Fabric of Sin (31 page)

Merrily recalled Mrs Rees. Stolid West Herefordshire countrywoman. Shrewd.

OK, crafty.

‘She read these letters?’

‘As Canon Dobbs was apparently shutting her out – unnecessarily, she felt – I would guess she saw it as justified. How far she understood them is another matter. The parts that stuck in her mind, inevitably, were the references to the late Princess Diana.’

‘By
Dobbs
?’

‘It’s been widely reported, since, that Sir Laurens was not entirely in favour of that marriage. Once describing the poor child as, I recall,
a pinhead
.’

‘Sharing his opinions with Dobbs? Elderly men conspiring against Diana?’

‘So it seemed to Mrs Rees.’

‘A big Diana fan, I’d guess.’

‘Until then, she hadn’t really known who Laurens van der Post was.’

‘When
was
this?’

‘Early nineties, I would guess. Mrs Rees made it her business to find out about him – afterwards, of course. And although she insists she never discussed the correspondence with anyone from that day to this, I think she was rather glad to have finally unloaded it all on … someone.’

Someone who
worked for the cathedral
. And who – humiliatingly excluded, for the first time, from the Bishop’s confidence – would be bitterly identifying with Mrs Rees’s dilemma.

‘Well,’ Merrily said, ‘it’s certainly fascinating from an historical perspective, but—’

‘There’s more. Mrs Rees believes something was entrusted by Sir Laurens to Canon Dobbs – information, perhaps even a package of some kind. Canon Dobbs never actually accused her of reading his mail, but a locksmith arrived one day to change the locks on his study door, and this time Mrs Rees never found the keys.’

‘Any idea what it was?’

‘There was one significant reference in the last letter she saw from Sir Laurens. He … believed he was under surveillance.’

‘Well, that would figure. Anybody that close to the heir to the throne, the security services would be bound to check him out.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’

‘I don’t know what to say about this, Sophie. It’s intriguing, but unlikely to have any bearing on what I’m supposed to be dealing with. It’s all getting too crowded for me. I just want to strip it down to the basics, get the right people in one room, hold a suitable service. I’m just a small-time cleric in the sticks – let’s not get too ambitious.’

‘Oh,’ Sophie said.

‘What?’

‘The Bishop’s here.’

‘With you now?’

‘Standing in my porch. I can see him through the window.’

‘He usually show up this time of night?’

‘No. I’m going to have to go and let him in.’

‘Of course you are.’

Jane said everything was absolutely fine which, if you knew Jane at all, meant that everything was very much not fine.

‘Can you talk? I mean, is Siân there?’

‘She’s not far away.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘Jane, I don’t want you handling
anything
.’

‘Mum, have you seen the Baphomet again? I mean, have you been back to that house?’

‘Don’t change the subject. Do I need to come back to deal with anything?’

‘Of course not. Don’t even think about it.’

‘If you need any advice,’ Merrily said, ‘you go to Lol, OK?’

‘Sure. When he’s here. Listen, if you’re going to, like, cleanse that place, it’s going to be a problem, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

‘The Baphomet. You’ll be taking it on. Some kind of power symbol that maybe goes back to Celtic times? The Baphomet is also a representation of the great god Pan – nature at its most merciless and ferocious. I’d be a bit careful.’

‘You watch too many weird DVDs, Jane.’

‘Yeah, well, even practising Satanists have to relax sometimes,’ Jane said. ‘Goodnight, Mum. Sleep well.’

T
HE SLEEP, AS
Mrs Morningwood had predicted, had been deep, and there were no clinging dreams. The muted chimes of the phone awoke Merrily. She rolled out of bed, the mobile clutched, like some throbbing fledgling, in her hand. Dislodging the bedside table, the lamp wobbling, her watch falling, and then the Bishop saying, very clearly, ‘Merrily, I’m going to ask you to wind this up.’

She sank down to the floor.

‘Give me a moment, Bernie.’

On hands and knees, patting the carpet for her watch. The window was flushed with pink and orange. What the hell time was it?

‘I’m sorry if you’re not yet up and about,’ Bernie Dunmore said, ‘but I wanted to catch you before you went anywhere. After all, you didn’t even tell me you were doing this.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Didn’t tell me that you were going to stay at Garway Hill.’ His voice distant, abnormally formal. ‘In fact, my information—’

‘I couldn’t. You weren’t there.’

‘—My
understanding
of the situation was that you’d found some obvious discrepancies in this pitiful woman’s story which had rendered further inquiries unnecessary. You told me yourself last Saturday that you could prove fabrication.’

‘That’s not … I’m afraid that’s not true, not any more. And as for not knowing I was coming here …’ On her feet now, couldn’t believe this. ‘You
wanted
me to come and stay at Garway. Remember? Full attention?
Need to get you a locum?
’

‘I may have overreacted,’ the Bishop said.

‘That was what I thought at the time, but it’s a bit, you know … it’s a bit late now.’

‘Late?’

‘Two people died?’

She walked barefooted to the window, the valley rising into view then plunging into a mist that was opaque, like set honey. She was wide awake now, and she didn’t understand.

‘Merrily, let’s be sensible about this.’

‘I’m trying—’

‘I do know about the deaths. I also know of no one, apart, it seems, from yourself, who is connecting them, in any way, with these alleged disturbances at Garway.’

‘Bernie—’

‘Furthermore, I do
not
believe that it would be in the best interests either of the Diocese or the deliverance ministry if it were to become known that
we
were making something out of this. Do I really need to remind you why having Deliverance linked with the taking of life, whether it’s suicide or murder or, in this case, God forbid,
both
, is—’

‘No. You don’t.’

‘Good.’

‘And the subtext here is what, Bernie?’

‘Just come home,’ the Bishop said, as though she was abroad. ‘Administer a blessing, if you think it’s necessary, and then come back. There are other issues we need to discuss. Organizational issues.
Re
organization.’

‘Of parishes?’

‘Merrily, I don’t want to get into this over the phone, it’s very early days, and you know how I feel about it. I generally think you’ve been doing a terrific job under less than ideal conditions, and I don’t
want
to see your position prejudiced …’

‘Is this something to do with Siân Callaghan-Clarke? Does Sophie know about it?’

‘It’s nothing to do with Siân, essentially, and I talked to Sophie last night—’

‘
Essentially?
’

‘—And asked her not to telephone you until I’d spoken to you myself. I’ve also, in the meantime, spoken to the Duchy who are a little worried about what might have been unleashed.’

‘
Unleashed?
’

‘You, Merrily. We unleashed
you
. Or rather I did.’

‘I …’ She rubbed her eyes; maybe she wasn’t actually awake. ‘I’m sorry, would you mind spelling this out for me, Bishop? Preferably in big coloured nursery letters?’

‘Traditionally …’ Bernie Dunmore hesitated; his uncertainty was almost audible. ‘Traditionally, the role of the deliverance ministry has been in the way of … of administering balm to what might be seen as an open wound – a psychic wound, if we must. You’ve displayed a tendency to go beyond the brief. Which, in normal circumstances, is not necessarily a bad thing. However …’

‘You’re saying you don’t consider these to be normal circumstances. This case might be tiptoeing around the edges of national-security issues. Which are obviously more important than the little lives of ordinary people.’

‘Merrily, please don’t make this more difficult than it—’

‘Has a detective called Jonathan Long been to talk to you, by any chance?’

‘No. I’ve never heard of a detective called Jonathan Long.’

‘All right.’ Merrily sat down on the bed. ‘I accept that you might not be able to tell me if he
had
been round. But if you could listen for just half a minute? Yes, initially, the evidence did suggest an element of scam. But now … now I feel strongly – and sometimes you have to run with feelings – that there’s something that needs looking into.’

‘Then let someone else look into it.’

‘You really think someone else is going to?’

‘That’s not your problem.’

‘I can’t believe you said that. Look, give me one more day, and I’ll submit a written report which I’ll email to Sophie so it’s on your desk by ten o’clock tomorrow. It will explain exactly why – with the underlying issues here – I feel this is not something we can, in all conscience, ignore.’

‘Merrily, you clearly haven’t been listening.’

‘And – as you’ve accepted that there should be at least a blessing at the Master House – there’s at least one person I need to talk to before I can organize it.’

‘And that would be …?’

‘His name’s Sycharth Gwilym.’

‘Mrs Watkins,’ the Bishop said, ‘the only thing I want to see on Sophie’s desk tomorrow morning is the Reverend Murray’s bill. Tell him we’ll pay him for the full five days.’

‘This is totally—’

‘I most certainly don’t want you to talk to anyone else. Please humour me. Pack your case.’

‘Bishop, be honest. I think we’ve always been honest with one another. Have you been – how can I put this? –
got at
?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Merrily saw her watch glinting underneath the bedside table, bent and retrieved it, peered at the face and was initially relieved. It wasn’t yet ten minutes past seven. She knew the Bishop always rose early these days, but this was …

‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘That was a bit offensive.’

Dead silence.

He’d hung up.

Christ
.

Jane had been down since seven. In the cold kitchen, fully dressed for school. She’d fed Ethel, put the kettle on, was spooning tea into the pot when Siân Callaghan-Clarke appeared in the doorway, wearing a silk dressing gown – sea green, very expensive, almost swish.

‘Good morning.’

Jane took a breath.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure it is.’

She’d avoided Siân last night, claiming that she had essays to do and escaping to the apartment, where she seemed to have lain awake half the night, replaying the drab, whiny voice of Shirley West. Listening to edited highlights of her own history, twisted by an expert.

Siân walked into the kitchen, pulled out a cane chair near the head of the refectory table and sat down, gathering her robe across her knees. This was where Mum would have lit a cigarette. Siân didn’t move. Jane pulled down two mugs.

‘Sorry. I’ve forgotten. Is it one sugar?’

‘It’s no sugar, Jane.’

‘Right.’ Might have guessed. ‘I’ve only just put the kettle on, so it’ll be a minute or two.’

‘Thank you.’

‘OK,’ Jane said. There was no clever way of dealing with this. ‘Here’s the situation. I was in the church last night, while you were talking to that woman. I was in the Bull Chapel. Behind the screen.’

‘I know,’ Siân said.

Jane stared at her. Siân’s sleek metallic hair was brushed back from her face, which had surprisingly few lines, even first thing in the morning, and no expression. A barrister face.

‘I was mildly concerned …’ a barrister tone of voice ‘… when you didn’t get off the school bus at what I’d been advised was the appointed time and I didn’t like to leave the house until you were home. I know you aren’t, strictly speaking, my responsibility, but I did think it wise to wait until the last possible moment. When I eventually saw you on the square, I decided it was safe to leave. And when you walked directly past me and Mrs … I’m sorry, I …’

‘Prosser.’

‘Yes, of course. When you walked directly past us – particularly Mrs Prosser – without saying a word and with your face concealed, I rather anticipated your intentions.’

Shit
.

‘Look,’ Jane said, ‘I just …’

‘You were curious.’

‘I was suspicious.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, I …’ Jane tossed the spoon onto the worktop. ‘Oh, for—’

‘Come and sit down, Jane.’

‘I’m not going to apologize.’

‘What have you to apologize about? You were simply – I would guess – trying to protect your mother.’

Jane said nothing. Siân steepled her fingers.

‘Jane, there are certain issues on which Merrily and I are unlikely ever to agree but, for what it’s worth, I suspect the level of my regard for her somewhat exceeds the level of hers for me.’