Glittering Images (29 page)

There was a long silence. Then Darrow rose to his feet. ‘I’ll take you to the guest-wing,’ he said, ‘and assign you a room. You shouldn’t leave here now. It’s too dangerous.’

‘Dangerous!’

‘You’re like a yachtsman with a high fever who insists on steering straight for the rocks. Drop anchor, lie down and get well enough to plot a better course.’

‘I can’t. I want to but I can’t.’ I leant forward in a last desperate effort to explain. ‘I’ve got to go back to Starbridge – I can think of nothing but Starbridge – it’s as if Starbridge is a huge magnet pulling me so hard that I can’t escape, and although I don’t want to put my spiritual life in abeyance I must, I can’t help myself, I can’t do anything until I’ve solved the Starbridge mystery – but once the mystery’s solved and I return to Cambridge –’

‘Come straight here, no matter what time of the day or night it is.’

I could not reply, but as I looked again into those grave grey eyes I had the uncanny dread that he was clairvoyant.

I said sharply: ‘I’ll be all right.’ I tried not to make it sound like a question.

I shall always remember what he said next. He spoke his biblical paraphrase as if it were a famous quotation. ‘High and wide is the gate which leads to self-deception and illusion,’ he said, ‘but for those seeking truth strait is the gate and narrow the way and brave is the man who can journey there. How profound is your courage, Charles? And how deep are your reserves of spiritual strength?’

I could not answer. I knew what a weak spiritual state I was in, and unable to meet his eyes I retreated, more confused than ever, to the hall.

All he said as he opened the front door was, ‘I’ll pray for you.’

I wanted to linger. I could feel the power of his mind pulling me back, but by that time I was being driven by a compulsion which was quite beyond my control and hurrying to my car I set out on the road to disaster.

When I returned to my rooms to pack a bag for the journey I found a letter from Jardine had arrived by the second post. Recognizing his handwriting at once I ripped open the envelope.

‘My dear Dr Ashworth,’ I read, ‘I have spoken on the telephone today to the Abbot of Starwater, and he told me that the man you should see at the Fordites’ Grantchester house is without question Father Jonathan Darrow. Father Reid, I’m sad to say, is no longer with us and the Grantchester community has only just acquired this new Abbot who has a first-class reputation as a director of souls. He comes from the Fordites’ Yorkshire house where he was Master of Novices, but apparently his work has extended far beyond the training of monks. I have also spoken on the telephone today to one of the bishops of the Northern Province who told me he has sent troubled clergymen to Darrow on several occasions and always with the very best results. I do urge you not to delay your next visit to Grantchester, and in trusting that this letter will be of help to you in your difficulty, I remain yours very sincerely,
ADAM ALEXANDER STARO.’

I remembered Jardine saying how much he hated the telephone. I was impressed by his evident concern for my welfare but I was intrigued too.

I wondered how far he identified with me.

So I came once more to Starbridge, radiant glittering Starbridge, and as I approached the city through the pass in the hills I saw again the spire of the Cathedral appearing and disappearing as the road twisted and turned, the vision of truth fleetingly glimpsed but continually erased in the mirrors of fantasy and illusion.

I was again too late for Evensong, but after I had taken a room overlooking the river-garden at the Staro Arms I made myself read the office. Then I extracted the bottle of whisky from my bag, poured myself a stiff drink and lit a cigarette. I was wearing grey trousers with a sports jacket and an open-necked shirt, and as I glanced in the glass I thought I no longer looked like a salesman hawking a dubious product but like an actor who was having trouble remembering his lines.

I had a second stiff whisky. Then I went downstairs to the telephone kiosk in the hall.

At the palace the chaplain picked up the receiver and after the necessary exchange of pleasantries I asked for Lyle. A long delay followed, and I was just wondering if she was trying to invent an excuse for avoiding a conversation with me when her voice said sharply, ‘Charles?’

‘Darling –’ In my relief that she had made no attempt to evade the call I allowed myself the luxury of an endearment ‘– I’m back in Starbridge and I must see you. Can you dine this evening?’

‘You’re in
Starbridge
?’ She sounded dazed.

‘I could collect you in half an hour –’

‘Just a moment.’ As she put the receiver aside I heard her say to Gerald Harvey, ‘Where’s the Bishop?’

‘Lyle!’ I shouted but she was gone. I nearly hung up in rage but sheer obstinacy made me stand my ground and seconds later Jardine was exclaiming, ‘My dear Canon, why didn’t you let us know you were returning? You could have stayed at the palace!’

This confused me. I had been expecting hostility, not hospitality.

‘I felt I couldn’t possibly impose – after the awkward aspects of my last visit –’

‘Nonsense! Come and dine!’

‘Tonight?’

‘Why not? We’ll expect you at seven-thirty. I shall be so interested to hear about your long luncheon with Loretta,’ said Jardine, and rang off without waiting for a reply.

Having consumed a third whisky I changed into my clerical clothes and set off on foot up Eternity Street towards the Close. After my long drive it was a relief to forsake the car, but as I reached the palace gates the rain began to fall and I was obliged to sprint the last yards to the front door.

The butler seemed pleased to see me. The unexpected revival of last week’s doomed romance would no doubt provoke further enjoyable speculation over the teacups in the servants’ hall.

‘Are there many guests expected tonight, Shipton?’

‘None at all, sir. The Bishop and Mrs Bishop were due to go to London with Miss Christie today but unfortunately their host was unwell and the visit had to be cancelled.’

‘So there’ll be no one here tonight except –’

‘– except the three of them and yourself, sir. Mr Harvey’s dining out.’ And opening the door of the drawing-room he announced in his most melancholy voice, ‘Dr Ashworth, my Lord.’

Jardine was alone by the window, his hands in his pockets, his slim frame emanating his characteristic restless energy, his eyes watching the rain as it streamed against the glass. As I walked in he turned to face me but I saw no hint of distaste or disapproval in his expression.

‘Ah, there you are!’ he said, moving towards me with his hand outstretched. ‘Welcome back to Starbridge. Did you get my letter?’

‘Yes – thank you, Bishop. It was extremely good of you to go to so much trouble.’ We shook hands. ‘I did in fact meet Father Darrow this morning and I’ve arranged to begin a retreat under his direction this weekend.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it, although surprised you saw fit to delay the retreat in order to return here.’

I made no reply but picked up a copy of
Country Life
which was lying on a nearby chair and embarked on a detailed examination of the cover.

‘I was of course much disturbed when Lady Starmouth telephoned yesterday to say that you’d abducted Loretta for an excessively long luncheon,’ said Jardine, ‘but I think it would be best if we avoided discussing your continuing obsession with my past until we’re alone together with the port.’

‘What a pity,’ I said, flicking through the pages of
Country Life.
‘I was hoping for another theological discussion once the ladies had retired. I thought we might debate Luther’s view that the refusal of marital rights should constitute a ground for divorce.’ And I tossed aside the magazine.

The door opened and in fluttered Mrs Jardine. ‘Dr Ashworth!’ she exclaimed as Jardine and I continued to stare at each other. ‘How nice to see you again – although you seem to have brought some very tiresome rain with you from Cambridge!’

‘Yes, I’m afraid that storm you feared has finally arrived, Mrs Jardine,’ I said, taking her hand in mine, and as I glanced beyond her I saw Lyle watching tensely from the doorway.

Of the three of them Mrs Jardine alone behaved as if my swift return to Starbridge were unremarkable, and during dinner she maintained the burden of the conversation by chatting about subjects of an almost intolerable banality. Lyle was polite but withdrawn; we exchanged only a few stilted sentences, and once the dinner table lay between us I had no opportunity to take a close look at her ring which she was as usual wearing on the wedding finger of her left hand. Meanwhile with a sublime disregard for the tension in the room Mrs Jardine was telling me some long story about how she had forgotten to go to a charity committee meeting because the third child of the Canon in Residence had contracted mumps. She then asked me what kind of charity work my mother did – an awkward question since my mother led an idle life drinking too many cocktails and getting on my father’s nerves. However I had only to mention my mother’s fondness for fashion magazines and Mrs Jardine was telling me about the fashion show she had organized to raise money for the children of the unemployed dockers in Starmouth.

‘Lyle organized it,’ said the Bishop, who appeared sunk in boredom at the far end of the table, and suddenly as I remembered Loretta saying that I might be reading too much into people’s innocent reactions, I wondered if the tension existed only in my mind; I wondered if this unusually private glimpse of the
ménage
was revealing not the sinister undercurrents I had anticipated but merely the blameless tedium of a well-worn regime.

‘No, Carrie did the organizing!’ Lyle was insisting to the Bishop. ‘I merely hired the hall, instructed the caterers and sent out the invitations.’

I was just wondering what had been left for Mrs Jardine to do when Mrs Jardine herself exclaimed warmly, ‘You were wonderful, Lyle!’ She turned to me with enthusiasm. ‘Does your mother have a companion to help her, Dr Ashworth?’

‘Only my father.’

‘Maybe we can discuss your father over the port,’ said the Bishop, finally unable to resist livening up the dinner by shooting a provocative verbal arrow into the conversation. That could prove an interesting debate.’

‘More interesting than Luther on divorce?’

Lyle glanced up from her food. I was looking straight at her. Immediately she glanced away and began to dissect her potato.

‘Talking of fathers, did I ever tell you about my own father, Dr Ashworth?’ enquired Mrs Jardine, swiftly terminating the silence, and no further pause was allowed to develop in the conversation until the end of the meal when she felt obliged to refresh her voice with a sip of water.

At once I said to Lyle, ‘When am I going to see you tomorrow?’

Lyle’s eyes seemed to darken. I glanced instinctively at the Bishop but to my surprise it was Mrs Jardine who spoke first.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Dr Ashworth,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid I’ll be needing Lyle all day tomorrow, and then on Thursday we go off to Bath and Wells – well, it’s Wells actually, but we’re staying with the
Bishop
of Bath and Wells because Alex has been invited to preach a special commemorative sermon – what exactly are they commemorating, Alex?’

‘I’ve forgotten,’ said Jardine, and instantly laughed at the absurdity. Lyle and Mrs Jardine laughed too, and suddenly I longed to smash the innocuous façade of the conversation. I said abruptly to Lyle, ‘In that case I’d like to see you alone this evening before I leave. I want to talk to you about your signet-ring.’

I thought I saw Lyle turn a shade paler but it was impossible to be sure.

‘Oh, isn’t it a lovely ring!’ exclaimed Mrs Jardine, innocence personified, but as she succeeded once more in cloaking the tension with banality I wondered if she were deliberately checking every abnormal turn in the conversation. ‘People often remark on it! I remember I had a ring once –’

‘Will you tell me later how you acquired that ring?’ I said to Lyle.

‘Of course she’ll tell you!’ exclaimed the Bishop with impatience. ‘But why wait till later? The subject hardly merits a private interview! Tell him now, Lyle.’

Lyle said composed, ‘The Bishop’s stepmother gave it to me. It had great sentimental memories for her but she could no longer wear it because the joints of her fingers were swollen with arthritis. I was touched because I admired her very much, and I wear the ring in memory of her.’

‘Ah, how interesting!’ I said, pouring myself a fourth glass of claret from the decanter. ‘That must be the ring the Bishop’s father gave her during their highly unusual wedding ceremony.’

Jardine said at once, ‘That’ll be all, Shipton,’ and both butler and footman withdrew.

As soon as the door closed I said to Lyle, ‘I was wondering if the ring meant that you too had been through a highly unusual wedding ceremony.’

‘If that’s a joke,’ said Lyle in a low voice, ‘I don’t think it’s funny.’

‘It’s no joke and I didn’t come here to be amusing.’ Draining my glass I reached for the decanter again.

‘Dr Ashworth,’ said Mrs Jardine with surprising strength, ‘I’m very distressed to see you not behaving as a gentleman should. I think you forget yourself.’