Unholy Rites (18 page)

Liz poured milk into her tea and took a few sips, her face softening with returning memories. “I was lighting the candles along the window ledge when I saw Ethel coming up the road, carrying a shopping bag in each hand. She was early, and that was unusual for her—she was like you, Arthur, inclined to be late for things. She handed me the bag with the bread pudding in it, still warm from the oven, and I put it on the table.

“When she'd taken off her coat and boots, she said, ‘I have something to show you, only you mustn't tell anyone.' She took the scrapbooks out of the other bag, but before we had a chance to look at them, someone knocked. Ethel said, ‘Oh bother, we'll have to do it after,' and so I took them upstairs to my study. That's the last I thought of them until—after.” She fell silent, gazing at the flames burning steadily behind the glass screen.

“How did she seem when she arrived?” Arthur asked, his hands making large gestures. “Was she excited? Nervous?”

Liz ran her fingers around the Celtic knot pendant. “Excited, I'd say, but not in a happy way. More determined.”

Arthur looked thoughtful. “According to the Rev Pat, she was upset about Marple's appointment.”

“We all were,” Liz said. “We knew his appointment meant a return to conservative Christianity at St. Anne's. Your mother's response seemed deeper than ours, as if she knew something we didn't.” Liz fell silent for a moment, then resumed her story. “Once we called the circle, she seemed to relax. We were about to bless the special candles everyone brings when Ethel said she wasn't feeling well and she'd better go home. I offered her a tincture, but she said she had some new pills from Dr. Geoff, she'd just come out without them. I put an extra shawl around her and sent her off with Stephen Ellison.”

“So she didn't take any of your herbal medicine?” Danutia asked.

“Not that I'm aware of,” Liz said, a little too quickly for Danutia's liking.

There was a loud snap as Arthur closed the scrapbook he was holding. “I remember now, I asked you about the potions Mum was taking in the fall and you said you'd removed them. I assumed you meant when you were getting the cottage ready for me, so I wouldn't be reminded—”

Seeing the herbalist move to the edge of her seat, Danutia stepped in. She didn't want Arthur scaring their guest away. “Stephen Ellison walked Mrs. Fairweather home, did he? That seems a lot of responsibility for a boy of—what? Ten or eleven?”

Liz's face hardened. “It was the best we could do. Ethel absolutely refused to let us interrupt the ceremony to drive or walk her home, and we couldn't let her go alone.”

“And so the ceremony was more important than my mother's life,” Arthur said.

“Hindsight gives us all 20/20 vision,” Liz snapped. “Stephen said Ethel was lying down and seemed fine. There was no reason to doubt him.”

“How was Stephen?” Danutia asked.

“We hadn't quite finished the candle blessing when he came in, so he went straight upstairs. Alice called him down for the Feast of Milk a few minutes later. He said everything had gone all right. An hour later everyone was gone and I popped down to check on your mother.”

“Too late,” Arthur said.

Liz sighed. “I know it's upsetting for you, Arthur, but these things happen. If she was meant to go, she was meant to go, whatever I or anyone else might have done. When I arrived, lights were on both downstairs and upstairs in Ethel's bedroom. I knocked but there was no answer, so I went in.”

“The door wasn't locked?” Danutia asked.

“No, but that wasn't unusual. Most people around here don't lock their doors until they go to bed, if then. Besides, I'd told her I'd stop in to see about her.”

“So you went in—” Danutia prompted.

“She was lying there on the sofa where you're sitting, Arthur, propped up against the cushions. She was still wearing her coat, and my shawl was wrapped around her feet. Her eyes were open but when I said hello, she didn't turn her head. That's when I knew she was dead.”

Arthur had dropped his head into his hands as she spoke. Now he looked up. “Are you sure? She couldn't turn her head after her stroke.”

As though the room had suddenly gone cold again, Liz drew her shawl close. “I've seen my share of death, Arthur,” she said softly. “I felt for a pulse anyway, and then I called Dr. Geoff. He was down at the Reward, as it happened, so it was only a few minutes till he arrived.”

“Did he seem surprised?” Danutia asked.

Liz shook her head. “He said it was only a matter of time. She'd been in to see him that morning, and was due to go back for more tests.”

Arthur turned a page in the scrapbook. “Do you have any idea what she wanted to show you?”

Liz glanced at the book on Arthur's lap. “Maybe if I had a look—”

Not a good idea. Danutia jumped in. “She's put together a lot of information about a boy's death at Rowsley, but some pages seem to be missing—”

Liz's face closed again, and her intelligent dark eyes stared at Danutia. “I wouldn't know anything about that,” she said. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling rather tired. It's been a long day.”

When they'd seen her out the door, Arthur asked, “What did you make of that?”

“She's hiding something,” Danutia said. “The question is what. I think we'd better have a talk with young Stephen; let's see if his version of your mother's last night matches Liz's. And then there's Rowsley.” She fell silent.

“What about Rowsley?” Arthur asked impatiently.

“When you showed me the clipping about Timothy, you suggested that Marple might have been in the area at the time of the boy's death. Now we find that Liz was definitely in that area and doesn't want to talk about why she left. Did you notice how she clammed up when I mentioned the cut pages?”

She stared into the fire, seeking inspiration in the leaping flames. “There's someone besides Stephen we need to talk to,” she said finally. “Violet Roberts.”

Mum had told him
they'd be waiting for him after the maypole practice. He wished she'd been there, but she had to work. “It's nothing to worry about,” she'd said. “Poor man just wants to thank you for being such a good boy and walking his mum home.” His mum didn't know everything, did she, and so he kept dropping the ribbons and tripping over his feet all through practice.

They remembered he liked sticky buns, so that was all right, climbing up the footpath to the bakery and being allowed to have a soda as well. The man ordered a bun too. From the looks of him, he must eat a lot of them. The lady just had coffee. Ugggh. Coffee smells like the devil's armpit, as his dad would say. At least it doesn't make you fat.

They'd asked questions, and he'd told them how the man's mum had talked about Groundhog Day and all that, and he'd tucked her in and fetched water and opened the little bottle of medicine for her and phoned the doctor, like she asked. He didn't tell them about the medicine splashing all over, or the answerphone confusing him, or the creaking noises, or Death waving at him from the bridge.

They wanted to hear that he'd been a good boy and done what was expected, so that's what he told them. The rest didn't matter, did it?

Arthur felt himself relax
as Danutia turned off the M1 towards Leeds city center. It had been hard to navigate in the driving rain with huge lorries roaring past. Now the rain had slackened and he was in more familiar territory.

As he guided Danutia towards the suburb where Violet Roberts, now Williamson, had built a new life he said, “When I was at Manchester University one of my girlfriends came from Leeds, so I spent quite a bit of time here. The best thing was the Hyde Park Picture House. It was built at the beginning of the First World War, and it's still lit by gas lamps. We saw a lot of art films there.” He lapsed into silence as he remembered the first, Ingmar Bergman's
Fanny and Alexander
. He'd felt so claustrophobic as he watched the tyrannical stepfather try to break young Alexander's will that he'd almost had to leave the cinema.

“What happened to her?”

“Who, Joan?” Arthur asked, startled out of his reverie. “I don't know. You know me, here today, gone tomorrow,” he said, then wished he hadn't. That wasn't what had happened; no need to reinforce Danutia's jaundiced view of his relations with women. “Turn left at the light.”

A few minutes later Danutia squeezed the Escort into a parking space on a narrow side street where red brick terraced houses hunched behind a low brick wall. Number 21 was much like its neighbors, a two-storey with stonework around the door and windows. A rubbish bin sat beside the door, and a couple of children's bikes lay abandoned on the paving stones that served for a front garden.

Arthur slung his new backpack over his shoulder and searched in his jacket pocket for his pipe. “Do I have time for a quick smoke?”

Danutia wrinkled up her nose. “We're already late.”

“What if she won't tell us anything?”

“Just go slowly, as we planned. Remember, we're lucky to be here.”

Too true, Arthur thought, waiting for the blue door to open to his knock. Their first piece of good fortune was finding out that “Williamson, V” scribbled in his mum's address book in pencil was indeed Violet Roberts, as he discovered when he called the number. Their second piece of luck was getting her to agree to see them at all, given her initial hostility to the idea.

The woman who opened the door looked younger than she had in the photograph his mum had taken thirteen years ago. Violet Williamson's hair had been lightened, streaked, and stylishly cut; her face had softened and lost its melancholy. Her attitude towards him and his quest, on the other hand, had obviously not softened since the previous day's phone conversation.

“This will have to be quick,” Violet said, taking their damp jackets and showing them into the sitting room. “I've sent the kiddies to the pictures with their dad, but they'll be back in half an hour. Have a seat and I'll bring the tea.”

“That would be very kind,” Danutia said, sinking onto a sofa covered with a yellow and green knitted throw. “I'm damp and cold after our drive.”

Danutia, welcoming a cup of tea? Arthur looked down at his partner in surprise. Before he had time to ask if she were ill, Violet had returned with a tray of tea things. She set down the tray, then settled herself on the matching loveseat and took her knitting from a bag beside her. Arthur eyed the plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. He loved chocolate digestives. He dropped his backpack onto the floor and reached out—

“Do help yourself,” Violet said, her voice suggesting a slight thaw. Maybe Danutia knew what she was doing.

“What are you making?” Danutia asked, taking a biscuit.

Violet lifted the yellow strip from her lap. “This? A baby blanket. I give them to the charity shops. Always yellow or green, or maybe yellow and green, like that throw behind you. Jimmy doesn't want me to work, and we don't need the money, but I like to keep busy.”

She shifted her gaze to Arthur. “As I said over the phone, Mr. Fairweather, I'm truly sorry to hear that your mum has passed on. She was kind to me when I very much needed kindness. It's for her sake that I'm talking to you today. I loved my son Timothy and always will, but I've moved into a new life, with a new partner and children, and there's no point in raking up the past. I'll answer your questions as best I can, but only this one time.”

“I understand,” said Arthur.

The needles paused as she turned to Danutia. “And you, young lady? Mr. Fairweather says you have something to do with the police. After Tim died, my first husband turned to drink and bad ways, and the police were always coming around looking for him. I've had enough of that. If you're treating this as an official police matter, it stops right here.”

“As Arthur told you, this isn't an official investigation,” Danutia said. “I'm a visitor from Canada, studying community policing. I'm here today as Arthur's friend and driver.” She was smiling slightly, a sign that she liked this plump but forthright woman.

“Very well, then.” Violet poured cups of tea and then took up her knitting again.

Danutia gestured to Arthur to begin.

“I'd like to get some idea of your relationship with my mother,” Arthur said, trying to follow Danutia's advice to proceed slowly. “I assume you met at the charity shop in Stockport where she worked.”

“Yes, that's right. I always stopped in when I was visiting my parents, and your mum and me would chat a few minutes. When I decided to let go of Timothy's things, it seemed the natural place to take them. It was very hard for me, and if it hadn't been for your mother, I probably would have taken them right back to Rowsley.” She blinked rapidly and bent her head over her knitting. “Silly me, I've lost my place.”

Arthur sensed the grief that lay beneath Violet's reluctance to talk to them, grief rising like a wave, about to overwhelm her. Nothing for it but to apologize for disturbing her and leave. They'd have to find some other way of getting the information, or let it go. What could they do now for Timothy Roberts, or for his own mum, for that matter? Breathless with the need to escape, he turned to Danutia.

She laid a calming hand on his arm, her attention fixed on the grieving mother. “That must have been a very hard thing to do.”

Violet sighed and looked up at Arthur. “Your mum encouraged me to go through with it. She told me that her son was only off at university, but sometimes she felt like she'd lost him too; at least she'd lost the child who used to confide in her. ‘There's no use trying to keep him tied to my apron strings,' she said. ‘He has to find his own way, and I have to find mine.'”