Midwinter of the Spirit (32 page)

‘Do you like Nico, Lol?’

‘Sometimes,’ Lol said.

‘I love her,’ Viv said. ‘I know she’s not to everybody’s taste. But it’s Moon’s funeral on Friday: a mourning time.’

‘That’s three days away.’ He didn’t know whether Moon had ever even liked Nico; it was not unlikely.

‘I thought I’d play it for an hour every morning, to show that we’re in mourning,’ Viv promised. ‘There’s a letter for you, from London.’

Lol opened it over his toast in the corner café. Ironically it promised money – money, as usual, for nothing. The revered Norma Waterson wanted to use one of his songs on her next solo album. It was ‘The Baker’s Lament’, the one about the death of traditional village life.

He was depressed. By James Lyden’s rules, he should have been dead now for at least ten years. On the other hand, unless folk singers were exempt, Norma Waterson should have been dead for over twenty-five. He stared through the café window into the fog. There was nothing in the day ahead for him. It had come to this.

Whereas Moon, so excited by her research, so driven… had just simply ended it.

He could not believe that what she’d discovered had led her to the conclusion that the only way of repairing the broken link with her ancestors was by joining them.

He’d heard nothing more from Merrily.

Lol finished his toast, walked back to the shop. A customer was coming out, and Lol heard that endless dirge again through the open door. It sounded – because Nico was also dead – like an accusation from beyond the grave, a bony finger pointing.

Sophie was saying into the phone, ‘Have they double-checked? Yes, of course, I’m sorry. But it seems so…’

Merrily pulled off her coat, tossed it over the back of her chair, slumped down into it. She was going to miss Sophie, and even the office with D on the door – almost a second home now, with none of the complications of the first.

Sophie put down the phone, tucking a strand of white hair behind one ear. ‘It’s bizarre, Merrily, quite bizarre. That was George Curtiss. The Dean’s absolutely furious. You know the Cantilupe tomb was due to be reassembled this week, in time for the Boy Bishop ceremony on Sunday? But, would you believe, there’s a piece missing.’

‘A piece?’

‘One of the side panels. You know the side-panels with the figures of knights? Knights Templar, someone suggested.’

‘I know.’ She remembered the knights, blurred by age, their faces disfigured.

‘Well, one had broken away from the panel. Maybe through age or stone-fatigue. It was due to be repaired, but now it’s vanished!’

‘Someone pinched a slab of stone?’

‘So it seems. When the masons were sorting out all the segments it just wasn’t there. It’s not huge – about a foot wide, eighteen inches deep – though heavy obviously.’

‘Not easily shoved in your shopping bag,’ Merrily said. ‘But safely locked up behind that partition, surely?’

‘That’s the point.’ Sophie looked worried. ‘About the only time its removal could have happened was when we were all fussing over Canon Dobbs, after his stroke.’

‘They suspect one of us?’
Maybe
, she thought insanely,
I could resign under suspicion of stealing a chunk of Cantilupe
. It would be easier, less complicated.

‘This Dean will suspect anyone connected with the Bishop,’ Sophie said with rare malice. ‘He’s already calling for a full inquiry. No, I don’t for a minute think they suspect one of us. They just think we might have been more… I don’t know… observant.’

‘Who’d want to nick a single medieval knight not in terrific condition? And what for – a bird-table?’

‘Don’t joke about it in front of the Dean, whatever you do.’

‘I never seem to meet the Dean,’ Merrily said.

‘Personally I
never
joke in front of the Dean.’ The Bishop had appeared in the doorway. The Bishop at his hunkiest, with the possibly-Armani jacket over a denim shirt and jeans. The only purple now was a handkerchief carelessly tucked into his breast pocket. ‘Good morning, Sophie. Merrily, how did it go last night? Nothing over the top, one trusts. Restraint is our new watchword.’

She said, ‘You haven’t heard?’

‘What should I have heard?’

‘Mick, look…’ She came slowly to her feet. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sophie said quickly, ‘the blessing at Stretford. I gather you weren’t very well, Merrily.’

‘Who told—?’

‘She really shouldn’t have turned out, Michael,’ Sophie said. ‘You can see how terribly pale she is.’

‘Merrily?’ The Bishop moved into the office, turned his famous blue eyes on her. ‘Lord, yes, you don’t look well at all.’

‘Fortunately,’ Sophie said, ‘Huw Owen was present and able to take over and conduct the service, so that was all right.’

Merrily stared at her.
What are you doing?

‘Owen?’ The Bishop’s face stiffened with outrage. ‘Who the
hell
invited Owen?’

‘I did,’ Merrily said. ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you, shouldn’t I?’

‘Yes, you should. The man’s from outside the diocese. He’s
Church in Wales
.’

‘It’s my fault,’ Sophie said quickly. ‘Merrily told me she’d asked the Reverend Owen to come in as…’

‘Hand-holder,’ Merrily said. ‘It was my first serious exorcism. As it was to be in a church, I didn’t want to make a mistake.’

‘Well, I should have been told,’ the Bishop said almost peevishly. ‘I realize he was your course tutor, Merrily, but I’ve appointed
you
, not him. In fact, if I’d known more about Owen at the time, we might not have sent you on that particular course.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Let’s just say’ – the Bishop’s eyes were hard – ‘that his roots are planted in the same general area as Dobbs’s.’

‘Oh, Michael…’ Any further discussion of the dangers of medievalism was forestalled by Sophie informing the Bishop about the missing Cantilupe knight, apparently smuggled out of the Cathedral.

‘And that’s all they took?’ The Bishop slowly shook his head, half-smiling now. ‘Admittedly, we don’t want opportunist tomb-robbers cruising the Cathedral, but it’s hardly cause for a major panic. Surely our guys can construct a temporary substitute if they need to put the shrine together in a hurry. Reconstituted stone or something. Who, after all, is going to know?’

‘Reconstituted stone?’ Sophie said faintly.

‘Poor old boy’s bones are already widely scattered,’ the Bishop said reasonably. ‘It’s not as if those knights have anything to guard any more, is it? Sophie, Val and I shall be leaving earlier for London than planned.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie spun towards her office, ‘I thought the reception was tomorrow.’

‘Well, there’s going to be a dinner now, tonight – with Tony and Cherie. And other people, of course.’ He laughed. ‘One can hardly reschedule these things according to one’s personal convenience. We’ll need to get off before lunch. So… Merrily,’ turning his attention on her like a loaded shotgun, ‘I want you to think about something.’

He stepped back and surveyed her – critically, she thought – in her black jumper and woollen skirt, flaking fake-Barbour over the back of the chair.

Whatever it is now
, she thought,
not today
.

‘Ironic that the question of Dobbs and Owen should arise. Traditionalism – I want all this to be raised at the next General Synod, and I want you, Merrily, to give some thought to producing a paper on what, for want of a better term, I’m officially calling New Deliverance.’

She stared at him. ‘Me?’

‘Very definitely you. I think I may be looking at the very
face
of New Deliverance.’

‘Bishop, I don’t know what you mean about “New”. Surely the whole point of—’

‘You know very well what I mean, Merrily. Think back to our discussion in the Green Dragon. Anyway, I don’t have time to expand on it now. We’ll talk again before Christmas, yes?’

She couldn’t reply.

‘Excellent,’ the Bishop said crisply. As he left, Merrily’s phone rang.

‘Merrily. Frannie Bliss. Remember? How are you?’

‘I’m… OK.’

‘You don’t sound all that OK to me. You should’ve said something – us keeping you talking outside in the cold all that time. Not that it was much warmer inside. Sorry you had to go off like that, but you probably did the best thing. He’s a card, that Huw, isn’t he? Turned out well for us, anyway.’

‘It did?’

‘I’m not gonna bore you with the run-up to this, but we finally had a chat with two very nice elderly ladies: sisters, churchgoers, and active members of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. They put us on to a lad called Craig Proctor, lives out near Monkland. Now young Craig, for reasons you really don’t want to know about, especially if you’re not feeling well, is an expert at trapping wild birds. These old ladies’ve been after him for months, but he’s clever is Craig – or he thought he was. Anyway, after a long and meaningful exchange at Leominster nick this morning, Craig has told us he was approached by a chap he didn’t know, and given a hundred and fifty pounds to procure one live carrion crow.’

‘Christ.’

The fog outside was like a carpet against the window.

‘Yeh,’ Frannie said. ‘Now, what’s that say to you, Merrily?’

‘It says you’re not just looking for a bunch of kids who’ve seen some nasty films.’

‘The real thing, eh?’

‘Yes, though I don’t know what I mean when I say that. Did you get a description out of him?’

‘Young guy – motorbike, moustache, hard-looking. That’s not much help. Craig’s never seen him before, he claims.’

‘You arrest him?’

‘No. He knew we’d no evidence and he wasn’t gonna confess.’

‘You made a deal.’

‘We don’t make deals, as you well know, Merrily. Just have a little think about why somebody would blow a hundred and fifty on setting up some grubby little sacrifice in a church nobody uses.’

‘And taking a considerable risk too,’ Merrily said. ‘Stretford itself might be a bit lonely, but the church is hardly lonely
within
Stretford.’

‘That too.’

‘Have you asked Huw?’

‘Well, yeh, I did call Huw, to be honest, but he wasn’t there.’

‘He’s a busy man,’ Merrily said quietly.

Sophie had gestured to her something about popping out for a while. Merrily considered waiting for her to return, needing to find out how she’d learned about last night’s disaster, and why she’d been so quick to cover up in front of the Bishop.

But, by lunchtime, Sophie had not come back, so Merrily switched on the computer and typed out the letter.

It had already been composed in her head on the way here. It was formal and uncomplicated. That was always best; no need for details – not that she felt able to put that stuff on paper.

Dear Bishop,

After long consideration and a great deal of prayer and agonizing, I have decided to ask you to accept my resignation from the role of Diocesan Deliverance Consultant.

I do not doubt that this is – or will become – a valid job for a woman. However, events have proved to me that I am not yet sufficiently wise or experienced enough to take it on. Therefore I honestly think I should make a discreet exit before I become a liability to the Church.

I would like to thank you for your kindness and – albeit misplaced – confidence in me. I am sorry for wasting so much of your very valuable time.

Yours sincerely,

Merrily Watkins

It hung there on the screen and she sat in front of it, reading it over and over again until she saw it only as words with no coherent meaning.

She could print it out and post it, or send it through the internal mail. Either way, he would not see it before he and Val left for London. Or maybe e-mail it immediately to the Bishop’s Palace? That would be the quickest and the best, and leave no room for hesitation.

She read it through again; there was nothing more to say. She looked up the Palace’s e-mail address and prepared to send. It would be courteous, perhaps, to show it first to Sophie. Perhaps she’d wait until Sophie returned, perhaps she wouldn’t. What she would
not
do was ring Huw Owen about it.

As often, the only certainty was a cigarette. Her packet was empty, so she felt in her bag for another, and came up with a creamy-white envelope, the one pushed through the letterbox while she was shivering on the landing. She’d stuffed it into her bag, while arguing with Jane that she was perfectly fit to go to work – no, she did not have flu.
It’s mental, flower. I’m coming apart and torturing myself with sick, sexual, demonic fantasies. God’s way of showing me I’m not equipped to take on other people’s terrors
. But she hadn’t said any of that either.

She opened the letter, postmarked Hereford and addressed to The Reverend Mrs Watkins. It came straight to the point.

Dear Reverend Watkins,

You should know that your Daughter has been seen brazenly endangering her Soul, and yours, by mixing with the Spiritually Unclean.

Ask her what she was doing last Saturday afternoon at the so-called PSYCHIC FAIR at Leominster. It is well known that such events attract members of Occult Groups in search of converts. Ask her how long she has been consorting with a Clairvoyant who uses the Devil’s Picturebook.

Many people have always been disgusted that your Daughter does not attend Church as the Daughter of a Minister of God ought to. Now we know why.