The Chorister at the Abbey (24 page)

But there was one missing link. How had the photocopy of the dedication ended up in David Johnstone’s possession? There was no evidence that Johnstone knew about the Whinfell and Quaile Woods relationship. But Morris was into genealogy. He probably guessed that Paul was the descendant of Quaile Woods. And what had Mark told Suzy about Paul? That he had been wanting to meet Morris . . .

Alex’s thoughts were heading in one direction. Paul Whinfell had been planning to see Morris. Paul Whinfell was into genealogy. And Paul Whinfell seemed to have something to hide. So for some unknown reason, was it Paul who had beaten Morris to death?

39

Shall thy jealousy burn like fire for ever?
Psalm 79:5

‘But why would Paul kill Morris?’ Edwin asked as they paused after their main course at the beautiful country restaurant he had chosen. He had perused the photocopy of the psalter’s dedication and was unsure whether to be more excited about Quaile Woods’ acknowledgement of his illegitimate child, or the connection between the Cumbrian composer of church music and the famous organist of St Paul’s Cathedral, Sir John Stainer.

Around them the sandstone walls glowed. There was a high barn-style roof and a huge fire, despite the spring daffodils and irises piled in massive glass vases on the bar. There were candles on the table and a piano playing, and they had already enjoyed a bottle of wine. I ought to stop, Edwin thought, or we’ll have to abandon the car and get a taxi.

‘I don’t know. But remember what Robert said. Look for who could have done it, not who might have done it.’

‘And what about Freddie’s accident? And David and the pit? And the Psalms connection?’

‘I told you, Edwin, I don’t know. But I do believe that Paul Whinfell is Cecil Quaile Woods’ great-great-grandson. It’s not that hard to discover, and Paul’s supposed to be interested in genealogy. He must know himself. Maybe there’s a reason why he’s keeping it secret? Maybe he killed Morris rather than let it come out? It would certainly tarnish Quaile Woods’ image!’

‘But it’s only conjecture, Alex. Harriet Whinfell could have got pregnant by anyone, and called the baby Henry Quaile out of respect for the vicar!’

‘Then how do you explain the handwritten dedication? It says
to my son Henry Whinfell
. It’s a declaration!’

Edwin looked at her. She was animated, and her beautiful skin glowed. Her hair was long and dark auburn, glossy and catching the light from the log fire. But the most important thing was the empathy he felt with her. She’s like me, he thought, a dark horse. We’re both intense, and we understand each other.

With Marilyn he had been like a moth attracted to the light. He could see her in his mind’s eye, running towards him with the sun behind her, her long Titian red hair flowing like toffee, with all the different lights in its curls, and her white skin and eyes like sapphires. She had been such a beautiful girl, and so open to the joy of the world around her. Whereas Alex had experienced the pain of disappointment. He had once heard someone say there was no depression without false expectations. He never wanted false expectation again.

She said, ‘What are you thinking about? Marilyn?’

So she had guessed. ‘Yes, I am. I spoke to her today. She phoned me this afternoon.’

Alex felt a knot round her ribs. It was the stifling scum of thick ropey jealousy, just as she had felt it for Sam’s new wife and child. The wine came back sourly into her throat and she knew her lips were tightening in a downward scowl.

‘That must have been nice for you!’ How petty it sounded.

‘Yes.’ Edwin smiled sweetly, unaware of the bitterness in her voice. ‘She sounded well. And the good news is, she’s going to come and meet us all.’

‘Oh, great!’

‘What’s wrong?’ Edwin had been looking into the fire with a happy smile. Then he glanced back at Alex and saw the darkness on her face.

‘Oh, you know, Marilyn this and Marilyn that . . . I’m fed up with all this mystery, actually. So in a way I’m glad she’s going to show up and we can all get the measure of her.’ It was snide, and it wasn’t true. Alex suddenly realized that the last thing she wanted was to meet the beautiful and enigmatic Marilyn Frost.

‘Alex . . .’ Edwin slipped his hand across the table and took hers. It felt cool and silky, and her long pale brown fingers looked like the smooth sandstone in the boulders in the wall behind her. Her nails were beautiful, long and almond-shaped, a perfect dark pink. ‘If you think I’m in love with Marilyn you’re wrong. That’s all over. It has to be. But I promised her I wouldn’t talk about her after she went. To anyone. And I’ve kept my promise.’

‘So she must be pretty special.’

‘Believe me, she is!’

The intensity in his voice made the knot in Alex’s stomach tighten to an unbearable degree. I can’t bear to go through all this again, she thought. ‘D’you mind if we go home, Edwin? Could you get the bill? I don’t feel very well. It’s a while since I’ve drunk so much.’

She really did look paler. As he looked at her, she got up and walked towards the ladies’ toilet. She was there for a while, leaning with her head over the sink. The world was spinning round again, but she didn’t know whether it was wine or shock. Or apprehension. They had had such a lovely evening, talking so closely about their work and the past, with no constraints, until Marilyn had been mentioned. Alex shook her head, trying to displace the awful memories that crowded in like triumphant demons from Hieronymus Bosch, each prodding her with a pitchfork. She saw herself screaming outside Sam’s new home at one o’clock in the morning, and then scratching him on the face in a black moment of rage. And she saw the car wreck when she could have been killed. Or worse, killed someone else.

I could do murder, she thought suddenly. Suzy couldn’t. Robert certainly couldn’t. But I could. And Edwin could too. That was one of the things binding them. But I don’t want this, she thought. I don’t want this intensity. I really don’t want to sink back into jealousy and hate. It’s better not to love than to love to distraction.

She washed her hands carefully, and made a decision that would banish the demons. There was no point in trying to have a relationship of any sort with Edwin. She was falling in love with him, and love for her meant passion and drama and a switchback ride of highs and lows. The companionship she saw in Robert and Suzy, the easy family atmosphere they had created from the least likely ingredients, was not for her.

She held her head up when she went back to the table. Edwin saw someone almost magisterial in her calm. She’s beautiful, he thought.

‘Shall we go?’ she said. ‘I can settle up with you in the car.’

‘No really, it’s my treat. I’ve been looking forward to this all day. Did I tell you,’ he said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, ‘that I spoke to Freddie this afternoon? He wants the concert postponed until he’s had his plaster casts removed. I talked to the Dean and we’re thinking about doing it on Good Friday instead. I know sacred oratorios are traditionally done on Palm Sunday but for
The Crucifixion
it fits because Stainer wrote it for St Marylebone Church in London and they do it every Good Friday.’

‘But if we do that we’ll lose some singers who are going away for Easter. I know the Dixons are off to Spain.’

‘They’re no great loss, to be honest. I think one of the other sopranos is away too, which is a bit more worrying as the top line is quite weak. I could do with three more good sopranos, but I’ve no idea where I could get them. Thank goodness for you. It’s been much better since you joined.’

Alex smiled at him gratefully. Instead of making a scene, provoking her as Sam had done, drunk on his own selfish happiness, Edwin was calming her and keeping her with him. He held her coat for her.

‘That’s a nice thing to say.’

‘And Tom’s girlfriend will be back from university by Good Friday. He was delighted when I said we’d postpone it till then. It suits everyone.’ They left the warmth and scent of the restaurant and walked out, down shallow stone steps and through the garden to the car park.

‘Are you feeling better now we’re outside?’ he asked.

The night closed around them. It was peaceful and Edwin was bending towards her, solicitously. For a few seconds Alex thought: it’s all right, yes, I can hack this. But that was just an invitation to the demons over her shoulder to shout taunts from the playgrounds of hell: ‘Hey, what about Marilyn. She’s really special. He said so!’

In the car Edwin said, ‘When will you be able to get your licence back?’

‘It isn’t so much my licence that I need to get back, as my nerve. I could have started driving again a few years ago, I think. But to be honest I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t got a car so it doesn’t matter.’

‘But it would help so much, living around here.’

‘Yes, if I stay here.’

Without speaking, Edwin pulled up at the side of the road. ‘You wouldn’t move away from here, would you?’

‘Why not? Pat Johnstone might be a greedy old crone, but on the other hand I could get a lot of money for the bungalow from her, or someone else. Even splitting it with my sister would leave me well enough off to buy something decent.’ But not in London, she thought. Where the hell would I go?

‘Don’t go away,’ Edwin said. ‘Look, I know my relationship with Marilyn is hard for anyone to understand. People think I’m weird, and that if a man has a normal sex drive, it has to be satisfied. They accept that it’s OK to turn to anything – porn, prostitution, infidelity, all the rotten things you can think of – rather than just stop having sex. But it isn’t really like that. Lots of men are like me, hurt in some way. And then they just withdraw from the whole tacky business.’

‘So has there been no one since Marilyn?’

‘I’ve had two holiday affairs. And there was a married woman in the north-east for a while.’

‘So there was no one to replace her?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not till now.’ He was looking ahead, not touching her. Then he turned to her. ‘Alex, I know I’m going hopelessly slowly. But please, please bear with me. Give this a chance. It doesn’t have to be a rollercoaster, you know. Between the two of us, we’re both old enough and young enough not to have to rush things.’

Alex felt her spine tingle. ‘But you don’t really know me. I was mad, literally mad, with jealousy of Sam’s woman and her child. I know I’m capable of really deeply bad feelings. I can feel them starting now, towards Marilyn. I’m really not sure if I can cope.’

Edwin said, ‘It will be all right, Alex. When you see Marilyn, you’ll understand.’

I doubt it, Alex thought.

On Tuesday, after the Chorus practice, Robert and Suzy sat in the kitchen at The Briars with Alex and Edwin, and they talked through the new facts again. The photocopy of the dedication at the front of Cecil Quaile Woods’ psalter was in front of them.

‘So you’re pretty sure that Paul from Fellside is a descendant of Quaile Woods on the wrong side of the blanket. Which is interesting, but surely not important?’ Robert asked.

‘It is if Paul had arranged a meeting with Morris. We know that from Mark, who says the meeting was cancelled. Maybe Paul lied to Mark and actually met Morris.’

‘But where does David Johnstone come into it? How did he get the photocopy?’

‘That’s been worrying me,’ Alex confessed. She moved to get her coffee and accidentally nudged the photocopy, which was on light, curly fax paper. It slid off the kitchen table and floated gracefully to the floor, falling face down.

‘I hope it’s all right,’ Suzy said anxiously as Robert scrambled for it. ‘The floor needs a bit of a wash. It’s rather greasy.’

Robert laughed. ‘It’s fine. There’s just a blob on the corner.’ He put the photocopy back on the table. There was a tiny grease stain now on the top left-hand corner. Idly, Alex picked it up again, and turned it over.

‘Hey,’ she said, ‘there are pencil marks up here I didn’t notice before. The grease from your floor makes them stand out, Suzy.’

‘There’s no need to be quite so loud about it!’

‘No, seriously. Look.’

Alex had put the photocopy face down on the table. They could all see two letters in the top right-hand corner. They were an M and an L.

Edwin said, ‘I recognise that hand – even just those letters. That’s Morris Little’s writing.’

‘So the photocopy was originally Morris’s? That makes no sense. Why did it end up with David Johnstone? He and Morris hated each other.’

‘But that doesn’t mean that they couldn’t meet. Maybe Morris gave this to Johnstone in return for something. Or to prove that there was a Stainer link with Quaile Woods. Or for any number of reasons . . .’

They sat looking at the greasy, smudged photocopy of the dedication page to Quaile Woods’ psalter. ‘Well, I know that short of a miracle we’ll never find another copy of this,’ Edwin said slowly. ‘Or the rest of the psalter either. I’ve been searching for Quaile Woods’ version of the psalms of lament for about a year now. Nothing has ever turned up.’

‘But don’t you see?’ Robert said excitedly. ‘Morris must have had the original to photocopy it! If you look closely at this photocopy, you can see that it’s the copy of a sheet that has been carefully torn out of the book. Look . . .’ They peered with him at the faintly ragged edge which ran down the inside of the printed sheet.

‘You’re right!’ Edwin said. ‘And when I was talking to Tom Firth last week he made a really good point about Morris having removed the page himself!’

‘So the originals might well be somewhere in Morris’s house.’

‘But I searched the place for interesting material,’ Edwin said. ‘And Norma gave me access to everything. There were no old documents there. Believe me, I’d give my eyeteeth for anything that proves a link between Quaile Woods and Stainer!’

‘But you said yourself that Morris’s filing system was idiosyncratic at best,’ Alex said.

‘I’m going to see Norma sometime soon,’ said Robert. ‘I could have another look for the originals, Edwin. It would be a very exciting find.’

‘But we still get back to asking how come the photocopy ended up with David Johnstone? Was Morris trying to convince him of something? Was there money in it?’

‘We could always ask Johnstone,’ Suzy said sensibly.

Robert shook his head. ‘Last time I saw Johnstone he didn’t seem capable of a friendly chat. He’s in a bad way. Whoever lugged him into his car and set it off down that back road might end up guilty of murder as the person who brained Morris Little.’

‘And then knocked his teeth in, psalmist style!’

Suzy rose to make more coffee. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘this is all very well but we’re not really getting anywhere. The Frosts are still banged up on remand and no one seems to care. Did you get anywhere with their sister, Edwin?’