made him another fortune. Which provided the money to keep our church beautiful.’
Abney picked up an overcoat and started to shrug himself into it.
Behind him, in the east wall, a door Shaw hadn’t noticed opened and a man stepped through carrying a coal scuttle.
‘Ah,’ said Abney. ‘Just the man. I must go — but this is Sam Venn. Sam runs the London Road Shelter — you know, for the homeless. Great work. And, more importantly, he’s our boiler man. It’s all a bit antique, Victorian coal-fired. Only Sam knows how, like his father before him …’ Abney stopped, suddenly inarticulate, as if he’d said something shocking.
He fumbled with the buttons on his raincoat. ‘He’ll know about this woman if anyone does.’ He turned to Venn. ‘Nora Tilden, Sam? These gentlemen are from the police and they’re making inquiries about her burial.’ He looked at them all briefly, then said, ‘Goodbye. A mystery — you can let me know what it’s all about later.’ He broadcast a smile.
Venn stood awkwardly still, watching the pastor leave. He was slight, with very narrow shoulders and an unsettling face: it slumped on one side, as if it had been made in wax and left in front of a fire, the effects of what Shaw guessed to be cerebral palsy. The right eye was much lower than the left, lazy and, Shaw guessed, blind. And the mouth on that side turned down as well. He was middle aged, dressed well in a thermal jacket and moleskin trousers, and he said nothing, instead waiting confidently for a question.
Shaw showed him his warrant card.
‘Mr Venn,’ he said. ‘Nora Tilden. Does the name mean anything to you?’
Venn put the scuttle down and Shaw noticed for the first time that he held his right arm awkwardly, as if it was in an invisible sling.
‘Yes. Yes, I remember Nora. But what is it — nearly thirty years? It’s a very hazy memory, I’m afraid.’ He looked around, as if speaking to a delegation. Venn’s voice was strong, educated, with only a slight inflection of the Norfolk accent, and his manner was smooth. Shaw was ashamed to think he’d presumed his character would reflect in some way his damaged body.
‘Nora was a devout woman, so most of our church members would have been at the graveside. I was there — but, as I say, it’s a long time ago. All those who could have attended would have. Her grandfather had been pastor …’ Shaw nodded. ‘I’m sure her soul’s with the Elect. Her faith was her life in all things.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Shaw, failing to keep a note of animosity out of his voice. There was nothing like the hint of dogma to spark a flash of the Shaw family temper.
‘Calvin taught us, teaches us, that we should live according to the principles of our church in everything we do. And that we should be regulated in our worship. And we are. To step outside the Word invites his retribution.’
On the word ‘retribution’, Venn’s left hand crossed to touch the damaged right.
‘Does that include music and dancing?’ asked Shaw.
‘Yes, we allow both. Some of the churches which were once our sisters and brothers ban certain forms of music and dance. But they are not proscribed by the Scripture. And we follow the Word in all things. Without exception.’
‘Alcohol?’ asked Valentine, happy to indulge in his favourite subject.
‘Calvin made sure there was a copy of the Bible in every tavern in Geneva. Moderation was his teaching, not abstinence.’
Venn was struggling, under cross-examination, to keep the smile going. ‘What is this about, may I ask?’
‘I can’t be specific,’ said Shaw. He could have told Venn the facts, as he’d told Fletcher, but something made him want to keep the man guessing. ‘Nora Tilden’s body has been disinterred as part of the ongoing work at the cemetery. There are some irregularities — we need to clear them up. She was murdered by her husband, I believe — is that right?’
Venn seemed to start at the sudden question. ‘Yes. Of course — terrible.’
‘We’re told that two black men attended her funeral. Do you know who they might have been?’
Venn shook his head. ‘Not by name, though I might be able to find out. There was a father and son, I know that much. The father worked for the corporation; at the bus depot, I think. They were with us a year — no more. After that I think they went to Peterborough. I’m sorry — the name really is gone. Shall I try to find it for you?’
‘Please,’ said Shaw. ‘It’s important. So you knew the Tildens well?’
Venn looked at his wristwatch. ‘A bit. Nora was an unhappy woman in many ways. I think the only joy in her life was experienced in this place. She didn’t really want to run the pub — any pub. But her father left it to her, so she didn’t have much choice. It was the family business, the family inheritance. Her father — Arthur Melville — made it pretty clear that’s what he expected of her. And there’d been a child at first, I think. Died in infancy. I seem to recall we always put her in our prayers …yes, a daughter. I always got the impression Nora spent the rest of her life grieving.’
Shaw checked his watch, frustrated by a sense that Venn was deliberately skirting direct answers to his questions.
‘But you’d have known Alby, when he came back from his travels?’
‘Yes. Some of his stuff used to clutter up the pub, I remember.’ Venn closed his eyes, as if trying to see into the past. ‘I recall a gong which stood in the billiard room. Vast thing. And some prints. And a gold Buddha he had up on a shelf — that always scandalized our church councillors. It’s still there.’
‘You used the pub?’ asked Valentine, surprised.
‘Yes. Still do. Two or three times a week for lunch. I was born here, Sergeant; went to the school. I see old friends. The Flask’s a special place, you see — it’s pretty much all that’s left of the community, except for our little church.’
He didn’t volunteer any more information, although Shaw felt certain he knew more than he’d said.
‘Thank you for your time, sir. Those names — the two black men who attended the Tilden funeral. We really do need to check them out. So, if you can …’
Venn looked at the coal scuttle he’d set at his feet. ‘I need to ring our archivist — she keeps the records. Every church member makes a tithe, so we should have something written down. Today, with luck?’
‘Please — soon as you can,’ said Shaw, turning towards the door. Under the twin portraits he stopped and turned. ‘Did Alby Tilden attend church?’
Venn laughed. ‘Er, no. Alby was one of those men who thinks that it doesn’t matter what they do, what rules they break, they should always be welcome in their own homes. I have no idea what he was like
‘Show you what?’ prompted Valentine.
Venn glanced past them at the portrait of Equiano.
‘He had this tattoo, on his back, of a woman. A black woman. She was naked — a loose woman, I suppose. He could make her move with his muscles. Locals loved it. As party tricks went it was a winner every time. He’d do it in front of Nora …’ He shook his head, looking at the parquet floor. ‘I was there to witness this and I think it is one of the cruellest things I have ever seen. She was a hard woman, and she set her face against the world. But she didn’t deserve that. I thought it was …’ As he searched for the word he cradled his damaged arm. Then he looked with his good eye into Shaw’s. ‘Evil. Which is a rare thing, thanks be to God.’
9
The Flask stood on a slight rise by the river, a small clay cliff holding it clear of the tidal reach of the sea, four miles distant along the Cut. It was impossible to hide the building’s architectural heritage: the second floor jutting out above the first, the third above the second, the original beams exposed between the intricate brickwork. It stood at the end of Greenland Street, a stub of terraced houses petering out a hundred yards short of the river, leaving the pub to stand alone — the one property left behind when a line of slum tenements had been cleared. The demolition had left the Flask without vital support, hence the two steel buttresses which held up the end wall.
