The Wonder Worker by Susan Howatch

cruelty of someone who has never experiencedmental illness and never expects to.) I also learnt that the younger son, Richard, who worked for an oil company in Aberdeen, had recently married a Scottish girl. (“Not good enough for him,” said Mrs. Simcock aggrieved. “She’s got an accent and the best people up there don’t have accents. Look at the Queen Mum.”) I did suggest that Lady Cynthia was probably not expecting her son to marry a Bowes-Lyon, but Mrs. Simcock just retorted: “And why not, I’d like to know? She’s good enough for anyone!” And that was when I discovered that Lady Cynthia was indeed the daughter of a duke, not the offspring of a mere marquess or earl. But her big mistake, I was gloomily informed, was that she had married beneath her as the result of a grand passion when she was too young to know better.
    “Not only was he just the second son of a clergyman,” said Mrs. Simcock with utter contempt, “but his grandfather was a draper—and from
Yorkshire
!” (I wasn’t sure why Yorkshire made matters so infinitely worse, but assumed it was because Mrs. Simcock, a true southerner, hated anything north of Watford Gap.)
    Still yearning to uncover Lady Cynthia’s connection with St. Benet’s I said purposefully: “I suppose Lady Cynthia became interested in the Church when she married into a clerical family.”
    “Oh no, dear, her husband was an atheist and all he wanted to do was kick the Church in the teeth. A real mess he was—nice-looking but a mess. When he was alive they lived in Flood Street—that was after the Duke died and Lady Cynthia inherited her share of the loot. Before that she and Dr. Aysgarth lived down the Fulham Road somewhere—I didn’t know her in those days, but I worked for her in Flood Street. Then after Dr. Aysgarth kicked the bucket she moved here.”
    “But how did Lady Cynthia get interested in the Church?” I persisted, not in the least interested in all these classy locations and desperate to get my investigation back on course.
    “Well, I expect she started believing in God, dear, some people do. Strange, isn’t it, I’ve never been able to see it myself—although mark you, if I had an alcoholic atheist for a husband I’d be right there hammering on the door of the nearest church and screaming for admittance just to spite him. But of course Lady Cynthia’s never spiteful, just saintly. My God, when I think what she had to put up with from that man—and she was so loyal, always standing by him—”
    “I suppose being religious gave her the strength to cope.”
    “Daughters of dukes don’t need religion for that, dear. Strength’sinborn. But I’ll say this for the Church: at least it gave her a holiday from that man every Sunday! She used to go to St. Luke’s Chelsea when she lived at Flood Street, but now she goes to St. Peter’s Eaton Square and if you ask me they’re bloody lucky to have her.”
    In triumph I saw my chance. “What about that church in the City—St. Benet’s?”
    “Oh, that one! Yes, that’s run by an old friend of hers, I know him, he came to Flood Street regularly while Dr. Aysgarth’s liver was packing up for the last time. Name of Darrow. Peculiar,” said Mrs. Simcock thoughtfully, “but nice-natured. Nowadays he helps her with Mr. Billy the Barmy—once a year she takes Mr. Billy to some sort of special healing service at St. Benet’s. Of course it never cures him but it makes
her
feel better. Funny thing, religion …”
    I pondered on this information but felt it could only be a partial explanation of the St. Benet’s connection. Francie had certainly given me the impression that Lady Cynthia appeared there more than once a year.
    I don’t know whether Mrs. Simcock’s stories about the tragedies in Lady Cynthia’s life triggered the explosion of upsetting thoughts which, I can now see, had been gathering in my unconscious mind since Aunt’s death, but on the day after my first dinner-party I sank