The Old Silent

He let it run as he went over to the books against the wall, sat down on the floor, and looked them over. Jury could almost see the years of Billy's life changing with the books. Picture books, the William books, comics. He must have named his dog Gnasher after the one in these old 'Beano' strips. Then came Oliver Twist, Treasure Island, nothing by the Brontes-perhaps he got too much of that in Yorkshire -and some poetry. Jury recognized the small paperback of American poetry as the same one that Nell Healey had been holding. He pulled it out, thumbed through it to Robert Frost, noticed as he did so there were a lot of underlinings, marginal notes that surprised him. Apparently, his stepmother had had a decided effect on his reading. He found the one called 'Good-bye and Keep Cold,' and read it through twice.

But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm.

How often already you've had to be told,

'Keep cold, young orchard.

Good-bye and keep cold…'

Jury put his head in his hand. He went on looking through the book and stopped at a poem of Emily Dickinson, also heavily underscored. His eye was immediately drawn to the line, 'It was not frost, for on my skin I felt siroccos crawl…' The word sirocco was underlined twice and in the margin written in a loopy scrawl, 'desert wind, hot.'

'I used to have one, but not this good of a one.'

Wiggins's voice brought Jury round. 'What?'

'Train, sir.' Wiggins was kneeling by the track. The engine was going through the tunnel, probably for the dozenth time. Jury had forgotten the train. 'It was a contest, it was, to see who could collect the most pieces. I was the only one had a British Rail Pullman car. What sort did you have, sir?'

Jury had risen, still with the book in his hand. 'None. What's a 'sirocco,' Wiggins?'

The sergeant looked up from the miniature metal station, frowning. 'The band, you mean?'

'No. I mean what is it? What's it mean?'

Wiggins shook his head. 'No idea. Funny name, come to think of it. They're usually called things like Kiss of Death, or plays on words like Dire Straits. Good name, that.' Wiggins got up. 'The guest room's all tidied up. Nothing there that seemed helpful.'

'I'll have a look.' Jury frowned. 'Do you still have that issue-'

Wiggins looked back, standing in the doorway. 'Of what, sir?'

'Nothing,' said Jury. 'Nothing.'

4

It had started to rain steadily during the short drive to Macalvie's cemetery. Macalvie's cemetery: the graveyard that surrounded the disused church appeared to Jury to have little purpose anymore than that which Macalvie had brought to it. It surrounded the church unevenly on three sides.

They squelched through mud and high grass, stepping, Jury imagined, on graves whose stones had slowly slipped so far beneath the ground that one could barely see them. When they'd nearly reached the wall, Macalvie beamed his torch downward, kneeled, and removed the canvas staked across the grave.

It had been carefully staked out by Dennis Dench. Markers showing the position of the body were still there. The site was clear of vegetation for a foot round the site. There was little else to show that a body had been exhumed from the opening, that it had not been dug for a burial yet to come.

Except (thought Jury) that nobody came here anymore. He squinted through the dark at headstones leaning at odd angles, nearly hidden by tall grass and weeds. The rain fell steadily.

Wiggins stood at the bottom of the grave staring down, the package that was Dench's book between his gloved hands like a Bible. He made no move to rewrap the muffler that a sudden wind had disturbed; he said nothing about the weather.

Jury looked up from the gravesite to the old wall, crumbling like the wall round the Citrine house in West Yorkshire. What in heaven's name must have been going through that poor woman's mind in her interminable watching at the gate that listed like these gravestones in that deteriorating wall? What scenarios had she devised for the death of her stepson?

That she was hopeless of ever seeing him again was clear. She was not watching that small frozen orchard waiting for a miraculous reappearance, waiting for the boy to climb down from the tree in which he'd been hiding. It enveloped her like fog, the sense of hopelessness.

In her darkest imaginings of the way he died, could Nell Healey possibly have imagined this?

An owl screeched. They all stood looking down into the excavated grave, filling with rain.

Wiggins did not complain about the weather.

21

Melrose refused to open his eyes when he heard what must have been a mug of tea placed on his bedside table. He shut them more tightly still when the curtains on wooden rungs were slowly pressed back and the window raised. Why on earth did people seem to think one could not move without the morning tea, and that one's private bedroom was Liberty Hall? Nor did he hear the footsteps of the Person recede. The Person must have been standing in the room-the slow breathing seemed to come from the direction of the foot of the bed-staring like a ghoul as he slept. Nothing could be more unnerving except perhaps lying in a trench with the enemy standing over you wondering if you were, indeed, dead.

Finally, he heard skulking steps, the door gently close.

After a few seconds, he opened one eye to sunlight and a fine day and a cow staring at him, ruminatively, through the window.

Melrose threw back the covers and didn't give the cow the satisfaction of knowing he had spotted it.

Major Poges and the Princess were the only ones at the table when he entered the dining room. Ruby had just served Major Poges his boiled egg. The Princess was drinking coffee and sitting several chairs away down the other side of the table. She fluted a good-morning to Melrose.

Ruby, her hair pulled back from sallow skin and a face like a lozenge-mildly palliative-recited a rather extensive menu to Melrose, including mutton chops. Melrose ordered tea, toast, and porridge. Solemnly, Ruby took the order, collected some of the used crockery, and took herself off.

'And bring some more hot water, Ruby,' the Major called after her.

One could tell a great deal (Melrose had always liked to think) about the way a person approached his boiled egg. Major Poges did not behead his (as did Agatha), but tapped and tapped the top gently all round with the back of his egg spoon and peeled it.

From her end of the table, the Princess called down, 'We're the last. Or you are. It's nearly ten.'

'Miss Denholme appears to be very liberal with her mealtimes.'

'And her food,' said the Princess, whose plate, from what Melrose could see, did not attest to this. It was empty. 'She caters to one's tastes.' The Princess raised her finely chiseled face to the ceiling and exhaled a stream of smoke. This morning she was dressed in rose wool with one of the Weavers Hall shawls (this one of magenta) gathered about her arms and fastened with something pricey that winked in the sunlight.

'She's also quite a decent person, if a bit on the broody side. When I came here the first time, she was off nursing her sister-Iris, I think her name is. I understand the doctors feared the poor woman would have a miscarriage. I have never had children, myself.' Her tone suggested she couldn't understand why anyone