Unholy Writ

by David Williams

  ‘Mr Scarbuck seemed pretty anxious to keep Forward Britain out of the picture, sir.’

  ‘Yes, private armies don’t like holding field days in public. And some of those trade unionists there won’t want their photos in the Mirror either – living it up at country house parties doesn’t go down well with the brothers. There’ll be some hide and seek going on tomorrow … Now what was the name of the house?’

  ‘The Bishop wasn’t sure, sir, but the location and description’s quite clear. It should be about half a mile on from here – double white gates on the river side, For Sale notice, steep drive down to a thatched cottage with a tall chimney – his wife never even noticed the car.’

  ‘You don’t if you’re driving.’ Bantree slowed the Ford to a crawl. ‘Anyway it was still pretty observant of the Bishop to remember all that …’

  ‘Here it is,’ Wadkin interrupted. ‘A steep and very rutted drive by the look of it, sir.’

  ‘And no compensation if I write off the underside of my car either,’ said Bantree, surveying the plunging, broken surface that began a few feet ahead of his front wheels. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, Sergeant: never plan to go fishing straight from duty.’ Since Wadkin neither fished nor owned a private car, this homily was wasted. Bantree was now regretting the decision not to have made this particular journey in the police car they had left behind at Mitchell Stoke.

  ‘Those tulips are early,’ remarked the Inspector to take his mind off the way the vehicle was slipping and swaying ‘I’ve often thought of getting plastic ones for sticking in at Easter – surprise for the neighbours. Right, we’re down.’ He drew up outside the front door of a well-kept, whitewashed cottage of considerable age and charm. Despite the narrowness and disrepair of the approach the drive widened into a reasonably large and even forecourt, level with the house. ‘Well, at least we shan’t have to back out.’ Bantree switched off the engine.

  ‘And there’s our yellow Volkswagen.’ Wadkin pointed to an open garage door.

  ‘Well done the Bishop. Now if this were an American TV film we should draw our guns, take up positions on either side of the door prior to your kicking it in. Have you ever kicked in a front door?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, don’t try – it’s a terrible strain on the ankles. Since we’re in Berkshire, let’s just ring the bell and see what happens. But remember, we may be interviewing a murderer with curious propensities – so mind my back.’

  ‘It wasn’t bad grub,’ said Scarbuck to Speke-Jones as they mounted the stairs of the Hall. ‘Outside caterers of course, four pounds a head excluding wine.’ The two had enough in common where values were concerned for Speke-Jones automatically to begin a mental calculation. ‘Anyroad, they’ll be happy enough in the saloon for a bit. There’s plenty of port going round.’

  ‘What is it you want a word about?’ asked Speke-Jones. ‘I don’t think we should be away too long.’

  ‘Let’s go in here.’ Scarbuck opened the door on a room half-furnished as an office at the head of the stairway. ‘This’ll be one of the new bathrooms.’ Speke-Jones was tired of being treated to the grand tour of Mitchell Hall, and showed it. ‘Sit down a minute, Griffith,’ said Scarbuck ingratiatingly, and, motioning towards the more comfortable of the two chairs in the room, took the other, behind a desk, himself. ‘About this little matter of Movement funds …’

  ‘It’s not so little, and my view hasn’t altered.’ Speke-Jones spoke sternly and to the point. ‘You’ve handled this whole business in a way that can only be described as cavalier. Now either you turn over Forward Britain Enterprises to the Movement on Monday, or you can bloody well sweat it out.’

  ‘But, Griffith, lad, they’re practically one and the same already. I’ve only the best interests of the Movement at heart,’ Scarbuck attempted to look hurt. ‘You know my reasoning, and you’ve no more faith in the judgement of the other officers than I have. A word from you now and they’d all agree to transfer the half million straight away. I’ll have the collateral tomorrow morning in any case.’

  ‘Well, there’s two little “ifs” to be put in there. If you have the collateral tomorrow,’ corrected Speke-Jones, ‘then you can find out on Monday if you have the title to it.’

  ‘But where’s the doubt? This place is mine … that’s to say ours, and everything in it is ours. The deed of sale has a special clause stating just that.’

  ‘You were right the first time, George. This place is yours – not ours – because Enterprises is yours. And a nice scandal there’s going to be on Tuesday when the City finds out how you’ve funded it. I told you right at the start the Movement should have bought Mitchell Hall in its own right, and it can buy it from you on Monday for half a million if you’re willing, and that’s more than double what you paid. We’ll want all the assets, of course.’

  ‘And how much good will it do the Movement if the President is done for misapprehension of funds, I’d like to know? Have you asked yourself that?’

  Speke-Jones gave a half-smile. ‘Yes, George, I’ve asked myself that, and I’ve come up with the same answer since you got a murder on your hands as I did before you acquired such a foolish complication – only now the answer’s a bit firmer, that’s all. You know, George, I’ve never believed you made a very suitable President. But don’t worry, you won’t go to jail – not for misappropriation anyway. Following your resignation –’ he paused to ensure that the meaning of his words was being properly digested – ‘I repeat, following your resignation from the Movement, and from Enterprises, we shall, of course, be very ready publicly to announce our willingness to take over the company and to meet all its obligations. Indeed, we shall recognize our moral responsibility in the matter. I don’t believe the Movement will suffer – on the contrary.’

  This was too much for Scarbuck. ‘You rotten Welsh bast …’

  ‘Language, George, language, and watch it or you’ll have the Race Relations on to you too.’ Speke-Jones was as cool and in command of himself and the situation as Scarbuck was outraged.

  ‘So that’s what you want – the Presidency. After all my years of unmilitated effort, taking a mere idea and nursing it through thick and thin …’

  ‘Save me the violin music, there’s a good chap. You’ve done well, George, no doubt about it, and the Movement will be sorry to see you go. But it’s too big for you now; there’s too much at stake. Go back to building hospitals and posh flats – you’re good at that. Mind you, whether you go back a respected member of the community or with the old image a bit tarnished like … well, that’s entirely up to you. Write me a letter of resignation which we can show to all those nice people downstairs and your problems are over. And calm down or you’ll burst a blood vessel.’

  Scarbuck did appear to be on the point of apoplexy. He loosened his collar and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, breathing heavily the while. He also took the opportunity to consider a new strategy. ‘All right, Griffith, you win,’ he said in a tone of too abject surrender, ‘but there’s a better way open for you personally – and you can take it if you’ll leave me the Presidency.’ Speke-Jones remained poker-faced. ‘I’ll assign you half the shares in Enterprises, and I’ll do it now. How about that?’ Scarbuck leant back with a look of confident triumph.

  Speke-Jones shook his head. ‘There was a time, George, when I should have considered that offer magnanimous in the extreme – yes indeed. Coming at this moment, though, it falls a bit flat to say the least. D’you see, it’s not just the money I’m after, and in any case why should I settle for half of three million when I can control everything from Tuesday?’

  ‘Ay, well that’s where you’re wrong. In the first place controlling the funds of the Movement through the Presidency isn’t the same as owning them – if I’d thought it was I’d not have troubled to set up Enterprises. In the second place there won’t be three million. I’ve agreed from the start that Dankton and what he calls his partners will get a quarter of what’s re
alized – and if he wasn’t such a damn fool he’d have stuck out for more. Well, you can’t pay Dankton out through the Movement’s funds – there is a Constitution, you know, drawn up by proper lawyers …’

  ‘And in the third place,’ Speke-Jones interrupted, ‘there’s no three million yet because there’s no manuscript yet – but there’s two million in the Movement’s balances, and I’ll settle for that even if your expensive treasure hunt turns into a wild goose chase.’

  ‘There’s a manuscript all right – Dankton’s certain of that – and it’ll fetch a bloody sight more than three million if it’s allowed out of the country – that library in America …’

  ‘It won’t be allowed out of the country, George, so you can forget the Pierpont Morgan Library and all your other Yankee prospects – it’d be like selling the Crown Jewels to the Arabs. Parliament would never allow it.’ Speke-Jones didn’t stop to consider whether his analogy was altogether a sound one in view of the country’s economic state.

  Scarbuck was not concerned with fine points. ‘You mean you as a Member of Parliament – God help us – would oppose it?’

  Speke-Jones ignored the insult. ‘As a Member of Parliament and as President of Forward Britain I’d oppose it. The Movement would collect enormous kudos in the process. I’ve even considered giving the manuscript to the British Museum.’

  This remark brought Scarbuck to the verge of tears. ‘Nay, lad, you wouldn’t do that … you couldn’t do that?’ The dismay was genuine.

  ‘No, George, I shan’t do that. I said I’d considered the matter, but on reflection I think it only proper that all parties concerned should benefit along with the nation. The manuscript will go for auction with a modest reserve, and out of the proceeds the Movement will graciously – and quite constitutionally – reward the learned Mr Dankton, and also Sir Arthur Moonlight, with generous ex gratia payments. There may even be a bit for you, George. That way, everything’s neat and above board. The Movement will keep most of the money, of course, but there’ll be no hard feelings, plenty of goodwill, and – who knows – perhaps a bit of public recognition for yours truly.’

  ‘A knighthood?’ Scarbuck’s lip curled as he uttered the words.

  ‘Possibly – possibly not; who knows? In any event the Forward Britain Movement will come out of it very well, with enough funds to pay for all its new cultural and socially beneficial programmes.’

  ‘What programmes?’ enquired the current President.

  ‘You may well ask, George, after all the hot air you’ve been spouting today. Proper programmes, boyo, that will get the Movement integrated into the political, industrial and educational structures of this country – and in a way you couldn’t envision if you devoted yourself to the subject for the next hundred years. You’re too narrow, George; despite all the flim-flam, you’re a money grabber at heart, and you’ll never be anything else … Now let’s have this resignation written out straight away, there’s a good fellow.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Bishop was seated on Elizabeth Moonlight’s right. He gazed with interest, and no apparent surprise, at the empty plate Aggie had just placed before him, and then at the piece of lemon meringue pie which she had neatly tipped off it into his table napkin. ‘There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip,’ he exclaimed with a giggle. The Bishop had eaten well and drunk better. ‘I’m not supposed to have pudding, but since this is gift-wrapped already, perhaps I might take it home for tomorrow’s tea?’

  ‘Aggie, the Bishop’s dessert!’ cried the embarrassed hostess.

  ‘ ’E’s got one,’ replied Aggie defensively as she continued to circle the round table, balancing a tray of plates with the defiant air of an amateur conjuror about to attempt the impossible. She glanced back at the Bishop’s empty plate in amazement. ‘Sorry, your Lordship,’ she exclaimed, swinging back with such alacrity that only gravity served to keep the contents of the tray intact. ‘Could of sworn I give you some.’

  Despite this minor disaster, dinner had been a success if a somewhat prolonged affair due to the eccentricities of the service. Thelma Goodbody, seated between Bishop Wringle and Eustace Dankton, had been taking full advantage of the opportunity to acquire both local and expert knowledge for her research project. Moonlight, with Mrs Wringle on his right, had been carefully isolated from Dankton by Elizabeth. She had placed Trapp between her husband and the bibliographer for whom Moonlight appeared to have developed a hardly concealed aversion.

  The problem of the Bishop’s dessert overcome, Treasure, who was on Elizabeth’s left, diplomatically returned to an earlier topic. ‘So As You Like It is still a runner for Mitchell Stoke, Thelma?’

  ‘The Bishop’s more encouraging than Mr Dankton,’ replied Miss Goodbody.

  ‘And, alas, more lacking in scholarship,’ put in the Bishop modestly. ‘Bardolatry is no substitute for learning. I sincerely hope Shakespeare may have visited this place, so naturally I make too much of the purely circumstantial evidence that exists to suggest he did.’ He gazed benignly around the table. ‘There are Arden Cottages all over England, though the pair in the village here were certainly so named in 1640 – perhaps after the setting of As You Like It in Arden Forest; perhaps even by an occupant who saw the play – perhaps by chance.’ He uttered a loud hiccough, said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ to Elizabeth, and uttered another one.

  ‘They were almost certainly built from stone salvaged from the old Hall in the sixteen-thirties,’ offered Moonlight from across the table.

  ‘With carpentry supplied by Jaques Snate or Snathe – one of the three sons born to John and Mary Snathe in May 1599,’ added Miss Goodbody. She turned to Dankton. ‘Sir Arthur has an account for nineteen shillings and eight pence to prove it.’

  Probably expensive joinery for labourers’ cottages in those days,’ said Moonlight. ‘We gave all the accounts for the building of this house to the Soane Museum, and Sarah Moonlight appears to have been tighter-fisted with tradesmen and artisans than her husband thirty years before.’

  ‘Living as an exile in reduced circumstances probably induced that habit,’ put in Dankton primly, with the air of one who had suffered poverty in his time. ‘I must admit I’m more sceptical about the cottages than the naming of the carpenter’s awful children, which does seem uncannily coincidental. The problem is that the play could as easily have been written in 1593 as 1599 – as Miss Goodbody is well aware, and if Shakespeare himself came with the players to a lesser country house – forgive me, Sir Arthur – the earlier year is a better bet than the later. A lot of the companies went on the road in ’92 and ’93 because of the plague in London.’

  ‘But Shakespeare did As You Like It at Wilton in 1603 and probably in the three preceding years,’ said Miss Goodbody firmly. ‘There’s a letter to prove it.’

  ‘It’s alleged there was once a letter at Wilton to prove it – since mysteriously disappeared,’ corrected Dankton, ‘but the 1603 performance was in the presence of the King, and the playwright of the King’s Players would have made the effort to take part in a command performance. I doubt Shakespeare came here first for a dry run four years in advance.’

  Treasure felt his protégée was being put down too easily. ‘There is the point that this particular play was eminently suited for performing in country house gardens,’ he said, though he had only Miss Goodbody’s word on the subject.

  ‘A very slim point, I’m afraid,’ replied Dankton. ‘The performances at Wilton always took place in December, which hardly suggests they were done outdoors. It’s true, though, that As You Like It was a favourite on what was called the “mansion circuit”. It wasn’t all that popular in London – Touchstone the clown wasn’t considered a patch on Sir Toby.’

  The Bishop carefully examined his empty wine glass. ‘I was brought up to the notion that the play belonged to the high fanatical …’ he tried again … ‘the high fantastical period of Shakespeare’s work. Doesn’t that suggest it was written after 1598?’

  ‘
Re-written,’ said Miss Goodbody, conscious that as the putative principal in this discussion her contribution so far had been somewhat meagre. ‘There’s a theory, tied up with the death of Marlowe, that Shakespeare began to write the play in blank verse during 1593, abandoned it, and then dusted it off again six years later. It’s easy to separate the verse-form bits from the straight prose when you read the play.’

  ‘There were an unusual number of live births recorded in the parish around January 1600,’ put in the Bishop. Several of those present construed that this gratuitous irrelevance was the result of too much drink. As if sensing this, he went on, ‘The fact is highly pertinent,’ and, pausing only to suppress a hiccough, continued: ‘It suggests the very probable conclusion of a visit to a lonely country village of an all male troupe of roguish players in the er … in the merry month of May! Just imagine the effect on the village maidens. Mmm … I do stress also that the births were live, which suggests the infusion of new … er … blood into the community. Too much inter-marriage and even … er … incestuous relationships, were the cause of infant mortality in closed communities in those days. One saw the same thing in Africa in quite recent times.’

  The only other person present who might have confirmed the last unsavoury fact, to wit Mrs Wringle, made no move to do so. On the contrary, the Bishop’s consort had been treating him to censorious glances throughout his soliloquy, evidently to indicate that an assessment of the relative fertility of pliant maidens, whether in rural England or backward Africa, was no fit subject for the dinner table.

  In contrast, Miss Goodbody was delighted with such intelligences. ‘What a super theory. Whoever loved that loved not at first sight,’ she cried triumphantly, clasping the Bishop’s right hand. ‘Timothy, did you know about the population explosion here at the beginning of 1600?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ replied the Vicar, ‘but the Bishop’s much better at deciphering the old registers than I am. I suppose tomorrow you’ll be searching them for more Jaques and Orlandos.’