Canon Clutch thumbed through the three-inch thick set of papers. Tom looked at his own contribution with pride: ‘Proposed Agenda of Lay Diet Draft One’. It was beautifully produced. It had, as his first effort in the area, cost him much in time and research. The last five years which he’d scrutinised for models seemed to him to be the work of blundering amateurs in both layout and content. Whoever had done them previously had clearly not been up to date with Frachstein and Maddison’s research on ‘Business Paper Layout’ in Format and Focus, Thodorakis and Vendor, Princeton UP 1993.
The way the agenda was put together needed looking at in Tom’s view. As a system it lacked transparency. It had been impossible to detect who could put what items on. He shouldn’t really have had to ask a typist how the agenda of the chief instrument of the government of the Church of England was produced, but Canon Clutch had brushed aside his questions as though they were impertinent. Myfannwy’s account had been serviceable if impressionistic. ‘Canon Clutch sees the chairmen of each of the three houses about a couple of months before the meeting. He doesn’t usually go through the items with anyone for the laity or clergy. But he always goes through the bishops’ stuff with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who chairs, and with the heads of section here, Canon Truegrave for Overseas Mission, Canon Teape for Theological Development; Canon Clutch himself does Home Affairs. The financial stuff comes in, usually at the last minute, by a different route, which to be honest I’ve never quite understood,’ Myfannwy admitted. ‘There’s always a lot of paper from finance and a couple of accountants from down the road come and attend on the day in case there are any questions, which there usually aren’t because it’s all so complicated on the finance side of things. We all trust Canon Clutch because he’s been doing it for so long.’ Lots of work to do there, Tom thought with pleasure. Lots and lots of reforms obviously needed.
Tom uncrossed his legs and placed his organiser on his lap. He was alert and eager. He felt himself in the service of a great institution dedicated to the improvement of the human condition.
‘We don’t need to bother with the laity stuff,’ said Canon Clutch. The important one is the House of Bishops.’ He began to thumb through the pile of papers.
‘We might think about colour coding for the future,’ Tom offered helpfully.
Clutch ignored him. ‘Myfannwy?’
Mrs Gwynether poked the file. ‘There you are, Canon, about half an inch from the bottom.’ She had the restrained patience of a secretary doing overtime for which there was no need and for which no one would thank her, let alone pay her. It was 6.15 p.m.
‘Half an inch from the bottom,’ Clutch amplified for those who could not hear. There was much shuffling of papers and looking over shoulders.
Tom, who had learned to read the signs even if he was not prepared to allow them to influence his own professional conduct, realised that Canon Clutch was nervous and therefore likely to erupt into anger. His cheek was hectic and the pulse in his right temple was throbbing. Not in good physical shape, Tom surmised. He wondered if he could interest him in cycling, from which so many benefits for health and environment were to be derived.
‘Where’s the laity material?’ The inquiry came from Canon Truegrave.
‘We’re, er, not going to, er …’ Canon Teape explained.
‘What?’ Truegrave adjusted his hearing aid.
‘House of Bishops,’ Clutch barked.
Mrs Gwynether extended an indicating finger. Tom gazed hard at Truegrave with whom he intended to have a word after the meeting. Right now Truegrave looked as though he was receiving messages from another planet. He had spread his fingers on his knees and was drumming them as though in time to unheard music, hissing the while through his teeth.
‘The difficult item will be the concordat, won’t it?’ Canon Teape looked up. ‘That is, isn’t it, correct me if I’m wrong, Kenneth, the one you have in mind?’
‘There is absolutely no reason at all to suppose that there’ll be any opposition. I gave Papworth dinner at my club after the signing. He gave me his word.’
‘Of course there’ll be opposition,’ said Truegrave as though making an original contribution.
‘Why?’ asked Tom.
Canon Teape and Canon Truegrave swung round on him.
‘Because it means the Church spending money.’ Teape sounded as though the point was so obvious it did not need saying.
‘Because bishops are politically naive. They fail to recognise the immense political advantages of things like this.’ Clutch did not apparently notice that this opinion contradicted his previous insistence that there would be no opposition.
‘Because bishops don’t know anything about anything if it’s more than twenty miles from home,’ Truegrave snapped. ‘Unless of course it’s in Africa or South America and they’re mostly wrong there. About Europe they know nothing.’
‘Have you considered where on the agenda you might put the Azbarnah item?’ Tom pursued.
‘It’ll have to go first because the Archbishop will have to introduce it and the Archbishop could hardly come on at the end.’ Teape was kindly instructive to Tom.
‘Have you sounded out the possible voting patterns?’ Tom was just interested in the mechanisms.
There was silence.
‘I’ve told you, I dined with the Archbishop.’ It clearly didn’t occur to Clutch that there were other steps available.
‘I’ll tell you what we could do.’ Teape crouched over his lily leaf and meditated a spring. ‘We could get the Archimandrite to address the House of Bishops, speak for the cause, as it were.’
‘Impossible,’ said Truegrave, temporarily abandoning his deafness. ‘He flew out yesterday evening.’
‘But,’ said Tom, ‘I just …’ then he stopped. The group looked at him.
‘If you’ve nothing helpful to contribute, perhaps you could hold your tongue.’ Clutch could have been addressing a child in a different century. Teape cleared his throat uneasily. Truegrave made deprecating hissing noises through his teeth. Myfannwy sucked her shorthand pencil. Only Tom gazed steadily at the overwrought canon and wondered what would make him crack up entirely, for clearly he was not rational.
‘We could fly him back for the meeting,’ Tom said to show there were no hard feelings. ‘The Diet’s four weeks off.’
‘He goes into retreat for the whole of November,’ Truegrave said.
‘I don’t know how you come to be so very familiar with the Archimandrite’s diary,’ Teape said in admiration.
‘I think I may be his oldest friend,’ said Truegrave with emotion. ‘Anyway, he can only leave the country for very short periods of time. The whole situation is on a knife edge there. He has many enemies.’ His tone was grave and concerned.
‘And not just in Azbarnah,’ Tom said.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Clutch was apoplectic. Tom had judged it right. It had got to Clutch. The man was sweating inside his lovely suiting. ‘Since you have nothing useful to contribute you can leave us.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Tom said. ‘I quite understand.’ He might have been soothing a frightened horse. ‘Just let me know what you decide and then we can think about the implementation bit.’
‘I think cracks are beginning to appear,’ Tom said into the telephone. ‘Can you come over about eight?’
‘Well,’ Theodora was reluctant. ‘We’ve got an evening Eucharist for the local church school staff and governors. It’s something of a new venture and I really must be there.’
‘Nineish?’
‘Fatted Calf, nine-thirty, and I may be late.’
“Not the Calf. A bit too near. Do you know the all-night van, McClusky’s, upstream under the arch of Betterhouse Bridge? Very good on bacon rolls. Maggie uses it. Yes? Well, there then. Are you free the rest of the night?’
Theodora groaned. ‘Yes, yes. I had not intended to spend it in fasting and watchfulness.’
‘Goody
, goody.’ Tom sounded so pleased it was impossible to deny him.
She put together the manuscript sheets of Thomas Henry Newcome, A Life, and placed them on the windowsill. She looked with regret at the tea chest which had served her so well over the last few weeks. Wednesday today. By the weekend she’d have unpacked the books from the last tea chest and would be faced with the tremendous moral dilemma of whether or not to buy a table. It would be convenient, she had to admit. But it was a possession which was not strictly necessary. And if a table, then chairs; a tight entailment. Just so does one thing lead to another. ‘It’s a slippery slope,’ she said aloud.
For refreshment she stared out towards the river and gauged the time by the state of the tide. It should be about seven. The light had almost gone now and when the sun went down, autumn could be felt. St Sylvester’s chime confirmed the hour. She loved the chime, loved the rhythm of the tide. Why could we not live rhythmically within the day, month and year, instead of gashing it all up with haste and anxiety. I’d like to do the same thing at the same time every day, she thought. And her mind went to the retreats she had made with religious orders. Then by a reasonable connection she thought about Anona Trice and Gilbert Racy. Why was she worried about Anona? Anona was Gilbert’s responsibility. She’d known Gilbert ever since she came to the parish three years ago. She didn’t doubt his integrity as a priest. She knew him to lead the appropriate disciplined life of prayer and abstinence which the Catholic tradition commends. She’d seen enough of his work with the mentally sick, those betrayed or bereaved, who had come to the end of some personal tether, to know that he would take exhaustive pains to aid their healing. He was qualified in psychology and had at least a partial training in medicine behind him. What made her feel he was treating Anona differently from other patients? Suddenly it occurred to her who might know.
She dialled the number and got the beginning of the answerphone message before it was switched off and the well-known voice answered.
‘Oenone, Theodora Braithwaite here. Is Geoffrey about?’
‘No, he’s due back any minute. He’s got a special Eucharist. I think he said it’s for St Sylvester’s primary school staff and governors. He wants it to be a success.’
‘Yes,’ said Theodora, carefully keeping impatience out of her tone.
‘He’s worked terribly hard at his sermon.’
‘Has he really?’ Theodora was tart. ‘That’s rather odd since I’m supposed to be preaching and I finished writing it last Saturday evening.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’s celebrating.’ Theodora stressed both words.
‘Ah. I haven’t quite got the jargon yet.’ Oenone was dignified.
Theodora relented. ‘I expect it’s the sermon for the Rotary evensong on Friday he’s preparing. That’s new as well. Evensong’s a bit of a departure for St Sylvester’s.’
‘I expect you’re right.’ Oenone, too, was willing to be forgiving. They were, after all, essentially from the same sort of stable. Theodora had worked at Oenone’s smart school. There was nothing to deprecate, much less despise. Oenone had real virtues and talents. It was just odd that, with little beyond social convention to sustain her own religious life, she’d chosen to marry Geoffrey, as proper a priest as Theodora was a deacon. For Oenone it must be like learning a new language, supporting Geoffrey through his strange tergiversations.
‘I wonder if you could do me a favour?’ Theodora hedged against rejection.
‘If I can.’ Oenone’s tone was level if not enthusiastic.
‘It’s Anona Trice. Do you happen to know who her husband is?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Oenone perked up. Here was a level playing field. ‘I got it out of Geoffrey after the dinner party.’
‘Ah,’ said Theodora when she’d heard Oenone to the end. ‘That’s really very helpful. Yes, quite a new light.’
‘I thought so too. By the way, I wondered if you could help. I’m trying to get rid of that table and the set of chairs which go with it from the kitchen. You may remember it. It’s frightfully heavy and pig ugly. I’d like to pass it down the line so we can refit with something a bit more flexible.’
Theodora drew breath. The moment of choice had come. ‘I think I know a home for it.’
Tom spread out the catalogue from his Azbarnah exhibition on the rickety picnic table from which the middle plank was missing. Around their feet was a litter of paper cups and Coke cans. McClusky’s at ten at night wasn’t crowded. Overnight lorry drivers in nylon overalls and a couple of teenage girls in leathers was the sum of the clientele. Theodora, arriving in a rush, thought she saw Maggie at the periphery of the arc light generated by the van but when she looked again she saw nothing. Steam hissed from the van itself and the smell of delicious fried onions. Every now and again the hooter of a tug sounded from the other side of the flood wall. After the warm day there was a smudge of mist on the water.
Tom applied ketchup to his bacon roll. ‘It’s a good place, yes?’
‘Fine.’ Theodora fought with the sugar dispenser which was of the kind to discourage clients from overindulging. ‘So what do you reckon you’ve found out?’
Tom mopped his lips on a paper napkin and reached for his extra large coffee. He unscrewed the top of the sugar bottle and poured to his heart’s content. Theodora watched in admiration. He was resourceful and would go far.
‘What would you say Ecclesia Place is about?’ he began.
‘Power, obviously,’ Theodora answered.
‘What sort?’
‘Political. Not, certainly, moral or religious. It sees itself very much as an arm of the Government, involved with it in law and finance, property, social policy, education. All those bishops in the Lords.’ She sighed. ‘However, what’s that to do with Azbarnah?’
‘That too is about politics and power and probably money as well.’
‘No sex?’ Theodora was dry.
‘I haven’t found any yet.’ Tom took her seriously.
‘And the clue is in the catalogue to the exhibition which you went to?’ Theodora indicated the black and gold pages flapping in the breeze.
‘There and elsewhere.’ He flipped open the page which was already turned down and pushed it across.
Theodora began to read from the introduction. ‘“Azbarnah’s rich artistic heritage rests almost entirely in the hands of a number of old landed families, the members of which supply the leaders of the Orthodox Church. Items in Salle One are on loan from the present Archimandrite of Azbarnah, Georgios XII, from whose personal collection they …” Personal collection?’ Theodora pulled up. ‘Hang on a minute. How can a priest have a personal collection? Surely they belong to the Church.’
‘Press on.’
‘“The Galaxy Gallery gratefully acknowledges the help of HM Foreign Office and the British Council in sponsoring this exhibition.” So? That looks fairly innocuous.’
‘The Galaxy Gallery staff think Ecclesia Place is financing it.’
‘I don’t see what you’re getting at.’
‘I saw the Archimandrite there. The TV one.’
‘Where?’
‘At the exhibition.’
‘I’d gained the impression he’d flown out.’
‘I’d gained that impression too. In fact, Truegrave explicitly said so at the pre-meeting, the meeting we’ve just had to set the agenda for the Diet next month. There are tensions there. I got the feeling at times that Teape anyway and perhaps Truegrave were playing with Clutch. Clutch is dead scared that the Diet won’t ratify the concordat.’
‘Why is it so important?’
‘Right. Of course it could just be face. These three have put their combined weight behind it and don’t want it overturned. But the more interesting question is, why have they put their weight behind it in the first place?’
Theodora drew a pattern in spilled coffee on the table. ‘Archie Douglas’s remarks about a country of which we know little.’
<
br /> ‘Quite. Why pick Azbarnah as a theatre for ecumenical ventures? You’d have thought there might be more respectable, less louche ones.’
‘Ah,’ said Theodora catching his drift, ‘you mean HM Government might have an interest.’
‘It is odd that the Church of England should just happen to be thinking about somewhere as unsavoury as Azbarnah at the same time as HM Government is sponsoring a trade mission there.’
‘Are they?’
‘I checked with an old mate of mine at the British Council.’ Tom was smug. He liked his network to pay off. ‘And from the Government’s point of view, if you wanted to get a foothold in Azbarnah, a country with which we haven’t had a diplomatic relation for forty years, wouldn’t it be sensible to use an already existing network?’
‘You mean Truegrave’s Eastern European one?’
‘He’s got a staff of four people,’ Tom said professionally. ‘Three men and one woman. I had a look at the establishment list. It’s a big set-up by Ecclesia Place standards. They’ve all got names like Lutolowski Robinson. By which I infer that they’re native speakers. It’s not an easy language, I believe. They’re never in and I’ve not met one of them in nearly three months in post.’
‘What would the Government be after that the Church could deliver?’
Tom tapped the exhibition catalogue. ‘Part two of the exhibition shows that.’ He turned the pages over and indicated the doublespread photograph.
Theodora gazed at the photograph of a processing plant. ‘What is it for?’
‘Irradium.’
‘For aircraft?’
‘Very necessary. Nearer to us and, given the rate of exchange of the szamki, cheaper than any other source. Would help us a lot and put us one up on France or Germany if we got a toe in first.’
‘And who owns this thing?’
‘The Turannidi, the family of the Archimandrite. They’re hereditary landowners of most of the northern province.’
‘How does that help you with your corpse?’
‘Well, this is my final bit of evidence.’ Tom smiled from ear to ear and flipped over the pages.
Mortal Spoils Page 12
