Death Toll

8

The church stood on the corner of Whitefriars Street and Tope Street — a simple chapel of stark geometical lines with long narrow windows in green glass. On the brickwork was a sign — a silver fish, two sinuous lines, crossing once to leave an open tail, just like the brooch on Nora Tilden’s shroud but this one set above the door on which was a wooden panel, painted green, carrying the name.

THE FREE CHURCH OF CHRIST THE FISHERMAN

Shaw stopped, checked his tide watch and the mobile. He still had time before they were due to interview Nora Tilden’s daughter Lizzie at the Flask. He was haunted by an image of the graveside on that day in 1982 when the family would have come together: the small crowd of local mourners and the two black faces amongst them, members — according to Freddie Fletcher — of ‘the Free’.

Had one of them come to regret the decision to show respect, to claim a rightful place in that community? Times had changed in Lynn, the appearance of the east European migrant workers shifting popular prejudice away from the few black families in the town. But back then they would have been marked men: outsiders in a seafaring community renowned for its insularity. He wondered what Nora Tilden had felt about those black faces; she was a member of the ‘Elect’, in a church once dedicated to the emancipation of slaves.

But she also had a husband who’d left her to travel the world, finding comfort in the whorehouses of North Africa.

He heard footsteps and a figure walked out of the mist, as narrow as one of the chapel windows, the head held forward like a vulture’s. Valentine was wrapped in his raincoat, holding the lapels at his throat, a cigarette lit. Shaw noted he’d picked up a new charity sticker: BARNARDO’S, an orange sticky disc stuck over his heart.

‘Pub’s not open,’ he said.

‘George,’ said Shaw, nodding at the chapel. ‘Nora’s church. Some of them turned up at the graveside that day — and two of them were black.’ Low in the sky to the south the sun found a thin patch of mist and appeared as a disc, so that the two lines of the silver fish caught the light, like knives.

Valentine nodded, thinking of the wispy grey hair on Nora Tilden’s skull.

Shaw filled him in on the rest of his interview with Freddie Fletcher.

‘Suspect, then?’ asked Valentine.

‘Get Paul to organize a statement,’ said Shaw, avoiding a direct answer, surveying the chapel’s facade.

‘He’s not just a racist, is he?’ said Valentine. ‘He knows the grave’s open. And he knows whose job it is to fill it in. That’s opportunity, that is.’

‘I know,’ said Shaw, pushing open the door so that they could step into the porch, lined with bibles stacked on shelves. He thought that despite his apparently casual indifference Valentine had a rare gift for seeing the bigger picture, for rising above the detail. He was right in one key respect. In this crime, opportunity was everything. The killer had to have known that the grave was still open.

Shaw picked up one of the bibles, seeing the words without seeing the meaning. They’d been read, all of them, almost to destruction. Several had lost their spines while others were spilling pages that had come free. He thought of the hands that had held them over the years, either open to read or closed and pressed to the chest in prayer. The thought made him feel like a visitor in a foreign land.

A further door led into the chapel itself. It was a simple room with whitewashed walls. Shaw was immediately aware that, once inside, it seemed to be both lighter and colder than outside. He thought he could smell the sea in here, too, and the illusion suggested the walls might be made of salt. In the silence the air rang, and held within it the sound of the sea, as if they were in a giant shell.

They walked down the aisle, some of the wooden parquet blocks in the floor rattling under their feet.

‘Christ, it’s cold in here,’ said Valentine, rolling his shoulders. ‘What are they? Methodists? A sect?’ The last time Valentine had been in a church had been for his wife’s funeral at All Saints. It was whitewashed too, he recalled, and perhaps that was common in seagoing communities. The memory made him feel the guilt of the survivor.

Shaw turned to look back at a modest set of organ pipes set over the door by which they’d entered. ‘Music, at least,’ he said. ‘Rest of it’s a bit joyless.’

Set on either side of the pipes were two portraits in plain gold frames. To the right a man in a severe white wig, the face pinched, the cheeks slightly flushed. It was one of those rare images — Shaw guessed from the late eighteenth century — which actually looked like a human being, even if it was not a particularly attractive human being. The other portrait was of a black man: Caribbean black, with a fine red silk scarf at his throat. Shaw guessed he’d be in his twenties, perhaps thirty, the strong white teeth still intact, the skin tension taut, the eyes searching and intelligent. He couldn’t fail to see again the skull they’d found on Nora Tilden’s coffin. It too had once been clothed in a face like this.

‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Valentine, studying the picture, juggling a cigarette into his mouth.

‘He is Olaudah Equiano,’ said a voice behind them. Shaw jumped, despite himself, and Valentine coughed back an apology for the blasphemy, but the man was already laughing. ‘While you …?’

Shaw stepped forward, holding the warrant card at eye level. ‘DI Peter Shaw — DS Valentine. Just some routine inquiries.’ Shaw wondered if anyone, anywhere, believed that cliche any more.

‘It is a bit of a surprise — isn’t it?’ said the man, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Pastor Abney, John Abney. Just “John”.’

Shaw shook it, thinking the pastor was dressed like a travelling salesman, in a cheap suit with shiny black shoes. He looked like the kind of man who’d own a trouser press.

Abney studied the pictures. ‘This man,’ he said, opening a hand out to the portrait of the white man, as if offering a sugar lump to a horse. ‘This man is our founder — Webster Barents. Barents was a follower of Wesley until he decided to set up the church here. That was in 1778. He was a patron of the arts — especially poetry and narratives written by slaves and ex-slaves. It was all part of the movement — the great movement against the slave trade.’ As he said the word ‘great’ he raised his hands for emphasis. ‘Equiano wrote an autobiography in which he told the story of the Zong massacre — do you know this story?’

Valentine, tiring of the lecture, walked off, examining a list of the church’s previous pastors written in white on black wood. Shaw leant against a pew end, folding his arms across his chest.

Abney ploughed on. ‘The Zong was a ship, carrying slaves to the Americas from West Africa. Halfway through her passage it was clear that virtually none of the slaves would survive long ashore due to disease on board. The captain faced a dilemma. Under the insurance contract for the cargo — that’s the slaves, of course — he would get nothing if he landed them alive and they died before sale. But if they died en route he would get his money — so he threw them overboard.’

Abney stopped for emphasis, and in the silence they heard a ship’s foghorn out on the Cut.

‘It was called the “jettison clause” — and was perfectly legal. He threw a hundred and ten live slaves overboard, and ten more threw themselves over — as an act of empathy, I would guess, or possibly just despair. Anyway, Equiano’s telling of this incident caused a sensation.’

Valentine coughed. He was pointing at the list of pastors.

‘George Gayton Melville,’ he said, ‘1807 to 1843.’

Shaw tried to work the generations out. It could be Nora’s grandfather. ‘The Melvilles,’ he said. ‘That’s why we’re here, Pastor. A woman called Nora Tilden, nee Melville, was buried in the cemetery at Flensing Meadow in 1982 — we’ve just recovered her remains. There are some issues we need to clear up. She was buried wearing a silver fish — a brooch.’

‘She was one of the Elect, then — those chosen to be saved by God.’ Abney released a fold in his tie from beneath the waistcoat. On it was a small silver fish. ‘George Gayton Melville was a wealthy merchant. A Cambridge man — Sidney Sussex. He bought and sold fish oil from the whaling trade. He paid for this building to be renovated and modernized out of his own pocket. And he bought the Flask.’

‘The pastor bought a pub?’ asked Valentine, smiling. ‘That’s my kind of religion.’

Abney studied his feet, but when he looked up the smile hadn’t slipped. ‘Well, all the pastors were — and are — part-timers like me. In civvy street I’m an insurance agent.’ He looked at them as if this should be a great surprise. ‘George was a merchant, as I said. When he bought the pub it was actually a kind of seaman’s mission. There was always a bar, but also rooms, a small library, a soup kitchen — you know, hearty food for a few pennies. Beer was just what people drank then — you wouldn’t have touched the water. But the bar was popular and it made him another fortune. Which provided the money to keep our church beautiful.’

Abney picked up an overcoat and started to shrug himself into it.

Behind him, in the east wall, a door Shaw hadn’t noticed opened and a man stepped through carrying a coal scuttle.

‘Ah,’ said Abney. ‘Just the man. I must go — but this is Sam Venn. Sam runs the London Road Shelter — you know, for the homeless. Great work. And, more importantly, he’s our boiler man. It’s all a bit antique, Victorian coal-fired. Only Sam knows how, like his father before him …’ Abney stopped, suddenly inarticulate, as if he’d said something shocking.

He fumbled with the buttons on his raincoat. ‘He’ll know about this woman if anyone does.’ He turned to Venn. ‘Nora Tilden, Sam? These gentlemen are from the police and they’re making inquiries about her burial.’ He looked at them all briefly, then said, ‘Goodbye. A mystery — you can let me know what it’s all about later.’ He broadcast a smile.

Venn stood awkwardly still, watching the pastor leave. He was slight, with very narrow shoulders and an unsettling face: it slumped on one side, as if it had been made in wax and left in front of a fire, the effects of what Shaw guessed to be cerebral palsy. The right eye was much lower than the left, lazy and, Shaw guessed, blind. And the mouth on that side turned down as well. He was middle aged, dressed well in a thermal jacket and moleskin trousers, and he said nothing, instead waiting confidently for a question.

Shaw showed him his warrant card.

‘Mr Venn,’ he said. ‘Nora Tilden. Does the name mean anything to you?’

Venn put the scuttle down and Shaw noticed for the first time that he held his right arm awkwardly, as if it was in an invisible sling.

‘Yes. Yes, I remember Nora. But what is it — nearly thirty years? It’s a very hazy memory, I’m afraid.’ He looked around, as if speaking to a delegation. Venn’s voice was strong, educated, with only a slight inflection of the Norfolk accent, and his manner was smooth. Shaw was ashamed to think he’d presumed his character would reflect in some way his damaged body.

‘Nora was a devout woman, so most of our church members would have been at the graveside. I was there — but, as I say, it’s a long time ago. All those who could have attended would have. Her grandfather had been pastor …’ Shaw nodded. ‘I’m sure her soul’s with the Elect. Her faith was her life in all things.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Shaw, failing to keep a note of animosity out of his voice. There was nothing like the hint of dogma to spark a flash of the Shaw family temper.

‘Calvin taught us, teaches us, that we should live according to the principles of our church in everything we do. And that we should be regulated in our worship. And we are. To step outside the Word invites his retribution.’

On the word ‘retribution’, Venn’s left hand crossed to touch the damaged right.

‘Does that include music and dancing?’ asked Shaw.

‘Yes, we allow both. Some of the churches which were once our sisters and brothers ban certain forms of music and dance. But they are not proscribed by the Scripture. And we follow the Word in all things. Without exception.’

‘Alcohol?’ asked Valentine, happy to indulge in his favourite subject.

‘Calvin made sure there was a copy of the Bible in every tavern in Geneva. Moderation was his teaching, not abstinence.’

Venn was struggling, under cross-examination, to keep the smile going. ‘What is this about, may I ask?’

‘I can’t be specific,’ said Shaw. He could have told Venn the facts, as he’d told Fletcher, but something made him want to keep the man guessing. ‘Nora Tilden’s body has been disinterred as part of the ongoing work at the cemetery. There are some irregularities — we need to clear them up. She was murdered by her husband, I believe — is that right?’

Venn seemed to start at the sudden question. ‘Yes. Of course — terrible.’

‘We’re told that two black men attended her funeral. Do you know who they might have been?’

Venn shook his head. ‘Not by name, though I might be able to find out. There was a father and son, I know that much. The father worked for the corporation; at the bus depot, I think. They were with us a year — no more. After that I think they went to Peterborough. I’m sorry — the name really is gone. Shall I try to find it for you?’

‘Please,’ said Shaw. ‘It’s important. So you knew the Tildens well?’

Venn looked at his wristwatch. ‘A bit. Nora was an unhappy woman in many ways. I think the only joy in her life was experienced in this place. She didn’t really want to run the pub — any pub. But her father left it to her, so she didn’t have much choice. It was the family business, the family inheritance. Her father — Arthur Melville — made it pretty clear that’s what he expected of her. And there’d been a child at first, I think. Died in infancy. I seem to recall we always put her in our prayers …yes, a daughter. I always got the impression Nora spent the rest of her life grieving.’

Shaw checked his watch, frustrated by a sense that Venn was deliberately skirting direct answers to his questions.

‘But you’d have known Alby, when he came back from his travels?’

‘Yes. Some of his stuff used to clutter up the pub, I remember.’ Venn closed his eyes, as if trying to see into the past. ‘I recall a gong which stood in the billiard room. Vast thing. And some prints. And a gold Buddha he had up on a shelf — that always scandalized our church councillors. It’s still there.’

‘You used the pub?’ asked Valentine, surprised.

‘Yes. Still do. Two or three times a week for lunch. I was born here, Sergeant; went to the school. I see old friends. The Flask’s a special place, you see — it’s pretty much all that’s left of the community, except for our little church.’

He didn’t volunteer any more information, although Shaw felt certain he knew more than he’d said.

‘Thank you for your time, sir. Those names — the two black men who attended the Tilden funeral. We really do need to check them out. So, if you can …’

Venn looked at the coal scuttle he’d set at his feet. ‘I need to ring our archivist — she keeps the records. Every church member makes a tithe, so we should have something written down. Today, with luck?’

‘Please — soon as you can,’ said Shaw, turning towards the door. Under the twin portraits he stopped and turned. ‘Did Alby Tilden attend church?’

Venn laughed. ‘Er, no. Alby was one of those men who thinks that it doesn’t matter what they do, what rules they break, they should always be welcome in their own homes. I have no idea what he was like before he left …but we all knew the stories, the war hero. What’s that terrible euphemism: a man’s man?’ Venn looked up at the ceiling, the lightest of blues. ‘Some nights, if he’d had enough beer, he’d show you. Show anyone.’ He arched the brow over his good eye.

‘Show you what?’ prompted Valentine.

Venn glanced past them at the portrait of Equiano.

‘He had this tattoo, on his back, of a woman. A black woman. She was naked — a loose woman, I suppose. He could make her move with his muscles. Locals loved it. As party tricks went it was a winner every time. He’d do it in front of Nora …’ He shook his head, looking at the parquet floor. ‘I was there to witness this and I think it is one of the cruellest things I have ever seen. She was a hard woman, and she set her face against the world. But she didn’t deserve that. I thought it was …’ As he searched for the word he cradled his damaged arm. Then he looked with his good eye into Shaw’s. ‘Evil. Which is a rare thing, thanks be to God.’