The Body in the Dales

by J. R. Ellis

  She glanced out of the window and managed a weak smile.

  ‘No, we couldn’t; you’re right. But there’s such a tense atmosphere in the village now after what’s happened.’

  ‘That’s one advantage of being up here away from things.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ll be better when the school term starts and things get busy again. I forgot to tell you. That party I showed round the other day?’

  ‘You mean the miserable-looking lot?’

  ‘Yes. Well, they were obviously more impressed than we thought; they rang up this morning to make a booking. We’ve not had anyone from their area before. If it goes well they might recommend us to other schools.’

  ‘That’s great, so things are looking up already. I told you, if we stick at it, things will work out.’

  ‘Unless people are put off by what’s going on in Burnthwaite.’

  ‘I don’t think so, and any publicity’s got nothing to do with us, that’s the important thing.’

  ‘I still think it’ll be better when the police aren’t swarming all over the place.’

  ‘Maybe, but don’t worry.’

  He put his arm around her shoulders. They kissed and watched as the sun went down behind the fells.

  On his way back from Skipton, Oldroyd called in to see his sister Alison at the vicarage in the village of Kirkby Underside, a few miles outside Harrogate. Brought up as an Anglican, Oldroyd’s faith had progressively weakened until he was in that perpetually tormented state of agnostic doubt. He prided himself on solving difficult puzzles, but he knew that the ultimate puzzle of life itself was not soluble. Luckily, he had a spiritual adviser who was a considerable help when he felt particularly down, but he envied those who were happy believers or cheerful atheists.

  Alison was three years older than Jim and had preceded him to Oxford, where she’d read Theology. Strong willed and rebellious, she was also very highly principled from an early age. Vegetarian before it was fashionable and active in numerous campaign groups from her early teens, she threatened to drop out of sixth form because A levels were just part of ‘bourgeois education for people who wanted to have a steady job, a nice house and 2.4 children’. Unfortunately, this dismissive comment neatly expressed the Oldroyd parents’ aspirations for their daughter and thus caused fierce rows.

  Then one weekend she disappeared to her room. A thoughtful teacher at school had given her a book about Trevor Huddleston, the Anglican monk from the Community of the Resurrection at Mirfield in the industrial West Riding. The book told of Huddleston’s struggle against apartheid in South Africa in the 1950s and the high Anglican beliefs that underpinned it. She came out of her room once to ask Jim where Mirfield was and also the location of various towns in South Africa. Geography was not her strong point.

  Finally, she emerged properly on Sunday afternoon and announced she had become a Christian. She was going to study Theology at university and then campaign, for the ordination of women, among other things. She was going to the local church to Evensong that very evening.

  Her mother was ready to dash upstairs and search Alison’s room to find out what drugs she’d been taking, but her father, despite his shock, realised that at least this was better than some of her other schemes, such as going to live in a commune run by the Guru Maharaji-whatever-his-name-was, where the members shaved their heads and gazed at crystals.

  Against all expectations, Alison never faltered in this new ambition. All her energies had found a moral focus. She was transformed at school; her teachers didn’t know what to make of it and neither did St Mary’s, the local Anglican church. The Oldroyd family were members of the congregation, although Jim and his father were infrequent attenders. Alison had not been seen in the place since she refused to attend Sunday School because ‘it’s all stories about Jesus and his friends and they’re all boys’. Suddenly they had an eager but feisty teenage girl who wanted to take an active role in things and get the church involved in every social action campaign going. They found her rather overwhelming and Alison found them boring and middle aged.

  It came as some relief to everyone when Alison departed for Oxford, whose dreaming spires had enticed her with the promise of deep theological investigation. After getting her First in Theology she stayed on to do postgraduate studies for a while before, in typical impulsive fashion, suddenly throwing it up and deciding that her faith demanded practical action.

  She worked for various charities and campaigning groups for many years before becoming one of the first women priests to be ordained in the early 1990s. She occupied a place on the liberal wing of the Church, scathing of the literalist theology of the evangelicals and of the stuffy conservatism of the middle-of-the-road traditionalists. This often made her an uncomfortable person to have around at deanery or diocesan meetings. The current Bishop of Ripon and Leeds was terrified of her. In Oldroyd’s view, this was because he feared for his job.

  Oldroyd drove up the steep road and could see the village overlooking Lower Wharfedale, with the spire of St Bartholomew’s prominent on the ridge. Alison had begun her ministry in inner-city Leeds but had raised so many uncomfortable questions about the Church’s commitment to alleviating poverty, and been involved in so many controversial campaigns, that pressure had been exerted on her to move to quieter pastures. She would never have agreed had she not been exhausted owing to personal problems and in need of what she still saw as a ‘sabbatical in the countryside’.

  It was in her response to those problems, reflected Oldroyd, that you saw the strength in her, the depths of her faith, which sustained her when others might crumble.

  It began years before when she and her husband, David, a university lecturer, discovered that they were unable to have children. Oldroyd knew this had been a terrible blow to them both. They’d fostered, but for some reason unknown to him had never adopted. Then, five years ago, David had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It was far advanced and very aggressive and he’d died within the year. The memory hurt Oldroyd, who had been close to his brother-in-law: a gentle, quiet but wise man who was often the only person who could counsel Alison out of some impetuous course of action.

  Alison was not only his sister and spiritual adviser but also, as he had said to Carter, his Mycroft too. More than once her comments had given Oldroyd an insight and helped to progress the case to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Oldroyd drove past the church and turned sharp left. His tyres scrunched over the gravel of the drive up to the rectory. Grass and weeds grew through the gravel and leggy rhododendrons hung down and nearly brushed the windscreen. The rectory was a spacious and beautiful Georgian building straight out of Jane Austen, but certainly designed for a different era. Neither Alison nor the Church of England itself had the time or resources to maintain the building and its gardens in their original splendour.

  An area of flat lawn to one side of the house was all that remained of an Edwardian tennis court. At the rear were broken greenhouses and tumbledown sheds that had once been a stable block.

  The door of the rectory was flung open and Oldroyd was greeted with a big hug.

  ‘Jim! Wonderful to see you. What’s been going on recently? You haven’t rung!’ Alison was a large woman with short greying hair and glasses. ‘Come in!’

  Oldroyd was ushered inside, through the wide hall past the winding staircase and into the kitchen. The kettle was put on and they both sat at the table.

  ‘You look tired. Is it work or family?’

  ‘A bit of both.’ Alison was the only person whom Oldroyd talked to in any depth about his private life. He looked uncharacteristically uncertain of himself and nervously drummed the table. He wanted to talk to his sister about Julia but it was difficult, even to her. They chatted awhile about Robert and Louise before he broached the subject.

  ‘I saw Julia the other day; she came over to Harrogate, just for a chat, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t really make any sense of it. We keep meeting; we’re supposed t
o be discussing Robert and Louise, but we just have a pleasant talk and off she goes. It feels like a brief date somehow, but I’ve no idea what she’s really thinking.’

  Alison gave him a searching stare.

  ‘Maybe that’s exactly what it is. I don’t think she’s given up on you, Jim. She still wants to see you, but she’s not sure about things. She wants you to woo her again. She wants you to make an effort, to show that you really want her back.’

  ‘She knows I want her back.’

  ‘Yes, you want her back in theory and because you love her, but are you prepared in practice to give her what she needs?’

  Alison was also the only person who could give Oldroyd a lecture. He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘You know that what happened was your own fault. I’ve told you before and you know it’s true. Relationships have to be worked at; you can’t take them for granted.’

  ‘Yes, I know all that.’

  ‘But would you change?’

  ‘How?’ Oldroyd sounded weak and despairing; although he’d raised the subject, it was painful.

  ‘You know how: make your marriage central, and not work. The trouble with this Protestant country is that it’s too bloody Protestant when it comes to the wretched work ethic.’

  The kettle boiled and she got up to make the tea.

  ‘It’s linked in to consumerism, of course: work harder, make more money, spend it, work harder and so on, and meanwhile we’re destroying our health and our relationships. Look at this.’

  She went over to a pin board and removed a postcard. It was a Christian Aid card and showed rats running down tracks following notices that read: ‘Work harder, Buy More Goods, Happiness Just Around the Corner’.

  Oldroyd smiled and grunted.

  ‘Very good, but you know the problem with me is that work is endlessly fascinating. I can’t tear myself away once I’m immersed in a case. I feel it’s my duty.’

  He remembered all the times he had stayed working until very late in the evening and through the weekend. What else could you do if there was a killer on the loose and people were depending on you to catch them? But then he knew that this was partly egotism: the unwillingness to allow other people to take a more prominent part in the investigation. Too often it became his personal struggle with the criminal and he wouldn’t delegate to others. Alison placed a mug of tea in front of each of them, and a plate of chocolate brownies. She seemed to have read his thoughts.

  ‘There’s more than duty involved though, isn’t there? It’s also a matter of pride with you that you’re the one who cracks the case, even if everyone has to suffer. Anyway,’ she pointed to the brownies, ‘these are Fair Trade; try them, they’re excellent. I hope you’re still buying Fair Trade goods?’

  ‘I’ve lapsed a bit since we split up. You can’t always be bothered, you know, with shopping when it’s just for one, can you?’

  Alison nodded.

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s not like shopping for food together.’ Conversation lapsed as each contemplated their unwanted solitariness. ‘Tell me more about what’s going on in this fascinating world of work of yours? You said it was tiring you.’

  Oldroyd drank his tea.

  ‘It’s this Jingling Pot business. You must have seen something about it.’

  ‘Yes, I saw you on the local news, actually. You were lucky. I don’t often get a chance to see TV news. A chap found dead in a pothole and then another caver killed. Sounds unusual.’

  ‘Very. Needless to say, now that it’s hit the media the super’s on my back all the time.’

  ‘So what’ve you been up to today?’

  ‘Out to Skipton, got an old book on potholing from that chap Gilbert Ramsden.’

  ‘It’s always worth a good browse in there, isn’t it? I’ve found some very obscure theology books. Do you remember when Dad used to take us in and we played hide-and-seek in all the little rooms and corridors?’

  ‘Yes. We weren’t that interested in the books then, were we? Anyway, I’m hoping I get some clues from this book. I have an idea that this mystery is maybe tied up with the past.’

  ‘I see. What about the motive?’

  ‘No shortage there; it’s harder to find someone in Burnthwaite who didn’t want him dead.’

  Alison looked thoughtful.

  ‘Whatever exactly happened, it was obviously carefully planned. Premeditated violence like that indicates a terrible degree of hate.’

  Oldroyd thought of the cuckolded husbands in Burnthwaite and the people cheated out of money.

  Alison continued, ‘They may have felt threatened in some way and needed to get rid of him. People turn on their tormentors sometimes and often unexpectedly. And a lot of things go on in these country villages, I can tell you. There’s one not far from here; couple of years ago a quiet old lady left her cottage one summer’s evening, walked through the village, into the garden of an elderly man about her age and promptly sunk her garden shears into his back. Killed him instantly. It turned out he’d been blackmailing her about something, can’t remember what, on and off for forty years and he’d just made one demand too many. Nobody suspected a thing, but it was all building up over all that time and everyone has their breaking point. We’re surprised when some genteel person does something so raw and violent, but that’s only because the middle classes are mostly protected from real stress and live very cushioned lives, so we can develop all these polite ways of behaving. Beneath the veneer we’re the same animal that can lash out to defend itself if provoked too far.’

  ‘I suppose that’s one of the reasons why Agatha Christie had such success setting her Miss Marple stories in little chocolate-box villages,’ said Oldroyd. ‘The violence is more shocking because of the prim exterior. Anyway, how’s the parish?’

  ‘Pretty quiet as usual. It’s a typical rural backwater; the events in the outside world hardly impinge. Maybe we could do with a murder here to liven things up. I find it very restful at the moment, but then I am meant to be resting. What will happen if I decide to stir things up a bit, we’ll have to see.’

  Oldroyd saw a glint in his sister’s eye.

  ‘You mean like coming out as a lesbian and preaching on gay marriage services in the Anglican Church?’

  Alison laughed.

  ‘Not quite. I was thinking more of twinning the parish with one in inner-city Leeds and getting us more involved with Christian Aid and Oxfam campaigns. Do you know, there wasn’t even a Traidcraft stall when I first came here?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. Living in these villages is a kind of fantasy, isn’t it? The poorer parts of Leeds might as well be a hundred miles away instead of fifteen. And Africa might as well be on another planet.’

  ‘True; they’re perfectly nice genial people round here at one level and the Church must minister to them, but we also have a duty to challenge. Let’s see how people respond when their comfort and complacency are questioned.’

  ‘I await the sensational headlines in the Church Times. “Minister hounded out of Yorkshire village after being branded a heretic and socialist.”’

  Alison laughed again.

  ‘That sounds like fun to me.’

  The conversation reverted to family matters before Oldroyd reluctantly decided that he’d better be getting back to HQ.

  ‘It’s the PCC meeting tonight,’ said Alison as she saw him out. ‘I don’t know how I stand the tedium of who will serve on the flower rota and whether we continue to have sidesmen – sidespeople, of course, as I insist.’

  ‘All part of the rich tapestry,’ teased Oldroyd. Then he caught sight of the church spire, an elegant black outline against the sky, reaching up to God. ‘It would be sad, though, if it wasn’t there, you know, an Anglican church in every village. We’d miss it.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry. It’ll survive in places like this longer than in the cities, where we’re going to lose it, and fast, if we don’t change.’

  ‘Do you think it can
change that quickly, the dear old C of E? I mean, it always seems to me a bit like turning the Titanic to miss the iceberg. It’s already too late, but you can be sure everyone will stand gallantly on the deck and salute as the ship goes down. I think most members over sixty would rather it died than changed.’

  Alison shrugged.

  ‘Maybe. We’ll have to see.’ She seemed remarkably sanguine about the prospect. ‘Don’t make the mistake of equating Christianity with the Anglican Church or any other organised denomination. They’re all very largely human constructs which may have had their day, but if they disappear, God’s purposes will continue.’

  ‘“He moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.”’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Sadly, he didn’t have time at the moment to pursue with her what she thought those purposes might be.

  The same evening, after darkness fell, two figures could be seen quietly entering the small backyard of Dave Atkins’s terrace house in Burnthwaite. As they approached the back door they could be heard arguing, each urging the other to be quiet.

  At the door, they stopped and looked around furtively. One of them produced a screwdriver and tapped hard on the glass panel.

  ‘What if the door isn’t just on the Yale latch? The other lock could be on too.’

  ‘Then we won’t bloody get in, will we? But Dave never bothered with the other lock; you’ll see.’

  There was another tap on the glass panel and it shattered. The sound of glass falling on the inside was unexpectedly loud.

  ‘Shh, bloody hell, you stupid bastard! Why did you hit it so hard?’

  ‘Shut up. I didn’t. Now then.’

  The speaker put his arm through the gap in the panel.

  ‘Oh shit!’ The arm was quickly drawn out.

  ‘You daft sod, you’ve cut yourself, haven’t you? I told you to be bloody careful.’

  ‘Fuck off. I’d like to see you do this.’

  The arm was gingerly placed through the hole again and fumbled behind the door.