by McNeir, Leo
“I can’t hear …” Her sister placed a hand over her mouth. Sarah was starting to shake her head, when they both heard a shuffle from below. A cough. Voices murmuring. Men’s voices, deep and gruff, several of them. Sarah was immediately wide awake, pushing back the bedcover, picking up the shawl from the floor beside her bed. The two young women crossed to the window, soundless in bare feet.
“Who is it?” Sarah raised a hand to silence her sister and strained to see down to the lane in front of the house. The moon was nearly full, shining on the church tower beyond the lane, but the shadows from the trees all around were dark and impenetrable. Sarah bit her lip and waited. There was no more sound. She whispered into the ear of her sister.
“Wait here. I shall not be long.” Even as she paused at the top of the stairs, she was aware that her sister was following her. They paused again at the front door and Sarah took a deep breath before she pressed down on the latch. The click seemed to echo through the house like a hammer striking the anvil. From outside there was a stirring as she pulled open the door.
“Hush!” A man’s voice. In the moonlight Sarah could see the dark shapes of a band of men, a dozen or more. One of them set himself in front of her, a familiar figure, one of the farmers who had not gone to the war.
“What is happening here?” Sarah whispered.
“Nothing. Go back inside. We did not mean to wake you.” He spoke in a murmur, his deep voice barely audible.
“But what are you doing?” she insisted.
“No harm. Believe me and go in.” He made to take Sarah’s arm, but she shook it free. On the ground beside the house she could see farm tools, sickles, a pitchfork, staves.
“I will not go until you tell me what business you have here.” She looked towards the church and could see the clock face in the pale light. “It is nearly two o’clock, Mr Pettit.” The farmer turned his head as if he too was looking at the clock. Sarah saw that all the men were staring up at the tower.
“Please, Sarah. Go to bed. We may be here a while yet.” Sarah strained her eyes to look to the top of the tower. All was still. Without another word she turned and went in, ushering her sister up the stairs to their room. She lay awake, not knowing how long it was until she heard movement from below their window, much later as the men shuffled away into the night.
*
Wednesday 21 June
“Oh, Mrs Walker. Good morning. You’ve come to see Mrs Giles.”
“Hallo. Yes. Ten-thirty.”
Valerie Paxton glanced up at the clock. It was two minutes before the appointed time.
“Won’t keep you a minute. The head has a parent in with her at the moment. Would you like to have a seat, Mrs Walker?”
“Thanks. Actually, it seems strange hearing my surname used.” Marnie smiled. “I don’t think of myself as ‘Mrs Walker’. Everyone usually calls me ‘Marnie’.” The secretary looked down at the papers on her desk.
“In schools we get used to surnames, Mrs Walker. I suppose it’s because of the children. Or do London children address their teachers by their Christian names?” There was a definite edge to her voice. Marnie felt she was being reminded of her place as an outsider. The use of ‘Christian names’ also struck her as odd. In her part of London many of the residents were Jewish or Hindu or Moslem. ‘Christian name’ had faded from use a long time ago, but she thought it wise not to underline the differences between her newly adopted home and herself.
“No. I expect it’s the same in all schools. I really don’t mind what people call me.” The secretary began opening the mail using her paper knife, the dagger with the eagle’s head handle. The silence in the office was almost palpable. At ten thirty-five Marnie remembered all the things waiting to be done at the office. She really did not need to be sitting here feeling like a sales rep cold-calling with a special offer on double glazing. The minute hand on the clock clicked one notch further. “That’s an unusual knife. Is it a replica of some sort?”
“No. It’s not a replica, it’s real. Actually, it’s an SS dagger. It used to belong to my father.” Definitely not a good idea to ask if he had been an SS officer, thought Marnie, even in jest, though she thought she detected a certain inherited charm in his daughter.
“He used to say he found it in Hitler’s bunker at the end of the war, but it was not quite like that. He really found it in the Chancellery building. The bunker was in the cellar.”
“It must have had an interesting history,” said Marnie, aware that she had probably not chosen her words very carefully.
“Who knows? Dad was much more interested in the other thing he found there. There was a brand new army motorbike parked in the courtyard. A BMW. It wasn’t even scratched, after all that fighting. He tried the starter and it worked first time.”
“He would rather have brought that back, no doubt,” said Marnie.
“Oh, he did. He rode it round to his lorry and got his mates to lift it into the back.”
“And he brought it all the way back to Britain?”
“The following week. The worst thing was having to leave the lorry parked outside Brighton police station for three days before they got orders to report to Weedon depot.”
“Weedon on the Grand Union?”
“Yes. Just ten miles up the road. He dropped it off here on his way up.”
“Did he keep it?”
“Yes. He painted it black and had it for years. ‘Course, he had to keep it hidden for a while. In fact, he kept it in the little barn at Glebe Farm for over a year till he managed to get it registered.”
“The little barn? That’s probably my office.” Valerie frowned and Marnie felt the atmosphere cooling, but the door to the Head’s office opened and she emerged with another woman. Both were smiling, one in reassurance, the other with evident relief.
“Don’t you worry now. We’ll keep an eye on things. Bye.” The parent left with a smile at Valerie and the Head held out her hand to Marnie.
“I am sorry to make you wait, Mrs Walker. It’s a hazard of our job, I’m afraid. Please come in. Mrs Paxton, can we have coffee, please?” The secretary put the dagger carefully into her drawer. “Ah. The famous paperknife. I’m glad to see you putting it out of sight. It has always made me nervous.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Giles. It’s only used for ceremonial occasions. You’re quite safe.” The Head took it as a joke. The secretary was not smiling.
“Well, let’s get started, shall we? I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Your programme looks first class.” She closed the door behind them leaving Valerie Paxton to make the coffee, wondering why she had taken such a dislike to this newcomer from London.
*
“Do you take milk, Randall?”
“No thank you, Bishop. Black for me.” The Bishop smiled benignly at Rosemary Upton as she left them to their meeting and pulled the great mahogany door silently shut. As the Bishop poured milk from the Wedgwood jug into his cup, Randall Hughes looked over to the tall bay window at the tops of the trees in the palace gardens. Somewhere out there was a city with traffic, pedestrians, a railway, but no sound of it penetrated the inner precincts of the Cathedral Close. He wondered how much the Bishop was in touch with the real world these days and had the feeling that he was about to find out.
“A fine view, isn’t it?” The Bishop followed Randall’s gaze. “Of course, the danger is that you can get too cloistered in a place like this, protected from the pressures of the world outside. At least, that’s what some people think. That’s why I like to be involved in so many activities beyond the palace walls.”
“You don’t approve of the Ivory Tower.”
“No. Though I do approve of academic endeavour. I’d like to hear how your thesis is progressing, but that will have to keep for another time. We have other business this morning.” He looked Randall straight in the eye. “I was going to ask you to come to see me anyway to discuss an important matter. Then, two days ago I received this letter.” He passed
it to Randall and sat back sipping coffee while he read it.
“They didn’t tell me they were writing to you.”
“Does it surprise you?”
“It would’ve been courteous to tell me about the letter, but its contents don’t surprise me.”
“On the face of it, Randall, there’s been a breakdown in relations caused, among other things, by your unwillingness to spend the church fabric fund on school toilets. Is that a fair assessment?”
“Yes. I’ve tried to improve the church over the last three years or so and this is the latest cause of friction. It is on the surface a simple matter of my duty versus the desire of some people to protect their personal interests.”
“To keep the school in the village without threat of closure.”
“Exactly. There is no risk of closure. The education authority is quite clear about this, but the school governors are worried that things could change if there are any more cuts in the council’s budget. Even if this happened, it would make no difference to my view. The building could become dangerous. It is my responsibility not to let that happen.” The Bishop looked down at his cup and drew in a long breath.
“You have my complete support on that matter.”
“Thank you, Bishop.” Randall waited.
“There is … more to this than there seems, isn’t there?”
“I suspect there is.”
“Is it something you’d like to talk about?” Randall hesitated. “Something of a more personal nature, perhaps?” The Bishop leaned forward and poured more coffee for them both. Randall was aware that he was being given time to choose his words. When he spoke, his voice was firm but the expression on his face was perplexed.
“There is nothing in my personal conduct that is remotely connected with the action of the parishioners who wrote that letter.”
“That is what I expected,” said the Bishop. “But I wanted to hear you say it. Tell me, if that’s the case, as that is the case, what do you think is at the back of all this unrest?”
Randall looked uncomfortable. He looked towards the windows and for the first time noticed the ticking of the long-case clock standing in the corner. “It’s almost … I don’t quite know how to put this, as if I’m being observed all the time, watched, judged.”
“Not just because you decided to use a different prayer book or order of service, you mean?”
“No. That may be part of it. But somehow it seems to be more deep-rooted, an animosity bordering on malevolence. I’ve even heard it said that there’s a curse on the church.” He looked up sharply, as if he had been trapped into saying more than he wanted. “Sorry. This must all sound rather fanciful, as if I’m blaming the shades of the past.”
“1645 and all that,” said the Bishop with a shrug and a smile.
Randall’s face darkened. “Here,” he said, “sitting in this room miles away, it seems totally far-fetched. But I’m telling you, Bishop, that there is in Knightly St John an atmosphere, an undercurrent. There’s a very real hostility in the air and it doesn’t come only from a group of parishioners who want me to go back to the old prayer book or spend church funds on the school.”
“I thought you liked the village, Randall.”
“I do. And I have no desire to leave it. Nor do I believe in ghosts.” He smiled. “But I would be misleading you if I pretended that this was a simple matter.”
“Yes. We are after all a broad church. I’m no stranger to that kind of controversy myself, as you know.” Randall nodded at the recollection of the role played by the Bishop in the debate on the ordination of women. “In my position, Randall, what would you do?”
“I would like to think the Bishop might show support for the vicar, explaining his duty and responsibility to the church. But I suspect it may not be so easy as that.”
The Bishop folded his arms and leaned back in the chair, his eyes focused on the furthest corner of the room. “I must admit I’d like to get to the bottom of this strange atmosphere,” he said softly. “It’s been going on for too long. The killer of the vicar in the Civil War was never found, which in itself is not surprising. People keep quiet at such times … reprisals, recriminations.” He waved a hand as if swatting a fly.
“The interesting thing,” said Randall “is that you can read the transcriptions of evidence and the proceedings of that time. It’s all held in the records in the County Archives. Everyone who gave an account seemed genuinely baffled by what had happened. Their words have an air of truth about them. I don’t think anybody really did know who committed the crime.”
“So the murderer was from outside the village? A soldier perhaps? A religious fanatic from an extreme sect?”
“The villagers thoroughly searched the whole building. No-one was found. No weapon. One detail is quite mystifying. It was a rainy night and only one set of footprints was found on the stairs of the tower where the vicar was killed.”
“How can that be certain? Think of all the marks as everyone rushed up to catch the person responsible.”
“It is quite certain,” said Randall. “Two of the witnesses stated clearly that they waited at the foot of the stairs for a torch to be brought over. When it came, they saw only the one set of prints, those of the dead man. Because of that, they searched the rest of the church first, leaving two men to guard the tower. All the accounts of those who went up referred to them stepping over the splashes of blood. There were no other marks.”
“How very curious.” The Bishop steepled his fingers and stared ahead of him. “Come to think of it, even more curious is the fact that no-one confessed later to the crime.”
“Yes.”
“That is most odd. In those days death-bed confessions were common. Nobody wanted to die with something so heavy weighing on their conscience. It seems we shall never know.” The Bishop looked up at the clock. “Randall, I must talk to you about other matters. I’m sorry to be brusque, but I have to leave in ten minutes to catch a train. Now, this is what I want to do …” He leaned forward and as he did so, Randall thought he detected a gleam in the Bishop’s eye.
*
“If ever you decide to give up interior design, I’m sure you’d make an excellent teacher.” The Head finished her coffee and put the cup down.
“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Marnie. “For the moment I think I might be able to continue earning an honest crust at the drawing board.”
“Are you liking it here? It must be very different after the bright lights of London.”
“It is different, but I seem to be just as busy. And I seem to be getting involved in things in ways that didn’t arise in London.”
“Villages can be like that. On the other hand there are some villages where you aren’t accepted until you have three generations in the graveyard. Here, you’re more likely to be invited to join the church flower rota.”
“I’ve met the vicar,” said Marnie. “But he wanted technical advice, not flowers.”
“Technical advice?”
“Only about building matters, the porch. There’s a structural problem. I’m sure you know all about it.”
“But that isn’t really your field, is it?”
“No. He just wanted to be put in touch with an architect.” The Head looked thoughtful. Marnie continued. “Mrs Giles, I don’t normally discuss the affairs of a client with anyone else, but I thought this was common knowledge.”
“Yes, of course. Don’t worry. You haven’t put your foot in it. It’s just a slightly sensitive issue. There’s a degree of bad feeling and it concerns the school to some extent.”
“Well, I wouldn’t wish to make matters worse.”
“That would be hard to do. Things are bad enough as it is.”
“That’s a shame, because it is a fine old church.”
“Yes. It’s beautiful. But it has difficult associations.”
“The Civil War.”
“Among others.” The Head drew in a deep breath and smiled. “But that’s a long st
ory.” Marnie stood up and held out her hand.
“Thanks for coffee. I’ll get everything ready for your visit to Sally Ann. I’m looking forward to it.”
*
“I’m on your side, Randall.”
“The village won’t see it that way, I think.”
“But you know it.”
“Yes. Thank you, Bishop. When do you have in mind for this … change to take place?”
“For everyone’s sake, I want it to go ahead without delay. That would be for the best. Now that I have your agreement, I’ll reply to the letter immediately, explaining the first part of my action. I need another meeting with colleagues before I can confirm anything else.” He looked up at the clock.
“If that will be all, Bishop, I know you have to be going.”
“Thank you for coming to see me, Randall. We must have that talk about your thesis next time. I look forward to hearing about it.” The vicar stood up and took the Bishop’s hand. As soon as he had left the room, Rosemary Upton came in and gave the Bishop his papers for the London meeting and his rail tickets.
“You should make it to the station in good time, Bishop.” She handed him a letter that he quickly read and signed.
“Thank you, Rosemary. I’d like it to go first class, please. I want it to reach Mr Stubbs at Knightly St John as soon as possible.”
*
Marnie walked from the school to the shop and crossed to the post office counter.
“I’d like to open a savings account.”
“Saving up for Christmas?”
“It’s not for me, actually, Richard. I shall pay this amount into it each week for the foreseeable future.” She slid a note under the partition while the postmaster fished out the appropriate form.
“Very nice. In what name should the account be, then?”
“Anne Price. That’s Anne with an ‘e’.”
17
Thursday 22 June was Midsummer’s Day, but at eight-fifteen that morning it was cloudy enough for George Stubbs to wonder if it would be raining by lunchtime. He reversed the Range Rover out of the garage and pulled the door down. He turned to find the postman walking up the drive. They exchanged views on the weather as they had done on countless other mornings and Mr Stubbs asked Alan if he would like coffee. The offer was declined with thanks: “Got a big post today. I’ll be on till lunchtime with this lot. Thanks all the same.” On the top of the small pile of mail was a plain white envelope, typewritten and franked with an emblem comprising crossed keys and a mitre. Mr Stubbs went through to read his letters in the conservatory.
