by Alan Beechey
Murdering Ministers
An Oliver Swithin Mystery
Alan Beechey
alanbeechey.blogspot.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 1999, 2014 by Alan Beechey
First E-book Edition 2014
ISBN: 9781615954834 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Murdering Ministers
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Author’s Note
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
for Mary
Epigraph
Come to my woman’s breasts
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances,
You wait on nature’s mischief.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Prologue
Sunday, December 21 (Fourth Sunday of Advent)
Billy Coppersmith realized he was possessed when he caught himself thinking about breasts during the Lord’s Prayer.
If it had been the sermon, he wouldn’t have been worried. Everybody’s mind wandered then, especially when Parson Piltdown got onto one of his tedious theological kicks. But it had begun during the second hymn, when sixteen-year-old Michaela Braithewaite, standing one pew in front of him and slightly to the right, took in a deep breath for the last verse. And now, nothing could get the profile of her tight sweater out of Billy’s mind.
It had to be an evil spirit. What else would make a fourteen-year-old boy think about sex all the time? Nigel warned that they were all around, waiting to snatch at the souls of the innocent and lead them into sin. Billy resolved to ask Nigel to drive out the demon when the group met for lunch after the morning service. He knew Nigel could do it. Surely he’d agree, now that they’d shared secrets? No demon was any match for Nigel’s profound and infallible faith.
Billy had witnessed that faith in action a few weeks earlier—Nigel grappling with the spirit of blasphemy that possessed Troy, his thin fingers gripping Troy’s forehead like twin spiders, the two men shaking convulsively in unison. And then that great cry of “Satan, come out!” when Nigel flung his arms wide and crumpled senseless to the floor. “Pray!” Heather had screamed, and they all felt the spirit scuttling about the living room, searching frantically for a new host, the temperature suddenly dropping in the presence of evil, while they desperately babbled prayers for the protection of their young souls.
Or at least, Heather said that’s what she felt—she swore she could almost see it—so that’s what the teenagers all agreed had happened, even using the same words. It was certainly the story he told his mocking school friends the next morning, as he tried in vain to get them to come to Nigel’s prayer group. (Every new member was a victory for Christ, Nigel and Heather told them.)
Troy was the latest recruit. He was eighteen and he must have had lots of girls, but Michaela had made him join Nigel’s group before she’d agree to go out with him. And Nigel spotted Troy’s evil spirit the moment he swaggered into the room. Now Troy was born again, his evil dispersed to the air. Did that mean he and Michaela would have to be chaste? Or did they pray first and then make out, aware of God’s eyes on them? Maybe, despite her reputation at school, Michaela was still a virgin? If so, Billy was one better than her—or worse, depending on Who was judging you. Nigel hadn’t judged him.
But Billy had seen the works of good spirits, too, at Nigel’s house. And like the others, he’d been struck with the Holy Spirit itself, those evenings when the excitement within the young group was palpable, almost hysterical, and Nigel had touched their foreheads, one by one, holding their gaze and muttering prayers, until he tossed them backwards and they fell to the carpet like toppled statues. And one time, Michaela had started to writhe on the floor and make strange noises that were almost like words, but not words Billy had ever heard before, and then Heather piped up that she has been visited by a spirit of interpretation, a gift from the Lord, and she began to translate the strange prophecies—something to do with sterility and error in God’s house, and about a sign that would be coming soon. (Well, it was certainly getting close to Christmas, Billy noted, and wondered if he’d have to get Chrissie a present, even though they had broken up since that one time.)
Michaela had been speaking in tongues, Nigel explained later. It was a special gift from God. Billy started to wonder why God couldn’t have delivered the message in English in the first place, but he quickly concluded that questioning God was sacrilege and wished instead that he could speak in tongues, too. Though perhaps with nobody else present at first, in case he said something embarrassing.
There was Nigel now, on the platform at the front of the barn-like church, sitting behind the Communion table with that prating idiot Parson Piltdown and the other deacons, including Billy’s mother. They were all such hypocrites, not even true believers, not by Nigel’s lofty standards. Parson Piltdown came from the Church of England, so it was doubtful he was even a Christian.
This was Nigel’s first Communion service as a deacon. He’d already sung for them, playing that twelve-string guitar so hard to keep in tune in the cold church. (Would Nigel invite him to play his electric guitar next time he performed?) The stale pellets of bread had been distributed and consumed. Now it was time for the wine.
Parson Piltdown—it was Nigel’s name for him; Billy had to remember to call him Mr. Piltdown if they spoke—lifted the chalice.
“After the same manner also He took the cup,” he intoned, in that stupid posh voice he used for readings, “when He had supped, saying, ‘This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.’”
And Nigel himself brought the wine to the congregation! Billy snatched the tiny shot glass from the tray as Nigel passed it. Their eyes met, and Nigel gave him a small smile, an acknowledgment of the promises they had made to each other. Communion wine was awful, Billy had already discovered, with a foul, lingering aftertaste and no alcohol to speak of. But he’d enjoy this glass.
After the wine was distributed, Piltdown served the deacons on the dais. Then he took a glass for himself. He turned to the quiet, expectant church, raising his glass as if proposing a toast.
“Let us drink together, in remembrance of Him.”
He drained the glass and sat down again, on the largest chair in the middle of the platform. The small, scattered congregation drank their wine, dropped their empty glasses into metal rings attached to the pews, and bent their heads in noiseless prayer. An odd, reverent silence fell over the church.
Billy didn’t lower his h
ead—he didn’t know why not. But that meant he was able to watch as Nigel, setting his glass clumsily on the table, rose slowly to his feet. Was he going to speak?
Nigel coughed twice, the second cough folding into a gurgle, as if unseen hands were pressing on his throat. The deacons, disturbed in their meditations, lifted their heads one at a time to watch him. Even Michaela and Troy looked up from the depths of their prayers.
Nigel stood, breathing heavily. Then he pressed his hands to his face, his eyes staring in astonishment at something only he could see, floating above the pews. Billy saw Piltdown exchanged a worried look with his mother, sitting beside him. Only old man Potiphar, the oldest deacon, seemed undisturbed and rapt in prayer.
Now Piltdown crept over and tried to whisper in Nigel’s ear. But Nigel paid no attention. He continued to stare ahead, as if his neck had turned to stone, like Lot’s wife gazing at the cities of the plain. His breath had become labored and audible. Piltdown looked awkward and lost.
Suddenly, Nigel gave a great cry, and his arms began to tremble. The noise continued, animal-like and increasingly desperate. He moved forward on unsteady legs, twitching, like a badly manipulated puppet. Then, with an intense convulsion, his legs flailed and he tipped forward, pivoting over the rail that ran along the platform.
Troy leaped to his feet. “He has been struck by the Holy Spirit!” he shouted, his voice drowning Nigel’s thick groans. “Praise the Lord!”
And now Michaela jumped up and left the pew, standing in the aisle and lifting her arms in supplication. This time, Billy didn’t notice her chest.
“Praise the Lord!” she cried. “God is with us.”
The familiar murmur passed among the other teenagers in Nigel’s group, and Billy too found himself rising and shouting his praises as the young people danced into the aisle and gathered around Nigel at the front of the church. The man was now lying on his back on the dusty floor, his arms and legs convulsing, making strange, breathy noises as he shook.
“He’s speaking in tongues,” squealed another girl. “Who has been given the gift of interpretation?”
“I have,” shouted Michaela quickly. “This is the sign! This is the sign of a new day, when the children shall lead and the old shall be driven from the temple. Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”
The others took up the cry, and one began to sing a mindless, repetitive chorus. Soon they all joined in.
In that moment, Billy understood all that Nigel had been teaching. And although he was singing and dancing with the others, part of him watched the scene with fascination: his young friends jumping around the body, their arms clutching at heaven like windswept palm leaves; the deacons on the platform struck dumb and motionless in their spiritual impotence; the other communicants standing in their places, trying to see what was happening but not daring to step forward.
And Nigel himself, Nigel now revealed at last as the great prophet of the Second Coming, as he’d surely hinted, almost levitating from the ground in his desire to float up to his God, his whole body one uncanny arc, with only his head and heels in contact with the floor. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, indeed!
But who was that woman, Billy wondered—the one now sprinting down the aisle from the back of the church, her amazingly curly hair floating wildly around her head? She wasn’t a church member. Was she some sort of messenger from God? An Angel?
Then he remembered: She was that good-looking police detective who’d been asking all those questions yesterday. What was she doing here, at church, on this Sunday morning of all mornings? And what was she shouting, trying to make herself heard above the elated, singing, dancing teenagers?
“Let me through!” she was yelling. “Let me through, and stand back, everybody! Please!”
“Nigel is bringing us God’s word,” Michaela protested, weeping with joy.
“He’s not bringing you anything,” the detective snarled, as she tried to pull the dancing children out of her way. “Can’t you see? He’s dying!”
Chapter One
Tis the Season to Be Jolly
Sunday, December 14 (Third Sunday of Advent)
Sitting down had clear advantages over kneeling, Oliver Swithin had decided. If anyone ever asked him to create a new religion—“Swithinism” had a lilt to it, but it might be a bit hard on lispers—he would make sure that everybody sat down for the prayers. For one thing, the position was more natural—rather like perching on the toilet, with much the same spirit of supplication and hope for a blessing.
And it was quicker. At his parents’ parish church, the vicar’s call to prayer would have been followed by several noisy seconds of cracking knees and the odd territorial grabs for hassocks. (Or were those cushions called “cassocks”? Not being much of a churchgoer, he could never remember the difference. Both words sounded vaguely like Scottish mountain ranges. Or indelicate parts of the body.)
“Amen,” said the minister, at the end of a brief prayer that seemed largely improvised, like the many others that had preceded it. The tiny congregation mumbled a brief echo of the word, and Oliver realized that his mind had been wandering again. He shifted position on the uncomfortable pew and scribbled “Cassocks?” on his reporter’s notepad.
“My text for today’s sermon,” the young man in the pulpit continued, “can be found in the gospel according to Saint Matthew, chapter fifteen, verses ten and eleven.”
“And the best I can get, even with four-hundred-speed film, is a thirtieth of a second at f-two-point-eight,” Ben Motley whispered loudly into Oliver’s ear as he loaded a new roll of film into his Canon.
“Our days are numbered,” murmured Oliver.
“I’m reading from the Revised English Bible,” the minister continued. A thick-necked, elderly man sitting in the pew in front of Oliver and Ben stopped flipping the pages of his well-thumbed King James’s Bible and snapped it shut.
“‘He’—that is, Jesus, of course—‘called the crowd and said to them, “Listen and understand! No one is defiled by what goes into his mouth; only by what comes out of it.”’”
The minister repeated the last sentence with quizzical pauses, a look of concentration on his ruddy, good-natured face, as if he’d momentarily forgotten why he’d chosen the text. The elderly man and his wife seemed to take it as scriptural dispensation to unwrap sweets.
Ben lurched away and tiptoed closer to the front of the church, training his camera on a small group of sullen teenagers sitting close to the left wall. Apart from this cluster, there were about a dozen worshippers, but the large, plain, nineteenth-century building with its parallel rows of high-backed pews could clearly hold a congregation thirty times as large. A group of older ladies had huddled like shamefaced latecomers in the rear pew, under the shelter of a dark balcony, although Oliver knew they’d been there at least twenty minutes before the service began.
The minister had already explained to the congregation that the evening’s service would be photographed by Ben Motley, a man famous for his “spirited pictures of sporting women.” Since Ben’s notoriety actually came from his portraits of female celebrities and society dames at the point of orgasm, Oliver had to credit the clergyman’s subtlety. And once past the embarrassment of being stared at by churchgoers, he was equally relieved to hear himself introduced as a “leading writer of instructive works for children,” who was there to write an article about the United Diaconalist Church. If the congregation had found out the whole truth, they might have regarded Oliver’s presence as one of the first signs of the Apocalypse.
Strictly speaking, it wasn’t going to be Oliver’s article, but the work of Finsbury the Ferret, the character he had created for his series of children’s books called The Railway Mice. After several slender volumes of innocent tales (and months of negligible royalties), published under Oliver’s pseudonym O.C. Blithely, the introduction of Finsbury into the series had made each subsequent book an
automatic best seller, and gave British popular culture a new hero in the shifty, foulmouthed, evil-tempered beast. Oliver’s friend and housemate, Geoffrey Angelwine, was a member of the public relations team devoted to squeezing as much mileage out of Finsbury as possible, and he had pushed Oliver into writing a piece for Celestial City, a new online guide to London Sundays, as a dry run for Finsbury’s potential career as an opinionated commentator on the foibles of bipeds.
The editor of Celestial City, fearful of missing the bandwagon for the zeitgeist du jour (although Oliver had speculated that you had to be really slow to miss a bandwagon), had jumped on the publication of an ex-Spice Girl’s recovered memories of her former life as Saint Theresa of Avila as a harbinger of the nation’s millennial spiritual awakening. He had decided that an atheist ferret’s satirical take on a small suburban church would make pleasant online reading for Christmas, especially if the pages included pictures by an absurdly handsome photographer whose career was entirely based on sexual ecstasy.
Oliver always liked working with Ben, partly because his friend and landlord owned a black Lamborghini, and partly because the attention Ben inevitably attracted gave Oliver an excuse for barely being noticed himself. Now in his mid-twenties, he had more or less accepted that, Ben or no Ben, his unkempt fair hair, cheap glasses, and that certain absence of firmness about his jaw were hardly the assets that would capture the interest of a sultry stranger across a less-than-crowded place of worship. Besides, he reflected proudly, he had a steady girlfriend now.
But what had intrigued Oliver about the assignment was the name of the minister of the selected church: the Reverend Paul Piltdown. Oliver had gone to school with a Paul Piltdown. And a call to the manse in the north London suburb of Plumley confirmed that this was indeed the same Pauly Piltdown who’d shared his first copy of Playboy and with whom he’d played baccarat during long winter lunchtimes, using rules learned from a James Bond novel. Which explains why Oliver was sitting in church that Sunday evening, thinking of rude things for Finsbury to say about the service and, despite his agnosticism, feeling thoroughly guilty about it.