The Gardens of the Dead (29 page)

A frost
had fallen with a faint mist. The yard was crisp with tiny crystals. It was
dark and Nancy’s pile of bricks glittered with rime. Closing his eyes, and
through a growing headache, Riley thought of snow … fields and fields of
fresh fallen snow, as it’s seen at night, practically glowing from the inside —
not a leaf, not a flower, just snow That was his wife. He knew it. And with a
savage certainty, he knew that he didn’t want to spoil what he’d seen, not with
a single careless footprint. Stunned, Riley recognised that he …
loved
her.

He
looked up to the misty night sky. There were no stars, just this ghostly breath
off the Thames.

They were sitting at the
kitchen table. Nancy had fished out Uncle Bertie’s poison and filled identical
tumblers.

‘To
Arnold,’ she said.

They
clinked glasses and downed their drinks in one.

Nancy
coughed, and Riley’s lips ignited. To the blotches of purple light, he said, ‘I’ve
had enough.’

Nancy
nodded and put the bottle back in the cupboard.

Because
the poison was illegal, she always hid it, even though no one would ever come
looking. That was Nancy all over. He said, ‘I’ve got a Christmas Fair coming
up.’

‘Where?’

‘Wanstead.’
Riley conjured up those fields of snow spreading out before him as far as the
eye could see — beyond the Weald and on to the South Downs. ‘I’ll do this last
one.’ He could do it; he could take a first step, as long as Nancy knew nothing
of what lay behind.

‘What
do you mean?’ Nancy stood with hands on her hips. Her face still blotched from
the tears.

‘I’m
going to pack it in.’

‘What,
the business?’

‘Yes.’
He could walk away and keep going. Every step would be new He need never turn
around. Riley’s eyes glazed before a sort of darkness. He didn’t understand his
own thoughts. This was the Major’s country.

‘You’ve
had too much of Uncle Bertie’s poison,’ said Nancy She smiled, and was, to
Riley very pretty. ‘Your sort never give up.

7

Anselm slept fitfully
waking at intervals to be tormented by George’s calm, and his own folly The old
man’s repetition word for word of their earlier conversation had been a device
of mercy but in the giving George had revealed the activity of his memory: he’d
known that Anselm had been to Mitcham; and he’d understood that Emily wouldn’t
take him back.

When
morning came Anselm acted without hesitation: whatever Doctor Johnson thought
of London, Anselm was tired of it. His life lay elsewhere, as now would George’s.
He rang Larkwood to say he was coming home, and he asked Wilf — the guestmaster
— to prepare a room for a weary pilgrim. At the hospital, George warmed to the
proposal immediately volunteering that he’d never been to a monastery, and
that
The Sound of Music
was his wife’s favourite film. On the train he
kept breaking into ‘Doe, a deer’ while Anselm studied the badge on his blazer:
Legis Plenitudo Caritas.
It was a warning and a promise: the law would
be fulfilled, but only by love. What would Elizabeth have made of that?

By
early afternoon George had been installed in a room overlooking the valley of
the Lark. The stream sliced through ribbed fields, drawing down the winter sun.
On the far side, oaks and chestnuts crowded on the slopes. Anselm leaned on the
sill, beside George, longing to get among the blue shadows, to kick the acorns
and conkers.

‘I knew
a strange man called Nino,’ said George, searching the treetops. ‘He told me
that at the bottom of every box is hope. No matter what terrible things jump
out, he said, we have to wait.’

The old
man hung his hands on the lapels of his blazer and talked to the valley about
this Nino, a guide who told stories that George had rarely understood first
time around. It was a patchy reminiscence, of sayings uttered near Marble Arch
or King’s Cross, on a bench or by a bin. His memory hadn’t held on to the parts
that would have made the whole easy to understand. But as he spoke, Anselm
thought of Clem, his old novice master, long dead, who’d taught through
mysterious tales of the Desert Fathers. And slowly like warming up, Anselm felt
close to George, as he’d been close to Clem, and yet — as with Clem — he
remained so very far away For with every word, it became clear:

George
understood Nino’s stories without being able to explain them. George had come
to that point of stillness and detachment that Anselm was hoping to reach
through monastic routine. This mendicant beside him was already home: he’d
reached the same strange uplands stalked by two strange masters.

‘Here’s
a small present with many pages,’ said Anselm, taking his leave. It was a
notebook with Larkwood’s address and phone number inside.

He
moved briskly down the corridor, intent on grabbing the Prior just before
compline, when authority was both tired and indulgent, to beg that George might
live out the remainder of his days at Larkwood. For the moment, another task
required his attention.

Anselm
went to the calefactory, a side room off the cloister with a huge fireplace,
some armchairs and a telephone. In the Middle Ages, it had warmed up rude and
ready monks; now it was one of the monastery’s many hideaways, a place in which
to thaw and think. It was empty. Anselm sat by the inglenook and made what
amounted to a preliminary call. .

The
Provincial of the Daughters of Charity remembered him from his earlier enquiry
about Sister Dorothy and the account of a hidden key Anselm wanted access to
any records that touched on the background of Elizabeth. They were held in the
congregation’s archives, he assumed, at Carlisle. Fearing a refusal if he
approached the school directly he wondered if the Provincial might sanction his
appeal for help.

‘Why
exactly do you want to know?’ she said. ‘I don’t see how your question is
linked to your objective.’

‘Because
I think it’s only a matter of time before her son wonders why his mother cut
a. hole into that particular book, which will bring him to Dorothy’ replied
Anselm. ‘And as this business reaches its end, I fear everything will unravel.
I want to get back to the first dropped stitch — if there is one — so that I
might help him.’

The
Provincial told Anselm to wait one hour and them he was to ring the school and
ask for Sister Pauline.

When
Anselm duly dialled the Carlisle number the phone was picked up instantly. And
just as promptly they set to work. There was only one sheet of paper in the
file, said Sister Pauline. ‘I’d rather not release a copy Father, but I can
read it out. Is that all right?’

‘Yes.’

Laboriously
she described the format of the page and the brief details recorded on it.
Anselm listened, eyes closed, picturing the document in his head. When she’d
finished, Anselm decided to repeat back the particulars that mattered for
confirmation.

‘So, am
I right, Elizabeth Steadman was born in London, not Manchester?’

‘Correct.’

‘No
parental details are recorded?’

‘None.’

‘Her
home address is given simply as Camberwell?’

‘Yes.’

Anselm
wondered why such an important matter had been left so vague.

‘Because
we know exactly what it means,’ said Sister Pauline. ‘Camberwell refers to our
hostel. It means she was based there before being given a place at the school.’

‘Hostel?’
asked Anselm, thinking of the convent where he’d met Sister Dorothy.

Sister
Pauline explained that the Camberwell hostel had been their biggest London
project, offering accommodation and help to anyone and everyone, so long as
they were female. The building had been converted years ago to provide
affordable housing, a part of the ground floor being retained for the community.
Anselm had already been there.

He
could imagine Elizabeth’s journey north, far from the big city; but something
was missing ‘If she came to Carlisle through the hostel, without parental
involvement, then there should be a court order … a legal document that
defines her status and yours. Are you sure there’s nothing else in the file?’

‘Absolutely.’

And
that, he inferred, means it’s either been destroyed, or it never existed.

Anselm
thanked Sister Pauline and put the phone down. His thoughts fell neatly into
place: if no court order had been made, then Elizabeth’s presence at the school
would have been with parental consent — that of Mr and Mrs Steadman. So why had
no address been recorded? And why had Elizabeth been linked to the hostel? The
only person who knew was Sister Dorothy and she, Anselm decided, would receive
another friendly visit —only this time they’d get beyond the figures in a
photograph.

The
calefactory door swung open with a bang. Anselm bristled — a common enough
experience in monastic life, for sensibilities were always colliding,
especially on the little things, like how to open a door — and there, standing like
a slot machine, was Brother Cyril.

At
last,’ said the cellarer. ‘I’ve been looking all over.’

‘I’m
sorry.’ That was another aspect of existence in a habit. With some people you
had to apologise when you’d done nothing wrong. Guessing Cyril’s mission,
Anselm said, ‘I’ve put all unspent money — with receipts — in your pigeon-hole.’

‘I
know,’ he snapped, ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

Anselm
prepared himself for a harangue on the theology of internal audit. ‘Do
continue, he said wearily.

‘I’ve
worked out what this Riley man is up to.’ Cyril’s one arm swung proudly.

‘Already?’
asked Anselm, astonished.

‘Yes.’

‘You’d
better tell Inspector Cartwright.’

‘I have
done. She’s coming here tomorrow afternoon.’

Anselm
stood up, distracted by all that must now be done. He would have to tell
George; and, instinctively he knew that this was the moment to draw Nicholas
more closely into his mother’s doings.

‘Shall
I explain the trick now?’ asked Cyril impatiently.

‘No, I’ll
wait, thanks.’

‘Pah!’

Anselm
almost ran down the trail that led to a narrow bridge over the Lark. The sky
was clean and shining like metal — as it was, no doubt, over Marble Arch or
King’s Cross. Anselm sensed he’d be going back to those bustling streets, but
for now he wanted to be alone, to enter the far wood and pray among the acorns
and conkers.

8

‘Nancy is that you?’

It was
Babycham. She hadn’t changed. Well, she had, because of the hair extensions and
a fur coat. And her lashes were false. And ten years had made a difference.
Those pink cheeks had fallen a bit and the powder looked like bruises; or maybe
it was the cold.

‘It’s
been ages …’ The fur ruffled magically leaving windy paths like those corn
circles. It was the real thing. You could tell.

Nancy
had just got off the bus. With worked-up hope, she’d gone east this time, into
West Ham, hoping for a glimpse of Mr Johnson. She’d sat by the buzzer, her eyes
latching on to every uncertain step among the flow of jackets and prams; she’d
checked a bench by a newspaper kiosk and a heap outside Currys. He was blind.
He couldn’t have gone that far. She’d stepped out to buy some Polos, when that
voice had made her jump.

Nervously
Babycham said, ‘Lovely hat.’

Riley
had found it in a drawer at a clearance. It was yellow polyester with black
spots.

‘How’s
things?’ asked Nancy When they’d last met, she’d told her she was full of wind
and bubbles.

‘Altogether
nice,’ said Babycham. She turned to a newsagent’s, to the paints and pens and
toys with stickers on. The glossy mags were on display — happy faces, baring
their teeth.
Woman’s World
had a couple of answers. ‘Take Control:

Tell
Him What You Want in Bed’; and, in bigger letters, ‘How to Stop a Yorkshire
Pudding Falling Flat.’

Nancy
admitted, ‘I didn’t mean what I said.’

‘Course
you didn’t.’

Nancy
waited, but Babycham didn’t reciprocate. It was to be expected. She never dealt
in returns or cast-offs. She’d always gone top drawer. Knew her mind. She’d
told Nancy to run. They’d had a meeting.

Babycham
looked hard into the window again. The glare from the shop made her cheeks
redder. Forty-denier tights. All you had to do was tear a number off the bottom
and ring up whomever it was. Only one had been taken.

Nancy
said, ‘So what’s been up, then?’

Babycham
pulled out a hankie. It had a blue ‘B’ on one corner and lace round the edge. ‘Well
… I ended up with Harold … You know, the boss.’

‘Mr
Lawton?’ Nancy’s surprise made it sound ridiculous.