LOOK, STRANGER Page 11

  ‘You’ve no idea when you had it last?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not. It was a spare key.’

  ‘By far the most likely explanation is that the verger left the door open by mistake,’ Tudor said.

  ‘He says he didn’t,’ Vereker answered. ‘I spoke to him this morning and he assured me. . . .’

  ‘Of course he would assure you! After what has happened he’d be bound to say that he locked the door. He hardly knows one day from another, does poor old Morpeth, and he’s afraid that if he were to admit to this costly piece of negligence, the church, with its usual record for compassionate dealings with its employees, would turn him out of his cottage.’

  ‘That really is preposterous,’ Vereker said quietly. ‘Nevertheless he is forgetful. I suppose it’s possible. . . .’

  ‘We can go into the question of the key afterwards,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘After what, may one ask? After you have found a culprit and decided how the key can best be fitted into your theory?’

  Zoe whispered, ‘Oh, Tudor, don’t! Please, please, don’t!’ She put her hands to her ears. It was not the adult Tudor whose voice she was trying to cut out; it was the child whose response to his own wrongdoing was to rage and strain so frantically that it seemed he must bring the framework of his small world crashing down, to prevent which his terrified parents would appropriate blame to themselves.

  The sergeant, who was not seeking to blame Tudor for anything and most certainly did not see himself as in any way culpable, was irritated at the constant refusal of these people to play things cool. If they wanted it rough, he could play it that way. ‘As I understand it, everyone here was at the meeting in the church hall, except for this lad.’ He turned to Milo. ‘Where were you yesterday evening?’ They all looked at Milo, except for Mrs. Anguilo who raised her eyes to the ceiling while tears streamed down her cheeks. Milo swallowed and flicked his tongue across his lips. ‘I was in the church.’ He was nervous, but it was the nervousness of the highly- strung artiste suffering a bad attack of stage-fright; it remained to be seen whether he had the resources and the courage to recover from a bad start. Certainly, he had no intention of letting his mother destroy his concentration, for he took no notice of her keening. He also resisted the temptation to talk compulsively and waited for the sergeant to say his lines. They were predictable. ‘And what were you doing in the church?’

  ‘I belong to . . .’ He paused, and then corrected himself. ‘I belonged to a group who call themselves the Ancient People.’

  The sergeant made no comment. He had expected to have to tease this information out of Milo and was disconcerted at having it presented to him so early in the proceedings.

  ‘We were supposed to be meeting yesterday evening,’ Milo went on slowly and carefully, like someone controlling a stammer. ‘But it was called off and I was bored. So I took off my clothes and went out onto the lawn. I decided I didn’t need the others; in fact, I thought I might get on better without them. Some of them don’t know the difference between abandonment and consummation.’

  ‘And what is the difference?’ the sergeant asked, poker-faced.

  ‘You’ve got to concentrate if you are to achieve consummation.’ Milo seemed surprised at the question. ‘You must concentrate with every nerve and muscle, as if you were composed of threads that you were drawing together, closer and closer to the centre.’

  The young constable seemed to be having trouble adjusting his weight-load to his feet. The sergeant said, ‘And when you’ve done all that, what happens then?’

  ‘Nothing, so far,’ Milo admitted. ‘I improvise a bit. Sometimes it’s exciting, but it’s always me exciting myself.’

  ‘So you decided you’d have a go on your own?’

  ‘Yes. But it didn’t work any better.’ Milo was master of his nerves now. ‘I could see the lights on in the church hall and I wondered what was going on in there. So I went and listened outside one of the windows. Then I began to feel rather excited and I thought I would like to take part. I’d have gone in and danced for them in the hall, but I knew they wouldn’t have let me in. One thing that really turns people on is nudity, and they don’t think religion goes with being turned on. But I think they’re wrong about that. So I went into the church. . . .’

  He was in complete command now, pacing himself well, keeping something in reserve. He sensed that they were alive to him and he felt energy flowing out from him to meet their demand. There was only one black spot in the room which wouldn’t come alive to him.

  Vereker responded in spite of himself. He remembered that Gwynneth Jarman had said that Milo was a manipulator, but Vereker thought rather that he orchestrated his effects. Now, gradually, he was drawing together the ragged tempers of the people in the room and imposing on them his own order. It was chiefly the eyes which achieved this dominance; they seemed to hold the eyes of everyone in the room and to transmit an irresistible and totally irrational vivacity. Yet although the brilliant eyes compelled attention, Vereker thought that Milo himself was unaware of the nature of his gift; he could strike the chords he wanted from those around him, but he had little idea of how the trick was worked.

  ‘So you went into the church and danced, did you?’ the sergeant asked in a neutral tone.

  Milo answered questions thoughtfully, and with enough hesitation to vary the tempo of his responses and to give an impressive integrity to his performance. It seemed to Vereker that he was witnessing an almost miraculous speeding-up of the process of growth; gradually, before his eyes, a mature person was emerging from this impudent young faun.

  ‘And the key?’ the sergeant asked.

  For a moment, the miracle was suspended. Patches of colour glowed beneath Milo’s eyes and slowly spread across his cheeks. Now he had difficulty in making the words come. ‘I took it from the desk in the library.’ He looked at Vereker. ‘You said I could “make myself free of the books”.’ He was mortified by the pettiness of the act.

  Vereker said, ‘We can talk about that later.’

  ‘So it was you who opened the door?’ The sergeant fancied he saw weakness here. ‘No one else could have known you were going to do it?’

  Milo was relieved to turn his attention to the sergeant. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It was all done on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘So other people would have assumed that the church was closed?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Nancy was aware of the trap closing on Milo. She assumed he was guilty and she thought he would never be able to explain himself. How can you expect the people who have had all the good hands dealt to them to understand those who are left at the mercy of the joker, to a father who deserts them, to a loving God who strikes a mother down with an incurable disease and lets her die by inches over seven years? As these thoughts tumbled through her mind she became very angry. Gradually, the anger grew deeper and darker than anything she had ever known.

  ‘You say you didn’t touch anything on the altar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t pick up the candlestick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone else?’

  ‘The church was dark.’

  The anger was darkening the room. Tudor was standing beside Nancy and she put out a hand and laid it on his arm. She felt the darkness pressing against her temples, on her eyelids; the other people in the room were sliding away, already out of focus. She looked at Tudor and saw that he was suffering much more acutely than she. The darkness was in him, it was pushing against the bone frame of his thin, tormented face. She eased close to him; his unrelaxed body was tense as though pain had got at him long ago when he was a child and worked its way into the very marrow of his bones. It frightened her to see him suffering like this.

  The sergeant said, ‘You saw no one as you left the church?’

  ‘I was very excited; I wasn’t aware of what went on around me.’

  ‘And when you left the chu
rch, the altar and the window were undamaged? You would have noticed that, surely?’

  Milo hesitated. He had hesitated before, refusing to be hurried, choosing his words carefully; but he looked tired now and the skin, pale beneath the red hair, had a transparent quality. Nancy knew that something terrible was about to happen; the darkness was taut as a drum.

  ‘Come,’ the sergeant said, ‘either the damage was done before you left or not.’

  Nancy said, ‘Everything was perfectly all right after Milo left.’

  Something snapped; she could feel a twanging in the air.

  ‘I was making my way to the footpath and I noticed the door was open,’ she said. ‘Milo came out while I was wondering what to do. He ran off and I went in to see what he had been up to. But nothing seemed to have happened. So I came away.’

  The young constable was looking at her in fascination, as though he had seen a few things in his time, but nothing as perverse as her. The sergeant said, ‘What a pity you didn’t say this in the first place, Miss.’ He looked at her speculatively. She could tell that he did not believe her. ‘And when you left the church, did you shut the door?’

  ‘No . . . I suppose I was a bit put out and so. . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t automatic, to shut the door behind you?’

  ‘No . . . I. . . I went out quickly.’

  ‘And you didn’t attempt to attract Milo’s attention when you saw him? Ask him what he was up to?’

  ‘He wasn’t dressed,’ Nancy said primly.

  Tudor gave a sour little bark of laughter and turned away, jangling keys in his pocket. Milo was hunched forward, his eyes closed; he held one hand to his side as though he was winded. The others seemed temporarily stunned, as though someone who was tone deaf had suddenly taken control of an orchestra; then Mrs. Anguilo sat down on a packing case and began to cry, ‘He didn’t do it! He didn’t do it!’ She sounded intensely relieved and not a little surprised. Meg Jacobs moved across to Nancy and said, ‘Bully for you, my girl!’

  The sergeant, realizing that there was little chance of turning this day’s defeat into victory, comforted himself with the thought that he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day. He would, he said for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, make further enquiries and return to take statements.

  In the quiet that followed the departure of the two policemen, Vereker looked across the room and met Zoe Lindsay’s troubled eyes. He thought. ‘She really does see things the rest of us don’t see.’

  ‘They’re a rum lot,’ the constable said to the sergeant. They were in the church waiting for the photographer to finish his work.

  ‘Mmh. What did you make of the Reverend?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘He took it all very calmly, I thought.’

  ‘He did, indeed. Even this.’ The sergeant looked up the nave at the smashed altar; there was something more than a decent disgust in his face. He wasn’t a religious man but he believed that there are some things which are better not tampered with, and a primitive fear stirred in him when he thought of what might come of this clash between the holy and the unholy.

  Chapter Seven

  After the rain had stopped, Vereker and Nancy worked in the garden.

  Nancy said, ‘Well, I’m glad that silly business is over and done with!’ She looked expectantly at her father.

  The wallflowers, battered by the rain, were bowed across the path and Vereker bent down to examine them. ‘I’ll have to tie these back. Could you run and get string and a pair of scissors?’ She did not move and he looked up at her, surprising panic in her face. He said, ‘There’s string in the box under the pantry shelf.’

  When she came back, they worked together in silence. He waited for her to tell him that she had lied about seeing Milo leave the church, but she said nothing. He wanted to hug her and make her his little girl again, to take this burden from her. Surely parents have a duty to protect their children? Love isn’t something that can be switched off when a child reaches a certain age. It was, however, the very word “love” which held him back: to love is not to guide, to persuade, to advise, love is letting be. He said nothing and let Nan be.

  Vereker had a sleepless night and Nancy dreamed that her father had died and woke weeping for him.

  In the morning, Vereker looked forward eagerly to Zoe’s arrival. She was sympathetic to Nan and he had decided he would talk to her, in a general way, about the problems of girls of Nan’s age. Now that he knew Zoe better he was no longer daunted by her beauty; he noted the details of her face but seldom saw it as a whole. They talked together easily. This morning, however, she was late arriving. He had to see Donald Jarman, and by a quarter to ten he decided he could not wait any longer. He would be back at the vicarage before she left and they could talk then.

  The Jarmans stayed late in bed on Saturday mornings. When Vereker called, Barbara, colourful in cherry sweater and slacks, was the only member of the family who was fully dressed. Her crisp bronze hair shone in the sunlight, her hazel eyes were clear, her mouth was moist and red, the small teeth incisive. Her father, blue-jowled and pouch-eyed, seemed jaded by so much resounding good health and Mrs. Jarman was less ebullient than usual.

  Vereker, having refused food and drink, sat by the window. Although he was not tempted by the food, he found the smells appetising. Barbara and her parents were arguing, but this was not unpleasant. The Jarmans rounded up their problems and disagreements and gave them a good airing every day; there was no impression in this house of grievances left to fester, or of pain anesthetized.

  Somewhere out of sight a robin was singing and there was a rustling in the eaves where martins had nested. The air was soft and seemed to combine with the smell of bacon and coffee to promise a warm, lazy day. The slight breeze hadn’t the energy to lift the curtains. Impending change was proclaimed in a way that was less dramatic than the manner in which weather changes were apt to be announced in Coopers Town; yet, though subtle, this was more profound. One was made aware that this shift of wind direction, the rise in temperature, increase in the pollen count, were elements of a myth; the earth was stirring.

  Mrs. Jarman was conscious only of the squirrel attacking the barrel of nuts hung out for the birds. ‘Excuse me!’ She leant across Vereker and aimed a dry crust at the squirrel. Jeremy came into the room in pyjamas, moving like a sleepwalker. Barbara picked up the threads of argument where the squirrel had broken them.

  ‘It’s typical, isn’t it? All this talk about compassion and caring, and the first time anyone puts a foot wrong, OUT!’

  Jeremy said, ‘I think I’ll take a tray up to bed if this is going on.’

  Mrs. Jarman said to Barbara, ‘That statement is about as full of inaccuracies as it could be, my love. “Anyone” is not yet out; it certainly isn’t the first wrong; and no one, certainly not your father or I, is talking about caring and compassion!’

  Barbara pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll leave you to your witch-hunt.’

  She went into the kitchen, and Jeremy, having piled a tray with eggs and bacon, marmalade, toast and coffee, headed towards the stairs. As her offspring withdrew, Mrs. Jarman said, ‘Well, why can’t we get rid of the Anguilos? Devil-worship is as sound a reason for a witch-hunt as any that is likely to come to hand.’

  ‘You are only making him more interesting to her,’ Mr. Jarman said.

  Mrs. Jarman swivelled round in her chair and said to Vereker, ‘Our daughter is smitten by this awful Milo.’

  ‘She, of course, denies it,’ Donald Jarman said. ‘But my wife is doing her best to bring her round to our way of thinking.’

  It was obvious that, as far as the Jarmans were concerned, the Anguilos’ continued stay at the vicarage rested on whether or not it was deemed to be in their daughter’s best interests.

  ‘And anyway,’ Donald Jarman continued, ‘we can’t drum them off the island. Not a second time. So surely the vicarage is as good a place as anywhere for them to be, right under our good vic
ar’s nose.’ He looked at Vereker slyly.

  ‘A second time?’ Vereker asked.

  ‘Mrs. Anguilo has previous connections with the island,’ Jarman said, but before he could explain his wife interrupted.

  ‘A lot of people will be very angry if they stay. That stained glass window. . . .’

  ‘I doubt if that was damaged by Milo,’ Vereker interjected. ‘I’m taller than he is, and I couldn’t have reached across the altar to that window-and certainly not wielding a candlestick as heavy as the one that was used.’

  The Jarmans thought about this. Donald saw the point at once, but Gwynneth was more reluctant. ‘He must know who did it, anyway,’ she objected.

  ‘Not according to Nancy’s evidence.’ Vereker braced himself for their reaction.

  Donald said, ‘You have your difficulties, too, haven’t you?’

  ‘I can’t understand what they see in him, can you?’ Gwynneth wondered.

  They assumed that Nancy was lying and it comforted them to think that she, too, was infatuated by Milo. Vereker did not think that this was so, but then he was not perceptive where his daughter’s sexuality was concerned.

  Donald Jarman lifted the coffee pot; only a trickle of coffee remained. Gwynneth said, ‘There’s more on the stove.’ When his wife had departed, Jarman said, ‘I must confess to being very shocked about this. It made me feel quite sick when I saw the damage.’

  Vereker said, ‘Yes, I can understand that.’

  Jarman pushed at a few crumbs with a forefinger. ‘I get the impression that you are rather less than outraged.’

  ‘I was very upset when I saw it. But what matters most is the person who did it. A person who is self-mutilating. That is the real blasphemy. Or so I believe.’

  ‘Do you know that before you came here we had just finished repairing the roof?’ Jarman spoke in a level voice, but he was angry. ‘And before that it was the organ, and before that it was the west wall. Over the years since I have been churchwarden we have had to raise something over thirty thousand pounds in this small parish with very limited resources. And you are saying that the hooligan that got in there the other night is more important than the damage to that stained glass window! The altar’s not so badly damaged, and it’s of no architectural merit, anyway. But that was an early fourteenth century window!’