‘Okay. I will. Thanks.’ Les gave the woman a brief smile then turned and trotted down the stairs.
A gust of wind hit the trees and a shower of wet leaves fell around Les as he opened the car door. He got inside and stared back at what was once the Church of the Blessed Madonna. Well wouldn’t that root you, he cursed to himself. I’ve been kneecapped right from the word go. I should have bloody known. Les started the engine, the radio came on and Harry Manx began moaning ‘Lay Down My Worries’. Ohh get fucked, you whingeing hillbilly prick, Les cursed again. He reversed round and headed back into town.
Les found the church easily enough, did a U-turn and pulled up in front under a pair of towering eucalypts. It was set in neat surroundings edged with trees, and made from white weatherboard like the first building, except the vestry stood at the end and it was built side-on to the road. Stained-glass windows ran along the side, under a grey roof with a cross on top, and a sign out front said CHURCH OF THE HOLY BLOOD, SURF COAST PARISH, VICAR: ENOCH RATHBONE. There was a driveway on the left and near the driveway a man in yellow plastic coveralls, glasses and a dirty white cap was working a whipper snipper. Les got out of the car and walked over to him.
‘Excuse me,’ said Les.
The man turned down the whipper snipper and looked at Les. He had a three-day growth and horrible brown teeth that said he rolled his own and smoked plenty of them. ‘Yeah mate,’ he wheezed. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m looking for the vicar,’ said Les. ‘Is he around?’
The man indicated to the driveway. ‘He’s down the back.’
‘Thanks mate.’
The man continued whipper snipping and Les walked up the driveway, coming to a garage at the end. To the right, a white-panelled house was built onto the back of the church, and behind the garage a permalum storage shed stood on one side of a grassy yard opposite an open greenhouse full of roses. Inside the greenhouse, a big man was standing at a table pruning a magnificent yellow rose. Les walked over and approached him quietly.
‘Excuse me. Are you Vicar Rathbone?’ asked Les.
The man slowly turned around and stared at Les. He had an impassive, jowly face, dark fire-and-brimstone eyes topped by thick black eyebrows and a head of unruly black hair. He was wearing a yellow shirt and black trousers under a green apron that came up to his chest and in a gloved hand was a pair of secateurs. Les gave him a double blink. Shit! Where’s Warren? I’ve found Nero Wolfe.
‘Yes. I am he,’ boomed the vicar, in a voice that matched his eyes.
‘My name’s Les Norton,’ said Les. ‘Mrs Sirotic sent me around.’
‘Mrs Sirotic? Oh yes. From the backpackers.’
‘That’s her.’ Les offered his hand and the vicar gave it a quick shake.
‘So what is the purpose of your visit, Mr Norton?’ asked Vicar Rathbone.
‘Mrs Sirotic said you were a friend of Father Marriott.’
‘That’s right. Father Marriott had the Church of the Blessed Madonna. Until sadly he was taken from us.’
‘Taken?’ said Les. ‘What happened?’
‘A motor accident,’ answered Vicar Rathbone. ‘William was knocked off his pushbike.’
‘Oh. That’s no good,’ said Les.
‘Indeed not sir. He was a good man, Father Marriott.’
Les gave an understanding nod. ‘Vicar Rathbone. Would you know a priest called Shipley? Father Bernard Shipley.’
‘I would,’ replied the vicar. ‘He had the church before William.’
‘Is Father Shipley still …?’
Vicar Rathbone shook his head. ‘Hardly. We laid Bernard to rest many years ago, over in Lorne cemetery. I read the eulogy.’
‘Oh. What happened to Father Shipley?’
‘The Lord called him,’ orated Vicar Rathbone. ‘And he went to his arms.’
‘As good a place to be, vicar,’ said Les solemnly.
‘Indeed.’ The vicar went back to pruning the beautiful yellow rose sitting in its pot on the table. ‘So Mr Norton,’ he said. ‘What exactly is it you want from me, sir, on this rather inclement day?’
‘All right, vicar.’ Les gave Vicar Rathbone the same spiel he gave Mrs Sirotic. The vicar listened politely, although he seemed more interested in his roses than listening to Les. ‘The thing is, vicar, my mother may not have been a well-known artist, but she was very gifted. And those paintings mean a lot to my family, in sentimental value.’
The vicar digested all Les said and waited before answering. ‘I understand the purpose of your visit, Mr Norton,’ he replied sagely. ‘I also respect your family values, and you have certainly come a long way. But how can I possibly be able to help you?’
‘Well,’ said Les. ‘I just thought the paintings might have finished up in your care. Seeing you knew both Father Shipley and Father Marriott. Mrs Sirotic suggested it actually.’
‘She did?’ said the vicar.
Les turned to the white permalum shed behind the garage. ‘There’s a storage shed over there, vicar. If I was to make a donation to the church, do you think I could have a look inside?’ Les produced a one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and Vicar Rathbone’s fire and brimstone eyes lit up like halogen lamps.
‘I don’t see why not,’ replied the vicar. He dropped the secateurs on the table and deftly snatched the hundred from Norton’s hand. It disappeared under the vicar’s apron and was replaced by a set of keys. ‘Follow me, my boy.’
‘Thanks, vicar.’
Les followed Vicar Rathbone over to the storage shed. The vicar opened the door, found a switch on the wall and the storage shed lit up under several fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. There was any amount of junk and objects the church had saved, and like the vicar’s roses, most of it was laid out neatly on tables. The remainder was stacked around the walls or propped up in corners.
‘Start wherever you wish,’ offered the vicar.
‘Thanks,’ said Les.
With the vicar watching him like a hawk, Les started rummaging through all the junk. There were old heaters, furniture, wicker chairs, boxes of crockery. Piles of magazines, car parts, an organ, battered violin and guitar cases and two milk crates full of old albums. Les absently flicked through a few. Patti Page, The Ink Spots, Perry Como, Bing Crosby, the soundtrack from West Side Story.
Next to the mandatory piles of National Geographics and Reader’s Digests, were two paintings. Norton’s eyes lit up as he moved them out from the wall. One was Christ on the cross. The other was the Virgin Mary, complete with a shiny white halo. Les put them back against the wall.
The more he looked around, the more Les realised nearly everything in the shed was left over from church sales. He dropped a Snoopy doll back into a box of toys and turned to the vicar still watching him from the door.
‘Well, they’re definitely not in here, vicar,’ said Les.
‘I could have told you that, Mr Norton,’ replied the vicar. ‘But I had no desire to curb your enthusiasm.’
Yeah. Or miss out on the lazy hundred. ‘That’s okay,’ said Les. ‘I appreciate your help anyway. Hey, vicar. There’s a church down the road. Who’s in charge of that one?’
‘Saint Fabian’s?’ replied the vicar. ‘Reverend Kimball Pillinger.’
‘I may as well call in there, too,’ said Les.
The vicar nodded sagely. ‘Yes, why not. Kim knew Father Marriott.’
‘And are there any other churches around here?’ asked Les.
‘There’s one on the other side of town, in Falls Terrace. I don’t know who runs it now.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Les. ‘I’ll call in there too.’
The vicar switched off the lights and opened the door. Les stepped outside into the rain and the vicar locked the door behind them.
‘Good luck, Mr Norton,’ said the vicar. ‘God willing, you will find your mother’s paintings.’
‘Yes,’ smiled Norton. ‘I can see her looking down from heaven now, telling me to keep searching.
Goodbye, Vicar Rathbone.’
Les walked down to the car and the vicar went back to his roses. Brown teeth had taken a breather and was standing under a tree puffing on a roll-your-own. Les gave him a nod and got in the car. Well, another out, thought Les, as he started the engine. And I got a feeling there’s going to be plenty more. With the Wildwood Valley Boys howling ‘Are You On The Right Road?’ Les drove down to the next church, finding a parking spot between the phone boxes and the old picture theatre. He switched off the engine and got out of the car.
Walking past the phone boxes, Les noticed the rain had washed away any blood from last night’s activities and in the daytime St Fabian’s was a lovely old church. Built in white weatherboard like the others, it was bigger, with higher stained-glass windows and topped by a green roof with green turrets. The sloping grounds were lovingly maintained and full of beautiful flower beds and rockeries. A set of stone steps with a white railing ran up to the church and behind on the right was a white weatherboard house. A sign near a gate in the wire fence said ST FABIAN’S, LORNE, CONSOLIDATING CHURCH OF AUSTRALIA, MINISTER: REVEREND KIMBALL PILLINGER. Where Les had dumped Burne and his mates the previous night, a man wearing a plastic raincoat was standing under an umbrella staring down at the grass. Through the plastic raincoat Les could make out a pair of black trousers, a black cardigan and a white priest’s collar. I think that could be my man, surmised Les. He let himself in the gate and walked over.
‘Excuse me,’ said Les. ‘Are you Reverend Pillinger?’
The man turned around under his umbrella. He was stockily built with thinning brown hair going grey, and came up to Norton’s chin. He had a plump, ruddy face and slightly bloodshot eyes, and a thick red nose and veiny cheeks suggested the good reverend didn’t mind a tipple at the altar wine now and again.
‘Mmhh? What was that?’ he said vaguely.
‘Are you Reverend Pillinger?’ repeated Les.
‘Yes, yes. That’s me. Are you from the police?’
‘No. Vicar Rathbone sent me down,’ said Les.
‘Oh.’
‘Why? What’s the matter?’ inquired Les. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘There was a nasty accident outside the church last night,’ answered Reverend Pillinger. ‘A car jumped the gutter and knocked three young men over the fence.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ said Norton. ‘Was anybody seriously hurt?’
‘Seriously enough,’ replied Reverend Pillinger. ‘One young man has a broken jaw and several teeth missing. The others are quite knocked about too, I believe.’
‘Gee. That’s no good,’ sympathised Les. ‘And a car accident, you say, reverend?’
‘Yes. It’s rather strange, though,’ ruminated the reverend. ‘The police thought they might have been in a fight. But one of the lads said a 4WD hit them, and sped off.’
‘Did they get the number?’
‘Unfortunately no,’ said Reverend Pillinger. ‘Actually I was just saying a prayer for the victims when you walked up.’
‘Very thoughtful of you, reverend.’ Les decided not to go in with the hard sell too early. ‘I believe the same thing happened to Father Marriott too,’ he said.
‘Yes. That was quite tragic,’ said Reverend Pillinger. ‘Poor William was riding his pushbike at night without a light, and a tow truck hit him.’
‘You can never be too careful,’ said Les. ‘Did you know Father Marriott well, reverend?’
‘Yes. We used to study the Bible together and go fishing. He only had a small diocese. But he was a lovely man. Sorely missed.’
‘What about Father Bernard Shipley, reverend. Did you know him?’
‘Not very well. I hadn’t been here long before he passed away. And he was often in Apollo Bay.’
‘Right,’ Les nodded slowly.
‘So why did Enoch send you down here?’ enquired Reverend Pillinger. ‘And might I say, you’re a fine stamp of a lad. Footballer are you?’
‘Yes,’ smiled Les. ‘But not Aussie Rules, I’m sorry to say.’
Reverend Pillinger drew closer. ‘Between you and me, I don’t like rules. Kick basketball, I call it. But say that around here and they’ll hang you.’ Reverend Pillinger drew Les into his confidence. ‘I’m a Rugby Union man myself.’
‘The game they play in heaven, reverend,’ said Les. ‘But I have to confess. I used to play Rugby League.’
‘Close enough.’ Sharing his umbrella with Les, Reverend Pillinger turned and started walking up to the church residence. ‘Now, where were we?’ he said. ‘Oh yes. Enoch sent you down. Exactly what for, Mr …?’
‘Norton. Les Norton. From Sydney.’
Les gave Reverend Pillinger much the same spiel he gave the other two. Reiterating that because of the mutual connection between the different ministers in Lorne, Shipley or Marriott might have left his mother’s paintings at another church when the one in Corio Road folded. Again Les offered a donation if he could look through the church’s storage area. The good reverend said that wasn’t necessary, but Les insisted he take fifty dollars.
When they reached the house, it was white weatherboard like the church. There was a storage room built underneath and a set of steps ran up to the front door and an enclosed verandah. Reverend Pillinger appeared deep in thought as he stepped across to a door beneath the house.
‘Paintings you say, Mr Norton?’ he said.
‘Yes. Six of them,’ replied Les. ‘Bound up in green canvas.’
The reverend nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, something like that rings a bell.’
‘It does?’ said Les.
‘Yes, yes.’
At that moment a white-haired lady wearing a grey twin set and a kitchen apron over a checked woollen skirt came down the stairs.
‘Reverend Pillinger. You’re wanted on the phone,’ she said. ‘It’s Reverend Whittle in Bendigo.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Hardaker.’ The reverend found a set of keys in his trousers and opened the door. ‘The light switch is just inside the door, Mr Norton,’ he said. ‘Have a good look around. I’ll be back directly.’
‘Okay, Reverend Pillinger. Thanks a lot.’ Les stepped into the storage room and groped around for the light switch. Shit! I wonder what he means by ‘rings a bell’ thought Les. Don’t tell me the bloody things are in here. Les found the switch and turned on the light.
The storage room was as big as the previous one, but just a single, weak light bulb hung from the ceiling, and instead of things being laid out neatly or placed on tables, they were scattered everywhere or piled on top of each other. Old fuel stoves, wheelbarrows full of rusty tools, wooden boxes that could have contained anything. Boxes of toys, a couple of old computers, coils of chicken wire, a rusty ab-rocker, even a clothes dummy with an arm missing. Shoes, clothes, men’s hats and ladies’ bonnets, handbags, blankets, rolls of carpet. Junk of every description and more leftovers from church bazaars, all gathering dust and cobwebs. Next to a shelf full of Mills and Boon novels and a carton of knitting patterns were several milk crates full of albums. Les checked some out. Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music, Listening and Dancing. Lester Lanin, House Party. Cocktails and Conversation, Jan August at the Piano. What? mused Les. No Radiohead or Groove Armada?
Les scoured through the junk finding everything from Monopoly sets to a framed photo of Mao Tse-tung. But no sign of any paintings. The cobwebs stuck to Norton’s clothes, the dust made him sneeze and the dim light had him squinting. An enjoyable time it was not. Les looked at his watch, wondering where Reverend Pillinger had got to when a movement in the doorway caught his eye.
‘How are you going, Mr Norton?’ asked the reverend, stepping into the storage room.
‘Yeah. Real good,’ answered Les sarcastically.
‘Sorry I’m late returning,’ said Reverend Pillinger. ‘But believe me, when Joe Whittle gets going, there’s no stopping him. Then Mrs Hardaker insisted I have a cup of tea.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Les.
‘So, have
you come across anything?’
‘Not so far,’ said Les. ‘Hey reverend. What did you say before? About something ringing a bell?’
‘Yes. Over here in the corner,’ he replied. ‘You did say there were six paintings bound in green canvas. Didn’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ said Les.
‘Well there’s something like that, been sitting here for years,’ said the reverend. ‘I’ve never bothered to see what it is.’
Norton’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah?’
Reverend Pillinger led Norton over to a corner of the storage room and started pulling away a pile of rugs next to a hat stand. Beneath the rugs was a dirty green canvas bundle tied with rotting black rope. There was no name on the canvas bundle, but it was old and thick with dust and when Les gave the reverend a hand to lift it up, he could definitely feel wooden frames.
‘There’s a table by the door,’ said the reverend. ‘Help me over there with them.’
‘It’s okay, reverend,’ said Les. ‘I can manage.’ Les picked up the old bundle and followed the reverend over to a table near the light switch. The reverend cleared a few things away and Les placed the bundle gently on top.
‘There should be a knife somewhere,’ said the reverend.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Les grabbed the rope and gave it a sharp tug; it was that old it disintegrated in his hands. Brimming with expectation, Les carefully unwrapped the canvas under the watchful eye of Reverend Pillinger. When he’d finished, they both stared at the contents. Sitting on the table were eight old ouija boards.
‘Damn ouija boards!’ exclaimed Reverend Pillinger. ‘I never knew these infernal contraptions were down here.’
‘They definitely ain’t paintings, are they,’ gritted Les.
‘My word, they are not,’ declared the reverend. ‘And they’ll go on the fire this afternoon. The devil’s work, if you ask me.’
Les felt deflated and would have much preferred not to have found anything at all. All he wanted now was to get out of the gloomy storage room with its dust and junk and away from Reverend Pillinger. Les turned to the reverend and gave him a thin smile.
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