The Indecent Death of a Madam Read online

  ‘Terence, yes. Well, he returned to this country a hero, more decorated than a Christmas tree – and then the bugger promptly turned his back on it all! He resigned his commission and disappeared off to stack shelves in a supermarket! Completely mad, but a good story, eh?’

  ‘You wanted the story?’

  ‘He had all sorts of offers, obviously. The army wanted him to reconsider, to take up a post at Sandhurst training heroes of the future. The government wanted him as a consultant and publishers tempted him with large advances and pressed him for his kiss-and-tell story of life in the war zones. I even offered to be his agent.’

  ‘How thoughtful,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘I try to help where I can. What else are we on earth for?’

  ‘You and Mother Teresa.’

  ‘But he said no to us all, stubborn as a mule, and opted for days spent in Morrisons, surrounded by vegetables, not all of whom are management. I mean, why a supermarket?’

  ‘It does have an appeal,’ said Peter.

  ‘Only to the dead, Abbot. And I think your colleague is with me on this one.’ He looked smugly at Tamsin, who knew he was right. Working in a supermarket was unquestionably for the dead. ‘But an interesting man, I thought; that ability to stick two fingers up to everyone.’

  ‘Including yourself, I suppose.’

  ‘As all good men must, Abbot! But I did pause for a moment and think he was a strong candidate for the society. A feather in our cap, so to speak.’

  ‘So what’s in it for him?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing there, to be frank. You’ll have to ask him; and if you’re lucky, he might even speak.’

  ‘He isn’t talkative?’

  ‘Getting words out of Terence is like drawing water from a deep well with a rusty winch. It takes both time and effort.’

  ‘But worth it?’

  ‘No one’s that interesting, in my experience,’ said Channing, an agent scorned. There was spite in the editor.

  ‘And Rosemary?’ asked Peter. ‘Was she equally uninteresting?’

  Tamsin threw him a glance. She didn’t want this to become personal. Peter had loved Rosemary, in some way or other. Was he about to be offended, about to blow his cover?

  ‘Rosemary?’ said Martin with a twinkle in his eye. Peter hoped it didn’t mean what he thought it might mean.

  ‘How did you know her?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean, how did we meet? How did I meet the splendid, and formerly virtuous, Rosemary?’

  Rosemary had chosen the venue

  for their lunch date – the lunch date unmentioned by Peter to Tamsin. After the Etiquette Society was done, and guest speaker Peter had left, Rosemary had coaxed the abbot’s address from Martin, under some pretence. Though whether Martin had been fooled . . .

  She’d chosen a deli on Broad Street. One or two had begun to appear alongside the charity shops. Peter had not been there before – he didn’t eat out – but Rosemary knew it well and was waiting for him when he arrived. She had a laptop on the table and was working away in her steel-rimmed glasses, which she removed when he walked in. And the laptop was instantly closed and put away.

  ‘You found it,’ she said as he fended off one or two odd glances and sat down opposite her. It was not a large space, tables close together, and he couldn’t remember feeling so out of his depth since . . . well, he couldn’t remember, though Rosemary looked bright and unflustered. Brisk was the word that always came to mind with Rosemary, and perhaps she’d always been brisk; perhaps he’d never got beyond her brisk cheeriness . . . and perhaps when you’re ill, that’s all you need. As he looked at her now – as friend rather than patient – the cheeriness had a slightly determined and frightened quality.

  ‘So, who’d have thought it?’ he asked, with a confidence he’d been practising. ‘I recognized you as soon as you walked in the door.’

  ‘I recognized you once I sat down. At first, I saw only the habit.’

  Peter felt the first wisp of disapproval. ‘And most don’t get beyond that, of course,’ he said.

  ‘So perhaps you shouldn’t wear it!’ she replied with teasing firmness.

  ‘Perhaps I want to,’ said Peter now wishing he hadn’t come. What good could come of this?

  ‘So what are you going to have?’ asked Rosemary. She was already in charge.

  ‘The soup and a cheese roll,’ he said because it was the first thing on the menu. This wasn’t the time to be thinking about what he wanted. It was the time for keeping everything as simple as possible. ‘You can’t go wrong with a cheese roll.’ It wasn’t his finest line . . . and then Matthew arrived to take the order. Rosemary seemed to know Matthew. She smiled at him heartily and, well, briskly; treated him like a member of the family, a family where people get on well with each other.

  ‘So you live in Stormhaven?’ said Peter encouragingly.

  ‘Yes, Claremont Road.’

  ‘Claremont Road? Not far from me.’ It was only a five-minute walk.

  ‘My father died and left me some money. I invested in property. Well, a couple of properties.’

  ‘That was nice of him.’

  ‘To die?’

  ‘I was more thinking of the money.’

  ‘It was nice of him to die as well.’

  ‘So doubly generous.’

  ‘What he couldn’t give in life, he gave in death. A six-figure sum instead of a relationship – a sort of pay-off. And I was the only child still speaking with him. My sister—’

  ‘You have a sister?’

  ‘A younger sister, yes, Sarah. But she’s made her own way.’ Her throat had tightened. She was clearly angry.

  ‘I see,’ said Peter. He left a pause, and Rosemary stepped into it.

  ‘And her way didn’t include her family.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Or not my parents at least. The two of us have had some contact. Not the happiest of stories, but no matter.’

  Peter nodded. She’d opened it up, and was now closing it down, withdrawing back into her shell like a frightened snail.

  ‘And have you been here long?’ he asked.

  ‘About seven years, after London finally spat me out. And you?’

  ‘About four – I was spat out by the desert. I don’t know whose phlegm is more lingering on the soul.’

  She wasn’t sure about that remark.

  ‘I don’t miss London,’ she said. ‘I mean, I miss it and I don’t miss it.’

  ‘Glad we’ve cleared that one up.’ She didn’t quite laugh.

  ‘The Charity Directorate post came up – well, they approached me – and it just seemed the right time to jump. And I think it was. I tell myself it was. You can’t dwell on what might have been.’

  ‘So you were head-hunted?’

  ‘I suppose so. I’d done a piece of work here before, which gave me a local profile, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve never been head-hunted.’

  ‘It’s not so special. You’re just a word on some twenty-something recruiter’s to-do list. They have a fake interest in you, and a real interest in their commission.’

  Abbot Peter looked out of the window on to the slow-moving street . . . and took in the moment. Here he was, forty years on, with someone he would have married with indecent haste, had he been given the slightest encouragement, yet he hardly knew her. He really didn’t know her at all; though what or who had changed was difficult to say. Who knows anyone at twenty-one?

  ‘Strange how these things happen, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I hadn’t even heard of Stormhaven until I was told – standing in the Sahara on the end of a remarkably clear phone line – that a house had been left to me here.’

  ‘Unusual.’

  ‘I mean, I would have gone anywhere in the world probably, if someone had said “Come”. But I came here, I came to Stormhaven, because – at just the right moment – someone died and left m
e their home. And now it’s my world, really.’

  ‘Stormhaven’s your world?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘Then you should really get out more!’

  The abbot smiled. ‘I’ve been out, remember. I’ve been out for a long time. And now I’ve come back.’ It struck him that she was possibly more nervous than he was. He was losing his nerves as they talked. ‘And I suppose one thing my travels have taught me is that wherever I’ve gone, I’m only ever the size of my mind. Air miles are not the same as enlightenment.’

  It was spoken in quiet rebellion against her briskness. He could see why she was where she was. Here was a woman who could sweep through her various good works with barely a glance either side. Chairing meetings would not be a hardship for her; it was not chairing meetings that would pose problems. She’d been a wonderful nurse to him in Highgate after his breakdown. The first woman in his life who cared for him: how could he not fall in love? But he wasn’t that young man now . . . or only part of him was.

  ‘So did you have a good time in the desert?’ she asked. It wasn’t an entirely friendly question.

  ‘It’s never been put quite like that,’ said Peter, with mirth. ‘I’m not sure you go to the desert for a good time.’

  ‘So why did you go?’

  Was that anger or just cheery no-nonsense questioning?

  ‘There wasn’t much to keep me in England. My step-parents weren’t happy about me reverting to my birth name; well, they weren’t happy full stop. I needed to get away from them.’

  ‘And you managed that well enough.’

  ‘Strange – but even as I think of them now, something in me dies.’ He paused. ‘And you didn’t answer my letters, of course.’ He needed to mention that, and as he did he looked her in the eye . . . and she looked away. ‘Quite understandable, but not exactly an invitation to stay. And, as I say, I needed to go anyway. I went in search of sanity – and found it.’

  ‘A long way to go for sanity.’

  ‘If it had been available nearer . . .’

  Rosemary had liked young Peter; there had been an innocence about him when the twenty-one-year-old walked through the door in Highgate. True innocence is a most subversive thing: quite unable to understand why things are as they are, why people are as they are and why they do what they do . . . and liable to point this out.

  ‘It was the idea of a robed man in a pulpit, six feet above the rest of us, talking nonsense. Utter nonsense. And really, it was nonsense.’

  This was one of the first things he’d said on the unit. She remembered the conversation even now.

  ‘If you say so,’ she’d replied.

  ‘And the others just sat there!’

  ‘The congregation.’

  ‘Yes. They just sat there! And I couldn’t understand why everyone else was letting it happen.’

  ‘It’s called being polite.’

  ‘No, it’s called being dishonest.’

  ‘So you threw a hymn book at him.’

  ‘He was patronizing me. I don’t like being patronized. I told the police I didn’t like being patronized. And I only hit the verger because he took hold of my arm. It’s what my stepmother used to do when she wanted control.’

  He’d been an interesting arrival. But clearly a relationship with Peter, however desirable, had not been possible . . . such a thing would not have been perceived well. There had to be boundaries in staff–patient relationships, even with former patients. It was a psychiatric unit, not a marriage bureau! It would have been frowned upon, this is what Rosemary had felt at the time, and she hadn’t wished to be frowned upon; though maybe, on reflection, she’d been the one doing the frowning when no one else had been much bothered.

  And maybe she should have answered his letters. She’d like to have done; he did have something, some presence, some quality of existence, which crept inside her bones. And the thought that she had turned that down, made an error along the way, a mistake – this was an uncomfortable thought. So she kept away from it, reminding herself of her professional boundaries, and how it never would have worked anyway.

  ‘And there’s a man I need you to look after,’ she said, returning to the present.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ This was rather sudden, given that he didn’t run a care home.

  ‘I mean, watch out for. He needs a man to do that, I think. But not – you know – an idiot.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’m glad not to be an idiot.’

  ‘Everything’s relative. And you have met him.’

  ‘Met who?’

  ‘The man I’m talking about . . . at the Stormhaven Etiquette Society.’

  ‘A rather weird memory.’

  ‘His name is Terence – the major-general.’

  ‘Terence?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘We didn’t really talk.’

  ‘Talking is not his strong suit and that’s his problem. Well, I don’t know what his problem is, and it’s none of my business, but his mother . . . well, where to start?’ Rosemary leant forward across the table. ‘She told him – and Terence revealed this while laughing – she told him he had a “heart of shit”.’

  She spoke the words as if they were nothing to do with her, like someone holding dirty washing as far from their body as they could.

  ‘How touching.’

  ‘And he doesn’t seem to regard it as odd! He really doesn’t. “Isn’t that what every mother says?” He just agrees with her, so you need to talk him round.’

  ‘Talk him round?’

  ‘I mean, I told him it wasn’t right what she said, but he didn’t see that at all.’

  ‘What’s done to us when we’re small, we don’t regard as odd.’

  Rosemary’s shrug suggested she wasn’t convinced.

  ‘For our own survival,’ said Peter, ‘we have to believe it’s normal and good . . . until we can no longer believe it. We believe the fairy tale until it’s simply no longer possible. But she no doubt claimed she spoke those words in love.’

  ‘Well, she did actually.’

  ‘She would, yes.’

  ‘I remember her words because he kept quoting them at me: “No one loves you like I do,” she’d say. “No one loves you like I do, Terence.”’

  Peter winced. ‘Which, of course, the child will believe,’ he said, ‘and crucify themselves for their heart of shit – instead of their parent. It’s the price paid for survival. From there on, love will always be a monster, something grotesque and repulsive, to be mocked, scorned . . . avoided. Terence will struggle with love.’

  The food arrived, Matthew delivering steaming mushroom soup and a cheese roll to Peter, with Rosemary looking at some pesto pasta with tomato.

  ‘Thank you, Matthew,’ she said, as if they’d been discussing their holiday snaps. ‘It looks delicious.’ And then to Peter: ‘The food here is very good.’

  Peter nodded.

  And it had been good, and they’d talked of other things, with no further mention of Terence. Rosemary insisted on paying after some coffee; and they stepped out on to Broad Street in bright sunshine which was rather nice. And Rosemary looked happy, and said that they must do this again. Peter wondered if they’d kiss distantly, hug for a moment or simply shake hands.

  They hugged, and then she turned and walked up the street towards the Poundshop on the corner. The abbot stayed where he was, catching the sun, watching her go . . . as he had for many years of his life.

  He wouldn’t see her alive again.

  Tara Hopesmith sat at her desk.

  And it was her desk now, with Rosemary gone. She owned the property in Church Street, fixtures and fittings. Queen of all she surveyed, as the solicitor, Trixie Brownlow, put it.

  ‘You’ve done rather well, Miss Hopesmith,’ she said from behind her legal glasses. Tara already knew that. Rosemary was an organized woman, prepared for all eventualities; you really couldn’t have murdered someone more prepared for their death. ‘Queen of all you survey!’


  ‘This isn’t a celebration,’ Tara said firmly; though perhaps it was a small one.

  ‘The police may have a few questions,’ Trixie added. She was a lively woman in her mid-sixties.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, you have a motive for murder with bells on.’

  It was strange how distant the police felt to solicitors. They shared the law as their business, but it wasn’t the same business at all.

  ‘I think I can handle the police,’ said Tara. ‘I’ve handled a few in my time.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Trixie wasn’t sure if she approved. She was all for womanhood breaking the mould and doing their own thing. She was doing her own thing more than ever now, and enjoying the ride. Life really did get better with every year that passed. Whether this was quite the thing women ought to be doing, however – Rosemary and Tara’s business – well, she wasn’t sure. Though who’s to judge? And she found herself saying this more and more these days. Who’s to judge?

  ‘She was a thoroughly decent woman,’ said Tara.

  ‘She was,’ said Trixie. ‘Absolutely decent . . . which makes it a most indecent murder.’

  And Tara nodded, aware that she’d be missed for that reason. There had been a lot of good in Rosemary, Tara knew that, which had made her own resentment more difficult to justify . . . resentment at her ‘junior partner’ status.

  But that’s life and there was no resentment now. It had dissolved like ice in the sun, melting into nothing. As Trixie said, she was now queen of all she surveyed.

  ‘How did I meet Rosemary?’

  said Channing, enjoying his moment. ‘Well, it won’t surprise you to hear that she sent me a rude letter. Very rude.’

  ‘Rude in what way?’

  ‘Calm down, Abbot. Nothing involving photographs! She was simply appalled by my behaviour.’

  ‘Any behaviour in particular?’ asked Tamsin. ‘There must be so much to choose from.’

  ‘Just the usual dull and selective rage people see fit to dump on me. Water off a duck’s back, really – but, well, it isn’t always easy.’ Channing managed an aggrieved look.