She knew, in any case, that they were always on the alert.
‘Turn up the volume, Colin,’ she mimed across the room. ‘Just a little!’ And she sat down again in her old place, diplomatically between Charles Goddard and John Stubbs, neither of whom had a directly profitable interest in antiques, whatever their private passions, and closed her eyes to listen seriously to Schubert. She never even noticed when her husband came in, discreet, hushing comment with a finger on his lips because of the music, and on those lips, half-concealed, a rapt, anticipatory smile that had nothing whatever to do with Schubert, and exulted in the ignorance of his guests and colleagues.
It was precisely eight days after this that the Reverend Stephen Baines received a telephone call at the early hour of seven in the morning.
‘This is Barbara Rainbow, vicar. I’m sorry to worry you at this hour, but…’ She sounded curiously hesitant, dubious of her own wisdom in telephoning at all. ‘I’m probably troubling you over nothing, but I do wonder – did my husband, by any chance, say anything last night about going on somewhere else after practice? Something could have come up suddenly, he has been known to run off somewhere on business without remembering to let me know.’ Her voice was picking its way with distaste, reluctant to expose the more arid places of the Rainbow marriage. But not a doubt of it, she was seriously worried. ‘He didn’t come home,’ she said flatly. ‘That could happen, and of course he’s perfectly capable of looking after himself. But I’ve still had no word, and I did rather expect him to phone before now. I won’t say I’m alarmed, there’s probably no cause to be. But I just wondered if he’d mentioned any further plans when practice ended.’ And she added, as though she had already taken thought to cover all eventualities: ‘His car is here, you see. He walked to church, he usually does.’
‘I see,’ said the Reverend Stephen rather blankly. ‘No, all he did say was that he was staying to try over some new music he’d brought, so he would lock up for the night. Nothing about going on anywhere else afterwards. I wonder – you didn’t try contacting anyone last night?’ He was not sure himself whether he meant the police or some of Rainbow’s business associates.
‘No. I’m used to occasional abrupt departures, after all. He works on an opportunist basis at times. And one doesn’t start an alarm in the middle of the night without feeling sure it’s necessary, and I didn’t – I don’t feel sure of that at all. But now… You left him alone there at the church, then?’
‘Yes, at about half past eight, the usual time. I heard him playing when I left, I think all the choir had already gone home. Would you like me to…? Do you think we should notify…?’
‘No, don’t worry,’ said Barbara. ‘I expect it’s perfectly all right. I’ll call the shops, and see if he’s been in touch there.’ Rainbow had two shops, one in Birmingham, one in Worcester, where carefully selected manageresses looked after his interests. ‘He’s probably gone haring off after treasure trove somewhere.’ He might, for instance, have felt an urge to resort to the society of the Birmingham manageress, who was an efficient and accommodating blonde, appreciated as a mistress of long standing, but not socially equipped to figure as his wife. But that Barbara refrained from saying. ‘Thanks, anyway! Don’t worry about it!’
But the Reverend Stephen, once he had hung up, immediately began to worry, all the same, and there was nothing to be done but go and look for himself in the church and the organ-loft, to see if by any chance Rainbow had left his music there, or some other sign of his presence. Even healthy-looking men in their prime have been known to succumb to heart attacks without warning. He didn’t really expect anything of that kind. He was not, in fact, expecting to find, as he did, the church door unlocked. Rainbow’s music-case lying unfastened on the organ-bench, and a new voluntary still in place on the stand. That jolted him slightly. It was out of character for Rainbow to leave any of his possessions lying about. But there was no sign of the man himself anywhere in the church.
The vicar hardly knew why he found it necessary to walk all round the paths of his churchyard, since there was no reason whatever why even a Rainbow suddenly overtaken by illness should be lying helpless among the graves, when his music was still withindoors. But the Reverend Stephen was a thorough man, and circled his church conscientiously by the grassy path that threaded its way close to the walls. Under the tower the oldest gravestones clustered like massive, broken teeth, upright headstones leaning out of true, solid table-tombs grown over with moss in their lettering, and deep in long grass bleaching to autumn, because in such a huddle it was almost impossible to mow or even to scythe. The vicar turned the corner of the tower, and clucked mild annoyance, because somebody had thrown down what looked like some old, dark rags among the long grass, or else the wind had blown them there, or some playful pup dragged them in. Dogs were not frowned upon in St Eata’s churchyard. The Reverend Stephen looked upon them as among the most innocent and confiding, if rowdy, of God’s creatures.
He went aside from the path to remove the offence, and froze after two paces. The dark rags had gained a distinct shape, had matter within them, had sprayed the table-tomb and surrounding stones with a sparse, blackened rain. The shape was grotesque, as if someone had loosed a heavy press at speed upon a human form, and squashed it into fragments, as some nut-crackers reduce a walnut to splintered pulp. But there was still a discernible, even a recognisable, head. There was a face, upturned, open-mouthed, open-eyed. The fall that had shattered all other bones had left this identifying countenance unmarked, the back of the skull lolling in the thick verdure beneath it.
Rainbow had had every reason for absenting himself from his somewhat equivocal connubial couch. He stared at the October sky past the Reverend Stephen’s head, and seemed almost immune to the ruin of his body. There was even a look of desperate eagerness left glaring from his fixed features, as though he had died with his eyes upon the crock of gold.
CHAPTER THREE
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The Reverend Stephen was a conscientious soul who knew all about the citizen’s duty where murder or mayhem were in question, or even the self-violence that could hardly be associated with Rainbow. He drew back from the appalling wreckage among the graves with great care, marking his path in case some other, less innocent, had also trodden here during the night, and went to call the police, whose job this clearly was. But he was so far adopted into the tribal structure of Middlehope that it never occurred to him to call anyone but Sergeant Moon.
Homicide might live in Comerbourne. Here in Middlehope Sergeant Moon was the official guardian of the tribe’s peace, to be trusted absolutely, and turned to in all emergencies. The Reverend Stephen never for one moment entertained the idea of notifying Barbara Rainbow of her husband’s present whereabouts and present state. Nor did it occur to him that he was treating her as a woman of the tribe, not an alien from the outer world. Middlehope had spread a wing over her from that moment, whether she knew it or not.
‘Oh, yes, quite dead,’ said the vicar simply, at ease with the man to whom he spoke. ‘He’s broken to pieces, you see. He must have come off the tower, he couldn’t have been shattered like that any other way. Yes, it was his wife who rang me, fretting about him not coming home. I think he sometimes didn’t, but this time she hadn’t any clues, and she was troubled.’ A good Biblical word, troubled. ‘I haven’t told anyone, and nobody’s likely to go through there, not close. I thought better let well alone rather than mount a guard. No, I haven’t said a word to her.’