by Simon Parke
‘There are more in the cupboard.’
‘For which Roger has the key, which means it’s presently somewhere near Lake Galilee.’
‘Well, people will just have to share,’ said Sally irritably. ‘It’s not the biggest crisis currently facing mankind.’
‘Of course. And I mean, it’s a nice problem to have, all these people!’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
On a normal Sunday, St Michael’s did not run out of hymn books; but today was hardly normal. It was the fourth Sunday in Advent with the lighting of the last advent candle. But more significantly, it was the first Sunday since the murder of their vicar, Reverend Anton Fontaine, and people wanted an update. For once, it was the ‘Notices’ - generally reckoned one of the duller parts of the service - that were anticipated most keenly.
Sally said: ‘Someone told me, they didn’t think he’d actually gone away.’
‘Roger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Funny you should say that, because I thought I saw him in Eastbourne on Friday.’
‘You never know with Roger. Perhaps he was just too embarrassed about the email incident.’
Jennifer suggested another reason: ‘Or perhaps his carelessness was deliberate. He wasn’t a fan of Anton and may have been greatly amused to see him humiliated in that way.’
‘I can’t deny it’s possible,’ said Sally.
Roger and Jennifer were the two church wardens at St Michael’s but there the connection ended. It’s in the nature of things that church wardens don’t get on with each other and the reason is simple: one is voted for to balance the other. So if one of your church wardens is Jennifer who can organise the world in her sleep, then you choose Roger as her partner, a man who couldn’t arrange a boiled egg without help from his landlady.
Roger moved from one vaguely defined relationship to another and in between, returned to a landlady in Eastbourne whom he’d known at school.
‘It’s all a bit subdued though,’ said Jennifer, as she prepared to leave Sally to her final preparations. ‘In there, I mean. Not a seat to be had - but definitely subdued.’
Sally managed a sad smile.
Jennifer said: ‘I’ll leave you to it then. And you’ll be fine.’
There was a haunted look to the curate this morning, hardly surprising given recent events. Jennifer gave her a hug.
‘No, you’ll be better than fine, you’ll be great!’
‘Perhaps you could join me in prayer, Jennifer?’
‘Is the Abbot not in today?’
‘He rang to say he’s been unavoidably detained.’
‘Busy with the murder no doubt.’
‘It seems that way.’
‘We could do with the Abbot here today, we really could. He’s become an important part of the community.’
Sally didn’t answer but placing the stole round her neck said: ‘Let us pray.’
Jennifer closed her eyes and at the foot of the now empty cross, Sally commended the service and people into God’s hands.
‘And finally, we pray for the murderer, whoever and wherever they are, for they are not so different from us and we all stand in need of your grace. Amen.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jennifer. ‘That was beautiful... if rather charitable.’
Sixty
The council offices were Sunday quiet this morning. Peter had been surprised when Mr Robinson suggested the venue. A lone girl sat at the desk, texting.
‘Is Mr Robinson around?’ asked Abbot Peter.
‘Mr Robinson’s not ‘ere at the moment,’ she said, fresh from the cockney academy.
‘Okay,’ said Peter. ‘He did say he was in this morning.’
‘Well ‘e’s ‘ere but ‘e’s on the bog.’
‘It comes to us all.’
‘He won’t be long or anyfing.’
‘I’m sure he won’t and I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Sareen.’
‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Well, Sareen, I’ll very happily wait.’
The receptionist paused for a moment and then gave in to curiosity.
‘You’re not going to, like, arrest Mr Robinson are yer?’
‘Why do you say that?
‘‘E said you was comin’ about the police and vat murder in the church place.’
Abbot Peter smiled.
‘Mr Robinson is quite innocent and I don’t arrest people anyway - I’m a monk.’
Sareen looked shocked.
‘Are you really, like, a monk?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And I was finkin’ you was wearin’ fancy dress! Vat is so cool!’
‘Well, I’m glad I’m cool. It’s not something I hear every day.’
‘No, it’s well cool to be a monk.’
And with that, Sareen returned to her texting.
‘I’ll be by the fish tank in the corner,’ said Peter. ‘In my fancy dress.’
Sixty One
The newsagents which served the Brighton area were doing a brisk Sunday trade. Everyone brought their usual paper, their prejudice of choice. But whatever else they purchased, they also chose the special Sunday edition of the Sussex Silt, drawn by a front page headline the size of a shop front.
DEAD NAKED VICAR AND SEXY CURATE IN SECRET FLING
It’s a tale with more twists and turns than a goblin’s corkscrew! But your stone-lifting Silt can today reveal startling new facts in the story that’s gripping the South Coast and beyond.
The Silt understands that the crucified vicar of Stormhaven, the Reverend Anton Fontaine, found crucified naked in the vestry on Wednesday, had recently broken off a passionate affair with his attractive young curate Sally Appleby.
Speaking exclusively with the Silt for this special Sunday edition, a prominent church insider revealed the two had enjoyed ‘a close working relationship’. Pressed further, they said: ‘Yes, there was definitely something between them, and Sally was distraught when Anton called it off. I thought it was very poor behaviour on Anton’s part, not the example I expected at all. Poor Sally was devastated. And an attractive girl.’
There’s no suggestion the love-sick curate murdered her boss in some sexually degrading act of revenge. So let’s put all thoughts of sado-masochistic sex involving consenting clergy in their vestry lovetryst right out of our minds. Many right-thinking Silt readers will not want to dwell on the image of a young black vicar hanging naked on a cross. And call us old fashioned, but we at the Silt agree. We’re better than that.
But as police drag their feet in the case, ‘stumbling between incompetence and cluelessness’ as our insider put it, the town lives in fear of further atrocities. The question on the good people of Stormhaven’s lips today is quite simply this: ‘Who’ll be crucified next?’
So let’s be hearing from you! Have your say in the Silt. Have you ever had an office romance? Can it ever end well? And what about sex in the sanctuary? Was the relationship between Anton and Sally ‘Holy Appropriate’ or ‘Damned Disgusting’? Go online to register your vote.
And finally, have you ever thought of murdering your partner and why? Keep the tone light - this is just for fun! - but £50 to the best stories published.’
‘Hell’s teeth,’ said Tamsin as she put the paper down. She was due to meet Chief Inspector Wonder in ten minutes and this wouldn’t ease her path. The press conference had gone as well as could be expected. She’d remembered Abbot Peter’s dictum about seeing everyone with no clothes on and it had worked; she’d felt no fear and occasionally smiled even. But now this story from the toilet paper that was the Sussex Silt! Who spoke to them - or had they just made it up? No, there was too much there that was true; someone had spilled
the beans. And Tamsin was much too busy wondering who it was to notice a small piece below on the tragic death of council worker, Christopher Thornton, whose body was found in the water after he fell from the cliffs yesterday morning: ‘Police are interested to speak with anyone who knew Mr Thornton.’
Sixty Two
Tamsin entered in silence and Wonder bade her sit with a nod of the head, as he completed some writing. The threatening quiet continued, and Tamsin thought of the Chief Inspector in his underpants to calm her nerves. On reflection, she preferred him with clothes on.
‘I’ve just had that bloody Bishop on the phone again,’ he said with some aggression.
‘And your point is?’
Go on the attack, Tamsin, always attack.
‘He says the church’s name is being dragged through the mud, not helped of course by the charming prose in the Sussex Silt today.’
‘And that’s my fault?’
‘I’m not saying it’s your fault.’
‘Did he not notice the fact that the story was based around a “church source”?’
‘He’s just saying.’
‘But what’s he just saying, Chief Inspector? From where I’m standing, the church is dragging its own name through the mud without any help from me.’
‘There’s some truth there.’
‘And while we’re on the subject of mud, he was apparently throwing plenty of the stuff himself at the parish meeting he presided over the night of the murder. There are a good number of witnesses to that.’
‘I’m sure there are.’
‘Oh, and he’s lying.’
‘The Bishop?’
‘He’s not telling the truth about what happened when he gave Clare a lift home. You do know he rang her three times after she left his car in the pouring rain - and that she answered none of his calls. Remember that if he rings you again, playing the guardian of the truth whilst fiddling with his massive cross.’
Chinless breathed deeply in the face of this venom. He had no desire for a stand-up with Tamsin but he had to watch his back as well. Those with power should stay chums... networking, that was the word, and the Bishop might be a Mason.
‘He simply feels,’ said Chief Inspector Wonder, ‘that undue attention is being focused on the church community when an outsider could quite as easily have done it.’
‘Do I have to repeat myself?’
‘I’m aware of your earlier thoughts on the subject.’
‘Anton knew the assailant, he was expecting them. Abbot Peter heard him take a call. He said, ‘Well, thank you for your support but I wish you’d said that at the meeting. But I’m alone now if you want to come round to the church.’
She looked up with eyebrows which asked: point taken? ‘That sounds like a member of the church community to me, Chief Inspector. How does it sound to you?’
Chinless considered the young woman in front of him. Tamsin was not the most creative cop but she was an activist, a ruthless stealer of other people’s good ideas, an effective prioritiser, a project leader and lethal in her own defence. Rank counted for little if anyone came for her; whatever the cost, she didn’t like losing.
‘And who is the killer?’ he asked, changing gear.
‘We don’t know.’
‘No.’
He left enough of a pause to punish.
‘I never like it when the press say we’re dragging our feet,’ he continued.
‘It’s the Silt, for God’s sake, found under “fiction” in the library. We’re not dragging our feet. It’s all made-up by that fantasist Martin Channing.’
‘It may be made up but that’s entirely irrelevant. People like to believe the negative.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
The Chief Inspector paused, dabbing his shiny forehead with a handkerchief.
‘Do you have something to say, Sir?’ she asked.
‘It’s not a complicated case, Shah, and given the small number of suspects, you’re - well, how can I put this?’
‘I don’t know Sir. I’m not paid to be your script writer.’
‘Taking your time about it? I mean, I’m sure you’re doing your best - .’
DI Shah glared at him but he continued.
‘This is your first case as a DI.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘Do you need help? A more experienced copper by your side?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s OK for the moment. But it’s important you make your mark here. You’ve trodden on enough people on your way up, Tamsin; they’ll be only too eager to help you back down again.’
Momentarily, Tamsin contemplated a black hole opening inside her, terrifying and empty, but it was quickly covered.
‘I’m also aware of that, Sir. Do you have anything to say that I’m not aware of?’
‘You must understand my position.’
‘We’re very close to our killer.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I hope it’s not that nice curate.’
Tamsin found this an odd remark.
‘Sorry?’
‘I hope it’s not the curate who turns out to be the psycho.’
‘Sally?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘You have a soft spot for her?’
‘She christened my grandson, Terry.’
‘That’s not a major concern at present.’
‘But could she have done it?’
‘She could have done it. As the Silt kindly reported - and I’ll kill whoever gave them that story - she did have an affair with Anton and quite apart from that, I hear relationships between vicars and curates are traditionally rather strained affairs.’
‘But you don’t crucify someone for being a bad boss!’
‘Why not?’ said Tamsin, in a matter of fact sort of a way. ‘That’s all a bad boss deserves in my book.’
Chief Inspector Wonder felt waves of inadequacy pass over him. How he’d reached the position he had was one of life’s mysteries. In the eyes of many, particularly those passed over for promotion, he’d been fast-tracked through the ranks on the back of an absence of mistakes rather than a bundle of successes; a high flyer for never having flown too low. But most of all, he’d been affable and pliant, features in an officer which makes others feel good about themselves and which can be easily mistaken for competence.
‘She’s in a picture on my mantelpiece,’ he said.
‘Who is?’
‘Sally.’
‘And you don’t want a murderer on your mantelpiece?’
‘And I mean the other thing is, does it still count?’
‘Does what still count?’
‘If a christening is conducted by a murderer, does it still count? Is Terry still christened?’
‘How exactly does a christening count in the first place?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. I wasn’t really listening.’
‘If it’s any consolation, Sir, no one seriously thinks its Sally, though of course it would be hugely amusing if it was.’
‘Amusing?’
‘But I don’t see it, even if we still don’t know what the hell she was doing in church at six that morning.’
‘And what does Abbot Peter see? Your distinctively dressed Special Witness - what does he see?’
‘Not a lot so far. He struggles with hard facts.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s always trying to look beyond them.’
‘And what is beyond them?’
‘That’s just my point. He says I solve cases from the outside but he solves cases from the inside.’
‘He was your choice, Tamsin.’
�
�I know.’
‘Where is he by the way?’
‘I just spoke with him. He’s been with Recreation and Leisure and is now on his way to Lewes for tea.’
‘Is he doing his job properly?’
Sixty Three
Abbot Peter enjoyed the short train ride to Lewes. And while he contemplated two recent corpses in Stormhaven, he contemplated many more beneath him now as he approached his destination. Yes, this beautiful old town had its own skeletons in the cupboard - or rather, in the embankment.
It had been during the building of the Brighton to Hastings railway line in 1846 that hundreds of skeletons were discovered in a pit in the lands of the old Cluniac monastery on the edge of town. Why were they there? After some research, the bones were reckoned to be those of royalist soldiers killed in the monastery precincts in 1264 at the savage Battle of Lewes, fought between the armies of Prince Edward and the baronial challenger, Simon de Montfort.
Not all Victorians were sentimentalists, however, and with a railway to be completed, there was no attempt to honour the dead of 500 years before. With no time to waste, the skeletons were thrown onto trucks by the railway contractors and dumped in the rubbish on the nearby marshland. There they came to form the railway embankment which remained today, ensuring that all trains from Lewes to Hastings, Stormhaven, Newhaven, Glynde and Ore travel daily over the compacted remains of the dead soldiers of 1264.
It was not a fact advertised by the rail authorities; some might be upset. But it remained the primary reason Abbot Peter chose train over bus for these excursions. Such communion with the past took him happily back to his days in the desert. Like many monasteries in the rock and sand of Middle Egypt, it had been the practice at St James-the-Less to store the skulls of former residents; and at St James’s, not one of the larger foundations, the place of storage had been the outhouse in the gardens beyond the generator. It could on occasion prove a shocking find for visitors who wandered into the half-light of the shed looking for a rake or hoe. There were over 500 skulls piled on top of each other and one resident, suitably aghast, had caused an unusual avalanche in their attempts at escape.
