The Cure of Souls

by Phil Rickman

  ‘No.’ She saw Gerard Stock walking back towards her and realized how badly she wanted to get away from here. ‘I’ll try and get over there. I’ll do my best.’

  Gerard Stock had made an irritable circuit of the yard and, as he came beefing back, she saw the change at once and got in first.

  ‘Gerard, would you do something for me?’ He looked suspicious. ‘If I give you some prayers, would you be sure to say them?’

  He stared at her.

  ‘I’ve got some appropriate ones printed out in a case in the car,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to say them at specific times. Both of you, if possible. If not… one of you will do.’

  ‘That going to help, is it, Merrily?’

  For the first time, he was challenging her. Was this because she’d quite clearly messed up in there? Or was it because his wife was no longer with them? So where is she? And where’s Lol?

  ‘It will help,’ she assured him. ‘But I’d also like to come back again. I think this may need more attention. And more preparation than we were able to give it today.’

  ‘You and liddle Lol?’

  She sighed. ‘Like I said, I’ve known Lol Robinson for some time, although I didn’t know he was living here. He’s somebody I can trust, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s a bloody psychotherapist. That why you brought him? Just tell me the truth.’

  ‘No. Really.’ She shook her head. ‘And he’s not yet officially a therapist, anyway.’

  ‘So what was it that made up your mind?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What I’m asking’ – he tilted his head, scrutinizing her sideways – ‘is what happened, liddle lady, to make you decide I wasn’t after all just a scheming townie trying to shaft his neighbours?’

  ‘I’d never decided you were.’

  ‘Because something did happen in there, didn’t it?’

  She took a breath. ‘All right, something happened.’

  ‘So tell me. I’ve got to go on living here.’

  ‘Tell me something. What does sulphur mean to you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is there anything around here that might… or might once have… released sulphur fumes?’

  ‘Not now. Not any more.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll show you.’

  She followed him back into the kitchen. The gloom seemed at once oppressive – or was she imagining that? He went straight to the wall where the implements hung, brought down a short pole with what looked like an ashpan from a stove or grate attached. He sniffed at it.

  ‘Can’t smell anything now.’ He thrust it towards her. ‘Can you?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Was known, I’m told, as a brimstone tray. Used for feeding rolls of sulphur into the furnace.’

  ‘Why’d they do that?’

  ‘Some sort of fumigation. It also apparently made the drying hops turn yellow, which the brewers preferred for some reason. Made the beer look even more like piss, I don’t know. I don’t think they do it any more.’

  ‘Would sulphur have any special interest for Stewart Ash? Can you think of—?’

  ‘You’re saying you smelled sulphur.’

  ‘Quite powerfully.’

  He tilted his head again. ‘Fire and brimstone… Merrily?’

  ‘That was what it smelled like. Could be argued it was subjective, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh… subjective.’ Stock held the wooden shaft of the brimstone tray with both hands like a spade. ‘There’s a good psychologist’s word. Why don’t we ask Lol what he thinks?’

  ‘Like you said, things are inclined to go awry in there. A few minor elements which, when you put them together, suggest a volatile atmosphere. Not necessarily connected with the murder of Stewart Ash.’

  ‘Volatile?’

  ‘I would like to come back, Mr Stock.’ She saw Lol in the doorway. ‘What about tonight?’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘There are quite a few things—’

  Stock hurled the brimstone tray to the stone with cacophonous force.

  Merrily flinched but didn’t move. ‘—things we can still try.’

  ‘You don’t really know what the fuck you’re doing, do you?’ Stock snarled.

  Lol walked in.

  ‘No… geddout… both of you.’ Stock picked up the chalice and the Tupperware box of communion wafers, shoved them in the airline bag, tossed the bag to the flags near Merrily’s feet. ‘You’re a waste of time, Merrily. I heard you were a political appointment.’

  Merrily bit her lip.

  ‘Been better off with the fucking arse-bandit,’ Stock said.

  ‘Well…’ Lol picked up the bag. ‘This is actually quite reassuring. For a while back there, I was almost convinced you’d been possessed by the spirit of a nice man.’

  Stock looked at him silently, then back at Merrily. He was waiting for them to go.

  Merrily paused at the door. ‘I’d like to come back. If not me, then someone else.’

  ‘Geddout,’ Stock said.

  22

  Barnchurch

  ‘MERRILY!’ CHARLIE HOWE stood up, tossing his Telegraph to one of the tables in the hotel reception area. He was wearing a creased cream suit and a yellow tie with the lipsticked impression of a woman’s red lips printed on it, as though it had been kissed. He looked genuinely delighted to see her. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he steered her into the coffee lounge. ‘What a job you’ve got, girl: devils and demons on a wonderful summer’s day.’

  She’d shed the cassock, was back in the T-shirt. ‘How d’you know I wasn’t doing a wedding?’

  ‘Contacts.’ Charlie tapped his long leathery nose.

  ‘Sophie’ll be mortified.’

  ‘When Mrs Hill wouldn’t tell me where you were, look, nigh on forty years of being a detective told me a wedding wasn’t an option.’

  ‘Smart.’

  ‘Pathetic, more like.’ He pointed to a window table. ‘Over there?’

  ‘Fine.’ She followed him. ‘Why pathetic?’

  ‘’Cause I miss it, of course.’ They sat down. ‘Don’t let any retired CID man tell you he don’t miss it. I’m even jealous of my own daughter.’

  ‘I’m jealous of your daughter,’ Merrily said ambivalently.

  Charlie laughed and patted her wrist. ‘Scones,’ he said. ‘I feel like some scones. You don’t diet, do you?’

  ‘My whole job’s a diet.’

  ‘Scones, my love,’ he called to the waitress before she’d even made it to the table. ‘Lashings of jam and heaps of fresh cream. And coffee.’

  ‘Just spring water for me, please, Charlie, I’m afraid I don’t have very long. I’m sorry.’

  She and Lol were due to meet at the Deliverance office in the gatehouse at five. Lol had said he had things to tell her, but neither of them had wanted to hang around Knight’s Frome. It was a blessing, in Merrily’s view, that someone like Lol had been there, seen the way it had gone, the two faces of Gerard Stock.

  ‘We better get down to it, then,’ Charlie said. ‘Brother Shelbone.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Not wrong about that one, were you, Merrily? As for the little lass…’

  ‘Little lass?’

  He looked pained. ‘Give me some credit, girl. This suicidal Shelbone child and that kiddie getting messages from her dear dead mother, courtesy of Allan Henry’s stepdaughter – one and the same, or what?’

  ‘You never retired at all, did you?’

  ‘I tell you, my sweet,’ said Charlie Howe, ‘the longer you live in this little county, the more you wonder how anybody manages to keep anything a secret. There are connections a-crisscrossing here that you will not believe.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She was very lucky, mind – the child. The version I heard, the mother only found out because she’d got a headache herself, and saw the aspirins were down to about three in the bottom of the jar. Another half-hour and your colleague over in Dilwyn w
ould’ve had a very sad funeral.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No cry for help, this one. Kiddie must’ve been messed up big-time. You were dead right, and Brother Morrell was dead wrong, out of touch.’

  ‘He didn’t know the full circumstances.’

  ‘Nor wanted to, Merrily, nor wanted to. I tell you another thing – nobody who was at the Christmas Fair’s likely to forget that girl of Allan Henry’s. Jesus Christ, no…’ He looked suddenly appalled. ‘Oh, I am sorry. Easy to forget what you do, Reverend, when you’re out of uniform.’

  ‘Doesn’t offend me, Charlie, long as it’s not gratuitous. Keeps His name in circulation.’

  Charlie Howe raised both eyebrows. The scones arrived. ‘Put plenty of jam on,’ Charlie said. ‘You’ll be needing the blood sugar.’

  Then on to David Shelbone. ‘Got to admire him, really,’ Charlie said. ‘Sticks his neck out for what he believes. You know anything about listed buildings?’

  ‘I live in one.’

  ‘So you do.’

  ‘Frozen in the year 1576. I pray we never get an inspection, because my daughter’s created what she calls The Mondrian Walls in her attic… all the squares of nice white plaster and whatever between the beams are now painted different colours.’

  ‘Good example,’ Charlie said. ‘Most listed-buildings officers would let that one go, because you can always paint them over again in white. Brother Shelbone – forget it. A stickler. Told one of our lady councillors she had to take down a conservatory porch she’d put on her farmhouse. When the good councillor tries to square it with the department under the table, it gets leaked to the press. Red faces all round. That’s David Shelbone: staunch Christian, not for sale.’

  ‘And that’s bad, is it?’

  Charlie grinned. ‘Oh, it’s not bad. It’s good, it’s remarkable – and that’s the point. In the world of local government, a very religious man who cannot tell a lie or condone dishonesty of any kind is remarkable.’

  ‘Meaning a pain in the bum.’

  ‘Correct. It was widely thought that when the councils were all reorganized, he’d get mislaid, as it were, in the changeover. But he survived.’

  He looks after the old places, makes sure nobody knocks them down or tampers with them. Hazel Shelbone in the church. They offered him early retirement last year, but he said he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

  Merrily licked jam from a finger. ‘His wife indicated he’d been under some pressure.’ Migraines, Hazel had explained. ‘Maybe that’s not been a happy household for a while.’

  She didn’t look at Charlie Howe, helped herself to a second scone. Anything said to her by Mrs Shelbone ought to be treated as confidential; on the other hand, Charlie expected give and take. After forty years in the police and now local government, it would be how his mind worked.

  ‘Pressure,’ he said. ‘Oh, no question about that. Brother Shelbone’s under serious pressure. Over Barnchurch alone.’

  ‘The new trading estate, up past Belmont?’

  ‘Source of much weeping and gnashing of teeth,’ Charlie confirmed.

  ‘Well, it looks awful,’ Merrily said. ‘There was a time, not too many years ago, when Hereford used to resemble a country town. I mean, do we really need a supermarket every couple of hundred yards? DIY world? Computerland? It’s like some kind of commercial purgatory between rural paradise and traffic hell.’

  ‘My, my.’ Charlie added cream to his coffee.

  ‘Nothing personal.’

  He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. ‘What do you know about the origins of Barnchurch? The history of the site.’

  ‘Fields and woodland, home to little birds and animals.’

  ‘Gethyn Bonner? You know about him?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Thought you’d know about Gethyn Bonner. He was a preacher. Came up from the Valleys in the 1890s, sometime like that.’

  ‘Ten a penny,’ Merrily said with a small smile.

  ‘Tell a few of my colleagues that. Tell English Heritage.’

  ‘I’m not following.’

  ‘Gethyn Bonner was an itinerant firebrand preacher with a big following, who came out of Merthyr Tydfil and decided Hereford was the land of milk and honey.’

  ‘As you do.’

  Charlie drank some coffee. ‘Hadn’t got a chapel of his own, but a good Christian farmer, name of Leathem Baxter, had a barn to spare. A few local worthies, including a craftsman builder, all gathered round and they put a big Gothic window in the back wall, and in no time at all Leathem Baxter’s barn was a bona fide church.’

  ‘Barnchurch.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, in time, Gethyn Bonner falls out of favour, as these fellers are apt to do, and moves on up to Birmingham or back to the Valleys, I wouldn’t know which, and Leathem Baxter dies and the church becomes a barn again, and the Gothic window gets bricked up… and it’s all forgotten until the Third Millennium comes to pass.’

  ‘And, lo, there came property developers…’ said Merrily.

  ‘Barnchurch Trading Estate Phase One. Should be completed in time for Christmas shopping. Phase Two, however… that’s the problem. Nothing in its way except a derelict agricultural building, not very old – Victorian brick – and falling to bits.’

  ‘I see.’ Merrily poured some spring water.

  ‘Well, even before work started on Phase One, the developers had been assured by the Hereford planners that there’d be no bar at all to flattening this unsightly structure – which, as it happens, also blocks the only practical entrance to the site of Phase Two. Reckoning, of course, without Brother Shelbone.’

  ‘Suddenly, I like him a lot.’

  ‘Who helpfully points out that, although the building itself is of limited architectural merit and not, in fact, very old, its historical curiosity value makes it a monument well meriting preservation.’

  ‘It’s fair enough,’ Merrily said. ‘They should’ve consulted him before they started.’

  Charlie leaned forward. ‘Merrily, nobody in their right mind consults David Shelbone, they just pray he’s otherwise engaged at the time. Brother Shelbone gets involved, it’s gonner cost you: time and money. And the stress factor.’

  ‘So he’s put a preservation order on the Barnchurch. Can he do that on his own?’

  ‘What he does is gets it spot-listed. It then goes to the Council, with a report and a recommendation from Shelbone. Well, this is seen as a very significant project, with considerable economic benefits for the city, and the Council, by a small majority, goes against the advice of the Listed Buildings Officer and declares that the Barnchurch can be flattened.’

  ‘I don’t remember reading about this in the papers.’

  Charlie smiled thinly. ‘The authority has a certain leeway these days to conduct business not considered to be in the public interest less publicly.’

  ‘Which stinks, of course.’

  ‘But is quite legitimate. Anyway, David Shelbone isn’t a man to be put off by petty local tyranny. He goes directly to the body responsible for conservation of historic buildings – English Heritage – and they step in. So then—’

  ‘Which way did you vote, Charlie? Just so we know where we are.’

  Charlie Howe grinned, whipped cream on his teeth. ‘I abstained, of course.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Didn’t really think I knew enough about the issue.’

  ‘Why do I find that hard to believe? So, can English Heritage overrule the Hereford Council?’

  ‘Not just like that. It’ll have to go to Central Government for a decision. Because what had happened, see, was that the developers had already lodged an appeal contesting the scheduling of an old heap of bricks as a building of historical merit. There’ll be a public inquiry before an inspector from the Department of Culture – or the Ministry of Arty-farty Time-wasters, as one of my colleagues likes to call them.’

  ‘Which will take time to organize, I suppose.’r />
  ‘Months and months – and then more months waiting for a decision. Even if they get the green light at the end of the day, it’s going to’ve cost the developers a vast amount of money, what with all the delays and their contracts with prestigious national chains on the line. In the meantime, some of those firms are bound to go elsewhere. The situation is that Barnchurch Phase Two’s already looking like a financial disaster on a serious scale.’

  ‘And all because of one man.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Who are the developers?’ Merrily asked.

  ‘Firm called Arrow Valley Commercial Properties.’

  Merrily shook her head. ‘Not heard of them.’

  ‘Subsidiary of Allan Henry Homes,’ said Charlie. ‘You with me, now?’

  Merrily put down her scone.

  Charlie Howe’s arms were folded. She studied his face, tanned the colour of lightly polished yew. She knew very little about him, either as a councillor or a former senior policeman, but if she had to guess why he was going out of his way to feed her controversial information, she wouldn’t get far beyond the fact that he clearly enjoyed causing trouble – stirring the pot.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said.

  ‘You talk for a bit and I’ll listen.’ Charlie glanced around. ‘You’re all right: no witnesses.’

  ‘Well… phew… where do we start? David Shelbone may well have got himself crossed off Allan Henry’s corporate Christmascard list.’

  Charlie poured himself more coffee. ‘You ever actually come across Allan Henry, Merrily?’

  ‘He doesn’t go to my church.’

  ‘He’s an ambitious man, and a very lucky man. Things’ve fallen his way. Just a moderately successful small-time house-builder for quite a few years, then his horizons got rapidly wider. Took over Colin Connelly’s little workshop development beyond Holmer when Colin had his accident. And then things started falling into his hands. A few slightly iffy Green Belt schemes, but he got them through. One way or another.’

  ‘Erm… would you say he found success in ways that might have interested you in your former occupation?’