Angels in the Gloom wwi-3 Read online

  “What’s happened?” he asked. In the end that was the question that mattered.

  Kerr leaned forward in the chair. “One of my parishioners—I can’t reveal who, of course—told me that on the night poor Blaine was murdered, Dacy Lucas and his wife quarreled violently! It was very angry, shouting voices, both his and hers, and then he stormed out of the house and drove away.”

  “People do quarrel occasionally,” Joseph replied. “It doesn’t mean a great deal.”

  Kerr seemed even more agitated. “It was not a slight or usual thing,” he said urgently. “I am not married myself, but I know that women can feel neglected at times. They don’t understand the moral and ethical demands of certain callings. During wartime, scientific invention and discovery must be at the forefront of our endeavors. Perhaps it would be easier to understand if a man were in the army, but all that is irrelevant.” He jerked his hand sideways dismissively. “This quarrel—and it was a quarrel, Captain Reavley, not just a little complaint—was spoken in unmistakably violent terms.”

  “I see,” Joseph said quietly, uncertain if he preferred Blaine’s murder to be ordinary sexual rage instead of a German sympathizer in the village. Perhaps he did.

  “That is not all,” Kerr went on miserably. “The late Theo Blaine quarreled with his wife the same night, also very savagely. He left the house to go down to his shed in the garden, which is where he was killed. Mrs. Blaine swore that she did not leave the house, but neither did she see or hear anything at all to make her suspect something wrong. At least that is what she says.” He stared at Joseph expectantly.

  Joseph sat still, wondering how Kerr knew all this. It was an old story with many possibilities, all of them sad and very predictable.

  “Can that be true?” Kerr demanded, leaning forward and staring at Joseph. “Do you suppose she really saw and heard nothing?”

  “I should think so.” Joseph tried to remember the Blaine house from his visit there. The shed was some distance even from the back door, let alone the front where the sitting room was, and the main bedroom faced the front as well. “If he did not cry out, there wouldn’t be much to hear. Let Inspector Perth sort it out.”

  “But that’s it!” Kerr said desperately. “He doesn’t know!”

  “Know?” Perth had to be aware of the proportions of the house and garden.

  Kerr was exasperated. “He doesn’t know about the quarrels! I was told in the utmost confidence—by a parishioner, don’t you see?”

  Joseph was familiar with parishioners’ utmost confidences. “They will have to use their judgment whether to report it to the police or not,” he said to Kerr. “You did not hear those quarrels yourself, so you have no knowledge of them. . . .”

  “But I do!” Kerr protested. “The person who told me is absolutely honest. And considering the incident, distressed—I may say terrified—that there is an enemy sympathizer among us.”

  “Is that fear rampant?” Joseph asked, uncertain quite what answer he wanted. Was one betrayal better or worse than the tragedy of murder by one of their own?

  “Absolutely!” Kerr’s eyes opened wider. “It is horrifying to believe that one of us is actually an enemy. Surely you, of all people, must understand that? Our men are giving their lives out there in France, in terrible conditions, to save England.” He flung his arm out sharply. “And here is this person willing, even eager, to sell us to Germany by murder and treason. It’s . . . it’s so evil it defies imagination.” His cheeks were stained with pink, his eyes bright.

  “And what about our spies in Germany?” Joseph asked, thinking of Perth’s suspicions. Then seeing the look on Kerr’s face, he wished instantly that he had not. The man was confused, and because he did not understand, he perceived himself to be attacked.

  “I don’t know what you mean!” he protested. “Are you suggesting there is no difference between us, Captain Reavley? If that were so, why on earth would our young men be fighting and dying out there? What you are saying is manifestly ridiculous.”

  “In theory there’s all the difference in the world,” Joseph said wearily. If Kerr were really a German agent as Perth had considered, then his acting skill amounted to genius. “When it comes to fact,” he went on, “the difference isn’t much more than that they are fighting against us, whereas we are fighting against them.”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” Kerr repeated.

  “I’m not sure that I do, either,” Joseph conceded, although it was not the truth. It was just pointless to argue. “Are you so sure that God is an Englishman? Might He not see little difference between one nationality and another, only between a man who does the best he can, and one who doesn’t?”

  Kerr blinked. It was quite clear in his face that he was being presented with a vast idea that had never occurred to him before. Suddenly the simple had become savagely and impossibly complicated.

  Joseph was sorry he had given the man more than he could accommodate, but he could not bring himself to say so. One thing he was convinced of: Perth was utterly wrong—Kerr was every bit the ass he seemed.

  “It’s probably a domestic tragedy, just as you’re supposing,” he said quietly. Conscience demanded that he be kinder to the man. “But leave it to Perth to find out. He’s really quite capable. I’ve seen him work before. He’ll uncover the truth, but carefully, piece by piece, without error. All you can do is tell him what you know, not what other people have told you. They may be malicious, or simply mistaken, and you would unwittingly compound the injustice. If the time should ever come when you know for certain that the wrong person may be convicted, then reconsider. But we are far from that now. You can’t carry the world. Don’t try. You’ll break your back, and that won’t help anyone. Then you’ll be no use for when you are needed by the next person who requires your comfort or help.”

  Kerr gulped, but his shoulders were relaxed, his hands still. “Yes,” he said, then again more firmly. “Yes, of course. You are very wise. Very fair. I’m sorry I didn’t see that at first.”

  Now Joseph was ashamed for his abruptness. “I should have explained myself a little more clearly.”

  Kerr stared at him. “It’s all . . . it’s so alien! Everything’s changing.”

  Joseph thought that it was not so much that the world was changing as that they were being forced to see it more realistically. He did not say so. “Yes,” he agreed, feeling like a hypocrite. “I think it’s hard, one way or another, for everyone.”

  Kerr was obviously still disturbed about something. “This man Perth,” he said anxiously. “He’s digging up particulars—indiscretions, old quarrels—that have nothing to do with poor Blaine’s death.” He waved his hand uselessly. “It’s like tearing the bandages off everyone’s wounds. I’ve tried, but I can’t do anything to stop him. I feel so . . . helpless! People expect me to look after them, and I can’t!”

  Joseph felt a sudden, completely humble sympathy for him. “People expect too much of us altogether,” he said ruefully. “A bit like doctors. We can’t cure everything, only ease the pain a bit, and give advice which they don’t have to take.”

  “I’m . . . I’m so grateful to talk to you,” Kerr said impulsively, his face pink. “This whole thing is quite dreadful. The other young men at the Establishment can’t prove where they were when Blaine was killed, either. Everyone is under suspicion. And of course they knew him. It could simply have been a personal dislike, I suppose, a rivalry or quarrel over work. Do you think?”

  “It would be an easier answer for the village, if not for the war effort,” Joseph conceded. “I understand what you mean.”

  “Good. Good. You’ve been very kind.” Kerr rose to his feet, satisfied. He stood straight, as if with some new sort of strength. “I’m very grateful to you, Captain. You see it all so clearly.”

  Joseph did not deny it. That was a truth Kerr did not need. Joseph had made sufficient difficulties for him for one visit. After Kerr had gone, he walked outside in the garden. The
spring evening was mild and close. The air was still full of gold from the lowering sun. There was no breeze to whisper in the branches of the elms, but the starlings whirled up in huge flocks, wheeling against the blue of the sky and the shredded mares’ tails of cloud glowing to the west.

  He stood alone amid the burning color of the tulips, crimson and purple and hot scarlet. Kerr had been satisfied when he had finally gone, perhaps because he no longer felt alone in his responsibility. That was what Joseph had promised himself when he had first committed his life to being a chaplain in the war. He would try to do what he could for everyone, regardless of their need. He could not cure, he could not even share physical or emotional pain, but he could be there. At least he would not run away.

  But had he turned away inside himself? By trying to be all things to others, had he ended being nothing to himself? He had said what he thought Kerr needed to hear. He was thinking of Kerr’s weakness, his very apparent confusion. He was doing the same for Hannah, thinking of her fear of change, of losing the familiar that was so sweet.

  In all that he said and did, where was his own passion, his integrity, that part of mind or spirit that was so rooted in belief that it would anchor him no matter what storms blew? What would he live or die for? What would hold him upright if he faced the ultimate storm and there was no one else to consider, no single voice that cried “help me!” and gave him something to do, a direction to consume his thoughts so he had no time and no need to examine himself?

  If he faced the silence, where was his inner strength? What color was the chameleon itself? No color at all? Nothing, except as reflected by others? That would be a kind of moral suicide, the final emptiness. Is that what he was doing to himself?

  He prayed with all his heart. “Father, do I stay here and pick up the task Kerr can’t and won’t do? These are my people, too! Or do I go back to the trenches, the mud and the stench of death, and be with my men there? What do you want me to do? Help me!”

  The starlings wheeled back and settled in the elms. The light was deepening, the colors in the sky growing hotter. The silence was total.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Hannah walked away slowly from the women gathered in the street around the casualty notices. There had been one man killed from Cherry Hinton, another missing from Haslingfield, but no one from St. Giles. Relief welled up inside all the people standing together. They could look each other in the eye for a while longer. There were hesitant smiles, the freedom to think of ordinary things: mending and sewing, shopping, work, the upcoming Easter weekend. But voices were quiet, hushed with the weight of knowing that just beyond that sloping hill, the copse of trees, the spire of the next village church, was the loss that next time might be here.

  Hannah walked homeward slowly in the still, damp morning. The sun broke through in misty shafts, making everything silver and green, shining through the raindrops on twigs and grass heads. Some of the early blossoms had blown off and lay in white petals on the path.

  She was a couple of hundred yards from the corner when she met Ben Morven coming out of the ironmongers’. He was wearing a corduroy jacket over a crisp white shirt and gray slacks. His face lit up with pleasure seeing her. It was really out of all proportion, but his smile suddenly lifted her spirits also, and she found her step lighter and a warmth inside. She remembered how he had worked at the railway station in Cambridge, the intensity of his concentration trying not to jolt the injured, to be quick and gentle, and how he had ignored his own bruises.

  He fell into step beside her, matching his stride to hers.

  “The news is not very good,” she said, biting her lip. “Apparently someone has been arrested bringing a vast number of guns into Ireland. As if we hadn’t enough trouble there already.”

  He shook his head. “I heard. It’s insane! The last thing we need is more turmoil in Ireland! They can’t win, we can’t afford to let them! It’ll just mean more bloodshed.” He glanced around at the peaceful, almost deserted street, the tension gone, the people dispersed. A little brown dog scampered along the footpath. Two young girls stood absorbed in conversation. An old man sat in the seat near the duck pond, chewing on the stem of his pipe. The wind gusted, but it was warm to the skin.

  “There’s so much bad news at the moment,” he added. “I sometimes wonder if we are all insane. Or perhaps I’ll wake up and discover it’s still 1914, and all this never happened. It’s me that’s wrong, not the rest of the world.”

  “I’d like that,” she said quietly, startled by how passionately she meant it, too. “I would give anything I can think of to go back to the way it used to be. It was so . . .”

  “Sane,” he said with a smile, his eyes bright and soft.

  “Do you think it will ever be like that again, when the war is over?” She wanted him to say it would, even if he could not know or dared not believe.

  “Yes, of course it will.” He did not hesitate and his voice was full of warmth. “We’ll make it. It may take a little time, and there’ll be so many people to look after. But we haven’t changed inside. We still believe the same things, love the same things. We’ll heal. As with any illness, the fever breaks, then we begin to get our strength back.” He gave her a quick, bright glance. “Maybe it will give us an immunity?”

  She smiled; it was such a commonplace idea it made sense. “Like getting the measles, or chicken pox?”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Exactly. We’ll have had a dose so strong we’ll never do it again. If you get burned badly enough, you don’t ever go near the fire in the future.”

  “I like that!” she said quickly. “Then perhaps in a hideous way it would even be worth it. We would crown our folly with something so awful that future generations would learn from it. Then our price would have bought something worth having. Thank you. . . .”

  He looked at her with a softness in his eyes so undisguised she was suddenly embarrassed. For the first time it was impossible for her to mistake his thoughts.

  The moment broke with a shriek of outrage twenty yards up the street and Hannah was so startled she froze, the blood hot in her face.

  Ben jerked around and stared.

  Mrs. Oundle, a very large lady in a green dress, was standing outside the butcher’s shop clutching a torn piece of paper, and the brown dog was racing across the road with a brace of lamb chops in his mouth.

  The old man on the bench stood up and reached out to stop the dog, who veered sideways, splashing through the water and soaking the man. Mrs. Oundle was still shrieking.

  The butcher came out to see what the trouble was and she rounded on him furiously. Two little boys hopped up and down in glee, then, when Mrs. Oundle saw them, turned and fled, boots clattering on the pavement.

  Hannah tried to stifle her laughter and totally failed.

  The dog dropped the chops in the water and started to bark.

  Ben doubled over, tears of delight running down his cheeks.

  Mrs. Oundle and the butcher both got angrier and angrier, but it was no use at all, Hannah was incapable of stopping laughing, either. All the fear and misery exploded inside her in a glorious release of hilarity, and in the sheer joy of sharing it with someone else who saw the divine absurdity of it in exactly the same way as she did. There was no point in even trying to apologize to Mrs. Oundle. For a start, she was not sorry, and everyone could see that. On the contrary, she was supremely grateful for the sane absurdity of it.

  She took Ben’s arm and they turned away, still laughing.

  The brown dog was ducky-diving in the pond to find his chops and Mrs. Oundle and the butcher were sizing each other up to decide who was to blame, when Ben left Hannah at her gate where Joseph was pulling weeds, one-handed, in the garden.

  He spoke briefly to Ben, then followed Hannah inside to the kitchen.

  “Tea?” she asked, still smiling. “Thank you for doing the weeding.” She filled the kettle under the tap.

  “It’s my garden,” Joseph replied.


  She froze. It was an extraordinary remark. She turned around slowly to face him. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, his sleeve was rolled up, his good arm slightly scratched and stained with mud and the green sap of grasses.

  “Why did you say that?” she asked. “I know perfectly well that this is your house. When the war is over, and you come back here, I shall return to Portsmouth, or wherever Archie . . . if he is still alive . . . is posted. Or are you saying that you are going to stay here, and you want it back now?”

  He blushed. “No, of course I’m not. I meant it’s fair that I do something of the work to keep it up, while I’m here. And even if I do stay, it’s still your home for as long as you want it to be.”

  “But you might stay?” she asked eagerly, ignoring the fact that something had obviously angered him.

  “I don’t know.” His expression was deeply unhappy.

  “You don’t have to decide today,” she tried to comfort him. “It will be another three or four weeks before your arm is completely better.”

  “I know.” None of the misery left his face.

  “Why are you so angry?” she asked. “Is it the Irish news? Do you really think there’ll be war there, too?”

  “No, it’s not the Irish news,” he replied. “Hannah, that young man is falling in love with you, and don’t pretend you don’t know it. That would be unworthy of you.”

  She felt the blood scald up her face. Yesterday she could have denied it, but today it was impossible. She felt intruded upon. Joseph had no right to enter that part of her life. It was not only embarrassment that burned in her but anger.

  “I didn’t deny it!” she snapped at him. “How dare you accuse me like that, of something I haven’t done. I said nothing to you about it because it is none of your business.”

  He did not flinch, as if he had expected her to react exactly as she had. It added insult to the turmoil of feelings inside her.