A Vicar, Crucified

by Simon Parke

The girl smiled jauntily.

  ‘To assume makes an ass out of you and me,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘Mainly the smug, in my experience,’ replied the Abbot.

  The girl’s demeanour suggested that she continued to enjoy her victory.

  ‘So you are the Detective Inspector?’ he said.

  ‘The clues were there.’

  ‘Not many.’

  ‘But enough perhaps.’

  ‘Circumstantial evidence maybe.’

  ‘That’s all you need to build a case.’

  ‘Something you do very well, no doubt.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No reason on earth why a Detective Inspector should be a man, of course.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Miss Marple was ever-popular in the desert. A sweet old lady but pushy and dangerous. My guess is that you too are pushy and dangerous.’

  ‘Flattery, flattery.’

  Peter noted she took this as a compliment.

  ‘The surprise does not stop there, however,’ said the girl who was clearly now a woman. ‘There’s something else to be revealed.’

  ‘Really?’ said Abbot Peter.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, smiling.

  Peter paused, allowing their first exchange to pass through him.

  ‘Isn’t one burning bush enough?’ he said. ‘A second might have left Moses confused.’

  ‘Who have you never met?’ asked the woman.

  ‘That would be a long list.’

  ‘Other people have met theirs.’

  ‘It’s quite early for riddles.’

  ‘They’re all around us.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re an angel. I’ve met angels and they generally bring nothing but trouble.’

  ‘Whether I’m an angel or not, I don’t know - but I am your niece.’ Abbot Peter inhaled deeply, strangely moved. He had not met a family member for over thirty years and had only the vaguest picture of his family tree. Indeed, as he’d once told Mrs Pipe when she’d been fishing for information: ‘From my present knowledge, Mrs Pipe, it’s more of a stick than a tree.’

  ‘My niece?’ he finally managed.

  ‘Your niece.’

  ‘I have a niece?’

  ‘And one more thing.’

  Abbot Peter could not imagine one more thing. His mind was already a flooded valley of broken fence and wall. He held the door frame to steady himself.

  ‘And what is this one more thing?’

  ‘We’ll be working together on this case.’

  ‘The crucified vicar?’

  ‘The same. We’ll be working together. You’ve been granted Special Witness status. For good or ill, we’re a team. My name’s Tamsin Shah by the way. Now may I come in?’

  Twenty

  Stormhaven was unusually busy with both gossip and forensics as the facts of the matter emerged. The crucified vicar had been nailed to the cross on the wall of the vestry in St Michael’s. Early reports from the pathologist suggested the nails had been hammered home at midnight and that he died around 2.00am. He’d been taped to the cross and drugged with chloroform, prior to nailing. He was reckoned to have died of a heart attack and was known to have a weak heart.

  News travelled fast and Malcolm was later to recount a conversation in the supermarket early that morning.

  ‘Crucifixion is just the worst thing ever for a weak heart,’ an earnest customer had said to Eva on the till.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘That’s something to avoid then.’

  ‘Where possible.’

  And then as Eva passed some mushroom soup across the scanner she reflected further on health issues.

  ‘So it’s like butter then.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well that’s bad for the heart isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. But crucifixion’s worse.’

  Only insiders, however, would have known why the cross was in the vestry. It had formerly stood in the main body of the church, on a stand above the altar. But Anton had found it too depressing for such public display in services.

  ‘The church needs to cheer up!’ he’d declared. ‘And move on. We are allowed to be happy, you know!’

  Someone said an empty cross spoke of Easter, the human body no longer held by death but the vicar hadn’t seen that at all.

  ‘We mustn’t get sentimental,’ he said. ‘In the end, like an electric chair or guillotine, a cross is nothing more than an instrument of execution.’

  And so it had become once again. His own.

  ***

  Peter had ushered her inside, though whether it was his niece or the Detective Inspector he welcomed, he wasn’t sure. She’d refused the shortbread but seemed pleased at the offer of green tea. He’d bought it in error in the supermarket but it was a good mistake, broadening the horizons of his hospitality. He now had a choice of teas.

  ‘Builder’s tea or green?’ He liked the sound of that. ‘So what is a Special Witness?’ he asked, once the catering was complete. ‘I may not want to be one. As Socrates said, “There’s so much I have no need of”.’

  He suspected he did want to be one. It was a continuing weakness that he was moved when asked to do something, as if some part of him, some unresolved aspect of his abandoned psyche needed this affirmation. And the step from murder fiction to murder for real had its own challenge and allure. He was a hunter, a hunter after truth and as he thought again of the little boy who was Anton Fontaine, he wished to hunt his murderer down.

  ‘It’s an idea on trial in the area, to promote a more earthed and insightful investigation,’ said Tamsin speaking like the police at a press conference. ‘A member of the public who is recognised as a trusted citizen of the affected community can now be brought in to assist the police. They’re involved in all aspects of the case, kept fully informed of developments and work closely with the officer leading the enquiry.’

  ‘Which in this case is you?’

  ‘Which in this case is me, yes. Chief Inspector Wonder has always thought I could go far, and when this came up, he couldn’t second me to the East Sussex force fast enough. He was a little hesitant about the use of a Special Witness for this one - it’s going to be high profile obviously, with a lot of public interest - but I persuaded him.’

  Abbot Peter could imagine that, could imagine the persuasion.

  ‘If the scheme goes well, it could mushroom very quickly. We want it to succeed.’

  ‘The South Coast police leading the way?’

  ‘We’re always leading the way. The Met gets the press, but the imaginative work is elsewhere.’

  ‘The skill, I suppose, is in choosing the right Special Witness.’

  ‘That is important.’

  ‘A bad one could do serious damage.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be so with you,’ she said.

  Abbot Peter smiled the smile of one who knew his own worth. The idea was ridiculous.

  ‘Well, will it?’ she asked.

  There was both threat and panic in Tamsin’s voice. Abbot Peter responded with silence, returning to the solitude of his breathing as Tamsin became restless. It was time for him to take some of the authority back.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Would you like to be a Special Witness?’

  ‘Why choose me?’

  ‘You were recommended.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I can’t divulge that. They thought you’d be perfect for some reason. They said your whole life is an investigation.’

  ‘True in a way.’

  ‘And other soundings seemed positive. There wil
l be certain forms to fill in, confidentiality agreements, that sort of thing. And you’ll have to work hard for your money.’

  ‘I’m paid?’

  ‘There is an allowance, yes.’

  The Abbot dreamed briefly of a vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Do you always fire so much at people in such a short space of time?’

  ‘We need to move quickly. There’s a vicar’s body hanging in the vestry and the Chief Inspector is already being harassed by the Bishop.’

  ‘I can sympathise. But why the panic in your voice? Who’s harassing you?’

  ‘I harass myself.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘So down to work.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m still thinking about what you said earlier.’

  Tamsin’s impatience was further inflamed.

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You said you were my niece.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s hardly a casual opening line.’

  ‘It got me through the door.’

  ‘And that’s all it meant?’

  ‘This isn’t really the time, Abbot.’

  ‘When is the time to find lost family?’

  Tamsin resisted.

  ‘It isn’t pertinent to the case in hand,’ she said.

  ‘Pertinent? I haven’t heard that word for a while.’

  ‘And the case is my job right now.’

  Abbot Peter waited as the sea heaved, rose and collapsed on the stones. Things come and go, nothing remains and silence holds all. It was Tamsin who relented.

  ‘I’m the daughter of a half-sister you’ll not even know you have. Okay?’

  ‘Tell me her name.’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It might be polite.’

  Abbot Peter was considering another possibility. Was this newcomer a burglar or trickster? A fake phone call earlier and a simple visit now, before clearing him out. He had heard of such things. With her pretty face, many would succumb. Perhaps she had a less winning accomplice waiting outside. He hadn’t heard her car arrive. Perhaps there was a van parked a little down the road. And then he was wondering if she was the murderer herself, now come for him. Why had he let her in? News of a vicar crucified, followed by the arrival at his door of a pretty young Detective Inspector who claimed also to be his niece? The whole thing was unravelling in his mind and in danger of looking absurd. He would test things; he always tested things.

  ‘Tell me her name,’ he said. ‘The name of your mother,’

  ‘Do your tree lights not work?’ said Tamsin, noticing the quiet Christmas tree in the corner.

  ‘They worked briefly, looked rather fine and then gave up.’

  ‘The tree looks a little sad without them.’

  ‘They’ll be back. And the name of your mother?’

  It was a battle of wills, as outside, gulls swooped in screeching delight. Inside, it was the focused against the devious.

  ‘My mother’s name is Marguerite,’ she said.

  ‘Marguerite?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Abbot Peter smiled and blessed the time and tide of life. ‘Then you must remember me to her,’ he said. He was satisfied. He did know of a half-sister called Marguerite, the child of another of his father’s devotees. They’d never met but that was no surprise. He’d not seen his mother Yorii since the adoption and had been in the desert much too long to pursue the loose ends of his father’s other sexual outgoings. But Marguerite had a daughter and here she was now. A stranger is suddenly a relation and something is changed.

  ‘I will be a Special Witness,’ he said. ‘And I will be a good one. We have detective blood in us, in a way. Did you know that?’

  ‘I don’t really do families. The wording on my Mother’s Day card is very carefully chosen.’

  ‘Nothing too congratulatory or grateful? I understand. But did you ever hear about your grandfather?’

  ‘Not much, no. He was reckoned to be rather odd in my home, referred to with sighs and raised eyebrows. I’m not sure he can help us.’

  ‘On the contrary, he can help us a great deal.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, he was so keen to find the truth he went all the way to Afghanistan. And what he found there might prove useful here.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Tamsin managing to sound neither congratulatory nor grateful.

  Twenty One

  ‘The Enneagram is a model of perpetual motion,’ continued the Sarkar. ‘More particularly, it is a model of perpetual creation and destruction.’

  Gurdjieff sat motionless as he listened. All things were about to be explained. Would this be enlightenment or disappointment?

  ‘I will not tire you with the maths of it now, suffice to say the Enneagram symbol came into its present form only recently - in the fifteenth century.’

  ‘Five hundred years ago is hardly recent.’

  ‘It is in the truth game, my friend. It was then, of course, that Central Asia founded the modern theory of numbers by giving zero a separate symbol.’

  ‘We can study the maths another time, perhaps,’ said Gurdjieff. He had not come here for maths. He could count money; that was sufficient learning of numbers. ‘It is the human side of the story which interests me; both the creation and destruction, as you say.’

  ‘It is a mystery which I reveal to you, George Ivanovich, and mystery cannot be boxed. Those who box mystery, kill it. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Yet it is also a mystery easily discerned and the veracity of which is readily perceived, even by the dull of mind.’

  ‘An open secret.’

  ‘Indeed, an open secret about you, me and anyone who ever walked the earth.’

  ‘It’s universal.’

  ‘And you will not find these things written down in any occult literature. Indeed, so great an importance was assigned to it by the enlightened, that they considered it necessary to keep all knowledge of the work a secret. As you know, we continue that tradition of secrecy here.’

  ‘I am well aware of that.’

  He had not forgotten the disdain shown to Soloviev and himself in the market place of Bokara; his hands still bled from gripping the rope over the chasm and both his face and back bore the stain of heatstroke. He had suffered for their secrecy.

  ‘The Enneagram excels most obviously in its understanding of Man,’ said the Sarkar.

  But suddenly Gurdjieff wished only for an understanding of women and in particular, the pretty girl who had just entered the cave. She approached them both and placed some water on the table. She was thanked by the Sarkar, who appeared a little surprised at her entrance. She glanced at the visitor and found his eyes settled on her. She was neither displeased nor greatly concerned, but having heard of the Russian traveller, she had wished to see for herself. Visitors from the world beyond were not common and the world beyond appealed to her. She wished to be away from the mountains of the Hindu Kush. Her first impression was of a swarthy young man, handsome in his dangerous way. And she knew all about dangerous men.

  ‘This is Yorii,’ said the Sarkar. ‘She is the daughter of one of our skilled carpenters.’

  ‘I am honoured to meet you, Yorii,’ said George Ivanovitch standing up to deliver a low bow.

  Yorii nodded in appreciation.

  ‘Are you staying with us long?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m unsure,’ he said, smiling while looking to the Sarkar for help. ‘I am a guest, so it is not for me to say.’

  ‘Gurdjieff speaks well,’ said the Sarkar. ‘As he says, he is currently unsure and must remain so for a while. Who knows what patience and learning will bring? No life can ever be fenced in by prediction.’


  The Sarkar dismissed the girl with a pause and slight movement of the head. The men were to continue alone. She bowed her head and left.

  ‘We were talking about creation and destruction,’ said the Sarkar. ‘That which brings life and that which destroys it.’

  Gurdjieff was listening again. He knew how hard it was to discern between the two.

  Twenty Two

  Abbot Peter was subdued as Tamsin drove him along the seafront towards the scene of the crime, previously known as St Michael’s church. Without a car of his own, he usually enjoyed the luxury of a lift but not on this occasion. There was little pleasure for Peter in what lay ahead.

  ‘And now we must go and meet Anton,’ she’d said.

  ‘I already have,’ said the Abbot.

  ‘But only when he was alive, so there’s much you haven’t seen.’

  Peter had no desire to see the body but Tamsin said it was necessary to see what was done and how. He’d said he could use his imagination, but she said that police work was not about imagination but facts, the hard facts and, for Peter, they didn’t get much harder than gazing on the crucified.

  ‘I do know about crucifixion,’ he’d said.

  ‘You know about a crucifixion two thousand years ago, but we’re not investigating that one. We’re investigating last night’s crucifixion of Anton Fontaine and you haven’t seen that. I’m not religious myself, but I think we’ll find the two bear little relation to one another.’

  ‘There are only so many things you can do with nails and a cross.’

  ‘Where are you on the autism continuum?’ she replied, as they drove up the hill towards the church.

  ***

  The church was cordoned off. Formerly a place of worship, it was now mere corridor and passageway for scene of crime officers who cared little for their surroundings. They were here to solve a murder not pray for the world. Abbot Peter walked with Tamsin through the church towards the vestry. Much in demand, she spoke with efficiency to each of the men who waylaid her.

  ‘We’re not here to tiptoe around religious sensibilities, Sergeant. We’re here to find a murderer.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. And the lady who does the flowers?’