“Sold the car and bought a bicycle.”
While Sykes pushed his way over to the bar to get them a second drink, Jonas thought about it. If the rector did decide to consult him – and he had a feeling that he might – would he take him on? He would be a difficult client, but he had spent his professional life dealing with difficult clients. The truth of the matter was that he was beginning to get very slightly bored. The firm had plenty of clients, but most of the ones who came to him personally were friends like Admiral Fairlie and Major Appleby. Very often, he suspected, they came for a chat as much as for a consultation. The real legal work was done by Sabrina.
The letter arrived three days later. It was formal and perfectly sensible. The rector wrote to say that he had a small planning problem and wondered whether Mr Pickett could help him. He had informed his existing solicitor, Mr Sykes, who had raised no objection to his transferring this particular piece of business.
Jonas rang up Sykes who laughed and said, “Over to you and the best of luck.” The opposition came, on different grounds, from Sabrina and Claire.
“There’s no point wasting time over him,” said Sabrina. “He’ll be away before long.”
“What makes you say that?” said Jonas. The discussion was taking place over the coffee that was a mid-morning ritual in the office.
“Congregation drifting off.”
“Don’t forget Lavinia Semple,” said Claire.
Jonas knew about Miss Semple. He had often seen her, an untidy bundle wrapped in black, being trundled along the front in a bath chair.
“Ronnie Sykes acts for her,” said Sabrina. “He was telling me she makes a new will every month. She’s the only daughter of Sample’s Jams and Jellies. Rolling in money. Now she’d be a client worth having.”
Jonas said, “We’re not discussing whether I take on Miss Semple. The question was whether I should agree to act for the rector.”
“You can’t do it,” said Claire flatly. “The man’s unbalanced.”
Sabrina disagreed. “He’s a very interesting man. And quite an accomplished musician.”
Claire snorted and said, “I suppose if you’d lived at the time of Nero you’d have called him an interesting man. A splendid performer on the violin, too, I believe.”
“The comparison is inapt. Nero was an evil man. Whatever else you may accuse the rector of you could hardly call him evil.”
She enjoyed arguing with Claire, who sometimes lost her temper. Mrs Mountjoy never lost hers.
Claire shifted her ground. She said, “The one I’m sorry for is David. It can’t be any sort of life for him, alone in that gloomy house all day.”
When they first arrived in Shackleton she and Sabrina had both lodged at the rectory for some months.
“And who is David?” said Jonas.
“He’s the rector’s son. Didn’t you know he was married?”
“I confess I thought of him as a prototypical bachelor. Do I gather his wife has left him?”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs Mountjoy, with a sidelong look at Claire. “I’m told they were a devoted couple. His wife died when David was born.”
“All right, Sabrina,” said Claire. “He may have been a rational creature eight years ago. All I’m saying is that he’s not normal now.”
Jonas said, “If the boy’s eight, how come he spends all the day at home?”
“He doesn’t,” said Mrs Mountjoy. “That was one of Claire’s figures of speech. He’s a day boy at Clifton House.”
“Only after a bitter fight with the education authorities,” said Claire. “The rector maintained he could educate him better than any hired usher.”
“Which he probably could have done,” agreed Mrs Mountjoy.
“All right,” said Jonas patiently. “David’s at school all day. What about the evenings? There must be someone who looks after the house.”
Claire said, “There’s a couple who come in when they’re wanted. She cooks and cleans and he does the garden. But they are always out of the house by dusk, I noticed.”
“I suppose,” said Sabrina, “that they thought the rector turned into a werewolf at night.”
“Stop it, you two,” said Jonas. “I want facts, not debating points. Aren’t there any other members of the family?”
“There’s a sister,” said Claire. “A Mrs Baxter. The widow of Myron Baxter.”
“The famous ornithologist?”
“Could be. She certainly seemed to know a lot about birds. When we were there she was around for most of August. She used to take David for long walks.”
“A woman of real intellect,” said Sabrina. “She was up at Lady Margaret Hall a little before my time and we had a number of friends in common.”
“There you are,” said Claire. “Between her and the rector they could have given David a first-class education.”
“And if he’d never mixed with any other boys he’d have turned out a first-class freak.”
“Time,” said Jonas. “Back to work.”
“I read the other day,” said Claire, “that the great Lord Coleridge was educated entirely by his father. He could read Latin fluently when he was six, and speak it.”
“And look what a bore he was when he got on to the bench,” said Sabrina. She usually contrived to get the last word.
“You have to understand,” said the rector, settling himself in the chair opposite Jonas’s desk, “that St Michael’s is almost entirely unendowed. The man who set it up supplied the funds to build the church and left his own rather unsuitable house as the rectory. Also some land. The money that was over was enough to provide a modest stipend for the incumbent, but it left no reserve for repairs. And the need for them is becoming urgent. I decided that the logical answer was to sell part of the land to a builder. I was told that, with planning permission, we could get as much as thirty thousand pounds an acre.”
“Easily that,” said Jonas.
“So I applied for planning permission for the four acres that front the Lewes road. It was refused. I was told that my only remedy was to ask for a public enquiry. That has been agreed – reluctantly.”
“You conducted these negotiations yourself?”
“There was no need to trouble Mr Sykes. I was fully cognisant of the facts.”
“But now you want me to act for you?”
“It seemed to me, from the brief conversation we had in the market square” – a smile twitched the corner of the rector’s mouth – “that you were the possessor of a subtle mind.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Jonas. “But it’s true that I’ve had some experience of planning appeals. Have you got a date yet?”
“Certainly. Next Monday.”
“A week from now! We can hardly be ready by then.”
“Is much preparation needed? I have brought with me the town clerk’s letters. They are not lengthy. What else do you need?”
“We shall need witnesses, if we can get them. Local people, prepared to support your application. A week doesn’t give us much time.”
The rector said, “In six days the Lord made the heaven and the earth and all that in them is.” Interpreting Jonas’s expression he added, “Don’t worry. I’m no William Jennings Bryan. I accept that the book of Genesis is a fairy story. But understand this, please. The Bible, the whole of it, the Old Testament as well as the New, has orders for us, if we can interpret them. I don’t call them messages. I call them orders. Commands which are not always easy to understand. But when we do understand them” – the rector’s eyes were fixed on Jonas with almost hypnotic force – “we have no option. We are soldiers. We obey the orders of our commander.”
Jonas’s immediate reaction was, ‘I wish I’d had my tape recorder switched on.’ He was being presented with an understanding of the rector’s mind, which might be of critical importance in their future dealings. He objected, however, to being hypnotised and broke the spell by standing up. He said, “We’ve got a lot to do, so let’s get on wit
h it. Perhaps you could start by making enquiries from your neighbours to see if they might be prepared to help you.”
They found Mrs Baxter in the outer office, chatting to Claire.
“Where’s David?” said the rector. There was an unexpected note of anxiety in his voice. “I don’t like him to go out in the street alone.”
“It’s all right,” said Mrs Baxter. “He’s talking to the lady in the other room.”
David was sitting beside Sabrina, examining a sketch that she had drawn.
“The wing feathers don’t quite go like that. They go up at the end and they stick out more.”
Sabrina amended the drawing with a few rapid strokes.
“Yes, that’s more like it.”
“Come on, David,” said the rector. “These people have got work to do.”
“He was showing me the difference between a kestrel and a sparrowhawk,” said Sabrina. “Very interesting.”
When they were alone, Claire said to Jonas, “It’s a pity Mrs Baxter doesn’t live with them permanently. She could keep some sort of eye on her brother.”
“You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about that man,” said Jonas.
“Then I wish it’d get out and sting you,” said Claire tartly. “You don’t seem able to grasp the fact that he’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Aren’t you exaggerating? Eccentric certainly.”
“Listen,” said Claire, with more than usual earnestness. “People tell me things that perhaps they don’t tell you. You know how he’s been trying to get the amusement park on the pier shut on Sundays. Well, the first time he tried to do it by arguing with the man who ran it. When this chap wouldn’t see his point of view – possibly made some stupid crack – the rector knocked him off the end of the pier into the sea and stalked away without as much as looking round to see if he could swim. Fortunately he could. Otherwise he could easily have been drowned.”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, it was hushed up somehow.”
Jonas thought about this. Then he said, “Well, I should have been all right. I’m a good swimmer.”
Claire said nothing. But later, to Mrs Mountjoy, she said, “He’s impossible. He’s behaving like a small boy. He regards the whole thing as a ‘dare’. Other lawyers couldn’t handle the rector, but he can. He doesn’t realise he’s playing with fire. Couldn’t you say something to him?”
“If he wouldn’t listen to you,” said Sabrina, “I’m certain he wouldn’t listen to me.”
The morning hearing of the public enquiry was over. The rector had behaved with perfect propriety. Since he had not been able to find anyone willing to give evidence for him he had had to act as his own witness.
The Inspector had a bad cold, which he relieved from time to time with a pastille. The opposition was represented by the town clerk, Mr Timms, and Mr McClachan, a member of the Planning Committee. Jonas had felt, from the start, that he was batting on a sticky wicket. He pointed out the desperate need of the church for funds and the equally desperate need of Shackleton for more houses. He touched on the suitability of the site and glossed over the fact that it was in the Green Belt, an area in which development is normally prohibited.
When he saw McClachan making a note he guessed what it was about. This was the most serious weakness in their case. When he had said all he could, and some of it twice over, the rector gave his evidence and the town clerk rose to cross-examine him. It was clear from his manner and from the way he phrased his questions, that he was hoping to provoke an outburst. The rector foiled him by answering as shortly as possible; sometimes simply by ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
In the end it was the town clerk who lost his temper. He snapped out, “Is it true, sir, that since you have been rector of St Michael’s there has been a falling-off in attendance at the church?”
“A small decrease, yes.”
“If it’s only small, how do you account for the fact, which appears from your own accounts, that the collections this year are fifty per cent less than last year?”
The rector considered the matter. “I think,” he said gently, “that the actual figure is forty-two per cent.”
“If this decline continues, is it not likely that in the near future the church will be closed altogether?”
The Inspector, who had been showing signs of restlessness, said, “I fail to see the relevance of this line of enquiry, Mr Timms.” And to the rector, “There is no need for you to answer that question.”
“I have no objection to answering it,” said the rector. “What will happen in the future is neither in your hands nor in mine. It is in the hands of God.”
His voice was still calm, but it was as cold as naked steel. It punctured the town clerk who said, “I have no more questions,” and sat down.
“In that case,” said the Inspector, helping himself to another pastille, “it will be a convenient moment to adjourn.”
During the lunch break Jonas congratulated the rector on his restraint. He looked surprised. “I could hardly go wrong,” he said. “The instruction given to us in St Matthew’s gospel is explicit. If a man smite you on one cheek, turn to him the other.”
“It certainly worked in this case.”
“What is your honest opinion? Have we any chance of winning?”
“I think the Inspector is sympathetic to the needs of your church. Whether we can win depends on how well their witness has done his homework.”
Unfortunately it soon became clear that McClachan had prepared his case very thoroughly indeed. He was a qualified surveyor, with an intimate knowledge of Shackleton. He was able to identify six other sites which were ripe for development. Two of them were nearer to the centre of Shackleton than the rector’s field and were outside the Green Belt.
“In short,” said the town clerk, “although, at some future date, it might be appropriate to consider this site for development, your view is that, at the moment, it would be premature?”
“In my view, totally premature.”
And that’s one back for your wife’s cakes and jams, thought Jonas.
When Mr Timms sat down there was a long moment of silence. Jonas knew that it was unusual for an Inspector to say anything after the parties had finished. But he sometimes helped them by indicating how his mind was working.
He said, “Mr Pickett, you will appreciate the force of what the last witness has told us. I should like to say, however, that I am not unmindful of the needs of the church. Had this application been for some purpose connected with the church, a residence for a curate, perhaps, or a church hall, then my views on the matter would certainly be different.”
While the Inspector was speaking Jonas had become aware of a change in the rector. He was no longer sitting quietly, but was tapping with one foot on the ground and his face was mottled. Now he was scribbling on a piece of paper. He pushed it towards Jonas who read, written in emphatic capital letters:
‘CAN I SAY SOMETHING?’
Jonas seized his own pen and wrote underneath it, ‘Only if you no longer wish me to act for you.’
The Inspector observed that something was happening. He turned courteously towards the rector and said, “Have you anything you would care to add?”
In the silence which ensued Jonas was aware of the struggle that was going on. The outcome depended on the strength of such influence as he had been able to establish over his difficult client. Finally, with a sound like the gasp of someone coming up from deep water, the rector said, “No, sir.”
“I think we’d better go back to my office,” said Jonas. “I’ll take you in my car.”
When they got there, Jonas said, “I had a feeling that you were going to be rude to the Inspector. Perhaps you could explain why.”
The rector, who had recovered his composure, said, “Tell me, Mr Pickett, what would your opinion be of a parent who held out a sweet to his child and when the child stretched out his hand to take it, threw it into the fire? It is my dearest wish to build a ch
urch hall. It would solve many of my problems. The sale of those four acres of land, coupled with planning permission, would produce one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, or thereabouts. And that happens to be almost exactly the amount which a builder has quoted to me for the job. So what is the Inspector saying? That he would guarantee that I would get permission to put up my hall. That is the sweet. But equally that he could guarantee that I could not raise the money by building houses. So—”
The rector held out one hand and opened the long thin fingers, as though he was dropping something.
At that moment the telephone rang.
“I must apologise,” said Jonas. “When my secretary and Sam Conybeare are both out, calls get put straight through to me. I’d better deal with it.”
It was Ronald Sykes. He said, “I think you know I act for Lavinia Semple—”
“Yes, I know it,” said Jonas. “And I’ve got a client with me, so if you don’t mind—”
“I think you ought to hear this. She died last night.”
“I’m very sorry. But—”
“And she’s left everything to the rector.”
Jonas swung round to look at the rector, who had clearly heard what Sykes had said. He seemed unsurprised.
“Were you expecting this?”
“Miss Semple is one of the most faithful of my flock. She came to see me after morning service two weeks ago. She indicated what was in her mind. I besought her to do nothing hurriedly. I had no idea, of course, that she was to be gathered so soon.”
The telephone said, “Are you still there?”
“Sorry,” said Jonas. “The fact is, I have the rector with me.”
“Oh, I see.” The reserve in Sykes’s voice sounded a warning.
Jonas said, “Perhaps we ought to have a word about this.”
“I agree,” said Sykes. “And as soon as possible. I’d come to you, but I’m rather tied up at the moment. Could you possibly come round to my office?” He did not add, ‘Without the rector,’ but the implication was clear.
Sykes said, “One of Miss Semple’s few remaining pleasures was the making and altering of her will. Normally, she told me what she wanted to do and I drew up the document. This time, as you can see, she tried her own hand at it.”
Anything For a Quiet Life Page 17