The woman, however, seemed perfectly composed, even to be enjoying the attention. She took Dan by the arm and pulled him into a seat. The familiarity of the gesture disturbed Emma. What was her relationship with him? She was too young to be a mother, not ten years older than he was. But her ugliness surely made it impossible that they could be romantically attached.
Emma had many insecurities but was always confident that she was physically attractive. She took it for granted that James would never have asked her to marry him if she’d been fat or had acne. During the remainder of the service Emma heard the woman’s voice above the others in the hymns and responses. It was clear and loud and quite out of tune.
There was no mention of Jeanie Long in the sermon and Emma thought perhaps the vicar had not heard about the suicide, but her name was there, along with Elsie Hepworth and Albert Smith, in the prayers for the deceased. Sitting with Matthew on her lap, looking down on the bent heads of the congregation who were kneeling, she tried to conjure up an image of Jeanie. She could only remember meeting her once at the Mantel home. Jeanie had been playing the piano which Keith had bought for Abigail when she showed a fleeting interest in having lessons. A tall, dark young woman, rather intense and earnest, bent over the keyboard. Then Keith had come in and she’d turned and her face had relaxed into a smile. It was hard to realize that Jeanie had been younger then than Emma was now, hardly more than a student.
The service moved on towards the Communion. Robert in his white robe was standing at the altar next to the vicar. Mary was first to take the bread and wine, then rushed to the kitchen to spoon instant coffee into vacuum jugs. The arthritic organist struggled back to her place and began to play something gentle and melancholy. A queue had formed in the aisle. Emma handed Matthew to James, who had never been confirmed, despite Robert’s best efforts, and stood to take her place. Ahead of her was a tall, stooped man in a shiny grey suit which was too big for him. He wasn’t a regular worshipper although she thought she might have seen him in the village. He had been sitting on his own, and no one had approached him, which was unusual. The parish ladies prided themselves on making strangers welcome.
The line moved slowly forward. The man knelt awkwardly and she took her place next to him, aware suddenly of the over-powering smell of mothballs. It had been a long time since the suit had been worn. He held out his cupped hands to take the wafer. They were hard and brown like carved wood, strong although he must have been at least sixty. The vicar caught his eye and gave a small smile of acknowledgement. Then Robert approached with the chalice, wiping the lip with a white cloth. Automatically the man reached out his hand to steady it, before raising it to his mouth. Then he looked up into Robert’s face and there was a shock of recognition. As Robert moved on towards her, the man spat out the mouthful of wine in his direction. The white robe was splashed with red from the thick, sweet wine. It could, Emma thought, have been blood seeping from a wound. There was a gasp of excitement masquerading as horror from the woman on the other side of Emma. The vicar hadn’t seen what had happened and Robert took no notice. The man got to his feet, and instead of returning to his pew, continued down the aisle and left the church.
The incident had happened very quickly and, hidden by the backs of the Communicants, it wouldn’t have been visible from the nave. But as the man passed her, Dan Greenwood’s companion got to her feet and followed him out.
Chapter Five
Every week after church they went back to Robert and Mary’s house for lunch. It was an immutable part of the ritual, like the reading of the Epistle and the collect of the day. Emma thought it unfair that her mother, who spent an hour after the service pouring coffee and washing dishes, should immediately throw herself into domestic activity at home. Mary claimed to enjoy it, but the Mary she remembered from York hadn’t been at all domestic. There’d been a cleaning lady then, and they’d eaten out a lot. Emma had memories of a family-run Italian restaurant, long Sunday afternoons of pasta and ice cream, and of her parents leading them tipsily home just as it was getting dark.
James always brought a couple of decent bottles of wine with him to the lunch. Emma thought he needed the alcohol to ward off the cold and numb the tedium. But when she’d suggested that they should make an excuse and stay away he wouldn’t hear of it.
i “I like your parents. Your father is interesting and intelligent and your mother is charming. You are fortunate that they’re so supportive.”
After that implied rebuke she didn’t bring up the subject again.
Springhead was a square, grey house just out of the village. Once it had been a farmhouse, but the land had been sold off. This was the house the family had come to when they’d moved out of York. Robert had been triumphant to find it. All their savings had been used up during his social work training, and he’d never believed it would be possible to find somewhere so spacious within his budget. He’d dismissed the surveyor’s report, which highlighted rising damp and woodworm in the roof joists, insisting this was the place the family were meant to be. Emma thought it had probably been for the best. She couldn’t imagine him in a semi on a new estate. She told herself his ego wouldn’t survive in a cramped space, though knew that was probably unfair. She was desperate, really, for his approval.
From Christopher’s old room in the attic, it was still possible to see the field where Abigail’s body had lain. The view hadn’t changed. The land here was so flat and near to the coast that development wasn’t allowed. A recent report from the Environment Agency predicted not only flooding, but the possibility that the whole peninsula could be washed away.
It was raining hard as they drove out to Springhead, so dark that they needed headlights. The ditches were full and surface water ran down the middle of the road. They were in James’s Volvo. Robert and Mary had gone on ahead.
“Who was that dreadful woman with Dan?” James asked. He liked beautiful objects. Emma believed that was why he put up with her moodiness now.
“I haven’t a clue. I hadn’t seen her before.”
“I wondered if she could be a business contact. You could imagine her running a craft shop. Harrogate perhaps, or Whitby.”
“Oh yes!” Sometimes she was surprised by how perceptive he could be. That was when she liked him best when he surprised her. “But Whitby, surely. Not classy enough for Harrogate.” She paused. “Do you think that was why Dan was in church? To please her? In the hope of securing a sale? It seems an odd thing to do. And not like him. He always seems so straight. I can’t imagine him manipulating a situation for his own ends.”
“No.” James slowed the car to a crawl. A ditch had burst its bank and formed a peaty stream across the road. “I think he must have known Jeanie Long. He seemed very upset last night when he talked about her suicide. Church seems the right place to be sometimes, even if you have no belief.”
“I suppose he could have known Jeanie.” Emma was doubtful but she didn’t want to dismiss the idea. It had been a long time since they had spoken like this, so easily. “He didn’t move to Elvet until later, but she was away too, at university. She’d only recently graduated when she moved in with Keith Mantel. Dan could have met her when she was still a student but I can’t see how.”
James ignored the speculation. “Dan thought the suicide might distress you.”
“I didn’t know her. I was trying to think in church. I only met her once.” She hesitated. “Do you realize it’s almost exactly ten years since Abigail Mantel died? The suicide seems a horrible coincidence. Or do you think she realized and planned it? A dramatic gesture to celebrate the anniversary?”