Her first feeling this morning was that she didn’t want the diocesan office job. Her next was that her finances were so low, her prospects so diminished that really she did not have too much choice. Moreover, she was curious. Julia thought she detected a complete and separate world in the Church of England. Nor did she think that that world looked as though it very much resembled the one depicted by Trollope. Julia collected worlds, having none of her own. She knew nothing of Anglicanism. What would that world make of an invasion of madness and violence? A severed head in a font. Could sacrilege have any place still in the modern, secular age? It would be intriguing to see if it did. What would she discover? Julia wondered, as she gazed through the open window of her bedroom.
Moreover, Julia reflected, Medewich was beautiful and her room, in the attic of an early nineteenth–century terrace, a luxury. If the nineteenth century had built a university instead of the barracks, prison and asylum, Julia thought, she wouldn’t have got accommodation so easily. Her mind jumped to the misery of her last room in Cambridge, to the poky, noisy little flat in which she and Michael had first loved and then hated each other. To banish such thoughts, she got up. Saturday meant shopping. Though she had no money, she would investigate the town and get herself equipped for the new job and a new life.
The Cathedral bell tolled for the eight o’clock Eucharist. The deaconess, on her way to service in the Cathedral, placed her shopping list inside her prayer book so that it marked the appropriate Sunday after Trinity, rolled her string bag briskly inside her capacious handbag and strode manfully across the perfect lawn which separated her lodgings in the Archdeaconry from the Cathedral’s south door. There appeared to be rather more people than was usual bound for the early service, she noticed. Perhaps there had been a revival of religious enthusiasm. However, the presence of the police cars suggested a more basic psychological urge was at work in the hearts of Medewich’s citizens. She paused at the small, to her always inviting, wooden door of the St Manicus chapel and reflected: blood, violence and madness, these were the foundations, after all, of every religion. She grasped the cool iron handle and plunged into the darkness beyond.
Medewich market on Saturdays was the centre of social as well as commercial life in the town. Situated below the west door of the Cathedral on cobbles which bore evidence of rotting fruit and discarded vegetables long after its closure in the evening, it was possible to buy anything there, from salad to shoes. Three main streets led down to it. Julia, wandering downhill from her lodgings, was both soothed and stimulated by its life. Edging through the already crowded aisles between the stalls, it was possible to feel a continuity with the past history of the place. Fruit and vegetables like these, local and foreign, must always have been sold here. Their smells and the soft local accent proclaiming their virtues need not have been different eight hundred years ago in St Manicus’s time.
Julia wandered contentedly round the stalls until the smell of new bread reminded her that she had not eaten since yesterday’s snack before the interview. She had not wanted food after the events in the St Manicus chapel. A stall selling bacon rolls and strong sweet Indian tea gave her sustenance. Holding her food and drink she made for the centre of the market and sat down on the now sun–warmed steps of the butter cross. From this slightly raised position it was possible to look toward the west door of the Cathedral. In the courtyard to the south, beside the St Manicus chapel, she could see two police cars parked. It occurred to her to wonder what the local press was making of the affair. She ceased feeding the already gross pigeons with the remains of her roll, went back for a second cup of the thick, soupily delicious tea and bought a paper.
The Medewich Daily Press, unlike its stable companion, the Medewich Evening News, was a sober and unpopular journal which did its best to pretend it was not a local paper by taking a very high moral tone in its criticism of international men and affairs. From its front page, normally, it was not possible to find any reference to local news, though the inner pages made concessions to local interests with reports of planning decisions (always mistaken). Today, however, national affairs were relegated to the second page. A victory for a very young sub editor (taken on in last year’s graduate entry from Cambridge) allowed the headlines to proclaim:
KILLER GHOST WALKS AGAIN
SEVERED HEAD IN ST MANICUS’ FONT
Clergy are asking themselves whether the ghost of the murderer of St Manicus still stalks the Cathedral. Yesterday evening the dead head of a man was discovered by Mrs Miranda Thrigg, 54, of Markham Terrace, Medewich, while cleaning the font in the St Manicus chapel. ‘I was completely bold over,’ said Mrs Thrigg. ‘I, for one, would not be surprised if no human hand had done this deed.’
Having won his headline and first paragraph, the sub editor had lost the battle for the rest of the story and the report continued in the normal prose style of the press.
It is understood that as yet there has been no identification of the head, which was that of a young man with red hair. Doctors estimate his height at about six foot.
How on earth do they do that, thought Julia. The report then went on to say that the Dean and Chapter had not issued a communiqué, as yet, but the waiting world would have the advantage of that later in the day.
Julia admired the use of the word ‘dead’ to describe the head and the spelling of ‘bold’ in the report of Mrs Thrigg’s quoted words. She glanced up towards the Cathedral with its tiny bump of a Chapter house on the north side. Did they all sit round in fancy dress on throne–like chairs drafting an ecclesiastical statement, she wondered. Julia had been educated at an Australian comprehensive school before her father died and then in the rather more hellish atmosphere of an English Further Education College in Wolverhampton. There, she had gained, against mighty odds, a couple of A levels in English and Mathematics which fitted her for precisely nothing. Religion in any form other than aboriginal non–conformity had played no part in her juvenile experience. Her knowledge of English and European history and literature, such as it was, derived entirely from listening to Michael and his friends at Cambridge. She felt, however, no inferiority for her lack of background, though occasionally she was mystified. She brought a fresh and observant eye to the language and institutions of her father’s country and made attempts to investigate and read about whatever she found particularly baffling. On the whole she found it a stimulating experience.
‘Miss Smith?’
Julia started and looked up. She found gazing down on her the very tall woman who had been present at her interview with Canon Wheeler the previous day. The woman was dressed in a plain dark–blue linen dress which was only just not a uniform. Julia got up from the butter cross steps.
‘Oh, good morning. I’m afraid I don’t …’
‘Theodora Braithwaite,’ said the tall woman holding out her hand.
‘How do you do? I’m afraid I …’
‘I tried to contact you yesterday evening after you’d seen the police.’
Julia’s mind jumped apprehensively, irrationally. Did that mean that they were withdrawing the offer of the job? Perhaps people who were contaminated by finding severed heads in cathedral fonts couldn’t be employed in cathedral offices as typists.
‘I’m afraid …’
‘I thought that perhaps you might be in need of solace. I can imagine how very unpleasant time spent with the police might be. Not to mention, of course,’ she added apparently as an afterthought, ‘the horridness of your discovery.’
Julia analysed this quickly. The offer of comfort was, she felt sure, genuine. So was the disdain for the police; so was the dismissal of the actual experience of finding the head. She felt reassured by this list of priorities, even if it didn’t quite coincide with her own.
‘It’s very kind of you. The police weren’t too bad. There wasn’t actually much I could tell them. But they seem to like you to say everything three times rather slowly and from slightly different angles.’
Theodora look
ed at Julia keenly. She appeared to find the sentiments congenial.
‘I’m going to see my colleague, Ian Caretaker,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you’d care to come and have some coffee with us?’
Julia trotted along beside Theodora feeling very much as though she had been taken charge of but not at all resenting it. They crossed the river by the traffic bridge and turned left down the tow path. Moored at the end of a long line of modern fibre glass cruisers was a long low timber boat like a masted barge. Though rigged, the rust–coloured sail was furled along the immense boom. From the top of the mast there flew a flag which Julia recognised from her Australian youth: Thailand.
‘Dhani Tambiah, my colleague Ian Caretaker’s friend, owns it and Ian is lodging there for the moment,’ Theodora explained.
Julia stepped aboard the boat with delight. The solidity of the old, well–maintained timbers reassured her. It smelt of tar and varnish and herbs, the herbs wafting from a galley to the for’ard where cooking of an un–English kind was going on. She followed the tall figure of Theodora aft, picking her way round coiled ropes and brass bollards. On the deck beside the tiller and beneath a canvas awning to provide shade from the now hot sun, she detected two seated figures. Dhani Tambiah – neat–figured, bronze–coloured and barefoot, like a small Buddha – was sitting in a half–lotus on the broad aft bench. He got up beautifully, without hurry, without stiffness, and gave her his hand. He looked her gently in the eye and smiled.
‘How do you do?’ they said together.
‘You’re most welcome to my home,’ said Dhani. Then Ian came forward.
‘May I introduce,’ said Theodora formally, ‘Ian Caretaker, Julia Smith.’
‘Hello,’ said Ian with less formality than Theodora.
‘It’s a beautiful boat,’ said Julia warmly.
‘It suits us admirably,’ said Ian proprietorily.
‘What is it?’ Julia inquired.
‘A Norfolk wherry built to carry grain round the coast. Built about 1870 by Yaxlee and Maingay of Narborough for Tallboy and Sons of Medewich. It worked until about 1950 when Tallboys’ ceased trading. It has an original Crossley engine, with a lovely deep note.’
Julia, as always, was flattered by male didacticism.
‘Tea or herb tea?’ said Dhani.
‘Coffee,’ said Theodora firmly.
‘It’ll do you no good,’ said Dhani darkly and disappeared below deck.
‘Ian is Canon Wheeler’s lay assistant,’ said Theodora, experimentally seating herself on a canvas chair as they all disposed themselves on the warm timbers of the deck.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Julia, perfectly prepared to be discreet if that should prove to be necessary. There was plenty to enjoy on this lovely boat. It was only to be expected that there should be some fly in the ointment. Ian’s grin widened but also tightened.
‘Theodora told me she thought you handled the egregious Canon rather well.’
‘I wasn’t required to do very much,’ said Julia.
‘That will come later,’ said Ian. ‘How good are you at dealing with bullies?’
Before Julia could reply, Dhani returned with a tray. Julia found herself pressed to have herb tea which was delicious and refreshing. Theodora drank coffee and Ian continued.
‘They had an informal Chapter last night. They’ll hold a formal one this morning to get out a press statement. The head belongs to Paul Gray of St Saviour’s Markham cum Cumbermound. They’re looking for his car: SVF 907 Ford Escort, diocesan issue.’
Julia put her cup down rather suddenly and made as though to speak. Theodora regarded her for a moment and then Ian continued.
‘Chapter, by which I mean Canon Wheeler, who had a great deal to say, as always, seemed to indicate that they were neither surprised nor sorry that Gray had had his head chopped off. Many of his parishioners, Wheeler indicated, have had this thought in mind since he took over from the innocuous Longman at the beginning of the year. Indeed, he implied his PCC might well have been drawing lots for the honour. By the time Wheeler had finished we were surprised that the fellow had survived so long.’
‘Ian, don’t be so tasteless,’ said Theodora crisply. ‘You’re shocking Julia, or at least you have no right to infect her with your cynicism.’
Julia wasn’t sure whether she was shocked or not. Of the two conversational gambits open to her she chose the easier. She was, she said, rather surprised to find someone who wasn’t a priest working for the Church.
‘Well,’ said Ian and Theodora together.
‘I think,’ said Ian, ‘that Julia’s education in such matters should come from me since I’m the only real layman here.’
Dhani smiled enigmatically.
‘The Church,’ said Ian, clearly launching into a prepared tract, ‘is, like God, both immanent and transcendent. That is to say, as well as being the company of all faithful Christian people living and dead, it is also an institution within a temporal and historical polity.’ He was enjoying himself.
Julia glanced across at Theodora while Ian was talking. The deaconess was leaning back in the chair, her face shadowed by the canvas awning. Julia was again aware that Theodora had a presence, that she was allowing Ian to perform.
‘It is with the latter aspect of the church,’ Ian was striding on, ‘that we are concerned. It owns property, builds and maintains edifices, employs and even occasionally sacks people. That means that there are two layers of people. Priests, one per cent of the whole, who are there for ornament and to provide visible symbols of the transcendent reality acted out in liturgy. And laymen, ninety nine per cent of the whole, who are there to support the one per cent. Every priest, therefore, needs his lay equivalent, his minder, who marshals the money, who phones the plumber, who …’
‘Oh, really, Ian, that’s quite enough,’ said Theodora. ‘Tell us what more you know about the murder. Julia can pick up the niceties of Anglicanism later.’
Julia said hesitantly, ‘Is there anything I could read on the Church, to get the hang of it, as it were?’
‘You should approach the Church of England as you might approach a wine tasting,’ Ian said grandly. ‘Mere information is not enough, the taste is all. I am currently working on the definitive layman’s guide to the Anglican Church. It will not be published by Church House.’
The joke was lost on Julia; the others had heard it before.
‘When was Gray killed?’ Theodora asked Ian, dragging him back to the point.
‘And, incidentally, how do you know what Chapter decided?’ added Dhani.
‘Which the press don’t know,’ finished Julia.
Ian looked pleased. ‘I was acting as Wheeler’s side–kick at Chapter last night – he likes to have the equivalent of an office boy or runner in attendance to send on errands and give a few orders to. In between errands I gathered that Gray was quite well known to the Chapter. Archdeacon Baggley had had no difficulty in making an identification for the police. There’d been a spot of bother in his first curacy and he was known to be one of the Bishop’s favourites.’
‘And he was killed, when?’ asked Theodora again.
‘It’s apparently difficult to tell precisely from a head alone,’ said Ian judiciously. ‘They’ll know better when, if, they find the body.’
‘Which they have not yet done,’ said Theodora.
Julia noted that Theodora’s and Ian’s intonation and turn of phrase frequently resembled each other’s. Either they knew each other well or else they had read, thought Julia, the same sort of books. Like Michael, she thought, and for a moment her world went dark.
‘Why should any one want to kill Paul Gray?’ Dhani inquired.
Theodora looked at Ian. ‘Do the police share Canon Wheeler’s view that the murderer comes from within Gray’s parish?’
‘We had a little terrier of a superintendant – Frost, I think he was called – hovering at the elbow of the Chief Constable, who was clearly embarrassed by a clerical corpse. They gave absolutely no
thing away. I thought that they hadn’t anything to give. They’ve had a pair of nice alsatians quartering the Cathedral environs this morning to see if they can turn up the actual body. A task in which they will not be helped by the amount of tar the clerk of works’ men are managing to spill all over the place in their efforts to resurface the paths.’
‘But why should any of his parishioners want to kill Paul – Reverend Gray?’ Julia asked hesitantly.
‘Communities need victims,’ said Theodora thoughtfully, ‘and sometimes the priest, who is both visible and often innocent, fulfils this function.’ She paused. ‘Although it rarely ends in murder.’
Julia was baffled. ‘But why do they need a victim?’ she said helplessly.
‘To render the community holy, to act as a scapegoat, a focus for the hatreds it cannot otherwise deal with. We all need something we can legitimately hate.’
‘A sort of madness,’ murmured Dhani.
‘Look at St Manicus’s own murderer,’ said Ian.
‘Will it,’ asked Julia, returning to her earlier fear, ‘will it make any difference to the diocese, the office, I mean the job I was offered?’
Ian looked at her kindly. ‘I don’t think a thinning of the ranks of clergy means a reciprocal diminution in the ranks of laity. Rather the contrary. The fewer priests the more laity are needed. Caretaker’s first law of clerical energy.’
Two mallards swam over the soupy, green water and squawked at them hopefully, and Dhani disappeared below to fetch some brown bread. The four of them fed the ducks companionably, all sense of strain dissipating rapidly. The tight look which appeared on Ian’s face when he thought of Wheeler vanished and Theodora lost her rather formidable formality and showed a swift accuracy in the placing of her bread pellets.
Clerical Errors Page 2