The Fabric of Sin mw-9

by Phil Rickman

  Gomer said nothing. He looked wary. Merrily blinked.

  ‘This is, erm … where you usually tell me something interesting. Some little anecdote.’

  ‘What’s to tell?’ Gomer sniffed. ‘Got her own smallholdin’. Keeps bees, chickens. Does this toe-twiddling treatment thing. And herbs.’

  ‘Yes, I knew some of that.’

  ‘And her’s popular with the farmers.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well … knows her way around, ennit? Lot o’ the ole farmers don’t. Don’t like computers, paperwork, London, Europe. Hell, don’t like Hereford much neither.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Plus, add to the list the council and the Min of Ag, whatever they calls it now.’

  ‘She helps farmers deal with red tape?’

  ‘Knows how to talk to shiny-arsed buggers with clipboards, that’s the basic of it. Farmer’s got hisself a problem with some official, don’t know how to harticulate it, he calls Muriel. Officials’ll back down, write it off as a bad job, see, soon as deal with Muriel.’

  ‘And this is official, is it? I mean, does she do this kind of thing as … you know … some kind of agricultural consultant?’

  Gomer laughed, started coughing and fitted a ciggy in his mouth, still laughing, still coughing.

  ‘I see,’ Merrily said.

  ‘Go and get warm, vicar. That’s the best thing.’

  * * *

  Robbie was complaining that his coffee would be ready. Couldn’t this wait? But Jane persisted; these guys were sometimes inclined to forget they were getting paid fairly decent money to feed young minds.

  ‘I suppose you’ve been reading some trashy novel,’ he said.

  ‘No, Mr Williams,’ Jane said. ‘I’ve been to Garway Church.’

  Robbie sat down again, behind the history room desk.

  ‘Have you now?’

  ‘Seriously interesting place.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Robbie said. ‘Spent many a day there, fully absorbed.’

  Morrell, the head, had introduced this system where sixth-formers got to call teachers by their first names, like they were your mates. It just led to awkwardness, in Jane’s view, and this was a view clearly shared by the head of history, who refused even to reveal his first name. It had always been R. Williams. So, obviously …

  ‘Right …’ Jane pulled up a chair. ‘So if anybody could answer my questions about Garway and the Templars …’

  For you, Mr Williams, the mid-morning break is over.

  ‘Damn and blast,’ Robbie said mildly. ‘Dropped myself in it there, didn’t I?’

  He had to be coming up to retirement. Sparse white hair, tweed jacket, comfortably overweight and, unlike most of his smoothie colleagues, so determinedly uncool that he almost was cool.

  ‘You see, it’s not exactly very big, that church,’ Jane said. ‘But so full of mysteries.’

  She wasn’t going to tell him she hadn’t been into the actual church yet, due to them running into Mrs Morningwood and everything. Anyway, no problem, she’d been on the common-room computer, and there were two or three websites with stacks of pictures of the church’s unique features — the Templar coffin lids in the floor, the enigmatic carvings, the remains of the circular nave …

  Robbie took off his brown-framed glasses, looked at the ceiling.

  ‘Thing is, Jane … there’s an awful lot of twaddle talked about the Knights Templar. Always has been. Supposed to be magicians and guardians of famous secrets, but in reality they were uneducated and illiterate, most of them. Weren’t even monks, in the true sense, simply a religious brotherhood who observed various disciplines and went out into the world to fight people.’

  ‘But they obviously knew about magic and astrological configurations and things.’

  ‘Not “obviously” at all, girl. Magic, in medieval times, was a high science, chronicled in Latin and Greek. Hardly for the illiterate.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe one kind of magic, but, like, what about all the hedge witches and the local conjurers? You’re saying they were intellectuals? I mean, there was always like an instinctive element, surely. Like, something that was passed down?’

  ‘An oral tradition. Perhaps. I’m merely saying that the ornate web of mythology woven around the Templars was precisely that.’

  ‘But you don’t know that. You don’t know that they hadn’t—’

  ‘They’ve became a very convenient repository for ludicrous conspiracy theories, and you need to remember that I—’

  ‘But you don’t know that they didn’t develop some instinctive spiritual feel for—’

  ‘—teach history, Jane, not New-Age theology.’

  ‘OK, history.’ Jane focused. ‘The Templars were linked to the Cistercians, right?’

  ‘That’s one theory.’

  ‘And the Cistercians were known for being close to the earth, in like a pagan way? Always settled in remote places where they could be self-sufficient. And they studied the stars and they were well into landscape patterns and stuff.’

  ‘To an extent.’

  ‘And that wouldn’t’ve been written down in Latin, would it? And … OK, if the Templars weren’t into magic, what about all the charges that were proved against them? Secret rituals at night?’

  ‘The charges were not proved, Jane. The Pope, Clement V, actually declared that they were un proven, but decided to dissolve the Templar order anyway because these accusations had brought it very much into disrepute.’

  ‘But if you—’

  ‘Ah, Jane …’ Robbie Williams sat back, arms folded, smiling almost fondly and shaking his head. ‘You really are a most unusual girl. Hard to think of anyone else in your year who displays the smallest curiosity about anything not actually involved with achieving the necessary qualifications. And I’m not being very helpful, am I? Why don’t you tell me where you’re going with this? Or hoping to go.’

  For the first time, Jane felt her engine stall. Couldn’t tell him that. Stick to questions. Teachers always liked questions.

  ‘There’s only one pub left in Garway, right?’

  ‘The Moon.’ Robbie patted his comfortable stomach. ‘I do know my hostelries.’

  ‘Did you know there used to be another three, called The Sun, The Stars and The Globe?’

  ‘I didn’t know that. How interesting. Do you know how far those names go back?’

  ‘Well, I … haven’t had a chance to check it all out yet. But it does suggest there’s some astrological tradition in the area, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Astronomical, anyway. Then again, it may be simply that some chap opened a pub called The Moon, and another chap set up in opposition and called his The Sun. And so on.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose.’

  ‘Sorry, Jane. What else have you found? The dovecote with 666 compartments? Your guess is as good as mine on that one. Could be a coincidence, could be someone’s idea of a joke or it could be rather sinister. Who knows?’

  ‘How about the green man?’

  ‘Ah,’ Robbie said.

  A bell at the end of the passage signalled the end of break-time.

  ‘The stone face carved into the chancel arch,’ Jane said quickly. ‘And nobody knows what it really means … even though they’re fairly common in churches.’

  ‘Yes. Is the green man of Celtic origin or early medieval? And does this one even qualify for the title?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘A green man is, by definition, a foliate face — leaves and vines coming out of his mouth and his nose and whatnot.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jane had a picture of it in her head, from one of the websites. The blank eyes, the stubby horns …

  ‘But what’s interesting,’ Robbie said, ‘is that the specimen inside the chancel arch at Garway appears to have no foliate embellishments whatsoever. No representation of greenery emerging from its mouth — instead, what, on closer scrutiny, is quite obviously a thick, studded cord with tassels at either en
d. I admit that’s puzzled me, too.’

  ‘What could it mean?’

  ‘Well now …’ Robbie leaned forward in his chair; he smelled quite strongly of mints. ‘If we return to the list of charges against the Templars, they were, if you recall, accused of worshipping an idol. In the form of a bearded male head.’

  ‘Yeah! Of course … It was supposed to have powers?’

  ‘It was also said to have a cord wound around it,’ Robbie said.

  ‘Holy sh—’ Jane slid to the edge of her chair. ‘So that face could be—’

  ‘Baphomet.’ Robbie raised both arms and joined his hands behind his head. ‘It came to be known as Baphomet. A name for which there seem to be several explanations, the most common of which is that it’s a corruption of Muhammad. And the Templars, during the Crusades, would obviously have been much exposed to Islam.’

  ‘The Templars could’ve been secret Muslims? This could be a kind of Islamic idol?’

  ‘The Muslims don’t have idols, Jane. And if we pursue that theory, we also tend to stumble over the word “worship”. While the Muslims afford their prophet the very greatest respect, they only worship Allah.’

  ‘Maybe the Pope or somebody put a spin on that. Because, like, messing with Muhammad, that would be serious heresy, right?’

  ‘Obviously, it would. However, since those days — in the West anyway — Baphomet seems to have acquired a rather darker image. Satanic, even. Demonic, anyway. Which is where it rather departs from the medieval historian’s sphere of expertise, so you’d need to research that at the library.’

  ‘But, like, the fact that the head’s set into the chancel arch, the entrance to the holiest part of the church …’

  ‘If that is Baphomet …’ Robbie put on a slightly twisted, conspiratorial smile ‘… is he guarding the altar? Or is he drawing attention away from it? Think, for instance, which side it’s on.’

  ‘Well, erm …’ Obviously she hadn’t seen the actual thing, only the picture, which was close-up. ‘I suppose that would depend which side you’re approaching it from.’

  ‘It’s only visible from one side Jane. The side facing you as you walk in. Putting it very firmly on the left.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sinistral, as it were. The left-hand path. Hah! Now I’m getting carried away. And my coffee will be completely cold.’ Robbie rose from his chair. ‘I do so hate cold coffee.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Williams. But you’ve been really helpful …’

  ‘I suppose I really ought to have asked you why you’re so interested in all this.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll tell you sometime.’

  ‘Might, on the other hand, be better if I never knew, Jane.’

  She watched him plodding across to the door, his battered briefcase under an arm, and couldn’t believe how, after rubbishing all her other ideas and dismissing the Templars as some kind of thick thugs, he’d suddenly come out with something as weird and disturbing as this. She came to her feet.

  ‘Oh …’

  Robbie stopped, neck hunched into his shoulders as if she’d thrown something at him.

  ‘Just one more thing, Mr Williams. Have you ever heard of a green man or a bearded head or whatever … that wasn’t in a church? Say, in a public building. Or a house?’

  ‘Can’t say I have. And, unless it was in a chapel, that would strike me as unlikely.’ He turned and looked at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘Why? Have you seen one somewhere else?’

  ‘No, no.’ Jane slid her chair back under one of the desks. ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’

  This time, the phone was picked up at once.

  ‘Gatehouse.’

  ‘Sophie, it’s me. Look, I’m sorry about this, but—‘

  ‘I know. It’s been on the radio. No more brutal form of suicide, in my opinion, than to lay one’s head in the path of a train. The engine driver is usually traumatized. I did try to ring you. I don’t think the Bishop knows yet.’

  ‘It brings up the question of going back to Garway.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sophie said. ‘I doubt he’d want that now.’

  ‘I think I want it.’

  ‘Merrily, some people appear to be locked into a tragic cycle, and whatever we—’

  ‘A cycle I just might have broken if I’d known more.’

  ‘Yes, you would think that.’

  ‘I need to understand, as far as I can, what happened.’

  ‘That’s surely for the police to establish. Or the coroner.’

  ‘Superficially.’

  ‘And you think this would need a full week?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve had another message I can’t really ignore. I’ll explain when I know a bit more.’

  ‘You want me to tell the Bishop?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll see if Ruth Wisdom’s still available … Merrily?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I think you need to be very careful,’ Sophie said. ‘This may go deeper than either of us had imagined.’

  Merrily made some tea and took it into the scullery. Lit a cigarette and stared unhappily at the answering machine for a minute or so before rewinding the last message. The one waiting for her when she’d come in from the churchyard.

  ‘Mrs Watkins. Morningwood. Come and see me, will you, darling?’

  A pause, then

  ‘Someone didn’t do a terribly good job, did they? Was it you or was it me? Or is something dreadfully amiss?’

  24

  Invaded Space

  ‘Back off, Merrily,’ Huw said. ‘You’re not thinking, you’re reacting.’

  She said nothing. Over by the door to the hall stood two overnight bags, packed. She didn’t have a respectable suitcase.

  ‘Let it lie, lass. Attend to your parish, go into the church morning and evening for three days. Contemplate. Let things settle. And then look at it again.’

  ‘I’ve just been to the church. It wasn’t a great success. I was probably too emotional.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Merrily said, ‘it was already too late.’

  She was on the mobile in the kitchen. Using the mobile too much, thanks to Bliss and his paranoia.

  ‘So you think you had a bit of a psychic experience, do you? That’s what this is all about.’

  ‘No, what it’s about is that two people are dead. For reasons it seems unlikely anybody will ever be able to explain. Except possibly me. After a fashion. And too late. Because I was putting my home life and my parish and my personal comforts before the job I agreed to take on. Because I was being lax and lazy.’

  ‘Wrong attitude, lass.’

  ‘Mopping up, Huw. It’s just mopping up. And a miserable attempt at penance. I won’t exactly enjoy it, but I don’t think I really deserve to.’

  ‘Mopping up?’ Huw’s voice rose, uncharacteristically. ‘It’s digging up. It’s disturbing the ground, it’s exposing live wires. A little woman with a bucket and spade?’

  Spade. Wires. Mrs Morningwood talking about the sometimes-dormant feud between the Gwilyms and the Newtons/Grays: Like a live electric wire under the ground, and periodically someone would strike it with a spade.

  ‘I’ve told you what to do,’ Huw said. ‘Talk to the vicar of Monkland or whoever’s attending to the funerals, and the bloke standing in at Garway. You then have a Requiem at Garway Church, followed by a blessing — or something a bit heavier, but don’t overdo it — at the house. Two priests, plus interested parties. Bang, bang … out.’

  ‘And if it goes on?’

  ‘What … deaths?’

  ‘I don’t know. They bring in another builder, who happens to have a heart attack, whatever. I need to find out what’s there.’

  ‘Merrily, there’s masses there. It’s always going to be there. Garway’s layered with it, that whole area. Tantalizing little mysteries. Codes nobody’s going to crack and symbols and forgotten secrets. And occasionally summat flares. So you tamp it down and you walk away
and, with any luck, it won’t flare again in your lifetime.’

  ‘You’re saying it’s too big to deal with?’

  ‘Too big, too deep. It’s Knights bloody Templar. Folks’ve been obsessing over the buggers for centuries. You don’t need it.’

  ‘One week.’ Merrily looked across at the overnight bag. ‘I’m giving it one week, max.’

  She’d phoned Teddy Murray. ‘Oh dear,’ he’d said, all vagueness, the kind of minister who held garden fêtes and came to tea. ‘I was told it was all off. Never mind, I’m sure we can organize a room. Do everything we can to ensure your stay is as painless as possible — think of it as an autumn break in God’s weekend retreat.’

  He clearly hadn’t known about Felix and Fuchsia.

  ‘All right.’ Huw did one of his slow, meditative sighs; she thought of him pushing weary fingers through hair like waste silage. ‘Tell me again. Tell me what happened to you.’

  ‘I’m not going into it again because it sounds stupid and if anyone told it to me I’d react the way you’re reacting.’

  ‘Oh, for— Listen. Don’t get me wrong, Merrily. I accept that summat happened. You’ve been doing this long enough to know the difference and it’d be patronizing of me to suggest otherwise. Give me the physical symptoms.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘You bloody do.’

  ‘All right, couldn’t breathe, heart going like an old washing machine.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the feeling of being … I was transfixed. It was like I’d invaded his space and had to take the consequences.’

  ‘It felt evil?’

  ‘It was … without heart. I thought it had some kind of worm coming out of its mouth, but it was rope or something fibrous. There was a sense of naked contempt. And a sense that it was …’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘I was trying to pray. As you do. The Breastplate. Second nature. And I couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t, you know, form the words. Jane was calling to me from across the room, and she might as well’ve been miles away. There was just me and him. I’d invaded his space, he … invaded mine.’

  ‘How’d he do that?’

  ‘It was just an instant, a microsecond of insidious cold, a … a penetrating cold.’