Steeply down through Dinham, another ancient piece of town with a small medieval chapel dedicated to the martyred St Thomas of Canterbury, and across the bridge over the River Teme, with the castle behind them – from this side, as much of a fortress as it had ever been. She supposed that the highest tower was the keep, from which Robbie Walsh had fallen.
‘I suppose I ought to have come to the funeral,’ the Bishop said. ‘But it was David’s show and, with the TV cameras and everything, I knew there’d be scores of people there. Anyway, I didn’t think the Mumfords would remember me. I just bought my papers there.’ He sighed. ‘Suppose that’s why I felt obliged to come with you tonight, even though I’m not entirely sure what this is about or why she’d want to talk to me, especially.’
‘She liked you because you didn’t have much to say about God.’
Bernie grunted. ‘Limited opportunity to bring the Almighty into a transaction involving a packet of Polos and the Shropshire Star.’
She smiled, guessing he’d used the Mumfords’ shop as an information bureau, picking up on local gossip. He could look jovial and vague, but Bernie didn’t miss much. When he’d asked her how she was getting on with the Deliverance panel, she’d been glad it had been too dark for him to see her eyes while she was murmuring that this was something they perhaps ought to discuss. When there was more time. Like several hours.
‘Phyllis and Reg must have been well into their seventies when I knew them,’ the Bishop said. ‘I remember when they sold the shop we sent them a good-luck card.’
‘You ever see the boy?’
‘I’ve been trying to remember. I don’t think so. But he didn’t live here all his life, did he?’
‘Only the best bits, apparently.’
Across the river, the land gave in to ranks of dark conifers and the lane took them uphill. Cottages and a hotel had been flung into the hillside, lights coming on in them now. The road kept on climbing, and they did almost a U-turn and emerged, unexpectedly, onto a natural parapet.
Merrily slowed. ‘Gosh.’
‘Never been to Whitcliffe before, Merrily?’
‘It’s… incredible.’ She stopped the car at the side of the lane.
It was like arriving in the circle at a theatre, and the whole of Ludlow was the set… the best, most focused, most enclosed view of a whole town she’d ever seen – this fairyland of castle and ancient streets, like a richly painted wheel around the spindle of the church tower, haloed by the molten glow of evening.
Another car was parked a few yards away, two men getting out of it, one of them Mumford. The other man was taller and wore a big hat. Merrily eased the Volvo up behind them.
‘This chap happy to talk to us, Merrily?’
‘I think Andy kind of used you to square it with him – if the Bishop’s involved, it must be kosher. As it were.’
Merrily zipped up her fleece over the dog collar. It was cold now, for the end of April. Cold enough for frost. Mumford and the big-hat guy came over. Mumford wore a dark, heavy jacket.
‘Mrs Watkins, Bishop – this is Mr Osman.’
‘Gerald.’ The guy shook the Bishop’s hand and then Merrily’s. He was wearing a Barbour, and his wide-brimmed hat was waxed, too. An incomer, then. Pinched face, prominent teeth.
‘Mr Osman’s a writer,’ Mumford said.
‘Well… illustrator, mainly, and book designer. I produce local watercolours, with accompanying verse. A new career, in retirement, and a chance to immerse oneself in the place. And calendars. I also produce calendars. Gerald Osman.’
‘I think someone sent us one at Christmas, actually,’ the Bishop said. ‘Watercolours, yes. Keep it in my office.’
‘Do you really? You must come up to the house for a glass of wine afterwards. We’re at the bottom of the hill, this side of the river. My wife used to think it was so lovely having a house with such a wonderful view of the castle, but not so sure any more. Rather wishes it would all go away.’
‘Yes,’ Mumford said. ‘Perhaps you could show us, sir, where you were when you saw the… my nephew fall.’
‘Well, as I told you, it’s just… just here, actually. Quite a remarkable view of the castle, as you see. And it was earlier in the evening, therefore so much clearer.’
The sky was darkening fast now, a sharp shaft of burnt orange over the keep, getting duller, like a spearhead cooling after the forge.
‘I’ve painted it many times, at different times of day and night,’ Mr Osman said. ‘Often from this actual spot – so I do know this angle pretty well. As you see, it can look rather sinister in the last of the light, and in the rain it often has a faintly dolorous air. But in the early evening, on a fine day, it’s mellow – like the crust of a mature Cheddar. Everything very clear: every ridge, every fissure.’
‘If there’d been two people up there, do you think you’d have known?’ Mumford said.
‘Well, it’s rather further away than it looks from here, so human figures are very small, and I didn’t manage to focus my binoculars until I saw him fall – couldn’t believe it, obviously. Terrible shock.’
‘But you’ve spent a lot of time in the castle,’ Mumford said. ‘You’ve been up that tower.’
‘Of course. I’ve been everywhere, making sketches – which is why I recognized your nephew. I mean from the photographs on the TV, not when he was… falling… The moment the face came up on the screen I said to my wife, Good Lord, I’ve seen that boy several times. I’ve even talked to him.’
‘In the castle?’
‘When it was quiet, I’d sit in the castle grounds, make some watercolour sketches. I’m sure they come out just as well when I do them at home, from photographs, but I always felt I was honouring a tradition – all the distinguished artists who painted Ludlow Castle. Turner, for heaven’s sake! Not one of his best, I grant you.’
‘And the boy…’
‘Would come and watch me. From a distance at first. Normally, I’m quite wary of children, especially teenagers, with some of the malevolent little tykes around nowadays. But this boy was genuinely interested. Eventually telling me he did some drawings himself. And his extensive knowledge of the castle was apparent from the start – knew the names of all the towers, their history, the various stages of development. I was impressed.’
‘Knew his way around,’ Merrily said.
‘Absolutely. Rather a pleasant boy. Shy at first – I find shyness something of a virtue these days.’
‘And the woman,’ Mumford said heavily. ‘You were telling me about the woman.’
‘Ah. Yes. Mrs… Pepper? Lives in that rather splendid old farmhouse down from the bottom of The Linney.’ Mr Osman pointed somewhere to the left of the castle ruins. ‘Well, it’s a bit of a fraud, actually, was built up from very little by some professional restorer – who, incidentally, cut down a wonderful old oak tree, allegedly by mistake.’
‘And the woman herself…’
‘She bought the place earlier this year. She’s supposed to have been quite well known at one time – afraid I don’t know very much about that kind of music myself. She’s… like a number of people living here now, I suppose, somewhat eccentric.’
‘And you saw Robbie with her,’ Mumford said.
‘Oh yes.’
‘How many times?’
‘Well, twice, certainly. She’s quite distinctive, with the varying colours of her hair and the way she dresses.’
‘Dresses how?’
‘Oh… like out of a Victorian melodrama. Long coats. Swirly cloaks.’
‘I see. You ever talk to the boy when he was with her?’
‘Never. Some people one instinctively…’ Mr Osman cleared his throat. ‘But the boy would follow her around, and they’d be pointing things out to one another. If I hadn’t known she lived here, I would probably have thought they were tourists, a mother and son.’ He looked at Bernie. ‘I gather you’re a friend of the family, my lord.’