Remains of an Altar mw-8

by Phil Rickman

  ‘I’m a former Cathedral chorister, I’m proud of my county’s link with Elgar. His homes at Birchwood and then here in the city. His many connections and friendships at the Cathedral—’

  ‘I know.’

  Embarrassed by her ignorance, Merrily had picked up a slim guide to Elgar’s Herefordshire, skimming through it before Sophie came in. It was a start.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Sophie said. ‘May one ask?’

  ‘Well, with your help, as an Elgar enthusiast and a Cathedral chorister for … how many years … ?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘… I want to look at it sensibly. Because whatever your misgivings about the idea of Elgar’s ghost, my instinct is that there is something.’

  Sophie scowled.

  ‘Please? I’ve a christening this afternoon, and then I’m supposed to go to this parish meeting. Or not.’

  Sophie went to sit at her own desk, waved a limp hand.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘I need to know enough to be able to discount crap, but I have to be prepared for the possibility of it not being crap. Which would leave two options: an imprint or what Huw Owen would describe as an insomniac.’

  ‘A restless spirit.’

  ‘In this case, an angry spirit, disturbed – much as you are – over the invasion of the Malverns by the hoodies and bling element. Which is a potentially sensitive issue because of … well…’

  ‘Racism. Always the weapon used against us. As if appalling behaviour and criminal acts should be protected for so-called cultural reasons.’

  ‘Lol reckons that, with Elgar, it wasn’t so much political patriotism as a pure love of the countryside – the landscape itself. That in fact he even developed a bit of a distaste for “Land of Hope and Glory”? That true?’

  ‘I suppose he had misgivings about the jingoism in the words. He was a lifelong Conservative, however, Merrily, never forget that.’

  ‘Although, unless I’m wrong –’ Merrily remembering something else from Elgar – A Hereford Guide ‘– a good friend of lifelong socialist George Bernard Shaw?’

  ‘No, you’re not wrong,’ Sophie said, maybe through her teeth. ‘What point are you making?’

  ‘Just trying to form an opinion on whether, in theory, the raging essence of Edward Elgar might be summoned, like King Arthur from his cave, by a blast of trip-hop over his sacred hills. If something’s happening, then something must have set it off.’

  ‘You don’t believe that for one minute.’

  ‘Open mind, Sophie. It’s what this job’s about.’

  ‘And what’s the alternative?’

  ‘The alternative, if we’re accepting the possibility of a paranormal element, is an imprint. Spicer says Elgar used to bike through Wychehill, maybe stopping for a pint of cider at the Royal Oak.’

  ‘Possibly when he was exploring the location of his cantata Caractacus, in the 1890s. Its main setting is Herefordshire Beacon.’

  ‘It’s about the last stand of the Celts against the Romans?’

  ‘A legend now discredited. The final defeat of Caractacus was probably not, as once suggested, on the Beacon. Which wouldn’t have bothered Elgar too much. He simply loved the drama of it and … was fascinated, I’m afraid, by Druid ritual. Blood-sacrifices and prophecies in the oak groves.’

  ‘I should listen to it.’

  ‘Yes, you should, but you’ll find it essentially a patriotic work dedicated to Queen Victoria. Ending with what I expect you would call an imperialist rant – the British might have been defeated this time but would rise again, with an empire greater than Rome’s.’

  ‘I expect it was … of its time. And presumably – again – he didn’t write the words?’

  ‘Elgar told his publisher that he’d suggested the librettist should dabble in patriotism, but didn’t expect the man to “get naked and wallow in it.”’

  Merrily smiled.

  ‘Actually,’ Sophie said, ‘thinking about this, his cycling phase might have begun later, although it certainly started at Birchwood. Possibly while he was completing his masterpiece, The Dream of Gerontius.’

  ‘That’s not set in the Malverns, though, is it?’

  ‘Merrily, your ignorance of great music astonishes me. It’s set in the afterlife.’

  ‘Erm … OK. But we can assume Elgar was familiar with Wychehill? Travelling that road – on his bike or on foot – drawing from the landscape and also projecting his imagination into it. Fitting the criteria for an imprint – a recurring image in a particular location. A recording on an atmospheric loop.’

  Sophie’s face was expressionless. Merrily wondered sometimes if she believed any of this. Even for someone as unwaveringly High Church as Sophie, Christianity could still be a discipline rather than a journey of discovery.

  ‘He undoubtedly did draw from the landscape and always saw his music through nature. Even as a boy, sitting by the river, he said he wanted to write down what the reeds were saying. Much later he was to say that the air was full of music and you just took as much as you required.’

  Interesting. Merrily made a note.

  ‘His principal biographer, Jerrold Northrop-Moore, an American, says the Cello Concerto projected to him – in America – an image of a landscape he’d never seen, and when he finally came over to Worcestershire it all seemed strangely familiar. He also suggests that Elgar’s pattern of composition reflects the physical rhythm of the Malvern Hills.’

  ‘And Lol said that when he was dying…’

  ‘Either he was being gently humorous in his final hours or he truly believed his spirit belonged in the hills. Does that fit your criteria for an imprint?’

  ‘Maybe more than that,’ Merrily said. ‘But let’s settle for an imprint for the moment.’

  ‘And is that necessarily bad? An animation that simply replays itself?’

  The phone rang and then stopped as Sophie reached out a hand. She sat back and rearranged her glasses on their chain.

  ‘Linking Elgar with road-death, however, is abusive to the point of indecency.’

  ‘People are worried.’

  ‘And to allay their fears, you call upon God to banish the spirit of a genius?’

  The phone rang again, and Sophie hooked it up. ‘Gatehouse.’ She covered the mouthpiece. ‘Might it not be appropriate to bring this whole issue to the attention of the Bishop?’

  ‘Not yet. Let’s see what happens tonight.’

  So where did you go with this?

  Perhaps you started by strolling across the Cathedral green to confront the compact, tidy gent in bronze, leaning…

  … On his bike. Of course he was.

  Mr Phoebus, if this was Mr Phoebus, didn’t have a lamp. But then his wheels didn’t have any spokes either.

  It was, Merrily thought, essentially a modest, unobtrusive piece. Life-size, dapper: Elgar the bloke. She sat on the grass in the sunshine with an egg mayonnaise sandwich, contemplating him from a distance while finishing off Elgar – A Hereford Guide.

  Finally, she wandered across.

  Could you … ? Keeping a respectful distance. Could you possibly help me, Sir Edward?

  Look, this wasn’t stupid. Sometimes … call it intuition, call it divine inspiration, call it…

  But Elgar had higher things on his mind. Overdressed for the weather, he was gazing at the Cathedral tower with its unsightly scaffolding. The Cathedral where he’d spent so many hours – even, in later years, recording some of his music there.

  Look, I accept that I don’t know enough about your work. I’m sorry. I hope to deal with that.

  No reaction.

  No impressions. No guidance. Elgar was miles away, and music was Merrily’s blind spot. In church, anyway. All the trite Victorian hymns she’d been trying to edge out of services for the past two years.

  Everything the sculpture had to say to her was written on its plinth. A quote which someone – maybe even a committee – had thought essential to an und
erstanding of the man and his work.

  But it was interesting.

  ‘THIS IS WHAT I GET EVERY DAY. THE TREES ARE SINGING MY MUSIC – OR AM I SINGING THEIRS?’

  Merrily walked around Elgar, looking over his shoulder, following his gaze.

  ‘You’re asking me?’

  17

  Isolated

  In the scullery, the answering machine was bleeping petulantly when Merrily got in. Bride’s mother requesting a second rehearsal for one of next week’s weddings – how much time did these people think you had? Then a reminder that she was expected to chair the Ledwardine Summer Fair planning meeting next Monday, and finally a hollow pause, a throat-clearing and this mild but slightly pompous southern Scottish accent.

  ‘Mrs Watkins, my name is Leonard Holliday, and this concerns your visit to Wychehill. Pointless calling me back, I shall be all over the place. I simply wanted to say, as the chairman of the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group, that I’ve inspected your Hereford Deliverance website, and frankly I think your presence at the parish meeting would not be helpful.’

  Sounded as if he was reading a prepared statement.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been quite an hysterical reaction to some regrettable incidents. Some people are seeking to sensationalize a serious issue, in a way which would only make our campaign look fatuous. Therefore, on behalf of my committee – and we’ve made our feelings clear, also, to the Rector – I’d like to request that you do not attend this meeting. I’m sure you can see the sense of this. Thank you.’

  Merrily sat down at the desk, watching the machine reset itself. Some insect rammed the window and bounced away.

  Right.

  She called Syd Spicer. If there’d been some change of heart in Wychehill, he ought to have told her about it before now.

  No answer. Not even an answering machine. What kind of rectory didn’t have an answering machine? With less than an hour to spare before she’d need to leave for the christening, she rang Directory Enquiries and obtained numbers for Preston Devereaux and Joyce Aird.

  Devereaux first.

  ‘No, this is Louis.’ A deep drawl, but a young man’s drawl. ‘He’s out, I’m afraid. Who’s that with the rather sexy voice?’

  ‘Thank you. My name’s Merrily Watkins, I’m calling about—’

  ‘The exorcist. Cool.’

  ‘You’re Mr Devereaux’s son, I take it.’

  ‘I’m going to be fascinated to see what you do.’

  ‘You may be disappointed.’

  ‘I really don’t think so, Mrs Watkins. My little brother found your picture on the Net. I think he’s taken it to his bedroom.’

  Merrily sighed. ‘When will your dad be in?’

  ‘Not for hours. He has meetings all day. But he’ll be back for yours, you can count on that.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Good to know there was still respect for the Church. She hung up and dialled Joyce Aird’s number.

  Engaged.

  Merrily was close to being late for the christening when Frannie Bliss phoned. ‘As I hadn’t heard from you, Merrily, I assumed you’d stumbled upon something in Wychehill which your conscience was telling you it was inadvisable to share with the Filth.’

  ‘For once, I don’t actually think I know anything useful – not to you, anyway.’

  ‘Witnesses never know what they know until it’s squeezed out of them by a master interrogator.’

  ‘How long would it take to fetch one? I’m a bit pushed right now.’

  ‘I hope God finds you less offensive, Merrily. All right, I’ll tell you something. Our experts, examining the remains of the Mazda car belonging to the late Mr Lincoln Cookman, killed in Wychehill in the early hours of Saturday, had occasion to remove the spare tyre. And found a neat little package containing forty assorted rocks. And, no, he wasn’t a geologist.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You’re assuming he’d just picked up the package at the Royal Oak.’

  ‘If you only knew how hard I’d tried to come up with a better explanation.’

  ‘And are the police planning to do anything about this? Raid the Oak?’

  ‘I think that would be an embarrassingly fruitless exercise, don’t you? Something like this, you only get one chance, and I’m waiting for firm intelligence. I gather there’s a meeting on in Wychehill, at which the problem of the Royal Oak is likely to be raised.’

  ‘Yes, it’s – tomorrow. Isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s tonight, Merrily.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I’m a detective. We were planning to look in, on an unofficial basis, but I’m told that would now be rather obvious.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to leave for a christening in a couple of minutes and then I was hoping to have a serious discussion with my only child when she gets in from school. What are you looking for?’

  ‘Well, certainly something more than general rowdyism and weeing over walls. Like if illegal drugs were coming into Wychehill itself? Must be a few likely teenagers there. If we were to receive a serious complaint from a parent or two … Something I can dangle in front of Howe. I’m looking for a lever, Merrily.’

  ‘I’m a vicar, Frannie.’

  ‘And a mate,’ Bliss said. ‘I hope.’

  After the christening of Laurel Catherine Mathilda and a brief appearance at the christening tea in the village hall, Merrily walked up to the market square under an overcast, purpling sky, and decided to wait for the school bus.

  She looked up towards Cole Hill, but you couldn’t see it from here, although you could from the church. Wished she had time to investigate this ley line for herself. Leys … well, they were something she still wasn’t sure about. They could never be proved actually to exist, but they had … a kind of poetic truth. They lit up the countryside.

  And if Jane had found a way of lighting up the countryside without drugs…

  Best not to get too heavy about her taking a day off school. As long as she didn’t make a habit of it.

  Merrily looked down into Church Street, at Lol’s house. Wished she could light up the countryside for him. Under the shadow of middle age, he was understandably uncertain about his future. Set for stardom at eighteen and then robbed by bitter circumstance of what should have been the glory years. Too old, now, to be the new Nick Drake. His comeback album was selling reasonably well, he’d done gigs supporting Moira Cairns and the two old Hazey Jane albums had been remastered. But it still wasn’t quite a career.

  Now he was writing material for the second solo album. It wasn’t going well. Although he didn’t say much, she could feel his fear sometimes.

  She turned, as the school bus drew up on the edge of the square and some kids got off.

  And Jane didn’t.

  Merrily’s heart froze. Stupid. This didn’t automatically mean she’d skipped school again. Sometimes Eirion picked her up. However…

  She went straight home and called Jane’s phone from her own mobile. Jane’s was switched off. She left a message: call now. Put the mobile on the sermon pad and then sat down and rang Joyce Aird in Wychehill.

  ‘I’ve caused a lot of trouble, haven’t I?’

  Merrily was cautious. ‘In what way, Mrs Aird?’

  ‘I had a visit…’ Her voice sounded unsteady. ‘I was told this could bring us the wrong sort of attention and I’ve done the community a great disservice. I’ve lived here more than twenty years, Mrs Watkins…’

  ‘Asking for me to come and look into … ? That’s the disservice?’

  ‘I only did what I thought was best.’

  ‘This is Mr Holliday, is it?’

  ‘It’s what we’ve become, I’m afraid. It’s all about how it looks. Doesn’t matter what the truth is any more.’

  ‘Matters to me.’

  ‘You don’t live here, Mrs Watkins. It’s not a nice place to live any more. Nobody’s friendly.’

  ‘Is that since th
ese ghost stories—?’

  ‘I feel I’m becoming a prisoner in my own home. Locked doors and drawn curtains and … and the lights on all night. That’s what it’s come to. I can’t be in the dark. And I love my bungalow. I love the view … I did love it. Now it feels so isolated. I was going to give it till next year, but I’ve been thinking I’d better put the house on the market in the summer.’

  ‘Do you have anywhere to go?’

  ‘Back to Solihull, I expect. I should’ve moved back when my husband died. It’s never the same on your own, though I do love my sunsets.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Joyce, but I don’t think you should jump to—’

  ‘Anyway, don’t you worry. If they don’t want you, there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?’

  ‘I’m sorry … I’m a bit confused here. I’ve had a message on the answering machine from Mr Holliday, who obviously doesn’t want me … but I’m not sure it’s his decision to make.’

  ‘He said the Rector was going to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘Not to come to the meeting. That they don’t want you.’

  ‘I see,’ Merrily said. ‘Would this … have anything to do with the late Sir Edward Elgar?’

  ‘We haven’t to use that name, Mrs Watkins. That’s what I’ve been told.’

  18

  What Remains of Reason

  Inside, the huge parish church of St Dunstan was as plain and functional as Syd Spicer’s kitchen. Its Gothic windows were puritanical plain glass, diamond-leaded, and the light on this overcast Midsummer’s Eve was cruelly neutral, showing Merrily how dispiriting it must be for Spicer on Sunday mornings, his meagre congregation scattered two to a pew and less than a quarter of the pews filled. Like a village cricket match at Lord’s.

  But, as Wychehill didn’t have a community hall, the church accommodated the parish meetings, so maybe its ambience would confer stability, calm, wisdom, dignity.

  Or not.

  ‘They found drugs in that car, you know.’ Leonard Holliday – she’d recognized the voice at once – was on his feet across the aisle: crimped gunmetal hair, neat beard. ‘Did you know?’