A Vicar, Crucified

by Simon Parke

  Title Page

  A VICAR, CRUCIFIED

  An Abbot Peter Mystery

  Simon Parke

  Publisher Information

  First published in 2013 by

  Darton, Longman and Todd Ltd

  1 Spencer Court

  140 - 142 Wandsworth High Street

  London SW18 4JJ

  Digital edition converted and distributed in 2013 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © 2013 Simon Parke

  The right of Simon Parke to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Dedication

  To Rowena and Andy,

  For so many years now,

  always there.

  Acknowledgements

  My profound thanks to Elizabeth Spradbery, Clive Williams, Eryl O’Day, Shellie Wright, Anthoulla Kyprianou, Joy Parke and David Moloney - the kind and insightful readers who read the manuscript in various degrees of completion. Sadly, none of you agreed about what needed changing - unanimity always helps the writer; but you all observed and you all made a difference.

  My thanks also to the team at DLT ...

  The murder mystery genre is one I’ve always longed to explore; and DLT, against all the odds, have given me that opportunity.

  Enough.

  Quote

  ‘Murder is always a mistake.

  One should never do anything that one

  cannot talk about after dinner.’

  Oscar Wilde

  Act One

  ‘The thing is, Sergeant, I know all people well in a manner. It’s a gift I have.’

  One

  Stormhaven, England

  Wednesday, 17 December,

  late twentieth century

  ‘Crucified?’ said the hesitant man in the dressing gown.

  ‘That’s the nub of it, Sir.’

  ‘I’m still in my pyjamas, you see.’

  At the other end of the telephone line, the police sergeant struggled for a link.

  ‘I mean I’ve just woken. A rather long night, I’m afraid.’

  ‘On the razz, eh? Tell me about it.’

  ‘A church meeting.’

  All thoughts of razz died in the sergeant’s mind as old ladies and hard pews came to mind. But he wasn’t happy. He wanted to get away and this hesitant man was an irritation.

  It should be said that Sergeant Reiss was easily irritated, a man who allowed a wide variety of people to get on his nerves. In this instance, it was the silences at the other end of the phone. Why the silences? Given the news he’d just delivered, Reiss wanted reaction, some hysteria he could then calm with his ‘man-of-the-world, seen-itall-and-then-some’ manner. He craved that sense of superiority. Instead, he was offered unnerving pause.

  ***

  For the one in pyjamas, fit for his sixty years on earth, it was early for crucifixion. He’d had no coffee, enjoyed no quiet breathing in rhythm with the waves, been given no time to recover his soul from a restless sleep invaded prematurely by the persistent dring-dring-dring of the phone. At the other end was the flat voice of the local constabulary.

  ‘A vicar has been crucified, Abbot. That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘And you’ve said it most clearly, my friend. It’s just not something you hear every day.’ He said this partly out of concern for the sergeant. After all, it was probably his first crucifixion; they can’t be common on the south coast. So he was being kind, allowing for some normal human shock. But Reiss didn’t want kindness; he wanted man-of-the world superiority over this irritating cleric.

  ‘Some days it’s a burglary, other days it’s crucifixion, get over it, we have to,’ he said.

  The Abbot noted the irritation as he noted everything. He’d known within thirty seconds of conversing with Reiss that this unfortunate sergeant suffered low-grade depression and had issues around unacknowledged rage and a poor sense self-worth. Here sadly was someone too brutalised to receive goodness. But now his mind moved on as he wondered whether he knew the victim. It was possible though hardly a given.

  ‘Are you still there?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here, thank you,’ came the reply. ‘As is the tide.’

  For Sergeant Reiss, this was going way too slow. He’d been up all night and was weary to the bone. Admittedly, he’d spent much of the shift eating Jaffa Cakes and reading fishing magazines, but still had room for self-pity. He was the self-pitying sort, born to it, always hard done by, always moaning, always grasping, but never quite given enough in an unfair world. And now he wanted to go home. It was time for a bath and a beer and in such circumstances - and not wishing to sound uncaring because the police are a public service as the inspector often reminded them - a freshly crucified vicar is the last thing you need. Especially when you’re then instructed to ring an idiot who imagines silence can somehow advance the conversation.

  ‘You’re no doubt familiar with the practice of crucifixion, Sir?’ said the sergeant.

  ‘I am,’ replied Abbot Peter, who’d spent twenty five years of his life in the deserts of Middle Egypt, responsible for the monastery of St James-the-Less. He hadn’t always lived by the sea. ‘But permit me a little surprise, Sergeant .’

  ‘The world’s a bastard - Sir.’ The ‘Sir’ was a late addition, too late to suggest any respect.

  ‘So it can appear though crucifixion hasn’t been much used since Roman times,’ observed the Abbot.

  ‘Then it seems to have made a come-back.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Last night, in St Michael’s Church.’

  ‘St Michael’s?’

  The Abbot’s focus sharpened.

  ‘It’s the church by the fish and chip shop.’

  ‘Yes, I know St Michael’s, I know it very well.’

  ***

  St Michael’s was the parish church of the ancient sea town of Stormhaven. It stood at the top of the cobbled high street with a newsagent, a mini-mart, the chippy, a down-at-heel estate agent and a shop that had opened and closed so many times, in so many guises and under so many owners that Abbot Peter was tired at the mere thought of it. It was currently called ‘Hobby Horse’ and sold children’s toys, but no one anticipated a long stay. Suffice to say that Stormhaven, despite the seagulls and ice cream, was not a retail paradise. The Crown, the town’s main hostelry, had been on the brink of extinction for years, returning every so often with a revamped interior, larger TV and a sign saying ‘Under new Management’. But as Peter’s launderette lady said to him, ‘You have to do more than declare “Under New Management” in Stormhaven. You have to wake the dead.’

  But no one, it seemed, would be waking this unfortunate vicar.

  ***

  ‘A crucifixion by the sea,’ pondered the Abbot, mainly to himself. ‘And surely the first crucifixion ever on the south coast of England.’

  He put things in perspective long before he felt them. His friends called him calm, insightful, lethal; his enemies called him distant, isolated and a fraud.

  ‘An untimely death,’ said Sergeant Reiss, remembering the phrase from somewhere.

  ‘As all crucifixions are, Sergeant . There’s really no good time for nailing a human on wood. I’m with Amnesty International there.’

  Reiss wearily clocked another do-gooder, busy with other countries, critical of his own.

  The do-gooder then had to ask the question. ‘Do you know t
he identity of the deceased?’

  ‘We do have a name.’

  As the sergeant searched, with unnecessary and deliberate delay, Abbot Peter listened to the sea. The answer would make a difference to his day.

  ‘Yes, here we are, the crucified vicar was... a Reverend Anton Fontaine.’

  Silence.

  ‘You knew him well, we understand.’

  Abbot Peter allowed the truth in, feeling a little.

  ‘I knew him well in a manner, Sergeant.’

  Past tense, knew, when he’d been speaking with Anton not twelve hours ago. Less than twelve hours ago they’d shared words, shared life. I am knowing, I did know, I once knew; time and tide could be most sudden.

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘A good question.’ Sergeant Reiss dreamed of a straight answer.

  ‘The thing is, Sergeant, I know all people well in a manner. It’s a gift I have.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Sir.’

  The new shift was arriving. If Reiss could wind up business with this idiot and effect a quick handover, he’d be home within the hour to his new home in Burgess Hill. He was mocked at the station for choosing a place most famous for its elderly population. But at least no one dropped used condoms in the street, urinated in his garden or smashed in the windows of his Ford Mondeo as they had done in Newhaven. Scum.

  ‘I have very few gifts, of course,’ added the Abbot, ‘so I notice those I possess.’

  Like a giant pretending to be small, a lion claiming to be a fly, it was sometimes best to disappear into the hedgerow of supposed incompetence from where his talents could be more gently revealed. He’d had the words of Emily Dickinson taped to his desk in the desert:

  ‘As lightning to the children eased

  With explanation kind

  The truth must dazzle gradually

  Or every man be blind.’

  He would play the fool if it helped the moment. But for Reiss, it was time to conclude things.

  ‘The Detective Inspector will be along to see you at about ten, if that’s convenient, Sir.’ They’d be along at ten even if it wasn’t, Reiss wanted to say that. I mean, what was an Abbot doing in Stormhaven anyway? Weren’t Abbots child molesters or was that someone else?

  ‘A Detective Inspector?’ said the Abbot with genuine enthusiasm. ‘I’ll have some coffee ready. But why me?’

  ‘You were apparently the last person to see the vicar alive.’

  ‘Well, not quite the last. Someone else must have gazed on him as they banged in the nails. Crucifixion is rarely suicide.’

  ‘We must I think keep an open mind, Sir.’ The Abbot was aware there were few minds less open than that of Reiss but he played along.

  ‘Of course, Sergeant, we must all bow to the god of openmindedness.’

  ‘You’re in one of those small houses on the seafront?’

  Small. It was the sergeant’s passive revenge.

  ‘That’s right. The last one before the white cliffs rise up in all their English glory from the sea.’

  ‘Each to their own.’

  ‘It’s called Sandy View.’

  There was a pause as Abbot Peter surveyed the stony shore outside. It had crossed his mind that he must be one of the few people to retire to the seaside yet find himself surrounded by less sand than in his previous home.

  ‘I’ll pass that information on, Sir,’ said the policeman.

  ‘And this isn’t a joke?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The crucified vicar thing.’

  ‘A joke?’

  Reiss nearly swore.

  ‘I suddenly fear a comic outcome with Anton dancing into my front room overcome with the mirth and hilarity of it all. He does that sort of thing and it would make a very poor start to the day.’

  ‘It’s unlikely, Sir. His body still hangs in the vestry nailed to the cross on the wall.’

  ‘A good punch line, Sergeant.’

  ‘The Detective Inspector will be with you at ten, Abbot Peter.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘And just to confirm the news, because, well, you do seem to be struggling a little: the Reverend Anton Fontaine, vicar of St Michael’s, Stormhaven, has been found in his vestry in a state of crucifixion.’

  Two

  Hell’s Mouth, Afghanistan,

  Late nineteenth century

  They had finally stopped and the man was removing their blindfolds. Blinking in the dying sun, Gurdjieff and Soloviev took in the scene.

  ‘Welcome to Hell’s Mouth!’ said their guide, happy at last to announce some truly bad news.

  Before them was a rope bridge over a deep chasm. Their adventure had finally become dangerous, which was reassuring. For how can there be an adventure without danger?

  ***

  Gurdjieff, the taller of the two travellers, reflected on their journey to this point. Bokhara had been a flea pit and one they were well rid of. Like all who passed through that trading town, the two young adventurers had wished themselves elsewhere.

  The city had not always been so. For a brief and exhilarating moment in the tenth century, Bokhara had been the centre of all that was civilised and remarkable. Even the stupid were wise in Bokhara, wise by their geography, so clever and inspiring was the climate of the town. The famous doctor, Avicenna, lived there, author of the remarkable ‘Canon of Medicine’, which discerned more about the human body than western medicine could manage even 700 years later.

  Yet all had been destroyed and all made stupid in 1219, when Genghis Khan’s Golden Horde - an inaccurate name - left the lecture halls and art galleries full only of skulls. The bearers of enlightenment were dead and so was Bokhara. Ruled in turn by Iranians and Uzbeks, it was now a Russian toy, made drab and dirty with the neglect of strangers. It was a place to make money but not friends. This was the talk on the street.

  Certainly they’d found few friends on arrival. Once their desired destination was known, every door slammed in their face. Two lepers would have been more warmly welcomed. Some told them that no such place existed. Others said the community they sought had moved from the region long ago. Others simply bid them ‘Go! Go from my house, go from this city!’

  Their most unnerving encounter, however, had been with the thin-fingered man. George Ivanovitch Gurdjieff and his friend Igor Soloviev had been sitting in the market, drinking bitter coffee and looking out for girls. Having been turned down by every guide in the city, they had nowhere to go and nothing to do. A large man had appeared at their table, paid their bill and suggested they go with him and that their search was over. They were intrigued and duly followed.

  Leaving the donkeys, sewage and carpet sellers behind, they zigzagged down alley ways and back streets until quite lost. Gurdjieff suspected they were walking in circles until the large man stopped and ushered them through a dirty door. Once inside, however, they stood in a light and spacious space. Offered a glass of cool lemon, they drank and talked together, joking nervously, the large man having disappeared. Gurdjieff saw the effete décor and loudly declared it to be a disreputable House of Pleasure.

  ‘This is what they’re like!’ he said.

  ‘You seem to know much about it,’ said Soloviev.

  They laughed about sex and then noticed the large mural depicting bees collecting honey. Soloviev said he’d like some honey in his lemon, a little tart for his taste. Tart! Then they were laughing about sex again.

  It was only after a few minutes that they became aware of a figure sitting quite still in the far corner. He had been there all the time.

  ‘Our travelling friends. Greetings!’

  The two looked round to see a small wiry man, smoking an aromatic cigarette. He did not get up and neither did he invite them to sit.
/>
  ‘I have heard so much about you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The market place is not a good place for secrets I’m afraid. And you do have a secret?’

  Gurdjieff was not intimidated by this polite charade. He stood almost a foot taller than his travelling companion, had led since their school days together and he would lead now.

  ‘It’s no secret. We merely seek a guide,’ he said.

  ‘A guide?’ said the host. ‘How intriguing! A guide to where?’

  ‘Is it any of your business?’

  ‘I’m a great believer in the unity of mankind; that we are all facets of the divine oneness. Perhaps I can help you.’

  It was a possibility that Gurdjieff had to consider. They had come to the end of their own resources, after all.

  ‘We seek the Sarmoun Brotherhood,’ he said. ‘We have business there.’

  ‘The Sarmoun Brotherhood?’ came the reply. ‘I do not know of them, I’m afraid. Describe them to me.’

  ‘We believe they have a secret knowledge.’

  The thin-fingered man offered a melting smile. He had watery eyes of cold gentleness.

  ‘A secret knowledge, you say? How we would all like a little secret knowledge. Then we could be gods and lord it over others.’

  Gurdjieff said: ‘Perhaps we seek the knowledge not for power over others but for power over ourselves. Perhaps it is only ourselves we seek to transform.’

  ‘A good answer, my friend but sadly, all else is bad. You are on a futile journey and a worthless adventure. I do so dislike worthless things.’

  He swatted a fly and looked concerned.

  ‘Then we’ll try our luck elsewhere,’ said Gurdjieff. ‘We won’t give up.’

  ‘My only fear is for your good selves,’ said the host. ‘I would not wish to see you wasting your time.’

  ‘We seek only the truth,’ said Soloviev, surprising himself.

  ‘Seek and you shall find,’ said Gurdjieff in support.

  ‘Find and you may be disturbed,’ said the thin-fingered man.