by Phil Rickman
He shrugged.
‘Did you ask to meet him on Credenhill? Just two recreational runners, paths crossing. Or did he ask you?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Not really. All I’m feeling, very strongly, is that if you wanted to know where his innermost allegiances lay, there was only one thing you could say to him. Only one thing you could tell him, as a test. You’d tell him…’ she put both hands on the table, leaned forward, smelling the sweat and the mud and nothing else ‘… when and where and… and how… you’d had sex with his wife… right?’
His eyes closed briefly in his weathered sandstone face, and she half expected him to smash the pile of prayer books to the ground.
A tapping on the door.
‘Vicar?’
‘One minute, Gomer…’ She looked into Byron’s eyes, hissed, ‘You knew exactly what kind of interior eruption that would cause. This savage inner conflict between the soldier who wanted to beat you to a pulp and throw you down the fucking steps and the Christian who—’
‘And now we’ll never know.’
‘I think we do.’
‘Let Mr Parry in,’ Byron said.
Merrily turned away from him, nodded.
Now she could smell it.
82
Revelations
WHEN SHE GOT back to the vicarage, nobody was home but Ethel.
The phone was ringing.
She’d have to be back in church in less than half an hour. She’d agreed to give Byron Jones ten minutes to walk away – like just another Easter hiker – before she called the police.
She picked up the phone. It was Dick Willis, minister in charge of the Credenhill cluster.
‘I do rather wish you’d given me a hint of this, Merrily.’ There was no anger in his voice. ‘Might even’ve been able to help you.’
‘Dick, it all moved too…’
And was still moving. Gomer had known as soon as he saw the name on the document. She’d told him it was all right. Byron had stood in the farthest corner of the room looking as unthreatening as a man like Byron could ever look. No fear in Gomer, only concern.
She’d firmly squeezed his hand and said it was OK. OK.
‘Don’t suppose they’ve got him yet,’ Dick Willis said.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Frightening,’ Dick said. ‘Merrily, look, I’m sitting here on a chancel pew, waiting to take a service and I… I think I’d rather go into it with a clean conscience. Especially on Good Friday. When I told you that Colin Jones hadn’t been in Brinsop Church during a service, that was a blatant and unforgivable lie. He came once. Memorably. Though I wasn’t there.’
‘When was this?’
The ten minutes were up. She should be ringing Annie Howe. And if she was late for the service, Gomer Parry, who’d signed on the dotted line and then walked out with her and a murderer and rapist, would start raising hell.
‘About a year ago,’ Dick Willis said. ‘I was approached by Colin Jones and asked if he and some other “army colleagues” might borrow St George’s for an evening service. He offered what I can only describe as a remarkably generous donation towards the maintenance of the church. Remarkably generous.’
‘What kind of service?’
‘He didn’t explain in detail. He just called it a service of thanksgiving, which could mean anything, as you know. I presumed some of the chaps had come through a fairly dicey situation abroad and it was something they couldn’t talk about. I put it to the churchwarden and also ran it past the Bishop’s office. No objections – SAS, you know?’
‘Mmm.’
‘They also said they’d be bringing their own minister. A chap called, if I remember correctly, Adrian Barclay turned up. I’d never seen him before. Said he was from London. And then it was made clear that I was not required in any capacity. Then the congregation arrived in their cars. All men. About twenty of them.’
‘How long were they in there?’
‘Couple of hours. When the churchwarden thought he’d better check that everything was all right, he found the door locked from the inside. We never found out what that service was about. And, you know, some of the chaps in that congregation… most of them didn’t look like SAS men at all. You can tell a Regiment man, somehow – seldom huge muscular chaps, but there’s a look… somehow.’
‘But you kept quiet for the, erm…’
‘For the money, Merrily. You know how things are. What I did do afterwards was to check on the Reverend Barclay. Rang the church he said he was from.’
‘Which church was it?’
‘St Stephen, Walbrook, in London. The minister there said they’d never had an Adrian Barclay there, but when I described him – tall, shaven-headed chap in his early forties – he fitted the description of a curate who’d lasted six months before he was asked to leave. Wouldn’t explain why. Curious, wouldn’t you say?’
‘But you didn’t ask any questions… locally.’
‘It didn’t seem appropriate,’ Dick Willis said. ‘Locally.’
Merrily phoned Gaol Street, asked for Annie Howe.
Not available. She spoke to DC Vaynor and explained briefly. She said she’d last seen Colin Jones walking from the square into the alley which led to a stile which led to a footpath into the remains of the old Powell orchard.
What happened now would be an exercise for Byron. A discipline.
DC Vaynor told her not, on any account, to go anywhere, but she told him she had to be in church in twenty-five minutes and could not be disturbed. Not for anything.
She changed quickly into a black skirt, black cashmere jumper, pectoral cross, then sat down and Googled St Stephen Walbrook.
Never been, but she’d heard of it.
There was a colour photo of an angular City church with a campanile. Built by Sir Christopher Wren, it said, to replace one destroyed in the Great Fire of London. The first recorded church on the site near the River Walbrook, now underground, had dated back to the seventh century.
According to Wikipedia, the banks of the River Walbrook had yielded spectacular Roman remains, the best known of which was an impressively well-preserved monument now moved to Temple Court from its original site and open for public viewing. The London Mithraeum.
Its original site, apparently, had been close to the foundations of the Bank of England.
Merrily switched off the computer as if it was about to explode.
She couldn’t think about any of this until after the meditation.
Or Easter.
The vestry was locked now, but she didn’t know whether the pistol remained at the centre of the pile of prayer books.
She looked up at a movement in the window, saw Lol coming past towards the back door, in an actual jacket.
Flitting in and out of one another’s energy fields.
She felt warmth, relief, guilt, a touch of shame… folding the Power of Attorney document and sliding it inside her copy of Revelations of Divine Love.
Credits
THE WALES/HEREFORDSHIRE BORDER is not exactly rich in Roman ruins, but Magnis did exist. In 2010, excavations in connection with a Herefordshire Council flood-alleviation system turned up some remarkable relics, including the remains of a very large woman, identified in parts of the media as a female gladiator – possibly a remote ancestor of Victoria Buckland. Thanks for additional information to the archaeologists George Children, Jodie Lewis and Francis Pryor.
Particular thanks to Tracy Thursfield, who directed me to the wonderful Brinsop Church, made some very significant connections there and uncovered illuminating aspects of Mithraism
And to Mairead Reidy who provided some crucial, half- forgotten books on the Romans and Mithraism (including the fascinating Mithras, The Fellow in the Cap by Esme Wynne-Tyson) as well as endless Internet data, while spreading the word, along with Anne Holt, via the Merrily Watkins Internet discussion forum on Yahoo… as does Caitlin Sagan on the Facebook PR appreciation society. Many thanks to t
hem, and all in Greater Ledwardine.
Thanks also to: John Moss, of The British Society of Dowsers, Mark Townsend, author of The Path of the Blue Raven, the great forensic pathologist and crime-writer Professor Bernard Knight, Duncan Baldwin (Byron Jones’s legal adviser) Neville Meredith from Herefordshire Council and Polly (tunnels) Rubery on migrant workers and fruit farms. Arno Gundisch, native of Transylvania, for Marinescu-linked background. Peter Brooks for the wafer and other crucial spiritual devices, which Merrily and I may have misused. And John Whitbourn for reminding me what I was supposed to be doing.
On the subject of cockfighting, which has not exactly died out in some areas, my thanks to someone who, for obvious reasons, would rather not be named. And any SAS-linked sources, where not obvious, must remain in the shadows. I’ve heard many stories over the years, most of them unverifiable. The ex-Regiment men I’ve encountered at various times have been great blokes, full of ideas and dark humour, but I made a point of not attempting to run the central idea in this novel past anybody in, previously in or currently connected with the SAS. If anybody needs to be disposed of, it’ll have to be me.
Re Julian of Norwich, the quotes under the headings to parts two, three, four and six, are taken from the Penguin Classics edition of Revelations of Divine Love, translated by Clifton Wolters.
The Lol Robinson songs mentioned here can all be found on the full-length CD A Message from the Morning, for which many, many thanks to Lol’s talented producer, arranger, band-mate and co-writer Allan Watson, to the ingenious Bev Craven who designed the package and to tireless Terry Smith who markets it via the website, www.philrickman.co.uk.
Finally, thanks to Nic Cheetham, who relaunched the Merrily series with flair and commitment, to Mathilda Imlah at Corvus, to my agents Andrew Hewson and Ed Wilson and, of course, my wife and editor Carol who burned endless candles at both ends and in the middle getting this one right.
Incidentally, in the week during which The Secrets of Pain was finished, West Mercia Police in Hereford launched Operation Ignite to combat rural crime close to the Welsh border.
