Читать книгу St Oda's Bones - Marcus Attwater - Страница 6

She was 47 today. She didn't have anything special planned, just her usual Wednesday night with Bridget. She might invite some friends and family later, but today she had set aside entirely for herself. She was up early, glad to have the day stretch calmly in front of her. She had known for a while she would need time to think things through, and why ignore the obvious milestone? So October 8 it was, 47 years from the beginning and God knew how many from the end. She was realistic enough not to expect to end the day with the solution to all her problems. She knew she would do very little thinking that appeared to be actually to the purpose. And she hadn't gone around telling others of her resolution, just known that from today, she would consider what was going to happen next. She had been content - no, happy - in her life and her job for years, but she had become aware of a dissenting voice over the past few months. Yes, she liked her job, but wasn't the department practically running itself now? Did she want to do it for the next twenty years? And beneath that practical question: did she still believe Social Sciences as it was taught now was something she could contribute to? Or wanted to contribute to?

Anyone observing from the outside wouldn't have known that so much was going on in Henrietta's head. She often tried it, looking at herself from the outside, she did it now, eating a simple breakfast of toast and tea while she read the birthday messages on her laptop. What would an onlooker see? A slight smile as she read a friend's email, a slight frown as she deleted one from someone she'd rather forget. A calm, unhurried exterior, a face that had always been pretty enough, and wasn't changing much with age. If asked to describe her, people called her intelligent and friendly. The intelligence she couldn't deny, but sometimes she had her doubts about the friendliness. Well-behaved, certainly, and not quick to anger, but she knew herself to be less kind than her face implied. It had always been like that. Even when little, she had been the good one while her elder sister got into trouble, and had known that it was simply because Karen looked guiltier, it had nothing to do with what they actually got up to. At eight, at twelve, at fifteen, Henrietta got away with things by her sweet face and good manners, and it was rare for someone to guess at the thinking that went on behind them. Later she had wondered if it had been this discrepancy between appearance and self-image which had ultimately determined her choice of career. Certainly her interest in people's motives, plain and hidden, had been born early. Well, now it was time to examine her own, in her own way. She would start with some heavily symbolic cleaning up. She really needed to do something about the garden, but she would have to get someone in for that. Probably she could find some student to help her out, a plentiful supply of casual labour being one of the advantages of university life. Meanwhile, she would start indoors herself. Her desk was untidy, and the untidiness was spreading all over the study. Sorting through the books and paperwork might give her an idea of what was important to her right now, and if that didn't work at least it would make the place look better. And I won't tell anyone how I spent my birthday! she told herself, closing her laptop with a smile that was entirely inward.

By midday she was sitting in her markedly neater study, absorbed in an article about madness and criminality Bridget had sent her months ago. There was a time, a long time ago, when madness had fascinated both of them. Now Bridget pursued her interest in criminality through her career in the police, and Henrietta had long given her attention to the psychology of the everyday. She wondered vaguely how accepted 'madness' was as a concept these days. Her profession had certainly become more mealy-mouthed since they were students, as well as more precise. It was probably quite a bold step of this author to splay the word across a Sunday supplement. She even had her doubts about 'criminality' now she came to think about it. But it was a fascinating article. Wrongheaded, but fascinating. It would give her something to mull over while she took her walk. There was a fine autumn-grey sky today, with a little gusting rain, but that wouldn't hurt her. Lunch first, and then a good long walk into town.

On North Abbey Road she was hailed by Mary Butler, 'Hello, Henrietta, happy birthday!'

She waved her acknowledgement, but didn't stop to chat. She'd see Mary tomorrow anyway. Turning her face into the wind, she set off along Holywell Road towards town.

Although she had always felt the name Henrietta belonged to someone more stern and statuesque than she would ever be, she was used to it now. As a child she had been Etty, but she disliked the diminutive, and when she went to her new school at eleven she had insisted on her full name. She had refused to listen to any attempt to shorten it until, amused by its playfulness, she became Harry to her university friends. Few called her that now. Robert had always called her 'darling', a generic she came to detest heartily, and which presumably had been transferred, together with his affections and lack of spine, to the second wife. And there you had it. She was 47 and single, and she knew there were enough people who would look no further for the cause of her present dissatisfaction. Women her age were expected to feel that way, and she seemed to be right on schedule. She hadn't quite reckoned with the amount of discontent, though, or the impatience of 'is this it?' And it had dismayed her a little to find that one of her married friends, whose husband was some years older, was already looking forward to retirement. She told Bridget this over dinner, knowing her friend would be equally appalled.

'Retirement? Not before I'm Chief Superintendent,' Bridget said decidedly. 'On the subject of which: the Superintendent at county headquarters is retiring. I talked it over with my counterpart at Salisbury, and I've applied for the job yesterday. It would normally be a post for someone who has the rank already, but I thought I'd put my name into the hat.'

'That's great Bridget. Do you think you stand a good chance?'

'I've not heard who else has applied. But they can't promote me where I am, the station here's too small. And I flatter myself my superiors do intend to promote me at some point.'

'Would it mean moving house?'

'Probably. I would prefer to stay here if I could, but I'll move if I have to.'

Henrietta would be glad for her friend if she got her promotion, but hoped she wouldn't have to move far. Wednesday dinner had been such a feature of both their lives for years, it would be strange to have to break the habit.

'At least you always have a chance of promotion, another step forward. There aren't any forward steps in my job. And not having a husband with a generous pension scheme, I have nearly 20 years of working life ahead of me.'

'You could always find a husband with a generous pension scheme,' Bridget suggested. DCI Flynn's own husband was rarely in evidence. Henrietta knew they got along splendidly by seeing each other no more than twice a week.

'Oh, I don't want to stop working, even if husbands were so easily caught as you suggest. I just wonder whether I want to go on doing this job.'

'Of course you don't, you'd hardly be wondering otherwise, would you?'

'Very sharp, detective.'

Bridget topped up their wine. 'But is there trouble? Or just a general feeling?'

'Oh, just general. I'm beginning to feel every year is like the other, and that is not a good sign. But I'm nowhere near a crisis yet. And you? Everything working out at the station?'

'We've had a little shake-up, as a matter of fact. You recall I told you DI Walter left? Well, they've posted Owen Collins back.'

Bridget and Henrietta, friends since their student days, had determined early on in their respective careers that they would both need someone to talk to about all the confidential, professional stuff they weren't supposed to outside work, and that everything that passed between them about this would go no further. The agreement had held for more than twenty years, and Henrietta knew all about her friend's CID colleagues. This sounded like an interesting development.

'But that's good, isn't it?' she said, 'I know you liked him.'

'Sure and I do. But he's also, I don't know, to call him a liability is too strong. Perhaps 'unpredictable' is better. I'm never quite sure how to handle him.'

'Explain, explain.'

'There's always something strange about his cases. I mean, he works by the book, when you check, and he gets results, and still I can't put my finger on how he does it. Last year he spent half his time during a murder enquiry chasing a cold case that had nothing to do with it, and just when I thought I would have to pull him off the case he turned around and caught the killer red-handed. Putting him on a case is like putting him and it both in a room, closing the door, and waiting to see what comes out alive. It might work,' she added with a wry smile, 'But it looks bloody odd writing it up for the Chief Constable.'

'Maybe,' Henrietta told her friend, 'But I envy you nonetheless. I could do with some unpredictability right now.'

As she saw Bridget out, Elly Hollis, the rector's wife, came out of the garden gate of number 14 opposite. To Henrietta's surprise she came over to talk.

'Have you heard? Valerie Harwood has passed away yesterday.'

So that was what Mary had wanted to tell her that afternoon. 'No, I didn't hear. Was it very sudden?'

Elly nodded. 'Very. In fact - don't say this to anyone else - but the doctor has called in the police, they think it may not have been natural.'

'You mean…?'

Elly lowered her voice even further. 'Suicide. Shocking, I know.'

Henrietta had known Valerie slightly, as a sanguine old lady. Taking her own life did seem shocking. While Henrietta in theory would uphold everyone's right to do with their life what they wanted, real instances of suicide made her shy away. How desperate, how forsaken must one feel, to come to that? But perhaps it hadn't been like that, perhaps Mrs Harwood, at 76, had learned she was ill, and had decided not to prolong her suffering. Of course, Elly would regard that as even worse. Suicide was still a sin, although the church would probably not be callous enough to refuse her burial in holy ground. Valerie had been a rector's wife as well, she would have hoped for salvation. Henrietta went back inside, all the optimism of the morning gone.