Unholy Rites (19 page)

At these words, the loss of his mother hit Arthur as it hadn't since the first shocking news of her death. With the arrogance of youth, he'd gone first to university, then to Canada, assuming his mother missed him as little as he missed her. Now he realized he might have been wrong.

As though sensing Arthur's need to regain his balance, Danutia took up the questioning. “And after that?”

“For quite a while, just a Christmas card every year. Some time in the early nineties, she called to tell me she'd moved to Mill-on-Wye. We chatted a bit, and then, out of the blue, she asked if I'd ever suspected that Timothy's death wasn't an accident. I told her the same as I'm telling you today. I figure a doctor knows about these things better than me. Dr. Winslow was very kind, he was, explaining as how it could have happened. He said it was an accident, and that's the end of it.”

Danutia spooned sugar into her tea and stirred. “Your husband, Timothy's father, did he agree with the doctor?”

Violet shook her head. “He's pigheaded, is Cameron. Finally I couldn't take it any more. ‘You give over your drinking and raving about Timothy's death, or you move out,' I says to him. He made his choice, and here I am.” She looked around the comfortable room, as though weighing her gains and losses, her gaze lingering on the studio portraits lined up on the mantelpiece: Violet with the man who must be Jimmy, and a dark-haired boy and girl at various ages. Arthur searched for some sign of the fair-haired boy from the newspaper clipping. Nothing.

Violet continued, more quietly. “Cam has turned into a bad case, from what I hear. It was his way of dealing with Timothy's death. He loved that boy. Men do crazy things for love. Mine chose to destroy what was good in him. That wasn't your mother's business, and it's not yours, nor mine either, now. ‘There was never any trouble between father and son, and you shouldn't suggest there was,' I says to her. ‘I don't want to hear anything more from you about Tim's death.' And I didn't, except once. That involved pure gossip, which I won't repeat.”

Arthur felt a spurt of excitement. Danutia too had leaned forward. Violet sensed their interest, he could tell, but kept her eyes glued to her knitting. He glanced at Danutia, who nodded towards the backpack at his feet.

“Maybe I can guess what you're referring to,” Arthur said. He unbuckled his backpack and took out the two scrapbooks he'd brought. As he opened one to the page he'd marked, Violet shook her head and held up her hands as though to push away any reminders of the past.

Arthur went on as though he hadn't noticed. “This clipping announces the names of the candidates under consideration to succeed Patricia Wellcome as vicar of Mill-on-Wye,” he said. “Next to one name, Mum has written ‘This man is dangerous.'”

As he'd hoped, Violet's curiosity got the better of her. She leaned forward to read the entry. “The Reverend James Marple,” she said slowly. “That's the man she called about, all right, not six months ago. Early December, it must have been, because I was in the middle of making a fruitcake. She'd noticed in his application that he'd taught art round about here, and she remembered hearing some gossip about him. I'd told her how Tim loved to draw, so she called to ask whether they'd had any connection.”

Arthur held his breath for a moment to keep from leaping in, then asked, “What did you tell her?” From the corner of his eye he caught Danutia's half-smile of approval.

“I didn't want to say anything, but your mother argued that he might be dangerous to children, and it was my duty to speak. So I told her that yes, Timothy had taken some drop-in art classes from Mr. Marple, as he was then. Tim showed me some tricks he taught them to make things look real-like, I said, but he never complained of improper advances, or anything like that.” Violet hesitated, as though reluctant to say more.

“Was that it?” Arthur prompted.

“It wasn't improper advances she was worried about, your mum said, it was murder. She'd been reading about bog people like that Lindow Man up in Manchester and she was convinced that Tim had died the same way, like a lamb to the slaughter. And that Marple had killed him.”

She fixed her intensely blue eyes on Arthur. “You can't let gossip ruin a man's life. Your mum didn't have any evidence, you see. She was a lovely person, but she had a wrong idea and wouldn't let it go.” She laid aside her knitting and rose. “Now if you'll excuse me, the kiddies will be home soon.”

“We shouldn't keep you then,” said Danutia, getting up, and so forcing Arthur to do the same, even though they hadn't had a chance to ask about Liz Hazelhurst.

“Just one more thing.” Arthur fished in his backpack and drew out the blue and gold school cap. “I thought you might want this back.”

With a muffled cry Violet clutched the cap to her breast. “Timmy's cap. He used to wear it so jaunty-like, and throw it in the air to tease me. When I was having such a hard time letting his things go, but determined to toss everything or nothing, your mum asked what one thing meant the most to me, and I said his cap. ‘I'll keep it for you then,' she says, ‘and if you ever want it back, you just ask me.'” She paused and swallowed hard.

From outside the house came the sound of voices, a boy shouting, a girl protesting, a man's voice telling them both to cut it out.

Violet thrust the cap back at Arthur. “I'm best not being reminded,” she said. “I'll fetch your jackets. I hung them close to the heater, so they should be dry by now.”

She returned as the children entered the hall, shepherded by the man from the photo, now heavyset and graying. “Go wash up and I'll have your tea ready in a minute,” she told them, giving her husband a peck on the cheek.

As Arthur and Danutia said goodbye, Violet said, “If Liz Hazelhurst is still in Mill-on-Wye, give her my regards, would you?”

“You know Liz, do you?” Arthur asked. He searched for the right tone, the right words to keep her talking. “She's been very kind to me since Mum died.”

“Yes, of course,” Violet said. “I used to go to her May Day celebrations, and such like. Timothy always had such a good time at them too. It was your mum suggested her to run the bereavement group. Liz was living in Bakewell at the time, and came to Rowsley once a week. Wasn't there anything about that in your mum's scrapbook?”

Arthur shook his head. Thumps reverberated from the ceiling as someone ran across the room above.

Violet shrugged. “Kids. What can you do? Anyway, I had a nervous breakdown one evening and had to go into hospital. That's when I met Jimmy. He's a psychiatric nurse. Some people in the group blamed Liz for my breakdown. They said she didn't have the training to run a bereavement group, that she'd started it to sort out her own problems. It got to be a bit of a scandal. Wasn't any of it my doing. Why would I blame Liz? Look what's come out of it. A husband, two children, a nice home. Step outside and I'll show you something.”

When they were on the porch, she turned and pointed. On the lintel above the blue door was a carving of a bird with sun rays radiating from it. “Jimmy carved that. It's a phoenix. That's what he calls me. A phoenix. I've been born again, out of the ashes.”

As they drove away, Arthur said, “I liked Violet but I suppose we've learned nothing helpful.”

Danutia changed gears and the car leapt forward. “You're missing the point, Arthur. We came with speculations about what your mother was thinking. Now we know that we had it right. Even if her suspicions weren't justified, it's clear that someone doesn't want you investigating, and we may be closer to finding out who that person is. Both Liz Hazelhurst and Reverend Marple had connections with Timothy. You should be proud of yourself. You guessed most of it.”

Arthur was basking in the unaccustomed praise when she added, “Which is good, because I have to give a presentation on my project on Friday, and so you're going to have to do most of the follow-up.”

The glow faded as Danutia's words evoked the grief he'd been trying so hard to keep at bay. Grief for his mother and father, and for all the unacknowledged losses of his life. Danutia too was abandoning him, just when he needed her. What would he do with this sadness that threatened to swallow him up? Bury it and get on with his life, as Violet Roberts had? If he did, no one would ever know the truth about Timothy's death, or his mother's.

The sky was darkening now and Danutia switched on the headlights. As they climbed towards the Peak District, Arthur felt his resolution return. He would follow the narrow beam of light that Violet Roberts had opened up in the darkness.

“Arthur,” Justine Clough called,
sounding amused. “Here's the young lady to see you.”

Immersed in the mindless, peaceful work of sticking privet leaves into clay, Arthur looked up, startled. In the open door of his mother's garage a woman's shape was silhouetted against the mellow afternoon sun. She was wearing a tailored skirt and loose jacket, with a briefcase slung over her shoulder. It couldn't be Danutia. She always wore pants. Then he remembered. Today was Friday, the day of her presentation on her community policing project.

He hadn't seen her since their trip to Leeds on Sunday. As they'd agreed on the way back, he had tried to follow up on the few slim leads they'd gathered from their talk with Violet Roberts. He'd begun with strong determination on Monday morning, combing his mother's scrapbooks for references to Liz Hazelhurst and the bereavement group. After lunch, feeling discouraged about his slow progress, he had wandered into the garage to observe the petalling. It hadn't taken long for Justine to draw him in. Since then, he'd divided his time between his investigations and the convivial group in the garage.

Today he was putting the finishing touches on the title board. As he stepped back for a final look, he could feel his anxiety about the investigation returning. He forced himself to turn away. He and Danutia had urgent issues to discuss, and they'd have little chance tomorrow, among the hurly-burly of Blessing Day. He washed his hands in a bowl of warm water.

“I'll be back in an hour or so,” he told Justine as he squeezed past the main panel.

“Hurry back,” she said. “If the well dressing isn't ready to install at eight in the morning, our name will be mud. Isn't that right, Hugh?”

“You're always right, dearest.” Clough was poking holes in exposed clay with a tool that looked like a large toothpick. “We mustn't let this dry out,” he said to Liz, working beside him in her paint-splattered coveralls. Arthur had watched the main features take shape—the river, the bridge, the anglers. Now came the race against time to complete the looming mass of Chee Tor, the surrounding trees, the distant sky.

“Sandwiches will arrive in half an hour,” called Beverley from the other side of the central panel, where she was pressing in peppercorns to create Liz's thick dark lines. “Arthur, I asked Laura to include some roast beef and horseradish ones. I know they're your favorites.”

“Save me some,” Arthur said to her, then turned to Danutia.

“It's a lovely evening,” she said. “Why don't we walk by the river?” Crossing the road, they chatted about her presentation until they were over the footbridge and safely out of earshot.

They stopped at a rough anglers' bench beside the water. “I feel like I'm taking you away from a family work party,” Danutia said. “Should I come back later?”

“No,” Arthur said. “This is the best chance we have. Let's get down to it.” His tone was more brusque than he intended, his grievance at having to carry on alone this week breaking through.

The tone wasn't lost on Danutia. Giving him a mock salute, she said, “Yes sir, Corporal Dranchuk reporting sir,” and pulled a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. As she hunted for a document, he noticed how healthy she seemed; her skin had a glow he didn't remember. “I haven't found a way to get access to the autopsy report on Timothy Roberts, but I've put together some interesting things about his dad from newspaper reports and by hanging out in pubs in villages where he lived. Surprising how willing people are to help a Canadian find her long-lost uncle.”

“I'll make an actress of you yet,” Arthur said.

Danutia gave him a smug grin. “Anyway, at the time of Timothy's death, Cameron Roberts was working for the highway maintenance division of Derby County Council. About a year later, presumably as a result of Violet's telling him to shape up or ship out, he moved into a bedsit in Matlock. He hung onto his job for another two years, and then he got into a tussle with a motorist and was made redundant—” She glanced up from her notes. “That's what the man said. He'd been Roberts's foreman. What does it mean?”

“Laid off, like my dad. Or in Roberts's case, fired, more likely.”

“Then why didn't he just say fired?”

“Too straightforward, and too human. If you're redundant, you're a surplus cog in a machine.” The sun was sinking behind Chee Tor, shadows lengthening along the tree-lined riverbank, the day's warmth fading. Small silvery fish jumped and plopped back into the river, which tumbled away from them, swollen with spring rains.

Danutia shook her head and returned to her notes. “By 1983, Roberts was living in the hamlet of Newhaven and working for a plant that produced bricks and colored road-stone, among other things.”

“Sounds like a thrill a minute.”

“Wait, it gets better,” Danutia said. “Or worse, depending on your perspective. Roberts was laid off because his drinking had got to be a problem, according to a guy I talked to. I found a couple of charges for drunk and disorderly in the newspaper files, and then in 1987 he was sentenced to six months for burglary. Seems prison didn't change his habits, because in 1992 he was given six years on a string of break-ins. No one I talked to has heard of him since. I don't know how the system works here, but in Canada he could still be in jail, or out on parole.”