by Ashly Graham
The fact was that when the devil lady had left London for the country, however she dressed it up in her mind as a step up in death, it had been in a desperate, even last-ditch, attempt to ease some of the pressure upon her and preserve the last vestiges of her self-esteem. As vain an aspiration as she knew this to be—she could run, but she could not hide—she was still confident that her skills might win her enough glory in a less competitive environment than London to reinstate her position in the upper quartile of devilish rankings that used to be taken for granted. Success in so doing would enable her, eventually, to gain promotion to a level that would remove her from field duty, and the constant need to prove herself.
Oh! how she longed to be behind a desk in a management position, one that came with a full staff instead of this one cantankerous flunkey, who she was sure told tales about her shortcomings and failures to his cronies at home, which then would be passed on to her superiors. Just as Madame Cornuel had observed that no man is a hero to his valet, the same was true of her and her manservant.
‘That’s all they think about, isn’t it?’, raged the DL; and she recited the words from her catechism: ‘“Souls tarnished and blackened, seeds of doubt sown, sins and venalities incited, offences encouraged, evils perpetrated, acts of charity denied, good intentions scotched, escutcheons blotched.” “Murder most foul”, quoth the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Effie! I knew that woman was trouble the moment she blew in here the other day. Of all the villages in all the countries in all the world, I had to move into hers!
Feeling like a most unlikely Ingrid Bergman in the movie Casablanca, the devil lady picked up a smoked salmon sandwich from the table and thrust the comfort food into her mouth as she fell into a chair. It was too early for gin in her joint.
Her man’s shock was diluted with a soupçon of smug as he continued his report. ‘Effie’s rallying support behind the crazy curate she lives with, nudge nudge wink wink, Ophelia, and rousting out an army of supporters, all spoiling for a fight. She’s tearing around doling out rock cakes to anyone who’ll have them. Rock cakes. She mentioned rock cakes when she was here, didn’t she? Bakes ’em by the cartload. In fact that’s what she’s using: a cart, pulled around by that borrowed horse of hers.’
The DL’s spirits, such as they were, lifted slightly. ‘I’ll be surprised if they don’t all get indigestion,’ she sneered; ‘I dare say even that woman’s sponges are like concrete.’
‘Nevertheless you might give them a try for tea instead of fish. At least they don’t smell.’
In an attempt to regain her equilibrium, the DL chose to ignore the jibe and put on a bold front. ‘A woman who does battle with a rolling-pin hardly constitutes a threat to one of my experience,’ she said languidly. “Sire, the peasants are revolting!”, said the courtier to King Richard the Second. “I find them disgusting myself”, he replied.’ But within herself she found herself wondering whether it had been wise to leave London. If south of the river was as bad as people made out, it would be fertile territory.
The man said, ‘Let me remind you about Ophelia, the priest woman. This isn’t all about Effie. Ophelia wears sandals and is a certified lunatic. Oxford graduate, Lady Margaret Hall. Some in the Church, those who are in favour of women in the clergy for one reason or another, used to speculate years ago that she might become the first woman bishop. That was before she lost her marbles and split for China. All bets were off after she wigged out.’
The DL’s lip curled like the edge of a stale sandwich. ‘The thought of stooping to deal with a mere curate, the lowliest of the low amongst the ordained, is depressing. To do so would be extremely infra dig. I have a reputation to maintain.’
The manservant’s upper lip imitated his mistress’s, but he curbed his tongue. ‘Perhaps, but get this: she is said to believe in the power of prayer. Or so I’m told by them as know,’ he added slyly, tapping the side of his nose. He instantly regretted this last remark. He was a lowly individual himself, and such information could only have been gleaned from secure intelligence sources that he did not have clearance to access.
Such was her consternation that this did not register with the DL as she sat bolt upright. ‘Great Scott! Are you sure? You know the form, why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Only just found out. I scanned her brainwaves from behind a hedge outside the church. Took the liberty of borrowing your meter after you told me what a bloody useless gadget it was. I didn’t get a chance to run the stats through the computer till this morning—the Server’s been down all week for repairs and I’ve had no time, what with this ruddy kipper-run you’ve had me on, and trying to keep the cats out of the kitchen. Anyway, when I did, I couldn’t make head nor tail of ’em. The brainwaves, not the cats, though I did get close enough to chop a tail off with a meat-cleaver.’
The devil lady was horrified, and not by the Manx-ed moggy. Now she would be required to file a report; the rules were as binding in Hell on this as the Hippocratic oath was to a doctor, with the difference that she had no choice but to adhere to them.
The manservant looked at his mistress inquiringly. He did indeed know the form. ‘Shall I call it in?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she replied as evenly as possible. ‘I’ll do it myself later on.’
He tried to keep the irony out of his voice. ‘Fine. You’re the boss.’ He was disappointed at not being assigned a role after he had brought the matter to her attention. Still, he could circulate the news amongst his colleagues, which would be almost as effective as going through official channels. There might even be a commendation in it for him.
The DL sighed. ‘Keep me posted. The smallest detail, you bring it to me, understand? In the meantime, have Dark summon Ophelia and order her to cause this…menopausal mockery, as he’ll probably put it in that ridiculous way of speaking he has, to cease. He’ll enjoy that, especially if I give him permission to hold the meeting here in order to intimidate her. It may not have worked on Effie but it might on Ophelia if she’s alone. Dark’s an odd fish, one as yet unsmoked, a paradigm of perverse parsonry, but it takes a crackpot to deal with a crackpot. Now clear the table and leave me alone until suppertime. I’ll ring when I’m hungry.’
Wrinkling his nose at the smell of fish-skin and bones, the manservant piled the tea things on the trolley without as much care as should be accorded to Staffordshire bone china. Rattling from the room, he slammed the door behind him with his foot.
Chapter Thirteen
Ophelia agreed to pay Father Fletcher a visit at the Old Rectory, where he had been instructed to receive her.
When the manservant answered the door he was impressed that the mastiffs, instead of displaying their normal aloofness, were rolling on their backs with their tongues lolling out to have their tummies scratched, and whining with subservience. The curate, to his surprise and not a little to hers, for she had not considered how she would behave, greeted the man with such disregard for his lowly status that he thought she must have mistaken him for Dark. Without a word he turned and led her into the drawing-room, where, although the weather was warm, a fire was roaring in the grate. Before it Fletcher Dark was posed in his jet-black soutane. Instead of coming forward to greet her, he waited for Ophelia to weave her way round the furniture, and did not proffer his limp handshake.
‘Don’t hand her a bunch, she’s out to lunch. Omit to ooze unctuousness in an atmosphere of ostentation.’ Dark’s nonsensical ejaculations were a verbal tic, and not consciously intended to be rude or snide. Ophelia advanced and raised the reverend’s damp hand from his side, moved closer and peered into his eyes.
‘My dear Fletcher,’ she said in a whisper of concern; ‘I do hope you won’t mind me calling you Fletcher this early in our acquaintance. I feel I know you so well already. We are so lucky to have you. Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice in your lovely home. Are you quite well? I’m so glad. I, on the other hand, never seem to be able…it’s my health, you know. Some days I do
n’t even know where I am, let alone where I’m going.’ To herself, Ophelia asked what on earth—she hoped it was earthly—was possessing her—she hoped nothing was—to adopt such an ingratiating tone. She suspected that Dark’s umbrageous persona and offensive manner must have triggered some nervous defensive mechanism within her. The senior reverend scowled, slid his hand from her grasp and moved backwards until he stumbled on the hearth and nearly fell. The heat of the fire was intense on the backs of his legs, but mostly he registered a feeling of irritation at being knocked off centre stage. ‘I wonder…’ continued his visitor, wondering what it was that she was about to wonder, but conscious of needing to gather herself, ‘...might I use the smallest room?’ She heard herself speaking as if she were the one being addressed, and half turned away, not knowing how to respond.
Dark’s mouth worked for a moment; then he made an impatient gesture of acquiescence to the manservant, who had taken up his sentinel station by the door. As Ophelia approached like an automaton, he opened it and jabbed a finger at the rear of the hall.
‘Khazi’s on the left.’
After splashing her face with water and dabbing it dry with a pristinely ironed linen hand-towel embroidered with the logogram of the Savoy Hotel in London, the devil lady’s stolen memento of a night on the tiles, Ophelia spent several minutes contemplating herself in the mirror over the basin. When she returned to the drawing-room, her host had moved away from his former position in front of the fire, and was shifting his weight from foot to foot. The sting of the flames had not gone away, and to take his mind off the pain, he was filling the minutes by murmuring some apropos lines recollected from childhood:
‘I really must compliment you both,’ said Ophelia, looking earnestly from one man to the other. ‘I’ve never been in such a beautiful house. It says so much about you both and the tastes you share. I dare say it was your artistic bent that brought you together and makes you such a perfect couple.’ She looked around her with a predatory eye. ‘This room makes a real statement, doesn’t it…it is so you. From the design and furnishings down to the colour of the paint....’
As primed as he thought he was for the meeting, Dark was disconcerted. He had been eager to making the most of his brief authority, and took a moment to reassure himself that he was the one responsible for setting up the interview, that he was in charge, Ophelia’s boss, and that they were on home ground at the Old Rectory, residence of the Lady of the Manor.
‘Bowels of Bathsheba, you switch-hitting bimbo. Tea, coffee? Tempt the tart with toast?’ Politeness had nothing to do with it, he was the one in need of fortification.
‘Perhaps a little of whatever you’re having. A cup of tea would be nice, splash of milk, no sugar.’
Dark barked at the manservant: ‘Two coffees, black.’ Shrugging, the man turned and padded from the room, and, without waiting for his guest to sit down first, Dark threw himself into a William and Mary wing armchair, which creaked in protest, and waved at the high-backed Elizabethan bare wooden settle that he had asked the man to drag in from the hall and place opposite, with the Kashan rug that had occupied the space rolled up behind it.
‘There, make yourself comfortable,’ said Ophelia; and she dipped onto the edge of her seat, barely acknowledging its presence or her need of it. ‘Will the other half be joining us? I do hope so, I should like to get to know him better. Oh, I am so pleased to have this opportunity to observe you together in your domestic environment.’
The veins stood out on Dark’s temples as he leaned forward. ‘You know perfectly well, madam, that this isn’t my house. I live in The Annexe at the back of the property. This is the residence of the Lady of the Manor, who has done me the honour of retaining my services. Previously it was occupied by the former vicar, your ex-superior, whom presumably you met once or twice. The lady is elsewhere today on important business, and she requires that I formally review the subversive nature of your activities with you. That man is her servant. He is not, repeat not, my...my partner. Lallygagging lesbian lingo! Insufferable Sapphic suasion!’
Withdrawing into his chair, after a moment of silence the reverend resumed in a more measured, sepulchral voice. ‘Listen to me attentively. I will come to the matter of your conduct in alliance with that woman, Effie, in a moment. But first, you must understand that I have every intention of discharging my stewardship here faithfully and diligently. And at all times I absolutely require that you support and obey me without questioning my actions and decisions, in a spirit of priestly cooperation. Meaning, that you shall do exactly as I say.’
Observing that Ophelia was not attending, but looking around the room with a sickly expression of pleasure on her face, Dark achieved what in a man of his corpulence passed for rocketing to his feet. His face bulged, his jowls shook, and the wattles of his neck turned crimson. ‘Enough! Bash the bitch’s bonce and…’ For once running out of colluding consonants, with chest heaving he fell back into his chair.
The manservant returned with the coffee. Depositing the Sèvres tray on the low table between the pair, he poured a rich Continental roast into two chipped white porcelain coffee mugs from a Queen Anne silver coffee pot, and resumed his post by the door. His face was twisted with annoyance at having to obey his mistress’s minion, and from a conviction that the interview was doomed. Dark slopped sugar directly from the bowl into his coffee, scattering granules over the tray, and stirred so ferociously with his stainless steel spoon that liquid slopped out. Unable to pick up the cup because his hands were shaking, he leaned over the table and moulded his protuberant lips round the rim. When he sat back and rising bile met descending beverage, he grimaced.
Ophelia ignored her coffee. ‘Fletcher,’ she said, directing her words to a mediaeval gargoyle mounted on the wall—it had large horizontal ears and a fat tongue was hanging out of its mouth to one side. ‘How could I have been so blind? Only now do I see the great toll that life has taken upon you. I blame myself for not detecting it earlier, and can only pray that I am not too late to help. For whereas I am as a reed bending before the gale of iniquity, you, Fletcher, oak of strength that you are, can only fall and be drowned in a sea of troubles. Poor Fletcher.’
Dark gasped for air. ‘What medication are you on, woman? Enough of this Mumbo Jumbo you miserable manky monkey!’
Ophelia smiled. ‘I mustn’t take up any more of your time, for it will only tire you. I’m so glad that I found you at home, both of you, and that we’ve been able to have such a productive conversation. Perhaps now you should lie down for a while before supper? The tea was lovely, thank you.’ She rose.
‘Sit...down!’ thundered Dark, and Ophelia dropped like a sack of potatoes. ‘Suffering slaves of Surinam! Shag the shriven sheep!’ He got up and faced the fire and, staring unfocused into the flames with the heat fierce on his corneas, spoke in a hanging-judge voice. ‘To continue. So far as the lady and I are concerned there is no obligation upon us to keep you in your ministry. Your licence can be revoked at our pleasure. Based upon what I have seen of you so far, which has not pleased me, I should eliminate your position immediately. Fact is, you’re only here at all because your dear Effie pulled a Bunny Girl out of the Archdeacon’s wardrobe. Now make no mistake, woman, from now on you are here on sufferance only, and you need to know that I am not a long-suffering man. Know that from now on I will be watching every move you make, and the first time, the very first…’
As he continued talking Ophelia stood, walked to the door, nodded to the oblivious manservant whose attention was still fixed on Dark, and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Getting up, the remaining reverend paced up and down, his oratorical momentum undiminished as, similarly unaware and still seeing her in his mind’s eye, he cast smouldering glances at the empty settle.
‘But because you undeniably have a way with your congregation, I’m giving you one last chance by charging you with helping me demonstrate to our parishioners, those puffed and reckless libertines, how their treading o
f the primrose path of dalliance, their having chosen to go the primrose way, has led them to the everlasting bonfire. In so doing you shall obey my orders to the letter, as in minding your Ps and Qs and following them to a T. And if you don’t I’m telling you on the q.t. that gorillas will gobble your gonads. So there it is and that will be all, for now. Dis...wait for it, wait for it...Diss…miss!’
Dark looked away for an instant and, when his eyes returned to observe Ophelia’s departure, this time he saw that she was already no longer there, and jumped as if he had been stuck with a pin. Quivering, his piggy eyes blazed with anger and confusion. The manservant, equally dumbfounded, reacted like one released from a spell. Together they searched the room, looking underneath the furniture and behind the draperies; and the man checked the hall, the cloakroom, the kitchen, and the upstairs.
When all possibilities had been exhausted the reverend subsided into the wing-chair, and a dark study, while the man stood before him on the hearth with his arms akimbo, glaring into the fire. Then, crouching, the servant removed a couple of large well-seasoned logs from the basket and placed them, very carefully, at the back of the fire. Although tongues of flame licked up and down his arm, he withdrew it only slowly and inhaled the heat as if it were restorative ozone.
Forming words again, Dark glumly recited to himself his meaningless mantras: ‘Sotto voce, Celia said the cerebral Simon’s semen should survive for seven centuries.’ ‘Should the shenanigan shyster shuck Shivaun’s shawl?’ Propping his chins on his chest he listened to the crackle and shrill of the wood, imagining that they were his own bones burning.
