ANDREW TAYLOR
THE JUDGEMENT OF STRANGERS
DEDICATION
For Val and Bill
EPIGRAPH
Cursed is he that perverteth the judgement of the stranger, the fatherless, and widow.
from the Service of Commination, in the office
for Ash Wednesday in The Book of Common Prayer.
The Manor of Roth is not mentioned in the Domesday Book
Audrey Oliphant, The History of Roth
(Richmond, privately printed 1969), p. 1.
Then darkness descended; and whispers defiled The judgement of stranger, and widow, and child
.....
With flames to the flesh, with brands to the burning, As incense to heavn the soul is returning
from The Judgement of Strangers by the Reverend
Francis St. J. Youlgreave in The Four Last Things
(Gasset & Lode, London, 1896)
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Map
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Epilogue
About the Author
Authors Note
Praise
By the Same Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
MAP
1
We found the mutilated corpse of Lord Peter in the early evening of Thursday the 13th August, 1970. He was the first victim of a train of events which began towards the end of the previous summer when I met Vanessa Forde or even before that, with Audrey Oliphant and The History of Roth.
Every parish has its Audrey Oliphant often several of them; their lives revolve around the parish church, and in one sense the Church of England revolves around them. It was inevitable that she should be a regular visitor at the Vicarage, and it shamed me that I did not always welcome her as warmly as I should have done. It also irritated me that the Tudor Cottage cat treated the Vicarage as his second home, braving the traffic on the main road to get there.
Miss Oliphant practically lives here, said my daughter Rosemary at the end of one particularly lengthy visit. And if she doesnt come herself she sends her cat instead.
She does an awful lot for us, I pointed out. And for the parish.
Dear Father. You try and find the best in everyone, dont you? Rosemary looked up at me and smiled. I just wish she would leave us alone. Its much nicer when its just the two of us.
Audrey was in her late forties and unmarried. She had lived in Roth all her life. Her house, Tudor Cottage, was on the green on the north side between Maliks Minimarket and the Queens Head. Its front garden, the size of a large bedspread, was protected from the pavement by a row of iron railings. Beside the gate there was a notice, freshly painted each year:
YE OLDE TUDOR TEA ROOM
(Est. 1931)
PROPRIETOR: MISS A.M. OLIPHANT
Telephone: Roth 6269
Morning Coffee Light Meals Cream Teas
Parties By Appointment
I had known the place for ten years, and in that time trade, though never brisk, had steadily diminished. This gave Audrey ample opportunity to read enormous quantities of detective novels and to throw herself into the affairs of the parish.
One evening in the spring of 1969, she appeared without warning on my doorstep.
Ive just had the most wonderful idea.
Really?
Im not interrupting anything, am I? she asked, initiating a ritual exchange of courtesies, a secular versicle and response.
Not at all.
Are you sure?
Nothing that cant wait. I owed her this polite fiction. I was about to have a break.
I took her into the sitting room and, making a virtue from necessity, offered sherry. Audrey was a small woman, rather plump, with a face whose features seemed squashed; it was as though her skull, while still malleable, had been compressed in a vice thus the face would have been splendidly in proportion if the eyes and the cheekbones and the corners of the mouth had not been quite so close together.
She took a sip of sherry, allowing the wine to linger in her mouth before she swallowed it. I was in the library this afternoon and some schoolchildren came in to ask Mrs Finch if she had any books on local history. And it turns out that theres a certain amount on neighbouring towns and villages. But very little on Roth itself.
She paused for another sip. I lit a cigarette, guessing what was coming.
Then it came to me in a flash. Her heavy jowls quivered with excitement. Why not write a history of Roth? Im sure lots of people would like to read one. And nowadays so many people are living here who have no idea what the real Roth is like.
What an interesting idea. You must let me know if there is anything I can do. The parish records, perhaps? I wonder if Lady Youlgreave might have some useful material. She
Im so glad, Audrey interrupted. I hoped youd want to help. Actually, a collaboration was what I had in mind. It seemed to me that we would be ideally suited.
I wouldnt say
Besides, she rushed on, the history of the village cant be separated from the history of the church and the parish. We could even have a chapter on famous inhabitants of the past. Francis Youlgreave, for example. What do you think?
Im not sure how much use Id be. After all, youre the one with the local knowledge. Then theres the question of time
I watched the excitement draining from Audreys face like water from a bath. I felt ashamed of myself and also irritated with her. Why did she insist on calling Roth a village? It was a suburb of London, similar in all essentials to a dozen others. Most of its inhabitants had their real lives elsewhere. In Roth they merely serviced their bodily needs, watched television and on Sundays played golf or cleaned their Ford Cortinas.
I quite understand. Audrey stared at her empty glass. Just an idea.
I wonder, I went on, trying to lessen the guilt that crept over me, would it be a help if I were to glance through your first draft?
She looked up, her face glowing. Yes, please.
The decision was made. If Audrey had not decided to write her history of Roth, none of what followed might have happened. It is tempting to blame her to blame anyone but myself. But fate has a way of finding its agents: if Audrey had not volunteered to be the handmaid of Providence, then someone else would have come forward.
Audrey completed her little book early in August 1969. In a flutter of excitement, she brought me the manuscript, which was written almost illegibly in pencil. It was mercifully short, largely because Roth had relatively little history. Since the Middle Ages, the parish had been overshadowed by its larger neighbours. It was too far from the Thames, and later too far from the railway.
Still, to judge from the old photographs which Audrey had found, Roth had been a pretty place, and remarkably unspoilt, despite the fact that it was only thirteen miles from Charing Cross. All that had changed in the 1930s, when the Jubilee Reservoir was built: seven hundred acres of the parish, including the northern part of the village itself, were drowned beneath seven billion gallons of water, sacrificed to assuage the endless thirst of the inhabitants of London.
I soon discovered that Audreys spelling and grammar were shaky. The text consisted of a patchwork of speculations Who knows? Perhaps Henry VIII stayed at the Old Manor House on his way to Hampton Court and quotations lifted, often inaccurately, from books she had found in the library. I persuaded her to have the manuscript typed, and managed diplomatically, I hoped to arrange for the typist quietly to incorporate some of my corrections. I then went through the typed draft with Audrey and revised it once more. By now it was early September.
We must find a publisher, Audrey said.
Perhaps you could have it privately printed?
But I am sure it would interest readers all over the country, she said. In many ways the story of Roth is the story of England.
In a sense, yes, but
And, David, she interrupted. I want all the royalties to go to the restoration fund. Every last penny. So we must find a proper publisher who will pay us lots of money. Why dont you come to supper tomorrow and well discuss it? Id like to cook you a meal to say thank you for all the work youve done. She tapped me playfully on the arm. You look as if you need a good feed.
Unfortunately I cant manage tomorrow. The Trasks have asked me to dinner. Some other time, perhaps.
Some other time, she echoed.
I was relieved that the Trasks had given me such an impregnable excuse. As a consequence of my accepting their invitation, two people died, a third went to prison, and a fourth was admitted to a hospital for the insane.
2
The Trasks lived in a rambling Victorian rectory cheek by jowl with a rambling Victorian church. I knew from past visits that both the church and the house were warm and welcoming. Ronald did a very good job. His congregations were considerably larger than average.
I parked on the gravelled forecourt in front of the house. Two other cars were already there: an Austin Cambridge and a dark-green Daimler. The front door opened before I had reached it. Ronald beamed at me. I was wearing my clerical suit and a dog collar, but he was in mufti rather a good dark suit, which made him look slimmer than he was, and a striped tie. He was shorter than me but much broader, and he gave the impression of never walking when he could trot. This evening, everything about him sparkled, from his black shoes to his fair hair. Aftershave wafted out to meet me.
David! He clapped me on the shoulder and drew me into the house. Good to see you. Come and meet the others.
The hall was full of flowers and smelled strongly of polish. Ronald led me into the drawing room, which was at the back of the house. It was a warm evening. The French windows were open and a knot of people was standing on the terrace beyond.
Cynthia Trask came forward to greet me. She was square and trim, like her brother, and she wore a severe blue dress like a uniform. While Ronald fetched me a glass of sherry, she steered me towards the other guests.
I knew one of the couples Victor and Mary Thurston. Thurston had made a great deal of money selling cabin cruisers for use on the river, and now he and his wife served the community as they liked to put it, which meant sitting on a variety of committees; she preferred philanthropic causes and he concentrated on political ones. Thurston was a councillor and, now he was on the Planning Committee, wielded considerable power.
I had not met the other couple before they turned out to be the headmaster of one of the local grammar schools and his wife; she was one of Ronalds churchwardens.
The first thing I noticed about the fifth guest was her hair, which was curly and the colour of glossy chestnuts. As she turned towards me, the evening sun swung behind her, giving her head a nimbus of flame. She was wearing a long dress of thin cotton, with full sleeves and a ruffled neck. For an instant, the setting sun made her dress almost transparent. Her body darkened. I saw the inside of her legs up to her crotch. The dress might as well have been invisible.
Here we are, David. Ronald was at my elbow with a glass of sherry. Vanessa, I dont think you know David Byfield. David, this is Vanessa Forde.
We shook hands. I was momentarily unnerved by the sudden lust I felt. This was a familiar problem. Over the years I had learned to ride the feeling as a surfer rides a wave, until its force diminished. One way to avoid wallowing in sensation was to concentrate on observation. In a few seconds I had noticed that Vanessa had a pleasant face, attractive rather than beautiful, with a high colour and curving nose.
Let me get you another drink. Ronald snatched the empty glass from Vanessas hand. Gin and lemon?
She nodded, smiling. Ronald darted towards the drinks trolley, which was just inside the drawing room. There was something very boyish about him that evening. At times I glimpsed the adolescent he must once have been; and if I am honest, I should add that I preferred what I glimpsed to the senior churchman he had now become.
I offered Vanessa a cigarette. She accepted, bending forward to receive a light. I saw that she wore a wedding ring. For an instant, I smelt her perfume. It reminded me of one my wife used to wear. We spoke simultaneously, diving into the conversation like swimmers at the start of a race.