by Phil Rickman
Before or after facing up to Mrs Morningwood? This time, no flam, no bullshit.
She sat up. There was an electric kettle on the dressing table. She prised herself from the bed, filled the kettle in the shower room. And, of course, she needed to call Jane, perhaps talk to Siân, make sure everything was OK. Sitting on the side of the bed, she switched on the phone, and it throbbed in her hand.
Message.
‘Merrily, it’s Sophie. Could you ring me at home?’
Sounding strangely close to excited, Sophie said she might have solved the mystery of the cuttings.
‘Cuttings?’
‘Canon Dobbs, Merrily.’
‘Oh … sorry.’ Hell, the cuttings. On hands and knees on the carpet, Merrily pulled one of the overnight bags from under the bed, dug out the plastic folder. ‘I was just … going through them again.’
‘In which case, you’ve probably noticed several mentions of the late Sir Laurens van der Post.’
‘Yes.’ Scrabbling through the papers. ‘That’s, erm …’
Uncovering an article enclosing a picture of this benign-looking old guy with a grey comb-over, side-on to the camera: PRINCE’S GURU: SAGE OR CHARLATAN?
‘You haven’t read them, have you, Merrily?’
‘I …’ Merrily sighed. ‘I haven’t read them all. Things have been complicated. Just inconveniences, really. But time-consuming.’
‘Do you know anything about van der Post?’
‘This and that.’
Van der Post, Laurens: white South African who bonded with the bushmen of the Kalahari studying so-called primitive belief systems and showing what Western societies might learn from them, while drawing public attention to the horrors of apartheid.
A war hero. But known primarily, in later years, as a close friend of the Prince of Wales. A seminal influence.
‘The Church wasn’t happy,’ Merrily recalled, ‘when Charles decided he should be William’s godfather. On account of van der Post’s own belief system being not strictly C of E. Correct?’
‘He believed that all religions were, essentially, one,’ Sophie said.
‘Which possibly accounts for Charles’s declared intention of becoming Defender of Faiths, when he becomes king?’
‘Which almost certainly does account for it. The extent of van der Post’s influence can never be overstated. He was extremely mystical in a way that I suspect your … daughter would understand.’
‘Pagan?’
‘That would be too simplistic. He died in’ 96, at the age of ninety, having been far closer to the Prince in his crucial formative years than, I would guess, anyone in the Church of England. You’ll find details in the cuttings about the time they went together into the wilderness of Kenya and van der Post imparted his knowledge of … I suppose the word “shamanism” would not be inappropriate.’
‘It’s coming back to me. Closeness to the land, anyway.’
‘And the alleged … spirits of nature. Evidently a very powerful experience for a young man. They were camping out in a very remote area, without guards or detectives. And there, if you want to look for it, lies the basis of this much publicized — and possibly much misrepresented — communication with plants. It might have sown the seeds of the Prince’s passion for conservation and green issues generally.’
‘Interesting.’
What was also interesting was the way Sophie — who worked for the cathedral — talked about it, with no hint of condemnation. As if even the fringe-pagan became less obnoxious, for her, if it happened to be championed by royalty. If it ever came to a stand-off between the Church and the Crown, whose side would Sophie be on?
‘But where’s it leading, Sophie?’
‘It leads,’ Sophie said, ‘directly to Canon Dobbs. When he first came over here in, I think, the late 1920s, van der Post became a farmer in Gloucestershire for some years. Canon Dobbs grew up near Cirencester. My information is that he might even have worked on the van der Post farm as a boy, during holidays.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I’ve been speaking to a retired clergyman — nobody you would know, so don’t ask — who knew Dobbs years ago. He said Dobbs would often talk about a South African farmer he’d known before the war who had helped to awaken his spiritual faculties.’
‘If they stayed in contact, Sophie, that doesn’t totally add up. Dobbs’s attitude to spirituality, while not exactly fundamentalist, was certainly tightly focused.’
‘Merrily, you only encountered him at the very end. We’re talking about the 1930s, when he was a boy, and Laurens van der Post a young man. They may not subsequently have followed the same spiritual paths, but in their questing years … Anyway, they were exchanging letters almost until van der Post’s death.’
‘You know this for a fact?’
‘I confirmed it about an hour ago, with Mrs Edna Rees. You remember her?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Dobbs’s housekeeper in Gwynne Street who had once told Merrily he hardly spoke to her. A cloistered existence in his later years.
‘She sometimes, in his absence, managed to clean his office,’ Sophie said. ‘And she remembers the letters.’
Merrily recalled Mrs Rees. Stolid West Herefordshire countrywoman. Shrewd.
OK, crafty.
‘She read these letters?’
‘As Canon Dobbs was apparently shutting her out — unnecessarily, she felt — I would guess she saw it as justified. How far she understood them is another matter. The parts that stuck in her mind, inevitably, were the references to the late Princess Diana.’
‘By Dobbs?’
‘It’s been widely reported, since, that Sir Laurens was not entirely in favour of that marriage. Once describing the poor child as, I recall, a pinhead.’
‘Sharing his opinions with Dobbs? Elderly men conspiring against Diana?’
‘So it seemed to Mrs Rees.’
‘A big Diana fan, I’d guess.’
‘Until then, she hadn’t really known who Laurens van der Post was.’
‘When was this?’
‘Early nineties, I would guess. Mrs Rees made it her business to find out about him — afterwards, of course. And although she insists she never discussed the correspondence with anyone from that day to this, I think she was rather glad to have finally unloaded it all on … someone.’
Someone who worked for the cathedral. And who — humiliatingly excluded, for the first time, from the Bishop’s confidence — would be bitterly identifying with Mrs Rees’s dilemma.
‘Well,’ Merrily said, ‘it’s certainly fascinating from an historical perspective, but—’
‘There’s more. Mrs Rees believes something was entrusted by Sir Laurens to Canon Dobbs — information, perhaps even a package of some kind. Canon Dobbs never actually accused her of reading his mail, but a locksmith arrived one day to change the locks on his study door, and this time Mrs Rees never found the keys.’
‘Any idea what it was?’
‘There was one significant reference in the last letter she saw from Sir Laurens. He … believed he was under surveillance.’
‘Well, that would figure. Anybody that close to the heir to the throne, the security services would be bound to check him out.’
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘I don’t know what to say about this, Sophie. It’s intriguing, but unlikely to have any bearing on what I’m supposed to be dealing with. It’s all getting too crowded for me. I just want to strip it down to the basics, get the right people in one room, hold a suitable service. I’m just a small-time cleric in the sticks — let’s not get too ambitious.’
‘Oh,’ Sophie said.
‘What?’
‘The Bishop’s here.’
‘With you now?’
‘Standing in my porch. I can see him through the window.’
‘He usually show up this time of night?’
‘No. I’m going to have to go and let him in.’
‘Of
course you are.’
* * *
Jane said everything was absolutely fine which, if you knew Jane at all, meant that everything was very much not fine.
‘Can you talk? I mean, is Siân there?’
‘She’s not far away.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Jane, I don’t want you handling anything.’
‘Mum, have you seen the Baphomet again? I mean, have you been back to that house?’
‘Don’t change the subject. Do I need to come back to deal with anything?’
‘Of course not. Don’t even think about it.’
‘If you need any advice,’ Merrily said, ‘you go to Lol, OK?’
‘Sure. When he’s here. Listen, if you’re going to, like, cleanse that place, it’s going to be a problem, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘The Baphomet. You’ll be taking it on. Some kind of power symbol that maybe goes back to Celtic times? The Baphomet is also a representation of the great god Pan — nature at its most merciless and ferocious. I’d be a bit careful.’
‘You watch too many weird DVDs, Jane.’
‘Yeah, well, even practising Satanists have to relax sometimes,’ Jane said. ‘Goodnight, Mum. Sleep well.’
35
Unleashed
The sleep, as Mrs Morningwood had predicted, had been deep, and there were no clinging dreams. The muted chimes of the phone awoke Merrily. She rolled out of bed, the mobile clutched, like some throbbing fledgling, in her hand. Dislodging the bedside table, the lamp wobbling, her watch falling, and then the Bishop saying, very clearly, ‘Merrily, I’m going to ask you to wind this up.’
She sank down to the floor.
‘Give me a moment, Bernie.’
On hands and knees, patting the carpet for her watch. The window was flushed with pink and orange. What the hell time was it?
‘I’m sorry if you’re not yet up and about,’ Bernie Dunmore said, ‘but I wanted to catch you before you went anywhere. After all, you didn’t even tell me you were doing this.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Didn’t tell me that you were going to stay at Garway Hill.’ His voice distant, abnormally formal. ‘In fact, my information—’
‘I couldn’t. You weren’t there.’
‘—My understanding of the situation was that you’d found some obvious discrepancies in this pitiful woman’s story which had rendered further inquiries unnecessary. You told me yourself last Saturday that you could prove fabrication.’
‘That’s not … I’m afraid that’s not true, not any more. And as for not knowing I was coming here …’ On her feet now, couldn’t believe this. ‘You wanted me to come and stay at Garway. Remember? Full attention? Need to get you a locum?’
‘I may have overreacted,’ the Bishop said.
‘That was what I thought at the time, but it’s a bit, you know … it’s a bit late now.’
‘Late?’
‘Two people died?’
She walked barefooted to the window, the valley rising into view then plunging into a mist that was opaque, like set honey. She was wide awake now, and she didn’t understand.
‘Merrily, let’s be sensible about this.’
‘I’m trying—’
‘I do know about the deaths. I also know of no one, apart, it seems, from yourself, who is connecting them, in any way, with these alleged disturbances at Garway.’
‘Bernie—’
‘Furthermore, I do not believe that it would be in the best interests either of the Diocese or the deliverance ministry if it were to become known that we were making something out of this. Do I really need to remind you why having Deliverance linked with the taking of life, whether it’s suicide or murder or, in this case, God forbid, both, is—’
‘No. You don’t.’
‘Good.’
‘And the subtext here is what, Bernie?’
‘Just come home,’ the Bishop said, as though she was abroad. ‘Administer a blessing, if you think it’s necessary, and then come back. There are other issues we need to discuss. Organizational issues. Re organization.’
‘Of parishes?’
‘Merrily, I don’t want to get into this over the phone, it’s very early days, and you know how I feel about it. I generally think you’ve been doing a terrific job under less than ideal conditions, and I don’t want to see your position prejudiced …’
‘Is this something to do with Siân Callaghan-Clarke? Does Sophie know about it?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Siân, essentially, and I talked to Sophie last night—’
‘Essentially?’
‘—And asked her not to telephone you until I’d spoken to you myself. I’ve also, in the meantime, spoken to the Duchy who are a little worried about what might have been unleashed.’
‘Unleashed?’
‘You, Merrily. We unleashed you. Or rather I did.’
‘I …’ She rubbed her eyes; maybe she wasn’t actually awake. ‘I’m sorry, would you mind spelling this out for me, Bishop? Preferably in big coloured nursery letters?’
‘Traditionally …’ Bernie Dunmore hesitated; his uncertainty was almost audible. ‘Traditionally, the role of the deliverance ministry has been in the way of … of administering balm to what might be seen as an open wound — a psychic wound, if we must. You’ve displayed a tendency to go beyond the brief. Which, in normal circumstances, is not necessarily a bad thing. However …’
‘You’re saying you don’t consider these to be normal circumstances. This case might be tiptoeing around the edges of national-security issues. Which are obviously more important than the little lives of ordinary people.’
‘Merrily, please don’t make this more difficult than it—’
‘Has a detective called Jonathan Long been to talk to you, by any chance?’
‘No. I’ve never heard of a detective called Jonathan Long.’
‘All right.’ Merrily sat down on the bed. ‘I accept that you might not be able to tell me if he had been round. But if you could listen for just half a minute? Yes, initially, the evidence did suggest an element of scam. But now … now I feel strongly — and sometimes you have to run with feelings — that there’s something that needs looking into.’
‘Then let someone else look into it.’
‘You really think someone else is going to?’
‘That’s not your problem.’
‘I can’t believe you said that. Look, give me one more day, and I’ll submit a written report which I’ll email to Sophie so it’s on your desk by ten o’clock tomorrow. It will explain exactly why — with the underlying issues here — I feel this is not something we can, in all conscience, ignore.’
‘Merrily, you clearly haven’t been listening.’
‘And — as you’ve accepted that there should be at least a blessing at the Master House — there’s at least one person I need to talk to before I can organize it.’
‘And that would be …?’
‘His name’s Sycharth Gwilym.’
‘Mrs Watkins,’ the Bishop said, ‘the only thing I want to see on Sophie’s desk tomorrow morning is the Reverend Murray’s bill. Tell him we’ll pay him for the full five days.’
‘This is totally—’
‘I most certainly don’t want you to talk to anyone else. Please humour me. Pack your case.’
‘Bishop, be honest. I think we’ve always been honest with one another. Have you been — how can I put this? — got at?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Merrily saw her watch glinting underneath the bedside table, bent and retrieved it, peered at the face and was initially relieved. It wasn’t yet ten minutes past seven. She knew the Bishop always rose early these days, but this was …
‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘That was a bit offensive.’
Dead silence.
He’d hung up.
Christ.
Jan
e had been down since seven. In the cold kitchen, fully dressed for school. She’d fed Ethel, put the kettle on, was spooning tea into the pot when Siân Callaghan-Clarke appeared in the doorway, wearing a silk dressing gown — sea green, very expensive, almost swish.
‘Good morning.’
Jane took a breath.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure it is.’
She’d avoided Siân last night, claiming that she had essays to do and escaping to the apartment, where she seemed to have lain awake half the night, replaying the drab, whiny voice of Shirley West. Listening to edited highlights of her own history, twisted by an expert.
Siân walked into the kitchen, pulled out a cane chair near the head of the refectory table and sat down, gathering her robe across her knees. This was where Mum would have lit a cigarette. Siân didn’t move. Jane pulled down two mugs.
‘Sorry. I’ve forgotten. Is it one sugar?’
‘It’s no sugar, Jane.’
‘Right.’ Might have guessed. ‘I’ve only just put the kettle on, so it’ll be a minute or two.’
‘Thank you.’
‘OK,’ Jane said. There was no clever way of dealing with this. ‘Here’s the situation. I was in the church last night, while you were talking to that woman. I was in the Bull Chapel. Behind the screen.’
‘I know,’ Siân said.
Jane stared at her. Siân’s sleek metallic hair was brushed back from her face, which had surprisingly few lines, even first thing in the morning, and no expression. A barrister face.
‘I was mildly concerned …’ a barrister tone of voice ‘… when you didn’t get off the school bus at what I’d been advised was the appointed time and I didn’t like to leave the house until you were home. I know you aren’t, strictly speaking, my responsibility, but I did think it wise to wait until the last possible moment. When I eventually saw you on the square, I decided it was safe to leave. And when you walked directly past me and Mrs … I’m sorry, I …’
‘Prosser.’
‘Yes, of course. When you walked directly past us — particularly Mrs Prosser — without saying a word and with your face concealed, I rather anticipated your intentions.’
Shit.
‘Look,’ Jane said, ‘I just …’