The Janus Stone

afterwards, rather unsteadily, to Nelson, ‘she was my half-sister. It just seems unbelievable that…’ His voice trailed off. Nelson sympathised with the unspoken words. Almost unbelievable that Edward’s father turned out to be a murderer who killed a child while in his teens and attempted murder again as a seventy-year-old? Almost unbelievable that the crime lay buried for over half a century, while the killer’s son planned to dig up the land for profit? Almost unbelievable that, on the same site, a children’s home would provide a refuge for hundreds of children and yet two would run away, one dying soon afterwards? All of it is unbelievable, yet all of it is only too true. Nelson grasped Edward Spens’ hand briefly then walked away through the tombstones. There was nothing else left to say.

At the church gate he stopped and spoke to Trace, who was still mopping her eyes.

‘I’ve just been speaking to your uncle.’

She looked up at him. ‘How did you know?’

‘It wasn’t difficult,’ said Nelson though, in truth, the connection escaped him for a long time, even after he saw the names on Judy’s family tree. Charlotte Spens, children Tracy and Luke. Though, of course, Trace’s surname isn’t Spens, which made it less obvious. Still, her presence explained why Sir Roderick was able to know so much about what went on both at the Swaffham dig and at Woolmarket Road.

Trace looked shell shocked, much as her uncle had done. ‘I can’t believe that Grandad… Mum quarrelled with Uncle Edward, you see, so we didn’t really see the rest of the family. But I’d always liked Grandad. He always seemed such a sweet old thing. We used to talk about history, about the Romans. It was something we had in common.’

‘Let’s hope it’s the only thing,’ said Nelson soberly, turning away to talk to Ruth.

Ruth had looked pale and tired but otherwise in good enough health. Her pregnancy was now obvious, even in the unflatteringly baggy black suit.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ she smiled rather shakily. ‘I’m glad we had this funeral. It feels right.’

‘Yes,’ Nelson agreed, ‘it feels right.’

He was about to say more when Clough bore down on them, suggesting a visit to a nearby pub. ‘It’s the proper thing to do after a funeral. Ask any Irishman.’ In the background, Irish Ted was nodding vigorously.

‘I’d better get back to work,’ said Ruth. ‘Goodbye, Nelson.’

And she had leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. It was their first physical contact since their child had been conceived.

When the police boarded the Lady Annabelle that night in early June, they had found Ruth sitting huddled on the deck, holding the gun. ‘I killed him,’ she kept saying, ‘I killed him.’ Nelson, had he been there, would have told her to keep this thought to herself. But Nelson was, at the time, sitting in an ambulance wrapped in a silver foil blanket and babbling about his daughters. The reinforcements, two police cars and an ambulance, had arrived almost as soon as Max pulled Sir Roderick’s dead body out of the water. The Lady Annabelle had drifted harmlessly onto the river bank. The policemen, local boys, boarded the boat easily, leaving their squad car parked in the reeds, its lights flashing eerily in the mist.

Ruth was convinced that she had killed Sir Roderick Spens. After all, didn’t she pull the trigger and see him fall, arms flailing helplessly, through the wooden railing of the boat? But the post-mortem (performed by an indecently cheery Chris Stevenson) showed that there were no bullet wounds on Sir Roderick’s body. Cause of death was a blow to the head, probably sustained when he fell. The bullet was later found, wedged into one of the Lady Annabelle’s bench seats. Ruth was relieved but the verdict does not alter her fundamental belief that she was the cause of the old man’s death. She had wanted to kill him. Isn’t intent to kill the same as murder?

This is something that Nelson could discuss with Father Patrick Hennessey. He knows, as he joins the traffic edging over the Dartford Bridge, that his visit is about more than police business. The Woolmarket Street case is closed. Whitcliffe is, if not happy, at least satisfied that none of the details have made it to the press (though the local papers did report the death of Sir Roderick Spens in a boating accident). Edward Spens is going ahead with the building development. ‘Life must go on,’ he said sententiously to Nelson, as if Nelson might be about to dispute the fact. He plans to call the apartment block ‘Bernadette House’.

But Nelson knows, in his heart, that nothing is over. They may know who killed Bernadette, they may know what happened to Elizabeth Black (forensics have uncovered the bones buried in the school playground – Father Hennessey will have another funeral to conduct) but the feelings stirred up by the deaths of these little girls (Annabelle Spens too) are not so easily buried. Fathers and daughters, this is the phrase that keeps running through Nelson’s head. He will shortly be the father of three daughters. This is the thought that now keeps him awake at night, the thought that has sent him speeding down the motorway towards the retired Catholic priest.

Confession? He hasn’t said the word aloud to himself but when he greets Father Hennessey and the older man suggests a walk in the secluded part of the garden, he knows that this is what he has come for. Once a Catholic… he smiles grimly to himself. Father Damian would be proud of him.

At first they discuss the Woolmarket Street case.

‘Have you any idea why Sir Roderick Spens did this terrible thing?’ asks Father Hennessey.

‘Edward Spens found his diaries,’ says Nelson, following the priest down a path overgrown with lavender and lemon balm. ‘He kept a diary from when he was a child. It’s all there, the murder and everything. Weirdest thing you ever read. Like a cross between Adrian Mole and Jack the Ripper.’

‘He must have been a very troubled soul.’

‘Troubled? Yes.’ Nelson gives a bark of humourless laughter. ‘But he managed to go through life without anyone suspecting. I mean, Edward Spens knew his father was odd. That was why he lived with them, to keep him out of trouble. But he never suspected that he was a murderer.’

‘And yet it came to light in the end,’ murmurs Hennessey. ‘Evil can’t stay hidden for ever.’

They have reached a sunken garden, out of sight of the house. They sit on a low bench, still warm from the sun. In front of them is a fountain, a mere trickle of water descending from the mouth of a stone fish. The dappled light overhead turns the spray into a hazy rainbow, yellow, green and blue.

Father Hennessey turns to face Nelson. ‘Why did you want to see me, my son?’

Nelson takes a deep breath. ‘I wanted to ask your advice.’

Hennessey inclines his head but says nothing. The silence trick. Nelson recognises it but that doesn’t stop him from falling into the trap and singing like a bird.

‘I’m a married man, Father. I love my wife and I love our two daughters.’ He pauses. Those terrible few hours when he thought his daughters were in danger have impressed on him just how much he does love them. He would do anything for them, even (at Michelle’s insistence) invite Laura’s boyfriend for Sunday lunch.

‘I love my wife,’ he repeats, ‘but a few months ago I… slept with someone else. I’m not making excuses, I knew it was wrong, but it was at a very difficult time… for me and for the other woman. We just came together, didn’t think about the consequences. But now she’s pregnant. She’s expecting my baby, a girl. And I don’t know what to do.’

Nelson stares at the fountain, the water falling endlessly into the stone bowl. Father Hennessey’s voice is calm.

‘You say you love your wife. Do you love this other woman?’

Nelson is silent for a moment and then he says, ‘I don’t know. I care about her. I care about her and the baby. I want to look after her.’ He laughs, rather harshly. ‘My wife does too. That’s the weirdest thing. She knows this woman and wants to help her. With the baby and everything. My wife wants to befriend the woman who’s having my baby. You couldn’t make it up.’

‘Love is always a force for good,’ says Hennessey gently. ‘Your love for your wife and daughters, for this woman and her unborn baby. Even your wife’s kindness towards her. These are all good things.’

Nelson turns towards him, his eyes are wet. ‘How can it be good? If my wife finds out, our marriage will be over.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘You think I should tell her then?’

‘I can’t give you advice,’ says Hennessey, ‘although I know that’s what you want. I can only tell you that a baby is always a blessing, love is always a blessing. You care about these people, you will find a way.’