‘Jesus is our friend!’ they cried.
‘Jesus loves us!’
‘Jesus loves us!’ they shrieked.
‘Show you love your brothers and sisters! Hug each other for Jesus.’
Apprehensively, Amiss looked sideways at Pooley, who was standing as rigid as a young officer at Rorke’s Drift waiting to be overwhelmed by the Zulu hordes. As Amiss made a feeble gesture in his direction indicating that they might be better off hugging each other than awaiting the attentions of perfect strangers, he was grabbed by a large black woman in a cartwheel hat, who enveloped him in her capacious arms and squeezed him painfully. As soon as she put him down, she was replaced by a haggard man in a woolly hat who smelled of unwashed clothes and yesterday’s whisky. Amiss tried not to flinch and to return the hug with the appropriate pressure. It cheered him somewhat to see that a horror-stricken Pooley was being pawed by a couple who looked like terminally ill vegans.
Bev, who had been jumping about in the pulpit urging them on, called the proceedings to order. A hunched and twitching Pooley moved close to Amiss. ‘I may never forgive you,’ he whispered.
‘A singularly inappropriate response, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
They were drowned out by a holler from Bev, who plucked the microphone off its stand and began to croon with the assistance of an electronically enhanced guitarist who had leaped onto the altar:
‘Where on earth is Jesus? Is he at the bar? Is he out there raving? Going much too far?
‘Taking dope and drinking. Kicking up a fuss, Is he in a harlot’s bed? No! He’s here with us!’
The beat induced most of the congregation to bop along enthusiastically and the applause was such that the Rev. Bev went through the performance again with redoubled élan. ‘That was a song for Jesus,’ he yelled at the end. ‘Let’s hear it for Jesus, now, brothers and sisters. Save me, Jesus!’
‘Save me, Jesus!’ screeched his flock.
‘Save me, Jesus!’
‘Save me, Jesus!’
He motioned them into silence. ‘Every week I give you new hope that Jesus wants to save everyone. No one is too wicked or depraved for him to love. Make ready now to greet your new sisters and brothers and help them to Jesus, our Lord.’
He stabbed his right forefinger towards the main entrance and the double doors were pulled open simultaneously. There was a tremendous din of revving engines and then, in a thunder of sound, down the aisle came a vast black-and-silver motorbike with two black-clad riders. It drew level with the platform, juddered to a halt and as it fell silent another bike came through the door, to be followed by another and another until seven stood silent. The dramatic effect was slightly lessened by the outbreak of coughing brought on by the exhaust fumes.
The coughing died down, and in well-choreographed symmetry, the riders propped their bikes against the south wall, strode to the front of the platform, turned their backs on the congregation and raised their arms towards the preacher.
‘Praise the Lord!’ he cried.
‘Praise the Lord!’ was what Amiss presumed they shouted in return; the sound was muffled by their helmets. Picked out in silver studs on the back of each black leather jacket was the legend:
HEAVEN’S ANGELS BIKERS FOR JESUS
‘Hallelujah, hallelujah,’ cried the preacher. There was a lusty chorus of hallelujahs in response. He tore off his tunic and revealed a T-shirt with the exhortation: ‘Jump for Jesus!’ Leaping up and down he cried, ‘Now, jump for Jesus.’ Feeling like a complete idiot and avoiding Pooley’s eye, Amiss obediently followed the example of the bikers and his neighbours, until after a couple of minutes exhaustion overtook the crowd.
The bikers removed their helmets and raised their arms again towards the pulpit. ‘These were bad people,’ shouted Bev, ‘but they’ve seen the light and with the help of Jesus they’re going to drive out the devil.’ There was an expectant hush, and from the ceiling there descended a fluorescent red cross. ‘Come on, now! Shake out the devil! Shake him out! Shake him out!’ He descended from the pulpit—revealing his bottom half to be clad in jeans and trainers—rushed towards the bikers and knocked each of them over until they all lay prostrate. ‘Down, down, all of you down for Jesus,’ he screamed, and the congregation obeyed as quickly as infirmity and clumsiness permitted.
As the entire congregation began noisily expelling the devil, Pooley grabbed Amiss’s arm; together they set off, with considerable difficulty, to crawl towards freedom. When they reached the side door and stood up, Pooley strode out immediately. As Amiss took a last half-wistful, half-relieved look back, a sobbing Bev Johns was clasping the bottom of the red cross crying, ‘Strike him, Jesus. Save us all,’ and the bikers were writhing and alternately screaming and groaning. Various members of Bev’s flock appeared to be trying with some success to speak in tongues.
Amiss caught up with Pooley and jerked his head towards the pub on the corner. ‘Hold on. I need a drink.’
‘I don’t. I’ll wait outside. I need fresh air.’
Amiss tottered into the bar like an old man, ordered and paid for a large whisky and downed it in one. ‘Bad night?’ enquired the barman. ‘Same again?’
Amiss shook his head. ‘No, thanks. Get thee behind me, Satan.’
Chapter 7
After the brisk walk on which Pooley insisted, they repaired to his flat, where, with the help of some restorative gins and tonic, they put together a hearty lunch of steak, onions and mashed potatoes.
Amiss cleared his plate and washed it down with some more rioja. ‘Gosh, I did enjoy that, Ellis. And to think I feared you might think quiche more suitable for dejeuner à deux hommes nouveaux.’
‘Life in the Met is not conducive to New Mannishness, I can tell you.’
‘So what’s been going on? I think we’ve exhausted my affairs. Now give me the lowdown on that case you’ve been hinting darkly about. And omit no salacious detail, however disgusting.’
Pooley burst eagerly into the account of the perplexing and grisly murders which during the previous couple of months had so much occupied him and their mutual friend, Chief Superintendent Jim Milton. It had been cracked, it turned out, through a great deal of patient investigation, culminating in the discovery of a call girl who had witnessed a crucial encounter from a doorway in which she had been loitering.
‘Has this done much for your reputations in the Yard? Jim seemed a bit gloomy about his personal standing last time we met.’
‘He’s been pretty gloomy generally. All this is-she-isn’t-she coming back from the States?/will-he-won’t-he join her there? hasn’t been helping his morale. Certainly I had some pats on the back and I suppose Jim must have too. But he’s been so busy we haven’t had a chance to talk as friends and he took off the other day for their long-overdue holiday. Won’t be back for almost a month, I think.’
‘I hope to Christ they resolve things this time.’
Pooley shrugged. ‘I see no happy endings. I just can’t see Jim throwing up his job and—’
The telephone shrilled; Pooley picked up the receiver. ‘Hello. Ellis Pooley.’
The voice coming down the line was so loud that Amiss could hear it distinctly. ‘So how was it?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Pooley. ‘Have you got the wrong number?’
‘It’s Jack Troutbeck, you idiot.’
‘Oh, fine. Good afternoon, Jack. How nice to hear from you. Where are you?’
‘At the other end of the bloody line is the answer, trying to communicate with you in the couple of minutes I’ve got. Is Robert with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pass him over.’
‘Good afternoon, Jack,’ said Amiss genially. ‘Feeling like a jolly gossip, are we?’
‘Stop horsing about. You and young Ellis had better apply your minds to the fact that the dean appears to be a raving lunatic. Much madder than we thought. God knows, I didn’t expect much from the Northern Irish, but there were moments when this guy made
Ian Paisley seem like a papist.’
‘A bit seventeenth century, was he?’
‘Cromwell would have applauded loudly. Call me ecumenical, but I think remarks about the immorality of nuns’ men and monks’ women, not to mention whores of Babylon, are going a bit far in a High-Church cathedral in Westonbury in the mid-1990s. If I had my way, I’d sentence him to two years in a priest’s hole listening to Gregorian chant.’
‘Went down well with the audience?’
‘David nearly fainted and half the congregation walked out. You really missed something.’
‘So did you.’
She ignored him. ‘However more important is that somebody—mind you, quite rightly in my opinion—seems to me to be out to get him. When he had done slavering and foaming at the mouth and left the pulpit, he ended up at the bottom of the steps on his arse: it was a delight to behold. Such was his popularity by then that the congregation uttered nary an “oh dear” but merely tittered. Nice, charitable David picked him up.’
‘But what makes you think somebody’s out to get him?’
‘Instinct. When I got back to the palace I made an excuse about having lost a valuable handkerchief and thundered back to the cathedral. Turned out all the pulpit steps were dangerously highly waxed: going up would be safe enough; going down could have been lethal if he’d fallen earlier and awkwardly.’
‘But that would be a crazy thing to do. It’s so obvious.’
‘No, it isn’t. It could easily be blamed on an absent-minded cleaner too cowardly to own up. Anyway, that’s what I think. Now chew it over. I’m off.’ The telephone went dead.
Amiss looked at Pooley. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Old girl’s getting a bit fanciful.’
‘You don’t expect me to agree.’
‘Oh, of course. Sorry. What a thing to say to Mr Fanciful himself.’
‘You have to admit your dean seems to be a bluebottle in the Westonbury ointment.’
‘Why don’t you come down and snoop around with me? Didn’t you say you were taking a fortnight’s leave in a week or so?’
‘Ah, yes, but I have things to do. I’ve been earmarking this fortnight for a long time to sort out things domestically. Now that I’ve bought this house I can bring more books and furniture from home: there’s a lot to be done. Then I’m having a week walking in the Highlands.’
‘Alone or in company?’
‘Alone. I get enough company at work.’
‘Sounds perfectly foul to me,’ said Amiss. ‘Boring domestic claptrap followed by getting wet and cold and tired.’
Pooley smiled gently. ‘We are not compatible in all respects, you know.’
‘Too right. I’ll go and open another bottle.’
The telephone rang as Amiss reached the kitchen. ‘Hello. Ellis…Oh, right, Jack. I’ll tell him.’
He put the phone down. ‘Robert. Jack says you’d better get back fast. She’ll be leaving shortly and reckons Plutarch will be fully conscious in a few hours.’
‘Oh, God, no. I’d forgotten she was to deliver her.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I must run if I’m going to catch the four-thirty.’
He grabbed his coat. ‘Thanks for everything. And remember, if you change your mind, you’ll be welcome to visit. The bishop has already said any friends of mine would be honoured guests. He’s even claimed Plutarch will be a valued companion.’
Pooley shuddered. ‘There’s no accounting for tastes.’
***
The bishop looked on with pleasure as Amiss gingerly patted the stirring marmalade form. ‘How nice to see you, Robert. You must be very pleased to be reunited with Plutarch.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Oh, and Jack left you a present.’
Amiss looked suspiciously at the bishop. ‘I don’t like the sound of that? What kind of present?’
‘A portable phone. Wasn’t that kind of her?’
He handed it to Amiss; attached was a note written in the baroness’s huge and almost unintelligible scrawl, which from long experience Amiss managed to decipher swiftly: ‘Programmed: 1) my direct line; 2) my car phone; 3) St Martha’s switchboard. Keep me posted.’
Crossly, Amiss jabbed his finger on the first button.
‘Yes?’
‘Jack, it’s me, and I have no intention of using this foul device. I hate mobile phones. They’re the mark of complete and utter prats and I have some pride.’
‘Calm down, calm down. A portable phone maketh not a prat. You do not need to use it prattishly: it is purely to make it easy for you to keep in touch with HQ.’
‘If by HQ you mean yourself…’
‘Of course.’
‘…what you mean is vice versa.’
‘That’s as maybe, but in any event I’m sure you’ll find it preferable to having me hound you via David and whatever chums you make in Westonbury. Now stop being such a sourpuss, and remember I want the line kept clear for me.
‘See you.’
As the phone went dead, Amiss swore and then saw the bishop looking at him worriedly. ‘Sorry, David,’ he said, suddenly feeling ashamed, ‘it’s been a long day and I fear I was being irritable.’
The bishop’s face cleared. ‘I quite understand. Come down to the kitchen and let us prepare something to eat and tell each other about our day. Mine, at least, has not been uneventful.’
***
The bishop was a man of regular habits, and within only a few days so was Amiss. Never by choice an early riser, he left the bishop to his own devices for his early-morning prayers and the run on which he was frequently accompanied by Plutarch. The growing friendship between bishop and cat had begun unpromisingly, when—on her first morning in residence—she had pursued her host as he began running, had hurled herself between his legs and brought them both sprawling and intertwined to the ground. She had then compounded her offence by clawing at him savagely through his rather thin tracksuit. Their mutual cries of pain brought Amiss—still in his dressing gown—running from the palace just as they succeeded in wriggling out of each other’s embrace. As he shouted ‘Get thee to a cattery,’ after the fleeing Plutarch, Amiss met firm resistance from the bruised and slightly bleeding bishop. ‘Nonsense, my dear fellow. Just an accident. Could happen to anyone. I’m sure tomorrow she’ll have learnt her lesson.’ And indeed, bizarrely, she seemed to have done so, for on succeeding mornings she accompanied the bishop, if not quite like a well-trained dog, at least without evincing any signs of feline blood lust.
Plutarch was not a slave to routine. If the weather was unpleasant she let the bishop run alone, but wet or fine, she joined them in the kitchen at 8.30 as they made and ate breakfast—muesli and fresh fruit for the bishop, boiled eggs and toast for Amiss and sardines for Plutarch.
Unfortunately for Amiss, too much exposure to the baroness’s hospitality had given Plutarch a discriminating palate. She had become contemptuous of all brands of tinned cat food and now created merry hell if not supplied with human food—and good human food at that. These days when he shopped for himself and the bishop, he had to bear Plutarch in mind, and it was necessary also to keep an emergency supply of up-market cans of the kind of food she was prepared to tolerate: sardines, pilchards, tuna, hot dogs, beef stew and so on. A couple more visits to St Martha’s, thought Amiss sourly, and she would refuse anything other than rare roast beef and best new season English lamb, washed down with a rather piquant little claret. ‘“Eat, drink and be merry,” as Ecclesiastes recommended,’ the baroness had told him she’d instructed Plutarch as she deposited her in Westonbury. When Amiss had retorted that Ecclesiastes wasn’t thinking of cats, the baroness had accused of him being a life-denying specieist.
If the bishop was free, they shared a cold lunch and in the evening cooked something simple. The bishop was a novice cook, but he was keen, and he took simple pleasure from preparing a meal which they both enjoyed. Amiss never saw him happier than when he managed to produce a
spaghetti bolognaise where the pasta was al dente and the sauce delicious.
Breakfast over, Amiss would clear the table and wash up, Plutarch would go about her business and the bishop would disappear to dress for daily duties like services, diocesan management meetings, listening to local pressure groups, attendance at ecclesiastical committees and visits to parishes within his diocese. Amiss would then settle down to his administrative and research duties, for it had rapidly become clear that the bishop badly needed help on both fronts. Amiss’s main job might be to hold the bishop’s hand and try to make sense of what was going on in the cathedral close, but he had much to do as a substitute for Cornelia. There were the bishop’s domestic affairs—such as the payment of bills—and on the research front checking references and footnotes, posting off to, and requesting books from, the London Library and typing up whatever scholarly scrawl the bishop had produced standing at his lectern early in the morning or after dinner.
Even more important was Amiss’s role as soother and distracter when the bishop was distressed by ecclesiastical scandals (a married vicar running off with his deaconess, an archdeacon found fiddling his expenses, a General Synod committee wondering if in a very real sense sin existed at all, or some new vulgarization of the liturgy) which elicited squeals of pain and a flood of oh-dear-oh-dear-oh-goodness-gracious-how-distressing-how-dreadfuls.
Amiss was pleased to feel that even if he were to fail absolutely on the cathedral front, he would still earn the £300 a week the bishop had insisted augment his free board and lodging—a sum which came from the bishop’s own pocket and which Amiss later discovered represented about two-thirds of his pre-tax earnings.
As a bonus, Amiss began to enjoy reacquainting himself with aspects of early and medieval history to which he had not given a thought since Oxford, so as to be able to—if not maintain a sophisticated debate with the bishop—at least ask reasonably intelligent questions about the performance of this or that pope or about what it was that particularly upset Tertullian about bringing philosophy into theology. It was, he realized, a useful part of his job to act as a surrogate pupil: he could see that losing his students had been almost as terrible a blow to the bishop as losing his wife.
Murder in a Cathedral Page 6
