Murdering Ministers (2 page)

In the pew in front, the older couple stood as if on cue and turned simultaneously. Though they were both clearly in their seventies, Time had so far treated them with uncharacteristic decency. The woman was tall and straight-backed, with milky skin and a braid of thick white hair. Her husband was stocky-framed, and his hair, while fine and thinning, still covered his scalp and was largely dark. The way he fixed Oliver with a critical gaze from his small, brown eyes indicated he had no need of spectacles.

“Cedric Potiphar,” he announced solemnly, with a noticeable Cornish accent and a volume level that showed Time could still be a bastard. Oliver shook the large, dry hand and managed to introduce himself without mispronouncing his name. Potiphar took in this new information. “My wife, Elsie,” he added eventually, as if unsure of the propriety of exposing her to a writer. Mrs. Potiphar rewarded Oliver with a nervous smile, but didn't speak. The couple then repeated the entire exercise with Ben.

“May I welcome you both to the Lord's tabernacle on this Sabbath day?” Potiphar intoned loudly.

“Thank you very much,” said Oliver.

“We outstretch the hand of fellowship to all,” Potiphar conceded. “No matter how unworthy,” he added more quietly, with a sidelong glance at Tapster and the pianist, who were ambling past the pew. He fell silent. The girl with the pile of hymn books paused and watched Tapster until he disappeared through the curtain at the back of the church.

“I suppose the guitar-playing is a way to involve the younger folks,” said Ben quickly, correctly guessing that the fishlike expression on Oliver's face masked a fruitless and increasingly desperate attempt to think of any conversational comment to make to the Potiphars. Although Oliver was the most polite individual he knew, Ben was also aware that his friend was utterly inept when it came to sustaining small talk.

Potiphar glared at the photographer as if he'd offered to take a set of boudoir shots of his wife. He tapped on the leather cover of his well-worn Bible. “There's nothing in God's word about preaching through entertainment,” he grumbled.

“Nothing about hearing aids either, cocky, more's the pity,” muttered his wife under her breath. Potiphar appeared not to notice.

They had edged their way to the aisle and joined a queue of people slowly passing through the curtain. The Potiphars seemed content to let Oliver and Ben precede them, and as the two men slipped through into the church's entrance hall, they saw the reason for the hold-up. A one-man receiving line, Paul Piltdown was now greeting each congregant in turn as he or she headed for the front door and the chilly night air of north London.

Ahead of them, Tapster and the woman had collected their outdoor wear—a worn anorak for him, a buttonless crimson overcoat for her—and were now speaking to Piltdown simultaneously in low, urgent voices. The genial expression had left the minister's face.

“Good evening, Cedric,” said a middle-aged man, who had just collected an overcoat from a peg on the narthex wall. Not waiting for Potiphar to attempt an introduction, the man turned briskly to Oliver and Ben.

“Sam Quarterboy, deacon and church secretary,” he announced crisply, as Oliver found his hand being drawn into a hearty and skillful handshake through some hypnotic force he couldn't explain. Quarterboy was clearly practiced in the presentation of a public self, from his shiny brogues to his tight, glossy bald pate. He was of medium height and build, but his stiff bearing and florid face implied that he had ordered his skin one size too small and a much fleshier man was pressing out the wrinkles from the inside.

“I trust you're going to give us a good write-up, Mr. Swithin,” he stated. It was not intended as a question, and Oliver was relieved that he wasn't expected to answer. “It's about time people realized that the United Diaconalist Church is very much part of the English landscape. There are a couple of hundred thousand of us around the country. Nothing odd here, as you can see. Just hymns, prayers, sermons. None of this New Age mumbo-jumbo or hysterical charismatic nonsense. Very solid foundation, this church. Very solid.”

Quarterboy tapped his foot on the tiled floor and grinned humorlessly, showing more straight white teeth than Oliver imagined could fit in just one set of jaws. Oliver recalled that his dictionary of religion had described the Diaconalists as “nonconformist separatist protestant dissenters”—four words that said what they were against, but not what they were for. But he was saved from thinking of something to say to Quarterboy by the conversation between Piltdown, Tapster, and the woman, which was no longer being conducted in whispers.

“It's the youngsters I'm thinking of,” Tapster was saying urgently as he pulled on his anorak. “There are already so many conflicting messages in the world. I'm surprised to hear free-thinking from the pulpit.”

“
From
the pulpit,” the woman echoed, as if Tapster hadn't just used the words.

“Nigel, nobody cares for the children more than I,” Piltdown protested. “I truly think you're overreacting.”

“We'll see.” Tapster picked up his hard guitar case and stared into Piltdown's face. “You know I'm saying these things out of Christian love, Paul. God has plans for Plumley. He has told me.”

Piltdown smiled uncomfortably. Tapster opened the narthex door for the woman and followed her through it in a noisy rustle of nylon and Velcro. The pair joined the gaggle of waiting teenagers and drifted away into the darkness.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sneezed!” Oliver called to Piltdown's back. There was a slight pause, then Piltdown turned with a broad smirk and grasped Oliver's hand as if it were a lifeline. Oliver introduced Ben, and they stood to one side while Piltdown ceremonially bade farewell to the remaining congregants.

“Go in and make yourself at home,” Piltdown was saying as Cedric and Elsie Potiphar cautiously made their way down the frosty church steps. “I hold an open house at the Manse after the service,” he explained to Oliver. “Sandwiches and tea and a little fellowship. If you're not rushing away, perhaps you'd care to join us?”

“A cup of tea, Vicar?” said Oliver, silently checking for Ben's assent. “That would be lovely.”

“Jolly good, but for the sake of your article, remember that I'm a minister, not a vicar,” Piltdown said genially. “It makes a difference. I'm a servant of this congregation, not the representative of a higher authority.”

He stepped through the narthex doors, crossed a shallow vestibule, and tugged the church's main door closed, making sure the catch had clicked into place.

“Does that mean your members are free to challenge your sermons?” asked Oliver as Piltdown came back into the narthex. “Sorry, we couldn't help overhearing the tail end of your conversation with the—for want of a better word—musicians.”

Piltdown led them through the darkened church, turning off the heaters as he passed. “That was Nigel Tapster and his wife, Heather. She's filling in as the pianist for our services. Well, yes, authority in the United Diaconalist Church is not central, as in the Church of England. We don't have bishops or cardinals or anything like that. Each congregation is independent, supervised by its elders—deacons, hence the name ‘Diaconalist.' As their minister, I'm only a sort of full-time professional super-deacon, with more responsibilities, including leading the worship, but no greater authority. And anyone in the congregation can be a ‘prayer minister,' if the Spirit moves them.”

“And this Nigel Tapster's one of your deacons?” Ben asked.

“Actually, no. Nigel's fairly new to the church, but he has a marvelous way with the young people—he's attracted quite a few new members in the months he's been with us. They're good people, he and his wife.” Piltdown made the comment as if it was a reminder to himself. “We're having our annual church meeting this Friday, when we elect deacons for the coming year. I believe Nigel will be standing for election. If you want to find out more about the church, Ollie, you're welcome to come and observe.”

“I'd like to but I have to see my uncle's Bottom,” Oliver claimed with a snigger. Ben sighed. They had passed through a doorway beside the pulpit and were now standing at one end of a dim, musty-smelling corridor that ran the full width of the building.

“Ah yes, your uncle, the Scotland Yard detective,” said Piltdown, without a pause. “I remember that he was fond of amateur dramatics. At school, we used to envy you enormously for having an uncle who was Chief Inspector Mallard
and
a Shakespearian actor, to boot. I presume from your comment that he's performing in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
?”

He broke off as Ben burst in sudden peals of laughter and thumped Oliver soundly on the back.

“Did I say something funny?” Piltdown asked apprehensively, noticing Oliver's crestfallen expression.

“Not intentionally, Paul,” Ben spluttered, attempting to recover his breath. “It's just that Oliver's been going round for weeks bleating ‘I'm going to see my uncle's Bottom' and hoping that somebody would fall for it.”

“Oh, sorry, Ollie,” said Piltdown contritely. “Would it help if I roared and split my sides now?”

“That won't be necessary,” Oliver muttered.

“How is your uncle, by the way? Still a detective?”

“Yes. He's a superintendent now.”

“Promoted to glory. Well, not in the biblical sense,” Piltdown added hastily. “Not that the expression has a biblical origin, of course, it's just…” He let the remark trail off and tilted his head on one side. In the silence, they could hear sounds from the far end of the corridor—coins and glassware clinking, not necessarily in the same room. Nobody was in sight, but light shone through a couple of transoms.

“I don't want to lock anybody in,” Piltdown mused, toying with a bunch of keys.

“Who would still be here?” Oliver asked, privately amazed that the dank, cheerless building could keep anybody from a warm home now that the service was over.

“I imagine one of the deacons is counting the offering, and there could be someone in the kitchen wrapping up the church flowers.” Piltdown gestured to a door beside them “Look, why don't you two go next door to the Manse and make yourselves at home? I'll be along shortly.”

***

Oliver and Ben let themselves out into the chilly night air and cautiously traced an overgrown path that skirted the building. Light from the streetlamps ahead of them glinted off cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, and a couple of discarded condoms among the nettles, indicating that God's name may have been called upon outside as well as inside the church. The path led them to a small, gravel car park in front of the building, separated from the main road by a low wall.

“Has organized religion had any impact on your life, Ben?” Oliver asked cautiously, as they turned into the street. There was little traffic on the road that Sunday evening.

“Yeah, when I was growing up, there was that hour every Sunday evening.”

“When you went to church?”

“No, when we turned off the television because all the channels were showing religious programs. I've always hated Sundays, Ollie. London Sundays are a black-and-white day in a technicolor week. They're like that squishy package you got among your Christmas presents—the one from your father's childless aunt that always turned out to be socks.”

“I never minded socks,” Oliver reflected. “Should I get Effie socks for Christmas? Not very romantic, I suppose.”

They turned into the gateway of the manse and studied the facade of the large, square, nineteenth-century house. It had been denied any of the ugly ornamental features that later generations would pretend to adore, in a desperate attempt to believe that most Victorians were whimsical madcaps. Instead, the manse stood behind a shallow but well-tended front garden and scowled glumly at the road with the half-naked bulkiness of a sumo wrestler.

The front door was ajar, although there was nobody in the hallway. They heard voices and a few notes from a piano in the large reception room on the left. Ben took Oliver firmly by the elbow and guided him into the room, aware that the prospect of stepping into a room full of people he didn't know would be enough to keep his friend studying the hallway long-case clock all evening.

The girl who had been picking out “Wonderwall” on the poorly tuned piano seemed too young to have seen a lot of westerns, but she still stopped playing abruptly. Everyone in the room stared at the new arrivals. Oliver realized with relief that he had already met more than half the room's occupants—the Potiphars sitting stolidly on a hard couch in front of the bay window, Sam Quarterboy perched on a dining chair beside the upright piano, and the young teenage girl on the piano-stool, whose face he'd last seen above a pile of hymn books. There were only two strangers: a woman in a deep armchair beside Quarterboy and a slim young man in his twenties, sitting at the far end of the room on another hard dining chair.

Quarterboy leaped up and drew the visitors smoothly into the room, introducing the woman as his wife, Joan, the girl as his daughter, Tina, and the young man as Barry Foison, before splitting them as neatly as a pack of cards. Oliver found himself irresistibly guided to a raffia-topped stool between the Potiphars's sofa and Joan Quarterboy's armchair, while Ben took a seat between Tina and Foison.

Joan Quarterboy was in her late thirties and clearly believed in going to church dressed in her Sunday best. She wore a blue two-piece suit, artificial pearls, and an odd hat shaped uncomfortably like an overturned dog dish on her frizzy hair, which was already styled in anticipation of her retirement years. Her small features seemed to huddle for protection in the middle of her face. Lipstick was her only makeup, exactly the same shade of orange as the spine of a Penguin novel. Oliver took one look and guessed that Joan had never owned a pair of jeans in her life.