Unholy Dying

by Robert Barnard

  But he had wanted to.

  He put the thought behind him. The fact that he had wanted to represented a victory, not a defeat. If he had not wanted to, the story would have had no moral significance at all.

  He read through to the end, went back to check one or two details, then threw the paper on his desk and turned to talk to Margaret.

  “It’s bad,” he said.

  “Very,” she agreed. “Quite horrible.”

  “The question is, how do we respond to it?”

  Margaret did not blink at the word “we,” but stood beside him, considering.

  “Could you issue some kind of statement?” she asked.

  “Then you think there ought to be some kind of reply?”

  “I don’t see there’s any alternative.”

  “Not dignified silence?”

  “How can you make sure the silence is seen to be dignified, and not taken as an admission of guilt?”

  He thought about this, then sighed.

  “You’re right, I suppose. I hate the thought of dancing to this man’s tune. My instinct as a rule is to turn the other cheek. It’s the most effective countermeasure I know, and hardly anybody ever tries it. But if it could be taken as an admission of guilt . . . There’s another thing. I’m not the only one here to consider. There’s Julie, the slur is on her as well. I wonder how they’ll take it on the Kingsmill estate.”

  “From what you’ve told me, I should think they’ll take it very much in their stride,” said Margaret with a touch of grimness. “They might turn her into some kind of local heroine.”

  “You’ve got a point there. Quite rightly they might see her as a victim. But there are other people to consider too—her family, for example. I always found them antipathetic, but they are Catholics, and slightly more than nominal ones. . . . But so be it: some kind of reply will have to be made.” He happened to glance out the window as he spoke. In the road outside, unusually, there were people loitering, watching the house. He made up his mind at once. “Yes, definitely it will. I wonder if there is anyone sympathetic in local journalism whom I could arrange an interview with. And I could put him or her in touch with some of the more open-minded members of the St. Catherine’s congregation, if that would help, and not get them into trouble.”

  It was the beginning of an hour of fairly hectic activity—a great relief after his weeks of passivity and waiting. By chance he knew Brian Marris, the very man Cosmo Horrocks had first consulted. He was a worshiper at the nearby Greengates church, but had been brought up in Shipley. When he telephoned him as an ex-newspaperman who probably still had contacts, he caught him already rather shamefaced, having discovered that the story he had been consulted about had broken. He told Pardoe of his minor role in Cosmo’s news gathering, and put him on to a probably sympathetic soul at the Bradford Telegraph and Argus.

  “The fact that it’s a woman probably won’t do any harm,” he said. “Look, would you like me to ring her and arrange it?”

  “I’d be very grateful.”

  “What time would suit?”

  “Anytime suits these days. I’m not going anywhere.”

  While he waited for her Pardoe rang one or two of the St. Catherine’s congregation. He spoke in particular to Miss Preece-Dembleby, and after her to Mrs. Jessel. He was glad to find both staunch supporters, but he said little about the case, and merely asked them if they would be willing to talk to a well-disposed reporter. That in itself would be sufficient to arouse the Bishop’s ire. He impressed on both of them the need for caution and tact. “We want the whole thing dampened down, not stirred up further,” he said. “I’ve no desire to start a war.”

  The reporter who finally arrived was the sixth to ring the doorbell, not to mention attempts at telephone contact. She, of course, was the only one to be admitted. Her name was Jenny Snell, and she was thirtyish, attractive, and forceful. She said she didn’t want to take sides, thought her piece would be more effective if she didn’t, but she was willing to put his side as cogently as possible. Pardoe sat with her for well over an hour, laying all the facts of his connection with Julie Norris before her, and keeping well away from his sense of grievance over the Bishop’s handling of the case. At the end of the time Jenny Snell sat back in her chair in Margaret’s sunny sitting room and looked at her pad, considering the story in all its aspects.

  “Money,” she said at last. “The Father Riley Fund.”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Is that your Achilles’ heel? Did you hand over vast sums to Julie Norris?”

  “I handed over no sums at all. I bought her a secondhand washing machine (since broken down), and a secondhand stove, and also several bits of furniture, usually from charity shops. It can’t have come to more than two hundred pounds in all.”

  “Why the fuss, then? Why does it come into the investigation?”

  Father Pardoe shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “Maybe because the Fund was used at all. I’d been under pressure over it for some time, because the use it was—is—put to is at my discretion. The Bishop wanted the Fund to be used for more general charitable projects, not to be channeled toward individuals, because he said that sort of need ought to be met by the Social Security system. ‘Ought to be, but isn’t’ was my reaction to that. But the Bishop got the two trustees on his side, and I thought it was politic to go along with it for a while.”

  “So what sort of charitable project did the fund get used for?”

  Pardoe shifted uneasily once again.

  “I simply don’t know. Virtually nothing in the Shipley area, and it was in Shipley that the fund was supposed to be used.”

  “I see. Did you bring this up with the Bishop or the trustees?”

  “Well, eventually I did. . . . You probably think me slack, remiss, but the truth is the Fund didn’t loom particularly large in my parish work. I had a little bit of money to play about with when there were cases of need, and then for a time I didn’t—or didn’t use it. There are other ways of relieving poverty and distress. But when I applied for a sum to buy equipment for the youth club and was turned down, I started to get the feeling that the Fund had simply sunk into disuse.”

  Jenny Snell frowned in bewilderment.

  “But I thought you had sole say in the use of the Fund?”

  “Under Father Riley’s will, yes. But when it was agreed that it should be used for more general charitable purposes, I could see that the sums involved might be large, and that it would be better if decisions were taken more formally, and higher up. The decisions were too big for one unsupervised man. And since I wasn’t in sympathy with the new role for the Fund anyway, I said I would leave the decisions to the Bishop and the trustees.”

  “I see,” said Jenny Snell.

  “The Bishop is a man of unquestionable probity,” said Pardoe quickly. “A mite authoritarian, but that’s how things are in our Church. I think you must be very careful how you use this.”

  “I will be. I’ll write that section now if you like, so you can vet it. But how did you come to start using it again?”

  “There was no problem. I’d never relinquished my rights under Father Riley’s will. I simply wrote to the Bishop and the trustees saying there were two cases of distress in the parish of the kind the fund was intended to relieve, and I would therefore be making use of it.”

  “I see. Two. Who was the other one?”

  “A very old woman in a very old Council flat, terrified of running up high electricity bills, and therefore risking hypothermia much of the time by sitting there in coats and blankets but without heating. I bought her a modern, more efficient heater, and took over responsibility for the bills. She died a couple of months back, but at least in her last year or so she was warm.”

  “That’s all to the good, I think,” said Jenny Snell. She began scribbling on her pad, then handed over the result to Pardoe. It was a tactful and deadpan account of the fund and his use of it, which managed to not even men
tion the Bishop.

  “That’s fine,” said Pardoe, handing it back. “He won’t like its being mentioned at all, but this man Horrocks has made it inevitable.”

  “It’s the sex angle the public is going to be interested in,” said Jenny. “Will you be insulted if I ask you some categorical questions?”

  “No.”

  “Are you the father of the baby Julie is pregnant with?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who the father is?”

  “No. If we ever got near to the subject, I could sense Julie shying away. All she ever said was that she could expect no maintenance from him.”

  “She might find herself under pressure from the Social Security people to give them his name,” commented Jenny. “Have you ever had sex with Julie?”

  “I have not.”

  “And were the things that you bought for her from the Fund in any way payment for any other sort of favors?”

  “They were not.”

  Jenny snapped her notebook shut.

  “I think that’s all. We may have to meet again, or at least talk on the phone. You’ve got to face it: this could be a story that will run and run.”

  “I do hope not.”

  Jenny was sympathetic.

  “If you speak or if you stay silent, I’m afraid you’re caught either way. I’ll try to see that your side is presented with dignity.”

  “There are worshipers at St. Catherine’s you could talk to.” He gave her the names of Miss Preece-Dembleby and Mrs. Jessel. “They said they wouldn’t mind talking to you.”

  “They’re strong supporters?”

  “Yes.”

  “I may have to talk more generally to the congregation. See how strong support is, how strong the opposition.”

  “That’s perfectly fair. I’ve no objection. But I’d rather you held back for the moment, and only did it as a last resort.”

  “Fair enough. Well—good luck.”

  When she had gone, Father Pardoe felt drained. He went to his bottle of Irish whisky, which he had now brought downstairs so that his occasional drink became a social one. He poured himself a modest slug, then called to Margaret in the kitchen. She knew what he would be asking her, and shouted through that she would like a gin and tonic. When she came in they sat together companionably and he gave her an account of his talk with Jenny Snell.

  “She seemed a nice girl,” Margaret commented. “But it could get you into more trouble with the Bishop.”

  “I suppose so. Of course I have the well-being of the Church at heart, but I’m not sure lying down under injustice is the best way of promoting it. There are times when you have to kick up a rumpus.”

  “Of course I see that. It’s just that what I’d really like to see is you back at St. Catherine’s, doing what you’ve always done and what you do well. And I want that for your sake as soon as possible. Not that I won’t miss you—”

  “I hope you will.”

  “—but I’ve always hated to see power unused. And it’s plain as plain that you’ve been a wonderful parish priest. I wish we had as good a one here.”

  They had stood up, taking their empty glasses into the kitchen. When they had put them on the draining board Margaret turned around and smiled good night at Pardoe. On an impulse he put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Thank you for what you just said.”

  He felt her body so relaxed, in contrast to his own tensed one, that he was about to clasp her more tightly in sheer gratitude, kiss her more tenderly, when she pushed him gently away.

  “That’s enough,” she said. “We don’t want to fall into anything, do we?”

  Going up to bed he pondered the possible significance of her words.

  CHAPTER 8

  Parish News

  The public and sensational airing of the Father Pardoe story, anticipated though it had been by many, still weighed most heavily on his supporters in St. Catherine’s congregation, though it was also a cause of anger and disgust to the local Catholic hierarchy. The majority of the congregation did not take the West Yorkshire Chronicle, contenting themselves with the local free newspaper, but those who did were soon on the phone to their friends, and casual sales of the paper increased dramatically in the Shipley area. It was not prurience alone that impelled the faithful to go out and buy: they pored over the story because they knew at least one of the players in it, and they probably would have done the same if they had known someone involved in a spectacular road pile-up. When they had read it and got a handle on the ramifications of the story, they got on the phone to other friends and either passed it on or chewed it over. It was something of a red-letter day for most of them, even if they shook their heads and said how shocking it all was.

  Miss Preece-Dembleby—Edith to a very small circle of close friends—took the paper daily, and so was one of the first to learn that the story had broken. She read it through, then reread it carefully. It was part of her nature and her style of life to do nothing precipitately. Then she got up, opened a window, and lit one of her very rare cigarettes. Her mouth, when she was thinking a matter through, usually set in a hard, tense line, and when she had finished her cigarette she walked around the house for some minutes more, the muscles of her face unusually tight. She was facing up to aspects of the situation that had not seemed to her hitherto to be of any importance. Now, apparently, judging by the newspaper coverage, they were very much part of the equation. She made a decision, then went into the living room and picked up the phone. She knew the number by heart.

  “Five nine six three seven one.”

  “Hello, Raymond.”

  “Edith. I’m at the office.”

  “I know you’re at the office. That’s where I rang.”

  “I mean I’m busy.”

  “But you haven’t got a client.”

  “How can you know that I haven’t got a client?”

  “Because you answer the phone differently.”

  Miss Preece-Dembleby’s tone in talking to her brother had altered significantly in the past few years. They had lived together from the time of their parents’ death, she making a home for him in the house that had been left to her rather than to him because their parents had not seen her as a likely wage earner, or wanted her to be one. Raymond at that time had worked in a bank, though later he had branched out to become a fairly high-powered independent accountant.

  Things had changed four years before, when he had married. He was by then forty-six, and Edith Preece-Dembleby considered that if you had not married by then you could have no enthusiasm or aptitude for the state and would do very much better to let it alone. This feeling was not a selfish one. Though her brother’s presence in her house was not an oppressive one—he was out from eight-thirty to five-thirty every working day, and had engagements on most evenings—still, she preferred to live on her own. But when Raymond started paying court (in somewhat lugubrious fashion) to Nora Fitzgerald, she thought that either he was making a fool of himself or he was lining his own nest. She had no other objections to the match. She liked Nora, who was a widow of an Irish farmer who had enjoyed the windfalls strewn on rural heads by the Common Market’s wise men in Brussels. Nora’s children were grown up, she had no one to please but herself, and she welcomed the move to England and a rather more exciting social life. Edith had predicted the worst, and had a nagging sense of dissatisfaction that so far it had not happened.

  “Raymond, listen: the story has broken—the Father Pardoe story.”

  “Oh, what a shame. What do you mean, ‘broken’?”

  “It’s in the Chronicle today.”

  “Oh, Lord. Aren’t journalists foul?”

  “It’s not a profession for gentlemen. There are a couple of paragraphs in the story about the Father Riley Fund.”

  “What?” Edith remained silent, knowing he had heard, her forehead crinkled at the violence of his reaction. Oughtn’t he to have expected it? “Why on earth would they be interested i
n that, when there’s all that stuff involving Julie Norris?”

  “The stuff about Julie Norris seems to involve the Fund.”

  “I mean all the sex stuff.”

  “There is plenty about her too, and her parents. They come out very badly. . . . You’re one of the trustees, Raymond, aren’t you? I’m a bit puzzled because I thought Father Pardoe gave over control to you and the Bishop.”

  “Only for a time. Look, Edith, don’t worry your head about the Fund. It’s really nobody’s business.”

  “How can you say that, Raymond? It’s in the papers. Of course people are going to ask questions, and they’ll do so whether you regard it as their business or not.”

  She heard her brother groan.

  “If journalists ask, that can be handled by the Bishop’s office.”

  “Parishioners are going to ask too. The money was left for their welfare.”

  “Well, you can leave that to me.”

  “Why did Father Pardoe resume control, Raymond?”

  “I didn’t quite say that. Look, Edith, this isn’t women’s business. I really can’t answer questions on it.”

  “There’s no need to get pompous, Raymond.”

  “I am not getting pompous.”

  “Many people would find your attitude toward what is women’s business very old-fashioned.”

  “I sincerely hope they would. You and I are not late-twentieth-century people, Edith, let alone millennium people.”

  “I think I can speak for myself about what sort of person I am.”

  He sighed.

  “All I meant to get across to you, Edith, was that this matter is confidential.”

  “Well, that wasn’t what you said, Raymond. I’m beginning to be rather glad that this matter, at least, is coming out into the open.”

  She put the phone down, and resumed her thoughtful walk around the house. Her brother, having only his office, did not walk about, but sat slumped in his chair behind the desk. He was as thoughtful as his sister, but a great deal more unhappy.