I saw Liz out the door, picked up a Book of Common Prayer from the bookshelf, then made my way down the south aisle to the beautiful little Lady Chapel. I sat down in one of the blue-cushioned chairs, opened the prayer book to the section on the burial of the dead, and read: I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
Life after death; Susan’s stock in trade. Was what she did for a living so incompatible with Christianity? I didn’t think so. With the book laying open in my hands, I closed my eyes and prayed for Susan’s soul, and that whoever was responsible for her death would be brought to justice.
When I opened my eyes again, I noticed a Sacrament lamp – a perpetual candle in a brass holder hanging from a chain attached to the wall. I stared at the lamp, opening my mind, embracing the silence, hoping – but not really believing – that Susan might actually reach out from the beyond and speak to me. But my only answer was the volunteers’ happy chatter spilling down from the gallery as they did the washing-up after the lunch.
I took the long way round on my way out of St Saviour’s, passing through the Ambulatory – past the antique hand pump fire engine and the Armada chest – through to the Chancel where I found myself standing, quite literally, on the splendid Hawley Brass.
Dressed in a full suit of armor, John Hawley the Second lay tall and ramrod straight between his two wives, looking none too happy about it. Each lady was adorned with jewels in her hair, and was accompanied in the afterlife by a pair of toy dogs wearing bells on their collars. But John, I noticed, was holding Joanna, the first wife’s, hand. It was a good thing that Alicia, wife number two, had predeceased old John, or she might have had a thing or two to say about that.
Meanwhile, back in the twenty-first century, I thought about Jon Hamilton and his two wives, my friend Alison and Wife Number One, who had perished at sea.
How was it, I wondered, that in all the years that we’d known Alison and Jon, the subject of Wife Number One had never come up? We still wouldn’t have known about her if Susan Parker hadn’t picked up vibes about an earlier marriage at Janet’s dinner.
Clearly, I didn’t know Alison as well as I thought. Over the years, we’d exchanged frequent emails, annual Christmas cards. Alison emailed my daughter, Emily – who called her Auntie A – and remembered to send cards on my grandchildren’s birthdays. How could a relationship be so one-sided? Now I even found myself wondering if their daughter, Kitty, was Alison’s, or Jon’s by his previous marriage to… who was it?… Beth?
Alison and I were friends, weren’t we? I figured I’d just pop over to her house and see how she was doing. And while I was there, I’d simply ask her to tell me about Beth.
But before I did that, I decided to pay a visit to the Dartmouth Public Library.
TWELVE
‘It has long been said that once a year the River Dart demands a human life and when it is ready for “a heart” it will “cry out” and summon its victim. The sound of the river can usually be heard near the “broad stone” or brad stones. An old saying goes: “Dart, Dart, cruel Dart, every year thou claimst a heart.”’www.Legendarydartmoor.co.uk
The Dartmouth Public Library occupies the ground floor of the Flavel Arts Centre, a modern, tastefully designed building with a dramatic zig-zag roof over a glass façade that exposes each of its three floors to public view, like a doll house. I had to pass by the police station to get there, and as usual, I looked in. Although the station was open, the young officer manning the counter would tell me nothing about their progress on Susan Parker’s case except to say that the investigation was ongoing.
Damn, I thought, as I crossed the street and headed for the library. I’d learned more than that from the woman reading the news on television that morning. Forensic analysis was being done of the victim’s clothing, the reporter had told the viewing public over their Weetabix, toast and orange marmalade. Furthermore, an accident reconstruction expert had been called in from Croydon, and his report was expected shortly.
As I waited for assistance at the library reference desk, I began to case the joint. I was surrounded by shelves crammed with books, magazines, DVDs, and other material, so closely spaced that the effect was almost claustrophobic. If e-books didn’t become all the rage, I figured it wouldn’t be long before the library ran out of shelf space. Nearby, a rank of computers was provided for public use. I’d come at a good time, apparently, as only one of the machines was occupied.
A librarian materialized from somewhere in the stacks and greeted me with a friendly, ‘May I help you?’
I explained that I was looking for old newspaper reports.
‘I suggest you start with Newsbank,’ the librarian said. ‘That’s our most comprehensive resource, and it’s online.’ She pointed to a terminal. ‘Click online resources and you’ll find Newsbank among those listed.’
I sat down and followed her instructions.
Newsbank came up immediately, filling the screen with a multicolored map of the UK. Because I wanted to see newspapers in the South West, I clicked on the turquoise section of the map. Of twenty-two newspapers in that general region, almost all had come online in 2007.
Rats.
Surprisingly, the Dartmouth Chronicle wasn’t listed at all, and of the others, the one of most likely interest, the Western Morning News out of Plymouth, went back only as far as 1999. I figured Beth Hamilton had gone missing around 1994, so that was no help at all.
‘I guess I should have been more specific,’ I told the librarian when she reappeared at my elbow to ask how I was getting on. ‘The articles I need would have come out in 1994 or 1995.’
A few minutes later, I found myself seated at a microfilm machine, having flashbacks to my college days at Oberlin as I reeled my way through newspapers on film, starting with the paper closest to home, the Dartmouth Chronicle.
Elizabeth and Jon Hamilton had been avid sailors, that I knew, but finding numerous references to sailing races in which they had participated brought that fact into sharp focus. Jon’s Contessa 32 was a sprightly little craft, I realized as I scanned the results of race after race. When she wasn’t winning outright, Biding Thyme was consistently placed in the top three. No wonder Jon was loathe to part with her.
Halfway through the Dartmouth Chronicle for 1994, I found what I was looking for: ‘Local Woman Presumed Drowned in Solo Sailing Accident’. When I noticed the date on the article, all the breath left my body.
July 30. The date of Janet’s dinner party, when Susan Parker had been guest of honor. No wonder Beth’s spirit had been sending out vibes that evening. No wonder Jon had freaked.
Beth had been seen by several people, the newspaper reported, sailing out of the marina alone. Several hours later, Biding Thyme had been discovered, sails still set, at Stumpy Steps not far from the Castle. There was nothing in the article that I didn’t know already, except that Jon and his daughter had been away at the time, visiting his mother in Exeter.
I paged forward to the following week’s Chronicle to find, as expected, that police were still searching for Beth’s body. The shore on both sides of the Dart had been thoroughly combed by police and volunteers, I learned, but to no avail. A tiny spot of blood that proved, upon analysis, to have come from Beth, had been found on the stern of Biding Thyme, but there was no way to tell how the blood had got there, or when. ‘There is no evidence of foul play,’ a police spokesman said.