Every Deadly Sin

by D M Greenwood

  Inspector Bottomley considered this. ‘I don’t know what you see in religion.’

  ‘Well, as I said, it has other strengths. It’s not all as bad as that.’

  ‘I think that’s about as bad as I’ve met. Such deliberate wickedness. So smug.’

  ‘The point is, would it fit in here?’

  ‘Would Guy be accepted for orders if he wanted to go that way?’ Inspector Bottomley’s mind was clearly running on the eccentricities of religion.

  ‘I really don’t know. Some very odd people do seem to be accepted nowadays.’

  ‘I think we’ve got to go one step at a time. First we need Guy, then we shall see what offers. You don’t know where he is, do you?’ She fixed Theodora with her inquisitorial eye.

  Theodora turned away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not for certain at this moment.’

  ‘Well think on. And if any ideas should come to you, we’d like to know immediately.’

  ‘Of course.’ Theodora was reassuring. ‘What will you do about Tom Bough? Presumably you won’t want to charge him now?’

  ‘Have to think about that. We might keep him in a while longer. Chief Constables like to feel they’ve got a bird in hand.’

  ‘Deliberate wickedness and smugness,’ said Theodora tartly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Pilgrims’ Tales

  Canon Beagle wheeled his chair closer to the library table and spread the documents out. Then he turned to Theodora and said, ‘I would like you to look at these and then I think we should discuss Miss Swallow’s death. I’ll take them in date order.’

  Theodora would have preferred to be out in the morning sun. It was Wednesday already. She needed to start thinking about the catering for the festival on Friday. She wanted to try to get hold of Guy preferably before Inspector Bottomley got to him. She had wondered if she ought to visit Tom Bough if he was still in prison, or, anyway, offer to help Martha Broad to get his father down to Wormald. But whilst she was turning over the claims of rival duties, Canon Beagle had mown her down in his chair and shepherded her into the diningroom. He’d been insistent, even peremptory.

  She looked over the papers. There were three. The first was on thick cream paper which even now, thirty years after its date, was only just beginning to discolour at the edges. It had a black embossed crest on it of a Roman soldier standing with drawn sword between the antlers of a deer. It was headed St Sylvan’s Pilgrimage Centre. The date was 1 May 1962. The hand was bold and flowing. The ink was black and strong. It read:

  My dear Tussock,

  The topic on which I have to approach you is a painful one. I hope you will believe me when I say I have given it much thought and prayer before writing to you about it. It has come to my notice that, to put not too fine a point on it, you have formed an adulterous relationship with Naomi Swallow. I need hardly point out that Miss Swallow is a servant here and as such in my especial care. I need hardly point out also that you have a wife taken in accordance with the laws of the Church and have been married to her on my computation for twenty years.

  I do not know what your intentions are with regard to Miss Swallow. It seems to me hardly likely that you intend to divorce Muriel and start again outside, as it needs must be, the life of the Church. Whatever you intend to do, however, will necessitate your resignation from the Board of Trustees of this Foundation of St Sylvan and your ceasing to be a Brother Warden.

  I think I need not advert to the unease, I may say, the unhappiness, which at times your contact with this Holy Foundation has caused me and indeed others like me. I was and shall remain grateful for the help which you were able, through Muriel’s money, to offer the Foundation at a time when its financial position was straitened. Happily that time is now behind us.

  I expect to receive your resignation and promise of cessation of all further contact with us before the end of the month. I am sure that you feel, as I do, that your appearance at this year’s Festival of St Sylvan would, in the circumstances, be inappropriate.

  On a happier matter, I enclose the final account for your settlement for the new chapel windows. The designs remain to be finalised and I expect those decisions now to be left in my hands.

  In conclusion, if I do not receive your resignation within my stipulated time, I shall have no alternative but to draw the matter to the attention of the Archbishop. Believe me, in Christ,

  Augustine Bellaire.

  Theodora looked up. Left to herself she would have laughed aloud. In Canon Beagle’s presence she felt it kinder and more politic to keep a straight face. He himself gave no indication of his feelings. His large handsome profile was turned away from her. Without looking at her he slid the second document across the table.

  This was a letter on the same sort of writing paper as the first. Since it was undated and there were some small crossings-out, Theodora understood it to be draft. It read:

  Your Grace,

  It is with the greatest reluctance that I have to draw your attention to the misconduct of the gravest kind of one of your priests, your Missioner at Large, the Revd Benjamin Tussock. I have recently had evidence given me of this priest’s adultery with one of the female servants of this foundation. There can, I fear, be no mistake in the case as the girl has herself confessed to me that she is expecting his child as a result of his attentions.

  I make no judgements, noting only my great distress that the Holy Spring of St Sylvan should be polluted by any act of this kind.

  I am Your Grace’s most obedient….

  The letter was unsigned but the provenance obvious. How very much Augustine had enjoyed writing it, Theodora thought. Had he sent it or not?

  ‘Next,’ said Canon Beagle poker-faced and pushed her another piece of paper. This letter was an altogether more abrupt affair. It was written in Biro on a piece of ordinary blue writing paper torn from a pad. It was headed ‘Staithes, Yorkshire, 30 May 1962.’ It read:

  Dear Augustine,

  My private affairs remain my private affairs between me, Muriel and God. If you make any move, I repeat, any move to my detriment in this matter, I shall inform the Arch. about you and Victor Clutton Brock and a number of other young gentlemen, giving names, dates and places.

  I’ll pay the window bill as I always have. I’ve instructed Sister Serena that you can suggest the design for one of them as you please and I’ll have the other.

  Yours

  B.T.

  PS Looking forward to being with you for the St Sylvan’s festival in July.

  Theodora finished reading and raised her head to look at Canon Beagle. His neck was sunk into his clerical collar, his hands folded on his chest. He glowered at Theodora. ‘A pretty kettle of fish.’

  ‘What are they exactly?’

  ‘The Bellaire notes are both drafts, I take it. The first to Tussock was sent. Hence his reply. The second to the Archbishop wasn’t.’

  ‘And what do they show, in your view, Canon?’ Theodora was cautious.

  ‘To be blunt, they show that Bellaire liked boys too much and Tussock women.’

  ‘Not a strong position for either to hold as priests in the Church of England.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘How did you, where did you come across these letters?’

  Canon Beagle sighed. ‘I suppose I have to admit that at one time I knew Bellaire fairly well. We shared, as I’m sure you’re aware, churchmanship and the doctrine upon which that churchmanship is founded. In some ways he was a visionary, a man who realised the importance for the Church as a whole of a place like this. It is, isn’t it,’ he turned to Theodora for reassurance, ‘paradisial?’

  Theodora nodded.

  ‘But in other ways,’ Canon Beagle went on, ‘he was naive. He had a quite extraordinary capacity for not seeing himself, not seeing either what he was doing or how, indeed, others would view his actions. I suppose, if I’m truthful, I would have to say he was self-deluding.’

  ‘And the
letter?’ Theodora wasn’t going to let the theology or the friendship bury the essential facts.

  ‘He concealed them in his cope.’ Canon Beagle almost blushed.

  ‘Cope?’

  ‘He designed and had made a cope for use here. I didn’t think he ever actually allowed anyone else to wear it. It’s really rather splendid. You should …’ He trailed off. ‘Well, anyway, I expect he felt the letters were safe there and, of course, the symbolism would appeal to him, shouldering the burden and so on.’

  ‘You’re saying you knew him, knew his mindset well enough to know where he’d hide letters of that sort?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘What made you suppose such letters might exist at all?’

  Theodora hated the inquisitorial role. He was old enough to be her grandfather. He was an honourable man who had served, she did not doubt it, honourably in the Church she loved. But facts were facts. A woman had been killed. Wholeness, wholesomeness would not be restored whilst that was unresolved.

  ‘I suppose one has a intuition for these things. I mean about Bellaire. About Tussock I have to say I suspected absolutely nothing. Perhaps I didn’t attend to him enough to notice. I didn’t care for the man. He was a frightful thruster.’

  ‘But about Bellaire?’ Theodora prompted.

  ‘It was the last time I came. St Sylvan’s Day, 25 July 1962. It was a big do. The dedication of the new windows. Bishops came. Archbishop was due to come and then cancelled. Lots of old friends. A full house. Twelve priests concelebrating. Bit of a squash in the sanctuary but we all knew what we were doing. Altar boys running about like rabbits. Enough incense to frighten off a legion of devils. Then the windows were dedicated. You’ve seen the windows, doubtless?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Theodora.

  ‘And of course you’ve taken the inference?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Canon Beagle nodded. He could see she would.

  ‘Didn’t others see it?’ Theodora was curious.

  ‘Well, you know people are remarkably imperceptive. We are a culture unused to religious symbols. Washing powder and car advertisements have dulled our sensibilities. What would have been crystal-clear to our ancestors passed most of the congregation by.’

  ‘But not everyone?’

  ‘No. Clutton Brock knew.’ Canon Beagle pursed his lips. ‘He was a pretty young man. Hard to believe it now. Floppy hair type of thing. He’d just got engaged to Lavinia Strong.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I stayed overnight. The party went on. There was a late supper and afterwards I went up to the well for a final pipe. Bellaire didn’t allow smoking in the house. I came upon … I heard Bellaire and Clutton Brock. It was unmistakably a lovers’ quarrel. I suppose about Victor’s engagement. Jealousy, that sort of thing.’ Canon Beagle could hardly get his words out for distaste. ‘I didn’t, of course, intrude or indeed stay once I’d realised.’ Canon Beagle ground to a halt.

  ‘So why didn’t you do anything?’

  There was a long silence. Theodora knew only too well what was going through his mind. The honour, that is, the public reputation for virtue, of the Church, the loyalty to brother priests which went far beyond their feeling for the laity, the personal factors, admiration of Bellaire, the wish to be fair to Clutton Brock, all of which would argue for keeping his own counsel.

  ‘I was due to go back to China in a few days. I wasn’t, after all, certain. You think I was wrong to leave it until now to try to find out more?’

  Theodora would not judge him. She might well have done no better.

  ‘Can your knowledge help us to clear up the present muddle? You think there is a connection.’

  ‘There may be. For a start, I think Ruth Swallow knew about the letters in the cope and learned from them who her father was.’

  ‘What’s your evidence?’

  ‘The workbasket, hers. You remember she kept it on the mantelshelf in the kitchen? It had silver and gold thread in it. Not the usual material for darning Tom’s socks. And there is evidence of some repair-work done on the collar of the cope.’

  ‘Would anyone else have known that Ruth was Tussock’s daughter, do you suppose? Would she have told anyone or could anyone else have found out? What I mean is, if Ruth were known to be Canon Tussock’s daughter, would that make her an object of hatred to anyone, do you suppose?’

  Canon Beagle considered, then he said, ‘I believe Clutton Brock is a solicitor.’

  Theodora turned this one over. ‘Could he have got at the contents of the will?’

  ‘I have no means of knowing.’

  Theodora thought of her godmother and the lawyers in Harrogate and the phone box. She remembered too how the phone box had been occupied by Clutton Brock the first evening of their stay. She said with regret. ‘I think it’s just possible I might be able to find out. But I can’t see why anyone who wasn’t mad should want to kill Ruth just because she was Tussock’s daughter.’

  Canon Beagle carefully gathered up the letters from the table and placed them in order before replying. Then he glanced at Theodora. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘Clutton Brock … both the Clutton Brocks are mad. They torment each other. There’s no health in either of them.’ He went on with a rush. ‘I heard … My room is below theirs and we’re all sleeping with our windows open in this heat. The skull business. He said, “You’re so theatrical” and she said, “You never seem to notice what I say. I thought you might take my meaning if it were acted out, in concrete, in bone. Bone for a bonehead.” And he said “If I wake up with a nail in my forehead people will know where to come looking.” And she said “Just keep your hands off the Tussock boy, that’s all. I thought you came here to exorcise your ghosts not start a new generation of them.”’ Canon Beagle stopped. He’d found his recital a strain. He leaned back in his wheelchair.

  Theodora considered his words. ‘You mean Mrs Clutton Brock set up the skull thing for her husband’s benefit?’

  ‘I took her to mean that.’

  ‘Poor woman. Did she really think Victor had his sights set on Guy?’

  ‘I suppose a lifetime of dealing with Clutton Brock would give her that sort of intuition.’

  Theodora nodded. She remembered Clutton Brock helping to steady Guy’s bike on that first day before they walked down to the house. ‘But she couldn’t also have walked in Bellaire’s cope. She was in the chapel at the time.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Canon Beagle was dismissive as one who had worked that one out long ago. ‘That could only have been Guy.’

  ‘Why on earth …?’

  ‘Bellaire’s mantle falls on Guy.’

  Theodora thought that was rather clever of Canon Beagle. It was just the sort of jokey way Guy might think. All this symbol-rattling would fit in with Guy’s clerical family and upbringing but also turn it on its head. ‘Guy’s phone call to me suggested that he thought that the nail in the skull was a death threat.’

  ‘Why should he think that?’

  ‘Guy thinks, if I understand him correctly,’ Theodora said, ‘that there is someone here who knows the contents of the last will and testament of Canon Tussock, and who is absolutely determined that the Tussock money should go to the foundation and not to any of the Tussock descendants.’

  ‘But both Ruth and Guy are Tussock descendants.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ said Theodora. ‘I really think I must get to a phone. Again.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Travellers

  The travellers spilled out over the countryside. Their ancient vans of composite or unknown makes revved and coughed their way slowly through the narrow lanes leading to St Sylvan’s. Some came with oddly shaped horses attended by lean muscular dogs of a working variety and hoards of unbiddable children. Large women who resembled the horses and small wiry men like the dogs kept the vehicles moving. Intractable, unstoppable they flowed across the landscape, some using highways, some following forest tracks known on
ly to themselves. Every now and again they would pull up and, in small huddles, kindle fires. They cooked and ate from communal pots. They fed each other’s children and dogs, turned their horses loose amongst the hedgerows then set to the ritualised business of buying and selling. Stringed instruments vied with transistors. Goats and hens milled around amongst the wheels and the fires.

  ‘The social mix is tremendous,’ said Inspector Bottomley, scanning the horde from the police car stationed on the ridge above the valley. She had spent Thursday morning going from van to van, inquiring for Guy without success. But it had been an interesting experience, she had to admit. ‘I met a man who used to teach geography at Harrow doing a deal with another man who I swear couldn’t write. Though clearly he could count.’

  ‘Pity they can’t do an honest day’s work,’ said Luff.

  ‘It makes for variety. You wouldn’t want us all in uniform, would you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Just an outsized slice of litter and chaos. Can’t think why Broads don’t object. I would.’

  ‘It’s traditional at this time of year. Anyway, it’s Broads’ land and if they don’t object, there’s nowt much we can do about it. And they’ll be gone day after tomorrow, after the saint’s day.’

  ‘Can’t be soon enough.’

  ‘Keep your eye on the job. What we want is young Tussock.’

  ‘And you reckon he might be with the ex-ambulance with a dragon on its back? Shouldn’t wonder if there weren’t more than one of those in a mob like this.’

  ‘Ought to have invited the Bishop up for identification purposes.’

  Luff grinned. ‘“There you will find your killers, Inspector.”’ He mimicked the Bishop’s plummy accents.