The Thursday Morning

The cleaner found him at twenty past nine on the Thursday morning.

Her name was Marija. She had been cleaning the upper floor of the Beech Hill Reading Room since 2014, three mornings a week, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, with the same key on the same blue rubber fob that she had been given by the previous chair of the society twelve years ago and which the current chair had, the previous Christmas, written her a small kind card to apologise for not having yet, in the way of all chairs of all societies in all village libraries since the invention of village libraries, got around to replacing.

She had come up the back staircase that morning, as she always came up the back staircase on a Thursday, with her bucket and her cloth and her flask of weak tea and her phone in the back pocket of her overall, because the back staircase was nearer to the kitchenette, and the kitchenette was, on a Thursday morning, the first thing she did.

She had not, on the back staircase, expected to find anyone in the upper room. The Beech Hill Reading Society met on alternate Wednesdays — the second and the fourth Wednesday of every month, dear, never the first or the third, we are very firm on this, the chair had told her, on the morning of her first key, in 2014 — and Wednesday had been the previous evening, the second Wednesday of November, and the Wednesday-evening meeting always cleared out by ten o'clock at the latest, because the chair was a man who, at seventy-three, did not believe in driving home in the dark.

Marija had come up the back staircase, opened the door of the upper room, and switched on the light.

The light had come on.

The chair of the Beech Hill Reading Society had been sitting in the chair he always sat in — the green wing-back at the far side of the fireplace, with the small oak side table beside it on which there was, every meeting, a single china cup of Earl Grey with no milk and a small saucer of two ginger biscuits.

The china cup was on the saucer.

The cup was, by the look of it, full.

The cup was not, by the look of it, full any more, because it had been full sixteen hours ago and the surface had, since then, gone the colour of old penny, and a fine layer of dust had settled, very thinly, on top.

The two ginger biscuits on the saucer had not been touched.

Marija had stood in the doorway of the upper room of the Beech Hill Reading Room with her bucket in her left hand, and she had said, into the silence, in the small careful Polish-English she used on the chair on a Tuesday morning when she came up to find he had left his reading glasses on the side table again,

'Mr Audley? You go home, please. Today is cleaning day.'

Mr Audley had not gone home.

Mr Audley had not, by Marija's count, moved.

Mr Audley had been sitting in the green wing-back, in the cardigan he always wore at meetings — the dove-grey cardigan his late wife had knitted him in 1991, with the small darned patch at the right elbow that he had not allowed anyone, in the thirty-three years since his wife had died, to attempt to re-darn — and Mr Audley had, on his lap, open at a marked page, the book the society had been reading that month.

Marija had set the bucket down.

Marija had walked across the upper room of the Beech Hill Reading Room very quietly, in her quiet rubber-soled cleaner's shoes, and she had stood in front of Mr Audley.

She had said his name, very softly, twice.

The second time, she had touched the back of his left hand.

The back of his left hand had been cold.

It had been cold in the particular cold way that Marija — who had been a community nurse in Poland for nine years before she had come to England in 2009 — had not, in the fifteen years since she had stopped nursing, forgotten.

She had stood for a long second in front of Mr Audley with her hand on the back of his hand, and she had closed her eyes, and she had said, in Polish, very quietly, the small line her grandmother had taught her to say in front of the recently dead, and then she had stepped back, and she had walked to the side table, and she had picked up the chairman's small mobile phone — Mr Audley had kept it on the side table during meetings to silence it, although he had never, Marija had observed across the corner of her cleaner's broom for ten years, actually known how to silence it — and she had unlocked it with the four-digit pin he had told her, in 2017, in case of emergency, and she had opened the contacts, and she had not, in the first instance, dialled 999.

She had dialled, instead, the second name down in his contacts, which was a name spelt Mrs Audley-Knapp, niece.

She had dialled it because, in the eleven years she had been cleaning the upper floor of the Beech Hill Reading Room, she had been told twice by Mr Audley — once on the morning his older brother had died in 2018, and once on the morning his small terrier Bevis had died in 2021 — that the first phone call about Mr Audley was always, on his standing instruction, to be made by Marija to Mrs Audley-Knapp.

Mrs Audley-Knapp had picked up on the third ring.

Mrs Audley-Knapp had said, in the brisk professional voice of a woman who was, at twenty past nine on a Thursday morning, at her desk in a probate office in Cheltenham, 'Marija. Is everything all right.'

Marija had said, in the small careful Polish-English she used for things she did not, in either language, especially want to say, 'Mrs Knapp. I am very sorry. Today is cleaning day. Mr Audley is in the chair. The chair is in the upper room. The tea on the table is from yesterday and is not drunk. Mr Audley is — Mrs Knapp, I have touched his hand. He is cold. I am ringing you first because he asked.'

There had been a long beat on the other end of the line.

Then Mrs Audley-Knapp had said, in the same brisk professional voice, although the brisk professional voice had, in the space of one second, gone three shades quieter, 'Marija. Don't ring anyone else yet. Don't ring the society. Don't ring the village. Don't ring 999. Stay there. Don't move him. Don't move anything. I will ring the society. I will be on the road in nine minutes. I will be with you by half eleven. Marija, my love. Are you all right.'

Marija had said, 'I am all right.'

Mrs Audley-Knapp had said, 'I'm so very sorry. Thank you for ringing me first. I will see you soon.'

Mrs Audley-Knapp had then, with the small precise click of a probate solicitor at her desk in Cheltenham, rung off.

—

By twenty to eleven, the remaining four members of the Beech Hill Reading Society were in the lower room of the Beech Hill Reading Room, sitting in a small loose semicircle around the cold gas fire that nobody had thought to turn on, and not, by anyone's count, looking at each other.

The four remaining members were:

Mrs Audrey Lowndes, who had been the society's secretary since 2002, who was seventy-one, who lived in the grey house at the top of Beech Hill in the back garden of which Mr Audley had, on average, lost his glasses twice a year for the last eleven years.

Major Henley Cross, who had been the society's treasurer since 2009, who was seventy-eight, who walked with a stick and who had been, in the cleaner's broom-corner observation of Marija, the only member of the society Mr Audley had not, by Christmas, ever called by the wrong name.

Miss Eulalia Vye, who had joined the society on its very first night in November 1998, who had been the librarian of Beech Hill primary school for twenty-nine of those years, who was the only member of the society allowed to bring her own ginger biscuits, and who had been, on three separate occasions since 2017, the only person in the society to whom Mr Audley had said the words I love you, dear, although the three occasions had been on Christmas Eve, on the morning of his eightieth birthday, and on the day Bevis had died, and Miss Vye had, on each of the three occasions, said and I you, Edmund, and don't you go saying it again.

The Reverend Hugh Lemmy, who had been the rector of St Catherine's in Beech Hill since 2016, who was forty-eight and the youngest member of the society by a margin of twenty-three years, who had only joined the society at all because Mr Audley had, on the steps of the church on a Sunday in 2017, told him very plainly that he could either join the Beech Hill Reading Society or he could find another church to be the rector of.

The four of them had been at the previous evening's meeting.

The four of them, by Marija's recollection from the kitchenette where she had spent the last half-hour very precisely making tea nobody had so far drunk, had been at every meeting that calendar year.

The four of them had, in the back room of the Beech Hill Reading Room on the Thursday morning, agreed in a small low conference that lasted about seventeen minutes, on three things — and they had agreed on the three things before Mrs Audley-Knapp had arrived from Cheltenham, before the police had been called, and before the cleaner had been asked to come back into the room.

—

The first thing the four remaining members of the Beech Hill Reading Society agreed on, in the back room of the Beech Hill Reading Room on the Thursday morning, was that the chair of the society, Mr Edmund Audley, had — on the basis of the chair, the cardigan, the unsipped tea, the closed left hand, and the slightly forward angle of his head — died in his armchair sometime between half past eight and ten o'clock the previous evening, in a manner consistent with a heart attack in a man of seventy-three with a known atrial fibrillation and a long-standing fondness for Earl Grey tea brewed too strong.

This first thing had been Major Cross's contribution.

Major Cross had said, leaning on his stick, in the brisk practical voice of a man who had served twenty-eight years in the Royal Engineers and had drawn up a great many incident reports in his time, 'Heart, I'm afraid. We could all see it coming. He'd been off colour at the last three meetings. He should have been to the doctor and he should have been told off about it, and Audrey, my dear, you and I should have done the telling-off, and we did not. That is our failure, jointly, and we will live with it. But it was the heart. The body sits as a heart sits. There is no sign of anything else, in or out of the room.'

Mrs Lowndes had said, 'Quite so.'

Miss Vye had said, very quietly, 'Quite so.'

The Reverend Lemmy, who had been looking at the cold gas fire, had said nothing.

The second thing the four remaining members agreed on was that the book on Mr Audley's lap, open at the marked page, was the book the society had been discussing the previous evening — A Garden of Glass, the late-period novel by Anne Trenholm, which the society had been reading that month because Mrs Lowndes had suggested it in October and the society, by long-standing convention, voted on the secretary's October suggestion at the November meeting and had, the previous Wednesday, voted unanimously in favour.

This second thing had been Mrs Lowndes's contribution.

Mrs Lowndes had said, very briskly, with the small particular briskness she used for things she did not wish anyone to ask further about, 'The book on Edmund's lap is A Garden of Glass. The page he was on, page two hundred and forty-one, was the page we ended on last night. He had marked the page with the leaf bookmark Miss Vye gave him for his birthday. He had been on that page when we left him at quarter past nine. He had stayed in his chair to think about the passage. He was always staying in his chair to think about a passage. He must have — gone, sometime after we left, on that page. It is consistent with everything.'

Miss Vye had said, 'Quite so.'

Major Cross had said, 'Quite so.'

The Reverend Lemmy, who had not yet looked up from the cold gas fire, had said nothing.

The third thing the four remaining members agreed on was that Mr Audley had been alone in the room from the moment they had left him at a quarter past nine the previous evening to the moment Marija had come up the back staircase at twenty past nine that morning.

This third thing had been suggested by Miss Vye.

Miss Vye had said, with the same small dignified quietness she used at the back of the church on the few occasions a year she still attended, 'Edmund went up the back staircase first, as he always did. The four of us followed him up. The four of us came down with him by the front staircase at five past nine. The four of us stood on the front pavement of the Reading Room for ten minutes, between five past nine and a quarter past, while Edmund locked the front door from the inside, opened it again, told us in particular detail about the bookmark, told me in particular detail about the kindness of the bookmark, and locked the door again. The four of us walked together to the corner of Pelham Road, where Hugh's car was, and Hugh drove Henley home, and Audrey and I walked the rest of the way up Beech Hill together as we always do. The four of us did not, between us, go back to the Reading Room. The four of us did not, between us, see anyone else go to the Reading Room. Edmund — Edmund was alone in the upper room from a quarter past nine last night until this morning.'

Major Cross had said, 'Quite so.'

Mrs Lowndes had said, 'Quite so.'

The Reverend Lemmy, who had now lifted his head and was looking, very steadily, at Miss Vye, had said, 'Quite so.'

He had said it, however, in a voice that the other three had — Marija had noticed from the kitchenette where she was washing the same teaspoon for the third time — slightly turned to look at.

The Reverend Lemmy had not, on saying quite so, looked back at them.

He had continued to look at Miss Vye.

Miss Vye had returned the look.

The two of them had held the look for, by Marija's later report to Mrs Audley-Knapp in the kitchenette, perhaps four full seconds.

Then Miss Vye, very slightly, had nodded.

The Reverend Lemmy, very slightly, had nodded back.

The conference, after that, had broken up.

—

Mrs Audley-Knapp arrived from Cheltenham at eleven thirty-three.

She came up the front steps of the Beech Hill Reading Room in a navy coat over a black suit, with the brisk professional walk of a probate solicitor who had been on the road for two hours and ten minutes and had not, in the two hours and ten minutes, cried, although she had stopped once at Stow-on-the-Wold to ring her husband from a lay-by and had said, into the lay-by, in a voice that was not the brisk professional voice, Henry. Uncle Edmund. Yes. The cleaner. Just now, and had then sat in the lay-by for another six minutes before she had got back into gear.

She did not cry when she came into the lower room.

She did not cry when she went up the back staircase to the upper room with Marija beside her and confirmed, with one hand resting very briefly on her uncle's left hand, that her uncle was as Marija had said.

She did not cry when she rang the police from the chairman's small mobile phone — the same phone Marija had used at twenty past nine — and reported the death, in the brisk professional voice, with the cause as suspected as natural and the time as approximately twelve hours ago.

She did not cry when she came back down the front staircase to the lower room, where the four remaining members of the Beech Hill Reading Society had reassembled themselves into the small loose semicircle around the cold gas fire — the gas fire, by then, had been turned on by Marija, who had also delivered each of them a small cup of weak tea on the small Beech Hill Reading Society china — and she did not cry when Major Cross, leaning on his stick, told her, in the brisk practical voice, the three things the four of them had agreed on.

She listened to Major Cross.

She listened, in particular, to the third thing, which Major Cross delivered with great kindness, and which Mrs Lowndes silently nodded to throughout, and which Miss Vye said, at the end of, very quietly, Quite so, dear.

She thanked them.

She said, in the brisk professional voice, that the police would shortly be here, that she would handle the practical arrangements, that she was grateful to them for their care of her uncle in the last hours, that she would like them, if they could bear it, to remain in the lower room until the police had spoken to them — just in case, my dears, just so they have everyone here and they don't have to come up Beech Hill twice, — and she said it without, at any point, taking her eyes off the small loose semicircle.

She then thanked Marija, separately, at the door of the kitchenette.

She then went, alone, back up the back staircase to the upper room, with the chairman's small mobile phone in her hand, and she shut the door of the upper room behind her, and she stood for a long while at the head of the green wing-back chair in which her uncle had died, with one hand on the back of the chair, and she looked, with the small precise eye of a probate solicitor in Cheltenham who had been drafting wills for twenty-two years and had heard a great many small loose semicircles in lower rooms agree on three things in seventeen minutes —

— she looked at the small oak side table.

She looked at the cup of Earl Grey tea, full to the rim, with the surface gone old-penny and the fine layer of dust thinly settled.

She looked at the small saucer, with the two ginger biscuits, both untouched.

She looked at the book on her uncle's lap, open at the marked page, with the small leaf-shaped paper bookmark in the gutter.

She looked, then, at her uncle's right hand.

Her uncle's right hand was closed.

Her uncle's right hand had, on Marija's first inspection at twenty past nine, been understood — in the small careful Polish-English Marija had used to Mrs Audley-Knapp on the phone — to be the left hand that Marija had touched, because Marija had touched the back of the hand that had been resting on top of the book, and the hand that had been resting on top of the book had been the left hand.

The right hand had, all along, been the other hand.

The right hand, Mrs Audley-Knapp saw now, was closed.

The right hand was closed around something.

She did not, in the brisk professional way of a probate solicitor at the head of her uncle's death-chair, attempt to open it.

She did, however, lean very slightly closer.

She saw, between the closed fingers of her uncle's right hand, the smallest corner of a sheet of folded paper.

The paper was cream paper.

The paper had been folded twice, and once again at the corner.

The corner that was visible to her was marked, very faintly, in pencil — in the unmistakable round hand of a primary-school librarian who had been writing children's names in books in Beech Hill for twenty-nine years —

Hugh.

She stood very still at the head of the green wing-back chair.

She did not, in the small precise way of a probate solicitor in Cheltenham, take out her phone and photograph the corner.

She did not, in the small precise way of a probate solicitor in Cheltenham, prise the folded paper out of her uncle's closed right hand.

She did, however, very precisely, take a half-step back from the chair, and a half-step around it, so that the small folded corner of paper between her uncle's right fingers would not, when the police came up the back staircase in the next eight minutes, be the first thing they saw.

Then she walked, in the brisk professional way of a probate solicitor in Cheltenham, back to the door of the upper room.

She put her hand on the handle.

She paused, with her hand on the handle, and she said, very softly, to the upper room of the Beech Hill Reading Room — in the brisk professional voice of a woman who was, at twenty to noon on a Thursday morning, beginning to do, in her own small loose semicircle around her own cold gas fire of grief, three things at once —

'Uncle Edmund. The two of them. Which one was it, then.'

The upper room did not, of course, answer.

Then Mrs Audley-Knapp went down the back staircase to ring the police from the kitchenette, where Marija was, very quietly, washing the same teaspoon for the seventh time.