The fight between the Christian god and the pagan ones had taken place two thousand years ago. The pagan had lost, or anyway gone underground, throughout Europe and in Britain. Surely warfare was not going to be joined again? Why was that bronze figure so threatening? It was alien, of course, like a visitor from an antique land. Its solid presence had authority and the strangeness of its head facing two ways intrigued and challenged. She could understand that the commonplace clergy might feel uneasy. A god of beginnings was also a god of returns. She felt irrationally that it had come back to settle some ancient score.
There was a crash at the far end of the room near the dean followed by a babble of voices and a shriek. One of the King’s school waiters could be seen blushing in a litter of broken glass. One of the politicians’ wives was brushing claret from her dress and fending off the fuss of others.
‘There,’ said Mrs Riddable in triumph, ‘I told you so. The evil works.’
‘Pandemonium,’ exclaimed the concave priest with relish.
The hubbub died down. The dean led the way into the supper room. The smell of roast pigeon invited. Theodora found herself involved in the suffragan’s party. As they processed toward the dining room, Bishop Clement turned his charming smile upon her and drew her aside, out of hearing of the rest of the crowd.
‘I very much admired your article in this quarter’s CHR on Thomas Henry Newcome,’ he began. ‘It was a fine piece of detection to recover the material for the missing years 1874 – 6.’
Theodora was surprised and (what author is not?) gratified by this praise of her first modest venture into academic publishing. ‘I enjoyed doing it. And of course there is an archive at St Sylvester’s House which is next door to the parish church where I’m currently curate.’
‘Ah yes.’ The bishop was courteous but clearly biding his time to pursue his own interests. ‘I tend to forget Newcome founded two houses, a London one as well as the Yorkshire one. I’ve heard remarkably good things of the work done there.’
Theodora was immensely pleased. The tractarian priest, the Reverend Thomas Henry Newcome had founded his order, the Society of St Sylvester, in the late nineteenth century. It had followed a Catholic rule and trained priests for urban parishes. Latterly the London house had undergone something of a resurgence; it was known for its treatment of mental illness. She had spent some late nights going through the archive material as a way of keeping alive interests which the pastoral work of the parish might otherwise have driven away. She had read the letters, sermons, diaries and monographs which Newcome had left behind and become increasingly drawn to a character at once complex and naive, self-deluding and principled. She’d thought of doing a life of him and approached Ivan Markewicz, a friend from Oxford days and now editor of Church History Review, to test the water. He’d advised trying an article first and been flatteringly pleased with the result.
‘You obviously know your way about the world of journalism,’ said the bishop firmly recalling her to his own wishes.
Theodora was amused that he classified CHR as lightweight, journalism. It wasn’t in the front rank of international scholarship, but it was respectable enough to be found in most university libraries.‘I wouldn’t say that. I did my bit at Oxford and took my turn in editing cathedral newsletters in Nairobi. But it wouldn’t get me a job on the Independent.’ She wondered where on earth the bishop was heading.
The bishop revealed his hand. ‘We’ve been having rather a rough ride at present with our local press.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’ Theodora thought it as well not to smile.
‘Ah, you’ve read the Bow Examiner on the dean’s installation perhaps?’
Theodora nodded. ‘Such hostility to the church in a small community is unusual surely?’
The bishop had obviously anticipated that reaction. He outlined the cause of the hostility and the feeling about the redevelopment of the Hollow. ‘Tempers often run high in money matters,’ he said forgivingly and, as Theodora knew, from the safety of a private income. ‘There’s no doubt that the cathedral’s finances would benefit from a sale of the land down at the Hollow. Nor can we continue our ministry in this world without the wherewithal. Of course the Examiner has a right to put its point but this vilification of the cathedral’s rituals is no proper way to pursue the matter.’ He swung round to face Theodora. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
Theodora met his eye with her own level gaze. She weighed the fact that she did not agree with him against the fact that he was a bishop and she in deacon’s orders. ‘The author of “A View from a Pew” seemed to feel that the cathedral’s ministry had fallen below an acceptable standard in fairly straightforward ways,’ she said.‘It failed, in his opinion, to generate an atmosphere of prayer and seemed to celebrate the worldly and political aspects of the appointment.’
She’d compromised. She’d said what she thought but in a tone so gentle that she might have been agreeing with him. It was a measure of his quality that he listened to both words and tone. He paused. Then he replied almost curtly. ‘If the author has serious points to make he should have signed it with his own name.’
Theodora was so much in agreement with this that she was caught off guard by his next move.
‘I think it would help both the author himself as well as us to know who it is. I wondered if you would feel able to exercise your talent for detection in doing that.’ The bishop had reached his point.
‘Me?’ Theodora was astonished.
‘With your journalistic experience,’ the charming smile had returned. ‘For the good of the church and of course the writer,’ he concluded.
This was preposterous. This gentle, courteous man wanted to prevent free speech and cared more about the appearance of the church in the world than its spiritual reality.
‘You will help us, will you not, Miss Braithwaite?’
They are none of them above image-making, Theodora thought with sudden disgust. Then she remembered his kindness in taking her under his wing and introducing her to the dean. She intuited, too, his real gentleness in human relationships. It was just possible that he saw a pastoral need to minister to anyone who could write as bitterly as the author of ‘A View from a Pew’. ‘Why not ask the editor who writes these pieces?’ It was a forlorn hope she knew.
‘That has of course been tried. He won’t divulge his source. What we need is a discreet piece of private inquiry. For the church.’
He knew he had got her. She had eight generations of Anglican clerical ancestors who had all, more or less, done what their bishops had required of them. ‘I suppose I could ask around a bit.’ She knew she sounded ungracious.
The bishop absolved her of any lack of grace. He shone the light of his smile upon her. ‘Splendid. I knew I could rely on you.Your father was such a dear man. Supper,’ he said hungrily and led the way forward.
No further untoward incident occurred. At a quarter before midnight the party broke up. Many clergy would have early ashes services at which to officiate on the morrow, Ash Wednesday. The diocesan bishop and his wife had to catch an early plane to America. Theodora retrieved her coat from the dean’s study and joined the guests trooping out into the bitter March night. In the middle of the close could be seen the mound of earth marking the archaeological activities of the earlier part of the day. Someone had draped the Janus in black polythene which the gusty wind had partially removed. It flapped suddenly and loudly as though indecorously, importunately demanding their attention. The cathedral clock chimed midnight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dust and Ashes
The dean’s body was found the following morning, stretched out in front of the Janus. The throat had been cut from ear to ear. Blood had soaked into the damp grass on that side of the statue which faced towards the cathedral. Dennis Noble had found him when he’d crossed the close to ring the bell for the early ashes service.
Dennis had raised the alarm at about seven-thirty a.m. By eight-thirty Inspector Spruce of the Norfo
lk CID, on loan to the Bow Constabulary for a six-month secondment, had been summoned from his fenland fastness. As he put the telephone down in the farmhouse where he lodged, his spirits leaped up. He had never known such boredom as his four months in Bow had afforded him up to now. As he reached for his Barbour, Spruce had to check himself saying, ‘What fun’. Of course murder wasn’t fun. It meant a gaping hole in the proper order of things. It meant, usually, someone deranged with fear and anger and getting rid of those unendurable passions in the most complete and primitive way possible. But, God, he’d been bored and now he wasn’t. Hume, was it, who said he could wish the whole universe destroyed provided only that the pain in his little finger was healed.
The cathedral was coping. His sergeant had met him at the Archgate with the words, ‘They wouldn’t cancel their service but I have got them to close the place off now. And I’ve got them to give us a room next door to their offices. They weren’t for that, at first. Needed a bit of persuading. Seemed to think once the body was removed we could operate from the station.’
Spruce nodded. He’d worked amongst the clergy once before. There’d been that priest chap had his neck broken out at St Benet Oldfield last summer. The clergy had been none too helpful on that occasion. He knew the pitfalls.
‘Still,’ his sergeant pressed on, ‘they saw my point when I said we might have to install ourselves in the Deanery.’
Spruce glanced round the close. It was full of strong men with new satchels of expensive camera equipment and very young looking uniformed policemen. Spruce could imagine what a repopulation of the close with these alien bodies would mean to the clergy: a closing of the ranks to resist the invader, no doubt.
‘That’ll be the Deanery?’ he hazarded.
‘Right. And over there …’
‘Yes,’ said Spruce. ‘I see.’
He strode over to the centre of the green sward towards the gash of piled earth and rubble. The grass was spongy from thawed out frost. Spruce ducked under the fluttering white tapes which marked out the dean’s resting place. The Janus reared above swathed in polythene and sacking which had been taped over his shoulders like some primitive toga. The dean guarded by the Janus, Spruce reflected.
He drew back the grey blanket covering the body. The mortal remains of Vincent Stream were dressed in clerical evening dress. A black belted gabardene had been flung round the shoulders. The wiry grey hair was splattered with mud and rain. His arms were crossed over his breast in a parody of Christian burial. He looked younger than his probable fifty-odd years. His small assertive face, purged of tension and ambition, had relaxed so that his expression was vulnerable, almost boyish.
Spruce looked down at the corpse’s crossed arms and shivered. ‘Was he like this when he was found? I mean nobody crossed his arms for him?’
‘Nobody’s tampered with him. I’m sure. That’s how he was.’
‘He dressed to come out then.’
‘Sir?’
Spruce indicated the stout brown leather walking brogues, heavily caked with mud, which did not match the clerical evening dress. ‘What happened?’
‘We only know the dean had a party last night at the Deanery to celebrate his promotion. It was Shrove Tuesday. Last day before Lent.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Spruce said. ‘I know the Church’s year. So?’
‘Well there were about thirty guests. Came about eight and left mostly before midnight.’
‘Who?’
‘Top town, top clergy. Very select.’
‘Got a list?’
The sergeant shook the computerized pages free from his mackintosh pocket.
‘Who saw him last?’
‘Guests? Canon Riddable, the precentor – he lives over there – may have been the last to leave. Or it might be the head verger, dean’s verger he’s properly called, a man named …’ he consulted his list, ‘Knight. Tristram Knight.’
‘What was he doing at the party?’
‘He wasn’t. He was serving. Supervising the food and that.’
‘Doctor’s report?’
‘Doctor Gibbon could only spare a moment, he’s got a suicide out at Fenny Drain. At the moment he’s saying between half twelve and half one last night. Death due to wound in throat. Forensic’ll tell us more when he gets him down the morgue.’
Spruce bent and looked again at the body. Gingerly he lifted the left wrist. On it was a plain gold watch on a leather strap. The watchglass had been smashed, caught perhaps on a stone as the dean fell. The hands said ten past one. ‘Needn’t wait for forensic on that one, anyway.’
Spruce glanced at his sergeant. He was a tall thin young man with long black sideburns, a pallid, unhealthy-looking skin and large dark circles under his eyes. His forehead, which was wider than his jaw, shone. His adam’s apple bulged. He reminded Spruce of cartoons of Victorian funeral mutes in early numbers of Punch. He’d worked with him now for four months and trusted him implicitly for dogged, thorough information gathering of the kind that brighter, pushier young policemen sometimes despised.
‘How about weapon?’
‘Nothing so far. The wound’s very clean; we might be looking for something like an old-fashioned cut-throat razor or a tool, Stanley knife, something of that sort.’
‘Place, then? He wasn’t killed here, was he.’ It was a statement. Spruce looked round measuring the distance of the body from the Deanery, cathedral and offices. It was, like the Janus, equidistant. Spruce indicated the brown brogues on the feet of the corpse. ‘The eye holes, the laces are bunged up with mud. He was dragged across soggy earth by the look of it. The question is, which direction was he being dragged from?’
Sergeant Mules pointed towards the cathedral. ‘If that’s right, it would explain that.’ He gestured in the direction of the lawn edge outside the south door of the cathedral. Spruce saw what he meant at once. The turf, which had received the attention of gardeners for several centuries, was almost nine inches deep where it met the gravel. At that point the earth had been crumpled and the smart, sharp edge of the law was torn away.
‘Time one ten a.m. No weapon. Place, probably outside south door of cathedral,’ Spruce summarised. ‘What about motive?’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘It seems inconceivable that a man of the cloth should be done in like this.’
Spruce noticed the old-fashioned phrase, ‘man of the cloth’. He knew, however, rather more, he felt, than his sergeant, about the vagaries of the clergy. Of course, it could be some passing maniac. But somehow Spruce rather doubted that. The type of wound and above all the placing, almost the arranging of the body deliberately in front of the Janus, suggested something more complex. He looked up at the bronze figure on its plinth of scaffold board. The dark beard was rimed with white frost. The handsome face stared stolidly over his own head at the cathedral.
You must have seen it all, Spruce found himself thinking. ‘Come on,’ he said with unwonted curtness to the sergeant.‘Let’s see what the cathedral yields.’
Nick Squires pushed the plate across the vestry table towards Dennis Noble.
‘You need sustenance,’ he said with solicitude.
Dennis turned his head away from the freshly made bacon sandwich.
‘I can’t fancy it,’ he said. ‘It’s left me queasy. All those questions the police
asked.’
Nick looked at him speculatively. ‘What about?’
‘About what not,’ said Dennis with a sudden turn of angry energy. ‘I
didn’t harm the poor gentleman. I kept telling them I only found him. But
when, where, why, how, who, they kept on something rotten.’ He sounded
near to tears but whether because of the dean’s demise or the harassment
of the police questioners, Nick could not tell.
‘Did they want to know …?’ he began.
‘I’d better go and sort them chairs,’ Dennis said firmly. Vergers spend
much time in moving large numbers of chairs
about Nick reflected. ‘And
you ought to do something about that sound system. It’s got out of hand.’
He made it sound like a delinquent child. Morosely he turned to go. ‘Poor Dennis,’ murmured Nick as he reached for the sandwich before
following his colleague.
Theodora raised her eyes from the service sheet and gazed towards the high altar. The frontal was purple for the season of Lent. Strong silvery light entered through the clerestory windows in the choir and glanced off the processional cross propped on the north side of the altar. The ashes service had gone ahead in spite of the dean lying dead in the close. She had watched the head verger, the dean’s verger, conduct the suffragan bishop, who was evidently a canon of the cathedral, to his stall. Canon Riddable, the precentor and canon in residence, she remembered from her scanning of the notice in the office waiting room, took the service. His hand trembled and his voice came and went as though it was a wireless with fading batteries. The words of the liturgy echoed in her mind. ‘Remember, O man, that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return.’
Now the small congregation had gone drawing their coats about them as though to protect themselves from some contagion. The cathedral was empty and silent. Canon Millhaven’s words of yesterday came back to her. ‘It should be quite different from anything else round it. A place where heaven and earth meet. Numinous.’ Well, so it was, Theodora thought, in spite of the best efforts of Victorian chapters and philistine deans. In a way the building well represented the city in which it was placed. Bow St Aelfric was plastic and composite to its fingertips. Car parks, roundabouts, leisure centres and shopping malls had replaced all but a few of the earlier buildings, obliterating for the most part the more measured and wholesome life of previous centuries. Just every now and again the unwary tourist or the indigenous inhabitant might bark his shins on the real, that stratum of earth and water which underlay the contemporary clutter. At night or in fog or snow, the older realities asserted themselves. They signalled their presence by a change in temperature, a smell or a quality of silence as now and in this place.
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