The Vanishing Woman Page 17

  Mr Blewett looked where Gabriel was pointing. “Never noticed, I’m afraid. I’m always a little lost in my own thoughts these days.” He stared back at the grave. “You know, I’ve not seen flowers there often. Whoever placed them there has only recently taken the trouble. Shall I keep an eye out?”

  “No need to go to any trouble,” said Gabriel, “but if you do happen to see the person again, I should like to know who it is.”

  Mr Blewett gave a mock salute. “Right you are, Father, I shall keep my eyes peeled.”

  With that, the two men parted company.

  A few minutes later, Gabriel had more pressing concerns on his mind. He could hear voices upstairs as he walked into the presbytery and noticed a visitor’s hat and coat hanging on the stand. He was about to race up the stairs when Dr Whitehead appeared on the landing and began to walk down towards him. “What’s happened?” demanded Gabriel, his heart in his mouth. “Has he had another turn?”

  Dr Whitehead gave the smile he had no doubt given to thousands of frightened friends and relatives over the years. “Calm yourself, Father. Just a routine appointment. I should have come yesterday to see how Fr Foley was getting on, but I’m afraid I became very behind. I didn’t want to turn up too late in the evening when he might be resting.” He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Gabriel’s anxious expression. “Dear me, is this a guilty conscience?”

  “I nearly had a heart attack myself, Doctor!” Gabriel leant against the wall to steady himself. “I’d forgotten he was due a going-over. I suppose you could call it a guilty conscience. I fear I have been a little negligent.”

  Dr Whitehead helped Gabriel into the kitchen and stood to attention as he settled into a chair. “Nothing to reproach yourself with, Father,” he reassured him. “I’m glad to say he’s doing very well. The company must be keeping his spirits up. I always find that is half the battle when a patient is convalescing from a long illness. Particularly when a man lives alone.”

  “Thank you.” Gabriel contemplated asking the doctor precisely how long it would be before Fr Foley made a full recovery and he could leave, but he could not think of a way of asking that would not sound churlish under the circumstances. “Might I offer you a cup of tea before you go? There was something I wanted to ask you if you’re not in too much of a hurry.”

  Dr Whitehead shuffled his feet. Gabriel knew perfectly well that the doctor had many demands on his time, and any time he spent sitting in this kitchen would mean less time with people who really needed him, but he could not think of anyone else who could answer the question. “Well . . . how about a quick glass of water? Don’t get up, I’ll fetch it myself.”

  “Thank you. I shan’t keep you; I know how busy you are.” He watched Dr Whitehead fetching a glass from the correct cupboard. He knew where to find glasses from having poured water for Fr Foley before, no doubt, but his profession must have made him feel at home virtually everywhere. Gabriel also knew that Dr Whitehead was not likely to be remotely thirsty but was doing what he himself would have done when trying to put a person at ease. He was creating a homely distraction. “You remember when we went to view Mrs Jennings’ body—God rest her soul—and realised she hadn’t drowned? Well, I’ve just seen the postmortem results, and it’s true. She did not drown at all; she died of a heart attack.”

  Dr Whitehead turned slowly to look at him. “Heart attack? That’s strange, I don’t recall . . . Well, I suppose with a woman that age it is quite possible. Am I to understand then that she was not in fact murdered?”

  “Precisely. Someone evidently intended to murder her, but it looks as though God took her before someone else could do it.”

  “How extraordinary! Do you know something? It’s almost a relief.”

  “That’s exactly how I felt. I’m not sure the inspector understood what I meant.”

  “Oh no, it’s infinitely better to think that no one did such a thing. Just a moment.” Dr Whitehead paused a moment to fill a second glass with water. “But she was found floating in the river. If she didn’t drown and she wasn’t murdered, what was she doing there?”

  “That was what I wanted to ask you,” said Gabriel, taking the glass the doctor handed him. “The police think they know how she ended up in the river, but I have a medical question for you, if that’s all right? You see, I’m not very familiar with heart attacks apart from what I have observed in Fr Foley, and he survived his. I have some idea that one’s heart packs up, but nothing much else.”

  “That’s more or less what happens, Father.”

  “Yes, but if Enid Jennings suffered a heart attack, does it mean she had a heart problem she was unaware of perhaps? Or can a sudden shock just kill a person like that, even a healthy person?”

  Dr Whitehead brought his glass of water to the table and sat down. “It’s rather like asking me why people die at all. She may have had a condition and failed to realise it. She may have dismissed the symptoms—the tiredness, the breathlessness—as merely old age creeping up on her, I suppose, but a serious shock can cause a heart attack in fairly fit people. If she fell or was pushed into freezing cold water, it certainly may have been enough to kill her. I knew a young man who died that way years ago. He was on his way home from a party; you know the sort of situation. It was dark, and he was rather drunk, lost his bearings. All alone with no one to fish him out, he would have passed out very quickly.”

  “I think Enid Jennings was dead before she reached the river,” said Gabriel. “Could any serious shock have caused it?”

  Dr Whitehead tried to hide his surprise. “I’d rather assumed you were talking about her falling into the river. Why do you suppose she died beforehand?” He shook his head as though to dismiss the idea. “Well, don’t worry about that now. In answer to your question, yes, a serious shock could kill a person, but I think it more likely that a shock would be a contributing factor in a woman Enid Jennings’ age. As far as I was aware, she was as fit and healthy as anyone, though she was not the sort of woman who would have troubled a doctor unless she were frothing at the mouth. My suspicion is that she had a weak heart to start with. A shock might have triggered a heart attack, but the heart attack may have simply happened.”

  “But Enid Jennings was not such a great age. With children the ages of Douglas and Agnes, was she even fifty?”

  Dr Whitehead smiled sadly. “She married very late in the day, Father, but poor Enid was the sort of woman who was born old. Then, when her husband died, she aged overnight. Her hair went white. Perhaps it did take more of a strain on her health than she realised.” He got up and took his glass over to the sink, where he quickly rinsed it out. “I’m afraid I need to clear off now. I have three more visits to make before afternoon surgery, and at least one of my patients could talk for England.” He shook his hands dry and turned back to Gabriel. “Don’t trouble yourself; I’ll see myself out.”

  Gabriel got up out of habit and followed Dr Whitehead to the hall, watching as he prepared himself to leave. “How’s Agnes?” he asked.

  “Very much better, thank God.” He glanced up from the task of buttoning his coat. “I meant to tell you actually: she’s coming back to stay with us for a few days. Douglas told me first thing this morning that he doesn’t think the police will trouble her any further, and he was going to get her out of Greenford’s.”

  “That’s excellent news . . .” Gabriel began, but he was distracted by a small white envelope on the doormat that he had either failed to notice as he walked in or that had only recently appeared. He bent down to pick it up. “Excuse me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Greenford’s; don’t misunderstand me. It’s a perfectly decent place . . .”

  Gabriel was busy opening the envelope, having failed to recognise the handwriting on the front. “Indeed, indeed,” he said, pulling out a small lined note folded once. “I daresay she will be more comfortable with you.”

  “Quite. It will be for only a few days, I suspect. Now that she is starting to get ov
er the shock and knows that no one thinks she did it, she should hopefully start to settle down quite quickly.”

  Gabriel looked at the note. A short message, typed in block capitals read:

  LEAVE PAMELA MILTON ALONE. I WILL NOT ASK YOU NICELY NEXT TIME.

  “Indeed,” answered Gabriel, but he could feel his heart thudding against his ribs, and it was not fear. “Do pass on my regards when you see her, Doctor. I’ll try to visit her in the next day or two.”

  “Is anything the matter?” enquired Dr Whitehead, glancing from the note, which Gabriel had rapidly folded up, to Gabriel’s livid face. “I do hope it’s not an angry atheist.”

  Gabriel came to himself. “What? No, no, not all. Anyway, thank you for coming.”

  He waited as Dr Whitehead walked out of sight before he closed the door behind him, the note half crumpled in his hand. As he had already suggested to at least one of his suspects, a highly intelligent person could always be relied upon to do something exceptionally stupid at least once. The cleverest crimes were committed by idiots.

  14

  The bookshop was packed with customers when Gabriel entered, men and women searching for Christmas presents or ways of escape, but George looked towards the door as soon as he heard the bell. His reaction could not have been more instructive—a frozen smile that quickly thawed into a frown and a lowering of eyelids. “Good afternoon, Father,” he said, with mock geniality, “and how may I help you this time?”

  Gabriel walked up to the counter, removing his hat with an equally false gesture of courtesy. “I wondered whether you had a copy of The Song of Bernadette? Can’t remember the author’s name; it was unusual. Foreign. A neighbour recommended it.”

  “Sold my last copy this morning, I’m afraid, but I’ll have more next week. I’ll set one aside for you if you like.”

  “Thank you. That would be most kind.”

  “You’ll be glad to know it’s selling rather well.”

  “That is very pleasing.”

  George hesitated, running short of innocuous business talk. “Was there anything else?”

  “I wonder if I could return a text I was sent in error. An epistle.”

  George grunted audibly, too sanguine to make a pretence at ignorance, and pointed Gabriel in the direction of the back room. “Sorry about that, old chap,” he said. “Can’t think how that can have happened. Let’s see if we can sort it out, shall we?”

  As soon as they were alone, George turned on Gabriel, hissing in a stage whisper. “Whatever you say, keep your voice down! One can hear everything out there.”

  “I think you know precisely what I am going to say,” whispered Gabriel, matching his adversary’s indignant tone. “That was the clumsiest attempt at a threat I have ever seen!”

  George snatched the letter from Gabriel’s hand. “Anyone could have written this,” he protested, still whispering. He pulled out the piece of paper. “It’s typed. Unless you’ve tested every typewriter in the town for a match?”

  “The address rather gave it away. It’s handwritten.”

  George looked askance at the envelope. “You couldn’t possibly know if this is my handwriting,” he said, a shade louder than before so that he sounded as though he were recovering from a heavy cold.

  “Only a man as pedantic as you could have written out the address when you knew the letter would be hand delivered,” said Gabriel, without making any further effort to whisper. “And it was written by a man who is used to writing in another language. The number seven is crossed. Not really the English style.”

  George studied the envelope just long enough to take in his mistake before throwing himself into the rocking chair. Gabriel had to hand it to the man that he was not the sort to waste time trying to save face. “She was very upset after you spoke with her,” said George in an apologetic tone. “Raking over her childhood, asking personal questions about Scottie. You’d no right to do that to her. And of course I am not the father. What were you thinking?”

  “I know.”

  “I do not have that honour.”

  Gabriel pulled out the stool and sat opposite George, regarding his bowed head very carefully before responding. “Mr Smithson, I hope you’ll forgive my stating the obvious, but when a man trained as you have been acts so irrationally, it suggests only one thing.”

  George brought his face as close to Gabriel’s as was decent to ensure that no one in the shop could possibly overhear. “I demand that you stop interfering, Father. If Pamela finds out about Agnes, she will never trust me again.”

  “You do not know that,” answered Gabriel quietly. “She’s hardly a sentimental little fool. If you’d only put two and two together, you’d realise that she too has a secret.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Tell her the truth about Agnes and ask her to tell you the truth about Scottie. Then tell her how you really feel about her before some other chap does.” Gabriel sprang to his feet and made a few quick steps to the connecting door, beyond which safety and company beckoned. “If it helps, you would be very well matched. You are both intelligent, educated, fiercely independent. And you are both far too young to be quite so trapped in your own pasts.”

  George stood up wearily. “You are a very clever man, Father, but you know nothing of what it means to love a woman.”

  Gabriel smiled, but he had to swallow hard before answering. “I too have a past, but I took my leave of it a long time ago.” He took a deep breath like an athlete steadying himself before the starting pistol fires. “Now I think I had better offer my apologies to Dr Milton for the distress I have caused her.”

  Gabriel retreated from the room, glancing back to see George Smithson standing in silence, head bowed, as though he were a mourner at a graveside. The man’s posture fitted Gabriel’s mood exactly.

  He knew he had unsettled Pamela by reminding her of a childhood experience that had changed the course of her life—for better or for worse, it would still have hurt abominably at the time—and things were about to get a great deal worse for her. Gabriel had that sensation he suspected women must have when they are unravelling a knot in a piece of handiwork and a long row of careful stitches starts coming apart, one stitch after another, until the whole work is in ruins. It had been the sight of Scottie cheerfully waving goodbye to him as he had left Pamela’s house that had confirmed his belief that children lay at the heart of all of this; not only Agnes but other children conceived in war, the ones like Scottie who were confident of their place in the world and the others the world could not hold.

  “I owe you an apology,” Gabriel began, looking away from Pamela’s stony expression. He was standing on her doorstep with Pamela showing no inclination whatsoever to let him in. “I had no business questioning you about your daughter in such a high-handed manner.”

  Pamela nodded pertly. “That’s quite all right, Father, no offence.” She clearly expected Gabriel to walk away, but he stood where he was. “Look here, Father, I hope you shan’t think it rude if I do not let you in. It’s just that my mother has taken Scottie out for the day so that I can get down to some writing, and I should rather not waste the time. I’m afraid my mother neglected to lock the gate as she left.”

  “I shan’t waste your time,” Gabriel assured her, “and you are not obliged to let me in. We can just as easily speak out here if you prefer.”

  Pamela glared coldly at him but could not quite bring herself to slam the door in his face. “Why are you doing this, Father? Why can’t you just let well enough alone? You’ve upset Douglas and Agnes when they are both grieving, you’ve inconvenienced George—Mr Smithson. What business of yours is any of this?”

  Gabriel took a step back, the way a tall man does to avoid appearing threatening. Not that he suspected Pamela capable of feeling threatened by any man. “Each man’s death diminishes me,” he said. “A woman has died in mysterious circumstances, and it seems only fair that the truth be permitted to e
merge.”

  “Don’t quote Donne at me, Father! I’ve never liked him very much—though it’s practically heresy to admit it in my field. It’s nonsense anyway; her death diminishes no one.”

  “Is that why you did it then? Because you believed her life to be worthless?”

  Pamela’s eyes blazed. With the instinct of a man who has seen combat, Gabriel caught hold of Pamela’s raised hand to protect himself. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t thump you right now!” she shouted.

  Gabriel did not flinch, nor did he let go of her. “I can’t help thinking a slap in the face would be more ladylike,” he commented, “but I shouldn’t do that either if I were you, Pamela. That would be one sin from which I cannot absolve you.”

  He felt Pamela’s arm relax a second before she lowered her head, indicating to him that the moment of danger had passed. He let her go. “What is that supposed to mean?” she whispered.

  “I mean,” he answered softly, “that you have been living a lie and you have lied to me, with the best possible intentions. Now, why don’t we both retreat from the cold and talk things over?”

  Pamela nodded without looking at him and led him inside. Marion appeared in the hall at the sound of the front door closing. “It’s quite all right, Marion,” said Pamela with considerable composure. “I shall attend to Father. Please, could you ensure that we are not disturbed?”

  Gabriel busied himself with the task of hanging up his coat and hat to allow Pamela time to step into the drawing room and collect herself. When he followed her and closed the door, she was seated by the fire waiting for him, her eyes shut as though she were praying. “Pamela,” he began, seating himself opposite her. “Please do not ask for confession because you wish to tie my hands. If you have—”