The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (6 page)

Chapter 9

Ruth doesn’t open the letters until Kate has gone to bed. She feels that they need her full concentration and that’s impossible with Kate organising her Sylvanians into Hogwarts houses and insisting that every one of her bath toys takes to the water. There’s another reason too. She looks at the letters on her desk: brown envelopes (bad sign), addresses in capitals (ditto), and their appearance of having been read and reread several times. She’s reluctant to open them and let the nastiness out. Cathbad would say that it was about bad energy. He would have recommended lighting candles and drawing up a circle of protection, but Ruth takes her own precautions by pouring herself a large glass of red wine and putting on a Bruce Springsteen CD.

Dear Doctor Smithson,

I won’t call you Reverend because, as I will elaborate in this letter, you do not deserve the title. I am prepared to call you Doctor because this title you have earned without fear or favour. But I will never accept your right to call yourself a priest. ‘Man and Woman Created He Them’ (Genesis 1:27). Men and women are different, Doctor Smithson. Not better or worse. Different. I am not a misogynist, as you women academics would have me. I simply believe that men and women have different tasks in the world. Women have the privilege of bearing children. Men are the appointed protectors of the family. And Jesus appointed men to be the protectors of his church. Yes, all the disciples were men and to these men was given the gift of the Holy Spirit and the task of spreading the word of God. You and your fellow harpies are bringing this holy church into disgrace. It is obscene to see a woman on the altar, her hands on the Blessed Chalice. Our Blessed Lord said, ‘Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father’ (John 14:9). Priests are in His image. The Father, not the Mother. The imagery of the scriptures is entirely masculine. A male priest symbolises the power, the masterfulness, of our Saviour. In the church, as in the family, the man has the authority, the guardianship, the duty of care. A women’s sphere is motherhood and domesticity, not arguing from a pulpit. ‘I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man’ (1 Timothy 2:12). I will pray for you.

There’s no signature.

Flint jumps on to the table and tries to sit on the letters. Ruth moves him gently. In the background Bruce Springsteen sings about a wreck on the highway. She thinks about the letter-writer. Is he a priest? A theologian? The painstaking biblical notations certainly seem like the work of someone with biblical knowledge, or at least someone who wants to seem learned. Maybe he’s a thwarted academic? The reference to ‘you women academics’ sounds bitter and personal. Maybe he has been passed over for promotion by a woman. Ruth takes a sheet of paper and starts noting the biblical references. The Genesis quotation sounds as if it comes from an old translation. The writer is obviously the sort of person who likes archaic syntax. She’s willing to bet that he’s a Tolkien fan. Is the writer definitely a man? It’s certainly someone who believes that men should have ‘authority’ over women, but plenty of women believe that too. Ruth has heard similar arguments in her parents’ church, all about what a relief it is to have someone to make all the decisions, it’s so
peaceful
. Well, so is a prison cell peaceful, after a fashion. And isn’t there something of the submissive woman about the emphasis on God’s ‘masterfulness’? Not that Ruth knows any submissive women. She’s proud to say that she hasn’t even read
Fifty Shades of Grey
.

The letters aren’t dated, but someone (Hilary presumably) has written the date they were received on the envelopes. The next two letters are sent a few months apart and more or less reprise the arguments of the first: the disciples were men, God is a man, men and women are different. With the fourth letter there is a distinct change of tone. According to the note on the envelope this letter was received on the first of November. Kate’s birthday. All Saints’ Day.

Dear Doctor Smithson,

You haven’t replied to my letters. [Difficult to do, thinks Ruth, when there’s no return address.] I fear you are mired in sin and in the wrongness of your ways. Do you follow the True Cross? ‘I warn you, repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is near at hand’ (Matthew 4:12). ‘He will put the sheep on his right hand and the goats on his left’ (Matthew 25:33). You and your fellow she-devils are the goats, make no mistake about that. ‘The Son of Man will send forth His angels, and they will gather out of His kingdom all stumbling blocks, and those who commit lawlessness, and will throw them into the furnace of fire; in that place there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth’ (Matthew 13:42).

The last letter was received on 27th December, which probably meant that it had been sent just before Christmas. The writer had obviously decided on a new salutation.

Dear Jezebel,

They dug in Walsingham but they did not find the True Treasure. Nor will you find the Truth there. You may have borne a child (O sacrilege that anyone calling themselves a priest should do so!), but you have not suckled from the Virgin’s breast. She stands before you, clad in blue, weeping for the world.

Weep
, weep, O Walsingham,

Whose dayes are nights,

Blessings turned to blasphemies,

Holy deeds to despites.

Sinne is where our Ladye sate,

Heaven turned is to helle;

Satan sitthe where our Lord did swaye,

Walsingham, O farewell
!

Beware, Doctor Smithson, for the Lord knows your ways and His eye follows you wherever you go.

Yours in Christ—

Ruth Googles Jezebel and learns that she was the wife of Ahab, who encouraged him to worship false gods. Her punishment was to be eaten alive by dogs. Ruth takes a thoughtful sip of wine. Bruce is still singing about driving and highways and the treacherous lure of his home town. Flint purrs loudly, wanting to be noticed, and Ruth strokes him with her spare hand. She can see why these last letters so disturbed Hilary. There are the threats of hellfire and damnation, but, worse still, the mention of her child and the implication that the letter-writer, as well as the Lord, will be watching Hilary wherever she goes. And the letter-writer knows that Hilary will be in Walsingham. Well, maybe that’s not too difficult to find out. Presumably Hilary is listed as attending the conference on preparing for bishopness, or whatever it’s called. The phrase ‘They dug in Walsingham’ is interesting. Hilary thought it referred to an archaeological dig, and Ruth knows that there were some excavations in the sixties. She must look them up.

She looks at her list.

Biblical

‘Man and woman created He them’ (Genesis 1:27)

‘Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father’ (John 14:9)

‘I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man’ (1 Timothy 2:12)

Jezebel

‘Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is near at hand’ (Matthew 4:22)

‘He will put the sheep on his right hand and the goats on his left’ (Matthew 25:33)

‘The Son of Man will send forth His angels . . .’ (Matthew 13:42)

Historical

The True Cross

‘Weep, weep, O Walsingham’ (Where is this from?)

Archaeology

They dug at Walsingham.

She remembers making a similar list, years ago, on the case where she first met Nelson. The thought of that case, and the places where it led, makes her feel suddenly uneasy. She has been sitting by the window. Outside all is blackness, but she knows the marshes are there, with their secret paths and treacherous waterways, miles of grassland and sand leading to the sea. Ruth gets up and pulls the curtains. Flint jumps off the table with a thud. Ruth switches on the television, wanting the noise and distraction. It’s the ten o’clock news. She had promised to ring Nelson when she’d read the letters, but is it too late now? She decides it is; besides, she never likes ringing him at home.

But, just as she settles down in front of the TV, he rings her.

‘Ruth. Have you read the letters?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you were going to ring me.’

‘I was, but then it seemed a bit late . . .’

‘Bollocks. It’s not late. Michelle’s still out at her book group.’ (Why tell me that? thinks Ruth. But she’s interested, nonetheless. Michelle has never struck her as much of a reader.) ‘Anyhow, is there anything in the letters? Have we got another madman on our hands?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth, ‘but they certainly read like the work of someone disturbed. What sort of person sends anonymous letters in the first place? And there’s lots of stuff about death, judgement and hell. Plus a nasty reference to Hilary and her child.’

Nelson is silent for a moment. Ruth thinks she can hear him thinking. ‘Can you bring them in to the station tomorrow?’ he asks. ‘They sound like they’re worth looking into. Anything else?’

‘I’ve made a list.’

‘Good girl.’

Ruth hates being called a girl, but she can’t help smiling. A love of lists is one of the few things she and Nelson have in common.

‘The letter-writer obviously has a real problem with women,’ she says.

‘Haven’t we all?’ says Nelson.

‘He’s even worse than you. Actually, I’m not even sure it is a man.’

‘A female woman-hater?’

‘They do exist, believe me.’

There’s another silence and then Nelson says, ‘Tim’s leaving.’

‘What?’

‘Tim says he wants a transfer. He wants to go back to Essex.’

‘Because of what happened before Christmas? The shooting and everything?’

‘I asked him that. He just says it’s time to move on. I’ve said he should take some more time to think about it. I’ve even offered him counselling.’

Nelson sounds aggrieved. Ruth knows that it will have cost him a lot even to say the word ‘counselling’.

‘You’ll miss him,’ she says.

But Nelson seems to regret confiding in her. ‘Plenty more police officers where he came from,’ he says, before ringing off with a brusque injunction not to forget the letters tomorrow.

Ruth stares unseeingly at the news for a few minutes, then she gets up and pours herself another glass of wine. She feels unsettled and not just by the letters. Last year, before Christmas, she saw Michelle and Tim together in the car park of the sports club. They were locked in a passionate embrace, an image that somehow Ruth cannot delete from her mental inbox. Were they having an affair?
Are
they having an affair? Ruth doesn’t know, but, in the light of the car park kiss, Tim’s request for a transfer seems to make a kind of sense. He is removing himself from temptation and taking the threat to Nelson’s marriage away with him. So, although Nelson is obviously aggrieved at Tim’s defection, Ruth, as his friend, should be pleased for him. But is she?

Ruth takes a long drink of wine and considers whilst, on the television, the weather forecast promises sunny spells and warns of squally showers. Ruth wants Nelson to be happy, of course she does, and, much as she sometimes hates to admit it, for him happiness probably means a solid marriage and a home to which his daughters can return whenever they feel like a dose of family life. So, if Tim disappears into the wilds of Essex, the Nelson marriage is saved for the nation. The only problem is, when she saw Michelle and Tim together, Ruth – the loyal family friend – suddenly saw an image of herself married to Nelson and, much as she tries to press that delete button again, the idea has imprinted itself on her imagination. Does she want to be married to Nelson? On the face of it, no. Ruth has never wanted to be married to anyone. Once she shared this house with her boyfriend Peter, but, after Ruth ended the relationship, she vowed never to live with anyone again (except her cats). But then Kate came along and now she is knitted into the very fabric of Ruth’s life. A man would change (spoil) everything: giant shoes on the stairs, alien books on her shelves, a heavy body in her bed. This last image, she has to admit, is also slightly exciting.

But, even with Frank, though she did imagine living with him, she never thought of marriage. She considered him as a potential stepfather, not as a potential husband. Why then these shamefully retro thoughts of a white dress, a registry office (even in her fantasies she doesn’t go as far as a church) and Kate dressed up as a bridesmaid. Is it because of Kate? If Ruth married Nelson, then Kate could live with her actual father. Wouldn’t that be neat? No – as the seemingly endless local weather forecast continues (‘Areas of low pressure spreading eastwards’) – Ruth has to admit it. Somewhere, deep down, she is still in love with Nelson.

Warnings of thundery weather ahead.

Chapter 10

Ruth has agreed to meet Hilary in the abbey grounds at ten.

‘We can go for a walk and see the snowdrops,’ she had said.

‘Snowdrops?’ For the moment Ruth thought she was referring to some strange religious sect.

‘Flowers, Ruth.’ Hilary laughed, in that slightly patronising way that was becoming familiar all over again. ‘They’re famous. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen the snowdrops in February?’

‘Somehow the abbey’s not on my usual route.’

On her way to work Ruth drops the letters into King’s Lynn police station with a note for Nelson. The desk sergeant, a grey-haired man who looks like Captain Birdseye, greets her with alarming friendliness.

‘Hallo there, stranger. How are things?’

‘Fine. Thank you.’ She can’t remember the man’s name, but she knows that she has met him before. How come they are on ‘Hallo there, stranger’ terms? Does he just remember her as the archaeologist who helped on earlier cases, or is it something else? She never knows how much the other police officers know about her relationship with Nelson.

‘How’s your little girl?’

‘She’s fine. She’s five now.’

‘Five! I can’t believe it. She must be at school then.’

‘Yes. She’s in Reception.’

‘Where? At St Faith’s?’ He names a local private school.

‘No.’ She gives him a look. ‘At Bridge Street Primary.’

‘That’s a nice little school. My niece used to be a TA there.’

‘Yes, it’s a lovely school. Can you see that DCI Nelson gets this package?’

‘Will do. Shall I call him down? He’ll be starting the briefing in a minute.’

‘No. Don’t worry. If you could just give him the package . . .’

Ruth doesn’t think she could stand greeting Nelson in front of the sergeant’s benevolent grin. She doesn’t know what’s worse; him suspecting that Nelson is Kate’s father or him thinking that she would send her daughter to a private school.

*

It’s still early when she gets to the university. The corridors are deserted, but, when she gets to her office, she sees that Phil’s door is open. Her head of department is at his desk.

‘Have you got a minute, Phil?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Phil looks surprised, but immediately composes his face. Maybe he’s hoping that she’s come to resign.

‘It’s about the 1961 Walsingham excavation.’

‘Rather before my time, Ruth.’

‘I know that,’ says Ruth patiently. ‘I was wondering if you knew where the finds are. Would they be at the museum?’

‘I suppose so. There was a rather beautiful figure of Mercury, I remember, and a bust of a strange three-horned god. But the rest was just the usual medieval pilgrim relics. Pilgrim badges and ampullae for carrying oil and holy water. That sort of thing.’

‘Is there a write-up somewhere?’

‘There’ll be a list of finds at the museum, I suppose. Why this sudden interest in Walsingham, Ruth? Not getting religious in your old age, are you?’

‘No, a friend of mine was looking at funding for a dig.’ Ruth is pretty sure that Phil won’t bother to check this story. Besides, if there was any funding going, he would have devoured it years ago.

‘I doubt they’ll get an English Heritage grant,’ he says. ‘Anything good has been excavated years ago. They think they found the site of the original holy house, but, as it was made of wood, there was nothing much left. You did a dig near Walsingham a few years ago, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. Phil was meant to be involved too, she remembers, but he had left for a coffee break on the first morning and never reappeared. ‘We were hoping to find the site of the original pagan shrine, but it was rather disappointing. The land had been really broken up by ploughing. All we found were some coins, a few pottery shards and some glass.’

Phil is busy straightening the objects on his desk: stapler, hole-punch, pens in a British Museum mug, stone paperweight. His in-tray contains just one sheet of university-headed paper. How the hell has he managed that? Ruth’s in-tray regularly overflows onto the floor.

‘There was one interesting find,’ he says. ‘A sort of cross-shaped reliquary. The chaps at UCL thought that it might have been made to hold a fragment of the True Cross.’

‘The True Cross?’ Wasn’t there a reference to the True Cross in the letters? Ruth tries to remember.

‘Yes. It’s one of those crazy religious things. You know, as if Christ’s cross managed to find its way to medieval Norfolk. But they believed anything in those days.’

Phil always sounds as if bygone generations were a completely different species. In Ruth’s opinion, humans haven’t really changed that much. We’re just as credulous now, she thinks, except about different things.

‘I’ll let my friend know,’ she says, standing up. ‘Maybe she should visit the museum and see what they’ve got there.’

‘There’s no money in medieval relics these days,’ says Phil, straightening the single sheet of paper. ‘It’s all about dead kings. I blame Richard the Third.’

*

Ruth hadn’t really been expecting much from the snowdrops but, when she and Hilary walk through the gates, she actually catches her breath in wonder. Nothing much is left of the priory at Walsingham, just the arch and a few free-standing walls. But stretched out between them is a carpet of white, as if the church has risen again in all its finery. Trees rise up like organ pipes and, far above them, a skylark is singing.

‘It’s amazing,’ says Ruth. ‘Is there still an abbey here?’

‘The Prior’s lodging was converted into a private house which is now called The Abbey,’ says Hilary, ‘but the medieval priory was destroyed. This is all that remains of it. There was a friary too, you can see the remains of that behind St Simeon’s Church. I can’t believe you’ve lived in Norfolk seventeen years and never been here.’

‘I’m not religious,’ says Ruth. ‘You must remember that about me.’

Hilary laughs and takes her arm. Ruth stiffens. She’s not keen on people holding on to her. Apart from Kate, who doesn’t count, she can’t remember the last time she held another person’s hand. Maybe it was Max, an archaeologist with whom she had a brief relationship a few years ago. Max liked holding hands, going out for meals, watching television together; all the coupley things. Maybe that was why Ruth had ended the relationship. She just couldn’t act the part convincingly. It feels odd, having to adjust your pace to someone else’s. As soon as possible, she stops and disentangles herself.

‘This must be where the original holy house stood,’ she says.

There’s a wooden sign saying: ‘Site of the 11th-century, Anglo-Saxon shrine of the holy house of Nazareth (excavated 1961)’. But, of the original structure, there’s no trace at all, just smooth grass studded with white flowers. The only marker is a small cross fixed into the ground.

‘Did you look up the 1961 excavation?’ asks Hilary. It’s the first time either of them has mentioned the letters, even obliquely.

‘I talked to my head of department this morning,’ says Ruth. ‘He said there are some finds at the museum, a figure of Mercury, for example. You know that they think Walsingham was once a shrine to Mercury?’

Hilary ignores this information about Walsingham’s pagan past. ‘I went to a talk at King’s Lynn Museum once,’ she says. ‘They have quite a lot of artefacts there, mostly medieval, but a few Roman ones too.’

‘Yes. Phil mentioned some pilgrim badges and ampullae. I took part in a dig near Walsingham a few years ago and we found some Roman coins and pottery. But it was pretty disappointing on the whole. My boss did mention something interesting, though.’

‘What?’ Hilary takes her arm again.

‘It was a cross-shaped reliquary. The experts thought it might have been made to hold a fragment of the True Cross.’

‘The True Cross,’ repeats Hilary, dropping Ruth’s arm. ‘“Do you follow the True Cross?” That’s what the letter-writer said.’

‘Do you know what that could have meant?’

‘Well, there’s meant to be a relic of the True Cross at the Anglican shrine.’

‘Do they really believe that it’s
the
cross?’ asks Ruth. ‘The one Jesus died on?’

‘You sound very doubting,’ says Hilary.

‘Well, it’s not very likely, is it? What’s the provenance?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ says Hilary. ‘What matters is that people believe that it was the True Cross. Do you see?’

‘Not really,’ says Ruth. They carry on walking, across the grass pitted with the remains of walls and odd flat squares of ground where fragments of paving can be seen. Eventually they reach parkland and a picturesque bridge over a fast-flowing river. They stand on the bridge, watching the water rushing between the grassy banks. It’s a beautiful day, bright but cold, the sky high and palest blue. Ruth says, ‘The letter-writer says: “They dug in Walsingham but they did not find the True Treasure”.’ She had read the letters again after her discussion with Phil. ‘What do you think he meant?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it was a reference to the Holy Spirit, the true treasure in men’s hearts. That sort of thing.’

‘Men’s hearts,’ says Ruth. ‘Not women’s.’

Hilary sighs, lifting up her face to the sun. Her hair gleams almost white, but otherwise she looks ageless, her skin unlined and her eyes clear.

‘It’s very wearing,’ she says. ‘How much some people hate us.’

‘Why do you carry on then?’ says Ruth. ‘Why not do a job where people don’t hate you just for being a woman?’

Hilary gives Ruth her sibylline stare, eyes wide and haunted. ‘Because God’s love is for everyone. We’re all made in God’s image, not just men. Besides there aren’t enough priests to go round. Without women, the priesthood would die out.’

Ruth doesn’t really see why that’s a bad thing, but she doesn’t voice this thought. Instead she says, ‘What about the other women on your course? Have any of them received letters?’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Hilary. ‘I haven’t asked, though.’

‘It’s just, if they have, it might prove that the link’s Walsingham, rather than you.’

‘That’s true.’ Hilary gives her a more considering look, the sort of look that she used to give Erik in lectures. ‘But I was getting letters before I even booked to come on this course.’

Ruth thinks that Hilary sounds slightly reluctant to consider that she might not be the letter-writer’s only target.

‘It might be worth asking them all the same,’ she says.

‘You sound like a detective,’ says Hilary. ‘Have you spoken to your policeman friend about the letters?’

‘He’s not . . .’ begins Ruth and then she stops. How can she possibly explain her relationship with Nelson to Hilary? ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I dropped the letters into the police station this morning. You said I could,’ she adds, as she thinks that Hilary looks slightly annoyed.

‘Yes, I know. I’m very grateful.’

‘You said you’d talk to him too. About being threatened.’

‘Do you think the letters are anything to worry about?’ asks Hilary. ‘Or is it just some nutcase with a grudge against women priests?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s probably nothing, but there was a nasty tone to the later letters. The mention of your child, for one thing.’

‘I’m not scared,’ says Hilary. ‘I have complete trust in God. Plus –’ she grins suddenly – ‘I have a black belt in taekwondo.’

‘I’m impressed,’ says Ruth. ‘Shall we go and get a cup of tea? I’ve got about half an hour before I have to get back to work.’

‘Good idea,’ says Hilary. They walk quickly back through the grounds, passing an almost complete section of the priory, a chamber with four walls, windows and a door, although with a roof open to the skies.

‘They say this was the crypt,’ says Hilary, pointing to a sign set into the grass, ‘but I don’t think it was. There are the remains of a vaulted ceiling and there’s a fireplace too.’

‘It must have been a magnificent place,’ says Ruth. The grounds are filling up. A flock of nuns passes by, excited as schoolgirls, their veils flying in the wind. They pass a walled garden with gardeners at work on the flowerbeds. Ruth points out silvery shapes in the newly turned soil. ‘Oyster shells. Those monks lived well.’

‘Yes,’ says Hilary. ‘There are all sorts of tales about riotous living at the priory in the old days. There was a report in 1514 that mentions the “scandalous life of the monks”. Mind you, this priory wasn’t suppressed until 1538, two years after the dissolution of the monasteries. I think that’s because the abbot was very quick to swear allegiance to Henry the Eighth.’

Ruth supposes that Hilary, as a good Protestant, would approve of the suppression. She has mixed feelings herself. She’s no fan of monks and nuns, but she always thinks there’s something grand, something illogically heroic, about the pre-Reformation Church. And didn’t the monks look after the poor, too, as well as feasting on oysters?

‘The verse in the last letter,’ says Hilary, ‘it was part of an anonymous sixteenth-century ballad lamenting the dissolution of the monasteries. I was wondering if it meant that the writer was a Catholic.’

‘I thought the same thing,’ says Ruth. ‘There’s a lot about the Virgin Mary too. That suggests Catholicism.’

Hilary laughs and waves her hand, encompassing the white lawns, the ruined priory, the blue sky above. ‘Look at all this. It’s a shrine to the Virgin Mary and both Catholics and Anglicans come here. England has always had a special devotion to Mary. That’s why it was called “Mary’s dowry”.’

Ruth doesn’t like Hilary’s tone, which she thinks is both patronising and unpleasantly fervid. ‘There’s a lot of scripture quoting in the letters, though,’ she says. ‘That’s not a particularly Catholic thing. Or am I wrong about that too?’

Hilary takes her arm again and squeezes it in apology. ‘No, you’re absolutely right. It’s a bit different now, but Catholics used not to be encouraged to read the scriptures. And some Catholics – and some Anglo-Catholics for that matter – would still like the Bible to be in Latin, as if Martin Luther had never existed.’

If he had never existed, thinks Ruth, would this priory still be standing, its vaulted roof in place? But maybe it’s more beautiful this way, the building becoming landscape, its aisle and nave filled with snowdrops. Gently, she disengages her arm from Hilary’s.