Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘Became some kind of rock-music promoter, putting on concerts and festivals and making a ridiculous amount of money. Last I heard of him he was languishing at his family seat in Warwickshire – I think he acceded to the title within a few years of coming out of prison. I actually wrote to him once asking if he remembered Mary Roberts. Had quite a polite, civilized reply – under the circumstances he could hardly deny he’d been at the Master House – saying there’d been quite a number of young women at the house over the months and, to his shame, he didn’t really remember their names.’

‘That figures.’

‘Lying, I don’t doubt, but, darling, what could I do? You know what always haunted me?’

‘The thought that Mary might have gone back to the Master House without you?’

‘You’re very perceptive.’

‘It’s …’ Merrily shrugged ‘… It’s what would’ve haunted me, too. Look, the only thing that occurs to me – if she’s out there, she’s likely to have heard about what happened to Fuchsia. I shouldn’t think it’s made that much impact in the national press, but it’s not a common name, is it, Fuchsia Mary Linden, and if Mary is out there …’

‘You mean if she’s still alive.’

‘You’re fairly sure that Fuchsia was conceived at the Master House?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘So her father could be Lord Stourport himself? The story Felix gave me was that the father had gone to America. But that’s the sort of thing Mary might just say to forestall questions. And you were obviously wondering about Felix himself.’

‘I was simply thinking of reasons why the girl might suddenly have wanted to smash in the skull of the man she was living with.’ Mrs Morningwood waved an unlit cigarette. ‘ Might she simply have found out, coming here, that Barlow was at the Master House at the same time as her mother? The same time, in fact, as her mother got pregnant ?’

‘With the worst will in the world, I really don’t think we’re looking at an incestuous relationship.’

‘Some strange and complex alliances are formed, Watkins. I merely floated the possibility.’

‘Yeah, well, I feel fairly confident about sinking it. If Felix was Fuchsia’s father, why would he tender for the building contract at the Master House in the first place and bring her with him? Wouldn’t a few people have recognized him?’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Morningwood sniffed. ‘Stourport’s people didn’t exactly mix in the community, but I take your point. It would have to be unusually perverse – especially whilst employed by the Duchy of Cornwall.’

‘Who were the other girls Lord Stourtport mentioned?’

‘I … I’ve no idea. I suppose you didn’t have to be able to change a washer to get a bed at the Master House. You could also be a woman. And probably didn’t have to be all that good-looking either, towards the end, when everyone was perpetually stoned.’

‘No idea where Mary got to, between walking out on your mother for the last time and turning up in Tepee City? She must’ve been introduced to the community.’

‘I have no idea. Tell me – why do you think Fuchsia did it – killed Barlow?’

‘Don’t know. It’s why I’m here. Partly.’

Roscoe hauled himself up, stretched and wandered over to Merrily, tail waving. She stood up.

‘He wants me to go. Would it be his dinner time?’

‘You’re very perceptive,’ Mrs Morningwood said.

‘I wanted to be a vet when I was a kid. And then discovered about all the pets they had to put down.’ She patted Roscoe, didn’t need to bend. ‘It’s surprising how well behaved he is, isn’t it, when he’s not in a churchyard?’

‘Good icebreakers, dogs.’ Mrs Morningwood smiled, disarmingly girlish in the glow from the range. ‘Had to get your attention somehow. I thought – and still do – that you would be my best bet for finding out … not only what happened to Mary, but … other things I can’t quite put my finger on. The girl showing up like that, after all these years …’

‘And then you made sure you kept our attention by telling Jane just what she wanted to hear about the mysteries of Garway.’

‘It was all true.’

‘What – including the gruesome tale of Mrs Newton laid out in her coffin to be pawed by the whole village?’

‘That was true … in essence. Garway was almost certainly the last village in Herefordshire to maintain the Watch Night traditions.’

‘So which bits did you exaggerate?’

‘Well, it … wasn’t the whole village. Just a few neighbours. But I really didn’t like the place and like it even less since Mary disappeared. Whatever you propose to do there, it needs it. What will you do?’

‘I was thinking some form of Requiem Eucharist.’

‘A Mass?’

‘A service for the repose of the dead. Thinking originally of Felix and Fuchsia but, from what you’ve said, we could be looking at something more extensive. Mrs Morningwood, look … thank you for all you’ve done. I do feel better. If a bit tired.’

Face it: without the reflexology, she’d most likely be on her way home by now, driving slowly, popping aspirins.

‘That’s normal, that’s good. You need to come back in a couple of days, have it topped up … and, of course, tell me what you’ve found out. This Requiem Eucharist – would that aim to deal with what one might term evil residue?’

‘Evil residue?’

‘Those accusations of heresy and idolatry against the Templars – no smoke without fire. We get people here, a handful every year, poking around, taking measurements in the church. Freemasons, some of them, believing themselves to be the inheritors of the Templar legacy. Idiots in robes, sometimes. Think about what might’ve destroyed Mary’s sleep. What they were doing to her. What continued to throw a shadow over her wherever she went.’

‘Well …’ Merrily picked up her bag. ‘The Eucharist can be very powerful. I need to go away and think about it.’

They walked out of the cottage, Roscoe between them, into a greyness of fields, a blackness of woodland. Two windows were lit up at Mrs Morningwood’s end of the terrace, the rest of it dead, like a neon sign in which most of the letters had fused.

‘What are the neighbours like?’

‘Absolute worst kind.’ Mrs Morningwood snorted. ‘These are all holiday cottages. We were isolated in Garway at one time, but now it’s getting just like everywhere else – local youngsters priced out by London lawyers and stockbrokers and junior government ministers here for an average of about three weeks a year. Three out of four in a single terrace, all so-called weekend cottages, and the bastards wonder why we have a housing crisis. Answer is, we don’t, we’re simply top-heavy with self-indulgent second-bloody-homers.’

Merrily stood looking back at the terrace. An empty holiday home conveyed its own distinctive form of dereliction. But then, what right did she have to moralize, her and Jane rattling around in their seven-bedroom vicarage?

‘I can’t get my bearings up here.’ Eyes adjusting now, she looked away, along the limited horizon, hills concealed by the woods. ‘Where’s the church?’

‘The church – this church – is always closer than you think,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Go carefully, Watkins.’

‘… FOR AGREEING TO meet me, Canon.’

A woman.

‘My pleasure. That’s what I’m here for.’

‘You see, it’s difficult—’

‘And let me say that, although I’m only here for a few days and you don’t really know me at all, you can safely tell me anything you would have told Merrily.’