Absolute Truths (7 page)

‘
No, don’t you dare sulk! I’ve always been very careful not to
bother you about the prayer-group, and yet now, on the very first occasion that I’ve actually paid you the compliment of asking for
your advice —’

I slumped guiltily back on the pillows just
as
the telephone
jangled at my side.

‘
I’ll answer it,’ said Lyle, slipping out of bed.

‘
No, let it ring.’ I was already regretting that I had slammed
back the receiver in a fit of pique.

‘
If we let it ring you’ll crucify yourself imagining a suicidal vicar
screaming for help,’ said Lyle tartly, and moving around to the
table on my side of the bed she picked up the receiver and intoned
in
her most neutral voice: ‘South Canonry.’

A pause followed during which I wondered whether to light
another cigarette. Contrary to Lyle’s fears I thought it was most
unlikely that some suicidal vicar was screaming for help in an icy
vicarage while his bishop lounged in a centrally-heated haze of
post-coital bliss, and having made the decision to light the cigarette I turned my thoughts instead to Lyle’s prayer-group, those middle-aged, middle-class, church-going ladies who seemed so unlikely to
want to discuss unnatural vice. It occurred to me that the kindest
advice I could give them was to pray for the wholesome family
life of their married friends and leave any deviant relations to God.

‘
Just a moment, please,’ said Lyle, bringing the silence to an
end. ‘Let me see if my husband left a number where he can be
contacted.’ Sitting down on the edge of the bed she muffled the
receiver in the eiderdown and whispered to me: ‘It’s the chaplain
at the hospital. Desmond Wilton’s been beaten up in his church.
He’s unconscious, he needs an operation and the
chaplain thought
you ought to know about it.’

Crushing out my cigarette I began to struggle out of bed.
‘Yes, I can get in touch with him straight away,’ said Lyle. ‘Either
he or the Archdeacon will be with you as soon as possible.’ She
hung up. ‘Charles, surely Malcolm can cope with this?’

‘
I couldn’t possibly palm such a disaster off on my archdeacon.’

‘
Trust Desmond Wilton to get himself beaten up on your day
off !’

‘Darling —’

‘
What was he doing anyway, getting himself beaten up? I just
hope there’s no sinister explanation.’

I was appalled. ‘But Desmond’s been leading an exemplary life
ever since he came to Starbridge! If we hadn’t been discussing
homosexuality, it would never have occurred to you to make such
a remark — and I refuse to believe there’s any truth in it!’

‘
Dear Charles,’ said my wife, slipping into a black silk negligée.
‘Such a very Christian nature.’

‘
It’s got nothing to do with any Christian nature I might have,’
I said, very heated by this time, ‘and everything to do with the
fact that Desmond made a complete recovery from that spiritual
breakdown he had in London. All right, I know you think the
Bishop of London palmed him off on me, but even the best priests
can have breakdowns and I absolutely defend my decision to give
him a job in the diocese as soon
as
he’d recovered!’

‘
I know you’ll always defend it — and how good it is for me to
be reminded that despite all my advanced liberal thoughts about
homosexuals you’re still so much more compassionate and
Christian towards them than I am! If I were a bishop nothing
would induce me to employ a pathetic old priest who’d been beaten
up while soliciting in a public lavatory ... Shall I try and track down Malcolm for you?’ she called after me
as
I headed for the
bathroom.

‘
Yes, he ought to be told straight away, but say there’s no need
for him to cancel everything and rush to the hospital. The chaplain
and I’ll sort things out.’

Five minutes later, dressed in a black suit with a purple stock and pectoral cross, I emerged from my dressing-room to find that
Lyle had picked up from the floor the casual, off-duty clothes
which I had discarded earlier, made the bed and tracked down my
archdeacon. ‘He’s making a visitation at Upper Stanwood,’ she
informed me, ‘but I’ve left a message at the vicarage there.’

‘
Good.’ I turned to leave but on the threshold I hesitated and
looked back. ‘I’m sorry I took evasive action when you started to
talk about the prayer-group,’ I said. ‘I really would like to hear
more about it. Maybe later — when I’m in neither a rush nor a
post-coital torpor —’

‘
Of course. Later.’

I hurried away to the hospital.

When I had visited Starbridge in 1937, the year I had met and
married Lyle, I had thought it more than lived up to its reputation
of being the most beautiful city west of the Avon. In my mind’s
eye I could still see it shining in the hot sunlight of that distant
summer; I could remember how enchanted I had been by its medi
eval streets, flower-filled parks and winding, sparkling river, how
mesmerised I had been by the Cathedral, towering above the
walled Close on a mound above the shimmering water-meadows.
‘Radiant, ravishing Starbridge!’ I had exclaimed to myself more
than once during that crucial time, but that was all long ago, and Starbridge was not the city it had been before the war.

Why must unspoilt county towns inevitably change for the
worse? Those Starbridge parks remained flower-filled in summer
but now they were litter-strewn
as
the result of the huge increase in
tourists and the slovenly habits of the young. Most of the medieval
streets still existed but a number of them south of Mitre Street
had been bulldozed to make way for a hideous invention, a ‘multistorey car park’ which was attached to something called a ‘shopping
centre’. This new development was so ugly that I felt hot with
rage whenever I saw it. Fortunately the mayor who had encouraged
this act of vandalism had dropped dead so I was no longer obliged
to be polite to him, but the city council members lingered on, a
sore trial to my Christian patience. More concrete horrors were
rising on the outskirts of the city where a by-pass (on stilts!) was
being constructed, but this innovation I was prepared to tolerate
since its purpose was to eliminate the city’s traffic jams.

The Starbridge General Hospital, a Victorian building, was
unchanged on the outside despite being constantly modernised
within. It stood near Eternity Street on the river which flowed
swiftly, fed by two tributaries, through the heart of the city. As I
arrived that afternoon the rain was hardening into sleet and a
bitter north wind was blowing. From the car park the tower of
St Martin’s-in-Cripplegate, my archdeacon’s church, could be seen
standing palely, as if numbed with cold, against a yellowish, snow-
laden sky.

For a moment I thought of those radiant sunlit days of 1937,
and suddenly I heard a much younger Lyle say in my memory:
‘I’m Miss Christie, Mrs Jardine’s companion ...’ I hurried into the hospital but the memories pursued me and I heard Bishop
Jardine himself exclaim: ‘Welcome to Starbridge!’ as he made a
grand entrance into his drawing-room. It occurred to me then that
I was on the brink of remembering Loretta, but that was one
episode from 1937 which I always willed myself not to recall,
particularly since I had become a bishop. Blocking it at once from
my mind I entered the hospital’s main hall.

A dreary interval ensued. I asked for Desmond but was told he was in the operating theatre. I asked for the chaplain but was told
he was not in his office. I asked for the hospital almoner and/or
the doctor in charge of the case, but was told to take a seat.
Evidently I was becoming tiresome and needed to be disciplined.

Since I was not wearing my formal uniform of frock-coat and gaiters, and since my overcoat hid my purple stock and pectoral
cross, I was not immediately recognisable
as a
VIP. I did toy with
the idea of opening my coat and flashing my chest at the lacklustre
receptionist, but I thought better of it. No degree of impatience
can excuse vulgarity.

I managed to kill my annoyance by telling myself the woman
was probably worn out by long hours and low pay, and having thus transformed myself from a cross old buffer to a charitably
inclined bishop (a process which I found more than usually
exhausting), I received my reward: the almoner arrived to look
after me, and I was taken speedily down a chain of cream-coloured
corridors to meet the doctor in authority. The almoner even called
me ‘my lord’. For one golden moment I could imagine we were
both back in those sunlit days before the war.

My spirits rose even further when the doctor told me that
although the injuries were unpleasant, Desmond’s life was not in
danger. A series of heavy kicks had cracked a couple of ribs; a
series of heavy punches had battered his face, which was now
being stitched up; the main problem was the shock sustained, and
Desmond would need to be in hospital
^.
for at least forty-eight
hours, possibly longer, while his progress was monitored. Since
he was an elderly man, not robust, a period of convalescence would
be advisable once he left the hospital. Meanwhile he could beallowed no visitors until the following morning.

Having thanked the doctor for all this information I was taken by the almoner to her office in order to deal with certain bureau
cratic formalities relating to the admission. She did try to contact the chaplain on the internal telephone and when there
was
still no
reply from his office she arranged for a message to be broadcast
on the public address system, but he appeared to have vanished. Not wishing to delay the almoner further I said I would wait for
him in the main hall, but this decision proved to be a mistake. No
chaplain appeared, despite yet another summons on the public
address system, but two cold-eyed men in raincoats entered the
building and immediately collared me.

With dismay I found myself in the hands of the police and
confronting the possibility of scandal.

I
knew Inspector Parker. Indeed I knew all the top men on the
Starbridge force and I was on good
terms with the
Chief Constable, but to know a policeman formally as the result of one’s
public position is one thing; to be interviewed by him during his
investigation of a crime
is
quite another. Too late I wished I had
brought my lay-chaplain to the hospital. Roger was an old hand
at dealing with worldly matters which had the potential to be
awkward for a bishop.

Assuming my most confident manner I said to Parker:
‘How glad I am to see you!’ and without hesitation offered him my
hand. I then both took control of the interview and underlined the
power of my position by demanding: ‘Please tell me exactly what happened.’

I could see Parker was thinking what a tiresome old smoothie
I was, but he said civilly enough: ‘Mr Wilton was found in the
church by one of the lady members of the congregation, and judg
ing from the loss of blood we think he may have been lying there
for some time. He was unconscious when the ambulance arrived
but we’re here in the hope that he can be interviewed.’

‘
He’s in the operating theatre.’

‘
Then when he comes out my sergeant here can sit at his bedside
till he recovers consciousness.’

I thought it prudent to leave all comment on that plan to the doctor. What I really wanted to hear was information about why Desmond had been attacked, but I did not want to appear too
curious for fear of arousing Parker’s suspicions. I decided to try
to float the most likely explanation in the hope not only that it
was true but that I might learn something from Parker’s reaction.

‘
It’s disgraceful for a priest to be beaten up in his own church!’
I exclaimed, playing the outraged old buffer. ‘I assume Father
Wilton interrupted a thief who was in the act of robbing the
alms-box.’

‘No, sir, from our preliminary investigation it appears that nothing was taken.’

I noted that I was addressed as ‘sir’ instead of ‘my lord’ or
‘Bishop’, and suspected that this was a move to grab control of
the interview by cutting me down to size.

‘Then I assume,’ I said, refusing to be reduced, ‘that the culprit was a vandal bent on sacrilege.’

‘No, sir, nothing was disturbed or damaged.’

‘
Then I can only conclude that this outrage was perpetrated by
a lunatic. Well, Parker —’ By this time I had decided that I quite definitely did not want to answer any questions about a possible motive for the attack — I wish you every success in your investigation and I hope you’ll keep me informed of all developments. And now, if you’ll excuse me —’

‘
Just a moment, my lord.’ Parker had decided it was worth
bending over backwards a fraction in order to stop me dead in my
tracks. ‘Would you be so good
as
to tell us a little about Mr Wilton?
In this sort of case the personality of the victim is often of the first
importance when it comes to solving the crime.’

Having lost control of the interview I realised that my task now was to appear so immensely distinguished that my opinions could
not easily be doubted. ‘Father Wilton,’ I said, again giving
Desmond the title which as an Anglo-Catholic he preferred yet
this time contriving to infuse it with an air of sanctity, ‘is sixty-four years old and has been vicar of St Paul’s church in Langley Bottom
since 1960. He’s an extremely devout and conscientious priest,and is greatly respected by his congregation.’

‘Has this kind of thing ever happened to him before?’

‘
To the best of my knowledge,’ I said with perfect truth, ‘Father
Wilton has never in his life been beaten up by a thug in his own church.’ But I could see where this line of questioning was going
and the destination was gruesome. ‘What exactly are you
implying?’ I demanded, taking the split-second decision that attack
was the best form of defence.

‘I was just wondering how accident-prone he was. Some old gentlemen do suffer more than others from this sort of mishap,’
said Parker, still very civil, but at that point his sergeant interposed
brutally: ‘Not married, is he?’

I drew myself up to my full height and allowed a blistering pause
to develop before announcing in my grandest episcopal manner: ‘Father Wilton is called to celibacy.’

In the silence that followed I reflected how far removed the
scene was from that popular television series about the policeman
with the heart of
gold,
Divan
of
Dock Green.
The oafish sergeant
was bright-eyed, his lips moist where he had licked them in his
excitement; he reminded
me
of one of the more disagreeable carni
vores — a rhinoceros, perhaps — who had just scented food. In contrast Parker was as cool and still as steel in ice. Refusing to be intimidated by my grand manner he said levelly: ‘I’m sure you
understand, my lord, that since there was no robbery or vandalism,
the likelihood is that he was attacked by someone he knew. May
I ask your permission to search the vicarage? A desk-diary, for
instance, would reveal if he had an appointment to see someone
at
the church this afternoon.’

I was still trying to conceal my horror at this potentially ruinous
request when deliverance arrived in the form of my henchman, the
Archdeacon of Starbridge. No detachment of the United States
cavalry could have been greeted with more relief in the final reel
of a Hollywood western than Malcolm Lindsay was greeted by
his bishop as he swept into the hall of Starbridge General Hospital
that afternoon.

‘Ah, there you ar
e
, Bishop!’ he exclaimed, deceptively jovial. ‘I
thought I’d better look in here as soon as I’d finished my visitation
— good heavens, it’s Inspector Parker! And Sergeant Locke! Nice
to know the police have their best men on the trail. Now, Bishop,
off you go to pray for poor Desmond — I’m sure Inspector Parker
will quite understand that you shouldn’t be detained from your
spiritual duties a moment longer.’

Parker allowed himself to look baffled by the concept of spiritual
duties, but recovered himself sufficiently to say: ‘I’ve no wish to
detain the Bishop, Mr Lindsay, but there are one or two
questions —’

‘Address them to me!’ said Malcolm, still relentlessly exuding
bonhomie. ‘I’m the one who has direct supervision of Father
Wilton, so I know much more about him than the Bishop does.’

‘
But I need the Bishop’s permission to search the vicarage. In
my opinion —’

‘
Oh, the Bishop couldn’t possibly give such a permission! I
see you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the "parson’s freehold",
Inspector — that house is at the moment, to all intents and pur
poses, Father Wilton’s, and in the absence of his permission I’m
afraid you must obtain a search-warrant, but that won’t be difficult,
will it? In the circumstances I’m sure it’ll be just a formality .. .
Off you go, Bishop.’

I escaped, bathed in cold sweat.

Outside the sleet was still falling from that heavy, yellowish sky
and the gloom had thickened. Scrambling into my black Rover I
switched on the headlights and drove straight to Desmond’s vicar
age in the working-class city parish of Langley Bottom.