‘Perhaps he made a killing and no one knew,’ said Jack.
‘Win big, lose big. Although whenever Gabriel did win, he’d give it away. He gave money to people he didn’t even know, just because they told him some sob story. He’d write all his money-making schemes down on the back of his sheet music. He was famous for it. There were more ideas on there than words to the song. I heard tell one of his investments finally paid up recently. Just a pity he’s not around to reap the benefits.’
Jack looked over at us. ‘The music shop,’ he said. ‘That’s why Ronnie was so interested. He wanted to check Gabriel hadn’t written anything useful on the back of one of his songs.’
I could tell Agnes was taking all this in. She followed the conversation, back and forth, but she didn’t comment. ‘He was always giving money to strangers and their hare-brained schemes,’ she said. ‘They won him over so easily. He was one of those people who seemed to walk around advertising what a soft touch they were.’
‘He saw the long second.’
Agnes just frowned at me. ‘He was a mug,’ she said, ‘but you couldn’t help but like him.’
I was right about Gabriel’s eyes being kind, and I spent a good few minutes looking quite smug about it.
‘Did he have any brothers?’ said Jack. ‘Cousins?’
Agnes looked up from the cat. ‘Not that I know of. Why?’
‘It’s just …’ Jack hesitated. He looked across at Elsie and me, and we nodded him on. ‘There’s a Mrs Honeyman. Somewhere.’ He picked out his words slowly. ‘A little bit younger. And we can’t quite work out how they’re related.’
Agnes kissed the top of the cat’s head. She lifted him up and put him on the floor before she answered.
‘That’ll just be his wife,’ she said.
MISS AMBROSE
‘Do you ever hear voices?’
Anthea Ambrose put down her magazine. She hadn’t really been reading it, just glancing at the fashion pictures and trying to distract herself. It had worked, because for the last five minutes, she’d found herself seriously considering a jumpsuit.
‘Do I ever what?’ she said.
‘Hear voices. You know. Inside your head.’
They had been sitting together in silence for the past hour. The last time she’d glanced up, Handy Simon was studying the ceiling, but there was clearly more going on in the far corner of the residents’ lounge than she had first imagined.
‘Are you trying to tell me something, Simon?’
‘Oh, no. Not me. I don’t hear anything.’ He did a little sigh. ‘Well, apart from my own voice. But your own voice doesn’t count, does it?’
‘I don’t suppose so. Although I think it would depend very largely on what you happen to be saying to yourself.’
‘I was thinking of Gypsy Rosa,’ he said. ‘Hearing the spirits.’
‘If she actually does.’
‘She reckoned she could hear my mam. Said she was talking about a dog barking.’
‘Did you have a dog?’ Miss Ambrose thought about using a head-tilt, but Simon didn’t seem upset, just slightly confused. Although, to be fair, Simon’s natural expression always looked more than a little bewildered.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They always brought out her chest.’
‘Well there you are then. The fortune teller is probably inventing things, just to get your fifteen pounds.’ Miss Ambrose cleared her throat. ‘Or whatever she charges.’
She reached for her magazine again, but left it just a moment too late.
‘Imagine if you did, though. Hear voices, I mean, or see dead people. I wonder what would happen?’
‘They’d put you on a section and prescribe anti-psychotics, I would imagine.’
‘Joan of Arc saw visions of angels,’ Simon said. He was on a roll now, she could tell. ‘They told her to drive the English out of France.’
‘Now there’s a surprise.’
‘If that happened today, I wonder if they’d give her diazepam and schedule an outpatient’s appointment?’
‘Religious visions are different though, aren’t they? History is filled with people who saw God and angels, and whatnot. They weren’t psychotic, they were just devout.’
‘What’s the difference, though?’ Handy Simon shifted his gaze from the ceiling and looked straight at her. ‘When does somebody stop being religious or psychic, and start being mentally ill?’
‘Simon, you ask the strangest questions. I have absolutely no idea.’ Miss Ambrose picked up her magazine, but she didn’t read it. Instead, she stared out of the window and tried to find an opinion for herself.
FLORENCE
‘He had a wife?’ Jack’s voice was a bit louder, and this time I really did hear the cat hiss.
‘Only briefly,’ said Agnes. ‘And only by necessity. He got her in the family way before they were wed, by all accounts. The whole marriage was kept under wraps. Those days were very different.’
‘We’re not that much younger than you,’ Jack said.
‘When you get older, the years become heavier, though, don’t you think?’ The cat prowled and twisted its tail around her ankles. ‘Some decades weigh more than others.’
Jack thought for a moment and then agreed with her.
‘She was a bit of a one, his wife. Liked a drink. Liked a party.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Mrs Honeyman,’ I said.
‘It doesn’t sound like any of us,’ said Elsie. ‘Although it must have been some of us. At one point.’
‘Miss Ambrose told us Mrs Honeyman didn’t have any family,’ I said. ‘Don’t you remember?’
I was quite proud of myself, and when I looked over at Elsie, her eyebrows were filled with surprise.
‘Our Mrs Honeyman doesn’t have any children,’ Jack explained, ‘so it can’t be her.’
‘In the end, Gabriel’s wife didn’t either. She lost it. Fell on the abbey steps.’ Agnes watched the street through lace curtains. ‘Dreadful business. They had a little memorial service at Saltwick Bay. Very unusual in those days. They normally wrapped the baby in brown paper and took it away. I don’t think she ever recovered. In her mind, you know?’
Mrs Honeyman. The woman from number four. Round face. Never speaks. Not very good with stairs. For a few minutes, none of us spoke.
‘So what happened to Gabriel?’ said Jack.
Agnes sat back and her gaze returned to the window. ‘Vanished,’ she said. ‘Not long after they were married. She lost the baby, and he just disappeared on one of his tours. Never came back.’
‘What happened?’ said Elsie.
‘Did he never come back?’ I thought of the man with the gentle eyes. ‘No one ever heard from him again?’
‘He never came back,’ she said. ‘People thought he must have had a big win on the horses, or met another girl in another town.’
‘And what do you think?’ said Jack.
‘Gabriel Honeyman might have been a fool and a gambler, but he wasn’t a bad man. He may have disappeared, but I don’t for one second think he had any choice in the matter.’
The room waited for us in silence, but no one spoke. The only sound was the cat, washing at its paws. I looked at Jack, but he didn’t look back.
‘What did the police say?’ I was getting quite good at ignoring silences, but I couldn’t stand this one.
‘That he was a grown man,’ said Agnes. ‘That it was his decision.’
‘I wonder,’ Jack said, but his wondering didn’t find itself any words.
Agnes looked at each of us in turn. ‘Is there some other part of the puzzle I’ve yet to hear?’
‘Nothing we can prove. Some things sit so far back in time, it’s impossible to see them clearly any more.’ Jack picked up his cap and his walking stick. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a Ronnie Butler?’
Agnes said the name back and shook her head. ‘No. I can’t say as I have.’
‘Just a shot in the dark.’ Jack moved towards the door, although the room was so small, he didn’t really have to move very far. ‘We’d probably better leave you in peace to your television programme.’
I stood up as well, but I must have done it a bit too quickly because I felt the room sway to one side, and all the blood rush from my head. I reached out for the back of a chair.
‘Are you all right, Florence?’ said Jack.