Death of a Chancellor (41 page)

Powerscourt paused. He realized suddenly that if they had carried on, they would have had to place the explosives on Friday night. Good Friday the darkest night in the Christian calendar, Christ
carrying his cross to the place of the skull called Golgotha where they crucified him on a cross with the inscription Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, the last drink of the sponge filled with
vinegar, Jesus saying it is finished and giving up the ghost. And he and Johnny Fitzgerald riding round the Compton countryside in the dark, blowing up railway lines.

Powerscourt found that Lady Lucy’s hand had left her lap and travelled up to unite with his own on her shoulder.

‘Never mind, Francis,’ said Johnny, ‘we might be able to find a use for the explosives after all. I didn’t think you would go ahead with it in the end.’

‘Neither did I, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy in rather a weak voice. ‘I even offered to place a bet on it with Johnny but he wasn’t having it.’

‘Always nice to know that you can both work out what I’m going to do,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘I’m not offering any prizes for guessing what I’m going
to do now. I’m going to read these bloody letters.’

Johnny folded up his enormous map very neatly. Powerscourt observed that it said Property of the Stationmaster, Compton. Not to be removed. Anne Herbert’s father must have been prevailed
upon to lend one of his maps. Powerscourt wondered if he had been told why they wanted it.

‘Archbishop of Canterbury here,’ said Powerscourt, holding up his first letter, written on expensive-looking notepaper. ‘“Thank you for your letter . . . It has been my
custom, ever since taking up my current position, to maintain the closest links and personal relationships with all the bishops and senior dignitaries of the Church of England.”’

‘It’d be pretty odd if the bugger ignored all his colleagues,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald.

‘“I have known Gervase Moreton for nearly twenty years,”’ Powerscourt carried on, ‘“and I find it simply inconceivable that he should contemplate the actions
you describe. Under normal circumstances I should simply have thrown your letter into the wastepaper basket. Letters from the mentally disturbed are one of the smaller crosses an archbishop has to
bear. Owing to your distinguished record I have taken soundings in the diocese of Compton. I can assure you there is not one single piece of evidence to support your wild allegations.’

‘Last paragraph coming,’ said Powerscourt. ‘“I shall add you to the list of those for whom I pray on Tuesdays. Yours sincerely . . .”’

‘Tuesdays, Francis? You’re not in luck today I’m afraid. It’s Thursday. You’ve got five days to wait. But think how much better you’ll feel early next
week.’

‘Do you think he has a rota like we did in the Army, Johnny? Burglars on Mondays, lunatics on Tuesdays, thieves on Wednesdays, blasphemers on Thursdays, fraudsters on Fridays, murderers on
Saturdays, heretics and unbelievers on Sundays? I am rather looking forward to being prayed for, I must say. Along with all the other lunatics. Lucy, you must watch me very closely on Wednesday
mornings to see if there are any signs of improvement.’

Lady Lucy smiled at him. ‘You’ve got one letter left, Francis. Do you think there’s any hope there?’

Powerscourt slit open his last envelope. ‘Encouraging start,’ he said. ‘“The Prime Minister has no doubt of the veracity of the proposition you outline in your letter . .
.”’ He skimmed through the next section. ‘Few more sentences along the same lines. Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Powerscourt glowered at the letter, ‘I think we’ve had it.
The Prime Minister has gone away for Easter and asked his colleagues to deal with the matter. “I’m afraid I have to report,” says Private Secretary McDonnell, “that there is
a lack of unity among the colleagues. The Home Secretary believes it to be a matter for the Church of England. As the Archbishop does not take it seriously, the Home Secretary proposes to ignore
it. The government law officers believe it would be impossible to act before a crime has been committed. Even then they are uncertain which particular law or laws would be broken. The foremost
authority on ecclesiastical legislation is on a walking tour of the Pyrenees at present and cannot be contacted. The Lord Chancellor believes it is a matter for the Judicial Committee of the Privy
Council which cannot be summoned before the week after Easter. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, who has always taken a keen interest in religious questions and in everybody else’s business,
is of the opinion that it is for the two Archbishops and the senior bishops to resolve. In short, Lord Powerscourt, you have fallen between the cracks in the shaky edifice of Church and State. May
I offer you my commiserations and express the hope that you can find some means of settling the business without further bloodshed. Schomberg McDonnell.”’

Powerscourt folded his two letters very carefully and put them back in their envelopes. He smiled at Lady Lucy.

‘It’s like that line in the
Messiah,
Francis,’ she said, ‘you’re the voice of one crying in the wilderness.’

‘Don’t think I’d like to be John the Baptist very much, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘my head served up on a platter in front of Salome like a roasted ham. Mind you, I
should get some better prayers from the Archbishop. I might have to move from Tuesdays to a different day.’

‘It’s like the poet says, Francis,’ said Johnny, moving towards the cupboard with the drinks, ‘a prophet is not without honour save in his own country.’

Powerscourt looked at him doubtfully. ‘I don’t think that’s a poet, Johnny. That’s St Matthew’s Gospel, chapter thirteen if I remember right. And the unfortunate
Christ had to walk on the water in the next chapter to convince the unbelievers. I don’t think I’m up to that either. But that’s what we need, a miracle. A miracle in Compton.
None of the authorities are going to lift a finger. Maybe we should blow up the railway lines after all. We’re on our own. Nobody can stop them now.’

All through Friday and Saturday Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald kept a discreet watch on the comings and goings round the Cathedral Close. Sometimes they watched from Anne
Herbert’s upper window, regular supplies of tea and home-made cake fortifying them in their vigil. Sometimes one of them would walk round the streets, the cathedral itself standing impassive
as it waited for the Resurrection.

On both days the pattern was the same. A quartet of clergy would set off from the Archdeacon’s house shortly after nine o’clock, heading at a sedate pace towards the Bishop’s
Palace, the Archdeacon himself accompanied by Father Barberi and the two gentlemen from Rome. Then there would be a gap. Between ten and ten thirty a steady trickle of members of the Chapter and
the choir would present themselves at the Bishop’s front door. About half an hour later they would emerge, looking rather happier than when they had gone in. Sometimes Patrick Butler would
join Powerscourt and Fitzgerald, taking careful notes of the times of entry and departure of all the participants.

‘What a story,’ the young man said cheerfully to Powerscourt on the Friday afternoon. ‘I think it’s the biggest story I’ve ever come across. Maybe I can make my
name with the Saga of Compton, its murders, its conversions, like William Howard Russell did in the Crimea for
The Times.
Then Anne and I could be rich and move to London!’

Powerscourt smiled at the young editor. ‘Do you know what’s going on with all this religious traffic?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I think I can guess but I’m not
sure.’

‘I’ve been reading up on all this stuff, Lord Powerscourt. You have to in my business if you’ve got the time. Very discreetly, of course. I haven’t asked anybody in the
Close about it. But I think that all the members of the Chapter who weren’t already Catholics are being received into the faith. Maybe the Archdeacon’s friends are doing them in relays.
And they may also be ordaining them as Catholic priests and deacons at the same time. Mass conversion, mass ordination, if you ask me.’

And with that the young man returned to his offices, dreams of fame and glory floating through his brain. Powerscourt was thinking of betrayal, the betrayal by Judas that led to the crucifixion
on this day nearly two thousand years before, the betrayal of their religion by all these Anglican priests in the name of a higher calling. He didn’t think it was going to be a very good
Friday for Compton.

On the Saturday evening Powerscourt and Lady Lucy and Johnny Fitzgerald assembled at Anne Herbert’s house on the edge of the Close. There were notices all over the town advertising the
great bonfire due to take place on the Green late that Saturday night. Anne Herbert reported that her father, normally a phlegmatic and reserved individual, had been astonished at the number of
people arriving at his station. The number of extra trains was greater than he had ever seen. Every railway worker for miles around was on duty to ensure safe passage for the visitors.

At seven o’clock a team of workmen began building the bonfire that was to be the centrepiece of the night’s attractions. Powerscourt and Patrick Butler watched, fascinated, as cart
after cart and wagon after wagon drew up alongside the site.

‘Christ, Patrick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘it’s going to be enormous.’

‘They say in the town,’ Patrick Butler replied, ‘that it’s going be to be the biggest bonfire Compton has ever seen. The wood was ordered from all over the county weeks
ago.’

‘I wonder how many heretics you could burn on it when it’s finished,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I doubt if even Bloody Mary herself could have provided enough bodies for
it.’

‘Careful how you speak of the Catholic Queen in these parts at this time, Lord Powerscourt. Tomorrow you might be struck down or popped on to the pyre yourself for such
blasphemy.’

Powerscourt was thinking about Arthur Rudd, burnt on the spit in the kitchen of the Vicars Hall. He thought of the monk of Compton, burnt to the west of this Cathedral Close in 1538. He had
passed a small memorial to his life and death set into a wall during his perambulations round the Close the day before.

From time to time Patrick Butler would dash off into the town or to inspect the building of the bonfire at first hand.

‘He’s like a puppy, really,’ said Anne Herbert affectionately, ‘he just can’t sit still. He has to be running about all the time. Do you think he’ll calm down
later on, Lady Powerscourt?’

Lady Lucy laughed. ‘I’m not sure he will, you know. He wouldn’t be Patrick if he wasn’t like that, would he?’

Patrick Butler reported that another pair of carts were approaching the bonfire, bringing not wood but candles. He also reported that the streets of the city were virtually impassable. Shortly
after nine o’clock the workmen began erecting a monstrous scaffold, whose peak was almost as high as the top of the bonfire itself. ‘That’s for the Archdeacon to address the
crowd,’ said Patrick. ‘God knows if we’re going to get a sermon. I do hope not.’

Powerscourt thought the platform was going to be high enough for Lucifer himself, come to Compton to preside over the flames of hell. At nine thirty the crowd closest to the bonfire fell silent.
The silence spread slowly out across the Green until even the tavern opposite the west front, scene of much rowdy merriment throughout the evening, fell silent. It was now completely dark, the
spectators by the fire faint shadows from Powerscourt’s vantage point. Four men with blazing torches stood at the corners of the pyre. As if acting on a common signal they touched their
flares to the faggots. Then they moved slowly and deliberately round the bonfire until the bottom section was a circle of light in the darkness. Sparks began to fly upwards and outwards, forcing
the crowds back. Still the Archdeacon did not mount his scaffold. Powerscourt wondered what would have happened if it had rained. Maybe on this day the Lord their God delivered them the weather
they needed.

It was hard to tell at first where the singing came from. Powerscourt stared forwards into the night. He could certainly hear singing, maybe a choir. He could also hear the sound of marching
feet. Then he saw it, a great column of men and women coming down Vicars Close and passing not into the cathedral but along the Green and out towards one side of the bonfire. The choir, Powerscourt
realized, was hidden in the body of the column, just as Napoleon’s drummer boys were hidden among the Emperor’s armies advancing to secure the destruction of their enemies.

‘Faith of our fathers, living still,’ they sang,

As the column, at least a hundred and fifty strong, Powerscourt thought, reached the light of the flames he saw that at the front were two men bearing an enormous banner. It showed a bleeding
heart above a chalice in the centre. At the four corners were the pierced hands and feet of the crucified Christ.

‘What on earth is that, Francis?’ asked Lady Lucy, standing very close to her husband and feeling just a little frightened.

‘It’s the banner of the Five Wounds of Christ, my love. In the Pilgrimage of Grace, the northern revolt against a Protestant England in 1536, it was the chief emblem of the
rebels.’

Still the Archdeacon did not climb to his position above the fire. Powerscourt wondered where he was. Perhaps he was in the cathedral, at prayer before his great ordeal. For this was a huge
crowd, sections of it maybe rather drunk. It could be difficult to contain, much more difficult than preaching a sermon to the converted.

Then they heard another burst of singing, coming from the other side of the Green. Another column, at least as long as the one from Vicars Close, was approaching the bonfire from the opposite
side to the first one. In the vanguard two men were carrying an enormous banner of the Virgin enthroned in glory. They were singing the second verse of the same hymn. People were now moving quickly
through the crowd, circulating handbills with the words printed on them so that those unfamiliar with it could sing along.