Richard Harland
The Vicar of Morbing Vile
1993, EN
A hundred years ago, a series of terrible murders was committed in the village of Morbing Vyle. Now the place lies hidden behind a forest of burned-out blackened trees, and people in neighbouring towns prefer to forget it ever existed.
But Martin Smythe rediscovers it, following an old signpost and a hidden path. All that remains is a vicarage and a vast building site.
Eccentric characters inhabit the vicarage: Mr Quode, Melestrina Quode and their son, Baby Panker; Mr Caulkiss and his wife, Craylene; and Mr Scrab, kept outside in the back garden. They make Martin welcome – but there’s a price to pay.
Ignorant of his own danger, Martin investigates. What strange religious belief drives these people to try and build the largest church in the world? If they’re so religious, why is Mr Caulkiss obsessed with mechanical inventions, why is Mr Quode obsessed with gourmet cuisine? Martin is sure that the mysterious Vicar is at the bottom of it all.
Then he discovers that he is no longer free to leave…
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Table of contents
Part One: LOOKING FOR MORBING VYLE
1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9
Part Two: IN THE VICARAGE
10 · 11 · 12 · 13 · 14 · 15 · 16 · 17 · 18 · 19 · 20 · 21 · 22 · 23 · 26
Part Three: THE BANQUET
27 · 28 · 29 · 30 · 31 · 32 · 33 · 34 · 35 · 36 · 37 · 38
Part Four: CHRISTMAS EVE
39 · 40 · 41 · 42 · 43 · 44 · 45 · 46 · 47 · 48 · 49 · 50 · 51 · 52
Part Five: CHRISTMAS DAY
53 · 54 · 55 · 56 · 57 · 58 · 59 · 60 · 61 · 62 · 63 · 64 · 65 · 66 · 67 · 68 · 69
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Part One
LOOKING FOR MORBING VYLE
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
One
Morbing Vyle. Morbing Vyle. The name alone sends a shudder down my spine. Even after all these years. I used to think that the memory would drain away like a bad dream. For fifteen years I haven’t told a single soul about it. But the horror still lurks at the bottom of my mind. I write out the name – and it’s as though a shadow falls instantly across the world, dark and chill and terrible.
Yet it was the name itself that originally appealed to me. I can’t explain why. Of course it was an odd-sounding name – but there was something more than that as well. It fascinated me right from the start.
It’s true I was in a strange sort of mood at the time. For a start, I was very lonely. I’m Australian, born and bred in Sydney – and somehow I couldn’t adjust to living in England. Or no, not exactly England – I liked England and the English people – it was Cambridge I couldn’t get on with. The University was such a cliquey clubby place, not at all welcoming. The dons and postgraduates and even the undergraduates seemed very aloof and superior, as though they’d all gone to the same private schools together. I felt like a total outsider.
I was in Cambridge for six months on a special study grant, to do research for my Ph.D. I was writing a historical thesis on ‘Responses to Darwinism’. I wanted to examine the hysteria and bigotry of the Christian establishment – how they denied the evidence, made personal attacks upon Darwin, stirred up emotion and ignorance – anything to close their eyes to the scientific truth. In a controversial conclusion, I also wanted to show the same forms of irrationality persisting in the arguments of the present-day Creationists.
It seemed like an interesting topic when I started. But I hadn’t reckoned with the quantity of material to be covered. So many pamphlets and books and essays and letters – the resources of the University Library were endless. The more I read, the more I discovered that still needed reading. And gradually I began to lose interest in what I was trying to argue The sheer silliness of the anti-Darwinians was depressing – what was the point of bringing them back to life? Better to leave them in the oblivion they deserved!
But still I kept going through the motions. Still I kept collecting material for a thesis that I knew, deep down, I would never actually write. Off to the University Library day after day, ploughing through volume after volume. My life was like an empty void, waiting for something to happen. And then I came across the name of Morbing Vyle.
It was in a very old issue of The Spectator, the issue for March of 1889. The controversy over the theory of evolution appeared in the Editorial and also in a number of Letters to the Editor. In one letter, the Reverend Sims from Deddington roundly condemned the ‘self-serving motives’ of the scientific community. But at the same time he qualified his argument with the phrase ‘without wishing to go so far as our friend from Morbing Vyle…’ The name jumped right up off the page at me. Morbing Vyle! How could anywhere – even in England – go under a name like that? Perhaps Vyle was a misprint for Vale?
I looked back through the Spectators for February and March of 1889, then all the way back through 1888. It seemed obvious that the Rev. Sims was referring to a letter published in an earlier issue. But the letter wasn’t there – unless it had appeared in the issue for December of 1888. Someone had ripped half a dozen pages out of that issue, and the whole Letters to the Editor section was missing.
So that was that. I was curious about the name, but not about the writer of the letter. Probably just another outraged and offended Christian – I already had a thousand examples of the kind. I went on with my research. But the name of Morbing Vyle still stuck at the back of my mind. I kept on repeating it to myself at odd random moments. And then, a week or so later, I came across it again.
This time there was no possible doubt. The place really existed: not Vale but Vyle. I discovered it by accident in the correspondence of Sir James Russell. Russell was one of the strongest of the pro-Darwinians, and I was intending to skim through his correspondence only for the sake of references to the theory of evolution. But I got distracted by his account – in letters to his sister – of a walking-trip that he made through the Breckland region of East Anglia in 1874. In flowery old-fashioned language he described the architectural and scenic beauties of the towns and villages through which he passed. Idly browsing, I followed him from Honington to Thetford, then Lynford, then Mundford – and then, suddenly, Morbing Vyle! There it was again! A village in the Brecklands!
Sir James was evidently very impressed by the old-fashioned charm of Morbing Vyle. His description went on for almost a whole page. I read about its many thatched cottages, its church and half-timbered public house. It sounded incredibly picturesque.
I sat there for a long time in the library, thinking and musing. I began to toy with the idea of visiting this Morbing Vyle. I’d made sightseeing trips to places like London and Lincoln and Norwich and York. But the quiet peace of a picturesque country village – wasn’t that the true spirit of old England? Perhaps I could take a few days off from my work…?
But I didn’t, not straight away. A sense of guilt kept me grinding away at my research, though I found it harder and harder to concentrate. Yet I couldn’t escape from the name of Morbing Vyle. It was as though it was haunting me. Just a few days later, I came across it yet again in a book on nineteenth-century ecclesiastical history. I was only looking for some background information on the distinctions between Church and Chapel, the different forms of belief held by the anti-Darwinians. But the book fell open almost immediately at a full-page photographic illustration. The caption to the illustration said: ‘Easter Processional at the Church of Morbing Vyle’.
The illustration was reproduced from an old photograph – a very old photograph. The men wore waistcoats and
hats and high starched Victorian collars, the women wore full length skirts and shawls and bonnets. They marched all in a line behind the upheld Cross, passing between the tombstones of a grassy green churchyard. In the background was the church itself, every bit as picturesque as Russell had described it. It had a knobbly little tower and conical spire. Close by the church was a red-brick building three quarters covered in ivy – presumably the vicarage.
I searched through the text for further details. But there was no mention of Morbing Vyle in particular, only a general account of changes and developments in Anglican ritual during the nineteenth century. I gave up reading and gazed at the photo instead. I must have gazed at it for half an hour or more. By the time I had finished gazing, my mind was made up. I would take a holiday, I would pay a visit to this village of Morbing Vyle! As soon as possible! Tomorrow!
I don’t know why I was in such a hurry. Perhaps I just wanted to escape from Cambridge and my studies – or perhaps it was something else. Anyway, I hurried home from the library, back to my dismal lodgings in Huntingdon Road. I packed a travelling bag with clothes enough for the next three days.
Only then did I look up Morbing Vyle in my Touring Atlas of the British Isles. First I looked it up in the Index at the back of the book – but it wasn’t there. So I turned to the map page for the Breckland, and scanned the area inch by inch. Thetford I discovered straight away, then Lynford, Mundford, and the various villages described by Russell. But no Morbing Vyle. It didn’t appear on the map at all.
Another name did apear though: the name of New Morbing. New Morbing was situated between Mundford and Feltwell, roughly on the route where Russell had passed through Morbing Vyle. Yet Russell hadn’t even mentioned New Morbing…
I scratched my head. What had happened? Had Morbing Vyle been outgrown by a more successful neighbour, shrinking in size until it was no longer large enough to feature on the map? Or was New Morbing actually the same as Morbing Vyle? The reference in The Spectator and Russell’s letters to his sister and the photo all dated from the nineteenth century. Perhaps the inhabitants had since decided to give their village a change of name?
It was a mystery. But I didn’t worry over it too much. After all, the idea was to stay at a quiet country village, and there were plenty of quiet country villages in the Breckland. Morbing Vyle wasn’t the only possibility. At least, that’s what I said to myself. But it wasn’t really true. It was Morbing Vyle and Morbing Vyle alone that fascinated me. The element of mystery only added to the fascination.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Two
Not having a car, I had to travel by train and bus. Thetford is the only train stop for the Breckland region – a journey of about twenty-five miles from Cambridge. I caught the morning train and arrived in Thetford around ten o’clock.
There was a bus stop on the street directly outside the train station. I went up and studied the bus timetables. The 203 went to Mildenhall, the 206 went to East Wretham, and the 207 went to Feltwell – by way of Lynford, Mundford and New Morbing.
I was disappointed but not altogether surprised. There were even smaller stops than Mundford and New Morbing on the route – stops like Evelyn Hall and Pearce’s Corner. But no stop by the name of Morbing Vyle. I was still studying the timetable when a voice spoke over my shoulder.
“Looking for somewhere? Need any help?”
It was a big cheery-faced woman in a yellow headscarf. She was one of half a dozen people already waiting at the bus stop.
“Yes. I’m looking for a place called Morbing Vyle.”
“Morbing Vyle? Never heard of it? What kind of a name is that?”
“I know, very odd. But there used to be a village of Morbing Vyle somewhere around here.”
“Not that I ever heard of.” She turned interrogatively to the other people at the bus stop. They shook their heads.
“Doesn’t exist.”
“No such place.”
“Got hold of the wrong name, I reckon.”
“Sounds like a mistake for New Morbing.”
I was going to disagree, but the cheery-faced woman spoke first.
“That’ll be it,” she said, nodding and smiling as over a problem solved. “New Morbing’s the place you’re looking for. Has to be. You catch the 207 bus – we’re all waiting for it here. Should’ve been along five minutes ago.”
Even as she spoke, the 207 bus appeared, trundling around a corner.
“Here we are,” she said. “Ticket to New Morbing costs you one and ten. I’ll let you know where to get off.”
I shrugged to myself. New Morbing was in the right direction anyhow. The mystery of Morbing Vyle could wait. I’d try asking around when I got to New Morbing.
I bought a ticket and sat down by the window. The cheery-faced woman took the seat in front of me. Soon we were rattling out of Thetford along a winding country road. We left the town behind and entered the woods of the Breckland.
It’s a strange region, the Breckland – quite different to the usual rich East Anglian farming land. For an area of about fifty square miles, the woods take over and the villages are few and far between. It’s because of the extremely sandy soil, impossible to cultivate. Looking out through the bus window, I could see endless gloomy trees overhanging the road on either side. I could almost imagine I was going back into the time when England was covered with forests, before human beings ever appeared on the scene.
We passed through Lynford, then Mundford. When we came to New Morbing, the cheeryfaced woman turned round and said, “Here it is. This is your stop.” I thanked her and got off.
New Morbing was a large village, almost a small town. There was a single main street lined with shops. With Christmas only three weeks away, the shop windows were already decorated with artificial snow, artificial holly and glittering MERRY XMAS banners. Along the pavements people hurried this way and that, faces lowered, laden with shopping bags. Everyone seemed very busy and preoccuppied.
I stood pondering my next move. I didn’t like the idea of just halting someone in the street to ask about Morbing Vyle. Then I noticed a prefabricated building of glass and wood, set back a little from the shops in a trim green square of lawn. The sign at the front said NEW MORBING COUNCIL LIBRARY. I could ask for information there.
I walked across and entered through the glass door. The librarian was behind the counter. He was an extremely old gentleman with heavy white eyebrows like an Old Testament prophet. He was fixing little coded stickers on the spines of new books. The books had titles like:
100 More Recipes for Healthy Living
The Third World in Facts and Figures
Make It Yourself: Rockeries and Fish Ponds
When I asked my question his face went suddenly rigid.
“Morbing Vyle? What do you want to know about Morbing Vyle for?”
“Just curious.”
“What made you curious?”
“What made me curious? I found a description in an old book. It sounded very picturesque. And a photo of a church and – ”
“Church!?” He glared at me. “Is that what you’ve come for!?”
For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to utter another word. But then:
“Where’ve you come from? You’ve got an accent!”
“Australian.”
“You’ve come all the way here from Australia!?” His face turned an apoplectic shade of red.
“Of course not. I’m at Cambridge. I thought I’d spend a few days in a small country village.”
“Small country village!” he snorted. “A few days!”
I was trying not to lose my temper. “That’s right,” I said. “Now are you going to tell me about Morbing Vyle or not?”
“No.”
“What?”
“There’s nothing to tell. Morbing Vyle doesn’t exist.”
“But you said – ”
“You misunderstood me. I’ve never heard of the place.”
“I don
’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe.” He turned back to his books and stickers. But when I didn’t go away, he jumped up suddenly and marched out from behind his counter.
“Look here!” he shouted. “Look!”
He pointed to a large map pinned up on the wall. It was an Ordnance Survey map for the district.
“Where is it then?” he demanded. “You find it if you think you can.”
I studied the map in vain. The map showed every detail, every street and stream and wood there were a great many woods. But no sign of Morbing Vyle.
“Seems I’ll be staying somewhere else then,” I said.
The librarian went back behind his counter, back to his books and stickers. I could feel the weight of his silent hostility. But he didn’t deign to reply.
I walked out of the library defeated – and yet elated. Map or no map, I still didn’t believe him. He did know something about Morbing Vyle, he had heard the name before – I was quite sure of it. Only for some reason he didn’t want to tell me what he knew. The mystery was getting more mysterious.
My next move was to try the Council Chambers. The Council Chambers were in a grey twostorey building directly behind the Library. I entered and found the Town Clerk in his office. When I asked if he could spare a few minutes, he recognised my accent immediately.
“We’ve got a sister town in Australia,” he said. “Blainey.” He gestured towards a stack of correspondence on one side of his desk. “Along with Oberon in Canada and Gladsach in West Germany and Reusel in the Netherlands. You ever know a place collect so many sister towns? Waste of time if you ask me. Greetings here and notifications there and none of it worth the paper it’s written on.”
I recognised his accent too. He was a Londoner. When I asked him about Morbing Vyle, I could see that he at least had never heard of the name before.
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