‘She’ll only ever speak to the local papers,’ George said. ‘Reckons this town’s her whole world now, and nothing outside it matters. Oh, they all had a go, when she first moved here — national papers, television. None of them got close.’
‘Don’t suppose they tried too hard,’ Merrily said. ‘She isn’t as famous as she used to be.’
‘If they all knew what I knew, Mrs Watkins,’ George said, ‘she’d be in every paper there is. That’s the top and bottom of it.’
‘And are you ever going to tell us, George?’ The Bishop sat cradling his brandy balloon, with its last quarter- inch of spirit. ‘Merrily’s not exactly one of the Little Sisters of the Assumption. She’s been around, you know.’
‘Thanks very much, Bernie.’
‘George knows what I mean.’
‘What’s ironic,’ George said, ‘is that she’s become a bit of a heroine to many people here — ’specially the new folk, the well-off folk. Ever a bit of timely cash needed to conserve some historic building, she’s in there with her chequebook. Made plans, apparently, for her own trust fund, to protect the old places. And then there was the housing business. You remember the development plan for the Weircroft fields, Bernard?’
The Bishop shook his head. ‘After I left here, I imagine.’
‘Owner of a couple of rough fields not far from The Weir House — bit of a wide boy, you ask me, had the look of a gypsy — he was trying to get planning permission to put houses on them. And there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d get it, too, eventually.’
‘Down by the river?’ the Bishop said. ‘Surely not!’
‘Under the castle walls, near enough. Council opposed it, and so did all the residents nearby, naturally. But the way this government is on housing now — build more and more, ignore the green belts — chances are he’d have won on appeal, especially as he was promising more than the usual quota of low-cost homes which are hard to get in Ludlow now. Then she made him an offer for the land.’
‘Did she indeed?’
‘And a very meaningful offer it was, too, but he had to decide now. Now or never. Well, he couldn’t afford to risk it, and so she bought the ground and declared it preserved. And now none of her neighbours will have a word said against her, because, if she moves, that ground’s gonner be up for grabs again. So all the folk in that vicinity, from Upper Linney to Stanton Lacy, turns a blind eye and a deaf ear.’
‘To what, George?’
‘To a good deal more than rumour, but I’ve never been one for gossip, Bernard, you know that.’
‘Erm…’ Merrily thought that one day she might meet someone who actually admitted to relishing tittle-tattle. ‘She walks the streets, right? At night. With a candle, sometimes.’
George Lackland folded his arms and sucked in his lips.
‘Like a ghost,’ Merrily said.
George dropped his arms. ‘Like a whore.’
‘Oh, really, George,’ the Bishop said.
‘You were here long enough, Bernard. You know what’s what. The prostitutes in this town… they knows their place. And you will agree that place is not, for instance, St Leonard’s graveyard.’
‘Oh, come now—’
‘We manage to keep it all under wraps one way or another. The police — well, if she’s broken the law, it’s not much compared with what else they have to handle nowadays. Can a woman be done for indecent exposure? Minor theft?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘What—?’
‘She stole a prayer book from St Laurence’s. Maybe other things, too, but someone saw her put the prayer book in her bag and walk out. And there was more, but we couldn’t tell David Cook, with the state of his health.’
‘More of what, in particular?’
‘We didn’t exactly hold on to the evidence.’
Merrily waited. Bernie Dunmore took a precautionary sip of brandy.
‘What she left in the church’ — George spoke tightly, as if his throat was closing up — ‘back of one of the misericords. Well, you don’t keep… articles like that.’
‘Perhaps I’m somewhat naive,’ the Bishop said.
‘Corey House in Broad Street, Bernard? The decorators?’
‘Architectural Interior Designers and Restorers, I believe they call themselves now.’
‘Decorators,’ George said. ‘The son, Callum, he went to finish off a wall for her at The Weir House. Had some very peculiar requests made of him. His father’s on the town council, and he had a word with me. They’re newcomers, but they’re a decent family. Thought I should know.’
‘What were the requests?’ Merrily asked. But George shook his head in a shuddery kind of way.
‘And there’s the parties. The young people. The singing.’
‘What kind of singing?’
‘I only use that word out of politeness,’ George said. ‘Sounds like a tribe of tom-cats.’
‘You’ve heard it?’
‘Just the once. I was advised to walk down The Linney and have a listen. There was something resembling a song, but I couldn’t distinguish the words. I think it was her and some other people.’
‘Possibly the ones who gathered under the Hanging Tower after the girl’s death?’
‘Aye. The neighbours… they look the other way. Some of the local boys are less tolerant, ’specially when they come out the pubs.’
‘Was it… one of these local boys who was stabbed that time?’ Merrily asked.
George took a long breath, said nothing.
‘But nobody was charged, right? Perhaps somebody was persuaded not to make a complaint?’
‘Probably wasn’t serious,’ George said quietly.
‘As a leading member of the Police Authority,’ Merrily said, ‘I suppose it’s a bit difficult for you.’
The Mayor’s eyes flared with anger, like coals far back in an old kitchen range. Merrily came back quickly, before he could clam up again.
‘Did you know that Mrs Pepper had been seen with Robbie Walsh not long before he died?’
‘Well, of course I knew. She was seen all over the town with him — in the church, the path by the yews as leads down to the back entrance of the Bull, the old alleyways…’
‘Do you know what brought them together?’
‘No. But then, I’ve not had what you’d call lengthy conversations with her. Wisest not to.’
‘Do you have any idea at all why she does… the things she does?’
George didn’t reply. He began scratching at the back of his hand as if he’d been stung.
‘You’ve evidently been covering up for her, George,’ Bernie said. ‘For quite some time, it sounds like. For, ah, Susannah’s sake. And Stephen’s, naturally.’
The Mayor went to the French windows and pulled a cord to draw the velvet curtains. Stood with his back to the dusty pink folds, as if he was keeping something out.
‘And the good of the town, of course,’ Bernie said slyly.
‘She’s a sick woman, she’s…’ George Lackland reached up and pulled the curtains together at the top, where one had slipped off its glider, and Merrily thought she heard him say ‘evil’ but couldn’t be sure. He turned around. ‘Pressure of wondering what she’s gonner do next is getting to me a bit, have to say that. Top and bottom of it is, I wish she’d never come, and I wish she was gone.’
‘I might be slightly off course here,’ the Bishop said, ‘but it seems to me that all your problems might conceivably be part of the same one. Do you think?’
George Lackland didn’t reply.
‘And you can’t involve the council, George, and you can’t involve the police. Therefore, I suppose that’s why we’re here.’
‘Maybe I just wanted to talk to somebody who knew the town and could see the picture,’ the Mayor said. ‘Even if they thought there wasn’t anything they could do. At least they’d understand a few things.’
‘Some things are not easily understood.’
‘Likely I used the wrong word. I’m not an educated man, as you know. But there’s areas of… areas of
