An Unholy Shame

by Joyce Cato

  David sighed, but he’d obviously been expecting this. ‘First, let me make it quite clear that they are only rumours, Chief Inspector. It’s being bandied about that Arthur had an affair, a short while ago, with one of his parishioners. There was absolutely no proof of it, and no woman ever came forward to complain or, as is more likely the case nowadays, alas, to sell her story to the Sunday papers. And Chloe Bryce certainly seems to be standing by her man so even if there was any substance to the rumours, there was obviously no real harm done.’

  ‘And is the affair still going on?’ Jason asked, then seeing the disapproving look on the bishop’s face, added hastily, ‘supposing anything had been going on at all, I mean?’

  Dr Carew smiled wryly. ‘No. According to the grapevine, it’s all over, and has been for some months.’

  ‘I see.’

  Now Jason could understand why he’d touched such a nerve with both the Bryces when he’d asked if there’d been any nocturnal wanderings during the night. Talk about putting his foot in it!

  ‘I hope you won’t mention this about, Chief Inspector,’ Dr Carew suddenly spoke up sharply and Jason wondered if any of his less-than-sympathetic feelings had been showing on his face. ‘The last thing the church needs is a scandal.’

  And if the St Bede’s manuscript turns out to have been stolen and replaced, you’ll already have enough scandal on your plate, Jason thought sympathetically.

  ‘No, of course not. We can be very discreet when we need to be,’ Jason hastened to assure him. And wondered if his chief constable had been aware of any of this when he’d assigned Jason to the case. Or was it simply that the chief constable had merely assumed there had to be skeletons in the Church of England’s cupboards somewhere, and had assigned a Chief Inspector to make sure that they were not rattled?

  Jason wouldn’t put it past the canny old so-and-so.

  Flora showed the unhappy bishop to the door. When she came back, she looked at her boss thoughtfully. ‘At least the case seems to be opening up a bit, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Hmm,’ Jason said, somewhat doubtfully.

  ‘Do you think the Bryces knew they’d got this committee thing in the bag?’ Flora asked. ‘Or Reverend Gordon, for that matter?’

  Jason sighed. ‘No knowing. If they did, they’d have kept it to themselves. It wouldn’t have been a very Christian thing to do, would it, to go about either boasting or moaning about it. But I can’t see our Reverend Gordon taking it lying down, can you?’

  Flora shook her head, then looked around as the door opened and the WPC on guard in the lobby stuck her head around the door.

  ‘Sir, there’s a man here wants to see you. Say’s he’s from The Times.’

  Jason looked up in astonishment.

  ‘He’s not here for a story, sir,’ she added hastily, seeing her superior’s look. ‘Or at least, he assures me he’s not,’ she added more darkly. ‘He says he’s got genuine information.’

  Jason glanced at Flora, who was looking dubious. Jason sighed heavily. Like his sergeant, he’d seen the press get up to all manner of things for the sake of a story. Nevertheless ….

  ‘You’ve checked his credentials? He is from The Times?’

  The WPC nodded firmly. ‘Yes sir.’

  Jason shrugged. ‘Then show him in.’

  The journalist who came through the door was dressed, of all things, in tweeds. A man in his late sixties, he was trim and fit-looking and when he spoke it was with the sort of upper-class accent that Jason would have expected. Some things, he mused, never change.

  ‘Mr Smith, sir,’ the WPC introduced.

  ‘Bretton-Smith, Chief Inspector,’ the journalist rectified, shaking the proffered hand and sitting down without being asked. He reached at once into his jacket pocket for a notebook.

  Jason flushed. ‘I hope you don’t think I’ve consented to give an interview …’ he began hotly, then felt foolish as, from the big notebook, the journalist produced a sheet of paper, and gave him a slightly hurt, slightly amused glance.

  ‘I received this by this afternoon’s post,’ the journalist handed it over, making Jason glance surreptitiously at his watch. It wasn’t yet 3.30. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time!

  Jason read it, his face registering a certain amount of surprise even though he tried to keep a poker face. Flora was hardly able to sit still. Without a word, he handed it over to her when he’d finished.

  The letter was brief, but to the point. Sir Matthew Pierrepont had written to someone who was obviously an old friend at the paper, wanting to know if he’d be interested himself, or more likely, would know of anyone from a tabloid paper, who’d be interested in a female-vicar scandal. If so, he was to get in touch with Matthew by phone right away.

  ‘The man he wrote to, the addressee,’ Mr Bretton-Smith said sardonically, ‘has been dead for nearly six years. I inherited his desk. Naturally,’ here he paused to smile slightly, ‘I was curious.’

  And so was Jason.

  It went without saying that the journalist had tracked the archdeacon down to this conference, and then noted the death of a guest and the presence of a Chief Inspector with a gurgling of journalistic juices.

  ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr Bretton-Smith. If … anything comes of it, I’ll see what can be done about giving you an exclusive,’ Jason dismissed him, somewhat clumsily, he felt.

  Bretton-Smith looked rather offended, as if Jason had just offered to give him a ‘bung’ under the table, but he rose and nodded politely.

  Jason waited until he was well out of earshot behind the closed door, then said to Flora savagely, ‘Get Pierrepont back in here’.

  Sir Matthew Pierrepont came in, looking alternatively gleeful, belligerent and curious.

  Jason watched the old man walk stiff-legged to a chair and fold himself painfully into it. He looked slightly drunk.

  ‘I want to know what you meant by this,’ Jason said without preamble, his voice hard and cold as he pushed the piece of paper across the desk towards the archdeacon.

  He noticed, approvingly, that Flora come to stand close behind the cleric, just in case he tried to do something silly – like destroy the letter.

  But Sir Matthew was not that foolish. He simply read the letter with a sneer then shrugged. ‘Never seen it before,’ he said flatly.

  Jason smiled. ‘Are you denying that it’s your handwriting?’

  Sir Matthew looked at him, blinking his rheumy grey eyes. ‘It looks like my hand,’ he admitted. ‘But nothing a good forger couldn’t copy.’

  ‘Oh come now, Sir Matthew,’ Jason said. ‘You’re surely not going to deny writing this letter?’

  ‘I do, and I dare you to prove otherwise,’ the old man snapped, getting to his feet. ‘Now, if that’s all.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Jason rasped back. ‘I want to know exactly what kind of scandal you had in mind …’

  ‘I told you before,’ Sir Matthew interrupted rudely. ‘If you want to speak to me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer. I only came in at all to see what you wanted this time.’

  ‘If you know of any scandal involving Celia Gordon it’s your duty to tell us,’ Jason said, then realized just how ridiculous that sounded. ‘We can get experts in to verify that this is your writing, Sir Matthew,’ he tried instead, his voice distinctly threatening now as he watched the old man head towards the door.

  Sir Matthew shrugged without turning around. ‘Go ahead.’ He sounded more pleased than put out, and Jason realized that the old sod probably would enjoy a good legal wrangle.

  Flora all but slammed the door after him, her colour as high as her temper. ‘I’d like to lock him up in a cell with a couple of hells angels in a bad mood.’

  ‘What have you got against hell’s angels all of a sudden?’ Jason asked, making Flora grin, if a shade reluctantly. ‘What I’d like to know,’ Jason continued glumly, ‘is why we’re suddenly being inundated with all this new information.’

  And he wa
sn’t put in any better a mood by the feeling that he was missing something. Something important.

  What’s more, he was worried about Monica Noble. Just what was she up to? He found her absence both conspicuous and very suspicious.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘ You’re not wearing that!’ Monica Noble said firmly to Carole Anne, as she watched her teenaged daughter admiring her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘What? Why not?’ Carole Anne demanded, turning around and mimicking her mother by standing with her hands aggressively on her hips. She was wearing a minuscule lemon-coloured bikini and a faded pair of pink flip-flops.

  Monica, pulling on a long-sleeved dress over her own modest, turquoise one-piece, sighed elaborately. They were in her bedroom and getting ready to depart for the swimming party; she haphazardly shoved two fluffy towel-like wraps into a large wicker bag. ‘Because, Carole Anne,’ she said patiently, ‘there will be a lot of your father’s clerical colleagues there, and… .’ She swept on quickly, as she saw her rebellious daughter open her mouth, no doubt about to say something pithy, ‘we’re swimming in the river, not a heated swimming pool. Just think about that for a minute, why don’t you?’ she cautioned ominously.

  Since her only child was at home that day, due to the mysterious workings of a ‘teaching training day’ she’d invited Carole Anne to come with her, not really expecting her to comply. After all, an hour or so splashing about with much older strangers could hardly rate highly on a modern young girl’s wish-list. But it turned out that she had underestimated the teenager’s boredom threshold, since a planned shopping trip with her best friend had to be cancelled due to the so-called best friend getting a better offer of a day-trip to the coast.

  And to save herself from hearing, at length, about this particular tale of earth-shattering treachery, she’d rather impulsively invited her daughter to accompany her to come swimming and was fast beginning to wish that she hadn’t.

  Carole Anne, long blonde hair streaming over her shoulders, now scowled at her mother uncertainly, fearing some sort of a trick. She’d bought the bikini at the tail end of last summer and had hardly had a chance to wear it, and she was looking forward to strutting her stuff. Doing so in front of a load of old fuddy-duddy vicars had appealed both to her vanity and her sense of iconoclastic daring. Naturally, she’d suspected her mother wouldn’t particularly like this plan and as a consequence, she was exceedingly wary. For her mother, she had long-since learned, had a habit of being rather crafty when it came to thwarting her. And she was not about to let reverse psychology do her out of her fun.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she nevertheless felt compelled to ask.

  Monica sighed a shade wearily. The last thing she wanted was a prolonged argument with her daughter. They were already running a little late. ‘Well for a start, it’s only May, and the river, unlike a swimming pool, won’t exactly be heated, will it?’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘And even though it’s been sunny all day, the temperature will still be enough to give us goosebumps, I expect. That’s part of the thrill of the experience, or so Jessica was saying.’ Monica realized that she didn’t sound particularly convinced of this herself and tried to push the thought of shivering, blue-tinged flesh to one side. They were bound to feel warmer once they started exercising, weren’t they?

  Carole Anne shrugged one shoulder negligently at this, clearly less than impressed by her mother’s opening gambit. After all, she didn’t mind a little physical discomfort so long as she looked good and set middle-aged and elderly jaws comically dropping.

  ‘But more than that,’ Monica, who knew her daughter very well indeed, added shrewdly, ‘there will be the wildlife to contend with.’

  Carole Anne’s head whipped around. From over her shoulder, she had been admiring her slim derriere in the mirror’s reflection. Now her eyes widened visibly. ‘Wildlife?’ she echoed uncertainly.

  Trying not to look triumphant, Monica nodded solemnly. ‘Of course. It’s a river – there’ll be fish, and crayfish, and frogs and … er … newts,’ she added with a flourish. ‘Are you really sure you want to have be showing so much bare flesh around slimy newts?’

  Carole Anne’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re just trying to put me off,’ she said. But she was clearly thinking about it. And, in the end, the newts won. ‘Oh I’ll right,’ she shrugged dramatically. ‘I’ll wear something else.’ She stomped exaggeratedly across the room to go back to her own bedroom, where she could change.

  ‘What’s wrong with that navy blue costume – the one you wear to sports day?’ Monica called the suggestion after her hopefully. It was long in the leg and high in the neck, and covered all the bits in between.

  ‘Oh mum! That’s just for serious swimming, when we do games at school. It’s really naff, otherwise. It’s practically a part of the school uniform! No, I’ll wear the red one,’ she said, in a tone that brooked no further discussion.

  Although she was, in fact, a very good swimmer and liked competing with her fellow students when it came to races, she didn’t think she’d be doing anything so strenuous this afternoon that it would require the professional swimsuit. Besides, wasn’t red the colour of the good old fashioned ‘scarlet woman’ so beloved of the Victorians?

  Monica supposed that, as a compromise it would have to do. At least it was a one-piece and had a reasonably high, scooped neck. ‘All right love. But get a move on, will you, we’re rather late!’

  She threw some more towels into the basket and then, as a last-moment afterthought, a paperback novel that she’d been reading, and within a few minutes, mother and daughter were ready to go.

  The walk to the river was a short one, and like her mother, Carole Anne had donned a long summery dress over her costume, since neither were sure whether someone had thought to provide a changing room at the conference centre.

  As they approached the banks of the river, it became obvious that they were among the last to arrive. Already several swimmers were splashing about in the inviting-looking dark river water, and many more were disrobing, ready to join them. There was plenty of ample, pale-coloured flesh on view, but with everyone in the same boat, the atmosphere was cheerful and determinedly light-hearted. It was a beautiful afternoon, and butterflies, damozels and dragonflies flitted about the pink rosebay willowherb and the spikes of purple loosestrife. Swallows swooped along the river course, dipping their beaks into the water to scoop up water to mix with mud, which they would then use to form their dome-shaped nests under the eaves of the older houses in the village.

  Walking slowly along the riverbank, Monica noticed that the elderly Archdeacon Pierrepont had found some sort of very long rod, with a hooked loop on one end. Was it a bargepole? Although she, like everyone else, had grown up with the old saying ‘I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole’, she’d never actually known what a bargepole looked like.

  As she claimed her own bit of grassy bank by laying out their towels, she noticed that the old man was slowly walking along the bank, prodding and poking about, and at one point, dragged the pole into the side, dislodging rather a lot of mud into the river. He was also smirking in a rather superior manner at his fellow conference-goers who were either energetically swimming along in the current or were shivering pathetically on the outskirts, and trying to look interested in the ducks and moorhens. These feathered creatures were staring at the unexpected human invaders in some alarm from a patch of bull rushes, and didn’t look particularly impressed.

  The female delegate from Bangor gave the elderly cleric a distinctly less than charitable look as he went by her. He was swirling up a lot of silt that was washing her way and beginning to stain her pristine white costume.

  He stopped to give a patch of river weed a particularly vicious prod, and twisted the hook around a lime-green clump, pulling it free and letting it float into the current. There it overtook one of the more lethargic swimmers, who watched it go past with a surprised double take.

  ‘The squire’s here, I see,’ Caro
le Anne said a shade sardonically, and Monica turned just in time to see Sir Andrew Courtenay execute a rather neat little dive from low down onto the river bank and surge strongly out into the middle of the river. He alone of the company looked to be very slightly tanned, and wore a pair of plain black trunks. He also displayed a fair amount of muscle in his upper arms, indicating a fit and healthy lifestyle. ‘Hmmm, he’s rather fit, isn’t he, for a wrinkly?’ Carole Anne said, with grudging admiration.

  Monica hoped Carole Anne wouldn’t try flirting with him. She’d have to keep an eye on—

  ‘I think Sir Andrew is a little worried about our health and safety,’ a voice said behind them, and Monica turned to find the Reverend Jessica Taylor walking up to them. She’d already changed into her costume which, Monica noticed with some dismay, was distressingly similar to her own.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I think he’s here to keep an eye on us and make sure one of us doesn’t drown and then sue him,’ Jessica laughed.

  ‘Rather hard to do if you’ve drowned,’ Monica grinned back.

  Jessica laughed and then frowned slightly as she saw Monica give her costume another look. ‘What? It’s not too young for me, is it?’ she asked with some alarm. ‘Only I do so like the colour.’

  Monica grinned, pulled off her own concealing dress, and said drolly, ‘Me too.’

  The two women eyed their almost identical costumes and burst out laughing. ‘Is it as bad a faux pas as wearing the same dress?’ Jessica asked, giggling slightly.

  ‘I hope not,’ Monica said. ‘Come on, quick, let’s get in before anyone notices.’

  ‘Right, and before I lose my nerve. My friend went in five minutes ago, and assured me it wasn’t too cold. Mind you,’ Jessica said wryly, ‘it was rather hard to tell, since she was a bit breathless at the time.’

  ‘Oh don’t,’ Monica groaned. ‘Come on. It can’t be that bad.’

  Bravely, the two women scrambled down the river bank, where the others who had gone before had thoughtfully created a bit of a path through the vegetation, and almost simultaneously put one foot cautiously into the water.