The Angel in the Glass Page 4

  I closed up my books, tidied my papers and, standing up, began the long task of putting them away. The light outside told me it was evening. As I’d done so many times, I’d allowed the day to pass by without noticing.

  ‘So, what have you been doing?’ I asked, looking round at Celia with a smile. I turned my mind back to earlier in the day. ‘Sallie said you’d been in for dinner and then gone out again.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve just been visiting,’ she said, although I didn’t miss the swift glance she shot me under her long eyelashes. ‘The day has been far too lovely to waste it indoors. Unless, that is, you’re a stuffy old physician who’s more interested in his books and his studies than in living.’

  ‘I had something I needed to check,’ I muttered.

  ‘Whether someone is suffering from leprosy?’ she replied swiftly.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I confessed. I didn’t really want to tell her, but then I thought, why not? ‘A body was found up on the edge of the moor. Theo came to fetch me and I had a look at it once it had been brought back to his house.’

  ‘But that – leprosy – wasn’t what killed him.’ She made it a statement, not a question.

  ‘I’m almost certain it wasn’t.’

  ‘Almost?’ She had paled. ‘But Gabe, you—’

  ‘Enough, Celia,’ I said very firmly. I got up and went to crouch before her, taking her hands. ‘I have more work to do on the body, for, apart from anything else, Theo needs to know whether this was a natural death. Whether he died of disease or starvation.’

  ‘Or whether someone killed him.’

  I didn’t recall that either Theo or I had actually voiced that possibility, but, of course, it existed. ‘Yes,’ I agreed. Then, for I had spent far too much of this beautiful day preoccupied by the dead body, I forced a smile and said, ‘I was forgetting, you went to see Jonathan Carew this morning. How did you find him?’

  She took her hands from mine and covered her face. ‘Oh, Gabe, it was so embarrassing!’ She dropped her hands. ‘He spoke very politely, and said it was a kindly thought, and that the roses were beautiful and the strawberry preserve delicious, but he left me in no doubt whatsoever that he thought I was intruding and had no right to ask if he was all right.’

  ‘Really?’ I was surprised. ‘He was curt with you?’

  ‘No, no! He was polite, I just said so. But he sort of—’ She struggled to explain. ‘It was as if I’d been peering in through a window, and he noticed and very gently closed it.’

  ‘Ah.’ That I could understand. ‘And you still think he’s unwell? Disturbed?’

  ‘I think it all the more now,’ she said. ‘He was ashen-faced, and I’d swear he doesn’t sleep. Something ails him, of that I’m sure.’

  I stood up, stretching. Appetising smells were snaking up from the kitchen and I realized how hungry I was. Well, food would have to wait.

  ‘I’ll go and see him,’ I said. ‘Now, before supper.’

  She looked horrified. ‘But he’ll know I’ve told you he’s ill!’

  ‘If he is, then I’m the right one to call on him,’ I pointed out.

  ‘But—’

  I didn’t listen to Celia any more. ‘I won’t be long,’ I said, and then I hurried away.

  I found Jonathan Carew in his church. He was standing in the low doorway that leads from the main body of the building through to a small chapel, little used for services but convenient, I’ve always supposed, for private prayer.

  Hearing my footsteps, he turned. He smiled faintly.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  ‘My sister feels she may have intruded upon you the morning,’ I began, ‘but—’

  ‘It was an act prompted by concern,’ he interrupted. ‘As is your own appearance here now.’

  ‘You don’t look very well,’ I said. ‘And on Sunday, Celia and I both observed your brief moment of inattention.’ I was watching him carefully. ‘Was it a spasm of pain?’

  His expression registered surprise. ‘Pain? No.’ He paused. ‘Well, of a sort, I suppose, although not physical pain. I do not fear, Doctor, that I am suffering from some deep-seated malaise.’

  ‘I see, and I am glad of it. Something on your mind, then?’

  For some moments he didn’t reply, and I thought he was going to shut the window, in my sister’s expressive phrase. But then he sighed, and I heard him mutter, ‘What is the harm?’

  I waited.

  ‘I thought I saw the ghost of a man I once knew,’ he said eventually. Celia was right, I thought. ‘Or, to be more exact, who I once met, for our acquaintance was too brief for it to be said that we knew one another.’

  ‘I am not entirely sure that I believe in ghosts,’ I said.

  ‘Nor I,’ he agreed. ‘This was, I think, rather a manifestation of a matter that presses on my mind.’

  Again I waited. I didn’t want to prompt or hurry him. I was sure it would serve no purpose.

  ‘He has always stayed with me,’ Jonathan said softly. ‘Ever since – ever since the very short time we spent together. Of late, he has occupied my thoughts, both in the waking hours and when I sleep. My dreams, Gabriel, have been shaking me into wakefulness, so that I fear the night and try to stay awake.’

  No wonder he looked so thin and white-faced. ‘I can prepare a mild draught,’ I said.

  He smiled swiftly, the expression there and gone in an instant. ‘A kind thought, but no.’

  He feared, I guessed, that the deep sleep induced by the sedative herbs might intensify his nightmares, as well as prolonging them. ‘Then will you not speak to me of why this man haunts you?’ I asked gently. ‘Words spoken to me are treated with the same discretion as to you, Jonathan.’

  ‘I realize that,’ he agreed. ‘Thank you,’ he added. ‘If I—’ But abruptly he cut the sentence off. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. Do you know what this chapel is called?’ he went on, the change of subject so sudden and so ruthless that I found I couldn’t challenge it.

  ‘Er – no, I don’t believe I do.’ You can’t make a potential patient confide in you, and I understood there was nothing more I could do for Jonathan Carew until or unless he asked for my help. ‘Why not enlighten me?’

  He waved an arm behind him, indicating the mysterious darkness of the tiny chapel. It was separated from the main body of the church by an interior wall with five small apertures at the top, about a foot and a half high by a foot across, topped by pointed arches.

  ‘Those are called clerestory windows,’ Jonathan said, noticing the direction of my gaze. ‘The chapel – it’s called St Luke’s Little Chapel – has no other source of light, save that coming through the apertures from the church itself.’

  In its outer walls our church has windows of thick, slightly greenish glass, set in lattices of lead. There are six of them, and the dim light inside is augmented by candles.

  ‘St Luke was a physician,’ Jonathan was saying, ‘as of course you’ll know, and it’s believed that when the church and this little chapel were constructed – both are very old – the chapel was used as a healing shrine.’

  I nodded. ‘Perhaps we should resurrect the tradition,’ I remarked. Instantly I wondered if I ought to have done. What was the Church’s view on healing shrines? Might it not smack of miracles, and popish ways, and the vast store of ancient superstitions we were meant to have put firmly behind us?

  But, whatever the Church’s position, Jonathan’s seemed to be one of tolerance. ‘Yes,’ he said mildly, ‘I’ve often thought the same. People have long memories, I find, and the old traditions can still give comfort.’

  He had unobtrusively been edging me back into the aisle of the main church, and now, side by side, we walked slowly to the door.

  As I took my leave, I turned back to him. ‘If you change your mind about having a mild remedy to help you sleep, come and see me.’ I hesitated, then added, ‘Come and see me – us – anyway. Company can be of help when we have something on our minds.’

  He didn’t answer, save
by a nod and a smile. He went back inside his church and closed the door.

  I was kept busy the next morning with a series of calls on patients in varying degrees of distress. I set a child’s broken leg, stitched a long cut on a man’s head (he’d taken too much beer the previous evening and forgotten all about the low branch that overhung the entrance to his yard), and reassured an anxious and exhausted young mother that her little girl was on the mend and the fever definitely abating.

  My final call before I went home to dinner was to a farm where an angry old woman was making life hell for her son and daughter-in-law. They were by no means young themselves – it was their sons, the old woman’s grandsons, who now did the bulk of the labour – and would, I was sure, have preferred a bit of peace and quiet and a well-earned rest to being at the mercy of the old woman.

  As I always did, I took a deep breath as I went into the frowsy, overstuffed, airless recess that she had shared with her late husband since the day she had married him some sixty years ago. It appeared, to the visitor’s eye, that she could not have thrown one single thing away in all that time. Given that she refused to open the tiny window set high in the wall for fear of a wicked draught sneaking in and taking her off, as she phrased it, the stench was all but unendurable, even to one in my profession well used to bodily smells. I sat with her for a while and listened to her complaints, accepted her furious criticism that the tonic I habitually prepared for her was less than useless except for making her costive – ‘It turns my bowels to stone,’ was what she actually said – and she might as well drink her own piss, then, when she drastically changed tack and demanded to know why I hadn’t brought more, promised to do so in the next day or two. I felt her pulse, made her breathe deeply while I put my ear to her chest, examined her eyes and throat, then tucked her up and backed out of the room, closing the concealing curtain behind me.

  The farmer had joined his wife in the kitchen. He was helping himself to a bucket-sized mug of small beer from the barrel in the cold pantry, and as I watched he raised it to his lips and drank a good half of it in a few gulping mouthfuls. He had a prodigious swallow. Seeing me staring, he raised the huge mug with an enquiring look and I nodded. The mug he gave me was fortunately more modest. I wouldn’t have minded a draught as generous as his, for his wife’s brew was excellent, but I knew I’d sleep the afternoon away if I copied him.

  ‘How is she?’ the wife, Jane, asked wearily.

  ‘Much the same.’

  The farmer, Gregory, gave a great gusty sigh. ‘She doesn’t get any easier,’ he muttered.

  The pair of them had my sympathy. ‘The old man’s death last year shook her more than she’ll admit, I dare say,’ I said.

  Gregory nodded. ‘Aye, aye, you’re right there, Doctor.’

  There was a brief silence. I was trying to find a tactful way of asking if they had any other family and friends to share the care of the old woman when, almost as if she’d anticipated the question, Jane said, ‘We’re lucky in that both the Reverend and that lovely midwife call in to give comfort, so, what with you and all, Doctor Taverner, we’re not short of help.’

  I was pleased to hear that Jonathan came; and the news of Judyth Penwarden’s visits – for I guessed that was who Jane was referring to – gave me a secret lift of the spirits. ‘What has his reverence to say to comfort your mother-in-law?’ I asked Jane.

  She grinned. ‘Oh, he told her she’ll see her Humphrey again one day, when she gets to heaven, and she said, “I bloody well hope not, Vicar, I’m trusting the old bugger’s gone the other way.” Sorry, Doctor,’ she added, blushing.

  I waved the apology aside. It wasn’t really the moment to tell her I’d been in the navy for years and acquired the sailor’s imperviousness to bad language. ‘And how did the Reverend Carew reply?’

  Jane chuckled. ‘Well, he said something about God’s understanding and forgiveness, and a bit more in the same vein, but I could see he was trying not to smile.’

  I finished my ale, refused a refill – reluctantly – and, promising to bring or send round a fresh supply of tonic very soon, left them.

  My route back to Rosewyke took me quite close to Theophilus Davey’s house. Turning Hal’s head away from the road home, I went to see if he had any news.

  I found him in his office, his desk even more loaded than usual. ‘If you’ve come to see if I’ve an identity for that vagrant, the answer’s no,’ he greeted me grumpily.

  It was just past noon, I reminded myself, and Theo was still at his desk. He’s always tetchy when he’s hungry.

  ‘I’m as certain as I can be that he wasn’t suffering from leprosy,’ I said. ‘I’ve checked every reference I can find to the disease among my papers, and the symptoms don’t match.’

  ‘Thank God for that, at least,’ Theo muttered. Then, mellowing, he looked at me with a faint smile and said, ‘Something to interest you, Doctor. My agent Jarman Hodge heard there’d been a suspicious figure loitering around the big house at Wrenbeare and we wondered if it might have been our vagrant, so he went to see what he could find out.’ He strode across to the door, flinging it wide open. ‘Wait there, I’ll see if he’s around.’

  He went through to the big room at the rear of the house where his administrative staff, his agents and his officers congregate, and I heard a brief conversation. Then Theo was back.

  ‘Jarman’s on his way,’ he said, and, after a moment, the slim, unobtrusively clad, nondescript and totally unmemorable figure of Theo’s most efficient officer followed him into the room.

  ‘So, Jarman, what did you discover over at Wrenbeare?’ Theo demanded. ‘Does it sound as if it was our dead skinny vagrant who was hanging around?’

  ‘Who lives there?’ I interposed before Jarman Hodge could reply. ‘I know the name, I think, but not the occupants.’

  Jarman turned to me. ‘It’s a grand old house, the long-time home of the Fairlights,’ he answered. ‘Sir Thomas was a man of substance and position, a justice of the peace, I believe, and wealthy. He died, a decade or more back, and now the house is run by his widow, name of Clemence, who is supported by her two daughters. The elder one, Agnes, is wed to a man called Avery Lond – seems the two of them are resident at Wrenbeare – and there’s a younger daughter, Denyse.’

  He gave me a significant sort of a glance when he said the name of the second daughter. ‘Yes?’ I asked. ‘What of this Denyse?’

  Jarman Hodge looked discomfited; an expression I’d not thought to see on that carefully bland face. ‘She’s – er, well, this is only talk, mind you, and probably an exaggeration, but they say locally she’s – er – she’s not right in the head.’

  ‘Ah.’

  But Jarman went on staring at me, and I realized he had more to say. ‘That, then, is the gossip,’ I said mildly. ‘What did you make of her?’

  He smiled. ‘You don’t miss much, do you, Doctor?’ he murmured. ‘You’re right, I did have the chance to see the young lady with my own eyes. I went and knocked on the door,’ he went on, turning to Theo, ‘and managed to get myself admitted to the lady Clemence’s presence – she had the daughters with her but not the elder one’s husband – whereupon I told her who I was and that I was from the coroner’s office, and I said we’d had word that they’d complained of an intruder, or a burglar, or someone suspicious hanging around, and could I be of assistance?’

  ‘And they didn’t ask what a coroner’s agent was doing asking about a burglary?’ Theo demanded.

  Jarman Hodge shook his head. ‘I doubt if any of them has the least idea of the different interests of coroners and constables,’ he said. ‘Anyway, they seemed to accept my question as legitimate, and straight away they denied it had ever happened.’

  ‘What, the burglary? The vagrant peering in the windows?’ Theo asked.

  ‘None of it,’ Jarman agreed. ‘Lady Clemence sat up very straight and pushed her shoulders back, then said in a haughty sort of voice that she couldn’t imagine where I’d heard th
at unpleasant little tale but there was not an iota of truth in it.’

  ‘So then what did you do?’ I said.

  ‘I apologized for disturbing them, agreed that I must have been mistaken – her ladyship made some remark about it being unwise to listen to tavern gossip – and took my leave.’

  ‘And then?’ Theo persisted. He knew his man well, I reflected, for he didn’t assume for a moment that Jarman had simply walked away.

  ‘I set off down the path back towards the road, and as soon as I was out of their sight – I guessed they’d be looking out of the window – ducked back and went to speak to the groom and the stable lad. As I’d expected, since it was their conversation I overheard, they told a different story. At least, they’d just begun to – the lad said there’d been a bit of an upset some two, three weeks ago, which was what he and the groom had been talking about in the tavern, and he insisted there most certainly had been an intruder, who fled when they gave chase – but then there was an almighty scream from within the house and the groom shoved me out of the yard double-quick. “That’s Mistress Denyse,” he said, his eyes wide with alarm, “and it sounds like she’s having another of her attacks, so you’d better make yourself scarce.” The screaming was still going on, and it was sending chills up my spine, so I didn’t stay to be told again.’

  Silence fell. I was intrigued by Jarman’s story and I was sure Theo was too. Presently, looking first at Jarman then at me, Theo said musingly, ‘Why should Lady Clemence and her daughters pretend that this burglary, or whatever it was, didn’t happen?’

  ‘Maybe something was stolen that they don’t want known about,’ Jarman suggested. ‘Something they shouldn’t have had in the first place.’

  Theo nodded. ‘It’s an idea,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe the vagrant saw something he shouldn’t have,’ I said.

  Theo spun round to stare at me. ‘And, if it was the same man who currently lies in the crypt of the house up the road, perhaps somebody had to make quite sure he didn’t speak of what he’d seen,’ he said softly.