‘That’s an odd choice for a man of God.’
‘And I suppose that’s what he thinks he is – a man of God. I have my doubts, but who am I to judge?’
‘You’re entitled to judge him as a potential murderer, though. That’s where you’re the expert.’
‘Not according to some of the real judges I’ve met in my time! However, as a matter of speculation, I think the Reverend Mr Lovelace would be quite capable of murder, under the right circumstances. He has a cool head and immense self-esteem, and the kind of mind that can justify almost any action taken for what he deems to be the right motives. Witness his stealing from the collection, if he is, in fact, doing that. But. He also has keen sense of self-preservation. Witness his bothering to check us out before he met us. If he wanted to be rid of Brading as a rival to the episcopal throne, he would send someone else to do the job and make quite sure his own hands were clean.’
‘And throw his hit man to the wolves.’
‘Probably.’
‘Well, I think you’re right about all that, but I also think the man is too conceited to see anyone as a rival. He didn’t want to talk at all about poor Dean Brading, and he acted quite sure about his appointment. Alan, I dislike the man, but I can’t spot him as a murderer. Which means this was a wasted trip.’
‘Not at all. We formed an opinion of Mr Lovelace, which I can use when the commission reconvenes. We eliminated a murder suspect, at least provisionally. And we had a very good meal!’
‘Which is, at this very moment, sitting like lead in my stomach. This subject is not conducive to pleasant digestion. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘Dear heart, talk about anything you like, but you may be talking to yourself. I intend to nap.’
NINE
We had barely got home, greeted our ecstatic dog and our reproachful cats, and sat down to a cheese-and-biscuits supper, when the phone rang. ‘Drat! I’ll get it, Alan. You can pour me some wine.’
It was Dean Allenby. ‘Dorothy, I’m sorry to bother you the very moment you’ve come home, but I need to speak with Alan, if that’s possible.’
I handed the phone to my husband and sat down to sip some wine. I thought I might need a little soothing before the evening was over.
I could gather little from Alan’s end of the conversation, which was brief and consisted mostly of yes and no. From Alan’s face, though, I could tell that the news was not especially welcome.
‘We’re on the road again,’ he said when he had clicked off. ‘Or I am. You need not go if you don’t want to.’
‘Of course I want to. Where are we going and when?’
‘Birmingham, tomorrow. Kenneth wants me to have a look at Mr Robinson.’
I searched my memory. ‘Which one is he?’
‘The socialist, according to Jane. Social activist, certainly.’
‘Ah, I remember. He didn’t sound very attractive. And Birmingham has never been very high on my list of places to visit before I die. In fact, it’s not on the list at all.’
‘Mr Robinson’s church is on the outskirts, though. But, as I say, you needn’t come with me if you’d rather not.’
I finished a mouthful of cheese and biscuit. ‘Don’t be silly. When do you want to leave? And are we going by road or rail?’
As the church we were to visit, St Matthias’, was on the outskirts of the city, we drove. I had some hopes that the area would be more attractive than the pictures I’d seen of the inner city. When we got there, however, my hopes were dimmed. Oh, the church wasn’t thoroughly ugly, not like the ultra-modern excesses of the Bullring. Built, I was guessing, in the early twentieth century, the church was a red-brick pile of no particular architectural style. It was square and uninteresting, at least from the outside, not a place that welcomed one to worship a God of love and joy.
I turned to Alan, a new and distressing thought entering my mind. ‘Alan, is it me? Am I so set in my ways that everything in the least different is automatically bad? This is a perfectly decent building, by its own lights. Why do I hate it so?’
‘You have a fixed idea of what a church ought to be,’ he responded promptly. ‘If something is entirely, wildly different – perhaps a wood-and-glass structure with forest around it – you’re able to appreciate it for its own beauty. When you see something like this – a building that suggests the idea “church” without conforming to your concept – you reject it. Stop thinking “church” and think “community building”, and see if your perception changes.’
I looked away at surrounding houses and small shops, shut my eyes, and then looked back at St Matthias’. ‘Oh. It’s really not too bad, is it? Tidy, well-maintained, nice lawn around it.’
Alan grinned. ‘See? But it doesn’t look like a church to me, either. Let’s go and find our B and B.’
It was an attractive house in a pleasant neighbourhood. With my new, unwelcome self-awareness, I was determined to see it as pleasant. The vicinity of St Matthias’ was a ‘planned community’ of houses carefully spaced on winding streets and cul-de-sacs. Nothing was run-down; everything looked new and bright and scrubbed. The shops, when we went out in search of lunch, were also bright and new, built in imitation of Tudor half-timbering. They were charming. I kept telling myself firmly that they were charming.
We had an acceptable lunch in a bright, clean café, and then went back to our B and B to settle in before going to Evensong. Alan chatted for a moment to our hostess, got our key, and led me up the stairs.
Our room was as new and bright and clean as the rest of the package. I plumped down on the bed and looked around, secretly hoping to spot a dust bunny somewhere, or even a tattered magazine, anything that indicated our host and hostess were human, with human failings. Nothing.
And then there was the accent.
‘I suppose,’ I said tentatively, ‘I’m going to sound like a typical arrogant American. But honestly, Alan, I couldn’t understand a word that woman said to you. Is this the famous “Brummie accent”?’
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘until you hear them in a pub. You’ll wonder if you’re still on the same planet.’
‘I can’t wait to hear our priest du jour.’
This church had lovely bells. I gave Alan a thumbs-up as we walked through the agreeable cacophony to the church door.
There was a greeter – another positive sign. True, I couldn’t understand him, but a smile and a handshake are universal. I gratefully took the service leaflet he handed me. Even if the priest also spoke Brummie, I could follow the service.
The church was bigger on the inside than it had looked on the outside, and it appeared prosperous. It was also warm and welcoming, with flowers in every corner, bright banners everywhere, lots of striking modern chandeliers to banish the gloom of a cloudy April afternoon, and a large, chatty congregation that reminded me a bit of the one at St Barnabas’, with its variety of skin colour. These people were mostly young, though.
We had to sit near the back, so we had a good view of the congregants. They seemed to be happy people, chattering in languages I didn’t always recognize. Or maybe it was just the accent! I have always gone to churches where silence was kept before the service, the chattering reserved for afterward. I had to admit that these worshippers were ‘making a joyful noise’, even if I found it a little odd.
Then the musicians entered. My eyes widened. I hadn’t noticed, until this minute, a pair of fabric-covered screens to the right of the chancel. These were now removed to reveal a set of drums, music stands, chairs, microphones, and amplifiers. Several young men and one woman carried in their instruments, hooked them up, and began to play a rousing tune.
It wasn’t exactly rock. It wasn’t exactly reggae. My musical scope wasn’t broad enough to label it, but to my astonishment I rather liked it. The amplifiers weren’t cranked all the way up to ‘Deafen’, and the rhythm was captivating. I found myself softly clapping along and tapping a foot.
At some point, more young people ente
red and sat in the chancel. They weren’t robed, but they carried folders with them, so I guessed they might be the choir. As the band wound up their music, and the congregation shouted a joyful ‘Amen!’, a tall man strode up to the lectern. He was athletic in build. His short, dark hair showed touches of grey, but his face looked young. He was dressed in grey slacks, a short-sleeved grey shirt with a dog collar, and a brightly coloured African print stole. This, then, was the radical Reverend William Robinson.
He smiled, held out his arms in a gesture of love, and began the service: ‘We have come together as the family of God …’
It was, I saw from a glance at my leaflet, the standard opening sentence, but he made it sound spontaneous and meaningful. He was really speaking to his flock, and they responded with smiles and nods and the occasional word of agreement.
‘It’s a Southern Baptist prayer meeting,’ I whispered to Alan. ‘Call and response. Shades of Martin Luther King.’
The hymn that followed was unfamiliar, but as both words and music were printed in the leaflet, I tried to follow. The words were simple but moving, dealing with grace to meet every need, love to lift every heart. The choir sang, the congregation sang, the band played. It was, I thought, a wonder that the walls didn’t come a-tumblin’ down.
Much of the service that followed was spoken, rather than sung. The Psalms, though, were sung metrically, to tunes both old and new. The band played praise music at intervals, the congregation clapping along with enthusiasm.
Then Mr Robinson stepped into the centre aisle. No pulpit for him. I sat back, eager to hear what he had to say.
‘My dear friends, you have heard the lessons for today. You have heard how the Israelites were freed from their slavery in Egypt. You have heard our brother Paul say that for followers of Jesus there is neither slave nor master. Yet here in our city – yes, in our very parish – there is virtual slavery!’ There was a rumble from the congregation. ‘Yes, you know what I’m talking about! You know the starvation wages paid by at least one employer in our town. They skirt the law, hiring under-eighteens, giving them short hours, using every nasty trick they can play to keep their profits high.’ The rumble grew louder.
‘I see many young men and women here who know exactly what I’m talking about. You can’t live on what they pay you. “If you don’t like it, get another job,” you’re told. But jobs aren’t to be had for the asking. It’s work for their pittance or don’t work at all. Yes! You are angry, and so am I! I tell you, Paul wasn’t just saying that Jesus had abolished slavery. He was saying that we, too, must help abolish it! He wasn’t talking about a lovely dream; he was issuing a call to action!’
The church resounded with agreement.
‘One of our prayers this afternoon reminded us that serving God is perfect freedom. In his service there is no slavery, no despair, only joy. If there are those who, today, wish to commit yourselves to the service of God and the freeing of his children, meet with me after the service, and we’ll make a plan. I have some ideas. You’ll have better ones. Together, with the help of almighty God, we can make a difference!’
The congregation erupted, the band moved into a lively hymn tune, and the service ended. Some of the congregation left, but many clustered around the rector, eager to hear about his plans for social reform and contribute their own ideas and energy.
‘And how did that strike you, my dear?’
We were having coffee in one of those relentlessly charming little shops in the High Street. I paused to collect my thoughts. ‘I think I liked it,’ I said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t have expected to, but I did. And I liked him.’ I studied my husband’s face, wondering if he was going to accuse me again of falling for a handsome face and a good line.
‘So did I. Aha! That surprises you, doesn’t it?’
I admitted it.
‘He’s something of a spellbinder, to be sure. But there his resemblance to Lovelace ends. This man is sincere, which makes all the difference. He really believes in the social gospel, and he’ll be right there on the front lines leading his troops into battle.’
‘It’s a futile battle, though, isn’t it? Doomed from the start.’
‘Possibly. Possibly not. If it’s a local employer he’s talking about, he may make some waves, at least. If it’s a multinational, he hasn’t a prayer.’
‘Hmm. I seem to recall one David, who had only a prayer and a good right arm, and brought down the ancient equivalent of a multinational.’
Alan waggled his hand. ‘Not entirely comparable. Mr Robinson is a David, yes, but Goliath was a midget compared with a modern corporation. One thing is certain, at least to my mind: the Reverend Mr Robinson would not be a good fit for the Diocese of Sherebury.’
‘Amen to that! Can’t you just see him marching on the High Street shops, smashing windows with his crozier and demanding higher pay and better working conditions?’
‘Actually, I can, and it’s not a pretty picture.’
‘He’d be a change from our present bishop, anyway. I can’t think of a thing that man has actually done since I’ve lived in Sherebury. Or anything important that he’s said, for that matter.’
‘You’re right. But there’s something to be said for peace. More coffee, love?’
It was good coffee. I opted for more, even though we were the only people in the place and I wondered if they were about to close. As the waitress brought it, though, in a large cafetière, a laughing, chattering group entered the café.
One of the crowd was the Reverend Mr Robinson. He smiled and came over to shake our hands.
‘I believe I saw you in church earlier, didn’t I?’
‘You have a keen eye, sir,’ said Alan, standing.
‘I know most of my parishioners, and if I may say so, ma’am, your hat would make you stand out in any crowd.’
We both laughed. ‘And it’s one of her less spectacular ones. I’m Alan Nesbitt and this is my wife, Dorothy Martin.’
‘Aha! Then I did guess right. You’re here from the Appointments Commission, yes?’
‘Not exactly. That is, yes, I am a member of the commission, but this visit is entirely unofficial. My wife and I simply wanted to meet you, informally.’
‘And see me in action, right?’
‘Something like that.’ I decided it was time to get into the conversation. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Robinson? If you have time, that is.’
‘All the time in the world. My next rabble-rousing isn’t scheduled until tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp. We’re going to the factory to protest unfair wages and labour practices.’
‘And what factory would that be?’
‘Oh, I forgot you’re from the south. For us, there’s only one factory. We’re what you Americans call a company town. Dudley Chemicals, world-famous maker of cleaning products, pesticides, herbicides, and almost anything that’s toxic. Cheers.’
He lifted the cup of coffee Alan had poured for him. I put my cup down. Somehow it didn’t taste quite as good as a moment before.
The Rector grinned. He was very boyish, although he must be at least fifty. ‘Don’t worry. It’s made with bottled water. Dudley claim they stopped dumping their waste products in the river years ago, but we take no chances.’ He drank some coffee. ‘That’s heaven. I’m in your debt, sir. I suppose you’ve come to see if I’d suit Sherebury,’ he went on without pause. ‘I seriously doubt that I would, you know.’
‘You would certainly be a change from our present bishop,’ I said.
The Rector grinned again. ‘I would at that. I’ve heard a good deal about your bishop. I’m somewhat more …’
‘Active? Dramatic? Involved?’ I supplied.
‘All of those things, perhaps. Of course, I’m much younger, and that makes a difference. But I’ll be truthful with you. Oh, I know you said this is unofficial, but I can tell you my views, can’t I? And the truth is I’m not at all sure I want the job. I agreed, in the beginning, that I’d think about it. And I have thought. An
d prayed. Oh, I’ve prayed a lot. And I honestly think God wants me to stay here. I love this town and these people.’
‘And we love you.’ Two of the people who had come in with Mr Robinson – a married couple by the look of them – came over to our table. Alan stood again. ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman went on. ‘We didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but we couldn’t help but hear. And we’re all agreed – everyone in the parish, I mean. We don’t want to lose our priest!’
A cry of ‘Hear, hear!’ went around the room, subdued but heartfelt. I looked around at the variety of faces. The shy teen with the bad case of acne. The wrinkled, white-bearded man in his wheelchair. Fair hair, black hair, brown hair, auburn hair, no hair at all. Pale skin, ebony skin, several shades in between. A diverse group, but unanimous in their animated show of love and support.
All except for one man in the corner. I noticed him because he was so quiet. He sat nursing a cup of coffee, his hands wrapped around it as if to warm himself. But the room was warm, almost too warm now that it was crowded.
Mr Robinson noticed the direction of my gaze. ‘Poor chap,’ he said quietly. ‘You mustn’t mind him. He’s had his troubles. I ought not to have urged him to come to coffee with us, but he looked so lonely, I thought it might do him good. Phone me later; I’d like you and Mr Nesbitt to come to supper, if you can. Now if you’ll excuse me …’ And he went to tend his flock.
‘You see what a good priest he is,’ said the woman who had come to our table. ‘Always ready to help someone. My name’s Becca, by the way, Becca Bradley, and this is my husband, Jack.’ Her accent was the most understandable I had heard, except for Mr Robinson’s. Modified for our benefit, perhaps?
‘Do please join us,’ said Alan politely. Or maybe it wasn’t just politeness. He might simply have wanted to sit back down himself, or he might be interested in getting a little more information from this talkative woman.
‘You see that man he’s talking to,’ Becca went on. She was a small woman, with mousy grey-brown hair and the eyes of an avid gossip, the sort that dart around a room and see everything and everyone. ‘I’m surprised he came to church at all. He’s fairly regular on Sundays, but not always even then. It’s his wife, you see.’
Day of Vengeance Page 8
