Jerusalem Inn

Epigraph

I.

O
LD
H
ALL

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

II.

P
UB
S
TOP

Chapter Six

III.

L
ONDON
T
IMES

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

IV.

S
NOWBLIND

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

V.

S
AFETY
P
LAY

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

VI.

E
NDGAME

Chapter Twenty-Six

VII.

J
ERUSALEM
I
NN

Chapter Twenty-Seven

To Pamela, a paradigmatic friend

THE WISE MEN

Far to the east I see them in my mind

Coming in every year to that one place.

They carry in their hands what they must find,

In their own faces bare what they shall face.

They move in silence, permanent and sure,

Like figurines of porcelain set with gold,

The colors of their garments bright and pure,

Their graceful features elegant and old.

They do not change: nor war nor peace define

Nor end the journey that each year the same

Renders them thus. They wait upon a sign

That promises no future but their name.

— E
DGAR
B
OWERS

My sister! O, my sister! — There's the cause on't!

Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust,

Like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.

— T
HE
D
UCHESS OF
M
ALFI

A
MEETING
in a graveyard. That was how it would always come back to him, and without any sense of irony at all — that a meeting in a graveyard did not foreshadow the permanence he was after. Snow mounding the sundial. Sparrows quarreling in the hedges. The black cat sitting enthroned in the dry birdbath. Slivers of memories. A broken mirror.
Bad luck, Jury.

It was on a windy December day, with only five of them left until Christmas, that Jury saw the sparrows quarreling in a nearby hedge as he stood looking through the gates of Washington Old Hall. The sparrows — one attempting to escape, the other in hot pursuit — flew from hedge to tree to hedge. The pecking of one had bloodied the breast of the other. He was used to scenes of carnage; still he was shocked. But didn't it go on everywhere? He tracked their flight from tree to hedge and finally to the ground at his feet. He moved to break up the fight, but they were off again, off and away.

The place was closed, so he trudged about the old village of Washington in the snow now turning to rain. After three o'clock, so the pubs were closed, worse luck. Up one village
lane, he found himself outside the Catholic church.
Feeling sorry for yourself, Jury? No kith, no kin, no wife, no
 . . . Well, but it
is
Christmas, his kinder self answered.

This depressing debate with himself continued, like the fighting sparrows, as he heaved open the heavy door of the church, walked quietly into the vestibule, only to find he'd interrupted a christening in the nave. The priest still intoned, but the faces of the baby's parents turned toward the intruder and the baby cried.

His nasty sparrow-self cackled.
You nit
. Jury pretended to be in a brown study before the church bulletin board, as if it were important to convey to the people down there that the information posted here was absolutely necessary for his salvation. Nodding curtly (
as if they care, you clod!
) at nothing, he turned and left, Unborn Again.

 • • • 

That sparrow-self was with him in the church cemetery, sitting on his shoulder, pecking his ear to a bloody pulp, telling him that no one had
forced
him to accept his cousin's whining invitation to come to them at Christmas (
“But we never see you, Richard
 . . . ”). Newcastle-upon-Tyne. What a bloody awful place in winter.
A nice walk amongst the gravestones, that's what you need, Jury . . . and in the snow, too. It's snowing again. . . .
Peck, peck, peck, peck.

 • • • 

That was when he saw her, stooping over one of the headstones, brown hair damp with rain and snow, its strands blown by wind from under the hood of her cape. Old willows trailed veils of wet leaves across his path. Moss crawled up the headstones. The place was otherwise deserted.

She was some distance from him and very still. Stooped over the stone, she reminded Jury of one of those life-sized monuments one occasionally sees, even in the smallest and simplest churchyards, permanent elaborations of grief, hooded and dark and with hands clasped.

Hers were not. Hers appeared to be noting something down in a tiny book. Either she was so absorbed in studying the markers that she didn't notice him coming down the path, or she was merely respecting his privacy.

He put her at somewhere in her late thirties, the sort of woman who wore well. She was probably better-looking now than she had been when she was twenty. It was one of those faces that Jury had always found beautiful, with its stamp of sorrow and regret as permanent as graveyard sculpture. Her hair was much the color of his own, but hers had red highlights that were visible even here in the gray gloom of a wet afternoon. He could not see her eyes, obscured by the hood of the cape. She was bending over a small stone sculpted with angels whose wings had crumbled in the weather.

Jury pretended to be studying the headstones, too, as he had studied the bulletin board. As he was trying to think of an appropriately funereal introduction, she put her hand to her forehead and then on the gravestone as if she were steadying herself. She looked ill.

“Are you all right?” Immediately, his hand was on her arm.

She shook her head as if to clear it and gave him a slight, embarrassed smile. “I just felt faint. It's probably all of this stooping over and getting up too fast. Thanks.” She hurriedly shoved the little book and the pencil she'd been using into one of the big patch-pockets of her cape. The cover of the notebook was metal — gold, and not cheap. The pencil was gold, the cape cashmere. Nothing about her was cheap.

“You're not writing a book on epigraphs, are you?” That was properly banal, he thought, irritated with his own clumsiness. If she'd been a suspect in a murder case, he'd have got on nicely.

But his suggestion didn't seem to throw her off. “No.” She laughed briefly. “I'm doing a bit of research.”

“On what? If you don't mind — listen, are you sure you're all right?”

She swayed a little and put her hand to her head again. “Well, now you mention it, I don't know. Dizzy again.”

“You should sit down. Or maybe have a brandy or something.” He frowned. “The pubs are closed, though. . . . ”

“My cottage isn't far, just the other end of the Green. I don't know what the vertigo is. Maybe this medicine . . . I'll be showing you scars next —”

“That would be nice.” He smiled again. “Look, at least let me walk you to your place.”

“Thanks, I'd appreciate it.” They walked back through old Washington, which Jury saw now as a gem of a village, with its two pubs and tiny library across the Green.

“I have some whiskey; perhaps you'd join me?”

Again, Jury — congratulating himself on his devil-may-care originality — said, “That would be nice.”

They passed the larger of the two pubs, called the Washington Arms, creamed-washed and black-shuttered. Her cottage lay at the end of a narrow, hedged walk. Its small porch was high-pitched, as was its tiled roof, above a lemon yellow door like a glint of winter light.

It was not sunny inside, however; the mullioned panes were too narrow and too high to allow for much light even on the best of days. She switched on a lamp. Its stained-glass shade made a watery rainbow on the mahogany table.

“We haven't even introduced ourselves,” she said, laughing.

It was true; on their walk they had talked so much like old friends, they'd forgotten the mere detail of names.

“I'm Helen Minton,” she said.

“Richard Jury. You're not from up here, are you? The accent sounds like London.”

She laughed. “You must be quite expert. I can only tell the difference between Cornwall and Surrey and these Geordies up here. I don't think I could absolutely pick out London as such.”

“I'm from London.”

“I'll ask you — please sit down, won't you? — I'll ask you what everyone asks me: what are you doing up
here?
London might as well be Saudi, and yet you can get there in three hours on a fast train.”

“I'm on my way to Newcastle.”

As she was taking his jacket — heavy suede, but no proof against the winds up here — she looked at him speculatively. “You don't sound too happy about it.”

Jury laughed. “Good Lord, does it show?”

“Mmm. It's too bad Newcastle only makes people think about coal. Most of the collieries are shut down. The city itself is really quite lovely.” She shifted the jacket to her other arm, not hanging it up or anything, just standing there. She was looking at him out of gray eyes only slightly darker than his own, the color of pewter or the North Sea.

“We're not far from the sea here, are we?”

“No. It's a few miles away, the coast of Sunderland.” She tilted her head, still looking at him hard. “Do you know, we've very nearly the same color hair and eyes?”

Casually, he said, “Do we? Now you mention it, yes.” He smiled. “You could be my sister.”

His smile had the effect opposite the one it usually had. She looked immensely sad and moved suddenly to put his coat away. “Why are you going to Newcastle, then?” she asked, carefully arranging the jacket on a hanger.

“Visiting my cousin. For Christmas. I haven't seen her in years; she used to live in the Potteries. They moved up here hoping to find better work. What an awful irony.”

Helen Minton hung up her own coat on a peg and said, “Is that your only family?”

Jury nodded and sat down. He didn't feel he had to wait to be invited. He offered her one of his cigarettes. She held back a curtain of reddish brown hair as she bent over the flame. “Now that's really odd. I've a cousin, too. He's my only relative.
He's an artist, a very good one.” She indicated a small painting on the opposite wall — an abstract of a sort — intense colors and sharp lines.