“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“Well, it
Mazzy Star were singing “So Tonight That I Might See” now, the last track on the CD, with its slow, hypnotic beat and distorted guitars.
Banks sipped the last of his rich, silky amarone. “And in the end,” he said, almost to himself, “Iago succeeds in talking Othello into murdering Desdemona and killing himself.”
“Yes. What is it, Alan?”
“What?” Banks put his glass down. “Just a glimmer of an idea, that’s all.” He reached out for her. “But then a better one came along.
How would you like to hear a story about a particularly grisly murder I solved once?”
“Well, you certainly know how to get a girl in the mood, don’t you?” Sophia said, and came into his arms.
SUNDAY MORNING dawned clear and sunny, the sky as blue as the grass was green, a perfect late-spring day. After an early breakfast, Banks and Sophia drove to Reeth in the Porsche, parked on the village green, then headed past the Buck Inn and the bakery toward the old school and turned up Skelgate. At the top, they went through the gate onto open moorland and walked high along the daleside below Calver Hill.
Curlews soared above the moors, making their curious piping calls.
There were rabbits everywhere. Families of grouse bobbed in and out of the tufted grass. Once in a while, Banks or Sophia would approach 1 3 4
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too close to a tewit’s ground nest, and the birds would start to panic, twittering and f lying nervously back and forth, defending their territory. Across the dale, on the rising green slopes of the other side, pale gray drystone walls formed the shapes of milk churns and teacups. The path was muddy in places, but the ground was drying quickly.
They turned a sharp bend and walked down a steep curving hill, hand in hand, then passed through the hamlet of Healaugh, the limestone cottages with their tiny well-tended gardens of bright-colored f lowers a profusion of red, yellow, purple and blue, where bees droned lazily, and then back along the riverside, under the shade of the alders, to the small swing bridge, which they crossed and continued by the riverside, turning onto the old Corpse Way into Grinton.
They didn’t see another human being until they passed the Saint Andrew’s Church on the lane, where a woman in a red polka-dot summer dress and a white broad-brimmed hat was putting f lowers on a grave.
Banks had a sudden and ominous feeling of apprehension, of im-pending disaster, that this would be the last good day for a long time and that they should go back to Reeth, start the walk again. This time they should make sure that they savored every moment even more than they had the first time, store up the beauty and tranquillity they felt against future loss and adversity. In days to come, he thought, he might cherish and cling to the memory of that morning. Was it T. S. Eliot who said something about shoring fragments against his ruins? Sophia would know. The feeling passed, and they crossed the road to The Bridge.
Sophia’s parents were already waiting in the bar when they got there. They had taken a table by the window, settling themselves on the comfortable padded bench. Banks and Sophia sat in the cushioned chairs opposite them, and they could see Saint Andrew’s across the road through the low bay window. The woman in the hat was just leaving through the lych-gate. Saint Andrew’s, a beautiful, small twelfth-century Norman church with its square tower and arched door porch, was where the Corpse Way ended, Banks remembered.
Before Muker Church was built in 1580, Saint Andrew’s had the only consecrated ground in Upper Swaledale, and people had to carry their dead in large baskets all the way from Muker or Keld sometimes, A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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along the Corpse Way to Grinton. At some of the bridges on the way, there were old f lat stones that used to act as resting places, where you could put down the coffin for a few moments and have a bite to eat and a spot of ale. Some of the travelers were no doubt drunk in charge of a coffin when they finally got to Grinton, and perhaps even one or two coffins got dropped along the way. There was a famous book about a journey with a coffin, but he couldn’t remember its title. Another question for Sophia. He asked her, and she did know. It was Faulkner’s
“We haven’t ordered yet,” said Victor Morton, Sophia’s father. “Just got here ourselves. Thought we’d wait for you.” He was a fit, slim man in his early seventies, not an ounce of fat on him, and judging by the fancy adjustable, sprung walking sticks by the table—more like ski poles than walking sticks, Banks thought—the Mortons had also been for a walk before lunch. Victor’s face glowed from exercise.
“Let me order,” said Banks. “Everyone know what they want?”
The choices were fairly predictable for a Sunday pub lunch—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for Banks and Victor, roast lamb for Sophia and pork for her mother, Helena. It was easy to see where Sophia got her looks, Banks thought, glancing at Helena as he went to the bar to order. She must have been quite a beauty in her day, and Victor had no doubt been a dashing, handsome young diplomatic attache. Banks wondered how much parental resistance they had encountered. After all, a Greek waitress in a taverna and a young Eng-lishman with a shining civil service career ahead of him . . . It can’t have been easy. Banks got along perfectly well with Helena, but he sensed Victor’s disapproval and suspicion of him. He wasn’t sure if it was the age difference, his job, background, the fact that he was divorced, or simple paternal possessiveness, but he felt it.
Sophia helped him carry the drinks back. Beer for Victor and himself, white wine for the women. At least they had some fairly decent wine at The Bridge, and the young landlord was also a keen fisherman who sometimes put his catch of the day on the dinner menu.
Banks sat back and enjoyed his drink through the small talk. Some-1 3 6
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how, nothing tasted quite as good as a pint of well-kept ale after a long walk. Victor and Helena had walked
