arguably better than in the wards.
She went through the line and got a pot of lapsang, which she reckoned would keep her going for the remainder of the afternoon, and after a momentary hesitation she added a packet of shortbread biscuits to her tray, telling herself that her blood sugar could do with a boost.
Everyone seemed to have decided that it was time for tea, and the cafe was crowded. Frances would have preferred a table on her own—she felt she’d earned a few minutes of solitude—but was willing to settle for an unoccupied chair. She spotted one and made her way to it, glancing at the man at the table for his consent to share, as protocol demanded. He was hunched over a cup of coffee, not looking at her, so she had to verbalise her request. ‘Do you mind?’ she said, inclining her head towards the empty chair.
The man looked up, and Frances nearly dropped her tray. It was Neville Stewart. Detective Inspector Neville Stewart, whose wedding she had witnessed less than a week ago.
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’
Frances blurted the first thing that came into her head. ‘But… but you’re on your honeymoon!’
‘Make that past tense.’ Neville lowered his head again and stared into his coffee cup. ‘The honeymoon’s over.’
Frances’ history with Neville Stewart was decidedly negative; she had first met him in a professional capacity— his profession, not hers. He had questioned her, suspected her, and eventually arrested her on suspicion of murder. Apart from that, he had made her friend Triona miserable, impregnating her and then deserting her. When he and Triona reconciled, Frances had tried to see the man’s good side, and had even served as Triona’s attendant at the wedding. But she remained unconvinced. In her mind, Neville Stewart was not a nice person, or someone she would voluntarily spend time with.
Here, though, was a man in distress. Not the confident, bullying Neville Stewart who had bombarded her with so many outrageous questions, nor the ebullient man who had married Triona last Saturday. This Neville Stewart looked beaten, broken, exhausted. His skin had a grey cast and his cheeks were unshaven; his eyes were bloodshot. Frances’ heart went out to him, as a fellow human being and as a priest.
Frances sat down and put her small hand over his. ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ she said quietly.
‘I’ve just come from the mortuary.’ Neville’s voice was shaking.
Callie parted from her brother after leaving the CD shop, the Karma album safely in her bag. She said goodbye to him with some reluctance; he had certainly cheered her up, as he almost always did, and she was feeling better about life in general and her situation at the vicarage in particular. ‘After all,’ he’d said airily, ‘you put up with having me under your roof for…it must have been a couple of weeks, at least. If you could survive that, Sis, a few weeks with a dragon of a vicar’s wife should be a piece of cake!’
And Jane wasn’t really a dragon, Callie told herself on the Tube back to Bayswater. She was a perfectly nice person who just didn’t happen to like Callie a great deal. That much was clear, even ifthe reasons for that antipathy were far from fathomable. Callie wasn’t the sort of person who could ask Jane outright why she didn’t like her, in spite of Peter’s counsels on the subject. ‘Just confront the old cow,’ he’d urged. ‘Ask her what her problem is. After all, it’s her problem, not yours.’
Callie knew she wouldn’t follow Peter’s advice, but she did stop at a corner shop and buy a box of chocolates for Jane: an appeasement for whatever sins she had unknowingly committed in her dealings with her.
She let herself in with the key she’d been issued and fixed a smile on her face—just in case—as she headed for the bottom of the stairs.
It was Brian who intercepted her, putting his head out of his study door, wearing a slightly anxious expression.
She went through the line and got a pot of lapsang, which she reckoned would keep her going for the remainder of the afternoon, and after a momentary hesitation she added a packet of shortbread biscuits to her tray, telling herself that her blood sugar could do with a boost.
Everyone seemed to have decided that it was time for tea, and the cafe was crowded. Frances would have preferred a table on her own—she felt she’d earned a few minutes of solitude—but was willing to settle for an unoccupied chair. She spotted one and made her way to it, glancing at the man at the table for his consent to share, as protocol demanded. He was hunched over a cup of coffee, not looking at her, so she had to verbalise her request. ‘Do you mind?’ she said, inclining her head towards the empty chair.
The man looked up, and Frances nearly dropped her tray. It was Neville Stewart. Detective Inspector Neville Stewart, whose wedding she had witnessed less than a week ago.
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’
Frances blurted the first thing that came into her head. ‘But… but you’re on your honeymoon!’
‘Make that past tense.’ Neville lowered his head again and stared into his coffee cup. ‘The honeymoon’s over.’
Frances’ history with Neville Stewart was decidedly negative; she had first met him in a professional capacity— his profession, not hers. He had questioned her, suspected her, and eventually arrested her on suspicion of murder. Apart from that, he had made her friend Triona miserable, impregnating her and then deserting her. When he and Triona reconciled, Frances had tried to see the man’s good side, and had even served as Triona’s attendant at the wedding. But she remained unconvinced. In her mind, Neville Stewart was not a nice person, or someone she would voluntarily spend time with.
Here, though, was a man in distress. Not the confident, bullying Neville Stewart who had bombarded her with so many outrageous questions, nor the ebullient man who had married Triona last Saturday. This Neville Stewart looked beaten, broken, exhausted. His skin had a grey cast and his cheeks were unshaven; his eyes were bloodshot. Frances’ heart went out to him, as a fellow human being and as a priest.
Frances sat down and put her small hand over his. ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ she said quietly.
‘I’ve just come from the mortuary.’ Neville’s voice was shaking.
Callie parted from her brother after leaving the CD shop, the Karma album safely in her bag. She said goodbye to him with some reluctance; he had certainly cheered her up, as he almost always did, and she was feeling better about life in general and her situation at the vicarage in particular. ‘After all,’ he’d said airily, ‘you put up with having me under your roof for…it must have been a couple of weeks, at least. If you could survive that, Sis, a few weeks with a dragon of a vicar’s wife should be a piece of cake!’
And Jane wasn’t really a dragon, Callie told herself on the Tube back to Bayswater. She was a perfectly nice person who just didn’t happen to like Callie a great deal. That much was clear, even ifthe reasons for that antipathy were far from fathomable. Callie wasn’t the sort of person who could ask Jane outright why she didn’t like her, in spite of Peter’s counsels on the subject. ‘Just confront the old cow,’ he’d urged. ‘Ask her what her problem is. After all, it’s her problem, not yours.’
Callie knew she wouldn’t follow Peter’s advice, but she did stop at a corner shop and buy a box of chocolates for Jane: an appeasement for whatever sins she had unknowingly committed in her dealings with her.
She let herself in with the key she’d been issued and fixed a smile on her face—just in case—as she headed for the bottom of the stairs.
It was Brian who intercepted her, putting his head out of his study door, wearing a slightly anxious expression.
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