by Roger Curtis
‘Sorry. They went when the silver got… er… taken away. But, changing the subject, what are we going to do…’
‘What would your good lord have us do?’
‘You mean…?’
‘Use your nous. Darkness to light. Enlightenment. Open the bugger. Take a look, then we’d know, wouldn’t we?’
‘I can’t… I see where you’re coming from. With what, though?’
‘The church doesn’t have a tool kit?’
‘Good gracious, no! Things spiritual, not temporal.’
Cribb looked at the screws of the coffin. ‘Bloody Philips screws anyway.’ He paused. We could always… um… try another way.’
‘How, Tony?’
There was a tinkling sound from outside the church door. ‘That’s Agatha’s bicycle,’ Lucas said. ‘If she’s here the other flower ladies can’t be far behind. If they should see us… Shouldn’t we just take him back before the bearers return?’
‘And live in doubt for the rest of our lives? Vicar?’
‘Quickly, then. Into the vestry with it.’
They manhandled the coffin into the vestry and pulled the curtains.
‘Look,’ Tony said.’ In my car I’ve got a drill. Only needs a little hole.’
‘I can’t permit…’
‘Body there, put it back. Something else, well…’
Using the vestry’s side door, Crib fetched his electric drill and made a small hole just below the lid of the coffin. Then he inserted the serpentine length of fibre-optic cable attached to a small screen. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘What do you see?’
‘Wonderful things! Cups, plates… candlesticks…’
‘Chalices?’
‘Come again? Yeah, them too.’
‘Let me see.’ Lucas peered at the screen. ‘This is something for the police, I think.’
‘Well, don’t let’s be hasty about that, Vicar.’
‘Those pieces look familiar. Remember the theft at the Minster? Are there gold chalices, by any chance?’
‘Could be. Look for yourself.’
‘My God, there are.’ Lucas was becoming distraught. ‘What are we to do?’
‘For sure we can’t bury them.’
‘Assuredly not.’
‘So here’s how I see it. We take them out. You got space in your chest, Vicar?’
‘Well, yes, as it happens, since…’
‘Then we weight the coffin with something heavy, seal it up, get the bearers in and away we go. Bob’s your uncle.’ Crib suddenly became serious. ‘After all, no-one’s going to enquire into stolen goods, are they? At least not yet. Then you sleep on it, and tomorrow you’ll come up with a solution.’
As they transferred the silver to the chest Tony examined the two golden chalices. Ignorant of such matters he failed to notice that each was of an unusual design and featured a glass bottom.
Their work done, they manhandled the now slightly lighter coffin back into the nave, just in time before the bearers came looking for it.
That night, back in the vicarage, sleep was even harder for Lucas to achieve than deciding on a course of action. He couldn’t get out of his head that the coffin – which he believed was now six feet under the earth – contained half an oak beam from the belfry, a coil of rope and two bags of bat droppings strategically placed to limit possible movement inside when they carried it back. Then there was Aunt Ada’s barely concealed satisfaction as the earth closed over the coffin. And he had never seen Tony Crib looking so… well… innocent as when he tossed in the last handful of earth.
The key from the chest seemed to grow under his pillow. Yet wasn’t there some kind of logic here, some ordering of events that smacked of a controlling hand besides his own, or even that of the felons – whoever they were – who had used the undertakers for their nefarious work, if indeed it had not been the undertakers themselves. When he’d… well… found a home for the plate from his own church, was this not so that repairs to the roof – so necessary to keep out the dripping water that week by week had reduced his congregation – could be effected? No worse, surely, than selling indulgences in medieval times. And the resignations of the two churchwardens just before it happened, so that no-one thought to compile the annual inventory – was that not more than just fortuitous? And now here was his chest replenished, as it were. Ignoring for a moment the one or two clearly identifiable pieces, the contents of the collection looked much the same as they had done before. In short, no-one would be the wiser. Only then, with that resolved, did he think to wonder what might have happened to poor Harvey Crib’s body. Hopefully it had found its way to the crematorium – but that was someone else’s concern.
After breakfast Lucas thought he would take a stroll in the churchyard, if only to stifle a little niggle that all might not be as he remembered it. He headed for the grave, now a raised mound of earth, still waiting to be set off by the headstone that he knew would never come. But he failed to notice that the flowers from yesterday were not quite in their original positions, nor the little spoils of earth trampled by heavy feet around the mound’s edge when yesterday the grass had been raked clean. It was then that he saw Tony watching him from the other side of the graveyard hedge. Lucas walked over to him.
‘A very good morning to you, Anthony. The golden sun shines upon us, I believe.’
‘You could say that, Vicar. And so quiet here this fine morning – after yesterday. One might almost say that silence is golden, if you take my meaning.’
‘I’m not quite with you, Anthony.’
‘Only that discretion sometimes merits reward.’
‘Ah. I see. By golden you mean…’
Tony beamed. ‘Got there in one.’
They walked together to the church door. Lucas took out his keys and turned the lock. All was as it had been; enhanced, even, by the flowers that the good ladies had placed there the previous afternoon. He glanced up at the figure of Christ, half-expecting a turn of the head and a reproving look; but none came. Tony was already in the vestry, contemplating the chest, fidgeting in anticipation. When the great doors swung open, there was the silver plate, exactly as it had been. Tony reached in, removed the two golden chalices and clutched them to his chest. ‘Episode closed?’ Lucas said.
‘Indeed. But has it not occurred to you, Vicar, to wonder where Harvey actually is?’
‘The undertakers must surely have…’
‘Found alternative accommodation? Maybe. But I should tell you, Vicar, that I believe what we buried yesterday was replaced during the night. I watched from the other side of the hedge. Very discreet they were about it.’
‘Palin there?’
‘I believe I saw him, yes. With two others.’
‘So you think he’s under there after all, your uncle Harvey?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then doesn’t that deserve a prayer, Anthony, by the graveside?’
‘A short one then, Vicar. And this evening perhaps a little refreshment at the vicarage?’ He patted his pockets where the two golden chalices were concealed.
‘You’ll be most welcome.’
Lucas felt that a burden had been lifter from his shoulders. He spent the rest of the day in the vicarage garden, tending the roses. In the afternoon, in an unprecedented act of cordiality, he invited Mrs Webley to take tea with him. They mused upon many things: the incompetence of the new churchwardens, the cost of flowers to beautify the church – and then the unexplained thefts from the minster church, at which point he sent her home. As evening approached he fetched two bottles of his finest claret from the extensive cellars under the building and in the dying light opened them to allow the wine to breathe. Tony appeared just as he was setting glasses upon the table on the veranda.
‘I think we can dis
pense with those, don’t you, Vicar?’ Tony said, producing from his pockets the two golden chalices.
Lucas poured wine into each chalice. The light was fading now and he switched on the veranda lamp that, coincidently, was across from where he was sitting. They toasted each other’s good fortune. But as Lucas raised the near-drained chalice to his lips the translucent disc at its bottom caught the light. And there, etched in the glass, was an image of Harvey’s grinning face.
Intercity Trains
Every morning the clatter of the postman’s bicycle as it sped up the drive to Partridge Farm was Gabriel Broadacre’s cue to stand behind the ancient oak door and wait for the letters to fall. But today he was disappointed: there were no new subsidy payments for land left fallow, no fat cheques from the sugar beet factory; instead, just a simple envelope in the palest shade of mauve, addressed to his daughter Claire. Without even having to stoop he was able to make out the florid imprint that read Dreamtime Model Agency and knew what that portended. He picked up the envelope and flapped it noisily against the fingers of his other hand while he watched the ducks on the pond outside and sensed a threat to a way of life that had been sustained for generations. For one brief moment he grasped the envelope roughly in his two hands as if to tear it apart, then relented in the realisation that this might just be the first in a flood which he would be powerless to stem. Hearing a sound in the hall, he turned to see Claire standing behind him, her eyes sparkling within a pale oval face framed by long golden hair. Meekly he handed her the letter. ‘I think it’s what you’ve been waiting for, love,’ he said, and turned away so that she could not see his apprehension.
Claire was not to blame, of course, just as she had not been to blame for the nights on the tiles, the wild parties in her parents’ absence and, earlier in the summer, certain wilful extravagances in Ibiza. They were all the influences of others. And if that boyfriend of hers, Scott Richards, had not sent off those photographs – he shuddered at the memory of seeing certain details of her scantily clad body for the first time – she might still be what he had always intended for her, the future wife of a local beet farmer.
‘My appointment’s on Tuesday,’ she said. ‘At ten in the morning, in Colchester.’
‘Then I suppose I’ll have to take you,’ Gabriel replied. ‘That’s no place for a seventeen-year-old to be on her own.’
‘Daddy, Daddy, that will give us the whole weekend to go out and buy new clothes.’
And that’s why, on the Tuesday morning, the pair found themselves on the ‘up’ platform of the local station waiting for the 7.49 intercity train to Liverpool Street, via Colchester, toeing the yellow line like the hordes of London commuters around them.
Gabriel, in spite of the black suit that he kept for funerals and the spotted blue tie he had stolen from the wardrobe of his son Tom, felt himself as conspicuous as a lighthouse in a storm. Nor was this feeling lessened by Claire’s presence beside him. He had the distinct impression that several of his fellow travellers were marching up and down the platform for the sole purpose of ogling her. He reflected upon the milk churns that had once stood waiting on this same platform and wondered how it was possible that these foreigners could so comprehensively have invaded the county of Norfolk. After the train pulled in they all stood aside to let Claire step into the carriage, but then closed around her before he could follow. A hatred for this modern world into which he had been thrust welled up inside him.
The carriage was not quite full, even after their companions had jostled amongst themselves to be seated. There were only two unoccupied seats together and on one of these lay a large dark blue travelling bag, apparently belonging to a young man of Middle Eastern appearance sitting across the table. Gabriel fixed him with an expressionless stare designed to offer an opportunity to remove the offending article. He took in the dark blue suit – for which the bag seemed a deliberate match – the creamy silk shirt and the spotted tie that outclassed his own. He noted the trimmed and parted black hair, and the neatly sculpted black fur between the mouth and the chin that was a mockery of a beard. There was a laptop computer on the table in front of him and his thoughts seemed remote from the world that Gabriel and his daughter inhabited.
‘My daughter and I would like to sit here, if you please,’ Gabriel said, in a voice that was neither his own, not that of the culture he was trying to imitate.
Suddenly the man seemed to realise he was being addressed. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, without changing his expression, or looking up.
‘Please remove your bag, Sir, so that we can sit down.’
‘Oh, of course, of course. Not a problem.’ The man was with them now, and apologetic.
He began to rise but Gabriel motioned him to remain seated. ‘Let me do it for you,’ he said, grasping the handles of the bag and swinging it up upwards onto the luggage rack. There was a look of acute alarm on the man’s face as he rose to a half-standing position with his mouth open. ‘Please be very…,’ he began and then stopped as Gabriel punched the bag twice with his fist to force it into the limited space.
‘There,’ Gabriel said, ‘that wasn’t too difficult, now was it?’
‘Thank you,’ the man replied, sitting down gingerly. ‘I am grateful.’
The tapping into the laptop resumed with a nonchalance that Gabriel found offensive. Remembering that he had brought a newspaper with him, he removed it from his pocket. With as much noise as he could manage, he unfolded it and placed it on the table beside the laptop, part of which became obscured by the rustling sheets. After a few seconds he judged that enough time had elapsed for the point to be made. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said, flapping the paper over with much gusto before folding it flat on the table.
‘It’s not a problem,’ their companion replied, in a manner that seemed to negate Gabriel’s easily-won advantage.
The train entered a tunnel. When they emerged into the bright sunlight Gabriel became aware that something had changed. The man was no longer concerned with his laptop, but was looking directly at Claire. A small, sly smile moved across his lips. Gabriel looked at his daughter and was horrified to see the same conniving expression replicated on her own fair face. Instinctively he moved his head sideways and downwards to see below the table, but the geometry was wrong. He felt powerless and breathed heavily. Then, to his horror, the man had the impudence to ask Claire where she was going.
‘I’m going to be a model,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ the man replied.
‘What do you do?’ Claire asked.
‘I? I am a consultant, with a special interest in railways. I advise colleagues on the logistics of rail movements – timings, capacities, that sort of thing.’
‘Is that what you’re doing on your laptop?’ Claire asked.
He turned the computer through ninety degrees, but away from Gabriel. ‘This is the route we are on,’ he said. ‘I can tell you where we will be at any moment, almost to the second. And here – you see these rectangles? – these are other trains on this line. Did you know that each of the trains at this time of day can carry up to one thousand people? When you get two trains running side by side – like they will be here – you get the highest density of human bodies on earth.’
‘That’s really interesting,’ Claire said. Gabriel thought that she meant it. She turned to him and smiled. ‘Isn’t it, Dad?’
The man told her that he worked in London and had travelled to Norwich to discuss railway matters with colleagues there. ‘We go there sometimes,’ Claire said, ‘but I’ve only been to London once.’
‘Then we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?’ the man replied.
‘That would be great,’ Claire said dreamily.
Gabriel’s wordless attempts to attract the attention of these young people proved fruitless. He snorted noisily to himself, picked up his p
aper and rustled it. ‘Best get yourself ready,’ he said to Claire, ‘it’s Colchester coming up.’
They had to battle against another influx of commuters. When Gabriel looked back into the carriage he could no longer see the young man and suddenly felt relieved.
The time was still only 8.45, so they found a table in the cafeteria and Gabriel brought coffees and a cake for Claire. She took a sip from the cup, then excused herself and made for the toilet carrying her make-up bag. Gabriel leaned back in his chair to watch Sky News on a screen opposite. It held little interest. The goings-on at Westminster were a world away. He hankered after his radio and Farming Today. Then, on the screen, were images of police on the streets and around stations. A voice-over warned the public to be especially vigilant, it being the anniversary of some atrocity or other. He was glad that these days he never went to the city.
Then, there she was coming back towards him, his bright spruced-up smiling daughter, about to embark on a career that even he had to admit might suit her. There was a lightness in her step and an elegance about her that heralded the onset of womanhood. In his own youth it had been an experience of a most transitory kind, before his young and promising new wife had been caught in the clutches of the beet industry. He saw the first glimmer of light in the release that this turn of the wheel seemed to be offering, a chink in the armour of his determined resistance to change. He thought that when Claire was occupied with her photo-shoot he would see what suits Marks and Spencer might have, perhaps even saunter further down the High Street to look at what else was on offer. Then there was the matter of a present for his wife, which he always brought back when he travelled this far afield. Life was perhaps not as bad as he had thought.
Then his heart sank. There, behind Claire, his dark head half obscured by hers, was the young man from the train. How could that be possible? Perhaps he had been foolish to assume that the man had been destined for the capital. Maybe, after all, there were railway matters of great importance to be considered at Colchester. The couple approached the table. Gabriel saw that the man was clutching his laptop computer.