village hall. Only Julia had inflected the words differently and more emphatically.
“There is nothing I can do in such a situation,” Alastair had told his furious wife in a heated whisper that nevertheless managed to travel to Tom’s ears. He was standing not far behind them. “What you do is call an ambulance.”
“That’s what I did.”
“Then you didn’t need to drag me from home, did you? I’d only got in the door—”
“He
is
your private patient, Alastair.”
“—and I was set to watch the Spanish Open on—”
A breeze shifted the direction of their voices. Then, as Tom was reflecting on the strained state of the Hennis relationship and wondering what he might do, he heard Julia utter Sybella’s name. From Alastair came a sigh of exasperation, the words of which Tom couldn’t catch, then a more audible reprise of his earlier defence. “I feel terrible for Colm, Julia, but there’s little I can do in such a circumstance. Doctors can’t bring people back to life.”
Recalling the row and its culmination in Sybella’s name, Tom asked Alastair, “Were you Sybella’s?”
“Sybella’s what?”
“GP.”
“Would that be any of your business, Tom?”
“Sorry. My mind seems to be on yesterday’s misfortunes.”
Alastair’s mouth formed a thin line. “Well, as it happens, yes, I am—or was—her GP. Is this relevant to something?”
“No, I suppose not. Not now. Since it doesn’t appear she died from natural causes.”
“Indeed.”
“You know?”
“Tom, where do you think postmortems are performed?”
“Then …?”
“Then what?”
“How was she killed?”
“Aren’t you a bit nosy for a new-model vicar? Does it matter
how
she died?” Alastair appeared aggressively amused.
“Of course it matters,” Tom responded with some heat. “I expect the people in Thornford might want to know if there’s some sort of deranged individual wandering about that they might wish to protect themselves from in some fashion!”
Alastair glared at him. His rather prominent ears had taken on a red tinge. “It is my understanding,” he responded through strained teeth, “that Miss Parry suffered a subdural hematoma.”
“In other words, someone hit her over the head.”
“It would seem so.”
“It’s certain then.”
“Are you done? May I go? I have other things to attend to this afternoon.”
As Alastair turned sharply towards the staff parking lot, Tom reflected that in the dozen years he had known Alastair even a regular blokeish conversation had somehow eluded them. He had wrestled dutifully with his inability to forge some sort of bond—family ties added obligation to the task—and he had had Alastair in the back of his mind more than once when delivering a sermon on the subject of Christian love, that through God’s grace we can love someone we might not particularly like, but he found that trying to
like
Alastair was at times the spiritual equivalent of having to go to the dentist. It wasn’t his fault that Lisbeth had thrown Alastair over for him, Tom. How was he to blame for the manoeuverings of the female heart?
But blamed he was, though he had not consciously snatched Lisbeth from Alastair’s arms. He knew almost nothing of the man until Alastair appeared at the Rose home in Golders Green one Friday evening arm in arm with Julia, which startled Lisbeth’sparents—and Lisbeth, who had brought Tom for his first Shabbat. In those days, Alastair had advanced to Cambridge’s reserve crew for the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, looked enviably fit, and radiated a sort of animal confidence that Tom could see—though was loath to admit—would be attractive to women. Seated across from them as Lisbeth’s father recited Kiddush, Tom had sneaked a glance and had thought them a handsome pair, as surely as Lisbeth and Alastair must once have looked a handsome pair in the very seats. Julia had had the grace to let her composure falter when Lisbeth, not her parents,
“There is nothing I can do in such a situation,” Alastair had told his furious wife in a heated whisper that nevertheless managed to travel to Tom’s ears. He was standing not far behind them. “What you do is call an ambulance.”
“That’s what I did.”
“Then you didn’t need to drag me from home, did you? I’d only got in the door—”
“He
is
your private patient, Alastair.”
“—and I was set to watch the Spanish Open on—”
A breeze shifted the direction of their voices. Then, as Tom was reflecting on the strained state of the Hennis relationship and wondering what he might do, he heard Julia utter Sybella’s name. From Alastair came a sigh of exasperation, the words of which Tom couldn’t catch, then a more audible reprise of his earlier defence. “I feel terrible for Colm, Julia, but there’s little I can do in such a circumstance. Doctors can’t bring people back to life.”
Recalling the row and its culmination in Sybella’s name, Tom asked Alastair, “Were you Sybella’s?”
“Sybella’s what?”
“GP.”
“Would that be any of your business, Tom?”
“Sorry. My mind seems to be on yesterday’s misfortunes.”
Alastair’s mouth formed a thin line. “Well, as it happens, yes, I am—or was—her GP. Is this relevant to something?”
“No, I suppose not. Not now. Since it doesn’t appear she died from natural causes.”
“Indeed.”
“You know?”
“Tom, where do you think postmortems are performed?”
“Then …?”
“Then what?”
“How was she killed?”
“Aren’t you a bit nosy for a new-model vicar? Does it matter
how
she died?” Alastair appeared aggressively amused.
“Of course it matters,” Tom responded with some heat. “I expect the people in Thornford might want to know if there’s some sort of deranged individual wandering about that they might wish to protect themselves from in some fashion!”
Alastair glared at him. His rather prominent ears had taken on a red tinge. “It is my understanding,” he responded through strained teeth, “that Miss Parry suffered a subdural hematoma.”
“In other words, someone hit her over the head.”
“It would seem so.”
“It’s certain then.”
“Are you done? May I go? I have other things to attend to this afternoon.”
As Alastair turned sharply towards the staff parking lot, Tom reflected that in the dozen years he had known Alastair even a regular blokeish conversation had somehow eluded them. He had wrestled dutifully with his inability to forge some sort of bond—family ties added obligation to the task—and he had had Alastair in the back of his mind more than once when delivering a sermon on the subject of Christian love, that through God’s grace we can love someone we might not particularly like, but he found that trying to
like
Alastair was at times the spiritual equivalent of having to go to the dentist. It wasn’t his fault that Lisbeth had thrown Alastair over for him, Tom. How was he to blame for the manoeuverings of the female heart?
But blamed he was, though he had not consciously snatched Lisbeth from Alastair’s arms. He knew almost nothing of the man until Alastair appeared at the Rose home in Golders Green one Friday evening arm in arm with Julia, which startled Lisbeth’sparents—and Lisbeth, who had brought Tom for his first Shabbat. In those days, Alastair had advanced to Cambridge’s reserve crew for the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, looked enviably fit, and radiated a sort of animal confidence that Tom could see—though was loath to admit—would be attractive to women. Seated across from them as Lisbeth’s father recited Kiddush, Tom had sneaked a glance and had thought them a handsome pair, as surely as Lisbeth and Alastair must once have looked a handsome pair in the very seats. Julia had had the grace to let her composure falter when Lisbeth, not her parents,
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