Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens (16 page)

“Has no action been taken against the vicar?”

“Naturally. The police were informed. An inspector and a sergeant drove over from Thetford to see the vicar. They were refused access.”

“Refused?”

“They were told,” said Mr. Fortescue gently, “that if they attempted to lay hands on the vicar they would be resisted – by force.”

“But surely—” said Mr. Behrens. And stopped.

“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue. “Do think before you say anything. Try to visualise the unparalleled propaganda value to our friends in the various CND and peace groups if an armed force had to be despatched to seize a village clergyman.”

Mr. Behrens said, “I’m visualising it. Do you think one of the more enterprising bodies – the International Brotherhood Group occurs to me as a possibility – might have planted someone in Hedgehorn. Someone who is using the Rector’s exceptional influence—”

“It’s a possibility. You must remember that the Bacterial Warfare Wing has only been there for two years. If anyone
has
been planted, it has been done comparatively recently.”

“How long has the Rector been there?” said Mr. Calder.

“For eighteen months.”

“I see.”

“The situation is full of possibilities, I agree. I suggest you tackle it from both ends. I should suppose, Behrens, that there are few people who know more about the IBG and its ramifications than you do. Can you find out whether they have been active in this area recently?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“We can none of us do more than our best,” agreed Mr. Fortescue. “And you, Calder, must go down to Hedgeborn immediately. I imagine that Colonel Faulkner would invite you?”

“I have a standing invitation,” said Mr. Calder. “For the shooting.”

Hedgeborn has changed in the last four hundred years, but not very much. The church was built in the reign of Charles the Martyr and the Manor in the reign of Anne the Good. There is a village smithy, where a farmer can still get his horses shoed. He can also buy diesel oil for his tractor. The cottages have thatched roofs, and television aerials.

Mr. Calder leaned out of his bedroom window at the Manor and surveyed the village, asleep under a full moon. He could see the church, at the far end of the village street, perched on a slight rise, its bell-tower outlined against the sky. There was a huddle of cottages round it. The one with a light in it would belong to Mr. Penny, the verger, who had come running down the street to tell the Rector that Farmer Alsop’s farm was on fire. If he leaned out of the window Mr. Calder could just see the roof of the rectory, at the far end of the street, masked by trees. Could there be any truth in the story of the bells? It had seemed fantastic in London. It seemed less so in this forgotten backwater.

A soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of Stokes, once the colonel’s batman, now his factotum.

“I was to ask if you’d care for anything before you turned in, sir. Some biscuits, or a nightcap?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Calder. “Not after that lovely dinner. Did you cook it yourself?”

Stokes looked gratified. “It wasn’t what you might call hote kweezeen.”

“It was excellent. Tell me, don’t you find things a bit quiet down here?”

“No, sir. I’m used to it. I was born here.”

“I didn’t realise that,” said Mr. Calder.

“I saw you looking at the smithy this afternoon. Enoch Covering’s my first cousin. Come to that, we’re mostly first or second cousins. Alsops and Stokes and Vowles and Claverings.”

“It would have been Enoch who cut down the fence at Snelsham Manor?”

“That’s right, sir.” Stokes’ voice was respectful, but there was a hint of wariness in it. “How did you know about that, if you don’t mind me asking? It hasn’t been in the papers.”

“The colonel told me.”

“Oh, of course. All the same, I do wonder how
he
knew about Enoch cutting down the fence. He wasn’t with us.”

“With
you
?” said Mr. Calder. “Do I gather, Stokes, that you took part in this – this enterprise?”

“Well, naturally, sir. Seeing I’m a member of the Parochial Church Council. Would there be anything more?”

“Nothing more,” said Mr. Calder. “Good night.”

He lay awake for a long time, listening to the owls talking to each other in the elms.

“It’s true,” said Colonel Faulkner next morning. “We are a bit inbred. All Norfolk men are odd. It makes us just a bit odder, that’s all.”

“Tell me about your Rector.”

“He was some sort of missionary, I believe. In darkest Africa. Got malaria very badly, and was invalided out.”

“From darkest Africa to darkest Norfolk. What do you make of him?”

The colonel was lighting his after-breakfast pipe, and took time to think about that. He said, “I just don’t know, Calder. Might be a saint. Might be a scoundrel. He’s got a touch with animals. No denying that.”

“What about the miracles?”

“No doubt they’ve been exaggerated in the telling. But—well—that business of the bells. I can give chapter and verse for that. There only
is
one key to the bell chamber. I remember what a fuss there was when it was mislaid last year. And no-one could have got it from Penny’s cottage, opened the tower up, rung the bells
and
put the key back without someone seeing him. Stark impossibility.”

“How many bells rang?”

“The tenor and the treble. That’s the way we always ring them for an alarm. One of the farmers across the valley heard them, got out of bed, spotted the fire, and rang through for the brigade.”

“Two bells,” saidMr. Calder thoughtfully. “So one man could have rung them.”

“If he could have got in.”

“Quite so.” Mr. Calder was looking at a list. “There are three people I should like to meet. A man called Smedley.”

“The Rector’s Warden. I’m people’s Warden. He’s my opposite number. Don’t like him much.”

“Miss Martin, your organist. I believe she has a cottage near the church. And Mr. Smallpiece, your village postmaster.”

“Why those three?”

“Because,” said Mr. Calder, “apart from the Rector himself, they are the only people who have come to live in this village during the past two years – so Stokes tells me.”

“He ought to know,” said the colonel. “He’s related to half the village.”

Mr. Smedley lived in a small dark cottage. It was tucked away behind the Viscount Townshend public house, which had a signboard outside it with a picture of the Second Viscount looking remarkably like the turnip which had become associated with his name.

Mr. Smedley was old and thin, and inclined to be cautious. He thawed very slightly when he discovered that his visitor was the son of Canon Calder of Salisbury.

“A world authority on monumental brasses,” he said. “You must be proud of him.”

“I’d no idea.”

“Yes, indeed. I have a copy somewhere of a paper he wrote on the brasses at Verden, in Hanover. A most scholarly work. We have some fine brasses in the church here, too. Not as old or as notable as Stoke d’Abernon, but very fine.”

“It’s an interesting village altogether. You’ve been getting into the papers.”

“I’d no idea that our brasses were
that
famous.”

“Not your brasses. Your Rector. He’s been written up as a miracle worker.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Oh, why?”

Mr. Smedley blinked maliciously, and said, “I’m not surprised at the ability of the press to cheapen anything it touches.”

“But
are
they miracles?”

“You’ll have to define your terms. If you accept the Shavian definition of a miracle as an act which creates faith, then certainly, yes. They are miracles.”

It occurred to Mr. Calder that Mr. Smedley was enjoying this conversation more than he was. He said, “You know quite well what I mean. Is there a rational explanation for them?”

“Again, it depends what you mean by rational.”

“I mean,” said Mr. Calder bluntly, “are they miracles, or conjuring tricks?”

Mr. Smedley considered the matter, his head on one side. Then he said, “Isn’t that a question which you should put to the Rector? After all, if they
are
conjuring tricks, he must be the conjurer.”

“I was planning to do just that,” said Mr. Calder, and prepared to take his leave. When he was at the door, his host checked him by laying a clawlike hand on his arm. He said, “Might I offer a word of advice? This is not an ordinary village. I suppose the word which would come most readily to mind is – primitive. I don’t mean anything sinister. But being isolated, it has grown up rather more slowly than the outside world. And another thing—’’ Mr. Smedley paused. Mr. Calder was reminded of an old black crow, cautiously approaching a tempting morsel and wondering whether he dared to seize it. “I ought to warn you that the people here are very fond of their Rector. If what
they
regarded as divine manifestations were described
by you
as conjuring tricks, well – you see what I mean.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Calder. He went out into the village street, took a couple of deep breaths, and made his way to the post-office. This was dark, dusty and empty. He could hear the postmaster, in the back room, wrestling with a manual telephone exchange. He realised, as he listened, that Mr. Smallpiece was no Norfolkman. His voice suggested that he had been brought up within sound of Bow Bells. When he emerged, Mr. Calder confirmed the diagnosis. If Mr. Smedley was a country crow, Mr. Smallpiece was a Cockney sparrow.

He said, “Nice to see a new face around. You’ll be staying with the colonel. I ‘ope his aunt gets over it.”

“Gets over what?”

“Called away ten minutes ago. The old lady ‘adder fit. Not the first one neither. If you ask me, she ‘as one whenever she feels lonely.”

“Old people are like that,” agreed Mr. Calder. “Your job must keep you very busy.”

“Oh I am the cook and the captain bold and the mate of the
Nancy
brig,” agreed Mr. Smallpiece. “I work the exchange – eighteen lines – deliver the mail, sell stamps, send telegrams and run errands. ‘Owever, there’s no overtime in this job, and what you don’t get paid for you don’t get thanked for.” He looked at the clock above the counter which showed five minutes to twelve, pushed the hand on five minutes, turned a card in the door from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’, and said, “Since the colonel won’t be back much before two, what price a pint at the Viscount?”

“You take the words out of my mouth,” said Mr. Calder. As they walked down the street, he said, “What happens if anyone wants to ring up someone whilst you’re out?”

“Well, they can’t, can they?” said Mr. Smallpiece.

When the colonel returned – his aunt, Mr. Calder was glad to learn, was much better – he reported the negative results of his enquiries to date.

“If you want to see Miss Martin, you can probably kill two birds with one stone. She goes along to the rectory most Wednesdays, to practise the harmonium. You’ll find it at the far end of the street. The original rectory was alongside the church, but it was burned down about a hundred years ago. I’m afraid it isn’t an architectural gem. Built in the worst style of Victorian ecclesiastical red brick.”

Mr. Calder, as he lifted the heavy wrought-iron knocker, was inclined to agree. The house was not beautiful. But it had a certain old-fashioned dignity and solidity. The Rector answered the door himself. Mr. Calder had hardly known what to expect. A warrior ecclesiastic in the Norman mould? A fanatical priest, prepared to face stake and faggot for his faith? A subtle Jesuit living by the Rule of Ignatius Loyola in solitude and prayer? What he had not been prepared for was a slight nondescript man with an apologetic smile who said, “Come in, come in. Don’t stand on ceremony. We never lock our doors here. I know you, don’t I? Wait! You’re Mr. Calder, and you’re staying at the Manor.
What
a lovely dog. A genuine Persian deerhound of the royal breed. What’s his name?”

“He’s called Rasselas.”

“Rasselas,” said the Rector. He wasn’t looking at the dog, but was staring over his shoulder, as though he could see something of interest behind him in the garden. “Rasselas.” The dog gave a rumbling growl. The Rector said, “Rasselas,” again, very softly. The rumble changed to a snarl. The Rector stood perfectly still, and said nothing. The snarl changed back into a rumble.

“Well, that’s much better,” said the Rector. “Did you see? He was fighting me. I wonder why?”

“He’s usually very well behaved with strangers.”

“I’m sure he is. Intelligent too. Why should he have
assumed
that I was an enemy. You heard him assuming it, didn’t you?”

“I heard him changing his mind, too.”

“I was able to reassure him. The interesting point is, why should he have started with hostile thoughts. I trust he didn’t derive them from you. But I’m being fanciful. Why should you have thoughts about us at all. Come along in, and meet our organist, Miss Martin. Such a helpful person, and a spirited performer on almost any instrument.”

The opening of an inner door had released a powerful blast of Purcell’s overture to
Dido and Aeneas,
played on the harmonium with all stops out.

“Miss Martin. MISS MARTIN.”

“I’m so sorry, Rector. I didn’t hear you.”

“This is Mr. Calder. He’s a war-time friend of Colonel Faulkner. Curious that such an evil thing as war should have produced the fine friendships it did.”

“Good sometimes comes out of evil, don’t you think.”

“No,” said the Rector. “I’m afraid I don’t believe that at all. Good sometimes comes in spite of evil. A very different proposition.”

“A beautiful rose,” said Miss Martin, “can grow on a dunghill.”

“Am I the rose, and Colonel Faulkner the dunghill, or vice-versa?”

Miss Martin tittered. The Rector said, “Let that be a warning to you not to take an analogy too far.”

“I have to dash along now, but please stay, Miss Martin will do the honours. Have a cup of tea. You will? Splendid.”

Over the teacups, as Mr. Calder was wondering how to bring the conversation round to the point he required, Miss Martin did it for him. She said, “This is a terrible village for gossip, Mr. Calder. Although you’ve hardly been down here for two days, people are already beginning to wonder what you’re up to. Particularly as you’ve been – you know – getting round, talking to people.”