The Chorister at the Abbey Page 14

  ‘A music book? No, you’re wrong there. Morris had nothing with him but the clothes he stood up in. And his wallet and mobile. Funny that, don’t you think? You’d think the Frost boys would have taken his money.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t get a chance in the dark.’

  ‘Hmmph. We’re all in the dark, if you ask me. But one thing’s for certain. There was no music book of any sort with him.’

  Were both Tom and Alex wrong? Surely not, Edwin thought. If the police had found a book in Morris’s hand, or even near his body, they would have given it to his widow – unless it was evidence. But what sort of evidence could it be?

  ‘I’ll be there on Thursday,’ Edwin said. ‘Definitely.’

  Norma grunted. ‘Right. We’ll see you then,’ and put the phone down sharply as if she was worried he might change his mind.

  Edwin’s next move, almost as a reflex, was to push the button he had pre-programmed with Alex’s number.

  ‘You’re sure you saw a book in Morris’s hand, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. A psalter.’

  A few minutes later, as he was pouring himself a drink, Edwin’s phone rang again. He jumped to answer it, hoping the unexpected caller might be Marilyn. She would call him soon – he knew that.

  But it was the husky voice of Norma Little again. ‘I’ve called the policewoman who’s on Morris’s case. She says there was no book anywhere near him.’

  So someone had removed the psalter from Morris’s hand. It had been there when Tom and Alex found the body and gone when the police got there, and it wasn’t the Frosts because witnesses had seen them disposing of the piece of wood outside at the time. Alex had said that the admin offices in the Music Department had been playing bad schmaltzy carols at top volume. The loud, crass music was still going full blast so she had heard nothing. Then the lights had gone out and the music had stopped. She had waited about five long minutes, hoping the power would come back on, before deciding to grope her way out. Then suddenly light had flooded the corridor where she had been standing; she had picked up her bag and gone out of the door, planning to turn left to the Music Department’s separate entrance. But the sound of Tom crying out had changed her mind; she had turned right and found him and the body.

  And Morris had been clutching a psalter. She had taken Tom by the shoulders, pushed him into the main corridor and guided him down the stairs to the reception desk. The guard had radioed his colleague, who had gone straight to Morris’s body. The dead man had been left alone for about five minutes. And in that time the book must have gone.

  But would other people come to the same conclusion that Edwin was rapidly reaching? – that the murderer wasn’t necessarily one of the Frosts, but could be someone who stole the book, having attacked Morris in the first place? Someone who expected the Music Department to be deserted, not realizing Tom might be in the toilets, or Alex in the vicinity, with any sound masked by the raucous carol singing?

  Edwin knew of no one in the Music Department who would play music like that. They had been playing Bach’s Christmas Oratorio earlier. Had the murderer put on the blaring music to mask all sound of an attack? But then, in turn, not heard Alex? Had the same person lurked at the scene in the dark, and then watched Tom crying, and Alex leading him away?

  Was that possible? If it was, the consequences were crazy. It meant there was a murderer on the loose in Norbridge. Someone with an interest in the Psalms, or why else would they remove a psalter?

  Ridiculous, Edwin said to himself. He was being over-imaginative. He would heat up a pizza and then do some work. And tonight, he thought firmly, he would concentrate on modern jazz.

  Freddie Fabrikant grunted as he pushed his bicycle up the hill on the outskirts of Fellside. But he chuckled too. He could still hear Wanda’s ringing outrage in his ears.

  ‘What? You’re going where?’

  ‘To a religious group meeting, Wanda. It’s very interesting. A study for the Lenten season which is coming soon. We’re starting early.’

  ‘You’re off your head, Freddie. What is happening to you?’

  ‘Well, I am taking a new interest. Religion is the rock and roll of the twenty-first century. The Da Vinci Code and Cabbalism and Islam and Scientology, it’s all there.’

  ‘But this is some silly little group at a church hall in bloody Fellside of all places. It’s hardly Holy Trinity Brompton Road, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know of this Holy Trinity. But I’m interested. After all, if I’m going to be singing the main part in Stainer’s Crucifixion –’

  ‘Oh, is that what it’s all about! For God’s sake!’

  ‘Genau!’ Freddie had harrumphed triumphantly, and lifted his giant bicycle cape from the peg in the hallway. ‘I’m leaving now, Wanda. It won’t be a long gig. I’ll be home at ten o’clock for my hot milk drink . . .’ He winked and guffawed.

  She had still been huffing and blowing as he left. He was very fond of Wanda, whom he found deeply sexy in her driven way, but it was his ability to wind her up which gave him the greatest pleasure. She was a woman of limited sensitivity, he thought seriously as he mounted his bike and weaved unsteadily out of Uplands. She was strangely two-dimensional, wrapped up in herself like a small dark animal that occasionally emerged from a burrow blinking at the world, uttering sharp cries of outrage, and then disappearing again. Of course she had all the outward trappings of a sophisticate. But the real Wanda was really rather solipsistic, like a teenager herself. That was why she didn’t want children of her own, he thought. It had begun to trouble him. The idea of family life in the country was appealing more and more. But if Wanda was getting older and wasn’t interested then perhaps some younger woman might fit the bill. After all, he had always got on well with young people. And there had been a few escapades since he had come up to the north . . .

  His bicycle wobbled. I’ve been a naughty boy, he said to himself, but not always. Once or twice he had been kindly, avuncular even. He laughed, liking the sound of his own voice booming in the dark.

  The back roads to Fellside had been deserted, and he bowled along, singing bass arias from The Crucifixion at the top of his voice, through the damp but chilly night. It was that which made him remember the Chorus practice the previous Tuesday. They had had a break in the rehearsal. Everyone had set off for the pub, and he had gone with them, but at the door of the Crown and Thistle he had remembered that his wallet was still in the cape’s voluminous pockets. He had returned to the dark recess of the Lady Chapel where he had left his cape draped over a pew.

  It hadn’t really been dark in there, just misty, with the winter night’s damp air swirling in the spotlights over the altar. Robin, the musical director, was playing the organ softly and Edwin Armstrong had been talking to Alex Gibson by the door. Freddie had made his way into the Lady Chapel, which was very dimly lit, and as he’d picked up his cape he’d heard two people talking.

  A man’s voice had said, ‘But it’s the only way. It’s meant to be. Think about it. Think about the way society’s going.’

  And an answering female voice had said, ‘But it seems so extreme.’

  ‘No.’ The male voice had an air of great authority. ‘Think about what the psalm says: The virgins that be her fellows shall bear her company, and shall be brought unto thee. You have this unique chance to be part of something wonderful which only women can do.’

  Freddie had been tempted to say in his loud, cheery voice: ‘I could do with some of that!’ but then he had heard the man say sharply, ‘We must split up now. I’ll call you . . .’ The voice had been strangely urgent. But by then Freddie had his cape over his head so, despite his excellent hearing, he had caught no more of the conversation.

  It had intrigued him, though. And given him the seed of an idea.

  And now Freddie was on his way to a Bible study meeting. How strange life was! He liked the feel of the pull in his leg muscles as he cycled up towards the ridge. He was getting a lot fitter and life in
the Norbridge area really suited him. Despite his days as a rock star he had always liked being a big fish in a small pool. The image of a bad guy who was really a big softie suited him very well.

  And he was immensely flattered by being asked to sing solo for the Chorus. Freddie had a deep vein of country-boy conservatism running through him. He had been brought up as a Lutheran, going to a rural church in a small town on the flat potato plains of middle Germany. That’s where he’d first heard his own voice surmounting those around him and realized that music was going to be a big part of his life.

  And now it had come full circle. Here he was, going to a church meeting on his bicycle as he had done when he was a boy!

  He grunted and pushed on the pedals to lever himself past the bulk of the boarded-up convent, a strange neo-Gothic building in red brick with turrets and gables. From the corner of his eye he saw the dark outline of a large stone cross, chipped and lurching crazily to one side in the overgrown garden.

  ‘Wowwww!’ Freddie called out loud as he pedalled, feeling the pressure lift as he reached the brow of the hill and the bicycle wheels spin of their own accord. Freewheeling! This was Freddie Fabrikant, caped crusader.

  ‘Hello, hello!’ He careered round the corner into the gravelly car park outside the Fellside Fellowship Chapel where his bike literally ground to a halt. To his amazement, there was quite a crowd.

  So many people interested in the Psalms. Freddie chuckled.

  22

  Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, and shew ourselves glad in him with psalms. Psalm 95:2

  At the former St Luke’s, Pat Johnstone was making for the lighted doorway, looking at Mark Wilson in a hungry way as he and Paul Whinfell welcomed people on the doorstep. Lynn Clifford had brought Chloe, who was wearing a strange headscarf like something from post-war Eastern Europe, and Suzy Spencer lingered behind them, looking a bit bemused.

  Freddie flung his bike to one side and advanced on her in his usual expansive way. ‘Hello! It’s me!’ he called, totally assured of his own fame. ‘You are Robert’s wife, yes?’

  ‘No. Just the girlfriend,’ Suzy said firmly, but with less mischief in her voice than usual. Lynn Clifford glanced anxiously at her, but was distracted by Chloe who was marching purposefully into the hall.

  To Freddie’s surprise, someone else from the Chorus moved towards them out of the shadows. It was the big mezzo woman, Alex Gibson, looking brighter than usual in a red coat, and a red velvet scarf like the one he’d bought Wanda for Christmas. She had rarely spoken to him, but this evening she seemed animated.

  ‘Hello, Freddie,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d give this a go. You too?’

  ‘Absolut! Why not?’ Freddie laughed infectiously.

  Alex turned to the woman next to her. ‘Hi – I’m Alex Gibson.’

  ‘I’m Suzy Spencer.’

  ‘Shall we go in? I don’t know what to expect.’

  ‘Me neither. But at least Mark Wilson has got nice shoulders!’

  Alex laughed. Suzy Spencer seemed like fun. Alex had been intrigued by the Bible study course – but primarily because it was being held in Fellside, within walking distance. And she was keen to meet people now she was feeling so much better. She could take a risk because Robert Clark was definitely away during half-term week. Or so Edwin had told her at the Chorus practice. There was no danger of meeting him over stewed tea and biscuits in the brightly lit church hall.

  Listening to the discussion getting under way, Suzy Spencer had to admit it was interesting but she wasn’t sure if she would stick it for the whole course.

  She had come partly out of pique. It had hit her like a blow when Robert had said he was going to London on a creative writing course. That night was the first time in eighteen months that she’d got a casual babysitter for Molly; just because Robert was away, she wasn’t going to sit at home and mope. She had done Bible study before in Tarnfield and not enjoyed it much, but when Lynn had suggested it, she thought she might give it another try. And Mark Wilson did have an appeal, there was no doubt about it. But getting out on weekday evenings was a pretty tough call, just to hear the painfully serious Jenny Whinfell give a learned analysis of the psalms of lament!

  But then Mark followed with some really funny allusions, pointing out the more entertaining episodes. ‘The Psalms would make quite a good computer game,’ he said. ‘How God might defeat thine enemies in over a hundred ways, most of them pretty bloody!’

  Suzy laughed, thinking of Jake. Mark made her feel up to date, one of the people who knew the score in the big wide world. At the tea break, Suzy had the feeling that he had singled her out. She told herself not to be stupid. But catching sight of herself in the mirror in the Ladies, she could see that the cold air had brought colour to her face and her blond spiky hair had withstood the rain and damp better than the blow-dry styles of the other women. She was surprised to see that she looked quite trim, too. Obviously having Robert away from home or working in the evenings wasn’t doing her figure any harm – the only things she ate these days were Molly’s leftovers.

  And how old was Mark Wilson? He wasn’t a toy-boy himself. Early thirties, and if roles were reversed and she were the bloke, no one would think anything of the age gap. What age gap, anyway? Robert was years older than she was. No one but Nigel ever mentioned that.

  Mark bent confidentially to talk to her, and Suzy felt herself twinkling back at him. Get a grip, she told herself sharply.

  ‘No Robert with you?’

  ‘He’s away actually.’

  I’m flirting, she thought. How bloody stupid. I ought to move off. But Mark said quietly, ‘You know, perhaps we ought to have a chat. Maybe we could talk when you bring Jake up to the band.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, that would be good . . .’

  Mark smiled at her, and then went over to speak to Pat Johnstone. He was probably the only person who approached her voluntarily. Pat was all over him like a rash. They’ll have to peel her off him when the talk starts again, Suzy thought. Then she realized she was standing dumbly in the middle of the room, holding her cup and saucer at a dangerous angle.

  Alex Gibson came and stood next to her. ‘He is rather gorgeous, isn’t he? With the monstrous regiment of single women lusting after him!’

  ‘Actually that’s a myth, you know!’

  ‘Really? About the single women or the lusting after Mark?’

  ‘The single women. There are usually fifty-one per cent women and forty-nine per cent men in the population. It’s always been like that, except after the First World War. The idea of surplus women is rubbish.’

  ‘So what about all these middle-aged harpies supposedly looking for partners?’

  ‘There are loads of men looking for partners too. It’s just that women like to trade up. It’s a class thing, not a numbers thing. If you want to meet a man, try the snug bar. He’ll be wearing Crimplene trousers and have his teeth in, if you’re lucky.’

  ‘I’ll pass on that, I think. How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’m a freelance producer for daytime TV. You’d be amazed what we know. That’s another myth for you. Look, we’d better get back into our seats. I don’t want to miss a word Mark says!’

  But the second half of the talk seemed to drag more. Suzy found her eyes closing and had to chew her fingers to keep awake. Paul Whinfell was earnestly looking at similes and metaphors in the Psalms and relating them to the New Testament.

  ‘And there’s Psalm 19,’ he was saying. ‘This is an interesting one. The bridegroom analogy . . .’

  ‘Ah yes!’ Freddie Fabrikant had grown tired of listening. ‘I find this so weird, Paul. You know, we have all these bride and bridegroom ideas in the Bible. But also there is this big thing about virgins, I mean staying a virgin. You know, virgins keeping each other company. I heard someone say that just recently . . .’ He stopped, aware that suddenly the room had gone quiet.

  ‘What is this about?’ Jenny Whinfell spoke sharply, annoy
ed at the interruption.

  ‘I expect Freddie means Psalm 45,’ Mark said gently, defusing things. ‘You know, there are so many mixed references in the Bible. Perhaps we should move on to our final words. Does anyone have a favourite psalm? And not Psalm 23 please . . .’

  ‘I do!’ Everyone turned to Chloe Clifford, who stood up.

  Without reference to a book she said, ‘It’s Psalm 131. It’s one of the shortest . . .

  ‘Lord I am not high minded; I have no proud looks.

  I do not exercise myself in great matters which are too high for me.

  But I refrain my soul and keep it low, like as a child that is weaned from his mother; yea my soul is even as a weaned child.

  O Israel, trust in the Lord from this time forth for evermore.’

  ‘Thank you, Chloe,’ said Paul Whinfell, obviously moved. ‘After that there’s nothing more to say but the closing prayer.’

  Alex and Suzy found themselves together in the car park. Alex had found Suzy’s remarks about single women intriguing. Suzy was an interesting person, Alex thought. Suzy had liked Alex, too.

  ‘It was novel to hear Freddie Fabrikant on theology,’ Suzy said.

  ‘Like Bluebeard on domestic violence.’ Alex laughed. ‘Not to mention Chloe Clifford and that astounding rendition!’

  ‘Yes, I think Lynn’s got her hands full with that one at the moment. Have you got any kids?’

  ‘Sadly not. I’m one of your single statistics though I’m not trading up or down at the moment! I’m divorced. And you? Are you local? I haven’t seen you in Fellside before?’

  ‘No, I live in Tarnfield.’

  ‘Tarnfield. Isn’t that where Robert Clark lives? I know him from the college where I work.’ Alex couldn’t help asking, like pushing on a painful tooth.

  Suzy laughed. ‘Funny you should ask. Actually, I’m living with Robert Clark. At least, for the time being.’