Echoes of Silence Read online

  If the meanness and the shabbiness ate into Peter Denshaw’s soul, he felt it was no more than he deserved. And if envy and hatred of the Lumbs, sitting there in the Old Vicarage, in what should have been his own home, were mortal sins, that was something between him and his God.

  A car drew up on the opposite side of the road and from it stepped the smart little figure of Elf, wearing a tartan fitted jacket, a short green skirt, black tights and shiny shoes. Peter’s heart made an uneasy descent into his stomach. But instead of coming up the path to the front door, as he feared, she disappeared in the opposite direction.

  With surprising speed, Peter abandoned his newsletter and was on his way up the church path before Eva Spriggs, pegging out her Monday washing at the side of the house, had time to see more than his long black cloak billowing out behind him. ‘Ey up, what’s the big hurry?’ she muttered. The question went unanswered, being addressed to her cat, but Eva went on speculating, having noticed the car and knowing to whom it belonged, although she’d only ever once seen it there before.

  Elvira Graham had been destined from birth, by her small physique as much as by the name bestowed on her at her baptism, to be called Elf by her adoptive family, the Denshaws. She was tiny, and neat. She had glossy black hair which she wore short and sleek, a pale, sharp face and taut skin over high cheekbones. Slanting black eyes with a sometimes malicious quality that accentuated the elvish fancy. Peter had been afraid of her ever since she’d been dumped as a shawl-wrapped bundle on his ten-year-old lap with the stern injunction to look after her, she was coming to live with them, because her parents had been killed in a roof fall during an ill-fated pot-holing expedition in the Dales. He was terrified of dropping her. Later, he’d grown afraid of her for other reasons.

  She rang the bell at the New Vicarage after depositing in her car the apples she’d bought from the corner greengrocer’s. Receiving no answer to her ring, she tried the knob and the door came open. ‘Anybody there?’ she called, not knowing she was calling into an empty house, that Peter had left in such a hurry he’d forgotten to lock the door. When no one answered, she stepped in and, calling again and receiving no answer, looked into the study and found it empty, likewise the kitchen. She went upstairs to avail herself of the bathroom facilities, renewing her lipstick and peeping into the bedrooms before she descended the stairs, raising her eyebrows at what she saw in two of them.

  The parish had fitted a serviceable carpet throughout the house, with a dotted pattern that made her eyes cross and offended her taste; the walls still bore the original paint, magnolia from top to bottom. Sonia might at least have asked for the walls to be painted a more interesting colour, she thought, but then, Sonia hadn’t the least idea when it came to making a home. Someone, Elf thought, feeling a sudden exasperated benevolence towards Sonia, ought to take her in hand. She was willing, but the flair just wasn’t there, and as for Peter, who might have been thought to have some artistic feeling … Well, Peter detached himself from everything, these days.

  Elf went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of instant coffee, since there didn’t appear to be any other kind – well, there wouldn’t be, would there, in this house? – and took it into the study, where the electric fire was still burning. Wandering around with the mug in her hand, she took a look at what Peter had been writing, noting the last crossed-out phrase with amusement. Typical Peter. Writing down to his parishioners, as if none of them would be capable of understanding this scholarly reference. Perhaps they wouldn’t. She didn’t understand it herself. She drank the rest of her coffee standing in front of the window. Across the street, a curtain twitched. She looked at her watch and took her empty mug back into the kitchen. She didn’t wash it up.

  A minute later, the door bell rang. She barely hesitated before going to answer it. ‘Excuse me,’ said the woman with sharp features at such variance with her rotundity who stood on the step, ‘excuse me, but if you’re looking for the vicar or Mrs Vicar they’re both out. She went out early on, but he’s just gone up to the church, not ten minutes since. I just happened to be pegging out and I saw you arrive, so I thought I’d tell you.’

  Elf surveyed her coolly. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d rather gathered they were out, but I’ll let them know how kind you are, keeping such a keen eye on their property.’

  The woman flushed and looked uncertain. ‘That’s all right. You never know, do you, these days?’

  Elf watched her cross the street and disappear down the narrow ginnel between the two houses opposite. Nosy old bat! She’d give it ten minutes, and then try the church.

  Peter was kneeling at the altar rail when she shut the church door quietly behind her. The scent of incense, wax candles and Brasso lingered on the air.

  Under Mrs Lumb’s direction, the flower arrangers had lately taken to using silk flowers in the winter months when florists’ blooms were expensive. A huge arrangement, mixed with preserved leaves, stood by the pulpit, matching two smaller ones either side of the altar. Very professional, even if roses were unconvincing this time of year. Pink roses, huge cabbage roses, lighting up the dark church, so real one could almost believe an overpowering scent came from them. Their pinkness suddenly swam in front of her eyes and for a moment, at the same time as Peter rose and turned to see a flash of tartan in the dimness of the nave, Elf, who never repined the past and normally wasted no time on what was over and done with, was so shaken by memory she broke into a cold sweat. She dropped into a pew and bowed her head, not to pray but because she was afraid she might actually pass out.

  The action steadied her but behind her closed lids the picture still remained of that summer day in the garden at the back of Low Rigg, no one else at home except her and Peter. The insistent perfume of the huge pink rose climbing the dark stone wall assailed her nostrils and beat in her head. She saw her adolescent self, and Peter, home from art college, his easel set up to capture the rose in paint. What had happened that afternoon had seemed quite natural – until they’d been interrupted. The day after, Peter had gone back to college, announcing some time later that he was abandoning art and was going to enter the Church. When he came home for holidays he barely spoke to her and the temporary rapport that had existed between them during the last year or two ceased to exist.

  She looked up now to see Peter sitting at the end of the pew across the aisle.

  ‘What do you want, Elvira?’ he asked coldly.

  5

  There was one thing to be said for travelling light: it hadn’t taken Richmond long to put his small house on the market, say good-bye to colleagues and the few friends he’d made in Bristol. Apart from a sore head after a generous farewell booze-up organised by CID – which he’d gone along with and tried to enjoy, feeling he owed them that – he had no regrets.

  He returned once more in November to a cold, rain-drenched Steynton; after the south-west, Steynton was like a neat shot of iced vodka.

  He was staying temporarily at the Woolpack, with time to spare before he started his new duties, time to find himself somewhere to live, to renew old contacts. The first of these was Charlie Rawnsley, whom he rang the morning after he arrived and arranged to see later in the day. After he’d spoken to the old man, he left the Woolpack and made his way along one of the small, sett-paved streets off Towngate to cast a quick eye over the properties advertised in the window of Whiteley and Horsfall, House Agents. Standing with his coat collar pulled around his ears, he scanned the photographs with their accompanying, extravagant claims for a while, then dived inside, out of the rain.

  ‘You’ll want to see Mr Whiteley,’ a bored young girl with damson-coloured, Cruella de Vil lips informed him in a strong local accent when he stated his business. ‘He’s busy with a client at the moment but he shouldn’t be long if you care to wait.’

  Richmond said he would and took a seat on one of the row of chairs at the back of the premises while she went back to pecking desultorily on a word processor. There were magazines on the
low table in front of him, more details of some of the properties shown in the window, none of which had stimulated his interest. Perhaps because he didn’t know what he wanted, was unsure whether he should buy at this stage. Something to rent, something furnished while he got his bearings, would probably be a better spec. He put the papers down and looked across the shop to where the only other representative of Whiteley and Horsfall – a youth, all of seventeen, pink-cheeked, barely out of the egg – was sitting talking, or rather, listening respectfully to a woman client. By his flustered look, she was running rings round him.

  At that moment, she gathered her papers together and swept them into a big shoulder bag as she prepared to leave. ‘Well, you can tell them that’s my last offer.’ She bestowed a smile upon the young lad that caused the blood to run up his neck. His hand flew to the spot of acne on his chin. ‘Give me a ring and let me know what they say.’

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Winslow.’

  Richmond stood up, ready to take her place and, as she passed him, their glances met. A momentary pause, a puzzled look in a pair of amazing brown eyes, and then, in a flash of yellow raincoat, she was gone.

  The youth dragged his eyes away from the door and back to business. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked, gathering the remnants of his dignity and introducing himself with a straight face as ‘Mr Whiteley’. Apparently still bemused from dealing with his previous customer, it took him some time to get to grips with what Richmond wanted. When at last he realised that his prospective client didn’t have property to sell and didn’t want to buy – the idea seemed to have suddenly crystallised into a certainty in Richmond’s mind – he began to lose interest. ‘To rent?’ He blew out his lips. ‘Poo-oof – not much chance of that at the moment, sir.’ Making Richmond feel as though he were a vagrant begging a room for the night. But the list he eventually produced was indeed unpromising: some properties too far out, one or two in Rumsden – no, definitely not! – a few flats above shops and the like, and a bungalow on the Clough Head Estate, that one which stuck out like a sore thumb against the hillside, an idea that would only appeal if he couldn’t find anything else.

  Richmond thanked him, collected the details together and said he’d be in touch. It was still raining and he dived into the snack bar next door, where he began to go through them again over a cappuccino and a croissant, hoping some jewel might yet turn up amongst the dross.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A shadow had fallen across the table, and he glanced up to see the woman who’d passed him in the house agents’ looking at him with the same puzzled expression as she’d worn then.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ she said quickly, then rushed on without waiting for an answer. ‘Haven’t we met somewhere before?’

  There was a wisecrack here, if only he could think of it. Except that Richmond wasn’t the man for wisecracks and she didn’t look that sort of woman, either. He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think … I feel sure I’d have known if we had.’

  He hardly ever forgot a face, he was observant by nature as well as by training, and she wasn’t a woman you’d easily forget, once having met her. Those brown eyes – not a muddy chocolate or liquid spaniel’s, but a warm golden brown with flickering shadows in their depths. Long, thick lashes with raindrops clinging to them. The curve of a soft, sweet, red mouth, too wide for beauty, but made to smile, as she was doing now, hesitantly …

  And yes, there was, the more he looked, some fleeting recognition. He indicated the chair opposite. ‘Won’t you join me?’

  ‘Oh, look, I didn’t mean – I really shouldn’t have said anything.’ Her eyebrows rose comically. ‘Will I ever learn to think before I speak?’

  ‘I’m glad you did speak, I think maybe we have met. Why don’t you sit down and let’s try and work out where? But first, can I get you a coffee, something to eat?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’d better let you finish your croissant in peace.’ The hint of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she turned to go. ‘Contrary to the evidence, I don’t usually pick up strange men in coffee bars.’

  ‘You can’t go and leave me with my curiosity unsatisfied,’ he protested. ‘I’ll never sleep tonight.’

  She hesitated. ‘We-ell, if you put it like that.’ The smile came out in all its glory. ‘Just coffee, then, please.’

  He came back with another cappuccino and set the cup down. She’d pulled off the furry hat which had obscured her hair and it fell in glossy, chestnut-brown waves to her shoulders. ‘My name’s Richmond, Tom Richmond,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘and I know yours is Winslow because I heard “Mr Whiteley” call you that.’

  A ripple of amusement passed between them. ‘He’s the heir apparent, this is his father’s firm.’ Then, suddenly, she caught her breath. ‘Richmond. Oh God, I remember now.’ And all the light went from her face.

  ‘You have the advantage over me. I still don’t remember you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. You only saw me once – but I heard your name, often. I’m Polly Denshaw, or I was before I was married.’

  It all came back to him. His previous sighting of her had been brief and he’d been in no condition to register permanently the presence of any woman, attractive or otherwise, when the only woman he’d ever loved was being lowered into her grave. After it was done, he’d walked out of the churchyard, alone, not wanting to speak to any of the other mourners, wanting only to be shot of the whole thing.

  ‘What can I say?’ she managed to get out, the soft lips trembling now. ‘We must be the last people you want to see, any of us. I’m sorry about the coffee but I can’t possibly stay now, can I?’

  Before he could make any further protest, she was gone.

  There was the inevitable pot of tea on the go when he got to Charlie Rawnsley’s in the late afternoon. He’d walked up the hill, despite the weather. It was still raining, turning to sleet, and the wind was whipping it about in nasty spiteful flurries, tearing off what leaves still remained on the trees. The cold afternoon was already dark, presaging the real winter.

  ‘Bloody awful afternoon, Charlie,’ he remarked, as the old man wrung his hand and took his raincoat to hang up before ushering him into the warm back room.

  ‘Aye, well, soon be Christmas. Sit you down, lad, sit you down! Grand to see you.’

  He turned the simulated coal fire up another notch and the coals glowed, amazingly real, the flames leaped. He saw Richmond seated in the comfortable leather chair opposite his own, poured tea. Richmond sipped cautiously at a well-remembered, fierce orange brew that could have stripped paint; Charlie’s own taste buds had long been anaesthetised by thirty-five years of police canteen tea.

  The house was reassuringly the same. Not quite as tidy, some of the surfaces not as lovingly polished as they had been in Connie’s day, but the lamplit room was comfortable and warm as ever. A savoury smell of cooking issued from the kitchen.

  Richmond was grateful that the older man hadn’t removed the photographs from the sideboard of Isobel, Beth and himself which had always stood there, along with one of Isobel’s brother, an airline pilot, with his wife and children, and the one of Connie, their late mother. They were Charlie’s family, alive or dead, and to remove them before Richmond’s visit would have been an admission that he suspected Tom couldn’t cope with seeing them. It showed a delicacy in tough old Charlie Rawnsley that you wouldn’t have expected, unless you knew him as well as Richmond did.

  ‘I never thought you’d come back, you know,’ he remarked, after the usual formalities had been exchanged, Richmond had been congratulated on his promotions and had learned, not to his surprise, that Charlie was uneasy in his enforced retirement. Reaching the limit of his police service ten years ago, he’d found himself another job, in the stock control department at Brackenroyd’s. Then, reaching sixty-five, compulsory retirement had once more caught up with him. Since then, he told Richmond, he’d spent his time building himself a conserv
atory on to the back of his house, tending the veritable jungle of plants in it, painting the outside of the house. He took himself off for long walks across the moors. And he had his books, packed into shelves set in the fireplace alcoves – he’d always been a great thriller reader. Despite all this, it was obvious time hung heavy.

  ‘But I’m damned if I’ll join that there Golden Links club,’ he added forthrightly. ‘I went, once. They were singing “Daisy, Daisy”.’

  Richmond laughed outright. ‘What about travelling? You and Connie always enjoyed that.’

  ‘You sound like our David’s lot! They were trying to get me on a lonely hearts cruise t’other week.’

  Richmond grinned again, thinking Charlie wouldn’t be a bad catch for a woman, at that. He was still an active man, healthy and well set up, balding and a bit thicker round the waistline than he had been, but otherwise in better nick than many half his age.

  ‘Besides,’ Charlie added, ‘it wouldn’t be the same without Connie.’