‘He hardly seems — sympathetic,’ said the Bishop.
‘He can be as unsympathetic as he likes, so long as he’s competent. The trouble is, I don’t feel sure — having watched his performance this morning — that he’s that. However, I may be entirely wrong.’
‘The terrible thing is—thinking it must be one of us,’ said the Bishop, nervously wringing his hands, as he did when people came to him with their sexual problems. ‘Not because I like all the delegates, because, well, frankly . . .’ He let his voice fade into an eloquent silence which made his opinion plainer than words could. ‘But still, I am in a way the leader of the symposium, and the thought that we have come to this little Community and brought murder into it . . . And such a murder too,’ he added, his hands fluttering at the memory of the slashed body on the bed, and the blood. ‘You see, in a way Father Anselm is quite right: I am responsible.’
Ernest Clayton thought it time to reveal to the Bishop that he had had the wool pulled over his eyes, if that was, indeed, precisely the nature of the process.
‘This business of the locked door to the brothers’ dormitory wing,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we look into the arguments there a little more closely? Now, assuming we accept Father Anselm’s word on this, and assuming he did in fact lock the door last night at the usual time (whenever that may be), what guarantee does he have that none of the brothers was hidden in the main building at the time he locked it?’
The Bishop stared at him. ‘You mean . . . ?’
‘And remained in the main building all night. How does he know there was no one?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said the Bishop. ‘Could he have searched, perhaps?’
‘Odd he didn’t mention it, if so. And in any case, the corridors around Brother Dominic’s room are dark at the best of times. Darker still at night, no doubt. Anyone could have hidden there at the time he locked up. And a resident brother would know them like the back of his hand, so the darkness would be no problem. Come to that, he could have hidden in the Great Hall, or in the chapel.’
‘I don’t think there was anyone in the Great Hall, not when we were there,’ said the Bishop.
‘The chapel would be better,’ said Ernest Clayton. ‘More hiding places. In any case, after the murder, the murderer could very easily have gone out. The door to the Great Hall is locked from the inside.’
‘Of course,’ said the Bishop.
‘And that raises another possibility,’ said Ernest Clayton, pursuing his argument remorselessly, and leaving the usually agile-minded Bishop of Peckham panting behind him: ‘How did the Bishop of Mitabezi get out of the main building?’
‘Well, of course, he must have unlocked the door from the inside, as you just suggested the murderer could have done, when he went out to do . . . what he did do,’ said the Bishop.
‘Precisely. But when? At what time did he go out? And how long was the door open?’
‘Goodness me,’ said the Bishop. ‘None of this occurred to me. You’re quite a detective!’
Ernest Clayton forbore to say that he was only detective enough to see the obvious fact that the wily Bishop had been the victim of a confidence trick, in which his reason, already upset by the sights he had seen, had been deceived by the speed with which the cards were flashed before his eyes. He merely said: ‘The fact is, from the time the Bishop went out (and we don’t know when that was) until the time the police came, the door was open, and anyone could come in or go out. It would be worth finding out how easy it is to get out of the brothers’ dormitory wing. Of course, the fact remains that the most likely murderer may be one of us. Nevertheless, if we ignore the physical circumstances of the murder, and look merely at the general set-up and the psychological probabilities, then the most likely murderer would surely be one of his fellows in the Community.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said the Bishop.
‘That being so, the business of how long the main door was unlocked, and whether anyone was hidden in the main building at the time of locking up, becomes important.’
‘You think we should go straight along to the police and put these things to them, do you?’ said the Bishop hopefully.
Ernest Clayton thought for a moment. ‘No, I’m not sure we ought to do that,’ he said. ‘It would look as if we were trying to get ourselves out of a hole. And as if we were trying to teach them their business. What, frankly, was your impression of the Chief Inspector?’
The Bishop shook his head, and something of his old impishness of manner returned to him. ‘A chief scout who has let his position go to his head?’ he suggested.
‘I suspect that may be putting it mildly,’ said the Reverend Clayton. ‘Certainly he didn’t look as if he would take kindly to being told his business. My own feeling is that, for the moment, we should only bring these points up if the subject occurs naturally in the interview.’
‘You could be right,’ said the Bishop. ‘As modestly as possible, is that the idea?’
‘Exactly: casually and tentatively. Of course, if the man is worth his salt he will have seen through the argument — if in fact it has been put to him at all.’
‘From what he said to the brothers, I should think it has,’ said the Bishop. ‘And it sounded as if he’s swallowed it.’
‘You’re right, I’d forgotten that. Well, we’ll see. Perhaps he’ll be sharper than he looks. At any rate we’d better be getting back so we can find out.’
They were nearly at the farthest wall of the enclosed part of the moor. As they turned to walk back to the distant buildings, Ernest Clayton couldn’t help congratulating himself on the change he had wrought in the Bishop’s demeanour. There was a spring in the step, a jauntiness in the set of the shoulders, an expression of something near confidence on his face. It was as if he had been given a celestial pick-me-up.
CHAPTER IX
‘ALL THIS’
IN SPITE OF the spirit of jaunty optimism which he had managed to foster in the Bishop of Peckham, the Reverend Clayton’s own emotional barometer dropped dangerously low in the next few hours. Though he had hitherto had no conscious ambition to play detective, Ernest Clayton had a logical and tidy mind. The information which he had so far gleaned about the occurrences of the night before had been neatly catalogued and cross-referenced in his brain, where also were stored a few cards with possible hints for the future — they had little arrows on them, leading to words with question-marks after them. Such habits of mind had been fostered by, and had been of inestimable use in, the succession of muddles, misunderstandings and petty crimes which had formed the stuff of his parish administration over the last twenty-five years.
To such a mind it is particularly frustrating to be confronted by another which seems unwilling, or possibly unable, to go at a matter straight, keep steadfast to a track, get to the heart of the problem. At first Ernest Clayton tried to believe that there was a hidden design behind the strangely random nature of Chief Inspector Plunkett’s questions, or perhaps that he was trying shock tactics. But he found it impossible to cling to that belief as the interview became more and more disorganized. Any idea of subtly planting ideas in Plunkett’s mind, superintending their growth, and cheering from the pathway as they burst into flower as if their progress had nothing to do with him had to be abandoned early in the interview. Plunkett was rude, opinionated to the point of obsession, and only at intervals seemed to be interested in conducting a murder investigation.
For what he was really interested in was ‘all this’, and by ‘all this’ he did not mean (like the Nancy Mitford character) the outward, visible and comforting signs of wealth and rank. He meant monks, sandals, robes, compline, wholemeal bread, incense — the whole neo-medieval caboodle. And when he spoke of it, a look came into his eyes that Ernest Clayton could only describe as obsessive.
‘What do they think they’re playing at? Eh?’ he would say, his eyes straying to the simple, elegant crucifix on the cupboard in Father Anselm’s study. ‘Look at that. D
oesn’t it make you want to spit? But I suppose you approve? Eh? Tell me where you stand.’ And he leaned forward and fixed Ernest Clayton with his rat’s eyes, his disgusting mouth open as if to catch evidence of Popish leanings.
Luckily at this point they were interrupted by Inspector Croft, who in his silent way padded over to the desk and handed Plunkett a piece of paper.
‘The report on the blood samples, sir,’ he murmured. Plunkett glanced at it, seemed inclined to crumple it up, but finally pushed it aside with a grunt. He seemed to want to get back to his inquisition of Ernest Clayton, but Croft remained standing there.
‘What would you suggest I do now, sir?’ he asked quietly.
‘Use your initiative. Go and see what you can find at the barn,’ said Plunkett, unaware of any contradiction in what he said. Ernest Clayton thought he saw Croft’s eyebrows raise themselves a fraction of an inch, but he merely withdrew silently.
Plunkett, reminded of the murder, seemed to be wrenching his mind back to the business in hand. Ernest Clayton — who had been finding it increasingly difficult to hold his temper under the sort of questioning he would hardly allow his bishop to put him through, let alone a layman — helped the process on its way by a question prompted by Plunkett’s last command.
‘You mentioned the barn,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you haven’t ruled out the Bishop of Mitabezi?’
‘Eh?’ said Plunkett fiercely. Then he went on: ‘Oh, no, the black is out. Well, not out, exactly. Still, there’s no evidence. You know what he’d been doing, don’t you?’ The tongue slicked around the lips. ‘Killing a lamb!’
‘Yes, I had heard,’ said Ernest Clayton. So great was the antagonism the Chief Inspector was arousing in him that for one moment he felt like rushing in with a defence of the practice.
‘Have you ever heard anything like it? Eh? But I’d believe anything of them. He’d have killed this Denis Crowther soon as look at him if the fancy had taken him.’
‘But you don’t think he did.’
Plunkett screwed up his face resentfully. ‘There’s no more evidence against him than any of you others. All the blood on him was animal. The knife had only been used on the lamb.’
‘It hardly seems likely he did it in a trance, then,’ said Clayton.
‘No, maybe not. Could have done it earlier though, then gone into his little fit and gone rampaging after more blood. Could be you’re all lucky to be alive.’ His eyes lit up at the thought of all that blood, but then he shook his head regretfully. ‘No evidence though. I suppose you didn’t see any sign of hostility towards this Denis Crowther from any of the other delegates, as you call yourselves?’
‘No,’ said Clayton. ‘But remember — we’d been here so short a time. We barely knew him.’
‘So you say,’ said Plunkett.
‘If there were any animosities it would be most likely to be from one of the other brothers,’ said Clayton.
‘Right,’ said Plunkett. ‘I’d like to have investigated them. I’d have found out a thing or two, never you worry. But they were locked in their wing all night. They’re out of it.’
‘Unless one of them stayed behind in the main building,’ said Ernest Clayton insinuatingly.
‘Quite,’ said Plunkett, not listening. ‘So it’s got to be one of you, or this Father Anselm. Have you ever heard the like, though? Locked in at night, like criminals? It’s like something out of the Spanish Inquisition.’
The whole conversation was like that.
• • •
The Bishop of Peckham was talking to Stewart Phipps when Ernest Clayton emerged from his interview with the Law. They were standing near High Table in the Great Hall, and the sun, streaming through the high stained-glass window, bathed them in strange colours and geometric shadows. They appeared not transfigured, though, but deep in depressed conversation, and Clayton guessed that the Bishop, once his tongue had been loosened, was regaling the whole symposium one by one with the history of his night of horror. He went over towards them.
‘Were you grilled?’ said the Bishop in a sprightly way. Ernest Clayton had noticed that he seemed always to have a good effect on him, and that he brightened up as soon as he saw him.
‘In a way,’ said Clayton. ‘I had to give an account of my religious position, more especially my attitude towards incense, confession, and I don’t know what.’
‘But what about the murder?’
‘Well, in among all the rest he asked a few questions — more or less at random, or so it seemed to me. He asked whether there was any unpleasantness involving Brother Dominic and any of us. He asked whether there had been anything noteworthy happen the evening before. Oh, yes, and then just before I went he asked what I was doing last night. When I said I was sleeping, he snarled and said, “A likely story.” I think by then he must have decided that my religious inclinations were much too high for me to be trusted.’
‘He sounds a bully,’ said Stewart Phipps. ‘He looked like one.’
‘I think he is,’ said Ernest Clayton.
‘Like all the police — a Fascist at heart.’
‘It’s not a word I like to use,’ said Ernest Clayton to Stewart Phipps’s surprise — it was a word he was using all the time. ‘To me the frightening thing about him is partly his incompetence — if it’s left up to him this thing will never be cleared up — and partly that I think — well, I don’t want to be a scaremonger, but his state of mind seemed to me not so far from madness.’
‘Goodness me!’ said the Bishop, opening his eyes wide. ‘That’s putting it strongly, isn’t it?’
‘You must be as used to the signs as I am,’ said Ernest Clayton. ‘Not that we see as much of it now as twenty or thirty years ago. There’s more football mania these days than religious mania. But to me, that’s what it looked like.’
‘Religious mania!’ said Stewart Phipps, his face creasing into a bitter expression that was really no pleasanter than Plunkett’s. ‘A murdered monk, a blood-stained bishop, and to cap it all, a policeman with religious mania.’
They all looked at each other. None of them said so, but it seemed to each one of them that the combination of all three elements seemed uniquely designed to capture the imagination of the Sunday paper news hounds.
‘Of course, Methodism is very strong in this district,’ said the Bishop. ‘There are some extraordinary stories from the eighteenth century.’
‘Are you implying that Methodists are all religious maniacs?’ asked Stewart Phipps, with that same twisted smile. He seemed to have the art of making the Bishop lose his sang-froid: he opened and closed his mouth, positively wriggled with embarrassment, and said: ‘No, no. Goodness me, what an idea. I merely meant that he sounded like some extreme fundamentalist. Some little evangelical splinter-group or other. There were many such in the nineteenth century, and there are lots of them still going strong in the villages around here.’
‘You know the area?’ asked Ernest Clayton.
‘I’m a trustee of the Brontë Society,’ said the Bishop. ‘Now, the point is, what are we to do?’
‘We may have to revise our strategy,’ said Clayton. ‘This thing can’t drag on for ever. The newspapers will make a meal of us. We may be forced to complain higher up.’
‘Well, don’t rush it,’ said Stewart Phipps. ‘There may be an article for Tribune in this.’
• • •
The effect of Inspector Plunkett on the other members of the symposium was to create bewilderment, which in its turn led to alarm and despondency. Bente Frøystad, meeting Ernest Clayton in the kitchen garden, took a great breath of air into her lungs, and then said: ‘I need fresh air — after that.’
‘It’s not very nice, is it?’
‘Ugh,’ she said. ‘Only the look. I knew Englishmen had bad teeth, but his are almost obscene.’
‘What did he ask you about?’
‘All sorts of things — including lots I hadn’t expected to be asked about. I had to give him a lecture on t
he Norwegian Church, with precise details of the services.’
‘Do you think he took it in?’
‘I don’t know. He seemed to perk up when I told him Randi Paulsen belongs to the more evangelical wing.’
‘Oh, she does, does she? I thought she seemed a bit — low.’
‘She’s low all right. And, as you will have observed, anti drink, drugs, sex, Catholics, abroad, dancing — you name it, she’s against it.’
‘I thought that sort of religion was only to be found in the depths of Scotland these days.’
‘No, no. We have more than our share. I’m sure Randi will be able to satisfy him on the anti-ritualistic side too. In fact, I can see them having a fine old time getting down to fundamentals.’
‘And meanwhile — ’
‘Exactly. Now what gives? Is the man mad? If he’s not, what point is there in all this nonsense he’s been asking me about? And if he is, what are you going to do about it?’
She stood there, frank, sturdy and incredulous, her big blue eyes looking directly to him for illumination. Ernest Clayton wished he could say something inspiring, or at least comforting, because he liked the situation perhaps even less than she did.
‘All good questions,’ he said. ‘Wait until the interviews are over, and then we’ll have to decide something. I’m sure the Bishop must have contacts who could do something about getting this man Plunkett removed.’
‘It’s the funniest thing, really,’ said Bente Frøystad, her handsome face bursting into a delicious smile, ‘when you think of the traditional idea of the English bobby, and then think of the man in there. I wasn’t expecting anything like that, I assure you!’
‘You didn’t have any contacts with the police when you were here as an au pair, then?’ asked Ernest Clayton.
‘None at all,’ said Bente Frøystad, looking straight at him once more with her beautiful blue eyes, which now twinkled, as if to say, ‘Has the little man got ambitions to play detective?’
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