‘Thank you, no. I rarely drink before eventide.’
‘As you please. Violet, more cider. Stir that rump, girl!’
Violet appeared, so promptly that she must have been anticipating his demand, although that hardly required clairvoyance. She set a fresh flagon of cider in front of him, removed the old and left. Again she made no remark, leading me to wonder if she was mute, or lacked her full wits.
‘Is she…’
‘Dull? No, far from it, merely shy, I would suppose. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, my career. I imagine you’re thinking that I’m an earthy sort of fellow as priests go, and you are right. We Bulmers are an old county family, with old county traditions. The eldest son inherits and any spares have a choice between the Church and the army. I have no desire to be shot at by foreigners, and so chose the Church. I became a catechumen a year early and studied theology at Corpus, where I secured a first. Nevertheless, whatever my faults, vainglory is not among them and I do not intend to climb the greasy pole of Church hierarchy. I was a first curate at Wolsey House, still in Oxford, and a senior curate at Saint Edgar’s Blackingstone, under old Truscott, who you will find gave me excellent references. Here then you have me, a rural vicar content with his lot. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to some more of this cider? It really is excellent. The apple is Royal Wilding, from my own orchard.’
‘No, really.’
So began my investigation of the Reverend Saul Bulmer. I confess that almost from the first I regarded the matter not so much as a piece of work but a holiday. The Reverend Bulmer himself proved the quintessence of hospitality, for all that his bluff manner frequently verged on the ungodly, while it was impossible not to be charmed by the presence of Violet Meeks, for all her exaggeratedly shy manner. By contrast, Lady Morwenstow proved impossible to like and difficult to view with the detachment that is essential to my vocation. Only by the utmost exercise of my will was I able to retain my composure in the face of her arrogant and hectoring manner, while it became increasing hard not to sympathise with the Reverend Bulmer’s open distaste, and indeed, not to smile at the increasingly unkind remarks he made at her expense.
The parish accounts proved both honest and carefully recorded, each entry in the thick black ledger correct to the last farthing. Funds had arrived and been disbursed with no hint of misappropriation or even extravagance. That amount set aside for household expenses was in fact rather lower than it had been during the previous tenure, largely owing to the savings made on the medicinal preparations that both the Reverend Stephen Harland and Mrs Penreith had considered essential to their health. It was true that certain changes had been made in terms of which of the local charitable causes benefitted and to what extent, but if anything these alterations reflected credit on the Reverend Bulmer. He had, for example, increased the amount set aside for the upbringing of children conceived in sin and born out of wedlock—a cause of which Lady Morwenstow strongly disapproved—but altogether halted payments to the Guild of Gentlewomen—a society at which she took the chair. Clemency to those who have strayed is a virtue too seldom encountered, as is compassion towards the innocent progeny of wantons. For all the Reverend Saul Bulmer’s rude manner he was clearly an exponent of both.
Never before in the course of my investigations had matters gone so smoothly, nor a host been so considerate. The Reverend Bulmer kept a good table, if not an extravagant one, and I even allowed him to tempt me down to the local hostelry. Violet also was invited, again demonstrating on the one hand his unsuitable familiarity towards women and on the other his worthy indifference to social distinctions. She drank mead, which I thought unusual, and demonstrated extraordinary proficiency at the game of darts, beating both myself and the local champion. That same evening I had occasion to criticise the Reverend Bulmer for his over familiarity, when he made a jocular threat to spank her for not troubling to make the sign as we passed the church. He accepted my reprimand with good grace, allowing me to hope that I might be bringing a good influence to bear on his character.
Had it not been for the persistence of Lady Morwenstow I would have concluded my investigation at the end of the second week. My report would have stated that the Reverend Saul Bulmer was an honest man of robust character, well suited to the rustic living to which he had been appointed, although unsuitable for high office. How wrong I would have been, and so it must be admitted that I, and many others, owe Lady Morwenstow a debt of gratitude, for all that her actions were unintentional. That said, I myself cannot lay claim to any real credit for subsequent events.
I had in fact begun to write my exoneration of the Reverend Saul Bulmer when the missive arrived from my superiors at Canterbury. The wording was most precise, remarking on my excellent record but stating that influential parties felt that I was being insufficiently thorough, the implication being that I had allowed myself to be gulled into complacency, or even corrupted. The signature was that of Archdeacon Hulme, who I knew to be a close friend of Bishop Tremain of Silbury, Lady Morwenstow’s brother. Thus it became plain that in order to maintain my standing my investigation would have to be comprehensive.
It was with some irritation that I made out a careful list of those avenues requiring exploration. At the head was Saint Edgar’s Blackingstone, where the Reverend Saul Bulmer had spent the latter part of his curacy. The parish lay on the borders of Dartmoor, in country wilder even than Saint Petroc’s, if less remote. The church stood below that great rock from the top of which the name saint of the parish had denounced the Horned God as an incarnation of Satan thirteen centuries before. It was therefore a place of pilgrimage, to which worshippers would travel, walking barefoot from Exeter Cathedral in order to supplicate the saint in his aspect as patron of those as yet unblessed with children, and perhaps to light a candle at that shrine built on the spot where Edgar’s body had lain broken and bleeding after he had been thrown from the summit by the worshippers of the demon Herne.
The incumbent was the Reverend Alfred Truscott, who had held the living for forty-three years and was now in his middle eighties. He greeted me with a courtesy that almost succeeded in concealing his underlying dismay, although as he escorted me from my hired wagonet to where the vicarage lay surrounded by great oaks at the rear of the church he tried to make light of the circumstances.
‘It’s my weakness for elderberry wine, isn’t it? I knew you would catch up with me in the end.’
Sympathetic to his embarrassment, I assayed a reassuring laugh before I replied.
‘Not the elderberry wine, no, Reverend. The matter concerns the Reverend Saul Bulmer, who was curate here for some time.’
‘Nine years, yes. Has his conduct been called into question? How sad.’
‘You are not altogether surprised?’
‘No, no, just the opposite. He is a merry fellow, perhaps lacking something of the dignity one might hope for in a man of the cloth, but he was a most able assistant, and quite untiring, a great help to a man of my advanced years, as you may well imagine.’
‘What were his duties? Was he responsible for the disbursement of funds, for example?’
‘No, no. That I keep to myself. It is a sedentary task, and one at which I have a great deal of experience, so better suited to my own capabilities. No, no, Saul made it his special responsibility to deal with the pilgrims, both in mundane matters such as accommodation and sustenance, and in spiritual matters, counselling, confession and so forth.’
We had reached the vicarage, a structure of old oak, granite, black iron and slate that seemed to meld with its surroundings. The Reverend Truscott paused in his narration as he ushered me within, offering me tea with the assurance of scones, clotted cream and blackberry jam. I accepted with gratitude, but his call for his housemaid went unanswered and I was left in the hall as he went to find her.
My eye was immediately drawn to the photographs that lined the walls, of celebrations and friends from across the vicar’s tenure and before. The Reverend Saul Bulmer was easy to spot, his
large frame and ruddy face unmistakable across the years. He was present in four of the photographs, three among groups who were presumably pilgrims, and in every one he appeared the benevolent, smiling patriarch, supporting what I had already learned. Indeed, it was hard to imagine a man more thoroughly pleased with himself and his place in the world. The word ‘smug’ even came to mind, although I quickly put it aside as an unworthy thought.
The Reverend Truscott presently returned, himself bearing the tea tray on which all the promised bounties had been laid out on a set of china painted with tiny, delicate flowers. The door to his living room was open and I followed him inside, taking a seat as he began to fuss with the cups and saucers, plates and knives. I waited, wondering what question I should frame, but he himself returned to the subject of the Saul Bulmer.
‘Do you take sugar? No? I’m afraid it is one of my little indulgences. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, we were speaking of Saul. I must say that I was most surprised to learn that he has come to your attention. As you may know, he was not called to the Church, but I cannot fault his zeal, no more his care with financial matters, lest it be his dedication to charitable giving. He is one of those who would take the weight of all the sins of the world on his shoulders, where he able.’
‘Just so. A note of his compassionate attitude towards sinners will be included in my report, for all that it is not strictly relevant. Indeed, I think I can fairly say that in visiting you here I am simply placing a seal on an investigation already complete, and which exonerates one who I take to have been your friend as well as your subordinate?’
‘Oh indeed. Saul was a cheerful companion, always, and often as great a comfort to me as he was to our flock.’
‘I can well imagine. Nevertheless, I am sure you will appreciate that I will need to inspect your ledgers as they pertain to his activities.’
He agreed, as he was bound to, and once we were done with tea became positively eager to assist. It was not until he left in order to prepare for evensong that I was able to study the ledgers in full detail. What quickly became evident was that while the Reverend Truscott might have been in charge of financial matters, and indeed his neat signature appeared at the foot of every page, his senior curate had enjoyed considerable influence over decisions on expenditure. As at Saint Petroc’s, a proportion of charitable expense went towards the support of unmarried mothers and their offspring.
Seven women of the parish appeared to have been receiving alms in this cause, a high number in an area so thinly populated. This led me to wonder if they existed at all, payments to imaginary or deceased persons being a common, if clumsy, way of diverting funds to a personal account. A brief examination of the local census proved that they did indeed exist, which in turn led me to speculate that the women of the parish might have been the victims of a lothario. If so, he was evidently as skilled in the black art of seduction as he was wicked, for one of the women, a Miss Emilia Turner, had conceived and born four children, while two among the others had a second child.
Puzzled, I rose from my chair to pace the room and once more found myself in contemplation of the Reverend Truscott’s memorial photographs. The second of the pictures over which I chose to run an eye was of a group standing in front of a charabanc, and the Lord must have guided my steps, for among them, looking out with her sullen, knowing stare, was Violet Meeks. Beside her was another young woman, as plump and rosy as an apple, all too evidently expecting a child, and she in turn stood next to the Revered Saul Bulmer.
He had lied to me in stating that Violet had answered his advertisement for employment at Saint Petroc’s. The date on the photograph revealed that he had known her for eight years at the least. Possibly she was fallen, and he had sought to shelter her from further shame, but that in itself raised what seemed to be a paradox and one further compounded by her appearance. On the first occasion I had seen her, at the Church of the Blessed Heart some months before, I had imagined her as little more than a girl. On discovering her to be employed as the maid at Saint Petroc’s I had revised my opinion, supposing her to be perhaps eighteen years of age. In the photograph, taken seven years before, she looked no younger.
I put the thought aside, concluding that she was simply one of those fortunate few blessed with the appearance of youth. After all, if she was eighteen in the photograph she would only have reached the age of twenty-five, which while unlikely for one so fresh and slender was by no means impossible. If so, and if she was a fallen woman, then the Reverend Bulmer had clearly taken her into his employ in order to save her from a further fall from grace, a highly charitable act, while I could understand full well why he would wish to keep the fact hidden. Lady Morwenstow would have made much of it, while the Church could not help but look poorly on a man who had dismissed a righteous woman from his service in favour of one disgraced. I was bound to report the circumstances, although it would be a task in which I took no pleasure.
Hoping that my reasoning was incorrect, I put a question to the Reverend Truscott as he returned to the room, now robed for evensong.
‘Reverend, a moment, if you please. Would you be so kind as to identify the people in this photograph?’
He peered close.
‘Yes, yes, certainly. Saul you know, and with him are er… certain young women who had fallen victim to temptation. They are pictured on an outing to Paignton. I remember the occasion well.’
‘And this young lady?’
‘That is Emilia Turner. Poor Emilia. She is, let us say, far too charitable for her own good.’
‘No, beside her, the dark haired girl.’
‘Ah, I see. Yes, yes, I recognise her. She first came here as a pilgrim, seeking intercession if I remember rightly. Saul, I remember, was most solicitous towards her, providing both comfort and advice. No doubt he invited her on the outing in order to raise her spirits. Curiously, Emilia also came to the parish as a pilgrim, also barren and seeking intercession, but her prayers were answered, although with tragic consequences. She proved to be with child, and all the time she had been here her husband had been at sea.’
With that it came to me, with such force and such clarity that it can only have been divine elucidation. There was indeed a lothario at work, the Reverend Bulmer himself. That he had a weakness for the fair sex I already knew, from his attitude towards Violet and others. Evidently, finding himself in the role of confessor and friend to so many nubile but barren young wives he had been unable to resist temptation.
No doubt he had set out with the intention of seducing only those who were unable to bear children in any event, thus allowing himself full scope for his depravity. In the case of Emilia, however, it had presumably been her husband who was barren and not she. After one such error, and with his need rising, as it invariably does with those who fall into the sin of incontinent lust, he had abandoned all restraint.
The web of logic contained but a single fault. Why, over the course of nine years, had no complaint been raised against him? In the case of Emilia Turner there was no surprise. Divorced for her adultery and thrown on the charity of the Church, she would have had no choice but to comply with his wishes, while to expose him would have been to risk a ruin yet deeper than that into which she had fallen. Yet what of the others, a further six women of the parish and the Lord alone knew how many hapless pilgrims? A moment’s thought and I had found a possible answer, although I hoped I was incorrect, as if not then the Reverend Saul Bulmer was not only a lothario but a true monster.
It seemed likely that the solution was within my grasp, and I once more addressed the Reverend Truscott.
‘Would it be possible to speak with Miss Turner?’
‘By all means. She will be at evensong. Behind the lapse screen necessarily.’
In the minutes remaining before evensong I threw myself into the investigation with full zeal. As I had expected, in the nine years prior to the arrival of Saul Bulmer at Saint Edgar’s few women of the parish had fallen, indeed, none. During evensong I wa
s barely able to concentrate on my responses, although you may be sure that my prayers were fervent indeed, and once the Reverend Truscott had concluded the service I lost no time in seeking out Miss Emilia Turner. She was easily recognisable, her head hung in shame as she stood behind the lapse screen with her companions in misadventure, waiting for the more worthy parishioners to file out. I had no wish to further compound her misery and spoke gently as I approached her, asking for a moment of time alone before announcing myself. Her eyes grew wide at the realisation of my profession and I quickly sought to calm her, but also to cut directly to the core of my suspicions.
‘Tell the whole of the truth and you have nothing to fear from me. What was the secret with which you came to the Reverend Saul Bulmer at confession?’
Her eyes misted with tears and she fell to her knees, her fingers clutching at the hem of my robe. I sank down beside her, twice more reassuring her that her private sins were not my concern before she at least began to speak.
‘I… I came to confession, and… and I told how I had lain with a man other than my husband in the hope of getting a child. Instead of absolving me, the Reverend Bulmer demanded that I too lie with him, otherwise he would tell my husband what I had done! I had no choice, Brother, and I could not know that the Lord had already answered my prayer…’
There was more, and I let her speak, but I already knew the full, dreadful truth. The Reverend Saul Bulmer was a monster indeed, a seducer guilty of coercion, holding out the fruit of bribery while simultaneously wielding the flail of blackmail in order to achieve his wicked ends.
My one thought as I drove back towards Exeter was to confront Bulmer without delay, but it was as if Satan himself sought to work against me. At first the fire would not take on the wagonet I had hired, and when it did the steam seemed to require an age to reach adequate pressure. Having finally reached Exeter I discovered that a westbound locomotive had just left, obliging me to wait a further hour. I arrived in Bude so late that I had to pay double in order to convince a driver to take me out of town, and it was approaching midnight before I finally alighted at Saint Petroc’s.
The New Hero: Volume 1 Page 25