Missing Joseph

“St. Joseph,” Deborah fi nally announced. “That’s what I remember. Simon, he was devoted to St. Joseph.”

St. James raised a doubtful eyebrow and hunched further into his coat. “It’s a start, I suppose.” He tried to sound encouraging.

“No, really. It’s important. It must be.” Deborah went on to explain her meeting with the vicar in Room 7 of the National Gallery. “I was admiring the da Vinci — Simon, why is it that you’ve never taken me to see it before?”

“Because you hate museums. I tried when you were nine. Don’t you recall? You preferred to go rowing on the Serpentine and became quite unruly when I took you to the British Museum instead.”

“But those were mummies. Simon, you wanted me to look at the mummies. I had nightmares for weeks.”

“So did I.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have let a little bit of temper defeat you so easily.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future. Back to Sage.”

She used the sleeves of her coat as a muff, tucking her hands inside. “He pointed out that the da Vinci cartoon didn’t have St. Joseph in it. He said that St. Joseph hardly ever was in a painting with the Virgin and wasn’t that sad? Or something like that.”

“Well, Joseph was just the breadwinner, after all. The good old bloke, the right-hand man.”

“But he seemed so…so sad about it. He seemed to take it personally.”

St. James nodded. “It’s the meal-ticket syndrome. Men like to think they’re more important than that in the general scheme of their women’s lives. What else do you recall?”

She sank her chin to her chest. “He didn’t want to be there.”

“In London?”

“In the gallery. He’d been heading somewhere else — was it Hyde Park? — when it started to rain. He liked nature. He liked the country. He said it helped him think.”

“About what?”

“St. Joseph?”

“Now there’s a subject for ample consideration.”

“I told you I wasn’t any good at this. I don’t have a memory for conversation. Ask me what he wore, what he looked like, the colour of his hair, the shape of his mouth. But don’t ask me to tell you what he said. Even if I could remember every word, I’d never be able to delve for hidden meanings. I’m no good at verbal delving. I’m no good at any delving. I meet someone. We talk. I like him or I don’t. I think: This is someone who might be a friend. And that’s the end of it. I don’t expect him to turn up dead when I come to call, so I don’t remember every detail of our first encounter. Do you? Would you?”

“Only if I’m conversing with a beautiful woman. And even then I find I’m distracted by details having nothing to do with what she has to say.”

She eyed him. “What sort of details?”

He cocked his head thoughtfully and examined her face. “The mouth.”

“The mouth?”

“I find women’s mouths a study. I’ve been readying myself for the last several years to posit a scientific theory on them.” He settled back against the bench and regarded the ducks. He could feel her bristling. He contained a smile.

“Well, I won’t even ask what the theory is. You want me to. I can tell by your expression. So I won’t.”

“Just as well.”

“Good.” She wriggled next to him, duplicating his position on the bench. She held out her feet and scrutinised the tops of her boots. She clicked her heels together. She did the same with her toes. She said, “Oh all right. Damn it. Tell me. Tell me.”

“Is there a correlation between size and significance of utterance?” he asked solemnly.

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all. Have you never noticed that women with small mouths invariably have little of importance to say?”

“What sexist rubbish.”

“Take Virginia Woolf as an example. Now there was a woman with a generous mouth.”

“Simon!”

“Look at Antonia Fraser, Margaret Drabble, Jane Goodall—”

“Margaret Thatcher?”

“Well, there are always exceptions. But the general rule, and I argue that the facts will uphold it absolutely, is that the correlation

exists. I intend to research it.”

“How?”

“Personally. In fact, I thought I’d begin with you. Size, shape, dimension, pliability, sensuality…” He kissed her. “Why is it I’ve a feeling you’re the best of the lot?”

She smiled. “I don’t think your mother beat you enough when you were a child.”

“We’re even then. I know for a fact that your father never laid a hand upon you.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to her. She slipped hers into the crook of his arm. “How does a brandy sound?”

She declared it sounded fine, and they began to retrace their steps up the lane. Much like Winslough, just beyond the village the open land rose and fell in gentle hills parcelled out in farms. Where the farms ended, the moors began. Sheep grazed here. Among them, the occasional border collie moved. The occasional farmer worked.

Deborah paused on the threshold of the pub. St. James, holding the door for her, turned back to find her staring at the moors and tapping the knuckle of her index fi nger contemplatively against her chin.

“What is it?”

“Walking. Simon, he said he liked to walk on the moors. He liked to be outside when he had to make a decision. That’s why he wanted to go to the park. St. James’s Park. He’d planned to feed the sparrows from the bridge. And he knew about the bridge. Simon, he must have been there before.”

St. James smiled and drew her into the doorway of the pub.

“D’you think it’s important?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“D’you think perhaps he had a reason for talking about the Hebrews wanting to stone that woman? Because we know he was married. We know his wife met with an accident…Simon!”

“Now you’re delving,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“FOR SPENCE. DIDN’T YOU hear?”

“The headmistress sent for her and…”

“…see his car?”

“It was about her mum.”

Maggie hesitated on the school steps when she realised that more than one speculative glance was being directed her way. She’d always liked the time between the last lesson and the departure of the school bus. It presented the best opportunity to gossip with the pupils who lived in other villages and in the town. But she’d never considered that the giggles and whispers that accompanied the afternoon chit-chat might one day be about her.

Everything had seemed outwardly normal at first. Pupils were gathered on the tarmac in front of the school in their usual fashion. Some were lingering by the school bus. Others were lounging against cars. Girls were combing their hair and comparing shades of contraband lipstick. Boys were sparring with each other or trying to look cool. When Maggie came through the doors, threaded her way down the steps, and searched the assembly for