“Fine. Same as always.” Jennifer knew her brother well enough to know when not to push a subject. “The bookshop in Dark Passage was having a sale. I bought you a nineteenth-century bible for your collection.”
“Thank you.” Simon smiled, though she suspected it was more for the change of subject than the gift. “I hope it’s not like the last one you got there.”
“With all the ‘Gods’ replaced with ‘G-dash-d?’” Jennifer laughed. “It was an American bible. They’ve decided naming God is disrespectful.”
“A Jewish tradition, I think you’ll find.” Simon pointed at her with his fork. “If God hadn’t wanted us to say His name He wouldn’t have given us vowels.”
Jennifer laughed and the rest of the course was eaten to small talk. She finished long before her brother, who had a second portion, and waited patiently for him to finish his plate. She cleared up and brought out the second course. “Pudding?”
“Lovely.” He opened his arms to allow easier access to the table. She put a dish in front of him and a can of pressurized cream on the table then returned to the kitchen for her own.
Simon squirted cream over the top of his pudding and picked up his spoon. It was a simple affair of apricot yoghurt poured over sliced banana. “I’m sorry.” He pushed the dish away and rose. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Jennifer looked up. “Don’t you want that?”
“No, thanks. After identifying corpses, this looks like chunks of dead flesh over empty eyes.” Simon clenched his lips as if she’d try to force him to eat it. “I’m not in a pudding mood.” He rubbed his forehead and cheek with one hand, brushing away the lock of hair that fell into his eyes. “Do you want coffee?”
Jennifer was torn between wanting to talk more about the suicide and wanting to get back onto the computer. She looked at her brother’s face. He looked tired. It was worth the sacrifice of another hour offline to encourage him to go to bed early, for then she’d have all night online if she wanted.
“Yes, please,” she said. “Make it a sweet one, though.”
“Coming right up.” Simon picked up his pudding dish and carried it into the kitchen.
Jennifer watched through the serving hatch as he switched the kettle on and emptied the yoghurt and banana into the bin. He stood there while the kettle boiled.
Jennifer finished her pudding and followed him into the kitchen. “Then send it to them.”
Simon laughed. “How did you know I was thinking about Mum?”
“You always do.” Jennifer dumped her dish into the sink and turned on the taps. “You always hesitate when you throw food away.” She mimicked their mother’s stentorian tone: “Don’t you waste that good food. There are children in Africa who’d be glad of it.” She smiled, reverting to her own voice. “No wonder you entered the priesthood.”
“What else could I do?” Simon smiled and added his empty bowl to the swirling water. “It was either that or start work at the factory. At least I got a grant for my education.”
“I didn’t need one.” Jennifer took the coffee mugs down from their hooks. “I had that scholarship to Middlesex. Not as prestigious as Queen’s, perhaps, but I did all right for myself.”
“You certainly did, dear.” Simon squeezed her hand. “I know you’re an excellent writer but I do think your imagination gets a bit carried away sometimes.”
“It’s my job.” Jennifer spooned coffee into the cups and passed them to him to add the hot water. “I have to think the unthinkable or nobody would read my books.”
Simon laughed. “Just stick to your pen name is all I ask. The bishop would have a fit if he connected me with the author of She Died for Passion.” He filled the cups and passed them back.
“I didn’t know he’d read it.” Jennifer smiled and added cream to the coffee, followed by a sprinkle of cocoa powder. “Do you want sugar in yours?”
Simon laughed. “No thanks, I’m sweet enough. Hey! I said I’d make the coffee.”
“I know, but you make it too strong.” Jennifer sprinkled brown sugar over the cream, allowing it to dissolve. “All the parishioners think you’re sweet enough to eat.”
“Who am I to dissuade them?” Simon smiled, the lines of fatigue easing from his features to leave him looking the part of the dashing young priest once more. “At least it keeps the church full.”
“Beauty equals bums on pews,” agreed Jennifer. “Even some of the men come just to ogle you.”
“All sinners saved as part of the service.” Simon winked at her.
“And a few damned for impure thoughts to keep the books even.” Jennifer carried the coffees into the living room. “Leave the washing up. I’ll do it later.”
“Thanks.” Simon followed her in. “I might have an early night, I think.”
“No work to do? That makes a change.” Jennifer sat in the armchair while Simon kicked off his slippers and lay on the sofa, propping himself into a seated position using the arm. His left sock had a hole in it.
“I wish you’d throw those out,” Jennifer said with distaste. “What if someone saw you with holes in your socks?”
“They’d think me a darling for devoting my life to poverty and the church. They might even put an extra pound in the collection box.” Simon waved his foot at her. “If they offend you that much you’re welcome to darn them.”
“Not a chance.” Jennifer shuddered. “Nobody darns socks anymore.”
“Why not?” Simon sipped his coffee. “Mum used to darn socks.”
“That’s because we couldn’t afford new ones. Now that Tesco sells three pairs for a fiver there’s no need to mend them anymore.”
“That’s a shame.” Simon took a sip of his coffee. “I think the world wouldn’t be in such a crisis if we did a bit more making do and mending.”
“You won’t save the world by darning socks.”
“It’s not just socks, though, is it? Plastic milk bottles. Whoever thought of plastic milk bottles should be excommunicated. What was wrong with the milkman’s glass bottles, eh? That was pure recycling at its finest.”
“And ten pence on the pop bottles,” said Jennifer. “I made my makeup money collecting pop bottles.”
Simon laughed. “Yes, sometimes you collected them from the back of the pub. You were a tearaway in those days.”
“So were you, before you decided the priesthood was a cushy number.”
“I was called to it,” said Simon. “I renounced my worldly passions.”
“Only after Eleanor Page dumped you.” Jennifer smiled and changed the subject. Simon would never go to bed if she wound him up. “What was that I heard about Old Tom digging up a grave today? Apparently he got the plots mixed up and tried to bury Mrs. Daniels over the top of Mr. Peabody.” Jennifer looked over at her brother. His eyes were closed, his hands still clasped around the coffee mug balanced on his leg. She stood and relieved him of it, setting it on the coaster he’d used for his glass.
She dimmed the lights on the way out of the room and sat in front of her computer again, logging on to her messenger program. She put her coffee to one side and poured herself a generous glass of wine while her chat program connected, the string of names changing to green or red to show their online status.
“Guess