Death in Holy Orders (21 page)

Emma had said, “The history of the twentieth century hardly supports that thesis.”

“Perhaps I’ll put the idea to Father Sebastian, suggest I might work it up into a sermon. On second thoughts, perhaps not.”

Raphael’s voice recalled her to the present. He said, “Ronald was a bit of a drag on your course, wasn’t he? The careful preparation so that he could think of intelligent questions to ask, all that assiduous scribbling. He was probably taking down useful passages for future sermons. There’s nothing like an infusion of verse to raise the mediocre to the memorable, especially if the congregation doesn’t realize that you’re quoting.”

Emma said, “I did sometimes wonder why he came. The seminars are voluntary, aren’t they?”

Raphael gave a hoarse, half-ironic, half-mirthful laugh; it jarred on Emma. “Yes, my dear, absolutely. It’s just that in this place ‘voluntary’ doesn’t quite mean the same as it does elsewhere. Let’s say some behaviour is more acceptable than others.”

“Oh dear. And I thought you all came because you enjoy the poetry.”

Stephen said, “We do enjoy the poetry. The trouble is that there are only twenty of us. That means that we’re always
under scrutiny. The priests can’t help it, it’s a question of numbers. That’s why the Church thinks that sixty is about the right size for a theological college—and the Church is right. The Archdeacon has a point when he says we’re too small.”

Raphael said crossly, “Oh, the Archdeacon. Do we have to talk about him?”

“All right, we won’t. He’s an odd mixture, though, isn’t he? Admittedly, the Church of England is four different churches, not one, but where exactly does he fit in? He’s not a clap-happy. He’s a Bible evangelical, yet he accepts women priests. He’s always saying that we must change to serve the new century, but he’s hardly representative of liberal theology, and he’s uncompromising on divorce and abortion.”

Henry said, “He’s a Victorian throw-back. When he’s here I feel I’m in a Trollope novel, except that the roles have got reversed. Father Sebastian ought to be Archdeacon Grantly, with Crampton playing Slope.”

Stephen said, “No, not Slope. Slope was a hypocrite. The Archdeacon is at least sincere.”

Raphael said, “Oh, he’s sincere all right. Hitler was sincere. Genghis Khan was sincere. Every tyrant’s sincere.”

Stephen said mildly, “He’s not a tyrant in his parish. Actually, I think he’s a good parish priest. Don’t forget I spent a week’s secondment there last Easter. They like him. They even like his sermons. As one of the churchwardens said, ‘He knows what he believes and he gives it to us straight. And there’s not a person in this parish in grief or need who hasn’t been grateful to him.’ We see him at his worst; he’s a different man when he’s here.”

Raphael said, “He pursued a fellow-priest and got him jailed. Is that Christian charity? He hates Father Sebastian; so much for brotherly love. And he hates this place and all it stands for. He’s trying to get St. Anselm’s closed.”

Henry said, “And Father Sebastian is working to keep it open. I know where my money is.”

“I’m not so sure. Ronald’s death didn’t help.”

“The Church can’t close down a theological college because one of the students gets himself killed. Anyway, he’s due to go after breakfast on Sunday. Apparently he’s needed back in the
parish. Only two more meals to get through. You’d better behave yourself, Raphael.”

“I’ve had a finger-wagging from Father Sebastian. I shall attempt to exercise impressive control.”

“And if you fail, you’ll apologize to the Archdeacon before he leaves in the morning?”

“Oh no,” said Raphael. “I’ve a feeling no one will be apologizing to the Archdeacon in the morning.”

Ten minutes later, the ordinands had left for tea in the students’ sitting-room. Mrs. Pilbeam said, “You look tired, miss. Stay and have a bite of tea with me if you like. Now that you are cosy it would be more peaceful.”

“I’d like that, Mrs. P, thank you.”

Mrs. Pilbeam drew up a low table beside her and placed on it a large cup of tea and a buttered scone with jam. How good it was, thought Emma, to be sitting in peace and with another woman, hearing the creak of the wicker chair as Mrs. Pilbeam settled herself, smelling the warm buttery scones and watching the blue flames of the fire.

She wished that they hadn’t spoken about Ronald Treeves. She didn’t realize how much that still-mysterious death could overshadow the college. And not only that death. Mrs. Munroe had died naturally, peacefully, had perhaps been glad to go, but it was an added weight of loss in a small community where death’s depredations would never go unnoticed. And Henry was right; one always felt guilt. She wished she had taken more trouble with Ronald, had been kinder and more patient. The mental picture of him half-stumbling from Surtees’s cottage was a burr in the mind not easily to be shaken off.

And now there was the Archdeacon. Raphael’s dislike of him was becoming obsessive. And it was more than dislike. There had been hatred in his voice; it wasn’t an emotion she had expected to find at St. Anselm’s. She realized how much she had come to rely on these visits to the college. Familiar words from the Prayer Book floated into her mind. That peace which the world cannot give. But the peace had been broken in that image of a boy gasping open-mouthed for air and finding only the killing sand. And St. Anselm’s was part of the world. The students might be ordinands and their teachers priests, but
they were still men. The college might stand in defiant symbolic isolation between the sea and the acres of unpopulated headland, but the life within its walls was intense, tightly controlled, claustrophobic. What emotions might not flourish in that hothouse atmosphere?

And what of Raphael, brought up motherless in this seclusive world, escaping only to the equally masculine and controlled life of prep and public school? Did he really have a vocation, or was he paying back an old debt in the only way he knew how? She found herself for the first time mentally criticizing the priests. Surely it should have occurred to them that Raphael should be trained at some other college. She had thought of Father Sebastian and Father Martin as possessing wisdom and goodness hardly comprehensible to those, like herself, who found in organized religion a structure for moral striving rather than the final repository of revealed truth. But she returned always to the same uncomfortable thought: the priests were still only men.

A wind was rising. She could hear it now as a soft irregular boom hardly distinguishable from the louder boom of the sea.

Mrs. Pilbeam said, “We’re due for a high wind but I doubt we’ll get the worst of it before morning. Still, the night will be rough enough, I reckon.”

They drank their tea in silence, then Mrs. Pilbeam said, “They’re good lads, you know, all of them.”

“Yes,” said Emma, “I know they are.” And it seemed to her that it was she who was doing the comforting.

F
ather Sebastian didn’t enjoy afternoon tea. He never ate cake and took the view that scones and sandwiches only spoiled his dinner. He thought it right to put in an appearance at four o’clock when there were guests but usually only stayed long enough to drink his two cups of Earl Grey with lemon and welcome any new arrivals. This Saturday he had left the greetings to Father Martin, but at ten minutes past four thought it would be courteous to put in an appearance. But he was only halfway down the stairs when he was met by the Archdeacon rushing up towards him.

“Morell, I need to speak to you. In your office, please.”

And now what? thought Father Sebastian wearily as he mounted the stairs behind the Archdeacon. Crampton took the stairs two at a time and, once outside the office, seemed about to crash unceremoniously through the door. Father Sebastian, entering more quietly, invited him to take one of the chairs in front of the fire but was ignored, and the two men stood facing each other so closely that Father Sebastian could smell the taint of sourness on the other’s breath. He found himself forced to meet the glare of two blazing eyes and was instantly and uncomfortably aware of every detail of Crampton’s face: the two black hairs in the left nostril, the angry patches of red high on each cheekbone, and a crumb of what looked like buttered scone adhering to the edge of the mouth. He stood and watched while the Archdeacon took control of himself.

When Crampton spoke he was calmer, but the menace in his voice was unmistakable. “What is that police officer doing here? Who invited him?”

“Commander Dalgliesh? I thought I explained …”

“Not Dalgliesh. Yarwood. Roger Yarwood.”

Father Sebastian said calmly, “Like yourself, Mr. Yarwood is a guest. He is a detective inspector of the Suffolk Constabulary and is taking a week’s leave.”

“Was that your idea, to have him here?”

“He’s an occasional visitor, and a welcome one. At present he’s on sick-leave. He wrote to ask if he could stay for a week. We like him and are glad to have him.”

“Yarwood was the police officer who investigated my wife’s death. Are you seriously telling me that you didn’t know?”

“How could I know, Archdeacon? How could any of us know? It wasn’t something he would speak about. He comes here to get away from his work. I can see that it’s distressing for you to find him here and I am sorry it should have happened. Obviously his presence brings back very unhappy memories. But it’s an extraordinary coincidence, no more. They happen every day. Inspector Yarwood transferred to Suffolk from the Metropolitan Police five years ago, I believe. It must have been shortly after your wife’s death.”

Father Sebastian avoided using the word “suicide,” but he knew that it hung unspoken between them. The tragedy of the Archdeacon’s first wife was well known in clerical circles, as inevitably it would be.

The Archdeacon said, “He must leave, of course. I’m not prepared to sit at dinner with him.”

Father Sebastian was torn between a sympathy that was genuine even if not strong enough to discomfort him, and a more personal emotion. He said, “I’m not prepared to tell him to go. As I have said, he’s a guest here. Whatever memories he brings to mind for you, surely it’s possible for two adult men to sit at the same dinner-table without provoking outrage.”

“Outrage?”

“I find the word appropriate. Why should you be so angry, Archdeacon? Yarwood was doing his job. It wasn’t personal between you.”

“He made it personal from the first moment he appeared in the vicarage. That man more or less accused me of murder. He came day after day, even when I was at my most grieving and vulnerable, pestering me with questions, querying every little
detail of my marriage, personal matters that were nothing to do with him, nothing! After the inquest and the verdict I complained to the Met. I would have gone to the Police Complaints Authority but I hardly expected them to take it seriously, and by then I was trying to put it behind me. But the Met did set up an inquiry and admitted that Yarwood had perhaps been over-zealous.”

“Over-zealous?” Father Sebastian fell back on a familiar bromide. “I suppose he thought he was doing his duty.”

“Duty? It was nothing to do with duty! He thought he could make a case and a reputation. It would have been quite a coup for him, wouldn’t it? Local vicar accused of murdering his wife. Do you know what harm that kind of allegation could do, in the diocese, in the parish? He tortured me and he enjoyed torturing me.”

Father Sebastian found it difficult to reconcile this accusation with the Yarwood he knew. He was again aware of conflicting emotions: sympathy for the Archdeacon, indecision whether or not to speak to Yarwood, concern not to worry unnecessarily a man he suspected was still fragile both physically and mentally, and the need to get through the weekend without antagonizing Crampton further. All these worries came incongruously and ludicrously together in the overriding question of the placement at dinner. He couldn’t seat the two police officers together; they would want to avoid any obligation to engage in professional chat and he certainly didn’t want it at his dinner-table. (Father Sebastian never thought of the refectory at St. Anselm’s in terms other than “his” dining-hall, “his” dinner-table.) It was obvious that neither Raphael nor Father John could appropriately be seated either next to the Archdeacon or facing him. Clive Stannard was a dull guest at the best of times; he could hardly inflict him on Crampton or Dalgliesh. He wished that his wife were alive and in residence. None of this would be happening if Veronica were alive. He felt a prick of resentment that she had so inconveniently left him.

It was then that there was a knock on the door. Glad of any interruption, he called, “Come,” and Raphael entered. The Archdeacon took one look at him and said to Father Sebastian, “You’ll see to it then, will you, Morell?” and went out.

Father Sebastian, although glad of the interruption, was not in the mood to be welcoming, and his “What is it, Raphael?” was curt.

“It’s about Inspector Yarwood, Father. He’d prefer not to have dinner with the rest of us. He wonders if it’s possible for him to have something in his room.”

“Is he ill?”

“I don’t think he’s particularly well, but he didn’t say anything about feeling ill. He saw the Archdeacon at tea and I gather he doesn’t want to encounter him again if possible. He didn’t stop to eat, so I followed him back to his room to see if he was all right.”

“And did he tell you why he was upset?”

“Yes, Father, he did.”

“He had no right to confide in you or anyone else here. It was unprofessional and unwise, and you should have stopped him.”

“He didn’t say very much, Father, but what he did say was interesting.”

“Whatever he said should have remained unspoken. You’d better see Mrs. Pilbeam and ask her to provide some dinner for him. Soup and a salad, something like that.”

“I think that’s all he wants, Father. He said he’d like to be left alone.”

Father Sebastian wondered if he should speak to Yarwood, but decided against it. Perhaps what the man wanted, to be left alone, was the best course. The Archdeacon was due to leave next morning after an early breakfast, as he wanted to be back in his parish to preach at the ten-thirty Sunday Parish Communion. He had hinted that someone of importance was to be in the congregation. With any luck the two men need not see each other again.