The Fabric of Sin mw-9

by Phil Rickman

  ‘You’ve found that approach helps, generally?’ Lol said.

  ‘Sometimes it does.’ Stourport waved a languid hand. ‘Go on. Ask what you want.’

  ‘Did you get any feeling the place was — I have to say this — haunted?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was old. I mean, this pile’s old, after a fashion — built on the site of the original Norman castle — and it’s haunted. Shapes seen out of the corner of an eye, on the stairs, in the long gallery. Nobody should give me that all-in-the-mind bullshit. But I would have to say this house isn’t haunted like that house was haunted. Or maybe the drugs were too new and lovely, then.’

  Lol smiled. Stourport brought his leg down from the chair arm, inched the chair closer to the fire.

  ‘Doubt if I’d’ve got through it without the drugs, thinking back. Who’s living there now? Let me guess — couple of gay hairdressers from Islington, weekends only.’

  ‘Nobody’s living there at the moment. But it’s been bought by the Duchy of Cornwall.’

  ‘Has it, by God?’

  ‘The plan is to restore it. Sensitively.’

  ‘Right.’ Lord Stourport shifted in his chair. ‘Now you’re starting to make sense. They have weight, those guys. And money.’

  ‘And there are complications.’

  Lol told him about the deaths. No reason to hold any of that back, not as if it hadn’t been in the papers. Stourport drew in his lips like he was about to whistle, but he didn’t comment.

  ‘So you’re just the boyfriend,’ he said when Lol sat back. ‘You don’t meddle yourself?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘You mean this is all for … lerve?’

  Lol shrugged lightly.

  ‘We’ve been educated out of all that nonsense, the aristocracy. I tell you, Robinson, most of us were mightily relieved when punk came in and we no longer had to babble on about peace and lerve. Except for poor Charles, of course, who’s at least half-hippie. Never could stand the man, personally, but if he’s had the Master House unloaded on him one can only sympathize. What will she do, this woman of yours?’

  ‘She’ll say some prayers. Bless the premises. Or maybe organize a small service, a Requiem for the people who died, with people there who might still have problems with the house and people who had problems with it in the past. You could come if you wanted.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Your commune’s been mentioned, anyway.’

  ‘It was never a commune. Nothing so formal.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘I can tell you what I remember, but what I remember might have very little to do with what actually happened.’

  ‘Like that, huh?’

  ‘Very much like that, cocker.’

  On the sunlit square, Merrily felt like a tourist. The last couple of nights were probably as long as she’d spent away from here since they’d moved in. You came back, it made you blink — the black and white houses and shops unexpectedly exotic in the Lucozade light of an autumn morning.

  Or was that because she was afraid she was going to lose it all? Didn’t even feel safe in her own house any more.

  Which wasn’t her own house. Which was the Church’s house. The Church, as represented, in her life, by the Bishop. The Bishop behind whose back …

  She was alone on the square, a few people around the shops, none of them close enough to have to greet — God, had it come to this? She slid into the familiar sanctuary of the market hall, took out her mobile, switched it on to find it frantic with messages.

  There was a bunch of calls from Lol, who was on his way to … where? She listened. She called him back at once. His phone was switched off, she left a message: ‘Lol, I don’t know what it’s best to ask Lord Stourport. This is getting messier than you could ever imagine. All I can say, just play it by ear, maybe don’t even mention Mary Linden, because I’ve only had that from one source which I … don’t entirely trust. I’m sorry.’

  And then there was Sophie: two cautious call me back messages from her. Merrily called the gatehouse.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘For the moment. Merrily, I need to apol—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I understand. Sophie, did you tell the Bishop that I’d finally concluded that Fuchsia had made it all up?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly what he wanted me to tell him.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last night. When he arrived on our doorstep in a state of some agitation. He instructed me quite formally not to call you until he had. I gave him until nine-thirty then I began to leave messages. I’m sorry, Merrily, he’s still my boss, however … eccentric he’s become.’

  ‘Well, look, I’m back at the vicarage, and there’ve been some developments, which I’ll explain in due course.’

  ‘You sound upset.’

  ‘I’m OK. I’ll explain it face to face, when the Bishop’s not on your back or mine. You said he was agitated. Why? Like he was getting pressure?’

  Sophie didn’t reply.

  ‘I’ll tell you something else. He suggested that the Duchy itself would be happier if I forgot all about the Master House. He indicated he’d had this from Adam Eastgate. It wasn’t true.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Who might be leaning on him, Sophie? Could it be Canterbury?’

  ‘I certainly haven’t taken any calls from Church House, but that means nothing. Ah—’

  ‘Who else? Come on, Sophie, who else can you think of with any influence over the Bishop? Who the Bishop might be intimidated by?’

  Sophie said, ‘Perhaps I could call you back a little later, Reverend Longbeach.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He was there. He’d walked in on her. Merrily killed the line and walked out on the other side of the market hall, emerging next to a grey car parked tidily in its shade.

  She’d wanted to ask if Sophie knew — or could find out — who exactly had been tapped for information about Hereford deliverance … and her … and Jane. Who was the other minister consulted by the Duchy?

  Well, obviously this described Huw Owen. But Huw would have told her. No way Huw would not have told her.

  She’d call him anyway. She scrolled through the list on the mobile. She should call him now.

  And then Merrily closed up the phone with a snap. Stood staring at the grey Lexus parked next to the market hall, noting, on the back seat, a lavishly labelled case of Italian leather. Siân Callaghan-Clarke’s gloves on the dash.

  ‘We were not kids,’ Lord Stourport said. ‘That’s too easy. We were young, voracious adults, the world spread out in front of us like a picnic. We had the power of youth. And that is a power, because it comes without responsibility except to yourself. Well, that’s commonplace now, that’s almost the norm — Crowley’s line, Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law, that’s every fucker’s motto now, nobody thinks twice. Back then, it was new and risky and seductive.’

  Lol was quite fascinated by the way Stourport/Hayter would unconsciously switch from officer-class drawl to street-hard pseudo-cockney without a breath in between.

  ‘Actually, it was quite a sad time for a lot of them,’ Stourport said. ‘The hippie dream all gone to shit, with nothing to replace it, no real energy. Everybody seemed to be sprawled around, stoned and directionless. It never bothered me. I was quite happy to be stoned and directionless for a while.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Seventy-three, seventy-four. I’d dropped out of Cambridge in disgrace but with a portfolio of music-biz contacts par fucking excellence, and a working knowledge of how to make money that would subsequently win the reluctant respect of even my old man — living here in faded splendour, buckets catching the drips, sitting in his overcoat in winter watching his black and white TV surrounded by old masters. Imagine the ignominy of having your heritage saved by the ill-gotten millions of the disreputable punk impresario son. Poor old b
astard never recovered.’

  ‘How long’ve you been here?’

  ‘Fifteen, sixteen years. It was sudden, really. Ironically, living a warm, damp-free existence seemed to do for the old man’s health. But of course all this was still far into the future when we moved into the Master House.’

  ‘How did you find out about the house?’

  ‘Can’t remember. I mean, it was that time when bored young people of my generation would look up and go hey, let’s start again, let’s go out into the sticks, be pioneers. Ronnie Lane decamping to Shropshire, touring in a gypsy caravan, bucolic bliss — that was a myth as well, of course, even if you’ve got the money, if you have land it needs to be worked. Scores of idle freaks lying in the grass — a spade? What’s that about?’

  The man in the leather coat put his head round the door, looking pointedly at Lol, but Stourport waved him away.

  Lol said, ‘Did you know anything about the history of the place when you took it? The Knights Templar?’

  ‘Robinson, I knew nothing about the Knights frigging Templar. Had a flat in London with my girlfriend at the time, Siggi, and we had a lot of parties which were — as we used to say — busted by the pigs, on no less than three occasions. It was getting tiresome, and my friend Pierre Markham — you know who I’m talking about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The merchant banker? Never mind. Anyway, it was Pierre who said why don’t we get a place in the country? Well, I’d been born in a place in the bleeding country, so the idea held no particular magic for me. Besides which, although I had plenty of readies, I didn’t really have a lump sum to put down on a property, but Pierre’s saying, “No, we lease somewhere” … That was Siggi and me, Pierre and his lady, and a guy called Mickey Sharpe who was basically our dealer, kept us supplied with whatever we needed. In quantity.’

  He flung his leg back over the chair arm, lounging back, slowly shaking his head.

  ‘Actually, I remember now. What put us on to the Master House, it was just an ad in Country Life or The Lady. It didn’t actually say No Hippies, but it probably did no harm at all reverting to being The Hon. until the deal was done. Anyway, we move into this hovel — throw some money at it, scatter the sheepskins and the Afghan fucking rugs, set up the important item, this monster B&O stereo. And … it was summer and life passed in a bit of a haze. Mickey had a van, and he’d go off to London and come back with the stuff, early mornings, and we had a secret stash we called the Grotto of Dreams, as you did in those days.’

  ‘What broke the idyll?’

  ‘What makes you think it broke?’

  ‘They always do,’ Lol said.

  ‘This one didn’t break, it just got diverted. Got a lot more intense very quickly. After some weeks we discover this guy called Mathew is living with us.’

  ‘You discover he’s living with you?’

  ‘He was just there. You know? People came and went. Any problems we had, plumbing and whatever, Mickey would fix it for some guy to attend to it. Mickey was an excellent man, he’d go out and find the right people, the ones on the fringe who, in return for a small package, wouldn’t spread it round that we were, you know, dangerously subversive. Then this guy Mathew — Mat, with one T, he was very particular about that — your name, the number of letters it had — very important, the numerological correspondences, all this shit.’

  ‘Bit mystical?’

  ‘I thought, at first, he was just some fucking gardener Pierre’d hired. This messianic-looking guy — not much older than any of us but he had the look. Mat Phobe, he called himself, obviously not his real name. But who used their real names in those days? You called yourself what you thought you ought to be called, what would reflect your spirit. So it was a while before we became aware that Mat Phobe was actually in charge of us all.’

  ‘How do you mean, “in charge”?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. I don’t believe we knew. You did one weird thing, weirdness became the norm. Especially if you were getting a buzz. But the Templars — it was Mat knew about the Templars. We’d all been down this weird little church and wandered around, but it hadn’t meant that much to us. There wasn’t all this shit about the Templars all over the media in those days. Medieval history wasn’t cool. Stone Age was cool, the golden age of ley lines when the land was irrigated by mysterious energies that could blow you away. We knew all about that, but we knew diddly-squat about the Templars. Except for Mat.’

  And so it came out, Lol wishing there was some way he could record it all for Merrily.

  Mat came and went. He’d go off for weeks at a time and come back with some new idea. Mat had said they were sitting on energies the like of which they couldn’t imagine. Mat had said the Master House was at the centre of forbidden secrets, all this stuff that gave a deep and wonderful significance to their lives when they heard about it, stoned.

  He’d told them about the Templars being suppressed because of their advanced esoteric knowledge. He knew about Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order, coming to Garway in 1294. Mat was convinced de Molay had stayed in the Master House. He was also convinced that the Grand Master had brought something with him.

  Lol sat up.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He reckoned Garway was … I dunno, the chosen place? He said this guy Jacques could already see the writing on the wall, knew that all these kings and popes were suspicious of the Order and jealous of their wealth and their influence and the secret knowledge they had — all this Da Vinci Code shit.’

  ‘Is it shit?’

  ‘Probably. But we had no point of reference back then, anyway — the book that raised the whole bloodline of Christ issue, The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, wouldn’t come out for several years.’

  ‘So are you saying Mat knew something of this before it was in the public domain?’

  ‘Oh man …’ Jimmy Hayter raised his eyes to the cherubs ‘… you listened to that guy, you thought there was nothing he didn’t know. He had all these charts and symbols and glyphs and astral correspondences and all this impenetrable balls. He was the high priest, the adept. Looking back, I can see that he was probably full of shit, but we didn’t question it at the time because the women found it, shall we say, very alluring. At first.’

  ‘So what did he think he was going to find?’

  ‘Treasure. Money … gold. Whatever. The Templars had massive wealth. They were a multinational enterprise. They ran a banking system across Europe and the Middle East. Mat’d got it into his head that de Molay had chosen Garway as a hiding place if the deal went down in France. Garway made sense, he’d say, because it was not only remote, it was on the Welsh border and the Templars were well in with the Welsh. And the Scots — they rode with Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn.’

  ‘Mat thought there was Templar treasure stashed at Garway?’

  ‘He thought we were sitting on it.’

  ‘At the Master House?’

  ‘The Grand Master House. Which was built soon after the church, just far enough away that nobody would suspect.’

  ‘And he thought the treasure was still there?’

  ‘Oh, Jeez …’ Jimmy Hayter laughed. ‘We were all over the place after that, tapping walls, looking for signs and symbols. Pierre and his woman, whatever her name was, they’d gone by then, and some other guy was there and I remember him being chased out of the church by the vicar after taking a crowbar to one of the long stones that were originally the lids of Templar coffins. I remember Mat gave him a talking-to, and then he gathered us all around and he said we were going about it all wrong. He said the only way to find out the secret was to get onto the Templar wavelength.’

  Suddenly, Stourport was back, and his face seemed less relaxed now, his eyes harder.

  ‘That was when it got intense. That was when we started on the magic.’

  40

  Frail

  Merrily went back to check on Mrs Morningwood, listening outside the door of the guest room. All she could hear was
Roscoe, padding around on the other side. Once, he growled.

  Twice she went back out to the square, and Siân’s car was still there. Just after midday, she rang Huw Owen from the scullery and asked him straight out if he’d been approached by the Duchy.

  ‘I never thought you had so few friends, lass. No, it’s not me.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be somebody you actually know. Could just be somebody as knows you. Somebody as knows exactly what you’ve been doing the past couple of years. Could even be Merlin the Wizard.’

  Huw’s name for the Welshman who was Archbishop of Canterbury. Huw seemed oddly — for Huw — fond of him, which might have been down to their shared affection for The Incredible String Band, old Celtic hippies sticking together.

  ‘Help me out here,’ Merrily said. ‘What are they likely to want?’

  Huw said. ‘You might remember what I told you about royalty and the Church. Reference to seismic shifts and little folks getting dropped down crevices?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Follow your conscience but watch your back.’

  ‘And did it work?’ Lol asked. ‘The magic?’

  He could feel the atmosphere hardening. He felt like he was stirring cement and running out of water to soften the mix. Soon Jimmy Hayter’s memories would become clogged, Lord Stourport less accommodating, and when his curiosity about Merrily ran out it would be time to go.

  ‘It was magick with a “k”,’ Hayter said.

  ‘Aleister Crowley put the “k” on the end, didn’t he?’

  ‘A tosser.’

  ‘But an influential tosser,’ Lol said. ‘I’m told.’

  ‘My dear friend …’ Stourport heaved himself up on an elbow. ‘If you thought I was going to tell you what we were doing …’

  ‘Well, I did, actually,’ Lol said. ‘Hoped, anyway. It was a long time ago, after all.’

  Crowley. Lol remembered a discussion he’d once had in a flat in Ross-on-Wye with a woman called Cola French who had hung out with some weird people and had told him about …