Posted on 2008-10-31

I opened my newspaper one beautiful Friday morning and almost gasped with horror. Prominently placed on page three, a black bar across his eyes hardly concealing his identity, my old school-friend smiled at me. I recognised the picture immediately; after all, it was I who had taken it. I had told him to smile for the camera, his hair blowing in the mild Italian winds, his arm drawn around the shoulder - although the newspaper had cut that off - of my sister Marianne. For years, I had carried that picture in my wallet, until a leaking thermos can had ruined all but Edwards left elbow and a glimpse of the Adriatic sea behind it.

I assumed that the newspaper’s editors had liked the contrast between Edward’s boyish grin and the cold statement of the headline, ‘Local Priest Brought In For Questioning After Death of Pre-School Teacher.’ It most certainly was not particularly witty, but it fulfilled its aims alright. The fact alone that Edward was a priest involved in a crime was of no little interest to the general public, it appeared, but the shocking nature of the crime multiplied the curiosity further. As the article below the photograph reported, Lucy Steele had been a generally respected and well-loved teacher in a pre-school that was affiliated with Edward’s church; Edward and Lucy, however, had known each other since their comprehensive school days in Plymouth. Last Saturday, Edward and Lucy had attended a Thanksgiving concert at Lucy’s school, where Lucy’s class had given a heart-warming rendition of ‘Catch a Falling Star.’ After that, they had dined at an Italian restaurant together with Edward’s brother and a colleague of Lucy. Around eleven, Lucy and Edward had taken their leave together, claiming that Lucy had promised to drive Edward’s car home because he had sprained his wrist. The newspaper took pains, however, to point out that their supposedly clandestine affair had been common knowledge and that therefore, both Robert F., Edward’s brother, and Annabelle M., Lucy’s colleague, had assumed that they were going to spend the night at Edward’s place.

Edward, when first interviewed by the police on Monday, had indeed confirmed that this had been the plan (and the media had had a field day when the news of Edward’s confession of their affair had leaked out on Wednesday), but had added that after Lucy had dropped him off at the parsonage, she had instead uttered the wish to go home, claiming that she was tired. Edward had, or so he said, allowed her to use his car to drive herself his home. No witnesses, naturally, could confirm this; and in any case, Lucy had never reached home. Edward’s car had been found by a dog-walker early on Sunday morning. It had been parked on a parking lot near a forest, not far from the parsonage. Lucy had still been sitting in the seat, stabbed repeatedly in the chest. The newspaper prided itself on the photograph of her blood-soaked scarf lying amid the dead leaves, tossed away by the dog-walker in his attempt to administer first aid (cf. page 12).

Nothing was confirmed, but an anonymous source thought by many to be one of the paramedics had alleged that Lucy had not only been brutally stabbed, but also, that the murderer had, after her death, made deep cuts into her face and arms, leading the police to believe that a personal drama was the reason for her death.

On Thursday morning, Edward had been brought to the police station again and as far as the newspaper could tell, he was still there.

I was stunned. I could not believe it. How could anybody believe that Edward was capable of murder? How could Edward, the kindest, best man I ever met, be able to murder Lucy, whom he had so obviously adored? That anybody could think it at all possible seemed ridiculous.

I could not think of anything else at work all day. When I operated, when I consulted with my colleagues, when I spoke to patients, when I examined x-rays, all I could think of was Edward, my wonderful, beloved Edward, arrested for murder, sitting in prison for killing the sweet thing he had preferred over me. I could not think of anything else but the fact that Edward, so caring, so gentle, was the last person who deserved to be in prison.

I decided to walk home that evening. It was cold outside, but that would hopefully distract me, would make the horrible images of Edward, alone in his prison cell, defeated, dejected, go away. Of course, I was kidding myself. Instead of shutting away the thoughts of Edward, my lone walk evoked more and more memories of him as I passed Lucy’s pre-school, the parsonage, and finally, as if I had not known it from the moment I had stepped outside the hospital, Edward’s church, dimly illuminated against the grey autumn sky. The door stood slightly ajar and before I had realised it, I had stepped inside and sat down in one of the back pews where I had so often sat over the last few years. Here alone, behind the backs of the congregation, listening to his voice, had I been able to feel close to Edward. When he stood on the pulpit, separated from Lucy, who cast him adoring looks from the front pew, when he preached and told us to love each other, he was most desirable to me. I was never so happy as I was when I could listen to Edward intoning the Alleluia, and could watch him from my backseat. Those were the moments when I could focus my gaze and see no one but Edward, when I could close my eyes and hear no one but him, the only times, in short, when I could have Edward all to myself.

As I sat there staring at the deserted altar, watching the last rays of the sun coming in through the coloured windows, I suddenly realised that should Edward indeed remain in prison, should some deranged jury indeed find him guilty, I would never have Edward to myself again, maybe never see him again at all.

I never heard him come. Softly he approached me, crouched down beside me and took my left hand in his.

I looked up and saw him sitting next to me, holding my hand, looking into my eyes. His shirt was crumpled, his trousers were stained and there was a stubble on his face. He had never before looked more beautiful, more radiant, more lovable.

‘Elinor,’ he said again and handed me a handkerchief.

I blew my nose.

‘I thought you were - I read that they had -’ I stammered.

‘I was. They did,’ Edward said curtly, then added, ‘I was released this afternoon.’

‘But - why - ?’ I asked.

‘Come into the vestry,’ Edward said. ‘I made some tea.’

He took my arm and led me into the vestry. I watched as he poured two cups of tea for us and sat next to me on the old, worn sofa.

‘How did you get released?’ I asked again. ‘I cannot believe I am sitting here with you - I thought you must be -’

I swallowed hard.

‘They had no evidence against me,’ Edward said. ‘They thought they had found the earrings in the parsonage, but those were not Lucy’s earrings.’

He looked at me intently and pulled a pair of earrings, very similar to Lucy’s, but paler in colour, with different shells, out of his pocket.

‘I bought these for you when I bought Lucy’s,’ he said. ‘I never gave them to you, but I could not throw them away either.’

I could not believe my eyes. What I heard overwhelmed me. Edward had been thinking of me. Edward had bought me earrings. Tears welled up in my eyes again. I placed my hand on Edward’s bandaged one, hoping to convey all that I felt to him.

‘Poor Lucy,’ I said, ‘but why on earth did they think you would kill her? You, of all people, surely had no motive -’

‘It appears that I had,’ he said, ‘or at least the police told me so. Lucy had an affair. They thought I knew.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Lucy was seeing someone else,’ he said, ‘my brother, to be precise. All these years, I thought we had something special and she was seeing my brother behind my back. They meant to get married, apparently. She had me fooled the whole time.’

I could not restrain myself any longer. I reached up and brushed the lock that had been teasing me all these years out of his eyes. Before I could pull my hand back, Edward had covered it with his own and placed his other hand on my face. Slowly, he pulled me closer.

His lips brushed against mine for a moment before he kissed me. I thought I should die, overcome with happiness. His hands cupped my face, his knees pressed against mine.

‘You were waiting for me all these years, were'nt you?’ he muttered.

Before I could answer, he had pulled me even closer and as I ran my hands through his hair, just as I had dreamt for so many years, he tore my jacket off my shoulders. I allowed him to pull it off me and it fell to the floor with a clinging sound.

‘Something fell out of your pocket,’ Edward muttered.

‘I hope nothing broke,’ Edward said and leaned over, lifting my jacket and taking something from the floor.

‘Elinor,’ he whispered again.

He was holding the pink earrings which were still covered in Lucy’s blood.