Bones and Silence

Her real reason, however, was that she had no intention of staging her production in the Park, which was broad and flat and bounded by a main road and a canalized river, providing a choice between a static background of gloomy warehouses or a moving one of double-decker buses.

Her chosen site was much closer at hand. On the far side of the cathedral and belonging to it stretched an expanse of green and pleasant land, dotted with old trees and sinking down in a shallow valley before swelling up once more to a natural vallum where remnants of the city’s mediaeval walls could still be seen. More substantial than these stood the ruins of St Bega’s Abbey from which had come much of the impetus and, after its closure, some of the material to enlarge the small Anglo-Norman cathedral into a huge Gothic edifice which could hold its own against any in the land.

This was the setting Chung lusted after.

They had arrived at the great building itself. She paused and craned her neck to take in the soaring bulk of the lantern tower.

‘It’s incredible,’ she said. ‘How did they do all this without machines?’

‘They had something better. They had God,’ said the Canon.

It was a good feed. She looked at him appraisingly and said, ‘And that’s all you need? I think I’m getting close to finding mine. Canon, would it be possible to climb the tower to get a bird’s eye view of things?’

Horncastle hesitated but his wife inadvertently came to Chung’s aid. Pointing across the road to a tall gabled house as narrow and forbidding as the Canon himself, she said, ‘I thought as we were so near home, a cup of coffee perhaps …’

‘Dorothy,’ said the Canon testily, ‘I have pledged myself to advise Miss Chung this morning. In an hour’s time I have an important luncheon appointment at the Palace. I hardly feel that taking coffee in my own parlour would be a fruitful way of filling the intervening period. If you would follow me, Miss Chung.’

He headed into the cathedral. Chung smiled apologetically at his wife and said, ‘Another time, huh?’ before following.

It was a wearisome climb up a steep, dark, spiral staircase, but worth every ounce of sweat. The city lay stretched beneath them like an illuminated plan, and there was little to interrupt the eye’s flight to the distant green and blue horizons. The only contender in terms of height was the narrow tower which had tumesced out of the old redbrick university in the expansive sixties, and though it flashed back the light of the cold wintry sun most defiantly, its glass and concrete hardly gave promise of another six centuries of such defiance.

Chung moved from side to side, removing her snood to let the chill wind unravel her long black hair. The Canon stood and watched her delight with proprietorial pleasure. Dorothy Horncastle emerged a few moments later from the narrow oak door and stood unnoticed.

Chung came to rest by the eastern parapet and looked down towards the dwarfed ruins of the old abbey. Horncastle came and joined her.

‘It’s magnificent,’ she said sincerely.

‘Yes. I pride myself that we have a setting and outlook dramatic enough to stand comparison with any in the country,’ said the Canon complacently.

‘A dramatic setting?’ said Chung, eagle-eyed for an entrée. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. You must be a classicist, Canon. That fold of ground there, the Greeks would have had to turn it into an amphitheatre. And the ruins, what a backcloth! No chance of transferring them to Charter Park for the Mysteries, I suppose?’

‘If it were feasible, you should have them,’ replied the Canon, quite happy to hypothesize the impossible in return for Chung’s smile.

‘Pity,’ she sighed. ‘That tatty park could surely do with something to match the material. But you’ll be doing wonders enough if you can get us permission to route the procession through the close. I gather the Bishop is none too keen.’

‘Indeed? I can assure you that whatever route we decide on today will be the route you take,’ said Horncastle sharply.

‘You can? That’s great,’ exclaimed Chung at full glow. ‘But your other idea, about the ruins, that would take a real miracle, huh?’

There it was. A temptation on a tower. If he followed the best precedents, the Canon would scornfully deny ever having had any such idea about the ruins. Or he might compromise, and still take it as a joke about transferring the ruins to Charter Park. Or he might be vain enough to let himself be manipulated into accepting parenthood of a proposal to use St Bega’s as the main Mysteries site, and with parenthood, responsibility.

Then she looked into his hard unblinking eyes and knew she had made a mistake. He was a bright man within his limits, and she had seen only the limits and forgotten the brightness.

She smiled, acknowledging defeat, and said, ‘But it’s a great route. Thanks for your help.’

And submission proved the key. The Canon said, ‘I think I might rise to the occasional miracle, in a purely dramatic sense, of course.’

‘You mean you think you could really swing it for us to use St Bega’s?’

‘It would require the approval of the Chapter but that would be something of a formality once the Bishop and I showed the way. Would you like me to attempt the miracle, as you call it?’

There was the scent of a bargain here which made Chung momentarily uneasy. But clerics should know better than to do deals with pagans.

She said, ‘It would be truly marvellous.’

‘In that case I shall speak to his lordship at luncheon today. Now let us descend. Permit me to lead the way. The stairs are steep and there is danger here for the unvigilant.’

Oh, you’re so right, baby, thought Chung as he stepped through the doorway with exaggerated care. She looked round in search of Mrs Horncastle. She was standing in the furthermost corner of the tower leaning out over the parapet. Like Chung, she had removed her headgear, revealing a tumult of chestnut hair which seemed to dance exuberantly at its release from the confines of the woollen hat. There was even some colour in the hollow cheeks now, and a brightness in the eyes as they stared into the space which divided her from the crawling dots below.

‘Mrs Horncastle, we’re going now. Are you all right? Mrs Horncastle!’

‘What? Oh yes. Yes, of course. So sorry.’

She was like a woman waking from a dream. She looked at the hat in her hand as if uncertain how it got there. Then she pulled it down over her rebellious hair and hurried across the roof and through the staircase door.

The darkness swallowed her.

For a moment Chung paused as if reluctant to leave this pale winter sunlight. Then, with a sigh which had nothing theatrical about it, she followed the Horncastles into the gloom.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_11fb4bc1-9860-5b0e-865b-9e1499c8cc45)

‘Mr Swain, I’d like to take you over your statement again,’ said Dalziel with the effulgent smile of a man who wants to sell a used Lada.

Swain glanced at his watch with the air of a man who has two minutes to spare and has started counting. Sharp-featured, deep-eyed and black-haired, he was quite striking in a Mephistophelean kind of way. And his rather supercilious appearance was matched by the voice which said, ‘I thought I’d already been as clear as I could without supplying a video, Superintendent.’

Dalziel smiled wolfishly. Pascoe guessed he was thinking: Oh, but you did, my lad! But this was no time to be seeing Swain through Dalziel’s indisputably prejudiced eyes. Pascoe was more interested to find the oddities he had detected when reading the statement confirmed by his first meeting with the man. Stereotyping was of course a fascist device for perpetuating class divisions but Pascoe found himself unable to avoid a prejudice which provided your paradigmatic jobbing builder with Stringer’s cloth cap, baggy trousers and vernacular speech forms, rather than Swain’s Daks blazer, Cartier watch, and upper-class phonemes.

Dalziel said, ‘Last night when you wrote your statement, you were naturally upset. Who wouldn’t be? Man kills his wife, he’s got a right to be upset. I’d just like to be sure you got things down like you really wanted. Here, take a look, tell me if there’s owt you want to change.’

He pushed a photocopy of Swain’s statement across the table. Swain said softly, ‘A man who kills his wife? I think either I must have misheard or you must have misread, Superintendent.’

‘Sorry, sir. Slip of the tongue,’ said Dalziel unconvincingly. ‘Though you do say as it was mebbe your efforts to get the gun off her that … anyroad, you just read through what you wrote and let me know if it’s right.’

Swain ran his eyes down the sheets. When he finished he sighed and said, ‘It’s like a nightmare, all confused. I’m amazed I could have written this so clearly, but, yes, it’s the most sense I can make out of the fragments. Would you like me to sign it again?’

‘No need,’ said the fat man. ‘Signing a cheque twice won’t stop it bouncing. If it’s going to bounce, I mean. Anyroad, there’s notes been taken, so all this is on the record.’

Wield was taking the notes. Pascoe had been invited along to observe. What the tactics were likely to be he could only guess. Dalziel’s response to the news of Waterson’s statement and subsequent disappearance had been stoic to the point of catalepsy, encouraging his colleagues to move in his vicinity like off-piste skiers. But his abandonment of the idea of leaving Swain to sweat till after lunch showed how seriously he was taking things.

‘This wife of yours, did she make a habit of carrying guns around with her, Mr Swain?’ inquired Dalziel.

‘Of course not. At least, not to my knowledge.’

‘Not to your knowledge, eh? And I dare say you would’ve noticed if she’d started slipping three pounds of Colt Python down her cleavage, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of what?’

‘Colt Python, weighs forty-four ounces unloaded, overall length eleven and a quarter inches, fires the .357 Magnum cartridge,’ said Dalziel quoting the lab’s preliminary weapon report.