No Man's Nightingale by Ruth Rendell

Gibbon and the martyrdom of St Cyprian.
It is not easy to extract any distinct ideas from the vague though eloquent declamations of the Fathers, or to ascertain the degree of immortal glory and happiness which they confidently promised to those who were so fortunate as to shed their blood in the cause of religion. They inculcated with becoming diligence, that the fire of martyrdom supplied every defect and expiated every sin; that while the souls of ordinary Christians were obliged to pass through a slow and painful purification, the triumphant sufferers entered into the immediate fruition of eternal bliss . . .
    ‘Thirty grand?’ said Fiona. ‘You have to be kidding me.’
    ‘You’ve got it. You told me. You’ve got more than that invested.’
    ‘And that’s where it stays, invested.’
    ‘It’d still be invested,’ said Jeremy, ‘invested in property everyone knows can’t lose. It’s a nice little house, I looked over it this morning, and I reckon I could ask five hundred a week rent.’
    ‘
You
could? Who’s going to pay the mortgage? Me?’
    ‘I could pay it out of the rent.’
    ‘I’m not going to let you have it, Jeremy, I’m just not. It’s no good asking me any more. We do all right as we are, we don’t need another property. What’s the matter now? Why that face?’
    Jeremy’s face had fallen into gloomy lines and his lips protruded. ‘I’ve heard from Diane,’ he said.
    ‘So?’
    ‘It’s not the best of news.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘She’s split up from Brett and she wants to come home to live. It was all in this email that came this morning.’
    Fiona sat down. ‘I don’t see why that’s bad news. So she’s split up with Brett. She’s not your wife, Jeremy, she hasn’t been your wife for ages. What’s it to you?’
    ‘That place in Peck Road is hers. That house where Jason Sams lives, she’s the tenant, not me. She’ll want to live in it.’
    ‘Oh, come on. Ever since she left you for that Brett she’s been living in the lap of luxury. Why would she want to live on a council estate?’
    ‘It’s not what she wants, Fi, it’s what she can get,’ Jeremy said. ‘It’s a house and she’s the tenant. We lived there, her and me, until she left.’ He added, ‘But you know all that,’ as if claiming virtue for telling Fiona the truth, perhaps a rare occurrence.
    Fiona considered what he’d said. ‘Good thing you’ve got me to support you, isn’t it? What about the other place where you lived with your mum? Maybe that really belongs to Mr and Mrs Patel, does it?’
    Jeremy didn’t answer. There was no need to. He knew it was one of those questions that weren’t meant to be answered, that were meant to be clever. Maybe Fiona would give him the money if she got pregnant. She’d be so happy that she’d do anything for him. Or that was his theory. But when would that be? Possibly months or even years and meanwhile someone else would buy that house in Ladysmith Road. Another worry was the house in Peck Road. If he told Diane that he’d been letting her house, the chances are she would tell him to get rid of those tenants who should never have been there in the first place. And she would tell him in no uncertain terms. Why did he always have to get involved with domineering women? The reason was obvious, even to him, so he didn’t dwell on it.
    On the other hand she might take on the tenants herself. What Fiona said was probably true: after what she’d been used to Diane wouldn’t want to live on a council estate and would rent somewhere else for herself. He would have to find out what her plans were. Jeremy was not very skilled with the computer but he could just about reply to an email or send a new one. Replying was the easier way. ‘Hi Diane,’ he keyed in. ‘What do you want done re Peck Rd?’ Telling her he had let her house wasn’t going to be easy at all. Maybe instead he could say he was living there. One of the best things about emails was that the