Unholy Writ

by David Williams

  There was an audible groan from the leader of the trade union contingent.

  ‘These few … er … kind words are just to make you feel at home before they take you away … that is, before the coach takes some of you on to The Bell …’

  ‘Scarbuck and I are playing nine holes at four o’clock. We’d be delighted to have you join us.’ Speke-Jones was at Treasure’s side.

  The banker hesitated before replying. Golf with two such undesirables had hardly featured in his weekend plans. Yet the need for a private word with Scarbuck about the ownership of Mitchell Hall was urgent. If the man was to be surrounded by ‘apostles’ until the following day, then opportunities would be limited.

  ‘That would suit me very well,’ said Treasure truthfully. ‘Shall we say four o’clock on the tee? And now I really must be off – sorry to miss the end of Scarbuck’s stirring oration.’

  ‘Comic turn more like,’ said Speke-Jones with undisguised contempt.

  Treasure made off down the drive toward the main gate of Mitchell Hall. He had decided to walk to the churchyard by the road to avoid another confrontation with Dankton. It was already two-thirty – the time he had arranged to meet Thelma Goodbody. The fact he was hurrying as he turned into the road might have made the collision inevitable with the figure coming in the opposite direction. But the man made no apology, and what was more, he stood his ground after the abrupt encounter, effectively barring Treasure’s way. He was young, and self-consciously muscular; his hair was blond and curly, his skin unseasonably bronzed; he wore a tight-fitting blue denim suit, a pink, open-necked shirt, and an assortment of jewellery that Treasure found as distinctly un-masculine as the floral scent that wafted downwind from the man’s direction.

  ‘Now get this clear and get it straight. Stacey and I want more out of this than you’re giving, and I’m the one with the guts and the muscle to do something about it. The deal is fifty-fifty or you’re a dead man, and it won’t be an accident like this morning. And don’t try turning your pygmies on to me either. I’m around and I’m staying around – and not just to do the dirty work for no thanks.’ Having delivered this incredible statement, the man strode across the road to a yellow Volkswagen. He next drove away at high speed in the direction of the church, leaving a dumbfounded Treasure staring after him.

  One thing was certain; Treasure had been mistaken for someone else. The most likely candidate was Scarbuck in view of the obvious reference to the Filipinos. But who was the accident victim of that morning – Treasure had heard of no accident – and what was the nature of ‘the deal’ that the blond man and ‘Stacey’ (his wife? – girl-friend? – partner in crime?) were doing with the new owner of Mitchell Hall?

  If Scarbuck had really been the intended object of the stranger’s verbal assault then the hatred evident in the man’s tone and manner certainly equalled that expressed in more civilized terms by Moonlight that morning. Remembering the contempt that Speke-Jones had shown for Scarbuck a few minutes earlier, and the smouldering distaste exhibited for that same personage by Dankton, Treasure concluded that Scarbuck was a figure singularly lacking in friends. Treasure was sufficiently versed in current idiom not to assess the statement ‘you’re a dead man’ as an actual threat to life, but the way in which the words had been uttered certainly predicated seriously unpleasant consequences – and the speaker had possessed all the physical and mental attributes of a promisingly violent disposition.

  Treasure quickened his pace towards the church as the little yellow car noisily spun around the corner and out of sight, its colour and speed contrasting with the sombre, still group of vehicles and men grouped around the little lychgate of the church. A number of cars were parked alongside the low wall that skirted the road, headed by a hearse. Maggie Edwards’s funeral was in progress inside the church and the drivers of the hearse and two attendant black limousines, looking professionally morose in black top-coats and bowler hats, were standing beside the second car smoking to fill in the time, but doing so in a fashion that gave an appearance appropriately mournful.

  Miss Goodbody was waiting patiently for Treasure just inside the gate. ‘Have you heard of an accident today?’ was Treasure’s unexpected greeting.

  ‘No, but if that maniac in the yellow Volkswagen stays loose much longer there’ll be one,’ the girl replied spiritedly. ‘I’m sure it was the same car that nearly ran into us this morning on the way here.’

  ‘I thought it was vaguely familiar.’ Treasure decided not to volunteer a commentary on the driver.

  ‘What do you think?’ Miss Goodbody had a more pressing subject for discussion than dangerous drivers. ‘The grave-digger’s absolutely disappeared – left poor Timothy completely in the lurch.’

  ‘Did he leave a note?’ asked Treasure lightly.

  ‘Nothing so thoughtful, I’m afraid. He’s just done a bunk. Timothy was in a terrible tizz. Fortunately the grave’s dug, but it’ll need filling in shortly. We’ve managed to recruit Mr Banquet – the husband of Timothy’s housekeeper – but he’s not a bit pleased about it. He usually takes Saturday afternoons off to watch football in Reading.’

  The two walked together towards the north porch of the church. The building was larger than one would expect in a village the size of Mitchell Stoke, but it had self-evidently not been built of a piece at one time. The apsidal east end was Norman and heavily buttressed. The much higher nave was Early English and boasted a clerestory. Another generation, perhaps not wishing to appear lowlier and less pious than its predecessors, had added a squat tower, but in brick, not stone like the rest of the church. Even so, as if to make amends, this Elizabethan addition incorporated a nave extension with a very fine west window, delicately traced. As in so many other similar cases the total effect was harmonious – just as a succession of careful masons had intended it should be despite the mixture of styles and materials. Even a mid-Victorian southern aisle only visible from the vicarage approach to the Church had been fashioned with more sensitivity than was common amongst Gothic revivalists.

  Treasure enjoyed the church without needing to dissect its parts. It was an old familiar which he found somehow comforting for that, even though his taste in architecture was firmly classical and not romantic. While obliged to admit that he had been brought up ‘perpendicular’, he was given to protesting that he had come of age a Renaissance man.

  The path the two were following bisected just before the church porch. One part continued on to the church while the other branched left running parallel with the nave and rounding the east end. There it converged with the path from the vicarage garden, thereafter running eastwards through the churchyard and terminating at the gateway surmounted by Trapp that morning.

  Just beyond where the paths converged stood the Acropolis, the monument to the first baronet. It was a miniature imitation of the upper portion of a Roman temple-tomb. Thus its local name was hardly appropriate, owing its origin more to the fact that the edifice was elevated than the suggestion that it pre-dated Greek Revival by a hundred years.

  Fashioned to resemble the frame of an open, square temple, instead of surmounting a classically conventional raised tomb, the building sat on a three-stepped podium which set it two feet above ground level. To the irreverent, the whole resembled nothing so much as a small stone bandstand. Each of its faces was topped by a plain pediment. The roof was supported at the corners by square Tuscan pillars punctuating the lines of free-standing columns that formed tetrastyle colonnades on all four sides.

  ‘And would you believe it – architect unknown,’ exclaimed Treasure as he and Miss Goodbody ascended the steps to stand in the centre of the flat stone floor.

  ‘Very nice,’ volunteered Miss Goodbody politely.

  ‘Very nice!’ Treasure exploded in mock horror. ‘Here you are, standing inside a probably unique and certainly powerfully significant architectural gem, and all you can say is “very nice”. Look at the symmetry. The base is fifteen feet square – I know because I measur
ed the whole thing years ago – and everything else is in perfect classical proportion. Whoever put this together was a scholar and a perfectionist – probably spent months sketching and measuring in Italy and had the wit to be more impressed with Greek copies there than with Roman originals. He even put entasis into the columns – you can see if you stand outside.’ Miss Goodbody looked uncertain. ‘And you can look up entasis as a penance for saying “very nice”.’

  ‘And the tomb’s underneath?’ asked the girl in as humble a tone as she could muster.

  ‘No, there’s no tomb. The old man was buried in the church before this was built. You’re quite right, though, in assuming there ought to be,’ Treasure added patronizingly. ‘The Greeks and Romans would have had a roomy square tomb under this floor, raising the whole thing a third as much again off the ground. This is just a cenotaph, but the floor foundations probably go down several feet – there’s not a sign of subsidence or cracking anywhere; nothing quite like it at the time in England.’

  ‘Or in Greece and Italy either by the sound of it.’ Miss Goodbody was daring to retaliate.

  Treasure smiled. ‘Point to you. True, it’s not a replica, just an intelligent, sensitive application of principles. I wish we knew who’d done it. I’ve always imagined it was some enthusiastic amateur, a friend of the second baronet’s fresh from the Grand Tour and longing to build something … anything, and Moonlight, wanting a memorial to his father, gave the chap a chance. Probably he never built another thing or else the creator of this would be known.’

  ‘All right – it’s jolly good,’ said Miss Goodbody, ‘but to be honest I’m more interested in the man it commemorates – he very likely walked and talked with Shakespeare.’

  ‘And on this very spot,’ commented Treasure, humouring the whim. ‘According to Arthur Moonlight, all the area beyond was occupied by the old monastery building until the mid-sixteen-thirties.’ The two looked eastward across the rising, undulating ground that led up to the wall. It was a patchwork of mounds and furrows, dotted by occasional gravestones mostly at drunken angles.

  Absently, Treasure noted again the single, symmetrical feature in what was otherwise a hotchpotch landscape. A few yards to the east of where they were standing was an elevated, stone-sided grave, and mid-way between this and the wall was another such, virtually identical to the first. The two made a straight line with the Acropolis pointing back to the church. Miss Goodbody followed Treasure’s gaze, then walked across to the first of the tombs.

  ‘Why would a grave have an iron grille?’ she asked, running her hand along a foot-wide metal trellis that ran the length of the tomb just below its flat stone top.

  ‘For decoration, probably,’ answered Treasure, joining her. The grille appeared on all four sides, interrupted only by stone supports at the corners. ‘These two tombs have always intrigued me,’ the banker continued, indicating the matching tomb further along the path. ‘Possibly the gent buried here was an iron mason and he, or his family, wanted posterity to be aware of the fact. The idea worked too; look, the inscription’s weathered away but the iron’s still good, if a bit rusty.’

  ‘And his brother’s over here?’ called Miss Goodbody who was moving on toward the other grave. ‘The two are practically identical.’

  Treasure was too preoccupied to comment. He had made a find of his own which gave him a feeling of inexplicable unease. The iron grille he had grasped on the first tomb, and on the side facing the Acropolis, had moved under his hand. It had not come away, for it was slotted in a fashion that held it in place from the inside; but the grille had moved – an unexpected event in a component part of a small edifice that had weathered perhaps three hundred and fifty years intact. Treasure walked around the tomb testing the other three grilles. Not only was each immovable but also effectively sealed at the edges with heavy growths of moss. While some moss adhered to the edges of the grille Treasure had first examined, this framing was not complete. He sought and found lengths of moss which might recently have formed part of the grille’s surround scattered on the ground beside the tomb.

  ‘The funeral’s coming.’ Miss Goodbody was at Treasure’s elbow. ‘D’you think we should decently retire?’ A solemn, small procession was emerging from the church door. Treasure nodded in agreement and motioned Miss Goodbody towards the south side of the churchyard in the general direction of an immense Victorian sarcophagus that promised them shelter from observation by the mourners approaching in the middle distance. They were not alone in this strategem. As they rounded the tomb they came upon one whom Treasure rightly assumed to be Mr Banquet, taking his ease, until called for duty, on a south-facing step, with a cigarette and a copy of the Sun.

  Despite the warmth of the afternoon Mr Banquet appeared to be cocooned in layers of ancient woollen jerseys, his head enclosed in a khaki, knitted Balaclava, topped by a tweed cap of good quality but fallen on hard times since – or possibly before – being handed down to Mr Banquet by one of his affluent employers. What could be seen of his features gave Mr Banquet the appearance of an over-fed mole.

  ‘This ain’t right, miss.’ He was addressing Miss Goodbody though he had already acknowledged Treasure’s presence with a glare.

  ‘But, Mr Banquet, the Vicar did agree three pounds,’ the girl said anxiously. Banquet sighed and then seemed earnestly to contemplate the large shovel at his side. It was to this implement that he addressed his next remark.

  ‘It’s not that; it’s ’Orace.’ He glanced at Treasure. ‘ ’Im that’s disappeared. He wouldn’t ’ave done it, see, not with a job on, not ’Orace.’ Following this fine testimonial to the conscientious habit of Mr Worple, Banquet returned to an examination of his shovel, at the same time deliberately folding up his newspaper and stuffing it into the belt exposed momentarily under layers of woollen garments.

  ‘You’re concerned about the well-being of the gravedigger,’ translated Treasure. The mole-like eyes surveyed the speaker.

  ‘Not ’is well-being; more like ’is ill-being to my way of thinking.’ The tone was ominous.

  ‘No accident has been reported?’ enquired Treasure, mindful of his encounter earlier with the driver of the yellow car.

  ‘Don’t mean to say ’e ’asn’t ’ad one. Tin’ bleedin’ natural, not at all it in’t.’

  Chapter Seven

  Having established that Banquet intended to carry through his contract to fill in the grave, Miss Goodbody was showing a decided lack of interest in the conversation. She pointedly addressed Treasure. ‘I’ve promised to help Timothy clean a canvas after the funeral. I could show you the parish register I was telling you about if you’d like to come over to the vicarage now – and there are some parish council minute books we haven’t been through yet,’ she offered as further inducement.

  Treasure glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got a golf date at four, but why don’t we wander off anyway, the funeral should be over in a minute or two.’ He turned to offer some parting pleasantry to Banquet but the latter was wholly engaged, removing his boots for a purpose Treasure judged was connected with the task of grave-filling that shortly lay before him. He noted that Banquet was wearing two pairs of socks that were only odd in the sense that each matching pair adorned one foot.

  As Treasure and Miss Goodbody approached the vicarage through the gate that led there directly from the churchyard, a small Panda police car swung into the drive and stopped before the front door. A uniformed policeman alighted and disappeared from view into the porch.

  ‘Good afternoon, Officer,’ said Treasure as he and his companion approached the young man waiting lawfully before the wide-open door, but under the baleful gaze of the recumbent Bach who lay semi-somnolent in the hall.

  ‘That bell doesn’t work,’ volunteered Miss Goodbody, ‘and neither does the watch-dog apparently. The Vicar’s in the churchyard finishing a funeral. Can we help?’

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ replied the policeman, saluting smartly. ‘Constable Humble, Thames Valley Police.’
And proud and eager at the fact, was Treasure’s approving conclusion. Humble turned to Miss Goodbody. ‘I’m not sure, miss. We’ve just had a call from headquarters.’ He paused and Treasure envisioned the strings of heavily manned police posts charged to contact Officer Humble at all costs.

  ‘Regarding a Mr Horace Worple? There’s been an accident?’ Treasure’s words came more as a statement than an enquiry.

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s right, sir.’ Humble hesitated, evidently concerned not to exceed his brief. Treasure straightened and consciously attempted to look as much like a member of the ruling class as was possible.

  ‘Is the man dead?’ Both Humble and Miss Goodbody looked at him in surprise.

  ‘As a matter of fact he is, sir,’ replied Humble producing a notebook and pencil. ‘Might I have your name, sir?’

  ‘I’m Mark Treasure and this is Miss Thelma Goodbody. Would you like to borrow this?’ He proffered a gold Cross ball-pen; Constable Humble had broken his pencil. ‘I’m staying at Mitchell Hall with Arthur Moonlight.’

  ‘With Sir Arthur, sir.’ Humble appeared both impressed and relieved.

  ‘Yes. Tell me, was Mr Worple’s death an accident?’

  The constable swallowed. ‘Not exactly, sir, that is we’re not sure of the cause of death. CID are on to it, though.’ Another pause, then with evident relief Humble’s gaze moved over Treasure’s shoulder and he called, ‘Afternoon, Vicar.’

  ‘Hello, Vincent.’ Trapp joined the group, and stood rocking on his heels. ‘How’s your mother?’

  Constable Humble looked slightly embarrassed at this parochial enquiry. ‘Much better, Vicar. Should be in church tomorrow.’ Trapp beamed. ‘I’m here on official business, Vicar.’ Humble did his best to look official, unaided by the juvenating outcrop of pimples on his chin. He recounted the information he had already given to Treasure and Miss Goodbody. ‘And they told me at the church, Vicar, that you saw Mr Worple this morning.’