The Triple Goddess

by Ashly Graham

  ‘Wha...?’ The reverend, his expression owlish with incomprehension, downed another thimbleful of vodka.

  ‘I kid you not. Although it has taken getting on for two hundred years for that letter regarding episcopal extinction to be written, now it shall be done. You will assault the fortress of authority, Fletcher. You pour so much vitriol upon the Establishment that crosiers will uncurl and mitres pop like weasels all over the country. Once the bishops have been dealt with, a man of your cal-eye-bre will have no difficulty in dispatching and disposing of the Rump.’ Dark hitched up his cassock several inches and scrutinized a neon-green sock. ‘How I look forward to seeing you in action.

  ‘Now then, bebby come to mahmah!’ And she popped the last blin in his mouth.

  Dark swallowed his pride along with the caviar. ‘I should possibly mention, Violet, that writing does not come easily to me. At school I was told that I was dyslexic.’

  ‘Have no fear, Fletcher. The pamphlets, I’ll write ’em, all you have to do is deliver ’em.’

  Dark was relieved. ‘Thanks, Vi.’

  ‘Shall we dine, diddums?’

  They got up, Violet tweaked his ear affectionately, and arm in arm they went into the dining room.

  Dinners at the Moated Grange, the reverend had found, necessitated a suspension of disbelief equal to that required for his Jaguarine transportation; but he had soon become accustomed to them. Because service at table was…automated was the only word to describe it…ffanshawe’s ministrations could be dispensed with, and this greatly enhanced Dark’s enjoyment of the ritual. The manservant gave him the heeby-jeebies.

  Upon Violet and Fletcher’s entering the wood-panelled room, candelabras and flambeaux illumined on the ceiling and dining table, dimly enough to be conducive to romantic intercourse. The table was very long and had two chairs only, armed with high backs, one at each end; the intervening mahogany space, when it was cleared, was long enough for an albatross to take off on.

  At present it was elaborately set with an array of sparkling glassware, the finest china, burnished antique silver, chargers for the plates, and ornate cruets and casters, on the finest Irish linen tablecloth. In the middle of the table various covered dishes on hotplates surrounded a centrepiece of satyrs festooning a hilarious Bacchus with grapes.

  ‘Soup, mon p’tit chou?’, said Violet as they took their places. They removed crisp white napkins from carved ivory rings and unfolded them on their laps.

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ The unusually long utensil by his plate puzzled Dark. He vaguely recollected an expression: “He needs a long spoon who sups with the…”

  ‘What kind would you like? Vichyssoise?’

  ‘Gesundheit. I’m thinking perhaps lentil?’ He was hungry, and could handle the spoon.

  Neither of them made a move.

  ‘Should I serve, angel?’ said Dark cautiously.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Her ladyship half stood, leaned over the table with her hands on her hips, and hollered at a soup tureen as if she were addressing an elderly retainer who had fallen asleep on the job. ‘Tureen, hello? Enderby to tureen: Is the tureen awake, and does it know what’s good for it?’ Nothing happened. ‘Why, if that tureen’s so deaf and past its prime,’ she bawled at the delinquent vessel, ‘perhaps I should have it melted down and turned into something useful.’

  Still there was no response. Violet grabbed a bread roll from her side-plate and threw it so hard and accurately that it caromed off the cover with a ping, and flew past the reverend’s ear and off the wall before rolling into a corner. This time the tureen rattled and jumped several inches, and a large quantity of soup despoiled the tablecloth. Then it rose like the vision of a grail into the air and headed for Dark, pursued by its ladle; when the twain got to him the lid rose and soup was dispensed into his plate.

  ‘Come on you dolts, buck up!’ rapped Violet, clapping her hands to ensure that nothing else had dozed off in their hour of need; ‘Is it asking too much for you to be alert at dinner-time? You have all day to sleep. Cover up that mess up at once.’ Dark’s napkin flew out of his lap and onto the puddle of soup, where it sopped up enough liquid for the stain to show through.

  ‘No no,’ she roared, ‘not Father Fletcher’s...serviette, to you peons. Bring him another one at once—ach! not mine—and send up a towel from the kitchen.’ With a clank a dumb waiter opened and a roll of flowered paper towels zoomed over the table. After hovering in a moment’s indecision, it landed softly in the reverend’s soup-plate where, chameleon-like, it turned dark brown. A fresh napkin, as white as a dove, fluttered onto Dark’s lap.

  His hostess held a hand to her brow as if to forestall the onset of a migraine. Her guest was anxious to placate her. ‘Really, dear, it doesn’t matter. I’m not that keen on mulligatawny anyway. Spicy ingredients make me wheeze and far…’

  ‘Mulligatawny? Bloody heaven, you asked for lentil. Lentil soup on the double for both of us, hot and in our plates in fifteen seconds! One drop spilled and you’re all scrap-metal.’ The air filled with a miscellaneous traffic of hardware, which, as quickly as it moved, managed not to collide, and twelve seconds later there was a steaming helping of delicious-smelling soup set before each of them.

  ‘Honestly,’ Violet sighed, picking up her spoon, ‘sometimes I wonder why I bother with gadgetry and gismos, they never do what they’re supposed to. I burn more calories fussing and ordering them about than I ever consume. Slurp away, Fletch baby, I like to hear a man enjoy his food. Pro hoc cibo...I’ll dispense with the rest of the Latin Grace, I can’t afford an ulcer.’

  They set heartily to, the soup was soon gone, and Violet cheered up. ‘What would you like for the main course, sweetie? Let’s see if they can get it right this time.’ She waved a bejewelled hand and braceleted wrist at the covered dishes. ‘We’ve got everything of course. And if we don’t,’ she declared ominously to the room, ‘there are some as will answer for it with their hallmarks.’

  They agreed on roast beef. A steel trolley as big as a minesweeper pulled alongside Dark, and he shrank as a wicked-looking set of buckhorn-handled carving tools materialized over his head. After the huge knife had duelled fiercely with the sharpener, showering him with sparks, the domed cover of the cart rose to reveal a dawn-pink-to-umber side of beef. The pitchfork sank in and with scalpel-like efficiency the blade sliced the meat, which trickled juices like a sluice-gate.

  In a trice the diners’ plates were covered with tender and aromatic meat. Then the other dishes and spoons, which had been standing by at attention in readiness, did their duty with conch-like shells of Yorkshire pudding, crisp with hot creamy insides; roast potatoes, ditto; carrots, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, gravy, and horseradish sauce.

  The couple dug in appreciatively, and a decanter of ruby wine floated back and forth between them, replenishing each glass as soon as it was half empty; which meant that it spent most of its time at the reverend’s end of the table.

  In the selection of dessert Dark gave his imagination free rein and consumed, one after the other from his embarras de choix: apple pie à la mode, crème caramel, îles flottantes, soufflé, syllabub, and zabaglione. Because Violet warned him that the puddings were very competitive with each other, he ate them in alphabetical order so as not to imply any order of preference, and washed them down with a very acceptable Sauternes.

  After discussing the cheeseboard the pair retired to the drawing-room, where they drank freshly ground coffee and ate mint chocolate wafers, and the reverend had several glasses of port. He had fun in opening—at his request unassisted by the nutcracker that was sulking uncomfortably close to his ear, so recently spared by one of the Barts!—a quantity of walnuts; and in demonstrating to his hostess, who complimented him on his dexterity, how he could extract them whole from their cases after cracking them against each other.

  To conclude, while Violet smoked one of her coloured cigarettes, he ordered an enormous cigar, which was clipped and lit for him by an invis
ible hand. Smoking it proved to be a hindrance to conversation, so they contented themselves with blowing smoke rings at each other.

  At last it was time to summon ffanshawe for the trip back to the Annexe, and, after a lingering farewell embrace at the front door, Dark disengaged himself carefully from Violet’s silk and chiffon scarves, and equally carefully detached the Pekingeses from his trousers, and climbed aboard. As soon as they were under way ffanshawe raised the glass partition, and there was a rush of air-conditioning intended to counter the alimentary consequence of the reverend’s lavish repast.

  But this did nothing to lower his spirits, and, after shifting his buttocks on the seat to release a stream of gas, he also gave vent to a vocal appreciation of his evening:

  ‘A lake of lentil soup I ate

  Which prompted him to activate

  The pong extractor and aerate

  The cabin where I sat at ease

  And tried to quell the noxious breeze

  That threatened to asphyxiate.’

  And then, confidentially,

  ‘Brazen hussy,

  Very fussy,

  Loves to gussy,

  Never mussy.’

  And in jocular vein,

  ‘As I was walking by St Paul’s

  A woman grabbed me by the…arm;

  She said you look like a man with pluck,

  Come inside and have a…cuppa tea.

  It might cost a tanner, it might be a bob,

  It all depends on the size of your…mug.’

  Lastly, as he saw the familiar glimmer of lights below, Dark orated a couplet by that same Smith of Smiths, Sydney, quondam Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, who was so often quoted by one who was not dear to him:

  ‘Serenely full, the epicure would say

  “Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today.”’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ‘You know, Violet,’ Dark mused the following night after dinner, as he sat in his comfortable chair in the hall living area before the fireplace and removed the band from a cigar; ‘I was thinking about what you were saying about dismantling the Church of England. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a jolly good idea, but I wonder whether it’s worth all the aggro. The Church seems to be doing such a good job of destroying itself, we might as well sit back and let it finish itself off.

  ‘It would save a lot of effort on our parts. I mean, here we are, an intelligent couple relaxing in each other’s company, and enjoying the finer things in life. We could use the time to travel and see the world. Thank you.’

  This last comment was addressed to the cigar-cutter, which, having propelled itself through the air to snip the reverend’s cigar, was drifting back to its station next to the table humidor. Dark always got a kick out of this, as well as the way a flame appeared from nowhere dead on cue, and an ashtray skidded up the moment it was needed.

  He moistened the cigar with his lips, rolled the straight-cut end in the heat, and drew it slowly alight with soft puffs. Then he closed his eyes and buried his proboscis in his brandy glass to inhale the heady fumes.

  When he did not receive a response to his suggestion, the reverend withdrew his nose and looked to Violet...and sat bolt upright. For Lady Enderby was gimleting her protégé’s skull with the most frightening stare, as if he were a rat. Dark’s skin prickled; he began to sweat and the hair rose on his scalp. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees, the cigar pulled from his mouth and extinguished itself in his brandy, and the glass fell to the floor and broke. Reaching behind him in his chair, he grabbed the cushion and hugged it to his chest like a teddy bear.

  He prayed to himself that he might have dozed off, and be having a bad dream brought on by his unaccustomed gourmet intake playing tricks on his brain.

  Violet spoke in a voice that was the more sinister for being quiet. ‘I think tonight it’s best you don’t return home, Fletcher. Unshakeable resolve is what I told you I needed from you. I was under the impression that we understood each other.’

  Dark, knowing now that he was not asleep, whimpered, ‘We do, Violet, we do.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I’m going to take you in.’

  ‘T-take me in?’

  ‘Give you an opportunity to reflect, and work on your attitude. The timing, though regrettable, is opportune. As it happens I have today been advised that there’s a matter requiring my urgent attention at home. It seems that one of my erstwhile colleagues has decamped the organization...done a runner, a bunk. I’ve been asked to incorporate his responsibilities into mine. I’ll have a seat on the Board and, under the rules of rotation, an opportunity to become, in due course...a very important person indeed. Another first of the sex, in fact.’

  Lady Enderby’s tone returned to normal, the fire died out of her eyes, the temperature went up fifteen degrees, and she shifted her glance. ‘ffanshawe, escort Fletcher to the Dark Tower immediately. The Dark Tower! It could have been named for him, couldn’t it Fanny?, so he should be quite at home there. It is time to wash this man right out of my hair and get some highlights. Jamais plus la politesse.’

  Still clutching the cushion like a lifebuoy, Dark shrank into his seat as ffanshawe, wearing a hideous smirk, bore down on him, plucked the cushion from his grasp, sent it skidding across the floor and pulled him to his feet. Violet, ignoring her guest’s stammered apologies for his stupid and ill-considered remarks, picked up a copy of The Lady and began perusing it.

  ‘The stairs were dark, the stones were dank,

  The chains around his ankles clanked;

  The air was fetid, stagnant, rank;

  The clothes upon his body stank.

  Light fled before them. Eery the gloom,

  Bone-chilling the looming darkness

  As the eye of Evil took in his soul,

  And enveloping Despair entombed

  Him in its barren womb.’

  The words came easily to the reverend’s mind as, after passing through the green baize door that separated the mistress of the Moated Grange’s quarters from those of her domestic, and to the rear of the building, he dragged the ball and chain of his despair up the winding ascent of the Dark Tower.

  For a tower it was and indisputably dark, and much higher than he was expecting, judging from the number of steps on the circular stone staircase.

  Dark tried to focus on the indistinct figure ahead of Lady Enderby’s major-domo. ffanshawe was carrying a shapeless lump of candle on a saucer, the flame from which guttered and smoked in the draught caused by his motion. A ring of keys at his waist was so full that it bristled like a rolled porcupine. The indolent air seemed put out at the intrusion in its domain and, in the leaping light, fantastical silhouettes did a war dance on the curved walls.

  The reverend did his best to pick out with eyes and feet the narrow and uneven steps before him, and keep up; but because ffanshawe held the candle before him, the miniature beacon was inadequate and he tripped frequently. When, many minutes later, he was sure that his legs were about to buckle under the strain, and the next stair proved not to be where it should have been, he lost his balance and pitched forward with the feeling that he was falling over a cliff. He just managed to recover himself in time.

  ffanshawe turned and, as the orange flame flickered on the walls like the stripes on a tiger’s hide, the jarred Dark saw that they had arrived at a landing. Selecting a key, his guide inserted it into the lock of a small but solid-looking door, and turned it in the wards. It grated, and the hinges creaked as he turned the handle and pushed the door open with his shoulder—the wood had warped.

  To the reverend’s relief, his escort went in first rather than stepping to the rear—apparently he did not consider his charge to be a flight risk, and Dark followed.

  As ffanshawe revolved in the middle of the room the candlelight plucked the darkness like a dust-sheet off some simple furniture.

  It was a round space, very small without being claustrophobic, and clean with no musty smell owing to the two wind
ows being open. The ceiling sloped sharply, as if the room was immediately underneath the roof, so that a person of medium height could only stand upright in the centre of the room, the floor of which was bare except for a plain rug. The walls were whitewashed.

  There was a deal table with a huge triple-wicked beeswax candle on it, a box of plain white stick candles and a supply of matches, a chair with a raffia seat, a three-quarter-length cheval adjustable mirror in a wooden frame, and, along one wall, a low-slung iron-framed bed.

  There was no ceiling light and no evidence of any lamps or electrical sockets. The only source of heat was a little fireplace with a grate, next to which was a neat pile of logs that were not much larger than the kindling sitting next to them in a trug.

  At ffanshawe’s beckon, Dark stooped under a low-framed connecting door and glimpsed a bathroom, so small-scale as to be almost dollhouse-like, with a half-sized tub, a toilet with a mahogany seat, and a marble-topped iron washstand with a ewer beside an enamel basin. White bath and hand towels were folded on an open shelf.

  His duty done, the sallow cicerone was impatient to leave. He held his flame to the big candle on the table and the shadows disappeared. Then with a contemptuous look that said, ‘Here you are, and here you stay,’ ffanshawe walked out, pulled the door hard to, turned the key twice, and rattled the handle to verify that it was locked.

  As the sound of ffanshawe’s footsteps down the stairs receded, silence filled the room with what came to Dark as a welcome neutrality after the stress of the last hour, and his first reaction to his imprisonment was a feeling not of captivity but release. Now that his gaoler had left, the atmosphere in the circular space of the cell, despite its Spartan nature and the lack of electric light, or perhaps because of them, was pleasant. The reverend brushed a dead moth from his sleeve and peeled a cobweb from his face. Going to the bed and lowering himself onto his knees, he looked underneath it, saw nothing there, got up, and pulled back the patchwork counterpane.