Remains of an Altar mw-8

by Phil Rickman

  ‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ Merrily said.

  ‘Whaddaya think, it’s Elgar’s freaking ghost?’

  Tim Loste had vanished into the church and the oak doors were shut. At the porch entrance, Winnie Sparke didn’t move. Her arms were slim but unexpectedly muscular, tanned and taut.

  ‘And this is just as close as you get today, lady. He’s in a delicate state. You need to show some respect.’

  ‘You were laughing.’

  ‘I’m laughing, he isn’t. I’m happy he’s out.’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Some other time. Jeez, he was accused of killing a guy … with a knife? They had him in some interrogation cell, threw the whole damn package at him, hour after hour, different cops, good cop/bad cop, all that shit. How they make you confess to what you didn’t do. Come at you and come at you till you don’t know whether it’s night or freaking day.’

  ‘Bad experience, Winnie, but I didn’t get him arrested. My business here’s road accidents. And that’s as good as over. I’m just drawing lines under things.’

  ‘Well, you go draw your lines someplace else.’

  ‘Why don’t you want me to talk to him?’

  ‘That’s how you choose to see it, you go right ahead. You put it all on me.’

  Unbelievable. Was this really the same woman who, a couple of nights ago, in this very spot, had been all let’s-get-together and explaining how the rocks were in pain, telling Merrily how cute she was?

  … And her kittenish fawning and her, Oh, don’t you look so cool today, Paul.

  ‘All right,’ Merrily said. ‘How about I just talk to you?’

  ‘Later.’ Winnie Sparke’s eyes were like smoked glass. ‘I have to take care of Tim.’

  In the church, the organ started up, low and growling chords. Winnie smiled.

  ‘Giving himself a fix.’

  ‘He’ll be OK on his own for a while, then.’

  ‘Look, I’ll call you sometime. OK?’

  ‘It’s a public place, the church. I often go into other churches to pray. I think I feel the need—’

  ‘No…’

  Winnie’s hands were out, clawed again.

  ‘You really going to scratch my eyes out? Winnie, I’ve been messed about for days, and my daughter’s got some problems and I need to go home. I’m asking for a few minutes of your time. Or if you’re determined to have an unseemly cat fight to prevent me entering a church…’ Merrily unslung her bag, dropped it at her feet. ‘Then let’s do it.’

  The sun burned down and the church shimmered.

  ‘OK.’ Winnie Sparke’s hands fell, her shoulders slumping. ‘But give me three minutes to go talk to him.’

  ‘I expect there’s a back door, right?’

  ‘You have my word,’ Winnie said.

  Merrily sighed.

  ‘Save me some time, Frannie,’ Merrily said into the phone. ‘Just tell me why he’s out.’

  Bliss left the line open while he went downstairs to the car park.

  ‘Yeh, it’s true.’

  ‘I know it’s true. I’ve just seen him. When did they let him go?’

  ‘Your friend Sparke collected him from Worcester about an hour ago. The DNA evidence was, to say the least, inconclusive. But, mainly, other developments have altered the focus of the case in a way more meaningful for me, as an observer.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  ‘With the usual proviso. The murder I told you about in Pershore – the drug dealer tortured and shot in his car, Christopher Smith? We may have his killer.’

  ‘In custody?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, although he won’t be signing a confession. What happened, two mates of Smith’s, encouraged by a modest reward and considerably emboldened, no doubt, by news of Roman Wicklow’s death, have now come forward to say that they saw Mr Smith leaving a nightclub in Worcester on the night of the killing, in the company of Mr Wicklow. Mr Wicklow being, as we’ve learned, a man who inspired considerable fear in his community.’

  ‘Wicklow murdered Smith?’

  ‘It begins to look like it.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Apparently we do not, at this stage. But it’s usually a simple territorial dispute.’

  ‘So if they were both dealers and Wicklow was working for Khan, who was Smith working for?’

  ‘Dunno. It was part-time with Smith, he had a day job in an abattoir. Maybe he was also working for Khan. These situations get complicated. Maybe Smith had been unreliable and Wicklow was assigned to take him out. We don’t know, Merrily, that’s the honest answer.’

  ‘But Loste is off the hook.’

  ‘’Course he isn’t. They just had to let him go for the moment. No DNA pointers, and the CPS advised that there was insufficient evidence to support a murder charge.’

  ‘So they could have him in again?’

  ‘He’s a big lad, Merrily, and clearly three sheets in the wind.’

  ‘But surely the idea of a former music teacher killing a man who’s now emerging as a cold and practised assassin…’

  ‘Look,’ Bliss said, ‘I agree with you. Like I said, I think it’s drug-related and even though there’s evidence of Loste trading with Wicklow on the Beacon, if it was me I’d be looking to talk to the friends of Mr Smith – the ones we don’t know about yet. And Raji, naturally. But it’s not me, it’s Annie Howe, and Howe’s still keen on Mr Loste. On the points scale, one nice, educated, upper-middle-class killer is worth at least five street urchins.’

  Surprisingly, Winnie Sparke came out of the church. Alone, but it was a start.

  Merrily guided her to Longworth’s tomb under the Angel of the Agony. Winnie seemed uneasy about this, glancing up a couple of times before perching on the edge of a step. The Angel’s half-spread wings were shielding them against the sun, but in a predatory way.

  The hell with him. Merrily sat down and leaned a shoulder into the lower folds of his marble robe.

  ‘Sometimes this job can be quite damaging to your faith, Winnie.’

  ‘I don’t care for faith. Faith is intellectually lazy.’

  ‘OK, skip the theological debate.’

  ‘It’s your show.’

  ‘Until I ask you something you don’t want to answer.’

  Winnie shrugged. The organ started up again, something that Merrily half recognized. Not Elgar, too clipped, like fine topiary. Bach?

  ‘Bottom line, here?’ Winnie said.

  ‘Bottom line is the ghost of Edward Elgar. It’s the only reason I’m here, and I’ve wasted enough time on it. And I’m fed up with being circuitous. Did Tim make it up, or did he, in some way, conjure it up? Is he disturbed, sick or just a drunk?’

  ‘You want me to place a tick against one of the above?’

  ‘Or if a fourth possibility got missed out along the way…’

  ‘And what if I was to tell you…’ Winnie looked down into her lap ‘… that I didn’t know?’

  ‘I thought you’d at least have an opinion, all the esoteric subjects I assume you’ve studied.’

  ‘In order to write books, it helps to study.’

  ‘Is that still what you do?’

  ‘It’s an income. Not a good one. Better in the States. Life is more expensive here, and Mind, Body, Spirit books don’t sell so many.’

  ‘Are you doing a book on this?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Is that why you’re playing it close to the chest?’

  Winnie didn’t answer.

  Merrily said, ‘I don’t write books. Sometimes I have to make reports, but they’re internal. Say, for the Bishop, or as a safeguard against comebacks, or background notes for my successor in the job.’

  ‘This may be the book I get remembered for,’ Winnie said.

  ‘Not just another New Age paperback.’

  ‘No. I came over ten years ago on account of an English guy who was … who proved to be not Mr Right. Not even Mr Halfway Right. Couple years ago,
I realized that if I was to stay – and I kind of like it here – I needed a project that would turn over some bigger money. I conceived the idea of a book that would explore the spiritual roots of musical creativity, through Elgar and the Malverns. I have a degree in ancient history and anthropology, although I knew I was gonna need some help with the music.’

  ‘You had a new angle on this?’

  ‘I visited here, found Longworth’s church and also this cottage that was proving hard to shift off the agent’s books on account it was too small and the quarrying had left no place to extend and it was dangerous for kids and stuff like that. I could afford to buy, if I sold my apartment in London, which was what I did. And then, at a conference on Elgar at the Abbey Hotel in Malvern, I met Tim.’

  ‘Someone who could help you with the music.’

  ‘More than that. A whole lot more. Tim grew up in Sussex, near Elgar’s home there, Brinkwells. He’d always felt there was something between him and Elgar that was … going someplace.’

  ‘Creatively?’

  ‘Creatively, yes. Which basically was how he wound up in Malvern. In most other areas, around this time, I should tell you, his life was a mess. He’d split with his girlfriend, he was starting to drink too much and he was pretty close to getting fired from his job at the college.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘This would be just over a year ago.’

  ‘So you and Tim…’

  ‘Began to work together. To get this out of the way, I need to tell you that there’s no physical relationship. Situation was, there was someone else in my life at the time.’

  ‘Preston Devereaux?’

  ‘Stop.’ Winnie’s expression didn’t alter.

  ‘Don’t go there?’

  ‘On no account.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Tim’s parents live in France, and he was closest to his grandmother. When she died, he inherited a substantial sum of money. By this time, I’d researched the situation here, pertaining to this gentleman.’ Winnie gently tapped the tomb. ‘I drew Tim’s attention to a house that’d come on the market in Wychehill.’

  ‘Caractacus.’

  ‘It seemed too perfect. It’s an ugly house, but it’s in the right place, and I … I should’ve explained that Tim’s primary problem was an inability to reach the heights as a composer. He’d always written music, his knowledge and his technique were never in doubt. He taught with flair and sympathy. His original work was … of a standard. There was a barrier between him and … what I call the sublime. The fact that he could never get beyond that caused him intense emotional pain.’

  ‘But he bought the house…’

  ‘He didn’t want to know about the house. He didn’t want to see me. I gave up on him. A week later, he swallowed a bottle of pills with most of a bottle of whisky, walked out in the street and collapsed. I didn’t know about this, I’d been down in London, tying up the ends of my divorce and seeing friends. I didn’t know how close he came to death. I didn’t know anything about it until he showed up at my door, couple of weeks later, and said he’d had a dream, while they were fighting to save him in the hospital. Like The Dream of Gerontius. You listened to all of that yet?’

  ‘Twice. In my uneducated way.’

  ‘Gerontius dies. He’s an old man, not a young man like Tim, but no matter. Gerontius either dies or he’s in a deep coma. Whatever, he sheds the body load and loses the weight of his pain. And he meets with his guardian angel.’

  ‘A woman, in my version.’

  ‘It’s always a woman. So Tim arrives at my door – a moment I relive quite frequently – and he tells me that he now understands that I am his guardian angel.’

  ‘And how does he know that?’

  ‘From his dream. He says he awoke in hospital knowing it. And now he goes along with me. He buys the house and we meet with the Rector and Tim starts to play the organ in church – there was an old guy who fumbled his way around the keys, he was happy to let it go. And then, quite quickly, the choir was formed. People love to sing. They love to have the music drawn through them, like silk. The choir comes out of the three counties, building its reputation, refining its membership. It’s a fine choir, growing toward the sublime.’

  ‘So Tim has died and come through to a new level? His old life has dropped away, he’s in a new place, with a new—’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘This was what you meant when you said you believed that purgatory could be dealt with in this life. Tim is physically purged, with a stomach pump, and then—’

  ‘Gradually, I became aware of a pattern. A grand design of cosmic proportions. And I can see from your eyes, Merrily, that you’re sorry we got here.’

  ‘No, I— He hasn’t exactly stopped drinking, has he?’

  Winnie Sparke stood up. Her face and neck shone with sweat.

  ‘Go deal with your kid, huh? You’re Episcopalian, and this is Catholic theology. You have an inbuilt antipathy.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Women priests … that’s a political thing. I’m not being … I mean, there’s no spiritual basis to it, right?’

  Like she was the very first person to say that.

  ‘Is it part of your image, to come over as mercurial, Winnie?’ The heat was getting to Merrily’s patience. ‘Or are we simply approaching another area that you feel it would not be advantageous to get into?’

  ‘You’re not ready. You need to go away and consider this. I don’t believe you’re ready, spiritually, emotionally or intellectually, to feel the heat of the sublime.’

  ‘Whereas … you are?’

  ‘You have to excuse me,’ Winnie said. ‘I have things to do.’

  37

  Spiritual Malnutrition

  A tractor and trailer were rattling past, down the lane from the track which led into the hills. Merrily climbed into her boiling car in front of Starlight Cottage and slammed the door, the mobile clamped tight to her ear.

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t hear for the traffic.’

  ‘I just said, she’s here,’ Lol said.

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, the direct sun making a pulsing orange light show on her eyelids.

  ‘Thank God for something.’

  ‘And the piece in the Guardian…’ Lol said. ‘I’ll read it out to you.’

  When he’d finished, she asked him if he’d mind reading it again. He read it again, slowly, while Merrily was opening all the car windows.

  ‘It could be worse, couldn’t it? She lied about her age.’

  ‘To make her an adult,’ Lol said.

  ‘And obviously her terminology –Philistine morons, for heaven’s sake. But the worst thing—’

  ‘She should have told you.’

  ‘That’s the worst thing, yes.’

  ‘It all happened so quickly, and you weren’t around. But she should have told you, and she knows that.’

  ‘I’m a lousy mother.’ Merrily leaned out of the window for more air. ‘I’ll come home. I’ll be home in an hour.’

  ‘No,’ Lol said. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t— Ow!’ Merrily pulled her bare forearm away from the Volvo’s scorching bodywork. ‘Sorry. Don’t come home?’

  ‘I mean not yet. There’s a TV crew around, and they’ll doorstep you, and you won’t know what to say.’

  ‘You’re right, I suppose.’ Merrily ran fingers through her hair; her head felt full of swirling fragments. ‘It’s just—’

  ‘Better to wait until late afternoon, when they’ve all filed their pieces – and without Jane they won’t be able to do much. Most of them might even drop it. It’s not a huge story, after all. And it’s Friday, and … How are things over there?’

  ‘Well, since you ask, it’s starting to seriously piss me off.’

  It was good to unload it all on someone entirely non-judgemental. She told him everything, from Stella Cobham to Winnie Sparke who was all over the place.

  ‘First she’s
doing the New Age paganism bit – springs and water goddesses – and then it’s High Catholic theology and getting lofty about women priests! It gets very hard to listen politely to this crap.’

  ‘I talked to an interesting guy.’

  Lol told her about Prof Levin and a chorister called Dan who, working with Loste, thought he’d broken through to a higher place.

  ‘That must have been nice for him. What a dismal life of spiritual malnutrition we lead in the Anglican Church.’

  ‘But at least you never become bitter and cynical.’

  ‘Sparke…’ Merrily wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Winnie Sparke virtually accused me of not being equipped to grasp the profundity of it. Not equipped to feel the heat of the sublime!’

  ‘The bitch,’ Lol said.

  ‘Time to talk to Syd Spicer. And I mean talk. You’ll look after Jane?’

  ‘Merrily, you sound like—’

  ‘And I also need to ring Morrell.’

  Morrell. What was it about Morrell? You tried to like these people – as a priest, you tried to like virtually everybody, but…

  ‘Before you say anything else, Mr Morrell, it’s my fault entirely. I kept her off school. I decided it wasn’t fair to inflict this situation on you, and as it was near the end of term…’

  ‘But surely,’ Morrell said, ‘you must realize the normal procedure would have been to consult me first. I might well have agreed.’

  ‘Well, yes, but there wasn’t really time. I mean, there it was, in the paper … and I had an appointment.’

  ‘You didn’t know it was going to be in the paper?’

  ‘Well … not this particular day…’

  ‘But you evidently knew, Mrs Watkins, that she was embarking on this madness—’

  ‘Madness? What’s so mad about—?’

  ‘—Under the pretext of an A-level project, and didn’t think to inform me.’

  ‘According to Jane you already knew.’

  ‘One thing I most certainly did not know was that she’d taken this unscientific nonsense to the media. But I had warned her that repeatedly playing truant in order to pursue some misguided campaign against the local authority was going to get her into seriously hot—’