by McNeir, Leo
“Would you like another coffee before you go, dear?” He looked up at his wife in the doorway while a thick thumb tore open the first envelope.
“No thanks, Sheila. I’ll probably get one when I’m there. I just want to go through this lot to see if there’s anything I need to attend to.” First, the letter with the diocesan coat of arms. He had certainly not expected a reply so promptly and at once suspected that he would be fobbed off with a few sympathetic non-committal phrases and a promise to keep an eye on the situation. His surprise increased as he quickly read down the page. He read the letter again, this time more slowly, studying every sentence carefully to make sure he was not missing something. He glanced at the rest of the mail, most of which was unsolicited pseudo special offers. He dropped them unopened into the waste bin in the kitchen and picked up the phone.
“Albert? It’s George. I’ve had a reply from the Bishop. Listen.” He read out the main points and the old man asked him to read it a second time. “I think it’s good news,” said George. “Better than we could have expected, really.”
“Seems like it,” said the old farmer. “However the bishop dresses it up, the vicar’s been sacked. That’s what it amounts to, isn’t it?”
“Well, that bit about ‘Mr Hughes will now be assuming wider responsibilities that have been under consideration in the diocese for some time’ could mean anything, I suppose.”
“That’s just to put a brave face on it. He’s got the push and I reckon your letter did the trick.”
“Thank you, Albert. It’s almost too good to be true. Anyway, we’ve got him off our backs. That’s the main thing.”
“What’s the next step?” said Albert. “Do we have to do anything? Call a meeting of the PCC, maybe?”
“I need to think about that. I’ll give you a ring or drop by later. I’ve got to go to the constituency offices for a meeting this morning. Got to discuss fund raising. Bloody waste of time if you ask me. Get the policies right and we’ll attract more members into the party. That’s better than having to organise garden fetes and the like.”
“Garden fetes?”
“Well, you know what I mean. God knows how we’ll find the time.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Albert. “There’s something I’d like to celebrate. We could do with a fete to bid good riddance to the vicar. ‘Course, we’d not call it that officially, but everyone would know what it was really for.”
“That’s an idea.” George liked the thought that his part in the action would be widely recognised. “I think this calls for a pig-roast.”
*
“Walker and Co., good morning.” Anne looked round towards Marnie’s desk and saw her friend smiling. “Yes, she is. Who’s calling, please? … I’ll put you through.” She pressed the ‘hold’ button. “It’s Philip from London.”
“Philip, hallo.”
“You’ve got a switchboard and staff? This is impressive. Have I got through to the right department?” He chuckled.
“It’s Anne. She’s working with me for a time. So how are things?”
“Oh, you know, same as usual. Missing you, of course, but Faye’s doing a good job. I thought I’d keep you up-to-date on your own contract. The builder can start almost at once. He’s been delayed on another project and wants to bring yours forward.”
“Excellent. What about building regs?”
“I spoke to the inspector yesterday. They’re all happy at the council. We can get things moving.”
“Thanks for all that. Actually, Philip, there is something I wanted to talk to you about. How good are you at medieval churches?”
“We haven’t built any lately. What do you need? “
“The church here needs some structural work. The porch has never been properly keyed in.”
“What do you mean, ‘never’?”
“Since it was built … in 1380.”
“If it’s stood all that time, I shouldn’t worry.”
“But it was condemned as unsafe … in 1937.”
“There’s a real sense of urgency in your part of the world! I’m impressed again.”
“Any ideas?”
“I could talk to Mike Thomas. Did you know he’s done work at York Minster? I’ll have a word and ring you back later.”
Marnie told Anne about progress on the building works at Glebe Farm and Anne at once reached for a folder. Intrigued, Marnie sat and watched as Anne put a disk in the computer and began typing. She printed a page of text and put it into the folder inside a transparent plastic document holder.
“What’s that you’ve got?” said Marnie. Anne held up the folder to reveal its label: PHASE 1 – COTTAGES 1 AND 2.
“I’m keeping a list of all the details about each part of the work. If you ever need them, you’ll find your sketches in here as well.” She revealed the contents of the folder. “I keep them on my building projects shelf next to my desk.”
“You’re amazingly well organised.”
“I did a project at school in business studies: planning the efficient office.”
“I bet you got an ‘A’ for the coursework,” said Marnie, unable to prevent herself grinning. Anne stuck out her tongue, closed the folder and returned it to its place on the shelf.
*
At about seven that evening, while supper was cooking, Marnie returned to the office to finish off some jobs. She heard the phone ringing as she approached the barn.
“What’s this, knocking off early? Half day is it?”
“No, Philip, we always have a break about now to get the cows in for milking.”
“Naturally. Well, I spoke to Mike about your church. He’s quite keen, but he’s up to his eyeballs in Docklands just now. How urgent is it?”
“I doubt if it’s going to collapse overnight.”
“That’s what I told him. Look, if Mike comes up to see the building, could you keep an eye on the work once it starts? It shouldn’t take too much time.”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’ll get Mike to arrange a meeting.”
“Tell him I’ll put the kettle on.”
*
Friday 23 June
On the Friday morning soon after seven, the vicar was in his study printing out the notes for his Sunday sermon, when he heard the post drop through the letterbox. He dropped the special offers into the waste paper basket without opening them. Among the remaining letters was the unmistakable Sunday-best stationery of the Bishop. Most of the mail sent out from the palace was in plain white envelopes bought cheaply by the ton. This was the good quality version made of white vellum with the emblem of the diocese on the reverse flap, the kind used only for important communications.
“… I would therefore like to confirm your appointment as Rural Dean of Brackley with effect from the first of July. In view of the immediate availability of your successor as vicar of Knightly St John, I propose that the new incumbent should commence duties without delay …”
The Bishop concluded by wishing him well in his new appointment and also with his doctoral thesis. This would be the first post for the new vicar, who had been ordained a year ago and was currently serving as curate in another part of the diocese. It was an opportunity for a fresh start for all concerned.
18
The men assembled by the front of the house at the end of the lane on other nights. Sarah Anne would hear them and lie restlessly waiting for further movement until they were away. If her sisters heard the sound, they did not leave their beds and only spoke of the incident in the morning when they were alone together. Nothing was said in the presence of their mother. It was the third or fourth time of lying in wait that the commotion happened.
Sarah knew the men were below, huddling for shelter from the rain, and was dozing off when the sudden sound brought her back to consciousness. A tinder striking. Movement. A clatter of tools. By the time she reached the window, the lane was bright with the light of torches crackling and flaring. The men were hurrying away down the pa
th. She saw the shadows changing shape as the torches lit the wall of the churchyard, reflecting in puddles. The whole lane was glowing.
Without a second thought, Sarah hastened as quietly as she could out of the bedroom, pulling on her shoes and shawl, pushing back the hair from her face so that it hung down over her shoulders. Tonight with the rain falling steadily, there was no moon to light the way, but she saw the flickering torches now gathered at the church door, saw them go in ahead of her, heard the clamour of voices, shouting, calling out. Then suddenly hushed. She ran along the church path and in through the open door.
The men were grouped by the base of the tower, speaking in urgent whispers. Sarah pulled the door shut behind her and began to walk down the centre aisle. Suddenly the men turned, seeing her approach.
“Go out, Sarah!” one of them called and left the group to come towards her. “You should not be here. You must leave now.” Behind him, the group split, men hurrying in all directions, searching behind the altar, among the pews, in the vestry, everywhere. One or two remained at the door to the tower, their attention taken with something out of her sight. The man tried to turn her away, back to the door, but Sarah slipped free and ran past him before he could stop her. The men in the doorway did not hear her until she had reached them. She looked beyond them into the tower stairwell and gasped. The men turned towards her, their faces red in the torchlight, desolate.
“You have killed him!” she cried. “You have killed the vicar! Oh my god! What have you done?” She stepped back and slumped against the altar, faint with shock, her hand at her throat.
“Not us, Sarah,” said one of the men. “This was not our doing. We have found him like this. There has been murder here, but we did not do it.” All over the church the men were hunting. As she stood by the altar two of them came down the stairs, each carrying a heavy knife and a torch. They shook their heads, bewildered.
Sarah leaned on the stone altar, her hand resting on the embroidered cloth. She closed her eyes but could not shut out the sight of the vicar sprawled at the foot of the steps, could not shut out the sight of the blood.
“As God is my witness,” said the man by the door, coming to support Sarah, “here in His house, I declare we are innocent of this crime!”
“Then who here has done this thing?” said Sarah. “Where is the murderer?”
“It is the work of the Devil,” said the man slowly. At the sound of his voice, the men stopped their search and one by one knelt on the stone floor, each man crossing himself in the old way.
*
Saturday 24 June
Marnie walked up the field track with a spring in her step late on Saturday morning, clutching the vicar’s thick building file. Her morning’s work in the office was done and she was going to check out the structure of the church before calling in at the pub for lunch. It had already been a busy day. The Glebe Farm rush hour had started at around eight when she drove Anne and Ralph up to the main road to the bus stop. Anne was going home for the weekend, travelling to Dunstable, where her father would meet her. Ralph had to get back to Oxford and would travel as far as the bus station in Milton Keynes where he would change to a coach. Marnie’s offers to take them at least part of the way had been gratefully declined and she found herself with a morning to spend as she chose.
She had rung her sister and suggested that Beth and Paul visit her in the near future. Jane Rutherford had told her the latest gossip in Little Venice and Marnie was surprised at how far away it all seemed. Mrs Jolly had read about the problems at the church in a newspaper article sent to her by an old friend who lived in Towcester. She warned Marnie how easy it was in a small community to be drawn into other people’s conflicts.
Marnie wanted no part of the dispute and only wished to have the church repairs put in hand so that she could continue to get on with her own life, which was complicated enough for her liking. That morning she was content to enjoy the firm soil beneath her feet on the track and the smell of the fresh country air that she took in great breaths. She was exultant, stimulated and confident about the present and the future. She wanted to laugh out loud and shout to the breeze that this was her time and this was her place. Whatever awaited her, she had this moment and she gloried in it.
It was the archetype of an English village church. Built in honey-coloured stone, standing on slightly raised ground, with yews planted in the graveyard, its tall square tower dominated the village and could be seen as a distant landmark for miles around. From the canal it confused and amused the traveller, appearing first on one side, then on the other, staying in view for long before and after passing the village itself. Marnie stood at the gate to take in the general impression. The stonework was merely pointed with thick mortar at the place where the porch joined the main structure. At that moment the door opened and Molly Appleton stepped out, stooping to tuck a bunch of dead flowers into a black plastic bag lying on the floor, she glanced up and caught sight of Marnie.
“I was just on my way to see you to collect the key.” Marnie walked down the path.
“My routine’s out of joint this week,” said Molly. “I usually do the flowers on Friday, but my sister in London’s about to have an operation and I’ve been getting ready to go down there these past few days.”
“I’m sorry,” said Marnie. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Oh that’s all right. I’ve just got to finish doing these. Did you want to get in?”
“If that’s convenient. The vicar wants work done and I need to familiarise myself with the building.” Marnie realised she might be saying the wrong thing, but Molly did not react.
“Yes. He did say he’d asked you to find an architect. This is the part that needs attention, isn’t it? Looks solid enough to me, but then I’m no expert.”
“Shall I just wander about and let you get on with the flowers? I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Oh yes,” said Molly. “Take your time. I’ll be a little while yet.” She pushed open the door and went back into the church. Marnie checked the porch inside and out and found herself agreeing with Molly Appleton. It certainly did not appear to be on the brink of collapse. She sat on the bench and read through the papers in the file. It became clear that the vicar himself had been far from convinced of the need for the remedial works. All the pressure seemed to come from the diocesan surveyor, who was being over-scrupulous for fear of contravening the latest health and safety regulations. The vicar had no choice. Marnie read one of the letters written three months earlier.
“… and so I must reluctantly accept that the porch has to be given priority on the grounds of safety, though my own preference would be to carry out a survey of the tower, which seems to be in greater need of maintenance and presents a number of structural anomalies that to my mind require to be investigated …”
Marnie re-read the sentence and wondered whether the vicar always wrote like that. He certainly did not speak like it. She suspected that his doctoral thesis would be hard going.
She stood up and went into the church, pushing the door quietly shut behind her and standing still for a few moments, as she always did, to take in the atmosphere. Flowers had been arranged around the altar and the pulpit, roses, delphiniums, irises. The air was fresh with their scent, overlaid with the pale damp smell of foliage. Molly Appleton came out of the vestry at a quick pace, her footsteps resounding in a staccato click-clack, click-clack on the stone floor. Curious to see the tower because of the anomalies mentioned in the vicar’s letter, Marnie began walking up the centre aisle towards it, while Molly knelt down and wiped away the water that had dripped onto the flagstones.
Access to the tower was by a small arched door. It opened easily on smooth hinges to reveal a lobby leading to the stone steps curving away. They were well worn, but wide enough for a man to pass without difficulty. Marnie imagined the body of the dead vicar lying at the foot of those same steps all those long years ago. There were streaks of brown running down the stairs and in t
he half-light she could almost mistake them for blood, though she knew they were natural markings in the sandstone and ironstone. Crossing the lobby, she advanced up the first few steps.
The staircase wound round the corner in a steep spiral and Marnie made her way up until she came to a window, a source of light not much more than a narrow glazed slit widening out to a deep sill. She was barely tall enough to see through it, as the steps had not been aligned to take advantage of the view. All that was visible was the sky and the top branches of a tree. She decided to climb a short way further, treading cautiously on the worn stone. The air smelled musty and the gloom was relieved by another slit. A dozen or so steps later she could see ahead of her a small landing and guessed that it led into the chamber where the bell-ropes hung. Deciding to make this the limit of her climb, she went up, expecting to find a doorway, but it was just a landing, perhaps built in as a place to rest. There was no window-slit and it was dark and cramped. The innermost wall was made of wood and Marnie suspected it had something to do with the bell-ropes or perhaps the clock. She could not tell how high she had reached.
As her eyes became accustomed to the half-light, Marnie stepped forward and examined the walls, running her fingers across the stonework to the point where the timber began. It was a close fit, a partition of ancient darkened wood, still sound and firm after centuries. Strangely, the stonework around the wood was not as smoothly finished as the other walls, though it was too dark to inspect without better light. This was presumably why greater care had not been taken. Few people would ever come to this dark place.