Meanwhile, the demolition continued. Cloister Lane went, and Infirmary Street, and Boundary Road. Every time Martin looked out of the window, the battered gable-ends of the houses, defiantly flaunting their tattered wallpaper through wind and rain, seemed to get further away. Martin got the strange idea that the whole city was recoiling from St Austin Friars, like the crowd at a circus when the tiger gets loose. He told himself not to be silly. Sheila told him not to be silly. They were living in clover.
The congregation at Sunday service was three: Sheila, and the two church-wardens. One warden, Mr Phillips, was also verger and caretaker. The other, Mr Rubens, was said to be the city’s last big pawnbroker. Dark, solid, formal and sleek, he wasn’t the kind of man you could ask that kind of question. The congregation on Wednesday morning was nil; Martin said the service alone in the great, dark, hollow church. He would have liked to sing it, but there were too many echoes answering, and he soon gave it up. He recognized this as his first defeat.
It was all defeats, as far as the church services were concerned. He went round the poor houses and corner shops that were left, beyond Fishponds and Cloister Lane. The people were respectful, sickeningly respectful. He tried to be friendly, but they treated him as if he were a pope, and not a jolly pope, either. If there was a crowd in a shop, they stood aside deferentially to let him buy his cigarettes, then listened silently, hushed, to his remarks about the weather or the football team. Waiting for him to go, so they could resume their whispering, scurrying, mouse-like lives. If he called at a house, he was sat in the tiny, freezing front parlour, while the housewife sent out for expensive cakes and the children peeped round the door at him, and fled when he spoke to them. They gave him horrifying amounts of money, ‘for the church’. One pensioner gave him a five pound note, though her stockings were darned and her shoes cracked. When he tried to refuse it, she burst into tears, pleading with him to take it, and would not be pacified until he did. He thought, bitterly, that they never saw him at all; they saw another Canon Maitland, or some other Victorian tyrant-priest. He was walking in another man’s shoes. He hated that man; he would have strangled that man if he could. But that man was invisible; close to him as his own skin. None of the local people came to church; they were paying him to go away and leave them in peace.
He had better luck with his city-centre people; sometimes they came to church for love of him: a group of actors from the Library Theatre, theatrically muffled in long scarves and wide-brimmed black hats; once, a bunch of the girls, in fun-furs, mini-skirts and suede boots. They hadn’t a clue how to take part in the service, and they caused an explosion at the churchwardens’ meeting afterwards. Mr Phillips, whose house now stood out of the flat, spreading clearances like a decaying Gothic tooth, said that the likes of them were not fit to be seen in church. His bitten grey moustache and his pendulous jowls wobbled in hideous indignation. But the smooth Mr Rubens cut him short.
‘Father Williams is entitled to have anyone he likes in his church. Your job is to keep it clean and ring the bell.’ Mr Phillips came to heel like a whipped cur; which taught Martin a lot. Mr Rubens cracked the whip. Mr Rubens got things done.
Like the strange matter of the choir. Martin had discovered a moth-balled oak wardrobe, full of red and white choir vestments. He said wistfully at one meeting that he would like to have a choir. The next Sunday, he was amazed to find he had a choir, of total strangers, complete with organist and choirmaster. They sang beautifully. But in conversation with one child in the vestry afterwards, he found they were a school choir, bussed in from a distance at considerable expense, and quite obviously doing it for the money. When he pointed out to Mr Rubens that this was not what he had meant at all, Mr Rubens looked at him very sharply and said he wouldn’t be bothered with them again. Just as long as he made up his mind what he wanted. Martin began to feel like somebody’s pampered mistress. But he was growing a little afraid of Mr Rubens. For one thing, Mr Rubens had never given his address or phone number. He always rang Martin; he was the one that fixed the churchwardens’ meetings.
Afterwards, Martin realized he should have got out of St Austin’s then. But the Bishop was pleased with all the work he was doing; and Mr Rubens had told the Bishop that he was delighted with all the work Martin was doing. And everything but St Austin’s was going so well.
St Austin’s got worse and worse. Martin loved churches, but he couldn’t love St Austin’s. It wasn’t spooky exactly, just infinitely old and cold and dark. It rejected him. He had the vestry redecorated in contemporary style, installed a vinyltopped desk and telephone, hung framed prints of the Turin Shroud and Dali’s modern Crucifixion on the wall. He would make that, at least, a place where people came, for coffee and a chat when they had a problem. Nobody came.
Still, Martin bravely persisted in his church, like an occupying army, for three hours every Wednesday morning. After the service, he drifted up the aisles reading the epitaphs of long-dead Muncastrians, engraved on Georgian and Regency marble on the walls.
Near this spot are buried the Mortal Remains of Jonathan Appleby Esq, who died on the 14th of February, 1828, aetat 17 yeers.
For those who never knew him, no words can convey his Infinite Excellence of Character.
As for his grieving Friends, who had the Infinite Privilege of his Acquaintanceship, they are silenced by Greefe.
Therefore, no word Further is Uttered.
Tactful, that, thought Martin with a wry grin. But grave humour is thin gruel to the human heart, and on the whole the epitaphs did not console him. He did, however, notice a preponderance of odd names. Canzo. Frederick Canzo, William Ewart Canzo, Joshua Canzo. And Betyl. And Morsk. But especially the name Drogo cropped up. There must be more Drogos buried in the crypt under the church than all the rest put together. Funny, how these odd names had died out. He had never met a Canzo or a Betyl or a Morsk or a Drogo in his life.
One Wednesday morning he was amazed to hear the phone ringing, at the far end of the church. He ran so eagerly, he arrived quite out of breath. The only person who had ever rung him until now was Sheila from the rectory, to tell him lunch was ready. But at this moment she would be hard at it, teaching.
‘St Margaret’s church. Can I help you?’
‘That St Austin Friars?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you say so? We’ve got a funeral for you.’
‘Wait, let me find the diary and a pencil. Now where did I – ah good. Right.’ Martin was practically gabbling, at the idea of actually being useful for a change. ‘Who’s speaking?’
‘This is Bettle’s, the undertakers. Deceased’s name is William Henry Drogo. Yes, that’s right, D-R-O-G-O. Friday morning, 28th March at 10.30 a.m.’
Martin glanced over his shoulder at the Mowbray’s calendar on the wall. Today was Wednesday the 26th. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Will you want the bell rung?’
‘Old Phillips knows how we like it. Leave it to him.’
‘And your telephone number?’
‘Muncaster 213245.’ The voice sounded grudging. ‘Phillips will fill you in.’ There was a click and the speaker was gone.
Martin looked down at the details in his diary. Strange, the name Drogo cropping up, just when he’d been telling himself that such names must be dead and gone. Usual kind of service, he supposed. No request for a special sermon.
It was then that he realized that today was not Wednesday the 26th of March.
It was only Wednesday the 26th of February. Somebody had booked a funeral a month in advance.
Martin rang the number back.
‘Excuse me, I think you’ve made some mistake. I think you want Mr Drogo buried on the 28th February. You said the 28th of March. It’s a mistake that’s easily made – I often make it—’
‘When I say the 28th of March,’ said the voice, very Muncastrian, ‘I mean the 28th of March.’
‘But—’
‘Ask old Phillips.’ The phone went down with an extra-loud click, an
d when Martin re-dialled, the other end didn’t answer.
At first, he was sure it was a practical joker. Especially as he went through the telephone directory and could find no undertaker called Bettle. Or Beddle. Or Bethel, for that matter. Nor Bettell, nor Bettall. So then he looked up Drogo.
To his surprise, there were quite a lot of Drogos – eight in all, including Drogo’s, Pharmaceutical Suppliers and Wholesalers. And a Drogo, William H., at a very lush address in Willington, out in the fresh air in the foothills of the Pennines.
Martin paced up and down the vestry in a rare taking. Of course, he could always ask old Phillips, as he’d been told. But he had a certain reluctance to be laughed at by old Phillips. There must be other ways to check . . .
William H. Drogo was a man of importance – perhaps the chairman of Drogo Pharmaceuticals? Heart pounding, he rang Drogo Pharmaceuticals and asked for William H. Drogo. Yes, a very expensive female voice answered, Mr William H. Drogo was chairman. Yes, Mr William Henry Drogo. But unfortunately he was not available, being out all day at a meeting in London. If Mr . . . ? – Mr Williams would care to ring back tomorrow . . . ?
‘Are there any other William Henry Drogos?’
No. The expensive voice allowed itself to sound faintly offended. There was only one Mr William Henry Drogo. And she knew the whole family. There was only one Drogo family, at least in Britain. The voice curved upwards, making the Drogos sound more distinctive than the Royal Family.
Martin rang off, before he was reduced to sounding a complete blithering idiot.
He took to pacing up and down again. That expensive voice . . . that imperturbable voice . . . would be quite calm enough to effect a cover-up. Why a cover-up? Perhaps for commercial reasons. Some firms were pretty vulnerable when the big boss-man suddenly died. But you couldn’t cover up a death for a month, for God’s sake . . . Feeling even more of an idiot, but rather cross just the same, he rang the Drogo home number. This time a deep female voice answered; a voice so rich and exotic, it made the other female voice sound plastic.
‘I’m sorry, Mr . . . Williams. My grandfather is away in London all day today. If you rang his office in the morning, I’m sure he’d be delighted to speak to you.’
He hung up. That was certainly no house of mourning, no house shaken to the roots by a death. That house was smug, rich, utterly certain of itself, full of the careless decency that comes from years without pain. It was a hoax. He wouldn’t ask old Phillips. It was probably old Phillips who had made the hoax call. Who else knew all about the Drogos lining the aisles of his church with their memorials? Drogos and Canzos and Morsks and Beryls.
Betyl. Not Bettle the undertaker, but Betyl the undertaker.
Oh, don’t be crazy. Whoever heard of anyone called Betyl?
Whoever had heard of anyone called Drogo? He reached for the telephone directory.
No Betyl.
Then he realized that the current directory was held up by a pile of other directors, well-nibbled by the church mice and rather damp towards the bottom of the heap.
In the rotting, falling-apart 1953 directory, he found it. Betyl Georg & Son, Funeral Directors, 4 Albert St, Hathershaw. Muncaster 213245. Hathershaw was the next inner suburb, only two miles away.
Feeling slightly unreal, he got out the car and drove over.
Hathershaw was in the throes of demolition, too. It was like fleeing through a doomed city. Houses first slateless, then roofless, then windowless. Streets that were only pavements and cobbles and solitary lampposts on corners; streets pressed flat like wild flowers in a book. Streets with no names, just old Victorian manhole-covers. Fires on every mound of fallen brick. Bulldozers; sweating, filthy, rejoicing demolition men.
‘Albert Street?’ yelled Martin, winding down his window and trying to compete against another wall falling down.
‘You’ll be lucky, squire. If you’re quick, you might just catch it before it goes. Third right, second left. Mind yer head.’
He caught it. The slates were just coming off the roof of Number 4. The bulldozers were three houses away.
Georg Betyl and Son. Funeral Directors. Established 1832.
The shop window was still draped in faded ecclesiastical purple. There were three black urns, tastelessly arranged, and a squat marble box for flowers, labelled From friends and neighbours.
‘Stop!’ shouted Martin, leaping from his car. The demolition team was facetious, but not unsympathetic.
‘Yeah,’ said the gaffer, to his request for admittance. ‘Why not? It won’t be here by five o’clock.’ They smashed in the black, rather nice Georgian front door with a sledge-hammer, while Martin winced.
Inside, the place felt odd already, with half the roof stripped. There was the phone; dead when Martin picked it up.
‘GPO was here an hour ago, to cut it off,’ said the gaffer. ‘If you want that phone, you can have it,’ he added generously. ‘Cost you a quid – you don’t get many like that, these days.’ There was also an ancient iron safe, door hanging open, some cremation urns in white plastic, and a tin waste-bucket full of empty envelopes addressed to Georg Betyl and Son, Funeral Directors, 4 Albert Street, Hathershaw and going back sixty years. Two old wooden chairs, and nothing else at all.
The next day, Martin rang GPO telephones. They were unable to help; all communications and bills for Mr Betyl had always been sent to 4 Albert Street. As far as they were concerned, Mr Betyl had paid his terminal bill and ceased to exist. There had certainly been no application for a new telephone number at a new address. Muncaster Corporation also did their best; yes, they had purchased the shop from Mr Betyl; and had sent all correspondence and the final purchase cheque to 4 Albert Street. No, he was only on their rolls of electors at the Albert Street address. Perhaps he had lived above the shop?
Feeling the boldness of despair, Martin rang Drogo Pharmaceuticals again. The expensive voice (who knew something more about him than she had known the previous day) put him straight through to Mr William Henry Drogo.
‘I don’t know how to start,’ said Martin, suddenly helpless.
‘You sound rather upset.’ Drogo’s voice had the same richness as his granddaughter’s.
‘I am a little upset. There’s something I have to tell you.’
‘You are the new rector of St Austin Friars.’
‘Yes. How did you know that?’
‘I’ve always had an interest in St Austin’s,’ said Mr Drogo. ‘Perhaps you would honour my granddaughter and me with your company at dinner tomorrow night.’
Martin gasped audibly. Did anybody still talk like that?
‘We have our own ways,’ said Mr Drogo. Martin had the idea that he was gently laughing at him.
Martin drove over to Willington in a fair state of resentment; he had had to lie to Sheila; had made up a story of church business and the offer of funds. It was the first time he’d ever seriously lied to her. But the whole business was so crazy . . . He’d tell her everything once he’d cleared it up.
The Drogo house was large, modern, but rather ugly, standing well clear of its neighbours among mature decorative conifers. The granddaughter answered the door and took his coat.
‘I’m the housekeeper tonight. It’s the servants’ night off.’ Her appearance went with her voice; she was tall, about thirty, very much the confident businesswoman. Her looks could only be described as opulent: a mass of blue-black hair, swept up on top of her head, a figure that curved richly, but with the utmost discretion, in a dark-grey business suit with white lace at throat and wrists drawing attention to the plump, creamy beauty of her face and hands. No wedding ring. Her dark eyes surveyed him with a frank female interest that was disconcerting. It was the way certain rich men eyed a new woman . . . he flashed up in his mind a vision of Sheila, thin, red-haired and freckled. Ashamedly, he thought she made the vision of Sheila seem very thin indeed. She walked ahead of him, the powerful hips and calves moving discreetly, expensively, arrogantly.
The man wh
o rose from the dark-red leather armchair could not possibly be the grandfather. He could be no more than fifty. The same blue-black hair and dark, amused eyes, the same sombre and wealthy solidness that could never be described as fat.
‘Oh,’ said Martin. ‘I’d hoped to speak to Mr Drogo.’
‘I am Mr Drogo.’
‘Mr William Henry Drogo?’
‘The same.’
‘But . . .’
‘Let me get you a drink. What will you have?’ He moved to a highly polished mahogany sideboard. With its brass handles, Martin thought it looked like the most expensive kind of coffin. Desperately, he fought to get hold of himself. But his hand still trembled, and the sherry ran down over his fingers. For some reason he began to worry because he hadn’t told Sheila exactly where he was going.
‘Do sit down, Mr Williams. How can I help you?’
Martin glanced at the girl, sitting listening intently. She got up at once, saying, ‘I must see to the dinner.’ Fascinated, Martin watched her as she left the room. At his next confession, he was going to have to confess the sin of lechery. It was not a sin he had had to confess before.
‘My granddaughter interests you.’ It was not a question, it was a statement. There was no disapproval in it. Blindly, Martin lunged into the reason he had come: the phone call from the vanishing undertaker, the funeral of William Henry Drogo, booked a month ahead. Mr Drogo listened, nodding sympathetically, without a hint of surprise or disbelief. Martin finished up, lamely:
‘I wouldn’t have bothered you, only it’s been preying on my mind. Is it just some ridiculous practical joke, or is it a – a threat of some kind? Against your life, or something? I mean, it sounds like something the Mafia would do – if we had anything like the Mafia in Muncaster.’ He forced himself to smile and shrug at his own childishness.
‘Oh,’ said Mr Drogo. ‘We had the Mafia in Muncaster, a couple of years ago. On a very small scale. They tried to take over an interest in one or two rather second-rate gambling clubs. Very small beer. We had a quiet word in the Chief Constable’s ear, and they went away peacefully enough.’
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