‘Always go with the tide. You’ve got to remember that,’ she told him. ‘There’s a lot of power there and it’s daft to fight it. Wait for the tide to turn and go with it.’
It was nice to have someone so attentive to pass your advice on to, she felt. As she pulled her craft straight with the starboard oar she could see the lights of Betterhouse Bridge and their dancing reflections on the water. The motor barge was a quarter of a mile upstream. No lights showed from the crumbling warehouses of the left bank; the right bank flashed with cars on the embankment. Far in her wake she could see the searchlight of the river police sweeping dutifully from side to side.
‘It’s a great highway, isn’t it?’ she said to her nephew. ‘Like the M25, it takes you everywhere and back again.’ The feeling went through her body of pull and push, drag and give. But the sensation was of water not land, river not people, and Maggie felt she could cope fine. She wouldn’t have minded being a ferrywoman. ‘Perhaps in another life, eh, boy?’ Certainly she felt a lot steadier on her feet and in her wits when she’d done a stint on the river.
The boat began to feel the tug of the wash from the anchored barge. Maggie pulled efficiently round to the side nearest the bank, the Betterhouse side. She held the boat steady, raised an oar and banged on the metal side. It made a noise like thunder.
There was no waiting at all. A head peered over the rail and a rope dropped into her lap. She shipped her oars and made the rope fast to her own painter. Then she sat quietly feeling the rise and fall of the water and listening to the wood of her rowing boat creak and tap against the metal of the larger craft. After a minute or two she heard the sound of boots on iron and voices, one foreign, one upper-class English. A moment later a rope ladder snaked over the side and a dark form descended.
The English voice said, ‘Hang on to Bernhardt.’
‘Tash, I thank for your helping.’
‘A pleasure. Keep your boots dry, old man.’
At ten to nine after early morning Mass, the last person Theodora wanted to encounter was Anona Trice. She was standing in the churchyard beside the table tomb with a trug in one hand and a hoe in the other. In the middle of Surrey perhaps, Theodora thought; in St Sylvester’s Betterhouse graveyard, never.
‘We have plans,’ Anona turned her eager face towards her, ‘to do up the churchyard, to make it a sanctuary, a green place for people to refresh themselves.’ She indicated the dozen yards of matted grass at the roots of which glinted here and there the brown glass bottles of the wino platoon who irregularly met there of an evening. ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea? Geoffrey thinks so. And Gilbert says it will be good for me.’
‘Splendid,’ said Theodora briskly. ‘Just what we need to complete the church’s renewal.’ The roof and inside of St Sylvester had been restored the previous year. It had helped to increase the congregation.
‘I thought chrysanthemums.’ Anona pointed to a tray of weary looking cuttings at her side.
‘Just the job.’ Theodora endeavoured to keep walking. Her lack of charity towards Anona was a reproach to her but she felt it was a matter of self-preservation. It was as though Anona had a disease of which she could only be healed if she passed it on to someone else. And Theodora was damned if it was going to be her.
‘And then we shall need to get the trees lopped.’
Theodora glanced up at the two good sized chestnuts marking the boundary of the churchyard. The boughs of one swept the earth, brushing the top of the table tomb and its lachrymose angels. She stopped. Hanging from the bough, swinging to and fro in the light breeze, was a glint of silver and blue. Hesitantly she approached it.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ she said angrily to Anona over her shoulder. ‘Where did you find that?’
‘It came my way,’ Anona’s tone was complacent, ‘and it seemed a good place for it to rest, with him to whom it belongs.’
Theodora stared at her with incomprehension. Anona tapped the tomb. ‘He’s at peace,’ she said. ‘All quite proper. Bernhardt will come back now. I shall be here to greet him when he comes.’
The Express had banner headlines (it being a poor season for news): ‘Clergy Corpse in Churchyard – Church Chiefs Cheat on Contract?’ Theodora felt she wasn’t up to the Express’s treatment and turned to the more muted tones of the Telegraph. The story had made the front page but lower down, below the headlines on the latest Serbian atrocities. Under the heading ‘Mystery of the Missing Archimandrite’ it read: ‘The four-day-old corpse of a middle-aged man wearing clerical dress was found yesterday morning in a tomb in the churchyard of St Sylvester’s Betterhouse, South-East London. The body has been identified as that of the Archimandrite of Azbarnah, Georgios XII. Millions of TV viewers saw someone they took to be the Archimandrite with the Archbishop of York, Michael Papworth, interviewed on News at Ten by Archie Douglas on Monday night. Now doubt is being cast on the veracity of that appearance. Information from a source close to Ecclesia Place suggests that the Archimandrite was dead some hours before that interview. According to the airline authorities, the Archimandrite, who was due to fly out on Tuesday morning, did not do so but the staff of the Galaxy Gallery (Very thorough, thought Theodora, not a stone unturned) reported that someone they took to be the Archimandrite was at the Azbarnah exhibition for a short time on Wednesday afternoon. The Azbarnah authorities, who have an office in the Moldavian Consulate, were unavailable for comment last night. Investigations are continuing.’
In other words, if nothing better turns up, the thing will run and run. Theodora ran her eye down the column. ‘The Archimandrite came to Ecclesia Place, Westminster, HQ of the Church of England, on Monday afternoon. He is supposed to have signed a contract for closer relations between the Azbarnah Orthodox Church and the C of E. But if the Ecclesia Place source is correct and the Archimandrite was dead before the signing took place and a substitute signed for him, then that contract might not be legally valid. The chief secretary to the Diet, Canon Ken Clutch (Theodora thought she liked the chumminess of the shortened first name for Clutch), was being questioned last night by Inspector Semper of the Metropolitan Police. The Diet’s Eastern European affairs expert, Rev. Bernhardt Truegrave, is wanted for questioning.’ Where was Teape in all this? Theodora wondered. Cowering down in his crypt archive?
‘A spokeswoman for Lambeth Palace said the Archbishop of Canterbury considered it was very important for all Christians to cooperate with governments to work together for a better world and both the Church of England and the Azbarnah Orthodox Church had a part to play. (So he knew, Theodora thought.) The Archbishop of York is on holiday. A spokesman for the Foreign Office, Mr Julian Morely-Trump, said that HM Government had no knowledge of the relations of the Church of England with Azbarnah and the matter was entirely one for the Church authorities.’
The Times had a seemly account of the discovery of the body by Anona and Theodora and a background article on Azbarnah, complete with map for the ignorant, focusing on Azbarnah’s aspirations within the new Europe.
The Independent had added a third leader on the wisdom of naive church authorities playing politics and guessing they’d been made the tool of the FO.
Really, Theodora thought with pride, Archie had surpassed her expectations, all things considered. If the Church wanted to cut a figure in the political arena and told itself the media were very important, it would have to take the rough with the smooth.
It had been a heavy twenty-four hours since she and Geoffrey had lifted the stone slab from the tomb and gazed into the waxy face of the Archimandrite. She had escorted Anona back to the Foundation and entrusted her to Gilbert’s care while Geoffrey got the police. Together they had given the police all possible assistance but, that done, parish priorities had reasserted themselves. Geoffrey had refused to cancel the funeral of a defunct Rotarian due to be buried just before lunch and had got the police to clear the churchyard of reporters, TV men and sightseers. Professionally, she felt Geoffrey had done r
ather well. Though the Rotarian’s family had been surprised at the large turnout. They seemed to have coped at parish level rather better than the top brass, who had to hide behind a screen of spokesmen denying and denying.
Theodora had done as she had promised Tom. She’d rung Morely- Trump, after Mass and before breakfast, while the papers were still only headlines on the table. She wondered if Julian had seen the papers and the Azbarnah drama or not. If he was out of the country, he might have missed them. Communication had not been easy. She had begun with the Foreign Office. Manners were impeccable but actual contact regrettably impossible. ‘Mr Morely-Trump is on leave at present. Who is calling?’
‘His cousin.’ Theodora settled for the description. The slight pause at the other end hinted at disbelief. ‘When does he return?’ she inquired.
There was a sound of flicking pages. ‘The twenty-third of this month.’
‘Has he left a contact number?’
‘I’m terribly sorry but it isn’t our practice to give out private numbers.’
‘Thank you.’ Theodora echoed the austerity of the secretary’s tone.
Where do Foreign Office members take their holidays? She consulted her own address book under ‘Family’ and dialled the Hampshire number.
It was answered at once. ‘Julian Morely-Trump speaking.’ In the background was the sharp, high sound of small dogs barking.
‘Julian, Theodora here. Theodora Braithwaite.’
Julian was not a diplomat for nothing. There was no pause. ‘Theo, how very nice to hear you. It’s years, isn’t it, six or seven at least. Uncle Hugh’s eightieth, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you keep up? Is he well?’ Julian clearly thought she’d rung to announce Canon Hugh Braithwaite’s death.
‘So far as I know he’s well. I had a card last week. Julian, it’s not family I’m ringing about. More business.’ Would he suppose she wanted to borrow money? The Morely-Trump side of the family were known to the Braithwaites to be thrifty, even, it was murmured, mean. The barking reached a crescendo. ‘Shut up, you two.’ Julian’s Wykehamist tones couldn’t rise to shouting down his dogs. What would they be? Pekes? West Highlands? They had that edge of hysteria which small dogs seemed to run to.
‘Can you hang on a minute, Theo? I’ll switch to the study. It’ll be a bit quieter.’
There was series of clicks, the sound of a dog’s yap cut off suddenly and then silence. Theodora tried to recall the details of the Hampshire house. At fourteen she’d been taken there in term time from Cheltenham for a family gathering. She remembered windows obscured by Virginia creeper creating a green light in the long rooms and a consequent feeling of being underwater. This impression was enhanced by the number of tall, dark plants, potted palms and aspidistras, which stood in corners and cascaded out of huge Oriental vases. Had Julian cleared them out when he inherited the house or was he swimming towards his study through their subaqueous light?
‘Hello? That’s better. Now, business, you were saying.’
The background noise was certainly reduced though she could still hear the powerful tick of a pendulum clock. It brought the study back to her. She remembered it as book-lined and Turkey-carpeted with a smell of liniment because Julian’s mother had ridden to hounds well into her eighties and kept herself supple by the lavish application of the stuff both on her mounts and herself. Theodora found herself inhaling the mouth piece to see if the smell was still there.
‘Azbarnah.’ Theodora saw no reason for beating about bushes.
‘A rebarbative country,’ Julian offered.
‘And people.’
Julian was noncommital.
‘And Church.’
‘So I could imagine. The bits of Orthodoxy I’ve met in my travels always seemed fairly ferocious.’
‘I knew some rather gentle and spiritual ones at Oxford,’ Theodora volunteered. ‘Perhaps they weren’t typical.’
‘The ones I know have long hair and cutlasses between their teeth.’
‘They don’t seem to know the difference between religion and politics.’ Theodora wondered if Julian himself was familiar with that difference. Would his Roman Catholic allegiance provide him with that distinction?
‘The Church lives in the world.’ Julian was a convert, one of Monsignor Gilbey’s young Cambridge team.
‘Have you been there?’ she asked.
‘As it happens I haven’t but I gather I’m being sent, all being well, some time in the New Year.’
‘And the Orthodox Church there is a big property owner, isn’t it?’
‘Theo, what is all this?’
Theodora turned the Independent over on the table in front of her. ‘Have you seen the papers this morning?’
‘Actually no. I’m using my leave to finish my book. My editor is making a nuisance of himself.’
Theodora was interested. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s a life of Busonvici the Bearded. Don’t pretend you’ve ever heard of him.’
‘The sources will be in old high Slavonic.’ Theodora was pleased with herself. Tom’s potted history of Azbarnah was fresh in her mind. ‘He evangelised Azbarnah in the thirteenth century.’
Julian was clearly miffed to find himself the victim of this oneupmanship. ‘How come you’re such an expert on the early history of Azbarnah? Or,’ inspiration smote him, ‘have you been to the little exhibition at the Galaxy?’
‘No, but I keep up. The clerical network.’ He must surely know about that. The family as a whole had a formidable one. ‘I gather you know Canon Clutch.’
There was a silence. At last she’d got home. She could hear the tick of the clock in the study.
‘A mere acquaintance.’
‘Four times at Holdings this summer.’
‘How on earth?’
‘Julian, today’s Independent reads …’ Theodora filled him in on the events connected with the death of the Archimandrite and the consequent row at Ecclesia Place. She could tell by his voice he was shaken. If she hadn’t been family she suspected he would have put the phone down murmuring ‘no comment’. As it was, he took his time.
Finally he said, ‘Theo, strictly between ourselves, there are national interests at stake here. HM Government has a policy initiative in place, which means we don’t want any trouble with the Azbarnah authorities at this moment in time.’
‘Does this mean you’ve suborned the gullible and snobbish Clutch to do your dirty work for you?’
‘Those aren’t quite the terms we’d use. I would remind you that the Church of England is a national church. It has to pay for its special, established status by co-operating with Government policy in some areas.’
‘Time we disestablished.’
‘Not a view your Archbishops share with you.’
‘They may modify their opinion if this shambles runs on.’
Family supervened over diplomat. ‘Yes, I fear you may be right. I suppose there is nothing you can do to help us. You seem terribly well-informed. I remember you always were. You should have gone into the Service.’
‘In a sense I did. Just a different service. And no, actually, I haven’t the power to do anything to help the Government even if I wanted to. But just for the record, are all the Ecclesia Place top brass in on this?’
She could hear him bite back his professional no comment. ‘We got hold of Clutch early on and he suggested we use Truegrave’s band of hunters. And in fact they really were extremely useful. I doubt if we could have done without them. The Archimandrite’s family runs the whole show, as you may have gathered. They own the land and fill the main offices of state, such as they are.’
‘What about Teape?’
‘Yes, he was a pain. He found out what was going on and the price of compliance was that he should have first offer on various little objets d’art from the Azbarnahi Church treasury. He’s a greedy little fellow, isn’t he?’
‘With hollow heels?’
‘It has been known.’
‘And do I gather you bring in your Azbarnahi contacts by boat every now and again? Dutch motor barge with a German flag up the Thames to Betterhouse?’
‘Really, Theo, you exceed,’ Julian had said as he put the phone down. ‘Give my love to Uncle Hugh when you write next.’
Theodora laid the newspapers on her new table. It was, she had to admit, useful and comfortable. The room, her room, her space, looked splendid, bare, clean, sanded, books in place, autumn sun slanting through the open windows; a good high tide for the springs. Now that the affair was almost over she had ventured upon a modest house warming. Archie had said he would be delighted. Tom would come with pleasure. Oenone had answered for Geoffrey and hoped they would be able to look in. Wrestling with conscience, she had invited Anona. Gilbert had answered the phone and replied rather austerely that Anona was indisposed. She’d had a long session with Inspector Semper of the Metropolitan Police. No, he very much regretted he himself was not available, though of course he wished Theodora every blessing in her new abode. Would she want prayers said, holy water sprinkled? Theodora was touched. Any time at his convenience. They parted, apparently friends.
Theodora wondered if she had enough food for Tom and looked at her watch to see if she had time to dash out for more cheese. There were industrial amounts of cold pasta, green salad, olive bread, pecorino, Stilton, Coxes, blackberry and apple pie kindly contributed by a parishioner she’d visited regularly in hospital and who, on her release, had embarked on an orgy of cooking by way of celebration. It was Tom she was worried about, a growing lad.
The sound of voices in the Stowage below resolved the question.
‘Theo, dearie,’ Archie said, holding her in one arm and a bottle in the other. They seemed to have become more familiar than Theodora remembered to be the case. Though possibly it was simply the style of the media. He put the champagne on the table and looked round. ‘Nice little place you’ve got yourself. Should be worth a mint in five years, these river houses. Love the smell of Rentokil.’
Mortal Spoils Page 14
