Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘We think she was abused.’

‘Abused how?’

‘Don’t know. Don’t know anything for certain. Or even if there was an element of fantasy. Drug-fuelled. I mean, it was a very long time ago but I really, really don’t like the feel of it.’

‘How about I ask Prof about this guy,’ Lol said.

‘Prof. Of course. That would be … What the hell is that?’

Her head wouldn’t process the clamour, but its vibration brought her to her feet.

‘You OK, Merrily?’

‘It’s …’ She started to laugh. ‘It’s a dinner gong.’

And no time to hang out of the window to smoke half a cigarette.

‘A period boarding house,’ Lol had said. ‘I so envy you.’

There was a strained kind of formality about the Murrays. As if she was a child they were in the process of adopting.

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Merrily …’ Beverley was putting out nut roast; why did non-veggies always think it had to be nut roast? ‘… You seem rather … sleepy. I was quite worried about you this morning. Now, you don’t look unwell, but you do look exhausted. And Teddy, please don’t say anything about the powerful air of God’s own country.’

‘Actually,’ Merrily said, anything to get this sensible woman off her back, ‘I had some treatment today.’

Telling them about Mrs Morningwood. No reason not to. Presumably it was a legitimate business, the reflexology.

Beverley frowned. Teddy looked intrigued.

‘It was effective? Because I’ve often thought of consulting her myself. A lot to be said for preventative therapy. Beverley’s not so sure, though, are you, Bevvie?’

Beverley didn’t reply until she’d finished serving the nut roast, the onion gravy and the veg.

‘It’s nothing to do with alternative therapy, which I’m sure has its place. I just never know quite what to think of Mrs Morningwood.’

‘In what context?’

Merrily realized how hungry she was, the body craving food, even nut roast. Beverley sat down, pushing a strand of blonde hair away from an eye.

‘Oh, you hear things. Put it this way, if Teddy was to go I’d certainly make sure I went too.’

Merrily’s fork froze just short of her lips.

‘Something of a man-eater,’ Beverley said. ‘That’s what they say, anyway.’

‘ Mrs Morningwood ?’

‘Always strikes me as a little … threadbare for that sort of thing. Eccentric, deranged. The way she drives around in that big Jeep, taking corners too fast. Sorry, I didn’t mean deranged, I think I meant disarranged .’

‘Can’t say anyone’s said anything to me,’ Teddy said. ‘Apart from you, of course, Bevvie.’

‘Well, they wouldn’t, now, would they?’

‘Blimey,’ Merrily said.

She ate slowly, aware, it seemed, of every spice in the roast. Aware of herself eating – that element of separation which sometimes came with extreme physical tiredness when the senses, for some reason, were still alert.

Gossip. There was, unfortunately, a place for it; it was often the most direct route to … if not the truth, then something in its vicinity. She looked at Beverley.

‘Who are we talking about, then? Mrs Morningwood and … who?’

‘Oh dear.’ Beverley pouring herself some water from a crystal jug. ‘I wish I’d never …’

‘Ah, now you’ve started …’ A slightly sinful sparkle in Teddy’s blue eyes. ‘Can’t not tell us now, Bevvie.’

He knew, of course. Merrily watched their eyes. They must surely have had this discussion before. Now they were having it again for her benefit, passing on something they thought she ought to be aware of. Especially if submitting to further reflexology.

‘Farmers. I was told ,’ Beverley said.

‘Farmers plural ?’ Merrily blinked. ‘I mean … how plural?’

‘Well … at least two, certainly. I suppose she has that sort of rough … edge that I imagine a certain kind of man would find attractive. Admittedly, always farmers living alone. And it never seems to lead to anything. No evidence that she’s after anyone’s money, if you see what I …’

‘An independent sort of woman,’ Teddy said. ‘Was she ever married? I’m never quite sure.’

‘In London,’ Beverley said. ‘She was in London for over twenty years. Long enough to lose her local accent, certainly. But she came back, unmarried, re-adopting her maiden name, and whatever she gets up to … is a question of roots, I suppose. They go back many generations in Garway, the Morningwoods. Whatever they do is accepted.’

‘Whatever they do?’

‘Well, her mother … oh, I hate this.’

Beverley drank some water. Teddy leaned back.

‘It’s all right, I know. The family has quite a history of what are now known as alternative remedies. Folk remedies. What were known as wise women. There’s an old tradition of nine witches of Garway, and her mother and grandmother were more in that mould. Allegedly.’

‘They were …’ Merrily looked up ‘… considered to be witches?’

‘They dispensed herbal remedies. They were also said to – no way to dress this up, I’m afraid, Merrily – assist girls who got themselves into trouble.’

‘Oh.’

‘Used to be a local social service, didn’t it? No great need for it now.’

Merrily remembered Gomer Parry’s uncharacteristic reticence on the subject of Mrs Morningwood.

Beverley looked down at her plate.

Lord Stourport – Lol was surprised to find out that he did know him. Well, knew of him, mainly – they’d met, briefly, maybe a couple of times.

‘I never realized,’ he said on the phone to Prof Levin. ‘Jimmy Hater.’

He’d called around nine p.m., when Prof habitually took a coffee break from whatever album he was mixing. Often, he would work through midnight, the cafetière at his elbow. An addictive personality, but caffeine was safer than the booze of old.

Lol said, ‘I remember he always sounded kind of upper-class, in comparison with most of the others.’

‘Real name James Hayter-Hames,’ Prof said. ‘If you were rock ’n’ roll management in the punk era, that was not a good time to let it get out that your family was even posher than Joe Strummer’s. Hayter on its own, however – that was a strong and impressive name to have. Especially if you left out the “y”.’

‘I didn’t even know about the “y” for a long time.’ Lol recalled a stocky, strutting guy, Napoleonic. ‘I used to think it was a completely made-up name, like Sid Vicious. You ever produce anything for any of Hayter’s bands?’

‘Produced, no.’

‘Engineered?’

‘For my sins. Post-punk death-metal. Not my favourite period, Laurence. Bearable at the time, with three or four bottles of red wine, God forbid, on the mixing desk. That era, I like to draw a curtain across it. Death metal – mostly foul. Jimmy Hayter – a twat.’

‘Still?’

Prof said, ‘Once a twat …’

‘Where does he live? I mean, is he accessible?’

‘Yes and no. He inherited the pile eventually, of course. It’s a responsibility. Nobody wants to besmirch the coat of arms. On the other hand, the family seat gobbles wealth. And farming, even big-time farming, doesn’t pay half the bills any more. So the earl, whatever he is now, he keeps his hand in, and when the roof falls in on the orangery or something he puts on a festival. On the very fringe of his estate, naturally. The house a mere dot on the horizon.’

‘Where is the house?’

‘I dunno, someplace south of Brum. Stratford way, possibly. I could find out.’