The Stranger House. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
Cherry Ripes in there. She’d been incredulous when Martie, whose gorgeous looks had earned her more air miles than most Qantas pilots by the time she left uni, had told her you couldn’t get them outside of Oz. Life without a daily injection of this cherry-and-coconut mix in its dark chocolate wrapping had seemed impossible and she’d stuffed a month’s supply into her flight bag. Unfortunately the ravages of Heathrow Customs had been followed by the rapine of the Aussie friends she’d stayed with in London, and now she was down to her last three. She slipped two of them into her bumbag, one to eat on her walk to the church, one for emergencies.
Then she took one of them out and replaced it in the compartment.
Knowing yourself was the beginning of wisdom, and she had still to find a way of not consuming every bit of chocolate available once she started.
The landlady had followed her to the front door. In case she’d noticed the business with the Cherry Ripes, Sam held up the cob and nibbled appreciatively at one of the dangling skirts of ham. Then with the Illthwaite Guide tucked under one arm, she set off along the road.
Mrs Appledore stood and watched her guest out of sight, then turned and went back into the Stranger House, slipping the bolt into the door behind her. In her kitchen she lifted the telephone and dialled. After three rings, it was answered.
‘Thor, it’s Edie,’ she said. ‘Something weird. I’ve got a lass staying here, funny little thing, would pass for a squirrel if you glimpsed her in the wood, skin brown as a nut, hair red as rowan berries. Looks about twelve, but from her passport she’s early twenties…Don’t interrupt, I’m coming to the point. Her name’s Sam Flood…That’s right. Sam for Samantha Flood, it’s in her passport. She’s from Australia, got an accent you could scratch glass with, and she thinks her grandmother might have come from these parts…1960, spring…Yes, ‘60, so it’s got to be just coincidence, but I thought I’d mention it. She’s off up to the church to see if there’s any records…Yes, I’ll be there, but not till he’s well screwed down. I’ll take your word the little bugger’s dead!’
Sam Flood and Miguel Madero saw each other for the first time in a motorway service café to the west of Manchester but neither would ever recall the encounter.
Sam was sitting at a table with a double espresso and a chocolate muffin which was far too sweet but she ate it anyway. She glanced up to see Madero passing with a cappuccino and a cream doughnut. Though he wore no clerical collar, there was something about him—his black clothing, the ascetic thinness of his face—which put her in mind of a Catholic priest, and she looked away. For his part all he registered was an unaccompanied child whose exuberance of red hair could have done with a visit to the barber, but most of his attention was focused on maintaining the delicate relationship between an unreliable left knee and an overfull cup of coffee.
She left five minutes before he did and they spent the next hour only a couple of miles apart in heavy traffic. Then a van blew a tyre a hundred yards behind her and spun into a truck. Miraculously no one was seriously hurt, but as Sam’s Focus sped merrily north, Madero and his Mercedes SLK fumed gently in the accident’s tailback.
From having time to spare for his two o’clock appointment in Kendal, he was already half an hour late as he reached the town’s southern approaches.
On the map Kendal looked to be a quiet little market town on the eastern edge of the English Lake District, but there seemed to be some local law requiring all traffic in Cumbria to pass along its main street, which meant it was after three when he drew up before the chambers of Messrs Tenderley, Gray, Groyne, and Southwell, solicitors.
Knowing how highly lawyers price their time, he was full of apology as he was shown into the office of Andrew Southwell.
‘Not at all, not at all, think nothing of it,’ said Southwell, a small round man in his early thirties who pumped his hand with painful enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Dr Coldstream speaks very warmly of you. Very warmly indeed.’
‘And of you too,’ said Madero.
In fact what Max Coldstream had said when he mentioned Kendal was, ‘You’re in luck there, Mig. Chap called Southwell, Kendal solicitor, and mad keen local historian. OK, so he’s an amateur, but that can be an advantage. Professional historians on the whole are a deceitful, distrusting, conniving and secretive bunch of bastards who would direct a blind man up a blind alley rather than risk giving him an advantage. Enthusiastic amateurs on the other hand may lack scholarship but they often have bucketloads of information which they are eager to share. Painfully eager, if you’re in a hurry!’
It only took a couple of minutes for Madero to appreciate Coldstream’s warning.
‘That’s fascinating, Mr Southwell,’ he said, interrupting a potted history of the chambers building. ‘Now, you will recall from my letter I’m on my way to talk to the Woollass family of Illthwaite Hall in connection with my thesis on the personal experience of English Catholics during the Reformation. By chance I came across a reference to a Jesuit priest, Father Simeon Woollass, the son of a cadet branch of the family residing here in Kendal. I thought it might be worth diverting to see what I could find out about him. A priest in the family must have made the problems of recusancy even greater, as perhaps your researches have already discovered.’
This was the right trigger to pull.
Southwell nodded vigorously and said, ‘How very true, Mr Madero. But I know you chaps, hands-on whenever possible, so let’s take a walk and see what we can find.’
Next moment Madero found himself being whizzed down the stairs, past the receptionist who desperately shouted something about not forgetting the partners’ meeting, and out into the damp afternoon air, where he was taken on a whirlwind tour.
‘It’s curious,’ said Southwell as they raced from the library to the church. ‘What really got me interested in Father Simeon wasn’t you, but this other researcher who was asking questions, must be ten years ago now. Irish chap, name of Molloy. Poor fellow.’
‘I don’t recognize the name. Did he publish? And why do you say “poor fellow”?’
‘He did a few things, pop articles mainly. Not a serious scholar like you, more of a journalist. But nothing on Father Simeon. Never had the chance really. He was something of a rock climber, took the chance to do a bit while he was up here, by himself, very silly, and he had this terrible accident…are you all right, Mr Madero?’
‘Yes, fine,’ lied Mig. Twinges in his still unreliable left knee he was used to, but the other injuries he’d suffered in his own fall rarely troubled him now. This lightning jag of pain across his head and down his spine had to be some kind of sympathetic echo. In fact during his own fall he couldn’t even remember the pain of contact…
‘You sure?’ said Southwell.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mig impatiently as the pain faded. ‘And he was killed, was he?’
‘Died as the Mountain Rescue carried him back. He wasn’t so much interested in the background as in what happened when Father Simeon got captured. The book he was writing was actually about Richard Topcliffe—you know about him, of course?’
‘Elizabeth’s chief priest-hunter, homo sordidissimus. Oh yes, I know about him.’
‘Well, it was Topcliffe’s northern agent, Francis Tyrwhitt, who captured Simeon and took him off to Jolley Castle near Leeds to be interrogated. That was Molloy’s main interest, torture, that kind of stuff. Ah, here’s the church. Note the Victorian porch.’
It was clear that, despite his conviction that academics preferred to do their own research, Southwell had already dug up everything there was to dig up about Simeon and recorded it in the folder he carried. Madero was tempted but too polite to suggest that a lot of time could be saved if he simply