The Triple Goddess (64 page)

As incensed as Effie was about the loss of her silent partner the vicar, she knew that such a full-frontal assault on the status quo of the village could only have been made by some very confident individual, similar to herself, who meant to commit further outrage. The nuisance would have to be extirpated before the local balance of power, in which the lower of the scales was weighted by Effie’s undainty foot, was upset. As the villagers’ champion she intended to accomplish this the only way she knew how: mano a mano using her favourite, indeed her only, weapon, the bludgeon. The appointment of Dark was highly prejudicial to her oversight of local affairs, and she determined that, Lady of the Manor or not, this presumptuous person needed to be apprised that the village was not big enough for the three of them, counting Ophelia, and that the last to arrive should be the first to leave and that right speedily.

So, stiffening her sinews and summoning up her blood, Effie filed her teeth and prepared to imitate the action of the tigress imitating her.

The morning that Effie was working up a lather of indignation in the cottage that she shared with Ophelia, her companion was in the conservatory talking to her orchids. The subject was metaphysics, and Ophelia was interested in knowing what her plants believed in and how they had come to their conclusions, and to what extent they might have been influenced or coerced by the levels of humidity or light or the amount of water she gave them. So far as she could tell, it was going to be a while before she received a reply; but she was a patient woman and decided to stick at it until lunchtime.

Not that Effie noticed, but when she barrelled out of her house and down the Street on the bay gelding that she occasionally borrowed from a neighbour, the weather was exceptionally pleasant. After an early morning shower the light spring air was laden with the scent of grass and flowers, and amidst a lot of snorting and farting, mostly on the part of the horse, could be heard the humming of bees and many tender exchanges between the ewes and their lambs.

Effie was no better a rider than the devil lady, but somehow twenty minutes later both beast and rider drew up almost simultaneously outside the gates of the DL’s mansion. The Rectory had always been an imposing edifice, and now that it had been restored she could see why the DL had decided to appropriate it for her own use, even without the symbolic value it held that she was not yet aware of.

A much smaller, modern house, which lay out of view to the rear of the church, had formerly been rented out by the Church to a non-stipendiary deacon whom Effie had persuaded the vicar to persuade the Bishop to assign to the parish to attend to functionary matters. This deacon, who was as complaisant and flexible as his superior in agreeing to anything Effie wanted, had proved overly pliant in moral areas amongst the more married of the parish women, and was long gone. Being vacant, the DL had awarded the quarters to Fletcher Abraham Dark so that he might be conveniently situated to attend her.

The Annexe, as this property was called for want of anything politely descriptive, was of hasty construction circa July nineteen sixty-four. By contrast to the venerable Rectory, it was a hunched and disreputable-looking brick affair, which, had it been human, might have sidled up to one and in a low sibilant voice (
Psst!
) offered  to sell one a packet of dirty postcards. The Annexe’s black metal-framed windows and unkempt condition gave it the surly expression of a mangy cur that had slunk away from a farmyard to lurk in the shadows under the hill.

Fletcher Dark had taken to it immediately, exclaiming, ‘Well I’ll be damned, what dandy digs!’ The honorary reverend was an alliterative person when moved.

Effie was astounded at the Rectory’s transformation. Outside, instead of the former jungle of unpruned trees and brambles, it sported neatly trimmed shrubbery and immaculate weed-free lawns. The house’s signature cracked and pitted walls were now creamy and flawless, the roof had been re-slated, the driveway was crunchy with caramel gravel, and the wrought-iron gates had been painted a glossy black. Effie did not regard these changes as improvements, and objected to having to dismount to open the gates, which for as long as she could remember had leaned drunkenly into the banks behind them. Now they were upright and operated smoothly on straightened and oiled hinges.

As she walked her horse up the drive, carefully so as not to twist her ankle in the thick Kensington gravel, the beast skittered, disconcerted by the pungent smells of fresh paint, weed-killer and wood-preservative. Halfway to the house it became even more alarmed, sweating and whinnying at the sight of an assortment of newly arrived mastiffs that were monitoring their arrival from the top of the steps outside the front door. Effie cursed, and hauled on the bridle. But although their ears strained forward and their brows furrowed, the dogs refrained from barking, and remained stock-still as they gazed at the arrivals with the long-distance intensity peculiar to large canines.

After her mount had veered onto the croquet lawn, deeply indenting its smooth surface, and generously manured a rose-bed, Effie looped the reins over a branch of a tulip tree as far as possible away from the dogs where the longer grass began. The horse, reassured, took advantage of its situation to start nibbling the longer grass that extended as far as the orchard. Approaching the front door and ignoring the dogs, Effie kicked at a large cat that was draped against the base of the door like a draught excluder. The cat moved, and she missed and had to steady herself against the wall.

As the feline arched its back and spat at her the door opened, to reveal the devil lady’s manservant, who, having heard the commotion outside, had not waited to be summoned by the bell. Disregarding his remonstration at her arriving without an appointment, Effie thrust her mud-bespattered coat into his arms and forged past him down the exquisitely decorated and furnished hall to the drawing-room. She knew her way well enough from her visits to the former vicar, and was conscious of a moment’s regret at not having him to twist round her little finger any more. The soles of her riding boots scuffed and muddied the polished parquet floor, which pleased her mightily, and she wished that she had thought to wear a pair of spurs. Then, before the manservant could catch up and announce the uninvited visitor, Effie erupted through the double doors of the drawing-room and marched into the centre.

The devil lady was seated at a davenport or escritoire, engaged in writing a memorandum to her supervisor at HQ. There were many things to complain about. The fax machine that the techies had sent was flashing a message that it was in need of service, though it was supposed to be brand new, and the computer was continually either on the blink or downloading Updates and Service Packs. Most importantly her moving expenses and living allowance had not been paid, as a result of which her manservant had been unable to pay the butcher and wine merchant, and they had refused to deliver on credit. Until a BACS payment was made into her bank account they were living on an inadequate overdraft, non-lean minced beef and apple juice. There was nothing in the larder except a dozen quails’ eggs, some stale French bread and a little Ardennes pâté, and there was no freezer because it would burn her manservant’s arm to stick his hand in it.

Possibly worst of all, the DL was as it were dying for her customary six p.m. Dartington Crystal Helmston Old Fashioned cut-glass tumbler gill of Islay whisky with a reprehensible splash of Diet Canada Dry ginger ale. Doing without made her irritable; having to put up with apple juice was a penance too many.

The focal decorative point of the room was, in an ironic touch of the devil lady’s own devising, an Adam chimney-piece with an ormolu Louis Quinze clock on it. The hands on the clock were indicative not of the correct time of day, as would have been appropriate on a supra-terrestrial assignment—this was an oversight on the part of the manservant that the DL had not yet noticed, so taken was she with such a prized antique artefact as the clock itself—but of that in Hell where there was no time and no need of clocks and where, had there been any time, any time would have been the correct time. The chimney-piece contained a grate large enough to have been designed by Hephaestus, and a massive pair of firedogs, attended on either side by the usual array of tongs, bellows, brush, shovel, poker, log-basket and coal scuttle. A deep leather wing-chair was drawn up to one side of the fireplace.

The walls were hung above the dado rail with Flemish tapestries and Dutch School portraits, there were Persian rugs on the polished and no-longer cupped wide floorboards, and the furniture was Regency. A piano, a nine-foot-six-inch Imperial Grand Bösendorfer, stood in a corner with its lid half open on the short stick. On the music stand were Volume One of the Beethoven Sonatas for pianoforte in the red cloth board Associated Board edition edited by Harold Craxton with commentaries and notes by Donald Francis Tovey, open to the first movement of the Sonata in C Minor Op. 13, the
Pathétique
; and a sheet of Scott Joplin’s
The Entertainer
.

There were cornices and mouldings on the walls and high ceiling, and a central chandelier hung with Murano glass pendants. Dresden china groups, white jade figurines, an ivory statuette on a japanned stand, and other items including some burial urns of ancient trophy conquests from the DL’s prime, were displayed in cabinets and on occasional tables and a whatnot. Featured in an ornate gilded frame over the chimney-piece was a warlike scene featuring Pallas Athene, armed and helmeted, painted either in the style of Rubens or by the Master himself. A Genoa velvet-cushioned window-seat around the three sash-windows overlooked the front lawn. The conversational sound of chamber music issued from stereo speakers concealed behind a pair of walnut commodes.

Whatever her other attributes, Effie noted, though she was no connoisseur herself and deprecated the artistic side of life, it was clear that this was a woman of cultivated tastes. Her visitor just did not want them growing anywhere near her.

‘What the...my dear woman,’ expostulated the DL, startled into good manners. She half rose from her seat before falling back into her chair, the state of her infernal finances gone from her mind. Doing her best to pull herself together, she looked angrily at her flushed manservant as he arrived in the doorway and raised his hands in apology.

‘My dear horse-poop,’ countered Effie, pleased with the effect that the momentum of her arrival had caused. Through the window she was pleased to observe her horse making a steaming contribution to the fertilizer surrounding the base of the tulip tree. The dogs appeared unmoved at this consecration of their mistress’s property, as if, being unable to distinguish between unwanted visitors and post- and tradesmen, they were under orders to behave themselves.

‘Who gave you authority to dismiss the vicar?’, boomed Effie, ‘not to mention appointing another one. Mentioning it. The Bishop and the PCC
¾
that’s the Parochial Church Council in case you don’t know
¾
haven’t been consulted, and that’s illegal. Nice day, by the way.’

The devil lady paused to consider whether to have this anonymous person thrown out on the spot, or to dignify her question with a response. In the interest of constraint and a mild curiosity as to the reason for the incursion she settled on frosty politeness.

‘Lovely I’m sure, not that I’ve had the opportunity to enjoy it. Madam, as you appear not to be aware, let me tell you that as Patron of this Benefice, I am within my rights to select and appoint—the term, I believe, is to
collate
—any minister I wish. The Rights of Presentation belong to me, if you are capable of understanding such a thing. The Living is in my gift. And I know perfectly well what this PCC of yours is, I read about it in the stuff that H....never mind.’ She shot a filthy look at the wretched fax machine, the source of many woes, where its proximity to a jade figurine made her squirm with aesthetic embarrassment; but owing to certain top-security transmissions from HQ, she could not allow the machine to be placed elsewhere in the house where her unconfidential manservant would be sure to read them.

Having recovered the initiative, she relaxed somewhat. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion and your objection is noted. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet and…why I am telling you anything?’ The question was addressed to herself. ‘So kindly get off the premises before I sick the dogs on that loose-bowelled horse of yours. If you come again I will not be At Home, and that goes for everyone else too, so please to pass the word. By the way, who are you?’

Effie bridled. ‘Listen, lady, we already have a priest in our village, Reverend Ophelia Blondi-Tremolo. My friend and companion. What’s your bloke’s name—Dark? We don’t need that fat baboon of yours throwing his weight around. He’s already offended everyone without saying a word, only opening his mouth to stuff stuff in it.’

Despite herself the devil lady was interested. ‘Ah yes, this Ophelia woman. Your partner, I understand, is that right? You must be Effie. I have read your curricula vitae, they were sent to me by…never mind who they were sent to me by. Your Ophelia is top of my list for investigation. Ophelia Blond…that’s quite a name. Sounds foreign, and I didn’t think you went in for foreigners in Harrumphshire. Or a cross between a hairdresser and an organ-stop. What do people call her, Mother Ophelia? Sister Ophelia? And how about you? I suppose you have any number of cutesy pet names for each other. I don’t suppose Euphemia is the handle of choice.’

Effie’s chin shot up in acute umbrage, exposing the wattles of her throat, and the DL leered. ‘Aha! score one for me. Now then, since you’re here. I understand your Ophelia’s not exactly
persona grata
with the Bishop. Am I right or am I right? Don’t think that I blame her for that, though. Quite the contrary. I dislike bishops myself.’