Telling Tales Read Online Free PDF Page B

seems so straight. I can’t imagine him manipulating a situation for his own ends.”
    “No.” James slowed the car to a crawl. A ditch had burst its bank and formed a peaty stream across the road. “I think he must have known Jeanie Long. He seemed very upset last night when he talked about her suicide. Church seems the right place to be sometimes, even if you have no belief.”
    “I suppose he could have known Jeanie.” Emma was doubtful but she didn’t want to dismiss the idea. It had been a long time since they had spoken like this, so easily. “He didn’t move to Elvet until later, but she was away too, at university. She’d only recently graduated when she moved in with Keith Mantel. Dan could have met her when she was still a student but I can’t see how.”
    James ignored the speculation. “Dan thought the suicide might distress you.”
    “I didn’t know her. I was trying to think in church. I only met her once.” She hesitated. “Do you realize it’s almost exactly ten years since Abigail Mantel died? The suicide seems a horrible coincidence. Or do you think she realized and planned it? A dramatic gesture to celebrate the anniversary?”
    “Perhaps,” James said after a pause. Then, “I’ve always thought of suicide as a very selfish act. It’s the people left behind who suffer.”
    Because they were being so companionable, she was tempted to tell him about the tall man who had spat out his Communion wine at Robert, but the event still seemed so shocking that she couldn’t bring herself to speak of it. James turned into the straight, bumpy track which led between two enormous fields to the house and she sat beside him in silence.
    In the kitchen Robert was standing in front of the Aga. His trousers were steaming. Emma looked for some sign that the incident at the Communion rail had shocked him as much as it had her, but he said with a little smile, “We took Miss Sanderson home. I only helped her out of the car but I’m soaked.”
    “Go and change, dear. You’ll catch cold.” Mary was fretting about the vegetables and he was in her way. Despite the position of authority he held at church and at work, sometimes she treated him like a child.
    Robert seemed not to hear her and only moved away from the range to pour them each a glass of sherry. Emma put the baby in his seat on the floor and tucked a blanket around him. Mary lifted the chipped cast-iron lid of the stove to reveal the hot plate The room seemed suddenly warmer. She stooped to heave a casserole from the oven and slid it onto the plate. It began to bubble. Her face was flushed from the heat and the exertion. Her fine grey hair was tied back and Emma thought she should get it cut, coloured even. A ponytail looked ridiculous on a woman of her age. Mary wrapped a tea towel around the casserole lid and took it off to stir the contents. There was a smell of lamb, garlic and tomatoes, and Emma was suddenly certain that this was the same meal they’d eaten the day Abigail was strangled. She looked sharply at her mother expecting her to remember it too, but Mary only smiled with relief that the Aga had stayed sufficiently hot to cook the meat, and Emma felt foolish. She wondered if her mind was playing tricks. Her fantasies always seemed so real.
    At this time of year they ate in the kitchen. The dining room had no grate and although there were storage heaters they were barely tepid when the family got up, and cold by the evening. Emma laid the table, slipping into the familiar routine, her hands moving to the cutlery and glasses without thought. It was as if she’d never gone away. Hard to believe that, like Jeanie Long, she’d spent years at university. If she hadn’t met and married James she would never have come back. Was that at the heart of her dissatisfaction with him?
    Robert had finally gone upstairs to change and returned wearing jeans and a thick navy sweater. James opened one of the bottles of red wine. They took their