saltmarsh and takes a trip through her memory house, which appears to be a cross between this cottage and her parents’ semi in Eltham. The Walsingham dig, pottery, glass, Cathbad, St Simeon’s, Clough, Nelson (Don’t go there), Kate, Michael, Judy . . . She has a feeling that she’s very near. Maybe some wine would help. She pours herself a glass and goes back to the window.

‘She’ll probably bring the baby with her and insist on breastfeeding all over the office.’

‘You look like a Madonna.’

‘The holy house was panelled in wood and contained a statue of the Virgin and a phial of her breast milk.’

And the letter-writer: ‘You may have borne a child (O sacrilege that anyone calling themselves a priest should do so!),
but you have not suckled from the Virgin’s breast.’

She thinks of the medieval glass. Is this what it was? A phial containing the Virgin Mary’s breast milk? And, if so, why has it gone missing?

Chapter 22

Ruth always knew that it would be a difficult conversation.

‘So you think a bottle of breast milk has gone missing. And that’s somehow relevant to the case?’

‘A phial that may have contained something claiming to be the Virgin Mary’s breast milk.’

‘Oh, that makes all the difference.’

Ruth counts to ten; her usual practice with Nelson.

‘The letter-writer refers to the “true treasure” of Walsingham. What if this is it? If you find out who took the glass you may find out who wrote the letters.’

‘That easy, is it? How am I supposed to track down a bit of broken old glass?’

‘I don’t know. Check who was on the original dig, who had access to the museum. You’re the detective.’

‘Yes, Ruth.’ Nelson is trying out his patient voice. ‘I am.’

‘Are you going to follow this up?’

‘I’ll put my special medieval-glass team on to it right away.’

Sod you, thinks Ruth. She hadn’t wanted to ring Nelson. She’d wanted to let a few days go by after that awful evening at her house. But she had genuinely thought that she had uncovered something that might be relevant to the case. Now Nelson is making her feel stupid, as if she’s an unworldly academic or – worse – an amateur detective. She wants to yell at him but she can’t; she isn’t his wife.

‘See you around,’ she says.

‘It was good of you to call.’ Nelson now sounds almost conciliatory. ‘How are you doing? How’s Katie?’

‘We’re both fine.’

‘I’m taking Katie out at the weekend, remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘We thought we might take her to Redwings. She loves horses, doesn’t she?’

Ruth notes the ‘we’. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘she’d like that. See you on Saturday. Good luck with the case.’

‘I’m going to need it,’ says Nelson.

*

Nelson puts the phone down feeling rather ashamed of himself. Ruth was only trying to help, he shouldn’t have been sarcastic to her. But, the truth is, deep down, he is still angry with Ruth. Why didn’t she tell him that she had seen Michelle and Tim together at the gym? He brushes aside the thought that he would hardly have welcomed this information, or been very well disposed towards the informant. As it is, it feels as if Ruth and Michelle have both been deceiving him and, whereas Michelle is being particularly loving at the moment, Ruth remains cool and aloof, only ringing him with some ridiculous theory about the Virgin Mary’s breast milk. He doesn’t want to remember the moment when Ruth had looked at him in a way that wasn’t cool and aloof. He doesn’t like to think about what might have happened.

Nelson walks out into the incident room. Tanya is going through CCTV footage from Wednesday night. The screen is split into four. He can see the priory wall, a ruined archway and two sections of complete blackness.

‘Fuller?’

‘Yes, boss.’ She turns round eagerly.

‘Have we heard from the lab about Stanley Greenway’s DNA?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, hassle them. I want it checked against DNA from Chloe’s clothes and from Paula’s. Where’s Clough?’

‘At the Sanctuary. You sent him.’

Clough is interviewing security staff. Apart from Father Hennessey’s sighting in the field, Greenway has no alibi for the early hours of Thursday morning. Clough is talking to the night watchman and anyone else who may have been on duty at the time. Nelson knows it’s unreasonable to be irritated that this is taking so long. It doesn’t stop him, though.

‘And Heathfield?’

‘Talking to Interpol.’

The news of Thom Novak going AWOL has added an unwanted complication to the investigation. He checked out of the Swiss clinic two days ago, and no one has seen him since. ‘We tried to stop him,’ the staff had said. ‘We could see that he was in a bad state. But he was free to leave when he pleased. There was nothing we could do.’ ‘Bloody Swiss,’ Nelson had said when he heard that. ‘Always so bloody neutral.’ Tim (who, until a few days ago, Nelson would also have had down as one of life’s neutrals) is liaising with Interpol in the search for the missing male model. It’s not that he’s a suspect exactly. Novak has an alibi for Chloe’s murder and it’s unlikely that he came to Norfolk and killed Paula on the spur of the moment just because she resembled his dead girlfriend. ‘Unlikely,’ Nelson reminded the team, ‘but not impossible.’ In any case, they need to find him.

‘Have you got the witness statements from the conference delegates?’ Nelson asks now.

‘Yes.’ Tanya brandishes a file.

‘Give it here then.’

He sits opposite Tanya, under the map of Walsingham and the photographs of the two dead women, and reads through the printed witness statements. There were eight women present at the meal, including Ruth. By all accounts the meal was convivial and lasted a long time. Staff at Briarfields confirm that five bottles of wine were consumed, as well as several liqueurs. The mood, they said, was ‘lively, but good-humoured’. They were nice women, the waiting staff said, and left a generous tip. Ruth and Hilary left first, at about eleven-forty, and arrived at St Catherine’s Lodge at midnight. The other women called a taxi and got back around one. They had made coffee and chatted until about one-thirty. Then most of the women had gone to bed. Paula Moncrieff, Sydney Bowen and Freya Drew-Hayes had remained downstairs. At about two o’clock Paula Moncrieff expressed her intention of going for a moonlight walk. ‘I almost went with her,’ said Sydney Bowen, ‘but I was tired and went to bed.’ The written statement does not convey the guilt and pain in Sydney’s voice when she said these words. Nelson also has a statement from Robin Rainsford, who was woken by the housekeeper at approximately five-thirty a.m. He had dressed, gone downstairs and spoken to PC Linwood. Hilary Smithson was also there, making tea in the kitchen. Rainsford and Smithson had then accompanied PC Linwood into the abbey grounds, where they had found Paula’s body. ‘She was such a lovely woman,’ said Rainsford, ‘she had a difficult start in life, but that hadn’t made her hard or bitter. She saw the best in everyone.’ Her husband had said something similar. Nelson leafs through the file until he finds his notes on the interview with Giles Moncrieff.

‘
Paula had a terrible childhood really, she was in children’s homes, with various foster parents, in and out of care. But it never made her bitter.’

‘I’m going out,’ Nelson tells Tanya.

‘Where?’ she asks, though it isn’t strictly speaking her place to do so.

‘Walsingham. I’m going to talk to Larry Westmondham.’

*

Nelson enjoys the drive to Walsingham. He has his Mercedes back and it’s a joy to feel it purring through the narrow lanes rather than bouncing around like Michelle’s car. He drives through the village. A couple of uniforms are standing by the entrance to the abbey, which is still sealed off. They’ll have to open it soon. Nelson is getting hassle from the local bishop as well as the Norfolk Tourist Board. They’ll want the abbey grounds open by Ash Wednesday, which is next week. Never let it be said that death got in the way of tourism.

He remembers Larry Westmondham’s amusement at the idea that he might live in the grand Victorian vicarage by the church. As Nelson drives past the timbered cottages towards the modern estate on the edge of the village, he realises that he’s entering a very different world. The garden of the Westmondhams’ house is full of bicycles, punctured footballs and the remains of a rusting swing set. There are even a few chickens pecking dispiritedly behind a wire fence. The sign on the door says, helpfully, ‘Ring here for the vicar’, but the bell seems to be out of order. Nelson knocks loudly and, after a few minutes, the door is opened by a woman wearing the kind of apron Nelson has only seen in fifties’ films. She has the face to go with it, round and cheerful, completely free from make-up. Her dark-blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

‘Is Larry – the Reverend Westmondham – in?’

‘He’s picking the girls up from school,’ says the woman. ‘He won’t be long. Do you want to come in and wait?’

‘Thank you,’ says Nelson. The woman seems to expect that people will come to her door demanding to see her husband. She doesn’t even ask for his name. Nelson gives it anyway and shows her his warrant card for good measure.

‘Oh, is this about those poor women who were killed? Larry was so upset. We both were. To think of it happening here, in Walsingham.’ She wipes her hands on her apron and holds out her hand. ‘I’m Daisy. Larry’s wife.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Nelson.

‘Come through to the kitchen. I’m just putting some scones in the oven.’

Scones? Oven? Has he really gone back fifty years in time? Michelle is a good cook, but he can’t imagine her making scones in the middle of the afternoon. Don’t all women work these days? Or, if they’re not at work, they’re out meeting their lovers at the gym.

In the kitchen is one reason why Daisy Westmondham is not out cracking the glass ceiling in the City or breaking the pain barrier at the gym. A large baby sits in a highchair. He’s either worryingly pale or covered in flour.

‘This is Samuel. He’s always filthy, I’m afraid.’

‘Hi, Samuel.’ Nelson waves from a safe distance. The baby beams at him.

Daisy puts a baking tray in the oven. ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

‘Only if it’s no trouble.’

‘Oh no. I always make a pot when Larry comes home.’ Of course she does. Other women would use teabags, but not Mrs Domestic Harmony 1952. Nelson is not at all surprised when Daisy gets out a large brown teapot complete with knitted tea cosy.

Nelson sits at the table opposite Samuel. After the emotional traumas of the last few days Daisy Westmondham’s kitchen is a rather restful place to be. The radio is playing, not Radio 1 (Michelle’s choice) or dull people talking on Radio 4 (Ruth), but something tuneful and undemanding. Daisy hums along as she puts out cups and saucers (cups and saucers, not mugs), and Samuel beats time with a spoon.

‘It was so awful about Paula Moncrieff,’ says Daisy, measuring out tea leaves. ‘Awful about the other girl too, but I’d actually met Paula, which made it worse somehow.’

‘Had you?’ This is news to Nelson.

‘Yes. I had all the delegates round for supper on their first night in Walsingham. I always try to do that for all the people who go on courses at St Catherine’s. Nothing special, just a big lasagne or shepherd’s pie. Paula was lovely, really chatty and friendly.’

‘Everyone says what a nice person she was,’ says Nelson. His mind is still boggling at the sort of woman who thinks that having eight people for supper (plus her family, presumably) is ‘nothing special’.

‘Did all the women priests come that evening?’

‘Yes, and Robin too. They were a really nice bunch. Sometimes the delegates can be very serious. Women priests especially. Somehow they seem to feel that they have to be more . . . well, pious than the men. But this group were really good fun. Paula had been an actress, you know. Freya had been a teacher and Sydney used to work in a circus.’

‘A circus?’

‘Yes, she was an acrobat or something like that. Anyway, they were all so interesting. We stayed talking until past midnight. Usually I’m in bed at ten, what with this one –’ she nods at Samuel, who is now dreamily eating flour – ‘keeping me going all day.’

‘How old are your other children?’ asks Nelson.

‘Becky’s ten, Lizzie’s eight and Victoria is six. They’re all at the local primary. It’s walking distance, which is great. I don’t drive. I know it’s ridiculous in a grown woman, but I’ve just never got round to it and I couldn’t afford the lessons. Larry’s always offering to teach me, but he’s so busy.’

‘Have you lived here long?’ asks Nelson.

‘Five years,’ says Daisy. ‘We lived in Croydon before this. It was a great parish, but we had a tiny flat with no garden. Not much fun with three kids. I was delighted when this came up. I’ve always wanted to live in the country. And this is where Larry’s from. He was brought up in Houghton St Giles.’

‘He must have been pleased to move back here.’

Daisy wrinkles her nose. ‘Ish. The thing is, I think Larry felt that he was doing more good in an inner-city parish. Here it’s all retired colonels and people who think that the church is their personal fiefdom. I mean St Simeon’s is a beautiful old church, but people get furious if Larry tries to change anything. Even when he put in a hearing loop for the deaf. Half of them can’t hear, but they’re against anything that means drilling holes into the precious walls. And Walsingham’s a funny place. I’ve got a friend, Janet – she’s a historian – and she says that it has a dark atmosphere, something to do with a curse and the dissolution of the monasteries.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘No. I mean, anywhere that’s a centre for pilgrimage arouses really strong emotions. It’s a beautiful place and I’ve met some lovely people. It’s a wonderful place to grow up. Larry had a really happy childhood here.’

‘Did you know Larry’s mother, Doreen?’

‘No.’ Daisy looks genuinely regretful. ‘She died just before I met Larry. He was still mourning her really. I wish I’d known her. She sounds like a wonderful woman. Larry and his brothers have all sorts of stories about her. That’s her, on the noticeboard.’

She points to a cork board which is so covered with pictures, invitations, shopping lists and certificates saying ‘Star Pupil: ten ace points for sitting quietly at story time’ that it resembles one of those pieces of modern art collected by Juan, the co-owner of Michelle’s salon. It takes Nelson a few moments to pick out a photograph of a smiling woman standing by a caravan with a surly-looking youth at her side.

‘That’s Doreen with Larry. They all used to go on holiday in that caravan. They had it specially adapted because Eddie, one of the long-term foster children, was in a wheelchair. You know she fostered over a hundred children?’

‘I’ve heard.’

‘I wish I could do something like that, but I find it hard to cope with four.’

‘I’m not surprised. My wife and I found it hard to cope with two.’

She gestures at Samuel. ‘This one was my present to myself. A boy after three girls. Now, I keep thinking, what about another baby to keep him company?’