by Phil Rickman
55
Build a Cathedral
Mustn’t push it. Move yourself into deep shadow, introduce the subject of Edward Elgar and watch it forming in the milky lamplight … what your old boss, Dick Lydon, the Hereford psychotherapist, would have called an elaborate fantasy structure.
Except maybe it wasn’t.
There was clearly something wrong with Tim Loste. No question there, except what was it? There was whisky breath, but this wasn’t normal intoxication. For long periods, his thoughts would appear fluid. Usually when he was interested in the subject under discussion.
Elgar. Anyone who didn’t understand what Elgar was about, Tim had no time for them. Fortunately, he hadn’t had to mix with many people like that. The only child of orchestral musicians, he’d grown up in Sussex, not far from Brinkwells, Elgar’s house when the composer was living down south.
The place where he’d met Algernon Blackwood, writer of ghost stories and sometime-magician.
Lol came back to sit on the bale. He said he knew about Brinkwells.
‘Ah…’ Tim beaming whitely in the lamplight. ‘So not like most of the airy-fairy types who come out here.’
‘Friend of Dan’s,’ Lol reminded him.
‘Dan … ?’
‘Finest tenor in Much Cowarne?’
‘Good old Dan.’ Tim’s eyes were cloudy again. ‘Often meet people here, all times of the day and night. Disappointing. Wispy types. Never want to talk about Elgar.’
‘Brinkwells,’ Lol said. ‘You were at Brinkwells.’
‘I was drawn to it from an early age. Six? Maybe earlier. Had a nanny, for when the parents were on tour. Used to take me to Brinkwells until I could go on my own – just the fields around there, you know? Better when I could go alone. We’d go for walks, and he’d be pointing out things. Look at this, young ’un.’
‘Your nanny was a bloke?’
‘Not the nanny, old cock.’
Tim leaned forward, hands on knees, his big face uptilted, summoning memories. Or the ones he’d fabricated earlier?
‘Used to wait for him. Or he’d wait for me. There were some old trees – bit like this. You could stand by the trees and he’d be there. He loved those trees. There was a legend that they were supposed to have been monks who got bewitched. When Blackwood came to visit, he took him to see the trees.’
‘Were they oaks?’
‘Suppose they must’ve been. What do you make of these, young ’un, he’d say. Can you see the monks?’
Lol wondered how much of this Tim had blocked in, years later. It wasn’t unusual for an only child to have a famous imaginary companion. Even one who must, even at the time, have been dead for over forty years.
‘He loved all trees, didn’t he?’ Lol said.
‘I’ll say.’
‘What about the Whiteleafed Oak?’
‘Well, of course. This was his favourite walk. This was where Caractacus was formed. And then Gerontius. Everything leading up to Gerontius. But he kept jolly quiet about Whiteleafed Oak. People do. It’s a place of powerful initiation.’
‘Elgar said that?’
‘Did he?’
‘No, I mean was that Elgar or … Winnie Sparke?’
Tim looked away.
‘That lamp getting fainter, do you think, Dan? Need to bring some new batteries. Should we switch it off?’
‘You keep the lamp here?’
‘Under the hay. With this.’ Tim tugged out a stiff-backed folder covered in brown leather and opened it up on his knees. ‘Don’t always need light here, though, if there’s a moon.’
‘You come here a lot?’
Lol leaned into the light so that he could see what was on the pages. Tim closed the book quickly. It was musical manuscript. A score.
Tim leaned over and switched off the lamp, inflating himself into this hulking shadow against the chalk-dust night.
‘Tim…’ Lol hesitated. ‘Do you think Elgar knew about the idea of the perpetual choirs?’
Tim looked for him.
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Friend of Dan’s.’
‘Yes, but … were you in my choir once?’
‘Dan talks about you. You made a big impression. He told me about the night you divided them into three and sent some of them to Little Malvern Priory and some to Redmarley D’Abitot.’
‘Hmm, yes.’ Tim seemed to relax. ‘Redmarley – that was terribly significant, you see. Elgar’s mother’s family came from there. His mother carried the strand. A countrywoman. My mother – bit of a townie, didn’t like me to go out without a mac or walk on the wet grass. But Elgar’s mother encouraged her offspring to go out in all weathers, so that they were always at home with nature whatever the conditions. So they were, you know, part of it. Yes, Ann Elgar’s family were actually from Redmarley.’
It was like talking to very old people. Ask them what they had for lunch and their minds went opaque, but talk about the past and the stories came spinning out, green-mouldy tape gliding smoothly past still-keen magnetic heads.
‘What about Little Malvern?’
‘Well, that was important because it’s where Elgar’s buried – at the Catholic church there, St Wulstan’s. Didn’t want to be planted there – didn’t want to be buried at all. They had to talk him into it, and I suppose he agreed for the wife’s sake. Terribly proper, Alice, a traditionalist. What Elgar really wanted was for his ashes to be scattered where the River Severn meets the River Teme.’
Lol gazed out between the uprights supporting the open front of the barn at the secondary oak tree with the white, dead branches.
‘And when you separated the choirs, it was important that the three churches were in the Three Counties.’
‘It was just an idea,’ Tim said. ‘Played around with different permu— permutations. Different churches. Winnie…’
‘It was Winnie’s idea?’
‘It was all Winnie’s idea, at first.’
Tim’s voice down to a whisper.
‘Dan was telling me about Wychehill Church,’ Lol said. ‘St Dunstan’s. He was a patron saint of music, wasn’t he? Was that the quarry guy, Joseph Longworth’s idea? He was paying for it so he got to choose?’
‘St Dunstan was an Abbot of Glastonbury.’
‘Where one of the original perpetual choirs was said to be.’
‘Yes. Winnie … spotted that at once. She always says that once something is put in train, all sorts of wonderful coincidences occur in a pre-ordained sort of way.’
Tim fumbled around in the straw and then looked up, dismayed.
‘Didn’t bring it, did I? I always bring water from the Holy Well. Can’t understand—’
‘Maybe you dropped it somewhere.’
‘No, I—’ Tim was clenching and unclenching his fists like the grab mechanism on a crane. ‘Must’ve left in … in a hurry.’
‘Never mind,’ Lol said. ‘Why did Winnie want you to come to Wychehill?’
I’m the chap who’s come to see God.
‘Well … the church had been built for the performance of choral music. Longworth wrote to Elgar asking what he could do to make amends … having heard that Elgar and Bernard Shaw were jolly miffed about the damage caused by the quarrying. Elgar … not in the best of moods at the time … wrote him a cursory reply saying something like, Oh, go and build a damn cathedral! Winding Longworth up, really. Quite surprised when Longworth wrote back saying, where do you want your cathedral, then?’
‘Where did you find out about this, Tim?’
‘Parish records. It’s all documented. More or less. So when Elgar realized the chap actually had a few quid to spare, he decided that he’d better give it some thought, and he consulted some people. Blackwood and a chap he knew in Hereford. Watson. Ley-line man, you’ve probably heard of him – all you Whiteleaf Oakies, as Winnie used to call them, are into … all that.’
‘You mean Watkins? You mean Alfred Watkins?’
‘I … sure. Yah.
Watkins. Friend of Elgar’s when he lived in Hereford. He’d been doing some work around the Beacon, mapping out his lines, and he’d come across the foundations of what appeared to be an ancient chapel or a monk’s cell at Wychehill and told Longworth that if he built his church there it would be a very significant thing to do.’
‘So what you’re saying … Watkins and Elgar advised Longworth to build his church on the ley from Whiteleafed Oak along the Malverns. Was Blackwood involved in this, too?’
‘Winnie was sure he must’ve been. Former member of … something or other…’
‘The Golden Dawn.’
‘That’s the outfit. Studied magic.’
‘Blackwood wrote a novel, The Human Chord, about a man’s attempt to recreate celestial music. Call out the secret names of God.’
‘You really know your stuff, don’t you? Glad we met. But you know, I don’t think I’m even supposed to talk about this.’
‘Tim, is it possible that Elgar – in later years, perhaps by talking to Blackwood – did know about the supposed significance of Whiteleafed Oak?’
‘Winnie thought he must have been at least instinctively aware of— Why am I here? Do you know? I don’t remember. I don’t—’ Tim began to tremble like he’d been hot-wired, his engine coming alive. ‘What am I doing? Can you help me?’
Lol bit his lip, hands pressing into his knees.
‘God?’
Tim’s eyes filled with panic.
‘Ed,’ he said. ‘Where’s Ed? Can’t do it without Ed.’
56
Tennis Courts
No choice. Merrily had to go with Spicer.
And she was close to frantic.
‘It’ll take twenty minutes. Please.’
They were getting into Spicer’s Golf outside the rectory. His car, he could call the shots.
‘Merrily, if there was one thing I learned in my former life it’s that preparation and intelligence are invariably more important than skill, technique and courage, all that stuff from the comics. There’s something I need to know before we go anywhere. Something I need to check before we pick up your Mr Robinson. It won’t take long, and it won’t wait.’
‘Are you going to phone the police, then, or shall I?’
‘I told you, it’s in hand. I made a call while you were screaming at poor Winnie. Thought you needed to get that out of your system.’
‘Good of you.’
‘I’ve a trusted friend who’ll contact the right person in the police and explain it fully. Otherwise it could get messy. And another thing you need to know. Tim Loste didn’t kill Winnie. You got that? He didn’t kill Wicklow and he didn’t kill Winnie.’
She stared at him, his face flecked with the colours of the dashlights.
‘On what basis can you possibly—?’
‘Oh, and I didn’t either, in case you were considering that possibility. This is not what you thought. There is evil here. On an almost unimaginable scale. And we do need to collect your friend at some point. Right now, though, there are things I need to know that could save us all some grief.’
‘Grief?’
‘I blew it, Merrily. I left things too late. If it’s anybody’s fault, what’s happened to Winnie, it’s mine. Should have got them out of that church a week ago. Should never have let them in.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Nor me, yet. Not fully.’
Spicer turned left.
‘This is the road to—’
‘Old Wychehill Farm.’ He put on the headlights. ‘Now listen to me. We’re going to be quite open about this. If Preston’s here, it’s best you stay in the car, and I’ll run some parish business past him. It’ll be unconvincing but it doesn’t matter a lot at this stage. I don’t think he’ll be here, but I need to be sure.’
Spicer drove carefully into the valley, on full beams, and pulled up conspicuously in the centre of the courtyard, gravel spurting.
There were lights in the big house and a couple of wrought-iron lanterns twinkling romantically among the stone holiday units. But the outbuildings themselves were in complete darkness and there were no other cars around. No signs of holidaymakers in residence. The Victorian turret, the pines and the monkey puzzles were stage-set silhouettes against the pale, powdery night.
The idyllic effect spoiled only by the figure, naked from the waist up, legs braced, the shotgun levelled at the windscreen of the Golf.
‘You fucking stop there!’
Spicer kept the engine running.
‘Best if you don’t get out just yet, Merrily.’
‘You really think…’ Merrily was sinking slowly down the passenger seat ‘… I’m going to get out?’
‘Get fucking back! I’ll take your fucking head off!’ Spicer lowered his window.
‘Hugo?’
‘One more step I’ll blow your fucking windows out!’
The twelve-bore vibrating, shards of moonlight on the twin barrels.
‘Kid’s a bag of nerves,’ Spicer murmured. ‘Something took him over the edge.’ Shouting out of his side window. ‘Syd Spicer, son. Come for your old man.’
‘You’re fucking lying!’
‘Been a bad night, ain’t it, Hugo? Don’t make it worse. I’m coming out. All right? I’m gonner walk under the lamp, to your left, so you can see it’s me. Promise you I won’t come any closer. Just under the lamp, yeah, so you can ID me?’
‘You keep back…’
A jerk of the shotgun.
‘No worries.’ Spicer got out of the car, walked across to a wrought-iron lamp projecting from one of the buildings. ‘Now. See?’
‘Who’s that with you?’
‘That’s Mrs Watkins. The lady vicar? You’re making her nervous, Hugo.’
Finally recognizing Spicer, Preston Devereaux’s younger son lowered the gun just fractionally. Through the car window Merrily could smell fumes like a smouldering bonfire or an incinerator.
‘Sorry to scare you, son,’ Spicer said.
‘I wasn’t—’
‘Nah, nah, you got good reason to be wary, way things’ve been lately. Louis with you?’
‘He’s with Dad. They’re meeting a guy about … installing tennis courts.’
Tennis courts?
‘Tennis courts, eh? Smart move.’ Spicer walked up to the boy. ‘Be having an eighteen-hole golf course next.’
‘Yeah. Look, I’ll tell them you—’
Spicer’s back blurred across the windscreen. Merrily didn’t see how it happened, but it happened in near-silence, and when Spicer stepped aside he was holding the shotgun and Hugo Devereaux was writhing on the lamplit gravel.
She gasped, sat up, springing open the car door and rolling out to find Spicer breaking the shotgun, taking out both cartridges, putting them one by one in his pocket.
He looked down at the boy. ‘God have mercy on you, son.’
But she saw that he’d taken off his dog collar.
What followed was surreal and desperately chilling. Reality distanced, like she was watching down the wrong end of a telescope. The mind’s way of handling an experience that was both alien and vividly shocking.
They’d followed Hugo Devereaux into the house and Spicer, still wearing his black gloves, was opening doors and cupboards like a burglar. Seemed to know his way around as well as if he had the layout in his head.
Kicking open the door of the Beacon Room with its long window, the British Camp like a high altar, hard under the haloed moon. Syd stopping to listen in the churchy stillness.
‘Cellars, Hugo?’
‘By the back stairs.’
‘Keys?’
‘I’ll get them. But there’s nothing down there.’
‘Good. You go first.’
Spicer no longer had the shotgun with him, just a bunch of keys on a ring. Merrily followed them, hanging back, trying to filter out what was most important: primarily that, if Spicer was correct and Loste hadn’t murdered Winnie or Wicklow, Lol was in no direct dan
ger at Whiteleafed Oak. It was something.
Spicer had followed Hugo to the top of some stone steps going down. Curving. No handrail. Fluorescent lights were stammering on. Hugo – couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen – was stumbling in front of Spicer without argument, his head bent, his body occasionally twitching in pain. Merrily staying well back, a hand on the wall on either side. Not trusting Spicer, not by a long way.
The cellars at the bottom had strip lights at crazy angles on the low ceilings. There were several rooms and Spicer checked them all before motioning the boy into a square and windowless cell where wooden crates and cardboard boxes were stacked.
‘Can I ask you to do something, Merrily? Could I ask you to go back to the car and, if Mr Devereaux or Louis or both should happen to appear in their new Land Rover – or, indeed, if anyone appears in anything – drive out past them and blow the horn, once.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘I’ll be talking to my friend Hugo, and if he helps me, as I’m sure he will, I’ll join you in a very short time.’
‘Why have you taken off your collar?’
‘I was hot. I swear to you before God that I’m doing the best I can to spare lives, prevent violence. I might be proved wrong, and that’s my responsibility—No!’
Hugo had been edging towards the door.
‘Don’t, son,’ Spicer said wearily. ‘Please. I can hurt you very badly in a very short time, and if you insist on making me prove it we’ll both be very upset. No shame in this. In your place I’d cooperate fully because I’d realize the situation was seriously weighted against me. We understanding one another, Hugo?’
Hugo’s narrow face was white under the striplight, except for eyes which looked hot and red. His cheek was grazed and flecked with grit from where he’d fallen outside.
Spicer said, ‘I’m sure Mrs Watkins would be more inclined to do what I’m suggesting if she thought you weren’t going to get hurt.’
‘Fuck off,’ Hugo said.
It had never sounded feebler.
‘Man’s world, eh, Hugo?’ Spicer said. ‘Was that what it felt like when you were dealing with Winnie? That wasn’t like Wicklow, was it? Wait in the cave or somewhere out of sight, then a quick bang on the head and the rest is just … well, just basic butchery, piece of cake for a country boy. Done some slaughtering, have we? Pigs, maybe? Enjoy that, did we? Made us feel like a big, grown man? Power of life and death?’
