St. Anastansias stood right on the town square. There was a cemetery next to it, surrounded by a crooked iron fence like a stuttering pen line. A line of fruit trees separated the church and the graveyard. The trees were in blossom just now, their pinks and yellows contrasting vividly with the church’s gray wall.
Many Burkinwellians made their way toward St. Anastansias that morning. Families arrived on foot. Some country folk were arriving by horse cart. Mostly, however, people were pulling up in motorcars. These they parked in no particular order on the town square.
I didn’t want to go straight into the church. I have a horror, sometimes, of being conspicuous. On the other hand, people were looking at me as I hung about outside the front steps.
I walked over to the cemetery, where I read headstones. Then I noticed that I was not alone. There was a woman over by the fruit trees, standing on a short stepladder. The top part of her body was lost amid the cloud of blossoms. I recognized the shape of her legs, however. It was Linda Drain. She was wearing a maroon dress with white piping, which covered her knees with modesty befitting a minister’s wife on Sunday. A broad-brimmed white hat lay on the grass beside the ladder.
I came up below her and retrieved the hat.
“Hello,” I said. “Is this your hat? You shouldn’t leave it on the wet grass.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Castle. Thank you. Could you hold on to it?”
“Certainly. What are you up to, may I ask?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.”
“You’re just sort of standing on this stepladder?”
“Yes. No. Well, not exactly.”
“Picking blossoms?”
“Not picking. Looking.”
“They are beautiful, aren’t they.”
“Oh, so beautiful. Not many people would understand, Mr. Castle. Actually, I’m getting lost.”
“Getting lost?”
“Yes. In the blossoms. I poke my head up here and — I don’t know — I feel myself drifting away.”
“Do you drift anyplace in particular?”
“Someplace — how do I say it? Spiritual? They all pray in their churches, but I pray out here. In the blossoms. Here, I’ll get down. You try it.”
“Just climb up there?” I set the hat back down.
“That’s it. Don’t worry, there’s no bees on a rainy day. Now — inhale slowly.”
I closed my eyes to do so. The scent was thick and wonderful. Joyous, like a carol.
“Open your eyes.”
“All right.”
It was like waking up in a Japanese print. I was under a dome of soft pastel lozenges. Jagged twigs shot through the cloud of radiant petals.
“Nice?” Linda asked.
“Very.”
“Now close your eyes again.”
The blossom shapes turned vivid and tropical against the velvet of my eyelids. As I watched, they wriggled apart like reflections in a wavering pool.
“I say, do you do this often?” I said, eyes still closed. “It’s really quite an interesting exercise. Prayer, you say? What an interesting concept. Have you ever — ” I opened my eyes. I looked down. Linda was gone.
“Hey!”
I bent down. She was walking toward the church. The hat swung from her hand.
I jumped down from the stepladder. She was entering a side door of the church.
I did not follow, but went around to the front doors and joined the stragglers there.
Despite the crowd of automobiles in the street, the church was only half-full. Linda was in the process of seating herself up front. I took a seat in the back.
The congregation murmured and shuffled its feet. I scanned the backs of the heads, but didn’t see Constable Walsmear; and, although there were children present, I did not recognize the girls from the photographs. Of course, I couldn’t see everybody.
Esmirelda was very much in evidence, slouching in the corner of a pew. She wore a large straw hat bedecked with flowers. Two long red ribbons streamed down her back like ceremonial carpets.
The crowd stirred as Rev. Drain appeared on the altar. He cut an impressive figure. His was a handsome baldness; and his various surplices, chasubles, and other vestments hung well from his muscular frame.
Though I was raised a Roman Catholic, I have had the opportunity over the years to attend the services of many different religious denominations. Tedium, I have learned, is ecumenical. So it was now that, as the services began, I almost immediately drifted off into reverie. I dreamed that I was back amid the blossoms outside the church. Linda was with me, and together we floated through the pastel cloud, arm in arm; shoulder to shoulder; face to neck.
I blinked myself back into reality.
That was not the sort of thing to think about in church. According to the Law of Moses, adultery is forbidden. Jesus took the stricture even further, telling his followers that even to contemplate adultery was a big mistake. I took my fantasy no further, and instead composed myself for Drain’s sermon.
His text was from Genesis: God then separated the light from darkness God called the light day, and the darkness night. Evening came, and the morning, the first day. Then God said, “Let there be a firmament in the middle of the waters to divide the waters in two . . .”
Drain leaned on his pulpit. He stared at us all accusingly, the way people do when they want something to “sink in.”
“The God of the Old Testament,” he chirped, then paused, “. . . is a God,” his voice swooped low, “of distinctions. He is a God who separates: light from dark, sky from water, man from animal. As the Old Testament continues past the Book of Genesis, his distinctions become ever more complex. He gives the Israelites commands that divide every facet of their lives into a multitude of fine distinctions. He is a God who, it might be said, is obsessed with differences, moieties, categories, and ultimately, genealogies.
“It is a singular characteristic. Yet it may contain the very essence of the Deity.
“What is this thing we call science? It is nothing but distinctions, growing ever more complex, between categories of phenomena, elements of matter, types of living forms. The universe began simply, and grows ever more complex. All that surrounds us is but the echo of that initial division of light from dark. It is an echo that continues to resound. The very essence of things continues to change, even as I speak.
“This may be what we experience as time: It is the lag between the infinite number of distinctions taking place at any given moment and our perception of each moment’s new condition.
“Our minds: they, too, are part of this broadening, spreading tree of distinctions. Thus is time irrecoverable. Creation is growing from moment to moment. Our expanded minds of this moment simply cannot fit into the relatively narrow space of creation of only a moment ago . . .”
Fortunately for Rev. Drain, no one was paying particular attention to what he was saying. It sounded cracked to me.
As he continued, the congregation dozed, or daydreamed, or admired the simple Gothic interior of the church. Outside, the sky darkened. It began to rain. Wind lashed the panes of glass. Raindrops pounded on the roof.
This was nice. I felt my energy reawaken. I took a renewed interest in the congregation. Over the course of Drain’s sermon, the people in the pews in front of me had shifted their bodies here and there. A new corridor opened up between their shoulders.
I looked. I almost started. There they were. The two little girls. What had Linda called them? Anna and Clara. Their golden hair shone out amid the dull blacks and browns of the men’s coats. The taller girl wore a large red bow on the back of her head. The man with them appeared to be their father. They fidgeted. He admonished them. But the rain had stopped, and we were all fidgeting by then.
As the service drew to an end, I lost the Templeton family in the crowd. Nonetheless, I had seen the
m. And it was a good thing, too: My mental image of the task before me had been becoming vague. Now it was getting back to the concrete.
This was the family I had to deal with. I had to convince them to sell Sir Arthur their fairy photographs — cheap. That would be the easy part. But my plans went far beyond what Sir Arthur wanted. For them to succeed, I had to ingratiate myself with this family. Could Walsmear help me with this?
I watched the last of the congregation file out of the church. It was borne home to me that I was a stranger in this town. I was on my own. Under the clangor of bells, I joined the serpentine departure.
The Rev. and Mrs. Drain stood at the bottom of the front steps and greeted one and all, most by name. They tousled children’s hair. They bent close to shout good wishes in elderly ears. They asked after the health of the afflicted, and the crops of the farmer. I supposed they were well liked, despite Drain’s incomprehensible talk. He was delighted to see me coming out of his church.
“Unusual sermon,” I observed.
“Ha! Yes, I hoped so,” he said. “I hope it wasn’t too abstruse. Maybe next week I’ll take it further. Scripture talks about many distinctions. There are levels of heaven. Grades of supernatural beings.”
“Like angels?”
“And demons. And much more.”
“Don’t get him started,” Linda said. “When he starts naming the demons, he sounds positively medieval.”
“Maybe the Dark Ages weren’t so dark,” he laughed. “I mean, ‘more things on heaven and earth . . .’ All that, you know.”
Some other parishioners took his attention.
Linda and I stood alone off to one side.
I leaned forward conspiratorially. “He suspected nothing,” I whispered.
“What? About what?”
“That business on the train,” I winked. “He never guessed.”
Linda laughed. “Oh, that. Thank you so much. He would have made such a fuss. And I do hate to upset him.”
“Is that all you were worried about?” I said. “Tom’s peace of mind?”
Linda looked at me frankly. “Yes,” she said. “That is all I was worried about. Tom hasn’t always been this happy. He had some bad experiences in the war. It wasn’t easy when we were first married. Night terrors. Drinking. That sort of thing. But we’ve found a home here in Burkinwell. Tom can exercise his mind here. And his body.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“It is wonderful. For him.”
“But you need more?”
“Yes. I’ll get it, too — But not by upsetting Tom or his life. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Good. By the way, I wonder if you’ve found your friend Constable Walsmear yet.”
“Not yet. No. I thought he might be in church.”
“No. No. He never comes inside.”
“He stays outside?”
“He’s on duty. Look. There.”
I turned around and looked out on the square.
The sky was threatening once more. The congregants from St. Anastansias were filtering through the jumble of parked vehicles. Little knots of people had been talking, but now they were hurrying. Almost to a one, the menfolk cranked or started the engines of their motorcars, and then tried to leave the square at the same time — each in his own direction.
The result was as when a spade is plunged into an anthill. Cars were crawling all over each other; driving up on each other’s running boards; scraping fenders; locking bumpers. Drivers sat within a few feet of one another, not speaking but tooting and blaring and aooogahing their horns.
A single blue figure came speeding out the back door of a pub. It was Walsmear. He was dressed in full constable’s fig, with badge, helmet, and blue coat. As I watched, he made his way toward the center of the square, climbing over bonnets, hopping on running boards, and leaping from roof to roof. Reaching his destination, he stiffly shook himself out. Then, he raised his baton in one hand, poised like an orchestra conductor. The drivers looked out of their windows expectantly. Walsmear seemed to be waiting for the downbeat. Finally, the baton came down. Cars began moving, one group to the right, one group to the left. Streams formed, and the logjam loosened. Soon the square was a smoothly flowing river of automobiles. One by one, they sheared off down the radiating streets. In the center of it all, Walsmear conducted vigorously, standing in an empty island of calm amid the traffic. I couldn’t hear him, but I could see his mouth opening wide. Drivers winced as they passed him. Some mothers covered their children’s ears.
Linda was now talking to some other straggling congregants. I bid her a quick adieu and ran out into the square. Dodging the last of the automobiles, I surprised Walsmear, panting up behind him.
“You!” he said, waving his baton at me.
Two drivers who’d been watching the baton immediately collided.
“The bloody idiots!” Walsmear screamed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” said one of the drivers, leaning out of his window to study his steaming radiator. “I thought — ”
“You thought? You thought? Get out of here. Clear this bloody square.”
Walsmear stepped between the two vehicles. With a single mighty hoist of his shoulders, he lifted and separated their two bumpers. The two drivers wasted no time beetling off in opposite directions.
Now Walsmear turned his attention to me. “What are you doing here?” he screamed at the same volume he had been using toward the traffic.
“I can hear you,” I said.
“What do you mean you can hear me?”
“I mean, you don’t have to scream!”
“I’ll scream if I bloody want to!”
Walsmear stopped. His voice echoed off the buildings on the now-empty square. It had caught the attention of the distant group on the church steps. Walsmear grinned toward them. He tipped his hat.
Linda waved.
I waved back.
Rev. Drain looked puzzled.
Walsmear leaned in close. “What are you doing here?” he whispered to me, still grinning.
“I’ve come to talk to you,” I whispered back.
“What about?”
“Why, the pictures, of course.”
“That’s all over with.”
“How can it be all over with?” I hissed. “I can’t just forget about them. It’s far too important.”
“Just to me.”
“Not just to you. To the whole world. To Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Don’t mention his name — ”
“I have to. He’s offered me — er — he’s offered you . . . What I mean to say is . . . he’s offered money. For those photographs. And the negatives.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He thinks they’re very valuable.”
“I don’t need his stinking money.”
“No, you don’t. But I know some people who might.”
“Beginning with you, I suppose.”
“How about someone else?”
“Who?”
“How about two little girls?”
Walsmear was silent.
“Two little girls,” I hissed, “who haven’t got a mother.”
Walsmear’s hand closed around the front of my shirt. It swallowed my necktie and half my collar. “You’re treading on very thin ice, brother,” he whispered.
I twisted free and stepped back. When I recovered my breath, I said, “We don’t have to whisper.”
“What?”
Walsmear looked around. The Rev. and Mrs. Drain and the last remaining congregants had disappeared. We were alone on the square. The wind was beginning to sharpen. Raindrops were making leopard spots on Walsmear’s helmet.
“You’re treading on very thin ice, brother,�
� he repeated, fully aloud this time.
“Stop thinking about yourself,” I scolded, “and try taking someone else into consideration.” (I might have added “for a change.” Funny how this familiar phrase had popped into my head. It was the sort of thing that women always said to me.) “You’re not the only one in the world, you know,” I went on. “Think about those girls. You know what their prospects are.”
“Mind your own business.”
“I will not. You know I’m right.”
“What’s he offering? How much?”
“That’s . . . flexible.”
“How much?” Threateningly.
“A hundred pounds.”
“Bah.”
“Two hundred.”
“Humpf.”
“Four hundred?”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Five hundred.” I gulped. Half. I couldn’t believe it. I had given away half of what I could have got from the deal.
“Go away.”
“Six hundred?”
Stern silence.
“Eight hundred?”
Nothing.
“A thousand?” I squeaked.
“Maybe.”
“All right, a thousand,” I gasped. “But listen. There’s even more. Much more. I’ve got a plan.”
The rain was falling harder now. Walsmear looked up and held out his palm. It soon filled with water. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said.
“When?” I asked. “How can I contact you? I’m staying — ”
“At the Starry Night.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. If you want to talk, you can find me tonight.”
“Where at?”
“The Gypsy camp.”
“Where is that?”
“Outside of town. Three miles down the main road.”
“What time?”
“Anytime after dark.”
Walsmear turned and began walking across the square. The rain was coming down much harder now. I started to follow him. Then I thought better of it. If he wanted to meet tonight in the Gypsy camp, so be it. I ran in the opposite direction, taking cover under the eaves of a row of shops.
Photographing Fairies: A Novel Page 10