by AnonYMous
There was one person, however, who seemed to be thriving under the new regime. At the start of term Jenny Sloth, the Registrar’s rejected wife, was very tearful and miserable. She had always been hopeless at her job in the library. She was responsible for ordering books, but this was a task that was rarely done. Indeed it used to be said that solely because of Mrs Sloth’s inadequacy, the library was the only area in the university that consistently underspent its budget. Registrar Sloth’s desertion had not improved her performance.
By November, things had changed. I had ordered new books for my Kant class. As a matter of form, I emailed Jenny a couple of times to remind her, but, just as I was about to formulate the third tactful missive, I had a note from her that they had arrived. I was astonished. I made a point of going over to the library to thank her and I found her looking very smart. Her hair had been freshly dyed and waved. Her clothes were flattering to her figure and looked new. Something had happened.
I remarked that she was looking very well and she smiled, ‘It makes all the difference to be appreciated.’
‘Oh?’ I said.
‘I’ve just been appointed Trustee of the Chapel. Father Chantry-Pigg says he very much approves of my choice of prayers and hymns. Of course, I always try to pick his favourites. He works so hard and he’s such a wonderful man. The chapel has completely changed since he’s been here.’
‘How splendid.’ I tried to enter into her enthusiasm. ‘You must be working with all those nice young men who seem to hang around there. I’m sure you help them a lot.’
‘They’re very nice boys,’ said Jenny defensively. ‘I know people have the wrong idea about them and Father Crispin,’ she blushed a little, ‘but it’s completely untrue. They just don’t know him as I do …’
I was curious about this conversation. It seemed that Jenny Sloth did not share the general belief in Chantry-Pigg’s homosexuality. She was certainly besotted by him. On the other hand, the man was almost a caricature of the kind of gay Anglo-Catholic priest portrayed in novels. He had all the qualifications – the sense of superiority, the arrogance, the little in-jokes and the flurry of effeminate disciples. Well, I thought to myself, love is blind.
Consequently I was very surprised one rainy afternoon when I called in to see Magnus. While we were chatting, there was a knock on the door. It turned out to be Mary, my philosophy student and she looked as if she had been crying. ‘I hoped I’d find you with Dr Hamilton,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I do need to talk to someone. Are you busy?’ Rosalind stood behind her in the doorway and both girls looked anxious.
‘Do you want to see me, too?’ I said. ‘Is it private?’
The girls came into the room. I noticed that they were both well brought up and averted their eyes from Magnus’s phallic statue. They sat down together on the sofa. ‘We’re so thankful to find you together,’ Rosalind said. ‘You both teach us and we thought we’d be able to tell you what’s happened.’
Mary blew her nose as Rosalind explained. ‘Mary was in the vestry with Father Chantry-Pigg,’ she said, ‘and he tried to kiss her. He lunged at her from behind.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘Well, Mary didn’t intend to do anything about it. She doesn’t want to cause trouble. But it just isn’t right. He’s the chaplain. And he’s always going on about chastity and virginity and all that … Anyway, you’re our teachers and we thought you’d know what to do.’
Mary started crying again. ‘It’s all my fault. Normally I’d be careful about being by myself in a closed place with a man. But you don’t expect it from a friar in his habit and anyway he always shows much more interest in the boys than in the girls. I always thought he was …’ She was embarrassed and stopped.
‘You always thought he was gay?’ Magnus asked gently.
Mary nodded. Magnus and I looked at each other. ‘Listen, Mary, Rosalind,’ I said, ‘you were absolutely right to come to see us. But I’m afraid there may be a problem. You see, Father Chantry-Pigg will in all likelihood deny that anything happened. So it would be Mary’s word against his. There was nobody else there, was there?’
‘No,’ Mary sniffed. ‘The other members of the choir had just gone. I had volunteered to collect the music and put it back. I knew he was in the vestry with me, but I didn’t think anything of it. Anyway, just as I had finished, he came behind me and grabbed me. He was quite rough. I thought maybe he was pulling me away from some falling books or something, but when I turned around, he tried to kiss me. I really had to squirm and push to get away from him.’ She lapsed into tears again. Rosalind patted her shoulder and looked appealingly at us both.
Mary took a deep breath. ‘Anyway I managed to get away and I ran out of the room. I just don’t understand it. He doesn’t like me.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Magnus.
Mary smiled rather damply. Rosalind took up the story. ‘She corrected him after one of his sermons. He said that the pre-Socratic philosopher Parmenides taught that the world was in a state of constant flux. Well we knew from your Introduction to Philosophy course, Dr Glass, that it wasn’t Parmenides, it was Heraclitus. Parmenides said the opposite. We thought he’d want to know. I had to see someone after the service, but Mary went up to him and told him,’ she giggled.
‘He was furious,’ said Mary. ‘He didn’t even thank me. He just said something like “Oh detail, detail!” and stormed off.’
Magnus had been listening intently as Mary told her tale. ‘Dr Glass is right,’ he pronounced. ‘The problem is that Chantry-Pigg will deny the whole thing if you confront him. Ultimately it’s your word against his and in this country you are innocent until you are proven guilty.’
‘But he can’t get away with it,’ Rosalind objected. ‘And he’ll do it to other girls.’
‘I shouldn’t think Mary is his first victim,’ pointed out Magnus.
Mary and Rosalind looked at each other. ‘A couple of girls have dropped out of the choir already,’ they said.
Magnus explained how the grievance procedure worked. ‘The university authorites are obliged to investigate any student complaint. But they will decide that you simply don’t have any proof. It isn’t even as if you can go to Clifford Maxwell or someone and threaten to sell your story to the newspapers. Even the tabloids won’t take a story without firm evidence. They’re too frightened of an expensive libel action.’
‘Who’s Clifford Maxwell?’ Rosalind asked.
‘He’s a famous publicist,’ I told her. ‘Believe it or not I was at school with him. He makes millions for his clients because the newspapers love juicy scandals. They’d adore your story … I can just see the headlines – “Frisky Friar’s Fornicating Fun”. But without definite proof that you’re telling the truth, even the most scurrilous rag won’t take the risk. And St Sebastian’s University certainly won’t.’
‘But you believe us, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I do.’
‘Anyway,’ Magnus cut in, ‘the only thing you can really learn from this is not to be alone in a room with Chantry-Pigg. That’s my advice.’
‘I wish we could help more,’ I said.
When Mary and Rosalind had left, Magnus snorted. ‘Well, well, our holy friar isn’t as chaste as he pretends. Could have fooled me. I thought he preferred choirboys.’
‘You don’t think there’s anything we can do?’ I asked.
‘Nope. Chantry-Pigg will deny everything. And blame the girls. Better to keep quiet.’
‘I do feel sorry for Mary.’
‘Rosalind is quite tough, I think.’
‘But she wasn’t the one Chantry-Pigg tried to seduce.’
‘Of course not. No doubt he chooses his victims carefully. Anway, it’s not really about sex. It’s about power.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mary’s an attractive girl. But she challenged the friar – that business about the pre-Socratic philosopher showed him up. And he didn’t like it
. So he tried to humiliate her.’
‘But he tried to kiss her,’ I objected.
‘Yes, but he terrified her. He wanted to show her who was boss. Sexual harassment is a form of bullying. I’ve read about it.’
‘How do you know about this, Magnus?’
‘Really, Felix. You’re as bad as Harry Gilbert. You both know a lot about philosophy and ethics. But neither of you has a clue about human beings.’
That afternoon I had promised to do some shopping for Emma before I went home. I was standing in the queue in the delicatessen when I saw Chantry-Pigg’s housekeeper, Danielle Bousset. I had not bumped into her since we had met at the inaugural service in the university chapel. After what I had heard from Mary and Rosalind, I was embarrassed to come in contact with her again, but I was fascinated by her purchases. She was asking for a half-kilo of their best smoked salmon, a small jar of beluga caviar and a bottle of the most expensive balsamic vinegar. The bill was more than a hundred and fifty pounds.
I turned away as she passed and hoped she did not notice me. I really did not want to have a chat. How could a friar, who was vowed to poverty afford to eat like that?
When I arrived home, I was curious to know more about our new chaplain. I turned on my computer, went to Google, and typed in his name. There were over a hundred and fifty entries, mostly dealing with his pamphlets on clerical dress. I could find no references to money, sexual irregularities or harassment.
Then it struck me that there might be something about Danielle Bousset. To my astonishment there were more than eight thousand entries. Most seemed to be connected with Jacques Bousset, the film director who had won many prizes for his En Bon Point. It seemed that Jacques had been married to a woman named Danielle. There had been an acrimonious divorce and the French newspapers had been full of it. Since there was a more famous Danielle Bousset, there seemed little chance of my finding out anything about the chaplain’s housekeeper from the internet and I was about to turn the machine off.
Then I caught sight of a photograph. It was illustrating one of the more lurid articles and it was of the same woman who had stood before me in the queue in the St Sebastian’s delicatessen. There was no doubt about it. Chantry-Pigg’s housekeeper was the ex-wife of Jacques Bousset.
I turned back to the Google list of articles. Finally I picked one in English from a respectable magazine. It was a lengthy biographical study of Mrs Jacques Bousset. Apparently Danielle had been a student in Paris which was where she had met her husband. At that stage he had been a young, avant-garde film director.
Rejecting the nihilism of French existentialism, Danielle became a devout Roman Catholic. She trained as a radiographer and supported her husband financially for twenty years while he directed several unimpressive films. There had been no children. Danielle had longed for them and her religion forbade contraception, but Jacques would not hear of it. He said he was dedicated only to his art. Then came his most famous film – En Bon Point. It was wildly successful at the Cannes Film Festival and ultimately won the Oscar in Hollywood for the best foreign language film.
It was the end of the marriage. While Bousset was shooting the film, he was having an affair with the 21-year-old star. By the time Danielle found out, the girl was pregnant and Jacques was demanding a divorce. Despite her deep resistence, Jacques had little difficulty in persuading the Roman Catholic authorities to grant an annulment to the marriage on the grounds of Danielle’s supposed unwillingness to have children. He had also done his best to argue that the marriage was over before he had started shooting the film and that therefore she was not entitled to any of the proceeds.
At that point she had gone to the courts. Numerous friends testified that the fundemental idea behind En Bon Point was hers. They told of Jacques’ cruelty, his neglect of his wife and the real story of their childlessness. Even in the world of movies, it was a major scandal. In the end, the French divorce courts gave her a very generous settlement. There was no doubt that Danielle Bousset was a very rich woman. So here was the explanation. The house in Winchester Close must belong to her. She did not need to make money from her tenant and she could afford to conduct housekeeping on a very lavish scale. But how had she met Chantry-Pigg? Why was she willing to do this for him? What exactly was their relationship? And what did the order of friars feel about all this? I could find no answers to these questions on the internet.
I printed out the article and phoned Magnus. He was still in his office. ‘You won’t believe what I’ve discovered,’ I said. ‘Danielle Bousset, Chantry-Pigg’s housekeeper, is the ex-wife of Jacques Bousset, the famous film director.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He directed En Bon Point,’ I said.
‘Oh I went to see that with Harry.’ Magnus was interested. ‘He loved it. He’s always been sensitive about his weight and a film about the sexiness of fat men was just his cup of tea!’
‘You’re missing the point,’ I said rather desperately. ‘She’s loaded. That’s why Chantry-Pigg can live in such a grand house. It must belong to Danielle.’
There was a pause. ‘It’s hard to imagine they’re lovers … what do you think?’ Magnus asked.
‘I don’t know, Magnus. It’s a mystery.’
‘I wonder what she sees in him,’ Magnus pondered.
‘Well, he’s religious. Maybe that’s what she needed after Bousset.’
‘Skinny, pompous, self-important and phoney,’ said Magnus. She can’t possibly need that. That man shouldn’t be living in a luxury house. He ought to be defrocked and drummed out of his order.’
We had given our best advice to Mary and Rosalind. There was nothing to be done about Chantry-Pigg’s behaviour and I tried to forget the incident. Then one afternoon a week later, as I was marking essays, there was a knock on my door. Both girls asked if they could see me. ‘You might want to contact Dr Hamilton,’ Rosalind said triumphantly. ‘We’ve got something to show you.’ I phoned Magnus and he agreed to come over – he had just finished his Hebrew class and said he needed a drink.
When he arrived, I put on the kettle, but he indicated that something stronger was required. I poured him a glass of sherry and offered the same to the students. ‘So what’s the news?’, he asked.
Rosalind pulled a small tape-recorder out of her bag and put it on my desk. ‘You said we needed evidence. So we got some.’ She then turned it on and we listened to a muffled conversation beginning with a female shriek.
Then there was a rather noisy kiss. ‘Father Crispin,’ came Mary’s outraged voice, ‘I don’t think you ought to do that …’ There was the sound of clothes being ruffled and another louder shriek. ‘Please, Father Crispin, don’t do that …’ pleaded Mary’s voice.
Then it was Chantry-Pigg’s turn. ‘Don’t be silly, you know you want it, you know you do … Stop wriggling! Do what you’re told!’ There was another confused sound, perhaps of a chair falling over and the sound of running. In the background, Chantry-Pigg could be heard roaring: ‘Come back, you stupid little bitch …’
Mary dissolved into tears. ‘He was horrible,’ she said.
Rosalind put her arm round her friend. ‘You were really brave!’ She patted her shoulder and looked at us, ‘We’ve got him, haven’t we? They’ll have to believe us.’
Magnus nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty conclusive. What do you want us to do?’
‘We don’t know. What does happen next?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think the best course of action is to see the Vice-Chancellor. Do you want me to go as your teacher?’ I asked.
The girls nodded. They handed over the cassette tape, finished their sherry and left. I promised I would tell them the outcome.
The next day I made an appointment to see Flanagan. He had several meetings, but said I could come for five minutes. When I arrived, he had a stack of books on his desk about gambling as well as a travel guide to Las Vegas. ‘This is for you mate,’ he said handing me the guidebook. ‘Syl
vester’s excited about your visit.’ Unlike me, Flanagan was entirely committed to the enterprise. On his desk was a miniature roulette wheel with the Mancini logo.
‘Vice-Chancellor,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to talk to you about something serious.’
‘Yes, yes. Now I’ve been in touch with the planning officer. There’s not going to be any trouble about the squash courts and I want to talk to you about the interim arrangements for the Great Hall ….’
‘No, Vice-Chancellor, it’s nothing to do with Casino Management. It’s about Father Chantry-Pigg.’
Flanagan changed gear. ‘What’s the problem with that windbag?’ he asked.
‘You need to hear this.’ I took out the tape recorder. ‘He’s molested one of my students, a young woman. She came to me to complain. I said that there was nothing to be done. Although I believed her, I pointed out that he would deny it and it would be her word against his. Anyway, he tried again and this time she was carrying a tape recorder. The evidence is quite conclusive. Do you want to hear it?’
All of a sudden, Flanagan looked ten years older. He shrunk in his seat, but he nodded his head. I played the damning evidence.
‘Play it again,’ he demanded as soon as I turned it off. We listened a second time and he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry Felix. This is all too reminiscent of my childhood. There’s nothing you can’t tell me about the depravity of the clergy. I experienced it all first-hand.’ Then he brightened. ‘Well at least I can get rid of this bastard.’
He thought for a minute. ‘It must be completely water-tight. According to the university statutes, in cases like this I have to set up an investigative panel presided over by the Visitor.’
‘But the Visitor is the Provost of the cathedral. He’ll support Chantry-Pigg.’
