The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) by William Brodrick Read Free Book Online

terminal. Five months later, she died at home … on her birthday.’
    Mitch grimaced. ‘So that’s why he snapped.’
    ‘So it seems, though – curiously – not straight away. He returned to the classroom and the studio and then, two years later and out of the blue, he almost killed a boy who wouldn’t look in the other direction.’
    Her Honour Judge Moreland had ordered the preparation of presentence reports from a psychologist, a doctor and a social worker. All of them maintained that the only explanation for the defendant’s behaviour was the tragedy that had engulfed both him and his family. But Peter Henderson himself had refused to endorse the conclusion. He’d refused to cooperate with the court’s attempt to find a meaning for his outburst of violence, maintaining a studied silence on all questions of importance. He’d simply wanted to be sentenced for what he’d done without reference to any mitigating factors.
    ‘His most vocal supporter was Emma Goodwin, Jennifer’s mother,’ said Anselm, selecting a cutting from a veterinary surgeon’s website. ‘She spoke to the experts and eventually to the court. She appeared frequently on the television, in the papers and on the radio. Sympathetic to the victim, she nonetheless stressed the extraordinary pressures to which Peter had been subjected, emphasising his contribution to the thinking life of the country, his dedication to her daughter and his devotion to their only child.’
    Having added the portrait to the others on the noticeboard, Anselm paused to consider the picture. She had a sympathetic face, with the fine bones of her daughter. She had the same smooth forehead, too, and the deep-set eyes. Being imaginative, Anselm saw not an animal doctor but a choreographer, one of those artists of the human body who know how to move people around; how to get them into position, making it look completely natural. She’d been adroit with the press and the court. No doubt she’d nudged others around, too. Cutting short this interesting but irrelevant meditation, he turned to Mitch and said:
    ‘A quieter presence was Emma’s husband and Jennifer’s father, Michael Goodwin. Couldn’t find a decent photograph anywhere. He’s always got his head down. A broken soul, I suspect. Grief’s like that. Hits people in very different ways. Emma became energetic whereas Michael sank deep into sadness. The most he could do was hold his wife’s hand while she spoke for Peter and pleaded for mercy.’
    Mitch made another grimace. ‘But he nearly killed a child.’
    ‘Judge Moreland’s observation before she sent him to prison.’
    The presentation over, Anselm sat down and helped himself to cold coffee. But then, being a man who liked to put things in perspective, he said, ‘There was a memorial service for Jennifer in Polstead, a pretty village near Ipswich. Do you know it? Famous for its cherries … Polstead Blacks.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Famous, too, for the Red Barn Murder of eighteen twenty-seven.’
    ‘Never heard of it.’
    Anselm gave the soft tut of a disappointed local historian. ‘A young girl eloped with her tomcat boyfriend,’ he explained, patiently. ‘Or so it was thought. But the stepmother – another tenacious woman; another Emma Goodwin – dreamed that the girl had been killed and buried in a grain storage bin at the rear of a barn. So the dad – a quiet molecatcher – took his spade and went to have a look, and sure enough, he found his daughter’s body. The authorities tracked down the missing lover, tried him and hung him from the gallows in Bury St Edmunds. Used his skin to bind the court proceedings. Scalped him, too, and left his body to a dissecting class from Cambridge. All of which is by the by, save to say that a murder can be solved even when there’s not a trace of evidence on the table. All it takes is someone who can dream about the truth.’
    Mitch watched Anselm expectantly, glancing occasionally at the photographs on the