The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  “You should ask Green about his wages,” added Etherbridge. “Green dealt with that sort of thing.”

  “The gardener?”

  “He lived in the garden. He fell under the providence of the gardener.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Jacobs asked Lady Palmer.

  “Of course I would. How couldn’t I? He is the most revolting piece of humanity you could ever dread to meet.”

  “Lady Palmer, we would like you to go down to the holding cells and identify the suspect.”

  “You want me to do what? Absolutely not!”

  “I assure you, you shall be perfectly safe. The suspect is behind bars and Detective Sergeant Billings shall be with you.”

  “May I remind you, Inspector Jacobs, who is the victim here and who is the criminal.”

  “We have no criminal yet, Lady Palmer. Not until he is positively identified by you and found guilty by the courts.”

  Again Lady Palmer gasped with indignation at being spoken to in such an impertinent manner. Billings was quick to defuse the situation by offering his arm to her and aiding her off her chair. “Don’t worry, Lady Palmer,” he said. “You shall be in safe hands.”

  *

  Billings led his two visitors down the dark, hollow cellar. Jack and PC Dwight were standing at the cellar’s entrance, rigid against the wall like the Queen’s guards, looking on with amusement as Lady Palmer and Etherbridge followed Billings timidly down the steps.

  “Why are you leading me into these dungeons, Sergeant Billings!” cried Lady Palmer. Her voice was trembling and her eyes were darting around anxiously from wall to wall.

  “This is where we have our cells, Lady Palmer.”

  “It’s dark in here! Arthur! Where are you, Arthur!”

  “I’m here, mother. Hold my hand.” Etherbridge grabbed his mother in law’s hand and gazed around him with fascination – and a fair degree of trepidation – at the empty iron bar cells and the moss-covered stone walls which were streaking with rain water.

  “Where are you taking us, Sergeant?” Lady Palmer continued. “I do not like it here!”

  “It’s just at the end of the hall.”

  “I can’t breathe! Arthur, I can’t breathe! There’s no air!”

  “Please, Lady Palmer. It’s that cell over there.” Billings pointed to the last cell, where Brendan was sitting motionlessly on the cold brick floor, his back towards his visitors, his head hanging low.

  “There’s somebody in there!” cried Lady Palmer and she suddenly stopped in her tracks, causing Etherbridge to bump into her.

  “That’s the man we’re asking you to identify.”

  “No! I will not do it! I will not take one more step into the dungeon! Get me out of here!”

  “Please, Lady Palmer. Just have one look at that man so you can tell us...”

  “No! I want to get out! I want to get out now! Arthur! Get me out of here! Arthur!”

  Lady Palmer turned around, pushed past Etherbridge, stormed out of the cellar and marched back upstairs to bombard Jacobs with rants and complaints. Never in her life had she been treated with such contempt. How dare the police subject her to such horrors and indignity. She was the victim in all this, didn’t he know. She came to the police expecting kindness and compassion and instead she was left in the hands of a lowly upstart (meaning Billings) who took her down to the dungeons to face the very man who murdered her husband and tormented her life. It was tactless and cruel and a deliberate attempt to humiliate her. She had a good mind to write to the Viscount Llandaff, who was a personal acquaintance of hers, and have both Billings and Jacobs sacked.

  Etherbridge, who had followed her up the stairs and had quietly been listening to her wails of indignation with a barely concealed smirk, reassured Jacobs shortly before they stepped into their cab that Lady Palmer would soon calm down. Her sudden outbursts, for which she was well known, were always short lived and the whole incident would be forgotten about by the time they got back home.

  Jacobs, however, was shaken and would not take any more chances. Lady Palmer was not to be bothered by the police again. The case was to be wrapped up as quickly as possible. After all, Lochrane’s guilt was undisputed. All that was needed was for someone to identify him as being the Wild Man and that should prove sufficient for him to be hanged. He would arrange for a photographer to take his picture that very afternoon and Clarkson and Billings were to travel to Sutton House the following morning with the photograph, speak to the gardener and get this whole ugly affair over and done with.

  4. Extracts from Sebastian Forrester's diary

  Tuesday November 4th, 1879

  What follows is an illustration of why I am convinced that I can not learn anything useful in this wretched place!

  Mr Crickshaw posed an interesting question today: “A poor man, wretched with ill health, lame and defeated, widowed, homeless and struggling to feed his children, asks you why God continues to make him suffer and never ceases to torment him. How would you reply?”

  He wanted us to contemplate this question and then to withdraw into the library and scour the scriptures for an answer (he said ‘scriptures’, not ‘bible’). We were given a full hour to research our answers. We were then summoned back into the lecture room and, one by one, we got up and shared our findings with the class. Most of the students turned to the book of Job and uttered all sorts of nonsense about ‘testing faith’ and ‘unwavering obedience’, but not I. When it came to my turn, I stood up, held my little book proudly in my hands (the one I’d found in the library, shoved behind the Greek Grammar Volumes) and read out the following:

  “They said of Amma Sarah that for thirteen years she was fiercely attacked by the demon of lust. She never prayed that the battle should leave her, but she used to say only: ‘Lord, give me strength’.”

  Crickshaw fell silent for a few moments and stared at me confused, while the other students frantically paged through their bibles to find the corresponding passage. “It’s all about the struggle,” I explained. “She doesn’t ask for it to end. She just asks for strength to confront it.”

  Crickshaw was unimpressed and asked me what book I was holding.

  “Sayings of the Desert Fathers,” I replied.

  He asked me where I had found it.

  I told him in the library.

  “Impossible!” he said. “Wycliffe Hall does not hold copies of that book.”

  I told him that Wycliffe Hall must at least hold one copy of that book, because I did find it in the library (I was not trying to be impertinent, but my answer made some of the other students chuckle, which further infuriated Crickshaw).

  “You were meant to find the answers in the bible,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked (again, I was not trying to be impertinent, but the other students thought I was deliberately trying to be obtuse and laughed again).

  Crickshaw went red with indignation and exclaimed that at Wycliffe Hall we were trained to look at facts! Attested historical and theological facts!

  “But this is a fact”, I replied. “Amma Sarah was a fifth century nun who dwelt in a cell by the Nile for sixty years and battled all manners of temptations and desires.”

  Crickshaw then argued that that book was not part of the official Christian canon.

  “Does it have to be?” I asked him

  “Yes, Mr Forrester, it absolutely has to be!” he replied, finally losing his temper. And when I asked him why, he held the bible in the air and slammed his palm against it. “Because this is our manual!” he said. “This is our law! This and nothing else! ‘Sola Scriptura’, Mr Forrester! You’ll have heard that phrase before, no doubt? Only these scriptures contain all the knowledge necessary for salvation and holiness. Wycliffe Hall was established to combat the professional ignorance of the majority of well-meaning but uneducated missionaries working abroad and it is our duty to promote doctrinal truth and vital godliness to any future evangelists.” He told me I was to refrai
n from studying anything else while I stayed at Wycliffe Hall.

  I simply nodded and sat back down. But secretly I slipped the little book into my coat pocket and snuggled it back to my room. I’ll just read it in my spare time instead.

  Saturday December 13th, 1879

  I found a wonderful wooden Spanish crucifix at a small curiosity shop in St Aldate’s today. Nineteen inches tall and wholly impressive, it depicts Christ only a few breaths away from his release, the nails tearing at the skin of his hands; his protruding ribs streaked with whipping scars; his face wrinkled in agony; the blood from his forehead trickling down into his eyes, stinging them and making them water; the red swollen lash marks on his curved back. It is beautiful. It moved me profoundly when I found it standing on the ground, shoved behind a mahogany umbrella stand, covered in cobwebs, lost and discarded. I bought it then and there for seven and six and rushed back to my room immediately to hang it on the wall.

  Monday December 15th, 1879

  Crickshaw called me into his office after lecture today and asked me to remove the crucifix from my wall.

  He said that it was scaring the maid and she was refusing to enter the room. I told him that, in that case, I would clean the room myself, and furthermore, that I did not want other people to enter it without my permission.

  Crickshaw paused for a short while and stared at me with that wrinkled old frown. “It is not your room, Mr Forrester,” he said sternly. “It is the college’s room. And why should you not want anyone to enter it? There are no secrets in this house.”

  I told him that if the sight of Christ’s suffering was so frightening to that maid, then she had no business working at Wycliffe Hall.

  Crickshaw stared back at me with raised eyebrows. “You are not going to get very far in Madagascar with that attitude,” he said. Then he went on to question why I bought that crucifix in the first place. Weren’t Quakers normally opposed to any form of idolatry?

  I told him we had no rules on the matter.

  “Well, Quakers might not have any rules, Mr Forrester, but Wycliffe Hall does!” he replied. Then he gave me his usual lecture about Wycliffe Hall being primarily an Anglican institution and that an exception had been made by accepting me, a Quaker, due to my father’s financial contributions to the school. “But we must draw the line at allowing Catholic iconography from decorating these walls,” he concluded. “That crucifix must go!”

  I walked up to the wall quietly and obediently took down the crucifix. I might not agree with the teachings of this place, but I do not want to be expelled. Not yet. Not until I’m ready.

  Crickshaw’s expression softened after that. “Perhaps if you explain it to her,” he said. He was referring to Janie, the maid who had taken objection to the crucifix. “Rather than turning your back on her because she takes offence to your icon, you should show her what Christ’s suffering means to you. Show her how Christ’s sacrifice has redeemed us. Every emotion is a door for God to enter through, Mr Forrester, and it is your job to facilitate that entrance. We must remain forever alert to this and we must grab every opportunity of bringing the Evangelium to the people.”

  Sunday March 11th, 1880

  Last night was cold and clear and if the clouds hadn’t started rolling in this morning, our picnic would’ve been a great success. But as it was, the sky did darken and, although it did stay dry, the frost on the grass hadn’t been given the chance to evaporate. The ground remained moist all day and Janie refused to sit down, even though I’d brought a blanket. Instead she kept walking up and down the tow path or throwing stones into the river or just generally loitering about being a pest.

  “I thought today were meant to be our day,” she kept complaining. “You ain’t said a word to me all day.”

  I argued that we had conversed thoroughly for the whole hour it took us to get to the river, but she said she didn’t want to hear about all that ‘morbid Jesus stuff’. She wanted to hear me talk sweet to her.

  “Well, you should have said something,” I said, but she looked at me offended and told me she couldn’t get a word in. I told her that I wanted to read my book now, so could she please be quiet for an hour or so and allow me to concentrate?

  “And what I am meant to do during that time?” she asked.

  I suggested she go for a walk.

  “But I don’t want to go for a walk. I want to fool around with you.”

  I said we could fool around later.

  “But I want to fool around with you now. I want to fool around all day. We only get one day in the week together. Why can’t we fool around all day?”

  I told her that I wanted to read my book now and begged her once again to go and leave me alone.

  “I thought you weren’t meant to study on the Sabbath,” she said.

  I told her I was not studying but at that point she lunged herself at me and tried to wrestle the book out of my hands. I simply pushed her off me, turned my back towards her and continued reading. She puller her knees up to her breast and remained sitting next to me on the wet ground for a while, sulking. “Your arse is getting wet!” she said angrily. (I adore the way she says ‘arse’, with that country accent of hers. Pronouncing the ‘r’ so clearly.)

  “My arse is not getting wet,” I said, mimicking her accent.

  “It is, look!” And then she started sliding her hand under my bottom. “You’re all wet down there.” She put her other hand on my crotch and started feeling around. “You’re gonna need me to dry you up, so you are!”

  I grabbed her hands from underneath me and cast them aside. “Not now, Janie!” I said, losing my temper. “We’ll fool around later, but right now I have to read!”

  “But you read all week!” She jumped up to her feet and started brushing down her dress. “You’ve got to give your eyes a rest, Sebastian, or you’ll go blind.”

  I tried explaining to her that I read different books during the week. Books I didn’t care about. Books that didn’t teach me anything. ‘Sayings’ was the only book that I could learn something from and all I was asking from her was to give me one hour in the week, just one hour, where I could sit quietly alone and enlighten myself. I begged her gently to leave me alone for an hour and go to those fields behind us to see if she could find a dry shed somewhere. I promised her we’d fool around then.

  She marched off angrily. “You’re starting to bore me, you know that, Sebastian Forrester?” she said. “If you don’t start showing me a bit of attention, I’m going to start looking for a different student to fool around with!”

  After she had gone, I remained sitting on the cold ground for well over an hour. The cold air had seeped right through my clothes and I was shivering uncontrollably. My hands were red and sore and my fingers were barely able to turn the pages (and my arse was wet, despite the blanket). And yet I wish I could have remained sitting there all day, quiet and upright, moving only to blink or turn the page, and battle the pain and discomforts my body was subjected to with the aid of my book. Oh, how I would have liked to have been amongst them, in the deserts of Egypt, removed from the world, fighting all the temptations and numbing distractions of this world with abstinence, prayer and pain. These men and women had the strength to turn their backs on the world and all its pressures and dedicate themselves selfishly to disciplining their souls and their bodies so that they could take on the sins of the world and redeem us all through their sweat, blood and tears. But I knew Janie was waiting for me, so I got up, put my book back into my coat pocket, folded the blanket around my arm and headed for the fields to look for her.

  I found her at the abandoned shed near Iffley lock, squatting on the ground, leaning against the wall.

  “Hurry up with that blanket,” she called. “I ain’t lying down on the cold floor.”

  I threw the blanket at her, took the leather straps from my trouser pocket and proceeded to remove my coat, jacket and shirt. Her face turned sour as she saw me pull the leather belt from my overcoat. “Oh, we’re not
doing that again, are we?” she complained.

  I told her to use the buckle side this time, as I threw the belt at her. Stripped from the waist up, I entered the shed and started tying my hands to the cross beam. I heard Janie shuffle in reluctantly behind me. “Can’t we just lie on the floor and fool around?” she said.

  “Afterwards,” I told her.

  “But I don’t want to, Seb. You’ve still got scars from last time.”

  “Come on, Just fifty lashes.”

  “No!”

  “Twenty-five, then.”

  “No!”

  “Twenty.”

  “None!”

  “Come on, Janie. We’ll fool around afterwards.”

  “But why?”

  “I told you why.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “No pleasure without pain, Janie. Now, come on.”

  Janie gave me twenty lashes. They weren’t very hard, but the belt buckle broke my skin after the fifth one and each consecutive lash landed on the open wound, hitting the raw nerve so that I felt the pain right down to my toes. I am unable to recline in my bed now as I write this. The Desert Fathers would use these tortures to beat the demons of lust out of them, but with me they had the opposite effect. The pain just made me randier. Janie and I spent another hour in that shed rolling and frolicking around on the ground so that now the blood of my back has stained her underclothes and she shall have to wash them secretly or burn them, lest her mother should find out. I did it all wrong. There should have been no reward. Pain without pleasure. I must remember that. ‘Live as though crucified; in struggle, in lowliness of spirit, in good will and spiritual abstinence, in fasting, in penitence, in weeping.’