and hung up the one suit he had thought it necessary to bring. After a brief wash he rejoined Father Martin, who was standing at the window looking out over the headland. As Dalgliesh entered, Father Martin took a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his cloak.
He said, “I have something you left here when you were fourteen. I didn’t send it on because I wasn’t sure whether you’d be happy to know that I’d seen it, but I’ve kept it and perhaps you’d now like it back. It’s four lines of verse. I suppose you could call it a poem.”
And that, thought Dalgliesh, was an unlikely supposition. He suppressed a groan and took the paper held out to him. What youthful indiscretion, embarrassment or pretension was now to be resurrected from the past to his discomfort? The sight of the handwriting, familiar and yet strange and to his eyes, despite the careful calligraphy, a little tentative and unformed, jolted him back over the years more strongly than an old photograph, because it was more personal. It was difficult to believe that the boyish hand which had moved over this quarter-sheet of paper was the same as the hand that now held it.
He read the lines silently.
The Bereaved
“Another lovely day,” you said in passing,
Dull-voiced, and moved unseeing down the street.
You didn’t say, “Please wrap your jacket round me,
Outside the sun, inside the killing sleet.”
It brought back another memory, one which was common in his childhood: his father taking a burial service, the richness of the clods of earth heaped beside the bright green of artificial grass, a few wreaths, the wind billowing his father’s surplice, the smell of flowers. Those lines, he remembered, had been written after the burial of an only child. He remembered, too, that he had worried over the adjective in its last line, thinking the two vowel sounds were too similar yet unable to find a suitable substitute.
Father Martin said, “I thought they were remarkable lines for a fourteen-year-old. Unless you want them back I should like to keep them.”
Dalgliesh nodded and handed over the paper silently. Father Martin folded it back in his pocket with something of the satisfaction of a child.
Dalgliesh said, “There was something else you wanted to show me.”
“Yes indeed. Perhaps we could sit down.”
Again Father Martin slipped a hand into his deep cloak pocket. He brought out what looked like a child’s exercise book rolled up and bound with a rubber band. Smoothing it out on his lap and folding his hands over it as if he were protecting it, he said, “Before we go to the beach I’d like you to read this. It’s self-explanatory. The woman who wrote it died of a heart attack on the evening of the final entry. It may have no significance whatsoever for Ronald’s death. I’ve shown it to Father Sebastian and that’s his view. He thinks it can safely be ignored. It could mean nothing, but it worries me. I thought it would be a good idea to show it to you here, where we have no chance of being interrupted. The two entries I’d like you to read are the first and the last.”
He handed over the book and sat in silence until Dalgliesh had read it. Dalgliesh asked, “How did you come by it, Father?”
“I looked for it and found it. Margaret Munroe was found dead in her cottage by Mrs. Pilbeam at six-fifteen on Friday, 13 October. She was on her way to the college and was surprised to see a light on so early in St. Matthew’s Cottage. After Dr. Metcalf—he’s the general practitioner who looks after us at St. Anselm’s—had seen the body and it had been removed, I thought about my suggestion that Margaret should write an account of finding Ronald and wondered whether in fact she had done so. I found this under her stack of writing-paper in the drawer of a small wooden desk she had in her cottage. There had been no serious attempt to conceal it.”
“And as far as you can tell no one else knows of this diary’s
He said, “I have something you left here when you were fourteen. I didn’t send it on because I wasn’t sure whether you’d be happy to know that I’d seen it, but I’ve kept it and perhaps you’d now like it back. It’s four lines of verse. I suppose you could call it a poem.”
And that, thought Dalgliesh, was an unlikely supposition. He suppressed a groan and took the paper held out to him. What youthful indiscretion, embarrassment or pretension was now to be resurrected from the past to his discomfort? The sight of the handwriting, familiar and yet strange and to his eyes, despite the careful calligraphy, a little tentative and unformed, jolted him back over the years more strongly than an old photograph, because it was more personal. It was difficult to believe that the boyish hand which had moved over this quarter-sheet of paper was the same as the hand that now held it.
He read the lines silently.
The Bereaved
“Another lovely day,” you said in passing,
Dull-voiced, and moved unseeing down the street.
You didn’t say, “Please wrap your jacket round me,
Outside the sun, inside the killing sleet.”
It brought back another memory, one which was common in his childhood: his father taking a burial service, the richness of the clods of earth heaped beside the bright green of artificial grass, a few wreaths, the wind billowing his father’s surplice, the smell of flowers. Those lines, he remembered, had been written after the burial of an only child. He remembered, too, that he had worried over the adjective in its last line, thinking the two vowel sounds were too similar yet unable to find a suitable substitute.
Father Martin said, “I thought they were remarkable lines for a fourteen-year-old. Unless you want them back I should like to keep them.”
Dalgliesh nodded and handed over the paper silently. Father Martin folded it back in his pocket with something of the satisfaction of a child.
Dalgliesh said, “There was something else you wanted to show me.”
“Yes indeed. Perhaps we could sit down.”
Again Father Martin slipped a hand into his deep cloak pocket. He brought out what looked like a child’s exercise book rolled up and bound with a rubber band. Smoothing it out on his lap and folding his hands over it as if he were protecting it, he said, “Before we go to the beach I’d like you to read this. It’s self-explanatory. The woman who wrote it died of a heart attack on the evening of the final entry. It may have no significance whatsoever for Ronald’s death. I’ve shown it to Father Sebastian and that’s his view. He thinks it can safely be ignored. It could mean nothing, but it worries me. I thought it would be a good idea to show it to you here, where we have no chance of being interrupted. The two entries I’d like you to read are the first and the last.”
He handed over the book and sat in silence until Dalgliesh had read it. Dalgliesh asked, “How did you come by it, Father?”
“I looked for it and found it. Margaret Munroe was found dead in her cottage by Mrs. Pilbeam at six-fifteen on Friday, 13 October. She was on her way to the college and was surprised to see a light on so early in St. Matthew’s Cottage. After Dr. Metcalf—he’s the general practitioner who looks after us at St. Anselm’s—had seen the body and it had been removed, I thought about my suggestion that Margaret should write an account of finding Ronald and wondered whether in fact she had done so. I found this under her stack of writing-paper in the drawer of a small wooden desk she had in her cottage. There had been no serious attempt to conceal it.”
“And as far as you can tell no one else knows of this diary’s
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