The Triple Goddess (95 page)

Are attended by spasms in his pants.

He speaks in a most displeasing cadence,

And parses his prose with broad complacence.

Reeking of rotten fruit, his voice

Never gives anyone cause to rejoice.

Flushed and fat with a huge rear end—a

Sign of the priorities on his agenda—

This blackest of clergymen is as
dark
as the night;

When children run from him, he relishes the sight.

In order to be rid of this pestilent parson,

We’re ready and willing to commit priestly arson:

Barbecued, he’ll feature on the à la carte menu

For demons to dine on at Hell’s hottest venue.

Though lacking in eye-appeal, dumped on a plate,

The devilish palate will, for sure, highly rate

“Tournedos
Pastorini
”...’tis the name comes to mind...

A hassock-fed roast of the cassocky kind.

Chapter Thirty

In perusing the last couple of communications, Dark had been dimly aware that a perfumed scent was toying with his olfactory organ. Although the most pleasant natural smells usually offended him and played havoc with his sinuses, this one he found appealing, and the aromatic exudation he quickly recognized with nostalgia from his boyhood, when there had been a brand of sweets that came in rolls called Parma Violets. There was another sort, Love Hearts, which were made of fizzy sherbert and, as the name implied, had little hearts with endearments written in them. Parma violet was one of the flavours.

As Dark turned from renewed appreciation of the dirty postcard to tracing the redolent source, his eye fell on the last piece of mail in the pile, which was indeed of a mauveine hue. Though of normal size, when he picked it up he could tell that this was a letter apart: the envelope was made of high quality rag-paper, and the flap was wax-sealed with the imprint of a crest (unrecognizable to Dark who was not acquainted with heraldic blazonry) of a Lamia on the rampage with its tongue hanging out—a Lamia was a mythical woman who preyed on humans and sucked the blood of children—
Lamia langued purpure rampant
.

Unlikely as this was to be a final demand from the Inland Revenue, Dark presumed that it could only be a vehicle for the wittiest insult of all. So it was with great interest that he prised open the flap with his pocket knife, carefully so as not to tear it—the thought occurred that he might use it himself when he wanted to impress someone—and removed from the marble-tissued interior several thick watermarked sheets.

When he unfolded them, the odour of violets spread through the room as if bravely bent upon deodorizing the Annexe’s interior. Everything in the room seemed to brighten, and there was a fluttering in the pit of Dark’s stomach that he could not attribute to the earlier onset of his matutinal movement. He traced the embossed Lamia crest and address at the top of the first page of cream-laid satin-weave notepaper with his finger, and read the italic script...which was written in accordance with the general theme in violet ink…plummily aloud as if it were a benedicite:

LADY VIOLET ENDERBY

THE MOATED GRANGE

OLD NICHOLAS

Dear Father Fletcher
:

Although we are not acquainted, this is a situation that I hope to rectify
quam celerrime
. Though I fancy I did once press your hand in a former life, and flatter myself that a certain understanding passed between us when our eyes met, I must declare that it is my nature to be more worshipful than worshipping.

Before I proceed, let me tell you that the Moated Grange at Old Nicholas, the historic seat whence I write, is an estate proximate to the parish that rejoices to have had a man of your distinction as its vicar. I should have introduced myself to you before, or called on you in your official capacity, and for this omission I apologize. For privileged though I am in title and resources, alas! the exigencies of work dictate that my time is not my own. Needs must when The Devil® drives, as they say.

Fr. Fletcher, my reason for writing arises from a compulsion to tell you that, in my opinion your irreligious talent has been shamefully overlooked by certain Other Powers That Be™. This situation, with your permission, I intend to rectify.
Courage, mon ami!

Without further ado, therefore, my dear Fr. Fletcher, I will declare that I am possessed of an incendiary agenda to promote your sublunary interests. In so doing I have no selfish motive other than a burning desire to see that you receive your desserts on earth and just deserts thereafter.

When I say that I am not a churchgoer, Father, that is an understatement. I am not in favour of the Church at all (my bad); and I hope it will not come as too much of a shock to you when I say that I do not think you are either, any more now than you were when you were active as a minister. As dutiful a priest as you were, Father, I maintain that your heart was never in your job, and that this caused you deep unhappiness.

I have therefore made it my mission to do what I can, and I can do a lot, to obtain for you much greater preferment in your profession, and in your personal life. (Though you were married to the Church for so long, everyone deserves their bit on the side, don’cha think?)

For I am convinced, Fletcher, that you are a latter-day Samson who shall bring the Church a-tumbling onto the Philistine heads of archbishops, bishops, archdeacons, deacons, provosts, canons, deans, prebendaries, and vergers...have I, your would-be Delilah, left any of the malefactors and miscreants out?...to wit, all those plaque-like personages who in their chapters, synods, councils, and convocations are clogging the arteries of the world.

I here beg you, dear Fletcher, not to be offended by the anarchic content and tone of this letter, should they offend your delicate sensibilities. I am, without apology, a strong-willed woman who, being possessed of a fortune, has the means to give it practical expression, and it is not in my nature to do things half-heartedly. Life is too short.’

….

There was more but at this point Dark’s reverent reverie, his mesmeric moment, was broken by a tugging at his sleeve, and with the greatest reluctance he descended from the violet-tinged cloud that he was being transported on, and returned to the reality of his dingy living room.

He felt like Samuel Taylor Coleridge, upon the occasion of his being called out on business by the wretched person from Porlock while he was penning the great poem
Kubla Khan
; lines that had come to him in a vision, and which he later imperfectly remembered. It was the reverend’s own Porlock or poor luck moment to be bothered by one of the Barts!, who, as a prelude to announcing its business, was waving a piece of wood under his nose.

‘Bugger Bart! off!’

As the creature fell to the floor and polished his shoes with its hair, Dark wondered what might have happened if Coleridge had taken a carving-knife to his persecutor, dragged him into the garden, buried him, and resumed his writing while it was still fresh in his mind. Pursuant to the notion, he considered where he might find some “caverns measureless to man” of his own to which he might consign his servant Bartholomew.

‘Damn you, Bart! What is it? Speak slowly, and remember that the proper place for the tongue is inside the mouth.’

‘Nng...phnairva ghneugh hign hng-hngng euhffer phne lld hign.’

Dark, who had perforce acquired some proficiency in interpreting his menials’ language, frowned. ‘A new sign hanging over the old one—what are you talking about?’ Seizing the board, which was crudely fashioned from a piece of diseased elm, with some difficulty from the crabbed grip of the Bart!, he saw spelled out upon it in spray-painted letters:
THE OLD FARTERY
. Some jackanapes, most likely one of his correspondents, had upped the ante from the written insult to the practical, bypassing the verbal, by renaming his residence.

It was a pathetic and cowardly prank, and especially demeaning to one who was accustomed to receiving billets-doux from wealthy aristocrats who would leap fully accoutred with arms and libel writs to defend him at a moment’s notice.

‘Oh, what a jape,’ snarled the reverend; ‘how very droll. Sticks and stones. Is that the worst they can do? I’ll show them.’ And with bravado he snapped the wood across his knee and flung the pieces, except for the shard that was lodged in his leg, into the cluttered fireplace, thereby causing the missing door-knob to roll out of the grate onto the hearth. ‘Pick that up and fit it back on the door,’

Dark shouted, yelping as he pulled the jagged point from the flesh above his patella, and coming as close to praying as he ever did that there was no bleeding. He could not stand the sight of blood and was relieved to see that there was only a little. The splinters he could deal with later after a slug or two of scotch. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Bart!? Speak to me, idiot.’

‘Yss mstrr, ss-srry mstrr hnh hnh.’ The Bart! grovelled in the ashes, retrieved the article with the claw that protruded from one of his, or her, ravelled and mucus-encrusted sleeves, and bore it hence. Smacking his forehead with frustration, Dark dismissed the nuisance, and hopped back onto cloud nine to read the remainder of the letter.

The plan that I wish to acquaint you with, Father Fletcher, [continued Lady Violet, who had been waiting most patiently during the interruption] is to adopt you as my new Fra. Girolamo Savonarola in plumbing the depths to which humankind’s iniquity has proved itself capable of sinking.

I have every confidence that I have chosen my agent wisely; for from the moment I laid virtual eyes upon you, and heard tell from afar of how you used to hold your congregations spellbound with your perspicacious pronouncements, it was as if I already beheld a negatively unearthly radiance shining from your brow (which had nothing to do with the positively earthly heat that you generate on your forehead as you fortify yourself at the table, for example, or indulge other of your wonts—you are an open book to me, dear Fletcher!).

If, therefore, after reading the above you are not indifferent to the idea of our meeting in order that we might come to know each other much more intimately, until the day that you may satisfy me with the long-desired presence of your person, please believe in the continued deep and earnest admiration of

Your sincere supplicant,

Violet Enderby

PS. As William Hazlitt has it: “...like women’s letters; all the pith is in the postscript”, I wonder if you might be available to take a glass of sherry with me on Tuesday evening? Should this be convenient, my chauffeur, ffanshawe, will call for you at 5.45. It’s only a short drive. VE.

PPS. Don’t bother to reply. Postmen have never been greatly successful in effecting deliveries to the Grange, and my astrologer assures me that you will come. Hugs.
VE
.

Dark felt like an explorer, who, after years of dining on snake, rat, monkey brains, and tapir testicles in the jungle, the bush, on the veldt and in the malaria- and typhoid-ridden swamps and deltas of the tropics, on returning home is invited to dinner by Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Dahlia, whose chef is the extraordinary French chef Anatole.

Such was his P.G. Woodhousean euphoria, after a life that had been barren of romance, that his giblets jumped, his liver bungeed, his spleen did somersaults, his kidneys cartwheeled, and his heart raced across country pursued by Jabberwockies. The rancid pores of his skin opened and sucked in fresh air like turbofans, and instead of gall and wormwood he tasted honey. He was Julius Caesar, Mark Antony, William the Conqueror, Sir Walter Raleigh, Errol Flynn, and James Bond rolled into one.

But wait! thought the reverend: Fletcher Abraham Dark had no need to borrow the mantle or cloak or toga or suit of others. Had he not inspired, by his appearance and reputation alone without uttering a single silken phrase, the adoration of a Shakespearean “Mariana in the moated grange”—as Alfred, Lord Tennyson portrayed Angelo’s betrothed in
Measure for Measure—
a woman who needed nothing more than the promise of Fletcher Abraham Dark’s boudoir utterances to make her cast off her weariness, and forget her customary
loathing of the dreary hour when the thick-moted sunbeam lay athwart the chambers, and the day was sloping toward his western bower?
Had not an aristocrat living in a grand and ancient dwelling—one no doubt riddled with priests’ holes, and boasting a wood-panelled library, billiard- and gunrooms, and staffed by a dozen aged retainers; one where the ancestral ghosts were thicker than hundred-year-old cobwebs, and the vaulted cellars were filled with oaken casks, hogsheads, and pipes, and dusty racks, of wine, brandy, malmsey, Madeira, mead, crusted port, sherry, and Tokay—certified his genius?