Missing Joseph

  “An organisation?” St. James looked reflective. “Nazis come to mind.”

  “Robin Sage, neo-Nazi? A closet skinhead?”

  “Secret Service, perhaps?”

  “Robin Sage, Winslough’s budding James Bond?”

  “No, it would have been MI5 or 6 then, wouldn’t it? Or SIS.” St. James began replacing items in the carton. “Nothing much in here aside from the diary. Stationery, business cards—his own, Tommy—part of a sermon on the lilies of the field, ink, pens, pencils, farming guides, two packets of seeds for tomatoes, a file of correspondence filled with letters of dismissal, letters of application, letters of acceptance. An application for—” St. James frowned.

  “What?”

  “Cambridge. Partially filled out. Doctor of theology.”

  “And?”

  “It isn’t that. It’s the application, any application. Partially filled out. It reminded me of what Deborah and I have been…Never mind that. It brings to mind SS. What about Social Services?”

  Lynley saw the leap his friend had made from his own life. “He wanted to adopt a child?”

  “Or to place a child?”

  “Christ. Maggie?”

  “Perhaps he saw Juliet Spence as an unfit mother.”

  “That might push her to violence.”

  “It’s certainly a thought.”

  “But there hasn’t been the slightest whisper of that from any quarter.”

  “There usually isn’t if the situation’s abusive. You know how it goes. The child’s afraid to speak, trusting no one. When she finally finds someone she can trust…” St. James refolded the carton’s flaps and pressed the tape back down to seal them.

  “We may have been looking at Robin Sage through the wrong sort of window,” Lynley said. “All those meetings with Maggie alone. Instead of seduction, he might have been trying to get to the truth.” Lynley sat in the desk chair and set the diary down. “But this is pointless speculation. We don’t know enough. We don’t even know when he went to London because you can’t tell from the diary where he was. It has names and times listed, scores of appointments, but aside from Bradford, there’s no place mentioned.”

  “He kept the receipts.” Polly Yarkin spoke from the doorway. She was carrying a tray on which she’d assembled a teapot, two cups and saucers, and a half-crushed package of chocolate digestives. She put the tray on the desk and said, “Hotel receipts. He kept them. You can match up the dates.”

  They found the file of Robin Sage’s hotel receipts in the third box they tried. These documented five visits to London, beginning in October and ending just two days before he died, 21 December, when Yanapapoulis was written. Lynley matched the receipt dates to the diary, but he came up with only three more pieces of information that looked even marginally promising: the name Kate next to noon on Sage’s first London visit of 11 October; a telephone number on his second; SS again on his third.

  Lynley tried the number. It was a London exchange. An exhausted end-of-the-working-day voice said, “Social Services,” and Lynley smiled and gave St. James a thumb’s-up. His conversation was unprofitable, however. There was no way to ascertain the purpose of any telephone call Robin Sage may have made to Social Services. There was no one there by the name of Yanapapoulis, and it was otherwise impossible to track down the social worker to whom Sage had spoken when, and if, he had made the call. Additionally, if he had paid anyone a visit at Social Services on one of his trips to London, he took that secret with him to his grave. But at least they had something to work with, however little it was.

  Lynley said, “Did Mr. Sage mention Social Services to you, Polly? Did Social Services ever phone him here?”

  “Social Services? You mean about taking care of old folks or something?”

  “For any reason, really.” When she shook her head, Lynley asked, “Did he speak about visiting Social Services in London? Did he ever bring anything back with him? Documents, paperwork?”

  “There might be something with the odd bits,” she said.

  “What?”

  “If he brought anything back and left it round the study, it’ll be in the odd bits carton.”

  When he opened it, Lynley found that the odd bits carton appeared to be a hotchpotch display of Robin Sage’s life. It contained everything from pre-Jubilee-Line maps of the London underground to a yellowing collection of the sort of historical pamphlets one can purchase for ten pence in country churches. A stack of book reviews clipped from The Times looked fragile enough to suggest they’d been gathered over a period of years, and going through them revealed that the vicar’s taste tended towards biography, philosophy, and whatever had been nominated for the Booker Prize in a given year. Lynley handed a stack of papers to St. James and sank back in the desk chair to peruse another. Polly moved gingerly round them, realigning some cartons, checking the seals on others. Lynley felt her glance repeatedly resting upon him then flitting away.

  He looked through his stack. Explanations of museum exhibits; a guide to the Turner Gallery at the Tate; receipts for lunches, dinners, and teas; manuals explaining the use of an electric saw, the assembly of a bicycle’s basket, the cleaning of a steam iron; advertisements extolling the benefits of joining an exercise club; and handouts one collects when strolling along a London street. These consisted of offers for hairstyling (The Hair Apparent, Clapham High Street, Ask for Sheelah); grainy photographs of automobiles (Drive The New Metro From Lambeth Ford); political announcements (Labour Speaks Tonight 8:00 Camden Town Hall); along with assorted advertisements and solicitations for charities from the RSPCA to Homeless Relief. A brochure from the Hare Krishnas played the roll of a bookmark inside a copy of the Book of Common Prayer. Lynley flipped it open and read the prayer marked, from Ezekiel: “When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.” He read it again, aloud, and looked up at St. James. “What was it Glennaven said that the vicar liked to discuss?”

  “The difference between that which is moral—prescribed by law—and that which is right.”

  “Yet according to this, the Church seems to feel they’re one in the same.”

  “That’s the wonderful way of churches, isn’t it?” St. James unfolded a piece of paper, read it, set it to one side, picked it up again.

  Lynley said, “Was it logic chopping on his part, talking about moral versus right? Was it a form of avoidance in which he engaged his fellow clerics in meaningless discussion?”

  “That’s certainly what Glennaven’s secretary thought.”

  “Or was he himself on the horns of a dilemma?” Lynley gave the prayer a second look. “‘…he shall save his soul alive.’”

  “Here’s something,” St. James said. “There’s a date on the top. It says only the eleventh, but the paper looks at least relatively fresh, so it might match up to one of the London visits.” He handed it over.

  Lynley read the scrawled words. “Charing Cross to Sevenoaks, High Street left towards…These appear to be a set of directions, St. James.”

  “Does the date match up with one of the London visits?”

  Lynley went back to the diary. “The first. The eleventh of October, where the name Kate is listed.”

  “He could have gone to see her. Perhaps that visit set in motion the rest of the trips. To Social Services. Even to…what was that name in December?”

  “Yanapapoulis.”

  St. James cast a quick look at Polly Yarkin and finished obliquely with, “And any of those visits could have served as instigation.”

  It was all conjecture, based upon air, and Lynley knew it. Each interview, fact, conversation, or step in the investigation was taking their thoughts in a new direction. They had no hard evidence, and from what he could tell, unless someone had removed it, there had never been hard evidence in the first place. No weapon left at the scene of the crime, no incriminating fingerprint, no wisp of hair. There was nothing, in fact,
to connect the alleged killer and her victim at all save a telephone call overheard by Maggie and inadvertently corroborated by Polly, and a dinner after which both parties became ill.

  Lynley knew that he and St. James were engaged in piecing together a tapestry of guilt from the thinnest of threads. He didn’t like it. Nor did he like the indications of interest and curiosity that Polly Yarkin was attempting to hide, shuffling a carton here, moving a second one there, rubbing her sleeve across the base of the lamp to remove spots of dust that didn’t exist.

  “Did you go to the inquest?” he asked her.

  She withdrew her arm from the vicinity of the lamp, as if caught in an act of misbehaviour. “Me? Yes. Everyone went.”

  “Why? Did you have evidence to give?”

  “No.”

  “Then…?”

  “Just…I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to hear.”

  “What?”

  She lifted her shoulders slightly, allowed them to drop. “What she had to say. Once I knew the vicar had been with her that night. Everyone went,” she repeated.

  “Because it was the vicar? And a woman? Or this particular woman, Juliet Spence?”

  “Can’t say,” she said.

  “About everyone else? Or about yourself?”

  She dropped her eyes. The simple action was enough to tell him why she’d brought them the tea and why, after seeing to its pouring, she’d remained in the study shifting cartons and watching them sift through the vicar’s possessions long after it was necessary for her to do so.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WHEN POLLY HAD SHUT THE DOOR behind them, St. James and Lynley got as far as the end of the drive before Lynley stopped and gave his concentration to the silhouette of St. John the Baptist Church. Complete darkness had fallen. Street lamps were lit along the incline that led through the village. They beamed ochreous rays through an evening mist and cast their shadows within the elongated pools of their own light on the damp street below. Here by the church, however, outside the boundary of the village proper, a full moon—rising past the summit of Cotes Fell—and its companion stars provided the sole illumination.

  “I could use a cigarette,” Lynley said absently. “When do you expect I’ll stop feeling the need to light up?”

  “Probably never.”

  “That’s certainly a comforting reassurance, St. James.”

  “It’s merely statistical probability combined with scientific and medical likelihood. Tobacco’s a drug. One never completely recovers from addiction.”

  “How did you escape it? There we all were, sneaking a smoke after games, lighting up the very instant we crossed the bridge into Windsor, impressing ourselves—and trying like the devil to impress everyone else—with our individual, nicotinic adulthood. What happened to you?”

  “Exposure to an early allergic reaction, I suppose.” When Lynley glanced his way, St. James continued. “My mother caught David with a packet of Dunhills when he was twelve. She shut him up in the lavatory and made him smoke them all. She shut the rest of us in there with him.”

  “To smoke?”

  “To watch. Mother’s always been a strong believer in the power of an object lesson.”

  “It worked.”

  “With me, yes. With Andrew as well. Sid and David, however, always found the thrill of displeasing Mother more than equal to whatever discomfort they themselves might incur as a result. Sid smoked like a chimney until she was twenty-three. David still does.”

  “But your mother was right. About the tobacco.”

  “Of course. But I’m not sure her methods of educating her offspring were particularly sound. She could be a real termagant when pushed to the edge. Sid always claimed it was her name: What else can you expect from someone called Hortense, Sidney’d demand after we’d suffered a whipping for one infraction or another. I, on the other hand, tended to believe she was saddled rather than blessed by motherhood. My father kept late hours, after all. She was on her own, despite the presence of whatever nanny David and Sid hadn’t managed to terrorise into leaving yet.”

  “Did you feel yourself abused?”

  St. James buttoned his topcoat against the chill. There was little breeze here—the church acted as a break against the wind that otherwise funnelled through the dale—but the falling mist was frost in the making, and it lay upon his skin in a clammy webbing that seemed to seep through muscle and blood to the bone. He stifled a shiver and thought about the question.

  His mother’s anger had always been terrifying to behold. She was Medea incarnate when crossed. She was quick to strike, quicker to shout, and generally unapproachable for hours—sometimes days—after a transgression had been committed. She never acted without cause; she never punished without explanation. Yet in some eyes, he knew, and especially in modern eyes, she would have been seen as extremely wanting.

  “No,” he said and felt it to be the truth. “We tended to be an unruly lot, given half a chance. I think she was doing the best she could.”

  Lynley nodded and went back to his study of the church. As far as St. James could tell, there wasn’t much to see. Moonlight glinted off the crenellated roofline and sketched in silver the contour of a tree in the graveyard. The rest was one variation or another of darkness and shadow: the clock in the belltower, the peaked roof of the lych-gate, the small north porch. It would be growing close to the time for evensong, but no one was readying the church for prayers.

  St. James waited, watching his friend. They’d brought away from the study the odd bits carton, which St. James was carrying under his arm. He set it on the ground and blew on his hands to warm them. The action roused Lynley, who looked his way and said, “Sorry. We should be off. Deborah will be wondering what’s happened to us.” Still he didn’t move. “I was thinking.”

  “About abusive mothers?”

  “In part. But more about how it all fits. If it all fits. If there’s the slightest possibility that anything fits.”

  “The girl didn’t say anything to suggest abuse when she spoke to you today?”

  “Maggie? No. But she wouldn’t, would she? If the truth is that she revealed something to Sage—something he felt he had to act upon and something that cost him his life at her mother’s hands—she wouldn’t be likely to reveal it a second time to anyone else. She’d be feeling responsible as hell for what happened.”

  “You don’t sound as if you’re keen on that idea, despite the phone call to Social Services.”

  Lynley nodded. The mist made a penumbra of the moonlight in which his expression was moody, with shadows drawn beneath his eyes. “‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.’ Did Sage intend the prayer to refer to Juliet Spence or to himself?”

  “Perhaps neither. You may be making too much of nothing. It may have merely been a chance marking in the book. Or it may have referred to someone else entirely. It could be a piece of Scripture that Sage was using to comfort someone who had come to him to confess. For that matter, since we know he was trying to woo people back to the Church, he could have been using the prayer for that. Doeth that which is lawful and right: Worship God on Sundays.”

  “Confession’s something I hadn’t thought of,” Lynley admitted. “I keep the worst of my sins to myself, and I can’t imagine anyone else doing otherwise. But what if someone did confess to Sage and then regretted having done so?”

  St. James mulled the idea over. “The possibilities are so narrow that I think it unlikely, Tommy. According to what you’re attempting to set up, the regretful penitent would have to be someone who knew Sage was going to Juliet Spence’s that night for dinner. Who knew?” He began to list. “We have Mrs. Spence herself. We have Maggie—”

  A door slammed with an echo that bounded across the street. They turned at the sound of hurried footsteps. Colin Shepherd was opening the door to his Land Rover, but he hesitated when he caught sight of th
em.

  “And the constable, of course,” Lynley murmured and moved to intercept Shepherd before he left.

  At first, St. James remained where he was at the end of the drive, a few yards away. He saw Lynley pause fractionally at the edge of the cone of light cast by the interior of the Rover. He saw him remove his hands from his pockets, and he noted, with some uneasy confusion, that his right hand was balled. St. James knew his friend well enough to realise that it might be wise to join them.

  Lynley was saying in a chillingly pleasant tone, “You’ve apparently had an accident, Constable?”

  “No,” Shepherd said.

  “Your face?”

  St. James reached the edge of the light. The constable’s face was abraded on both the forehead and the cheeks. Shepherd’s fingers touched one of the scratches. “This? Rough-housing with the dog. Up on Cotes Fell. You were there yourself today.”

  “I? On Cotes Fell?”

  “At the Hall. You can see it from the fell. Anyone up there can see anything, in fact. The Hall, the cottage, the garden. Anything. Do you know that, Inspector? Anyone who chooses can see anything below.”

  “I prefer less indirection in my conversations, Constable. Are you trying to tell me something, aside from what happened to your face, of course?”

  “You can see anyone’s movements, the comings and goings, whether the cottage is locked, who’s working at the Hall.”

  “And, no doubt,” Lynley finished for him, “when the cottage is vacant and where the key to the root cellar is kept. Which is, I take it, the point you’re trying to make, however obliquely. Have you an accusation you’d like to share?”

  Shepherd was carrying a torch. He threw it into the front seat of the Rover. “Why don’t you start asking what the summit is used for? Why don’t you ask who goes hiking up the fell?”

  “You do yourself, by your own admission. And it’s a rather damning one, wouldn’t you say?” The constable made a sound of disdain and began to climb into the car. Lynley stopped him by noting, “You seem to have eschewed the accident theory you were espousing yesterday. Might I know why? Has something caused you to decide your initial investigation was incomplete?”