Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

“Did you hear his conversation?”

She opened her palm and looked at the amulet. She rolled her fingers against it. “I was a tad worried about him. It wasn’t like Mr. Sage not to eat.”

“So you heard his conversation.”

“Just a tad is all. And only because I was worried. It wasn’t like I was listening to hear . I mean, he wasn’t sleeping well, the vicar. His bed was always thrashed up in the morning like he was wrestling with the sheets. And he—”

Lynley leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He said, “It’s all right, Polly. You had good intentions. No one’s about to judge you for listening at a door.”

She didn’t look convinced. Distrust fl ickered behind the skittish movement of her eyes from Lynley to St. James back to Lynley.

“What did he say?” Lynley asked. “Who was he talking to?”

“You can’t judge what happened then. You can’t know what’s right now. That’s in God’s hands, not yours.”

“We aren’t here to judge. That’s up to—”

“No,” Polly said. “That’s what I heard. That’s what the vicar said. You can’t judge what happened then. You can’t know what’s right now. That’s in God’s hands, not yours.”

“Was that the only phone call he made that day?”

“Far’s I know.”

“Was he angry? Was he shouting, raising his voice?”

“He sounded tired, mostly.”

“You didn’t see him afterwards?”

She shook her head. Afterwards, she said, she took tea to the study, only to fi nd that he’d gone back up to his bedroom. She followed him there and knocked on the door, offering him the food which he refused.

“I said, You haven’t had a bite all day, Vicar, and you must eat something, and I’m not leaving this spot until you have a bite of these nice toast fingers I’ve got here. So he fi nally opened the door. He was dressed, and the bed was made but I knew what he’d been doing.”

“What?”

“Praying. He had this little prayer place in a corner of the room with a Bible on it and a place to kneel. That’s where he’d been.”

“How do you know?”

She rubbed her fingers against her knee in explanation. “Trousers. The crease was gone from right here. There were wrinkle places as well, where his leg bent to kneel.”

“What did he say to you?”

“That I was a good soul but I mustn’t worry. I asked him was he ill. He said no.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I said, You’re wearing yourself out, Vicar, with these trips to London. He’d just got back the day before, see. And every time he went to London, he looked a bit worse than the last time he went. And every time he went, he came home and prayed. Sometimes I wondered…Well, what was he up to in London that he came back so tired and peaky looking? But then, he went on the train, didn’t he, so I thought maybe it was just the aggravation of travel and such. Getting to the station, buying all the tickets, switching trains here and there. That sort of thing. Makes you tired, a trip like that.”

“Where did he go in London?”

Polly didn’t know. Nor could she say what he’d been doing. Whether it was Church business, whether it was personal, the vicar kept the information to himself. The only thing Polly was able to tell them for sure was that he stayed in a hotel not far from Euston Station. It was the same hotel each time. She remembered that. Did they want the name?

Yes, if she had it.

She started to rise, then caught her breath with something like surprise when the movement didn’t come easily to her. She disguised a small cry by coughing. It did little enough to hide her pain.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m silly to fall. Got myself real banged up. Clumsy old cow.” She inched her way forward in the chair and pushed herself up when she got to the edge.

Lynley watched her, frowning, noting the odd manner in which she held her pullover bunched in front of her with both hands. She didn’t stand up straight. When she walked she favoured her right leg.

He said abruptly, “Who’s been to see you today, Polly?”

Just as abruptly she stopped. “No one. Least no one that I recall.” She made a show of thinking the question over, creasing her brow and concentrating on the carpet as if she would see the answer there. “Nope. No one at all.”

“I don’t believe you. You didn’t fall, did you?”

“I did. Out back.”

“Who was it? Has Mr. Townley-Young been to see you? Did he want to talk to you about the pranks at Cotes Hall?”

She seemed genuinely surprised. “The Hall? No.”

“About last night in the pub, then? About the man you were with? That was his son-inlaw, wasn’t it?”

“No. I mean it was. It was Brendan, true. But Mr. Townley-Young hasn’t been here.”

“Then who—”

“I fell. I got banged up. It’ll teach me to be more careful.” She left the room.

Lynley pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window. From there he paced to the bookcase. Then back to the window. A wall radiator was hissing beneath it, insistent and irritating. He tried to turn the knob. It seemed permanently stuck. He clenched it, fought with it, burnt his hand, and cursed.

“Tommy.”

He swung round to St. James, who hadn’t moved from the sofa. “ Who? ” he asked.

“Perhaps more importantly, why?”

“ Why? For God’s sake—”

St. James’ voice was low and perfectly calm. “Consider the situation. Scotland Yard arrives and begins asking questions. Everyone’s meant to toe the already established line. Perhaps Polly doesn’t want to. Perhaps someone knows that.”

“Christ, that’s not even the point, St. James. Someone beat her up. Someone out there. Someone—”

“Your hands are full and she doesn’t want to talk. She could be afraid. She could be merely protective. We don’t know. The larger issue at the moment is whether what happened to her is connected to what happened to Robin Sage.”

“You sound like Barbara Havers.”

“Someone has to.”

Polly returned, a slip of paper in her hand. “Hamilton House,” she said. “Here’s the phone as well.”

Lynley put the slip of paper into his pocket. “How many times did Mr. Sage go to London?”

“Four. Perhaps five. I can look in his diary if you want to know for certain.”

“His diary’s still here?”

“All his things’s here. His will said to give all his belongings to charity, but it didn’t say which. The church council said to pack everything up until they decide where to send them. Would you like to look through it?”

“If we may.”

“In the study.”

She led them back along the corridor, past the stairway. She’d apparently been cleaning spots in the carpet sometime that day because Lynley noticed patches of damp that he hadn’t seen when they first entered the house: near the door and in an uneven trail to the stairs where one of the walls had been washed as well. Beneath a bare urn stand opposite the stairway, a strip of multicoloured material curled. As Polly walked on, oblivious, Lynley picked it up. It was flimsy, he discovered, similar to gauze, with threads of metallic gold running through it. It reminded him of the Indian dresses and skirts he’d often seen for sale in outdoor markets. Thoughtfully, he twisted it round his finger, felt an unusual stiffness to it, and held it up to the ceiling light which Polly had turned on in their progress towards the front of the house. The material was heavily blotched with a rusty stain. It was frayed on the edges, ripped from a larger piece, not cut with scissors. Lynley examined it with little surprise. He put it into his pocket and followed St. James into the vicar’s study.