At the vicarage, Barbara was offered coffee, to which she demurred. She was offered tea, which she also turned down. Spencer said if she positively wouldn’t mind their having a chat while he was seeing to the birds’ cage, he would be ever so grateful, as cleaning it had topped the to-do list, his wife being too terrified of budgerigars to see to it herself, God bless her.
Barbara told him she had no problem at all with birds and cage cleaning, as long as she didn’t have to participate. He looked startled at the very thought that he would append such a requirement to their conversation, saying, “Good gracious, no! Please do follow me.”
He led her through the kitchen to what had been the larder of the old house. There on one of the marble shelves, a very large cage was occupied by two colourful budgerigars. They eyed the approach of the vicar with some interest.
“We don’t keep them in here,” the vicar told Barbara. “Too little stimulation for them. They’re usually in the sitting room near to the window, save on cage-cleaning mornings.”
“Got it,” Barbara said.
“They’re called Ferdinand and Miranda,” he went on. “This rough magic and all of that.”
“Ah.” Barbara wasn’t sure what to make of his remark. She reckoned, however, that Lynley would have been all over it like flies on cut fruit.
“They came to us named,” he said. “Not the best choices, ’f you ask me, but at least it wasn’t Romeo and Juliet. I must confess that I don’t actually know which of them is which, though. I’ve never seen them get up to any business, which would otherwise be helpful. As it is, they don’t appear to know their names anyway. Would you like a chair? I can bring one from the kitchen. Or a stool. Would you prefer a stool?”
Barbara said that standing would be fine as it gave her a better view of the birdcage cleaning for future reference in the very unlikely event that she might want a bird of her own. He set to, then, beginning with opening up the cage, sticking his hand inside like a blade, allowing both the birds to perch upon in. He withdrew it, and they cooperatively hopped onto the top of the cage. There, one of them said, “Coffee ready?” and the other replied, “Milk and sugar?”
The vicar explained that those were the only phrases the birds had ever managed to learn, and no one had taught them. They had merely picked them up, as birds would do. As if in reaction to this, both of the budgerigars squawked and took flight. Barbara ducked as they went straight for her and then beyond her into the kitchen.
“Never mind them,” Spencer said casually as he removed the bottom of the cage by sliding it out. It was, Barbara saw, a depository for an astounding amount of budgerigar guano. “They’ll come back eventually when they’re hungry.” He bundled up the newspaper lining the tray that served as the cage’s bottom. He removed the dirtied paper and reached for several new sheets from a neat pile inside a basket that sat on the floor. He said, “How can I help you? What would you like to know about Ian?”
“Whatever you can tell me,” Barbara said.
He seemed to consider what he wished to say as he folded the sheets of paper to fit the bottom of the cage. He removed all of the perches for cleaning, and he began to speak.
Barbara learned that Druitt had studied to be an Anglican priest after having graduated university with a second-class degree in sociology. It was after attaining this degree that the young man had decided upon the church as the best way to put his studies to work. Although he’d completed all the necessary coursework that would have led him to the priesthood, he’d not made it all the way. The vicar explained that, unfortunately, Druitt had been unable to pass the required exam that would have led to a ministry of his own.
“Took it several times.” Spencer gave this information with a regretful shake of his head. “Poor man. Nerves. He simply could not do it, so he settled for deaconry. He did an excellent job there, by the way.” Here Spencer paused to rustle round a plastic bucket in the corner of the room. He brought out a wire brush and applied it to the first of the wooden perches, dislodging more of the birds’ droppings onto another sheet of newsprint. Barbara took note of the fact that there was certainly nothing wrong with the creatures’ bowels . . . if birds actually had bowels. She knew nothing about bird anatomy beyond wings and beaks. Spencer went on to say, “It turned out a blessing for us that he never made it to full priesthood. He was here in Ludlow from the first. Of course . . . ,” Spencer hesitated, a perch in one hand and the wire brush in the other. From the kitchen one of the birds spoke of coffee again. The other did not reply. “Actually, to be honest, I must say he was a bit of an overachiever in the blessing department.”
“How so?”
Spencer went on with the brushing. He did it with vigour, placing each perch to one side as he finished with it. “He ran his life by the Beatitudes,” Spencer said. “I think it’s fair to say he was governed by doing good works, but sometimes this took him to extremes. He started our after-school children’s club years ago, he did meals for the housebound and the elderly, he was a crime victim volunteer—a good use of his sociology degree there, I dare say—he recorded books for the blind, he helped out occasionally in the primary schools, he took part in maintaining public footpaths. He was just establishing a street pastors programme as well, which we need rather badly in town because of the drinking that goes on amongst our young people.”
“How did he collect the children for his club?” Barbara asked once the vicar had completed the list of Ian Druitt’s admirable efforts on behalf of the community.
“Gracious.” Spencer seemed to be considering the question and wondering why he didn’t know the answer. He rustled round the bucket again and brought forth a spray bottle that he began to use liberally on the wire bars of the cage’s sides. “You know, it’s been part of the town so long that I’m not sure how to answer that, Sergeant. I believe the club came about through the town council as well as the schools. As a request. The children came via both those sources, I think. As I said, I’m not sure. I can tell you, though, that as these things do, the club started slowly as something to occupy children after school, and it gained members over time. Enough so that Ian generally had a college student come in as a helper each year.”
“A college student.” Barbara underlined this in her notebook. “Can you give me any names?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He wiped down the wires of the cage with a rag. He said, “However, I can tell you that Ian kept records, so there’ll be a list somewhere. I expect you’ll find something amongst his things.”
“My guv’s gone to meet with his dad. Could be he’s got some clobber to hand over. Is anything of his left here, though? I’d like to check through it if you have something.”
Spencer looked surprised. He set his rag to one side. “Oh, he didn’t live here at the vicarage, Sergeant. I offered. My wife and I rattle round this place and have bedrooms aplenty. But he preferred the privacy of his own establishment. Let me find the address for you, shall I?”
Without waiting for her reply, the vicar left her. Barbara found her fingertips tingling at the information he had just shared. Why would Druitt need his own private place when here in the vicarage he could easily have lived close to the church for very little rent or for none at all? While that suggested a desire for privacy, it also suggested a desire—or a need—for secrecy.
Spencer returned, in his hand an envelope upon which he’d scrawled Ian Druitt’s home address. She read it—it meant less than nothing since she didn’t know the area—but the fact of it led to her next and, she reckoned, most reasonable question.
“Can I assume you knew why Mr. Druitt was arrested, Vicar?
Spencer nodded, although his cheeks flared an unnatural colour. He seemed to wish to hide his embarrassment because he quickly left her to fetch a large box of birdseed. He filled a container that hung from the side of the cage. He said, “I don’t believe he was a paedophile, Sergeant. He’s b
een part of this parish for more than fifteen years, and there’s never been even a whisper of any kind of impropriety.”
Barbara let the words hang there. It was something she’d long ago learned from DI Lynley: Sometimes silence is better than a question. She watched the vicar fasten the feeder to the cage and bustle out of the room for water. Outside, a very loud motor started quite close by. Someone, she thought, was seeing to the lawn in the churchyard.
Spencer returned, water in hand. “Of course,” he admitted as he fastened the container to the cage, “who could have possibly guessed the extent of the paedophilia that existed in the Roman Catholic Church? And in our Anglican Church, as it turns out. There it all was, hidden for generations by bishops and archbishops . . . disgraceful and unforgivable.” He looked up then and his expression spoke of a concern that he, too, had failed in moments when he’d been most needed. He said, “I must assure you . . .” He gave a small shake of his head as if it were a feeling and not a thought that he was dismissing.
“What?” she said.
“That had I known anything, had I had an inkling, had I even suspected Ian of that, I would have done something at once.”
Barbara nodded, but one thing was certain. Christopher Spencer’s final declaration was very easy to make, after the fact.
BEWDLEY
WORCESTERSHIRE
Isabelle parked across the street from the Druitt’s brewery, which turned out to be not in Kidderminster as previously indicated but rather on the Kidderminster Road, just west of the smaller town of Bewdley. It had been easy enough to find, an establishment that was positioned quite within walking distance of the River Severn as well as close by the Severn Valley Railway. From both the river and the rail tracks the brewery could be seen. Occupying a large, historic, and picturesque river warehouse, it was just the place for people to make a stop if they were travelling to or from Ludlow and Birmingham or points beyond.
Isabelle took a moment before making her way to her meeting inside the building. She was earlier than she thought she’d be, and a coffee she’d stopped for along the way had given her something of a thirst. Without a bottle of water with her—a foolish omission she wouldn’t make from now on, she assured herself—she rustled in her bag and found one of her airline bottles. She generally drank the same vodka, but on the occasion of supplying herself with mini bottles suitable for her shoulder bag for this jaunt to Shropshire, she’d opted for variety in addition to the larger bottle of her regular that she had in her hotel room. This particular vodka was Ukrainian in origin, she saw from its label. It contained two gulps, no more, but she decided it would do to quench her thirst for now.
Her breakfast phone call had been from her London solicitor, ringing another time in what Isabelle knew straightaway was going to be one of those calls in which he was asking himself mentally if he could possibly “get this woman to see reason.” She could tell this from Sherlock (his parents had truly been mad, she thought) Wainwright’s voice, not to mention the placating tone he was beginning to develop with her. He claimed he was trying to guide her away from a costly legal battle that she was certain to lose, but she was beginning to think he was really trying to maintain his professional track record. She’d hired him in the first place because of that track record. However, with each argument they had, her conclusion that he only took on dead certs was getting firmer.
“May we turn once again to the terms of your divorce?” he’d asked her. “Essentially, you see, the difficulty we’re encountering arises from your agreeing to the custody arrangements in the first place. Because Robert Ardery has full custody and because you made no effort to fight him on this during the initial proceedings, when the boys were young enough that making an argument regarding their need for Mummy—”
She’d gritted her teeth at the term and considered herself virtuous for saying nothing.
“—it becomes especially difficult to make that argument now the boys are older. His side will declare that they’ve had a mummy all along in the person of Robert’s wife, Sandra, and in all this time the situation has worked quite well. You’ve had your visits—”
“Supervised,” she said. “Supervised by them, by the way. To use your term, ‘in all this time,’ I’ve had the boys to myself exactly once, and that was when Bob and Sandra had a dinner to go to in London so they brought the boys to me for an overnight while they had some sort of romantic interlude in a hotel. One overnight, which started at five o’clock in the afternoon and ended at ten o’clock the next morning. Let me ask you, Mr. Wainwright, how would you feel in my situation?”
“I’d feel as you do: frustrated and passionate about trying to change the course of events as they are being laid out.”
“The course of events, as you call it, involves New Zealand.” She could hear the ice in her tone. “Auckland. New Zealand. Moving house. Leaving England.”
“I understand completely. But we have a legal document that says nothing at all about the boys’ residence and in which country it must be. I remain mystified as to why the solicitor you engaged for your divorce didn’t prevent you from accepting some of the terms of it, especially those referencing the boys’ country of abode.”
Because I had to accept all of Bob’s terms, Isabelle thought but did not say. Because had I not, he would have opened my life to the scrutiny of my superiors. Because if that occurred, I was done for and he knew it. Because I drink. But I am not a drunk. Bob bloody well knows that, but he was willing to use anything to keep the boys with him and—a mere four months after our divorce, thank you—with his sodding Sandra.
She said, “I didn’t understand the terms at the time,” although this was, of course, a lie. What she hadn’t understood was that Bob might receive an offer that allowed him to leap up the ladder of success. Despite this ladder’s being planted in Auckland, there was part of her that couldn’t blame him for climbing it. Both of them were professionally ambitious.
But that was not the point. The point was New Zealand and how often she could realistically travel there to see her sons.
“I’m not sure what will be made of that if we insist upon a proceeding,” Wainwright said.
“I want him stopped,” was her reply. “I want access to my children. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll find the money to pay you.”
It was then that she’d caught sight of Barbara Havers—green about the gills but upright—heading in her direction, so she’d ended the call. Her hands were shaking with rage and with the aftermath of her vodkas, wine, and port, and she realised she should have had a few mouthfuls of the hair of the dog before meeting the detective sergeant, but that couldn’t be helped. She got through most of a disgusting full English breakfast for show, she and Havers had parted, and she’d had an inch of her stowed-away supply of vodka before leaving the hotel with extra bottles of the drink in her bag.
Now, she tossed the empty one into the glove box. Four strong mints took care of any problem she might have had with her breath, and once she’d finished touching up her lipstick, she checked for traffic and crossed the road to the brewery.
It wasn’t open hours yet, but a late model Mercedes sitting in front of the establishment suggested that Clive Druitt was somewhere within. He seemed to have been watching for her—she hoped he hadn’t seen her down the vodka and a glance across the street at the position of her car said this was unlikely—because he or someone she assumed was Mr. Druitt opened the frosted, translucent front door. On this Druitt was decoratively etched in lettering that matched the neon sign hanging high on the warehouse that announced DRUITT CRAFT BREWERY and below it in roman type FINE LAGERS, ALES, AND CIDERS.
“Detective Chief Superintendent?” His words sounded stiff, as if the man were trying not to judge her in advance before he understood her intentions and heard her thoughts on the matter of his son’s death. When she nodded, he said, “Clive Druitt. Thank you for coming.”
“No thanks necessary. I appreciate your meeting me here rather than Birmingham.”
“There were things to see to,” he said. “Come in. We’re mostly alone. Kitchen staff don’t start arriving till half past ten.”
He closed and locked the door behind her and gestured her to follow him across a reclaimed wooden floor that was fashionably distressed. It was dark with age as was most of the interior of the old warehouse, which offered a long and scarred bar as well as tables with chairs of various periods and styles. Contrasting with this, five enormous stainless steel tanks glittered behind a pristine glass wall in a room behind the bar. Pumps, tubes, and pipes sprouted from them, and the scent of yeast and hops and roasting grains rendered the air a veritable advertisement for the product being made.
Druitt led her to one of the tables, this one long and in a refectory style. It had benches instead of chairs and upon it were lined a row of cardboard boxes, some of them sealed and some of them gaping open. He said, “My boy didn’t kill himself,” and as if he had definitive proof of this, he reached into one of the boxes and he pulled out a largish family photograph in a frame. He handed it over.
It depicted what Isabelle assumed was the entire Druitt clan: mum, dad, adult children, their spouses, numerous grandkids, and a perfectly groomed springer spaniel. They’d been arranged artistically by a professional photographer, who’d wisely told them to wear similar clothing. Their choice had been blue jeans and white dress shirts, although two of the men and one of the women—it had to be said—would have done better to have selected something more suitable to hiding what could only charitably be called their muscles and curves.