Owen followed the tarmac path where it curved past the church and arrived at the Kendal Road exit. There, he walked up to the bridge and stared down at the swirling water, the color of a pint of bitter, from the peat it picked up on its way through the dale. Ahead, facing south, he could see the formal gardens, the riverside willows and the castle high on its hill, dominating the town. It seemed so long ago he had stood here that foggy November night. No, he would not think about that again.
He took the river path home, and as he passed by the vicarage, he saw, over the garden gate, a woman hanging up washing on the line and stopped to watch her.
The plain white T-shirt she was wearing stretched taut against her heavy round breasts as she reached to peg up a sheet. Owen fancied he could see the dark nipples harden at the wind’s caress.
Then she looked his way. He recognized her; he had seen her in court. She was the woman who had found the body, the one whose husband had been accused of molesting a church worker.
For a moment, she seemed about to smile and say hello, then she frowned, her jaw dropped, and she backed away inside the house, shutting the door behind her. Owen could hear the sound of a chain being fastened. She hadn’t hung the sheet properly on the washing-line, and at the first light gust of wind it filled like a sail then broke free and fluttered onto the flower-bed like a shroud.
III
Banks saw the curtain in the bay window twitch just after he rang the vicarage bell, and a few moments later a nervous and jumpy looking Rebecca Charters answered the door. She looked relieved to see him and ushered him down the hall into the living-room.
It was a lot more cozy than on his previous visits, he noticed immediately, and it felt much more like a family home than a temporary encampment. The whole place had been redecorated: new wallpaper, cream with rose patterns; a new three-piece suite in a matching floral design; and three vases of flowers placed around the room. Ezekiel, the mound of brown-and-white fur, was in his usual place by the empty fireplace.
“How about some tea?” Rebecca asked. “Freshly brewed. Well, ten minutes ago.”
“That’ll be fine,” said Banks. “No milk or sugar, thanks.”
Rebecca went into the kitchen and returned seconds later with two mugs of tea. Today, she wore her hair tied back, fixed in place by a tooled-leather slide and a broad wooden pin. The style made her olive-complexioned face seem to bulge forward a little, emphasizing the slightly long nose, weak chin and curved brow, like a photograph through a fish-eye lens, but she still looked attractive, especially the dark eyes and full lips.
“I noticed you were in court for the verdict,” Banks began.
Rebecca cradled her mug in her hands. “Yes,” she said. “I can hardly believe it. He was here earlier. That was why I was a bit nervous when you rang.”
“Owen Pierce was here? Why?”
“Not actually here, but he walked past on the river path. I was in the garden. I saw him.”
“It’s a free country, I suppose,” Banks said. “And he’s a free man.”
“But isn’t he dangerous? I mean, people still think he did it, even if he did get off.”
“They’re free to believe what they want. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, though.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Perhaps. Keep your doors and windows locked if it makes you feel better.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “I don’t mean to be sharp. I…”
“It’s all right,” said Banks. “You’re worried. You think there’s a killer been set free and he’s got his eyes on you. The quicker we find out whether he did it or not, the sooner you’ll feel safe again.”
“Do you think he did it?”
Banks scratched the little scar beside his right eye. “Right now, I don’t know,” he admitted. “There were times when I did, certainly, but the more I look at some of the things that struck me as odd before we latched onto Pierce, the more I start to wonder. The courts set innocent people free as well as guilty ones, sometimes, and if anyone knows the truth, he’s a lucky man.”
“What brought you back here?”
“I’m not really sure, except that this is where it all started.”
“Yes,” said Rebecca. “I remember.” She gave a small shudder and fingered the neck of her dress. “And I’d like to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For the last time we met. In the Queen’s Arms. I seem to remember I was very rude to you. I seem to be making a habit of it.”
“Don’t worry,” Banks said. “You get used to it in my job.”
“But you shouldn’t have to. I mean, I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did.” She put her mug down on the table. “I’m not that kind of person. Rude…I… Look, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except that your coming here again brings it all back.”
“Brings what back? Finding the body?”
“That, yes, certainly. But it was a terrible time for me all round. The charges against Daniel, all the turmoil they caused.” She took a deep breath. “You see, Chief Inspector, you didn’t know the half of it. Of course you didn’t, it wasn’t relevant, not to your inquiries, but I lost a baby about three months before that business with Jelačić, and the doctor said it would be dangerous for me to try for another. Daniel and I hadn’t talked about it as much as we should, and we had started drifting apart. We had just made some tentative inquiries about adoption when Jelačić brought the charges. Of course, everything fell through. It was worse than it was before. I’m afraid I withdrew. I blamed Daniel. There was even a time when I thought he was guilty. Since I lost the baby, we hadn’t been…well, you know…and I thought he’d lost interest in me. It was easier to explain that by assuming he was really interested in men. What can I say? I started to drink too much. Then there was Patrick.” She laughed nervously. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Except that you witnessed the final scene.”
Banks smiled. “You’d be surprised the things people tell us, Mrs. Charters. Anyway, I hope life has improved since then.”
She beamed. “Yes. Yes, it has. Daniel and I are stronger than we’ve ever been. There are still…well, a few problems…but at least we’re working together now.”
“How’s the Jelačić problem progressing?”
“It drags on. We’ve not heard anything for over a month now, but I believe he’s got some human-rights lawyer working on it.”
“And the drink?”
“Six months without.”
“Patrick Metcalfe?”
“Not since that time you were here, when he caused all that fuss.”
“Has he pestered you at all since then?”
She smiled. “No. I think he realized pretty quickly how carried away with himself he was getting. And I think your interest in him helped keep him at bay, too. I should thank you for that. You don’t still suspect him, do you?”
“He’s not off the hook yet,” Banks said. “Anyway, that’s not why I came. Actually, I was hoping for another look at the area where the body was found.”
“Surely you don’t have to ask my permission to do that?”
“No, but it’s partly a matter of courtesy. And you know the area better than I do. Will you come with me?”
“Certainly.”
To retrace Deborah’s steps, they walked first along the riverside path from the vicarage towards the Kendal Road bridge, where worn stone steps led up to the pavement. It was another beautiful day, and over the road in St. Mary’s Park, lovers lay entwined, students sat reading in the shade of the trees, and children played with balls and Frisbees.
“This was where she would enter,” said Rebecca, holding the wooden gate open for Banks. It was a lych-gate, with a small wooden roof, where the coffin would await the arrival of the clergyman in days gone by. “Seventeenth century,” Rebecca said. “Isn’t it superb?”