brimmed hat was waxed, too. An incomer, then. Pinched face, prominent teeth.
‘Mr Osman’s a writer,’ Mumford said.
‘Well… illustrator, mainly, and book designer. I produce local watercolours, with accompanying verse. A new career, in retirement, and a chance to immerse oneself in the place. And calendars. I also produce calendars. Gerald Osman.’
‘I think someone sent us one at Christmas, actually,’ the Bishop said. ‘Watercolours, yes. Keep it in my office.’
‘Do you really? You must come up to the house for a glass of wine afterwards. We’re at the bottom of the hill, this side of the river. My wife used to think it was so lovely having a house with such a wonderful view of the castle, but not so sure any more. Rather wishes it would all go away.’
‘Yes,’ Mumford said. ‘Perhaps you could show us, sir, where you were when you saw the… my nephew fall.’
‘Well, as I told you, it’s just… just here, actually. Quite a remarkable view of the castle, as you see. And it was earlier in the evening, therefore so much clearer.’
The sky was darkening fast now, a sharp shaft of burnt orange over the keep, getting duller, like a spearhead cooling after the forge.
‘I’ve painted it many times, at different times of day and night,’ Mr Osman said. ‘Often from this actual spot — so I do know this angle pretty well. As you see, it can look rather sinister in the last of the light, and in the rain it often has a faintly dolorous air. But in the early evening, on a fine day, it’s mellow — like the crust of a mature Cheddar. Everything very clear: every ridge, every fissure.’
‘If there’d been two people up there, do you think you’d have known?’ Mumford said.
‘Well, it’s rather further away than it looks from here, so human figures are very small, and I didn’t manage to focus my binoculars until I saw him fall — couldn’t believe it, obviously. Terrible shock.’
‘But you’ve spent a lot of time in the castle,’ Mumford said. ‘You’ve been up that tower.’
‘Of course. I’ve been everywhere, making sketches — which is why I recognized your nephew. I mean from the photographs on the TV, not when he was… falling… The moment the face came up on the screen I said to my wife, Good Lord, I’ve seen that boy several times. I’ve even talked to him.’
‘In the castle?’
‘When it was quiet, I’d sit in the castle grounds, make some watercolour sketches. I’m sure they come out just as well when I do them at home, from photographs, but I always felt I was honouring a tradition — all the distinguished artists who painted Ludlow Castle. Turner, for heaven’s sake! Not one of his best, I grant you.’
‘And the boy…’
‘Would come and watch me. From a distance at first. Normally, I’m quite wary of children, especially teenagers, with some of the malevolent little tykes around nowadays. But this boy was genuinely interested. Eventually telling me he did some drawings himself. And his extensive knowledge of the castle was apparent from the start — knew the names of all the towers, their history, the various stages of development. I was impressed.’
‘Knew his way around,’ Merrily said.
‘Absolutely. Rather a pleasant boy. Shy at first — I find shyness something of a virtue these days.’
‘And the woman,’ Mumford said heavily. ‘You were telling me about the woman.’
‘Ah. Yes. Mrs… Pepper? Lives in that rather splendid old farmhouse down from the bottom of The Linney.’ Mr Osman pointed somewhere to the left of the castle ruins. ‘Well, it’s a bit of a fraud, actually, was built up from very little by some professional restorer — who, incidentally, cut down a wonderful old oak tree, allegedly by mistake.’
‘And the woman herself…’
‘She bought the place earlier this year. She’s supposed to have been quite well known at one time — afraid I don’t know very much about that kind of music myself. She’s… like a number of people living here now, I suppose, somewhat eccentric.’
‘And you saw Robbie with her,’ Mumford said.
‘Oh yes.’
‘How many times?’
‘Well, twice, certainly. She’s quite distinctive, with the varying colours of her hair and the way she dresses.’
‘Dresses how?’
‘Oh… like out of a Victorian melodrama. Long coats. Swirly cloaks.’
‘I see. You ever talk to the boy when he was with her?’
‘Never. Some people one instinctively…’ Mr Osman cleared his throat. ‘But the boy would follow her around, and they’d be pointing things out to one another. If I hadn’t known she lived here, I would probably have thought they were tourists, a mother and son.’ He looked at Bernie. ‘I gather you’re a friend of the family, my lord.’
‘Just, ah, Bishop… please.’ Bernie had dressed down tonight — golfing jacket, corduroy trousers. ‘Yes, we’re all trying to help them come to terms with what happened.’
‘Dreadful thing. I did telephone the police station the next day to tell the sergeant I now realized this was a boy I’d seen in the castle. And about the woman. He didn’t seem to think that was very important.’
‘Oh?’ Mumford’s tone didn’t alter. ‘What did he say, exactly?’
‘He just said something to the effect that Robson Walsh was a familiar figure to a great number of people. Boy was clearly obsessively interested in the history of Ludlow and would talk to anybody who seemed to know something about it. Though why that particular woman would be considered a fount of local knowledge—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘Did you say she was a musician?’
‘Some sort of singer, I gather, at one time. Mrs Pepper. Hasn’t lived here two minutes — well, say six months. Admittedly, we’ve only lived here permanently for about three years ourselves, but it was our holiday home for seventeen years before that, so I think we’re permitted to feel a touch proprietorial.’
‘And you said she was eccentric…’
‘I try not to listen to gossip.’
‘You don’t happen to know her first name, do you?’ Merrily said.
‘I don’t think I do, no.’
‘Couldn’t be Marion?’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Well, not in that context.’ Mr Osman turned to Mumford. ‘You asked me that, didn’t you?’
‘Do you know anyone called Marion who… frequents the castle?’ Merrily asked.
‘Well, not…’ He laughed. ‘As I told Mr Mumford here, not someone I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Mr Osman didn’t reply. Over the town, the sky was turning a luminous acid green with early moonlight.
‘Ah,’ the Bishop said. ‘I think I understand. You mean Marion de la Bruyere. But that wasn’t the keep, was it, Mr Osman?’
‘It was the Hanging Tower, Bishop. I wrote some verse about her, for my calendar the year before last. Marion, whose endless death… is poised upon a midnight breath. Not… not awfully good, really.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘Three of you seem to know what this is about, but one of us doesn’t. Who are we talking about here? What does she do?’
‘She haunts,’ Bernie Dunmore said. ‘Allegedly.’
9
The Bishop’s Tale
The Bishop said he was confused: too much, too fast.
‘Why did you want to know if Osman had seen anyone else on the tower? I mean, surely you don’t imagine that someone actually killed the boy?’
The ornate lamps in the square were white, like magnesium flares.
