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

as if it was a touch too bitter. ‘Doctors can be fooled, you know. There are some pretty weird herbs in an English country garden.’
    ‘And they all leave weird signs on a body.’
    Mitch didn’t seem impressed, but he moved on. ‘If he killed his wife, why throw the brick?’
    ‘That’s the key question. The experts only gave half the answer because they only knew half the facts.’
    ‘You have something to add?’
    ‘Yes. In my line of work, one gets to recognise … the signs … though, interestingly enough, you come out of it strangely unmarked.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Guilt. I’m not talking about the shame stoked up during infancy by your parents, that unhinged priest or the culture you’re born into, I mean the primitive reaction to what we do; that turning in the stomach … it’s impossible to avoid.’ Anselm drank some beer. ‘Peter Henderson was accused on air of having no conscience. He walked out of the studio. And then he found himself trapped. All he could do was look around. And what did he see?’
    ‘A kid with nerve.’
    ‘No, Mitch,’ replied Anselm, confidently. ‘He saw himself.’
    ‘Come again?’
    ‘A window is like a mirror. It is unforgiving. Peter Henderson was staring at the man who’d killed his wife. That’s why he reached for the brick. He couldn’t take the shattering simplicity of self-accusation.’ Anselm came closer to the table. ‘It’s why I don’t think the writer of the letter is mistaken. The allegation of murder is the only compelling explanation for Peter Henderson’s behaviour. That’s why he rejected any mercy from the court. He wants to pay because he knows he’s guilty … only he can’t own up. The price is too great. How do you explain yourself to your son?’
    Mitch nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you’ve all but wrapped it up, then. Two years ago Jennifer Henderson is murdered by her apparently loving husband, assisted by a compliant doctor. All you need to do is find out how and why, and that will give you the evidence, and the evidence will give you proof of the crime.’
    Anselm returned the nod, noting – uncomfortably – that Mitch’s summary had a slight jingle about it, as if the configuration of data had been ever so slightly predictable. The Prior seemed to appear at Anselm’s shoulder, congratulating him once more on failing to appreciate why the important is important.
    ‘Would you like me to improvise with the facts?’ offered Mitch, sympathetically.
    Anselm didn’t. ‘Please do,’ he said, warmly.
    Mitch picked up the letter and read it once more as if to make sure of where he was going. Then, placing it to one side, he said: ‘I see the plan for a second murder.’

8
    It was almost midday. Time for a pint before lunch. Only Michael had no appetite. He walked along Southwold beach close to the daisy chain of small, wooden beach huts. They were brightly coloured, the paint fresh or peeling, the aggression of the sea air seeming not to tolerate any intermediate state of decline. The wind pulled at Michael’s hair and lifted the flanks of his overcoat. He was rehearsing – yet again – his encounter with the proud trader.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    Michael stared at the kindly old man, unable to respond.
    ‘You can have some of these tomatoes, if you like. Half price. Local produce. No chemicals.’
    He wore a cloth cap the colour of heather in bloom. It threw a mauve shadow over his face from the fluorescent strip lighting in the middle of the ceiling. But Michael could still see his eyes. They were brown with green specks. His life wasn’t passing across them. Just a faint hope that he might sell some of the veg that were losing their sheen.
    ‘They’re fruit, not vegetables. Did you know that?’ He smiled as he’d smiled long ago. ‘Everyone thinks that tomatoes are vegetables. I put them with the fruit and everyone tells me I’m losing my marbles. But I’m sharper than they are. Tomatoes. They belong to the nightshade