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trying to gauge whether he supported the
invitation. Peter would have preferred to be alone with Isabelle, but there was
something intriguing about this young curate. Perhaps he could throw some light
on Martin’s final months. “Yes, why not?” he said. “We can finish what we
started.”
Roger eyed the stove then looked at Isabelle. “Well if you’re sure it’s no
trouble - it does smell wonderful.”
    Peter was usually somewhat wary of entering into
discussions with religious people. He objected to the way they often used
science selectively to serve their purposes, only to reject it when it didn’t.
Although Martin had been a regular churchgoer, he had always respected Peter’s
scientifically grounded point of view, trying instead to reconcile this with
his own unique and often spiritual outlook on the world. Roger, it appeared,
was remarkably similar to Martin in this respect. Amid spoonfuls of chicken
soup, it transpired that Roger, having graduated from Leicester, had actually
started his career as a research chemist. Then, following a series of events
including the deaths of his parents, had decided to change track and join the church.
For Peter, this was a revelation. He had never known a true scientist be able
to fully and wholeheartedly embrace the Christian faith, and longed to ask
Roger how he lived with the inevitable conflicts that had eventually led him to
abandon his own belief. The timing, however, was not right for such
discussions, and he decided to defer asking about Martin until they could be
alone. Roger, presumably sensing Peter’s need for a more private chat,
suggested a pint down the pub that evening, to which Peter readily agreed.
    It took a couple of hours to clear the bills,
write the reply letters, and address the envelopes, after which Isabelle
suggested a walk to the post office. He had not mentioned the music tape yet,
wondering how she might react. For Peter, discovering what might have triggered
his brother’s suicide was no longer just a matter of idle curiosity, but
something he felt compelled to unravel. He was worried though that for
Isabelle, the details of Martin’s obsession might only compound her grief. As
they closed the front gate and set off down the narrow country road towards the
village, he decided on the direct approach. “Isabelle, I feel I need to know
what Martin was up to these last few months.”
She looked taken aback. “I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t know what
more…”
“No. I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I know you don’t have the answers, but
maybe the papers in the study or the files on the computer can shed some
light.”
She sighed. “It won’t change what happened.”
“No… I know it won’t bring him back, but for me it’s important. It’s something
I have to do.”
She stopped to watch a butterfly as it alighted on a hawthorn flower in the
hedgerow. “Well, then do whatever you need to do,” her voice slow and measured,
almost devoid of emotion, “but as far as I’m concerned, it won’t make any
difference. He’s dead.” She gave a little Gallic shrug, “He’s dead and now I
need to move on.”
Fair enough - if there were answers to be found, it seemed he would have to
find them alone. After a few moments of awkward silence, he decided to change
the subject. “Roger’s an interesting fellow isn’t he?”
She chuckled. “He’s exactly what this village needs. He’s injected some life
into our little church and he makes it relevant to the kids too. Before he came,
our congregation must have had an average age of about sixty-five. Now it’s
more like thirty-five.”
“That’s quite an achievement for the Church of England. How did he do that?”
“I don’t know really, he just makes it more fun. He runs a youth group, which
is very popular - and they have this rock band he invites to play in church
from time to time - and his sermons are always short - poignant, but short. I
tell you, he’s like