Distantly she could perceive the glow of the populous city and hear the chitter of its traffic, but these lights and sounds had nothing to do with her. She stood like a ghost in a ghostly world whose insubstantiality was her proper medium now. Some memory might remain in this other place of that other place, but the laws of physics by which mortals walk and drive and fly over the earth and by which the earth itself and all the planets and all the stars swing round each other in their crazy reel, were the dreams of an amoeba. She felt as if she could float up through the looming tower and with one small step be on the invisible moon.
You stupid bitch! she said to herself in an attempt at a rescuing anger. Getting rid of Serge's ashes is meant to be a move away from all this crazy crap!
And with a series of movements like an orgasmic spasm, she shook the dust out of the Hoover bag.
The wind caught it and for a moment she could see the fine powder twisting and coiling in the air as if trying to hold together and reconstitute itself in some living form.
Then it was gone.
She turned away, eager to be out of this place.
And shrieked as she saw a figure standing beside an ancient headstone which leaned to one side as if something had just pushed it over to open a passage from the grave.
‘I’m sorry,' said a voice. 'I didn't mean to startle you, but I was worried… are you all right?'
Not Serge! A woman. She was relieved. And disappointed? God, would it never stop?
'Yes, I'm fine. Why shouldn't I be? And who the hell ire you?'
Speaking abruptly was the easiest way to control her voice.
'Mrs Rogers… I think we're neighbours… it is Ms Pomona, isn't it?'
'Yes. My neighbour, you say?'
Her eyes, accustomed now to the dark, could make out the woman's features. Mid to late thirties perhaps, a round face, not unattractive without being remarkable, her expression a mixture of embarrassment and concern.
'Yes. Just since last week though. We haven't met but I saw you going into your flat a couple of times. I was just walking down the lane now and I saw you… I'm sorry… none of my business… sorry if I startled you.'
She gave a nervous smile and began to turn away. Not once had her gaze gone to the Hoover bag – which must have been quite an effort, thought Rye. You spot someone emptying their vacuum cleaner in a churchyard, you're entitled to wonder if there's anything wrong!
'No, hold on,' she said. 'You're going back to Church View? I'll walk with you.'
She fell into step beside Mrs Rogers and said, 'My name's Rye. Like the whisky. Sorry I was so brusque, but you gave me a shock.'
'I'm Myra. I'm sorry but I thought that anything in a place like this… even a polite cough's going to sound a bit creepy!'
'Especially a polite cough,' said Rye, laughing. 'Which flat are you then?'
'The other side of you from Mrs Gilpin.'
'Ah, you've met Mrs Gilpin. No surprise there. Not meeting Mrs Gilpin is the hard thing.'
'Yes,' smiled the other woman. 'She did seem quite… interested.'
'Oh, she's certainly that.'
They had reached the gate. Across the road they saw a figure standing at the front door of Church View. It was Hat.
Rye came to a halt. She wanted to see him but she didn't want him to see her, not coming from the churchyard with a Hoover bag in her hand.
Mrs Rogers said, 'Isn't that the detective?'
'Detective?'
'Yes, the one who was round earlier asking if we'd seen anyone suspicious hanging around the building over the weekend’
'Ah. That detective,' said Rye coldly.
She watched Hat out of sight along the street, then opened the gate.
'And did you see anyone?' she asked.
'Well, there was a man last Saturday morning. I hardly noticed him, but Mrs Gilpin seems to have got a closer look.'
‘I'm amazed. Look, do you fancy coming in for a coffee? Unless your husband's expecting you’
'Not any more,' said Myra Rogers. 'That's why I needed to find a new flat. Yes, a coffee would be lovely. Are you planning to use that bag again?'
They were at the front door and Mrs Rogers looked significantly down the basement steps to where the building's rubbish bins stood.
'My domestic economy hasn't sunk that low,' said Rye, smiling.
She went down the steps, took the lid off a bin and dumped the empty bag inside.
'Now let's get that coffee,' she said.
Letter 4. Received Dec 18 ^ th. P. P
Sunday Dec 16th
Night, somewhere in England, heading north
Dear Mr Pascoe,
It was only a few hours since I posted my last letter to you, and yet it seems light years away! Train travel does that to you, doesn't it? Stop time, I mean.
You will recall I was on the point of leaving Cambridge in the company of Professor Dwight Duerden of Santa Apollonia University, CA. During the drive to London we talked naturally enough about the recent unhappy events at God's, and Dwight returned once more to his theme of good from evil, urging me to at least explore the possibility of completing Sam's book myself and finding a new publisher. He would be returning to St Poll for the holidays, and he promised me again that he would make enquiry of his university press. When we arrived at the Ritz we exchanged addresses and farewells and he instructed his driver to take me anywhere I wanted.
I had travelled to Cambridge via London, spending the night at Linda's flat in Westminster, and, rather than risk the purgatory of a Sunday train journey, I decided to take advantage of her kindness again, so that's where I told the driver to go. The flat is a hangover from the days when Linda was an MP before she spread her wings and flew to Europe. It's quite small – a tiny bedroom and a tinier sitting room plus a shower – but comfortable enough and conveniently placed. So, having a longish lease, she decided to keep it on as a pied-a-terre. A crone who lives a troglodyte existence in the basement has charge of the spare key and, if you're on the list of favoured friends, it provides a nice central location to lay your head on a visit to town.
On my first visit, the scowling crone had required three proofs of identity before she would hand over the key. This time I got a friendlier welcome, but I soon realized this was down to the pleasure of telling me I was too late, the flat was already occupied.
That's the trouble with generous people, they can be so indiscriminate.
I was turning away when she tried to rub salt in my wounds by making it clear it was no use me dossing down on a park bench and coming back in the morning.
'It's Miss Lupin's foreign clerical friend,' she said. 'He'll be staying several days.'
'Not Frere Jacques?' I said. 'Is he in? I must say hello.'
And I ran up the stairs before she could reply.
I had to knock twice before Jacques opened the door. He was clad in slacks and a string vest and looked a bit ruffled. But he smiled broadly to see me and I stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. And stopped dead when I saw he wasn't alone.
There was a young woman sitting on the solitary armchair.
Now Jacques is a man of indisputable holiness but also a man, if I am any judge, in whom the testosterone runs free, and it wouldn't have surprised me to find that his love of things English included our gorgeous girls.
But the easy way he introduced me was so guilt-free that I reproved myself for my suspicions, and even more so when I realized what he was saying.
This lovely young woman regarding me with an indifference worse than hostility was Emerald Lupin, Linda's daughter. Even if innate holiness and religious vows weren't enough to keep the old Adam at bay, surely, being a man of considerable good sense, Jacques wasn't going to take the slightest risk of getting up the nose of one of his
