by R. N. Morris
‘They want me out, do they?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I was thinking of leaving anyway. Perhaps I shall apply for a commission. In the artillery. I think I would quite enjoy firing big guns at the enemy.’
‘They fire back at you, from what I hear, guv.’
‘It would be no fun if they didn’t.’
‘Don’t let them win, sir. It’s like Inchball said. You’re in the right. If officers like you go, then … well, what hope is there for the decent coppers?’
‘Still, I don’t understand what you expect me to do. Stay in the force but do nothing? People keep telling me there’s a war on.’ Quinn picked up a file from his desk. ‘Take this case … you heard about the riot at the pork butcher’s in Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘The Bosch butcher of Bush?’ Macadam must have sensed Quinn’s astonishment. He had the decency to look abashed. ‘That was how it was reported in the papers, sir.’
‘I don’t see that it is a matter for puns. A man died.’
‘You mean the butcher?’ Inchball bristled defiantly. ‘One less German to worry about, that’s what I say. Besides, geezer had heart attack is what I heard. Weak heart, could have happened any time.’
‘Oh, you don’t think the attack on his premises had anything to do with it? His son was badly hurt in the melee, according to the report.’
‘Badly hurt? I don’t think so. A few scratches. Serves him right, the bloody Bosch.’
‘The deceased gentleman was a naturalized citizen. His wife is English. His son was born in this country. Is English.’
‘Half English.’
‘The law recognizes him as English. And we are servants of the law.’
Quinn opened the file and glanced distractedly down at the contents. ‘Well, the lead investigating officer, one Inspector Leversedge … do you know him?’
‘He’s a protégé of DCI Coddington’s,’ said Macadam.
That was all Quinn needed to hear. ‘Why does that not surprise me? Friend Leversedge has even marked down this case as SFA. Presumably he thinks that the German butcher himself instigated the riot in his own shop? For what purpose is not made clear. Though the motive in these cases is always the same. To spread despondency and panic among the civilian population. It seems this can be used to explain any crime or misdemeanour, from common assault to shoplifting. Or possibly Inspector Leversedge imagines that the pork in the shop was poisoned? And that the looting was deliberately incited in order to spread the contaminated meat amongst as many people as possible? As for the man’s death, no doubt he engineered that too to throw the police off the scent.’
Inchball and Macadam said nothing, sunk in thoughtfulness as they considered Quinn’s words.
‘So tell me, what am I to do with such a case? If I hand it back to him, I will be resented for insisting he does his job properly. If I pass it on to MO5(g), I will be taken for as big a fool as him.’
‘Chuck it in the bin!’ was Inchball’s radical solution. ‘Who gives a damn about a German sausage butcher? They ought to give the looters medals.’
Macadam did not agree. ‘It’s a question of public order. We can’t have people smashing up shops and stealing things, even if it is a German shop. Before you know it, you’ll have anarchy on the streets of London.’
Inchball pulled a face. ‘You can’t blame people though, can you? I mean, there’s a war on. They wanna do their bit, don’t they? Besides, the riot was broken up as soon as the bobbies got to the scene. I tell you something. There ain’t a man here as would bring a single one of those looters in, even if ’e could find ’em. That’s your first problem. I mean, who’s gonna squeal? Pardon the pun.’
Quinn frowned. Which pun needed pardoning was not immediately obvious to him. ‘The case does present difficulties. Especially as the family of the pork butcher refuse to press charges, presumably to escape further harassment.’
‘There you go!’
‘If that’s the case, I can understand why Leversedge wants to kick it into the long grass,’ conceded Macadam.
‘And so my desk is the long grass now, is it?’
The two sergeants’ embarrassed silence was eloquent enough.
Quinn closed the file with a heavy sigh. ‘It’s still our duty to uphold the law. No matter what the nationality of the victim.’
Macadam and Inchball cast anxious glances about, as if Quinn had just given voice to a dangerous heresy and they were afraid that he might have been overheard.
FOURTEEN
Pastor Clement Cardew stood on the top step at the entrance to Shepherd’s Bush Baptist Church looking down at the mass of people assembling on the pavement of Shepherd’s Bush Road. He recognized faces among the multitude. (As God was his witness, that word was no exaggeration today. It was a veritable multitude.) Some were regular churchgoers, others were lapsed members of the congregation whom he had not seen for years. His family were there, of course, his wife Esme, and the twins, to whom he had given the first names in the Bible, Adam and Eve.
But many of those he saw were unknown to him, strangers for now, whom he was glad to welcome to his church, and who, by the warmth of that welcome, and the eloquence of his words, and with God’s blessing, would become his brethren in Christ. Perhaps he had crossed paths with some of them in the past. There were many, adults now, who must have passed through his Sunday school classes as children. He would not remember them, but they would remember him. He took comfort from the sure and certain knowledge that he had instilled in them the Word of God, which, though it may have lain dormant for many years, had now come into glorious life.
Pastor Cardew smiled with satisfaction. It was good to see the errant return to the fold, and indeed to see so many people milling about in readiness to enter the church. But it was not just the numbers of the throng that gratified him. It was the spirit evident among so many of them. He could sense their excitement. They were eager for admittance.
At first Cardew had been astonished by the increase in the size of the congregation at the outbreak of war. But really, it was not so surprising. The war had brought people back to God. It had been good for business, he might almost say. There was no blasphemy in the joke. Humour was the yeast that leavened the conversation of men, and when that conversation was godly, so too was the humour. If the heart was true, the wit would always be pure. Besides, it was his business to bring his flock to salvation. And like every good preacher, he understood the value of a good metaphor. You could compare God to the farmer, perhaps, who produces the food that nourishes His people. Therefore, the minister may be thought of as the grocer who distributes this food to the hungry. Except, of course, the food is salvation. So his business is salvation. There could be no disrespect in a homely metaphor.
People were on the steps now, passing either side of him into the church. He smiled and nodded as he looked into the faces of those approaching. Some he greeted by name. To others, he merely said, ‘You are very welcome.’
A middle-aged woman and a girl who appeared to be her daughter stopped in front of him. ‘Hello, Pastor Cardew. You probably don’t remember Mary, do you?’
Mary pulled at her mother’s sleeve, widening her eyes in embarrassment. ‘Mummy!’
Cardew looked down at the girl. The face was vaguely familiar, allowing for the passage of years. But it was more than just her physical appearance that he recognized, it was the way she had of playing the coquette. Pretending to be too bashful to look him in the eye, her eyelids fluttering over a yearning gaze, lips pursed as she held in check lascivious thoughts. That faint blush on her cheek that suggested the heat of passion. They were all Eve’s daughters, born knowing how to use their wiles to entrap men. Born temptresses.
‘Of course, she was much younger when she used to come here for Sunday school. That was when we used to live on Melrose Gardens. My George was still alive then, of course.’
‘Mary … Abbott, isn’t it?’
‘Ibbott, in point of f
act.’ The mother, Mrs Ibbott, corrected him mildly with an indulgent smile. ‘Silly name. My George’s fault, I’m afraid. He was a good man otherwise. But he would insist on having a name no one could remember.’
‘Ibbott, that’s right. I do remember, of course.’
‘See, I told you he would, Mary!’ Mrs Ibbott beamed. ‘We saw the notice in the paper, and I thought, that’s Pastor Cardew! So I said to Mary, Mary, you remember Pastor Cardew.’ To the pastor she added, confidentially, ‘We’re at a difficult age, you know. All these men in uniform. They do tend to turn her head somewhat. So … when I saw what you were doing here today, I thought, well … I thought, yes!’
Mary Ibbott, he calculated, must be about the same age as his own children. Which would have meant she was in the same Sunday school class as them. The realization provoked a complex emotional reaction, the simplest way to deal with which was to have her out of his sight.
And so he repeated, ‘You’re very welcome.’
Taking their cue, Mrs Ibbott and her daughter moved on.
Pastor Cardew surveyed the milling crowds again, blocking out the image of Mary Ibbott and all the dangerous memories that it provoked, as he tried to resume his earlier train of thought.
Today they were not here for a service, so perhaps the numbers were deceptive. But they were still here – to continue his earlier terminology – on God’s business. And he was confident that any who came for today’s meeting, even if it were secular in nature, could be made to consider the necessity of returning for worship on the morrow.
It was fear that led them back. The world had suddenly become a dangerous and uncertain place. A drastic shift in perspective had brought Death into the foreground; the dim figure on the horizon, drifting in and out of sight, had become an insistent, looming presence, so close its stinking, clammy breath could be felt on the back of the neck. Sons and brothers, husbands and fathers, in answering the call to the colours, had brought this dark stranger into the family. Not only that, there was fear of air raids, and invasion. The prospect of Death was imminent and omnipresent.
In Cardew’s mind there was no difficulty in a belief that was born out of fear rather than love. It did not matter to God what led each one of them to Him. The old phrase for a good man was God-fearing. And so fear always had a part to play. It tempered the believer’s faith, like fire tempered steel, making it harder and more resilient. It showed too the miracle of God’s compassion, for it allowed Him to give comfort to those who were afraid, and through the agency of His Love, to convert their cowering fear into towering strength, the abiding strength that only comes from the knowledge of eternal salvation.
‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’
And so it thereby followed that the war must be God’s Will.
Cardew was put in mind of Romans, 11:33. ‘O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgements, and His ways past finding out!’
There was no truer verse in the Bible. Or, as Cowper had paraphrased it in his hymn: ‘God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform.’
Behind him now, inside the church, his church, preparations were in place for an extraordinary meeting. Men in khaki were putting up a table bearing their pamphlets and placards and other propaganda. And this was with Cardew’s consent. Jesus had driven the money-changers from the temple. What would his reactions have been to the presence of recruiting sergeants? Pastor Cardew was in no doubt that the Son of God would have approved. The Bible exhorted the faithful to fight the good fight. And did a further verse, Zechariah 10:5, not say, ‘and they shall fight, because the LORD is with them, and the riders on horses shall be confounded.’ The riders on horses were without doubt the Prussian military machine. Mutatis mutandis, and all that.
The soldiers had – rather cleverly, Pastor Cardew thought – enlisted the services of a pretty young woman to draw the attention of the young men in the audience, as well as to elicit the sympathies of other females, and in general to instil in all the youth the correct attitude towards the war. She would be dispensing the various items after the speeches.
Pastor Cardew would address the assembly, welcoming them all to his church. Alongside him on the platform would be celebrities from the wider nonconformist movement and public life in general.
Cardew could not deny that it was the presence of such luminaries that had drawn the crowds today. They had even attracted the attention of a representative of the press. Some fellow named Bittlestone from the Clarion had turned up. He had been especially interested in Mrs Ward, naturally, and made much of how the meeting had brought together two ladies who had until recently been on opposing sides of the suffrage question. It was all for the good of the cause, Cardew didn’t doubt, even if the journalist was rather dismissive of his own contribution.
Still, it was not vain pride that encouraged Pastor Cardew to believe that, locally at least, his name counted for something. So too did his position. His endorsement of the event, his willingness to hold it in the church, would have swayed many who might otherwise have shunned it as an exercise in blatant militarism. His presence was essential for the success of the meeting, and gave it its moral core.
For this was to be no ordinary recruitment rally. The notices that had appeared in various newspapers, paid for by contributions from a number of eminent members of the church, spoke of ‘THE DEFENCE OF PURITY’ and a ‘WAR AGAINST IMMORALITY’.
This was the fruit of his own particular genius. He had been party to discussions with certain high-ranking soldiers, who also happened to be avowed Christians. They had expressed to him, in the most compelling terms, their concerns about the calibre of recruits that Kitchener’s drive was attracting. They spoke of criminals who joined the army only to escape the long arm of the law, so that they might be able to continue their thievery elsewhere. Of men who had no compunction in persuading girls to sleep with them – on the usual understanding – and then abandoning them with child, but without fulfilling their promises of marriage. Thus the war would produce a whole generation of illegitimate children, which would only exacerbate the moral decline already in evidence. Then there were the men who resorted to prostitutes. With the consequent problem of venereal disease. Such men thought nothing of coming back on leave and infecting their innocent wives or even sweethearts with the filthy contagion.
On top of all this was the general physical weakness, not to mention intellectual deficiency, of many rank-and-file soldiers.
And so a need was recognized, a most urgent and vital need, to recruit good Christian soldiers. The leaders of all churches and denominations must come together and urge the young men in their congregations to do their duty. There was a difficulty here, he acknowledged, in that Christianity was first and foremost a religion of peace. How many times had he himself preached the lesson of Matthew 5:39? ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’
But there could be no turning of the other cheek with the Kaiser.
It came down to a battle between good and evil. And the battle was real, and it was being waged constantly, all around them.
He saw his own son come up the steps towards him. There was something shifty and underhand about the youth now, exacerbated by his halting gait. As usual, he refused to meet his own father’s gaze.
Ever since that Sunday four years ago when they had found him sprawled in the garden with a shattered ankle, the trust had gone between them. His blasphemous lie had been discovered.
He had called down God’s punishment upon himself.
Cardew averted his face just as Adam approached.
Cardew saw his wife coming up the steps now. She was looking steadily at him, her gaze wary rather than confrontational. Her eyes were moist and pink and puffy. No doubt she had recently been crying. It was never long since she had been crying. Or long until the next cry. It would break her heart to have Adam go off and fight. Perhaps the boy’s ank
le would save him. God truly did work in mysterious ways, for He had punished Adam for his sin with a crippling injury, but that injury might well turn out to be his salvation.
Cardew acknowledged Esme’s gaze with an imperious uplift of the head. This provoked a self-pitying sniffle from her as she walked past him into the church. It was the strongest form of protest that she ever allowed herself.
Pastor Cardew looked for his daughter Eve in the streams of people passing either side of him. But somehow, as she always did these days, she managed to make herself invisible to him.
FIFTEEN
Three steps behind Mother, Felix Simpkins hung back while she stopped to exchange pleasantries with Pastor Cardew. It had not been Felix’s idea to come along today but Mother had been insistent. Purity was one of her manias, having suffered so much because of her one lapse from that impossible standard. Of course, he didn’t see why he should be dragged into it. Every now and then, however, it paid to go along with her lunatic ideas. It would buy him a few days of peace and relative freedom. And the alternative was one of her raging tantrums.
Besides, when he had seen Pastor Cardew’s name on the advertisement, Felix had experienced a kindling of interest of his own. He remembered Pastor Cardew from his childhood, when Mother had gone through a brief but intense religious phase. The Cardews had brought their two children to Mother for piano lessons and she had been quite taken by the charismatic pastor. Though not a Baptist herself, she was piqued enough to attend a service and had become, for a time, a regular celebrant, with Felix in tow of course. She had even played the organ for the occasional service, when the usual organist was indisposed.
With her characteristic maternal authoritarianism, she had, without consulting him, enrolled Felix in the pastor’s Sunday school, which he had been forced to continue attending even after her own interest had waned.
Strangely, this loss of interest seemed to come as soon as Mother had been baptized. The idea of the ceremony had exercised a fascination over her. He remembered that she had talked of little else at the time. The drama of it appealed to her. Her imagination was gripped by the commitment of whole-body immersion. She was even a little afraid of it, and had asked Pastor Cardew if anyone had ever drowned being baptized. But the pastor had reassured her that every precaution was taken.
